    THE

AQUITAINE

PROGRESSION

ROBERT LUDLUM

    BANTAM BOOKS

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    THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION

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    Bantam edition/March 198~'i

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Darling. Copyright

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H 098 76 54 3 81

PART ONE

    Geneva. City of sunlight and bright reflections.

Of billowing white sails on the lake sturdy,

irregular buildings above, their rippling images on

the water below. Of myriad flowers surrounding

blue-green pools of fountains duets of exploding

colors.Of small quaint bridges arching over the

glassy surfaces of man-made ponds to tiny

man-made islands, sanctuaries for lovers and friends

and quiet negotiators. Reflections.

    Geneva, the old and the new. City of high

medieval walls and glistening tinted glass, of sacred

cathedrals and less holy institutions. Of sidewalk

cafes and lakeside concerts, of miniature piers and

gaily painted boats that chug around the vast

shoreline, the guides extolling the virtues and the

estimated value of the lakefront estates that surely

belong to another time.

    Geneva. City of purpose, dedicated to the

necessity of dedication, frivolity tolerated only when

intrinsic to the agenda or the deal. Laughter is

measured, controlled glances conveying approval

of sufficiency or admonishing excess. The canton by

the lake knows its soul. Its beauty coexists with

industry, the balance not only accepted but jealously

guarded.

    Geneva. City also of the unexpected, of

predictability in conflict with sudden unwanted

revelation, the violence of the mind struck by bolts

of personal lightning.

    Cracks of thunder follow; the skies grow dark

and the rains come. A deluge, pounding the angry

waters taken by surprise, distorting vision, crashing

down on the giant spray, Geneva's trademark on the

lake, thejet d 'ear, that geyser designed by man to

dazzle man. When sudden revelations come, the

gigantic fountain dies. All the fountains die and

without the sunlight the flowers wither. The bright

reflections are gone and the mind is frozen.

Geneva. City of inconstancy.

3

4 ROBERT LUDLUM

* * *

    Joel Converse, attorney-at-law, walked out of

the hotel Richemondinto the blinding morning

sunlight on the Jardin Brunswick. Squinting, he

turned left, shifting his attache case to his right

hand, conscious of the value of its contents but

thinking primarily about the man he was to meet

for coffee and croissants at Le Chat Botte, a

sidewalk cafe across from the waterfront. "Re-meet"

was more accurate, thought Converse, if the man

had not confused him with someone else.

    A. Preston Halliday was Joel's American

adversary in the current negotiations, the finalising

of last-minute details for a Swiss-American merger

that had brought both men to Ge neva. Although

the remaining work was minimal formalities,

really, research having established that the

agreements were in accord with the laws of both

countries and acceptable to the International Court

in The Hague Halliday was an odd choice. He had

not been part of the American legal team fielded by

the Swiss to keep tabs on Joel's firm. That in itself

would not have excluded him fresh observation

was frequently an asset but to elevate him to the

position of point, or chief spokesman, was, to say

the least, unorthodox. It was also unsettling.

    Halliday's reputation what little Converse knew

of it was as a troubleshooter, a legal mechanic

from San Francisco who could spot a loose wire, rip

it out and short an engine. Negotiations covering

months and costing hundreds of thousands had been

aborted by his presence, that much Converse

recalled about A. Preston Halliday. But that was all

he recalled. Yet Halliday said they knew each other.

    "It's Press Halliday," the voice had announced

over the hotel phone. "I'm pointing for Rosen in the

Comm Tech-gem merger."

    "What happened?"Joel had asked, a muted

electric razor in his left hand, his mind trying to

locate the name; it had come to him by the time

Halliday replied.

    "The poor bastard had a stroke, so his partners

called me in." The lawyer had paused. "You must

have been mean, counselor."

    "We rarely argued, counselor. Christ, I'm sorry,

I like Aaron. How is he?"

    "He'll make it. They've got him in bed and on a

dozen versions of chicken soup. He told me to tell

you he's going to check your finals for invisible ink."

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION S

    "Which means you 're going to check because I

don't have any and neither did Aaron. This marriage

is based on pure greed, and if you've studied the

papers you know that as well as I do."

    "The larceny of investment write-offs," agreed

Halliday, "combined with a large chunk of a

technological market. No invisible ink. But since I'm

the new boy on the block, I've got a couple of

questions. Let's have breakfast."

"I was about to order room service."

    "It's a nice morning, why not get some air? I'm at

the President, so let's split the distance. Do you

know the Chat Botte?"

    'American coffee and croissants. Quai du Mont

Blanc.- "You know it. How about twenty minutes?"

"Make it a half hour, okay?"

    "Sure." Halliday had paused again. "It'll be good

to see you again, Joel."

"Oh? Again?"

    "You may not remember. A lot's happened since

those days . . . more to you than to me, I'm afraid."

"I'm not following you."

    "Well, there was Vietnam and you were a

prisoner for a pretty long time."

    "That's not what I meant, and it was years ago.

How do we know each other? What case?"

"No case, no business. We were classmates."

"Duke? It's a large law school."

    "Further back. Maybe you'll remember when we

see each other. If you don't, I'll remind you."

"You must like games.... Half an hour. Chat Botte."

    As Converse walked toward the Quai du Mont

Blanc, the vibrant boulevard fronting the lake, he

tried to fit Halliday's name into a time frame, the

years to a school, a forgotten face to match an

unremembered classmate. None came, and Halliday

was not a common name, the short form "Press"

even less so . . . unique, actually. If he had known

someone named Press Halliday, he could not

imagine forgetting it. Yet the tone of voice had

implied familiarity, even closeness.

    It'll be good to see you again, Joel. He had spoken

the words warmly, as he had the gratuitous reference

to Joel's POW status. But then, those words were

always spoken softly to imply sympathy if not to

express it overtly. Too, Converse understood why

under the circumstances Halliday felt he had

6 ROBERT LUDLUM

to bring up the subject of Vietnam, even fleetingly.

The uninitiated assumed that all men imprisoned in

the North Vietnamese camps for any length of time

had been mentally damaged, per se, that a part of

their minds had been altered by the experience,

their recollections muddled. To a degree, some of

these assumptions were undeniable, but not with re-

spect to memory. Memories were sharpened because

they were searched compulsively, often mercilessly.

The accumulated years, the layers of experience . .

. faces with eyes and voices, bodies of all sizes and

shapes; scenes flashing across the inner screen, the

sights and sounds, images and smells touching and

the desire to touch . . . nothing of the past was too

inconsequential to peel away and explore. Fre-

quently it was all they had, especially at

night always at night, with the cold, penetrating

dampness stiffening the body and the infinitely

colder fear paralysing the mind memories were

everything. They helped mute the sharp reports of

small-arms fire, which were gratuitously explained in

the mornings as necessary executions of the unco-

operative and unrepentant. Or they blocked out the

distant screams in the dark, of even more

unfortunate prisoners forced to play games, too

obscene to describe, demanded by their captors in

search of amusement.

    Like most men kept isolated for the greater part

of their imprisonment, Converse had examined and

reexamined every stage of his life, trying to

understand . . . to like . . . the cohesive whole. There

was much that he did not understand or like but

he could live with the product of those intensive

investigations. Die with it, if he had to; that was the

peace he had to reach for himself. Without it the

fear was intolerable.

    And because these self-examinations went on

night after night and required the discipline of

accuracy, Converse found it easier than most men to

remember whole segments of his life. Like a

spinning disk attached to a computer that suddenly

stops, his mind, given only basic information, could

isolate a place or a person or a name. Repetition

had simplified and accelerated the process, and that

was what bewildered him now. Unless Halliday was

referring to a time so far back as to have been only

a brief, forgotten childhood acquaintance, no one of

that name belonged to his past.

    It'll tee good to see you again, JoeL Were the

words a ruse, a lawyer's trick?

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 7

    Converse rounded the corner, the brass railing of

Le Chat Botte glistening, hurling back tiny explosions

of sunlight. The boulevard was alive with gleaming

small cars and spotless buses; the pavements were

washed clean, the strollers in various stages of

hurried but orderly progress. Morning was a time for

benign energy in Geneva. Even the newspapers

above the tables in the sidewalk cafes were snapped

with precision, not crushed or mutilated into legible

positio~And vehicles and pedestrians were not at

war; combat was supplanted by looks and nods, stops

and gestures of acknowledgment. As Joel walked

through the open brass gate of Le Chat Botte he

wondered briefly if Geneva could export its mornings

to New York. But then the City Council would vote

the import down, he concluded the citizens of New

York could not stand the civility.

    A newspaper was snapped directly below him on

his left, and when it was lowered Converse saw a

face he knew. It was a coordinated face, not unlike

his own, the features compatible and in place. The

hair was straight and dark, neatly parted and

brushed, the nose sharp, above well-defined lips. The

face belonged to his past, thought Joel, but the name

he remembered did not belong to the face.

    The familiar-looking man raised his head; their

eyes met and A. Preston Halliday rose, his short

compact body obviously muscular under the

expensive suit.

    "Joel, how are you?" said the now familiar voice,

a hand outstretched above the table.

    "Hello . . . Avery," replied Converse, staring,

awkwardly shifting his attache case to grip the hand.

"It is Avery, isn't it? Avery Fowler. Taft, early

sixties.. You never came back For the senior year,

and no one knew why; we all talked about it. You

were a wrestler."

    "Twice All New England," said the attorney,

laughing, gesturing at the chair across from his own.

"Sit down and we'll catch up. I guess it's sort of a

surprise for you. That's why I wanted us to meet

before the conference this morning. ~ mean, it'd be

a hell of a note for you to get up and scream

'Impostort' when I walked in, wouldn't it?"

    "I'm still not sure I won't." Converse sat down,

attache case at his feet, studying his legal opponent.

"What's this Halliday routine? Why didn't you say

something on the phone?"

"Oh, come on, what was I going to say? 'By the way,

old

8 ROBERT LUDLUM

sport, you used to know me as Tinkerbell Jones.'

You never would have showed up."

"Is Fowler in jail somewhere?"

    "He would have been if he hadn't blown his

head off," answered Halliday, not laughing.

"You're full of surprises. Are you a clone?"

"No, the son."

Converse paused. ' Maybe I should apologize."

    "No need to, you couldn't have known. It's why

I never came back for the senior year . . . and,

goddamn it, I wanted that trophy. I would have

been the only mat jock to win it three years in a

row."

    "I'm sorry. What happened . . . or is it privileged

information, counselor? I'll accept that."

    "Not for you, counselor. Remember when you

and I broke out to New Haven and picked up those

pigs at the bus station?"

'We said we were Yalies "

"And only got taken, never got laid."

"Our eyebrows were working overtime."

    "Preppies," said Halliday. "They wrote a book

about us. Are we really that emasculated?"

    "Reduced in stature, but we'll come back. We're

the last minority, so we'll end up getting sympathy....

What happened, Avery?"

    A waiter approached; the moment was broken.

Both men ordered American coffee and croissants,

no deviation from the accepted norm. The waiter

folded two red napkins into cones and placed one

in front of each.

    "What happened?" said Halliday quietly,

rhetorically, after the waiter left. "The beautiful son

of a bitch who was my father embezzled four

hundred thousand from the Chase Manhattan while

he was a trust officer, and when he was caught,

went bang. Who was to know a respected, if trans-

planted, commuter from Greenwich, Connecticut,

had two women in the city, one on the Upper East

Side, the other on Bank Street? He was beautiful."

"He was busy. I still don't understand the Halliday."

    After it happened the suicide was covered

up Mother raced back to San Francisco with a

vengeance. We were from California, you know . .

. but then, why would you? With even more

vengeance she married my stepfather, John

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 9

Halliday, and all traces of Fowler were assiduously

removed during the next few months."

'Even to your first name?"

    'No, I was always 'Press' back in San Francisco.

We Californians come up with catchy names. Tab,

Troy, Crotch the 1950's Beverly Hills syndrome. At

Taft, my student ID read 'Avery Preston Fowler,' so

you all just started calling me Avery or that awful

'Ave.' Being a transfer student, I never bothered to

say anything. When in Connecticut, follow the gospel

according to Holden Caulfield."

    "That's all well and good," said Converse, "but

what happens when you run into someone like me?

It's bound to happen."

    "You'd be surprised how rarely. After all it was

a long time ago, and the people I grew up with in

Caiifornia understood. Kids out there have their

names changed according to matrimonial whim, and

I was in the East for only a couple of years, just long

enough for the fourth and fifth forms at school. I

didn't know anyone in Greenwich to speak of, and I

was hardly part of the old Taft crowd."

"You had friends there. We were friends."

    "I didn't have many. Let's face it, I was an

outsider and you weren't particular. I kept a pretty

low profile."

"Not on the mats, you didn't."

    Halliday laughed. "Not very many wrestlers

become lawyers, something about mat burns on the

brain. Anyway, to answer your question, only maybe

five or six times over the past ten years has anyone

said to me, 'Hey, aren't you so-and-so and not

whatever you said your name was?' when somebody

did, I told them the truth. 'My mother remarried

when I was sixteen.' "

    The coffee and croissants arrived. Joel broke his

pastry in half. "And you thought I'd ask the question

at the wrong time, specifically when I saw you at the

conference. Is that it?"

    "Professional courtesy. I didn't want you dwelling

on it or me when you should be thinking about

your client. After all, we tried to lose our virginity

together that night in New Haven."

"Speak for yourself." Joel smiled.

    Halliday grinned. "We got pissed and both

admitted it don't you remember? Incidentally, we

swore each other to secrecy while throwing up in the

can."

10 ROBERT LUIlIUM

    "Just testing you, counselor.I remember. So you

left the gray-flannel crowd for orange shirts and

gold medallionsP"

    "All the way. Berkeley, then across the street to

Stanford."

"Good school.... How come the international field?"

    "I liked traveling and figured it was the best way

of paying for it. That's how it started, really. How

about you? I'd think you would have had all the

traveling you ever wanted."

    "I had delusions about the foreign service,

diplomatic corps, legal section. That's how it

started."

"After all that traveling you did?"

    Converse levered his pale blue eyes at Halliday,

conscious of the coldness in his look. It was

unavoidable, if misplaced as it usually was. "Yes,

after all that traveling. There were too many lies

and no one told us about them until it was too late.

We were conned and it shouldn't have happened."

    Halliday leaned forward, his elbows on the table,

hands clasped, his gaze returning Joel's. "I couldn't

figure it," he began softly. "When I read your name

in the papers, then saw you paraded on television,

I felt awful. I didn't really know you that well, but

I liked you."

    "It was a natural reaction. I'd have felt the same

way if it had been you."

    "I'm not sure you would. You see, I was one of

the honchos of the protest movement."

    "You burned your draft card while flaunting the

Yippie label," said Converse gently, the ice gone

from his eyes. "I wasn't that brave."

"Neither was 1. It was an out-of-state library card."

"I'm disappointed."

    "So was I in myself. But I was visible." Halliday

leaned back in his chair and reached for his coffee.

"How did you get so visible, Joel? I didn't think you

were the type."

"I wasn't. I was squeezed."

"I thought you said 'conned.'"

    "That came later." Converse raised his cup and

sipped his black coffee, uncomfortable with the

direction the conversation had taken. He did not

like discussing those years, and all too frequently he

was called upon to do so. They had made him out

to be someone he was not. "I was a sophomore at

Amherst and not much of a student.... Not much,

hell, I was borderline-negative, and whatever

deferment I had was

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 11

about to go down the tube. But I'd been Hying since

I was fourteen."

"I didn't know that," interrupted Halliday.

    'My father wasn't beautiful and he didn't have

the benefit of concubines, but he was an airline

pilot, later an executive for Pan Am. It was standard

in the Converse household to By before you got your

driver's license."

"Brothers and sisters?'

    "A younger sister. She soloed before I did and

she's never let me forget it."

"I remember. She was interviewed on television."

    "Only twice," Joel broke in, smiling. "She was on

your turf and didn't give a damn who knew it. The

White House bunker put the word out to stay away

from her. 'Don't tarnish the cause, and check her

mail while you're at it.'"

    "That's why I remember her," said Halliday. "So

a lousy student left college and the Navy gained a

hot pilot."

    "Not very hot, none of us was. There wasn't that

much to be hot against. Mostly we burned."

    "Still, you must have hated people like me back

in the States. Not your sister, of course."

    'Her, too," corrected Converse. "Hated, loathed,

despised furious. But only when someone was

killed, or went crazy in the camps. Not for what you

were saying we all knew Saigon but because you

said it without any real fear. You were safe, and you

made us feel like assholes. Dumb, frightened

assholes."

"I can understand that."

"So nice of you."

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean it the way it sounded."

"How did it sound, counselor?"

Halliday frowned. "Condescending, I guess."

"No guess," said Joel. "Right on."

"You're still angry."

    "Not at you, only the dredging. I hate the subject

and it keeps coming back up.''

    "Blame the Pentagon PR. For a while you were

a bona fide hero on the nightly news. What was it,

three escapes? On the first two you got caught and

put on the racks, but on the last one you made it all

by yourself, didn't you? You crawled through a

couple of hundred miles of enemy jungle before you

reached the lines."

"It was barely a hundred and I was goddamned

lucky.

12 ROBERT LUDLUM

With the first two tries I was responsible for killing

eight men. I'm not very proud of that. Can we get to

the Comm Tech-Bern business?"

    "Give me a few minutes," said Halliday, shoving

the croissant aside. "Please. I'm not trying to dredge.

There's a point in the back of my mind, if you'll

grant I've got a mind."

    "Preston Halliday has one, his rep confirms it.

You're a shark, if my colleagues are accurate. But

I knew someone named Avery, not Press."

    "Then it's Fowler talking, you re more

comfortable with him."

"What's the point?"

    "A couple of questions first. You see, I want to

be accurate because you ve got a reputation too.

They say you're one of the best on the international

scene, but the people I've talked to can't understand

why Joel Converse stays with a relatively small if

entrenched firm when he's good enough to get

flashier. Or even go out on his own."

"Are you hiring?"

    "Not me, I don't take partners. Courtesy of John

Halliday attorney-at-law, San Francisco."

    Converse looked at the second half of the

croissant and decided against it. "What was the

question, counselor?"

"Why are you where you're at?"

    "I'm paid well and literally run the department;

no one sits on my shoulder. Also I don't care to

take chances. There's a little matter of alimony,

amiable but demanding."

"Child support, too?"

"None, thank heavens."

    "What happened when you got out of the Navy?

How did you feel?" Halliday again leaned forward,

his elbow on the table, chin cupped in his hand the

inquisitive student. Or something else.

"Who are the people you've talked to?" asked

Converse.

    "Privileged information, for the moment,

counselor. Will you accept that?"

    Joel smiled. "You are a shark.... Okay, the gospel

according to Converse. I came back from that

disruption of my life wanting it all. Angry, to be

sure, but wanting everything. The nonstudent

became a scholar of sorts, and I'd be a liar if I

didn't admit to a fair amount of preferential

treatment. I went back to Amberst and raced

through two and a half years in three semesters and

a summer. Then Duke offered me an ac

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 13

celerated program and I went there, followed by

some specializations at Georgetown while I

interned."

"You interned in Washington?"

Converse nodded. "Yes."

"For whom?"

"Clifford's firm. '

    Halliday whistled softly, sitting back. "That's

golden territory, a passport to Blackstone's heaven as

well as the multinationals."

'1 told you I had preferential treatment."

    "Was that when you thought about the foreign

service? While you were at Ceorgetown? In

WashingtonP"

    Again Joel nodded, squinting as a passing flash of

sunlight bounced off a grille somewhere on the

lakefront boulevard. "Yes," he replied quietly.

"You could have had it," said Halliday.

    'They wanted me for the wrong reasons, all the

wrong reasons. When they realized I had a different

set of rules in mind, I couldn't get a twenty-cent tour

of the State Department. "

    "What about the Clifford firm? You were a hell

of an image, even for them." The Californian raised

his hands above the table, palms forward. 1 know, I

know. The wrong reasons."

    "Wrong numbers," insisted Converse. ' There

were forty-plus lawyers on the masthead and another

two hundred on the payroll. I'd have spent ten years

trying to find the men's room and another ten

getting the key. That wasn't what I was looking for.'

    What were you looking for?"

    "Pretty much what I've got. I told you, the

money's good and I run the international division.

The latter's just as important to me."

    'You couldn t have known that when you joined,"

objected Halliday.

    But I did. At least I had a fair indication. When

Talbot, Brooks and Simon as you put it, that small

but entrenched firm I'm with came to me, we

reached understanding. If after four or five years I

proved out, I'd take over for Brooks. He was the

overseas man and was getting tired of adjusting to all

those time zones." Again Converse paused.

'Apparently I proved out."

14 ROBERT LUDLUM

    ' And just as apparently somewhere along the

line you got married.

Joel leaned back in the chair. 'Is this necessary?"

"It's not even pertinent, but I'm intensely

interested."

"Why?"

    "It's a natural reaction," said Halliday, his eyes

amused. "I think you'd feel the same way if you

were me and I were you, and I'd gone through what

you went through."

"Shark dead ahead," mumbled Converse.

"You don't have to respond, of course, counselor."

    "I know, but oddly enough I don't mind. She's

taken her share of abuse because of that

what-l've-been-through business." Joel broke the

croissant but made no effort to remove it from the

plate. "Comfort, convenience, and a vague image of

stability," he said.

"I beg your pardon?"

    "Her words," continued Joel. "She said that I got

married so I'd have a place to go and someone to

fix the meals-and do the laundry, and eliminate the

irritating, time-consuming foolishness that goes with

finding someone to sleep with. Also by legitimising

her, I projected the. proper image.... 'And, Christ,

did I have to play the part' also her words."

"Were they true?"

    "I told you, when I came back I wanted it all and

she was part of it. Yes, they were true. Cook, maid,

laundress, bedmate, and an acceptable, attractive

appendage. She told me she could never figure out

the pecking order."

"She sounds like quite a girl."

"She was. She is."

"Do I discern a note of possible reconciliation?"

    "No way." Converse shook his head, a partial

smile on his lips but only a trace of humor in his

eyes. "She was also conned and it shouldn t have

happened. Anyway, I like my current status, I really

do. Some of us just weren't meant for a hearth and

roast turkey, even if we sometimes wish we were."

"It's not a bad life."

    "Are you into it?" asked Joel quickly so as to

shift the emphasis.

    "Right up with orthodontists and SAT scores.

Five kids and one wife. I wouldn t have it any other

way."

"But you travel a lot, don't your"

"We have great homecomings." Halliday again

leaned

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 15

forward, as if studying a witness. '~So you have no

real attachments now, no one to run back to.'

    ' Talbot, Brooks and Simon might find that

offensive. Also my father. Since Mother died we have

dinner once a week when he's not flying all over the

place, courtesy of a couple of lifetime passes."

"He still gets around a lot?"

    "One week he's in Copenhagen, the next in Hong

Kong. He enjoys himself; he keeps moving. He's

sixty-eight and spoiled rotten."

"I think I'd like him."

    Converse shrugged, again smiling. "You might

not. He thinks all lawyers are piss ants, me included.

He's the last of the white-scarved flyboys."

    "I'm sure I'd like him.... But outside of your

employers and your father, there are no shall we

say priority entanglements in your life."

    "If you mean women, there are several and we're

good friends, and I think this conversation has gone

about as far as it should go."

"I told you, I had a point," said Halliday.

    "Then why not get to it, counselor?

Interrogatories are over. "

    The Californian nodded. "All right, I will. The

people I spoke with wanted to know how free you

were to travel."

    "The answer is that I'm not. I've got a job and a

responsibility to the company I work for. Today's

Wednesday, we'll have the merger tied up by Friday,

I'll take the weekend off and be back on

Monday when I'm expected."

    "Suppose arrangements could be made that

Talbot Brooks and Simon found acceptable?"

"That's presumptuous."

"And you found very difficult to reject."

"That's preposterous."

    "Try me," said Halliday. "Five hundred thousand

for accepting on a best-efforts basis, one million if

you pull it off."

    "Now you're insane." A second flash of light

blinded Converse, this one remaining stationary

longer than the first. He raised his left hand to block

it from his eyes as he stared at the man he had once

known as Avery Fowler. "Also, ethics notwithstanding

because you haven't a damn thing to win this

morning, your timing smells. I don't like getting

offers even

16 ROBERT LUDLUM

crazy offers from attorneys I'm about to meet

across a table."

    "Two separate entities, and you're right, I don't

have a damn thing to win or lose. You and Aaron

did it all, and I'm so ethical, I'm billing the Swiss

only for my time minimum basis because no

expertise was called for. My recommendation this

morning will be to accept the package as it stands,

not even a comma changed. Where's the conflict?"

    "Where's the sanityP" asked Joel. '&To say

nothing of those arrangements Talbot, Brooks and

Simon will find acceptable. You're talking roughly

about two and a half top years of salary and bonuses

for nodding my head."

"Nod it," said Halliday. "We need you."

    " We? That's a new wrinkle, isn't it? I thought it

was they. They being the people you spoke with.

Spell it out, Press."

    A. Preston Halliday locked his eyes with Joules.

"I'm part of them, and something is happening that

shouldn't be happening. We want you to put a

company out of business. It's bad news and it's

dangerous. We'll give you all the tools we can."

"What company?"

    "The name wouldn't mean anything, it's not

registered. Let's call it a govermnent-in-exile.''

"A what2"

    "A group of like-minded men who are in the

process of building a portfolio of resources so

extensive it'll guarantee them influence where they

shouldn't have it authority where they shouldn't

have it."

"Where is that?"

    "In places this poor inept world can't afford.

They can do it because no one expects them to."

"You're pretty cryptic."

"I'm frightened. I know them."

    "But you have the tools to go after them," said

Converse. "I presume that means they're vulnerable."

    Haliday nodded. "We think they are. We have

some leads, but it'll take digging, piecing things

together. There's every reason to believe they've

broken laws, engaged in activities and transactions

prohibited by their respective governments."

    Joel was silent for a moment, studying the

Californian. "Governments?" he asked. "Plural?"

THE AQU1TAINE PROGRESSION 17

    "Yes." Halliday's voice dropped. "They're different

nationalities."

"But one company?" said Converse. "One

corporation?"

"In a manner of speaking, yes."

"How about a simple yes?"

"It's not that simple.'

    "I'll tell you what is," interrupted Joel. "You've

got leads so you go after the big bad wolves. I'm

currently and satisfactorily employed."

    Halliday paused, then spoke. "No, you're not," he

said softly.

    Again there was silence, each man appraising the

other. "What did you say?" asked Converse, his eyes

blue ice.

    "Your firm understands. You can have a leave of

absence."

    "You presumptuous son of a bitch! Who gave you

the right even to approach "

    "General George Marcus Delavane," Halliday

broke in. He delivered the name in a monotone.

    It was as if a bolt of lightning had streaked down

through the blinding sunlight burning Joel's eyes,

turning the ice into fire. Cracks of thunder followed,

exploding in his head.

    The pilots sat around the long rectangular table in

the wardroom, sipping coffee and staring down into the

brown liquid or up at the Bray no one caring to break

the silence. An hour ago they had been sweeping over

Pak Song, firing theearth, interdicting

theadvancingNorth Vietnamese battalions, giving vital

time to the regrouping ARVN and American troops who

soon would beunderbrutalsiege. They had completed the

strike and returned to the carrier all but one. They

had lost their commanding officer.. Lieutenant Senior

Grade Gordon Ramsey had been hit by a fluke rocket

that had winged out of its trajectory over the coastline

and zeroed in on Ramsey's fuselage; the explosion had

filled the jet streams, death at six hundred miles an

hour in the air, life erased in the blinking of an eye. A

severe weather front had followed hard upon the

squadron; there would be no more strikes,

perhapsforseveral days. There would be time to think

and that was not a pleasant thought

    "Lieutenant Converse. " said a sailor by the open

wardroom door.

'Yes?"

18 R08ERT LUDLUM

"The ca plain requests your presence in his quarters,

sir. " The invitation was so nicely phrased, mused Joel,

as he got out of his chair, acknowledging the comber

looks of those around the table. The request was

expected, but unwelcome. The promotion was an hotter

he would willingly forgo. It was not that he held

longevity or seniority or even age over his fellow pilots;

it was simply that he had been in the air longer than

anyone else and with that time came the experience

necessary for the leader of a squadron.

    As he climbed the narrow steps up toward the

bridge he saw the outlines of an immense army Cobra

helicopter in the distant sky stuttering its way toward

the carrier. In five minutes or so it would be hovering

over the threshold and lower itself to the pad; someone

from land was paying the Navy a visit.

    "It's a terrible loss, Converse, "said the captain,

standing over his charts table, shaking his head sadly.

"And a letter I hate like hell to write. God knows

they're never easy, but this one's more painful than

most."

"We all feel the same way, sir. "

    "I'm sure you do. " The pa plain nodded. 'I'm also

sure you know why you're here."

"Not specifically, sir. "

    "Ramsey said you were the best, and that means

you're taking over one of the Amok squadrons in the

South China Sea. " The telephone mng, interrupting

the carrier's senioroffeer. He picked it up. "Yes9"

    Whatfollowed was nothingJoel expected. The

captain at first frowned, then tensed the muscles of his

face, his eyes both alarmed and angry. "What?" he

exclaimed, raising his voice. "Was there any advance

notice anything in the radio roomy" There was a

pause, after which the captain slammed down the

phone, shouting, 'Jesus Christ!" He looked at Converse.

"It seems we have the dubious honor of an unan-

nounced visitation by Command-Saigon, and I do

mean visitation!"

"I'M return below, sir, " said Joel, starting to salute.

    "Not just yet, Lieutenant, "shot back the captain

quietly but f rally. "You are receiving your orders, and

as they affect the air operations of this ship, you'll hear

them through. At the least, we'll let Mad Marcus know

he's interfering with Navy business."

The next thirty seconds were taken up with the ritual of

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 19

command assignment, a senioro~ficer investing a

subordinate with new responsibilities. Suddenly there

was a sharp two-ra p knock the captain's door opened

and the tall, broad-shouldered general of the Army

George Marcus Delavane intruded, dominating the

room with the sheer force of his presence.

    "Captain?" said Delavane, saluting the ship's com-

manderfirst despite the Navy man's lesser rank. The

somewhat high-pitched voice was courteous, but not

the eyes; they were intensely hostile.

    "General, " replied the pa plain, saluting back along

with Converse. "Is this an unannounced inspection by

Command-Saigon?"

    "No, it's an urgently demanded conference between

you and me between Command-Saigon and one of its

lesser forces. "

    "I see, " said the four-striper, anger showing through

his calm. "At the moment I'm delivering urgent orders

to this man "

    "You saw fit to countermand mine!" Delavane

broke in vehemently.

    "General, this has been a sad and trying day, " said

the captain. "We lost one of our finest pilots barely an

hour ago "

    "Running away?"Again Delavane interru pled, the

tastelessness of his remark compounded by the nasal

pitch of his voice. "Was his goddamned tail shot off?"

    "For the record, I resent that!" said Converse,

unable to control himself "I'm replacing that man and

I resent what you just said General!"

"You? Who the hell are you?"

"Easy, Lieutenant. You're dismissed. "

    "I respectfully request to answer the general, sir!"

shouted Joel, in his anger refusing to move.

"You what, prissy flyboy?"

"My name is "

    "Forget it, I'm not interested!" Delavane whipped

his head back toward the ca plain. "What I want to

know is why you think you can disobey my orders the

orders from Command-Saigon!I called a strike

forfifteen hundred hours! You 'respectfully declined' to

implement that order!"

    "A weather front's moved in and you should know

it as well as I do. "

20 ROBERT LUDLUM

"My meteorologists say it's completely f gable!"

    "I suspect if you asked for that finding during a

Burma monsoon they'd deliver it"

"That's gross insubordination!"

    "This is my ship and military regulations are quite

clear as to who's in command here."

    "Do you want to connect me to your radio

room?l'll reach the Oval Of dice and we'll see just how

long you've got this ship!"

    "I'm sure you'll want to speak privately probably

over a scrambler. I'll have you escorted there."

    "Goddamn you, I've got four thousand

troops maybe twenty percent seasoned moving up

into Sector Five! We need a low-altitude combined

strike from land and sea and weal have it if I have to

get your ass out of here within the hour!And I can do

it, Captain!. . . We're over here to win, win, and win it

all! We don 't need sugarcoated Nellies hedging their

goddamned bets! Maybe you never heard it before, but

all war is a risk! You don 't win if you don 't risk, Ca

plain!"

    "I've been there, General. Common sense cuts

losses, and if you cut enough losses you can win the

next battle. "

    "I'm going to win this one, with or without you,

Blue Boy!"

    "I respectfuUy advise you to temper your language,

General. "

    "You what?" Delavane's face was contorted in fury,

his eyes the eyes of a savage wild animal. "You advise

me? You advise Command-Saigon! Well, you do

whatever you like Blue Boy in yoursatin pants but

the incursion up into the Tho Valley is on."

    "The Tho,"interrupted Converse. "That's the first leg

of the Pak Song route. We've hit it four times. I know

the terrain. "

"You know it9"shouted Delawne.

    "I do, but I take my orders from the commander

of this ship General. "

    "You prissy shit-kicker, you take orders from the

President of the United States!He's your commander in

chief7And I'll get those orders!"

    Delavane's face was inches from Joel's, the

maniacal expression challenging every nerve ending in

Joel 's body: hatred matched by loathing Barely

realising the words were

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 21

his, Converse spoke. "1, too, would advise the General

to be careful of his language."

"Why, shit-kicker? Has Blue Boy got this place wired?"

"Easy, Lieutenant! I said you were dismissed!"

    "You want me to watch my language, big fellawith

your little silver bar? No, sonny boy, you watch it, and

you read it! If that squadron of yours isn 't in the air at

fifteen hand red hours, I'll label this carrier the biggest

yellow streak in Southeast Asia! You got that,

satin-pantsed Blue Boy, third class?"

    Once moreloel replied, wondering as he spoke

where he found the audacity. "I don't know where you

come from, sir, but I sincerely hope we meet under

different circumstances sometime. I think you he a pig

"

"Insubordination!Also, I'd break your back."

"Dismissed, Lieutenant!"

    "No, Captain, you're wrong!" shouted the general.

"He may be the man to lead this strike, after all. Well,

what'll it be, Blue Boys? Airborne, or the President of

the United States or the label?"

    At 1520 hours Converse led the squadron off the

carrier deck. At 1538, as they headed at low altitude

into the weather, the f rst two casualties occurred over

the coastline; the wing planes were shot down f erg

deaths at six hundred miles an hour in the air. At

15461oel's right engine exploded, his altitude made the

direct hit easy. At 1546:30, unable to stabilise, Converse

ejected into the downpour of the storm clouds, his

parachute instantly swept into the vortex of the

conflicting winds. As he swung violently down toward

the earth, the straps digging into his flesh with each

whipping buffet, one image kept repeating its presence

within the darkness. The maniacal face of General

George Marcus Delavane. He was about to begin an

indeterminate stay in hell, courtesy of a madman. And

as he later learned, the losses were ink nitely greater on

the ground.

    Delavane! The Butcher of Danang and Pleiku.

Waster of thousands, throwing battalion after

battalion into the jungles and the hills with neither

adequate training nor sufficient firepower. Wounded,

frightened children had been marched into the

camps, bewildered, trying not to weep and, finally

understanding, weeping out of control. The stories

they told were a thousand variations on the same

sickening theme. Inexperi

22 ROBERT LUDLUM

enced,untried troops had been sent into battle

within days after disembarkation; the weight of

sheer numbers was expected to vanquish the often

unseen enemy. And when the numbers did not

work, more numbers were sent. For three years

command headquarters listened to a maniac.

Delavane! The warlord of Saigon, fabricator of body

counts, with no acknowledgment of blown-apart

faces and severed limbs, liar and extoller of death

without a cause! A man who had proved, finally, to

be too lethal even for the Pentagon zealots a

zealot who had outdistanced his own, in the end

revolting his own. He had been recalled and

retired only to write diatribes read by fanatics who

fed their own personal furies.

    Men like that can't be allowed anymore, don 't you

understand? He was the enemy, Otis enemy! Those

had been Converse's own words, shouted in a fever

of outrage before a panel of uniformed questioners

who had looked at each other avoiding him, not

wanting to respond to those words. They had

thanked him perfunctorily, told him that the nation

awed him and thousands like him a great debt, and

with regard to his final comments he should try to

understand that there were often many sides to an

issue, and that the complex execution of command

frequently was not what it appeared to be. In any

event, the President had called upon the nation to

bind its wounds; what good was served by fueling

old controversies? And then the final kicker, the

threat.

    "You yourself briefly assumed the terrible

responsibility of leadership, Lieutenant," said a

pale-faced Navy lawyer, barely glancing at Joel, his

eyes scanning the pages of a file folder. "Before you

made your final and successful escape by yourself,

from a pit in the ground away from the main

camp you led two previous attempts involving a

total of seventeen prisoners of war. Fortunately you

survived, but eight men did not. I'm sure that you,

as their leader, their tactician, never anticipated a

casualty risk of nearly fifty percent. It's been said

often, but perhaps not often enough: command is

awesome, Lieutenant."

    Translation: Don't join the freaks, soldier. You

survived, but eight were killed. Were there

circumstances the military is not aware of, tactics that

protected some more than others, one more than

others: One man who managed to break out by

himself eluding guards that shot on sight prisoners on

the loose at night? Merely to raise the question by

mOpening a specific file will produce a stigma that

willfollow you

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 23

for the rest of your life. Back oft; soldier. We've got you

by simply raising a question we all know should not be

raised, but we'll do it because we've taken enough }yak.

We'll cut it off wherever we can. Be ha ppy you

survived and got out. Now, get out.

    At that moment, Converse had been as close to

consciously throwing away his life as he would ever

have thought possible. Physically assaulting that

panel of sanctimonious hypocrites had not been out

of the question, until he studied the face of each

man, his peripheral gaze taking in rows of tunic

ribbons, battle stars on most. Then a strange thing

had happened: disgust, revulsion and

compassion swept over him. These were panicked

men, a number having committed their lives to their

country's practice of war . . . only to have been

conned, as he had been conned. If to protect what

was decent meant protecting the worst, who was to

say they were wrong? Where were the saints? Or the

sinners? Could there be any of either when all were

victims?

    Disgust, however, won out. Lieutenant Joel

Converse, USNR, could not bring himself to give a

final salute to that council of his superiors. In

silence, he had turned, with no military bearing

whatsoever, and walked out of the room as if he had

pointedly spat on the Hoor.

    A flash of light again from the boulevard, a

blinding echo of the sun from the Quai du Mont

Blanc. He was in Geneva, not in a North Vietnamese

camp holding children who vomited while telling

their stories, or in San Diego being separated from

the United States Navy. He was in Geneva, and the

man sitting across the table knew everything he was

thinking and feeling.

"Why me?" whispered Joel.

    "Because, as they say," said Halliday, "you could

be motivated. That's the simple answer. A story was

told. The captain of your aircraft carrier refused to

put his planes in the air for the strike that Delavane

demanded. Several storms had moved in; he called

it suicidal. But Delavane forced him to, threatened

to call the macho White House and have the captain

stripped of his command. You led that strike. It's

where you got it."

    "I'm alive," said Converse Hatly. "Twelve hundred

kids never saw the next day and maybe a thousand

more wished they never had."

24 ROBERT LUDLUM

    "And you were in the captain's quarters when

Mad Marcus Delavane made his threats and called

the shots."

    "I was there," agreed Converse, no comment in

his voice. Then he shook his head in bewilderment.

'Everything I told you about myself you've heard

it before."

    "Read it before," corrected the lawyer from

California. "Like you and I think we're the best in

the business under fifty I don't put a hell of a lot

of stock in the written word. I have to hear a voice,

or see a face."

"I didn't answer you."

"You didn't have to."

    "But you have to answer me now. You're not

here for Comm Tech-Bern, are you?"

    ''Yes, that part's true," said Halliday. "Only the

Swiss didn't come to me, I went to them. I've been

watching you, waiting for the moment. It had to be

the right one, perfectly natural, geographically

logical."

"Why? What do you mean?"

    "Because I'm being watched.... Rosen did have a

stroke. I heard about it, contacted Bern, and made

a plausible case for myself."

"Your reputation was enough."

    "It helped, but I needed more. I said we knew

each other, that we went way back which God

knows was true and as much as I respected you, I

implied that you were extremely astute with finals,

and that I was familiar with your methods. I also put

my price high enough."

    "An irresistible combination for the Swiss," said

Converse.

"I'm glad you approve."

    "But I don't," contradicted Joel. "I don't approve

of you at all, least of all your methods. You haven't

told me anything, just made cryptic remarks about

an unidentified group of people you say are

dangerous, and brought up the name of a man you

knew would provoke a response. Maybe you're just

a freak, after all, still pushing that safe Yippee

label."

    "Calling someone a 'freak' is subjectively

prejudicial in the extreme, counselor, and would be

stricken from the record."

    "Still, the point's been made with the jury,

lawyer-man," said Converse quietly but with anger.

"And I'm making it now."

"Don't prejudge the safety," continued Halliday in a

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 25

voice that was equally quiet. "I'm not safe, and

outside of a proclivity for cowardice, there's a wife

and five children back in San Francisco I care deeply

about."

    "So you come to me because I have no

such what was it? priority entanglements?"

    "I came to you because you're invisible, you're

not involved, and because you're the best, and I can't

do ill legally can't do it, and it's got to be done

legally."

    ' Why don't you say what you mean?" demanded

Converse. "Because if you don't I'm getting up and

we'll see each other later across a table."

    "I represented Delavane," said Halliday quickly.

"God help me I didn't know what I was doing, and

very few people approved, but I made a point we

used to make all the time. Unpopular causes and

people also deserve representation."

"I can't argue with that."

"You don't know the cause. I do. I found out."

'What cause?"

    Halliday leaned forward. "The generals," he said,

his voice barely audible. "They're coming back."

    Joel looked closely at the Californian. "From

where? I didn't know they'd been away."

"From the past," said Halliday. "From years ago."

    Converse sat back in the chair, now amused.

"Good Lord, I thought your kind were extinct. Are

you talking about the Pentagon menace, Press it is

'Press,' isn't it? The San Francisco short-form, or was

it from Haight-Ashbury, or the Beverly Hills

something or other? You're a little behind the times;

you already stormed the Presidio."

"Please, don't make jokes. I'm not joking."

    "Of course not. It's Seven Days in May, or is it

Five Days in August? It's August now, so let's call it

The Old-Time Guns of August. Nice ring, I think."

    "Stop ill There's nothing remotely funny, and if

there were, I'd find it before you did."

"That's a comment, I suppose," said.Joel.

    "You're goddamned right it is, because I didn't go

through what you went through. I stayed out of it, I

wasn't conned, and that means I can laugh at fanatics

because they never hurt me, and I still think it's the

best ammunition against them. But not now. There's

nothing to laugh at nowl"

    "Permit me a small chuckle," said Converse

without smiling. "Even in my most paranoid moments

I never subscribed

26 ROBERT LUDLUM

to the conspiracy theory that has the military

running Washington. It couldn't happen."

