“I don’t want people to think my brand-newhusband beat the hell out of me for not fulfilling hiswildest sexual fantasies.”
“Which one did you miss?” he had asked.
He stepped out of the cashier’s line and made hisway around the cases to the display of creams andcolognes, shampoos, and nail polish. He recognizedthe bottle, chose a darker shade, and returned to theline.
A second trip to a washbasin had taken tenminutes, but the results justified the time. He appliedthe makeup carefully; the scrapes and bruises faded.Unless someone stood very close to him, he was nolonger a battered brawler but a man who hadperhaps suffered a not too serious fall. Conversecon
gratulated himself in that men’s room in therailroad station. Under other circumstances, hemight not have dressed a client so well before atrial for assault and battery.
The checklist continued. It had taken him towhere he was now, in the last car on thestraight-through train from Arnhem to Amsterdam.After buying his ticket on what he inferred was alow-priced excursion train that made numerousstops, he had walked out on the platform preparedto run back at the slightest negative readout, thefirst steady glance that held him in focus. Instead hesaw a group of men and women, couples around hisown age, talking and laughing together, friendsmore than likely off for a short summer’s holiday,perhaps leaving the river for the sea. The mencarried worn, dented suitcases, most held togetherwith rope, while a number of the women heldwicker baskets looped over their arms. Theirluggage and their clothing denoted workingclass factories for the men, home and children orthe less demanding clerical jobs for the women allwithin that part of the spectrum that suited Joel’sown appearance. He had walked behind them,laughing quietly when they laughed climbing onboard as though he were part of the group, sittingin an aisle seat across from a burly man with aslender woman who, despite her thin frame, proudlybore a pair of enormous breasts. Converse’s eyescould hardly avoid them and the man grinned atJoel, no malice in his look as he raised a bottle ofbeer to his lips.
Somewhere Converse had read or heard that inthe northern countries people going on summervacations or on holiday, as was theterm gravitated to the last cars in theTrans-Europe-Express. It was a custom thatsomehow signified their status, producing a generalcamaraderie that enlivened the working man’sjunket. Joel observed the none too subtletransformation. Men and women got out of theirseats and walked up and down the aisle talking tofriends and strangers alike, cans and bottles in theirhands. From the front of the car a few people brokeinto song, obviously a familiar country song; otherstook it up only to be drowned out by Converse’sgroup, who raised their voices in an entirely differ-ent chorus until the singing of both camps dwindledaway into laughter. Conviviality, indeed, was theorder of the morning in the last car on the train toAmsterdam. The stations went by, a few passengersgetting off at each, more getting on, with suitcases,baskets, and broad smiles, and being welcomed on
board with boisterous greetings. A number of menwore T-shirts emblazoned with the names of townand district teams soccer, Converse assumed.Catcalls and amiably derisive shouts were hurled atthem by age-old competitors. The railroad car wasturning into an odd Dutch version of a trainload ofsuddenly freed adults going off to a summer camp.The volume grew.
The towns were aumounced, the brief stops madeas Joel remained in his seat, motionless andunobtrusive, now and then glancing at his adoptedgroup, half smiling or laughing softly when it seemedappropriate. Otherwise he looked like someone oflimited intelligence poring over a map as a childmight, equal parts wonderment and confusion. Hewas studying the streets and canals of Amsterdam.There was a man who lived on the southwest cornerof Utrechtsestraat and Kerkstrsat, a man he had toidentify by sight, isolate and make contact with . . .his springboard to Washington would be as a "member of the Tatiana family.” He had to pull CortThorbecke away from his base of operations withoutalerting the hunters of Aquitaine. He would pay anEnglish-speaking intermediary to get to a telephoneand use words sufficiently plausible to draw thebroker out to some other location, with no mentionof the Tatiana connection or its source in Paris.Those words would have to be found; he would findthem somehow, he had to. He was psychologically onhis way back toward friendly fire in terms of actualtime less than seven hours from Washington andmen who would listen to him with Nathan Simon’shelp and an extraordinary file that would persuadethem to hide him and protect him until the soldiersof Aquitaine were exposed. It was not the wayenvisioned by a man he had once known inConnecticut as Avery Fowler hardly the legal tacticswhose roots were in ridicule as prescribed by A.Preston Halliday in Geneva, but there was no timenow. Time was running out for manipulated webs oflegality.
