The Aquitaine Progression (67 page)

Which was why he was sitting now at a back table in the dimly lit bar of the Königshof Hotel. He had learned the name of Peregrine’s secretary, one Enid Heathley, and had sent the stunt man, Moose Rosenberg, to the embassy with a sealed letter purportedly from a close friend of Miss Heathley’s in the States. Moose’s instructions had been to deliver the envelope personally, and as Rosenberg’s size was formidable, no one in the reception room had argued. Heathley had come down in person. The message was short and to the point.

It was seven-thirty-eight and Caleb was growing anxious. For the past several years he was used to people being on time for appointments and interviews; it was one of the minor perks of being Pa Ratchet. But there could be several reasons why the secretary might not wish to meet with him. She knew that Peregrine and he had become friends of sorts and also that there were actors who were known to seek publicity from events they had nothing to do with, posturing with statesmen and politicians when they couldn’t spell out a position on slavery. He hoped to hell …

There she
was
. The middle-aged woman had come through the door, squinting in the dim light. The maître d’ approached her, and moments later she was escorted to Dowling’s table.

“Thank you for coming,” said Caleb, rising as Enid Heathley took her chair. “I wouldn’t have asked you if I didn’t think it was important,” he added, sitting down again.

“I gathered that from your note,” said the pleasant-faced woman with signs of gray in her hair and very intelligent eyes. Her drink ordered, casual talk covered its arrival.

“I imagine it’s been very difficult for you,” said Dowling.

“It hasn’t been easy,” agreed Miss Heathley. “I was Mr. Peregrine’s secretary for nearly twenty years. He used to call us a team, and Jane and I—Mrs. Peregrine—are quite close. I should be with her now, but I told her I had some last-minute things to do at the office.”

“How is she?”

“Still in shock, of course. But she’ll make it. She’s strong. Walter wanted the women around him strong. He thought they were worthwhile and they shouldn’t hide their worth.”

“I like that kind of thinking, Miss Heathley.”

Her drink came, the waiter left, and the secretary looked quizzically at Caleb. “Forgive me, Mr. Dowling, I can’t say I’m a devoted follower of your television show, but, of course, I’ve seen it a number of times. It seems that whenever I’m asked to dinner and the magic hour arrives, meals are suspended.”

“I’d suggest those people upgrade their kitchens.”

The woman smiled. “You’re too modest, but that’s not
what I mean. You don’t sound at all like the man on the television screen.”

“Because I’m not he, Miss Heathley,” said the former university professor, his expression serious, his intelligent eyes level with hers. “I assume we share certain traits because I’ve the physical instrument through which his fictions are filtered, but that’s the extent of any similarity.”

“I see. That’s very well put.”

“I’ve had practice saying it. But I didn’t ask you here to expound on theories of acting. It’s a subject with limited appeal.”

“Why did you ask me?”

“Because I don’t know whom else to go to. Well, I do, but I can’t get near him.”

“Who’s that?”

“The acting ambassador, the one who flew over from Washington.”

“He’s up to his ears—”

“He should be told,” interrupted Caleb. “Warned.”

“Warned?” The woman’s eyes grew wide. “An attempt on his
life
? Another killing—that maniac,
Converse
?”

“Miss Heathley,” began the actor, his posture rigid, his voice quiet. “What I’m about to say may shock you, even offend you, but as I said, I don’t know another person I can go to at the embassy. However, I
do
know there are people over there I
can’t
go to.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I’m not convinced that Converse is either a maniac or that he killed Walter Peregrine.”

“
What?
You can’t be serious! You’ve heard what they say about him, how unbalanced he is. He was the last person
with
Mr. Peregrine. Major Washburn established that!”

“Major Washburn is one of those people I’d rather not see.”

“He’s considered one of the finest officers in the United States Army,” objected the secretary.

“Then, for an officer he has a strange concept of taking orders from a superior. Last week I brought Peregrine to meet someone. The man ran and Walter told the major to stop him. Instead, Washburn tried to kill him.”

