LACKING VIRTUES

by Thomas Kirkwood

  “You’re wrong.”

  Steven pulled Warner to his feet and righted the motorcycle by himself. “Hold on tighter this time.”

  “I jumped,” Warner said, helping him drag the Harley across the ditch and back onto the road. “I’d like you to tell me what you’re going to do.”

  “Get on.” Steven hit the throttle as soon as Warner’s arms locked around him.

  Warner was right. They were setting up roadblocks. A mile ahead, a helicopter landed on the road. Another remained in the air, hovering directly above. Another break. The noise around the roadblock would be deafening. They were unlikely to spot the bike if he didn’t use his light, and they wouldn’t hear it if their ears were filled with the clatter of their own choppers.

  They came out of a long S curve. Moonlight shone on the tracks that crossed the road half a mile ahead. Steven reached around, poked Warner and pointed. Warner must have understood, because he poked him back.

  The bars were up, no trains coming just now. It was a double track, a main line, concrete ties and electric lines overhead.

  Which side did the trains run on? Or did they run on one side in particular?

  How the hell should he know? He eased the bike between the first set of rails, accelerated. The vibrations caused by the ties were horrendous, almost enough to knock them off the bike. A stroke of luck: when they reached a certain speed, the ride grew more tolerable.

  He was beginning to get comfortable when another blinding light on this night of lights swept around a curve and bore down on them. He heard Warner’s yell above the roar of the Harley. He couldn’t respond, no time, but he knew they were all right. Just before the train exploded out of the darkness, it had lit up the rails in front of it, those on the right a little more brightly than those on the left. So let it come. Don’t look at it and get blinded but let it come. It wasn’t on their track.

  Steven ducked down to handle-bar level, anticipating violent turbulence. Good idea. The air pushed ahead of the freight hit him like a wall of water. Deafening sounds exploded in his ears. The bike seemed to lift off the ties for an instant, the vibration of the ride replaced by the crescendo of sonic fury beside them.

  And then it passed as quickly as it had come. The night was calm, the bike settled into its roadbed rhythm.

  Glowing signals, green, red. Lights beside the tracks, lights on pylons for the overhead lines, light from the moon sculpting the tracks into gently curving rivers. They were making progress, making time.

  Another headlight, another train. This one was more difficult to read, coming straight at them over the crest of a hill instead of rounding a bend. It seemed to be coming faster, too.

  Steven slowed the bike. The vibrations increased until it was hard to hang on. He stared into the blinding light, but could not see which track the train was on.

  Warner banged on his back with a fist. He was trying to tell him something. Steven took off his helmet flung it away.

  He felt Warner’s breath lashing his ear, hot in the cold wind. His words had the ferocity of a shout, but the noise reduced their volume to a whisper.

  He thought he heard, “Wrong track! Wrong track!”

  No time for clarification, he would take Warner’s word for it. He was doing 80, Frog trains did 200. He could see a crossing ahead, the bars down and red signals pulsing. He would have a 20 foot stretch of road where the asphalt was built up to the level of the rails, 20 feet to make a perfect maneuver and change tracks without dumping the bike.

  But could he get to the crossing ahead of the train?

  He didn’t know.

  He buried the throttle, lowered his head and engaged the oncoming behemoth in a race to the crossing. What difference did it make whether you were doing 120 or standing still if you hit a train head-on?

  He got there first, only by a few yards but what the hell, swerved to the right and landed between the parallel set of tracks.

  It was an express. When it had passed, he felt Warner’s hand squeezing his ear lobe. “We’re outside the search perimeter. Get the fuck off this line.”

  Steven smiled to himself. He reached around and patted the side of Warner’s helmet.

  They rounded a bend. There was a crossing 300 yards ahead, and the gates were up.

  Steven took the exit fast to avoid the horrible vibrations of slowing down while driving on the ties. Warner whacked him on the shoulder as he turned the bike onto a deserted secondary road and headed for Paris.

  Chapter Forty-One

  For Sophie it was a moment of relief when, shortly after 3:00 a.m., a soft knock sounded at Steven’s door.

  She glanced toward the room in which Nicole had fallen fast asleep, wondering if she should wake her.

  No, she decided, she would let her catch up on her rest. She knew this was selfish, but she couldn’t help it: she wanted Steven and Warner to herself for a while.

  She left the Mozart piano concerto she had dug out of Steven’s otherwise wretched music collection on, picked up her snifter and hurried to the door.

  All the things she should have thought and done but had not hit her in one terrifying moment when she opened and found herself standing face to face with a stranger. He made no attempt to push his way into the apartment, but when she tried to shut the door he blocked it with his foot.

  “What do you want?” she said. “Get out of here before I call the police. If it’s a phone you need, there’s one just across the square.”

  The man smiled, thinly, arrogantly. His eyes seemed to bore into her soul, intelligent eyes, cruel eyes. She recognized Hans-Walter Claussen from the Bonn photograph. She also recognized him from her nightmares: he was the Face of Evil that had haunted her since the Holocaust.