    "It might be less apparent than in other

countries, but that's all I'll grant you."

"What does that mean?"

    "It would undoubtedly be much more obvious in

Israel, certainly in Johannesburg, quite possibly in

France and Bonn, even the UK none of them

takes its pretences that seriously. But I suppose

you've got a point. Washington will drape the

conshtubonal robes around itself until they become

threadbare and fall away revealing a uniform,

incidentally."

    Joel stared at the face in front of him. You're

not joking, are you? And you're too bright to try to

snow me."

    "Or con you," added Halliday. "Not after that

label I wore while watching you in pajamas halfway

across the world. I couldn't do it."

    "I think I believe you.... You menhoned several

countries, specific countries. Some aren't speaking,

others barely; a few have bad blood and worse

memories. On purpose?"

    "Yes," nodded the Californian. "It doesn't make

any difference because the group I'm talking about

thinks it has a cause that will ultimately unite them

all. And run them all their way."

"The generals?"

    "And admirals, and brigadiers, and field

marshals old soldiers who pitched their tents in the

right camp. So far right there's been no label since

the Reichstag."

    "Come on, Avery!" Converse shook his head in

exasperabon. "A bunch of tired old warhorses "

    "Recruiting and indoctrinating young, hard,

capable new commanders," interrupted Halliday.

    " coughing their last bellows." Joel stopped.

"Have you proof of that?" he asked, each word

spoken slowly.

    "Not enough . . . but with some digging . . .

maybe enough."

"Goddamn it, stop being elliptical."

    "Among the possible recruits, twenty or so

names at the State Department and the Pentagon,"

said Halliday. "Men who clear export licenses and

who spend millions upon millions because they're

allowed to spend it, all of which, naturally, widens

any circle of friends."

    "And influence," stated Converse. "What about

London, Paris, and Bonn Johannesburg and Tel

Aviv?"

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 27

"Again names."

"How firm?"

    They were there, l saw them myself. It was an

accident. How many have taken an oath I don't

know, but they were there, and their stripes fit the

philosophical pattern."

' The Reichstag?"

    More encompassing. A global Third Reich. All

they need is a Hitler."

Where does Delavane fit in?"

He may anoint one. He may designate the Fuhrer."

That's ridiculous. Who'd take him seriously?"

He was taken seriously before. You saw the results."

    That was then, not now. You're not answering

the question."

    - Men who thought he was right before, and don't

fool yourself, they're out there by the thousands.

What's mind-blowing is that there are a few dozen

with enough seed money to finance his and their

delusions which, of course, they don't see as

delusions at all, only as the proper evolution of

current history, all other ideologies having failed

miserably."

    Joel started to speak, then stopped, his thoughts

suddenly altered. 'Why haven't you gone to someone

who can stop them? Stop him."

Who?"

    "I shouldn't have to tell you that. Any number of

people in the government elected and

appointed and more than a dozen departments. For

starters, there's Justice."

    "I'd be laughed out of Washington," said Halliday.

"Beyond the fact that we have no proof as I told you,

just names, suppositions don't forget that Yippie

label I once wore. They'd pin it on me again and tell

me to get lost."

"But you represented Delavane."

    "Which only compounds the problem by

introducing the legal aspects. I shouldn't have to tell

you that."

    "The lawyer-client relationship." Converse nodded.

"You're in a morass before you can make a charge.

Unless you've got hard evidence against your client,

proof that he's going to commit further crimes and

that you're aiding the commission of those crimes by

keeping silent."

' Which proof I don't have," interrupted the

Californian.

    "Then no one will touch you," added Joel.

"Especially ambitious lawyers at Justice; they don't

want their postgov

28 ROBERT LUDIUM

ernment avenues cut off. As you say, the Delavanes

of this world have their constituencies."

    "Exactly,' agreed Halliday. "And when I began

asking questions and tried to reach Delavane, he

wouldn't see me or talk to me. Instead, I got a

letter telling me I was fired, that if he had known

what I was he never would have retained me.

'Smoking dope and screaming curses while brave

young men answered their country's call.'"

    Converse whistled softly. "And you think you

weren't connedP You provide legal services for him,

a structure he can use for all intents and purposes

within the law, and if anything smells, you're the last

person who can blow the whistle. He drapes the old

soldier's flag around himself and calls you a vin-

dictive freak."

    Halliday nodded. "There was a lot more in that

letter nothing that could damage me except where

he was concerned, but it was brutal."

    "I'm certain of it.' Converse took out a pack of

cigarettes; he held it forward as Halliday shook his

head. "How did you represent him?" asked Joel.

    "I set up a corporation, a small consulting firm

in Palo Alto specialising in imports and exports.

What's allowed, what isn't, what the quotas are, and

how to legitimately reach the people in D.C. who

will listen to your case. Essentially it was a lobbying

effort, trading in on a name, if anyone remembered.

At the time, it struck me as kind of pathetic."

    "I thought you said it wasn't registered,"

remarked Converse, lighting a cigarette.

"It's not the one we're after. It'd be a waste of

time."

    "But it's where you first got your information,

isn't it? Your leads?"

    '4That was the accident, and it won't happen

again. It's so legitimate it's legal Clorox."

    "Still it's a front," -insisted Joel. "It has to be if

everything or anything you've said is true."

    "It's true, and it is. But nothing's written down.

It's an instrument for travel, an excuse for Delavane

and the men around him to go from one place to

another, carrying on legitimate business. But while

they're in a given area, they do their real thing."

    "The gathering of the generals and the field

marshals?" said Converse.

THE AOUITAINE PROGRESSION 29

    "We think it's a spreading missionary operation.

Very quiet and very intense."

"What's the name of Delavane's firm?"

"Palo Alto International."

    Joel suddenly crushed out his cigarette. "Who's

we, Avery? Who's putting up this kind of money

when amounts like that mean they're people who can

reach anyone they want to in Washington?"

"Are you interested?"

    "Not in working for someone I don't know or

approve of. No, I'm not."

    "Do you approve of the objectives as I've outlined

them to you?"

    "If what you've told me is true, and I can't think

of any reason why you'd lie about it, of course I do.

You knew I would. That still doesn't answer my

question."

    "Suppose," went on Halliday rapidly, "I were to

give you a letter stating that the sum of five hundred

thousand dollars to be allocated to you from a blind

account on the island of Nfykonos was provided by

a client of mine whose character and reputation are

of the highest order. That his "

"Wait a minute, Press," Converse broke in harshly.

    "Please don't interrupt me, Please!" Halliday's

eyes were riveted on Joel, a manic intensity in his

stare. "There's no other way, not now. I'll put my

name my professional life on the line. You've been

hired to do confidential work within your

specialisation by a man known to me to be an

outstanding citizen who insists on anonymity. I

endorse both the man and the work he's asked you

to do, and swear not only to the legality of the

objectives but to the extraordinary benefits that

would be derived by any success you might have.

You're covered, you've got five hundred thousand

dollars, and I expect just as important to you,

perhaps more so, you have the chance to stop a

maniac maniacs from carrying out an unthinkable

plan. At the least, they'd create widespread unrest,

political crises everywhere, enormous suffering. At

the worst, they might change the course of history to

the point where there wouldn't be any history."

    Converse sat rigid in his chair, his gaze unbroken.

"That's quite a speech. Practice it long?"

    "No, you son of a bitch! It wasn't necessary to

practice. Any more than you rehearsed that little

explosion of yours twelve years ago in San Diego.

'Men like that can't be allowed

30 ROBERT [UDLUM

anymore, don't you understand? He was the enemy,

our enemy?' . . . Those were the words, weren't

they?"

    ' You did your homework, counselor," said Joel,

his anger controlled. "Why does your client insist on

being anonymous? Why doesn't he take his money,

make a political contribution, and talk to the

director of the CIA, or the National Security

Council, or the White House, any of which he could

do easily? A half-million dollars isn't chopped

chicken liver even today."

    "Because he can't be involved officially in any

way whatsoever." Halliday frowned as he expelled

his breath. "I know it sounds crazy, but that's the

way it is. He is an outstanding man and I went to

him because I was cornered. Frankly, I thought he'd

pick up the phone and do what you just said. Call

the White House, if it came to it, but he wanted to

go this route."

"With me?"

    "Sorry, he didn't know you. He said a strange

thing to me. He told me to find someone to shoot

down the bastards without giving them the dignity of

the government's concern, even its recognition. At

first I couldn't understand, but then I did. It fit in

with my own theory that laughing at the Delavanes

of this world renders them impotent more

thoroughly than any other way."

    "It also eliminates the specter of martyrdom,"

added Converse. "Why would this outstanding

citizen do what he's doing? Why is it worth the

money to him?"

"If I told you, I'd be breaking the confidence."

"I didn't ask you his name. I want to know why."

    "By telling you," said the Califomian, "you'd

know who he is. I can't do that. Take my word for

it, you'd approve of him."

    "Next question," said Joel, a sharp edge to his

voice. "Just what the hell did you say to Talbot,

Brooks that they found so acceptable?"

    "Resigned to finding it acceptable," corrected

Halliday. "I had help. Do you know Judge Lucas

Anstett?"

    "Second Circuit Court," said Converse, nodding.

"He should have been tapped for the Supreme

Court years ago."

    "That seems to be the consensus. He's also a

friend of my client, and as I understand it, he met

with John Talbot and Nathan Simon Brooks was

out of town and without revealing my client's

name, told them there was a problem that might

well erupt into a national crisis if immediate legal

ac

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 31

tion wasn't taken. Several U.S. firms were involved,

he explained, but the problem basically lay in

Europe and required the talents of an experienced

international lawyer. If their junior partner, Joel

Converse, was selected and he accepted, would they

consent to a leave of absence so he could pursue the

matter on a confidential basis? Naturally, the judge

strongly endorsed the project."

    "And naturally Talbot and Simon went along,"

said Joel. 'You don't refuse Anstett. He's too

damned reasonable, to say nothing of the power of

his court."

"I don't think he'd use that lever."

"It's there."

    Halliday reached into his jacket pocket and took

out a long white business envelope. "Here's the

letter. It spells out everything I said. There's also a

separate page defining the schedule in Mykonos.

Once you make arrangements at the bank how you

want the money paid or where you want it

transferred you'll be given the name of a man who

lives on the island; he's retired. Phone him; he'll tell

you when and where to meet. He has all the tools

we can give you. The names, the connections as we

think they are, and the activities they're most likely

engaged in that violate the laws of their respective

governments sending arms, equipment, and

technological information where it shouldn't be sent.

Build just two or three cases that are tied to

Delavanc -even circumstantially and it'll be enough.

We'll turn it all into ridicule. It will be enough."

    "Where the hey do you get your nerve?" said

Converse angrily. "I haven't agreed to anything! You

don't make decisions for me, and neither does

Talbot or Simon, nor the holy Judge Anstett, nor

your goddamned client! What did you think you

were doing? Appraising me like a piece of horse-

flesh, making arrangements about me behind my

back! Who do you people think you are?"

    "Concerned people who think we've found the

right man for the right job at the right time," said

Halliday, dropping the envelope in front of Joel.

"Only there's not that much time left. You've been

where they want to take us and you know what it's

like." Suddenly the Californian got up. "Think about

it. We'll talk later. By the way, the Swiss know we

were meeting this morning. If anyone asks what we

talked about, tell them I agreed to the final

disposition of the Class A stock. It's in our favor

even though you may think otherwise. Thanks

32 ROBERT LUDLUM

for the coffee. I'll be across the table in an hour. It's

good to see you again, Joel."

    The Californian walked swiftly into the aisle and

out through the brass gate of the Chat Botte into

the sunlight of the Quai du Mont Blanc.

    The telephone console was built into the far end

of a long dark conference table. Its muted hum was

in keeping with the dignified surroundings. The

Swiss arbitre, the legal representative of the canton

of Geneva, picked it up and spoke softly, nodding

his head twice, then replaced the phone in its cradle.

He looked around the table; seven of the eight

attorneys were in their chairs talking quietly with

one another. The eighth, Joel Converse, stood in

front of an enormous window flanked by drapes and

overlooking the Quai Gustave Ador. The giant jet

d'eau erupted beyond, its pulsating spray cascading

to the left under the force of a north wind. The sky

was growing dark; a summer storm was on its way

from the Alps.

    "Messieurs, " said the arbiter Conversations trailed

off as faces were turned to the Swiss. "That was

Monsieur Halliday. He has been detained, but urges

you to proceed. His associate, Monsieur Rogeteau,

has his recommendations, and it is understood that

he met with Monsieur Converse earlier this morning

to resolve one of the last details. Is that not so,

Monsieur Converse?"

    Heads turned again, now in the opposite

direction toward the figure by the window. There

was no response. Converse continued to stare down

at the lake.

"Monsieur Converse?"

    "I beg your pardon?" Joel turned, a frown

creasing his brow, his thoughts far away, nowhere

near Geneva.

"It is so, monsieur?"

"What was the question?"

"You met earlier with Monsieur Halliday?"

Converse paused. "It is so," he replied.

"And 9"

    "And he agreed to the final disposition of the

Class A stock."

    There was an audible expression of relief on the

part of the Americans and a silent acceptance from

the Bern contingent, their eyes noncommittal.

Neither reaction was lost on Joel, and under

different circumstances he might have tabled

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 33

the item for additional consideration. Halliday's

judgment of Bern's advantage notwithstanding, the

acceptance was too easily achieved; he would have

postponed it anyway, at least for an hour's worth of

analysis. Somehow it did not matter. Goddamn him!

thought Converse.

    "Then let us proceed as Monsieur Halliday

suggested," said the arbitre, glancing at his watch.

    An hour stretched into two, then three, the hum

of voices mingling in counterpoint as pages were

passed back and forth, points clarified, paragraphs

initiated. And still Halliday did not appear. Lamps

were turned on as darkness filled the midday sky

outside the huge windows; there was talk of the

approaching storm.

    Then, suddenly, screams came from beyond the

thick oak door of the conference room, swelling in

volume until images of horror filled the minds of all

who heard the prolonged terrible sounds. Some

around the enormous table lunged under it, others

got out of their chairs and stood in shock, and a few

rushed to the door, among them Converse. The

arbiter twisted the knob and yanked it back with such

force that the door crashed into the wall. What they

saw was a sight none of them would ever forget. Joel

lashed out, gripping, pulling, pushing away those in

front of him as he raced into the anteroom.

    He saw Avery Fowler, his white shirt covered

with blood, his chest a mass of tiny, bleeding holes.

As the wounded man fell, his upturned collar

separated to reveal more blood on his throat. The

expulsions of breath were too well known to Joel; he

had held the heads of children in the camps as they

had wept in anger and the ultimate fear. He held

Avery Fowler's head now, lowering him to the floor.

    "My God, what ha Opened ?" cried Converse,

cradling the dying man in his arms.

    "They're . . . back," coughed the classmate from

long ago. "The elevator. They trapped me in the

elevator! . . . They said it was for Aquitaine, that was

the name they used . . . Aquitaine. Oh, Christ! Meg

. . . the kids!" Avery Fowler's head twisted spastically

into his right shoulder, then the final expulsion of air

came from his bloodied throat.

    Converse stood in the rain, his clothes drenched,

staring at the unseen place on the water where only

an hour ago the

34 ROBERT LUDLUM

fountain had shot up to the sky proclaiming this was

Geneva. The lake was angry, an infinity of whitecaps

had replaced the graceful white sails. There were no

reflections anywhere. But there was distant thunder

from the north. From the Alps.

And Joel's mind was frozen.

    He walked past the long marble counter of the

hotel Richemond's front desk and headed for the

winding staircase on the left. It was habit; his suite

was on the second Hoor and the brass-grilled

elevators with their wine-colored velvet interiors

were things of beauty, but not of swiftness. Too, he

enjoyed passing the casement displays of

outrageously priced brilliantly lit jewels that lined

the walls of the elegant staircase shimmering

diamonds, blood-red rubies, webbed necklaces of

spun gold. Somehow they reminded him of change,

of extraordinary change. For him. For a life he had

thought would end violently, thousands of miles

away in a dozen different yet always the same

rat-infested cells, with muted gunfire and the

screams of children in the dark distance. Diamonds,

rubies, and spun gold were symbols of the

unattainable and unrealistic, but they were there,

and he passed them, observed them, smiling at their

existence . . . and they seemed to acknowledge him,

large shining eyes of infinite depth staring back,

telling him they were there, he was there. Change.

    But he did not see them now, nor did they

acknowledge him. He saw nothing, felt nothing;

every tentacle of his mind and body was numbed,

suspended in airless space. A man he had known as

a boy under one name had died in his arms years

later under another, and the words he had

whispered at the brutal moment of death were as

incomprehensible as they were paralysing. Aquitaine.

They said it was for Aquitaine.... Where was sanity,

where was reason? What did the words mean and

why had he been drawn into that elusive meaning?

He had been drawn in, he knew, and there was

rea

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 35

son in that terrible manipulation. The magnet was a

name, a man. George Marcus Delavane, warlord of

Saigon.

    "Monsieur!" The suppressed shout came from

below; he turned on the stairs and saw the formally

attired concierge rushing across the lobby and up the

steps. The man's name was Henri, and they had

known each other for nearly five years. Their

friendship went beyond that of hotel executive and

hotel guest; they had gambled together frequently at

Divonne-les-bains, across the French border.

"Hello, Henri."

    "Mon Dieu, are you all right, Joel? Your office in

New York has been calling you repeatedly. I heard

it on the radio, it is all over Geneval La drogue!

Drugs, crime, guns . . . murder! It touches even us

now!"

"Is that what they say?"

    "They say small packages of cocaine were found

under his shirt, a respected avocat international a

suspected connection "

"It's a lie," Converse broke in.

    "It's what they say, what can I tell you? Your

name was mentioned; it was reported that he died as

you reached him. . . . You were not implicated, of

course; you were merely there with the others. I

heard your name and I've been worried sickl Where

have you beenk"

    "Answering a lot of unanswerable questions down

at police headquarters." Questions that were

answerable, but not by him, not to the authorities in

Geneva. Avery Fowler Preston Halliday deserved

better than that. A trust had been given, and been

accepted in death.

    "Christ, you're drenched!" cried Henri, intense

concern in his eyes. "You've been walking in the rain,

haven't you? There were no taxis?"

"I didn't look, I wanted to walk."

    "Of course, the shock, I understand. I'll send up

some brandy, some decent Armagnac. And dinner,

perhaps I'll release your table at the

Gentilshommes."

    "Thanks. Give me thirty minutes and have your

switchboard get New York for me, will you? I never

seem to dial it right."

"Joel?"

"What?"

    "Can I help? Is there something you should tell

me? We have won and lost together over too many

grand cry bottles

36 ROBERT LUDLUM

for you to go alone when you don't have to. I know

Geneva, my friend."

    Converse looked into the wide brown eyes, at

the lined face, rigid in its concern. "Why do you say

that?"

    "Because you so quickly denied the police

reports of coeaine, what else? I watched you. There

was more in what you said than what you said."

    Joel blinked, and for a moment shut his eyelids

tight, the strain in the middle of his forehead acute.

He took a deep breath and replied. "Do me a favor,

Henri, and don't speculate. Just get me an overseas

line in a half-hour, okay?"

    "Entendu, monsieur," said the Frenchman. "Le

concderge du R*hemond is here only to serve her

guests, special guests accorded special service, of

course.... I'm here if you need me, my friend."

"I know that. If I turn a wrong card, I'll let you

know."

    "If you have to turn any card in Switzerland, call

me. The suits vary with the players."

"I'll remember that. Thirty minutes? A line?"

"Certainement, monsieur."

    The shower was as hot as his skin could tolerate,

the steam filling his lungs, cutting short the breath

in his throat. He then forced himself to endure an

ice-cold spray until his head shivered. He reasoned

that the shock of extremes might clear his mind, at

least reduce the numbness. He had to think; he had

to decide; he had to listen.

    He came out of the bathroom, his white

terrycloth robe blotting the residue of the shower,

and shoved his feet into a pair of slippers on the

floor beside the bed. He removed his cigarettes and

lighter from the bureau top, and walked into the

sitting room. The concerned Henri had been true to

his word; on the coffee table a floor steward had

placed a bottle of expensive Armagnac and two

glasses for appearance, not function. He sat down

on the soft, pillowed couch, poured himself a drink,

and lighted a cigarette. Outside, the heavy August

rain pounded the casement windows, the tattoo

harsh and unrelenting. He looked at his watch; it

was a few minutes past six shortly past noon in

New York. Joel wondered if Henri had been able to

get a clear transatlantic line. The lawyer in Converse

wanted to hear the words spoken from New York,

words that would either confirm or deny a dead

man's revelation. It had been twenty-five minutes

since Henri had

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 37

stopped him on the staircase; he would wait another

five and call the switchboard.

    The telephone rang, the blaring, vibrating

European bell unnerving him. He reached for the

phone on the table next to the couch; his breath was

short and his hand trembled.

byes? Hello?'

    Chew York calling, monsieur," said the hotel

operator. "It's your office. Should I cancel the call

listed for six-fifteen?"

"Yes, please. And thank you."

    "Mr. Converse?" The intense, high-pitched voice

belonged to Lawrence Talbot's secretary.

    "Hello, Jane."

    "Good God, we've been trying to reach you since

ten o'clock! Are you all right? We heard the news

then, around ten. It's all so horrible!"

"I'm fine, Jane. Thanks for your concern."

"Mr. Talbot's beside himself. He can't believe it!"

    "Don't believe what they're saying about Halliday.

It's not true. May I speak with Larry, please?"

    "If he knew you were on the phone talking to me,

I'd be fired."

"No, you wouldn't. Who'd write his letters?"

    The secretary paused briefly, her voice calmer

when she spoke. "Oh, God, Joel, you're the end.

After what you've been through, you still find

something funny to say."

"It's easier, Jane. Let me have Bubba, will you?"

"You are the limit!"

    Lawrence Talbot, senior partner of Talbot,

Brooks and Simon, was a perfectly competent

attorney, but his rise in law was as much due to his

having been one of the few all-American football

players from Yale as from any prowess in the

courtroom. He was also a very decent human being

more of a coordinating coach than the driving force

of a conservative yet highly competitive law firm. He

was also eminently fair and fair-minded; he kept his

word. He was one of the reasons Joel had joined the

firm; another was Nathan Simon, a giant both of a

man and of an attorney. Converse had learned more

about the law from Nate Simon than from any other

lawyer or professor he had ever met. He felt closest

to Nathan, yet Simon was the most difficult to get

close to; one approached this uniquely private man

with equal parts of fondness and reserve.

38 ROBERT LUDLUM

    Lawrence Talbot burst over the phone. ' Good

Lord, I'm appalled! What can I say? What can I

do?"

    "To begin with, strike that horseshitabout

Halliday. He was no more a drug connection than

Nate Simon."

    "You haven't heard, then? They've backed off

on that. The story now is violent robbery; he

resisted and the packets were stuffed under his shirt

after they shot him. I think Jack Halliday must have

burned the wires from San Francisco, threatened to

beat the crap out of the whole Swiss government....

He played for Stanford, you know."

"You're too much, Bubba."

    "I never thought I'd enjoy hearing that from you,

young man. I do now."

    "Young man and not so young, Larry. Clear

something up for me, will you?"

"Whatever I can."

"Anstett. Lucas Anstett. '

    "We talked. Nathan and I listened, and he was

most persuasive. We understand."

"Do you?"

    "Not the particulars certainly; he wouldn't

elaborate. But we think you're the best in the field,

and granting his request wasn't difficult.. T., B. and

S. has the best, and when a judge like Anstett

confirms it through such a conversation, we have to

congratulate ourselves, don't we?"

"Are you doing it because of his bench?"

    "Christ, no. He even told us he'd be harder on

us in Appeals if we agreed. He's one rough cookie

when he wants something. He tells you you'd be

worse off if you give it to him."

"Did you believe him?"

    "Well, Nathan said something about billy goats

having certain identifiable markings that were not

removed without a great deal of squealing, so we

should go along. Nathan frequently obfuscates

issues, but goddamnit, Joel, he's usually right."

    "If you can take three hours to hear a

five-minute summation," said Converse.

"He's always thinking, young man."

"Young and not so young. Everything's relative."

"Your wife called.... Sorry, your ex-wife."

"Oh?"

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 39

    "Your name came up on the radio or television

or something, and she wanted to know what

happened."

"What did you tell her?"

    "That we were trying to reach you. We didn't

know any more than she did. She sounded very

upset."

    Call her and tell her I'm fine, will you, please?

Do you have the number?"

Jane does."

"I'll be leaving, then."

"On full pay," said Talbot from New York.

    "That's not necessary, Larry. I'm being given a

great deal of money, so save the bookkeeping. I'll be

back in three or four weeks."

    "I could do that, but I won't," said the senior

partner. "I know when I've got the best and I intend

to hold him. We'll bank it for you." Talbot paused,

then spoke quietly, urgently. "Joel, I have to ask you.

Did this thing a few hours ago have anything to do

with the Anstett business?"

    Converse gripped the telephone with such force

his wrist and fingers ached. "Nothing whatsoever,

Larry," he said. "There's no connection."

    Mykonos, the sun-drenched, whitewashed island

of the Cyclades, neighboring worshiper of Delos.

Since Barbarossa's conquest it had been host to

successive brigands of the sea who sailed on the

Meltemi winds Turks, Russians, Cypriots, finally

Greeks placed and displaced over the centuries, a

small landmass alternately honored and forgotten

until the arrival of sleek yachts and shining aircraft,

symbols of a different age. Low-slung

automobiles Porsches, Maseratis, ~Jaguars now

sped over the narrow roads past starch-white

windmills and alabaster churches; a new type of

inhabitant had joined the laconic, tradition-bound

residents who made their livings from the sea and

the shops. Free-spirited youths of all ages, with their

open shirts and tight pants, their sunburned skins

serving as foil for adornments of heavy gold, had

found a new playground. And ancient Mykonos, once

a major port to the proud Phoenicians, had become

the Saint-Tropez of the Aegean.

    Converse had taken the first Swissair flight out of

Geneva to Athens, and from there a smaller Olympic

plane to the island. Although he had lost an hour in

the time zones, it was barely four o'clock in the

afternoon when the airport taxi

40 ROBERT LUDLUM

crawled through the streets of the hot, blinding-white

harbor and pulled up in front of the smooth white

entrance of the bank. It was on the waterfront, and

the crowds of flowered shirts and wild print dresses,

and the sight of launches chopping over the gentle

waves toward the slips on the main pier, were proof

that the giant cruise ships far out in the harbor were

managed by knowledgeable men. Mykonos was a daz-

zling snare for tourists; money would be left on the

whitewashed island; the tavernas and the shops would

be full from early sunrise to burning twilight. The

oozo would flow and Greek fishermen's caps would

disappear from the shelves and appear on the swaying

heads of suburbanites from Crosse Point and Short

Hills. And when night came and the last efharisto and

paracalo had been awkwardly uttered by the visitors,

other games would begin the courtiers and

courtesans the beautiful, ageless, self-indulgent

children of the blue Aegean, would start to play.

Peals of laughter would be heard as drachmas were

counted and spent in amounts that would stagger

even those who had opulent suites on the highest

decks of the most luxurious ships. Where Geneva was

con-, trary, Mykonos was accommodating in ways

the long-ago

Turks might have envied.

    Joel had called the bank from the airport, not

knowing its business hours, but knowing the name of

the banker he was to contact. Kostas Laskaris greeted

him cautiously over the phone, making it clear that he

expected not only a passport that would clear a

spectrograph but the original letter from A. Preston

Halliday with his signature, said signature to be

subjected to a scanner, matching the signature the

bank had been provided by the deceased Mr. A.

Preston Halliday.

    "We hear he was killed in Geneva. It is most

unfortunate," Laskaris had said.

    "I'll tell his wife and children how your grief

overwhelms me."

    Converse paid the taxi and climbed the short

white steps of the entrance, carrying his suitcase and

attache case, grateful that the door was opened by a

uniformed guard whose appearance brought to mind

a long-forgotten photograph of a mad sultan who

whipped his harem's women in a courtyard when they

failed to arouse him.

    Kostas Laskaris was not at all whatJoel had

expected from the brief, disconcerting conversation

over the phone. He was a balding, pleasant-faced man

in his late fifties, with warm

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 41

dark eyes, and relatively fluent in English but

certainly not comfortable with the language. His first

words upon rising from his desk and indicating a

chair in front of it for Converse contradicted Joel's

previous impression.

    "I apologizefor what might have appeared as a

callous statement on my part regarding Mr. Halliday.

However, it ureas most unfortunate, and I don't

know how else to phrase it. And it is difficult, sir, to

grieve for a man one never knew."

"I was out of line. Forget it, please."

    "You are most kind, but I am afraid I cannot

forget the arrangements mandated by Mr. Halliday

and his associate here on Mykonos. I must have your

passport and the letter, if you please?"

    "Who is he?" asked Joel, reaching into his jacket

pocket for his passport billfold; it contained the

letter. "The associate, I mean."

    "You are an attorney, sir, and surely you are

aware that the information you desire cannot be

given to you until the barriers have been leaped, as

it were. At least, I think that's right."

    "It'll do. I just thought I'd try." He took out his

passport and the letter, handing them to the banker.

    Laskaris picked up his telephone and pressed a

button. He spoke in Greek and apparently asked for

someone. Within seconds the door opened and a

stunning bronzed, dark-haired woman entered and

walked gracefully over to the desk. She raised her

downcast eyes and glanced at Joel, who knew the

banker was watching him closely. A sign from

Converse, an other glance from him directed at

Laskaris and introduc tions would be forthcoming,

accommodation tacitly promised, and a conceivably

significant piece of information would be entered in

a banker's file. Joel offered no such sign; he wanted

no such entry. A man did not pick up half a million

dollars for nodding his head, and then look for a

bonus. It did not signify stability; it signified

something else.

    Inconsequential banter about flights, customs and

the general deterioration of travel covered the next

ten minutes, at which time his passport and the letter

were returned not by the striking, dark-haired

woman but by a young, balletic blond Adonis. The

pleasant-faced Laskaris was not missing a trick; he

was perfectly willing to supply one, whichever route

his wealthy visitor required.

Converse looked into the Greek's warm eyes, then

42 ROBERT LUDLUM

smiled, the smile developing into quiet laughter.

Laskaris smiled back and shrugged, dismissing the

beachboy.

    'I am chief manager of this branch, sir," he said

as the door closed, "but I do not set the policies for

the entire bank. This is, after all, Mykonos."

    "And a great deal of money passes through

here," added Joel. "Which one did you bet on?"

    "Neither," replied Laskaris, shaking his head.

"Only on exactly what you did. You'd be a fool

otherwise, and I do not think you are a fool. In

addition to being chief manager on the waterfront,

I am also an excellent judge of character."

"Is that why you were chosen as the intermediary?"

    "No, that is not the reason. I am a friend of Mr.

Halliday's associate here on the island. His name is

Beale, incidentally. Dr. Edward Beale.... You see,

everything is in order."

    "A doctor?" asked Converse, leaning forward

and accepting his passport and the letter. "He's a

doctor?"

    "Not a medical man, however," clarified

Laskaris. "He's a scholar, a retired professor of

history from the United States. He has an adequate

pension and he moved here from Rhodes several

months ago. A most interesting man, most

knowledgeable. I handle his financial affairs in

which he is not very knowledgeable, but still

interesting."" The banker smiled again, shrugging.

"I hope so," said Joel. "We have a great deal to

discuss..'

    "That is not my concern, sir. Shall we get to the

disposition of the funds? How and where would you

care to have them paid?"

    "A great deal in cash. I bought one of those

sensorized money belts in Geneva the batteries are

guaranteed for a year. If it's ripped off me, a tiny

siren goes off that splits your eardrums. I'd like

American currency for myself and the rest

transferred."

    "Those belts are effective, sir, but not if you are

unconscious, or if there is no one around to hear

them. Might I suggest traveler's checks?"

    "You could and you'd probably be right, but I

don't think so. I may not care to write out a

signature."

    "As you wish. The denominations for yourself,

please?" said Laskaris, pencil in hand, pad below.

"And where would you like the remainder to be

sent?"

    "Is it possible," asked Converse slowly, "to have

accounts set up not in my name but accessible to

me?"

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 43

    '&Of course, sir. Frankly, it is often standard in

Mykonos as well as in Crete, Rhodes, Athens,

Istanbul, and also much of Europe. A description is

wired, accompanied by words written out in your

handwriting another name, or numbers. One man

I knew used nursery rhymes. And then they are

matched. One must use a sophisticated bank, of

course."

'Of course. Name a few."

"Where?"

    "In London, Paris, Bonn maybe Tel Aviv," said

Joel, trying to remember Halliday's words.

    "Bonn is not easy; they are so inflexible. A wrong

apostrophe and they summon whomever they

consider their authorities.... Tel Aviv is simple;

money is as freewheeling and as serpentine as the

Knesset. London and Paris are standard and, of

course, their greed is overwhelming. You will be

heavily taxed for the transfers because they know you

will not make an issue over covert funds. Very

proper, very mercenary, and very much thievery."

"You know your banks, don't you?"

"I've had experience, sir. Now, as to the

disbursements?

    "I want a hundred thousand for myself nothing

larger than five-hundred-dollar bills. The rest you

can split up and tell me how I can get it if I need it."

    "It is not a difficult assignment, sir. Shall we start

writing names, or numbers or nursery rhymes?"

    "Numbers," said Converse. "I'm a lawyer. Names

and nursery rhymes are in dimensions I don't want to

think about right now."

    "As you wish," said the Greek, reaching for a pad.

'And here is Dr. Beale's telephone number. When

we have concluded our business, you may call

him or not, as you wish It is not my concern."

    Dr. Edward Beale, resident of Mykonos, spoke

over the telephone in measured words and the slow,

thoughtful cadence of a scholar. Nothing was rushed;

everything was deliberate.

    "There is a beach more rocks than beach, and

not frequented at night about seven kilometers

from the waterfront. Walk to it. Take the west road

along the coast until you see the lights of several

buoys riding the waves. Come down to the water's

edge. I'll find you."

* * *

44 ROBERT LUDLUM

    The night clouds sped by, propelled by

high-altitude winds, letting the moonlight penetrate

rapidly, sporadically, illuminating the desolate

stretch of beach that was the meeting ground. Far

out on the water, the red lamps of four buoys

bobbed up and down. Joel climbed over the rocks

and into the soft sand, making his way to the water's

edge; he could both see and hear the small waves

lapping forward and receding. He lit a cigarette,

assuming the flame would announce his presence. It

did; in moments a voice came out of the darkness

behind him, but the greeting was hardly what he ex-

pected from an elderly, retired scholar.

    "Stay where you are and don't move" was the

first command, spoken with quiet authority. "Put the

cigarette in your mouth and inhale, then raise your

arms and hold them straight out in front of you....

Good. Now smoke, I want to see the smoke."

    "Christ, I'm choking!" shouted Joel, coughing, as

the smoke, blown back by the ocean breeze, stung

his eyes. Then suddenly he felt the sharp, quick

movements of a hand stabbing about his clothes,

reaching across his chest and up and down his legs.

"What are you doing?" he cried, spitting the cigarette

out of his mouth involuntarily.

"You don't have a weapon," said the voice.

"Of course not!"

"I do. You may lower your arms and turn around

now."

    Converse spun, still coughing, and rubbed his

watery eyes. "You crazy son of a bitch!"

    "It's a dreadful habit, those cigarettes. I'd give

them up if I were you. Outside of the terrible things

they do to your body, now you see how they can be

used against you in other ways."

    Joel blinked and stared in front of him. The

pontificator was a slender, white-haired old man of

medium height, standing very erect in what looked

like a white canvas jacket and trousers. His

face what could be seen of it in the intermittent

moonlight was deeply lined, and there was a

partial smile on his lips. There was also a gun in his

hand, held in a firm grip, levered at Converse's

head. "You're Beale?" asked Joel. "Dr. Edward

Beale?"

"Yes. Are you calmed down now?"

"Considering the shock of your warm welcome, I

guess

"Good. I'll put this away, then." The scholar lowered

the

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 45

gun and knelt down on the sand next to a canvas

satchel. He shoved the weapon inside and stood up

again. "I'm sorry, but I had to be certain."

"Of what? Whether or not I was a commando?"

    "Halliday's dead. Could a substitute have been

sent in your place? Someone to deal with an old man

in Mykonos? If so, that person would most certainly

have had a gun."

"Why?"

    "Because he would have had no idea that I was

an old man. I might have been a commando."

    "You know, it's possible just possible that I

could have had a gun. Would you have blown my

goddamned head off?"

    'A respected attorney coming to the island for

the first time, passing through Geneva's airport

security? Where would you get it? Whom would you

know on Mykonos?"

    'Arrangements could have been made," protested

Converse with little conviction.

    "I've had you followed since you arrived. You

went directly to the bank, then to the Kouneni hotel,

where you sat in the garden and had a drink before

going to your room. Outside of the taxi driver, my

friend Kostas, the desk clerk, and the waiters in the

garden, you spoke to no one. As long as you were

Joel Converse I was safe."

    "For a product of an ivory tower, you sound more

like a hit man from Detroit."

    "I wasn't always in the academic world, but yes,

I've been cautious. I think we must all be very

cautious. With a George Marcus Delavane it's the

only sound strategy."

"Sound strategy?"

    "Approach, if you like." Beale reached between

the widely separated buttons of his jacket and

withdrew a folded sheet of paper. "Here are the

names," he said, handing it to Joel. "There are five

key figures in Delavane's operation over here. One

each from France, West Germany, Israel, South Af-

rica, and England. We've identified four the first

four but we can't find the Englishman."

"How did you get these?"

    "Originally from notes found among Delavane's

papers by Halliday when the general was his client."

    "That was the accident he mentioned, then? He

said it was an accident that wouldn't happen again."

    "I don't know what he told you, of course, but it

certainly was an accident. A faulty memory on

Delavane's part, an af

46 RORERT LUDIUM

flictionI can personally assure you touches the aging.

The general simply forgot he had a meeting with

Halliday, and when Preston arrived, his secretary let

him into the office so he could prepare papers for

Delavane, who was expected in a half hour or so.

Preston saw a file folder on the general's desk; he

knew that folder, knew it contained material he

could cross-check. Without thinking twice, he sat

down and began working. He found the names, and

knowing Delavane's recent itinerary in Europe and

Africa, everything suddenly began to fall into

place very ominously. For anyone politically aware,

those four names are frightening they dredge up

frightening memories."

"Did Delavane ever learn that he'd found them?"

    "In my judgment, he could never be certain.

Halliday wrote them down and left before the

general returned. But then Geneva tells us

something else, doesn't it?"

"That Delavane did find out," said Converse grimly.

    "Or he wasn't going to take any further chances,

especially if there was a schedule, and we're

convinced there is one. We're in the countdown

now."

"To what?"

    "From the pattern of their operations what we've

pieced together a prolonged series of massive,

orchestrated conflagrations designed to spin

governments out of control and destabilize them."

"That's a tall order. In what way?"

    "Guesswork," said the scholar, frowning.

"Probably widespread, coordinated eruptions of

violence led by terrorists everywhere terrorists

fueled by Delavane and his people. When the chaos

becomes intolerable, it would be their excuse to

march in with military units and assume the

controls, initially with martial law."

    "It's been done before," said Joel. "Feed and arm

a presumed enemy, then send out provocateurs "

"With massive sums of money and material."

    "And when they rise up," continued Converse,

"pull out the rug, crush them, and take over. The

citizens give thanks and call the heroes saviors, as

they start marching to their drums. But how could

they do it?"

    "That's the all-consuming question. What are the

targets? Where are they, who are they? We have no

idea. If we had an inkling, we might approach from

that end, but we don't,

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 47

and we can't waste time hunting for unknowns. We

must go after what we do know."

    "Again, time," Joel broke in. "Why are you so

sure we're in a countdown?"

    "Increased activity everywhere in many cases

frantic. Shipments originating in the States are

funneled out of warehouses in England, Ireland,

France, and Germany to groups of insurgents in all

the troubled areas. There are rurnors out of Munich,

the Mediterranean and the Arab states. The talk is

in terms of final preparations, but no one seems to

know what exactly for except that all of them must

be ready. It's as though such groups as

Baader-Meinhof, the Brigate Rosse, the PLO, and

the red legions of Paris and Madrid were all in a

race with none knowing the course, only the moment

when it begins."

'When is that?"

    "Our reports vary, but they're all within the same

time span. Within three to five weeks."

    "Oh, my God." Joel suddenly remembered.

"Avery Halliday whispered something to me just

before he died. Words that were spoken by the men

who shot him. Aquitaine . . . 'They said it was for

Aquitaine.' Those were the words he whispered.

What do they mean, Beale?"

    The old scholar was silent, his eyes alive in the

moonlight. He slowly turned his head and stared out

at the water. "It's madness," he whispered.

"That doesn't tell me anything."

    "No, of course not," said Beale apologetically,

turning back to Converse. "It's simply the magnitude

of it all. It's so incredible."

"I'm not reading you."

    "Aquitaine Aquitania, as Julius Caesar called

it was the name given to a region in southwestern

France that at one time in the first centuries after

Christ was said to have extended from the Atlantic,

across the Pyrenees to the Mediterranean, and as far

north as the mouth of the Loire west of Paris on the

coast "

    "I'm vaguely aware of that," Joel broke in, too

impatient for an academic dissertation.

    "If you are, you're to be commended. Most

people are only aware of the later centuries say,

from the eighth on when Charlemagne conquered

the region, formed the kingdom of Aquitaine and

bestowed it on his son Louis, and his

48 ROBERT LUDLUM

sons Pepin One and Two. Actually, these and the

following three hundred years are the most

pertinent. '

'To what?"

    "The legend of Aquitaine, Mr. Converse. Like

many ambitious generals, Delavane sees himself as

a student of history in the tradition of Caesar,

Napoleon, Clausewitz . . . even Patton. I was rightly

or wrongly considered a scholar, but he remains a

student, and that's as it should be. Scholars can't

take liberties without substantive evidence or they

shouldn't but students can and usually do."

"What's your point?"

    "The legend of Aquitaine becomes convoluted,

the what-if syndrome riding over the facts until

theoretical assumptions are made that distort the

evidence. You see, the story of Aquitaine is filled

with sudden, massive expansions and abrupt

contractions. To simplify, an imaginative student of

history might say that had there not been political,

marital and military miscalculations on the part of

Charlemagne and his son, the two Pepins, and later

Louis the Seventh of France and Henry the Second

of England, both of whom were married to the

extraordinary Eleanor, the kingdom of Aquitaine

might have encompassed most if not all of Europe."

Beale paused. "Do you begin to understand?" he

asked.

"Yes," said Joel. "Christ, yes. "

    "That's not all," continued the scholar. "Since

Aquitaine was once considered a legitimate

possession of England, it might in time have

enveloped all of her foreign colonies, including the

original thirteen across the Atlantic later the

United States of America.... Of course,

miscalculations or not, it could never have happened

because of a fundamental law of Western

civilisation, valid since the-deposition of Romulus

Augustulus and the collapse of the Roman empire.

You cannot crush, then unite by force and rule

disparate peoples and their cultures not for any

length of time."

