The Aquitaine Progression (62 page)

“Would you
please
tell me what this is all about?” asked Converse, controlling his anxiety.

“Yeah, sure,” said the heavyset man, taking a handkerchief from his breast pocket and mopping his forehead. “This mother-loving world is full of crazies, you know what I mean? For Christ’s sake, you can’t tell who the fuck you’re talking to! If it was up to me, every kid who was born cross-eyed or couldn’t find a tit would be buried in dirt. I’m just sick of the weirdos, you know what I mean?”

“That’s very enlightening—now, what
happened?
”

“Yeah, okay.” The salesman put the handkerchief back in his pocket, then loosened his belt and undid the buttons above his zippered fly. “The soldier boy, the one who runs the headquarters in Brussels—”

“The supreme commander of NATO,” said Joel, his dread complete.

“Yeah, that one. He was shot, his head blown off right in the goddamned street when he was leaving some little restaurant in the old section. He was in civilian clothes, too.”

“When?”

“A couple of hours ago.”

“Who do they say did it?”

“The same creep who knocked off that ambassador 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 news right away; they wanted to check the fingerprints with Washington. It’s his, and they, figure the ballistics will show it’s the same gun that was used to kill what’s-his-name.”

“Peregrine,” said Converse quietly, aware that his dread was not complete. The worst part was only coming into focus. “How did they get the gun?”

“Yeah, well, that’s where they’ve marked the bastard. The soldier boy had a guard with him who shot at the nut and hit him—they think on the left arm. When the weirdo grabbed his arm, the gun dropped out of his hand. The hospitals and the doctors have been alerted and all the borders all over the place are being checked, every fucking American male passport made to roll up his sleeves, and anyone looking anywhere’s near like him hauled off to a customs tank.”

“They’re being thorough,” said Joel, not knowing what else to say, feeling only the pain of his wound.

“I’ll say this for the creep,” continued the salesman, eyes wide and nodding his head in some obscene gesture of respect. “He’s got ’em chasing their asses from the North Sea to the Mediterranean. They got reports he was seen on planes in Antwerp, Rotterdam, and back there in Düsseldorf. It only takes forty-five minutes to get from ‘Düssel’ to Brussels, you know. I got a friend in Munich who flies a couple times a week to have lunch in Venice. Every place over here’s a short hop. Sometimes we forget that, you know what I mean?”

“Yes, I do. Short flights … Did you hear anything else?”

“They said he could be heading for Paris or London or maybe even Moscow—he could be a Commie, you know. They’re checking the private airfields, too, figuring he’s got friends who are helping him—some friends, huh? A regular happy group 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 to Paris, the two of them might link up and there could be a few more executions. This Converse, though, he’s got his own regular trademark. He puts bullets in their heads. Some kind of Boy Scout, huh?”

Joel stiffened, feeling the tension throughout his slumped body, a sharp hollow pain in the center of his chest. It was the first time he had heard his name spoken casually by a stranger, identifying him as the psychopathic killer, an assassin hunted by governments whose border patrols were scrutinizing everyone at every checkpoint—private airfields watched, a dragnet in progress. The generals of Aquitaine had done their job with precision, right down to his fingerprints on a gun and a flesh wound in his arm. But the timing—how could they
dare
? How did they know he was not in an embassy somewhere asking for temporary asylum until he could make a case for himself? How could they take the
chance
?

Then the realization came to him, and he had to dig his fingers into his wrist to control himself, to contain his panic. The call to
Mattilon
! How easily René’s phone could have been tapped, by either the Sûreté or Interpol, and how quickly Aquitaine’s informers would have spread the word! Oh,
Christ
! Neither one of them had thought of it! They
did
know where he was, and no matter where he went he was trapped! As the offensive salesman had accurately phrased it, “Every place over here’s a short hop.” A man could fly from Munich to Venice for lunch and be back in his office for a three-thirty appointment. Another man could kill in Brussels and be on a train in Düsseldorf forty-five minutes later. Distances were measured in half-hours. From ground-zero in Brussels, “a couple of hours ago” covered a wide circle of cities and a great many borders. Were his hunters on the train? They might be, but there was no way they could know which train he had taken. It would be easier and far less time-consuming to wait for him in Emmerich. He had to think, he had to
move
.

