“Cut it out, Joel, I’m not your wife…. I’ve got tobe able to reach you.”
“Let me think, I’m also getting very inventive. I’llfigure out something. I could “
“I’ve already figured it out,” interrupted Valfirmly. "Before I flew over I talked with my aunt.”
From your house?”
From the midtown hotel in New York where Iregistered under a different name.”
Lyon were thinking about your phone.”
"Not the way you were. I told her what I thoughthad happened, what I was going to try to do. Shecame to see me in Berlin last night. She talked up astorm how she could do this do that but it allboiled down to the fact that she’ll help. She ll hideyou. So will others.”
"In Germany?”
"Yes. She lives in the countryside, on theoutskirts of Osnabruck. It’s the safest place youcould go, the last place those people would think tolook for you.”
How do I get back into Germany? It was roughenough getting out! Delavane’s people aside everyborder’s on the alert, my photograph on every wall."
“I talked to Hermione this afternoon, after youcalled from a pay phone; she was staying with afriend. She started making arrangements right away,and when I flew in here a few hours ago, an old manmet me at the airport, the same man you’ll bestaying with tonight. You don’t know him but you’veseen him; he was riding the bicycle in the Museum-plein. I was taken to a house on the Lindengrachtwhere I was
to call my aunt; the phone was what they term"unberuhrt,’ clean, untouched.”
“My God, they are back in the forties.,’
“Not much has changed, has it?”
“No, I guess not. What did she say?”
“Only your instructions. Late tomorrowafternoon, when the terminal’s full, you’re to go tothe Central Station here in Amsterdam and walkaround by the information booth. A woman willcome up to you and say hello, saying she recognizedyou as someone she met in Los Angeles. Respondto her and during the conversation she’ll hand youan envelope. Inside will be a passport, a letter, anda train ticket.”
“A passport? Hawk”
“All they needed was a photograph. I knew thatmuch when I left your father in Cape Ann.”
“You knew?”
“I told you, I’ve heard the stories all my life.How they got Jews and Gypsies and all the menwho parachuted down from planes out of Germanyand into neutral or occupied countries. The falsepapers, the photographs, they became an art form.”
”And you brought a photograph?”
“It seemed logical. Roger thought so, too.Remember, he was in that war.”
“Logical . . . a photograph.”
“Yes. I found one in an album. Do youremember when we went to the Virgin Islands andyou scorched yourself that first day in the sun?”
“Sure. You made me wear a tie to dinner andmy neck was killing me.”
“I was trying to teach you a lesson. Thatpicture’s a close-up. I wanted your sunburn in all itsagony.”
“It’s still my face, Val.”
“That photograph was taken eight years ago andthe burn softened your features. It’ll do.”
“Don’t I have to know anything?”
“If you’re detained for that kind of questioning,you’ll probably be caught. My aunt doesn’t think youwill be.”
“Why is she so confident?”
“The letter. It spells out what you’re doing.”
“Which is?”
“A pilgrimage to Bergen-Belsen, later to Auschwitzin Po
land. It’s written in German and you’re to hand it toanyone who stops you because you speak onlyEnglish.”
“But why would that ?”
“You’re a priest,” interrupted Valerie. “Thepilgrimage was financed by an organisation in LosAngeles called the Coalition of Christians and Jewsfor World Peace and Repentance. Only a Germanvery sure of himself will call attention to you. I’ve gota dark suit in your size in my tote bag, along with ablack hat, shoes, and a clerical collar. Theinstructions will be with your ticket. You’ll take thenorthern express to Hanover where you’re supposedto switch trains for Celle and be driven toBergen-Belsen in the morning, but of course youwon’t. When you reach Osnabruck, get off. My auntwill be waiting for her priest. And by then I’ll beback in New York getting in touch with Sam..’
Converse shook his head. “Val, it’s all veryimpressive, but you weren’t listening to me.Leifhelm’s men have seen me in that station, as amatter of fact. They know what I look like.”
“They saw a pale-faced man with a beard and abattered face. Shave off the beard tonight.”
" And apply for cosmetic surgery?”
