It had happened. Val had come to find him, anddespite the horrors surrounding their seeing eachother again, a part of him wanted tosing silently or shout silently into the mists of hisimagination. He wanted so much to look at her, totouch her, hear her voice close to him and heknew it was for all the wrong reasons. He was thehunted and in pain and vulnerable, all the things hehad never been when they were together, andbecause he was what he had become, he permittedher to find him. It was hardly admirable. He did notcare to be a hungry dog in a cold rain; it did not fithis part of their past dual image, the de suite, asRene Mattilon had phrased it . . . Rene. Atelephone call had signed the order for hisexecution. Aquitaine How in God’s name could helet Val even come near him? thought Joel, a terriblepain in his throat. The answer was the same:Aquitaine. And the fact that he thought he knewwhat he was doing. Every move he made in thestreets, and on the trains, and in the cafes, was ascarefully thought out as the steps he had taken inthe jungles in
the routes he had chosen, in the rivers and streamshe had forded and used as watery tunnels to bypassan enemy time and again. He would use anautomobile in Amsterdam, and a map of Amsterdam.
He looked at his w etch; it was almost five-thirty.He had roughly two and a half hours to find theAmstel Hotel and drive around again and again untilhe knew every foot of the area, every stoplight, everyside street and canal. And then the route to oneother place the American embassy or the consulate.It was part of his plan, the only protection he couldgive her if she followed his instructions. somewherean airlines schedule; that, too, was part of the plan.
Twelve minutes had passed, and he wanted to beat the doorway when Emma, the honest commuter,drove up in front of the house on the crowded street.If there was no place to park at the curb, he wouldwalk out on the pavement, signal to her to leave thecar and quickly replace her behind the wheel so asnot to hold up traffic.. He left the small room, wentto the staircase and started down, aware of thefeigned groans of ecstasy behind several closed doors.He wondered briefly if the girls had thought of usingcassette recorders; they could push buttons whilereading magazines. He reached the second landing;below in clear view was the cherub-faced, mid-dle-aged owner of the establishment behind hiscounter. He was on the telephone. Joel continueddown the steps, in his hand a $100 bill he haddecided to give the man an addihonal gratuity inexchange for his life.
As he set foot on the lobby floor he suddenly wasnot at all sure he should let the “concierge” haveanything but a cage in the Mekong River. Thepink-faced man looked over at Converse, his eyeswide, staring fixedly, the blood draining from hischerubic cheeks. He trembled as he hung up thephone, attempted a smile, then spoke in ahigh-pitched voice. “Problems! There are alwaysproblems, sir. Scheduling is so difficult I should buya computer.”
The bastard had done it! He had made the call toa man down the street in a cafe! “Keep your handson the counter!” shouted Joel.
The command did not come in time, theDutchman raised a gun from below. Converse lungedforward, his hand tearing at the buttons of his jacket,finding the handle of the revolver in his belt. The“concierge” fired wildly as Joel crashed his leftshoulder up into the flimsy counter; it col
lapsed and Converse saw the extended arm, thehand holding the gun. He swung the barrel of hisown weapon onto the Dutchman’s wrist; the gunwent flying, clattering over the lobby floor.
“You bastard!” cried Joel, grabbing the man bythe front of his shirt, pulling him up. “You bastard!I paid you!”
“Don’t kill me! Please! I am a poor man in muchdebt! They said they only wished to talk to you!What harm is there in that? Please! Don’t do this!”
“You’re not worth the price to me, you son ofa bitch.” Converse crashed the barrel of the gundown on the Dutchman’s head and ran to the door.The street was crowded with traffic, then suddenlythere was a break and the cars and buses and opentourist vans lurched forward. Where was she?Where was Emma the Prachcal?
“Theodoor! Doze kerel is onmogelijk! Hid wil . . .!” The hysterical words came from a bare-breastedwoman rushing down the staircase, a thin, short slipcovering the essentials of her trade. She stopped onthe next to last step, saw the carnage and theunconscious Theodoor and screamed. Joel ran toher and clamped his left hand over her mouth; hisright with the gun pressed against her shoulder,pushing her into the railing.
