The Aquitaine Progression (80 page)

Valerie sprang from the chair and ran to the television set; she furiously pushed several buttons until the radio was silent. She stood for a moment, trembling with anger—and fear. And something else she could not define—did not care to define. It tore her apart and she had to stay together.

She lay on the bed staring at the ceiling, at the reflections of light from things moving in the street below, and hearing the sounds of the city. None of it was comforting—only abrasive
intrusions that kept her mind alert, rejecting sleep. She had not slept on the plane, but had only dozed intermittently, repeatedly jarred awake by half-formed nightmares probably induced by excessive turbulence over the North Atlantic. She needed sleep now … she needed Joel now. The first, mercifully, came; the latter was out of reach.

There was a shattering noise accompanied by a burst of sunlight that blinded her as she shot up from the bed, kicking away the sheet and throwing her feet on the floor. It was the telephone. The telephone? She looked at her watch; it was seven-twenty-five. The phone rang once again, piercing the mists of sleep but not clearing them away. The telephone? How …?
Why?
She picked it up, gripping it with all her strength, trying to find herself before speaking.

“Hello?”

“Mrs. DePinna?” inquired a male voice.

“Yes.”

“We trust everything is satisfactory.”

“Are you in the habit of waking up your guests at seven o’clock in the morning to ask if they’re comfortable?”

“I’m terribly sorry, but we were anxious for you. This
is
the Mrs. DePinna from Tulsa, Oklahoma, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“We’ve been looking for you all night … since the flight from Amsterdam arrived at one-thirty this morning.”

“Who are you?” asked Val, petrified, holding her wrist below the phone.

“Someone who wants to help you, Mrs. Converse,” said the voice, now relaxed and friendly. “You’ve given us quite a runaround. We must have woken up a hundred and fifty women who checked in at hotels since two
A.M
.… the ‘flight from Amsterdam’ did it; you didn’t ask me what I was talking about. Believe me, we want to help, Mrs. Converse. We’re both after the same thing.”

“Who
are
you?”

“The United States Government covers it. Stay where you are. I’ll be over in fifteen minutes.”

The hell the United States Government covers it!
thought Val, shivering, as she hung up the phone. The United States Government had cleaner ways of identifying itself.… She had to get
out
! What did the “fifteen minutes” mean? Was it a trap? Were men downstairs waiting for her now—waiting to see if she would run? She had no
choice
!

She ran to the bathroom, grabbing the carry-on case off a chair and throwing her things into it. She dressed in seconds and stuffed what clothes remained into the bag; snatching the room key off the bureau, she ran to the door, then stopped. Oh,
Lord
, the stationery with the Air Force number! She raced back to the desk, picked up the page beside the open telephone book and shoved it into her purse. She glanced wildly about—was there anything else? No. She left the room and walked rapidly down the hall to the elevators.

Maddeningly, the elevator stopped at nearly every floor, where men and women got on, most of the men with puffed circles under their eyes, a few of the women looking drawn, sheepish. Several apparently knew each other, others nodded absently, gazes straying to plastic name plates worn by most of the passengers. Val realized that some sort of convention was going on.

The doors opened to a crowded bank of elevators; the ornate lobby to the right was swarming with people, voices raised in greetings, questions and instructions. Cautiously Val approached the gilded arch that led to the lobby proper, looking around in controlled panic to see if anyone was looking at her. A large gold-framed sign with block letters arranged in black felt under glass was on the wall:
WELCOME
:
MICMAC DISTRIBUTORS
. There followed a list of meetings and activities.

Buffet Breakfast 7:30-8:30
A.M
.

Regional Conferences 8:45-10:00
A.M
.

Advertising Symposium Q and A 10:15-11:00
A.M
.

Midmorning Break. Make Reservations for city tours.

“Hey, sweet face,” said a burly, red-eyed man standing next to Val. “That’s a no-no.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“We are
marked
, princess!”

Valerie stopped breathing; she stared at the man, gripping the handles of her carry-on, prepared to smash it into his face and bolt for the glass doors thirty feet away. “I have no idea what you mean.”

“The
name
, princess! Where’s your Micmac spirit? How can I ask you to have breakfast with me if I don’t know your name?”

