The Aquitaine Progression (66 page)

“Again, I’m telling you I’m sorry. I mean it. It’s not in our nature to blame children.”

“
Shit!
”

“Perhaps I can make up for a little of what you went through. I’m in trouble—because I was a
stupid
American. But I’ll pay you a hundred American dollars …”

The young German happily got him a room at the boardinghouse. It was no better than the one in Wesel, but the water was hotter, the toilet nearer his door.

Tonight was different from the other nights he had spent in Germany, thought Joel, as he looked across the street at the decrepit hotel in Emmerich. Tonight could lead to his passage into Holland. To Cort Thorbecke and a plane to Washington. The man Joel had recruited was somewhat older than the others who had helped him. He was a merchant seaman out of Bremerhaven, in Emmerich to make a duty call on his family, with whom he felt ill at ease. He had made the obligatory call, been soundly rebuked by his mother and father, and had returned to the place and the people he loved best—a bar at the bend of the riverbank.

Again, as it had been in Wesel, it was the English lyrics of a song that had caught Joel’s attention. He stared at the young seaman standing at the bar and playing a guitar. This time it was not a college football song but an odd, haunting mixture of slow biting rock and a sad madrigal: “… When you finally came down, when your feet hit the ground, did you know where you were? When you finally were real, could you touch what you feel, were you there in the know?…”

The men around the bar were caught up by the precise
beat of the minor-key music. When the seaman finished there was respectful applause, followed by a resumption of fast talk and faster refilling of mugs of beer. Minutes later Converse was standing next to the seagoing troubador, the guitar now slung over his shoulder and held in place by a wide strap like a weapon. Joel wondered if the man really knew English or only lyrics. He would find out in seconds. The seaman laughed at a companion’s remark; when the laughter subsided, Converse said, “I’d like to buy you a drink for reminding me of home; It was a nice song.”

The man looked at him quizzically. Joel stammered, thinking that the seaman had no idea what he was talking about. Then, to Converse’s relief, the man answered. “
Danke
. It is a good song. Sad but good, like some of ours. You are
Amerikaner
?”

“Yes. And you speak English.”

“Okay. I don’t read no good,
aber
I speak okay. I’m on merchant ship. We sail Boston, New York, Baltimore—sometimes ports, Florida.”

“What’ll you have?”

“
Ein Bier
,” said the seaman, shrugging.

“Why not whisky?”

“
Ja?
”

“Certainly.”

“
Ja
.”

Minutes later they were at a table. Joel told his story about a nonexistent whore and a fictional pimp. He told it slowly, not because he felt he had to pace the narrative to his listener’s understanding, but because another option was coming sharply into focus. The guitar-playing merchantman was young, but there was a patina about him that indicated he knew the docks and the waterfront and the various businesses that flourished in that very special world.

“You should go to the
Polizei
,” said the man when Converse had finished. “They know the whores and they will not print your name.” The German smiled. “We want you back to spend more money.”

“I can’t take the chance. In spite of the way I look, I deal with a lot of important people—here and in America.”

“Which makes
you
important,
ja
?”

“And very stupid. If I could just get over into Holland, I could handle everything.”

“
Die Niederlande?
Vat is problem?”

“I told you, my passport was taken. And it’s just my luck that every American crossing any border is looked at very carefully. You know, that crazy bastard who killed the ambassador in Bonn and the NATO commander.”

“
Ja
, and in Wesel two, three days ago,” said the German. “They say he goes to Paris.”

“I’m afraid that doesn’t help me.… Look, you know the river people, the men who have boats going out every day. I told you I’d pay you a hundred dollars for the hotel.…”

“I agreed. You are generous.”

“I’ll pay you a great deal more if you can somehow get me over into Holland. You see, my company has an office in Amsterdam. They can help me. Will
you
help me?”

The German grimaced and looked at his watch. “Is too late for such arrangements tonight and I leave for Bremerhaven on the morning train. My ship sails at fifteen hundred.”

“That was the amount I had in mind. Fifteen hundred.”

“Deutsche marks?”

“Dollars.”

“You are more crazy than your
Landsmann
who kills soldiers. If you knew the language, it cost no more than fifty.”

“I don’t know the language. Fifteen hundred American dollars—for you if you can arrange it.”

