“Then I’ll match the offer and double it.”
The whore hesitated. “Now it is my turn.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“En? As you say—‘and’?”
“Oh. You?”
“Ja.”
“I have something special for you. Can you drive a car, or do you know someone who can?”
“I do myself, natuurlijk. In bad weather I drive my children to school.”
“Oh, Jesus.… I mean, that’s good.”
“Without my face like zo, of course.”
The stories. Oh, God, the stories! thought Converse. “I want you to rent a car and bring it around here to the front door. Then get out and leave the keys inside. Can you do that?”
“Ja, but nothing is for nothing.”
“Three hundred dollars—eight hundred guilders, give or take.”
“Five hundred—fourteen hundred, take or give,” countered the woman. “And the money to rent the automobile.”
Joel nodded as he unbuttoned his jacket and pulled out his shirt. The handle of the gun with the short barrel and the extended silencer was clearly visible beneath the wide canvas belt. The whore saw it and gasped. “It’s not mine,” said Converse quickly. “Whether you believe it or not doesn’t matter to me, but I took it from someone who tried to kill me.”
The woman stared at him, her look partially one of fear but it was not hostile, only curious. “The man—this soldier from no German army—the others who ask questions in the street. They wish to kill you?”
“Yes.” Joel unzipped the belt and counted off the money with his thumb. He pulled out the bills and closed the pocket.
“You have done them much harm?”
“Not yet, but I hope to.” Converse held out the money. “There’s enough for our friend downstairs and the rest is for you. Just bring me the car, along with one of those tourist maps of Amsterdam that show where all the major stores and hotels and restaurants are.”
“Perhaps I can tell you where it is you wish to go.”
“No, thank you.”
“Ja.” The whore nodded knowingly and took the money. “These people are bad people?” she asked, counting out the bills.
“The pits, lady.”
“They do those things to your face?”
“Yes. Mostly.”
“Go to the politie.”
“The police? It’s not practical. They wouldn’t understand.”
“They want you also,” concluded the woman.
“Not for anything I did.”
The whore shrugged. “It is no problem for me,” she said, going to the door. “I will say the auto is stolen. There is a Tromp garage twelve blocks from here; they know me. I have rented there when my Peugeot has troubles and I must get home. Ach, kinderen! Recitals, dance classes! Be downstairs in twenty minutes.”
“Recitals?”
“Don’t look so, Meneer. I do my job and call it what it is. Most people do the same and call it something else. Twenty minutes.” The spangled-haired woman went out the door, closing it behind her.
Joel approached the sink against the wall without enthusiasm, then saw it was spotless, a can of cleanser and a bottle of bleach below on the floor next to a roll of paper towels. Naturally. Dance lessons and recitals were part of the whore’s life, as well as a car that often gave her trouble, just like any other commuter. Converse looked in the mirror; the woman was right, he was “no fine picture,” but one had to be quite close to him to notice the severity of the bruises. He splashed water on his face, then blotted it, put on the dark glasses and made himself as presentable as possible.
It had happened. Val had come to find him, and despite the horrors surrounding their seeing each other again, a part of him wanted to sing—silently—or shout silently into the mists of his imagination. He wanted so much to look at her, to touch her, hear her voice close to him—and he knew it was for all the wrong reasons. He was the hunted and in pain and vulnerable, all the things he had never been when they were together, and because he was what he had become, he permitted her to find him. It was hardly admirable. He did not care to be a hungry dog in a cold rain; it did not fit his part of their past dual image, the de suite, as René Mattilon had phrased it … René. A telephone call had signed the order for his execution. Aquitaine. How in God’s name could he let Val even come near him? thought Joel, a terrible pain in his throat. The answer was the same: Aquitaine. And the fact that he thought he knew what he was doing. Every move he made in the streets, and on the trains, and in the cafés, was as carefully thought out as the steps he had taken in the jungles—in the routes he had chosen, in the rivers and streams he had forded and used as watery tunnels to bypass an enemy time and again. He would use an automobile in Amsterdam, and a map of Amsterdam.
