“Neither am I.”
“All alike.”
“Phase,” said Joel, looking at the thick, narrow envelope in the woman’s hands, knowing that if he took it forcibly from her she would scream. “I have to reach Osnabrück, you know that!”
“You are from Osnabrück?” The “nun” clutched the envelope to her chest, her body bent further, protecting a holy thing.
“No, not Osnabrück!” Converse tried to remember Val’s words. He was a priest on a pilgrimage … to Auschwitz and Bergen-Belsen … from, from … “Los Angeles!” he whispered harshly.
“Ja, goed. What country?”
“Jesus!”
“Wat?”
“The United States of America.”
“Goed! Here you are, Meneer.” The old woman handed him the envelope, now smiling sweetly. “We all must do our jobs, must we not? Go with God, my fellow servant of the Lord.… I do like this costume. I was on the stage, you know. I don’t think I’ll give it back. Everyone smiles, and a gentleman who came out of one of those dirty houses stopped and gave me fifty guilder.”
The old woman walked away, turning once and smiling again, discreetly showing him a pint of whisky she had taken from under her habit.
It might have been the same platform, he could not tell, but his fears were the same as when he arrived in Amsterdam twenty-four hours ago. He had come to the city as an innocuous-looking laborer with a beard and a pale, bruised face. He was leaving as a priest, erect, clean-shaven, sunburned, a properly dressed man of the cloth on a pilgrimage for repentance and reaffirmation. Gone was the outraged lawyer in Geneva, the manipulating supplicant in Paris, the captured dupe in Bonn. What remained was the hunted man, and to survive he had to be able to stalk the hunters before they could stalk him; that meant spotting them before they spotted him. It was a lesson he had learned eighteen years ago when his eyes were sharper and his body more resilient. To compensate, he had to use whatever other talents he had developed; all were reduced to his ability to concentrate—without appearing to concentrate. Which was how and why Joel saw the man.
He was standing by a concrete pillar up ahead on the platform reading an unfolded train schedule in the dim light. Converse glanced at him—as, indeed, he glanced briefly at nearly everyone in sight—then seconds later he looked again. Something was odd, incongruous. There could be several reasons why a man remained outside a well-lit railroad car to read a schedule—a last cigarette in the open air, waiting for someone—but that same man could hardly read the very small print while casually holding the schedule midway between his head and his waist without any evidence of a squint. It was like trying to read a page from a telephone directory in a car stuck in traffic in the Lincoln Tunnel; it took observable effort.
Converse continued down the platform, approaching the two open doors that signified the end of one railway car and the beginning of the next. He purposely let his suitcase catch on a protruding window ledge, pivoting as it did so, and apologized to a couple behind him. Courteously he let them pass and courteously, as each saw his collar, they smiled and nodded. But while he remained facing them, his eyes strayed to the man diagonally to the left by the pillar. The man still clutched the schedule in his hand but was concentrating now on Joel. It was enough.
Converse entered the second door, his gait casual again, but the instant he could no longer see the man by the pillar he rushed inside the railroad car. He tripped, falling to the floor by the first seat, and again apologized to those behind him—a divine undone by profane luggage. He looked out the window, past the two passengers in the seat, both of whom paid attention to his collar before looking at his face.
The man by the pillar had dropped the schedule and was now frantically signaling with quick beckoning gestures. In seconds he was joined by another man; their conversation was rapid, then they separated, with one going to the door at the front of the car, the other heading for the entrance Joel had just passed through.
They had found him. He was trapped.
Valerie paid the driver and climbed out of the cab, thanking the doorman, who greeted her. It was the second hotel reservation she had made in the space of two hours, having left a dead-end trail in case anyone was following her. She had taken a cab from Kennedy to LaGuardia, bought a ticket to Boston on a midmorning shuttle, then registered at the airport motel, both under the name of Charpentier. She had left the motel thirty minutes later, having paid the cabdriver to return for her at a side exit and calling the hotel in Manhattan to see if a reservation was possible at that hour. It was. The St. Regis would welcome Mrs. DePinna, who had flown in from Tulsa, Oklahoma, on a sudden emergency.
At the all-night Travelers Shop in Schilphol Airport, Val had purchased a carry-on bag, filling it with toiletries and whatever more inconspicuous articles of clothing she could find among the all too colorful garments on the racks. It was still the height of the summer, and depending upon the circumstances, such clothes might come in handy. Also she needed something to show customs.
She registered at the hotel desk, using a “Cherrywood Lane”—but without a number—she remembered from her childhood in St. Louis. Indeed, the name DePinna came from those early days as well, a neighbor down the street, the face a blur now, only the memory of a sad, vituperative woman who loathed all things foreign, including Val’s parents. “Mrs. R. DePinna,” she had written; she had no idea where the “R” came from—possibly Roger for balance.
In the room she turned on the radio to the all-news station, a habit she had inherited from her marriage, and proceeded to unpack. She undressed, took a shower, washed out her underthings, and slipped into the outsized T-shirt. This last was another habit; “T-sacks,” as she called them, had replaced bathrobes and morning coats on her patio in Cape Ann, although none had a sunburst emblazoned on the front with words above and below heralding TOT ZIENS—AMSTERDAM!
She resisted calling room service for a pot of tea; it would be calming, but it was an unnecessary act that at three o’clock in the morning would certainly call attention, however minor, to the woman in 714. She sat in the chair staring absently at the window, wishing she hadn’t given up cigarettes—it would give her something to do while thinking, and she had to think. She had to rest, too, but first she had to think, organize herself. She looked around the room, and then at her purse, which she had placed on a bedside table. She was rich, if nothing else. Joel had insisted she take the risk of getting through customs with more than the $5,000 legal limit. So she had rolled up an additional twenty $500 bills and shoved them into her brassiere. He had been right; she could not use credit cards or anything that carried her name.
She saw two telephone directories on the shelf of the table. Sitting on the edge of the bed, she removed both volumes. The cover of one read, New York County, Business to Business; the other, Manhattan—and in the upper left-hand corner, printed across a blue diagonal strip: Government Listings See Blue Pages. It was a place to start. She returned the business directory to the shelf and carried the Manhattan book over to the desk. She sat down, opened to the blue pages and found Department of the Air Force … Command Post ARPC. It was an 800 number, the address on York Street in Denver, Colorado. If it was not the number she needed, whoever she reached could supply the correct one. She wrote it down on a page of St. Regis stationery.
Suddenly Val heard the words. She snapped her head around toward the television set, her eyes on the vertical radio dial.
“… And now the latest update on the search for the American attorney, Joel Converse, one of the most tragic stories of the decade. The former Navy pilot, once honored for outstanding bravery in the Vietnam war, whose dramatic escape electrified the nation, and whose subsequent tactical reports shocked the military, leading, many believed, to basic changes in Washington’s Southeast Asian policies, is still at large, hunted not for the man he was, but for the homicidal killer he has become. Reports are that he may still be in Paris. Although not official, word has been leaked from u
nnamed but authoritative sources within the Sûreté that fingerprints found on the premises where the French lawyer, René Mattilon, was slain are definitely those of Converse, thus confirming what the authorities believed—that Converse killed his French acquaintance for cooperating with Interpol and the Sûreté. The manhunt is spreading out from Paris and this station will bring you …”
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.
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 Aquitaine Progression: A Novel Page 62
