The Aquitaine Progression (81 page)

He turned and walked to the rear of the car, opened the door and crossed the dark clattering space to the car behind. He went inside and swiftly made his way down the aisle, again to the rear and again into the next car, turning in the intervening darkness to see what he expected to see, what he wanted to see. The man was following him.
A guard was taking himself out of position in the downpour. Only seconds and he could reach the barbed wire
.

As he ran through the third car a number of passengers looked up at him, at a running priest. Most turned in their seats to see if there was an emergency, and seeing none shook their heads in bewilderment. He reached the door, pulled it open, and stepped into the shadows, suddenly startled by what he saw. In front of him, instead of another railroad-car door, the upper part a window, there was a solid panel of heavy wood, the word
FRACHT
printed across the midsection above a large steel knob. Then he heard the announcement over the loud-speakers:

“
Benthelm! Nächste Station, Benthelm!
”

The train was slowing down, the first of two stops before Osnabrück. Joel moved forward into the darkest area and inched his head in view of the window behind him, confident that he could not be seen by a man facing light reflected off a panel of glass. What he saw again startled him—not by the activity, but by the inactivity. The hunter made no move toward the door; instead, he sat down facing forward, a commuter finding a more comfortable seat, nothing else on his mind. The train came to a stop; those passengers getting off were forming a line in front … in
front
.

There had been a sign above this last door, but since he could not read it, he had simply gone through. He looked now at the exit doors; there were no handles. Obviously that incomprehensible sign was there to inform anyone who approached the door that it was not an exit. If he had been facing
a trap before, he was in a cage now, a steel cage that began moving again, as the wheels gathered speed against the tracks. A racing jail from which there was no escape. Converse reached into his shirt pocket and took out his cigarettes.
He had been so close to the barbed wire; he had to think!

A rattle? A key … a
bolt
. The door of a heavy wood with the word
FRACHT
stenciled on it opened and the figure of a stout man emerged, preceded by his stomach.

“
Ein Zigarette für Sei, während ich zum Pinkeln gehe!
” said the railroad guard, laughing, as he crossed through the short, dark corridor to the door. “
Dann ein Whisky, ja?
”

The German was going for a drink, and although he had pulled the door of his domain nearly shut, he had not closed it; he was an untroubled man, a guard with nothing he felt worth guarding. Joel pushed the heavy panel open and went inside, knowing what would happen; it
had
to happen the instant the guard walked by the hunter on his way to “
ein Whisky
.”

There were half a dozen sealed crates and roughly ten cages holding animals—dogs mostly and several cats, cowering in corners, claws extended at the sound of growls and barks. The only light came from a naked bulb swaying on a thick wire from the ceiling beyond another cage, this one built for man with wire mesh at the end of the freight car. Converse concealed himself behind a crate near the door. He reached under his priestly coat and pulled out the gun with the perforated cylinder, the silencer.

The door opened—cautiously, millimeter by millimeter—the weapon appeared before the hand or the arm. Finally there was the man, the foot soldier from Aquitaine.

Joel fired twice, not trusting a single shot. The arm crashed back into the edge of the half-open door, the gun spinning out of the killer’s hand, a single spurt of blood erupting near the executioner’s wrist. Converse sprang from behind the crate—
the patrol was his, and so was the stretch of barbed-wire fence! He could climb it and crawl over now! The rock had smashed the window in the barracks! The staccato barrage of machine-gun fire was spraying where he was not! Seconds, only seconds, and he was out!

Joel pinned the man to the floor, gripping his throat and pressing one knee on his chest—one prolonged squeeze and the soldier from Aquitaine would be dead. He held the barrel of the gun against the man’s temple.

“You speak any
English
?”

“
Ja!
” coughed the German. “I … speak English.”

“What were your orders?”

“Follow you. Only follow you. Don’t shoot! I am
Angestellte!
I know nothing!”

“A
what
?”

“A hired man!”

“
Aquitaine!
”

“What?”

The man was not lying; there was too much panic in his eyes. Converse raised the gun and abruptly shoved it into the German’s left eye, the perforated cylinder pressed deep into the socket.

