The Aquitaine Progression (83 page)

The crunching thud was loud. Instantly Aquitaine’s soldier crouched and fired one round after another—
two, three, four!
Converse raised his weapon and pulled the trigger twice. The man spun to his left, gasping, as he clutched his stomach and fell to the ground.

There was no time to think or feel or consider what had happened. Joel crawled out to the gravel and raced over to his would-be executioner; he grabbed him by the arms and dragged him back into the bushes. Still, he had to find out. He knelt down and held his fingers against the base of the man’s throat. He was dead, another scout taken out in the war of the modern Aquitaine, the military confederation of George Marcus Delavane.

There was no one around—if there had been, the gunshots would have provoked screams and brought running feet; the police would have been summoned; they would have been there by now. How far away was Osnabrück? He had read the schedule and tried to figure out the times, but everything had happened so swiftly, so brutally, he had not absorbed what he read. It was less than an hour, that much he knew. Somehow he had to get word to the station at Osnabrück. Christ,
how
?

He walked out on the platform, glancing up at the sign:
RHEINE
. It was a start; he had counted only the stops, not the names. Then he saw something in the distance—above the ground, high above—with lights on the inside. A tower! He had seen such towers dozens of times in Switzerland and France—they were signal depots. They dotted the Eurail’s landscape, controlling the trains that sped across their sectors. He started running along the tracks, suddenly wondering what he looked like. His hat was gone, his clothes soiled, but his clerical collar was still in place—he was still a priest.

He reached the base of the tower. He brushed off his clothes and tried to smooth his hair; Composing himself, he began climbing the metal steps. At the top he saw that the steel door to the tower itself was bolted, the inch-thick bulletproof glass a sign of the terrorist times—speeding trains were vulnerable targets. He approached the door and rapped on the metal frame. Three men were inside, huddled over electronic
consoles; an elderly man turned from the numerous green screens and came to the door. He peered through the glass and crossed himself, but did not open the door. Instead, there was a sudden echoing sound projected into the air, and the man’s voice emerged from a speaker: “
Was ist, Hochwürden?
”

“I don’t speak German. Do you speak English?”

“
Engländer?
”

“Yes—
ja
.”

The old man turned to his associates and shouted something. Both shook their heads, but one held up his hand and came to the door.

“
Ich spreche
… a little, Mr.
Engländer. Nicht
come enter here,
verstehen?
”

“I have to call Osnabrück! A woman is waiting for me—a
Frau
!

“Ohh?
Hochwürden! Eine Frau?
”

“No,
no
! You don’t understand! Can’t anybody here speak
English
?”

“
Sie sprechen Deutsch?
”

“No!”

“
Warten Sie
,” said the third man from the console. There was a rapid exchange between the two men. The one who spoke “a little” turned back to the door.

“
Eine Kirche
,” said the man groping for words. “Church!
Ein Pfarrer
—priest!
Er spricht Englisch. Drei
… three
strassen … there!
” The German pointed to his left; Joel looked down over his shoulder. There was a street in the distance. He understood; there was a church three blocks away, and a priest who spoke English, presumably a priest who had a telephone.

“The train to Osnabrück.
When?
When does it
get
there?” Converse pointed to his watch. “When?
Osnabrück?
”

The man looked over at the console, then turned back to Joel and smiled. “
Zwölf Minuten, Hochwürden!
”

“How?
What?
”

“
Zwölf
… tvelf.”

“
Twelve?
”

“
Ja!
”

Converse turned and clattered down the steps; on the ground he ran as fast as he could toward the streetlamps in the distance. Once there, he raced in the middle of the street, clutching his chest, vowing for the five hundredth time to
give up cigarettes. He had persuaded Val to throw them away; why hadn’t he taken his own advice? He was invulnerable, that’s why. Or did he simply care for her more than he cared for himself?
Enough!
Where was the goddamned
church
?

It was there, on the right. A small church with fake spires, a silly-looking church with what looked like a decorated Quonset hut for a rectory beside it. Joel ran up the short path to the door, a door with a hideously bejeweled crucifix in the center—a rhinestone Jesus; rock along with Christ—and knocked. Moments later an overweight, cherubic man with very little white hair, though perfectly groomed, opened the door.

