The St. Regis would welcome Mrs. DePinna, who
had flown ir from Tulsa, Oklahoma, on a sudden
emergency.
At the all-night Travelers Shop in Schilphol
Airport, Va had purchased a carry-on bag, filling it
with toiletries anc whatever more inconspicuous
articles of clothing she could find among the all too
colorful garments on the racks. It we. still the
height of the summer, and depending upon the cir
cumstances, such clothes might come in handy. Also
she needed something to show customs.
She registered at the hotel desk, using a
“Cherrywooc Lane” but without a number she
remembered from hel childhood in St. Louis.
Indeed, the name DePinna came from those early
days as well, a neighbor down the street, the face a
blur now, only the memory of a sad, vituperative
woman who loathed all things foreign, including
Val’s parents. “Mrs R. DePinna,” she had written;
she had no idea where the “R’ came from possibly
Roger for balance.
In the room she turned on the radio to the
all-news station, a habit she had inherited from her
marriage, and proceeded to umpack. She undressed,
took a shower, washed out her underthings, and
slipped into the outsized T-shirt. This last was
another habit; “T-sacks,” as she called them, had
replaced bathrobes and morning coats on her patio
in Cape Ann, although none had a sunburst
emblazoned on the front with words above and
below heralding TOT ZIENS AMSTERDAM:
She resisted calling room service for a pot of
tea; it would be calming, but it was an unnecessary
act that at three o’clock in the morning would
certainly call attention, however minor to the
woman in 714. She sat in the chair staring absently
at the window, wishing she hadn’t given up
cigarettes it would give her something to do while
thinldng, and she had to think She had to rest, too,
but first she had to think, organize herself She
looked around the room, and then at her purse,
which she had placed on a bedside table. She was
rich, if nothing else. Joel had insisted she take the
risk of getting through customs with more than the
$5,0001egal limit. So she had rolled up an
additional twenty $500 bills and shoved them into
her
THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 519
brassiere. had been right; she could not use credit
cards or anything that carried her name.
She saw two telephone directories on the shelf of
the table. Sitting on the edge of the bed, she
removed both volumes. The cover of one read, New
York County, Business to Business; the other,
Manhattan and in the upper left-hand corner,
printed across a blue diagonal strip: GovernmentList-
ings See Blue Pages. It was a place to start. She
returned the business directory to the shelf and
carried the Manhattan book over to the desk. She sat
down, opened to the blue pages and found
Department of the Air Force . . . Command Post
ARPC. It was an 800 number, the address on York
Street in Denver, Colorado. If it was not the number
she needed, whoever she reached could supply the
correct one. She wrote it down on a page of St. Regis
stationery.
Suddenly Val heard the words. She snapped her
head around toward the television set, her eyes on
the vertical radio dial.
” . . And now the latest update on the search for the
American attorney, Joel Converse, one of the most
tragic stories of the decade. The former Navy pilot, once
honored for outstanding bravery in the Vietnam war,
whose dramatic esca pe electrified the nation, and
whose subsequent tactical reports shocked the military,
leading, many believed, to basic changes in
Washington’s Southeast Asian policies, is still at large,
hunted not for the man he was, but for the homicidal
killer he has become. Reports are that he may still be in
Paris. Although not of ficial, word has been leaked
from unnamed but authoritative sources within the
Surete that fingerprints found on the premises where the
French lawyer, Rene Mattilon, was slain are definitely
those of Converse, thus confirming what the authorities
believed that Converse killed his French acquaintance
for cooperating with Interpol and the Surete. The
manhunt is spread ing out from Paris and this station
will bring you . . .”
Valerie sprang from the chair and ran to the
television set; she furiously pushed several buttons
until the radio was silent. She stood for a moment,
trembling with anger and fear. And something else
she could not define did not care to define. It tore
her apart and she had to stay together.
