“René?” said Joel, writing. “I never would have guessed. How come you know someone like this?”
“I told you not to ask, but on the other hand he may probe and you should have at least vague answers—everything was always vague. Tatiana is a Russian name, one of the Czar’s daughters reputedly executed at Ekaterinburg in 1918. I say ‘reputedly’ because many believe she was spared along with her sister Anastasia and smuggled out with a nurse who had a fortune in jewels on her. The nurse favored Tatiana and, once free, gave everything to the child and nothing to her sister. It’s said she lived anonymously in great wealth—may even be living today—but no one knows where.”
“That’s what I have to know?” asked Converse.
“No, it’s merely the origins of its present meaning. Today it is a symbol of trust given to very few people in recent years, people who themselves are trusted by the most suspicious men on earth, men who cannot afford to make mistakes.”
“Good Lord, who?”
“Russians, powerful Soviet commissars who have a fondness for Western banking, who broker money out of Moscow for investments. You can understand why the circle is small. Few are called and fewer chosen. Thorbecke is one of them, and he does an extensive business in passports. I’ll reach him and tell him to expect your call. Remember, no name, just Tatiana. He’ll have you on a KLM to Washington in short order. You’ll need money, however, so we must think how I can—”
“Money’s one thing I don’t need,” interrupted Converse. “Just a passport and a plane ticket to Dulles Airport without being picked up.”
“Get to Amsterdam. Thorbecke will help.”
“Thank you, René. I wanted to count on you and you came through. It means a lot to me. It means my life.”
“You’re not in Washington yet, my friend. But call me when you get there, no matter the hour.”
“I will. Thanks, again.”
Joel hung up, put the note pad and the pen into his pocket, and went out of the booth to the counter. He asked for his charges, and while the English-speaking operator was getting them he remembered the item he had marked 2 on his list. His attaché case with the dossiers and the names of the decision makers at the Pentagon and the State Department. Das Rektorat. Through some extraordinary oversight on Leifhelm’s part, had Connal managed to hide it somewhere? Could it have been found perhaps by an employee at the country inn? Converse spoke to the operator who was handing him his bill.
“There’s a place called Das Rektorat. It’s a hotel in the countryside—where I’m not sure, but I’d like to call it and reach the manager. I’m told he speaks English.”
“Yes, sir. Das Rektorat has splendid accommodations, if they are available.”
“I’m not looking for a reservation. A friend of mine stayed there last week and thinks he may have left a valuable item in his room. He called me and asked me to check for him, to speak with the manager. If I find the number, would you place the call for me and get him on the line? I’m sorry to say I don’t speak German; I’d probably reach the chef.”
“Certainly, sir,” replied the woman, smiling. “It would be easier for me to get the number. Return to booth seven and I’ll ring you. You can pay for both calls when you are finished.”
Inside the glass enclosure Joel lit a cigarette, thinking about what he was going to say. He barely had time to formulate his words when the ring came.
“This is the Vorsteher—the manager—of Das Rektorat, sir,” said the operator. “And he does speak English.”
“Thank you.” The operator broke off her connection. “Hello?”
“Yes, may I help you, sir?”
“I hope so. I’m an American friend of Commander Connal Fitzpatrick, chief legal officer of the San Diego Naval Base in California. I understand he stayed there last week.”
“Indeed he did, sir. We were so sorry we could not have extended his visit with us, but there was a prior reservation.”
“Oh? He left unexpectedly?”
“I shouldn’t put it that way. We spoke in the morning and I believe he understood our situation. I myself made arrangements for a taxi.”
“He was alone when he left?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Oh. Then if you’ll tell me which hotel he went to, I can check there as well.”
“Check, sir?”
“The Commander misplaced one of his briefcases, a flat leather type with two combination locks. The contents are of no value except to him, but he very much wants to find it. It was a present from his wife, I think. Have you come across it?”
“No, sir.”
“Are you sure? The commander has a habit of concealing his legal papers, sometimes under a bed or in the back of a closet.”
“He left nothing here, sir. The room was thoroughly examined and cleaned by our staff.”
“Perhaps someone came to see him and took the wrong case.” Converse knew he was pressing but there was no reason not to.
“He had no visitors.” The German paused. “Just one moment, I do recall now.”
“Yes?”
“You say a flat briefcase, what is generally referred to as an attaché case?”
“Yes!”
“He carried it with him. It was in his hand when he left.”
“Oh …” Joel tried to recover quickly. “Then if you’ll just tell me what forwarding address he left, what hotel he went to.”
“I’m sorry, sir. There were no such instructions.”
“Somebody had to make a reservation for him! Rooms are tight in Bonn!”
“Please, sir. I myself offered to try, but he refused my aid—somewhat discourteously, I might add.”
“I’m sorry.” Joel was annoyed that he had lost control. “Those legal papers were important. Then you have no idea where he went?”
“But I do, sir, if one wishes to be humored. I made a point of asking. He said he was going to the Bahnhof, the train station. If anyone asked for him, we were to say he was sleeping in a baggage locker. I’m afraid it was also meant discourteously.”