  She hoped she hadn’t let on that she recognized him, though she feared she had. She said, “Look, I want you to leave. I’m not going to ask you again. I’m going to count to three, and then I’m going to scream so loud half the Paris police force will hear me.”

  His smile remained unchanged, as if it were frozen on his taut perversely handsome face. “Why this is indeed an unexpected pleasure. Madame Sophie Marx, the world-famous journalist, a professional whose keen analyses I have admired for years. I cannot help but wonder how you became associated with a nobody like Steven LeConte.”

  “Who are you?” she said harshly, trying to hide her fear with a firm steady voice. If you’ve come for Steven LeConte, I am not associated with him. He is out of town until tomorrow. We are acquaintances, neighbors. He looks after my flat when I’m away and I return the favor.”

  The man didn’t seem interested in what she was saying. He pushed his way inside and locked the door. “You know who I am, don’t you, Madame Marx?”

  Sophie backed up, uncertain what to do. “No, of course I don’t. “

  ”I asked you a question,” he said, snarling through his smile. “When I ask you a question, I want a truthful answer. You know who I am, don’t you?”

  “What kind of nonsense is this? I told you I don’t.”

  “The civilized approach you seem to favor in your writings is not working, is it, Madame Marx? I suppose we’ll have to try something else.”

  She gasped when she saw the long slender blade. “One cry out of you, Madame Marx, and you will force me to do what is otherwise unnecessary. You see, I do not have to kill you. I do not particularly wish to kill you. I would rather trade your life for some other type of service, say editorial input on my memoirs. I guarantee it would be the most interesting assignment you have ever had, a fitting way to cap a brilliant career. But, as they say, let’s make no bones about it. If you do not wish to live, that is not a problem either. The choice, Madame Marx, is yours. Now, who am I and what do you know about me?”

  She stumbled back toward the sofa, fighting to keep up some meager semblance of composure. She sat and poured more Armagnac into her snifter. He sat across from her in Steven’s favorite armchair, knife drawn and pale blue eyes unwavering.

&nbs
p; In that moment Sophie knew she had no way out. She was going to die. But something else flashed in her awareness, a dazzling revelation that gave her the strength to resist despair. Steven and Warner had escaped! Otherwise, Claussen would not be trying to extract information; he would simply have opened the door and killed her. Steven and Warner were on the lam. She couldn’t help herself but maybe she could help them. If she succeeded, her last deception would be her best.

  Claussen said, “I’m on a tight schedule, Madame Marx. Forgive me if I insist that we keep our conversation brief. You are going to begin by telling me what you know about me.”

  Sophie let the tears flow. She shuddered violently. “How? How can I? I don’t know you.”

  Claussen was beginning to lose his patience. “Of course not, Madame Marx. That is why you – the best investigative journalist in Europe, a woman endowed with a talent so remarkable that she has brought down Willi Brandt and Giulio Andreotti – just happens to be sitting in the apartment of the man who has cracked the Airbus affair, a man whose only credentials would seem to reside in his shorts. I’m sorry, but to believe your tale one would have to be very naive. I am not prone to naïveté, Madame Marx. I am going to give you one final chance to talk. What do you know about me?”

  She started to say something, then stopped. Claussen leaped to his feet, jumped over the coffee table with cat-like agility and sat beside her on the sofa. He wagged his knife back and forth. She cowered, the move had startled her. She didn’t believe he would do anything yet, but she was wrong. He touched the knife to her throat. He had cut her! She felt warm blood trickling down her neck.

  She gasped and tried to writhe away. He grabbed her hair, twisted her head backwards. “Now Madame? Now do you wish to say anything?”

  “If you let me go.”

  “Talk first.”

  “You worked for the KGB,” she choked.

  He smacked her head against the wall and released her. “More. Quickly.”

  “You directed Operation Litvyak for decades. You never had the opportunity to test it.”

  “Never? Never?” He grabbed her hair again and showed her the stiletto. “I want to know more about myself.”

  “You . . . you are testing it now by sabotaging American jetliners for the French. You are being paid handsomely for this work.”

  He smiled and let her go. “And now, Madame, comes the prize-winning question. How much am I being paid. No, let me be more specific. Exactly how much am I being paid tonight?”

  “I . . . I have no idea.”

  “I said, how much?”

  “Two hundred fifty million dollars.”

  “Well what do you know? You guessed right. You hit the jackpot.” Claussen smiled. “Now, Madame Marx, you are going to tell me where Steven LeConte is.”

  “He was supposed to play a – ”

  “You’re dealing with this poorly, Madame Marx. You’re still not getting the picture. I have offered you the chance to live. You know where LeConte is or where he is planning to go, just as you knew the details of my own life. He will die, that’s not one of the variables we must deal with. Holding back information to save him will accomplish nothing. However, it will make my task of dealing with him a trifle easier, and for that I am willing to let you live. Without ever speaking or writing a word about the things we have discussed tonight, of course.”

