The train traveled north, then east; there were two stops before Oldenzaal, after which he presumed they would cross the Rhine into West Germany. They had pulled in and out of the Deventer station; that left one more, a city named Hengelo. The announcement came, and Joel got out of his seat before any of the Hengelo commuters rose from theirs; he turned in the aisle and walked back to the rear of the car. As he passed the man who stood by the pillar he saw that Aquitaine’s hunter was staring straight ahead, his body so rigid it barely moved with the movement of the train. Converse had seen such postures many times before, at trials and in boardrooms; they invariably belonged to insecure witnesses and unsure negotiators. The man was tense, afraid perhaps of failing an assignment or of the people who had sent him to Amsterdam—whatever it was, his anxiety was showing and Joel would use it. He was crawling out of a deep shaft in the ground, one tenuous grasp of earth after another, the indentations preformed after nights of preparation. The wire fence was in the distance, the rain falling, the patrols concerned, anxious—frightened by every sound they could not quickly identify. He needed only one to move away and he had it.… He could reach the fence!
Reach Osnabrück—alone.
The toilet was unoccupied; he opened the door, went inside, and took out the page of instructions. He folded it, tore it in shreds, and dropped the pieces into the bowl, pressing the foot button as he did so. They disappeared with the flush; he turned back to the door and waited.
A second announcement blared from the speakers outside as the train slowed down; the sound of gathering feet was inches away beyond the door. The train came to a stop; he could feel the vibration of moving bodies, determined commuters thinking of home and relief and undoubtedly the Dutch equivalent of a martini. The vibrations stopped; the sounds faded away. Converse opened the door no more than half an inch. The rigid hunter was not in his seat. Now.
Joel slid out of the door and stepped quickly into the open separation between cars, excusing himself between the stragglers getting off from the car behind, and walked rapidly inside and down the aisle. As he approached the last rows he saw an empty seat—two seats, facing the platform—and swung in; he sat down beside the window, his hand in front of his face, peering outside through his fingers.
Aquitaine’s hunter raced back and forth, sufficiently aggressive to stop three men who were walking away, their backs to him; rapid apologies followed. The hunter turned to the train, having exhausted the departing possibilities. He got back on board, his face a creased map falling apart.
More, thought Converse. I want more. I want you stretched, as patrols before you were stretched. Until you can’t stand it!
Oldenzaal arrived, then was left behind. The train crossed the Rhine, the clattering of the bridge below like snare drums. The hunter had crashed the forward door open, too panicked to do anything but quickly look around and return to his companion, or to a lone suitcase perhaps. Joel’s head was below the back of the seat in front of him. Minutes later came the Sonderpolizei checking the border, scrutinizing every male of a vague description, dozens of uniformed men walking through the railway cars. They were courteous, to be sure, but nevertheless they gave rise to ugly vestiges of a time past. Converse showed his passport and the letter written in German for the conscience of Germans. A policeman grimaced sadly, then nodded and went on to the next seat. The uniforms left; the minutes became quarter-hours. He could see through the windows into the forward car; the two hunters met several rows behind where he had been sitting. Again they separated; one fore, one aft. Now.
Joel got up from his seat and sidestepped into the aisle, pretending to check his schedule and bending down to look out the darkened window. He would stay there for as long as he had to, until one of the hunters spotted him. It took less than ten seconds. As Converse pitched his head down supposedly to see a passing sign outside he caught a glimpse of a figure moving into the upper panel of glass on the forward door. Joel stood up. The man behind the glass spun out of sight. It was the sign he had been waiting for, the moment to move quickly.
He turned and walked to the rear of the car, opened the door and crossed the dark clattering space to the car behind. He went inside and swiftly made his way down the aisle, again to the rear and again into the next car, turning in the intervening darkness to see what he expected to see, what he wanted to see. The man was following him. A guard was taking himself out of position in the downpour. Only seconds and he could reach the barbed wire.