    "Someone's trying to now," said Converse.

"George Marcus Delavane."

    "Yes. In his mind he's constructed the Aquitaine

that never was, never could be. And it's profoundly

terrifying."

"Why? You just said it couldn't happen."

    "Not according to the old rules, not in any

period since the fall of Rome. But you must

remember, there's never been a time in recorded

history like this one. Never such weapons, such

anxiety. Delavane and his people know that, and

they

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 49

will play upon those weapons, those anxieties. They

are playing upon them. 'The old man pointed to the

sheet of paper in Joel's hand. 'You have matches.

Strike one and look at the names."

    Converse unfolded the sheet, reached into his

pocket and took out his lighter. He snapped it, and

as the flame illuminated the paper he studied the

names. "Jesus!" he said, frowning. 'They fit in with

Delavane. It's a gathering of warlords, if they're the

men I think they are." Joel extinguished the flame.

    "They are," replied Beale, "starting with General

Jacques-Louis Bertholdier in Paris, a remarkable

man, quite extraordinary. A Resistance fighter in the

war, given the rank of major before he was twenty,

but later an unreconstructed member of Salan's

OAS. He was behind an assassination attempt on De

Caulle in August of '62, seeing himself as the true

leader of the republic. He nearly made it. He

believed then as he believes now that the Algerian

generals were the salvation of an enfeebled France.

He has survived not only because he's a legend, but

because his voice isn't alone only he's more

persuasive than most. Especially with the elite crowd

of promising commanders produced by Saint-Cyr.

Quite simply, he's a fascist, a fanatic hiding behind

a screen of eminent respectability."

    "And the one named Abrahms," said Converse.

"He's the Israeli strong man who struts around in a

safari jacket and boots, isn't he? The screecher who

holds rallies in front of the Knesset and in the

stadiums, telling everyone there'll be a bloodbath in

Judea and Samaria if the children of Abraham are

denied. Even the Israelis can't shut him up."

    "Many are afraid to; he's become electrifying, like

lightning, a symbol. Chaim Abrahms and his

followers make the Begin regime seem like reticent,

self-effacing pacifists. He's a sabre tolerated by the

EuropeanJews because he's a brilliant soldier, proven

in two wars, and has enjoyed the respect if not the

affection of every Minister of Defense since the

early years of Golda Meir. They never know when

they might need him in the field."

    "And this one," said Joel, again using his lighter.

"Van Headmer. South African, isn't he? The

'hangman in uniform' or something like that."

    "Jan van Headmer, the 'slayer of Soweto,' as the

blacks call him. He executes 'offenders' with

alarming frequency and

50 ROBERT LUDLUM

government tolerance. His family is old-line

Amkaner, all generals going back to the Boer War,

and he sees no reason on earth to bring Pretoria

into the twentieth century. Incidentally, he's a close

friend of Abrahms and makes frequent trips to Tel

Aviv. He's also one of the most erudite and charm-

ing general officers ever to attend a diplomatic

conference. His presence denies his image and

reputation."

    ' And Leifhelm," said Converse, coming to the

last of the foreign names. "A mixed bag, if I'm

accurate. Supposedly a great soldier who followed

too many orders, but still respected. I'm weakest on

him."

    "Entirely understandable," said Beale, nodding.

'In some ways his is the oddest story the most

monstrous, really, because the truth has been

consistently covered up so as to use him and avoid

embarrassment. Field Marshal Erich Leifhelm was

the youngest general ever commissioned by Adolf

Hitler. He foresaw Germany's collapse and made a

sudden about-face. From brutal killer and a fanatic

super-Aryan to a contrite professional who abhorred

the Nazis' crimes as they were 'revealed' to him. He

fooled everyone and was absolved of all guilt; he

never saw a Nuremberg courtroom. During the cold

war the Allies used his services extensively, granting

him full security clearances, and later in the fifties

when the new German divisions were mounted for

the NATO forces, they made sure he was put in

command."

    "Weren't there a couple of newspaper stories

about him a few years ago? He had several run-ins

with Helmut Schmidt, didn't he?"

    "Exactly," agreed the scholar. "But those stories

were soft and carried only half the story. Leifhelm

was quoted as saying merely that the German

people could not be expected to carry the burden of

past guilt into future generations. It had to stop.

Pride should once more be established in the

nation's heritage. There was some saber rattling

aimed at the Soviets, but nothing substantively

beyond that."

"What was the other half?" asked Converse.

    "He wanted the Bundestag's restrictions on the

armed forces lifted completely, and fought for the

expansion of the intelligence services, patterned

after the Abwohr, including rehabilitation sentences

for political troublemakers. He also sought extensive

deletions in German textbooks throughout the

school systems. 'Pride has to be restored,' he kept

saying,

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 51

and everything he said was in the name of virulent

anti-Communism."

    ' The Third Reich's first strategy in everything

when Hitler took over."

    'You're quite right. Schmidt saw through him and

knew there'd be chaos if he had his way and he was

influential. Bonn could not afford the specterof

painful memories. Schmidt forced Leifhelrn to resign

and literally removed his voice from all government

affairs."

"But he keeps speaking."

    "Not openly. However, he's rich and retains his

friends and contacts."

"Among them Delavane and his people."

"Foremost among them now.'

    Joel once more snapped his lighter and scanned

the lower part of the page. There were two lists of

names, the row on the left under the heading State

Department, the right under Pentagon. There were

perhaps twenty-five people in all. "Who are the

Americans?" He released the lever; the flame died

and he put the lighter back in his pocket. "The

names don't mean anything to me."

    "Some should, but it doesn't matter," said Beale

elliptically. "The point is that among those men are

disciples of George Delavane. They carry out his

orders. How many of them is difficult to say, but at

least several from each grouping. You see, these are

the men who make the decisions or conversely, do

not oppose decisions without which Delavane and

his followers would be stopped in their tracks."

"Spell that out."

    "Those on the left are key figures in the State

Department's Office of Munitions Control. They

determine what gets cleared for export, who under

the blanket of 'rational interest' can receive weapons

and technology withheld from others. On the right

are the senior officers at the Pentagon on whose

word millions upon millions are spent for armament

procurements. All are decision makers and a

number of those decisions have been questioned, a

few openly, others quietly by diplomatic and military

colleagues. We've learned that much "

"Questioned? Why?" interrupted Converse.

    "There were rumors there always are

rumors of large shipments improperly licensed for

export. Then there's surplus military

equipment excess supplies lost in transfers

52 ROBERT LUDLUM

from temporary warehouses and out-of-the-way

storage depots. Surplus equipment is easily

unaccounted for, it's an embarrassment in these

days of enormous budgets and cost overruns. Get

rid of it and don't be too particular. How fortunate

in these instances and coincidental if a member

of this Aquitaine shows up, willing to buy and with

all his papers in order. Whole depots and

warehouses are sent where they shouldn't be sent."

"A Libya connection?"

"There's no doubt of it. A great many connections."

    "Halliday mentioned it and you said it a few

moments ago. Laws broken arms, equipment,

technological information sent to people who

shouldn't have them. They break loose on cue and

there's disruption, terrorism "

    "Justifying military responses," old Beale broke

in. "That's part of Delavane's concept. Justifiable

escalation of armed might, the commanders in

charge, the civilians helpless, forced to listen to

them, obey them."

"But you just said questions were raised."

    "And answered with such worn-out phrases as

'national security' and 'adversarial disinformation' to

stop or throw off the curious."

"That's obstruction. Can't they be caught at it?.'

"By whom? With what?"

    "Damn it, the questions themselves!" replied

Converse. "Those improper export licenses, the

military transfers that got lost, merchandise that

can't be traced."

    "By people without the clearances to go around

security classifications, or lacking the expertise to

understand the complexities of export licensing."

    "That's nonsense," insisted Joel. "You said some

of those questions were asked by diplomatic

personnel, military colleagues, men who certainly

had the clearances and the expertise."

    "And who suddenly, magically, didn't ask them

any longer. Of course, many may have been

persuaded that the questions were, indeed, beyond

their legitimate purviews; others may have been too

frightened to penetrate for fear of involvement;

others still, forced to back off frankly threatened.

Regardless, behind it all there are those who do the

convincing, and they're growing in numbers

everywhere."

"Christ, it's a a network," said Converse softly.

The scholar looked hard at Joel, the night light on

the

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 53

water reflecting across the old man's pale, lined face.

"Yes, Mr. Converse, a 'network.' That word was

whispered to me by a man who thought I was one of

them. 'The network,' he said. 'The network will take

care of you.' He meant Delavane and his people."

"Why did they think you were a part of them?"

    The old man paused. He looked briefly away at

the shimmering Aegean, then back at Converse.

"Because that man thought it was logical. Thirty

years ago I took off a uniform, trading it for the

Harris tweeds and unkempt hair of a university

professor. Few of my colleagues could understand,

for, you see, I was one of the elite, perhaps a later,

American version of Erich Leifhelm a brigadier

general at thirty-eight, and the Joint Chiefs were

conceivably my next assignment. But where the

collapse of Berlin and the G6tterdammerung in the

bunker had one effect on Leifhelm, the evacuation

of Korea and the disembowelment of Panmunjom

had another effect on me. I saw only the waste, not

the cause I once saw only the futility where once

there'd been sound reasons. I saw death, Mr.

Converse, not heroic death against animalistic hordes

or on a Spanish afternoon with the crowds shouting

'Ore, ' but just plain death. Ugly death, shattering

death. And I knew I could no longer be a part of

those strategies that called for it.... Had I been

qualified in belief, I might have become a priest."

    "But your colleagues who couldn't understand,"

said Joel, mesmerized by Beale's words, words that

brought back so much of his own past. "They thought

it was something else?"

    "Of course they did. I'd been praised in

evaluation reports by the holy MacArthur himself. I

even had a label: the Red Fox of Inchon my hair

was red then. My commands were marked by

decisive moves and countermoves, all reasonably well

thought out and swiftly executed. And then one day,

south of Chunchon, I was given an order to take

three adjacent hills that comprised dead high

ground vantage points that served no strategic

purpose and I radioed back that it was useless real

estate, that whatever casualties we sustained were

not worth it. I asked for clarification, a field officer's

way of saying 'You're crazy, why should I?' The reply

came in something less than fifteen minutes. Because

it's there, General.' That was all. Because it's there.'

A symbolic point was to be made for someone's

benefit or someone else's macho news briefing in

Seoul.... l took the hills, and I also

54 ROBERT LUDLUM

wasted the lives of over three hundred men and

for my efforts I was awarded another cluster of the

Distinguished Service Cross."

"Is that when you quit?"

    "Oh, Lord no, I was too confused, but inside, my

head was boiling. The end came, and I watched

Panmunjom, and was finally sent home, all manner

of extraordinary expectations to be considered my

just rewards.... However, a minor advancement was

denied me for a very good reason: I didn't speak the

language in a sensitive European post. By then my

head had exploded; I used the rebuke and I took

my cue. I resigned quietly and went my way."

    It was Joel's turn to pause and study the old

man in the night light. "I've never heard of you," he

said finally. "Why haven't I ever heard of you?"

    "You didn't recognize the names on the two

lower lists either, did you? 'Who are the

Americans?' you said. 'The names don't mean

anything to me.' Those were your words, Mr.

Converse."

    "They weren't young decorated

generals heroes in a war."

    "Oh, but several were,') interrupted Beale swiftly,

"in several wars. They had their fleeting moments in

the sun, and then they were forgotten, the moments

only remembered by them, relived by them.

Constantly."

"That sounds like an apology for them."

    "Of course it is! You think I have no feelings for

them? For men like Chaim Abrahms, Bertholdier,

even Leifhelm? We call upon these men when the

barricades are down, we extol them for acts beyond

our abilities...."

"You were capable. You performed those acts."

    "You're right and that's why I understand them.

When the barricades are rebuilt, we consign them to

oblivion. Worse, we force them to watch inept

civilians strip the gears of reason and, through

oblique vocabularies, plant the explosives that will

blow those barricades apart again. Then when

they're down once more, we summon our

commanders."

"Jesus, whose side are you on?"

    Beale closed his eyes tightly, reminding Joel of

the way he used to shut his own when certain

memories came back to him. "Yours, you idiot," said

the scholar quietly. "Because I know what they can

do when we ask them to do it. I meant what I said

before. There's never been a time in history like

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 55

this one. Far better that inept, frightened civilians,

still talking, still searching, than one of us forgive

me, one of them "

    A gust of wind blew off the sea; the sand spiraled

about their feet. "That man," said Converse, "the one

who told you the network would take care of you.

Why did he say it?"

    "He thought they could use me. He was one of

the field commanders I knew in Korea, a kindred

spirit then. He came to my island for what reason

I don't know, perhaps a vacabon, perhaps to find me,

who knows and found me on the waterfront. I was

taking my boat out of the Plati Harbor when

suddenly he appeared, tall, erect and very military in

the morning sun. 'We have to talk,' he said, with that

same insistence we always used in the field. I asked

him aboard and we slowly made our way out of the

bay. Several miles out of the Plati he presented his

case, their case. Delavane's case.,'

"What happened then?"

    The scholar paused for precisely two seconds,

then answered simply, "I killed him. With a scaling

knife. Then I dropped his body over a cluster of

sharks beyond the shoals of the Stephanos."

    Stunned, Joel stared at the old man the

iridescent light of the moon heightened the force of

the macabre revelation. "Just like that?" he said in a

monotone.

    "It's what I was trained to do, Mr. Converse. I

was the Red Fox of Inchon. I never hesitated when

the ground could be gained, or an adversarial

advantage eliminated." -

"You killed him?"

    "It was a necessary decision, not a wanton taking

of life. He was a recruiter and my response was in

my eyes, in my silent outrage. He saw it, and I

understood. He could not permit me to live with

what he'd told me. One of us had to die and I simply

reacted more swiftly than he did."

"That's pretty cold reasoning."

    '~You're a lawyer, you deal every day with

options. Where was the alternative?"

    Joel shook his head, not in reply but in

astonishment. "How did Halliday find you?"

    "We found each other. We've never met, never

talked, but we have a mutual friend."

fin San Francisco?"

She's frequently there."

"Who is he?"

56 ROBERT LUDLUM

"It's a subject we won't discuss. I'm sorry."

"Why not? Why the secrecy?"

    "It's the way he prefers it. Under the

circumstances, I believe it's a logical request."

    "Logic? Find me logic in any of this! Halliday

reaches a man in San Francisco who just happens to

know you, a former general thousands of miles away

on a Greek island who just happens to have been

approached by one of Delavane's people. Now,

that's coincidence, but damned little logicl"

"Don't dwell on it. Accept it."

"Would you?"

    "Under the circumstances, yes, I would. You see,

there's no alternative."

    "Sure there is. I could walk away five hundred

thousand dollars richer, paid by an anonymous

stranger who could only come after me by revealing

himself."

    "You could but you won't. You were chosen very

carefully."

    "Because I could be motivated? That's what

Halliday said."

"Frankly, yes."

"You're off the wall, all of you!"

    "One of us is dead. You were the last person he

spoke with."

    Joel felt the rush of anger again, the sight of a

dying man's eyes burned into his memory.

"Aquitaine," he said softly. "Delavane.... All right, I

was chosen carefully. Where do I begin?"

    "Where do you think you should begin? You're

the attorney; everything must be done legally."

    "That's just it. I'm an attorney, not the police,

not a detective."

    "No police in any of the countries where those

four men live could do what you can do, even if

they agreed to try, which, frankly, I doubt. More to

the point, they would alert the Delavane network."

    "All right, I'll try," said Converse, folding the

sheet with the list of names and putting it in his

inside jacket pocket. "I'll start at the top. In Paris.

With this Bertholdier."

    "Jacques-Louis Bertholdier," added the old man,

reaching down into his canvas bag and taking out a

thick manila envelope. "This is the last thing we can

give you. It's everything we could learn about those

four men; perhaps it can

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 57

help you. Their addresses, the cars they drive,

business associates, cafes and restaurants they

frequent, sexual preferences where they constitute

vulnerability . . . anything that could give you an

edge. Use it, use everything you can. Just bring us

back briefs against men who have compromised

themselves, broken laws above all, evidence that

shows they are not the solid, respectable citizens

their life-styles would indicate. Embarrassment, Mr.

Converse, embarrassment. It leads to ridicule, and

Preston Halliday was profoundly right about that.

Ridicule is the first step."

    Joel started to reply, to agree, then stopped, his

eyes riveted on Beale. ' 1 never told you Halliday

said anything about ridicule."

    "Oh?" The scholar blinked several times in the

dim light, momentarily unsure of himself, caught by

surprise. "But, naturally, we discussed "

"You never met, you never talked l" Converse broke

in.

    " through our mutual friend the strategies we

might employ," said the old man, his eyes now

steady. 'The aspect of ridicule is a keystone. Of

course we discussed it."

"You just hesitated."

    "You startled me with a meaningless statement.

My reactions are not what they once were."

    "They were pretty good in a boat beyond the

Stephanos, ' corrected Joel.

    "An entirely different situation, Mr. Converse.

Only one of us could leave that boat. Both of us will

leave this beach tonight."

    "All right, I may be reaching. You would be, too,

if you were me." Converse withdrew a pack of

cigarettes from his shirt pocket, shook one up

nervously to his lips and took out his lighter. "A man

I knew as a kid under one name approaches me

years later calling himself something else." Joel

snapped his lighter and held the flame under the

cigarette, inhaling. ' He tells a wild story that's just

credible enough so I can't dismiss it. The believable

aspect is a maniac named Delavane. He says I can

help stop him stop them and there's a great deal

of money for nodding my head provided by a man

in San Francisco who won't say who he is, expedited

by a former general on a fashionably remote island

in the Aegean. And for his efforts, this man I knew

under two names is murdered in daylight, shot a

dozen times in an elevator, dying in my arms

whispering the name 'Aquitaine.'. And then this

58 ROBERT LUDLUM

other man, this ex-soldier, this doctor, this scholar,

tells me another story that ends with a 'recruiter'

from Delavane killed with a scaling knife, his body

thrown overboard into a school of sharks beyond

the Stephanos whatever that is."

    "The Aghios Stephanos," said the old man. "A

lovely beach, far more popular than this one."

    "Goddamn it, I am reaching, Mr. Beale, or

Professor Beale, or General Beale! It's too much to

absorb in two lousy daysl Suddenly I don't have

much confidence. I feel way beyond my depth let's

face it, overwhelmed and underqualified . . . and

damned frightened."

    "Then don't overcomplicate things," said Beale.

"I used to say that to students of mine more often

than I can remember. I would suggest they not look

at the totality that faced them, but rather at each

thread of progression, following each until it met

and entwined with another thread, and then an-

other, and if a pattern did not become clear, it was

not their failure but mine. One step at a time, Mr.

Converse."

    "You're one hell of a Mr. Chips. I would have

dropped the course."

    "I'm not saying it well. I used to say it better.

When you teach history, threads are terribly

important."

"When you practice law, they're everything."

    "Go after the threads, then, one at a time. I'm

certainly no lawyer, but can't you approach this as

an attorney whose client is under attack by forces

that would violate his rights cripple his manner of

living, deny his pursuit of peaceful existence in

essence, destroy him?"

    "Not likely," repliedJoel. "I've got a client who

won't talk to me, won't see me, won't even tell me

who he is."

"That's not the client I had in mind."

"Who else? It's his money."

"He's only a link to your real client. '

"Who's that?"

"What's left of the civilized world, perhaps."

    Joel studied the old scholar in the shimmering

light. "Did you just say something about not looking

at totalities but at threads? You scare the hell out

of me."

    Beale smiled. "I could accuse you of misplaced

concretion, but I won't."

    "That's an antiquated phrase. If you mean

out-of-context say it, and I'll deny it. You're

securely in well-placed contradiction, Professor."

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION S9

    "Good heavens, you were chosen carefully. You

won't even let an old man get away with an academic

bromide."

    Converse smiled back. "You're a likable fellow,

General or Doctor. I d hate to have met you across

a table if you'd taken up law."

    "That could truly be misplaced confidence," said

Edward Beale, his smile gone. "You're only about to

begin."

    "But now I know what to look for. One thread at

a time until the threads meet and entwine, and the

pattern's there for everyone to see. I'll concentrate

on export licenses, and whoever's shuffling the

controls, then connect three or four names with each

other and trace them back to Delavane in Palo Alto.

At which point we blow it apart legally. No martyrs,

no causes, no military men of destiny crucified by

traitors, just plain bloated, ugly profiteers who've

professed to be super patriots, when all the while

they were lining their unpatriotic pockets. Why else

would they have done it? Is there another reason ?

That's ridicule, Dr. Beale. Because they can 't

answer. "

    The old man shook his head, looking bewildered.

"The professor becomes a student," he said

hesitantly. "How can you do this?"

    "The way I've done it dozens of times in

corporate negotiaffons. Only, I'll take it a step

further. In those sessions I'm like any other lawyer.

I try to figure out what the fellow across the table is

going to ask for and then why he wants it. Not just

what my side wants, but what he wants. What's going

through his mind? You see, Doctor, I'm trying to

think like him; I'm putting myself in his place, never

for a second letting him forget that I'm doing just

that. It's very unnerving, like making notes on

margins whenever your opponent says anything,

whether he's saying anything or not. But this time it's

going to be different. I'm not looking for opponents.

I'm looking for allies. In a cause, their cause. I'll start

in Paris, then on to Bonn, or Tel Aviv, then probably

Johannesburg. Only, when I reach these men I won't

try to think like them, I'm going to be one of them."

"That's a very bold strategy. I compliment you."

    'talking of options, it's the only one open. Also,

I've got a lot of money I can spread around, not

lavishly but effectively, as befits my unnamed client.

Very unnamed, very much in the background, but

always there." Joel stopped, a thought striking him.

"You know, Dr. Beale, I take it back. I don't want

60 ROBERT LUDLUM

to know who my client is the one in San

Francisco, I mean. I'm going to create my own, and

Icnowing him might distort the portrait I've got in

mind. Incidentally, tell him he'll get a full

accounting of my expenses: the rest will be returned

to him the same way I got it. Through your friend

Laskaris at the bank here on Mykonos."

    "But you've accepted the money," objected

Beale. "There's no reason "

    "I wanted to know if it was real. If he was real.

He is, and he knows exactly what he's doing. I'll

need a great deal of money because I'm going to

have to become someone I'm not and money is the

most convincing way to do it. No, Doctor I don't

want your friend's money, I want Delavane. I want

the warlord of Saigon. But I'll use his money, just as

I'm using him the way I want him to be. To get

inside that network."

    "If Paris is your first stop and Bertholdier is

going to be your initial contact, there's a specific

munitions transfer we think is directly related to

him. It might be worth a try. If we're right, it's a

microcosm of what they intend doing everywhere."

    '`Is it in here?" asked Converse, tapping the

manila envelope containing the dossiers.

    "No, it came to light only this morning early

this morning. I don't imagine you listened to the

news broadcasts."

    "I don't speak any language but English. If I

heard a news program I wouldn't know it. What

happened?"

    "All Northern Ireland is on fire, the worst riots

the most savage killing in fifteen years. In Belfast

and Ballyciare, Dromore and in the Mourne

Mountains, outraged vigilantes on both sides are

roaming the streets and the hills, firing indis-

criminately, slaughtering in their anger everything

that moves. It's utter chaos. The Ulster government

is in panic, the parliament tied down, emotionally

disrupted, everyone trying to find a solution. That

solution will be a massive infusion of troops and

their commanders."

"What's it got to do with Bertholdier?"

    "Listen to me carefully," said the scholar, taking

a step forward. "Eight days ago a munitions

shipment containing three hundred cases of cluster

bombs and two thousand cartons of explosives was

air-freighted out of Beloit, Wisconsin. Its

destination was Tel Aviv by way of Montreal, Paris,

and Marseilles. It never arrived, and an Israeli trace

employing the Mossad showed that only the

cargo's paperwork reached

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 61

Marseilles, nothing else. The shipment disappeared

in either Montreal or Paris, and we're convinced it

was diverted to provisional extremists again on

both sides in Northern Ireland."

"Why do you think so?"

    The first casualties over three hundred men,

women, and children were killed or severely

wounded, ripped to shreds by cluster bombs. It's not

a pleasant way to die, but perhaps worse to be

hurt the bombs tear away whole sections of the

body. The reactions have been fierce and the

hysteria's spreading. Ulster's out of control, the

government paralysed. All in the space of one day,

one single day, Mr. Converse!"

    ' They're proving to themselves they can do it,"

said Joel quietly, the fear in his throat.

    Precisely,' agreed Beale. it's a test case, a

microcosm of the full-scale horror they can bring

about."

    Converse frowned. "Outside of the fact that

Bertholdier lives in Paris, what ties him to the

shipment?"

    "Once the plane crossed into France, the French

insurers were a firm in which Bertholdier is a

director. Who would be less suspect than a company

that had to pay for the loss a company,

incidentally, that has access to the merchandise it

covers? The loss was upward of four million francs,

not so immense as to create headlines, but entirely

sufficient to throw off suspicion. And one more

lethal delivery is made mutilation, death, and

chaos to follow."

"What's the name of the insurance company?"

    "Compagnie Solidaire. It would be one of the

operative words, I'd think. Solidaire, and perhaps

Beloit and Belfast."

    "Let's hope I get to confront Bertholdier with

them. But if I do, I've got to say them at the right

time. I'll catch the plane from Athens in the

morning."

    "Take the urgent good wishes of an old man with

you, Mr. Converse. And urgent is the appropriate

word. Three to five weeks, that's all you've got

before everything blows apart. Whatever it is,

wherever it is, it will be Northern Ireland ten

thousand times more violent. It's real and it's

coming."

    Valerie Charpentier woke up suddenly, her eyes

wide, her face rigid, listening intently for sounds that

might break the dark silence around her and the

slap of the waves in the distance. Any second she

expected to hear the shattering bell

62 ROBERT IUDLUM

of the alarm system that was wired into every

window and door of the house.

    It did not come, yet there had been other

sounds, intrusions on her sleep, penetrating enough

to wake her. She pulled the covers back and got out

of bed, walking slowly, apprehensively, to the glass

doors that opened onto her balcony which

overlooked the rocky beach, the jetty, and the

Atlantic Ocean beyond.

    There it was again. The bobbing, dim lights were

unmistakably the same, washing over the boat that

was moored exactly where it had been moored

before. It was the sloop that for two days had

cruised up and down the coastline, always in sight,

with no apparent destination other than this particu-

lar stretch of the Massachusetts shore. At twilight

on the second evening it had dropped anchor no

more than a quarter of a mile out in the water in

front of her house. It was back. After three days it

had returned.

    Three nights ago she had called the police, who

in turn reached the Cape Ann Coast Guard patrols,

who came back With an explanation that was no

more lucid than it was satisfactory. The sloop was a

Maryland registry, the owner an officer in the

United States Army, and there were no provocative

or suspicious movements that warranted any official

action.

    "I'd call it damned provocative and suspicious,"

Val had said firmly. "When a strange boat sails up

and down the same stretch of beach for two days in

a row, then parks in front of my house within

shouting distance shouting distance being

swimming distance."

    "The water rights of the property you leased

don't extend beyond two hundred feet, ma'am" had

been the official reply. "There's nothing we can do."

    At the first light of the next morning, however,

Valerie knew that something had to be done. She

had focused her binoculars on the boat, only to gasp

and move back away from the glass doors. Two men

had been standing on the deck of the sloop, their

own binoculars far more powerful than

hers directed at the house, at the bedroom

upstairs. At her.

    A neighbor down the beachside cul-de-sac had

recently installed an alarm system. She was a

divorced woman too, but with a hostile ex-husband

and three children; she needed the alarm. Two

phone calls and Val was speaking to the owner of

Watchguard Security. A temporary system had been

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 63

hooked up that day while a permanent installation

was being designed.

    A bell not shatteringly loud but soft and gentle.

It was the quiet clanging of a ship's bell out on the

dark water, its clapper swinging with the waves. It

was the sound that had awakened her, and she felt

relieved yet strangely disturbed. Men out on the

water at night who intended harm did not announce

their presence. On the other hand, those same men

had come back to her house, the boat being only

several hundred yards offshore. They had returned

in the darkness, the moon blocked by a sky thick

with clouds, no moonlight to guide them. It was as

if they wanted her to know they were there and they

were watching. They were waiting.

    For what? What was happening to her? A week

ago her phone had gone dead for seven hours, and

when she had called the telephone company from

her friend's house, supervisor in the service

department told her he could find no malfunctions.

The line was operative.

    "Maybe for you, but not for me, and you're not

paying the bills."

    She had returned home; the line was still dead.

A second, far angrier phone call brought the same

response. No malfunctions. Then two hours later the

dial tone was inexplicably there, the phone working.

She had put the episode down to the rural telephone

complex having less than the best equipment. She

did not know what explanation there could be for

the sloop now eerily bobbing in the water in front of

her house.

    Suddenly, in the boat's dim light, she could see a

figure crawl out of the cabin. For a moment or two

it was hidden in the shadows, then there was a brief

flare of intense light. A match. A cigarette. A man

was standing motionless on the deck smoking a

cigarette. He was facing her house, as if studying it.

Waiting.

    Val shivered as she dragged a heavy chair in

front of the balcony door but not too close, away

from the glass. She pulled the light blanket off the

bed and sat down, wrapping it around her, staring

out at the water, at the boat, at the man. She knew

that if that man or that boat made the slightest move

toward shore she would press the buttons she had

been instructed to press in the event of an

emergency. When activated, the huge circular alarm

bells both inside and outside would be

ear-piercing, erupting in concert, drowning

64 ROBERT LUDLUM

out the sound of the surf and the waves crashing on

the jetty. They could be heard thousands of feet

away the only sound on the beach, frightening,

overwhelming. She wondered if she would cause

them to be heard tonight this morning.

    She would not panic. Joel had taught her not to

panic, even when she thought a well-timed scream

was called for on the dark streets of Manhattan.

Every now and then the inevitable had happened.

They had been confronted by drug addicts or punks

and Joel would remain calm icily calm moving

them both back against a wall and offering a cheap,

spare wallet he kept in his hip pocket with a few

bills in it. God, he was icelMaybe that was why no

one had ever actually assaulted them, not knowing

what was behind that cold, brooding look.

"I should have screamed!" she once had cried.

    "No," he had said. "Then you would have

frightened him, panicked him. That's when those

bastards can be lethal."

    Was the man on the boat lethal were the men

on the boat deadly? Or were they simply novice

sailors hugging the coastline, practicing tacks,

anchoring near the shore for their own

protection curious, perhaps concerned, that the

property owners might object? An Army officer was

not likely to be able to afford a captain for his

sloop, and there were marinas only miles away north

and south marinas without available berths but

with men who could handle repairs.

    Was the man out on the boat smoking a

cigarette merely a landlocked young officer getting

his sailing legs, comfortable with a familiar anchor

away from deep water? It was possible, of

course anything was possible_and summer nights

held a special kind of loneliness that gave rise to

strange imaginings. One walked the beach alone and

thought too much.

    Joel would laugh at her and say it was all those

demons racing around her artist's head in search of

logic. And he would undoubtedly be right. The men

out on the boat were probably more up-tight than

she was. In a way they were trespassers who had

found a haven in sight of hostile natives; one inquiry

of the Coast Guard proved it. And that clearance,

as it were, was another reason why they had

returned to the place where, if not welcome, at least

they were not harassed. If Joel were with her, she

knew exactly what he would do. He would go down

to the beach and shout across the water to their

temporary neighbors and ask them to come in for a

drink.

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 65

    DearJoel, foolish Joel, ice-coldJoeL There were

times you were comforting when you were

comfortable. And amusing, so terribly amusing even

when you weren't comfortable. In some ways I miss

you, darling. But not enough, thank you.

    And yet why did the feeling the instinct, per-

haps persist? The small boat out on the water was

like a magnet, pulling her toward it, drawing her into

its field, taking her where she knew she did not want

to go.

    Nonsense! Demons in search of logic! She was

being foolish foolish Joel, ice-coldJoel stop it, for

Cod's sake! Be reasonable!

    Then the shiver passed through her again. Novice

sailors did not navigate around strange coastlines at

night.

    The magnet held her until her eyes grew heavy

and troubled sleep came.

    She woke up again, startled by the intense

sunlight streaming through the glass doors, its

warmth enveloping her. She looked out at the water.

The boat was gone and she wondered for a

moment whether it had really been there.

Yes, it had. But it was gone.

    The 747 lifted off the runway at Athens' Helikon

Airport, soaring to the left in its rapid ascent. Below

in clear view, adjacent to the huge field, was the U.S.

Naval Air Station, permitted by treaty although

reduced in size and in the number of aircraft during

the past several years. Nevertheless, far-reaching,

jet-streamed American craft still roamed the

Mediterranean, lonian and Aegean seas, courtesy of

a resentful yet nervous government all too aware of

other eyes to the north. Staring out the window,

Converse recognized the shapes of familiar

equipment on the ground. There were two rows of

Phantom F-4T's and A-6E's on opposite sides of the

dual strip updated versions of the F-4G's and

A-6A's he had flown years ago.

    It was so easy to slip back, thought Joel, as he

watched three Phantoms break away from the

ground formation; they

66 ROBERT IUDLUM

would head for the top of the runway, and another

patrol would be in the skies. Converse could feel his

hands tense, in his mind he was manipulating the

thick, perforated shaft, reaching for switches, his

eyes roaming the dials, looking for right and wrong

signals. Then the power would come, the surging

force of pressurised tons beside him, behind him,

himself encased in the center of a sleek, shining

beast straining to break away and soar into its

natural habitat. Final check all in order; cleared for

takeout: Release the power of the beast, let it free.

RolU Faster, faster; the ground is a blur, the carrier

deck a mass of passing "ray, blue sea beyond, blue sky

above. Let it free! Let me free!

    He wondered if he could still do it, if the lessons

and the training of boy and man skill held. After the

Navy during the academic years in Massachusetts

and North Caroiina, he had frequently gone to small

airfields and taken up single-engined aircraft just to

get away from the pressures, to find a few minutes

of blue freedom, but there were no challenges, no

taming of all-powerful beasts. Later still, it had all

stopped for a long, long time. There were no

airfields to visit on weekends, no playing around

with trim company planes; he had given his promise.

His wife had been terrified of his flying. Valerie

could not reconcile the hours he had flown civilian

and in combat with her own evaluation of the

averages. And in one of the few gestures of

understanding in his marriage, he had given his

word not to climb into a cockpit. It had not

bothered him until he knew they knew the

marriage had gone sour at which point he had

begun driving out to a field called Teterboro in New

Jersey every chance he could find and flown

whatever was available, anytime, any hour. Still,

even then especially then there had been no

challenges, no beasts other than himself.

    The ground below disappeared as the 747

stabilized and began the climb to its assigned

altitude. Converse turned away from the window

and settled back in his seat. The lights were abruptly

extinguished on the NO SMOKING sign, and Joel

took out a pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket.

Extracting one, he snapped his lighter, and the

smoke diffused instantly in the rush of air from the

vents above. He looked at his watch it was 12:20.

They were due at Orly Airport at 3:35, French time.

Allowing for the zones, it was a three-hour flight,

and during those three hours he would commit to

memory everything he could about General

Jacques-Louis Bertholdier if

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 67

Beale and the dead Halliday were right, the arm of

Aquitaine in Paris.

    At Helikon he had done something he had never

done before, something that had never occurred to

hirn, an indulgence that was generally attributed to

romantic fiction or movie stars or rock idols. Fear

and caution had joined with an excess of money, and

he had paid for two adjoining seats in first class. He

wanted no one's eyes straying to the pages he would

be reading. Old Beale had made it frighteningly

clear on the beach last night: if there was the

remotest possibility that the materials he carried

might fall into other hands

    ny other hands he was to destroy them at all

costs. For they were in-depth dossiers on men who

could order multiple executions by placing a single

phone call.

    He reached down for his attache case, the

leather handle still dark from the sweat of his grip

since Mykonos early that morning. For the first time

he understood the value of a device he had learned

about from films and novels. Had he been able to

chain the handle of his attache case to his wrist, he

would have breathed far more comfortably.

    Jacques-Louis Bertholdier, age fifty-nine, only

child of Alphonse and Marie-Therese Bertholdier,

was born at the military hospital in Dakar. Father a

career officer in the French Army, reputedly auto-

cratic and a harsh disciplinarian. Little is known

about the mother; it is perhaps significant that

Bertholdier never speaks of her, as if dismissing her

existence. He retired from the Army four years ago

at the age of fifty-five, and is now a director of

Juneau et Cie., a conservative firm on the Bourse

des Valeurs, Paris's stock exchange.

    The early years appear to be typical of the life of

a commanding officer's son, moving from post to

post, accorded the privileges of the father's rank and

influence. He was used to servants and fawning mili-

tary personnel. If there was a difference from other

officers' sons, it was in the boy himself. It is said that

he could execute the full-dress manual-of-arms by

the time he was five and at ten could recite by rote

the entire book of regulations.

    In 1938 the Bertholdiers were back in Paris, the

father a member of the General Staff. This was a

cha

68 ROBERT LUDLUM

otictime, as the war with Germany was imminent.

The elder Bertholdier was one of the few

commanders aware that the Maginot could not

hold; his outspokenness so infuriated his fellow

officers that he was transferred to the field,

commanding the Fourth Army, stationed along the

northeastern border.

    The war came and the father was killed in the

fifth week of combat. Young Bertholdier was then

sixteen years old and going to school in Paris.

    The fall of France in June of 1940 could be

called the beginning of our subject's adulthood.

Joining the Resistance first as a courier, he fought

for four years, rising in the underground's ranks

until he commanded the Calais-Paris sector. He

made frequent undercover trips to England to

coordinate espionage and sabotage operations with

the Free French and British intelligence. In

February of 1944, De Gaulle conferred on him the

temporary rank of major. He was twenty years of

age.

    Several days prior to the Allied occupation of

Paris, Bertholdier was severely wounded in a street

skirmish between the Resistance fighters and the re-

treating German troops. Hospitalizaffon relieved

him of further activity for the remainder of the

European war. Following the surrender he was

appointed to the national military academy at

Saint-Cyr, a compensation deemed proper by De

Gaulle for the young hero of the underground.

Upon graduation he was elevated to the permanent

rank of captain. He was twenty-four and given

successive commands in the Dra Hamada, French

Morocco; Algiers; then across the world to the

garrisons at Haiphong, and finally the Allied sectors

in Vienna and West Berlin. (Note this last post with

respect to the following informaffon on Field

Marshal Erich Leifhelm. It was where they first met

and were friends, at first openly but subsequently

they denied the relationship after both had resigned

from military service.)

    Putting Erich Leifhelm aside for the moment,

Converse thought about the young legend that

was Jacques-Louis Bertholdier. Though Joel was

as unmilitary as any civilian could be, in an odd

way he could identify with the military

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 69

phenomenon described in these pages. Although no

hero, he had been accorded a hero's return from a

war in which very few were so acclaimed, these

generally coming from the ranks of those who had

endured capture more than they had fought.

Nevertheless, the attention the sheer

attention that led to privileges was a dangerous

indulgence. Although initially embarrassed, one

came to accept it all, and then to expect it all. The

recognition could be heady, the privileges soon taken

for granted. And when the attention began to

dwindle away, a certain anger came into play; one

wanted it all back.

    These were the feelings of someone with no

hunger for authority success, yes; power, no. But

what of a man whose whole being was shaped by the

fabric of authority and power, whose earliest

memories were of privilege and rank, and whose

meteoric rise came at an incredibly young age? How

does such a man react to recognition and the

ever-increasing spectrum of his own ascendancy?

One did not lightly take away much from such a

man; his anger could turn into fury. Yet Bertholdier

had walked away from it all at fifty-five, a reasonably

young age for one so prominent. It was not

consistent. Something was missing from the portrait

of this latter-day Alexander. At least so far.

    Timing played a major part in Bertholdier's ex-

panding reputation. After posts in the Dra Hamada

and pre-crisis Algiers, he was transferred to French

Indochina, where the situation was deteriorating

rapidly for the colonial forces, then engaged in vio-

lent guerrilla warfare. His exploits in the field were

instantly the talk of Saigon and Paris. The troops

under his command provided several rare but much

needed victories, which although incapable of alter-

ing the course of the war convinced the hard-line

militarists that the inferior Asian forces could be de-

feated by superior Gallic courage and strategy; they

needed only the materials withheld by Paris. The

surrender at Dienbienphu was bitter medicine for

those men who claimed that traitors in the Quai

d'Orsay had brought about France s humiliation. Al-

though Colonel Bertholdier emerged from the defeat

as one of the few heroic figures, he was wise enough

or cautious enough to keep his own counsel and did

not, at least in appearance, join the "hawks."

. .

70 R08ERT LUDLUM

Many say that he was waiting a signal that

never came. Again he was transferred, serving

tours in Vienna and West Berlin.

    Four years later, however, he broke the

maid he had so carefully constructed. In his

own words, he was 'infuriated and disillusioned"

by De Gaulle's accords with the

independence-seeking Algerians; he fled to the

land of his birth, North Africa, and joined

General Raoul Salan's rebellious OAS, which

violently opposed policies it termed betrayals.

During this revolutionary interim of his life he

was implicated in an assassination attempt on

De Gaulle. With Salan's capture in April of

1962, and the insurrechonists' collapse, once

again Bertholdier emerged from defeat

stunningly intact. In what can only be described

as an extraordinary move and one that has

never really been understood De Gaulle had

Bertholdier released from prison and brought

to the Elysee. What was said between the two

men has never been revealed, but Bertholdier

was returned to his rank. De Gaulle's only

comment of record was given during a press

conference on May 4, 1962. In reply to a

question regarding the reinstated rebel officer,

he said (verbahm translahon): "A great sol-

dier-patriot must be permitted and forgiven a

single misguided interlude. We have conferred.

We are satisfied." He said no more on the

subject.

    For seven years Bertholdier was stationed at

various influential posts, rising to the rank of

general; more often than not he was the chief

military charge d'affaires at major embassies

during the period of France's parhcipahon in

the Military Committee of NATO. He was

frequently recalled to the Quai d'Orsay,

accompanying De Gaulle to international

conferences, always visible in newspaper photo-

graphs, usually within several feet of the great

man himself. Oddly enough, although his

contributions appear to have been considerable,

after these conferences or summits he was

invariably sent back to his previous station

while internal debates continued and decisions

were reached without him. It was as though he

was constantly being groomed but never

summoned for the critical post. Was that

ultimate

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 71

summons the signal he had been waiting for seven

years before at Dienbienphu? It is a question for

which we have no answer here, but we believe it's

vital to pursue it.

    With De Gaulle's dramatic resignation after the

rejection of his demands for constitutional reform in

1969, Bertholdier's career went into an eclipse. His

assignments were far from the canters of power and

remained so until his resignation. Research into

bank and credit-card references as well as passenger

manifests shows that during the past eighteen

months our subject made trips to the following:

London, 3; New York, 2; San Francisco, 2; Bonn, 3;

Johannesburg, 1; Tel Aviv, 1 (combined with

Johannesburg). The pattern is clear. It is compatible

with the rising geographical pressure points of

General Delavane's operation.

