“Which is also part of what you can’t tell me.”
“Check.”
“What can you tell me?”
“You know the embassy in Bonn?”
“I know it’s in trouble. Just like the security units in Brussels. That psycho’s cutting one hell of a path. What about Bonn?”
“It’s all related. Our commander was last seen there.”
“He’s got something to do with this Converse?”
Steve paused. “You can probably fill in more spaces than is good for any of us, but the bones of the scenario are as follows. Our commander was a very upset man. His brother-in-law—who, incidentally, was his closest friend—was killed in Geneva—”
“Down the road from here,” interrupted the expatriate in Bern. “The American lawyer whose demise was engineered by Converse, at least that’s what I’ve read.”
“That’s what our commander believed. How or from whom he got the information no one knows, but apparently he found out that Converse was heading for Bonn. He went on leave to go after him.”
“Commendable but dumb,” said the Southerner. “A one-man lynching mob?”
“Actually, no. By simple equations we can assume he went to the embassy—at least he met someone from the embassy to explain why he was there, perhaps to warn them, who knows? But the rest speaks for itself. This Converse struck and our commander disappeared. We’d like to find out whether he’s alive or dead.”
It was the Southerner’s turn to pause, but his breathing was clearly heard on the line. Finally: “Brer Rabbit, you’ve simply got to put a little flesh on those bones.”
“I’m about to, General Lee.”
“Much obliged, Yankee.”
“It’s also related. If you were a lieutenant commander in the United States Navy and wanted to reach someone at the embassy in Bonn, someone who would accord you the attention your rank deserved, who would you call?”
“The military chargé d’affaires, who else?”
“That’s the man, Uncle Remus. Among other things, he’s a liar, but I can’t go into that. It’s our thinking that the commander spoke with him and the chargé dismissed him as a fringe case, probably didn’t even give him an appointment with Ambassador Peregrine. And when it happened, to save his ass and his career—well, people do strange things.”
“What you’re suggesting is awful damned strange.”
“I won’t back away from it,” said the civilian.
“Okay, what’s his name?”
“Washburn. He’s a—”
“Norman Washburn? Major Norman Anthony Washburn, the Third, Fifth, or Sixth?”
“That’s the one.”
“Don’t back away. You left the field too early. Washburn was in Beirut, then Athens and, after that, Madrid. He gave every Company flack in the territories the business! He’d nail his Park Avenue mama to a velvet wall for a good evaluation report. He figures by forty-five he’ll be heading the Joint Chiefs—and he intends to.”
“By forty-five?”
“I’ve been out of touch for a couple of years, but he can’t be any more than thirty-six, thirty-seven. The last I heard they were going to jump the light-colonel status and make him a full bird, then a brigadier soon after that. He is loved, Yankee!”
“He’s a liar,” said the civilian in the dimly lit apartment on Nebraska Avenue.
“Sure ’nuff,” agreed the man in Bern, “but I never figured anything this radical. I mean, he’s got to be scratchin’ mule shit for oil to do something so far out.”
“I still won’t back away,” repeated the civilian, drinking his bourbon.
“Which means you know.”
“Check.”
“And you can’t talk about that, either.” A statement.
“Check again.”
“Are you firm?”
“No room for error. He knows where the commander is—if he’s alive.”
“Holy Jesus! What are you Northern boys into?”
“Will you track? Starting yesterday?”
“With pleasure, Yankee. How do you want it?”
“In the twilight zone. Only words that come with needles—that’s important. He has to wake up thinking he ate a bad piece of meat.”
“Women?”
“I don’t know. You probably have a better fix on that than I do. Would he risk his image?”
“With two or three Fräuleins I’ve got in Bonn, Jesuits would risk the papacy, suh. The name of the commander, please?”
“Fitzpatrick. Lieutenant Commander Connal Fitzpatrick. And, Uncle Remus, whatever you hear under the needles, give only to me. No one else. No one.”