“Oh … the name tag. I’m sorry.”

“What’s your region, beautiful creature?”

“Region?” Valerie was puzzled but only for a moment. She suddenly smiled. “Actually, I’m new—just hired yesterday. They said my instructions would be at the desk, but it’s so crowded I’ll never get over there. Of course, with
your
shoulders I might make it before I’m fired.”

“Grab hold, princess! These shoulders used to play semi-pro ball.” The heavyset salesman was an effective blocking back; they reached the counter and the man growled appropriately, a lion preening before its conquest. “Hey, fella! This lady’s been trying to get your attention. Need I say more,
fella
?” The salesman, holding in his stomach, grinned at Val.

“No, sir—yes, ma’am?” sa the perplexed clerk, who was not at all busy. The activity was taking place in front of the counter, not at the counter.

Valerie leaned forward, ostensibly to be heard through the noise. She placed her key on the counter and opened her purse, taking out three $50 bills. “This should cover the room. I’ve been here one night, and there are no charges. What’s left is yours.”

“Thank
you
, ma’am.”

“I need a favor.”

“Of course!”

“My name is Mrs. DePinna—but of course the key tells you that.”

“What is it you want me to do, ma’am?”

“I’m visiting a friend who’s just had an operation. Could you tell me where the—Lebanon Hospital is?”

“The Lebanon? It’s in the Bronx, I think. Somewhere on the Grand Concourse. Any cabdriver will know, ma’am.”

“Mrs. DePinna’s the name.”

“Yes, Mrs. DePinna.
Thank
you.”

Valerie turned to the heavyset, red-eyed salesman, again smiling. “I’m sorry. Apparently I’m at the wrong hotel, the wrong company, can you imagine? It would have been nice. Thanks for your help.” She turned and quickly dodged her way through the crowd toward the revolving doors.

The street was only beginning to come alive. Valerie walked rapidly down the pavement, then stopped almost immediately in front of a small, elegant bookstore and decided to wait in the doorway. The stories she had heard all her life included not only tales of leaving false information but lessons
showing the need for knowing what the enemy looked like—it was often the difference.

A taxi drove up in front of the St. Regis, and before it came to a stop the rear door opened. She could see the passenger clearly, he was paying the fare hurriedly without thought of change. He climbed out swiftly and started running toward the glass doors. He was hatless, with unkempt, blondish hair, and dressed in a madras jacket and light-blue summer jeans. He was the enemy, Valerie knew that and accepted it. What she found hard to accept was his youth. He was in his twenties, hardly more than a boy. But the face was hard and set in anger, the eyes cold—distant flashes of steel in the sunlight.
Wie ein Hitlerjunge
, thought Val, walking out of the bookstore doorway.

A car streaked past her, heading west toward the hotel; within seconds she heard screeching tires and expected a crash to follow, like the other pedestrians, she turned around to look. Fifty feet away a brown sedan had come to a stop; on its door panels and trunk were the clear black letters
U.S. ARMY
. A uniformed officer got out quickly. He was staring at her.

She broke into a run.

Converse sat in an aisle seat roughly in the middle of the railway car. His palms perspired as he turned the pages of the small black prayer book, which had been placed in the envelope along with his passport, the letter of pilgrimage, and a typewritten sheet of instructions, which included a few basic facts about Father William Wilcrist, should they be necessary. On the bottom of the page was a final order:
Commit to memory, tear up, and flush down toilet before immigration at Oldenzaal
.

The instructions were unnecessary, even distracting. Quite simply, he was to take a stroll through the railway cars twenty minutes out of a station called Rheine, leaving the suitcase behind as if he intended to return to his seat, and get off at Osnabrück. The details of his supposedly changing trains at Hanover for Celle and the subsequent morning drive north to Bergen-Belsen could have been said in one sentence rather than buried in the complicated paragraphs describing the underground’s motivations and past successes. The facts about Father William Wilcrist, however, were succinct, and he had memorized them after the second reading. Wilcrist was thirty-eight
years old, a graduate of Fordham, with a theological degree from Catholic University in Washington. Ordained at St. Ignatius in New York, he was an “activist priest” and currently assigned to the Church of the Blessed Sacrament in Los Angeles. In Valerie’s words, if he was asked to recite more than that he was probably caught.