    Converse rubbed his eyes and rang for a drink.

While waiting for the Scotch he scanned the next

few paragraphs, his memory of the man now jogged;

the information was familiar history and not terribly

relevant. Bertholdier's name had been put forward

by several ultraconservative factions, hoping to pull

him out of the military into the political wars but

nothing had come of the attempts. The ultimate

summons had passed him by; it never came.

Currently, as a director of a large firm on the Paris

stock exchange, he is basically a figurehead capable

of impressing the wealthy and keeping the

socialistically inclined at bay by the sheer weight of

his own legend.

    He travels everywhere in a company limousine

(read: staff car), and wherever he goes his arrival is

expected, the proper welcome arranged. The vehicle

is a dark-blue American Lincoln Continental, Li-

cense Plate 100-1. The restaurants he frequents are:

Taillevent, the Ritz, Julien, and Lucas-Carton. For

lunches, however, he consistently goes to a private

club called L'Etalon Blanc three to four times a

week. It is a very-off-the-track establishment whose

membership is restricted to the highest-ranking mili-

tary, what's left of the rich nobility, and wealthy

72 ROBERT LUDLUM

fawners who, if they can't be either, put their

money on both so as to be in with the crowd.

    Joel smiled; the editor of the report was not

without humor. Still, something was missing. His

lawyer's mind looked for the lapse that was not

explained. What was the signal Bertholdier had not

been given at Dienbienphu? What had the

imperious De Gaulle said to the rebellious officer,

and what had the rebel said to the great man? Why

was he consistently accommodated but only

accommodated never summoned to power? An

Alexander had been primed, forgiven elevated, then

dropped? There was a message buried in these

pages, but Joel could not find it.

    Converse reached what the writer of the report

considered relevant only in that it completed the

portrait, adding little, however, to previous

information.

    Bertholdier's private life appears barely perti-

nent to the activities that concern us. His marriage

was one of convenience in the purest La Rochefou-

cauld sense: it was socially, professionally and finan-

cially beneficial for both parties. Moreover, it ap-

pears to have been solely a business arrangement.

There have been no children, and although Mme.

Bertholdier appears frequently at her husband's

side for state and social occasions, they have rarely

been observed in close conversation. Also, as with

his mother, Bertholdier has never been known to

discuss his wife. There might be a psychological

connection here, but we find no evidence to support

it. Especially since Bertholdier is a notorious

womaniser, supporting at times as many as three

separate mistresses as well as numerous peripheral

assignations. Among his peers there is a sobriquet

that has never found its way into print: La Grand

Machin, and if the reader here needs a translation,

we recommend drinks in Montparnasse.

    On that compelling note the report was finished.

It was a dossier that raised more questions than it

answered. In broad strokes it described the whets

and the bows but few of the whys; these were

buried, and only imaginative speculation could

unearth even the probabilities. But there were

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 73

enough concrete facts to operate on. Joel glanced at

his watch; an hour had passed. He had two more to

reread, think, and absorb as much as possible. He

had already made up his mind about whom he would

contact in Paris.

    Not only was Rene Mattilon an astute lawyer

frequently called upon by Talbot, Brooks and Simon

when they needed representation in the French

courts, but he was also a friend. Although he was

older than Joel by a decade, their friendship was

rooted in a common experience, common in the

sense of global geography, futility and waste. Thirty

years ago Mattilon was a young attorney in his

twenties conscripted by his government and sent to

French Indochina as a legal officer. He witnessed the

inevitable and could never understand why it cost so

much for his proud, intractable-nation to perceive it.

Too, he could be scathing in his comments about the

subsequent American involvement.

    "Mon Dieu! You thought you could do with arms

what we could not do with arms and brains?

Deraisonnable!"

    It had become standard that whenever Mattilon

flew to New York or Joel to Paris they found time

for dinner and drinks. Also, the Frenchman was

amazingly tolerant of Converse's linguistic

limitations; Joel simply could not learn another

language. Even Val's patient tutoring had fallen on

deaf and dead ears and an unreceptive brain. For

four years his ex-wife, whose father was French and

whose mother was German, tried to teach him the

simplest phrases but found him hopeless.

    "How the hell can you call yourself an

international lawyer when you can't be understood

beyond Sandy Hook?" she had asked.

    "Hire interpreters trained by Swiss banks and put

them on a point system," he had replied. "They won't

miss a trick."

    Whenever he came to Paris, he stayed in a suite

of two rooms at the opulent George V Hotel, an

indulgence permitted by Talbot, Brooks and Simon,

he had assumed, more to impress clients than to

satisfy a balance sheet. The assumption was only half

right, as Nathan Simon had made clear.

    "You have a fancy sitting room," Nate had told

him in his sepulchral voice. 'Use it for conferences

and you can avoid those ridiculously expensive

French lunches and God forbid the dinners."

74 ROBERT LUDLUM

"Suppose they want to eat?"

    "You have another appointment. Wink and say

it's personal; no one in Paris will argue."

    The impressive address could serve him now,

mused Converse, as the taxi weaved maniacally

through the midafternoon traffic on the

Champs-Elysees toward the Avenue George V. If

he made any progress and he intended to make

progress with men around Bertholdier or

Bertholdier himself, the expensive hotel would fit

the image of an unknown client who had sent his

personal attorney on a very confidential search. Of

course, he had no reservation, an oversight to be

blamed on a substituting secretary.

    He was greeted warmly by the assistant

manager, albeit with surprise and finally apologies.

No telexed request for reservations had come from

Talbot, Brooks and Simon in New York, but

naturally, accommodations would be found for an

old friend. They were; the standard two-room suite

on the second floor, and before Joel could unpack,

a steward brought a bottle of the Scotch whisky he

preferred, substituting it for the existing brand on

the dry bar. He had forgotten the accuracy of the

copious notes such hotels kept on repeating guests.

Second floor, the right whisky, and no doubt during

the evening he would be reminded that he usually

requested a wake-up call for seven o'clock in the

morning. It would be the same.

    But it was close to five o'clock in the afternoon

now. If he was going to reach Mattilon before the

lawyer left his of lice for the day, he had to do so

quickly. If Rene could have drinks with him, it

would be a start. Either Mattilon was his man or he

was not, and the thought of losing even an hour of

any kind of progress was disturbing. He reached for

the Paris directory on a shelf beneath the phone on

the bedside table, he looked up the firm's number

and dialed.

    "Good Christ, Joel!" exclaimed the Frenchman.

"I read about that terrible business in Geneva! It

was in the morning papers and I tried to call

you Le Richemond, of course but they said you'd

checked out. Are you all right?"

"I'm fine. I was just there, that's all."

"He was American. Did you know him?"

    "Only across a table. By the way, that crap about

his having something to do with narcotics was just

that. Crap. He was cornered, robbed, shot and set

up for postmortem confusion."

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 75

    "And an overzealous official leaped at the

obvious, trying to protect his city's image. I know; it

was made clear.... It's all so horrible. Crime, killing,

terrorism; it spreads everywhere. Less so here in

Paris, thank God."

    "You don't need muggers, the taxi drivers more

than fill the bill. Except nastier, maybe."

    "You are, as always, impossible, my friend! When

can we get together?"

    Converse paused. "I was hoping tonight. After

you left the office."

    "It's very short notice, mon ami. I wish you had

called before."

"I just got in ten minutes ago."

"But you left Geneva "

"I had business in Athens," interrupted Joel.

    "Ah, yes, the money flees from the Greeks these

days. Precipitously, I think. Just as it was here."

"How about drinks, Rene. It's important."

    It was blattilon's turn to pause; it was obvious he

had caught the trace of urgency in Converse's

brevity, in his voice. "Of course," said the

F'renchman. "You're at the George Cinq, I assume?"

"Yes."

"I'll be there as soon as I can. Say, forty-five

minutes."

"Thanks very much. I'll get a couple of chairs in the

gal

. ..

ery.

"I'll find you."

    That area of the immense marble-arched lobby

outside the tinted glass doors of the George V bar is

known informally as the "gallery" by habitues, its

name derived from the fact that there is an art

gallery narrowly enclosed within a corridor of clear

glass on the left. However, just as reasonably, the

name fits the luxurious room itself. The deeply

cushioned cut-velvet chairs, settees, and polished

low, dark tables that line the marble walls are

beneath works of art mammoth tapestries from

long-forgotten chateaux and huge heroic canvases by

artists, both old and new. And the smooth stone of

the floor is covered with giant Oriental rugs, while

affixed to the high ceiling are a series of intricate

chandeliers, throwing soft light through filigrees of

lacelike gold.

    Quiet conversations take place between men and

women of wealth and power at these upholstered

enclaves, in calcu

76 ROBERT LUDLUM

lated shadows under spotlit paintings and woven

cloth from centuries ago. Frequently they are

opening dialogues, testing questions that as often as

not are resolved in boardrooms peopled by

chairmen and presidents, treasurers, and prides of

lawyers. The movers and the shakers feel

comfortable with the initial informality the

uncommitted explorations of first meetings in this

very formal room. The ceremonial environs

somehow lend an air of ritualised disbelief; denials

are not hard to come by later. The gallery also lives

up to the implications of its name: within the

fraternity of those who have achieved success on the

international scene, it is said that if any of its

members spend a certain length of time there,

sooner or later he will run into almost everyone he

knows. Therefore, if one does not care to be seen,

he should go somewhere else.

    The room was filling up, and waiters moved

away from the raucous bar to take orders at the

tables, knowing where the real money was. Converse

found two chairs at the far end, where the dim light

was even more subdued. He looked at his watch and

was barely able to read it. Forty minutes had passed

since his call to Rene, a shower taking up the time

as it washed away the sweat-stained dirt of his

all-day journey from Mykonos. Placing his cigarettes

and lighter on the table, he ordered a drink from an

alert waiter, his eyes on the marble entrance to the

room.

    Twelve minutes later he saw him. Mattilon

walked energetically out of the harsh glare of the

street lobby into the soft light of the gallery. He

stopped for a moment, squinting, then nodded. He

started down the canter of the carpeted floor, his

eyes levered at Joel from a distance, a broad,

genuine smile on his face. Rene Mattilon was in his

mid to late fifties, but his stride, like his outlook,

was that of a younger man. There was about him

that aura peculiar to successful trial lawyers; his

confidence was apparent because it was the essence

of his success, yet it was born of diligence, not

merely ego and performance. He was the secure

actor comfortable in his role his graying hair and

blunt, masculine features all part of a caiculated

effect. Beyond that appearance, however, there was

also something else, thought Joel, as he rose from

his chair. Rene was a thoroughly decent man; it was

a disarming conclusion. God knew they both had

their flaws, but they were both decent men; perhaps

that was why they enjoyed each other's company.

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 77

    A firm handshake preceded a brief embrace. The

Frenchman sat down across from Converse as Joel

signaled an attentive waiter. "Order in French, 'Joel

said. "I'd end up getting you a hot fudge sundae."

    "This man speaks better English than either of us.

Campari and ice, please."

"Merci, monsieur. " The waiter left.

    "Thanks again for coming over," said Converse. "I

mean it. '

    "I'm sure you do.... You look well, Joel, tired but

well. That shocking business in Geneva must give

you nightmares."

"Not really. I told you, I was simply there."

    "Still, it might have been you. The newspapers

said he died while you held his head."

"I was the first one to reach him."

"How horrible."

    "I've seen it happen before, Rene," said Converse

quietly, no comment in his voice.

    "Yes, of course. You were better prepared than

most, I imagine."

    "I don't think anyone's ever prepared.... But it's

over. How about you? How are things?"

    Mattilon shook his head, pinching his rugged,

weather-beaten features into a sudden look of

exasperation. "France is madness, of course, but we

survive. For months and months now, there are more

plans than are stored in an architect's library, but the

planners keep colliding with each other in

government hallways. The courts are full, business

thrives."

    "I'm glad to hear it." The waiter returned with

the Campari; both men nodded to him, and then

Mattilon fixed his eyes on Joel. "No, I really am,"

Converse continued as the waiter walked away. "You

hear so many stories."

    "Is that why you're in Paris?" The Frenchman

studied Joel. "Because of the stories of our so-called

upheavals? They re not so earthshaking, you know,

not so different from before. Not yet. Most private

industry here was publicly financed through the

government. But, naturally, not managed by

government incompetents, and for that we pay. Is

that what's bothering you, or more to the point, your

clients?"

    Converse drank. "No, that's not why I'm here. It's

something else."

"You're troubled, I can see that. Your customary

glibness

78 ROBERT LUDLUM

doesn't fool me. I know you too well. So tell me,

what's so important? That was the word you used

on the telephone."

    "Yes, I guess it was. It may have been too

strong." Joel drained his glass and reached for his

cigarettes.

    "Not from your eyes, my friend. I see them and

I don't see them. They're filled with clouds."

    "You've got it wrong. As you said, I'm tired. I've

been on planes all day, with some ungodly layovers."

He picked up his lighter, snapping it twice until the

flame appeared.

"We haggle over foolishness. What is it?"

    Converse lit a cigarette, consciously trying to

sound casual as he spoke. "Do you know a private

club called L'Etalon Blanc?"

    "I know it, but I couldn't get in the door,"

replied the Frenchman, laughing. "I was a young,

inconsequential lieutenant worse, attached to the

judge advocate essentially with our forces to lend an

appearance of legality, but, mind you, only an

appearance. Murder was a misdemeanor, and rape

to be congratulated. L'Etalon Blanc is a refuge for

les grands militaires and those rich enough or

foolish enough to listen to their trumpets."

    "I want to meet someone who lunches there

three or four times a week."

"You can't call him?"

    'He doesn't know me, doesn't know I want to

meet him. It's got to be spontaneous."

    "Really? For Talbot, Brooks and Simon? That

sounds most unusual."

    "It is. We may be dealing with someone we don't

want to deal with."

"Ahh, missionary work. Who is he?"

    "Will you keep it confidential? I mean that, not

a word to anyone?"

    "Do I breathe? If the name is in conflict with

something on our schedule, I will tell you and,

frankly, be of no help to

you. "

"Fair enough. Jacques-Louis Bertholdier."

    Mattilon arched his brows in mock astonishment,

less in mockery than in astonishment. "The emperor

has all his clothes," said the Frenchman, laughing

quietly. "Regardless of who claims otherwise. You

start at the top of the line, as they say in New York.

No conflict, mon ami; he's not in our league as

you also say."

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 79

"Why not?"

    "He moves with saints and warriors. Warriors

who would be saints, and saints who would be

warriors. Who has time for such facades?'

"You mean he's not taken seriously?"

    "Oh, no, he is. Very seriously, by those who have

the time and the inclination to move abstract

mountains. He is a pillar Joel, grounded in heroic

marble and himself immovable. He is the De Gaulle

who never followed the original, and some say it is

a pity."

"What do you say?"

    Mattilon frowned, then cocked his head in a

Gallic shrug. "I'm not sure. God knows the country

needed someone, and perhaps Bertholdier could

have stepped in and steered a far better course than

the one we embarked upon, but the times were not

right. The Elysee had become an imperial court, and

the people were tired of royal edicts, imperial

sermons. Well, we don't have those any longer;

they've been supplanted by the dull, grey banalities

of the workers' credo. Perhaps it is a pity, although

he could skill do it, I imagine. He began his climb up

Olympus when he was very young."

    "Wasn't he part of the OAS? Salan's rebels in

Algeria? They were discredited, called a national

disgrace."

    "That is a judgment even the intellectuals must

reluctantly admit could be subject to revision. The

way all of North Africa and the Middle East has

gone, a French Algeria could be a trump card

today." Mattilon paused and brought his hand to his

chin, his frown returning. "Why on earth would

Talbot, Brooks and Simon walk away from

Bertholdier? He may be a monarchist at heart, but

God knows he's honor personified. He's regal,

perhaps even pompous, but a very acceptable client

for all of that.'

    "We've heard things," said Converse quietly,

shrugging now himself, as if to lessen the credibility

of hearsay evidence.

    "Mon Dieu, not his women?" exclaimed Mattilon,

laughing. "Come now, when will you grow up?"

"Not women."

"What then?"

'Let's say some of his associates, his acquaintances.',

    "I hope you make the distinction, 1oel. A man

like Bertholdier can choose his associates certainly,

but not his acquaintances. He walks into a room and

everyone wants to be his friend most claim he is a

friend."

80 ROBERT LUDLUM

    ' That's what we want to find out. I want to

bring up some names, see whether they are

associates or unremembered acquaintances."

    "Bien. Now you're making sense. I can help, I

will help We shall have lunch at L'Etalon Blanc

tomorrow and the next day. It is the middle of the

week and Bertholdier will no doubt choose one or

the other to dine there. If not, there's always the

day after."

"I thought you couldn't in the door?"

    "Not by myself, no. But I know someone who

can, and he will be most obliging, I can assure you."

"Why?"

    "He wishes to talk with me whenever and

wherever he can. He's a dreadful bore and,

unfortunately, speaks very little English numbers

mainly, and words like 'In and out,' or 'Over and

out,' and 'Dodger-Roger' or 'Roger-Dodger' and

'runway six' or 'Lift off five' and all manner of

incomprehensible phrases."

"A pilot?"

    "He flew the first Mirages, brilliantly, I might

add, and never lets anyone forget it. I shall have to

be the interpreter between you, which at least

eliminates my having to initiate conversation. Do

you know anything about the Mirage?"

    "A jet's a jet," said Joel. "Pull and sweep out,

what else is there?"

    "Yes, he's used that one, too. Pull and sweep

something. I thought he was cleaning a kitchen."

    "Why does he always want to talk with you? I

gather he's a member of the club."

    "Very much so. We're representing him in a

futile case against an aircraft manufacturer. He had

his own private jet and lost his left foot in one of

your crash landings "

' Not mine, pal."

    "The door was jammed. He couldn't

ground~ject where he wished to, when the plane's

speed was sufficiently reduced for him to avoid a

final collision."

"He didn't slap the right buttons."

"He says he did."

    "There are at least two backups, including an

instant manual, even on your equipment."

    "We've been made aware of that. It's not the

money, you understand; he's enormously wealthy.

It's his pride. To lose

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 81

brings into question his current or if you will, lat-

ter-day skills."

    "They'll be a lot more in question under

cross-examination. I assume you've told him that."

"Very gently. It's what we're leading up to."

"But in the meantime every conference is a hefty

fee."

    "We're also saving him from himself. If we did it

swiftly or too crudely, he'd simply dismiss us and be

driven to someone far less principled. Who else

would take such a case? The government owns the

plant now, and God knows it won't pay."

    "Good point. What'll you tell him about me?

About the club?"

    Mattilon smiled. "That as a former pilot and an

attorney you can bring an expertise to his suit that

might be helpful. As to L'Etalon Blanc, I shall

suggest it, tell him you'd be impressed. I shall

describe you as something of an Attila the Hun of

the skies. How does that appeal to you?"

"With very little impact."

    "Can you carry it off?" asked the Frenchman. The

question was sincere. "It would be one way to meet

Bertholdier. My client and he are not simply

acquaintances, they are friends."

"I'll carry it off."

    "Your having been a prisoner of war will be most

helpful. If you see Bertholdier enter, and express a

desire to meet him, such requests are not lightly

refused former POW's."

"I wouldn't press that too hard," said Converse.

"Why not?"

    "A little digging could turn up a rock that doesn't

belong in the soil."

    "Oh?" Mattilon's brows arched again, neither in

mockery nor in astonishment, simply surprise.

"'Digging,' as you use it, implies something more

than a spontaneous meeting with odd names

spontaneously thrown about."

    "Does it?" Joel revolved his glass, annoyed with

himself, knowing that any argument would only

enlarge the lapse. "Sorry, it was an instinctive

reaction. You know how I feel about that topic."

"Yes, I do, and I forgot. How careless of me. I

apologise."

    "Actually, I'd just as soon not use my own name.

Do you mind?"

82 ROBERT LUDLUM

    "You're the missionary, not 1. What shall we call

you?" The Frenchman was now looking hard at

Converse.

"It doesn't matter."

    Mattilon squinted. "How about the name of your

employer, Simon? If you meet Bertholdier, it might

appeal to him. Lieuc de Saint-Simon was the purest

chronicler of the monarchy.... Henry Simon. There

must be ten thousand lawyers named Henry Simon

in the States."

"Simon it is."

    "You've told me everything, my friend?" asked

Rene, his eyes noncommittal. "Everything you care

to."

    "Yes, I have," said Joel, his own eyes a

blue-white walk "Let's have another drink."

    "I think not. It's late and my current wife has

malaise if her dinner is cold. She's an excellent

cook, incidentally."

"You're a lucky man."

    "Yes, I am." Mattilon finished his drink, placed

the glass on the table and spoke casually. "So was

Valerie. I shall never forget that fantastic canard ~

I'orange she fixed for us three or four years ago in

New York. Do you ever hear from her?"

    "Hear and see," answered Converse. "I had lunch

with her in Boston last month. I gave her the

alimony check and she picked up the tab. By the

way, her paintings are beginning to sell."

"I never doubted that they would."

"She did."

    "Unnecessarily.... I always liked Val. If you see

her again, please give her my affectionate best."

"I wit.

    Mattilon rose from the upholstered chair, his

eyes no longer noncommittal. "Forgive me, I

thought so often you were such a matched pair, I

believe is the expression. The passions dwindle, of

course, but not the de suite, if you know what I

mean."

    "I think I do, and speaking for both of us, I

thank you_for the misplaced concretion.""

'ye ne comprends pas. "

    "Forget it, it's antiquated doesn't mean

anything. I'll give her your affectionate best."

"Merci. I'll phone you in the morning."

    L'Etalon Blanc was a pacifist's nightmare. The

club's heavy dark wood walls were covered with

photographs and

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 83

prints, interspersed with framed citations and

glistening medals red ribbons and gold and silver

disks cushioned on black velvet. The prints were a

visual record of heroic carnage going back two

centuries, while the evolution in warfare was shown

in photographs as the horses and caissons and sabers

became motorcycles, tanks, planes and guns, but the

scenes were not all that different because the theme

was constant. Victorious men in uniform were

depicted in moments of glory, whatever suffering

there might have been was strangely absent. These

men did not lose no missing limbs or shattered

faces here; these were the privileged warriors. Joel

felt a profound fear as he studied the martial array.

These were not ordinary men; they were hard and

strong and the word 'capability' was written across

their faces. What had Beale said on Mykonos? What

had been the judgment of the Red Fox of Inchon, a

man who knew whereof he spoke?

    . . . I know what they can do when we ask them to

do it Yet how much more could they do if they asked

it of themselves? wondered Joel. Without the

impediments of vacillating civilian authorities?

    'Luboque has just arrived," said Mattilon quietly,

coming up behind Converse. "I heard his voice in the

lobby. Remember, you don't have to overdo it I'll

translate what I think is appropriate, anyway but

nod profoundly when he makes one of his angry

remarks. Also laugh when he tells jokes; they're

dreadful, but he likes it."

"I'll do my best."

    'I'II give you an incentive. Bertholdier has a

reservation for lunch. At his usual place, table

eleven, by the window."

    "Where are we?" asked Joel, seeing the

Frenchman's pressed lips expressing minor triumph.

"Table twelve. Now."

"If I ever need a lawyer, I'll call you."

    "We're terribly expensive. Come now, as they say

in all those wonderful films of yours, 'You're on,

Monsieur Simon.' Play the role of Attila but don't

overplay it."

    "You know, Rene, for someone who speaks

English as well as you do, you gravitate to the tritest

phrases."

    "The English language and American phrases

have very little in common, Joel, trite or otherwise."

"Smart ass."

    "Need I say more? . . . Ahh, Monsieur Luboque,

Serge, mon amil"

84 ROBERT LUDIUM - -

    Mattilon's third eye had spotted the entrance of

Serge Luboque; he turned around as the thumping

became louder on the floor. Luboque was a short,

slender man; his physique made one think of those

jet pilots of the early period when compactness was

a requirement. He was also very close to being a

caricature of himself. His short, waxed moustache

was affixed to a miniaturised face that was pinched

in an expression of vaguely hostile dismissal directed

at both no one and everyone. Whatever he had

been before, Laboque was now a poseur who knew

only how to posture. With all that was brilliant and

exciting buried in the past, he had only the memo-

ries, the rest was anger.

    "Et relief l 'expert f udiefaire den Tom pannier

aerJennes, -he said, looking at Converse and

extending his hand.

    ' Serge is delighted to meet you and is sure you

can help us," explained Mattilon.

    '4I'II do what I can," said Converse. "And

apologize for my not speaking French."

    The lawyer obviously did so, and Luboque

shrugged, speaking rapidly, incomprehensibly; the

word anglais repeated several times.

    "He, too, apologizes for not speaking English,"

said Mattilon, glancing at Joel, mischievousness in

his look, as he added, "If he's Iying, Monsieur

Simon, we may both be placed against these

decorated walls and shot."

    "No way," said Converse, smiling. "Our

executioners might dent the medals and blow up the

pictures. Everybody knows you're lousy shots."

"Qutest-ce que vous cites?"

    "Monsieur Simon tient a was mmercier pour le

dejeuner, " said Mattilon, turning to his client. n en

est. tresf error il estime que l'o,~icier fran,cais eat l'un

ties meilleurs du monde. "

"What did you say?"

    "I explained," said the lawyer, turning again,

"that you were honored to be here, as you believe

the French military especially the officer corps to

be the finest on earth."

    "Not only lousy shots but rotten pilots," said

Joel, smiling and nodding.

    "Est-il oral que was aver participe ~ nombKuses

missions en Asie d u Sud?" asked Lubeque, his eyes

fixed on Joel.

"I beg your pardon?"

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 85

    'He wants it confirmed that you are really an

Attila of the skies, that you flew many missions."

"Quite a few," answered Joel.

"Beaucoup," said Mattilon.

    Luboque again spoke rapidly, even more

incomprehensibly, as he snapped his fingers for a

steward.

"What now?"

    "He'd rather tell you about his exploits in the

interests of the case, of course."

    "Of course," said Converse, his smile now fixed.

"Lousy shots, rotten pilots and insufferable egos."

    "Ah, but our food, our women, our incomparable

understanding of life."

    "There's a very explicit word in French one of

the few I learned from my ex-wife but I don't think

I should use it." Joel's smile was now cemented to

his lips.

    "That's right, I forgot," said Mattilon. "She and I

would converse in notre belle lanque; it used to

irritate you so Don't use it. Remember your

incentive."

    "Qu'est-ce que was cites encore? Notre belle

lanqueP" Luboque spoke as a steward stood by his

side.

    "Notre ami, Monsieur Simon, suit an sours ~

I'ecole Berlitz et pourra ainsi s'entretenir directement

aver vous. "

"Bien!"

"WhatP"

    "I told him you would learn the Berlitz French so

you could dine with him whenever you flew into

Paris. You're to ring him up. Nod, smart ass."

Converse nodded.

    And so it went. Point, noncounterpoint, non

sequitur. Serge Luboque held forth during drinks in

the warriors" playroom, Mattilon translating and

advising Joel as to the expression to wear on his face

as well as suggesting an appropriate reply.

    Fmally Luboque stridently described the crash

that had cost him his left foot and the obvious

equipment failures for which he should be

compensated. Converse looked properly pained and

indignant, and offered to write a legal opinion for

the court based on his expertise as a pilot of jet

aircraft. Mattilon translated; Luboque beamed and

rattled off a barrage of gargled vowels that Joel took

for thanks.

"He's forever in your debt," said Rene.

86 ROBERT LUDIUM

    "Not if I write that opinion,'' replied Converse.

"He locked himself in the cockpit and threw away

the key."

    'Write it," countered Mattilon, smiling. "You've

just paid for my time. We'll use it as a wedge to

open the door of retreat. Also, he'll never ask you

to dinner when you're in Paris."

"When's lunch? I'm running out of expressions."

    They marched in hesitant lockstep into the

dining room, matching Luboque's gait as he

thumped along on the hard, ornate parquet floor.

The ridiculous three-sided conversation continued as

wine was proffered a bottle was sent back by

Luboque and Converse's eyes kept straying to the

dining room's entrance.

    The moment came: Bertholdier arrived. He

stood in the open archway, his head turned slightly

to his left as another man in a light-brown

gabardine topcoat spoke without expression. The

general nodded his head and the subordinate re-

treated. Then the great man walked into the room

quietly but imperially. Heads turned and the man

acknowledged the homage as a dauphin who will

soon be king accepts the attentions of the ministers

of a failing monarch. The effect was extraordinary,

for there were no kingdoms, no monarchies, no

lands to be divided through conquest to the knights

of Crecy or anybody else, but this man of no royal

lineage was tacitly being recognized goddamn it,

thought Joel as an emperor in his own right.

    Jacques-Louis Bertholdier was of medium

height, between five nine and five eleven, certainly

no more, but his bearing the sheer straight shaft of

his posture, the breadth of his shoulders and the

length of his strong slender neck made him appear

much taller, much more imposing than another

might. He was among his own, and here, indeed, he

was above the others, elevated by their own

consensus.

    "Say something reverential," said Mattilon, as

Bertholdier approached, heading for the table next

to theirs. "Glance up at him and look tastefully

awed. I'll do the rest."

    Converse did as he was told, uttering

Bertholdier's full name under his breath, but loud

enough to be heard. He followed this quiet

exclamation by leaning toward Mattilon and saying,

"He's a man I've always wanted to meet."

    There followed a brief exchange in French

between Rene and his client, whereupon Luboque

nodded, his expres

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 87

sion that of an arrogant man willing to dispense a

favor to a new friend.

    Bertholdier reached his chair, the maitre d' and

the dining room captain hovering on either side. The

pavane took place less than four feet away.

"Mon general," said Luboque, rising.

    "Serge," replied Bertholdier, stepping forward,

hand extended a superior officer aware of a worthy

subordinate's disability. "Comment pa van"

"Bien, Jacques. Et was?"

"Les temps vent bier etranges, mon amt."

    The greetings were brief, and the direction of the

conversabon was changed quickly by Luboque, who

gestured at Converse as he continued speaking.

InsUnchvely Joel got to his feet, posture straight, his

eyes level, unblinking, staring at Bertholdier, his look

as piercing as the general's professional but without

awe. He had been right in an unexpected way. The

shared Southeast Asian experience had validity for

Jacques-Louis Bertholdier. And why not? He, too,

had his memories. Mathlon was introduced aknost as

an afterthought, and the soldier gave a brief nod as

he crossed behind Rene to shake hands with Joel.

    "A pleasure, Monsieur Simon," said Bertholdier,

his English precise, his grip firm, a comrade

acknowledging another comrade, the man's

imperious charm instantly apparent.

    "I'm sure you've heard it thousands of Ames, sir,"

said Joel, maintaining the steady, professional burn

in his eyes, "but this is an occasion I never expected.

If I may say so, General, it's an honor to meet you."

    "It is an honor to meet you," rejoined

Bertholdier. "You gentlemen of the air did all you

could, and I know something about the

circumstances. So many missions' I think it was eas-

ier on the ground!" The general laughed quietly.

    "Gentlemen of the air" the man was unreal,

thought Converse. But the connection was firm; it

was real, he felt it, he knew it. The combination of

words and looks had brought it about. So simple: a

lawyer's ruse, taming an adversary in this case an

enemy. The enemy.

    "I ~onidn't agree with that, General; it was a

lot~eaner in the air. But if there'd been more like

you on the ground in Indochina, there never would

have been a Dienbienphu."

    "A flattering statement, but I'm not sure it could

stand the test of reality."

88 ROBERT LUDLUM

"I'm sure," said Joel quietly, clearly. "I'm convinced

of

    Luboque, who had been engaged in

conversation by Mattilon, interrupted. "Mon general,

voulez-vous vous joinder a nous?"

    "Pardonnez-moi. ye suds occupy aver mes

visiteurs, " answered Bertholdier, turning back to

Converse. "I must decline Rene's invitation, I'm

expecting guests. He tells me you are an attorney,

a specialist in aircraft litigation."

    "It's part of the broader field, yes. Air, ground,

oceangoing craft we try to represent the spectrum.

Actually, I'm fairly new at it not the expertise, I

hope but the represen

    '1 see, 'said the general, obviously bewildered.

"Are you in Paris on business?"

    This was it, thought Joel. Above all, he would

have to be subtle. The words but especially the

eyes must convey the unspoken. "No, I'm just here

to catch my breath. I flew from San Francisco to

New York and on to Paris. Tomorrow I'll be in

Bonn for a day or so, then off to Tel Aviv."

    "How tiring for you." Bertholdier was now

returning his stare.

    "Not the worst, I'm afraid," said Converse, a

half-smile on his lips. "After Tel Aviv, there's a

night flight to Johannes

    "Bonn, Tel Aviv, Johannesburg . . ." The soldier

spoke softly. "A most unusual itinerary."

"Productive, we think. At least, we hope so."

"We?"

"My client, General. My new client."

    "Deraisonnable!" cried Mattilon, laughing at

something Luboque had said, and, just as obviously,

telling Joel he could no longer keep his impatient

litigant in conversation.

    Bertholdier, however, did not take his eyes off

Converse. 'Where are you staying, my young

fighter-pilot friend?"

"Young and not so young, General."

"Where?"

"The George Cinq. Suite two-three-five."

"A fine establishment."

"It's habit. My previous firm always posted me

there."

    "Posted? As in 'garrisoned'?" asked Bertholdier,

a half-smile now on his lips.

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 89

    "An unconscious slip," said Joel. "But then again,

it says it, doesn't it, sir?"

    "It does, indeed.... Ah ha, my guests arrive!" The

soldier extended his hand. "It's been a pleasure,

Monsieur Simon."

    Swift au revoir's accompanied nods and rapid

handshakes as Bertholdier returned to his table to

greet his luncheon companions. Through Mathlon,

Joel thanked Luboque for the introduction; the

disabled pilot gestured with both hands, palms up,

and Converse had the distinct feeling that he had

been baptised. The insane three-sided dialogue then

resumed at high speed, and it was all Joel could do

to maintain even minimum concentration.

    Progress had been made; it was in Bertholdier's

eyes, and he could feel those eyes straying over to

him even while the conversation at both tables

became animated. The general was diagonally to

Converse's left; with the slightest turning of either

face, the line of sight between them was direct.

Twice it happened. The first time, Joel felt the

forceful gaze resting on him as if magnified sunlight

were burning into his flesh. He shifted his head

barely an inch; their eyes locked, the soldier's

penetrating, severe, questioning. The second time

was a half-hour later, when the eye contact was

initiated by Converse himself. Luboque and Mattilon

were discussing legal strategy, and as if drawn by a

magnet, Joel slowly turned to his left and watched

Bertholdier, who was quietly, emphatically making a

point with one of his guests. Suddenly, as a voice

replied across the adjacent table, the general

snapped his head in Converse's direction, his eyes no

longer questioning, only cold and ice-like. Then just

as abruptly, there was warmth in them; the

celebrated soldier nodded, a half-smile on his face.

    Joel sat in the soft leather chair by the window in

the dimly lit sitting room; what light there was came

from a fringed lamp on the desk. Alternately he

stared at the telephone in front of the lamp and

looked out the window at the weaving night traffic of

Paris and the lights on the wide boulevard below.

Then he focused entirely on the phone as he so

frequently did when waiting for a call from a legal

adversary he expected would capitulate, knowing that

man or woman would capitulate. It was simply a

question of time.

What he expected now was communication, not

capitula

90 ROBERT LUDLUM

tion a connection, the connection. He had no idea

what form it would take, but it would come. It had

to come.

    It was nearly seven-thirty, four hours since he

had left L'Etalon Blanc after a final, firm handshake

exchanged with Jacques-Louis Bertholdier. The look

in the soldier's eyes was unmistakable: If nothing

else, Converse reasoned, Bertholdier would have to

satisfy his sheer curiosity.

    Joel had covered himself with the hotel's front

desk, distributing several well-placed 100-franc

notes. The tactic was not at all unusual in these

days of national and financial unrest had not been

for years, actually, even without the unrest. Visiting

businessmen frequently chose to use pseudonyms

for any number of reasons, ranging from

negotiations best kept quiet to amorous

engagements best left untraceable. In Converse's

case, the use of the name Simon made it appear

logical, if not eminently respectable. If Talbot,

Brooks and Simon preferred that all

communications be made in the surname of one of

the senior partners, who could question the

decisions Joel, however, carried the ploy one step

further. After telephoning New York, he explained,

he was told that his own name was not to be used

at all; no one knew he was in Paris and that was the

way his firm wanted it. Obviously, the delayed

instructions accounted for the mix-up in the res-

ervation, which was void at any rate. There was to

be no billing; he would pay in cash, and since this

was Paris, no one raised the slightest objection.

Cash was infinitely preferable, delayed payment a

national anathema.

    Whether anyone believed this nonsense or not

was irrelevant. The logic was sufficiently adequate

and the franc notes persuasive; the original

registration card was torn up and another placed in

the hotel file. H. Simon replaced J. Converse. The

permanent address of the former was a figment of

Joel's imagination, a numbered house on a

numbered street in Chicago, Illinois, said house and

said street most likely nonexistent. Anyone asking

or calling for Mr. Converse which was highly

unlikely would be told no guest of that name was

currently at the George V. Even Rene Mattilon was

not a problem, for Joel had been specific. Since he

had no further business in Paris, he was taking the

six o'clock shuttle to London and staying with

friends for several days before flying back to New

York. He had thanked Rene profusely, telling the

Frenchman that his firm's fears about Bertholdier

had been groundless. During their quiet

conversation he had brought

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 91

up three key names with the general, and each had

been greeted with a blank look from Bertholdier,

who apologized for his faulty memory.

"He wasn't Iying," Joel had said.

"I can't imagine why he would," Mattilon had replied.

    I can, Converse had thought to himself. They call

itAquitaine.

    A crack! There was a sudden sound, a harsh

metallic snap, then another, and another the

tumblers of a lock falling out of place, a knob being

turned. It came from beyond the open door to the

bedroom. Joel bolted forward in his chair; then,

looking at his watch, just as rapidly he let out his

breath and relaxed. It was the hour when the floor

maid turned down the bed; the tension of the

expected call and what it represented had frayed his

nerves. Again he leaned back, his gaze resting on the

telephone. When would it ring? Would it ring?

    "Pardon, monsieur, " said a feminine voice,

accompanied by a light tapping on the open

doorframe. Joel could not see the speaker.

    "Yes?" Converse turned away from the silent

phone, expecting to see the maid.

    What he saw made him gasp. It was the figure of

Bertholdier, his posture erect, his angled head rigid,

his eyes a strange admixture of cold appraisal,

condescension, and if Joel was not mistaken a

trace of fear. He walked through the door and stood

motionless; when he spoke his voice was a rippling

sheet of ice.

    "I was on my way to a dinner engagement on the

fourth floor, Monsieur Simon. By chance, I

remembered you were in this very hotel. You did

give me the number of your suite. Do I intrude?"

"Of course not, General," said Converse, on his feet.

"Did you expect met"

"Not this way."

"But you did expect me?"

Joel paused. 'Yes."

"A signal sent and received?"

Again Joel paused. "Yes."

    You are either a provocatively subtle attorney or

a strangely obsessed man. Which is it, Monsieur

Simon?"

    `If I provoked you into coming to see me and I

was subtle about it, I'll accept that gladly. As to

being obsessed, the word implies an exaggerated or

unwarranted concern. Whatever

92 ROBERT LUDLUM

concerns I have, I know damned well they're

neither exaggerated nor unwarranted. No

obsession, General. I'm too good a lawyer for

that."

    "A pilot cannot lie to himself. If he does so

blindly, he crashes to his death."

    "I've been shot down. I've never crashed

through pilot error."

    Bertholdier walked slowly to the brocaded

couch against the wall. "Bonn, Tel Aviv, and

Johannesburg," he said quietly as he sat down and

crossed his legs. "The signal?"

"The signal."

"My company has interests in those areas."

"So does my client," said Converse.

"And what do you have, Monsieur Simon?"

Joel stared at the soldier. 'A commitment,

General."

    Bertholdier was silent, his body immobile, his

eyes searching "May I have a brandy?" he said

finally. "My escort will remain in the corridor

outside this door."

4

    Converse walked to the dry bar against the wall,

conscious of the soldier's gaze, wondering which

tack the conversation would take. He was oddly

calm, as he frequently was before a merger

conference or a pretrial examination, knowing he

knew things his adversaries were not aware

of buried information that had surfaced through

long hours of hard work. In the present

circumstances there had been no work at all on his

part, but the results were the same. He knew a

great deal about the legend across the room named

Jacques-Louis Bertholdier. In a word, Joel was

prepared, and over the years he had learned to trust

his on-the-feet instincts as he had once trusted

those that had guided him through the skies years

ago.

    Also, as it was part of his job, he was familiar

with the legal intricacies of import-export

manipulations. They were a maze of often

disconnected authorisations, easily made incompre-

hensible for the uninitiated, and during the next few

minutes

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 93

he intended to baffle this disciple of George Marcus

Delavane warlord of Saigon until the soldier s

trace of fear became something far more

pronounced.

    Clearances for foreign shipments came in a wide

variety of shapes and colors, from the basic export

license with specific bills of lading to those with the

less specific generic limitations. Then there were the

more coveted licenses required for a wide variety of

products subject to governmental reviews; these were

usually shunted back and forth between vacillating

departments until deadlines forced bureaucratic

decisions often based on whose influence was the

strongest or who among the bureaucrats were the

weakest.

    Finally, there was the most lethal authorisation

of all, a document too frequently conceived in

corruption and delivered in blood. It was called the

End-User's Certificate, an innocuously named permit

that was a license to ship the most abusive

merchandise in the nation's arsenals into air and sea

lanes beyond the controls of those who should have

them.

    In theory, this deadly equipment was intended

solely for allied governments with shared objectives,

thus the 'use" at the discretion of the parties at the

receiving "end" calculated death legitimised by a'

certificate" that obfuscated everyone's intentions. But

once the equipment was en route, diversion was the

practice. Shipments destined for the Bay of Haifa or

Alexandria would find their way to the Gulf of Sidra

and a madman in Libya, or an assassin named

Carlos training killer teams anywhere from Beirut to

the Sahara. Fictional corporations with nonexistent

yet strangely influential officers operated through

obscure brokers and out of hastily constructed or

out-of-the-way warehouses in the U.S. and abroad.

Millions upon millions were to be made; death was

an unimportant consequence and there was a phrase

for it all. Boardroom terrorism. It fit, and it would

be Aquitaine's method. There was no other.

    These were the thoughts the methods of opera-

tion that flashed through Converse's mind as he

poured the drinks. He was ready; he turned and

walked across the room.

    "What are you seeking, Monsieur Simon?" asked

Bertholdier, taking the brandy from Converse.

"Information, General."

"About what?"

"World markets expanding markets that my client

94 ROBERT LUDI.UM

might service. " Joel crossed back to the chair by the

window and sat down.

"And what sort of service does he render?"

"He's a broker."

"Of what?"

    "A wide range of products." Converse brought

his glass to his lips; he drank, then added, "I think

I mentioned them in general terms at your club this

afternoon. Planes, vehicles oceangoing craft,

munitions material. The spectrum."

