The Diaries - 01 (43 page)

Easiest twenty
euro Gerhard
Brüner
had made in months.

And had Gage not
been forced to flee, with his spare mobile phone doing him no good in his safe,
he might have been forewarned about Jean’s knowledge of the neighborhood of the
storage unit.

***

Two hours later,
Jean
Jenois
sat at the fireplace table of one of his
favorite Frankfurt restaurants.
 
It was
French and actually French-owned.
 
In
front of him was the remainder of a bottle of Louis
Latour
,
the nub of a cigarette burning in the ashtray next to the bottle.
 
The owner allowed Jean to smoke, but only
during slow times, and only next to the fireplace where the updraft would take
his toxic smoke through the roof.

Jean was leaning
forward, his face pained, his head resting in both hands.

Millions of euros.

From his jacket
pocket he removed the folded printout Henri had given him, flattening it on the
table.
 
The amounts paid for the tepid
autobiographies were stunning.

Jean lifted his
head, staring into the crackling fire.

I sent Gage into that building.
 
Therefore the diaries are mine.
 
He repeated it over and over in his mind,
convincing himself.

With one more
glance at the paper, Jean tapped the highest figure, a number just past twelve-million
euro.
 
A smile formed on his face.

As he walked from
the restaurant, headed toward his bank, Jean called Henri and said, “Get me the
phone numbers of the property owners near the mouth of that alley.”

Several hours
later, Jean made a deal.

 
 
***

Saturday, November 14

It
had taken an all-nighter to
wash through all of Matthew
Schoenfeld’s
records
before they came up with a hit they felt was meaningful enough to follow-up
on.
 
It was seven in the morning and both
investigators had been operating on no sleep for well over twenty-four
hours.
 
Many superiors would have napped
during the three hour drive, but that wasn’t Damien Ellis’s style.
 
He wanted the time to think about, and
process, everything he and Sorgi had uncovered about Matthew
Schoenfeld
.

The background
checks they had run were predictable.
 
Good kid, lost his parents and his sister when he was a teen.
 
Quiet.
 
Hard worker.
 
All the things you
would expect to hear about someone who had the ability to earn a coveted green
beret.
 
But it was
Schoenfeld’s
evaluation reports and a recommendation letter Ellis read that stuck with him.

The old-style
black and white, block NCO evaluation reports read like nominations for the
Army’s soldier of the year award.

Integrity beyond reproach.

The pinnacle of a professional soldier.

Keen intelligence and reasoning ability.

Then, in 1992, his
commander in Germany, a Captain Thomas
Halpin
, had
written the most glowing letter of recommendation for
Schoenfeld’s
Special Forces packet that Ellis had ever read in all of his adult life.
 
He felt it had been overdone, that is, until
he found
Halpin
.

Halpin
had obviously done well for himself, now a major
general stationed in D.C. at the Pentagon.
 
He was a soft-spoken man on the phone, duly surprised when Ellis told him
the inquiry was about Sergeant Matthew
Schoenfeld
.

“
Schoenfeld
?” asked the general.
 
“Of course I remember him, one of the best I
ever commanded.
 
You don’t forget guys
like him.
 
Now if I’m not mistaken, he
was killed quite some time ago.
 
Why on
earth would CID be interested in him?”

“That’s
complicated, sir.” Ellis said.

“I would imagine,”
Halpin
remarked.

“Sir, I don’t need
to tell someone of your level that this is highly confidential.”

“Pretty sure I’m
cleared,
cap’n
.”

“Well sir, you may
be, but when I tell you where this thing has gone, I think you’ll see that this
inquiry is a little bit out of the ordinary.”
 
So Ellis talked, speaking only in facts, not hypothesizing at all,
allowing
Halpin
to fill in the gaps for himself.
 
The general was one thing most good leaders
are: an excellent listener.
 
Ellis would
have probably characterized the lack of noise from the other end of the satellite
link as a thunderstruck silence.

“That’s all I’ve
got, sir,” Ellis said when he finished.

There was a long
moment of silence before Ellis heard the general clearing his throat.
 
“Well, that certainly is a story, captain.”

“It’s him,
sir.
 
I’ve seen him in person; I’ve seen
the pictures; I’ve read the files.
 
I
know it’s hard, sometimes, to believe something that’s unbelievable…and to
trust a crusty former beat-cop captain that the Army should have put to pasture
long ago, but that’s just what I’m asking you to do.
 
I need your thoughts.
 
I need your opinions.
 
I need to know what you know, and then I’d
like your guess on what Matthew
Schoenfeld
has been
doing since his purported death.”

Ellis heard
Halpin
speaking to someone else.
 
“Tell him he can wait, and clear out of here
and close the door.
 
I need a few
minutes.
 
What?
 
Well then, tell him to go let Colonel frigging-horseshoe-and-four-leaf-clover-up-his-butt
Davis tell him about the hole-in-one he got last week down in Florida.”
 
He came back on the line.
 
“Sorry about that.
 
Everyone around here’s in a damned hurry.”

“What do you
think, sir?”

Halpin
paused.
 
“Sergeant
Schoenfeld
was one of those guys—you see them about
once a decade in the Army—that makes you think, ‘What the hell is
he
doing here?’”
 
There was a chuckle and he muttered to
himself, “I haven’t thought about this stuff in years.”
 
Halpin
paused for
nearly a half a minute before continuing.

“He could do just
about anything, and I remember being proud like a father when he would.
 
As a young buck sergeant, that fellow singlehandedly
won us the battalion best-by-test—kind of a battery versus battery competition—all
through innovation and performance.
 