The young man looked hard at Converse, then moved back his chair. “Wait here. I will make phone call.”

“Send over more whisky on your way.”

“
Danke
.”

The waiting was spent in a vacuum of anxiety. Joel looked at the weathered guitar lying across an extra chair. What were the words?… 
When you finally came down, when your feet hit the ground … did you know where you were? When you finally were real, could you touch … what you feel, were you there in the know?…

“I will stop for you at five o’clock in the morning,” announced the merchant seaman, who sat down with two glasses of whisky. “The captain will accept two hundred dollars,
aber
only if there are no drugs. If there are drugs, you don’t come on board.”

“I have no drugs,” said Converse, smiling, controlling his elation. “That’s done and you’ve earned your money. I’ll pay you at the dock or pier or whatever it is.”

“
Natürlich
.”

*  *  *

It had all happened less than an hour ago, thought Joel, watching the hotel entrance across the street. At five o’clock in the morning he would be on his way to Holland, to Amsterdam, to a man named Cort Thorbecke, Mattilon’s broker of illegal passports. All the passenger manifests on all aircraft heading for the United States would be watched by Aquitaine, but a hundred years ago he had learned that there were ways to elude the watchers. He had done it before from a deep, cold shaft in the ground and despite a barbed-wire fence in the darkness. He could do it again.

A figure emerged under the dimly lit marquee of the hotel. It was the young merchant seaman. Grinning, he beckoned Converse to join him.

“Hell’s fire and Jeesus
H
, what
is
it, Norman?” cried the Southerner, as Washburn suddenly went into an erratic series of convulsions, his lips trembling as he gasped for air.

“I … don’t … know.” The major’s eyes grew wide, the pupils now dancing and out of control.

“Maybe it’s that Heimlich thing!” said Thomas Thayer, rising from the banquette and quickly moving toward Washburn. “Hell no, it
can’t
be! Our food’s not here; you haven’t
eaten
!”

The couples near by expressed alarm, talking loudly, rapidly in German. At a remark made by one of the diners, the Southerner turned and spoke to the man. “
Das glaube ich nicht
,” said Johnny Reb in flawless German. “
Mein Wagen steht draussen. Ich weiss einen Arzt
.”

The maître d’ came rushing over and, seeing that the commotion involved the Americans, addressed his concern in English. “Is the major ill, sir? Shall I ask if there is …”

“No doctor I’m not familiar with, thanks,” interrupted Thayer, bent over the embassy’s chargé d’affaires, who was now inhaling deeply, his eyes half closed, his head swaying back and forth. “This here is Molly Washburn’s boy and I’ll see he gets the best! My car’s outside. Maybe if a couple of your waiters will give a hand we can put him in the limo and I’ll take him right over to my man. He’s a specialist. At my age you gotta have ’em everywhere.”

“
Bestimmt
. Certainly!” The maître d’ snapped his fingers; three busboys responded instantly.

“The embassy … the
embassy
!” choked Washburn as the
three men half carried the officer to the door of the restaurant.

“Don’t you worry, Norman-boy!” said the Southerner, hearing the plea, walking behind with the maître d’. “I’ll phone ’em from the car, tell ’em to meet us at Rudi’s place.” Thayer turned to the German beside him. “You know what Ah think? Ah think this fine soldier is jest plumb wore out. He’s been workin’ from sunrise to sunrise with nary a break. I mean, can you imagine everything he’s had to contend with these last couple of days? That crazy mongrel goin’ around shootin’ up a feud, killin’ the ambassador, then that honcho in Brussels! You know, Molly’s boy here is the char-jay d’affaires.”

“Yes, the major is our guest frequently—an honored guest.”

“Well, even the most honorable among us has a right and a time to say ‘The hell with it, I’ll sit this one out.’ ”

“I’m not sure I understand.”

“Ah have an idea this fine young man who I knew as a mere saplin’ lad never learned about the quantitative effects of old demon whisky.”

“Ohh?” The maître d’ looked at Johnny Reb—a fashionable gossipmonger relishing a new rumor.

“He had several mites too much, that’s all—and
that’s
jest between
us
.”