He looked at his watch; it was almost five-thirty. He had roughly two and a half hours to find the Amstel Hotel and drive around again and again until he knew every foot of the area, every stoplight, every side street and canal. And then the route to one other place—the American embassy or the consulate. It was part of his plan, the only protection he could give her—if she followed his instructions. And somewhere an airlines schedule; that, too, was part of the plan.
Twelve minutes had passed, and he wanted to be at the doorway when Emma, the honest commuter, drove up in front of the house on the crowded street. If there was no place to park at the curb, he would walk out on the pavement, signal to her to leave the car and quickly replace her behind the wheel so as not to hold up traffic. He left the small room, went to the staircase and started down, aware of the feigned groans of ecstasy behind several closed doors. He wondered briefly if the girls had thought of using cassette recorders; they could push buttons while reading magazines. He reached the second landing; below in clear view was the cherub-faced, middle-aged owner of the establishment behind his counter. He was on the telephone. Joel continued down the steps, in his hand a $100 bill he had decided to give the man—an additional gratuity in exchange for his life.
As he set foot on the lobby floor he suddenly was not at all sure he should let the “concierge” have anything but a cage in the Mekong River. The pink-faced man looked over at Converse, his eyes wide, staring fixedly, the blood draining from his cherubic cheeks. He trembled as he hung up the phone, attempted a smile, then spoke in a high-pitched voice. “Problems! There are always problems, sir. Scheduling is so difficult I should buy a computer.”
The bastard had done it! He had made the call to a man down the street in a café! “Keep your hands on the counter!” shouted Joel.
The command did not come in time; the Dutchman raised a gun from below. Converse lunged forward, his hand tearing at the buttons of his jacket, finding the handle of the revolver in his belt. The “concierge” fired wildly as Joel crashed his left shoulder up into the flimsy counter; it collapsed and Converse saw the extended arm, the hand holding the gun. He swung the barrel of his own weapon onto the Dutchman’s wrist; the gun went flying, clattering over the lobby floor.
“You bastard!” cried Joel, grabbing the man by the front of his shirt, pulling him up. “You bastard! I paid you!”
“Don’t kill me! Please! I am a poor man in much debt! They said they only wished to talk to you! What harm is there in that? Please! Don’t do this!”
“You’re not worth the price—to me, you son of a bitch.” Converse crashed the barrel of the gun down on the Dutchman’s head and ran to the door. The street was crowded with traffic, then suddenly there was a break and the cars and buses and open tourist vans lurched forward. Where was she? Where was Emma the Practical?
“Theodoor! Deze kerel is onmogelijk! Hij wil …!” The hysterical words came from a bare-breasted woman rushing down the staircase, a thin, short slip covering the essentials of her trade. She stopped on the next to last step, saw the carnage and the unconscious Theodoor and screamed. Joel ran to her and clamped his left hand over her mouth; his right—with the gun—pressed against her
shoulder, pushing her into the railing.
“Be quiet!” Converse could not restrain himself from shouting. “Shut up!” He slammed his elbow into the prostitute’s neck, the weapon now in front of her face. She screamed again and kicked viciously at his groin, gouging his nostrils with two fingers, scratching, pushing him away. He could do nothing else but to pummel the handle of the gun into the base of her jaw. Her red lips parted and remained open; she went limp.
Doors crashed everywhere above, beyond the staircase, metal and wood smashing into walls. He heard shouts, angry, frightened, questioning. A horn suddenly intruded, blaring from the street beyond the open front door. He ran to the doorframe, his right arm supporting him, the gun out of sight.
It was Emma the whore, the car in the middle of the street, unable to crawl to the curb. He shoved the weapon under his jacket, under his belt, and ran outside. She understood his gestures and got out of the car; he raced around the hood. “Thank you!” he said.
“It was stolen!” she said, shrugging. “Good fortune, Meneer. I think you will need it, but it is not my problem.”
He jumped into the seat behind the wheel and studied the panel as if he were approaching Mach I and had to understand the readouts of every dial. It was simple, primitive; he pulled the gear into D and started up with the surrounding traffic.