“
Ah, Guten Tag, Herr Kollege
.”

“Forgive me,” said Converse, out of breath. “I don’t speak German. I was told you speak English.”

“Ah, yes, indeed, I should hope so. I spent my novitiate in the Mother Country—as opposed to the Fatherland—you understand the difference in gender, of course. Come in, come
in
! A visit from a fellow priest calls for a
Schnaps
. ‘A touch of wine’ sounds better, doesn’t it? Again the Mother Country—so soft, so understanding. My, you’re an attractive young man!”

“Not so young, Father,” said Joel, stepping inside.

“That’s relative, isn’t it?” The German priest walked unsteadily into what was obviously his living room. Again there were jeweled figures mounted on black velvet on the walls, the cheap stones glittering, the faces of the saints unmistakably feminine. “What would you like? I have sherry and muscatel, and for rare occasions a port I’ve been saving for very special occasions.… Who sent you? That wicked novice from Lengerich?”

“I need
help
, Father.”

“Great Jesus, who
doesn’t
? Is this to be a confessional? If so, for God’s sake give me until morning. I love the Lord my God with all my soul and all my strength—and if there are sins of the flesh, they are
Satan’s
. Not I, but the
Archangel of Darkness
!”

The man was drunk; he fell over a hassock and tumbled to the floor. Converse ran to him and lifted him up, then lowered him into a chair—a chair by the only telephone in the room.

“Please understand me, Father. Or don’t
mis
understand
me. I have to reach a woman who’s waiting for me at Osnabrück. It’s
important
!”

“A woman?
Satan!
He is
Lucifer
with the eyes of fire! You think you’re better than
me
?”

“Not at all.
Please
. I need
help
!”

It took ten minutes of pleading, but finally the priest calmed down and got on the telephone. He identified himself as a man of God, and moments later Joel heard the name that allowed him to breathe steadily again.

“
Frau Geyner? Es tut mir leid …
” The old priest and the old woman talked for several minutes. He hung up and turned to Converse. “She waited for you,” he said, frowning in bewilderment. “She thought you might have gotten off in the freight yards.… What freight yards?”

“I understand.”

“I do not. But she knows the way here and will pick you up in thirty minutes or so.… You have sobered me, Father. Was I disgraceful?”

“Not at all,” said Joel. “You welcomed a man in trouble, there’s nothing wrong with that.”

“Let’s have a drink. Forget
Schnaps
and ‘a glass of wine’; they’re a bore, aren’t they? I have some American bourbon in the refrigerator. You
are
American, are you not?”

“Yes, and a glass of bourbon would be just fine.”

“Good! Follow me into my humble kitchen. It’s right through here, mind the sequined curtain, dear boy. It
is
too much, isn’t it?… Oh, well, for all of that—whatever it is—I’m a good man. I believe that. I give comfort.”

“I’m sure you do.”

“Where were you schooled, Father?” asked the priest.

“Catholic University in Washington,” replied Converse, pleased with himself that he remembered and answered so quickly.

“Good Lord, I was there
myself
!” exclaimed the German priest. “They shunted me around, you understand. Do you remember what’s his name …?”

Oh, my God!
thought Joel.

Frau Hermione Geyner arrived, and took Converse in tow—commandeered him, in fact. She was a small woman, far older than Joel had imagined. Her face was withered, reminding him of the woman in the Amsterdam station, and dominated by wide, intense eyes that seemed to shoot out bolts of electricity. He got in the car and she pushed the lock
in place. She climbed behind the wheel and sped up the street, reaching what had to be sixty miles an hour in a matter of seconds.

“I appreciate everything you’re doing for me,” said Converse, bracing his feet against the floorboard.

“It is
nothing
!” exclaimed the old woman. “I have myself taken out officers from airplanes that crashed in Bremerhaven and Stuttgart and Mannheim! I spat in
soldiers
’ eyes, and crashed through barricades! I never failed! The pigs could not touch me!”