“Which is the last part of what you can’t tell me, right?”
“Check.”
“My blinders are in place. One objective only with only one target. No side trips and no curiosity, just a tape recorder in my head or my hand.”
Again Stone paused, filling the silence with a tentative whisper. “Tape …?” Then he continued. “The latter’s not a bad idea. Mini-micro, of course.”
“Naturally. Those little mothers are so small you can hide them in the most embarrassing places. Where do I reach you? My quill is poised.”
“All right, the area code’s eight-zero-four.” The former CIA man gave the expatriate in Bern a telephone number in Charlotte, North Carolina. “A woman will answer. Tell her you’re from the Tatiana family and leave a number.”
Their brief good-byes concluded, Peter hung up the phone, got out of the chair and carried his drink to the window. It was a hot, still night in Washington, the air outside barely moving, the hint of a summer storm. If the rains came they would wash the streets and cleanse at least part of the pollution.
The former deep-cover agent wished there were some balm on earth or from the skies that could wash his hands and cleanse that part of his soul he had not put on the auction block—or for a disastrous period of time into a bottle of bourbon. Maybe all he had done was hammer another nail in Converse’s coffin, one more scrap of credibility that labeled the lawyer something he was not. Stone realized that instead of casting reasonable doubts based on his own certain knowledge, he had compounded the fiction that Converse was the psychopathic killer the international media described. Worse, he had attributed that credibility to a responsible missing man, a naval officer who was most likely dead. There were two justifications for the lie, and only one was remotely feasible; the other, however, was probably the most productive move they could make. The first assumed that Fitzpatrick might be alive, a weak premise. But if he was dead, the missing commander provided the reason to call in an old debt and go after a chargé d’affaires named Washburn and do so without any connection to George Marcus Delavane. Even if “Johnny Reb” was caught—and every man in a gray to black operation had to assume the possibility—no mention could be made of an international conspiracy of generals.… Major Norman Washburn, IV, might or might not know the fate of Connal Fitzpatrick, but everything else he might say under the needles—especially about the commander—would be of value.
What surprised the civilian was Converse himself in the matter of the lying military attaché. If Converse was running and not under lock and key, he certainly had to have learned about the lie that had condemned him. If so, why hadn’t the attorney done something about it? The major’s lie was the chain’s weakest link; it could be snapped with a minimum of effort—the man’s a liar. I was here or there, or anywhere except where he placed me when he placed me. Stone drank sparingly from the glass; he knew the futility of speculating because he knew the answer. It was why he did not feel that yet another part of his soul had been clipped away. Converse was not in a position to do anything. He was either trapped or taken, soon to be offered up as a sacrificial corpse by the generals. There was nothing anyone could do for him. He was a dead man, a sacrifice in the truest sense of the word—given up even by his own.
Peter walked back to the chair and sat down, loosening his tie and kicking
off his shoes. He had learned years ago to cut losses in the field wherever possible. If it meant disowning pawns or plants or blinds, one took the statistical approach and let the executions follow. It was better than losing more. But what was even better was to make significant progress with whatever the loss. He was doing that now with Converse’s death and “Johnny Reb” in Bern—and a liar named Washburn.
Oh, Christ! He was playing God again with charts and diagrams—pluses and minuses of human value! Yet the objective was worth more than anything he had ever faced before. Delavane and his legions had to be stopped, and they would not be stopped in Washington. There were too many watchful eyes, too many ears, too many men in unknown corners who believed in the myth—men who had nothing else. The children were right about that. And there would be no empty bottles of bourbon on the floor now, or blurred memories of nights past, or words passed. Despite advancing age, he was ready; he was primed.
It was odd, thought the civilian. He had not used the Tatiana family in years.
Joel watched from the ridge of the landfill as Leifhelm’s chauffeur and his companion approached the deserted building. Both were experienced; one raced before the other, stopping behind displaced rocks from the fill and barrels used for early-morning fires. Almost simultaneously they reached separate doors, each door off its hinges, angling into the dirt. The chauffeur gestured with his weapon, and both men disappeared inside.
