“Sergeant, I’m trying to locate an officer,” repeated Valerie. “A relative of mine who left word with an aunt that he wanted to reach me.”
“Where in Colorado, ma’am?”
“Well, I’m not sure.”
“The Springs? The Academy? Lowry Field or possibly Cheyenne Mountain?”
“I don’t know that he is in Colorado, Sergeant.”
“Why did you call Denver, then?”
“You were in the telephone book.”
“I see.” The Army man paused. “And this officer left word that he wanted to reach you?”
“Yes.”
“But he didn’t leave an address or a telephone number.”
“If he did, my aunt lost it. She’s quite elderly.”
“The procedure is as follows, miss. If you will write a letter to the MPC—Military Personnel Center—at the Randolph Air Force Base, San Antonio, Texas, stating your request and the officer’s name and rank, the letter will be processed.”
“I don’t have time, Sergeant! I travel a great deal—I’m calling from an airport now, as a matter of fact.”
“I’m sorry, miss, those are the regulations.”
“I’m not a ‘miss’ and my cousin’s a general and he really does want to speak to me! I just want to know where he is, and if you can’t tell me, certainly you can call him and give him my name. I’ll call you back with a number where he can reach me. That’s reasonable, isn’t it, Sergeant? Frankly, this is an emergency.”
“A general, ma’am?”
“Yes, Sergeant Potter. A General Abbott.”
“Sam Abbott? I mean, Brigadier General Samuel Abbott?”
“That’s the one, Sergeant Potter.”
“Porter, ma’am.”
“I’ll remember that.”
“Well, I can’t see any security breach here, miss—ma’am. Everybody knows where General Abbott is stationed. He’s a popular officer and in the newspapers a lot.”
“Where is that, Sergeant? I’ll personally tell him you’ve been most helpful—to both of us.”
“Nellis Air Force Base in Nevada, ma’am, just outside Las Vegas. He commands the advanced tactical maneuver squadrons. All the squadron commanders get their final training at Nellis. He’s the man.… May I have your name, please?”
“Oh, good Lord! There’s the last boarding call for my plane! Thank you, Sergeant.” Valerie hung up the phone, her eyes still scanning the street, trying to decide what to do—whether to call Sam now or wait. Suddenly she realized she could not call; it would mean using a credit card, origin of call and destination listed. She went back to the taxi.
“Lady, I’d just as soon get out of here, if you don’t mind,” said the driver, a quiet urgency in his voice.
“What’s the matter?”
“I keep a police scanner in my cab in case there’s problems in my neighborhood, and I just heard the word. An Army captain was clobbered on Fifty-fifth and Madison by a black driver of a taxi heading north. Lucky for me they didn’t get the license or the company, but the description’s pretty good. ‘A big black son of a bitch with a size-twelve fist’ was the way those mothers put it.”
“Let’s go,” said Val. “I hate to say this, and I mean that, but I can’t get involved.” The cab sped forward, the driver turning east on Eightieth Street. “Is—my husband pressing charges?” she asked.
“No, I’m off the hook there,” replied the driver. “He must have punched you real bad. He just fled and had nuthin’ to say. Bless his white heart. Where to?”
“Let me think.”
“It’s your meter.”
She had to get to Las Vegas, but the idea of going back to Kennedy or LaGuardia airports frightened her. They seemed too logical, too easily anticipated. Then she remembered. About five or six years ago she and Joel were weekending with friends in Short Hills, New Jersey, when Joel got a call from Nathan Simon, telling him he had to fly to Los Angeles on Sunday for a Monday-morning meeting. All the legal papers would be sent to the Beverly Hills Hotel by air express. Joel had taken the plane from Newark Airport.
“Can you drive me to Newark?”
“I can drive you to Alaska, lady, but Newark?”
“The airport.”
“That’s better. It’s one of the best. I guess Newark’s okay, too. I got a brother there and, hell, he’s still alive. I’ll swing through the park at Sixty-fifth and head down to the Lincoln Tunnel. Do you mind if I turn on the scanner again?”
