The Aquitaine Progression (71 page)

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.

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
!

“Whatever you say, Fräulein Charpentier, will be accurately translated, I can assure you.”

“
Zoals juffrouw Charpentier zojuist zei
…” The third voice, the voice in Dutch.

“I haven’t seen my former husband in several years—three or four, I’d say. Actually, we’re strangers. I can only express the shock my whole country feels.…”

“
Juffrouw Charpentier, de vroegere mevrouw Converse …
”

“… he was a deeply disturbed man, subject to extreme depressions, but I never imagined anything like this.”

“
Hij moet mentaal gestoord zijn …
”

“There’s no connection between us, and I’m surprised you learned I was flying to Berlin. But I appreciate the chance to clear the air, as we say.”

“
Mevrouw Converse gelooft …
”

“In spite of the dreadful circumstances over which, of course, I had no control, I’m delighted to be in your beautiful city. Half-city, I guess, but yours is the beautiful part. And I hear the Bristol-Kempinski.… I’m terribly sorry, that’s what we call a ‘plug’ and I shouldn’t.”

“It is a landmark, Fräulein Charpentier. It is not
verboten
over here. Do you feel at all threatened?”

“
Mevrouw Converse, voelt u zich bedreigd?
”

“No, not really. We’ve had nothing to do with each other for so long.”

My God! Val had come over to find him! She was sending him a signal—signals! She spoke every bit as fluent German as the interviewer! They kept in touch every month; they had lunch together six weeks ago in Boston! Everything she was saying was a lie and in those lies was the code. Their code!
Reach me!

Joel was stunned, but he had to control his panic and try to isolate the words, the phrases. The message was in them! The Bristol-Kempinski was a hotel in West Berlin, he knew that. It was something else she had said, something that should trigger a memory—one of
their
memories. What
was
it?

I haven’t seen my former husband in years.…
No, only one of the lies.
He was a deeply disturbed man.…
Less a lie, but not what she was trying to tell him.
Actually, we’re strangers.… There’s no connection between us.…
Another lie, but with some truth in it.…
Stop it!
What
was
it!… Before, earlier.…
I’m a consultant.…
That was it!

“May I speak with Miss Charpentier, please? My name is Mr. Whistletoe, Bruce Whistletoe. I’m the confidential consultant for Springtime antiperspirant for which your agency is doing some artwork, and it’s urgent,
most
urgent!”
Con molta forza
.

Val’s secretary had been a talker, a marvelous spreader of in-house gossip, and whenever Joel and Valerie had wanted an extra hour for lunch or even a day, he would make such a phone call. It never failed. If a demanding vice-president (one of dozens) wanted to know where she was, the excitable secretary would tell of an urgent call from one of those outside watchdogs of a
very
large account. It was enough for any ulcer-prone executive, and Valerie’s understated professionalism took care of the rest. She would say “things” were under control and rarely did a relieved account man pursue what might give him an acid attack.

She was telling him to use the tactic in case the police were monitoring her calls. He would have done so in any event; she was simply reminding him, warning him.

The interview was over, the last few minutes obviously a recap in Dutch, the camera frozen on a still frame of Valerie’s
face. When had the tape been made? How long had she been in Berlin?
Goddamn
it, why couldn’t he understand anything unless it was spoken in English? When she lied about her inability to speak German, Val had said it was a national disgrace. She was right, but she might have gone further; it was a national disorder rooted in arrogance. He looked around the café for a telephone; there was one on the rear wall several feet from the door to the men’s room, but he hadn’t the vaguest idea of how to use it! His frustrations grew, swirling into circles of panic. Suddenly he heard his name.

“
De Amerikaanse moordenaar Converse is advocaat. Hij is een ex-piloot uit de Vietnamese oorlog. Een ander advocaat, een Fransman, en een vriend van Converse …
”

Joel looked up at the screen bewildered, at once shocked, then paralyzed. There was a film clip, a hand-held camera entered an office door and focused on a body slumped over a desk, streams of blood spreading from the head like a hideous Medusa wig. Oh, Christ! It was René!