The Aquitaine Progression (96 page)

Nathan Simon, tall, portly, sitting well back in his chair, removed the tortoiseshell glasses from his tired face and tugged at the Vandyke beard that covered the scars of shrapnel embedded at Anzio years ago. His thick salt-and-pepper eyebrows were arched above his hazel eyes and sharp, straight nose. The only other person in the room was Peter Stone. The stenographer had been dismissed; Metcalf, exhausted, had retired to his room, and the two other officers, Packard and Landis, had opted to return to Washington—on separate planes. Simon carefully placed the typewritten affidavits on the table beside his chair.

“There was
no one
else, Mr. Stone?” he asked, his deep voice gentle, far gentler than his eyes.

“No one I knew, Mr. Simon,” replied the former intelligence officer. “Everyone I’ve used since—what we call pulling in old debts—was lower-level with access to upper-level
equipment, not decisions. Please remember, three men were killed when this thing barely started.”

“Yes, I know.”

“Can you do what Converse said? Can you get something ‘under seal’ and move some mountains we can’t move?”

“He told you that?”

“Yes. It’s why I agreed to all of this.”

“He had his reasons. And I have to think.”

“There’s no time to
think
. We have to act, we have to
do
something! Time’s running out!”

“To be sure, but we cannot do the wrong thing, can we?”

“Converse said you had access to powerful people in Washington. I could trust you to reach them.”

“But you’ve just told me I don’t know whom to trust, isn’t that right?”

“Oh,
Christ
!”

“A lovely and inspired prophet.” Simon looked at his watch as he gathered up the papers and rose from the chair. “It’s two-thirty in the morning, Mr. Stone, and this weary body has come to the end of its endurance. I’ll be in touch with you later in the day. Don’t try to reach me. I’ll be in touch.”

“In
touch
? The package from Converse is on its way here. I’m picking it up at Kennedy Airport on the Geneva flight at two-forty-five this afternoon. He wants you to have it right away.
I
want you to have it!”

“You’ll be at the airport?” asked the lawyer.

“Yes, meeting our courier. I’ll be back here by four or four-thirty, depending on when the plane gets in and traffic, of course.”

“No, don’t do that, Mr. Stone, stay at the airport. I’ll want everything Joel has compiled for us in my hands as soon as possible, of course. Just as there is a courier from Geneva, you may be the courier from New York.”

“Where are you going? Washington?”

“Perhaps, perhaps not. At this moment I’m going home to my apartment and think. Also, I hope to sleep, which is doubtful. Give me a name I can use to have you paged at the airport.”

Johnny Reb sat low in the small boat, the motor idling, the waves slapping the sides of the shallow hull in the darkness. He was dressed in black trousers, a black turtleneck
sweater and a black knit hat, and he was as close as he dared drift into the southwest coast of the island of Scharhörn. He had spotted the bobbing green glows on the series of buoys the first night; they were trip lights, beams intersecting one another above the water, ringing the approach to the old U-boat base. They formed an unseen wall—to penetrate it would set off alarms. This was the third night, and he was beginning to feel vindicated.

Trust the gut, trust the stomach and the bile that crept up into the mouth. The bellies of the old-time whores of the community knew when things were going to happen—partly out of dread, partly because a score was near that would enlarge an account in Bern. There was no account in the offing now, of course—only a succession of outlays to pay back a considerable debt, but there was a score to be made. Against the Delavanes and the Washburns, and those German and French and Jewish catfish who would sweep the ponds and make it impossible for gentlemen like Johnny Reb to make a high-hog living. He didn’t know much about the South African, except that those nigger-haters had better the hell wise up. The coloreds were coming along just fine, and that was fine by Johnny; his current girlfriend was a lovely black singer from Tallahassee, who just happened to be in Switzerland for silly reasons involving a little cocaine—and a good-sized account in Bern.

But the other catfish were
bad. Real
bad. Johnny Reb had it in for men who would make it jailhouse for people to think the way they wanted to.
No sir
, those people had to go! Johnny Reb was very seriously committed to that proposition.