Converse again looked behind him. The fence was about two hundred yards away. Could he slide down the stinking hill, race to the interwoven wire and climb over the fence before his executioners came out of the decrepit building? Why not? He could try! He raised himself off his stomach, hands sinking into the debris, spun to his right and plunged downward.
A distant crash came first and then a scream. He spun around again and scrambled up the ten-odd feet his lunge had carried him. The chauffeur was racing out of his door, around the corner to where his companion had entered, his gun leveled, prepared to fire. He approached cautiously, then seeing something, exploded in disgust as he entered the shadows. Seconds later he emerged holding the other man; obviously a staircase or a floorboard had collapsed. The second man held his leg and limped.
Two piercing blasts came from the station; the platform was empty, the milling passengers back on board. The panic had subsided and the train would make a Teutonic effort to be on time. The last police car and the ambulance were gone.
Below, the chauffeur slapped his companion repeatedly in fury, shoving him backwards to the ground. The man got up, gesturing, pleading for no more, and the chauffeur relented, ordering his subordinate to a position between the building, the landfill and the fence, and when the man was in place, the chauffeur went back into the deserted building.
The minutes passed, the descending sun intercepted by low-flying clouds in the west, creating long, lateral shadows over the outskirts of the railroad yard. Finally the chauffeur came into view, emerging from an unseen exit on another side of the building. He stood for a moment and looked west across the tracks to the expanse of wild grass and marshland beyond. Then he turned and stared at the mounds of landfill and made up his mind.
“Rechts über Ihnen!” he screamed at his companion, pointing to the second mound. “Hinter Ihnen! Er schiesst.”
Joel crawled, racing down the debris like a panicked sand crab. Halfway to the bottom his left hand was snared; he yanked at the looping entrapment, pulled it free and was about to fling it away when he saw it was a length of ordinary electric cord. He bunched it up in his hand and frantically continued downward. When he was within six feet of the ground, he whipped his whole body into a frenzy and clawed at the dirt and garbage. He stabbed his legs repeatedly into the rubbish and loose earth, and sank his body into the mass, pulling debris around his head. The stench was overpowering, and he could feel the insects penetrating his clothes, crawling over his skin. But he was hidden, of that he was certain. He began to comprehend what his fragmented mind was trying to tell him. He was back in the jungle, about to spring on a scout from an unseen place.
Again minutes passed, and the shadows became longer, then permanent, as the sun’s trajectory dropped below the top of the landfill. Converse remained immobile, straining every muscle, grinding his teeth to stop himself from thrashing his arms and scratching his clothes and his exposed skin to rip away the maddening insects. But he knew he could not move. It would happen any moment, any second.
The prelude came. The limping man was in view, peering up at the hill of refuse and dirt, squinting against the residue of sunlight at the top, his gun held out, angled diagonally, prepared to fire. He sidestepped slowly, cautiously, apprehensive of what he could not see. He passed directly in front of Joel, the extended gun no more than three feet away from Converse’s face. Another step and the line of contact could be clear.
Now! Joel lunged out, grabbing the barrel of the gun, instantly and violently twisting it clockwise and downward. As the German fell forward Converse crashed his knee up into the bridge of the man’s nose, stunning him before he could scream. The weapon spiraled off into the debris. The man staggered, and was about to find his voice when Joel lunged again, a section of the wire cord stretched out in both hands; he whipped it over the scout’s head, pulling it taut around the scout’s throat.
The man went limp, and Converse bent over the body, about to roll it into the base of the landfill and conceal it, but then he stopped. There had to be another way because there was another option, one he had taken a hundred years ago with another scout in a jungle. He looked around; there was a pile of carelessly dumped railroad ties thirty-odd yards away on his right—old ties, several broken, forming a low wall. A wall.
