“Schade, ” added the man, his right handseparated from the paper in a gesture of apology.
Converse settled back against the window, thecoolness of the glass an anchor, his eyes closed, thedarkness more welcome than he could everremember…. No, that was not true he rememberedto the contrary. In the camps there were momenhwhen he was not sure he could keep up the facadeof strength and revolt, when everything in himwanted to capitulate, to hear even a few kind words,to see a smile that had meaning. Then the darkness would come and hewould cry, the tears drenching his face. And whenthey stopped, the anger would be inexplicablyrestored. Somehow the tears had cleansed him,purged the doubts and the fears and made him wholeagain. And angry again.
“Wir kommen in fief Minuten in Dusseldorf an!’
Joel bolted forward, his neck painfully stiff, his head cold. He had dozed for a considerable length oftime, judging from the stiffness above his shoulderblades. The man beside him was reading andmarking a report of some kind, the attache case onhis lap, the newspaper folded neatly between himselfand Converse, folded maddeningly with hisphotograph in clear view. The man opened his case,put the report inside, and snapped it shut. He turnedto Converse.
“Der Zug ist punklich, ” he said, nodding his head.
Joel nodded back, suddenly aware that thepassenger across the aisle had gotten up with theelderly woman, shaking her hand and replying tosomething she had said. But he was not looking ather; his eyes had strayed over to Converse. Joelslumped back into the seat and the window, resumingthe appearance of a weary traveler, the soft brim ofhis hat pulled down to the rims of his glasses. Whowas that man? If they knew each other, how could hebe silent under the circum. stances? How could hesimply look over now and then and casually return tohis conversation with the woman? At the very least,he would have to betray some sense of alarm or fear,or, at the minimum, excited recognition.
The train began to slow down, the metallicgrinding of the steel plates against the huge wheelsswelling; soon the whistles would commence for theirarrival in Dusseldorf. Converse wondered if theGerman next to him would get off. He had closed hisattache case but made no preliminary moves to riseand join the line forming at the forward door.Instead, he picked up the newspaper, opening it,mercifully, to an inside page.
The train stopped, passengers disembarked andothers got on board mostly women with shoppingboxes and plastic bags emblazoned with the logos ofexpensive boutiques and recognisable names in thefashion industry. The train to [:mmerich was asuburban “mink run,” as Val used to call the af-ternoon trains from New York to Westchester andConnecticut. Joel saw that the man from across theaisle had walked the elderly woman up to the rear ofthe line, again shaking her hand solicitously before sidestepping his wayback toward his seat. Converse turned his face tothe glass, his head bowed, and closed his eyes.
“Bitte, konnen wir die Pldtze tauschen? DieserHerr ist ein Bekannter. Ich sitze in der ndchstenReihe.”
“Sicher, aber or schldft ja doch nun “
“Ich wocke ihn. ” said Converse s seatmate, laughing and getting up. The man from across theaisle had changed seats. He sat down next to Joel.
Converse stretched, covering a yawn with his lefthand, his right slipping under his jacket to thehandle of the gun he had taken from Leifhelm’schauffeur. If it became necessary he would showthat gun to his new yet familiar companion. Thetrain started, the noise below growing in volume; itwas the moment. Joel hlrned to the man, his eyesknowing but conveying nothing.
“I figured it was you,” said the man, obviously anAmerican, grinning broadly but not attractively.
Converse had been right, there was a meannessabout the obese man; he heard it in the voice as hehad heard it before but where he did notremember. “Are you sure?’ asked Joel.
“Sure I’m sure. But I’ll bet you’re not, are you?”
"Frankly, no.
“I ll give you a hint. I can always spot a good aleYank! Only made a couple of mistakes in all theyears of hopping around selling my lid ale line oflook-alike, almost originals.”
“Copenhagen,” said Converse, remembering withdistaste waiting for his luggage with the man. “Andone of your mistakes was in Rome when youthought an Italian was a Hispanic from Florida.’
“You got it! That guinea bastard had mebuffaloed, figured him for a spik with a lot ofbread probably from running dope, you know whatI mean? You know how they are, how they corneredthe market from the Keys up…. Say, what s yourname again?”
“Rogers, replied Joel for no other reason thanthe fact that he had been thinking about his fathera while ago. “You speak Cerman, he added, makinga statement.