“Be quiet!” Converse could not restrain himselffrom showing. “Shut up!” He slammed his elbowinto the proshtute’s neck, the weapon now in frontof her face. She screamed again and kicked viciouslyat his groin, gouging his nostrils with two fingers,scratching, pushing him away. He could do nothingelse but to pummel the handle of the gun into thebase of her law. Her red lips parted and remainedopen; she went limp.
Doors crashed everywhere above, beyond thestaircase, metal and wood smashing into walls. Heheard shouts, angry frightened, questioning. A hornsuddenly intruded, blaring from the street beyondthe open front door. He ran to the doorframe, hisright arm supporting him, the gun out of sight.
It was Emma the whore, the car in the middle ofthe street, unable to crawl to the curb. He shovedthe weapon under his jacket, under his belt, and ranoutside. She understood his gestures and got out ofthe car; he raced around the hood. “Thank you!” hesaid.
, “It was stolen!” she said, shrugging. “Goodfortune, Meneer. I think you will need it, but it is notmy problem.”
He jumped into the seat behind the wheel andstudied the panel as if he were approaching Mach Iand had to understand the readouts of every dial. Itwas simple, primitive; he pulled the gear into D andstarted up with the surrounding traffic.
Without warning, the figure of an immense manslammed against the window on his right. Joellurched and slapped the lock on the window; takingadvantage of another break in the traffic, he spurtedforward. The killer held on as he yanked out a gun.Converse careened into the side of an automobileparked at the curb, and still the man held on. Joelreached under his jacket as the killer, holding on toGod knew what, brought his weapon up and aimedat Converse. Joel ducked, smashing his head into thewindow frame as the explosion shattered the glass,fragments entering his skin above his eyes. But hisgun was free; he pointed it at the figure hugging thewindow and pulled the trigger. Twice.
Two muted spits echoed in the darkness of thecar as two holes appeared in the area of the glassthat had not been shattered. Screaming, both handscovering his throat, the man fell away, rolling ontothe curb between two trucks. Converse turned rightinto a wide, empty alleyway. One man remainsbehind, down the street . . . He will bring back theothers. He was free again for a while thought Joel.A dead man could not identify an automobile. Heparked the car in shadows and pulled out a cigarette,trying to steady his hand as he struck the match.Inhaling deeply, he felt his forehead, and slowly,carefully removed the particles of glass.
He now prowled the streets like a mechanisedanimal, but with each hesitation, each stop,;he usedhis eyes and nostrils as if he were a primitive thingconscious only of its need to survive in a violentlyhostile environment. He had made the run four timesfrom the Amstel Hotel on the Tulpplein across thestreets and over the canals to the American consul-ate on the city square called the Museumplein. Hehad learned the alternate approaches, he knew theside streets that would bring him back to the mainroute without interruphon. Lastly, he drove east andcrossed the Schellingwouder Brug, the bridge overthe " River and took the road along the coast untilhe found a stretch of deserted fields above the water.They would do; they were isolated. He turnedaround and headed back to Amsterdam.
It was eight-thirty, the sky dark; he was ready.He had studied the tourist map, which included aparagraph on the use of pay phones. I le had oncebeen a pilot; instructions were second nature. Thevwere the difference between blowing an aircraftapart and landing it on a carrier. He parked the caracross the street from the Amstel Hotel and walkedinto a booth.
“Miss Charpentier, please. ”
“Dank u, ” said the operator, shifting instantly toEnglish. " One momen
t, please…. Oh, yes, Missen Charpentier arrive only one hour ago. I have her room now.”
“Thank you.”
“Hello?”
Oh God, should he speak? Could he speak?Aquitaine. “Val, it’s Jack Talbot. I took a chance youmight fly in. Glad you did. How are you,youngster?”
“Totally exhausted, you awful man. I talked toNew York this afternoon and mentioned ouraccounts in Amsterdam courtesy of one JackTalbot. The orders were for me to get to Canal Cityand spend tomorrow morning holding hands.”
“Why not hold mine?”
“They’re too cold. You can, however, buy medinner.”
“Be delighted, but first I need a favor. Can yougrab a cab and pick me up at the consulate onMuseumplein?”
