Think!
“Ze is dronken!” The words were shouted by the burly man with the enormously endowed wife at his side as he pointed to the dead woman. Both were laughing, and Joel did not need an interpreter to understand. Converse nodded, grinning broadly as he shrugged. He had found his way out of the station in Amsterdam.
For Converse understood there was a universal language employed when the decibel of noise was such that one could neither hear nor be heard. It was also used when one was bored at cocktail parties, or when one watched football games on television with clowns who were convinced they knew a great deal more than coaches or quarterbacks, or when one was gathered and trapped into an evening in New York with the “beautiful people”—most of whom qualified as neither in the most rudimentary sense, egos far outdistancing either talent or humanity. In such situations one nodded; one smiled; one occasionally placed a friendly hand on a shoulder, the touch signifying communication—but one said nothing.
Joel did all of these things as he got off the train with the burly man and his wife. He became almost manic, playing the role as one who knew there was nothing left between death and survival but a certain kind of controlled madness. The lawyer in him provided the control; the child pilot tested the winds, knowing his aircraft would respond to the elemental pressures because it was sound and he was good and he enjoyed the craziness of a stall forced by a downdraft; he could easily pull out.
He had removed his dark glasses and pulled his cap far down over his forehead. His hand was on the burly man’s shoulder as they walked up the platform, the Dutchman laughing as he spoke, Joel nodding, slapping his companion’s shoulder, laughing in return whenever there was a break in the man’s monologue. Since the couple had been drinking, neither took much notice of his incomprehensible replies; he seemed like a nice person, and in their state nothing else really mattered.
As they walked up out of the platform toward the terminal Converse’s constantly roving eyes were drawn to a man standing in a crowd of welcomers beyond the archway at the end of the ramp. Joel first noticed him because unlike those around him—whose faces were lit up in varying degrees of anticipation—this man’s expression was serious to the point of being solemn. He was not there to offer welcome. Then suddenly Converse knew there was another reason why this man had caught his attention. The moment he recognized the face he knew exactly where he had seen it—walking rapidly down a path surrounded by thick foliage with another man, another guard. The man up ahead was one of the patrols from Erich Leifhelm’s compound above the Rhine.
As they approached the arch, Joel laughed a little louder and made it a point to clap the Dutchman’s shoulder a little harder, his cap still angled down over his forehead. He followed several nods with a shrug or two and then with a good-humored shaking of the head; with brows furrowed and lips constantly moving, he was obviously in fluent conversation. Through narrowed eyes Converse saw that Leifhelm’s guard was staring at him; then the man looked away. They passed through the arch and in the corner of his vision Joel was abruptly aware of a head whipping around, then of a figure pushing other figures out of his path. Converse turned, looking over the Dutchman’s shoulder. It happened. His eyes locked with those of Leifhelm’s guard. The recognition was instant, and for that instant the German panicked, turning his head back toward the ramp. He started to shout, then stopped. He reached under his jacket and moved forward.
Joel broke away from the couple and began racing, threading his way through succeeding walls of bodies, heading for a series of archlike ascending exits through which sunlight streamed into the ornate terminal. Twice he looked behind him as he ran; the first time he could not see the man, the second time he did. Leifhelm’s guard was screaming orders to someone across the way, rising on the balls of his feet to see and be seen, gesturing at the exit doors in the distance. Converse ran faster, pulling his way through the crowd toward the steps that led to the massive exit. He climbed the staircase swiftly but within the rhythm of the most harried departing passengers, holding to the center, trying to call as little attention to himself as possible.
He bolted through a door into the sunlight, into total confusion. Below was water and piers and glass-covered boats bobbing up and down, people rushing past them, others ushered on board under the watchful eyes of men in white-and-blue uniforms. He had come off a train only to emerge on some kind of strange waterfront. Then he remembered: the railroad station in Amsterdam was built on an island facing the center of the city; thus it was known as the Centraal. Yet there was a street—two streets, three streets bridging the water toward other streets and trees and buildings … no time! He was out in the open and those streets in the distance were his caves of survival; they were the ravines and the thick, impenetrable acres of bush and swamp that would hide him from the enemy! He ran as fast as he could along the wide boulevard bordered by water and reached an even wider thoroughfare clogged with traffic, buses, trams, and automobiles, all at their own starting gates, anxious for bells to release them. He saw a dwindling line at the door of an electric tramway, the final two passengers climbing on board; he raced ahead and, just before the door swung shut, he stepped up into the tram—the last fare.
Spotting an empty seat in the last row, he walked quickly to the back of the huge vehicle. He sat down, breathing hard, desperately, the sweat matting his hairline and his temples and rolling down his face, the shirt under his jacket drenched. It was only then that he realized how exhausted he was, how loud and rapid the tattoo in his chest, how blurred his vision and his thoughts. Fear and pain had combined into a form of hysteria. The desire to stay alive and the hatred of Aquitaine had kept him going. Pain? He was suddenly aware of the ache in his arm above his wound, an old woman’s last act of vengeance—against what? For what? An enemy? Money? No time!