“Shit, I’d better. West Germany s just about ourbiggest market. My old man was a Kraut; it’s all hespoke.”
“What do you sell?”
“The best imitations on Seventh Avenue, but don’tget
me wrong, I’m not one of the Jew boys. You take aBalenciaga, right? You change a few buttons and afew pleats, put a ruffle maybe where the Latinodoesn’t have one. Then farm the patterns out to theBronx and Jersey, lower Miami and Pennsylvania,where they sew in a label like "Valenciana.’ Then youwholesale the batch at a third of the price andeverybody’s happy except the Latino. But there’snot a tucking thing he can do that’d be worth histime in court because for the most part it’s legal.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure about that.”
“Well, a guy would have to plow through a roadof chazzerai to prove it wasn’t legal.”
" Sadly, that’s true.”
“Hey, don’t get me wrong! We provide themerchandise and a service for thousands of nice li’lale housewives who can’t afford that Paris crap. AndI earn my bread, ale Yankee Doodle. Take thatwrinkled old broad I was with; she owns a half-dozenspecialty shops in Cologne and Dusseldorf, and nowshe’s looking into Bonn. Let me tell you, I waltzher….”
The towns and small cities went by. Leverkusen. . . Lagenfeld . . . Hilden, and still the salesmanwent on, one tasteless anecdote leading to the next,his voice grating, his comments repetitive.
“Wir kommen in fu’nf Minuten in Essen an!”
It happened in Essen.
The commotion came first but it was not sudden.Instead it grew in volume as an immense rollingwave gathers force approaching a ragged coastline, asustained crescendo culminating in the crash over therocks. The embarking passengers all seemed to betalking excitedly, with one another, heads turned,necks craned to listen to the voices coming from sev-eral transistor radios. Some were held against theear, others with the volume turned up at the requestof those nearby. The more crowded the trainbecame, the louder everyone talked as theconversations were almost drowned out by the shrillmetallic voices of the newscasters. A thin young girlin the uniform of a private school, her books in acanvas beach bag and a blaring radio in her lefthand, sat down in the seat in front of Joel and thesalesman. Passengers gathered around shouting,apparently asking the girl if she could make the radiolouder.
“What’s it all about?” asked Converse, turning tothe obese man.
"Wait a minute!” replied the salesman, leaningforward with difficulty and in greater discomfortrising partially from the seat. “Let me listen.”
There was a perceptible lull, but only among thecrowd around the girl, who now held up the radio.Suddenly there was a burst of static and Conversecould hear two voices, in addition to that of thenewscaster, a remote report from somewhere awayfrom the radio. And then Joel heard the wordsspoken in English; they were nearly impossible topick out, as an interpreter kept rushing in to givethe German translahon.
“A full inquiry . . . Eine vollstandiges Verhor. . .entailing all security forces . . . sin erfordert alleSicherheitskrafte . . . has been ordered . . . wurdeveranlasst.”
Converse grabbed the salesman’s coat. “What isit tell me what happened?” he asked rapidly.
“That nut hit again! . . . Wait, they’re goingback. Lemme hear this.” Again there was a shortburst of static and the excited newscaster came back
on the air. A terrible sense of dread spread throughJoel as the onslaught of German crackled out of thesmall radio, each phrase more breathless than thelast. Finally the guttural recitation ended. Thepassengers straightened their backs. Some stood up,turning to one another, their voices raised incounterpoint, excited conversahons resumed. Thesalesman lowered himself into the seat, breathinghard not, apparently, because of the alarming newshe had heard but because of sheer physicaldiscomfort.
“Would you please tell me what this is allabout?” asked Converse, controlling his anxiety.
“Yeah, sure,” said the heavyset man, taking ahandkerchief from his breast pocket and moppinghis forehead. “This mother-loving world is full ofcrazies, you know what I mean? For Christ’s sake,you can’t tell who the fuck you’re talking to! If itwas up to me, every kid who was born cross-eyed orcouldn’t find a tit would be buried in dirt. I’m justsick of the weirdos, you know what I mean?”
“That’s very enlightening now, what happened?”