“What. . . ?” The pause was filled with fear.“Why, Jack?” The question was a whisper.
Converse lowered his voice. “I’ve been here fora couple of hours taking too damn much abuse andI’m afraid I blew my cork.”
“What happened? “
“It was dumb. My passport expired today and Ineeded a temporary extension. Instead I got ahalf-dozen lectures and told to come back in themorning. I was very loud and not too benign.”
“And now it would be embarrassing for you toask them to call you a cab, is that it?”
“That’s it. If I knew this part of the city I’d walkand try to find one, but I’ve never been over herebefore.”
“I’ll straighten my face and pick you up. Say inabout twenty minutes?”
“Thanks, I’ll be outside. If I’m not, wait in thecab, I’ll only be a few minutes. You’ve got yourselfa good dinner, young
ster.” Joel hung up the phone, left the booth andwent back to the rented car. The waiting had begun,the watching would soon follow.
Ten minutes later he saw her, and the poundingin his chest accelerated. A mist clouded his eyes. Shewalked out the glass doors of the Amstel, carrying alarge, dark cloth bag, her posture erect, her stridelong and graceful, bespeaking the dancer she mighthave been, announcing her presence withoutpretence, telling anyone who watched her that shewas herself; no artifices were necessary. He had onceloved her so, as much for the person she appearedto be as for the woman she was. But he had notloved her enough, she had slipped away from himbecause he had not cared enough. There was notthat muc h love or care in him. “Burn-out!” she hadshouted. “Emotional burn-out!”
There had been nothing left to say; he could notdispute her. He had been running so fast, sofuriously, wanting it all yet not wanting to rememberthe reasons why wanting only to get even. He hadconcealed the intensity of his feelings with flippancyand a casualness that bordered on disdain, but hewas not casual at all, and there was little room forthe time consumed in being disdainful. There wasalso very little room for people, for Val. Beingtogether demanded the responsibility that was partof any relationship, and as the months stretched intoa year, then two and three, he knew it was not inhim to live up to that responsibility. As much as heprofoundly disliked himself for it, he could not bedishonest with either himself or Valerie. He hadnothing left to give; he could only take. It was betterto break clean.
The waiting was over; the watching began. TheAmstel doorman hailed her a cab and she climbedin, immediately leaning forward in the seat to giveinstructions. Twenty tense seconds later, duringwhich his eyes scanned the street and the pavementsin every direction, he started the car and switched onthe headlights. No automobile had crept out fromthe curb after the taxi; still, he had to be certain.Joel swung the wheel and drove into the street,heading for the most direct route to the consulate. Aminute later he saw Val’s cab take the correct rightturn over a canal. There were two cars behind her;he concentrated on their shapes and sizes; instead offollowing, he continued straight ahead, pressingdown on the accelerator, using an alternate route onthe bare chance that he himself had been picked upby a hunter from Aqui
taine.Three minutes later, after two right turns anda left, he entered the Museumplein. The taxi wasdirectly ahead, the two other automobiles no longerin sight. His strategy was working. The possibilitythat Val’s phone was being tapped was real Rene’shad been, and his death was the result so in Val’scase he assumed the worst. If it was relayed that theCharpentier woman was heading over to theAmerican consulate to pick up a businessacquaintance, one Joel Converse would be ruledout. The consulate was no place for the fugitiveassassin; he would not go near it. He was a killer ofAmericans.
The taxi pulled into the curb in front of the Museumplein, the stone building that was theconsulate. Converse remained a half-block behind,waiting again, watching again. Several cars went by,none stopping or even slowing down. A lone cyclistpedaled down the street, an old man who brakedand turned around and disappeared in the oppositedirection. The tactic had worked. ’al was alone inthe cab thirty yards away and no one had followedher from the Amstel. He could make his final moveto her, his hand under his coat, gripping the gunwith the perforated silencer attached to the barrel.
He got out of the car and walked up thepavement, his gait slow, casual, a man taking asummer night’s stroll in the square. There wereperhaps a dozen people couples mainly alsowalking, strolling in both directions. He studiedthem as a frenzied but rigid cat studies the newmounds of mole holes in a field; no one in thestreet had the slightest interest in the stationary taxi.He approached the rear door and knocked once onthe window. She rolled it down.
