The Aquitaine Progression (38 page)

There was no response from the other end of the line. But there was the sound of breathing; and it was tremulous.

“Scanlon!”

“What did you just say?” said the voice of the admiral thirty-six hundred miles away.

“I’m going to find out anyway—”

“No, the status. The status of the flag.” Scanlon could barely be heard.

“Four-Zero emergency, that’s what I said!”

The interruption was abrupt; there was only an echoing click. Admiral Scanlon had hung up the phone.

Walter Peregrine, United States ambassador to the Federal Republic of Germany, confronted Fitzpatrick. “What’s your name, Commander?”

“Fowler, sir,” answered the Navy lawyer, glancing briefly but hard at Dowling. “Lieutenant Commander Avery Fowler, United States Navy.” Again Connal looked at the actor, who stared at him through the moonlight.

“I understand there’s some question about that,” said Peregrine, his glare as hostile as Dowling’s. “May I see your identification, please?”

“I’m not carrying identification, sir. It’s the nature of my assignment not to do so, sir.” Fitzpatrick’s words were rapid, precise, his posture squared and erect.

“I want verification of your name, your rank, and your branch of service!
Now!
”

“The name I’ve given you is the name I was instructed to give should anyone beyond the scope of the assignment inquire.”

“
Whose
instructions?” barked the diplomat.

“My superior officers, sir.”

“Am I to infer that Fowler is not your correct name?”

“With respect, Mr. Ambassador. My name is Fowler, my rank is lieutenant commander, my branch of the service is the United States Navy.”

“Where the
hell
do you think you are? Behind the lines,
captured by the enemy? ‘Name, rank, and serial number—that’s all I’m required to say under the rules of the Geneva Convention’!”

“It’s all I’m
permitted
to say, sir.”

“We’ll damn well find out about that, Commander—if you
are
a commander. Also about this Converse, who appears to be a very odd liar—one minute the soul of propriety, the next a very strange man on the run.”

“Please try to understand, Mr. Ambassador, our assignment is classified. In no way does it involve diplomacy, nor will it impair your efforts as the chief American representative of our government. But it
is
classified. I will report this conversation to my superiors and you will undoubtedly hear from them. Now, if you gentlemen will forgive me, I’ll be on my way.”

“I don’t think so, Commander—or whoever you are. But if you are who you say, nothing’s compromised. I’m not a damn fool. Nothing will be said to anyone on the embassy staff. Mr. Dowling insisted on that and I accepted the condition. You and I will be locked in a communications room with a phone on a scrambler and you’re going to place a call to Washington. I didn’t take this job at a loss of three-quarters of a million a year to find shoe clerks running an investigation of my own company without my knowing about it. If I want an outside audit, I’ll damn well order it myself!”

“I wish I could comply, sir; it sounds like a reasonable request. But I’m afraid I can’t.”

“I’m afraid you will!”

“Sorry.”

“Do as he says, Commander,” interjected Dowling. “As he told you, nothing’s been said to anyone, and nothing will be. But Converse needs protection; he’s a wanted man in a foreign country and he doesn’t even speak the language. Take Ambassador Peregrine’s offer. He’ll keep his word.”

“With respect, sirs, the answer is negative.” Connal turned away and started up the wide path.

“
Major!
” shouted the ambassador, his voice furious. “
Stop
him!
Stop
that man!”

Fitzpatrick looked behind him; for reasons he could not explain to himself he saw what he never expected to see, and the instant he did, he knew he should have expected it. From out of the distant shadows of the immense, majestic building a man rushed forward, a man who was obviously a military
aide to the ambassador—a member of the
embassy staff
! Connal froze, Joel’s words coming back to him.
Those men you saw at the airport, the ones from the embassy … they’re on the other side
.

Under almost any other circumstances, Fitzpatrick would have remained where he was and weathered it out. He hadn’t actually done anything wrong; there was nothing illegal, no laws broken of which he was cognizant, and no one could force him to discuss personal matters where no law had been violated. Then he realized how wrong he was! The generals of George Marcus Delavane would force him,
could
force him! He spun around and ran.