As he ran through the third car a number of passengers looked up at him, at a running priest. Most turned in their seats to see if there was an emergency, and seeing none shook their heads in bewilderment. He reached the door, pulled it open, and stepped into the shadows, suddenly startled by what he saw. In front of him, instead of another railroad-car door, the upper part a window, there was a solid panel of heavy wood, the word FRACHT printed across the midsection above a large steel knob. Then he heard the announcement over the loud-speakers:
“Benthelm! Nächste Station, Benthelm!”
The train was slowing down, the first of two stops before Osnabrück. Joel moved forward into the darkest area and inched his head in view of the window behind him, confident that he could not be seen by a man facing light reflected off a panel of glass. What he saw again startled him—not by the activity, but by the inactivity. The hunter made no move toward the door; instead, he sat down facing forward, a commuter finding a more comfortable seat, nothing else on his mind. The train came to a stop; those passengers getting off were forming a line in front … in front.
There had been a sign above this last door, but since he could not read it, he had simply gone through. He looked now at the exit doors; there were no handles. Obviously that incomprehensible sign was there to inform anyone who approached the door that it was not an exit. If he had been facing a trap before, he was in a cage now, a steel cage that began moving again, as the wheels gathered speed against the tracks. A racing jail from which there was no escape. Converse reached into his shirt pocket and took out his cigarettes. He had been so close to the barbed wire; he had to think!
A rattle? A key … a bolt. The door of a heavy wood with the word FRACHT stenciled on it opened and the figure of a stout man emerged, preceded by his stomach.
“Ein Zigarette für Sei, während ich zum Pinkeln gehe!” said the railroad guard, laughing, as he crossed through the short, dark corridor to the door. “Dann ein Whisky, ja?”
The German was going for a drink, and although he had pulled the door of his domain nearly shut, he had not closed it; he was an untroubled man, a guard with nothing he felt worth guarding. Joel pushed the heavy panel open and went inside, knowing what would happen; it had to happen the instant the guard walked by the hunter on his way to “ein Whisky.”
There were half a dozen sealed crates and roughly ten cages holding animals—dogs mostly and several cats, cowering in corners, claws extended at the sound of growls and barks. The only light came from a naked bulb swaying on a thick wire from the ceiling beyond another cage, this one built for man with wire mesh at the end of the freight car. Converse concealed himself behind a crate near the door. He reached under his priestly coat and pulled out the gun with the perforated cylinder, the silencer.
The door opened—cautiously, millimeter by millimeter—the weapon appeared before the hand or the arm. Finally there was the man, the foot soldier from Aquitaine.
Joel fired twice, not trusting a single shot. The arm crashed back into the edge of the half-open door, the gun spinning out of the killer’s hand, a single spurt of blood erupting near the executioner’s wrist. Converse sprang from behind the crate—the patrol was his, and so was the stretch of barbed-wire fence! He could climb it and crawl over now! The rock had smashed the window in the barracks! The staccato barrage of machine-gun fire was spraying where he was not! Seconds, only seconds, and he was out!
Joel pinned the man to the floor, gripping his throat and pressing one knee on his chest—one pro
longed squeeze and the soldier from Aquitaine would be dead. He held the barrel of the gun against the man’s temple.
“You speak any English?”
“Ja!” coughed the German. “I … speak English.”
“What were your orders?”
“Follow you. Only follow you. Don’t shoot! I am Angestellte! I know nothing!”
“A what?”
“A hired man!”
“Aquitaine!”
“What?”
The man was not lying; there was too much panic in his eyes. Converse raised the gun and abruptly shoved it into the German’s left eye, the perforated cylinder pressed deep into the socket.
“You tell me exactly what you were told to do! The truth—and I’ll know a lie—and if you lie, your skull will be all over this wall! Talk to me!”
“To follow you!”
“And?”