“He vas not in focus.…”

“He started bustin’ corks before the sun hit the whites of the west cotton.” They reached the front entrance, the unit of busboys maneuvering Washburn out the door. “Who was more entitled? That’s what I say.” Thayer removed his wallet.

“
Ja
, I agree.”

“Here,” said the Southerner, removing bills. “I haven’t had time to convert, so there’s a hundred American—that should cover the tab and plenty for the boys outside.… And here’s a hundred for you—for not talkin’ too much,
verstehen
?”

“Completely,
mein Herr
!” The German pocketed both $100 bills, smiling and nodding his head obsequiously. “I vill say absolutely nozzing!”

“Well, I wouldn’t go that far. It might be a good thing for Molly’s boy to learn that it ain’t the end of the world if a few people know he’s had a drink or two. Might loosen him up a bit, and in mah Georgia judgment, he needs a little
loosenin’. Maybe you might wink at him when he next comes in.”

“Vink?”

“Give him a friendly smile, like you know and it’s okay.
Verstehen?
”

“
Ja
, I agree! He vas entitled!”

Outside at the curb, Johnny Reb instructed the busboys just how to place Major Norman Anthony Washburn IV into the backseat. Stretched out, facing up, supine. The Southerner gave each man a $20 American bill and dismissed them. He then spoke to the two men in front, pressing a button so they could hear his voice beyond the glass partition.

“Ah got the jump seats down,” he said, pulling the velvet backs out of the velvet wall. “He’s out. Come on and join me, Witch Doctor. And you, Klaus, you entertain us with a long drive in your beautiful countryside.”

Minutes later, as the limousine entered a backcountry road, the overhead light switched on, the doctor unbuckled Washburn’s belt, slid the trousers down, and rolled the chargé d’affaires over and into the seat. He found the area he wanted at the base of the spine, the needle held above in his steady hand.

“Ready, chap?” asked the dark-skinned Palestinian, yanking down the elastic top of the unconscious man’s shorts.

“You got it, Pookie,” answered Johnny Reb, holding a small recorder over the edge of the jump seat. “Right where he won’t find it for a week, if he ever does. Take him up, Arab. I want him to
fly
.”

The doctor inserted the long hypodermic needle, slowly pressing his thumb on the plunger. “It will be quick,” said the Palestinian. “It is a heavy dose and I’ve seen it happen when the patient began babbling before the interrogator was ready.”

“I’m ready.”

“Put him on track instantly. Ask direct questions, center his concentration immediately.”

“Oh, Ah will, indeed. This is a bad man, Pookie. A nasty little boy who tells tall tales that ain’t got nothin’ to do with a big catfish that broke off a hook.” The Southerner gripped the unconscious Washburn’s left shoulder and yanked him forward, face up on the seat. “All right, Molly’s boy, let’s you and me talk. How come you got the
audacity
to mess around with an officer of the United States Navy named Fitzpatrick? Connal
Fitzpatrick, boy! Fitzpatrick, Fitzpatrick,
Fitzpatrick
! C’mon, baby, talk to Daddy, ’cause you’ve got nobody else
but
Daddy! Everyone you think you got is gone! They set you up, Molly’s boy! They made you lie in print so the whole world
knows
you lied! But Daddy can make it right. Daddy can straighten it all out and put you on top—right on the very
top
! The Joint Chiefs—the
big
chief! Daddy’s your tit, boy! Grab it or suck air! Where’d you put Fitzpatrick? Fitzpatrick,
Fitzpatrick
!”

The whisper came as Washburn’s body writhed on the seat, his head whipping back and forth, saliva oozing out of the edges of his mouth. “Scharhörn, the isle of Scharhörn.… The Heligoland Bight.”

Caleb Dowling was not only angry but bewildered. Despite a thousand doubts he could not let it go; too many things did not make sense, not the least of which was the fact that for three days he had been unable to get an appointment with the acting ambassador. The scheduling attaché claimed there was too much confusion resulting from Walter Peregrine’s assassination to permit an audience at this time. Perhaps in a week.… In short words, actor, get lost, we have important things to do and you’re not one of them. He was being checked, shoved into a corner and given the lip service one gives to a well-known but insignificant person. His motives as well as his intelligence were undoubtedly being questioned out loud by arrogant, harried diplomats. Or someone else.