Suddenly gunfire erupted. Two earsplitting shots above him! He dove to the ground and rolled into the shadows of the bushes as a man’s voice roared over the stillness of the night and the sleeping gardens.

“You goddamned son of a
bitch
! What do you think you’re
doing
!”

There were further shouts, a further barrage of obscenities, and the sounds of struggle filled the quiet enclave of the university.

“You don’t
kill
a man! Besides, you
bastard
, there could be other people! Don’t say a
word
, Mr. Ambassador!”

Connal scrambled across the graveled path and spread apart the bordering foliage. In the clear moonlight of the distant bench, the actor Caleb Dowling—the former marine from Kwajalein—stood over the body of the major who had run out of the shadow, his boot on the supine man’s throat, his hand grasping the man’s extended arm to wrench the weapon free.

“You are one dumb son of a bitch, Major! Or, goddamn you, maybe you’re something else!”

Fitzpatrick got to his knees, then to his feet, and, crouching, raced into the receding darkness of the wide path toward the exit.

“I didn’t have any choice!” said Connal. He had dropped the attaché case on the couch and was sitting in an adjacent chair, leaning forward, still shaking.

“Calm down; try to relax.” Converse walked to the elegant antique hunt table against the wall where there was a large silver tray with whisky, ice and glasses. Joel had learned to make use of room service in English. “You need a drink,” he said, pouring Fitzpatrick’s bourbon.

“Do I
ever
! I’ve never been shot at. You have. Christ, is that what it’s like?”

“That’s what it’s like. You can’t believe it. It’s unreal, just mind-blowing sounds that can’t really have anything to do with you, until—until you see the evidence for yourself. It’s real, it’s meant for you, and you’re sick. There’s no swelling music, no brass horns, just vomit.” Converse brought the naval officer his drink.

“You’re omitting something,” said Connal, taking the glass and looking up at Joel.

“No, I’m not. Let’s think about tonight. If you heard Dowling right, the ambassador won’t say anything around the embassy—”

“I remember,” interrupted Fitzpatrick, taking several swallows of the bourbon, his eyes still on Converse. “It was in one of the other flags. During your second escape a man got killed; it was sundown. You reached him when it happened, and the flag said you went crazy for a couple of minutes. Somehow, according to this guy—a sergeant, I think—you circled around in the jungle, caught the North Vietnamese, killed him with his own knife and got his repeating rifle. Then you blew away three other Viets in the area.”

Joel held his place in front of the Navy lawyer. He answered the younger man, his voice quiet, his look angry. “I hate descriptions like that,” he said flatly. “It raises all the images
I loathe.… Let me tell you the way it was—like it was, counselor. A kid, no more than nineteen, had to relieve himself, and although we stuck together he had the dignity to go ten or fifteen feet away to take care of his private functions, using leaves because squeezable toilet paper wasn’t available. The maniac—I won’t use the word ‘soldier’—who killed him waited for the precise moment, then fired off a burst that cut that kid’s face apart. When I reached him, half of that face in my hands, I heard the cackle, the obscene laughter of an obscene man who personified for me everything I found despicable—whether North Vietnamese or American. If you want to know the truth, whatever I did I did against both—because both were guilty, all of us turned into animals, myself included. Those other three men, those enemies, those uniformed robots, probably with wives and children back in villages somewhere up north, had no idea I got behind them. I shot them in the back, counselor. What would Johnny Ringo say about that? Or John Wayne?”

Connal was silent as Joel walked over to the hunt table to pour himself a whisky. The Navy lawyer drank, then spoke. “A few hours ago you said you knew where I was coming from because you’d been there. Well, I haven’t been where you were, but I’m beginning to see where
you’re
coming from. You really hate everything that Aquitaine stands for, don’t you? Especially those running it.”

Converse turned. “With everything that’s in me,” he said. “That’s why we’ve got to talk about tonight.”

“I told you, I had no choice. You said the embassy people I saw at the airport were with Delavane. I couldn’t take the chance.”

“I know. Now we’re both running, hunted by our own people and protected by the men we want to trap. We’ve got to
think
, Commander.”