“If you left the train we were to phone the Polizei. Wherever. Then … the orders were to kill you before they came. But I would not do that! I swear by my Christ I would never do that! I am a good Christian. I even love the Jews! I am unemployed!”
Joel crashed the weapon into the man’s skull—the patrol had been taken out! He could climb the fence now! He pulled the German behind a crate and waited. How long it was impossible to tell; time had lost its meaning. The railway guard came back, somewhat more drunk than sober, and took refuge behind his wire-meshed office with the single light bulb.
The other cages were not so serene. The smell of human blood and sweat was more than the dogs could take; they began to react. Within minutes the railway car labeled FRACHT became a madhouse, the animals were now hysterical—the dogs snarling, barking, hurling themselves against their cages; the cats, provoked by the dogs, screeching, hissing, backs arched, fur standing on end. The guard was perplexed and frightened; anchoring himself to the chair in his sanctuary of wire mesh, he poured more whisky down his throat. He stared at the cages, his eyes wide within the folds of puffed flesh. Twice he looked at a glass-encased lever on the wall inches above the desk, above his hand. He had only to lift the casing and pull it.
“Rheine! Nächste Station, Rheine!”
The last stop before Osnabrück. Before long the German would revive, and unless Joel’s eyes were on him at that instant the man would scream and an emergency lever would be pulled. Too, there was another man only cars behind who was also hired to follow him, to kill him. To remain where he was any longer was to let the trap close. He had to get off.
The train stopped, and Converse lunged for the door, his movement causing a dozen caged animals to vent their anger and confusion. He pushed back the bolt, opened the heavy door and raced into the forward car. He ran up the aisle—a priest perhaps on an errand of mercy—repeatedly apologizing as he rushed past the departing passengers, intent only on getting off before an unconscious body was found, a lever pulled, an alarm sounded. He reached the exit and leaped from the second step to the platform; he looked around and ran into the shadows of the station.
He was free. He was alive. But he was miles away from an old woman waiting for her priest.
31
Valerie kept running, afraid to look behind, but when she forced herself to turn her head she saw the Army officer arguing with the driver of the Army car. Seconds later she looked again as she reached the corner of Madison Avenue. The officer was now running after her, shortening the distance between them with each stride. She raced across the street just as the light turned, and the blaring of horns signified the anger of several drivers.
Thirty feet away a taxi heading north had pulled to the curb and a gray-haired man was lethargically stretching himself out onto the pavement, tired, unwilling to accept the morning. Val ran back into the street, into the traffic, and raced to the cab’s door; she opened it and climbed in as the startled gray-haired man was receiving change.
“Hey, lady, you crazy?” yelled the black driver. “You’re supposed to use the curb! You’ll get flattened by a bus!”
“I’m sorry!” cried Val, sinking low and back on the seat. What the hell? “My husband is running up the street after me and I will not be hit again! I hurt. He’s—he’s an Army officer.”
The gray-haired man sprang out of the cab like a decathalon contender, slamming the door behind him. The taxi driver turned around and looked at her, his large black face suspicious. “You tellin’ the truth?”
“I threw up all morning from the punches last night.”
“An officer? In the Army?”
“Yes! Will you please get out of here?” Val sank lower. “He’s at the corner now! He’ll cross the street—he’ll see me!”
“Fret not, ma’am,” said the driver, calmly reaching over the seat and pressing down the locks on the rear doors. “Oh, you were right on! Here he comes runnin’ across like a crazy man. And would you look at them ribbons! Would you believe that horseshit—excuse me, ma’am. He’s kinda skinny, ain’t he? Most of the real bad characters were skinny. They compensated—that’s a psychiatric term, you know.”
“Get out of here!”