It was a risk. If Leifhelm’s chauffeur finished his examination of the first mound of landfill and stepped out toward the second one at any three of the four angles, he would have a clear line of sight. The man had been sent to the Emmerich train for two reasons—one, he knew the quarry by sight, and, two, the quarry had disgraced him; Joel’s corpse would be his redemption. Such a man was an expert with weapons—which the quarry was not. What was the point of thinking! Since Geneva, everything was a risk, a gamble against death.
He gripped the German’s body under the armpits, and breathing hard—for some reason foolishly counting off “One, two, three”—he lurched backwards, hauling the dead man across a dead man’s zone.
He reached the railroad ties and swung the corpse around them, the heels of its shoes digging an arc into the dirt as he dragged the dead German into the base of the wall. Then without thinking, acting only on instinct, Converse did what he had been wanting to do for the last hour. Concealed by the ties, he ripped off his jacket and shirt and rolled on the ground, scattering the insects like an infested dog in a field, scratching them out of his hair, away from his face. It was all he could do for the moment. He crawled into the bank of railroad ties and found a space between two separated logs.
“Werner! Wo sind Sie?”
The shouts preceded the figure of Leifhelm’s chauffeur. He appeared at the far end of the second mound, moving slowly, his gun raised, each step taken cautiously, his head shifting in all directions, a soldier experienced in combat patrol. Converse thought how much better off the world would be if he were an expert shot. He was not. In pilot training he had gone through the obligatory small-arms course, and at twenty-five feet had rarely hit the target. This second soldier of Aquitaine had to be sucked in much closer.
“Werner! Antworten Sie doch!”
Silence.
The chauffeur was alarmed; he walked backward, now crouching, scanning the hill of refuse, kicking away any object in his backward path, his head pivoting. Joel knew what he had to do; he had done it before. Divert the killer’s attention, pulling him closer to the encounter, then move away.
“Auughh …!” Converse let the wail come out of his throat. Then added in clear English, “Oh, my God!” Instantly he crawled to the far end of the wall of railroad ti
es. He peered around the side, his head in shadows.
“Werner! Wo sind—!” The German stood erect, his eyes following his line of hearing. Suddenly he broke into a run, his weapon thrust in front of him—a man cornering a hated object, the sound of English leading him to the loathed enemy.
The chauffeur threw himself prone across the railroad ties, his expression alert, his gun in front of him. He fired into the shadowed corpse below, a roar of vengeance accompanying the explosions.
Joel got to his knees, aimed his automatic, and pulled the trigger twice. The German spun off the ties, blood erupting in his chest.
“Some win,” whispered Converse rising to his feet, remembering the man on the train to Emmerich.
He was down in the marshlands, the clothes in his arms. He had scrambled across the railroad tracks, down through the wild grass into the swampy dampness of the marsh. It was water, and that was all he had to know. Water was a benefit, whether as an escape route or as a purifying agent for a wracked body—also lessons he had learned years ago. He sat naked on a sloping marsh bank, taking off his inhibiting money belt, wondering if the paper bills inside were soaked but not caring enough to examine them.
He did, however, examine every pocket of the clothes he had stripped from his would-be executioners. He was not sure what was of value and what was not. The money was irrelevant, except for the small bills; and the driver’s licenses had photographs embedded in plastic—neither was worth the risk of scrutiny. There was an ominous-looking knife, the long blade released through the head by the touch of a button on the handle; he kept it. Also a cheap butane lighter and a comb—and, for the drinking man, two breath fresheners. The rest were personal effects—keys, a four-leaf-clover good-luck charm, photographs in the wallets—he did not care to look at them. Death was death, enemy and friend fundamentally equalized. The only things he was interested in were the clothes. They were the option, the option he had used in the jungle a lifetime ago. He had crammed himself inside a scout’s tattered uniform, and twice across a narrow riverbank he had not been shot by the enemy who had spotted him. Instead, they had waved.