“No, apply a generous amount of lotion calledInstant Sun it’s with the clothes I brought you. It’lldarken your face more like the photograph on thepassport and also cover the bruises they won’t bethat noticeable. The black hat and the clerical collarwill take care of the rest.”
“Omens,” said Joel, touching the bruises on hisface and noting that they were less painful. “Do youremember when you fell and hit the table in thefoyer, the black eye?”
“I was in a panic; I had a presentation the nextday. You went out and got the makeup for me.”
“I bought the same stuff this morning. It helped.”
“I’m glad.”
They looked at each other across the shortdistance between them in the moonlit field. “I’msorry about everything, Val. I wish you weren’t partof this. If there was any other way I wouldn’t let yoube, you know that.”
“I know it, but it doesn’t matter to me one way orthe other. I came over here because of a promise Imade to myself a promise I meant. Not you. I’mover you, Joel, believe that.”
“The promise you made to yourself was provoked byme.
Since I was the offending party of the second part,that should have canceled it.”
“That’s probably a rotten legal opinion,” saidVal, shifting her legs and looking away. “There’salso the obvious. Everything you’ve told me terrifiesme not fact A and fact B. or who’s conspiring withwhom; I’m a landscape painter; I can’t deal withsuch things. But I’m so terribly afraid because I canpersonalise. I can see how these people thisAquitaine can win, can take control of our lives,turning us all into complacent flocks of sheep. GoodGod, Joel, we’d uvelcome them!”
“I missed something.”
“Then you’re blind. I don’t think it’s just women,or women who live alone like me, I think it’s mostof the people walking around in the streets, tryingto earn a living, trying to make the rent or amortgage or a car payment, trying to make itthrough life. We’re sick of everything around us!We’re told one minute we may be blown up in anuclear war unless we’re taxed out of our houses topay for bigger bombs and that our water’scontaminated, or that we can’t buy this or thatbecause it might be poisoned. Children disappear,and people are killed walking into a store for aquart of milk, and addicts and muggers with gunsand knives cut people down on the streets. I live ina small town and I won’t go there after dark, and ifI’m in the city any city I look behind me in broaddaylight, and I’ll be damned if I’ll get into anelevator unless it’s crowded…. I couldn’t afford itbut I put in a burglar alarm system in a house Idon’t own because there was a boat out in the waterone day that stayed there overnight. In my mind Isaw men crawling up the beach to my windows. Weall see such things, whether out on the water, ordown city blocks, or in a field like this. We’refrightened; we’re sick of the problems, sick of theviolence. We want someone strong to stop it andI’m not sure it even matters who they are. And ifthe men you’re talking about push things any fur-ther_believe me, they know what they’re doing.They can walk in and be crowned, no votesrequired…. And in spite of everything I’ve said,that’s even more frightening. Which is why you’regoing to take me to the airport.”
“Why did I ever let you go?” whispered Joel,more to himself than to her.
“Cut it out, Converse. It’s over. We’re over.
”
* * *
He watched from the darkest area of the parkinglot at Amsterdam’s Schilphol Airport as the planesped down the runway and lifted off into the nightsky. He had driven up to a crowded platform whereVal had gotten out, giving him the scrap of paperwith the address that was to be his refuge for thenight. So that he would know she had been able toget on board the flight, she was to come out theglass doors, look at her watch and go back inside. Ifthe plane was overbooked, she was to continue onthe pedestrian walk to the temporary lot a hundredyards away from the entrance where he would bewaiting for her. She had come outside, glanced ather watch and returned to the terminal. A part ofhim had felt relief, another part a quiet, hollowemptiness.
He watched the huge silver plane bank to the leftand disappear, its fading lights a trajectory in thedark sky.
He stood naked in front of the mirror in thesmall bathroom in the house on the Lindengracht.The car was some twenty streets away. He had madethe return journey cautiously on foot. The old manwho owned the flat was pleasant and spoke inhaltingly clear English, but his eyes were far awayand never really made contact. His mind was inanother place, another time.