“Yeah, okay.” The salesman put thehandkerchief back in his pocket, then loosened hisbelt and undid the buttons above his zippered fly.“The soldier boy, the one who runs theheadquarters in Brussels “
“The supreme commander of NATO, ” said Joel,his dread complete.
“Yeah, that one. He was shot, his head blown offright in the goddamned street when he was leavingsome little restaurant in the old section. He was incivilian clothes, too. "
“When?”
“A couple of hours ago.”
“Who do they say did it?”
“The same creep who knocked off thatambassador in Bonn. The nut!”
“How do they know that?”
“They got the gun.”
“The what?”
“The gun. It’s why they didn’t release the newsright away; they wanted to check the fingerprintswith Washington. It’s his, and they figure theballistics will show it’s the same gun that was used tokill what’s-his-name.”
“Peregrine,” said Converse quietly, aware that hisdread was not complete. The worst part was onlycoming into focus. “How did they get the gun?”
“Yeah, well, that’s where they’ve marked thebastard. The soldier boy had a guard with him whoshot at the nut and hit him they think on the leftarm. When the weirdo grabbed his arm, the gundropped out of his hand. The hospitals and thedoctors have been alerted and all the borders allover the place are being checked, every tuckingAmerican male passport made to roll up his sleeves,and anyone looking anywhere’s near like him hauledoff to a customs tank.”
“They’re being thorough,” said Joel, not knowingwhat else to say,-feeling only the pain of his wound.
“I’ll say this for the creep,” continued thesalesman, eyes wide and nodding his head in someobscene gesture of respect. “He’s got “em chasingtheir asses from the North Sea to the Mediterranean.They got reports he was seen on planes in Antwerp,Rotterdam, and back there in Dusseldorf. It onlytakes forty-five minutes to get from ”Dussel’ toBrussels, you know. I got a friend in Munich whoflies a couple times a week to have lunch in Venice.Every place over here’s a short hop. Sometimes weforget that, you know what I mean?”
“Yes, I do. Short flights . . . Did you hear anythingelse?”
“They said he could be heading for Paris orLondon or maybe even Moscow he could be aCommie, you know. They’re checking the privateairfields, too, figuring he’s got friends who arehelping him some friends, huh? A regular happygroup of drooling psychos. They’re even comparing
him to that Carlos, the one they call "the jackal,’what do you think of that? They say if he does go toParis, the two of them might link up and therecould be a few more executions. This Converse,though, he’s got his own regular trademark. He putsbullets in their heads. Some kind of Boy Scout,huh?”
Joel stiffened, feeling the tension throughout hisslumped body, a sharp hollow pain in the centerofhis chest. It was the first time he had heard hisname spoken casually by a stranger identifying himas the psychopathic killer, an assassin hunted bygovernments whose border patrols were scrutinisingeveryone at every checkpoint private airfieldswatched, a dragnet in progress. The generals ofAquitaine had done their job with precision, rightdown to his fingerprints on a gun and a flesh woundin his arm. But the timing how could they dare?How did they know he was not in an embassy some-where asking for temporary asylum until he couldmake a case for himself? How could they take thechance?
Then the realisation came to him, and he had todig his fingers into his wrist to control himself, tocontain his panic. The call to Mattilon! How easilyRene’s phone could have been tapped, by either theSurete or Interpol, and how quickly Aquitaine’sinformers would have spread the word! Oh, Christ!Neither one of them had thought of it! They didknow where he was, and no matter where he wenthe was trapped! As the offensive salesman hadaccurately phrased it, “Every place over here’s ashort hop.” A man could fly from Munich to Venicefor lunch and be back in his office for a three-thirtyappointment. Another man could kill in Brusselsand be on a train in Dusseldorf forty-five minuteslater. Distances were measured in half-hours. Fromground-zero in Brussels, “a couple of hours ago”covered a wide circle of cities and a great manyborders. Were his hunters on the train? They mightbe, but there was no way they could know whichtrain he had taken. It would be easier and far lesstime-consuming to wait for him in Emmerich. Hehad to think, he had to mow.
“Excuse me,” said Converse, getting up. “I haveto use the men’s room.”
“You’re lucky.” The salesman moved his heavylegs, holding his trousers as he let Joel pass. “I canhardly squeeze into those boxes. I always take a leakbefore . . .”