"Yes, you did. I'm afraid I did not understand."

    "My client has access k production and

warehouse sources beyond anyone I've ever known

or ever heard of."

"Very impressive. Who is he?"

"I'm not at liberty to say."

"Perhaps I know him."

    "You might, but not in the way I've described

him. His profile is so low in this area, it's

nonexistent."

"And you won't tell me who he is," said Bertholdier

"It's privileged information."

    "Yet, in your own words, you sought me out,

sent a signal to which I responded, and now say you

want information concerning expanding markets for

all manner of merchandise, including Bonn, Tel

Aviv, and Johannesburg. But you won't divulge the

name of your client who will benefit if I have this

information which I probably do not. Surely, you

can't be serious."

    "You have the information and, yes, I'm very

serious. But I'm afraid you've jumped to the wrong

conclusion."

    "I have no fear of it at all. My English is fluent

and I heard what you said. You came out of

nowhere, I know nothing about you, you speak

elusively of this unnamed influential man "

    "You asked me, General," interrupted Joel firmly

without raising his voice. "What I was seeking."

"And you said information."

"Yes, I did, but I didn't say I was seeking it from

you."

"I beg your pardon?"

    "Under the circumstances for the reasons you

just mentioned you wouldn't give it to me anyway,

and I'm well aware of that."

    "Then what is the point of this shall I say, in-

duced~onversation? I do not like my time trifled

with, monsieur. "

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 95

"That's the last thing on earth we'd do I'd do."

"Please be specific."

    "My client wants your trust. I want it. But we

know it can't be given until you feel it's justified. In

a few days a week at the outside I hope to prove

that it is."

"By trips to Bonn, Tel Aviv Johannesburg?'

"Frankly, yes."

"Why?"

"You said it a few minutes ago. The signal."

    Bertholdier was suddenly wary. He shrugged too

casually; he was pulling back. "I said it because my

company has considerable investments in those areas.

I thought it was enhrely plausible you had a

proposition, or propositions, to make relative to

those interests."

"I intend to have. '

    "Please be specific," said the soldier, controlling

his irritation.

"You know I can't," replied Joel. "Not yet."

"When?"

    "When it's clear to you all of you that my client,

and by extension myself, have as strong motives for

being a part of you as the most dedicated among

you."

"A part of my company? Juneau et Compagrue?"

"Forgive me, General, I won't bother to answer that."

    Bertholdier glanced at the brandy in his hand,

then back at Converse. "You say you flew from San

Francisco."

"I'm not based there," Joel broke in.

    "But you came from San Francisco. To Paris.

Why uJere you there?"

    "I'll answer that if for no other reason than to

show you how thorough we are and how much

more thorough others are. We traced I

traced overseas shipments back to export licenses

originating in the northern California area. The li-

censees were companies with no histories and

warehouses with no records chains of four walls

erected for brief, temporary periods of convenience.

It was a mass of confusion leading nowhere and

everywhere. Names on documents where no such

people existed, documents themselves that came out

of bureaucratic labyrinths virtually

un-traceable rubber stamps, of iicial seals, and

signatures of authorisation where no authority was

granted. Unknowing middle-level personnel told to

expedite departmental clearances That's what I

96 ROBERT [UDDER

found in San Francisco. A morass of complex, highly

questionable transactions that could not bear

intense scrutiny."

    Bertholdier's eyes were fixed, too controlled. "I

would know nothing about such things, of course,"

he said.

    "Of course," agreed Converse. "But the fact that

my client does through me and the additional fact

that neither he nor I have any desire whatsoever to

call attention to them must tell you something."

"Frankly, not a thing."

    "Please, General. One of the first principles of

free enterprise is to cripple your competition, step

in, and fill the void."

    The soldier drank, gripping the glass firmly. He

lowered it and spoke. "Why did you come to me?"

"Because you were there."

"What?"

    "Your name was there among the morass, way

down deep, but there."

Bertholdier shot forward. "Impossible! Preposterous!"

    "Then why am I here? Why are you here?" Joel

placed his glass on the table by the chair, the

movement that of a man not finished speaking. "Try

to understand me. Depending upon which

government department a person's dealing with

certain recommendations are bound to be helpful.

You wouldn't do a damn thing for someone

appealing to Housing and Urban Development, but

over at the State Department's Munitions Controls

or at Pentagon procurements, you're golden."

"I have never lent my name to any such appeals."

    "Others did. Men whose recommendations

carried a lot of weight, but who perhaps needed

extra clout."

"What do you mean? This 'clout.'"

    "A final push for an affirmative

decision without any apparent personal

involvement. It's called support for an action

through viable second and third parties. For

instance, a memo might read: 'We' the

department, not a person 'don't know much about

this, but if a man like General Bertholdier is

favorably disposed, and we are informed that he is,

why should we argue?'"

"Never. It could not happen."

    "It did," said Converse softly, knowing it was the

moment to bring in reality to support his

abstractions. He would be able to tell instantly if

Beale was right, if this legend of France was

responsible for the slaughter and chaos in the cities

and

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 97

towns of a violently upended Northern Ireland. "You

were there, not often but enough for me to find you.

Just as you were there in a different way when a

shipment was air-freighted out of Beloit, Wisconsin,

on its way to Tel Aviv. Of course it never got there.

Somehow it was diverted to maniacs on both sides in

Belfast. I wonder where it happened? Montreal?

Paris? Marseilles? The Separatists in Quebec would

certainly follow your orders, as would men in Paris

and Marseilles. It's a shame a company named

Solidaire had to pay off the insurance claim. Oh, yes,

you're a director of the firm aren't you? And it's so

convenient that insurance carriers have access to the

merchandise they cover."

    Bertholdier was frozen to the chair, the muscles

of his face pulsating, his eyes wide, staring at Joel.

His guilt was suppressed, but no less apparent for

that control. "I cannot be lieve what you are

implying. It's shocking and incredible!"

"I repeat, why am I here?"

    "Only you can answer that, monsieur," said

Bertholdier, abruptly getting to his feet, the brandy

in his hand. Then slowly, with military precision, he

leaned over and placed the glass on the coffee table;

it was a gesture of finality the conference was over.

"Quite obviously I made a foolish error," he contin-

ued, shoulders square again and head rigid, but now

with a strained yet oddly convincing smile on his lips.

"I am a soldier, not a businessman; it is a late

direction in my life. A soldier tries to seize an

initiative and I attempted to do just that; only, there

was there is no initiative. Forgive me, I misread

your signal this afternoon."

"You didn't misread anything, General."

    "Am I contradicted by a stranger I might even

say a devious stranger who arranges a meeting

under false pretenses and proceeds to make

outrageous statements regarding my honor and my

conduct? I think not." As Bertholdier strode across

the room toward the hallway door Joel rose from his

chair. "Don't bother, monsieur, I'll let myself out.

You've gone to enough trouble, for what purpose I

haven't the faintest idea."

    "I'm on my way to Bonn," said Converse. "Tell

your friends I'm coming. Tell them to expect me.

And please, General, tell them not to prejudge me.

I mean that."

    "Your elliptical references are most annoying

Lieutenant. It was 'lieutenant,' wasn't it? Unless you

also deceived poor Luboque as well."

98 ROBERT LUDLUM

    "Whatever deception employed to meet you can

only be for his benefit. I've offered to write a legal

opinion for his case. He may not like it, but it'll save

him a lot of pain and money. And I have not

deceived you."

    "A matter of judgment, I think." Bertholdier

turned and reached for the outsized brass knob.

"Bonn, Germany," pressed Joel.

"I heard you. I haven't the vaguest notion what

you "

"Leifhelm," said Converse quietly. "Erich Leifhelm."

    The soldier's head turned slowly; his eyes were

banked fires, the coals glowing, about to erupt at

the merest gust of wind. "A name known to me, but

not the man."

"Tell him I'm coming."

    "Good night, monsieur," said Bertholdier,

opening the door, his face ashen.

    Joel raced into the bedroom, grabbed his

suitcase and threw it on the luggage rack. He had to

get out of Paris. Within hours, perhaps minutes,

Bertholdier would have him watched, and if he was

followed to an airport, his passport would expose

the name Simon as a lie. He could not let that

happen, not yet.

    It was strange, unsettling. He had never had any

reason to leave a hotel surreptitiously, and he was

not sure he knew how to do it only that it had to

be done. The altering of the registration card had

been done instinctively, there were occasions when

legal negotiations had to be kept quiet for every-

one's benefit. But this was different it was

abnormal. He had said to Beale on Mykonos that he

was going to become someone he was not. It was an

easy thing to say, not at all easy to do.

    His suitcase packed, he checked the battery

charge on his electric razor and absently turned it

on, moving it around his chin, as he walked to the

bedside telephone. He shut the switch off as he

dialed, unsure of what he would say to the night

concierge but nevertheless instinctively orienting his

mind to a business approach. After initial remarks,

mutually flattering, the words came.

    "There's an extremely sensitive situation, and my

firm is anxious that I leave for London just as soon

as possible and as discreetly as possible. Frankly,

I would prefer not to be seen checking out."

"Discretion, monsieur, is honored here, and haste is

a

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 99

normal request. I shall come up and present your bill

myself. Say, ten minutes?"

    "I've only one piece of luggage. I'll carry it, but

I'll need a cab. Not in front."

    "Not in front, of course. The freight elevator,

monsieur. It connects below with our corridor for

deliveries. Arrangements will be made."

    "I ve made arrangementst" said Bertholdier

harshly into the limousine's mobile phone, the glass

partition between him and the chauffeur tightly shut.

"One man remains in the gallery in sight of the

elevators, another in the cellars where the hotel

supplies are brought in. If he attempts to leave

during the night, it is the only other exit available to

him. I've used it myself on several occasions."

    "This . . . is all most difficult to absorb." The

voice on the line spoke with a clipped British accent,

the speaker obviously astonished, his breathing

audible, a man suddenly afraid. "Are you sure?

Could there be some other linkage?"

    "Imbecile! I repeat. He knew about the munitions

shipment from Beloit! He knew the routing, even the

method of theft. He went so far as to identify

Solidaire and my position as a board member! He

made a direct reference to our business associate in

Bonnl Then to Tel Aviv . . .lohannesburgl What

other linkage could there be?"

    "Corporate entanglements, perhaps. One can't

rule them out. Multinational subsidiaries, munitions

investments, our associate in West Germany also sits

on several boards.... And the locations money pours

into them."

    "What in the name of God do you think I'm

talking about? I can say no more now, but what I've

told you, my English flower, take it to be the worstl"

    There was a brief silence from London. "I

understand," said the voice of a subordinate rebuked.

    "I hope you do. Get in touch with New York. His

name is Simon, Henry Simon. He's an attorney from

Chicago. I have the address; it's from the hotel's

registration file." Bertholdier squinted under the

glare of the reading lamp, haltingly deciphering the

numbers and the numbered street written down by

an assistant bell captain, well paid by one of the

general's men to go into the office and obtain

information on the occupant of suite two-three-five.

"Do you have that?"

"Yes." The voice was now sharp, a subordinate about

to

100 ROBERT LUDLUM

redress a grievance. Was it wise to get it that way?

A friend or a greedy employee might tell him

someone was inquiring about him.'

    "Really, my British daffodil? An innocuous

bellboy checking the registry so as to post a lost

garment to a recent guest?"

    Again the brief silence. ' Yes, I see. You know,

Jacques, we work for a great cause a business

cause, of course more important than either of us,

as we did once years ago. I must constantly remind

myself of that, or I don't think I could tolerate your

insults."

    And what would be your recourse, I'Anglais?"

    'To cut your arrogant Frog balls off in Trafalgar

Square and stuff them in a lion's mouth. The

repository wouldn't have to be large; an ancient

crack would do. I'll ring you up in an hour or so.''

There was a click and the line went dead.

    The soldier lowered the mobile phone in his

hand, and a smile slowly emerged on his lips. They

were the best, all of theml They were the hope, the

only hope of a very sick world.

    Then the smile faded, the blood again draining

from his face, arrogance turning into fear. What did

this Henry Simon want, really want? Who was the

unknown man with access to extraordinary

sources planes, vehicles, munitions? What in God's

name did they know?

    The padded elevator descended slowly, its

interior designed for moving furniture and luggage,

its speed adjusted for room-service deliveries. The

night concierge stood beside Joel, his face pleasantly

impassive; in his right hand was the leather bourse

containing a copy of Converse's bill and the franc

notes covering it as well as a substantial gratuity

for the Frenchman's courtesy.

    A slight whirring sound preceded the stop; the

panel light shone behind the letters sou-so~, and

the heavy doors parted. Beyond in the wide hallway

was a platoon of whitejacketed waiters, maids,

porters and a few maintenance personnel

commandeering tables racks of linens, luggage and

assorted cleaning materials. Loud, rapid chatter,

heightened by bursts of laughter and guttural

expletives, accompanied the bustling activity. At the

sight of the concierge there was a perceptible

lessening of volume and an increase of concentrated

move

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 101

meet, along with nods and fawning smiles directed at

the man who, with the flick of a pen, could eliminate

their jobs.

    "If you'll just point me in the right direction, I ll

be on my way," said Joel, not wishing to call further

attention to himself in the company of the concierge.

'I've taken up too much of your time."

    "Merct. If you will follow that corridor, it will lead

to the service exit," replied the Frenchman, pointing

to a hallway on the left, beyond the bank of

elevators. "The guard is at his desk and is aware of

your departure. Outside in the alley, turn right and

walk to the street; your taxi is waiting for you."

    "I appreciate my firm appreciates your

cooperation. As I mentioned upstairs, there's nothing

really that secretive, or unusual just sensitive."

    The hotel man's impassive countenance did not

change, except for a slightly sharper focus in his eyes.

"It is of no matter, monsieur, an explanation is not

required. I did not request it, and if you'll forgive

me, you should not feel an obligation to offer one.

Au rewir, Monsieur Simon."

    "Yes, of course," said Converse, maintaining his

composure though he felt like a schoolboy

admonished for speaking out of turn, for offering an

answer when he had not been called upon. "See you

next time I'm in Paris."

"We await the day, monsieur. Bonsotr."

    Joel turned quickly, making his way through the

uniformed crowd toward the hallway, apologising

whenever his suitcase made contact with a body. He

had just been taught a lesson, one he should not

have had to learn. He knew it in a courtroom and in

conference: Never explain what you don't have to.

Shut up. But this was not a court or a conference. It

was, it suddenly dawned on him, an escape, and the

realization was a little frightening, certainly very

strange. Or was it? Escape was in his vocabulary, in

his experience. He had tried it three times before in

his life years ago. And death had been everywhere.

He put the thought out of his mind and walked down

the corridor toward the large metal door in the

distance.

    He slowed down; something was wrong. Ahead,

standing in front of the security desk talking to the

guard was a man in a light-colored topcoat. Joel had

seen him before but he did not know where; then the

man moved and Converse began to remember an

image came back to him. Another man had moved

the same way taking several steps backward before

102 ROBERT LUDLUM

turning to disappear from an archway, and now he

moved the same way to cross the corridor to lean

against the wall. Was it the same man? Yes! It was

the one who had accompanied Bertholdier to the

dining-room entrance of L'Etalon Blanc. The

subordinate who had taken leave of a superior then

was here now under orders from that same superior.

    The man looked up, the flash of recognition

instantly in his eyes. Stretching, he raised himself to

his full height and turned away, his hand slowly

moving toward the fold in his coat. Converse was

stunned. Was the man actually reaching for a gun ?

With an armed guard barely ten feet away? It was

insane! Joel stopped; he considered racing back into

the crowd by the elevators but knew it was pointless.

If Bertholdier had posted a watchdog in the

basement, others would be upstairs, in the corridors,

in the lobby. He could not turn and run; there was

no place to go, nowhere to hide. So he kept

walking, now faster, directly toward the man in the

light-brown topcoat, his mind confused, his throat

tight.

    "There you arel"he cried out loud, not sure the

words were his. "The general told me where to find

your"

    The man stood motionless, in shock, speechless.

"Le general2" he said, barely above a whisper. "He .

. . tell you?"

    The man's English was not good, and that was

very good. He could understand, but not well.

Rapidly spoken words, persuasively delivered, might

get them both out the door. Joel turned to the

guard while angling his attache case into his

companion's back. "My name's Simon. I believe the

concierge spoke to you about me."

    The juxtaposition of the name and the title was

sufficient for the bewildered guard. He glanced at

his papers, nodding. "One monsieur. Le concierge . .

."

    "Come on!" Converse shoved the attache case

into the man in the topcoat, propelling him toward

the door. "The general's waiting for us outside. Let's

gal Hurry up!"

    "Le general . ?" The man's hands instinctively

shot out at the crash bar of the exit door, in less

than five seconds he and Joel were alone in the

alley. "Que se passe-toil? Oil est le general?... Where?"

    "Here! He said to wait here. You. You're to

wait here! Ici!"

    "Arre^tez!" The man was recovering. He stood

his ground. Thrusting his left hand out, he pushed

Converse back against the wall. With his right hand

he reached into his overcoat.

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 103

    "Don't!" Joel dropped his attache case, gripping

his suitcase and pulling it up in front of him, about

to rush forward. He stopped. The man did not pull

out a gun; instead, what he had was a thin

rectangular object bound in black leather, from

which a long metallic needle rose from the narrow

flat top. An antenna . . . a radial

    All thought was blurred for Converse, but he

knew he had to act instantly only mobon counted.

He could not permit the man to use that radio,

alerting those with other radios elsewhere in the

hotel. With a sudden surge of strength he rammed

his suitcase into the man's knees, tearing the radio

away with his left hand, whipping his right arm out

and over the man's shoulder. He crooked his elbow

around the Frenchman's neck as he spun on the

pavement. Then without thinking, he yanked

Bertholdier's soldier forward, so that both of them

hurtled toward the wall, and crashed the man's head

into the stone. Blood spread throughout the

Frenchman's skull, matUng his hair and streaking

down his face in deep-red rivulets. Joel could not

think, he could not allow himself to think. If he did,

he would be sick and he knew it. Mobon, ma lion!

    The man went limp. Converse angled the

unconscious body by the shoulders, propelling it

against the wall, shoving it away from the metal door

and letting it drop in the farther shadows. He leaned

down and picked up the radio; he snapped off the

antenna and shoved the case into his pocket. He

stood up, confused, frightened, trying to orient

himself. Then, grabbing his attache case and suitcase,

he raced breathlessly out of the alley, conscious of

the blood that had somehow erupted over part of his

face. The taxi was at the curb, the driver smoking a

cigarette in the darkness, oblivious to the violence

that had taken place only thirty yards away.

    "De Gaulle Airport!' shouted Joel, opening the

door and throwing his luggage inside. "Please, I'm in

a hurry!" He lurched into the seat, gasping, his neck

stretched above the cushioned rim, swallowing the air

that would not fill his lungs.

    The rushing lights and shadows that bombarded

the interior of the cab served to keep his thoughts

suspended, allowing his racing pulse to decelerate

and the air to reach him, slowly drying the

perspiration at his temples and his neck. He leaned

forward, wanUng a cigarette but afraid he would

vomit from the smoke trapped in his throat. He shut

his eyes so tightly a thousand specks of white light

assaulted the dark

104 ROBERT LUDLUM

screen of his mind. He felt ill, and he knew it was

not simply fear alone that had brought on the

nausea. It was something else, something that was in

and of itself as paralysing fear. He had committed

an act of utter brutality, and it both shocked and

appalled him. He had actually physically attacked a

man, wanUng to cripple him, perhaps kill

him which he may very well have done. No matter

why, he may have killed another human being! Did

the presence of a hand-held radio justify a shattered

skull? Did it constitute self-defence? Goddamn it, he

was a man of words, of logic, not blood! Never

blood, that was in the past, so long ago and so

painful.

    Those memories belonged to another ffme, to an

uncivilized time, when men became what they were

not in order to survive. Converse never wanted to go

back. Above all things, he had promised himself he

never would, a promise he made when the terror and

the violence were all around him, at their shattering

worst. He remembered so vividly, with such pain, the

final hours before his last escape and the quiet,

generous man without whom he would have died

twenty feet down in the earth, a shaft in the ground

designed for troublemakers.

    Colonel Sam Abbott, US. Air Force, would always

be a part of his life no matter how many years might

separate them. At the risk of torture and death, Sam

had crawled out at night and had thrown a crudely

fashioned metal wedge down the "punishment hole', it

was that primitive tool that allowedloel to build a

crude ladderoutof earth and rock and finally to

freedom. Abbott and he had spent the last twenty-seven

months in the same cam p, both officers trying to hold

together what sanity there was. But Sam understood

the burning inside Joel; the Colonel had stayed behind,

and during those final hours before breakout, Joel was

wracked by the thoughts of what might happen to his

friend

    "Don't worry about me, sailor. Just keep your

minimum wits about you and get rid of that wedge.

Take care, Sam.

You take care. This is the last shot you've got.

I know.

    Joel moved over toward the door and rolled

down the window several inches more to increase

the rush of wind from the highway. Christ, he

needed Sam Abbott's quiet objectivity now! His

lawyer's mind told him to get hold of himself; he

had

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 105

to think and his thoughts had to stimulate whatever

imaginahon he had. First things first. Think! The

radio he had to get rid of the radio. But not at the

airport it might be found in the airport; it was

evidence, and worse, a means of tracing him. He

rolled the window further down and threw it out, his

eyes on the rearview mirror above the windshield.

The driver glanced up at him, saw the bloody face

but showed no alarm; Joel took repeated deep

breaths and then rolled the window back up. Think.

He had to think! Bertholdier expected him to go

from Paris to Bonn and when the general's soldier

was found and he had undoubtedly been found by

now all flights to Bonn would be watched, whether

the man was alive or dead.

    He would buy a ticket for somewhere else,

someplace where connections to Cologne-Bonn were

accessible on a regular basis. As the stream of air

cooled his face it occurred to him to remove the

handkerchief from his breast pocket and wipe away

the moist blood that covered his right cheek and

lower chin.

    'Scandinavian Air Icings," he said, raising his

voice to the driver. "SAS. Do you . . . comprends?"

    "Very clearly, monsieur,' said the bereted man

behind the wheel in good English. ' Do you have a

reservation for Stockholm, Oslo, or Copenhagen?

They are different gates."

"I'm . . . I'm not sure."

"We have time, monsieur. At least fifteen minutes."

    The voice over the telephone from London was

frigid, the words and the delivery an impersonal

rebuke. "There is no attorney by that name in

Chicago, and certainly not at the address you gave

me. In fact, the address does not exist. Do you have

something else to offer, or do we put this down as

one of your more paranoid fantasies, mon general?"

    "You are a fool, I'Anglais, with no more

comprehension than a frightened rabbit. I heard what

I heard!"

"From whom? A nonexistent man?"

    "A nonexistent man who has put my aide in a

hospital! A fractured skull with a great loss of blood

and severe brain damage. He may not live, and if he

does, he will no doubt be a vegetable. Speak to me

not of fantasies, daffodil The man is real."

"Are you serious?"

10h ROBERT LUDLUM

    '~Call the hospital! L'hopital Saint-Jerome. Let

the doctors tell you."

"All right, all right, compose yourself. We must

think."

    "I am perfectly composed," said Bertholdier,

getting up from the desk in his study and carrying

the phone to the window, the extension cord snaking

across the floor. He looked out; it had begun to

rain, the street lights diffused in the spattered glass.

"He's on his way to Bonn," continued the general.

"It was his next stop, he was very clear about it."

    "Intercept him. Call Bonn, reach Cologne, give

them his description. How many flights can there be

from Paris with a lone American on board? Take

him at the airport. '

    Bertholdier sighed audibly into the phone, his

tone one of discouragement bordering on disgust. "It

was never my intention to take him. It would serve

no purpose and probably cut us off from what we

have to learn. I want him followed. I want to know

where he goes, whom he calls, whom he meets with;

these are the things we must learn."

    "You said he made a direct reference to our

associate. That he was going to reach him."

"Not our people. H`s people."

    "I'll say it again," insisted the voice from

London. "Call Cologne, reach Bonn. Listen to me,

Jacques, he can be found, and once he is, he can be

followed."

    "Yes, yes, I'll do as you My, but it may not be as

easy as you think. Three hours ago I would have

thought otherwise, but that was before I knew what

he was capable of. Someone who can take another

man and rush that man's head into a stone wall at

full force is either an animal, a maniac, or a zealot

who will stop at nothing. In my judgment, he is the

last. He said he had a commitment and it was in

his eyes. And he'll be clever; he's already proven he

can be clever."

"You say three hours?"

"Yes."

"Then he may already be in Bonn."

"I know."

"Have you called our associate?"

    "Yes, he's not at home and the maid could not

give me another number. She doesn't know where

he is, or when he's expected."

"Probably in the morning."

    "No doubt.... Auende^^I There was another

man at the dub this afternoon. With Luboque and

this Simon, whose

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 107

name is not Simon. He brought him to Luboque!

Good-bye, I'Angla~s I'll keep you informed."

    ReneMattilon opened his eyes. The streaks of

light on the ceiling seemed to shimmer, myriad tiny

clots bursting, breaking up the linear patterns. Then

he heard the sound of the rain on the windows and

understood. The shafts of light from the streetlamps

had been intercepted by the glass, distorting the

images he knew so well. It was the rain, he con-

cluded; that was what had awakened him. That and

perhaps the weight of his wife's hand between his

legs. She stirred and he smiled, trying to make up his

mind or find the energy to reach for her. She had

filled a void for him he had thought would always be

there after his first wife died. He was grateful, and

along with his feeling of gratitude came excitement,

two emotions satisfyingly compatible. He was

becoming aroused; he rolled over on his side and

pulled down the covers, revealing the swell of her

breasts encased in laced silk, the diffused light and

the pounding on the windows heightening the

sensuality. He reached for her.

    Suddenly, there was another sound besides the

rain, and though still wrapped in the mists of sleep

he recognized it. Quickly he withdrew his hand and

turned away from his wife. He had heard that noise

only moments before; it was the sound that had

awakened him, an insistent tone that had broken the

steady rhythm of the downpour: the chimes of his

apartment doorbell.

    Mattilon climbed out of bed as carefully as he

could, reaching for his bathrobe on a nearby chair

and sliding his feet into his slippers. He walked out

of the bedroom, closing the door quietly behind him,

and found the wall switch that turned on the lamps

in the living room. He glanced at the ornate clock on

the fireplace mantel. it was nearly two-thirty in the

morning. Who could possibly be calling on them at

this hour? He tied the sash around his robe and

walked to the door.

"Yes, who is it?"

    "Surete, monsieur. Inspector Prudhomme. My

state identification is zero-five-seven-two-zero." The

man's accent was Gascon, not Parisian. It was often

said that Gascons made the best police officials. "I

shall wait while you call my station, monsieur. The

telephone number is "

"No need," said Mattilon, alarmed, unlatching the

door.

108 ROBERT LUDLUM

He knew the man was genuine not only from the

information offered, but anyone from the Surete

calling on him at this hour would know he was an

attorney. The Surete was legally circumspect.

    There were two men, both in raincoats spotted

by the downpour, their hats drenched; one was

older than the other and shorter. Each held out an

open identification for Rene's inspection. He waved

the cards aside and gestured for the two men to

come in, adding, "It's an odd time for visitors,

gentlemen. You must have pressing business."

    "Very pressing, monsieur," said the older man,

entering first. He was the one who had spoken

through the door, giving his name as Prudhomme,

and was obviously the senior. "We apologize for the

inconvenience, of course." Both men removed their

hats.

"Of course. May I take your coats?"

    "It won't be necessary, monsieur. With your

cooperation we'll only be a few minutes."

    "And I shall be most interested to know how I

can cooperate with the Surete at this time of night.

'

    "A matter of identification, sir. Monsieur Serge

Antoine Luboque is a client of yours, we are

informed. Is this so?"

    "My God, has something happened to Serge? I

was with him only this afternoon!"

    "Monsieur Luboque appears to be in excellent

health. We left his country house barely an hour

ago. And to the point, it is your meeting with him

this afternoon yesterday afternoon that concerns

the Surete."

"In what way?"

    "There was a third party at your table. Like

yourself, an attorney, introduced to Monsieur

Luboquc-~ man named Simon. Henry Simon, an

American."

    "And a pilot," said Mattilon warily. "With

considerable expertise in aircraft litigation. I trust

Luboque explained that; it was the reason he was

there at my request. Monsieur Luboque is the

plaintiff in just such a lawsuit. That, of course, is all

I can say on the subject."

"It is not the subject that interests the Surete."

"What is, then?"

    "There is no attorney by the name of Henry

Simon in the city of Chicago, Illinois, in the United

States."

"I find that hard to believe."

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 109

    The name is false At least, it is not his. The

address he gave the hotel does not exist"

    The address he gave the hotels, Rene,

astonished. Joel did not have to give an address to

the George V it knew him well, knew the firm of

Talbot, Brooks and Simon very well, indeed

    fin his own handwriting, monsieur," added the

younger man sbfily

Has the hotel management confirmed this?"

    eyes," said Prudhomme The night concierge was

very cooperative He told us he escorted Monsieur

Simon down the freight elevator to the hotel cellars.''

The cellars?"

    Monsieur Simon wished to leave the hotel

without being seen. He paid his bill in his room"

    A minute, please," said Mathlon, perplexed, his

hands protesting, as he turned and walked aimlessly

around an armchair. He stopped, his hands on the

rim. ' What precisely do you want from mew

    Ewe want you to help us," answered Prudhomme.

We think you know who he is. You brought him to

Monsieur Luboque."

    On a confidential matter entailing a legal

opinion He agreed to listen and to evaluate on the

condition that his idenbty be protected. It's not

unusual when seeking expertise if one is involved

with, shall we say, an individual as wealthy and as

temperamental as Monsieur Luboque You've spoken

with him; need I say more?"

    '`Not on that subject," said the older man from

the Surete permitting himself a smile. "He thinks all

government personnel work for Moscow. We were

surrounded by dogs in his foyer, all salivating, I

might add."

    'When you can understand why my American

colleague prefers to remain unnamed. I know him

well, he's a splendid man."

Who is he? And do you know where we can find

him?"

Why do you want him?"

    "We wish to question him about an incident that

took place at the hotel."

    "I'm sorry. As Luboque is a client, so by

extension is Simon "

    "That is not acceptable to us under the

circumstances, monsieur "

110 ROBERT LUDLUM

    "I'm afraid it will have to be, at least for a few

hours. Tomorrow I shall try to reach him through

his office in . . . in the United States, and I'm sure

he'll get in touch with you immediately."

"We don't think he will."

"Why not?"

    Prudhomme glanced at his starchly postured

associate and shrugged. "He may have killed a man,"

he said matter-of-factly.

    Mattilon stared at the Surete officer in disbelief.

He ... what?'

    It was a particularly vicious assault, monsieur.

A man's head was rammed into a wall; there are

extensive cranial injuries and the prognosis is not

good. His condition as of midnight was critical, the

chances of recovery less than half. He may be dead

by now, which one doctor said could be a blessing."

    No . . . no! You are mistaken! You're wrong!"

The lawyer's hands gripped the back of the chair.

A terrible error has been made!"

    No error. The identification was positive that

is, Monsieur Simon was identified as the last person

seen with the man who was beaten. He forced the

man out into an alley; there were sounds of

scuffling and minutes later that man was found, his

skull fractured, bleeding, near death."

    ~Impossible! You don't know him! What you

suggest is inconceivable. He couldn't."

    "Are you telling us he is disabled, physically

incapable of assault?"

    "No," said Mattilon, shaking his head. Then

suddenly he stopped all movement. "Yes," he

continued thoughtfully, his eyes pensive, now

nodding, rushing ahead. "He's incapable, yes, but

not physically. Mentally. In that sense he is disabled.

He could not do what you say he did."

"He's mentally deranged?"

    "My God, no! He's one of the most lucid men

I've ever met. You have to understand. He went

through a prolonged period of extreme physical

stress and mental anguish. He endured punishment,

to both his body and his mind. There was no

permanent damage but there are indelible

memories. Like so many men who've been subjected

to such treatment, he avoids all forms of physical

confrontation or abuse. It is repugnant to him. He

can't inflict punishment because too much was

inflicted on him."

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 111

    "You mean he would not defend himself, his

own? He would turn the other cheek if he, or his

wife, or his children were attacked?"

    "Of course not, but that's not what you described.

You said 'a particularly vicious assault, implying

something quite different. And if it were

otherwise if he were threatened or attacked and

defended himself he most certainly would not have

left the scene. He's too fine a lawyer." Mattilon

paused. "Was that the case? Is that what you're

saying? Is the injured man known to you from the

police files? Is he "

    "A limousine chauffeur," interrupted Prudhomme.

"An unarmed man who was waiting for his assigned

passenger of the evening."

"In the cellars?"

    "Apparently it is a customary service and not an

unfamiliar one. These firms are discreet. This one

sent another driver to cover before inquiring as to

their employee's condition. The client would not

know."

"Very chic, I'm sure. What do they say happened?"

    "According to a witness, a guard who's been with

the hotel for eighteen years, this Simon approached

in a loud voice, speaking English the guard thinks

angrily, although he does not understand the

language and forced the man outside."

"The guard is wrong! It had to be someone else."

    "Simon identified himself. The concierge had

cleared his departure. The description fits; it was the

one who called himself Simon."

"But why? There has to be a reason!"

"We should like to hear it, monsieur."

    Rene shook his head in bewilderment; nothing

made sense. A man could register at any hotel under

any name he wished, of course, but there were

charges, credit cards, people calling; a false name

served no purpose. Especially at a hotel where one

was presumably known, and if one was known and

chose to travel incogmto, that status would not be

protected if a front desk was questioned by the

Surete. "I must ask you again, Inspector, have you

checked thoroughly with the hotel?"

    "Not personally, monsieur," replied Prudhomme,

looking at his associate. "My time was taken up

interrogating those in the vicinity of the assault."

"I checked with the concierge myself, monsieur," said

112 ROBERT LUDLUM

the younger, taller man, speaking like a

programmed robot. ' Naturally, the hotel is not

anxious for the incident to receive attention, was

cooperative. The night concierge is newly employed

from the Hotel Meurice and wished to minimize the

incident, but he himself showed me the registration

form. '

    I see." And Matfflon did see, at least insofar as

Joel's identity was concerned. Hundreds of guests at

a large hotel and a nervous concierge protecting his

new employer's image. The obvious source was

accepted as truth, another truth no doubt

forthcoming in the morning from more knowl-

edgeable men. But that was all Rene

understood nothing else. He needed a few

moments to think, to try to understand.

`I'm curious," he said, reaching for words. '`At

worst, this is an assault with severe results, but

nevertheless an assault. Why isn't it a simple police

matter? Why the Surete?"

    `My first question, monsieur," said the

plainspoken Prudhomme. The reason given us was

that the incident involved a foreigner, obviously a

wealthy foreigner. One does not know these days

where such things may lead. We have certain

controls not available to the arrond~ssement police.

'

PI see.

    Ado you?" asked the man from the Surete. May

I remind you that as an attorney you have an

obligation to uphold the courts and the law? You

have been offered our credentials and I have

suggested you call my station for any further

verification you might wish. Please, monsieur, who

is Henry Simon?"

    PI have other obligations, as well, Inspector. To

my word, to a client, to an old friendship "

You put these above the law?"

Only because I know you're wrong"

    .Then where is the harm? If we are wrong, we

shall find this Simon undoubtedly at an airport and

he will tell us himself. But if we are not, we may

find a very sick man who needs help. Before he

harms others. I am no psychiatrist, monsieur, but

you have described a troubled man a once

troubled man, in any event. '

    Matfflon was uncomfortable with the blunt

official's logic . . . and also something else he could

not define. Was it Joel? Was it the clouds in his old

friend's eyes, the unconscious verbal slip about a

blemished rock in the dirt? Rene looked again at

the clock on the mantel; a thought occurred to him.

It was only eight-forty-two in New York.

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 113

    "Inspector, I'm going to ask you to wait here

while I go into my study and make a phone call on

my private line. The line, incidentally, is not

connected to the telephone on the table."

"That was unnecessary, monsieur."

"Then I apologise."

    Mattilon walked rapidly to a door on the

opposite side of the room, opened it and went inside.

He crossed to his desk, where he sat down and

opened a red-leather telephone index. He flipped the

pages to the letter T. scanning the names until he

reached Talbot, Lawrence. He had both the office

and the house number; the latter was necessary

because the courts in Paris were in operation before

the East Coast of America was out of bed. If Talbot

was not there, he would try Nathan Simon, then

Brooks, if he had to. Neither alternative was nec-

essary. Lawrence Talbot answered the phone.

"I'll be damned, how are you, Rene? You in New

York?" "No, Paris."

"Sounds like you're down the block."

"So do you. It's always startling."

"It's also late where you are, if I'm not mistaken."

    "It's very late, Larry. We may have a problem,

that's why I'm calling."

    "A problem? I didn't even know we had any

business going. What is it?"

"Your missionary work."

"Our what?"

"Bertholdier. His friends."

"W7lo?"

"Jacques-Louis Bertholdier."

"Who is he? I've heard the name but I can't place

him." "You can't . . . place him?"

"Sorry."

"I've been with Joel. I arranged the meeting."

"Joel? How is he? Is he in Paris now?"

"You weren't aware of it?"

    "Last time I spoke with him was two days ago in

Geneva after that awful business with Halliday. He

told me he was all right, but he wasn't. He was

shaken up."

    "Let me understand you, Larry. Joel is not in

Paris on business for Talbot, Brooks and Simon, is

that what you're saying?"

114 ROBERT LUDLUM

    Lawrence Talbot paused before answering. "No,

he's not," said the senior partner softly. "Did he say

he was?"

"Perhaps I just assumed it."

    Again Talbot paused. "I don't think you'd do

that. But I do think you should tell Joel to call me."

    "That's part of the problem, Larry. I don't know

where he is. He said he was taking the five o'clock

plane for London, but he didn't. He checked out of

the George Cinq quite a bit later under very odd

circumstances."

'What do you mean?"

    His hotel registration was altered, changed to

another name a name I suggested, incidentally, as

he didn't wish to use his own at lunch. Then he

insisted on leaving by way of some basement

delivery entrance."

"That's strange."

    "I'm afraid it's the least of the oddities. They say

he assaulted a man. He may have killed him."

'lesus!"

    41 don t believe it, of course," said Mattilon

quickly. `He wouldn't, he couldn't ,

"I hope not."

4Certainly you don't think "

    1 don't know what to think," interrupted

Talbot. When he was in Ceneva and we talked, I

asked him if there was any connection between

llalliday's death and what he was doing. He said

there wasn't, but he was so remote, so distant; his

voice sounded hollow."

`What he's doing . . . ? What is he doing?"

    -1 don't know. I'm not even sure I can find out,

but I'll do my damnedest. I tell you, I'm worried.

Something's happened to him. His voice was like an

echo chamber, do you know what I mean?',

    Byes, I do," said Mattilon quietly. 41 heard him,

I saw hirn. I'm worried too."

    'Find him, Rene. Do whatever you can. Give me

the word and I'll drop everything and By over. He's

hurting somewhere, somehow."

"I'll do what I can.',

    Mattilon walked out of his study and faced the

two men from the police.

His name is Converse, Joel Converse," he began.

* * *

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 115

    "His name is Converse, first nameJoel," said the

younger, taller man from the Surete, speaking into

the mouthpiece of a pay phone on the Boulevard

Raspail, as the rain pounded the booth. "He's

employed by a law firm in New York: Talbot, Brooks

and Simon; the address is on Fifth Avenue. The as-

sumed name, Simon, however, was apparently a

convenience, and not related to the firm."

"I don't understand."

    "Whatever this Converse is involved with has

nothing to do with his employers. Mattilon reached

one of the partners in New York and it was made

clear to him. Also both men are concerned, worried;

they wish to be kept informed. If Converse is found,

Mattilon insists on immediate access to him as the

attorney of record. He may be holding back, but in

my judgment he's genuinely bewildered. In shock,

might be more accurate. He knows nothing of

consequence. I could tell if he did."

    "Nevertheless, he is holding back. The name

Simon was used for my benefit so I would not learn

the identity of this Converse. Mattilon knows that; he

was there and they are friends and he brought him

to Luboque."

"Then he was manipulated, General. He did not

mention

you."

    "He might if he's questioned further. I cannot be

involved in any way."

    "Of course not," agreed the man from the SCrete

with quiet emphasis.

    "Your superior, what's his name? The one

assigned to the incident."

"Prudhomme. Inspector First Grade Prudhomme."

"Is he frank with you?"

    "Yes. He thinks I'm something of a mechanical

ex-soldier whose instincts may outdistance his

intellect, but he sees that I'm willing. He talks to

me."

    "You'll be kept with him for a while. Should he

decide to go back and see Mattilon, let me know

immediately. Paris may lose a respected attorney. My

name must not surface."

    "He would go back to Mattilon only if Converse

was found. And if word came to the Surete as to his

whereabouts, I'd reach you instantly."

    "There could be another reason, Colonel. One

that might provoke a persistent man into

reexamining his progress or lack of it in spite of

orders to the contrary."

116 ROBERT LUDLUM

' Orders to the contrary, sir?"

    "They will be issued. This Converse is solely our

concern now. All we needed was a name. We know

where he's heading. We'll find him."

"I don't understand, General."

    "News has come from the hospital. Our

chauffeur has taken a turn for the better."

"Good news, indeed."

    "I wish it were. The sacrifice of a single soldier

is abhorrent to any field commander, but the

broader tactics must be kept in view, they must be

served. Do you agree?"

"Yes, of course."

    "Our chauffeur must not recover. The larger

strategy Colonel."

    "If he dies, the efforts to find Converse will be

intensified. And you're right, Prudhomme will

reexamine everything, including the lawyer,

Mattilon."

"Orders to the contrary will be issued. But watch

him."

"Yes, sir."

    "And now we need your expertise, Colonel. The

talents you developed so proficiently while in the

service of the Legion before we brought you back to

a more civilized life."

"My gratitude isn't shallow. Whatever I can do."

    "Can you get inside the Hospital of Saint Jerome

with as little notice as possible?"

    "With no notice. There are fire escapes on all

sides of the building and it's a dark night, heavy

with rain. Even the police stay in doorways. It's

child's play."

"But man's work. It has to be done."

"I don't question such decisions."

"A blockage in the windpipe, a convulsion in the

throat."

    "Pressure applied through cloth, sir. Gradually

and with no marks, a patient's self-induced

trauma.... But I would be derelict if I didn't repeat

what I said, General. There'll be a search of Paris,

then a large-scale manhunt. The killer will be

presumed to be a rich American, an inviting target

for the Surete."

    "There'll be no search, no manhunt. Not yet. If

it is to be it will come later, and if it does, a

convicted corpse will be trapped in the net.... Go

into the field, my young friend. The chauffeur,

Colonel; the broader strategy must be served."

    "He's dead," said the man in the telephone

booth, and hung up.

