Read Online The Diaries - 01 by Chuck Driskell - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Chuck Driskell
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see, Jean.” Henri had moved to a first-name basis that quickly. “Look at the small backpack when he entered,
and look at it each time he leaves.” They studied the video. Each time
Gage arrived, the pack was small. When
he left, it was bulging, easily double its original size, stretched to its
limit.
Jean crushed out
his cigarette and stood. He rubbed his
already mussed hair, pacing the room. “So he was carrying something each time. Something large. And he made two
trips?”
Henri didn’t
answer, wisely choosing to let Jean work things out in his own mind.
Jean leveled a
bony finger at Henri. “Who else have you
told?”
Henri made an
insulted face, pulling his head back. “Jean, what do you take me for?”
Jean leaned close,
his voice a whisper even though they were alone. “Not a word, Henri. Not a damned word to anyone . Save those files and
lock them away somewhere.” He gripped
the back of Henri’s swivel chair. “Play the
video one more time.”
Jean leaned
forward and watched the grainy film through slit eyes, speaking in a whisper to
the screen. “Gage Hartline, old friend— what on earth did you find?”
***
Gage awoke with a
start, his heart thudding in his chest, his sheets damp. As often happened after a critical mission,
his mind had raced as he had slept. It
was just before ten on Sunday; he had pharmacologically slumbered almost five
hours. After making a pot of thick coffee
and devouring a plain bagel, Gage shaved his heavy stubble and took a quick
shower. He fingered the diary for a
moment, studying the cover before sticking it into his pack along with a pad
and pencil, afterward dressing warmly for the frosty first day of November.
The S- bahn train was nearly empty. At the Frankfurt Bahnhof he purchased a bottled water and a banana for the twenty-minute trip north to
Friedberg on the regional train. It
certainly wasn’t necessary for Gage to go out of his way like this, but it was
a Sunday, he had nothing else to do and, if he knew Jean like he thought he
knew Jean, and if his own delayed actions in the Keisler Building had aroused his suspicions, the Frenchman and his supporting DGSE would
leave no stones unturned in their quest to find what Gage had been up to. And that included culling through his phone’s
Internet searches and the searches from IP addresses near Gage’s home.
After exiting the
train, Gage performed three maneuvers to make sure he had not been
followed. They were all as old as field-craft
itself, but each equally effective. The
first involved Gage casually seeking out an angled store window and looking for
the reflection of a tail. There was no
tail to be seen, no human beings at all. Just empty streets. He then used
a double-back at a blind corner, again finding no one. Gage felt confident he was alone but had been
taught to always check at least three times, using three different
methods. His last maneuver was to climb onto
a city bus and watch the activity as the bus drove away. There was nothing at all to be seen. He rode the bus through two stops, satisfied
by this time he wasn’t being followed.
From the bus stop
on Achstrasse he reversed direction through an alleyway
and headed up the rise into the center of town. Friedberg is a small city north of Frankfurt, most recently known for
being the hometown of Elvis Presley during his time in the Army. All that remained as evidence of his tour was
a chow hall named in his honor, and several hundred German women—now in their
late sixties and early seventies—who still got misty at the mention of his name. Long before Elvis ever gyrated to the delight
of American and German girls everywhere, Friedberg was an important waypoint in
the farthest northern reaches of the Holy Roman Empire. But Gage wasn’t headed
toward the Elvis Presley Dining Facility or any of the numerous Roman
ruins. His
and look at it each time he leaves.” They studied the video. Each time
Gage arrived, the pack was small. When
he left, it was bulging, easily double its original size, stretched to its
limit.
Jean crushed out
his cigarette and stood. He rubbed his
already mussed hair, pacing the room. “So he was carrying something each time. Something large. And he made two
trips?”
Henri didn’t
answer, wisely choosing to let Jean work things out in his own mind.
Jean leveled a
bony finger at Henri. “Who else have you
told?”
Henri made an
insulted face, pulling his head back. “Jean, what do you take me for?”
Jean leaned close,
his voice a whisper even though they were alone. “Not a word, Henri. Not a damned word to anyone . Save those files and
lock them away somewhere.” He gripped
the back of Henri’s swivel chair. “Play the
video one more time.”
Jean leaned
forward and watched the grainy film through slit eyes, speaking in a whisper to
the screen. “Gage Hartline, old friend— what on earth did you find?”
***
Gage awoke with a
start, his heart thudding in his chest, his sheets damp. As often happened after a critical mission,
his mind had raced as he had slept. It
was just before ten on Sunday; he had pharmacologically slumbered almost five
hours. After making a pot of thick coffee
and devouring a plain bagel, Gage shaved his heavy stubble and took a quick
shower. He fingered the diary for a
moment, studying the cover before sticking it into his pack along with a pad
and pencil, afterward dressing warmly for the frosty first day of November.
The S- bahn train was nearly empty. At the Frankfurt Bahnhof he purchased a bottled water and a banana for the twenty-minute trip north to
Friedberg on the regional train. It
certainly wasn’t necessary for Gage to go out of his way like this, but it was
a Sunday, he had nothing else to do and, if he knew Jean like he thought he
knew Jean, and if his own delayed actions in the Keisler Building had aroused his suspicions, the Frenchman and his supporting DGSE would
leave no stones unturned in their quest to find what Gage had been up to. And that included culling through his phone’s
Internet searches and the searches from IP addresses near Gage’s home.
After exiting the
train, Gage performed three maneuvers to make sure he had not been
followed. They were all as old as field-craft
itself, but each equally effective. The
first involved Gage casually seeking out an angled store window and looking for
the reflection of a tail. There was no
tail to be seen, no human beings at all. Just empty streets. He then used
a double-back at a blind corner, again finding no one. Gage felt confident he was alone but had been
taught to always check at least three times, using three different
methods. His last maneuver was to climb onto
a city bus and watch the activity as the bus drove away. There was nothing at all to be seen. He rode the bus through two stops, satisfied
by this time he wasn’t being followed.
From the bus stop
on Achstrasse he reversed direction through an alleyway
and headed up the rise into the center of town. Friedberg is a small city north of Frankfurt, most recently known for
being the hometown of Elvis Presley during his time in the Army. All that remained as evidence of his tour was
a chow hall named in his honor, and several hundred German women—now in their
late sixties and early seventies—who still got misty at the mention of his name. Long before Elvis ever gyrated to the delight
of American and German girls everywhere, Friedberg was an important waypoint in
the farthest northern reaches of the Holy Roman Empire. But Gage wasn’t headed
toward the Elvis Presley Dining Facility or any of the numerous Roman
ruins. His
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