Joel made his way up the aisle. He stoppedabruptly, swallowing, trying to decide whether tocontinue or turn back. He
had left the newspaper on his seat, the photographeasily revealed by unfolding the top page. He had tocontinue; any change of movement, however minor,might attract attention. His objective was not themen’s room but the passageway between the cars; hehad to see it. A number of people had opened thedoor and gone through, several apparently lookingfor someone they expected to find on the train. Hewould look down at the lock on the bathroom doorand proceed.
He stood in the swerving, vibrating passagewaystudying the metal door. It was a standard two-tieredexit, the top had to be opened first before the lowerpart could be unlocked and pulled back, revealingthe steps. It was all he had to know.
He returned to his seat, and to his relief thesalesman was splayed back, his thick lips parted, hiseyes closed, a high-pitched wheeze emanating fromhis throat. Converse cautiously lifted one foot afterthe other over the fat man’s legs and maneuveredhimself into his seat. The newspaper had not beentouched. Another relief.
Diagonally above and in front of him, he saw asmall receptacle in the curved wall with whatappeared to be a sheaf of railroad schedules fannedout by disuse. Limp, bent pieces of paper ignoredbecause these commuters knew where they weregoing. Joel raised himself off the seat, reached out,and took one, apologizing with several nods of hishead to the young girl below. She giggled.
Oberhausen . . . Dinslaken . . . Voerde . . . Wesel. . . Emmerich.
WeseL The last stop before Emmerich. He hadno idea how many miles Wesel was from Emmerich,but he had no choice. He would get off the train atWesel, not with departing passengers but by himself.He would disappear in Wesel
He felt a slight deceleration beneath him, hispilot’s instincts telling him it was the outer perimeterof an approach, the final path to touchdown in thescope. He stood up and carefully maneuveredbetween the fat man’s legs to reach the aisle; at thelast second the salesman snorted, shifting his posi-tion. Squinting under the brim of his hat, Joelcasually glanced around, as if he were momentarilyunsure of which way to go. He moved his headslowly; as far as he could see, no one was paying theslightest attention to him.
He walked with carefully weary steps up the aisle,a tired passenger in search of relief. He reached thetoilet door and was greeted by an
ironic sign of true relief. Thewhite slot below the handle spelled out BESETZT.His first maneuver had its basis in credibility; thetoilet was in use. He turned toward the heavypassageway door, pulled it open and, stepping out-side, crossed the vibrating, narrow coupling area tothe opposite door. He pushed it open, but instead ofgoing inside he took a single stride forward, thenlowered his body, turning as he did so, and steppedback into the passageway, into the shadows. Hestood up, his back against the external bulkhead,and inched his way to the edge of the thick glasswindow. Ahead was the inside of the rear car, andby turning he had a clear view of the car in front.He waited, watching, turning, at any momentexpecting to see someone lowering a newspaper orbreaking off a conversation and looking over at hisempty seat.
None did. The excitement over the news of theassassination in Brussels had tapered off, as had therush of near panic in Bonn when the streets learnedthat an ambassador had been killed. A number ofpeople were obviously still talking about bothincidents, shaking their heads and grappling with theimplications and the future possibilities, but theirvoices were lowered; the crisis of the first reportshad passed. After all, it was not fundamentally theconcern of these citizens. It was American againstAmerican. There was even a certain gloating in theair; the gunfight at O.K. Corral had new signifi-cance. The colonists were, indeed, a violent breed.
“Wir kommen in . . . ” The rapid clacking of thewheels below, echoing in the metal chamber,obscured the distant announcement over theloudspeakers. Only moments now, thought Converseas he turned and looked at the exit door. When thetrain slowed sufficiently and the lines began to format both inner doors, he would make his move.
“Wir kommen in drei Minuten in Wesel an!”
Several passengers in both cars got out of theirseats, adjusted their briefcases and shopping bagsand started up the aisle. The grinding of the giantwheels underneath signified the approach totouchdown. Now.
Joel turned to the exit door and, finding theupper latch, snapped it open, pulling the uppersection back; the rush of air was deafening. Hespotted the handle of the lower release and grippedit, prepared to yank it up as soon as the groundbeyond slowed down. It would be in only seconds.The sounds below grew louder and the sunlightoutside created a racing
The Aquaintaine Progession Page 47