Joel had shaved carefully, showered far longerthan a guest should, and had finished applying thedeep red lotion to his face, neck and hands. Inmoments his skin was bronzed. The result was farmore authentic than it used to be with the earlierproducts he remembered, when anyone who usedthem stood out the mask of sickly brown was toosmooth and cosmeticized to be anything butunnatural. The new coloring further concealed thebruises on his face; he looked almost normal. Hewould discard the tinted glasses; they would only callattention to him, especially from anyone who hadseen him or had been given his description. Hewashed his hands repeatedly, kneading them togetherto remove the stains from his fingertips.
He stiffened. From somewhere beyond the doorcame the sound of an erratic bell. He quickly turnedoff the water and listened, his breathing suspended,his eyes on the gun he had placed on the narrowwindowsill. He heard the sound again; it stopped.Then he heard a single voice, a man on a telephone.He dried his hands and slipped on the short cottonbathrobe that had been left on the bed in his small,immacu
late room. He put the gun in his pocket went outthe door and down the dark, narrow hallway thatfed to the old man’s “study.” It was a formerbedroom filled with old magazines a few books, andtabloid newspapers on tables and chairs opened tothe bloodiest sections, with red crayon marks cir-cling articles and pictures. On the walls were printsand photographs of long-past wartimeaccomplishments including corpses in various posesof death. In an odd way it reminded Converse ofL’Etalon Blanc in Paris, except that here there wereno glories of war, only the ugliness of death. It wasmore honest, he thought, if nothing else.
“Ah, Meneer, ” said the old man, sitting forwardin a huge leather chair that engulfed his frail body,the telephone beside him. “You are safe, quite safe!That was Kabel code name, Kabel, nataurlijk. Hehas left the hotel and reports his progress.” Fragile,in his seventies the Dutchman struggled out of thechair and stood erect, his thin shoulders back, hisbody rigid a foolish old man playing soldier.“Operation Osnabruck proceeds”" he said, as ifreporting to a commanding officer. “Ascontemplated by underground intelligence reports,the enemy infiltrated the area and he has beencompromised.”
“He’s been what?”
“Executed, Meneer. A wire around the throat,taken from behind. The blood stays on the clothesas the neck is pulled back, thus there are no signs ofcombat and the enemy is removed from the place ofcompromise.”
“What did you say?”
“Kabel is strong for one of his age,” said the oldman, grinning, his weathered face a thousandcreases, his posture now relaxed. “He took the bodyfrom the room, dragged it to the fire exit, and downinto the alley. From there he gained access to thecellars and put the corpse back by the furnaces. It issummer; the man may not be found fordays unless the stench becomes too much.”
Converse heard the words, but his concentrationwas only on one. Compromise. In this odd languageof another time it meant . . . execution. Execution .. . murder . . . assassinationl
What would you say to compromising certainpowerful individuals in specif c governments . . . "Leifhelm’s words.
It wouldn’t Turk. His own.
You do not take into consideration the timeelement! AN cumulation! Rapid acceleration! ChaimAbrahms.
Good Christ! thought Joel. Was that what thegenerals of Aquitaine meant? Assassinations? Was itthe reason for the glaring, disapproving looksdirected at the Israeli and Abrahms’ sudden retreatinto qualification, then dismissal: It’s merely a point .. . I’m not sure it even applies.
Accumulation, rapid acceleration, one afteranother national leaders cut down everywhere.Presidents and prime ministers, ministers of state andvice-presidents, powerful men and women from allshades of the narrow, acceptable political spectrumsviolently eliminated governments in chaos. All totake place in a matter of hours, savagery erupting inthe streets, fueled by hysteria, victims and violatorsblurred until the commanders were summoned torestore order, not to leave until the controls weretheirs. The climate was established, the day wascoming. Assassinations!
He had to get back into Germany. He had toreach Osnabruck and be there when Val called. SamAbbott had to be told.
His hands manacled and chained, his woundedright forearm encased in a filthy bandage, ConnalFitzpatrick gripped the ledge of the small window andpeered out beyond the bars at the strange, violentactivity taking place on the huge concrete paradeground. That it was a parade ground had been clearon the second morning of his capture when, alongwith the other prisoners, he was granted an hour’sexercise outside the concrete barracks and theysevere barracks once part of an old refueling stationfor submarines was his guess. The slips along thewater as well as the winching machinery were far toosmall and too obsolete for today’s nuclearmarauders no Trident could fit in any space alongthe concrete and steel piers but once, he judged, thebase had served the German undersea Navy well.