5

    Erich Leifhelm . . . born March 15,1912, in Mu-

nich to Dr. Heinrich Leifhelm and his mistress,

Marta Stoessel. Although the stigma of his illegiti-

macy precluded a normal childhood in the

upper-middle-class, morality-conscious Cermany of

those years, it was the single most important factor in

his later preeminence in the National Socialist

movement. At birth he was denied the name of Leif-

helm; until 1931 he was known as Erich Stoessel.

    Joel sat at a table in the open cafe in

Copenhagen's Kastrup Airport, trying to concentrate.

It was his second attempt within the past twenty

minutes, the first he abandoned when he realised he

was absorbing nothing, seeing only black letters

forming an unending string of vaguely recog~uzable

words relating to a figure in the outer reaches of his

mind. He could not focus on that man; there were

too many interferences, real and imagined. Nor had

he been able to read on the two-hour flight from

Paris, having opted for economy class, hoping to melt

in with the greater number of people in the larger

section of the aircraft. The concept at least was valid;

the seats were so narrow and the plane so fully

occupied that elbows and forearms were virtually

immobile. The conditions prohibited his taking out

the report, both for reasons of space and for fear of

the proximity to straying eyes.

    Heinrich Leifhelm moved his-mistress and their

son to the town of Eichstatt, fifty odd miles north of

Munich, visiting them now and then, and providing

an adequate but not overly comfortable standard of

living. The doctor was apparently torn between

maintaining a successful practice with no social

blemishes_in Munich and a disinclination to aban

117

118 ROBERT LUDLUM

don the stigmatised and child. According to close

acquaintances of Erich Stoessel-Leifhelm, these

early years had a profound effect on him. Although

he was too young to grasp the full impact of World

War I, he was later haunted by the memory of the

small households subsistence level falling as the

elder Leifhelm's ability to contribute lessened with

the burden of wartime taxes. Too, his father's visits

served to heighten the fact that he could not be ac-

knowledged as a son and was not entitled to the

privileges accorded two half brothers and a half

sister, strangers he was never to know and whose

home he could not enter. Through the absence of

proper lineage, certified by hypocritical documents

and more hypocritical church blessings, he felt he

was denied what was rightfully his, and so there was

instilled in him a furious sense of resentment,

competitiveness, and a deep-seated anger at existing

social conditions. By his own admission, his first

conscious longings were to get as much as he could

for himself both materially and in the form of

recognition through the strength of his own

abilities, and, by doing so, strike out at the status

quo which had tried to emasculate him. By his

mid-teens, Stoessel-Leifhelm was consumed with

anger.

    Converse stopped reading, suddenly aware of

the woman across the half-deserted cafe; she was

seated alone at a table, looking at him. Their eyes

met and she turned away, placing her arm on the

low white railing that enclosed the restaurant

studying the thinning, late-night crowds in the

terminal, as if waiting for someone. Startled, Joel

tried-to analyze the look she had given him. Was it

recogrution? Did she know him? Know his face? Or

was it appraisal? A well-dressed whore cruising the

airport in search of a mark, seeking out a lonely

businessman far away from home? She turned her

head slowly and looked at him again, now obviously

upset that his eyes were still on her. Then abruptly,

in two swiftly defined motions, she glanced at her

watch, tugged at her wide-brimmed hat, and opened

her purse. She took out a Krone note, placed it on

the table, got up, and walked rapidly toward the en-

trance of the cafe. Beyond the open gate she

walked faster her strides longer, heading for the

arch that led to the bag

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 119

gage-claim area. Converse watched her in the dull

white neon light of the terminal, shaking his head,

annoyed at his alarm. With his attache case and

leather-bound report, the woman had probably

thought he was some kind of airport official. Who

was the mark, then?

    He was seeing too many shadows, he thought, as

he followed the graceful figure nearing the arch. Too

many shadows that held no surprises, no alarms.

There had been a man on the plane from Paris

sitting several rows in front of him. Twice the man

had gotten up and gone to the toilet, and each time

he came back to his seat he had looked hard at

Joel studied him, actually. Those looks had been

enough to prime his adrenaline. Had he been spotted

at the De Gaulle Airport? Was the man an employee

of Jacques-Louis Bertholdier? . . . As a man in an

alley had been Don't think about that! He had

flicked off an oval of dried blood on his shirt as he

had given himself the command.

"I can always tell a good ale Yank! Never missl"

    That had been the antiquated salutation in

Copenhagen as both Americans waited for their

luggage.

    "Well, I missed once. Some son of a bitch on a

plane in Geneva. Sat right next to me. A real guinea

in a three-piece suit, that's what he west He spoke

English to the stewardess so I figured he was one of

those rich Cuban spicks from Florida, you know what

I mean?"

An emissary in salesman's clothes. One of the

diplomats.

Geneva. It had started in Geneva.

    Too many shadows. No surprises, no alarms. The

woman went through the arch and Joel pulled his

eyes away, forcing his attention back to the report on

Erich Leifhelm. Then a slight, sudden movement

caught the corner of his eye; he looked back at the

woman. A man had stepped out of an unseen recess;

his hand had touched her elbow. They exchanged

words briefly, swiftly, and parted as abruptly as they

had met, the man continuing into the terminal as the

woman disappeared. Did the man glance over in his

direction? Converse watched closely; had that man

looked at him? It was impossible to tell; his head was

turning in all directions, looking at or for something.

Then, as if he had found it, the man hurried toward

a bank of airline counters. He approached the Japan

Air Lines desk, and taking out his wallet, he began

speaking to an Oriental clerk.

No surprises, no alarms. A harried traveler had

asked di

120 ROBERT LUDLUM

rections; the interferences were more imagined

than real. Yet even here his lawyer's mentality

intervened. Interferences were real whether based

in reality or not. Oh, Christ! Leave it alonel

Concentratel

    At the age of seventeen, Erich

Stoessel-Leifhelm had completed his studies at the

Eichstatt II Gymnasium, excelling both

academically and on the playing field, where he was

known as an aggressive competitor. It was a time of

universal financial chaos, the American stock

market crash of '29 further aggravating the

desperate economy of the Weimar Republic, and

few but the most well-connected students went on

to universities. In a move he later described to

friends as one of youthful fury, Stoessel-Leifhelm

traveled to Munich to confront his father and de-

mand assistance. What he found was a shock, but

it turned out to be a profound opportunity,

strangely arrived at. The doctor's staid, placid life

was in shambles. His marriage, from the beginning

unpleasant and humiliating, had caused him to

drink heavily with increasing frequency until the

inevitable errors of judgment occurred. He was

censured by the medical community (with a high

proportion of Jews therein), charged with

incompetence and barred from the Karlstor

Hospital. His practice was in ruins, his wife had

ordered him out of the house, an order expedited

by an old but still powerful father-in-law, also a

doctor and member of the hospital's board of direc-

tors. When Stoessel-Leifhelm found his father, he

was living in a cheap apartment house in the poorer

section of the city picking up pfennigs by dispensing

prescriptions (drugs) and deutsche marks by per-

forming abortions.

    In what apparently (again according to friends

from the time) was a watershed of pent-up

emotions, the elder LeifLelm embraced his

illegitimate son and told him the story of his

tortured life with a disagreeable wife and tyrannical

in-laws. It was the classic syndrome of an ambitious

man of minimal talents and maximum connections.

But withal, the doctor claimed he had never

abandoned his beloved mistress and their son. And

during this prolonged and

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 121

undoubtedly drunken confession, he revealed a

fact Stoessel-Leifhelm had never known. His

father's wife was Jewish. It was all the teenager

had to hear.

    The disfranchised boy became the father to the

ruined man.

    There was an announcement in Danish over the

airport's loudspeakers and Joel looked at his watch.

It came again, now in German. He listened intently

for the words, he could barely distinguish them, but

they were there. "HamburgKoln-Bonn." It was the

first boarding call for the last flight of the night to

the capital of West Germany by way of Hamburg.

The flying time was less than two hours, the layover

in Hamburg justified for those executives who

wanted to be at their desks by the start of the

business day. Converse had checked his suitcase

through to Bonn, making a mental note as he did so

to replace the heavy black leather bag with a

carry-on. He was no expert in such matters, but

common sense told him that the delays required by

waiting for one's luggage in the open for anyone to

see was no way to travel swiftly or to avoid eyes

that might be searching for him. He put Erich Leif-

helm's dossier in his attache case, closed it and spun

the brass combination disks. He then got up from

the table, walked out of the cafe and across the

terminal toward the Lufthansa gate.

    Sweat matted his hairline; the tattoo inside his

chest accelerated until it sounded like a hammering

fugue for kettledrums. He knew the man sitting next

to him, but from where or from what period in his

life he had no idea. The craggy, lined face, the deep

ridges that creased the suntanned flesh the intense

blue-grey eyes beneath the thick, wild brows and

brown hair streaked with white he knew him, but

no name came, no clue to the man's identity.

    Joel kept waiting for some sign of recognition

directed at him. None came, and involuntarily he

found himself looking at the man out of the comer

of his eye. The man did not respond; instead his

attention was on a bound sheaf of typewritten pages,

the type larger than the print nominally associated

with legal briefs or even summonses. Perhaps,

thought Converse, the man was half blind, wearing

contact lenses to conceal his infirmity. But was there

something else? Not an infirmity, but a connection

being concealed. Had he seen this man in Paris as

he had seen another wearing a light-brown

122 ROBERT LUDIUM

topcoat in a hotel basement corridor? Had this man

beside him also been at L'Etalon Blanc? Had he

been part of a stationary group of ex-soldiers in the

warriors' playroom . . . in a corner perhaps, and

inconspicuous because of the numbers? Or at

Bertholdier's table, his back to Joel, presumably

unseen by the American he was now following? Was

he following him at this moment? wondered

Converse, gripping his attache case. He turned his

head barely inches and studied his seatmate.

    Suddenly the man looked up from the bound

typewritten pages and over at Joel. His eyes were

noncommittal, expressing neither curiosity nor

irritation.

"Sorry," said Converse awkwardly.

    "Sure, it's okay . . . why not?" was the strange,

laconic reply, the accent American, the dialect

distinctly TexasWestern. The man returned to his

pages.

    "Do we know each other?" asked Joel, unable to

back off from the question.

    Again the man looked up. "Don't think so," he

said tersely, once more going back to his report, or

whatever it was.

    Converse looked out the window, at the black

sky beyond, flashes of red light illuminating the

silver metal of the wing. Absently he tried to

calculate the digital degree heading of the aircraft

but his pilot's mind would not function. He did

know the man, and the oddly phrased "Why not?"

served only to disturb him further. Was it a signal,

a warning? As his words to Jacques-Louis

Bertholdier had been a signal, a warning that the

general had better contact him, recognise him.

    The voice of a Lufthansa stewardess interrupted

his thoughts. "Herr Dowling, it is a pleasure, indeed,

to have you on board."

    "Thank you, darlin'," said the man, his lined face

creasing into a gentle grin. "You find me a little

bourbon over ice and I'll return the compliment.''

    "Certainly, sir. I'm sure you've been told so

often you must be tired of hearing it, but your

television show is enormously popular in Germany."

    "Thanks again, honey, but it's not my show.

There are a lot of pretty little fillies runnin' around

that screen."

    An actor. A goddamned actor! thought Joel. No

alarms, no surprises. Just intrusions, far more

imagined than real.

"You're too modest, Herr Dowling. They're all so

alike,

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 123

so disagreeable. But you are so kind, so manly . . . so

understanding. '

    "Understandin'? Tell you somethin'. I saw an

episode in Cologne last week while on this picture

and I didn't understand a word I was sayin'."

    The stewardess laughed. "Bourbon over ice, is

that correct, sir?'

"That's correct, darlin'."

    The woman started down the first-class aisle

toward the galley as Converse continued to look at

the actor. Haltingly he spoke. "I am sorry. I should

have recognised you, of course."

    Dowling turned his suntanned head, his eyes

roaming Joel's face, then dropping to the

hand-tooled leather attache case. He looked up with

an amused smile. "I could probably embarrass you if

I asked you where you knew me from. You don't

look like a Santa Fe groupie."

    "A Santa Fe . . . ? Oh, sure, that's the name of

the show." And it was, reflected Converse. One of

those phenomena on television that by the sheer

force of extraordinary ratings and network profits

had been featured on the covers of Time and

Newsweek. He had never seen it

    "And, naturally," continued the actor, "you follow

the tribal rites and wrongs the dramatic

vicissitudes of the imperious Ratchet family, owners

of the biggest spread north of Santa Fe as well as the

historic Chimaya Flats, which they stole from the

impoverished Indians."

"The who? What?"

    Dowling's leathery face again laminated itself into

a grin. "Only Pa Ratchet, the Indians' friend, doesn't

know about the last part, although he's being blamed

by his red brothers. You see, Pa's no-good sons

heard there was oil shale beneath the Chimayas and

did their thing. Incidentally, I trust you catch the

verbal associations in the name Ratchet, you can take

your choice. There's just plain 'rats,' or Ratchet as in

'wretched,' or Ratchet as in the tool screwing

everything in front of it by merely pressing forward."

    There was something different about the actor

now thoughtJoel, bewildered. Was it his words? No,

not the words his voice. The Western inflections were

greatly diminished "I don't know what you're talking

about, but you sound differ ens."

"War, Ah'll jes' be hornswaggled i" said Dowling,

laugh

124 ROBERT LUDLUM

ing. Then he returned to the unaccented tones he

had begun to display. "You're looking at a renegade

teacher of English and college dramatics who said

a dozen years ago to hell with old-age tenure, let's

go after a very impractical dream. It led to a lot of

funny and not very dignified jobs, but the spirit of

Thespis moves in mysterious ways. An old student

of mine, in one of those indefinable jobs like

'production-coordinator,' spotted me in a crowd

scene; it embarrassed the hell out of him.

Nevertheless, he put my name in for several small

parts. A few panned out, and a couple of years later

an accident called Santa Fe came along. That's

when my perfectly respectable name of Calvin was

changed to Caleb. 'Fits the image belter,' said a pair

of Gucci loafers who never got closer to a horse

than a box at Santa Anita.... It's crazy, isn't it?"

    'Crazy," agreed Converse, as the stewardess

walked back up the aisle toward them.

    'Crazy or not," added Dowling under his breath,

' this good old rancher isn t going to offend anyone.

They want Pa Ratchet, they've got him."

    "Your bourbon, sir," said the woman, handing

the actor a glass.

    "Why, thank you, li'l darlin'! My oh my, you're

purber than any filly on the showI"

"You are too kind, sir."

"May I have a Scotch, please," said Joel.

    "That's better, son," said Dowling, grinning

again as the stewardess left. "And now that you

know my crime, what do you do for a living?"

"I'm an attorney."

    "At least you've got something legitimate to

read. This screenplay sure as hell isn't."

Although considered by most of Munich's re

spectable citizens to be a collection of misfits and

thugs, the National Socialist German Workers'

Party,

with its headquarters in Munich, was making itself

felt throughout Germany. The radical-populist

movement was taking hold by basing its inflamma-

tory message on the evil un-German "them." It

blamed the ills of the nation on a spectrum of

targets

ranging from the Bolsheviks to the ingrate Jewish

bankers; from the foreign plunderers who had

raped

an Aryan land to, finally, all things not "Aryan,"

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 125

namely and especially the Jews and their

ill-gotten wealth.

    Cosmopolitan Munich and itsJewish

community laughed at the absurdities; they were

not listening. The rest of Cermany was; it was

hearing what it wanted to hear. And Erich

Stoessel-Leifhelm heard it too. It was his passport

to recognition and opportunity.

    In a matter of weeks, the young man literally

whipped his father into shape. In later years he

would tell the story with heavy doses of cruel

humor. Over the dissolute physician's hysterical

objections the son removed all alcohol and

smoking materials from the premises, never

letting his father out of his sight. A harsh

regimen of exercise and diet was enforced. With

the zeal of a puritanical athletic trainer

Stoessel-Leifhelm started taking his father out to

the countryside for Gewaltmarschen forced

marches gradually working up to all-day hikes

on the exhausting trails of the Bavarian

mountains, continually shouting at the older man

to keep moving, to rest only at his son's

commands, to drink water only with permission.

    So successful was the rehabilitation that the

doctor's clothes began to hang on him like seedy,

old-fashioned garments purchased for a much

fatter man. A new wardrobe was called for, but

good clothing in Munich in those days was

beyond the means of all but the wealthy, and

Stoessel-Leifhelm had only the best in mind for

his father not out of filial devotion but, as we

shall see, for a quite different purpose.

    Money had to be found, which meant it had

to be stolen. He interrogated his father at length

about the house the doctor had been forced to

leave, learning everything there was to learn.

Several weeks later Stoessel-Leifhelm broke into

the house on the Luisenstrasse at three o'clock

one morning, stripping it of everything of value,

including silver, crystal, oil paintings, gold place

settings, and the entire contents of a wall safe.

Sales to fences were not difficult in Munich of

1930, and when everything was disposed of father

and son had the equivalent of nearly eight

126 ROBERT LUDLUM

thousand American dollars, virtually a fortune

in those times.

    The restoration continued; clothes were

tailored in the Maximilianstrasse, the best

footwear purchased at bootsmiths on the

Odeonsplatz, and, finally, cosmetic changes

were effected. The doctor's unkempt hair was

trimmed and heightened by coloring into a

masculine Nordic blond, and his shabby

inch-long beard shaved off, leaving only a small,

unbroken, well-trimmed moustache above his

upper lip. The transformation was complete;

what remained was the introduction

    Every night during the long weeks of

rehabilitation, Stoessel-Leifhelm had read aloud

to his father whatever he could get his hands on

from the National Socialists' headquarters, and

there was no lack of material. There were the

standard inflammatory pamphlets, pages of

ersatz biological theory purportedly proving the

genetic superiority of Aryan purity and,

conversely, the racial decline resulting from in-

discriminate breeding all the usual Nazi dia-

tribes plus generous excerpts from Hitler's

Mein Kampf. The son read incessantly until the

doctor could recite by rote the salient outrages

of the National Socialists' message. Throughout

it all, the seventeen-year-old kept telling his

father that following the party's program was

the way to get back everything that had been

stolen from him, to avenge the years of

humiliation and ridicule. As Germany itself had

been humiliated by the rest of the world, the

Nazi party would be the avenger, the restorer of

all things truly German. It was, indeed, the New

Order for the Fatherland, and it was waiting for

men of stature to recognize the fact.

    The day came, a day when Stoessel-Leifhelm

had learned that two high-ranking party officials

would be in Munich. They were the crippled

propagandist Joseph Goebbels and the

would-be aristocrat Rudolf Hess. The son

accompanied the father to the National

Socialists' headquarters where the well-tailored,

imposing, obviously rich and Aryan Doktor

requested an audience with the two Nazi

leaders on an urgent and confidential matter. It

was

    THE AQUITAINE

    PROGRESSION 127

granted, and according to early party historical ar-

chives, his first words to Hess and Goebbels were

the

following.

    "Gentlemen, I am a physician of impeccable

    credentials, formerly head surgeon at the

    Karlstor Hos,

pital and for years I enjoyed one of the most

successful practices in Munich. That was in the

past. I was

destroyed by Jews who stole everything from me. I

am back, I am well, and I am at your service."

    The Lufthansa plane began its descent into

Hamburg and Joel, feeling the drag, dog-eared the

page of Leifhelm's dossier and reached down for his

attache case. Beside him, the actor Caleb Dowling

stretched, script in hand, then jammed his screenplay

into an open flight bag at his feet.

    "The only thing sillier than this movie," he said,

"is the amount of money they're paying me to be in

it."

"Are you filming tomorrow?" asked Converse.

    '.Today," corrected Dowling, looking at his watch.

"It's an early shoot, too. Have to be on location by

five-thirty dawn over the Rhine, or something

equally inspiring. Now if they'd just turn the damn

thing into a travelogue, we'd all be better off. Nice

scenery."

"But you were in Copenhagen."

"Yep."

"You're not going to get much sleep."

"Nope."

"Oh."

    The actor looked atJoel, the crow's-feet around

his generous eyes creasing deeper with his smile. "My

wife's in Copenhagen and I had two days off. This

was the last plane I could get."

    "Oh? You're married?" Converse immediately

regretted the remark; he was not sure why, but it

sounded foolish.

    "Twenty-six years, young fella. How do you think

I was able to go after that impractical dream? She's

a whiz of a secretary; when I was teaching, she'd

always be this or that dean's gal Friday."

"Any children?"

"Can't have everything. Nope."

    "Why is she in Copenhagen? I mean, why isn't

she staying with you on location?"

The grin faded from Dowling's suntanned face; the

lines

128 ROBERT LUDLUM

were less apparent, yet somehow deeper. "That's an

obvious question, isn't it? That is, you being a

lawyer would pick it up quickly."

"It's none of my business, of course. Forget I asked

it."

    "No, that's okay. I don't like to talk about

it rarely do but friendly seatmates on airplanes

are for telling things. You'll never see them again,

so why not slice off a bit and feel better." The actor

tried haltingly to smile; he failed. "My wife's name

was Oppenfeld. She's Jewish. Her story's not much

different from a few million others, but for her it's

. . . well, it's hers. She was separated from her

parents and her three younger brothers in

Auschwitz. She watched them being taken

away away from her while she screamed, not

understanding. She was lucky; they put her in a

barracks, a fourteen-year-old sewing uniforms until

she showed other endowments that could lead to

other work. A couple of days later, hearing the

rumors, she got hysterical and broke out racing all

over the place trying to find her family. She ran into

a section of the camp they called the A/ofall, the

garbage, corpses hauled out of the gas chambers.

And there they were, the bodies of her mother and

her father and her three brothers, the sight and the

stench so sickening it's never left her. It never will.

She won't set foot in Germany and I wouldn't ask

her to."

    No alarms, just surprises . . . and another Iron

Cross for the Erich Leilhelms of the past, retroactively

presented.

    "Christ, I'm sorry," murmured Converse. "I

didn't mean to ,,

    "You didn't. I did.... You see, she knows it

doesn't make sense."

    "Doesn't make sense? Maybe you didn't hear

what you just described."

    "I heard, I know, but I didn't finish. When she

was sixteen, she was loaded into a truck with five

other girls, all on their way to that different type of

work, when they did it. Those kids took their last

chance and beat the hell out of a Wehrmacht

corporal who was guarding them in the van. Then

with his gun they got control of the truck from the

driver and escaped." Dowling stopped, his eyes on

Joel.

    Converse, silent, returned the look, unsure of its

meaning, but moved by what he had heard. "That's

a marvelous story " he said quietly "It really is."

'And," continued the actor, "for the next two years

they

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 129

were hidden by a succession of German families, who

surely knew what they were doing and what would

happen to them if they got caught. There was a

pretty frantic search for those girls a lot of threats

made, more because of what they could tell than

anything else. Still, those Germans kept moving them

around, hiding them, until one by one they were

taken across the border into occupied France, where

things were easier. They were smuggled across by the

underground, the German underground. 'Dowling

paused, then added. "As Pa Ratchet would say, 'Do

you get my drift, son?' '

"I'd have to say it's obvious."

    "There's a lot of pain and a lot of hate in her and

God knows I understand it. But there should be

some gratitude, too. Couple of times clothing was

found, and some of those people those German

people were tortured, a few shot for what they did.

I don't push it, but she could level off with a little

gratitude. It might give her a bit more perspective."

The actor snapped on his seat belt.

    Joel pressed the locks on his attache case,

wondering if he should reply. Valerie's mother had

been part of the German underground. His ex-wife

would tell him amusing stories her mother had told

her about a stern, inhibited French intelligence

officer forced to work with a high-spirited, opinion-

ated German girl, a member of the Untergmud How

the more they disagreed, and the more they railed

against each other's nationality, the more they

noticed each other. The Frenchman was Val's father;

she was proud of him, but in some ways prouder of

her mother. There had been pain in that woman,

too. And hate. But there had been a reason, and it

was unequivocal. As there had been for one Joel

Converse years later.

    "I said it before and J mean it," began Joel

slowly, not sure he should say anything at all. "It's

none of my business, but I wouldn't ever push it, if

I were you."

    "Is this a lawyer talkin'to ole Pa?" asked Dowling

in his television dialect, his smile false, his eyes far

away. "Do I pay a fee?"

    "Sorry, 111 shut up." Converse adjusted his seat

belt and pushed the buckle in place.

"No, I'm sorry. I laid it on you. Say it. Please."

    "All right. The horror came first, then the hate.

In sidewinder language that's called prima facie the

obvious, the first sighting . . . the real, if you like.

Without these, there'd

130 ROBERT LUDLUM

be no reason for the gratitude, no call for it. So, in

a way, the gratitude is just as painful because it

never should have been necessary. "

    The actor once again studied Joel's face, as he

had done before their first exchange of words.

"You're a smart son of a bitch, aren't you?"

    "Professionally adequate. But I've been there . .

. that is, I know people who've been where your wife

has been. It starts with the horror."

    Dowling looked up at the ceiling light, and

when. he spoke his words floated in the air, his

harsh voice quietly strained. "If we go to the movies,

I have to check them out; if we're watching

television together, I read the TV section . . .

sometimes on the news with some of those tucking

nuts I tense up, wondering what she's going to do.

She can't see a swastika' or hear someone screaming

in German, or watch soldiers marching in a goose

step; she can't stand it. She runs and throws up and

shakes all over . . . and I try to hold her . . . and

sometimes she thinks I'm one of them and she

screams. After all these years . . . Chnst!"

    "Have you tried professional help not my

kind but the sort she might need?"

    "Oh, hell, she recovers pretty quick," said the

actor defensively, as if slipping into a role, his

teacher's grammar displaced for effect. "Also, until

a few years ago we didn't have the money for that

kind of thing," he added somberly in his natural

voice.

"What about now? That can't be a problem now."

    Dowling dropped his eyes to the flight bag at his

feet. "If I'd found her sooner . . . maybe. But we

were both late bloomers; we got married in our

forges two oddballs looking for something. It's too

late now."

"I'm sorry."

"I never should have made this goddamn picture.

Never. "

"Why did you?"

    "She said I should. To show people I could play

something more than a driveling, south-forty

dispenser of fifth-rate bromides. I told her it didn't

matter.... I was in the war, in the Marine Corps. I

saw some crap in the South Pacific but nothing to

compare with what she went through, not a spit in

the proverbial bucket. Jesus! Can you imagine what

it must have been like?"

"Yes, I can."

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 131

    The actor looked up from the flight bag, a

half-drawn smile on his lined, suntanned face. "You,

good buddy? Not unless you were caught in

Korea "

'1 wasn t in Korea."

    '.Then you'd be hard put to imagine it any more

than 1. You were too young and I was too lucky."

    "Well, there was . . ." Converse fell silent, it was

pointless. It had happened so often he did not

bother to think about it anymore. 'Nam had been

erased from the national conversational psyche. He

knew that if he reminded a man like Dowling, a

decent man, the air would be filled with apologies,

but nothing was served by a jarring remembrance.

Not as it pertained to Mrs. Dowling, born

Oppenfeld. "There's the 'no smoking' sign," said Joel.

"We'll be in Hamburg in a couple of minutes."

    "I've taken this flight a half-dozen times over the

past two months," said Caleb Dowling, "and let me

tell you, Hamburg's a bitch. Not German customs,

that's a snap, especially this late. Those rubber

stamps fly and they push you through in ten minutes

tops. But then you wait. Twice, maybe three times,

it was over an hour before the plane to Bonn even

got here. By the way, care to join me for a drink in

the lounge?" The actor suddenly switched to his

Southern dialect. "Between you and me, they make

it mighty pleasant for al' Pa Ratchet. They telex

ahead and Ah got me my own gaggle of cowpokes,

all ridin' hard to git me to the waterin' hole."

    "Well . . . ?"Joel felt flattered. Not only did he

like Dowling, but being the guest of a celebrity was

a pleasant high. He had not had many pleasant

things happen to him recently.

    "I should also warn you," added the celebrity,

"that even at this hour the groupies crawl out of the

walls, and the airline PR people manage to roust out

the usual newspaper photographers, but none of it

takes too long."

    Converse was grateful for the warning. "I've got

some phone calls to make," he said casually, "but if

I finish them on time, I'd like very much to join

you."

"Phone calls? At this hour?"

"Back to the States. It's not this hour back in . . .

Chicago."

"Make them from the lounge they keep it open for

me."

    "It may sound crazy," said Joel, reaching for

words, "but I think better alone. There are some

complicated things I have to explain. After customs

I'll find a phone booth."

"Nothing sounds crazy to me, son. I work in Holl

132 ROBERT LUDLUM

Bee-wood." Suddenly, the actor's amused

exuberance faded. "In the States," he said softly, his

words floating again, eyes distant again. "You

remember that crap in Skokie, Illinois? They did a

television show on it.... l was in the study learning

lines when I heard the screams and the sound of a

door crashing open. I ran out and saw my wife

racing down to the beach. I had to drag her out of

the water. Sixty-seven years old, and she was a little

girl again, back in that goddamn camp, seeing the

lines of hollow-eyed prisoners, knowing which lines

were which . . . seeing her mother and father, her

three kid brothers. When you think about it, you

can understand why those people say over and over,

'Never again.' It can't ever happen again. I wanted

to sell that tucking house; I won't leave her alone in

it."

"Is she alone now?"

    "Nope," said Dowling, his smile returning. "That's

the good part. After that night we faced it; we both

knew she couldn't be. Got her a sister, that's what

we did. Bubbly little thing with more funny stories

about Cuckooburg than ever got into print. But

she's tough as they come; she's been bouncing

around the studios for forty years."

"An actress?"

    "Not so's anyone could tell, but she's a great face

in the crowd. She's a good lady, too, good for my

wife."

    "I'm glad to hear it," said Joel, as the aircraft's

wheels made bouncing contact with the runway and

the jet engines screeched into reverse thrust. The

plane rolled forward, then started a left turn toward

its dock.

    Dowling turned to Converse. "If you finish your

calls, ask someone for the VIP lounge. Tell them

you're a friend of mine."

"I'll try to get there."

    "If you don't," added the actor in his Santa Fe

dialect "see y'awl back in the steel corral. We got us

another leg on this here cattle drive, pardner. Glad

you're ridin' shotgun."

"On a cattle drive?"

"What the hell do I know? I hate horses."

    The plane came to a stop, and the forward door

opened in less than thirty seconds as a number of

excited passengers rapidly jammed the aisle. It was

obvious from the whispers and the stares and the

few who stood up on their toes to get clearer views

that the reason for the swift exodus of this initial

crowd was the presence of Caleb Dowling. And the

actor was

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 133

playing his part, dispensing Pa Ratchet benedictions

with warm smiles, broad infectious winks, and

deep-throated laughter, all with good-old-wrangler

humility. As Joel watched he felt a rush of

compassion for this strange man, this actor, this

risk-taker with a private hell he shared with the

woman he loved.

Never again. It can 't ever happen again. Words.

    Converse looked down at the attache case he

held with both hands on his lap. inside was another

story, one that held a time bomb ready to detonate.

    I am back, l am well, and l am at yourservice.

Also words from another time but full of menace

for the present, for they were part of the story of a

living man's silent return. A spoke in the wheel of

Aquitaine.

    The first rush of curious passengers filed through

the exit door after the television star, and Joel

slipped into the less harried line. He would go

through customs as rapidly and as unobtrusively as

possible, then find a dark corner of the airport and

wait in the deepest shadows until the loudspeakers

announced the plane for Cologne-Bonn.

    Goebbels and Hess accepted Dr. Heinrich Leif-

helm's offer with enthusiasm. One can easily imagine

the propaganda expert visualising the image of this

blond Aryan physician of 'impeccable credentials"

spread across thousands of pamphlets confirming the

specious theories of Nazi genetics, as well as his all

too willing condemnation of the inferior, avaricious

Jew; he was heaven-sent. Whereas for Rudolf Hess,

who wanted more than his little boys to be accepted

by the Junkers and the monied class, the Herr Dok-

-tor was his answer; the physician was obviously a

true

aristocrat, and in time, quite possibly a lover.

    The confluence of preparation, timing and ap-

pearance turned out to be more than young Stoes-

sel-Leifhelm could have imagined. Adolf Hitler re-

turned from Berlin for one of his Marienplatz rallies,

and the imposing Doktor, along with his intense,

well-mannered son, was invited to dinner with the

Fuhrer. Hitler heard everything he wanted to hear,

and Heinrich Leifhelm from that day until his death

in 1934 was Hitler's personal physician.

There was nothing that the son could not have,

134 ROBERT LUDLUM

and in short order he had everything he

wanted. In June of 1931 a ceremony was held

at the National Socialists' headquarters, where

Heinrich Leifhelm's marriage to "a Jewess was

proclaimed invalid because of a "concealment

of Jewish blood" on the part of an

"opportunistic Hebrew family, ' and all rights,

claims and inheritances of the children of that

"insidious union" were deemed void. A civil

marriage was performed between LeifLelm and

Marta Stoessel, and the true inheritor, the only

child who could claim the name of LeifLelm,

was an eighteen-year-old called Erich.

    Munich and thelewish community still

laughed, but not as loudly, at the absurd

announcement the Nazis inserted in the legal

columns of the newspapers. It was considered

nonsense; the Leifhelm name was a discredited

name, and certainly no paternal inheritance was

involved; finally it was all outside the law. What

they were only beginning to understand was

that the laws were changing in changing

Germany. In two short years there would be

only one law: Nazi determination.

    Erich LeifLelm had arrived and his

ascendancy in the party was swift and assured.

At eighteen he was Jungfuhrer of the Hitler

Youth movement, photographs of his strong,

athletic face and body challenging the children

of the New Order to join the national crusade.

During his tenancy as a symbol, he was sent to

the University of Munich, where he completed

his courses of study in three years with high

academic honors. By this time, Adolf Hitler had

been swept into power; he controlled the

Reichstag, which gave him dictatorial powers.

The Thousand-Year Reich had begun and

Erich Leifhelm was sent to the Officers

Training Center in Magdeburg.

    In 1935, a year after his father's death,

Erich LeifLelm, now a youthful favorite of

Hitler's inner circle, was promoted to the rank

of Oberstleutnant in the Gruppenkommando 1

in Berlin under Rundstedt. He was deeply

involved in the vast military expansion that was

taking place in Germany, and as the war drew

nearer he entered what we can term the third

phase of his complicated life, one that ulti

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 135

mately brought him to the centers of Nazi power

and at the same time provided him with an

extraordinary means of separating himself from

the leadership of which he was an intrinsic and

influential part. This is briefly covered in the

following final pages, a prelude to the fourth

phase, which we know is his fanatic allegiance to

the theories of George Marcus Delavane.

    But before we leave the young Erich Leifhelm

of Eichstatt, Munich, and Magdeburg, two events

should be recorded here that provide insights

into the man's psychotic mentality. Mentioned

above was the robbery at the Luisenstrasse house

and the resulting profits of the theft. LeiLhelm to

this day does not deny the incident, taking

pleasure in the tale because of the despicable

images he paints of his father's first wife and her

"overbearing" parents. What he does not speak

of, nor has anyone spoken of it in his presence,

is the original police report in Munich, which, as

near as can be determined, was destroyed

sometime in August 1934, a date corresponding

to Hindenburg's death and Hitler's rise to

absolute power as both president and chancellor

of Germany with the title of der Fuhrer raised to

official mandatory status.

    All copies of the police report were removed

from the files, but two elderly pensioners from

the Munich department remember it clearly.

They are both in their late seventies, have not

seen each other in years, and were questioned

separately.

    Robbery was the lesser crime that early

morning on the Luisenstrasse; the more serious

one was never spoken of at the insistence of the

family. The fifteen-year-old Leifhelm daughter

was raped and severely beaten, her face and body

battered so violently that upon admission to the

Karlstor Hospital she was given little chance of

recovery. She did recover physically, but

remained emotionally disturbed for the rest of

her short life. The man who committed the

assault had to be familiar with the interior of the

house, had to know there was a back staircase

that led to the girl's room, which was separated

from the rooms of her two brothers and her

136 ROBERT LUDLUM

mother in the front. Erich Leifhelm had

questioned his father in depth regarding the

inside design of that house; he was there by his

own admission, and was aware of the fierce

pride and strict moral code held by the

"tyrannical in-laws." There is no question; his

compulsion was such that he had to inflict the

most degrading insult he could imagine, and he

did so, knowing the influential family would and

could insist on official silence.

    The second event took place during the

months of January or February 1939. The

specifics are sketchy insofar as there are few

survivors of the time who knew the family well,

and no official records, but from those who

were found and interviewed, certain facts

surfaced. Heinrich Leifhelm's legal wife, his

children and her family tried without success

for several years to leave Germany. The official

party line was that the old patriarch's medical

skills, having been acquired in German

universities were owed to the state. Too, there

were unresolved legal questions arising from the

dissolved union between the late Dr. Heinrich

Leifhelm and a member of the family questions

specifically relating to commonly shared assets

and the rights of inheritance as they affected an

outstanding officer of the Wehrmacht.

    Erich Leifhelm was taking no chances. His

father's "former" wife and children were

virtually held prisoners, their movements

restricted, the house on the Luisenstrasse was

watched, and for weeks following any renewed

applications for visas, they were all kept under

full "political surveillance" on the chance that

they had plans of vanishing. This information

was revealed by a retired banker who recalled

that orders came from the Finanzministerium in

Berlin instructing the banks in Munich to

immediately report any significant withdrawals

by the former Frau Leifhelm and/or her family.

    During what week or on what day it

happened we did not learn, but sometime in

January or February of 1936, Frau LeifLelm,

her children and her father disappeared.

    However, the Munich court records,

impounded by the Allies on April 23, 1945, give

a clear, if incom

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 137

plete, picture of what took place. Obviously driven

by his compulsion to validate his seizure of the estate

in the eyes of the law, he had a brief filed on behalf

of Oberstleutnant Erich Leifhelm listing the articles

of grievance suffered by his father, Dr. Heinrich

Leifhelm, at the hands of a family cabal, said family

of criminals having fled the Reich under indictment.

The charges, as expected, were outrageous lies: from

outright theft of huge nonexistent bank accounts to

character assassination so as to destroy a great doc-

tor's practice. There was the legal certificate of the

'official" divorce, and a copy of the elder Leifhelm's

last will and testament. There was only one true

union and one true son, all rights, privileges and in-

heritances passed on to him: Oberstleutnant Erich

Stoessel-LeiPhelm.

    Because we possessed reasonably accurate dates,

survivors were found. It was confirmed that Frau

Leifhelm, her three children and her father perished

at Dachau, ten miles outside of Munich.

    The Jewish Leifhelms were gone; the Aryan

Leifhelm was now the sole inheritor of considerable

wealth and property that under existing conditions

would have been confiscated. Before the age of thir-

ty, he had wiped his personal slate clean and

avenged the wrongs he was convinced had been

visited on his superior birth and talents. A killer had

matured.

'You must have one hell of a case there," said

Caleb

Dowling, grinning and poking Joel with his elbow.

"Your butt

burned up in the ashtray a while ago. I reached

over to close

the goddamned lid, and all you did was raise your

hand like

I was out of order."

"I'm sorry. It's . . . it's a complicated brief. Christ, I

wouldn't raise my hand to you, you're a celebrity."

Converse

laughed because he knew it was expected.

"Well, my second bit of news for you, good buddy,

is that

celebrity or no, the smoking lamp's been on for a

couple of

minutes now and you still got a reefer in your

fingers. Now,

I grant you, you didn't light it, but we're getting a

lot of Nazi

looks over here."

"Nazi . . . ?" Joel spoke the word involuntarily as

he

138 ROBERT LUDLUM

pressed the unlit cigarette into the receptacle; he

was not aware that he had been holding it.

    "A figure of speech and a bad line, 'said the

actor. "We'll be in Cologne before you put all that

legal stuff away. Come on, good buddy, he's going

in for the approach."

    "No," countered Joel without thinking. "He's

making a pitchout until he gets the tower's

instructions. It's standard we've got at least three

minutes."

    "You sound like you know what the hell you're

talking about."

    "Vaguely," said Converse, putting the Leifhelm

dossier into his attache case. "I used to be a pilot."

"No kidding? A real pilot?"

"Well, I got paid."

"For an airline? I mean, one of these real airlines?"

"Larger than this one, I think."

    "Goddamn, I'm impressed. I wouldn't have

thought so. Lawyers and pilots somehow don't seem

compatible."

    "It was a long time ago." Joel closed his case and

snapped the locks.

    The plane rolled down the runway, the landing

having been so unobtrusive that a smattering of

applause erupted from the rear of the aircraft.

Dowling spoke as he unfastened his seat belt. "I

used to hear some of that after a particularly good

class."

"Now you hear a lot more," said Converse.

    "For a hell of a lot less. By the way, where are

you staying, counselor?"

    Joel was not prepared for the question.

'Actually, I'm not sure," he replied, again reaching

for words, for an answer. "This trip was a

last-minute decision."

    "You may need help. Bonn's crowded. Tell you

what, I'm at the Konigshof and I suspect I've got a

little influence. Let's see what we can do."

    "Thanks very much, but that won't be necessary."

Converse thought rapidly. The last thing he wanted

was the attention focused on anyone in the actor's

company. "My firm's sending someone to meet me

and he'll have the accommodations. As a matter of

fact, I'm supposed to be one of the last people off

the plane, so he doesn't have to try to find me in

the crowd."

"Well, if you've got any time and you want a couple

of

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 139

laughs with some actor types, call me at the hotel

and leave a number."

"I probably will. I enjoyed riding shotgun. '

'On a cattle drive, pardner?"

    Joel waited. The last stragglers were leaving the

plane, nodding at the flanking stewardesses, some

yawning, others in awkward combat with shoulder

bags, camera equipment and suit-carriers. The final

passenger exited through the aircraft's concave door

and Converse got up, gripping the handle of his

attache case and sliding into the aisle. Instinctively

without having a conscious reason to do so, he

glanced to his right, into the rear section of the

plane.

    What he saw and what saw him made him

freeze. His breath exploded silently in his chest.

Seated in the last row of the long fuselage was a

woman. The pale skin under the wide brim of the

hat, and the frightened, astonished eyes that abruptly

looked away all formed an image he vividly re-

membered. She was the woman in the cafe at the

Kastrup Airport in Copenhagen! When he last saw

her she was walking rapidly into the baggage-claim

area, away from the row of airlines' counters. She

had been stopped by a man in a hurry words had

been exchanged and now Joel knew they had

concerned him.

    The woman had doubled back, unnoticed in the

last-minute rush for boarding. He felt it, he knew it.

She had followed him from Denmark!

6

    Converse rushed up the aisle and through the

metal door into the carpeted tunnel. Fifty feet down

the passageway the narrow walls opened into a

waiting area, the plastic seats and the roped-off

stanchions designating the gate. There was no one;

the place was empty, the other gates shut down, the

lights off. Beyond, suspended from the ceiling were

signs in German, French and English directing

passengers to the main terminal and the downstairs

baggage claim. There was no time for his luggage; he

had to run, to get away from the

140 ROBERT LUDLUM

airport as fast as possible, get away without being

seen. Then the obvious struck him, and he felt sick.

He had been seen; they knew he was on the Hight

from Hamburg whoever they were. The instant he

walked into the terminal he would be spotted, and

there was nothing he could do about it. They had

found him in Copenhagen; the woman had found

him and she had been ordered on board to make

certain he did not stay in Hamburg, or switch planes

to another destination.