The train slowed down, jerking as it did so, as ifthe engineer far up ahead was trying to send anotherkind of message to a rowdy car in the rear, which feltthe shocks most severely. If that was his intent, it,too, backfired. The pitching motion served only toaccelerate the laughter and provoke insults shoutedat an unseen incompetent.
“Amstel!” screamed a conductor, opening theforward door between the cars. “Amsterdam!Amst i” The poor man
could not finish the call he had to pull the doorshut to avoid a barrage of rolled-up newspapersthrown at him. Summer camp in the Netherlands.
The train pulled into the station and acontingent of T-shirted chests and breastsannounced their arrival with shouts of recognition.Five or six people at the front of Joel’s group roseas one to welcome their friends, again cans andbottles were held in the air and laughter bouncedoff the narrow walls, nearly drowning out thewhistles of departure outside. Bodies fell overbodies, hugs were exchanged, breasts playfullygrabbed at.
Beyond the new an ivals, walking unsteadily, wasthe illogically logical capstone for the juvenile anticstaking place in front of Converse. An old woman,obviously drunk, made her way down the aisle, herdisheveled clothes matching the large, tatteredcanvas bag she clutched in her left hand while shesteadied herself with her right on the edge of theseats as the train accelerated. Grinning, sheaccepted a bottle of beer as another was thrown intoher satchel, followed by several sandwiches wrappedin waxed paper. Again, there were greetings ofwelcome as two men in the aisle bowed to the waistas if to a queen. A third slapped her behind andwhistled. For several minutes the ritual continued,a new mechanical toy for the children off to summercamp. The old woman drank and danced a jig andmade playfully suggestive gestures at men andwomen alike, sticking out her tongue and rolling itaround, her ancient eyes bulging, rolling, her raggedshawl twirling in circles like the ballet of somemacabre Scheherazade. She amused everyone withher drunken antics as she accepted all that wasdropped into her offering cloth, including coins. TheDutch vacationers were kind, thoughtJoel they tookcare of someone less fortunate than themselvessomeone who would be banred from another classof car on another train. The woman approachedhim, her canvas bag now held in front of her so asto accept alms from both sides. Converse reachedinto his pocket for a few Builders, letting them slipfrom his hand into the bag.
“Goedemorgen, ” said the old woman, weaving.“Dank u wel, haste man, erg vriendelijk van u!”
Joel nodded, resuming to his map, but the baglady remained.
“Uw hoold! Ach, heb je een ongeluk Chad, jongen?”
Again Converse nodded, reaching again into hispocket
and giving the inebriated old hag more money. Hepointed to his map and waved her away, as yetanother raucous chorus erupted.
“Spreekt u Engels?” shouted the bag lady, leaningover unsteadily.
Joel shrugged, sinking back into the seat, his eyesriveted on the map.
“I think you do. ” The old woman spoke hoarsely,clearly soberly, her right hand no longer on the edgeof the seat but instead in the canvas bag. “We’ve beenlooking for you every day, on every train. Don tmove! The gun is equipped with a silencer. With allthis noise, if I pull the trigger no one would know thedifference, including the man beside you who wantsonly to join the party and the big-breasted women. Ithink we shall let him. W
e have you, MeneerConverse!”
There was no summer camp, after all. Only deathminutes away from Amsterdam.
“Mag ik u even lastig fallen?” shouted the oldwoman, once more weaving unsteadily as she spoketo the passenger beside Converse. The man took hiseyes off the raucous festivities in the aisle andglanced up at the harridan. She shouted again, herright hand still in the bag, her mass of disheveledgrey hair springing back and forth as she nodded toher right, toward the front of the car. " Zou ik op uwplants molten zitten?”
“Mid loest!” The man got up grinning, as Joelinstinctively moved his legs to let him pass. “Dank uwel, ” the man added heading for a single empty seatbeyond a couple dancing in the aisle.
“Move over!” commanded the old woman harshly,swaying with the rhythm of the racing train.