“Oh,
now
I understand,” said Enid Heathley, her tone unpleasant. “That was the night you arranged a meeting with Converse—it
was
you, I remember now! Mr. Peregrine told
me. What
is
this, Mr. Dowling? A Hollywood actor protecting his image? Afraid he’ll be held responsible and his ratings, or whatever they are, will plummet—that is the word, isn’t it? This conversation is despicable.” The woman moved her chair back, prepared to leave.

“Walter Peregrine was a man of his word, Miss Heathley,” said Caleb, still immobile, staring at the secretary. “I think you’ll agree with that.”

“
And?
”

“He made a promise to me. He told me that if Converse reached him and asked to meet with him, I’d come along.
Me
, Miss Heathley. Specifically
not
Major Washburn, whose actions that night at the university were as bewildering to him as they were to me.”

The middle-aged woman held her place, her eyes narrowed, concerned. “He
was
upset the next morning,” she said softly.

“Damned angry better describes him, I think. The man who ran away wasn’t Converse—and he also wasn’t crazy. He was dead serious, with the speech of someone used to authority. There was—or is—some kind of confidential investigation going on involving the embassy. Peregrine didn’t know what it was, but he intended to find out. He mentioned that he was going to call Washington on a scrambler phone. I’m not up on the technology, but I don’t think a person places a call like that unless he’s worried that someone might try to tap the line.”

“He
did
place a scrambler call. He told you that?”

“Yes, he did. And there’s something else, Miss Heathley. As you correctly stated, I’m the one responsible for Walter Peregrine ever having heard of Converse, and I don’t feel very good about it. But isn’t it odd that in spite of the fact that it wasn’t a secret—
you
knew, Washburn knew—nobody has come to question me since Walter was killed?”

“No one?” asked the woman incredulously. “But I included your name in my report.”

“Whom did you give it to?”

“Well, Norman was handling everything.…” Enid Heathley stopped.

“Washburn?”

“Yes.”

“Didn’t you speak to anyone else? Weren’t you questioned?”

“Yes, of course. An inspector from the Bonn police. I’m sure I mentioned your name—I’m
positive
I did.”

“Was anybody else in the room?”

“Yes,” said the murdered ambassador’s secretary. “Norman,” she whispered.

“Strange behavior for a police department, isn’t it?” Caleb leaned forward, but only slightly. “Let me reemphasize something you just said, Miss Heathley. You asked me if I was a Hollywood actor trying to protect his image. It’s a logical question, and if you ever saw the unemployment lines in Los Angeles you’d understand just how logical it is. Don’t you think other people believe the same thing? I haven’t been questioned because
specific
people here in Bonn think I’m shaking in Pa Ratchet’s boots, keeping silent so as to protect that image and the ratings that make it possible. Oddly enough, that reasoning is my best physical protection. You don’t kill off a Pa Ratchet unless you want the wrath of millions of viewers who, in my judgment, would latch on to the flimsiest connection to raise hysterical questions.
National Enquirer
, you are there.”

“But you’re not keeping silent,” said Enid Heathley.

“I’m not talking loudly, either,” corrected the actor. “But not for the reasons I’ve described. I owe Walter Peregrine—I know that better than anyone else. And I can’t pay that debt if a man I think is innocent is hanged for his murder. But here’s where I step back into my own confusion. I can’t be certain. I could be wrong.”

The woman returned Dowling’s stare, then slowly frowned, keeping her eyes on him. “I’m going to leave now, but I’d like you to stay here for a while, if you wouldn’t mind. I’m going to call someone I think you should see. You’ll understand. He’ll reach you here—no paging, of course. Do as he says, go where he wants you to go.”

“Can I trust him?”

“Mr. Peregrine did,” said Enid Heathley, nodding. “And he didn’t like him.”

“That’s trust,” said the actor.

The phone call came and Caleb wrote out the address. The doorman at the Königshof secured him a taxi, and eight minutes later he got out in front of an ornate Victorian house on the outskirts of Bonn. He walked up to the door and rang the bell.

Two minutes later he was ushered into a large room—once a library, perhaps—but now with shades covering the obvious bookshelves. Shades that were detailed maps of East and West Germany. A man wearing glasses got up from behind a desk. He nodded perfunctorily and spoke. “Mr. Dowling?”

