“I was waiting for you to say something.”
“Yes, of course, but I couldn’t, could I?”
“Why, Derek? For Christ’s sake, why?”
“Because it’s right and you know it.”
“I don’t know it! You’re a sane, reasonable man. They’re not!”
“They’ll be replaced, naturally. How often have you and I used drones we couldn’t abide because their contributions were necessary to the objective?”
“What objective? An international totalitarian alliance? A military state without borders? All of us robots marching to the drums of fanatics?”
“Oh, come off it, Peter. Spare us both the liberal drivel. You left this business once, drinking yourself into a stupor because of the waste, the futility, the deceits we all practiced—the people we killed—to maintain what we laughingly called the status quo. What status quo, old man? To be continuously harassed by our inferiors the world over? To be held hostage by screaming mullahs and hysterical fools who still live in the Dark Ages and would cut our throats over the price of a barrel of oil? To be manipulated at every turn by Soviet deceptions? No, Peter, there really is a better way. The means may be distasteful, but the end result is not only desirable, it’s also honorable.”
“Whose definition? George Marcus Delavane’s? Erich Leifhelm’s? Chaim—”
“They’ll be replaced!”
“They can’t be!” shouted Stone. “Once it starts, you can’t stop it. The image becomes the reality. It’s expected, demanded! To deviate is to be accused, to oppose is to be ostracized, penalized! It’s lockstep and lockjaw, and you damn well know that!”
The telephone rang.
“Let it ring,” ordered the man from M.I.6.
“It doesn’t matter now. You were the Englishman at Leifhelm’s house in Bonn. A brief description of you would have confirmed it for me.”
“That’s Converse?” The phone rang again.
“Would you like to talk to him? I understand he’s quite a lawyer, although he broke a fundamental rule—he took himself on as a client. He’s coming out, Derek, and he’s going after you, all of you. We all are—after all of you.”
“You won’t!” cried Belamy. “You can’t! As you yourself put it, once it starts you can’t stop it!”
Without the slightest indication that he was about to move, the Englishman suddenly lunged at Stone, the three middle fingers of his right hand rigid, zeroing in like steel projectiles on the CIA man’s throat. Stone took the agonizing blow, gasping for air as the room spiraled out of his vision, a thousand dazzling spots of white light flashing in his eyes. He could hear the door opening and closing as the phone insistently rang again. But Peter could not see it; the white lights had turned into darkness. The ringing stopped as Stone wildly, blindly careened around the room, trying to trace the bell, trying to find the phone. The minutes passed in madness as he smashed into walls and fell over the desk. Then the door crashed open and Colonel Alan Metcalf rushed in.
“Stone! What happened?” Racing to Peter, the Air Force officer instantly recognized the effects of the judo chop. He began massaging Stone’s throat, pressing his knee into the CIA man’s stomach to force up air. “The switchboard reached us, saying that room fourteen had placed a scrambler call but didn’t pick up. Christ, who was it?”
Vague images came back to Stone, but still he could not speak; he was capable only of gasping coughs. He writhed under Metcalf’s strong hands, pointing to a note pad that had fallen from the desk. The colonel understood; he reached for it and yanked out a ball-point pen from his pocket. He rolled Stone over and, placing the pen in his hand, guided the hand to the pad.
Struggling for control, Peter wrote: BELMY. STP. AQUTAIN.
“Oh, my God!” whispered Metcalf, reaching for the phone and dialing zero. “Operator, this is an emergency. Give me Security.… Security? Colonel Alan Metcalf talking from Strategy Fourteen. Emergency! There’s an Englishman named Belamy who may still be on the premises trying to leave. Stop him! Hold him! Consider him dangerous. And get word to the infirmary. Send a doctor to Strategy Fourteen. Quickly!”
The White House staff doctor removed the oxygen mask from Stone’s face and placed it on the desk next to the cylinder. He then gently moved Peter’s head back in the chair, inserted a tongue depressor and peered into the CIA man’s throat with a pencil light.
“It was a nasty shot,” he said, “but you’ll feel better in a couple of hours. I’ll give you some pills for the pain.”