“Excuse me,” said Converse, getting up. “I have to use the men’s room.”

“You’re lucky.” The salesman moved his heavy legs, holding his trousers as he let Joel pass. “I can hardly squeeze into those boxes. I always take a leak before …”

Joel made his way up the aisle. He stopped abruptly, swallowing, trying to decide whether to continue or turn back. He
had left the newspaper on his seat, the photograph easily revealed by unfolding the top page. He had to continue; any change of movement, however minor, might attract attention. His objective was not the men’s room but the passageway between the cars; he had to see it. A number of people had opened the door and gone through, several apparently looking for someone they expected to find on the train. He would look down at the lock on the bathroom door and proceed.

He stood in the swerving, vibrating passageway studying the metal door. It was a standard two-tiered exit; the top had to be opened first before the lower part could be unlocked and pulled back, revealing the steps. It was all he had to know.

He returned to his seat, and to his relief the salesman was splayed back, his thick lips parted, his eyes closed, a high-pitched wheeze emanating from his throat. Converse cautiously lifted one foot after the other over the fat man’s legs and maneuvered himself into his seat. The newspaper had not been touched. Another relief.

Diagonally above and in front of him, he saw a small receptacle in the curved wall with what appeared to be a sheaf of railroad schedules fanned out by disuse. Limp, bent pieces of paper ignored because these commuters knew where they were going. Joel raised himself off the seat, reached out, and took one, apologizing with several nods of his head to the young girl below. She giggled.

Oberhausen … Dinslaken … Voerde … Wesel … Emmerich.

Wesel
. The last stop before Emmerich. He had no idea how many miles Wesel was from Emmerich, but he had no choice. He would get off the train at Wesel, not with departing passengers but by himself. He would disappear in Wesel.

He felt a slight deceleration beneath him, his pilot’s instincts telling him it was the outer perimeter of an approach, the final path to touchdown in the scope. He stood up and carefully maneuvered between the fat man’s legs to reach the aisle; at the last second the salesman snorted, shifting his position. Squinting under the brim of his hat, Joel casually glanced around, as if he were momentarily unsure of which way to go. He moved his head slowly; as far as he could see, no one was paying the slightest attention to him.

He walked with carefully weary steps up the aisle, a tired passenger in search of relief. He reached the toilet door and
was greeted by an ironic sign of true relief. The white slot below the handle spelled out
BESETZT
. His first maneuver had its basis in credibility; the toilet was in use. He turned toward the heavy passageway door, pulled it open and, stepping outside, crossed the vibrating, narrow coupling area to the opposite door. He pushed it open, but instead of going inside he took a single stride forward, then lowered his body, turning as he did so, and stepped back into the passageway, into the shadows. He stood up, his back against the external bulkhead, and inched his way to the edge of the thick glass window. Ahead was the inside of the rear car, and by turning he had a clear view of the car in front. He waited, watching, turning, at any moment expecting to see someone lowering a newspaper or breaking off a conversation and looking over at his empty seat.

None did. The excitement over the news of the assassination in Brussels had tapered off, as had the rush of near panic in Bonn when the streets learned that an ambassador had been killed. A number of people were obviously still talking about both incidents, shaking their heads and grappling with the implications and the future possibilities, but their voices were lowered; the crisis of the first reports had passed. After all, it was not fundamentally the concern of these citizens. It was American against American. There was even a certain gloating in the air; the gunfight at O.K. Corral had new significance. The colonists were, indeed, a violent breed.

“
Wir kommen in
…” The rapid clacking of the wheels below, echoing in the metal chamber, obscured the distant announcement over the loudspeakers. Only moments now, thought Converse as he turned and looked at the exit door. When the train slowed sufficiently and the lines began to form at both inner doors, he would make his move.