The tram started up and he turned in his seat to look out the rear window. He saw what he wanted to see. Leifhelm’s guard was racing across the intersection, a second man running to join him from the waterfront quai. They met, and the words they exchanged were obviously exchanged in near panic. Another joined them, from where Joel could not see; he was suddenly just there. The three men spoke rapidly, Leifhelm’s guard apparently the leader; he pointed in several directions, issuing orders. One man ran down the street, below the curb, and began checking the half-dozen or so taxis in the traffic jam; a second stayed on the pavement, slowly making his way around the tables of a sidewalk café, then going inside. Finally, Leifhelm’s guard ran back across the intersection, dodging cars, and reaching the curb, he signaled. A woman walked out of a store and met him at the corner.
No one had thought of the tram. It was his first cave of survival. He sat back and tried to collect his thoughts, knowing they would be difficult to face. Aquitaine would penetrate all of Amsterdam, canvass it, tear it apart until they found him. Was there conceivably a way to reach Thorbecke or had he been fooling himself, reaching into the past where too often accidents and misplaced arrogance led to success? No, he could not think for a while. He had to lie down in the cave and rest, and if sleep came, he hoped the nightmares did not come with it. He looked out the window and saw a sign. It read DAMRAK.
He remained on the electric conveyance for well over an hour. The lively streets, the lovely architecture of the centuries-old buildings and the endless canals calmed him. His arm still ached from the old woman’s teeth but not severely, and thoughts of cleansing the wound faded. He could not weep for the old woman, but as with certain, strange witnesses at a trial, he wished he knew her story.
Hotels were out. The foot soldiers of Aquitaine would scour them, offering large sums for any information about any American of his general description—which they now specifically had. Thorbecke would be watched, his telephone tapped, his every move and conversation scrutinized. Even the embassy, or consulate—whichever it was in Amsterdam—would have another military chargé d’affaires or his equivalent on the prowl for a signal that a non-assassin wanted to com
e in and start the process of rectification. If his perceptions were right, that left him with only one escape hatch. Nathan Simon.
Nathan the Wise, Joel had dubbed him once, only to be told that a Gentile with his intelligence should certainly come up with something more original. Then after a particularly long session at the office in which Nate detailed in excruciating detail why they should not take on a client named Liebowitz, who in his opinion would put too great a burden on the obligation to respect a client’s confidence, and during which Lawrence Talbot had dozed off, Converse suggested that he alter his sobriquet to Nathan the Talmudic-pain-in-the-ass. Nate had roared, shocking Talbot awake, and proclaiming, “I love it! And Sylvia will love it better!”
Joel had learned more about the law from Nathan Simon than from anyone else, but there was always a distance between them. It was as though Nate never really wanted them to be too close in spite of the obvious affection the older man had for the younger. Converse thought he understood; it was a question of loyalty. Simon had two sons, who, in the properly guarded phrase, “were in business for themselves in California and Florida.” One sold insurance in Santa Barbara, and the other ran a bar in Key West. Nate Simon was a tough act to follow, and Joel was given a hint of just how hard it was one late afternoon when Simon offered to buy him a drink at “21” after a harrowing conference on Fifth Avenue.
“I like your father, Converse. I like Roger. He has minimal legal requirements, of course, but he’s a good man.”
“He has no legal requirements, and I tried to stop him from coming to us.”
“You couldn’t. It was the gesture he had to make. Put some business where the son is. Very touching.”
“With an unnecessary will that you much too generously charged him only two hundred dollars for, and some crazy disposition of his war medals to three different institutions—for which you refused to bill him on patriotic grounds?”
“We were in the same theater of operations.”
“Where?”
“Europe.”
“Come on, Nate. He’s my father and I love him but I also know he’s off the wall. Take him out of a vintage prop and he’s not sure where he is. Pan Am got their money’s worth, not in any administrative sense, but because he was a pistol at conventions.”
Nathan Simon had gripped his glass that late afternoon at “21,” and when he spoke, the quiet thunder of a deeply troubled man poured forth. “You have respect for your father, do you hear me, Joel? My friend Roger offered a gesture to his son, for it was all he had, all he could imagine. I had a great deal more and I didn’t know how to make such gestures. I only gave commands.… He said I could still do it. I’m going to take up flying.”
Simon would help him only if he was convinced there was substance to his case. But he would legally lean over backwards in the negative if he thought a relationship or personal sentimentality was being used to manipulate him. Of course, if an indictment followed, he would rush in for the defense after the fact. That was professional; those were his ethics. And by now Valerie would have sent him the envelope with the dossiers and their awesome implications. They were the substance Simon required. Knowing Val, she would have sent them down by car, the great American postal service having given rise to a score of competitors who eschewed the taxpayer’s dollar. Joel’s decision was made. Since there was a five-hour time difference, he would wait until early evening and then call Nathan Simon. He was functioning again.
The tram came to the last stop before its return run. At least he was the only one left on board; he walked up the aisle, got off and saw another. He got on. Sanctuary.