“Yes.”

“I appreciate your coming out here, sir. My name is not important—why not call me George?”

“All right, George.”

“But for your own confidential information—and I must stress
confidential
—I am the station chief for the Central Intelligence Agency here in Bonn.”

“All right, George.”

“What do you do, Mr. Dowling? What’s your line of work?”

“
Ciao
, baby,” said the actor, shaking his head.

The first indefinite light of dawn crept up the lower wall of the eastern sky, and along the river pier boats bobbed in their slips, straining their lines, creating an eerie symphony of creaks and thumps. Joel walked beside the young merchant seaman, his hand unconsciously straying to his face, to the new soft hair that was the outgrowth of a stubble. He had not shaved in four days, not since Bonn, and now he had the beginnings of a short, neat beard, not yet full but no longer an unkempt bristle. One more day and he would have to begin clipping it, shaping it, another plane of removal from the photograph in the newspapers.

And in one more day he would have to decide whether or not to phone Val at Cape Ann. Actually, he had made his decision—negative. His instructions had been clear enough, and the possibility that her telephone was tapped was more than he could handle. Yet he wanted so terribly to hear her voice, to hear the support he knew he would find in it. Negative. To hear it was to involve her.
Negative!

“It is the last boat on the right,” said the seaman, slowing his pace. “I must ask you again, because I gave my word. You carry no drugs.”

“I carry no drugs.”

“He may want to search you.”

“I can’t permit that,” Converse broke in, thinking of his money belt. What could be mistaken for a cache of narcotics would reveal many times the amount of money for which most of the dregs on the riverfront would kill.

“Maybe he want to know why. Drugs, bring bad penalty, long time in prison.”

“I’ll explain to him privately,” said Joel, thinking again. He would do so with his gun in one hand and an additional $500 bill in the other. “But I give you my word, no drugs.”

“It is not my boat.”

“But you made the arrangements, and you know enough about me to come after me if they came after you.”

“
Ja
, I remember. Connect-teecut—I been to visit friends in Bridge-
port
. A broker house, a vice-president. I find you, if I have to.”

“I wouldn’t want that. You’re a nice fellow who’s helping me out and I’m grateful. I won’t get you in trouble.”

“
Ja
,” said the young German, nodding his head. “I believe you. I believe you last night. You talk very good, very high class, but you were stupid. You did a stupid thing and your face is red. A red face costs more than you want to pay, so you pay much more to make it go away.”

“Your homilies are getting to me.”

“
Was ist?
”

“Nothing. You’re right. It’s the story of upper-level management. Here.” Joel had the bills in his left-hand pocket; he pulled them out. “I promised you fifteen hundred dollars. Count it, if you like.”

“Vye? If is not there I talk loud and you stay here. You are too afraid to risk that.”

“You’re a natural-born lawyer.”

“Come, I bring you to the captain. To you, he is only ‘captain.’ You will be dropped off where he says.… And be careful. Watch the men on the boat. They will think you have money.”

“That’s why I don’t want to be searched,” admitted Converse.

“I know. I do my best for you.”

The seaman’s best was not quite good enough. The captain of the filthy barge, a short hulk of a man with very poor teeth, brought Joel up to the wheelhouse, where he told him in broken but perfectly clear English to remove his jacket.

“I explained to my friend on the dock that I can’t do that.”

“Two hundred dollars
Amerikaner
,” said the captain.

Converse had the money in his right-hand pocket. He reached down for it, his eyes briefly glancing at the portside window where he saw two other men climb on board below in the dim light. They did not glance up; they had not seen him in the wheelhouse shadows.

The blow came suddenly, without warning, the impact such that Joel doubled over, his breath knocked out of him, and gripped his stomach. In front of him the surly bull of a captain was shaking his right hand, the grimace on his face indicating sharp pain. The German’s fist had crashed into the gun lodged in Converse’s belt. Joel staggered back into the bulkhead, leaned against it, and lowered himself to the floor as he reached under his jacket and took out the weapon. On his haunches, his legs bracing him against the wall, he aimed the automatic at the captain’s huge chest.