Howe How did they do it?

    There was no time to think about it; he would

think about it later if there was a later. He passed

the arches of the closed-down metal detectors and

the black conveyor belts where hand luggage was

X-rayed. Ahead, no more than seventy-five feet

were the doors to the terminal. What was he going

to do, what should he do?

    NUR FUR HIER BESCHAFTIGTE

    MANNER

    Joel stopped at a door. The sign on it was

emphatic, the German forbidding. Yet he had seen

those words before. Where? What was it? . . .

Zurich! He had been in a department store in

Zurich when a stomach attack had descended to his

bowels. He had pleaded with a sympathetic clerk

who had taken him to a nearby employees' men's

room. In one of those odd moments of gratitude

and relief, he had focused on the strange words as

they had drawn nearer. Nur fur trier Beschaftigte.

Manner.

    No further memory was required. He pushed the

door open and went inside, not sure what he would

do other than collect his thoughts. A man in green

overalls was at the far end of the line of sinks

against the wall; he was combing his hair while

inspecting a blemish on his face in the mirror. Con-

verse walked to the row of urinals beyond the sinks,

his demeanor that of an airlines executive. The

affectation was accepted; the man mumbled

something courteously and left The door swung shut

and he was alone.

    Joel stepped back from the urinal and studied

the tiled enclosure, hearing for the first time the

sound of several voices . . . outside, somewhere

outside, beyond . . . the windows. Three-quarters up

from the floor and recessed in the far wall were

three frosted-glass windows, the painted white

frames melting into the whiteness of the room. He

was con

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 141

fused. In these security-conscious days of airline

travel with the constant emphasis on guarding

against smuggled arms and narcotics, a room inside

a gate area that had a means of getting outside

before entering customs did not make sense. Then

the obvious fact occurred to him. It could be his way

out! The flight from Hamburg was a domestic flight,

this part of the Cologne-Bonn airport a domestic

terminal; there were no customs! Of course there

were exterior windows in an enclosure like this.

What difference did it make? Passengers still had to

pass through the electronic arches and, conversely,

authorities wanting to pick up a passenger flying

domestically would simply wait by a specific gate.

    But no one waited for him. He had been the

last the second to last passenger off the late night

flight. The roped-off gate had been deserted; anyone

sitting in one of the plastic chairs or standing beyond

the counter would be obvious. Therefore, those who

were keeping him in their sights did not want to be

seen themselves. Whoever they were, they were

waiting, watching for him from some remote spot

inside the terminal. They could wait.

    He approached the far-right window and lowered

his attache case to the floor. When he stood erect,

the sill was only inches above his head. He reached

for the two white handles and pushed; the window

slid easily up several inches. He poked his fingers

through the space; there was no screen. Once the

window was raised to its full height, there would be

enough room for him to crawl outside.

    There was a clattering behind him, rapid slaps of

metal against wood. He spun around as the door

opened, revealing a hunched-over old man in a white

maintenance uniform carrying a mop and a pail.

Slowly, with deliberation, the old man took out a

pocket watch, squinted at it, said something in Ger-

man, and waited for an answer. Not only was Joel

aware that he was expected to speak, but he assumed

that he had been told the employees' men's room

was being closed until moming. He had to think; he

could not leave; the only way out of the airport was

through the terminal. If there was another he did not

know where, and it was no time to be running

around a section of an airport shut down for the

remainder of the night. Patrolling guards might

compound his problems.

    His eyes dropped, centering on the metal pail,

and in desperation he knew what he had to do, but

not whether he could do it. With a sudden grimace

of pain, he moaned and grabbed

142 ROBERT LUDLUM

his chest, falling to his knees. His face contorted, he

sank to the floor.

    "Doctor, doctor . . . doctor!" he shouted over

and over again.

    The old man dropped the mop and the pail; a

guttural stream of panicked phrases accompanied

several cautious steps forward. Converse rolled to

his right against the wall he gasped for breath as he

watched the German with wide, blank eyes.

"Doctor. . . !" he whispered.

    The old man trembled and backed away toward

the door; he turned, opened it and ran out, his frail

voice raised for help.

    There would be only seconds! The gate was no

more than two hundred feet to the left, the entrance

to the terminal perhaps a hundred to the right. Joel

got up quickly, raced to the pail, turned it upside

down, and brought it back to the window. He

placed it on the floor and stepped up with one foot,

his palms making contact with the base of the

window; he shoved. The glass rose about four inches

and stopped, the frame lodged against the sash. He

pushed again with all the strength he could manage

in his awkward positron. The window would not

budge; breathing hard he studied it, his intense gaze

zeroing in on two small steel objects he wished to

God were not in place, but they were. Two

protective braces were screwed into the opposing

sashes, preventing the window from being opened

more than six inches. Cologne-Bonn might not be

an international airport with a panoply of sophis-

bcated security devices, but it was not without its

own safeguards.

    There were distant shouts from beyond the

door; the old man had reached someone. The sweat

rolled down Converse's face as he stepped off the

pail and reached for his attache case on the floor.

Action and decision were simultaneous, only instinct

unconsciously governing both. Joel picked up the

leather case, stepped forward and crashed it

repeatedly into the window, shattering the glass and

finally breaking away the lower wooden frame. He

stepped back up on the pail and looked out.

Beyond below was a cement path bordered by a

guardrail, floodlights in the distance, no one in

sight. He threw the attache case out the window,

and pulled himself up, his left knee kicking

fragments of glass and what was left of the frame to

the concrete below. Awkwardly, he hunched his

whole body, pressing his head into his shoulder

blades, and

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 143

plunged through the opening. As he fell to the

ground he heard the shouts from inside: they grew in

volume, all in counterpoint, a mixture of

bewilderment and anger. He ran.

    Minutes later, at a sudden curve in the cement

path, he saw the floodlit entrance of the terminal

and the line of taxis waiting for the passengers of

Flight 817 from Hamburg to pick up their luggage

before the drivers collected their inHated night

prices to Bonn and Cologne. There were entrance

and exit roads leading to the platform, broken by

pedestrian crosswalks, and beyond these an immense

parking lot with several lighted booths still operating

for those driving their own cars. Converse slipped

over the guardrail and ran across an intersecting

lawn until he reached the first road, racing into the

shadows at the first blinding glare of a floodlight. He

had to reach a taxi, a taxi with a driver who spoke

English; he could not remain on foot.... He had been

captured on foot once, years ago. On a jungle trail,

where if he had only been able to commandeer a

jeep an enemy jeep he might have . . . Stop it!

This is not 'Nam, it's a goddamn airport with a

million tons of concrete poured between flowers,

grass and asphalt! He kept moving in and out of the

shadows, until he had made a complete

semicircle one-eight zero. He was in darkness, the

last of the taxis in the line ahead of him. He ap-

proached the first, which was the last.

"English? Do you speak English?"

"~nglisch? Nein. "

    The second cabdriver was equally negative, but

the third was not. "As you Americans say, only the

asshole would drive a taxi here wizzout the English

reasonable. Is so?"

"It's reasonable, ' said Joel, opening the door.

"Rein! You cannot do thatl"

"Do what?"

"Come in the taxi."

"Why not?"

"The line. Allviss is the line."

    Converse reached into his jacket pocket and

withdrew a folded layer of deutsche marks. "I'm

generous. Can you understand thatP"

"Is also urgent sickness. Get in, main Herr."

    The cab pulled out of the line and sped toward

the exit road. "Bonn or Koln?" asked the driver.

"Bonn," replied Converse, "but not yet. I want you

to

144 ROBERT LUDLUM

drive into the other lane and stop across the way in

front of that parking lot."

'~Was... 9"

    "The other lane. I want to watch the entrance

back there. I think there was someone on the

Hamburg plane I know."

"Many have come out. Only those with luggage "

"She's still inside," insisted Joel. "Please, just do as I

say."

    ' She? . . . Ach, ein Fraulein. Ist ja Ihr Geld, main

Herr. "

    The driver swung the cab into a cutoff that led

to the incoming road and the parking lot. He

stopped in the shadows beyond the second booth;

the terminal doors were on the left, no more than

a hundred yards away. Converse watched as weary

passengers, carrying assorted suitcases, golf bags,

and the ever-present camera equipment, began to

file out of the terminal's entrance, most raising their

hands for taxis, a few walking across the pedestrian

lanes toward the parking lot.

    Twelve minutes passed and still there was no

sign of the woman from Copenhagen. She could not

have been carrying luggage, so the delay was

deliberate, or instructed. The driver of the cab had

assumed the role of nonobserver; he had turned off

the lights and, with a bowed head, appeared to be

dozing. Silence.... Across the parallel roads, the

travelers from Hamburg had dwindled. Several

young men, undoubtedly students, two in cut-off

jeans, their companions drinking from cans of beer,

were laughing as they counted the deutsche marks

between them. A yawning businessman in a

three-piece suit struggled with a bulging suitcase

and an enormous cardboard box wrapped in a floral

print, while an elderly couple argued, their dispute

emphasized by two shaking heads of grey hair. Five

others, men and women, were by the curb at the far

end of the platform apparently waiting for pre-

arranged transportation. But where . . .

    Suddenly she was there, but she was not alone.

Instead, she was flanked by two men, a third

directly behind her. All four walked slowly, casually,

out of the automatic glass doors, moving to the left,

their pace quickening until they reached the

dimmest area of the canopied entrance. Then the

three men angled themselves in front of the woman,

as if mounting a wall of protection, their heads

turning, talking to her over their shoulders while

studying the crowd. Their conversation became

animated but controlled, anger joining confusion,

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 145

tempers held in check. The man on the right broke

away and crossed to the corner of the building, then

walked beyond into the shadows. He pulled an

object out of an inside pocket and Joel instantly

knew what it was; the man raised it to his lips. He

was talking by radio to someone in or around the

airport.

    Barely seconds passed when the beams of

powerful headlights burst through the glass over

Converse's right shoulder, filling the back of the taxi.

He pressed himself into the seat his head turned,

neck arched, his face at the edge of the rear window.

Beyond, by the exit booth of the parking lot, a

dark-red limousine had stopped, the driver's arm

extended a bill clutched in his hand. The attendant

took the money turning to make change, when the

large car lurched forward leaving the man in the

booth bewildered. It careened around the taxi and

headed for the curve in the road that led to the

airport terminal's entrance. The timing was too

precise; radio contact had been made and Joel spoke

to the driver.

    "I told you I was generous," he said, startled by

the words he was forming in his head. "I can be very

generous if you'll do as I ask you to."

    "I awn an honest man," replied the German,

uncertainty in his voice, his eyes looking at Joel in

the rearview mirror.

    "So am 1," said Converse. "But I'm also honestly

curious and there's nothing wrong with that. You see

the dark-red car over there, the one that's stopping

at the corner of the building?"

'pa. "

    "Do you think you could follow it without being

seen? You'd have to stay pretty Or behind, but keep

it in sight. Could you do it?"

    "Is not a reasonable request. How generous is

the A merikaner?"

"Two hundred deutsche marks over the fare."

"You are generous, and I am a superior driver."

    The German did not underestimate his talents

behind the wheel. Skillfully he weaved the cab

unobtrusively through a cutoff, swinging abruptly left

into the parallel exit road and bypassing the entrance

to the terminal.

    "What are you doing?" asked Joel, confused. "I

want you to follow "

    "Is only way out," interrupted the driver, glancing

back at the airport platform while maintaining

moderate speed. "I

146 ROBERT LUDIUM

shall let him pass me. I am just one more

insignificant taxi on the autobahn."

    Converse sank back into the corner of the seat,

his head away from the windows. "That's reasonably

good thinking," he said.

    "Superior, mein Herr.', Again the driver looked

briefly back out the window, then concentrated on

the road and the rearview mirror. Moments later he

gradually accelerated his speed; it was not

noticeable; there was no breaking away, instead

merely a faster pace. He eased to the left, passing a

Mercedes coupe, staying in the lane to overtake a

Volkswagen, then returning to the right.

"I hope you know what you're doing," muttered Joel.

    No reply was necessary as the dark-red vehicle

streaked by on the left.

    "Directly ahead the road separates," said the

driver. "One way to Koln, the other to Bonn. You

say you are going to Bonn, but what if your friend

goes to KolnP"

"Stay with him."

    The limousine entered the road for Bonn and

Converse lighted a cigarette, his thoughts on the

reality of having been found, which meant his name

was known from the passenger manifest. So be it; he

would have preferred otherwise, but once the initial

contact had been made with Bertholdier it was not

a vital point. He could operate as himself; his past

might even be an asset. Also, there was a positive

side to the immediate situation; he had learned

something several things. Those following

him who now had lost him were no part of the

authorities; they were not connected with either the

German or the French police, or the coordinating

Interpol. If they were, they would have taken him at

the gate or on the plane itself, and that told him

something else. Joel Converse was not wanted for

assault or God forbid murder back in Paris. And

this assumption could only lead to a third

probability: the violent, bloody struggle in the alley

was being covered up. Jacques-Louis Bertholdier

was taking no chances that because of his severely

wounded aide his own name might surface in any

connection whatsoever with a wealthy guest of the

hotel who had made such alarming insinuations to

the revered general. The protection of Aquitaine

was paramount.

    There was a fourth possibility, so realistically

arrived at it could be considered fact. The men in

the dark-red limou

THE AQUITAINE rROGRESSION 147

sine who had met the Hamburg plane were also part

of Aquitaine, underlings of Erich Leifhelm, the

spoke of Aquitaine in West Germany. Sometime

during the last five hours, Bertholdier had learned

the identity of the ersatz Henry Simon probably

through the management of the George V and

contacted Leifhelm. Then, alarmed that no passenger

manifest listed an American named Converse flying

from Paris to Bonn, they had checked the other

airlines and found he had gone to Copenhagen. The

alarms must have been strident. Why Copenhagen?

He said he was going to Bonn. Why did this strange

man with his extraordinary information go to

Copenhagen? Who are his contacts, whom will he

meet? Find him. Find them! Another phone call had

been made, a description given, and a woman had

stared at him in a cafe in the Kastrup Airport. It was

all so throughthe-looking-glass.

    He had flown to Denmark for one reason, but

another purpose had been served. They had found

him, but in the finding they had revealed their own

panic. An agitated reception committee, the use of

a radio at night to reach an unseen vehicle only a

few hundred feet away, a racing limousine: these

were the ingredients of anxiety. The enemy was

off-balance and the lawyer in Converse was satisfied.

At this moment that enemy was a quarter of a mile

down the road speeding into Bonn, unaware that a

taxi behind them, skillfully maneuvered by a driver

slipping around the intermittent traffic, was keeping

them in sight.

    Joel crushed out his cigarette as the driver

slowed down to let a pickup truck pass. He could see

the large dark-red car ahead on the long curve. The

German was no amateur, he knew the moves to

make, and Converse understood. Whoever was in

that limousine might well be an influential owner,

and even two hundred deutsche marks were not

worth the probable enmity of a powerful man.

    Probabilities . . . everything was probabilities. He

had built his legal reputation on the study of

probabilities, and it was a simpler process than most

of his colleagues believed. The approach, that is, was

simple, not the work; that was never easy. It

demanded the dual discipline of concentrating on the

minute and prodding the imagination to expand until

the minutiae were arranged and rearranged into

dozens of different equations. This exhaustive what-if

process was the keystone of legal thinking; it was as

simple as that. It was also

148 ROBERT LUDIUM

a verbal trap, Joel reflected, as he thought back

several years, smiling an uncomfortable smile alone

in the darkness. In one of her moments of pique,

Val had told him that if he would spend one iota of

the time on the two of them that he spent on his

"goddamned probabilities," he would "probably"

come to realize that the 'probability" of their

surviving together was 'very probably nil."

    She had never lacked for being succinct nor

sacrificed her humor in the pursuit of candor. Her

striking looks aside, Valerie Charpentier Converse

was a very funny lady. Unable not to, he had smiled

at her explosion that night years ago, then they both

had laughed quietly until she turned away and left

the room, too much sadness in the truth she had

spoken.

    Large picturesque buildings gradually replaced

the quiet countryside, reminding Converse of huge

Victorian houses with filigreed borders and

overhanging eaves and grilled balconies beneath

large rectangular windows stark geometric shapes.

These in turn gave way to a contradictory stretch of

attractive but perfectly ordinary residential homes,

the sort that could be found in any traditional

wealthy suburb on the outskirts of a major

American city. Scarsdale, Chevy Chase Grosse

Pointe or Evanston. Then came the center of Bonn

where narrow, gaslit streets ran into wider avenues

with modern lighting, quaint squares only blocks

away from banks of contemporary stores and

boutiques. It was an architectural

anachronism Old World ambience coexisting with

up-tothe-minute structures, but with no sense of a

city, no sense of electricity or grandeur. Instead it

appeared to be a large town, growing rapidly larger,

the town fathers uncertain of its direction. The

birthplace of Beethoven and the gateway to the

Rhine Valley was the most unlikely capital

imaginable of a major government. It was anything

but the seat of a hard-nosed Bundestag and a series

of astute, sophisticated prime ministers who faced

the Russian bear across the borders.

    "Mein Herrl" cried the driver. "They take the

road to Bad Godesberg. Das Diplomatenviertel."

"What does that mean?"

    "Embassies. They have Polizeistreifen! Patrols.

We could be, how do you say, known ?"

    "Spotted," explained Joel. "Never mind. Do what

you've been doing, you're great. Stop, if you have

to; park, if you have

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 149

to. Then keep going. You now have three hundred

deutsche marks over the fare. I want to know where

they stop."

    It came six minutes later, and Converse was

stunned. Whatever he had thought, wherever his

imagination had led him, he was not prepared for

the driver's words.

'That is the American embassy, mein Herr. "

    Joel tried to focus his thoughts. "Take me to the

Hotel Konigshof," he said, remembering, not

knowing what else to say.

    "Yes, I believe Herr Dowling left a note to that

effect," said the desk clerk, reaching below the

counter.

    "He did?" Converse was astonished. He had used

the actor's name in the outside hope of some

possible preferential treatment. He expected nothing

else, if indeed that.

    "Here it is." The clerk extracted two small

telephone memos from the thin stack in his hand.

"You are John Converse, an American attomey."

"Close enough. That's me."

    "Herr Dowling said you might have difficulty

finding am propriate accommodations here in Bonn.

Should you come to the Konigshof tonight, he

requested that we be as helpful as possible. It is

possible, Herr Converse. Herr Dowling is a very

popular man."

"He deserves to be," said Joel.

"I see he also left a message for you."

    The clerk turned and retrieved a sealed envelope

from one of the mailboxes behind him. He handed

it to Converse, who opened it.

Hi, pardner.

If you don't pick this up, I'll get it back in the

morning. Forgive me, but you sounded like too

many

of my less fortunate colleagues who say no when

they

want to say yes. Now collectively in their case, it's

some kind of warped pride because they think I'm

suggesting a handout it's either that or they don't

want to meet someone who may be where I'm

going.

By the looks of you, I'd have to rule out the

former

and stick with the latter. There's someone you

don't

want to meet here in Bonn, and you don't have to.

The room's taken care of and in my name change

that if you like but don't argue about the bill. I

owe

150 ROBERT LUDLUM

you a fee, counselor, and I always pay my debts. At

least during the last four years I have.

Incidentally, you'd make a lousy actor. Your

pauses aren't at all convincing.

Pa Ratchet

    Joel put the note back in the envelope, resisting

the temptation to go to a house phone and call

Dowling. The man would have little enough sleep

before going to work; thanks could wait until

morning. Or evening.

    "Mr. Dowling's arrangements are generous and

completely satisfactory," he said to the clerk behind

the counter. "He's right. If my clients knew I'd come

to Bonn a day early I'd have no chance to enjoy

your beautiful city."

    "Your privacy will be respected, sir. Herr

Dowling is a most thoughtful man, as well as

generous, of course. Your luggage is outside with a

taxi, perhaps?"

    "No, that's why I'm so late. It was put on the

wrong plane out of Hamburg and will be here in the

morning. At least that's what I was told at the

airport."

    "Ach, so inconvenient, but all too familiar. Is

there anything you might require?"

    "No, thanks," replied Converse, raising his

attache case slightly. "The bare necessities travel

with me.... Well, there is one thing. Would it be

possible to order a drink?"

"Of course."

    Joel sat up in bed, the dossier at his side, the

drink in his hand. He needed a few minutes to think

before going back into the world of Field Marshal

Erich Leifhelm. With the help of the switchboard,

he had called the all-night number for Lufthansa

and had been assured that his suitcase would be

held for him at the airport. He gave no explanation

other than the fact that he had been traveling for

two days and nights and simply did not care to wait

for his luggage. The attendant could read into his

words whatever she liked; he did not care. His mind

was on other things.

    The American embassy! What appalled him was

the stark reality of old Beale's words.... Behind it all

are those who do the convincing, and they're growing

in numbers everywhere.... We're in the countdown ...

three to five Uzbeks that's all you've got.... It's real and

it's coming. Joel was not prepared for the reality. He

could accept Delavane and

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 151

Bertholdier, certainly I,eifhelm, but the shock of

knowing that ordinary embassy personnel American

personnel were on the receiving end of orders

from Delavane's network was paralysing. How far

had Aquitaine progressed? How widespread were its

followers, its influence? Was tonight the frightening

answer to both questions? He would think about it

all in the morning. First, he had to be prepared for

the man he had come to find in Bonn. As he

reached for the dossier he remembered the sudden

deep panic in Avery Fowler's eyes Preston

Halliday's eyes. How long had he known? How

much had he known?

    It is pointless to recount Erich Leifhelm's ex-

ploits in the early to middle years of the war other

than to say his reputation grew, and what is most

important he was one of the very few superior offi-

cers to come up through Nazi party ranks accepted

by the old-line professional generals. Not only did

they accept him but they sought him out for their

commands. Men like Rundstedt and Von

Falkenhausen, Rommel and von Treskow; at one

time or another each asked Berlin for LeifLelm's

services. He was unquestionably a brilliant strategist

and a daring of dicer, but there was something else.

These generals were aristocrats, part of the ruling

class of prewar Germany, and by and large loathed

the National Socialists, considering them thugs,

exhibitionists and amateurs. It is not difficult to

imagine LeifLelm, sitting among these men,

modestly expounding on what was clearly noted in

his military record. He was the son of the late

prominent Munich surgeon Dr. Heinrich Leifhelm,

who had left him considerable wealth and property.

We need no conjecture, however, to understand how

much further he went to ingratiate himself, for the

following is extracted from an interview with

General Rolf Winter, Standortkommandant of the

Wehrbereichskommando in the Saar sectors:

    We would sit around having coffee after dinner,

the talk quite depressing. We knew the war was lost.

The insane orders from Berlin most we agreed

would never be carried out guaranteed wholesale

152 R08ERT LUD[UM

slaughter of troops and civilians. It was

madness, national suicide. And always, this

young Leifhelm would say things like "Perhaps

the fools will listen to me. They think I'm one

of them, they've thought so from the early days

in Munich." . . . And we would wonder. Could

he bring some sanity to the collapsing front? He

was a fine officer, highly regarded, and the son

of a well-known doctor, as he constantly re-

minded us. After all, young men's heads were

turned in those early days the cavernous

soul-stirring roars of Sieg hell, the fanatic

crowds; the banners and drums and marching

beside ten thousand torches at night. It was all

so melodramatic, so Wagnerian. But Leifhelm

was different; he wasn't one of the gangsters;

patriotic, of course, but not a hoodlum.... So we

sent dispatches with him to our closest

comrades in Berlin, dispatches that would have

resulted in our executions had they fallen into

the wrong hands. We were told he tried very

hard, but he could not put sanity in the minds

of men who lived in daily fear of death from

rumor and gossip. But he maintained his own

sanity and loyalty which were constant. We

were informed by one of his adjutants not

him, mind you that he was confronted by an

S.S. colonel who had followed him in the street

and demanded the contents of his briefcase. He

refused, and when threatened with immediate

arrest, he shot the man so as not to betray us.

He was one of us. It was a noble risk and only

a night bombing raid saved his own life.

    It is clear what LeifLelm was doing and

equally clear that the dispatches were never

shown to anyone, nor was there an S.S. colonel

shot in the streets during a bombing raid.

According to Winter, those dispatches from the

Saar were so explosive in content

    that someone would have remembered them; no

one does. Once again, LeifLelm had seen an

opportunity. The war was lost, and the Nazis

were about to become the ultimate

twentieth-century villains. But not the elite

German general corps there was a distinction.

He wiped another slate clean and joined the

"Prussians." He was so successful that he was

rumored to have been part of the plot to

assassinate

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 153

Adolf Hitler at Wolfsschanze, and called upon to be

a member of Donitz's surrender team.

    During the cold war, Allied Central Command

asked him to join other key elements of the Wehr-

macht officer corps in the Bundesgrenzschutz. He

became a privileged military consultant with full se-

curity clearance. A mature killer had survived, and

history, with the Kremlin's help, took care of the

rest.

    In May '49 the Federal Republic was established,

and the following September the Allied occupation

formally came to an end. As the cold war escalated

and West Germany began its remarkable recovery,

the NATO forces demanded material and personnel

support from their former enemies. The new German

divisions were formed under the command of

ex-Field Marshal Erich Leifhelm.

    No one had dredged up the questionable deci-

sions of the Munich courts from nearly two decades

past; there were no other survivors and his services

were desired by the victors. During the postwar re-

construction when countless settlements and laby-

rinthine legal resolutions were being sought

throughout Germany, he was quietly awarded all as-

sets and property previously decreed, including some

of the most valuable real estate in Munich. So ends

the third phase of Erich Leifhelm's story. The fourth

phase which concerns us most is the one we know

least about. The only certainty is that he has become

as deeply entrenched in General Delavane's

operation as any other man on the primary list.

    There was a rapping on the door. Joel lunged

off the bed, the Leifhelm dossier cascading to the

Qoor. He looked at his watch in fear and

confusion. It was nearly four o'clock. Who wanted

him at this hour? Had they found him? Oh, Christ]

The dossier! The briefcase! "Joe . . . ?Joe, you up?"

The voice was both a whisper and a shout an

actor's sotto voce. "It's me, Cal Dowling." Converse

ran to the door and opened it, his breath coming

in gasps. Dowling was fully dressed, holding up

both his hands for silence as he glanced up and

down the corridor. Sat

154 ROBERT LUDLUM

isfied, he walked rapidly inside, pushing Joel back

and closing the door.

    "I'm sorry, Cal," said Converse. "I was asleep. I

guess the sound startled me."

    "You always sleep in your trousers with the

lights on?" asked the actor quietly. "Keep your voice

down. I checked the hallways, but you can never be

clear about what you didn't see."

"Clear about what?"

    "One of the first things we reamed on Kwajalein

in '44. A patrol doesn't mean shit unless you've got

something to report. All it means is that they were

better than you were."

"I was going to call you, to thank you "

    "Cut it, good buddy," Dowling broke in, his

expression serious. "I'm hming this down to the last

couple of minutes, which is about all we've got.

There's a limo downstairs waiting to take me out to

the cameras over an hour away. I didn't want to

come out of my room before in case anyone was

hanging around, and I didn't want to call you

because a switchboard can be watched or

bribed ask anyone in Cuckooburg. I don't worry

about the desk; they're not too fond of our crowd

over here." The actor sighed. "When I got to my

room, all I wanted was sleep, and all I got was a

visitor. I'm down the hall and I was hoping to

Christ if you came here he wouldn't see

you."

"A visitor?"

"From the embassy. The US. embassy. Tell me,

Joe "

"Joel," interrupted Converse. "Not that it matters."

    "Sorry, I've an obstruction in my left ear and

that doesn't matter, either. He spent damn near

twenty-five minutes with me asking questions about

you. He said we were seen talking together on the

plane. Now, you tell me, counselor, are you okay, or

are my instincts all bucked up?"

    Joel returned Dowling's steady gaze. "Your

instincts are perfectly fine," he said without

emphasis. "Did the man from the embassy say

otherwise?"

    "Not exactly. As a matter of fact, he didn't say

a hell of a lot. Just that they wanted to talk to you,

wanted to know why you'd come to Bonn, where

you were."

"But they knew I was on the plane?"

"Yep, said you'd flown out of Paris."

"Then they knew I was on that plane."

"That's what I just said what he said."

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 155

    "Then why didn't they meet me at the gate and

ask me themselves?"

    Dowling'sface creased further, his eyes narrowing

within the wrinkles of bronzed flesh. "Yeah, why

didn't they?" he asked himself.

"Did he say?"

    "No, but then, Paris didn't come up until he was

about to leave."

"What do you mean?"

    "It was like he figured I was holding back some-

thing which I certainly was but he couldn't be

sure. I'm pretty good at what I do, Joe Joel."

    "You also took a risk," said Converse,

remembering that he was talking to a risk-taker.

    "No, I covered myself. I specifically asked if there

were charges against you or anything like that. He

said there weren't. "

"Still, he was "

    "Besides, I didn't like him. He was one of those

pushy oflficial types. He kept repeating things, and

when he couldn't come up with anything, he said,

'We know he flew out of Paris,' as if he was

challenging me. I said I didn't."

    "There's not much time, but can you tell me what

else he asked you?"

    "I told you, he wanted to know everything we

talked about. I said I didn't have a tape recorder in

my head, but it was mainly small talk, the kind of

chatter I get all the hme from people I meet on

planes. About the show, the business. But he didn't

want to settle for that; he kept pushing, which gave

me the opportunity to get a little pissed off myself."

"How so?"

    "I said, yes, we did talk about something else but

it was very personal, and none of his damn business.

He got pretty upset at that, and that let me get even

angrier. We exchanged a few barbs but his weren't

very sharp; he was too uptight. Then he asked me

for about the tenth time if you'd said anything about

Bonn, especially where you were staying. So I told

him for the tenth time the truth at least what you

said. That you were a lawyer and here to see clients

and I didn't know where the hell you were. I mean

I didn't actually know you were here."

"That's fine."

"Is it? Instincts are okay for first reactions,

counselor, but

156 ROBERT LUDLUM

then, you have to wonder. An aggravating Ivy

League government man, waving an embassy ID

and acting obnoxious may be very annoying in the

middle of the night, but he is from the Department

of State. What the hell's this all about?'

    Joel turned and walked to the foot of the bed;

he looked down at the LeifLelm dossier on the

floor. He turned again and spoke clearly, hearing

the exhaustion in his voice. "Something I wouldn't

for the life of me involve you in. But for the record,

those instincts of yours were right on, pardner."

    "I'll be honest," said the actor, his clear eyes

amused peering out from behind the creases. "I

thought as much. I said to that bastard if I

remembered anything else, I'd phone Walter

what's-his-name except I called him Walt and let

him know."

"I don't understand."

    "He's the ambassador here in Bonn. Can you

imagine with all the troubles they've got over here,

that diplomatic yo-yo had a luncheon for me, a

lousy television actor? WeD the suggestion that I

might call the ambassador made our preppie more

upset than anything else; he didn't expect it. He

said three times, as I recall that the ambassador

wasn't to be bothered with this problem. It wasn't

that important and he had enough on his mind, and

actually he wasn't even aware of it. And catch this,

Mr. Lawyer. He said you were an in-house, State

Department 'query,' as if a simpleminded actor

couldn't possibly understand bureaucratic jingoism.

I think that's when I said 'BuDshit.'"

    ' Thank you," said Converse, not knowing what

else to say, but knowing what he wanted to find out.

    "That's also when I figured my instincts weren't

so bad." Dowling looked at his watch, then hard at

Converse, his eyes now penetrating. "I was a gyrene,

but I'm no fiag-waver, good buddy. However, I like

the flag. I wouldn't live under any other."

"Neither would 1."

"Then you make it plain. Are you working for it?"

"Yes, the only way I know how, and that's ad I can

ted

you."

    "Are you looking into something here in Bonn?

Is that why you didn't want to be seen with me?

Why you stayed away from me in Hamburg and

even getting off the plane here?

"Yes."

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 157

    "And that son of a bitch didn't want me to call

the ambassador."

    ' No, he didn't. He doesn't. He can't afford it.

And, please, I ask you not to."

    "Are you Oh, Christ! Are you one of those

undercover people I read about? I walk into a guy

on a plane who can't be seen when he gets to an

airport."

    "It's not that melodramatic. I m a lawyer and

simply following up on some alleged irregularities.

Please accept that And I appreciate what you did for

me. I'm kind of new at this

    "You're cool, good buddy. Man, are you cool."

Dowling turned and walked to the door. He stopped

and looked back at Converse. "Maybe I'm crazy," he

said. "At my age it's allowed, but there's a streak in

you, young fella. Part go-ahead part

stay-where-you-are. I saw it when I talked about my

wife. Are you married?"

"I was."

"Who isn't? Was married, that is. Sorry."

"I'm not. We're not."

    "Who is? Sorry, again. My instincts were right.

You're okay." Dowling reached for the knob.

"Cal?"

"Yes?"

    "I have to know. It's terribly important. Who was

the man from the embassy? He must have identified

himself."

    "He did, ' said the actor. "He pushed an ID in

front of my face when I opened the door, but I

didn't have my glasses on. But when he was leaving

I made it clear I wanted to know who the hell he

was."

"Who was he?"

"He said his name was Fowler. Avery Fowler."

"Wait!"

"What?"

"What did you say?" Converse reeled under the

impact

158 ROBERT LUDI.UM

of the name. He physically had to steady himself,

grabbing the nearest solid object, a bedpost, to keep

from buckling.

"What's the matter, Joe? What's wrong with you?"

    "That name! Is this some kind of joke a bad

joke a bad line! Were you put on that plane? Did

I walk into you? Are you part of it, Mr. .4ctor?

You're damned good at what you do!

    "You're either juiced or sick. What are you

talking about?"

    ' This room, your note! Everything! That name!

Is this whole goddamned night a setup?'

    "It's morning, young man, and if you don't like

this room you can stay wherever you like as far as

I'm concerned."

    "Wherever . . . 4" Joel tried to evade the

blinding flashes of light from the Quai du Mont

Blanc and clear the searing blockage in his throat.

"No . . . I came here," he said hoarsely. "There's no

way you could have known I'd do that. In Copen-

hagen, on the plane . . . I got the last ticket in first

class, the seat next to me had been sold, an aisle

seat."

"That's where I always sit. On the aisle."

"Oh, Jesus!"

    "Now you're rambling.'' Dowling glanced at the

empty glass on the bedside table, then over at the

bureau top where there was a silver tray and a

bottle of Scotch whisky provided by an

accommodating desk clerk. "How much sauce have

you had?"

    Converse shook his head. "I'm not drunk.... I'm

sorry. Christ, I'm sorry) You had nothing to do with

it. They're using you trying to use you to find me!

You saved my . . . my job . . . and I went after you.

Forgive me."

    "And you don't look like someone who's that

worried about a job,' said the actor, his scowl more

one of concern than anger.

    "It's not the employment, it's . . . pulling it off.

Joel silently took a deep breath to control himself,

postponing the moment when he would have to

confront the awesome implicabons of what he had

just heard. Avery Fowler! "I want to succeed in what

I'm doing; I want to win," he added limply, hoping

to conceal the slip he saw Dowling had spotted. "All

lawyers want to win."

'Sure. '

"I am sorry, Cal."

"Forget it," said the actor, his voice casual, his look

not

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 159

casual at all. "Where I'm at these days screeching's

an hourly occurrence only, they don't say anything.

I think you just did."

    "No, I overreacted, that's all. I told you I was

new at this. Not the law, just this . . . not talking

directly, I guess says it."

"Does it?"

"Yes. Please believe that."

    "All right, if you want me to." Dowling again

looked at his watch. "I've got to go, but there's

something else that might be helpful in saving

that" the actor paused convincingly "job of yours.

'

    "What is it?" asked Converse tightly, trying not to

leap at the question.

    "As this Fowler was leaving I had a couple of

thoughts. One was that I'd been pretty hard on a

fellow who was simply doing his job, and the other

was just plain selfish. I hadn't cooperated, and that

could come back and snap me in the ass. Of course

if you never showed up here, I'd get my note back

and it wouldn't matter. But if you did, and you wore

a black hat, my tail could be in a bucket of boiling

lead."

    "That should have been your first concern," said

Joel truthfully.

    "Maybe it was, I don't know. At any rate, I told

him that in the course of our conversation I asked

you for drinks, to come out on location if you

wanted to. He seemed puzzled at the last part, but

he understood the first. I asked whether I should call

him at the embassy if you took me up on either

invitation, and he said no, I shouldn't do that."

"What9"

    "In short words, he made it very plain that my

calling him would only louse up this 'in-house query.'

He told me to wait for his call. He'd phone me

around noon."

"But you're filming. You're on location."

    "That's the beauty part, but the hell with it.

There are mobile telephone hookups; the studios

insist on them these days. It's another kind of

screeching called budgetary controls. We get our

calls."

"You're losing me."

    "Then find me. When he calls me, I'll call you.

Should I tell him you reached me?"

    Surprised, Converse stared at the aging actor, the

risk-taker. "You're way ahead of me, aren't you?"

"You're pretty obvious. So was he, when I put it

togeth

160 ROBERT LUDLUM

er which I just did. This Fowler wants to reach

you, but he wants to do it solo, away from those

people you don't want to meet. You see, when he

was at the door and we had our last words, I was

bothered by something. He couldn't sustain the

role any more than you did on the plane but I

couldn't be certain. He kind of fell apart on his exit,

and that you never do even if you've got to hold in

a sudden attack of diarrhea. . . . What do I tell him,

Joe?"

"set his telephone number, I guess.',

    "Done. You get some sleep. You look like a

coked-up starlet who's just been told she's going to

play Medea."

"I'll try."

    Dowling reached into his pocket and took out a

scrap of paper. "Here," he said approaching

Converse and handing it to him. "I wasn't sure I was

going to give this to you, but I damn well want you

to have it now. It's the mobile number where you

can reach me. Call me after you've talked to this

Fowler. I'm going to be a nervous wreck until I hear

from

you."

    "I give you my word.... Cal, what did you mean

when you mentioned 'the beauty part' and

forgetting about it?"

    The actor's head shifted back in perfect

precision, at just the right angle for anyone in the

audience. "The son of a bitch asked me what I did

for a living.... As they say in the Polo Lounge, Ciao,

baby."

    Converse sat on the edge of the bed, his head

pounding, his body tense. Avery Fowler! Jesus!

Avery Preston Fowler Halliday! Press Fowler . . .

Press Halliday! The names bombarded him, piercing

his temples and bouncing off the walls of his mind,

screaming echoes everywhere. He could not control

the assault; he began to sway back and forth, his

arms supporting him, a strange rhythm emerging,

the beat accompanying the name names of the

man who had died in his arms in Geneva. A man he

had known as a boy, the adult a stranger who had

manipulated him into the world of George Marcus

Delavane and a spreading disease called Aquitaine.

    This Fowler wants to reach you, but he wants to

do it solo, awayfrom those people you don 't want to

meet.... The judgment of a risk-taker.

    Converse stopped rocking, his eyes on the

Leifhelm dossier on the floor. He had assumed the

worst because it was beyond his comprehension, but

there was an alternative, an out

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 161

side possibility, perhaps under the circumstances

even a probability. The geometries were there; he

could not trace them but they were there! The name

Avery Fowler meant nothing to anyone but him at

least not in Bonn, not as it pertained to a murder in

Geneva. Was Dowling right? Joel had asked the

actor to get the man's telephone number, but with-

out conviction. The image of a dark-red limousine

driving through the embassy's gates would not leave

him. That was the connection that had enveloped the

shock of Avery Fowler's name. The man using it was

from the embassy, and at least part of the embassy

was part of Aquitaine, therefore the impostor was

part of the trap. That was the logic; it was simple

arithmetic . . . but it was not geometry. Suppose

there was a break in the line, an insertion from

another plane that voided the arithmetic

progression? If there was, it was in the form of an

explanation he could not possibly perceive unless it

was given to him.

    The shock was receding; he was finding his

equilibrium again. As he had done so many times in

courtrooms and boardrooms, he began to accept the

totally unexpected, knowing he could do trothing

about it until something else happened, something

over which he had no control. The most difficult

part of the process was forcing himself to function

until it did happen, whatever it was. Conjecture was

futile; all the probabilibes were beyond his

understanding.

He reached down for the LeifLelm dossier.

    Erich Leifhelm's years with the Bundesgren-

zschutz were unique and require a word about the

organizahon itself. In the aftermath of all wars, a

subjugated national police force is required in an

occupied country for reasons ranging from the

simple language problem to the occupying power's

need to understand local customs and traditions.

There must be a buffer between the occupation

troops and a vanquished people so as to maintain

order. There is also a side issue rarely elaborated

upon or analyzed in the history books, but no less

important for that lack. Defeated armies can skill

possess talent, and unless that talent is utilized the

humiliation of defeat can ferment, at minimum

distilling itself into hostilities that are

counterproduchve to a stabilised political climate, or,

at maximum, turning into internal subver

162 ROBERT LUDLUM

sionthat can lead to violence and bloodshed at

the expense of the victors and whatever new

government that is being formed. To put it

bluntly, the Allied General Staff recognized that

it had on its hands another brilliant and

popular military man who would not suffer the

anonymity of early retirement or a corporate

boardroom. The Bundesgrenzschutz literally,

federal border police like all police

organisations, was and is a paramilitary force,

and as such the logical repository for men like

Erich Leifhelm They were the leaders; better to

use them than be abused by them. And as

always among leaders, there are those few who

surge forward, leading the pack. During these

years foremost among those few was Erich

Leifhelm.

    His early work with the Grenzschutz was

that of a military consultant during the massive

German demobilisation, then afterward the

chief liaison between the police garrisons and

the Allied occupation forces. Following

demobilisation, his duties were mainly

concentrated in the trouble spots of Vienna and

Berlin where he was in constant touch with the

commanders of the American, British and

French sectors. His zealous anti-Soviet feelings

were rapidly made known by Leifhelm

throughout the command centers and duly

noted by the senior officers.. More and more he

was taken into their confidence until as it had

happened before with the Prussians he was

literally considered one of them.

    It was in Berlin where Leifhelm first came

in contact with General Jacques-Louis

Bertholdier. A strong friendship developed, but

it was not an association either one cared to

parade because of the age-old animosities

between the German and French militaries. We

were able to trace only three former officers

from Bertholdier's command post who

remembered or would speak of seeing the

two men frequently at dinner together in

out-of-the-way restaurants and cafes, deep in

conversation, obviously comfortable with each

other. Yet during those occasions when

Leifhelm was summoned to French

headquarters in Berlin, the formalities were

icily proper, with names rarely used and

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 163

certainly never first names, only ranks and titles. In

recent years, as noted above, both men have denied

knowing each other personally, albeit admitting their

paths may have crossed.