“You tell me exactly what you were told to do! The truth—and I’ll know a lie—and if you lie, your skull will be all over this wall! Talk to me!”

“To follow you!”

“
And?
”

“If you left the train we were to phone the
Polizei
. Wherever. Then … the orders were to kill you before they came. But I would not
do
that! I swear by my
Christ
I would
never
do that! I am a good Christian. I even love the Jews! I am unemployed!”

Joel crashed the weapon into the man’s skull—
the patrol had been taken out! He could climb the fence now!
He pulled the German behind a crate and waited. How long it was impossible to tell; time had lost its meaning. The railway guard came back, somewhat more drunk than sober, and took refuge behind his wire-meshed office with the single light bulb.

The other cages were not so serene. The smell of human blood and sweat was more than the dogs could take; they began to react. Within minutes the railway car labeled
FRACHT
became a madhouse, the animals were now hysterical—the dogs snarling, barking, hurling themselves against their cages; the cats, provoked by the dogs, screeching, hissing, backs arched, fur standing on end. The guard was perplexed and frightened; anchoring himself to the chair in his sanctuary of wire mesh, he poured more whisky down his throat. He stared at the cages, his eyes wide within the folds of puffed flesh. Twice he looked at a glass-encased lever on the wall inches above the desk, above his hand. He had only to lift the casing and pull it.

“
Rheine! Nächste Station, Rheine!
”

The last stop before Osnabrück. Before long the German would revive, and unless Joel’s eyes were on him at that instant the man would scream and an emergency lever would be pulled. Too, there was another man only cars behind who was also hired to follow him, to kill him. To remain where he was any longer was to let the trap close. He had to get off.

The train stopped, and Converse lunged for the door, his movement causing a dozen caged animals to vent their anger and confusion. He pushed back the bolt, opened the heavy door and raced into the forward car. He ran up the aisle—a priest perhaps on an errand of mercy—repeatedly apologizing as he rushed past the departing passengers, intent only on getting off before an unconscious body was found, a lever pulled, an alarm sounded. He reached the exit and leaped from the second step to the platform; he looked around and ran into the shadows of the station.

He was free. He was alive. But he was miles away from an old woman waiting for her priest.

Valerie kept running, afraid to look behind, but when she forced herself to turn her head she saw the Army officer arguing with the driver of the Army car. Seconds later she looked again as she reached the corner of Madison Avenue. The officer was now running after her, shortening the distance between them with each stride. She raced across the street just as the light turned, and the blaring of horns signified the anger of several drivers.

Thirty feet away a taxi heading north had pulled to the curb and a gray-haired man was lethargically stretching himself out onto the pavement, tired, unwilling to accept the morning. Val ran back into the street, into the traffic, and raced to the cab’s door; she opened it and climbed in as the startled gray-haired man was receiving change.

“Hey, lady, you
crazy
?” yelled the black driver. “You’re supposed to use the curb! You’ll get flattened by a bus!”

“I’m
sorry
!” cried Val, sinking low and back on the seat.
What the hell?
“My husband is running up the street after me and I
will
not be hit again! I
hurt
. He’s—he’s an Army officer.”

The gray-haired man sprang out of the cab like a decathalon contender, slamming the door behind him. The taxi driver turned around and looked at her, his large black face suspicious. “You tellin’ the truth?”

“I threw up all morning from the punches last night.”

“An officer? In the Army?”

“Yes! Will you please get
out
of here?” Val sank lower. “He’s at the corner now! He’ll cross the street—he’ll see me!”

“Fret not, ma’am,” said the driver, calmly reaching over the seat and pressing down the locks on the rear doors. “Oh, you were right on! Here he comes runnin’ across like a crazy man. And would you look at them ribbons! Would you believe that horseshit—excuse me, ma’am. He’s kinda skinny, ain’t he? Most of the real bad characters were skinny. They compensated—that’s a psychiatric term, you know.”

“Get
out
of here!”