“What’s in them?” asked Stone hoarsely.
“A mild analgesic with some codeine.”
“No thanks, Doctor,” said Peter, looking over at Metcalf. “I don’t think I like what I see on your face.”
“I don’t either. Belamy got out. His pass was high priority, and he told the East Gate he was needed urgently at the British embassy.”
“Goddamn it!”
“Try not to strain your voice,” said the doctor.
“Yes, of course,” replied Stone. “Thank you very much, and now if you’ll excuse us.” He got out of the chair as the doctor picked up his medical bag and headed for the door.
The telephone rang as the door closed. Metcalf picked it up. “Yes? Yes it is; he’s right here.” The colonel listened for several moments then turned to Stone. “Breakthrough,” he said. “All those military who were identified have two things in common. Each is on a minimum thirty-day summer leave, and every request was made five months ago, nearly to the day.” “Thus guaranteeing request-granted status because they were first in line,” added the CIA man with difficulty. “And the plans for the antinuclear demonstrations were announced in Sweden six months ago.”
“Clockwork,” said Metcalf. “To identify and neutralize the others we’ll send out the word. Every officer in half a dozen armies and navies who’s currently returning from summer leave is to be restricted to quarters. There’ll be errors, but that’s rough. We can send out the photographs and correct them.”
“It’s time for Scharhörn.” Stone got out of the chair, massaging his throat. “And I don’t mind telling you it scares me to death. A wrong symbol and we erase Aquitaine’s master list. Worse, a wrong move and that whole complex is blown away.” The CIA man went to the phone.
“Are you going to call the Rebel?” asked the colonel.
“Converse first. He’s working on the codes.”
The three generals of Aquitaine sat stunned, staring straight ahead, refusing to look at one another. The lights had been turned on, the large television screen turned off. Behind each general was a man with a gun and concise instructions: “If he gets up, kill him.”
“You know what I want,” said Converse, walking in front of the three. “And as you’ve just seen, there’s really no reason why any of you shouldn’t give it to me. Four little numbers or letters each of you has memorized in sequence. Of course, if you refuse, there’s a doctor here who I’m told has a bag of magic—the same sort of magic you administered to me in Bonn. What’ll it be, gentlemen?”
Silence.
“Four, three, L, one,” said Chaim Abrahms, looking down at the floor. “They’re filth,” he added quietly.
“Thank you, General.” Joel wrote in a small note pad. “You’re free to go now. You can get out of the chair.”
“Go?” said the Israeli, getting up. “Where?”
“Wherever you like,” replied Converse. “I’m sure you’ll have no trouble at the airport in Annecy. You’ll be recognized.”
General Chaim Abrahms left the room accompanied by the Israeli Army captain.
“Two, M, zero, six,” said Erich Leifhelm. “And, if you wish, I will submit to the drugs for verification. I will not be associated with such treacherous pigs.”
“I want the combination,” pressed Joel, writing. “And I won’t hesitate to send you up into space to get it.”
“Inversion,” said the German. “Reverse the order of the symbols in the second sequence.”
“He’s yours, Doctor.” Converse nodded to the man behind Leifhelm’s chair. “We can’t take the chance of blowing this one.”
General Erich Leifhelm, once the youngest field marshal of the Third Reich, got up and walked slowly out of the room, followed by the doctor from Bonn.
“You’re all unworthy, all blind,” said General Jacques Louis Bertholdier with imperious calm. “I prefer to be shot.”
“I’m sure you would, but no such luck,” answered Joel. “I don’t need you now, and I want to know you’re back in Paris, where everyone can see you. Take him to his room.”
“The room? I thought I was free to leave, or was that another lie?”
“Not at all. Just a matter of logistics—you know what logistics are, General. We’re a little short of transportation and drivers here, so when the doctor’s finished, I’m lending the three of you a car. You can draw straws for who drives.”
“What?”
“Get him out of here,” said Converse, addressing a former sergeant major in the French Army once stationed at Algiers.
“Allez, cochon!”
The door opened, only coincidentally for Bertholdier. It was Valerie and she looked at Joel. “Stone’s on the telephone. He says hurry.”