The train station? A locker! It was a message! Fitzpatrick was telling him where to look! Without speaking further, Converse hung up the phone, left the booth, and went to the counter. He paid for both calls and thanked the operator, wanting to leave her a tip but knowing it would only call attention to him. “You’ve been very kind and, if I may, one last favor.”
“Sir?”
“Where is the train station?”
“You can’t miss it. Turn left out of the building and walk four streets, then left again for two more. It is one of the more uncertain prides of Bonn.”
“You’ve been very kind.”
Joel hurried down the pavement, constantly reminding himself to check his speed. Everything depended on control now, everything. Every move he made had to be normal, even casual, nothing to cause anyone to take a second glance at him. Mattilon had told him to take a train; Fitzpatrick had told him to go to the train station—a locker! It was another omen! He was beginning to think that such a thing did exist.
He walked through the large open doors of the entrance and turned to his right toward the row of lockers where he had left the attaché case before heading out to the Alter Zoll to meet “Avery Fowler.” He reached the locker itself; there was a key in it, nothing inside. He began scrutinizing the lockers around it, on both sides, below, not at all sure what he was looking for but knowing there would be something. He found it! Two rows above on the left! The initials were small but clear, scratched into the metal by a strong, precise hand: C.F. Connal Fitzpatrick!
The Navy lawyer had done it! He had put the explosive papers back where only the two of them knew where they would be. Suddenly Converse felt sick. How could he get them out? How could he get inside? He looked around the station at the summer crowds. The huge clock read two-thirty; in two and a half hours the offices would be closed, the business day over, the crowds fuller. Mattilon had told him to reach Emmerich during the busiest ti
me, when workers traveled back and forth across the border at the end of the day, and it took nearly two hours to reach Emmerich, if there was a train. He had less than a half hour to get inside the locker.
There was an information booth at the far end of the cavernous station. He walked toward it, his mind again racing, choosing words that might produce a key. The abrasive weight of the money belt around his waist gave him a glimpse of hope.
“Thank you very much,” he said to the clerk, his tortoise-shell glasses perched on his nose, the cloth hat falling over his forehead. He had been assigned an English-speaking, middle-aged information dispenser with a pinched face and a bored, irritated expression. “Quite simply I’ve lost the key to the locker in which I stored my luggage and I have to get a train to Emmerich. By the way, when is the next one?”
“Ach, it is always ze case,” replied the clerk, thumbing a schedule. “Zozzing but trouble wiz zer sommer people. You lose ziss, you lose zat; and you expect everyone to help you! Zer train for Emmerich left twenty-seven minutes ago. Zer iss another in nineteen minuten, but nozzing after that for an hour.”
“Thank you. I have to be on it. Now, about the locker?” Joel removed a hundred-deutsche-mark note below the counter and raised it slowly above the ledge. “It’s very important that I get my luggage and take that train. May I shake your hand for helping me?”
“It will be done!” exclaimed the clerk quietly, looking to his right and left, as he grasped Converse’s hand and the money. He picked up the phone at his side and dialed abusively. “Schnell! Wir müssen ein Schliessfach öffnen. Standort zehn Auskunft!” He slammed down the phone and looked up at Joel, a smile sculpted onto his rigid lips. “A man will be here instantly to be of service. We are always eager to be of service. The Amerikanen, so thoughtful.”
The man came, bulging out of his railroad uniform, his eyes dull, his authority questionable. “Was ist?”
The clerk explained in German, then looked again at Converse. “He speaks some English, not well, of course, but adequately, and he will assist you.”
“Zer are our regulations,” said the official keeper of the locker keys. “Come, show me.”
“Happy birthday,” said Joel to the clerk behind the information booth.
“It is not my birthday, sir.”
“How would you know?” asked Converse, smiling, taking the fat man’s arm.
“Zer are procedures,” said the railroad bureaucrat, opening the locker with a master key. “You will sign for zer contents at zer office.”
It was there! His attaché case was on its side, nothing broken or slashed. He reached into his pocket and took out his money. “I’m in a great hurry,” he said as he slipped out first a hundred-deutsche-mark note, then, with hesitation, another. “My train leaves in a few minutes.” He shook the German’s hand, passing the money, and asked calmly but with cheerful friendliness in his eyes. “Couldn’t you say it was a mistake?”
“It vas a mistake!” answered the uniformed man enthusiastically. “You must catch a train!”
“Thank you. You’re a nice person. Happy birthday.”
“Was?”
“I know, don’t bother. Thank you again.”
Glancing around rapidly but subtly, hoping against hope that no one was watching him, Joel walked to an unoccupied wooden bench against the wall, sat down, and opened the attaché case—everything was there. But he could not keep it. Again he looked around the station, knowing what he had to find; he saw it. A drugstore or its equivalent; there would be envelopes somewhere inside. He closed the briefcase and got up, trusting someone in the store would speak English.
“Nearly all of us speak English,” said the matronly woman behind the counter near the stationery section. “It is practically a requirement, especially during the summer months. What are your needs?”