  The moment she had dreaded for 70 years was near. She was about to leave this life she loved but did not understand, this life she wished desperately to cling to in spite of its cruelties and imperfections. Her tears were real, her words were sincere.

  She said, “Mr. Claussen, I do not want to die.”

  He pushed her down on to the floor, shoved her on her back and straddled her. He tapped the stiletto on her chin. “How strong is your desire to live, Madame Marx? Strong enough to tell me the whereabouts of Steven LeConte?”

  “I . . . I can’t.”

  “Very well. So be it.” He ran the stiletto across her neck again, so gently she felt little. But as before, the sensation of warm blood on her skin told her she had been cut. She touched her fingers to the wound, and closed her eyes when she saw them.

  “A surface cut,” he said. “Don’t be squeamish. We’ll try your heart next. It’s quite awful, I imagine, to feel a blade violate that reputed source of love.”

  He poised the tip above her left breast and drove it an inch into her flesh before withdrawing it. The pain this time was excruciating. She knew it had to be now, she had to tell him what she planned to tell him or she was going to lose consciousness.

  “Stop,” she pleaded. “Stop, I beg you.”

  “You’re prepared to tell me?”

  She gave a reluctant nod.

  “Then talk. Where is he?”

  “Grenoble. He’s going for Nicole, Michelet’s daughter. She’s with her aunt.”

  “Thank you, Madame Marx. I’m sorry I can’t honor my part of the bargain.”

  She tried to get up but the blade caught her in the throat and ran her through. She wheezed, flailed and choked on her own blood. But the agony passed quickly. Soon, a profound peacefulness enveloped her.

  She watched Claussen, feeling as if they were both underwater, while he cleaned the knife on her blouse. He stood and started for the door.

  She died not knowing if he got there.

  She died believing the door was the exit to the hallway, not the entrance to Steven’s bedroom.

  ***

  If this lunatic had taken up combat flying, thought Warner, he could have shot down the entire French Air Force in an afternoon. He hoped he never had to ride on the back of a Harley with him again, but he wasn’t complaining for now.

  As they hurtled toward Paris on dark secondary roads, there were signs everywhere of a great movement of military force into the zone of the manhunt. More helicopters streamed south out of the capital. Huge, low-flying planes shook the earth as they passed overhead, transporting what Warner suspected were paratroopers. Troop convoys rumbled down main roads, leaving the city as they approached.

  Steven throttled back as they entered the Red Belt, a ring of bleak factories and tenements circling Paris. He merged with the sporadic traffic, driving unobtrusively.

  They made a 20 mile semicircle to avoid coming in on a bee-line from the south, crossing the city limits from the north at the Porte de Clignancourt. The white dome of Sacré Coeur rose majestically above an endless sea of rooftops.

  The two men hadn’t spoken since Warner had given Steven the remaining helmet to hide his blond hair. Presently Steven motioned him to lean in close. “You’re wondering why we came all this way?”

  “I’m beginning to trust you judgment.”

  Steven said, “There’s some all-night action around Montmartre and Pigalle, a lot of losers trying to get laid. They’re easy prey for the crooks and cabbies. We need them both.”

  “What’s your idea?”

  “I know where the gypsies hang out. I’ll park the bike in harm’s way. They’ll have it in the back of a trailer in minutes. They’ll change the serial number, the paint, everything. It’ll be in Romania before anyone here lays eyes on it.”

  “Taxis?”

  “They swarm around Pigalle. You’ll see.”

  “Sounds good.”

  “Then I guess that’s about it. I’m going to let you off up ahead. Walk toward the white church. When you come to a main street, you’ll find a cab to take you to your car.”

  “Steven, I’m going to drive by your studio in case you change your mind. What’s your street number on Rue Monge?”

  “Forget it, Frank. Things didn’t work out. You’ve got your agenda, I’ve got mine. Maybe you can open some eyes with your photographs.”

  “Steven – ”

  He stopped the bike. “Here’s where you get off. Good-bye, Frank.”

  Warner climbed down, shaking his head. There was no way in hell to talk reason to the guy, and it was too goddamn bad. He watched with a s
inking feeling in his gut. The mud-caked Harley disappeared into a small alley. He knew he would never see Steven LeConte again.

  Warner discarded his ripped, filthy jacket, straightened his shirt collar and went in search of a cab. There was a lively contingent of rabble around Place Pigalle, the sort of folks he would normally avoid. Tonight he was glad to see them. He sank into their midst and made his way to the Boulevard de Clichy. When he flagged a taxi, the driver didn’t bat an eye at his appearance.

  ***

  Nicole awoke to the sound of people talking. She recognized Sophie’s voice and hoped to hear Steven’s too. Instead she heard a man with a slight German accent threatening Sophie. Her heart began to pound. This could not be happening. She knew she had to keep her wits about her. But what should she do? What could she do?