For all practical purposes he was caught now, thought Joel, gazing at the back of a man’s head in the front of the car, the same man who had joined another standing by a pillar on the platform in Amsterdam. Undoubtedly that first man was now looking at the back of
his
head from a seat in the rear, mused Converse, turning another page in the prayer book. On the surface, the odds against him were overwhelming, but there was a fact and a factor just below the surface. The fact was that he knew who his executioners were and they did not know he knew. The factor was a state of mind he had drawn upon in the past.

The train traveled north, then east; there were two stops before Oldenzaal, after which he presumed they would cross the Rhine into West Germany. They had pulled in and out of the Deventer station; that left one more, a city named Hengelo. The announcement came, and Joel got out of his seat before any of the Hengelo commuters rose from theirs; he turned in the aisle and walked back to the rear of the car. As he passed the man who stood by the pillar he saw that Aquitaine’s hunter was staring straight ahead, his body so rigid it barely moved with the movement of the train. Converse had seen such postures many times before, at trials and in boardrooms; they invariably belonged to insecure witnesses and unsure negotiators. The man was tense, afraid perhaps of failing an assignment or of the people who had sent him to Amsterdam—whatever it was, his anxiety was showing and Joel would use it.
He was crawling out of a deep shaft in the ground, one tenuous grasp of earth after another, the indentations preformed after nights of preparation. The wire fence was in the distance, the rain falling, the patrols concerned, anxious—frightened by every sound they could not quickly identify. He needed only one to move away and he had it.… He could reach the fence!

Reach
Osnabrück
—alone.

The toilet was unoccupied; he opened the door, went inside, and took out the page of instructions. He folded it, tore it in shreds, and dropped the pieces into the bowl, pressing
the foot button as he did so. They disappeared with the flush; he turned back to the door and waited.

A second announcement blared from the speakers outside as the train slowed down; the sound of gathering feet was inches away beyond the door. The train came to a stop; he could feel the vibration of moving bodies, determined commuters thinking of home and relief and undoubtedly the Dutch equivalent of a martini. The vibrations stopped; the sounds faded away. Converse opened the door no more than half an inch. The rigid hunter was not in his seat.
Now
.

Joel slid out of the door and stepped quickly into the open separation between cars, excusing himself between the stragglers getting off from the car behind, and walked rapidly inside and down the aisle. As he approached the last rows he saw an empty seat—two seats, facing the platform—and swung in; he sat down beside the window, his hand in front of his face, peering outside through his fingers.

Aquitaine’s hunter raced back and forth, sufficiently aggressive to stop three men who were walking away, their backs to him; rapid apologies followed. The hunter turned to the train, having exhausted the departing possibilities. He got back on board, his face a creased map falling apart.

More
, thought Converse.
I want more. I want you stretched, as patrols before you were stretched. Until you can’t stand it!

Oldenzaal arrived, then was left behind. The train crossed the Rhine, the clattering of the bridge below like snare drums. The hunter had crashed the forward door open, too panicked to do anything but quickly look around and return to his companion, or to a lone suitcase perhaps. Joel’s head was below the back of the seat in front of him. Minutes later came the Sonderpolizei checking the border, scrutinizing every male of a vague description, dozens of uniformed men walking through the railway cars. They were courteous, to be sure, but nevertheless they gave rise to ugly vestiges of a time past. Converse showed his passport and the letter written in German for the conscience of Germans. A policeman grimaced sadly, then nodded and went on to the next seat. The uniforms left; the minutes became quarter-hours. He could see through the windows into the forward car; the two hunters met several rows behind where he had been sitting. Again they separated; one fore, one aft.
Now
.

Joel got up from his seat and sidestepped into the aisle,
pretending to check his schedule and bending down to look out the darkened window. He would stay there for as long as he had to, until one of the hunters spotted him. It took less than ten seconds. As Converse pitched his head down supposedly to see a passing sign outside he caught a glimpse of a figure moving into the upper panel of glass on the forward door. Joel stood up. The man behind the glass spun out of sight. It was the sign he had been waiting for, the moment to move quickly.