The telephone rang twice abrasively. Fitzpatrick leaped from the chair, his initial reaction one of shock. Joel watched him, calming him with his look. “Sorry,” said Connal. “I’m still edgy. I’ll get it; I’ll be all right.” The Navy lawyer crossed to the phone and picked it up. “
Ja?
” He listened for several seconds, covered the mouthpiece and looked at Converse. “It’s the overseas operator. San Francisco. It’s Meagen.”

“Which means Remington,” said Joel, his throat suddenly dry, his pulse accelerating.

“Meagen? Yes, I’m here. What is it?” Fitzpatrick stared
straight ahead as his sister talked; he nodded frequently, the muscles of his jaw working as he concentrated. “Oh,
Christ!
… No, it’s all right. I
mean
it, everything’s okay. Do you have the number?” Connal looked down at the small telephone table; there was a message pad but no pencil. He glanced over at Joel, who had already started for the desk and a hotel pen. Fitzpatrick held out his hand, took the pen and wrote out a series of numbers. Converse stood aside, conscious that he was barely breathing, his fingers gripping the glass. “Thanks, Meagen. I know it’s a hell of a time for you; you don’t need this, but if you have to call again, make it station-to-station, okay?… I will, Meg, I give you my word. Good-bye.” The Navy lawyer hung up, his hand for a moment remaining on the telephone.

“Remington called, didn’t he?” said Joel.

“Yes.”

“What
happened
?”

“Someone tried to get the flag on your service record released,” said Fitzpatrick, turning, looking at Converse. “It’s okay. Remington stopped it.”

“Who was it?”

“I don’t know, I’ll have to reach David. Meagen doesn’t have any idea what a flag is, much less who you are. The message was only that ‘a release was sought for the flag,’ but he stopped it.”

“Then everything’s all right.”

“That’s what I said, but it’s not.”

“Clarification, goddamn it!”

“There’s a time limit on how long my order stands. It’s only a day or two after the vetting process—”

“Which is forty-eight hours,” interrupted Joel.

“Yes, I’m sure of that; it’s
after
that. You see, you thought this would happen, but frankly I didn’t. Whoever’s asking for that flag isn’t small potatoes. You could walk out of that meeting and a few hours later your new associates could have that stuff in their hands. Converse the Delavane-hater. Is he now the Delavane-
hunter
?”

“Call Remington.” Joel went to the French doors, opened them, and walked out on the small balcony. Drifting wisps of clouds filtered the moonlight, and far to the east there were flashes of heat lightning reminding Converse of the silent artillery fire he and the other escaping prisoners would see in the hills, knowing it was sanctuary but unreachable. He could
hear Fitzpatrick inside; from the sound of his voice he was getting a line through to San Diego. Joel reached into a pocket for his cigarettes; he lighted one. Whether it was the bright glow of the flame that illuminated the movement he did not know, but he looked in the direction of that movement. Two balconies away, about thirty feet to his right, a man stood watching him. The figure was a silhouette in the dim light; he nodded and went back inside. Was the man simply another guest who had coincidentally gone outside for a breath of air? Or had Aquitaine posted a guard? Converse could hear the Navy lawyer talking conversationally; he turned and walked back into the room.

Connal was seated in the chair on the other side of the table. He held the phone to his ear with his left hand; his right held the pen above the message pad. He made a note, then said quickly, “Wait a minute. You say Hickman told you to let it ride but he wouldn’t tell you who specifically made the request?… I see. All right, David, thanks very much. Are you going out tonight?… So if I need you I can reach you at this number.… Yes, I know, it’s these damn phones up in Sonoma. One heavy rain in the hills and you’re lucky to get a line, forget a clear one. Thanks again, David. Good-bye.” Fitzpatrick hung up the phone and looked strangely, almost guiltily, at Joel. Instead of speaking, he shook his head, breathing out and frowning.

“What is it? What’s the matter?”

“You’d better get everything you can at that meeting tomorrow. Or is it today?”

“It’s past midnight. It’s today. Why?”

“Because twenty-four hours later that flag will be released to a section in the Fifth Naval District—that’s Norfolk, and it’s powerful. They’ll know everything you don’t want them to know about you. The time limit is seventy-two hours.”

“Get an extension!”

Connal stood up, helplessness in his expression. “On what basis?”