“The law’s precise, ma’am. It’s the duty of every driver of a medallion vehicle to protect the well-being of his fare.… And I was an infantry grunt, ma’am, and I’ve waited a hell of a long time for this particular opportunity. Having a real good reason and all that. I mean, you sure can’t deny the words you said to me.” The driver climbed out of the cab. He matched his face; he was a very large man, indeed. Val watched in horrified astonishment as the black walked around the hood to the curb and shouted, “Hey, Captain! Over here, on the sidewalk! You lookin’ for a very pretty lady? Like maybe your wife?”

“
What?
” The officer ran up on the pavement to the black man.

“Well, Captain-baby, I’m afraid I can’t salute ’cause my uniform’s in the attic—if I had an attic—but I want you to know that this search-and-destroy has successfully been completed. Would you step over to my jeep, sir?”

The officer started to run toward the taxi but was suddenly grabbed by the driver, who spun him around and punched him first in the stomach, then brought his knee crashing up into the Army man’s groin, and finally completed the “assignment” by hammering a huge fist into the officer’s mouth. Val gasped; blood spread over the captain’s entire face as he fell to the pavement. The driver ran back to the cab,
climbed in, shut the door and pulled the gear; the taxi shot forward in the traffic.

“Lawdy,
lawdy
!” said the driver in a caricature of Southern dialect. “That felt
real
good! Is there an address, ma’am? The meter’s running.”

“I … I’m not sure.”

“Let’s start with the basics. Where do you want to go?”

“To a telephone … Why did you
do that
?”

“That’s my business, not yours.”

“You’re sick! You could have been arrested.!”

“For what? Protecting a fare from assault? That bad character was actually runnin’ toward my cab and the vibes were not good, not good at all. Also, there weren’t no cops around.”

“I presume you were in Vietnam,” said Val, after a period of silence, looking at the large head of black hair in front of her.

“Oh, yes, I was accorded that privilege. Very scenic, ma’am.”

“What did you think of General Delavane? General George Marcus Delavane?”

The cab suddenly, violently, swerved as the driver gripped the wheel and slammed his heavy foot on the brake, causing the taxi to bolt to a stop, throwing Val against the rim of the front seat. The large black head whipped around, the coal-black eyes filled with fury and loathing and that deep unmistakable core of fear Valerie had seen so many times in Joel’s eyes. The driver swallowed, his piercing stare somehow losing strength, turning inward, the fear taking over. He turned back to the wheel and answered simply, “I didn’t do much thinking about the General ma’am. What’s the address, missus? The meter’s running.”

“I don’t know.… A telephone, I have to get to a telephone. Will you wait?”

“Do you have money? Or did the captain take it all? There are limits to my concern, lady. I don’t get no compensation for good deeds.”

“I have money. You’ll be well paid.”

“Show me a bill.”

Valerie reached into her purse and pulled out a hundred dollars. “Will that do?” she asked.

“It’s fine, but don’t do that with every cab you want in a hurry. You could end up in Bed-Stuy a damn good-lookin’ corpse.”

“I don’t want to believe that.”

“Oh, my, we have a liberal! Stick to it, ma’am, until they stick it to you. Me, I want ’em all to
fry
! Your kind don’t really get it—
we
do. You only get the
periphery
, you
dig
? A couple of rapes in the classy suburbs—and some of
them
might be open to dispute; and a few heists of silver and jewelry—
hell
, you’re covered by insurance! Where I come from we’re covered by a gun under the pillow, and God help the son of a bitch who tries to take it from me.”

“A telephone, please.”

“Your meter, lady.”

They stopped at a booth on the corner of Madison and Seventy-eighth Street. Valerie got out, and took from her purse the sheet of St. Regis stationery with the Air Force telephone number. She inserted a coin and dialed.

“Air Force, Recruit Command, Denver,” announced the female operator.

“I wondered if you could help me, miss,” said Val, her eyes darting about at the traffic, looking for a roving brown sedan with
U.S. ARMY
printed across its doors. “I’m trying to locate an officer, a relative, actually …”