She lay on the bed staring at the ceiling, at the
reflections of light from things moving in the street
below, and hearing the sounds of the city. None of it
was comforting only abra
520 ROBERT LUDIUM
sive intrusions that kept her mind alert, rejecting
sleep. She had not slept on the plane, but had only
dozed intermittently, repeatedly jarred awake by
half-formed nightmares probably induced by
excessive turbulence over the North Atlantic. She
needed sleep now . . . she neededJoel now. The
first, mercifully, came; the latter was out of reach.
There was a shattering noise accompanied by a
burst of sunlight that blinded her as she shot up
from the bed, kicking away the sheet and throwing
her feet on the floor. It was the telephone. The
telephone? She looked at her watch; it was
seven-twenty-five. The phone rang once again,
piercing the mists of sleep but not clearing them
away. The telephoner How . . . ? Why? She picked
it up, gripping it with all her strength, trying to find
herself before speaking.
“Hello?”
“Mrs. DePinna?” inquired a male voice.
“Yes.”
“We trust everything is satisfactory.”
“Are you in the habit of waking up your guests
at seven o’clock in the morning to ask if they’re
comfortable?”
“I’m terribly sorry, but we were anxious for you.
This is the Mrs. DePinna from Tulsa, Oklahoma,
isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“We’ve been looking for you all night . . . since
the flight from Amsterdam arrived at one-thirty this
morning.”
“Who are you?” asked Val, petrified, holding her
wrist below the phone.
“Someone who wants to help you, Mrs.
Converse,” said the voice, now relaxed and friendly.
“You’ve given us quite a runaround. We must have
woken up a hundred and fifty women who checked
in at hotels since two A.M…. the ‘flight from
Amsterdam’ did it; you didn’t ask me what I was
talking about. Believe me, we want to help, Mrs.
Converse. We’re both after the same thing.”
“Who are you?”
“The United States Government covers it. Stay
where you are. I’ll be over in fifteen minutes.”
The hell the United States Government covers it!
thought Val, shivering, as she hung up the phone.
The United States Government had cleaner ways of
identifying itself…. She had to get out! What did the
‘ fifteen minutes” mean? Was it a trap? Were men
downstairs waiting for her now waiting to see if
she would run? She had no choice!
THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 521
She ran to the bathroom, grabbing the carry-on
case off a chair and throwing her things into it. She
dressed in seconds and stuffed what clothes
remained into the bag; snatching the room key off
the bureau, she ran to the door, then stopped. Oh,
Lord, the stationery with the Air Force number! She
raced back to the desk, picked up the page beside
the open telephone book and shoved it into her
purse. She glanced wildly about was there anything
else? No. She left the room and walked rapidly down
the hall to the elevators.
Maddeningly, the elevator stopped at nearly
every floor where men and women got on, most of
the men with puffed circles under their eyes, a few
of the women looking drawn, sheepish. Several
apparently knew each other, others nodded absently,
gazes straying to plastic name plates worn by most of
the passengers. Val realized that some sort of
convention was going on.
The doors opened to a crowded bank of
elevators, the ornate lobby to the right was swarming
with people, voices raised in greetings, questions and
instructions. Cautiously Val approached the gilded
arch that led to the lobby proper, looking around in
controlled panic to see if anyone was looking at her.
A large gold-framed sign with block letters arranged
in black felt under glass was on the wall:
WEECOME: MiCMAC DISTRIBUTORS. There
followed a list of meetings and activibes.
Buffet Breakfast 7:30-8:30 A.M.
Regional Conferences 8:4~10:00 A.M.
Advertising Symposium Q and A 10:1~11:00 A.M.
Midmorning Break. Make Reservations for city
tours.
‘they, sweet face,” said a burly, red-eyed man
standing next to Val. “That s a no-no.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“We are marked, princess!”
Valerie stopped breathing; she stared at the man,
gripping the handles of her carry-on, prepared to
smash it into his face and bolt for the glass doors
thirty feet away. “I have no idea what you mean.”