And
when we won, he wouldn’t take any credit for it.”
 
Ellis could almost hear
Halpin’s
brain turning, thinking about what an ideal special ops or black-ops soldier
Schoenfeld
would have made.
 
Halpin
continued after a pause.
 
“Always maxed his PT tests, and was always the
fastest in the two-mile run.
 
Could shoot
the ass out of a bumblebee on the three-hundred meter range and turned down a
chance to try out for the Army’s shooting team.
 
He had everything a commander wants and, on top of that, was a damned
pleasure to be around.”

Ellis hummed as he
pondered the first personal background he had ever heard about his suspect.
 
“Sounds like he was, or is, quite a
person.
 
So let me ask you, sir.
 
Hearing all this, if you had to guess, what
do you think happened?”

There were
shifting sounds as
Halpin
must have settled himself
into his chair.
 
“Obviously the kid got
taken off the grid.
 
Not a big surprise
either.
 
You can’t hide talent.
 
Guys like him either wind up a sergeant
major, an officer, or most times, they get out and become successful on the
outside.”
 
Halpin
made a
tutting
sound and Ellis remained quiet, letting
him ruminate.
 
“His scores were probably
off the charts, and I would guess he lit them up over at Special Forces.
 
Someone probably saw he was at the top of the
food chain over there and nabbed him.
 
Who?
I don’t know.
 
You can rise to the top of
the artillery and still be somewhat nameless.
 
But if you do it in special ops, the
brass’ll
notice.
 
Definitely. What I do know is that whoever
got him would have had to have been someone on our side.
 
Schoenfeld
was no
traitor.”

“This is
excellent, sir.”
 
Ellis had said, jotting
several items down.

Halpin’s
voice lowered, sounding as if he was speaking to
himself.
 
“So we kill him off, on paper, and
then he’s a rogue.
 
Capable.
 
Adept.
 
Untraceable.
 
Maybe a part of a
team or maybe just reporting to some hollow-team at Langley, and—”
 
Halpin
stopped
before he sucked air in rapidly, the sound clear to Ellis thousands of miles
away.
 

“Sir?”

Halpin
coughed, taking a moment to clear his throat.
 
“Sorry.
 
My mind just came back to something.
 
You said he left both the hotel clerk in France
and
the cop in Germany alive?”

“Yes.
 
Subdued them both quickly before taking what
he wanted.
 
Left no damage at all.”

“A pro.”

“Seemingly.”

“So why would he
be so stupid as to kill his girl, and then the other hotel clerk, both way over
in Frankfurt?”

This is what had
been bothering Ellis, but he was glad to hear
Halpin
coming to the same conclusion.
 
“Interesting, sir.
 
Please go on.”

“Well, that’s
it.
 
He must have got mixed up in something
in, where was it, Metz?”

“Yes, sir.”

“It was messy, and
he tried to clean it up.
 
That book
dealer’s sister was probably right, and her brother got offed by someone, but
not
Schoenfeld
.
 
You with me?”

“Absolutely.
 
Go on.”
 

“Captain, the Metz
killer is who came and killed his girl in Frankfurt.
 
I’d bet my retirement on it.”

Halpin
was very intelligent—thoroughly enjoying playing
detective for a few minutes—and doing a damned fine job in Ellis’s eyes.
 
“So where do you think we will find him now,
sir?”

“That’s easy.”

“It is?”

“Damned right.”

Ellis didn’t like
making a general explain himself, but had no choice.
 
“All due respect, but where, sir?”

Halpin
chuckled again.
 
“You’ll find him, captain, in no other place than
Metz
…assuming that’s where the real killer is from.
 
Whoever did this to him
will
be made to pay.
 
Mmm
-hmm.
 
Hartline’s
gonna
make him pay dearly.”

Ellis’s throat
went dry.
 
“What makes you say that,
sir?”

“As I’ve said, Sergeant
Schoenfeld
was a good kid.
 
Not the kind to make trouble.
 
Once, though, I did have to call him on the
carpet.
 
He and a buddy were having a few
beers at the Alpine Club there on post, and some jerk, I think he was from the ADA
unit, sucker-punched both of them—no provocation whatsoever.
 
It got broken up before they could get him
back. The guy was an asshole: a great big bully with a history of altercations
when he’d gotten liquored up.”

“Yes, sir.”

“So, as I remember
it,
Schoenfeld
goes back the next week, sits in the
dark part of the bar and waits, all alone, mind you.
 
Later on, in walks the big armor guy, like
he’s king of the place.
 
From what they
told me,
Schoenfeld
went up and tapped him on the
shoulder and asked if he remembered him.”

“And did Hartline…
er
…
Schoenfeld
sucker punch him
right back?”

“Not then.
 
He told the guy that they should go out back,
all alone.”

“All alone?”

“Yep.
 
Said something like, ‘Because I don’t want
anyone to be able to
stop it
once we
start.’”

“That’d get a
man’s attention.”

“They said that
big armor guy, a real brawler, about pissed himself.
 
Schoenfeld
was
smaller than him, but hearing something like that’d make any man think twice.”

“So did they
fight?”

“Yeah, they
fought.
 
From all I gathered it was a
prizefight, but
Schoenfeld
gave up forty or fifty
pounds to the goon.
 
Schoenfeld
was pretty banged up afterward—all superficial—but they told me the armor guy
had his eyes blacked, his nose bloodied, and one of his orbital sockets was
shattered.
 
I’ll tell you one thing, no
one messed with Sergeant
Schoenfeld
after that.
 
Ever.”