“I only meant that you’re saving my life, and I want you to know I’m grateful. I’m aware that Valerie—your niece, and my … my former wife—told you I didn’t do the things they said I did, and she was right. I didn’t.”

“
Ach
, Valerie! A sweet child, but not very reliable,
ja
? You got rid of her,
ja
?”

“That’s not exactly the way it happened.”

“How
could
she be?” continued Hermione Geyner, as if he had not spoken. “She is an artist, and we all know how unstable they are. And, of course, her father was a Frenchman. I ask you, could she have a greater disadvantage?
Franzose!
The worms of Europe! As untrustworthy as their wine, which is mostly in their stomachs. They’re drunkards, you know. It’s in their blood.”

“But you believed her where I was concerned. You’re helping me, you’re saving my life.”

“Because we
could
! We
knew
we could!”

Joel stared at the road ahead, at the rapidly oncoming curves taken at sixty miles an hour as the tires screeched. Hermione Geyner was not at all what he had expected, but then nothing was anymore. She was so old and it was late at night and she had been through a great deal these last two days; it had to have taken its toll on her. Old prejudices come to the surface when very old people are tired. Perhaps in the morning they could have a clearheaded conversation. The morning—it was the start of the second day, and Valerie had promised to call him in Osnabrück with news of Sam Abbott and the progress she was making to reach the pilot. She
had
to make that call! Sam had to be told about the strange language Joel had heard from an old man in Amsterdam, where a word meaning one thing also meant something else entirely. Assassination!
Val, call me. For God’s sake, call me!

Converse looked out the window. The minutes passed; the countryside was peaceful but the silence awkward.

“Here we are!” shouted Hermione Geyner, turning crazily into the drive that led to a large old three-story house set back off the country road. From what Converse could see, it was a house that had once had a certain majesty, if only by its size and the profusion of roofed windows and gables. In the moonlight now, it looked—like its owner—very old and frayed.

They walked up the worn wooden steps of the enormous porch and crossed to the door. Frau Geyner knocked rapidly, insistently; in seconds an old woman opened it, nodding solemnly as they went inside.

“It’s very lovely,” began Joel. “I want you to know—”

“Sshh!” Hermione Geyner dropped her car keys in a red laquered bowl on a hall table and held up her hand. “
This way!
”

Converse followed her to a pair of double doors; she opened them and Joel walked in behind her. He stopped, confused and astonished. For in front of them in the large Victorian room with the subdued lighting was a row of high-backed chairs and seated in each was an old woman—nine old women! Mesmerized, he looked closely at them. Some smiled weakly, several trembled with age and infirmity, obviously senile; a few wore stern, intense expressions, and one seemed to be humming to herself.

There was an eruption of fragile applauses-hands thin and veined, others swollen with flesh, flesh striking flesh with obvious effort. Two chairs had been placed in front of the women; Valerie’s aunt indicated that they were for Joel and herself. They sat down as the applause dwindled off to silence.

“
Meine Schwestern Soldaten
,” cried Hermione Geyner, rising. “
Heute Nacht
…”

The old woman spoke for nearly ten minutes, interrupted occasionally by scattered applause and expressions of wonder and respect. Finally, she sat down. “
Nun. Fragen!
”

The women one after another began to speak—frail, halting voices for the most part, yet several were emphatic, almost hostile. And then Converse realized that most were looking at him. They were asking him questions, one or two crossing themselves as they spoke, as if the fugitive they had saved were actually a priest.

“Come, my friend!” cried Hermione Geyner. “Answer the ladies. They deserve the courtesy of your replies.”

“I can’t answer what I can’t understand,” protested Joel quietly.

Suddenly, without any warning, Valerie’s aunt rose quickly out of the chair and struck him across the face. “Such evasive tactics will not serve you
here
!” she screamed, striking him again, the ring on her finger breaking his skin. “We know you understand every word that’s been spoken! Why do you Czechs and Poles always think you can fool us. You
collaborated
!. We have
proof
!”