If it was going to happen, thought Converse, itwas going to happen now. He started to rise, his eyesstraight ahead, his right elbow on the armrest inchesfrom the bulging bag. Suddenly he plunged his handinto the open canvas bag and
gripped the fat wrist of the woman’s hand that heldthe unseen gun. Straining, pressing farther down,clutching flesh and metal, he swung violently to hisleft and yanked the old woman through the narrowspace, twisting her, crashing her down into the seatnext to the window. There was a sharp spit as thegun exploded, burning a hole in the heavy cloth,smoke billowing, the bullet embedding itselfsomewhere below. The hag’s strength was maniacal,unlike anything he might have imagined. She foughtviciously, clawing at his face until he pulled her armabove her head, twisting it, clamping it behind her,their two hands still struggling below in the bag. Shewould not let go of the weapon and he could notpry it loose; he could only hold it downward, hisgrip immobilising her fingers, force against force,her contorted face telling him she would notsurrender.
The midmorning revels of the railroad carreached a crescendo; a cacophony of voices raisedin jumbled song competed with the swelling echoesof laughter. And no one paid the slightest attentionto the savage struggle that was taking place in thenarrow seat. Suddenly, within the panic of thatstruggle, within the violent impasse, Joel was awarethat the train was slowing don n, if onlyimperceptibly. Once again his pilot’s instincts toldhim a descent was imminent. He jammed his elbowinto the old woman’s right breast to jolt her intofreeing the gun. Still she held on, bracing herselfagainst the seat, her arm pinned, her fat legsstretched below, angled like thick pylons anchoredbeneath the forward seat, her obese body twisted,locking his own arm in place so he could notdislodge the weapon from her grip.
“Let go!” he whispered hoarsely. "I won’t hurtyou I won’t kill you. Whatever you’re being paid,I’ll pay you more!”
“Bee! I would be found at the bottom of a canal!You can’t escape, Menheer! They wait for you inAmsterdam, they wait for the train!” Grimacing, theold woman kicked out, briefly freeing her left arm.She swung her hand around, clawing his face, hernails sliding down his beard until he grabbed herwrist, pulling her arm across the seat and crackingit into her own knee, twisting her hand clockwise,forcing her to be still. It made no difference. Herright hand had the strength of an aging lionessprotecting its pride; she would not release the gunbelow.
"You’re Iying!” cried Converse. “No one knowsI’m on this trains You just got on twenty minutesago!”
“Wrong, A mer"knan ! I’ve been on sinceArnhem I start in the front, walk back. I found youout at Utrecht and a teiephone call was made.”
"Liar!”
“You will see.”
“Who hired you?”
“Men.”
“Who?”
“You will see.”
“Goddamn you, you’re not part of them! You can’tbel”
“They pay. Up and down the railroad they pay.On the piers, in the airports. They say you speaknothing but English.”
"What else do they say?”
“Why should I tell you? You’re caught. It is youwho should let me go. It could be easier for you.”
“How? A quick bullet in the head instead of aHanoi rack?”
“Whatever it is, the bullet could be better. Youare too young to know, Meneer. You were neverunder occupation.”
“And you’re too old to be so goddamned strong,I’ll give you that.”
"ha, I learn that, too.”
“Let go!”
The train was braking and the drunken crowd inthe car roared its approval as men grabbed suitcasesfrom the upper racks. The passenger who had beensitting next to Joel hastily yanked his from above theseat, his stomach pressing into Converse’s shoulder.Joel tried to appear as though he were in deepconversation with his grimacing half-prisoner; theman fell back, suitcase in hand, laughing.
The old woman lurched forward, sinking hermouth into Converse’s upper arm, millimeters fromhis wound. She bit him viciously, her yellow teethpenetrating his flesh, blood bursting out of his skin,trickling down the woman’s grey chin.
He pulled back in pain. She freed her hand fromhis grip in the canvas bag; the gun was hers! Shefired; the muted spit was followed by a shattering ofa section of the floor in the aisle, missingJoel’s feetby inches. He grabbed the unseen barrel, twisted it,pulled it, trying with all his strength to wrench itaway. She fired again.
Her eyes grew wide as she arched back into theseat. They remained open as she slumped into thewindow, blood
spreading quickly through the thin fabric of herdress in the upper section of her stomach. She wasdead, and Joel felt ill nauseated he had to swallowair to keep from vomiting. Trembling, he wonderedwho this old woman was, why she was what shehad lived through that made her become what shewas. You were too young to know…. You were neverunder occupation.