“No, go right ahead.”
The voices went in and out, then the driver pushed a button and they became steady: “Incident at Fifty-fifth and Madison is a negative. Precinct Ten has called it off as the victim refused assistance and did not identify himself. So patrols, onward and upward. We helps them what helps themselves. On, brothers.”
“Oh, he’s a brother!” shouted the driver in relief as he turned off the radio. “You catch that ‘incident is a negative’? They coulda used him in Nam, in those big body-count press conferences.… Come to think of it, he was probably there—not with the press, just one of the bodies. They never did get it right.”
Valerie leaned forward on the seat. “I asked you about—Nam. About General Delavane. Would you tell me about him?”
It was nearly a minute before the black replied, and when he did so, his voice was soft, even mellifluous. And somewhere at the base of it was abject defeat. “My driver’s identification is lookin’ at you, lady. I’m drivin’ you to Newark Airport—that’s what you’re payin’ for, and that’s what you’ll get.”
The rest of the ride was made in silence, an oppressive sense of fear pervading the cab. After all these years, thought Val. Oh, God.
They hit heavy traffic at the tunnel and then on the turnpike; it was the start of the weekend and vacationers were heading for the Jersey shore. The airport was worse; it was jammed, cars backed up for a quarter of a mile in the departure lanes. Finally they edged up into a parking space and Valerie got out. She paid the driver a hundred dollars above the fare and thanked him. “You’ve been much more than helpful, you know that.… I’ll never really know why but I’ll think about it.”
“Like I said, it’s my business. I got my reasons.”
“I wish I could say something, something that could help.”
“Don’t try, lady. The green is enough.”
“No, it’s not.”
“Sure, it is until something better comes along, and that ain’t gonna be in my lifetime.… You take care, missus. I think you got bigger problems than most of us. You said too much, which I don’t recall, of course.”
Valerie turned and went into the terminal. The lines in front of the counters were horrendous, and before joining one she had to know which one. Twenty minutes later she was in the proper line and nearly an hour after that she had a ticket to Las Vegas on American’s 12:30 flight, another hour before boarding. It was time to see if it all made sense. If Sam Abbott made sense, or whether she was grasping desperately at a man she once remembered who might not be that man any longer. She had exchanged $20 in bills for two $10 rolls of quarters. She hoped it would be enough. She took an escalator up to the second floor and went to a telephone at the far end of the wide corridor past the shops. Nevada information gave her the number of the main switchboard at Nellis Air Force Base. She dialed and asked to be put through to Brigadier General Samuel Abbott.
“I don’t know if he’s on the base yet,” said the operator.
“Oh?” she had forgotten. There was a three-hour time difference.
“Just a minute, he’s checked in. Early-morning flight schedule.”
“General Abbott’s office.”
“May I speak to the general, please. The name is Parquette, Mrs. Virginia Parquette.”
“May I ask what this is in reference to?” asked the secretary. “The general’s extremely busy and is about to head down to the field.”
“I’m a cousin he hasn’t seen in a long time, actually. There
’s been a tragedy in the family.”
“Oh, I’m terribly sorry.”
“Please tell him I’m on the line. He may not recall my name; it’s been so many years. But you might remind him that in the old days we had some wonderful dinners in New York. It’s really most urgent. I wish someone else were making this call, but I’m afraid I was elected.”
“Yes—yes, of course.”
The waiting put Valerie in the last circle of hell. Finally there was a click, followed by the voice she remembered.
“Virginia … Parquette?”
“Yes.”
“Ginny—from New York? Dinner in New York?”
“Yes.”
“You’re the wife, not the sister.”
“Yes!”
“Give me a number. I’ll call you back in ten minutes.”
“It’s a pay phone.”
“Stay there. The number.”
She gave it to him and hung up, frightened, wondering what she had done, but knowing that she could not have done anything else. She sat in the plastic chair by the phone, watching the escalators, looking at the people going in and out of the various shops, the bar, the fast-food restaurant. She tried not to look at her watch; twelve minutes passed. The phone rang.
“Yes?”