“I have to send a business report back to the United States,” answered Converse, a large, thick envelope and a roll of tape in his right hand, the attaché case in his left, “but my train leaves in a few minutes and I don’t have time to get to a post office.”
“There are several post-collection boxes in the Bahnhof, sir.”
“I need stamps, postage. I don’t know how much,” said Joel helplessly.
“If you will put your materials in the envelope, seal it and address it, I shall weigh the package and suggest the appropriate amount of stamping. We keep sheets here for convenience, but they are more expensive than in the post office.”
“It doesn’t matter. I’d like it to go airmail, with more postage rather than less.” Five minutes later Converse handed the accommodating clerk the heavily sealed package for weighing. He had written a note on the top of the first dossier and printed the address clearly on the front of the envelope. The woman returned with the appropriate postage. He paid her and placed the envelope on the counter in front of him.
“Thank you,” he said, looking at his watch, as he began frantically licking the stamps and securing them. “Would you by any chance know where I can buy a ticket to … Emmerich, or Arnhem, I guess?”
“Emmerich is German, Arnhem is Dutch. Any stall, sir.”
“I may not have time,” said Joel, on the last three stamps. “I suppose I could buy one on the train.”
“They will not stop it if you have money.”
“There.” He had finished. “Where’s the nearest mailbox—collection box?”
“At the other end of the Bahnhof.”
Again Joel looked at his watch, and again his chest began to pound as he ran out into the station; then instantly checking himself, he watched the crowds for anyone who might be watching him. He had less than eight minutes to mail the envelope, buy a ticket and find the train. Depending on the complications, perhaps he could eliminate the second step. But to pay his fare on board would mean engaging in conversation, conceivably having to find someone to translate—the possibilities and the possible consequences were frightening.
As he feverishly looked for the mailbox, he kept repeating to himself the exact words he had scribbled on the top of the first dossier’s cover: Do not—repeat, do not—let anyone know you have this. If you don’t hear from me within five days, send it to Nathan S. I’ll call him if I can. Your once and obedient husband. Love, J. He then looked down at the name and the address he had written on the envelope in his hand and wondered, stricken by a dull, sickening pain—how could he do this to her?
Ms. Valerie Charpentier
R.F.D. 16
Dunes Ridge
Cape Ann, Massachusetts
U.S.A.
Three minutes later he found a mailbox and deposited the envelope, opening and closing the slot several times to make sure it had fallen inside. He looked around at the signs everywhere, the German script confusing him, the lines in front of the windows discouraging him. He felt helpless, wanting to ask questions but afraid of stopping anyone, afraid that someone would study his face.
There was a window across the station, far away on the other side; two couples had left the line—four people with a sudden change of plans. Only one person was left. Converse hurried through the crowds, once again trying to hold himself in check and minimizing his movements.
“Emmerich, please,” he said to the clerk, as the lone customer finally left the window. “Netherlands.” he added, enunciating clearly.
The attendant briefly turned and looked at the clock on the wall behind him. Then he spoke in German, the phrases fast and guttural. “Verstehen?” he asked.
“Nein… Here!” Converse put three hundred-deutsche-mark notes on the ledge of the counter, shaking his head, shrugging. “Please, a ticket! I know, I’ve only got a few minutes.”
The man took two of the bills, shoving the third back. He made change and pressed several buttons beneath him; a ticket spewed out and he handed it to Joel. “Danke. Zwei Minuten!”
“The track. What track? Can you understand? Where?”
“Wo?”
“Yes, yes that
’s it! Where?”
“Acht.”
“What?” Then Converse held up his right hand, raising and lowering the fingers to indicate numbers.
The attendant responded by holding up both hands, a five-finger spread and three middle fingers. “Acht,” he repeated, pointing across the station to Joel’s left.
“Eight! Thank you.” Converse began walking as fast as possible without breaking into a run. He saw the gate through the throngs of people; a conductor was making an announcement while looking at his watch and backing into the archway.
A woman carrying packages collided with him, careening into his left shoulder, the bundles plummeting out of her arms, scattering on the floor. He tried to apologize through the abuse she hurled at him, loud words that caused the surrounding travelers to stop and gape. He picked up several shopping bags as the woman’s barking voice reached a crescendo.
“Up yours, lady,” he mumbled, dropping the packages and turning, now running to the closing gate. The conductor saw him and pushed it open.
He got to his seat, gasping, his soft hat pulled down over his forehead. The wound in his left arm was aching sharply, and he thought he might have ripped it open in the collision. He felt under his jacket, past the handle of the gun he had taken from Leifhelm’s chauffeur. There was no blood and he closed his eyes briefly in relief.
He was oblivious of the man across the aisle who was staring at him.
In Paris, the secretary sat at her desk speaking on the telephone in a low voice that was muted further by her cupped hand over the mouthpiece. Her Parisian French was cultured if not aristocratic.
“That is everything,” she said quietly. “Do you have it?” “Yes,” said the man on the other end of the line. “It’s extraordinary.”
“Why? It’s the reason I’m here.”
“Of course. I should say you’re extraordinary.”
“Of course. What are your instructions?”
The Aquitaine Progression: A Novel Page 46