It was 2:05 A.M. when the Mystère jet dropped out of the night sky and landed at the airstrip eight miles from Cuxhaven, West Germany. It taxied to the north end of the runway where the stately, white-maned figure of Johnny Reb waited by a black Mercedes sedan.
The doors of the plane opened and the short steps swung down in place; Converse climbed out, taking Valerie’s hand as she descended after him. Next came the former sergeant major from Algiers, followed by a fourth passenger, a slender blond man in his mid-forties who wore tortoiseshell glasses.
They walked away from the aircraft as the pilot retracted the steps and closed the automatic doors; the twin engines accelerated and the plane swerved around heading back toward the maintenance hangars. The Rebel came away from the car and met them, extending his hand to Joel. “Ah’ve seen your picture here and there and it’s a pleasure, sir. Frankly, I never thought I’d meet you, leastways not in this world.”
“There were a number of times I had my doubts just how long I’d be here. This is my wife, Valerie,”
“Ah’m enchanted, ma’am,” said the Southerner, bringing Val’s hand to his lips as he bowed gallantly. And then to Joel: “Your accomplishments have astonished some of the best minds in my former profession.”
“I hope not too former,” interjected Converse.
“Not at the moment, son.”
“This is Monsieur Lefevre and Dr. Geoffrey Larson. Stone said you’ve been briefed.”
“A pleasure, sir,” exclaimed the Rebel, shaking the Frenchman’s hand. “My hat’s off to you, to all of you for what you did with those three generals. Absolutely remarkable!”
“Such men have enemies,” said Lefèvre simply. “They are not hard to find and Inspector Prudhomme knew that. We are in many places with many memories. Let us hope they will be put to rest tonight.”
“Let’s hope,” said the Rebel, turning to the fourth passenger. “Dr. Larson, so nice to meet you, sir. I understand you know just about everything there is to know about every computer ever made.”
“An exaggeration, I’m sure,” said the Englishman shyly. “But I suspect if it ticks I can make it hum. Actually, I was vacationing in Geneva.”
The non sequitur momentarily threw Johnny Reb, who could only utter “Sorry about that” as he looked at Joel.
It had been the most difficult decision Peter Stone had made in all his years of agonizing decisions. To make the wrong move—to telegraph the incursion into the complex at Scharhörn—would result in its destruction by the setting off of explosives all over the communications center. There would be nothing left of the old U-boat station but shattered concrete and twisted equipment. Stone had gone by instincts honed over a lifetime in the shadow world. There could be no elite commando units, no official special forces ordered up for an extraordinary assignment, for there was no telling who within the various government forces could be a member, an officer of Aquitaine. Such a man could make a telephone call and the complex at Scharhörn would be blown up. Therefore the incursion had to be made by rogue elements, men hired by outlaws who had no allegiance to anyone or anything but money and their immediate employers. Nothing was a secret any longer without the master list of Aquitaine. The President of the United States gave Stone twelve hours, after which he said he would convene an emergency session of the Security Council of the United Nations. Peter Stone could hardly believe he had replied to the most powerful man in the free world with the words: “That’s meaningless. It would be too late.”
The Rebel finished his briefing, his flashlight still shining on the map spread over the hood of the Mercedes. “As I told you, this is the original layout we got from the Zoning Commission in Cuxhaven. Those Nazis sure were particular when it came to specifics—I figure everyone was justifyin’ a salary or a rank. We get over the ocean radar and head to the old strip that was used for supplies, then do our number. Now, mind you, there are still a lot of lights out there, still a lot of people, but a hell of a lot less than there were two days ago. There are some walls, but we got grappling hooks and a few boys who know how to use them.”
“Who are they?” asked Converse.
“No one you’d ask into your mother’s parlor, my friend, but five of the meanest hornets you could find. I tell you they have absolutely no redeeming social qualities. They’re perfect.”
“What’s the aircraft?”
“The best Petey could get, and it’s the best. A Fairchild Scout. It holds nine people.”
“With a glide ratio of eight to one at four thousand feet,” said Joel. “I’m flying.”