They stared at each other for a brief moment,then Val brought her hand to her lips, stifling agasp. “Oh, my Cod,” she whispered.
“Pay him and walk back to a grey car about twohundred feet behind us. The last three numbers onthe license are one three, six. I’ll be there in a fewminutes.” He tipped his hat, as if he had justanswered a question from a bewildered tourist, andproceeded down the pavement. Forty feet past thetaxi, at the end of the block, he turned and crossedthe square reaching the other side with his headangled to the left, a pedestrian watching for traffic;in reality he was apprehensively watching a lonewoman make her way down the sidewalk toward anautomobile. He went swiftly into the shadows of adoorway and stood there watching, breathingerratically,
peering into every pocket of darkness along theopposite pavement. Nothing. No one. He walked outof the doorway, suppressing a maddening desire torun, and ambled casually down the block until he wasdirectly across from the rented car. Again he paused,now lighting a cigarette, the flame cupped in hishand, again waiting, watching…. No one. He threwthe cigarette to the curb and, unable to containhimself any longer, ran across the street, opened thedoor and climbed in behind the wheel.
She was inches from him, her long, dark hairframing her face in the dim light, that lovely facetaut, filled now with anxiety, her wide eyes burninginto his.
“Why, Val? Why did you do it?” he asked, a cry inthe question.
“I didn’t have a choice,” she answered quietly,enigmahcally. “Drive away from here, please.”
They drove for several minutes. Neither of themspoke. Joel was concentrating on the streets, knowingthe turns he wanted to make knowing, too, hewanted to shout. It was all he could do to controlhimself, to keep from stopping the car and grabbingher, demanding to know why she had done what shedid, furiously replying to whatever she said that shewas a goddamnedfool! Why had she come back intohis life? He was death! . . . Above all, he wanted tohold her in his arms his face against hers, and thankher and tell her how sorry he was for so much, fornow.
“Do you know where you’re going?” asked Val,breaking the silence.
“I’ve had the car since six o’clock. A map of thecity came with it and I’ve spent the hme drivingaround, learning what I thought I had to learn.”
“Yes, you’d do that. You were always methodical. "
"I thought I should, ” he said defensively. “Ifollowed you from the hotel just in case anybody elsedid. Also I’m better off in a car than on the streets.”
“I wasn’t insulting you.”
Converse glanced at her; she was studying him,her eyes r
oving over his face in the erraticprogressions of light and shadow. “Sorry. I guess I’ma little sensitive these days. Can’t imagine why.”
“Neither can I. You’re only wanted on twocontinents and in some eight countries. They sayyou’re the most talented assassin since that maniacthey call Carlos.”
“Do I have to tell you it’s all a lie? All a huge liewith a very clear motive purpose is better.”
“No,” replied Vulerie simply. “You don’t have totell me that because I know it. But you’ve got to tellme everything else. Everything”
He looked at her again, searching her eyes in theflashes of light, trying to penetrate, trying to peelaway the layers of clouded glass that hi id herthoughts, her reasons. Once he had been able to dothat, in love and in anger. He could not do it now;what she felt was too deep inside her, but it was notlove, he knew that. It was something else, and thelawyer in him was cautious, oblique. “What madeyou think l d see you on television? I almost missedyou.”
“I didn’t think about television, I was countingon the newspapers. I knew my face would be on thefront pages all over Europe. I assumed your memorywas not so dulled that you wouldn’t recognise me,and reporters always pick up on hotels oraddresses it lends authenticity.”
“I can’t read anything but English.”
“Your memory is dulled. I made three trips withyou to Europe, two to Geneva and one to Paris.You wouldn’t have coffee in the morning unless theHerald Tribune was on the room-service table. Evenwhen we went skiing in Chamonix fromGeneva you made an awful fuss until the waiterbrought the Tribune.”
“You were in the Tribune?”
“Class acts aside, it’s their kind of story. With allthe details. I assumed you’d pick one up and realizewhat I was doing.”
“Because we were strangers and hadn’t seen eachother in years, and, of course, you couldn’t speakGerman or French or anything else.”
The Aquaintaine Progession Page 56