No time to think about all this! She had wantedto kill him, that was all he had to know, and menwere waiting for him only minutes away. He had tothink, move!
Twisting the gun from her rigid fingers insidethe canvas bag, he quickly lifted it up and shoved itunder his coarse jacket, inserting it under his belt,feeling the weight of the other weapon in hispocket. He reached over and bunched the woman’sdress in folds, then layered her shawl over thebloodstains and pushed her mass of disheveled hairover her right cheek, concealing the wide dead eyes.Experience in the camps told him not to try to closethe eyes; too often they would not respond. fheaction might only call attention to him to her. Thelast thing he did was to pull a can of beer out of thebag, open it, and place it on her lap; the liquidspilled out, drenching’ her lap.
“Amsterdam! Df volgende halls is Amsterdam-Cen-traal."”
A roar went up from the vacationing crowd asthe line began to form toward the door. Oh, Christ!thought Converse. How? The old woman had said atelephone call had been made. A telephone call,which implied she had not made it herself. It waslogical; there was too little time. She had un-doubtedly paid one of her sister bag ladies whoplied the trains at the station in Utrecht to make it.The information therefore would be minimum,simply because there was no time. She was a specialemployee, one who had been researched as onlyAquitaine could research, an old woman who wasstrong and who could use a weapon and who wouldnot shrink from taking a life who would not saytoo much to anyone. She would merely give atelephone number and instruct the hired caller torepeat the time of the train’s arrival. Again . . .therefore . . . he had a chance. Every malepassenger would be scrutinised, every face matchedagainst the face in the newspapers. But he was andhe was not that face! And he did not speak anylanguage but English that information had beenspread with emphasis.
Think!
“Ze is drunken!” The words were shouted by theburly man with the enormously endowed wife at hisside as he pointed to the dead woman. Both werelaughing, and Joel did not need an interpreter tounderstand. Converse nodded, grinning broadly as heshrugged. He had found his way out of the station inAmsterdam.
For Converse understood there was a universallanguage employed when the decibel of noise wassuch that one could neither hear nor be heard. It wasalso used when one was bored at cocktail parties, orwhen
one watched football games on television withclowns who were convinced they knew a great dealmore than coaches or quarterbacks, or when one wasgathered and trapped into an evening in New Yorkwith the “beautiful people” most of whom qualifiedas neither in the most rudimentary sense, egos faroutdistancing either talent or humanity. In suchsituations one nodded; one smiled one occasionallyplaced a friendly hand on a shoulder, the touchsignifying communication but one said nothing.
Joel did all of these things as he got off the trainwith the burly man and his wife. He became almostmanic, playing the role as one who knew there wasnothing left between death and survival but a certainkind of controlled madness. The lawyer in himprovided the control; the child pilot tested the winds,knowing his aircraft would respond to the elementalpressures because it was sound and he was good andhe enjoyed the craziness of a stall forced by adowndraft; he could easily pull out.
He had removed his dark glasses and pulled hiscap far down over his forehead. His hand was on theburly man’s shoulder as they walked up the platform,the Dutchman laughing as he spoke, Joel nodding,slapping his companion’s shoulder, laughing in returnwhenever there was a break in the man’s monologue.Since the couple had been drinking neither tookmuch notice of his incomprehensible replies, heseemed like a nice person, and in their state nothingelse really mattered.
As they walked up out of the platform towardthe terminal Converse’s constantly roving eyes weredrawn to a man standing in a crowd of welcomersbeyond the archway at the end of the ramp. Joel firstnoticed him because unlike those aroundhim whose faces were lit up in varying degrees ofanticipation this man’s expression was serious tothe point
of being solemn. Ile was not there to offer welcome.Then suddenly Converse knew there was anotherreason why this man had caught his attention. Themoment he recognised the face he knew exactlywhere he had seen it walking rapidly down a pathsurrounded by thick foliage with another man,another guard. The man up ahead was one of thepatrols from Erich Leifhelm’s compound above theRhine.
The Aquaintaine Progession Page 53