A hundred streets and a dozen crisscrossed canals later, he looked out the window, encouraged by the seedy neighborhood he saw, washed clean on the surface but with the promise of far more interesting bacteria below. There was a row of pornography shops, their wares in magnified displays in the storefronts. Above, in open windows, garishly painted girls stood provocatively, brassieres slipped on and off lethargically, faces bored but pelvises churning. The crowds in the streets were animated, some curious, some feigning shock, others interested in buying. There was a carnival atmosphere, one into which he could melt, thought Converse, as he got out of his seat and went to the door.
He wandered around the streets, astonished, even embarrassed, as he always was when sex was paraded so publicly. He enjoyed sexual encounters and never lacked for them, but for him the privacy of the acts was intrinsic to their fulfillment. He could no more walk through one of those neon-lit doors up-to-heaven than he could have performed a bowel movement on the curb.
There was a café across the street; it was above a canal, tables on the sidewalk, dark within. What struck him was the crowd that hovered around the doorway, many people simply glancing in and going on, drawn briefly to some curious oddity inside. Regardless, it was the crowd that attracted him; there was anonymity in numbers. He crossed the thoroughfare, weaved his way through the crowd and went inside. Sleep might be out of the question, but he needed food. He had not eaten a real meal in nearly three days. He found a small empty table in the back of the room, and was stunned that a television set, clamped above on the wall, was blaring inanities. He could not understand. There was no television in the Netherlands during the afternoons! How many times had he heard colleagues and friends remark that one of the most civilized aspects of traveling in Holland was the absence of the idiot box until seven o’clock in the evening? Conversely, there were those sports enthusiasts who bemoaned the fact that certain events were not shown, but on the whole the verdict came down in favor of Dutch civility and restraint. Yet here was a television set in full operation. It undoubtedly accounted for those curious passersby on the street who glanced inside, shaking their heads in bewilderment as they went on their way.
Then Joel saw the folded card on the table, the announcement in four languages, English first.
In accord with the advances in teknology we are pleased to bring our patrons and visitors from outside the Netherlands rekordings of our national programs.
Video tapes! It was a come-on, an innovative ploy to lure customers; this was the district for it. And he understood why the English language was first: e pluribus unum. Let’s not lose touch with the tube. At least the tapes were in Dutch; it helped, but not much.
Straight whisky helped, too, but again not much. The anxiety of the hunted came back and he kept turning his head toward the entrance, at any moment expecting to see one of the foot soldiers of Aquitaine walk through the door, out of the sunlight and into the cave to find him. He went to the men’s room at the rear of the café, removed his jacket, placed the gun with the silencer in the inside pocket, and tore his left sleeve. He filled one of the two basins with cold water, and then he plunged his face into it, pouring the water through his hair over the back of his neck. He felt a vibration, a sound! He whipped his head up, gasping, frightened, his hand instinctively reaching for his coat on a hook. A portly middle-aged man nodded and went to a urinal. Quickly Joel looked at the teeth marks on his arm; they were like a dog bite. He drained the sink, turned on the hot water faucet, and with a paper towel squeezed and blotted the painful area until blood emerged from the broken skin. It was the best he could do; he had done much the same thing a lifetime ago when attacking water rats swam through the bars of his bamboo cage. Then in another kind of panic, he had learned that rats could be frightened. And killed. The man at the urinal turned and went out the door, glancing uncomfortably at Converse.
Joel layered a paper towel over the teeth marks, put on his coat and combed his hair. He opened the door and went back to his table, once again annoyed by the blaring television on the wall.
The menu, like the announcement about the television, was in four languages, the last Oriental, undoubtedly Japanese. He was tempted to go for the largest, rarest piece of meat he could find, but here his pilot’s control dictated otherwise. He’d had no solid sleep in days—oddly enough, since his imprisonment at Leifhelm’s
compound, where the sleep itself had been greatly induced by the huge quantities of very decent food, all part of the healing process for a deflecting pawn. A heavy meal would make him drowsy, and one did not fly a jet going six hundred miles an hour in that condition. At the moment his air speed was approaching Mach I. He ordered filet of sole and rice; he could always order twice. And one more whisky.
The voice! Oh, Christ. The voice! He was hallucinating! He was going mad! He was hearing a voice—an echo of a voice—he could not possibly be hearing!
“… Actually, I think it’s a national disgrace, but like so many others, I speak only English.”
“Frau Converse—”
“Miss—Fräulein—I think that’s right—Charpentier, if you don’t mind.”
“Dames en heren…” a third voice broke in quietly, authoritatively, speaking Dutch.
Converse gasped for the air he could not find, gripping his wrist, closing his eyes with such intensity that every muscle in his face was in pain, twisting his neck away from the source of the terrible, horrible hallucination.
“I’m in Berlin on business—I’m a consultant for a firm in New York—”
“Mevrouw Converse, of juffrouw Charpentier, zoals we …”
Joel was now sure that he was mad, insane! He was hearing the impossible. Hearing! He spun around and looked up. The television screen! It was Valerie! She was there!
The Aquitaine Progression: A Novel Page 55