It was happening! He focused his infrared binoculars on the old concrete piers of the sub base. It was also flat-out crazy! The seventy-foot motor launch had pulled into a dock, and moving out on the pier was a long, double line of men—forty, sixty, eighty … nearly 100—preparing to board. What was crazy was the way they were dressed. Dark suits and conservative summer jackets and ties; a number wore hats and every damned one of them carried luggage and a
briefcase
. They looked like a convention of bankers or a parade of lace-pants from the diplomatic corps.
Or
—thought the Rebel as he inched his binoculars backward along the line of passengers—ordinary businessmen, executives, men seen every day standing on railroad platforms and getting out of taxis and flying in planes. It was the very ordinariness of their collective
appearance contrasted with the exotically macabre dark outlines of the old U-boat refueling station that gnawed at Johnny’s imagination. These men could go unnoticed almost anywhere, yet they did not
come
from anywhere. They came from Scharhörn, from what was undoubtedly a highly sophisticated cell of this multinational military collusion that could put the goddamned catfish generals in the catbird seats. Ordinary people going wherever they were ordered to go—looking like everyone else, behaving like everyone else, opening their attaché cases on planes and trains, reading company reports, sipping drinks but not too many, skimming an occasional paperback novel ostensibly to ease the strain of business—
going wherever they were ordered to go
.

That was it, thought the Rebel, as he lowered the binoculars.
That was it!
These were the hit teams! The stomach never lied; the bile was sent up for a reason, its acrid, sickening taste an ugly alarm that came to those privileged enough to have survived. Johnny Reb turned and fingered the motor, cautiously pushing the rudder to the right and inching the throttle forward. The small boat spun around in the water, and the rogue intelligence officer—former intelligence officer—headed back to his berth in Cuxhaven, accelerating the engine with each fifty feet of distance.

Twenty-five minutes later he pulled into the slip, lashed the lines to the cleats, grabbed his small waterproof case, and with effort climbed up onto the pier. He had to move quickly, but
very
, very cautiously. He knew vaguely the area of the Cuxhaven waterfront where the motor launch would return, for he had watched the lights of the vessel as it bobbed its way out of the harbor toward the island. Once in the vicinity he could determine the specific dock as the boat headed into port, and then he would have only minutes to scout the area and get into position. Carrying his waterproof case, he hurried to the base of the pier and turned left, walking rapidly through the shadows toward the area where he judged the launch had departed. He passed a huge warehouse and reached an open space beyond; there were five short piers, one after the other, extending no more than two hundred feet out into the water. It was dockage for small and medium-sized craft; several trawlers and a few antiquated pleasure boats were lashed to the pilings on each of the piers except one. The fourth pier was empty. The Rebel knew it belonged to the
launch; he could taste the bitterness in his mouth. He started out across the space; he would find a place to conceal himself.

“Halt—
stehenbleiben!
” shot out the guttural command as a man walked out of the darkness from around the hull of a trawler at the third pier. “
Was machen Sie hier? Wer sind Sie?
”

Johnny Reb knew when to use his age; he stooped his shoulders and hung his head slightly forward. “
Passen Sie auf diese alten Kästen auf?
” he asked, and continued in German, “I’m a fisherman on one of these relics and I lost my billfold this afternoon. Is it a crime to look for it?”

“Come back later, old man. You can’t look for it now.”

“
Eh?
What?” The Rebel raised his right hand to his ear, twisting the ring on his middle finger as he did so and pressing a catch on the band. “My hearing’s not what it was, Mr. Watchman. What did you say?”

The man stepped forward, first looking out at the water, as the sound of a powerful engine was heard in the distance. “Get out of here!” he shouted, his lips close to Johnny’s ear. “
Now!
”

“Good heavens, you’re Hans!”

“Who?”

“
Hans!
It’s so good to
see
you!” The Rebel slapped his hand around the German’s neck—prelude to an affectionate embrace—and plunged the surface of his ring into the man’s flesh, deeply embedding the needle.

“Get your hands off me, you stinking old man! My name’s not Hans and I never saw you before. Get out of here or I’ll put a … a bullet … in your … 
head
!” The German’s hand plunged inside his jacket but there it remained as he collapsed.

“You younger catfish really ought to have more respect for your elders,” mumbled Johnny as he dragged the unconscious body into the shadows to the left of the trawler on the third pier. “ ’Cause you don’t know the flies we use. Your daddies do, but you little pricks don’t. And I
want
your daddies, those mind-suckers!”