Without warning, the figure of an immense man slammed against the window on his right. Joel lurched and slapped the lock on the window; taking advantage of another break in the traffic, he spurted forward. The killer held on as he yanked out a gun. Converse careened into the side of an automobile parked at the curb, and still the man held on. Joel reached under his jacket as the killer, holding on to God knew what, brought his weapon up and aimed at Converse. Joel ducked, smashing his head into the window frame as the explosion shattered the glass, fragments entering his skin above his eyes. But his gun was free; he pointed it at the figure hugging the window and pulled the trigger. Twice.
Two muted spits echoed in the darkness of the car as two holes appeared in the area of the glass that had not been shattered. Screaming, both hands covering his throat, the man fell away, rolling onto the curb between two trucks. Converse turned right into a wide, empty alleyway. One man remains behind, down the street … He will bring back the others. He was free again—for a while—thought Joel. A dead man could not identify an automobile. He parked the car in shadows and pulled out a cigarette, trying to steady his hand as he struck the match. Inhaling deeply, he felt his forehead, and slowly, carefully removed the particles of glass.
He now prowled the streets like a mechanized animal, but with each hesitation, each stop, he used his eyes and nostrils as if he were a primitive thing conscious only of its need to survive in a violently hostile environment. He had made the run four times from the Amstel Hotel on the Tulpplein, across the streets and over the canals to the American consulate on the city square called the Museumplein. He had learned the alternate approaches; he knew the side streets that would bring him back to the main route without interruption. Lastly, he drove east and crossed the Schellingwouder Brug, the bridge over the IJ River and took the road along the coast until he found a stretch of deserted fields above the water. They would do; they were isolated. He turned around and headed back to Amsterdam.
It was eight-thirty, the sky dark; he was ready. He had studied the tourist map, which included a paragraph on the use of pay phones. He had once been a pilot; instructions were second nature. They were the difference between blowing an aircraft apart and landing it on a carrier. He parked the car across the street from the Amstel Hotel and walked into a booth.
“Miss Charpentier, please.”
“Dank u,” said the operator, shifting instantly to English. “One moment, please.… Oh, yes, Missen Charpentier arrive only one hour ago. I have her room now.”
“Thank you.”
“Hello?”
Oh God, should he speak? Could he speak? Aquitaine. “Val, it’s Jack Talbot. I took a chance you might fly in. Clad you did. How are you, youngster?”
“Totally exhausted, you awful man. I talked to New York this afternoon and mentioned our accounts in Amsterdam—courtesy of one Jack Talbot. The orders were for me to get to Canal City and spend tomorrow morning holding hands.”
“Why not hold mine?”
“They’re too cold. You can, however, buy me dinner.”
“Be delighted, but first I need a favor. Can you grab a cab and pick me up at the consulate on Museumplein?”
“What …?” The pause was filled with fear. “Why, Jack?” The question was a whisper.
Converse lowered his voice. “I’ve been here for a couple of hours taking too damn much abuse and I’m afraid I blew my cork.”
“What—happened?”
“It was dumb. My passport expired today and I needed a temporary extension. Instead I got a half-dozen lectures and told to come back in the morning. I was very loud and not too benign.”
“And now it would be embarrassing for you to ask them to call you a cab, is that it?”
“That’s it. If I knew this part of the city I’d walk and try to find one, but I’ve never been over here before.”
“I’ll straighten my face and pick you up. Say in about twenty minutes?”
“Thanks, I’ll be outside. If I’m not, wait in the cab; I’ll only be a few minutes. You’ve got yourself a good dinner, youngster.” Joel hung up the phone, left the booth and went back to the rented car. The waiting had begun, the watching would soon follow.