“The law’s precise, ma’am. It’s the duty of every driver of a medallion vehicle to protect the well-being of his fare.… And I was an infantry grunt, ma’am, and I’ve waited a hell of a long time for this particular opportunity. Having a real good reason and all that. I mean, you sure can’t deny the words you said to me.” The driver climbed out of the cab. He matched his face; he was a very large man, indeed. Val watched in horrified astonishment as the black walked around the hood to the curb and shouted, “Hey, Captain! Over here, on the sidewalk! You lookin’ for a very pretty lady? Like maybe your wife?”
“What?” The officer ran up on the pavement to the black man.
“Well, Captain-baby, I’m afraid I can’t salute ’cause my uniform’s in the attic—if I had an attic—but I want you to know that this search-and-destroy has successfully been completed. Would you step over to my jeep, sir?”
The officer started to run toward the taxi but was suddenly grabbed by the driver, who spun him around and punched him first in the stomach, then brought his knee crashing up into the Army man’s groin, and finally completed the “assignment” by hammering a huge fist into the officer’s mouth. Val gasped; blood spread over the captain’s entire face as he fell to the pavement. The driver ran back to the cab, climbed in, shut the door and pulled the gear; the taxi shot forward in the traffic.
“Lawdy, lawdy!” said the driver in a caricature of Southern dialect. “That felt real good! Is there an address, ma’am? The meter’s running.”
“I … I’m not sure.”
“Let’s start with the basics. Where do you want to go?”
“To a telephone … Why did you do that?”
“That’s my business, not yours.”
“You’re sick! You could have been arrested.!”
“For what? Protecting a fare from assault? That bad character was actually runnin’ toward my cab and the vibes were not good, not good at all. Also, there weren’t no cops around.”
“I presume you were in Vietnam,” said Val, after a period of silence, looking at the large head of black hair in front of her.
“Oh, yes, I was accorded that privilege. Very scenic, ma’am.”
“What did you think of General Delavane? General George Marcus Delavane?”
The cab suddenly, violently, swerved as the driver gripped the wheel and slammed his heavy foot on the brake, causing the taxi to bolt to a stop, throwing Val against the rim of the front seat. The large black head whipped around, the coal-black eyes filled with fury and loathing and that deep unmistakable core of fear Valerie had seen so many times in Joel’s eyes. The driver swallowed, his piercing stare somehow losing strength, turning inward, the fear taking over. He turned back to the wheel and answered simply, “I didn’t do much thinking about the General ma’am. What’s the address, missus? The meter’s running.”
“I don’t know.… A telephone, I have to g
et to a telephone. Will you wait?”
“Do you have money? Or did the captain take it all? There are limits to my concern, lady. I don’t get no compensation for good deeds.”
“I have money. You’ll be well paid.”
“Show me a bill.”
Valerie reached into her purse and pulled out a hundred dollars. “Will that do?” she asked.
“It’s fine, but don’t do that with every cab you want in a hurry. You could end up in Bed-Stuy a damn good-lookin’ corpse.”
“I don’t want to believe that.”
“Oh, my, we have a liberal! Stick to it, ma’am, until they stick it to you. Me, I want ’em all to fry! Your kind don’t really get it—we do. You only get the periphery, you dig? A couple of rapes in the classy suburbs—and some of them might be open to dispute; and a few heists of silver and jewelry—hell, you’re covered by insurance! Where I come from we’re covered by a gun under the pillow, and God help the son of a bitch who tries to take it from me.”
“A telephone, please.”
“Your meter, lady.”
They stopped at a booth on the corner of Madison and Seventy-eighth Street. Valerie got out, and took from her purse the sheet of St. Regis stationery with the Air Force telephone number. She inserted a coin and dialed.
“Air Force, Recruit Command, Denver,” announced the female operator.
“I wondered if you could help me, miss,” said Val, her eyes darting about at the traffic, looking for a roving brown sedan with U.S. ARMY printed across its doors. “I’m trying to locate an officer, a relative, actually …”
“One minute, please. I’ll transfer you.”
“Personnel, Denver Units,” came a second voice, now male. “Sergeant Porter.”
The Aquitaine Progression: A Novel Page 63