The Rebel climbed aboard the trawler and dashed across the deck to the gunwale. The motor launch was heading directly into the fourth pier. He opened his waterproof case into which he had snapped the binoculars in place, and adjusted his eyes to the dim light, studying the tools of his trade. He unlatched a camera and then a lens, a Zeiss-Ikon telescopic,
developed by conscientious Germans during World War II for photographing Allied installations at night; it was the best. He inserted it into the lens mount, locked it into position and switched on the camera’s motor, noting with satisfaction that the battery was at full capacity, but then he knew it would be. He had been too long in the deadly game to make amateurish mistakes.

The huge motor launch slid into the pier like a mammoth black whale, a killer whale. The lines were secured, and as the passengers disembarked, Johnny Reb began taking pictures.

“Honeychile, this is Tatiana. I’ve got to reach my boy.”

“The Algonquin Hotel in New York City,” said the calm female voice. “The number is Area Code two-one-two, eight-four-zero, six-eight-zero-zero. Ask for Peter Marcus.”

“Subtle son of a bitch, isn’t he?” said Johnny Reb. “Pardon my language, ma’am.”

“I’ve heard it before, Rebel. This is Anne.”

“
Goddamn
, little lady, why didn’t you tell me
before
! How
are
you, sweet child?”

“Doing fine in my dotage, Johnny. I’m out, you know. This is just a courtesy for an old friend.”

“An old
friend
? Fair girl, if it wasn’t for Petey, I’d have made one hell of a play for you!”

“You should have, Reb. I wasn’t in his cards, his terribly important cards. And you were one of the nicest—a little more subterranean than most, but a nice person. What was it? ‘Gentleman Johnny Reb’?”

“I’ve always tried to keep up appearances, Annie. May I request the privilege of calling you one day, if we ever get out of this mess?”

“I don’t know what the mess is, Reb, but I do know you have my telephone number.”

“You give me heart, fair girl!”

“We’re older now, Johnny, but I guess you wouldn’t understand that.”

“Never, child. Never.”

“Stay well, Reb. You’re too good to lose.”

The operator at the Algonquin Hotel was adamant. “I’m sorry, sir, Mr. Marcus is not in his room and does not answer the page.”

“I’ll call back,” said the Rebel.

“Sorry, sir. There’s no answer in Mr. Marcus’s room and no response to the page.”

“I believe we spoke several hours ago, sir. There’s still no answer in Mr. Marcus’s room, so I took the liberty of calling the desk. He hasn’t checked out and he didn’t list an alternate number. Why not leave a message?”

“I believe I will. As follows, please. ’Stay put until I reach you. Or you reach me. Imperative. Signed, Z. Tatiana. That’s T-a-t-i-a—”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. Z, sir?”

“As in zero, miss.” Johnny Reb hung up the phone in the flat in Cuxhaven. The taste in his mouth was overpoweringly sour.

Erich Leifhelm entertained his luncheon guests at his favorite table at the Ambassador restaurant on the eighteenth floor of the Steigenberger Hotel in Bonn. The spacious, elegant room had a magnificent view not only of the city and the river but also of the mountains beyond, and this particular table was positioned to take advantage of that view. It was a bright, cloudless afternoon, and the natural wonders of the northern Rhineland were there for the fortunate to observe.

“I never tire of it,” said the former field marshal, addressing the three men at his table, gesturing with masculine grace at the enormous window behind him. “I wanted you to see it before returning to Buenos Aires—indeed, one of the most beautiful cities in the world, I must add.”

The maître d’ intruded with deference, bowing as he spoke softly to Leifhelm. “Herr General, there is a telephone call for you.”

“An aide is dining at table fifty-five,” said Leifhelm casually, in spite of his racing pulse. Perhaps there was word of a priest in Strasbourg! “I’m sure he can take it for me.”

“The gentleman on the line specifically requested that I speak with you personally. He said to tell you he was calling from California.”

“I see. Very well.” Leifhelm got out of his chair, apologizing to his guests. “No surcease from the vagaries of commerce, is there? Forgive me, I shall only be a moment or two. Please, more wine.”