Now, however, it was being used to the greatdisservice
of the Federal Republic of Germany and of freegovernments everywhere. It was Aquitaine’s trainingground, the place where strategies were beingrefined, maneuvers perfected, and the finalpreparations made for the massive assaults thatwould propel Delavane’s military commanders topower over paralysed civilian authorities. Everythingwas reduced to killing swift and brutal, the shockof the acts themselves intrinsic to the wave ofviolence.
Beyond the window, units of four and five menraced separately and in succession around andbetween a crowd of perhaps a hundred others,taking their turns at the sickening exercise they wereperfecting. For at the end of the parade ground wasa concrete platform, seven feet high and perhapsthirty feet long, where mannequins were lined up ina row some standing, others in chairs theirinanimate figures rigid, their lifeless glass eyesstaring straight ahead. They were the targets. At thecenter of each clothed chest, “male” and “female,”was an encased circle of bullet-proof wire mesh;within each was a high-intensity orange light, seenclearly in the afternoon sun. At the discretion of thecompound’s trainer, it flashed on. It was the signalthat this particular mannequin was the particularunit’s specific target or, if more than one, targets.Hits were recorded electronically by other lights onthe high stone wall above each figure on theplatform. Red was a kill, blue merely a wound. Redwas acceptable, blue was not.
The screaming admonitions over theloudspeakers were delivered in nine languages, fourof which Connal understood. The words were thesame:
Thirteen days to ground -zero!Accuracy is upper"nost! Escape is with the diversion of a kill!Otherwise there is only death!
Eleven days to ground-zero! Accuracy is upper-most. . . !
Eight days to ground-zero!Accuracy is . . . !
Individual members of the killer teams fired attheir targets, exploding stuffed skulls and pulverisingchests and stomachs, sometimes by themselves, othertimes in
unison with their comrades. Each “kill’ wasgreeted with exuberant shouts as the men racedthrough the crowd, melting into it, finally becomingpart of it as their maneuver was completed. Anotherteam was then instantly formed from within theranks of the spectators; and another exercise inassassination
was mounted, executed swiftly. And so it went, hourafter hour, the crowd reacting to the “kills” with roarsof approval as weapons were reloaded for upcomingassaults against the mannequins. Every twentyminutes or so, as sections of the lifeless figures onthe platform were progressively blown apart, theywould be replaced with fresh heads and torsos. Allthat was missing were rivers of blood and masshysteria.
In anger and frustration, Connal spread hismanacled wrists apart, pulling at the unbreakablechain and yanking with all his might as the rusted,circular braces dug into his flesh and bruised hiswrist bones. There was nothing he could do, no wayto get out! He knew the secret of Aquitaine; theevidence of its ultimate strategy was right therebefore his eyes. The mass killing of political figuresin nine different nations eight days away!
He turned from the window, arms aching, wristsstinging, and looked around at the barracks full ofprisoners forty-three men trying not to fail butfailing fast. Many were lying listlessly on their cots,others stared forlornly out various windows; anumber talked quietly in small groups against theblank walls. All were manacled as he was. Theabysmally short rations and the prolonged, brutalperiods of “exercise” had weakened them all in bothbody and mind. Whispering among themselves, theyhad come to several erroneous conclusions abouttheir captors’ goal, but their own captivity eludedreason. They were part of a strategy they could notunderstand. In unwatched corners Connal tried toexplain, only to be met with blank stares andbewilderment.
Several points were established for whateverthey signified. To begin with, they were all militaryofficers ranging in rank from the middle to thehigher echelons. Secondly, all were bachelors ordivorced, none with children or currently involved inserious relationships that demanded constantcommunications. Lastly, all were on 30- to 45-dayleaves, only one other like Connal with emergencystatus, the rest on normal summer holidays. Therewas a pattern, but what did it mean?
The Aquaintaine Progession Page 59