“Valerie?”
“Yes!”
“I wanted to get out of the office—too many interruptions. Where are you? I know the area code’s New Jersey.”
“Newark Airport. I’m on the twelve-thirty flight to Las Vegas. I’ve got to see you!”
“I tried to call you. Talbot’s secretary gave me your number—”
“When?”
“Starting two days ago. I was in the Mojave on maneuvers and too bushed to turn on a radio—we didn’t have newspapers. A man answered, and when he said you weren’t there I hung up.”
“That was Roger, Joel’s father. He’s dead.”
“I know. They say it was most likely suicide.”
“No!… I’ve seen him, Sam. I’ve seen Joel! It’s all lies!”
“That’s what we have to talk about,” said the general. “Call me when you get in. Same name. I don’t want to pick you up at the airport; too many people know me over there. I’ll figure out a place where we can meet.”
“Thank you, Sam!” said Valerie. “You’re all we have left.”
“We?”
“For the time being, yes. I’m all he has left.”
Converse watched from the far dark corner of the railroad station as the train for Osnabrück started up, its huge wheels pressing into the tracks, groaning for momentum. At any moment he expected whistles to pierce the quiet night and the train to stop, a bewildered half-drunken guard running from the freight car, screaming. None of it happened. Why? Was the man more than half drunk? Had the sounds of the enraged animals driven him further into the bottle, strengthening his resolve to remain in the safety of his cage? Had he seen only a blur racing to the door in the dim light, or perhaps nothing, an unconscious body subsequently not discovered? Then Joel saw that there was another possibility, a brutal one. He could see a figure running forward through the second to last car, twice lunging between the seats, his face pressed against the glass. Moments later the man was leaning out above the lower door of the first exit, the steps below blocked off by the heavy solid gate. In his hand was a gun, held laterally across his forehead as he squinted against the station lights, peering into the shadows.
Suddenly the killer made his decision. He gripped the metal rim and leaped over the guardrail, dropping to the ground, rolling over in the gravel away from the gathering speed of the train. The hunter from Aquitaine was in panic; he dared not lose the quarry, dared not fail to carry out his assignment.
Converse spun around the corner and raced along the dark side of the building to a parking area. The passengers who had gotten off the train were starting their automobiles or climbing into them; two couples were chatting on the near platform, obviously waiting to be picked up. A car came curving in off the road beyond; the men waved, and in moments all four were inside, laughing as the car sped away. The parking area was deserted, the station shut down for the night. A single floodlight from the roof illuminated the emptiness, a border of tall trees beyond the wide expanse of coarse gravel gave the appearance of an immense impenetrable wall.
Staying as best he could in the shadows, Joel darted from one space of darkness to another until he reached a solid, indented arch at the end of the building. He pressed his back against the brick and waited, his hand gripping the gun at his side, wondering if he would have to use it, if he would even have a chance to use it. He had been lucky on the train and he knew it; he was no match for professional killers. And no matter how strongly he tried to convince himself, he was not in the jungles a lifetime ago, not the younger man he had been then. But when he thought about it—as he was thinking about it now—those memories were all he had to guide him. He ducked out of the shadowed arch and quickly dashed to the corner.
The explosion came, blowing out the stone to the left of his head! He lunged to his right, rolling on the gravel, then quickly rose to get away from the spill of the floodlight. Three more shattering explosions tore up the rock and earth around his feet. He reached a dark row of foliage and dove into the bushes, instinctively knowing exactly what he had to do.
“Augh! Aughhh …!” His final scream ended on a convincing note of agony.
He then crawled through the underbrush as fast as he could penetrate the tangled nets of prickly green. He was at least ten feet away from where he had shouted; he pivoted on his knees and remained still, facing the floodlit expanse beyond the bushes.
It happened, as it had happened before when three children in official pajamas had killed another child indelicately in the jungle. Anxious men were drawn to the last sounds they heard—as this hunter from Aquitaine was drawn now. The man stalked out of the darkness of the railroad station’s rear platform, his gun extended, held steady with both hands. He walked directly, cautiously, to that small section in the overgrowth where the screams had come from.