41
Converse inched the half-wheel forward as he cut the engines and entered a left-bank glide over the small airstrip 2,400 feet below. It was erratically visible through the tails of low-flying North Sea clouds, but Joel guessed it could be seen clearly at 500 feet. He would then start his final circle for the short approach, his touchdown heading away from the old U-boat base, minimizing whatever sound the outsized balloon tires made while braking. The maneuver itself was the nearest thing to a carrier landing he could imagine, and he noted with satisfaction that his hands were as steady as his concentration. The fear he was afraid of did not materialize; it was strangely absent. The anxiety and the anger were another matter.
Valerie and Lefèvre—over the Frenchman’s strenuous objections—remained behind on a deserted pier in Cuxhaven where Johnny Reb had managed to install a primitive but functional relay station. It was Val’s job to stay in radio contact with the team—either the Rebel or Converse operating the powerful handheld equipment on Scharhörn—and the former sergeant from Algiers was to stand guard, letting no one on that pier. The five “recruits” Johnny Reb had hired for apparently large amounts of money were difficult to appraise, for they said very little and wore dark wool-knit caps pulled down above their eyes and black turtleneck sweaters pulled up around their throats. The same clothing was provided for Joel and the British computer expert, Geoffrey Larson; the Rebel had his in the Mercedes. Each man, except Larson, carried a pistol with an attached silencer that was held firmly in an extended holster strapped to his waist. On the left side of the black leather belt was a long-bladed hunting knife, and beside it a coil of thin wire. Situated in back, above the kidneys, and held in place by clips, were two canisters of a Mace-like gas that rendered their victims helpless and silent. The fact that each, including the aging Johnny Reb, wore his equipment with such casual authority made Converse feel out of place, but the degree of concentration they gave to the installation’s plans and the curt suggestions they had for gaining entry and subsequent explorations also made him feel that the Rebel had hired well.
Joel circled slowly, delicately into his final approach, silently gliding over the dar
kened U-boat base, his eyes on both the strip ahead and the instrument-guidance altimeter. He struck the flaps and dropped; the heavy tires absorbed the jarring shock of contact. Touchdown.
“We’re down,” said Johnny Reb into the radio. “And with a little luck we’ll stop, won’t we, son?”
“We’ll stop,” said Converse. They did, no more than forty feet from the end of the airstrip. Joel removed the knit hat, breathing deeply; his hairline and forehead were drenched with sweat.
“We’re going out.” The Rebel snapped off the radio and pressed it into the front of his chest; it stayed in place. “Oh,” he added, seeing that Converse was watching him. “I forgot to mention it. There’s heavy-duty Velcro around the case and on your sweater.”
“You’re full of surprises.”
“You had a fair share yourself during the past few weeks. Let’s go catfishin’, boy.” Johnny Reb opened his door; Joel did the same, and they climbed out, followed by Larson and the five men, three of them carrying rubberized grappling hooks attached to coils of rope.
The second man who had said nothing during the strategy session stood before Converse and spoke quietly, startling Joel with his American accent. “I’m a pilot, mister, and that was supposed to be part of my job. I’m glad it wasn’t. You’re good, man.”
“Where did you fly? With whom?”
“Let’s say a new kind of Peruvian airline. The scenic Florida run.”
“Come on!” The Rebel ordered, starting for the overgrown borders of the airstrip.
They approached the high walls of the old U-boat base, all crouching in the tall grass, studying what was before them. Converse was struck by the sheer immensity of the unending thick concrete. It was like a fortress with no fort inside, no treasured structure that warranted the protection of the massive walls. The only break was over on the left, in a section that faced the airstrip. A pair of steel double doors layered with plates of bolted, reinforced iron stood ominously in the erratic moonlight. They were impenetrable.
“This place has quite a history,” whispered Johnny Reb beside Joel. “Half the German High Command had no idea it was here and the Allies never got a smell of it. It was Doenitz’s private base. Some said he was going to use it as a threat if Hitler didn’t turn things over to him.”
The Aquitaine Progression: A Novel Page 81