Ten minutes later he saw her, and the pounding in his chest accelerated. A mist clouded his eyes. She walked out the glass doors of the Amstel, carrying a large, dark cloth bag, her posture erect, her stride long and graceful, bespeaking the dancer she might have been, announcing her presence without pretense, telling anyone who watched her that she was herself; no artifices were necessary. He had once loved her so, as much for the person she appeared to be as for the woman she was. But he had not loved her enough; she had slipped away from him because he had not cared enough. There was not that much love or care in him. “Burn-out!” she had shouted. “Emotional burn-out!”
There had been nothing left to say; he could not dispute her. He had been running so fast, so furiously, wanting it all yet not wanting to remember the reasons why—wanting only to get even. He had concealed the intensity of his feelings with flippancy and a casualness that bordered on disdain, but he was not casual at all, and there was little room for the time consumed in being disdainful. There was also very little room for people, for Val. Being together demanded the responsibility that was part of any relationship, and as the months stretched into a year, then two and three, he knew it was not in him to live up to that responsibility. As much as he profoundly disliked himself for it, he could not be dishonest—with either himself or Valerie. He had nothing left to give; he could only take. It was better to break clean.
The waiting was over; the watching began. The Amstel doorman hailed her a cab and she climbed in, immediately leaning forward in the seat to give instructions. Twenty tense seconds later, during which his eyes scanned the street and the pavements in every direction, he started the car and switched on the headlights. No automobile had crept out from the curb after the taxi; still, he had to be certain. Joel swung the wheel and drove into the street, heading for the most direct route to the consulate. A minute later he saw Val’s cab take the correct right turn over a canal. There were two cars behind her; he concentrated on their shapes and sizes; instead of following, he continued straight ahead, pressing down on the accelerator, using an alternate route on the bare chance that he himself had been picked up by a hunter from Aquitaine. Three minutes later, after two right turns and a left, he entered the Museumplein. The taxi was directly ahead, the two other automobiles no longer in sight. His strategy was working. The possibility that Val’s phone was being tapped was real—René’s had been, and his death was the result—so in Val’s case he assumed the worst. If it wa
s relayed that the Charpentier woman was heading over to the American consulate to pick up a business acquaintance, one Joel Converse would be ruled out. The consulate was no place for the fugitive assassin; he would not go near it. He was a killer of Americans.
The taxi pulled into the curb in front of 19 Museumplein, the stone building that was the consulate. Converse remained a half-block behind, waiting again, watching again. Several cars went by, none stopping or even slowing down. A lone cyclist pedaled down the street, an old man who braked and turned around and disappeared in the opposite direction. The tactic had worked. Val was alone in the cab thirty yards away and no one had followed her from the Amstel. He could make his final move to her, his hand under his coat, gripping the gun with the perforated silencer attached to the barrel.
He got out of the car and walked up the pavement, his gait slow, casual, a man taking a summer night’s stroll in the square. There were perhaps a dozen people—couples mainly—also walking, strolling in both directions. He studied them as a frenzied but rigid cat studies the new mounds of mole holes in a field; no one in the street had the slightest interest in the stationary taxi. He approached the rear door and knocked once on the window. She rolled it down.
They stared at each other for a brief moment, then Val brought her hand to her lips, stifling a gasp. “Oh, my God,” she whispered.
“Pay him and walk back to a gray car about two hundred feet behind us. The last three numbers on the license are one, three, six. I’ll be there in a few minutes.” He tipped his hat, as if he had just answered a question from a bewildered tourist, and proceeded down the pavement. Forty feet past the taxi, at the end of the block, he turned and crossed the square, reaching the other side with his head angled to the left, a pedestrian watching for traffic; in reality he was apprehensively watching a lone woman make her way down the sidewalk toward an automobile. He went swiftly into the shadows of a doorway and stood there watching, breathing erratically, peering into every pocket of darkness along the opposite pavement. Nothing. No one. He walked out of the doorway, suppressing a maddening desire to run, and ambled casually down the block until he was directly across from the rented car. Again he paused, now lighting a cigarette, the flame cupped in his hand, again waiting, watching.… No one. He threw the cigarette to the curb and, unable to contain himself any longer, ran across the street, opened the door and climbed in behind the wheel.
The Aquitaine Progression: A Novel Page 57