“
Wir kommen in drei Minuten in Wesel an!
”

Several passengers in both cars got out of their seats, adjusted their briefcases and shopping bags and started up the aisle. The grinding of the giant wheels underneath signified the approach to touchdown.
Now
.

Joel turned to the exit door and, finding the upper latch, snapped it open, pulling the upper section back; the rush of air was deafening. He spotted the handle of the lower release and gripped it, prepared to yank it up as soon as the ground beyond slowed down. It would be in only seconds. The sounds below grew louder and the sunlight outside created a racing
silhouette of the train. Then the abrasive words broke through the dissonance and he froze.

“
Very
well thought out, Herr Converse! Some win, some lose. You
lost
.”

Joel spun around. The man yelling at him in the metal chamber was the passenger who had gotten on the train at Düsseldorf, the apologetic commuter who had sat next to him until the obese salesman had asked him to exchange seats. In his left hand was a gun held far below his waist, in his right the ever-respectable attaché case.

“You’re a surprise,” said Converse.

“I would hope so. I barely made the train in Düsseldorf.
Ach
, three cars I walked through like a madman—but not the madman you axe,
ja
?”

“What happens now? You fire that gun and save the world from a madman?”

“Nothing so simplistic, pilot.”

“Pilot.”

“Names are immaterial, but I am a colonel in the West German Luftwaffe. Pilots only kill one another in the air. It is embarrassing on the ground.”

“You’re comforting.”

“I also exaggerate. One disconcerting move on your part and I shall be a hero of the Fatherland, having cornered a crazed assassin and killed him before he killed me.”

“ ‘Fatherland’? You still call it that?”

“
Natürlich
. Most of us do. From the father comes the strength; the female is the vessel.”

“They’d love you in a Vassar biology class.”

“Is that meant to be amusing?”

“No, just disconcerting—in a very minor way, nothing serious.” Joel had moved imperceptibly until his back was against the bulkhead, his whole mind, his entire thinking process, on pre-set. He had no choice except to die, now or in a matter of hours from now. “I suppose you have an itinerary for me,” he asked as he swung his left arm forward with the question.

“Quite definitely, pilot. We will get off the train at Wesel, and you and I will share a telephone, my gun firmly against your chest. Within a short time a car will meet us and you will be taken—”

Converse slammed his concealed right elbow into the
bulkhead, his left arm in plain sight. The German glanced at the door of the forward car.
Now!

Joel lunged for the gun, both hands surging for the black barrel as he crashed his right knee with all the force he could command into the man’s testicles. As the German fell back he grabbed his hair and smashed the man’s head down onto a protruding hinge of the opposite door.

It was over. The German’s eyes were wide, alarmed, glassy. Another scout was dead, but this man was no ignorant conscript from an impersonal government, this was a soldier of Aquitaine.

A stout woman screamed in the window, her mouth opened wide with her screams, her face hysterical.

“
Wesel.…!
”

The train had slowed down and other excited faces appeared at the window, the frenzied crowd now blocking those who tried to open the door.

Converse lunged across the vibrating metal enclosure to the exit panel. He grasped the latch and pulled it open, crashing the door into the bulkhead. The steps were below, gravel and tar beyond. He took a deep breath and plunged outside, curling his body to lessen the impact of the hard ground, and when he made contact he rolled over, and over, and over.

He careened off a rock and into a cluster of bushes. Nettles and coarse tendrils enveloped him, scraping his face and hands. His body was a mass of bruises, the wound in his left arm moist and stinging, but there was no time even to acknowledge pain. He had to get away; in minutes the whole area would be swarming with men searching for him, hunting for the murderer of an officer in the Federal Republic’s air arm. It took no imagination to foresee what would happen next. The passengers would be questioned—including the salesman—and suddenly a newspaper would be in someone’s hand, a photograph studied, the connection made. A crazed killer last seen in a back street in Brussels was not on his way
to Paris or London or Moscow. He was on a train out of Bonn, passing through Cologne, Essen and Düsseldorf—and he killed again in a town called Wesel.