Converse scratched the ground noiselessly until he found a rock larger than his fist. He gripped it and waited, staring, feeling the drumming in his chest. The killer was within eight feet of the border of greenery. Joel lobbed the rock, arcing it in the air to his right.
The crunching thud was loud. Instantly Aquitaine’s soldier crouched and fired one round after another—two, three, four! Converse raised his weapon and pulled the trigger twice. The man spun to his left, gasping, as he clutched his stomach and fell to the ground.
There was no time to think or feel or consider what had happened. Joel crawled out to the gravel and raced over to his would-be executioner; he grabbed him by the arms and dragged him back into the bushes. Still, he had to find out. He knelt down and held his fingers against the base of the man’s throat. He was dead, another scout taken out in the war of the modern Aquitaine, the military confederation of George Marcus Delavane.
There was no one around—if there had been, the gunshots would have provoked screams and brought running feet; the police would have been summoned; they would have been there by now. How far away was Osnabrück? He had read the schedule and tried to figure out the times, but everything had happened so swiftly, so brutally, he had not absorbed what he read. It was less than an hour, that much he knew. Somehow he had to get word to the station at Osnabrück. Christ, how?
He walked out on the platform, glancing up at the sign: RHEINE. It was a start; he had counted only the stops, not the names. Then he saw something in the distance—above the ground, high above—with lights on the inside. A tower! He had seen such towers dozens of times in Switzerland and France—they were signal depots. They dotted the Eurail’s landscape, controlling the trains that sped across their sectors. He started running along the tracks, suddenly wondering what he looked like. His hat was gone, his clothes soiled, but his clerical collar was still in place—he was still a p
riest.
He reached the base of the tower. He brushed off his clothes and tried to smooth his hair; Composing himself, he began climbing the metal steps. At the top he saw that the steel door to the tower itself was bolted, the inch-thick bulletproof glass a sign of the terrorist times—speeding trains were vulnerable targets. He approached the door and rapped on the metal frame. Three men were inside, huddled over electronic consoles; an elderly man turned from the numerous green screens and came to the door. He peered through the glass and crossed himself, but did not open the door. Instead, there was a sudden echoing sound projected into the air, and the man’s voice emerged from a speaker: “Was ist, Hochwürden?”
“I don’t speak German. Do you speak English?”
“Engländer?”
“Yes—ja.”
The old man turned to his associates and shouted something. Both shook their heads, but one held up his hand and came to the door.
“Ich spreche… a little, Mr. Engländer. Nicht come enter here, verstehen?”
“I have to call Osnabrück! A woman is waiting for me—a Frau!
“Ohh? Hochwürden! Eine Frau?”
“No, no! You don’t understand! Can’t anybody here speak English?”
“Sie sprechen Deutsch?”
“No!”
“Warten Sie,” said the third man from the console. There was a rapid exchange between the two men. The one who spoke “a little” turned back to the door.
“Eine Kirche,” said the man groping for words. “Church! Ein Pfarrer—priest! Er spricht Englisch. Drei… three strassen … there!” The German pointed to his left; Joel looked down over his shoulder. There was a street in the distance. He understood; there was a church three blocks away, and a priest who spoke English, presumably a priest who had a telephone.
“The train to Osnabrück. When? When does it get there?” Converse pointed to his watch. “When? Osnabrück?”
The man looked over at the console, then turned back to Joel and smiled. “Zwölf Minuten, Hochwürden!”
“How? What?”
“Zwölf… tvelf.”
“Twelve?”
“Ja!”
Converse turned and clattered down the steps; on the ground he ran as fast as he could toward the streetlamps in the distance. Once there, he raced in the middle of the street, clutching his chest, vowing for the five hundredth time to give up cigarettes. He had persuaded Val to throw them away; why hadn’t he taken his own advice? He was invulnerable, that’s why. Or did he simply care for her more than he cared for himself? Enough! Where was the goddamned church?
The Aquitaine Progression: A Novel Page 64