    Where previously acknowledgment of their

friendship was discouraged because of traditional

prejudices, the current reasons are far more under-

standable. Both are spearheads in the Delavane

organization. The names on the primary list are there

with good reason. They are influential men who sit

on the boards of multinational corporations that deal

in products and technology ranging from the building

of dams to the construction of nuclear plants; in

between are a hundred likely subsidiaries throughout

Europe and Africa which could easily expedite sales

of armaments. As detailed in the following pages, it

can be assumed that Leifhelm and Bertholdier

communicate through a woman named Ilse Fishbein

in Bonn. Fishbein is her married name, the marriage

itself questionable in terms of motive insofar as it

was dissolved years ago when Yakov Fishbein, a

survivor of the camps, emigrated to Israel. Frau

Fishbein, born in 1942, is the youngest illegiti: mate

daughter of Hermann Goring.

    Converse put down the dossier and reached for

a memo pad next to the telephone on the bedside

table. He then unclipped from his shirt pocket the

gold Carher ball-point pen Val had given him years

ago and wrote down the name Ilse Fishbein. He

studied both the pen and the name. The Cartier

status symbol was a remembrance of better days no,

not really better, but at least more complete. Valerie,

at his insistence, had finally quit the New York

advertising agency, with its insane hours, and gone

free-lance. On her last day of formal work, she had

walked across town to Cartier and spent a con-

siderable portion of her last paycheck for his gift.

When he asked her what he had done outside of his

meteoric rise in Talbot, Brooks and Simon to deserve

a gift of such impractical opulence, she had replied:

"For making me do what I should have done a long

time ago. On the other hand, if free-lancing doesn't

pay off, I'll steal it back and pawn it.... What the hell,

you'll probably lose it."

164 ROBERT LUDLUM

    Free-lancing had paid off very well, indeed, and

he had never lost the pen.

    Ilse Fishbein gave rise to another kind of

thought. As much as he would like to confront her,

it was out of the question. Whatever Erich

LeifLelm knew had been provided by Bertholdier in

Paris and relayed by Frau Fishbein here in Bonn.

And the communication obviously contained a

detailed description as well as a warning; the

American was dangerous. Ilse Fishbein, as a trusted

confidante in Aquitaine, could undoubtedly lead

him to others in Germany who were part of

Delavane's network, but to approach her was to ask

for his own . . . whatever it was they intended for

him at the moment, and he was not ready for that.

Sbil, it was a name, a piece of information, a fact

he was not expected to have, and experience had

taught him to keep such details up front and reveal

them, spring them quietly when the moment was

right. Or use them himself when no one was

looking. He was a lawyer, and the ways of adversary

law were labyrinthine; whatever was withheld was

no-man's-land. On either side, to the more patient,

the spoils.

    Yet the temptation was so damned inviting. The

bloodline of Hermann Goring involved with the

contemplated resurrection of the generals! In

Germany. Ilse Fishbein could be an immediate

means of unlocking a floodgate of unwanted

memories. He held in his hand a spiked club; the

moment would come when he would swing it.

    Leifhelm's commanding duties in the field with

the West German NATO divisions lasted seventeen

years, whereupon he was elevated to SHAPE head-

quarters, near Brussels, as military spokesman for

Bonn's interests.

    Again his tenure was marked by extreme

anti-Soviet postures, frequently at odds with his own

government's pragmatic approach to coexistence

with the Kremlin, and throughout his final months

at SHAPE he was more often appreciated by the

Anglo-American right-wing factions than by the po-

litical leadership in Bonn.

    It was only when the chancellor of the Federal

Republic concluded that American foreign policy in

the early eighties had been taken out of the hands

of professionals and usurped by bellicose ideologues

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 165

that he ordered Leifhelm home and created an

innocuous post for the soldier to keep him at

bay.

    Leiftelm, however, had never been a gullible

fool, nor was he one now in his new, improvised

status. He understood why the politicians had

created it it showed recognition of his own

subtle strengths. People everywhere were looking

to the past, to men who spoke clearly, with

candor, and did not obfuscate the problems

facing their countries and the world, especially

the Western world.

    So he began to speak. At first to veterans'

groups and splinter organisations where military

pasts and long-established partisan politics

guaranteed him a favorable reception. Spurred by

the enthusiastic responses he evoked, Leifhelm

began to expand, seeking larger audiences, his

positions becoming more strident, his statements

more provocative.

    One man listened and was furious. The

chancellor learned that Leifhelm had carried his

quasi-politicking into the Bundestag itself,

implying a constituency far beyond what he really

had, but by the sheer force of his personality

swaying members who should not have been

swayed. Leifhelm's message came back to the

chancellor: an enlarged army in far greater

numbers than the NATO commitments; an

intelligence service patterned after the once

extraordinary Abwohr; a general revamping of

textbooks, deleting injurious and slanderous

materials; rehabilitation camps for political

troublemakers and subversives pretending to be

"liberal thinkers." It was all there.

    The chancellor had had enough. He

summoned Leifhelm to his of lice, where he

demanded his resignation in the presence of

three witnesses. Further he ordered Leifhelm to

remove himself from all aspects of German

politics, to accept no further speaking

engagements, and to lend neither his name nor

his presence to any cause whatsoever. He was to

retire totally from public life. We have reached

one of those witnesses whose name is not

pertinent to this report. The following is his

recollection:

The chancellor was furious. He said to

Leifhekn:

166 ROBERT LUDLUM

'Herr General, you have two choices, and, if

you'll forgive me, a final solution. Number one,

you may do as I say. Or you can be stripped of

your rank and all pensions and financial

accruals afforded therein, as well as the income

from some rather valuable real estate in

Munich, which in the opinion of any enlight-

ened court would be taken from you instantly.

That is your second choice."

    I tell you, the field marshal was apoplectic!

He demanded his rights, as he called them, and

the chancellor shouted, "You've had your rights,

and they were wrong! They're skill wrongI"

Then Leifhelm asked what the final solution

was, and I swear to you, as crazy as it sounds,

the chancellor opened a drawer of his desk,

took out a pistol, and aimed it at Leifhelm. "1,

myself, will kill you right now," he said. "You

will not, I repeat, not take us back."

    I thought for a moment that the old soldier

was going to rush forward and accept the bullet,

but he didn't. He stood there staring at the

chancellor, such hatred in his eyes, matched by

the statesman's cold appraisal. Then Leifhelm

did a stupid thing. He shot his arm

forward not at the chancellor, but away from

him and cried "Heil Hitler." Then he turned in

military fashion and walked out the door.

    We were all silent for a moment or two,

until the chancellor broke the silence. "I should

have killed him," he said. "I may regret it. We

may all regret it."

    Five days after this confrontation,

Jacques-Louis Bertholdier made the first of his

two trips to Bonn following his retirement. On

his initial visit he stayed at the Schlosspark

Hotel, and as hotel records are kept for a

period of three years, we were able to obtain

copies of his billing charges. There were numer-

ous calls to various firms doing business with

Juneau et Cie, too numerous to examine

individually, but one number kept being

repeated, the name having no apparent business

connections with Bertholdier or his company. It

was use Fishbein. However, upon checking

Erich Leifhelm's telephone bills for the dates in

question, it was found that he, too, had placed

calls to use Fishbein, identical in number with

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 167

those placed by Rertholdier. Inquiries and brief sur-

veillance further established that Frau Fishbein and

Leifhelm have known each other for a number of

years. The conclusion is apparent: She is the conduit

between Paris and Bonn in Delavane's apparatus.

    Converse lit a cigarette. There was the name

again, the temptation again. Ilse Fishbein could be

the shortcut. Threatened with exposure, this

daughter of Hermann Goring could reveal a great

deal. She could confirm that she was not only the

liaison between Leifhelm and Bertholdier but

conceivably much more, for the two ex-generals had

to transmit information to each other. The names of

companies, of buried subsidiaries, and of firms doing

business related to Delavane in Palo Alto might

surface, names he could pursue legally, looking for

the illegalities that had to be there. If there only was

a way to make his presence felt but not seen.

    An intermediary. He had used intermediaries in

the past, often enough to know the value of the

procedure. It was relatively simple. He would

approach a third party to make contact with an

adversary carrying information that could be of value

to him insofar as it might be deemed damaging to

his interests, and if the facts presented were strong

enough, an equitable solution was usually

forthcoming. The ethics was questionable, but

contrary to accepted belief, ethics was in three

dimensions, if not four. The end did not justify the

means, but justifiable means that brought about a

fair and necessary conclusion were not to be

dismissed.

    And nothing could be fairer or more necessary

than the dismantling of Aquitaine. Old Beale was

right that night on the moonlit beach on Mykonos.

His client was not an unknown man in San Francisco

but instead a large part of this so-called civilised

world. Aquitaine had to be stopped, aborted.

    An intermediary? It was another question he

would put off until the morning. He picked up the

dossier, his eyes heavy.

    Leifhelm has few intimate friends that appear

to be constant, probably because of his awareness

that he is under watch by the government. He sits

on the boards of several prominent corporations,

168 ROBERT LUDLUM

which have stated frankly that his name justifies his

stipend....

    Joel's head fell forward. He snapped it back,

widened his eyes, and scanned the final pages

rapidly, absorbing only the general impressions; his

concentration was waning. There was mention of

several restaurants, the names meaningless; a mar-

riage during the war that ended when Leifhelm s

wife disappeared in November of'43, presumed

killed in a Berlin bombing raid; no subsequent wife

or wives. His private life was extraordinarily private,

if not austere; the exception here was his proclivity

for small dinner parties, the guest lists always

varied, again names, again meaningless. The address

of his residence on the outskirts of Bad

Godesberg.... Suddenly Converse's neck stiffened,

his eyes fully alert.

    The house is in the remote countryside, on the

Rhine River and far from any shopping areas or

suburban concentration. The grounds are fenced

and guarded by attack dogs who bark viciously at

all approaching vehicles except Leithelm's

dark-red Mercedes limousine.

    A dark-red Mercedes! It was Leifhelm himself

who had been at the airport! Leifhelm who had

driven directly to the embassy! How could it

happens How?

    It was too much to absorb, too far beyond his

understanding. The darkness was closing in, Joel's

brain telling him it could no longer accept further

input; it simply could not function. The dossier fell

to his side; he closed his eyes and slept.

    He was plunging headlong down through a

cavernous hole in the earth, jagged black rocks on

all sides, infinite darkness below. The walls of

irregular stone kept screaming in frenzy, screeching

at him like descending layers of misshapen gargoyles

with sharp beaks and raised claws lunging at his

flesh. The hysterical clamor was unbearable. Where

had the silence gone? Why was he falling into black

nothingness?

    He flashed his eyes open; his forehead was

drenched with sweat, his breath coming in gasps.

The telephone by his head was ringing, the erratic

bell jarringly dissonant. He tried to shake the sleep

and the fear from his semiconsciousness; he reached

for the blaring instrument, glancing at his watch as

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 169

he did so. It was twelve-fifteen, a quarter past noon,

the sun streaking through the hotel window. Blinding.

"Yes? Hello . . . ?"

"Joe? Joel 2"

'Yes." it's Cal Dowling. Our boy called."

    What? Who?"

'This Fowler. Avery Fowler."

    "Oh, Jesus!" It was coming back, it was all coming

back. He was seated at a table in the Chat Botte on

the Quai du Mont Blanc, flashes of sunlight bouncing

off the grillwork on the lakeside boulevard. No . . .

he was not in Geneva. He was in a hotel room in

Bonn, and only hours ago he had been plunged into

madness by that name. "Yes," he choked, catching his

breath. 'Did you get a telephone number?"

    "He said there wasn't time for games, and

besides, he doesn't have one. You're to meet him at

the east wall of the Alter Zoll as fast as you can get

there. Just walk around; he'll find you."

    'That's not good enoughI" cried Converse. "Not

after Paris! Not after the airport last night! I'm not

stupidI"

    "I didn't get the impression he thought you were,"

replied the actor. ' He told me to tell you something,

he thought it might convince you."

    What is it?"

    "I hope I get this right, I don't even like saying it.

. . He said to tell you a judge named Anstett was

killed last nught in New York. He thinks you're being

cut loose."

8

    The Alter Zoll, the ancient tower that had once

been part of Bonn's southern fortress on the

Rhine razed to the ground three centuries

ago was now a tollhouse standing on a green lawn

dotted with antique cannons, relics of a might that

had slipped away through the squabblings of

emperors and kings priests and princes. A winding

mosaic wall of red and grey stone overlooked the

massive river below where boats of vari

170 ROBERT IUDLUM

ous descriptions plowed furrows in the open water,

caressing the shorelines on both sides, diligent and

somber in their appointed rounds; no Lake Geneva

here, far less the blue-green waters of the

mischievous Como. Yet in the distance was a sight

envied by people the world over: the Siebengebirge,

the seven mountains of Westerwald, magnificent in

their intrusions on the skyline.

    Joel stood by the low wall, trying to focus on the

view hoping it would calm him, but the exercise was

futile. The beauty before him was lost, it would not

distract him from his thoughts; nothing could....

Lucas Anstett, Second Circuit Court of Appeals,

judge extraordinary and intermediary between one

Joel Converse and his employers and an unknown

man in San Francisco. Outside of that unknown

man and a retired scholar on the island of

Mykonos, the only other person who knew what he

was doing and why. How in the space of eighteen

hours or less could he have been found ? Found

and killed!

"Converse?"

    Joel turned, whipping his head over his shoulder,

his body rigid. Standing twenty feet away on the far

edge of a graveled path was a sandy-haired man

several years younger than Converse, in his early to

mid thirties; his was a boyish face that would grow

old slowly and remain young long after its time. He

was also shorter than Joel, but not by

much perhaps five ten or eleven and dressed in

light-grey trousers and a cord jacket, his white shirt

open at the neck.

"Who are you?" asked Converse hoarsely.

    A couple strolled between them on the path as

the younger man jerked his head to his left,

gesturing for Joel to follow him onto the lawn

beyond. Converse did so, joining him by the huge

iron wheel of a bronze cannon.

"All right, who are you?" repeated Joel.

    "My sister's name is Meagen," said the

sandy-haired man. "And so neither one of us makes

a mistake, you tell me who I am."

    "How the hey . . . ?" Converse stopped, the

words coming back to him, words whispered by a

dying man in Geneva. Oh, Christ! Meg, the kids . . .

" 'Meg, the kids,' " he said out loud. "Fowler called

his wife Meg."

    "Short for Meagen, and she was Halliday's

wife only, you knew him as Fowler."

"You're Avery's brother-in-law."

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 171

    "Press's brother-in-law," corrected the man,

extending his hand. "Connal Fitzpatrick," he added.

"Then we're on the same side."

"I hope so."

"I've got a lot of questions to ask you, Connal."

"No more than I've got for you, Converse."

    "Are we going to start off belligerently?" asked

Joel, noting the harsh use of his own last name and

releasing fitzpatrick s hand.

    The younger man blinked, then reddened,

embarrassed. "Sorry," he said. "I'm one angry

brother on both sides and I haven't had much

sleep. I'm still on San Diego time."

"San Diego? Not San Francisco?"

"Navy. I'm a lawyer stationed at the naval base

there."

"Whew," whistled Converse softly. "It's a small

world."

    "I know all about the geography," agreed

Fitzpatrick. 'And also you, Lieutenant. How do you

think Press got his information? Of course, I wasn't

in San Diego then, but I had friends. "

"Nothing's sacred, then."

    "You're wrong; everything is. I had to pull some

very thick strings to get that stuff. It was about five

months ago when Press came to me and we made

our . . . I guess you'd call it the contract between

us."

"Clarification, please."

    The naval officer placed a hand on the barrel of

the cannon. "Press Halliday wasn't just my

brother-in-law, he came to be my best friend, closer

than any blood brother, I think."

    "And you with the militaristic hordes?" asked

Joel, only half joking, a point of information on the

line

    Fitzpatrick smiled awkwardly, boyishly. ';That's

part of it, actually. He stood by me when I wanted to

go for it. The services need lawyers too, but the law

schools don't tell you much about that. It's not

where they're going to get any endowments from.

Me, I happen to like the Navy, and I like the

lif~and the challenges, I guess you'd call them."

"Who objected?"

    "Who didn't? In both our families the

pirates who go back to skimming the earthquake

victims have always been attorneys. The two

current old men knew Press and I got along and saw

the writing they wrote on their own wall. Here's this

sharp Wasp and this good Catholic boy, now, if they

ring in a Jew and a light-skinned black and maybe

even

172 ROBERT LUDLUM

a not-too-offensive gay, they've got half the legal

market in San Francisco in their back pockets."

"What about the Chinese and the Italians?"

    "Certain country clubs still have remnants of the

old school ties in their lockers. Why soil the fabric?

Deals are made on the fairways, the accent on

'ways,' not 'fair.'"

    "And you didn't want anything to do with that,

counselor?"

    "Neither did Press, that's why he went

international. Old Jack Halliday pissed bright red

when Press began corraling all those foreign clients;

then purple when he added a lot of U.S. sharks who

wanted to operate overseas. But old Jack couldn't

complain; his wild-eyed stepson was adding

considerably to the bottom line."

    "And you went happily into uniform," said

Converse, watching Fitzpatrick's eyes, impressed by

the candor he saw in them.

    "Back into uniform, and very happy with

Press's blessings, legal and otherwise."

"You were fond of him, weren't you?"

    Connal lifted his hand off the cannon. "I loved

him, Converse. Just as I love my sister. That's why

I'm here. That's the contract."

    "Incidentally," said Joel kindly, "speaking of your

sister even if I were somebody else I could easily

have found out her name was Meagan."

"I'm sure you could have; it was in the papers."

"Then it wasn't much of a test."

    "Press never called her Meagen in his life,

except for that one phrase in the wedding

ceremony. It was always 'Meg.' I would have asked

you about that somehow, and if you were lying I'd

have known it. I'm very good on direct."

    "I believe you. What's the contract between you

and . . . Press?"

    "Let's walk," said Fitzpatrick, and as they

strolled toward the wall with the winding river

below and the seven mountains of Westerwald in

the distance, Connal began. "Press came to me and

said he was into something pretty heavy and he

couldn't let it go. He'd come across information

that tied a number of well-known men or once

well-known men together in an organization that

could do a lot of harm to a lot of people in a lot of

countries. He was going to stop

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 173

it, stop them, but he had to go outside the usual

courtroom ballparks to do it do it legally.

    "I asked the normal questions: Was he involved,

culpable that sort of thing, and he said no, not in any

indictable sense, but he couldn't be sure whether or

not he was entirely safe. Naturally, I said he was

crazy; he should take his information to the

authorities and let them handle it."

    "Which is exactly what I told him," interrupted

Converse.

    Fitzpatrick stopped walking and turned to Joel.

"He said it was more complicated than that."

"He was right."

"I find that hard to believe."

"He's dead. Believe it."

"That's no answer!"

    "You didn't ask a question," said Converse. "Let's

walk. Go on. Your contract."

    Bewilderment on his face, the naval officer

began. "It was very simple," he continued. "He told

me he would keep me up to date whenever he

traveled, letting me know if he was seeing anyone

related to his major concern that's what we called

it, his 'major concern.' Also anything else that could

be helpful if . . . if . . . goddamn it, ifl"

"If what?"

    Fitzpatrick stopped again, his voice harsh. "If

anything happened to him!"

    Converse let the emotion of the moment pass.

"And he told you he was going to Geneva to see me.

The man who knew Avery Preston Fowler Halliday

as Avery Fowler roughly twenty-odd years ago in

school."

    "Yes. We'd been over that before when I got him

the security material on you. He said the time was

right, the circumstances right. By the way, he thought

you were the best." Connal permitted himself a brief

uncomfortable smile. "Almost as good as he was."

    "I wasn't," said Joel, a half-smile returned. "I'm

still trying to figure out his position on some Class B

stock in the merger."

"What?"

    "Nothing. What about Lucas Anstett? I want to

hear about that."

    "It's in two parts. Press said they'd worked

through the judge to spring you if you'd agree to

take on the "

174 ROBERT LUDLUM

"They? Who's they?"

"I don't know. He never told me."

"Goddamn it! Sorry, go ahead."

    "That Anstett had talked to your firm's senior

partners and they said okay if you said okay. That's

part one. Part two is a personal idiosyncrasy; I'm a

news freak, and like most of my ilk, I'm tuned into

the hourly AFR."

"Clarification. "

    "Armed Forces Radio. Oddly enough, it's

probably got the best news coverage on the air; it

pools all the networks. I have one of those small

transistorised jobs with a couple of shortwave bands

I pack when I'm traveling."

    "I used to do that," said Converse. "For the BBC,

mainly because I don't speak French or anything

else for that matter.

    "They've got good coverage, but they shift bands

too much. Anyway, I had AFR on early this

morning and heard the story, such as it was."

"What was it?"

    "Short on details. His apartment on Central Park

South was broken into around two in the morning,

New York time. There were signs of a struggle and

he was shot in the head "

    "Not quite. According to a housekeeper, nothing

was taken, so robbery was ruled out. That's it."

    "Jesus. I'll call Larry Talbot. He may have more

information. There wasn't anything else?"

    "Only a quick sketch of a brilliant jurist. The

point is nothing was taken."

    "I understand that," broke in Joel. '`1'11 talk to

Talbot." They started walking again, south along the

wall. "Last night," continued Converse, '~why did

you tell Dowling you were an embassy man? You

must have been at the airport."

    4I'd been at that airport for seven hours going

from counter to counter asking for passenger

information, trying to find out what plane you were

on."

'~You knew I was on my way to Bonn?"

.Beale thought you were."

`Beale?" asked Joel, startled. '4Mykonos'?"

    'Press gave me his name and the number but

said I wasn't to use either unless the worst

happened." Fitzpatrick paused. "The worst

happened," he added.

'What did Beale tell you?"

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 175

    'what you went to Paris, and as he understood it,

you were going to Bonn next."

"What elseP"

    'Nothing. He said he accepted my credentials, as

he called them, because I had his name and knew

how to reach him; only Press could have given me

that information. But anything else I'd have to learn

from you, if you felt there was something to tell me.

IIe was pretty damned cold."

"He had no choice."

    "Although he did say that in case I couldn't find

you, he wanted to see me on Mykonos before I

began raising my voice . . . 'for everything Mr.

Halliday stood for.' That's the way he put it. I was

going to give you two more days to get here, if I

could hold up."

"Then what? Mykonos?"

    "I'm not sure. I figured I'd call Beale again, but

he'd have to tell me a lot more than he did to

convince me."

"And if he didn't? Or couldn't?"

    "Then I'd have flown straight to Washington and

gone to whomever the top floor of the Navy

Department suggested. If you think for one

goddamned minute I'm going to let this thing pass

for what it isn t, you're wrong and so is Beale."

    "If you'd have made that clear to him, he would

have come up with something. You'd have gone to

Mykonos." Converse reached into his shirt pocket for

his cigarettes; he offered one to Fitzpatrick, who

shook his head. "Avery didn't smoke either," said

Joel aimlessly as he snapped his lighter. "Sorry . . .

Press." He inhaled.

"It's okay; that name's how I got you to see me."

    "Let's go back to that a minute. There's a slight

inconsistency in your testimony, counselor. Let's

clear it up just so neither one of us makes a

mistake."

    "I don't know what you think you're crowding in

on, but go ahead."

    "You quid you were going to give me two more

days to get here, is that right?"

"Yes, if I could make arrangements, get some sleep

and

'How did you know I didn't get here two days

before you

    Fitzpatrick glanced at Joel. "I've been a legal

officer in the Navy for the past eight years, both as

defense counsel and as Judge advocate in any

number of situations not always

176 ROBERT LUDIUM

courts-marhal. They've taken me to most of the

countries where Washington has reciprocal legal

agreements."

'That's a mouthful, but I'm not in the Navy."

    "You were, but I wasn't going to use it if I didn't

have to, and I didn't. I flew into Dusseldorf, showed

my naval papers to the Inspektor of immigration, and

asked for his cooperation. There are seven

international airports in West Germany. It took

roughly five minutes with the computers to find out

that you hadn't entered any of them during theipast

three days, which was all I was concerned about."

"But then you had to get to Cologne-Bonn."

    "I was there in forty minutes and called him

back. No Converse had been admitted, and unless

you were crossing the border incognito which I

suspect I know more about than you do you had to

fly in sooner or later."

"You're tenacious."

"I've given you my reasons."

    "What about Dowling and that embassy routine

at the hotel."

    "Lufthansa had you listed on the passenger

manifest from Hamburg you'll never know how

relieved I was. I hung around the counter in case

there was a delay or anything like that when these

three embassy guys showed up flashing their ID's,

the head man speaking rotten German."

"You could tell?"

    "I speak German and French, Italian, and

Spanish. I have to deal with different nationalities."

"I'll let that pass."

    "I suppose that's why I'm a lieutenant

commander at thirty-four. They move me around a

lot."

Pass again. What caught you about the embassy

peo

    "Your name, naturally. They wanted

confirmation that you were on flight

Eight-seventeen. The clerk sort of glanced at me and

I shook my head; he cooperated without a break in

his conversation. You see, I'd given him a few

deutsche marks but that wasn't it. These people

don't really dig the of ficial U.S. over here."

'1 heard that last night. From Dowling. How did he

come

    "Dowling himself, but later. When the plane

arrived I stood at the rear of the baggage claim; the

embassy boys were by the entrance to the gates

about fifty feet away. We all

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 177

waited until there was only one piece of luggage on

the conveyor belt. It was yours, but you never

showed up. Finally a woman came out and the

embassy contingent surrounded her, everyone

excited, upset I heard your name mentioned, but

that's all I heard because by that time I had decided

to go back and speak to the clerk.

    "To see if l d really been on the plane?' asked

Converse. "Or whether I turned out to be a no-show.

    "Yes," agreed Fitzpatrick. "He was cute; he made

me feel like I was suborning a juror. I paid him, and

he told me this Caleb Dowling whom I think I was

expected to know had stopped at the desk before

going out to the platform.'

    "Where he left instructions," said Joel,

interrupting quietly.

"How did you know?"

"I picked up a set at the hotel."

    "That was it, the hotel. Dowling told him he'd

met this lawyer on the plane, a fellow American

named Converse who'd sat with him since

Copenhagen. He was worried that his new friend

might not have accommodations in Bonn, and if he

asked Lufthansa for suggestions, the clerk should

send him to the Konigshof Hotel.'

    "So you totaled up the figures and decided to

become one of the embassy people who'd lost me,"

said Converse, smiling. "To confront Dowling. Who

among us hasn't taken advantage of a hostile

witness?"

    "Exactly. I showed him my naval ID and told him

I was an attache. Frankly, he wasn't very

cooperative."

    "And you weren't very convincing, according to

his theatrical critique. Neither was I. Strangely

enough, that's why he got us together." Joel stopped,

crushed out his cigarette against the wall and threw

it over the stone. "All right, Commander, you've

passed muster or roster or whatever the hell you call

it. Where do we stand? You speak the language and

you've got government connections I don t have.

You could help."

    The naval of ficer stood motionless; he looked

hard at Joel, his eyes blinking in the glare of the

sunlight, but not from any lack of concentration. "I

ll do whatever I can," he began slowly, "as long as it

makes sense to me. But you and I have to un-

derstand each other, Converse. I'm not backing away

from the two days. That's all you've got~'ve got if I

come on board."

178 ROBERT LUDLUM

"Who made the deadline?"

"I did. I do now."

"It can't work that way."

"Who says?"

    "I did. I do now." Converse started walking

along the wall.

    'You're in Bonn," said Fitzpatrick, catching up,

neither impatience nor supplication in his gait or in

his voice, only control. "You've been to Paris and

you came to Bonn. That means you have names,

areas of evidence, both concrete or hearsay. I want

it all."

"You'll have to do better than that, Commander."

"I made a promise."

"To whom?"

    "My sister! You think she doesn't know? It was

tearing Press apart! For a whole goddamned year

he'd get up in the middle of the night and wander

around the house, talking to himself but shutting

her out. He was obsessed and she couldn't crack

the shell. You'd have to know them to appreciate

this, but they were good, I mean good together. I

know it's not very fashionable these days to have

two people with a passer of kids who really like

each other, who can't wait to be with each other

when they're apart, but that's the way they were."

    "Are you married?" asked Joel without breaking

his stride.

    "No," answered the Navy man, obviously

confused by the question. "I expect to be. Perhaps.

I told you, I move around a lot."

"So did Press . . . Avery."

"What's your point, counselor?"

    "Respect what he was doing. He knew the

dangers and he understood what he could lose. His

life."

    "That's why I want the facts! His body was flown

back yesterday. The funeral's tomorrow and I'm not

there because I gave Meagen a promise! I'm

coming back too, but with everything I need to blow

this whole tucking thing apartl"

    "You'll only implode it, sending it way down

deep if you're not stopped before that."

"That's your judgment."

"It's all I've got."

"I don't buy it!"

"Don't. Go back and talk about rumors, about a

killing

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 179

in Geneva that nobody win admit was anything but

a robbery or a murder in New York that remains

and probably will remain something it wasn't. If you

mention a man on Mykonos believe me, he'll

disappear. Where are you, Commander? Are you

just a freak, after all, a philosophical blood brother

of Press Halliday who stormed the Presidio and

burned his draft card in the good old days of

muscatel and grass?"

' That's a crock of shit!"

    "It's on the record, Commander. By the way, as

a judge advocate, how many officers did you

prosecute?"

"What?"

"And as defense counsel, how many cases did you

lose?"

    "I've had my share of wins and losses, mostly

wins, frankly.'

    "Mostly? Frankly? You know there are certain

people who can take fifteen numbers, insert what

they call variables and make the statistics say

anything they want them to say."

    "What's that got to do with anything? How is it

connected to Press's death, his murder?"

    "Oh, you'd be surprised, Commander Fitzpatrick.

Beneath that brass could be a very successful

infiltrator, perhaps even an agent provocateur in a

uniform you shouldn't be

wearing."

    "What the hell are you talking about? . . . Forget

it, I don't want to know. I don't have to listen to you,

but you have to listen to me! You've got two days,

Converse. Am I on board or not?"

    Joel stopped and studied the intense young face

beside him young and not so young, there were

hints of creases around the angry eyes. "You're not

even in the same fleet," said Converse wearily. "Old

Beale was right. It's my decision and l choose to tell

you nothing. I don't want you on board sailor.

You're a hotheaded piss ant and you bore me."

oel turned and walked away.

    "All right, curl That's a print! Nice work, Cal, I

almost believed that drivel." The director, Roger

Blynn, checked the clipboard thrust in front of him

by a script girl and issued instructions to the camera

crew's interpreter before heading over to the

production table.

    Caleb Cowling remained seated on the large rock

on the slope of the hill above the Rhine; he patted

the head of an odoriferous goat, which had just

defecated on the toe of his

180 ROBERT LUDLUM

boot. "I'd like to kick the rest of the shit out of you,

li'l partner, ' he said quietly, "but it wouldn't fit my

well-developed image."

    The actor got up and stretched, aware that the

onlookers beyond the roped-off set were staring at

him, chattering away like tourists in a zoo. In a few

minutes he would walk over no, not walk, amble

over and pull the rope off the carriage of an arc

light so he could mingle with the fans. He never

tired of it, probably because it came so late in his

life and was, after all, symbolic of what he and his

wife currently could afford. Also every now and

then there was a bonus: the appearance of one of

his former students, who usually approached him

cautiously, obviously wondering if the good-natured

rapport he had established in the classroom had

survived the onslaught of national recognition or

been drowned in the hdal wave of so-called

stardom. Cal was good at remembering faces, and

not too bad with at least one of a person's two

names, so when these occasions arose, he invariably

would eye his former charge and ask him if he had

completed yesterday's assignment. Or would walk

up to him or her and pedagogically inquire

something like "Of the chronicles Shakespeare drew

from for his histories, which had the greatest impact

on his language, Daniel, Holinshed, or Froissart?"

If the answer came back naming the last, he would

slap his thigh and exclaim words akin to "Hot damn,

li'l wrangler, you busted a tough bronc there!"

Laughter would follow, and frequently drinks and

reminiscences later.

    It was a good life these days, almost perfect. If

only some sunlight would reach into the painfully

dark corners of his wife's mind. If it could, she'd be

here on a hillside in Bonn chatting in her quietly

vivacious way with the people beyond the

rope mostly women, mostly those around her

age telling them that her husband was really quite

like their own. He never picked up his socks and

was a disaster in the kitchen; people liked to hear

that even if they didn't believe it. But the sunlight

did not reach those far, dark corners. Instead, his

Frieda remained in Copenhagen, walking along the

beaches of Sjaelland Island, having tea in the

botanical gardens, and waiting for a call from her

husband saying that he had a few days off and

would come out of hated Germany. Dowling looked

around at the efficient, enthusiastic crew and the

curious spectators; laughter punctuated their

conversations, a certain respect as well. These were

not hateful people,

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 181

    ' Cal?" the voice belonged to Blynn, the film's

director who was walking rapidly across the slope of

the hill. "There's someone here to see you."

    '`1 hope more than one, Roger. Otherwise the

men who go under the dubious title of our

employers are grossly overpaying me."

    'Not for this pile of kitsch." The director's smile

disappeared, as he approached the actor. Are you

in any trouble, Cal?

~Constantly, but not so it's noticeable."

    T'm serious. There's a man here from the

German po.lt,ce the Bonn police He says he has to

talk to yo I i

    What about?" Dowling felt a rush of pain in his

stomach it was the fear he lived with.

    'He wouldn't tell me. Just that it was an

emergency and he had to see you alone."

    ~Oh, Chrzst!" whispered the actor. Freddie! .

. . where is he?"

`Over in your trailer."

"In my "

    Rest easy," said Blynn. '`That stunt jock Moose

Rosenberg's with him. If he moved an ashtray, I

think that gorilla would throw him through the wall."

Thanks, Roger."

`He meant it when he said 'alone'!"

    Dowling did not hear this; he had started running

across the hill toward the small camper he used for

brief periods of relaxation. He prayed to no one in

particular for the best, preparing himself for the

worst.

    It was neither, simply another complication in an

enigma. Fneda Dowling was not the subject; instead

it was Joel Converse, an American attorney-at-law.

The stunt man climbed out of the trailer, leaving

Caleb and the police officer alone. The man was in

civilian clothes, his English fluent, his manner

vaguely officious yet courteous.

    "I'm sorry to have upset you, Herr Dowling," said

the German in response to Caleb's initial, intense

inquiry about his wife. "We know nothing of Frau

Dowling. Is she ill, perhaps?"

    She's had a few spells lately, that's all. She's in

Copenhagen."

182 ROBERT LUDLUM

    "Yes, so we understand. You fly there

frequently, don't you?"

'Whenever I can.,'

She does not care to join you here in Bonn?''

    Tier was Oppenfeld, and the last time she was in

Germany she wasn't considered much of a human

being. Her memories are, let's say, memorable in

the extreme. They come back with a lot of acid."

    `Yes," said the police officer, his eyes as steady

as Caleb's. "We will live with that for generations."

"I hope so," said the actor.

    "I wasn't alive, Herr Dowling. I'm very happy

she survived, I mean that."

    Dowling was not sure why but he lowered his

voice, the words nearly inaudible, if not involuntary.

"Germans helped her."

    "I would hope so," said the German quietly. "My

business, however, concerns a man who sat next to

you last night on the planes from Copenhagen to

Hamburg and from Hamburg to Bonn. His name is

Joel Converse, an American attorney."

    "What about him? By the way, may I see your

identification?"

    "Certainly." The police officer reached into his

pocket removed his plastic ID case, and handed it

to the actor, who had his glasses firmly in place. "I

trust everything is in order," added the man.

    "What's this Sonder Dezernat?" asked Dowling,

squinting at the small print on the card.

    "It is best translated as 'special' 'branch' or

department.' We are a unit of the Bundespolizei,

the federal police. It is our job to look into matters

the government feels are more sensitive than the

normal jurisdictional complaints."

    What doesn't say a damn thing, and you know

it," said the actor. We can use lines like that in

movies and get away with it because we write in all

those reactions, but you're not Helmut Dantine or

Martin Kosleck and I'm not Elissa Landi. Spell it

out."

    every well, I shall spell it out. Interpol. A man

died in a Paris hospital as a result of head injuries

inflicted by the American, Joel Converse. His

condition was diagnosed as improving, but

unfortunately it was only temporary; he was found

dead this morning. The death is attributed to an

unpro

THE PROGRESSION 183

yoked attack by Herr Converse. We know he flew

into Koln-Bonn, and according to the airline

stewardesses, you sat with him for three and a half

hours. We want to know where he is. Perhaps you

can help us."

    Dowling removed his glasses, lowering his chin

and swallowing as he did so. And you think I know?"

    We have no idea, but you talked with him. And

we hope you do know that there are severe penalties

for withholding information about a fugitive,

especially one sought for a killing."

    The actor fingered the stems of his glasses, his

instincts in conflict, erupting. He walked over to the

cot against the wall and sat down, looking up at the

police officer.. "Why don't I trust you?" he asked.

    `Because you think of your wife and will trust no

German," replied the German. 1 am a man of law

and peace Herr Dowling. Order is something the

people decide for themselves, myself among them.

The report we have received states clearly that this

Converse may be a very disturbed man."

    "He didn't sound disturbed to me. In fact, I

thought he had a damned good head on his

shoulders. He said a lot of very perceptive things."

"That you wanted to hear?"

"Not all of them."

"But a good percentage, leading up to all of them."

"What does that mean?"

    "A madman is convincing; he plays on all sides,

eventually weighing everything in his favor. It's the

essence of his madness, his psychosis, his own

convictions."

    Dowling dropped the glasses on the cot, exhaling

audibly feeling the pain of fear again in his stomach.

PA madman?" he said without conviction. "I don't

believe that."

    "Then let us have a chance to disprove it. Do you

know where he is?"

    The actor squinted at the German. "Give me a

card or a number where I can reach you. He may get

in touch with me."

    "Who was responsible?" The man in the red silk

robe behind the large desk sat in semidarkness, a

brass lamp serving to throw a harsh circle of light on

the surface in front of him. The glow was sufficient

to reveal the outlines of a huge map

184 ROBERT LUDLUM

cantered on the wall behind the man and the desk.

It was a strange map, not of the global world but of

fragments of the world. The shapes of nations were

clearly defined yet oddly shadowed, eerily colored,

as if an attempt had been made to create a single

landmass out of disparate geographical areas. They

included all of Europe, most of the Mediterranean

and selected portions of Africa. And as if the wide

expanse of the Atlantic Ocean were merely a pale

blue connector, Canada and the United States of

America were part of this arcane entity.

    The man stared straight ahead. His lined,

squarejawed face, with its aquiline nose and thin,

stretched lips, seemed molded from parchment; his

close-cropped salt-and-pepper hair was singularly

appropriate for a man with such a rigidly framed

torso. He spoke again; his voice was rather high,

with no resonance but with a secure sense of

command. One could easily imagine this voice

raised in volume even to fever pitch like a

tomcat screeching across a frozen lake. It was not

raised now, however; it was the essence of quiet

urgency. ' Who was responsible?" he repeated. "Are

you still on the line, London?"

    "Yes," replied the caller from Great Britain.

"Yes, of course. I'm trying to think, trying to be

fair."

    "I admire that, but decisions have to be made. In

all likelihood the responsibility will be shared, we

simply have to know the sequence." The man

paused; when he continued, his voice suddenly took

on an intensity that was a complete departure from

his previous tone. It was the shrill call of the cat

across the ice-bound lake. "How was Interpol

involved?"

    Startled, the Englishman answered quickly, his

phrases clipped, the words rushing headlong over

one another. "Bertholdier's aide was found dead at

four in the morning Paris fame. Apparently he was

to receive hospital medication at that hour. The

nurse called the Surete "

    "The Surete?" shouted the man behind the desk

in front of the fragmented map. "Why the Surete'?

Why not Bertholdier? It was his employee, not the

Surete's!"

    "That was the lapse," said the Britisher. "No one

realised instructions to that effect had been left at

the hospital desk apparently by an inspector

named Prudhomme, who was awakened and told of

the man's death."

"And he was the one who called in Interpol?"

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 185

    '~Yes, but too late to intercept Converse at

German immigration. "

    ' For which we can be profoundly grateful," said

the man, lowering his voice.

    'Normally, of course, the hospital would have

waited and reached Bertholdier in the morning,

telling him what happened. As you say, the patient

was an employee, not a member of the family. After

that, undoubtedly the arrondissement police would

have been informed and finally the Surete. By then

our people would have been in place and fully

capable of preventing Interpol's involvement. We can

still stop them but it will take several days. Personnel

transfers, new evidence, amendments to the case file;

we need time."

Then don't waste any."

' It was those damned instructions."

    "Which no one had the brains to look for," said

the man in front of the shadowed map. "This

Prudhomme's instincts were aroused. Too many rich

people, too much influence, the circumstances too

bizarre. He smells something."

    "We'll get him off the case, just a few days," said

the Englishman. "Converse is in Bonn, we know that.

We're closing in 't

    "So possibly are Interpol and the German police.

I don't have to tell you how tragic that would be."

    "We have certain controls through the American

embalm sy. The fugitive is American."

    "Thefugitive has information!" insisted the man

behind the desk, his fist clenched in the circle of

light. "How much and supplied by whom we don't

know and we must know."

"Nothing was learned in New York? The judge?"

    "Only what Bertholdier suspected and what I

knew the moment I heard his name. After forty years

Anstett came back, still hounding me, still wanting

my neck. The man was a bull, but only a go-between;

he hated me as much as I hated him, and up to the

end he shielded those behind him. Well he's gone

and his holy righteousness with him. The point is

Converse is not what he pretends to be. Now, f nd

him!"

    "As I say, we're closing in. We have more

sources, more informers than Interpol. He s an

American fugitive in Bonn who, we understand,

doesn't speak the language. There are only so many

places he can hide. We'll find him; we ll break him

and learn where he comes from. After which, we'll

terminate immediately, of course."

186 ROBERT IUDLUM

    "No!" The sleek male cat again shrieked across

the frozen lake. "We play his game! We welcome

him, embrace him. In Paris he talked about Bonn,

Tel Aviv, Johannesburg; therefore you'll

accommodate him. Bring him to LeifLelm even

better, have Leifhelm go to him. Fly in Abrahms

from Israel, Van Headmer from Africa, and, yes,

Bertholdier from Paris. He obviously knows who

they are anyway. He claims ultimately to want a

council meeting, to be a part of us. So we'll hold a

conference and listen to his lies. He'll tell us more

with his lies than he can with the truth."

'I really don't understand."

    "Converse is a point, but only a point. He's

exploring, studying the forward terrain, trying to

understand the tactical forces ahead of him. If he

were anything else, he'd deal directly through

legitimate authorities and legitimate methods.

There'd be no reason for him to use a false name or

give false information or to run away, forcibly

overcoming a man he thinks is trying to stop him.

He's an infantry point who has certain information

but doesn't know where he's going. Well, a point

can be sucked into a trap, the advancing company

ambushed. Oh, yes, we must give him his

conference!"

    "I submit that's extraordinarily dangerous. He

has to know who recruited him, who gave him the

names, his sources. We can break him physically or

chemically and get that information."

    "He probably doesn't have it," explained the man

patiently. "Infantry points are not privileged to know

command decisions; frankly, if they were, they might

turn back. We have to know more about this

Converse, and by six o'clock tonight I'll have every

report, every resume, every word ever written about

him. There's something here we can't see."

    "We already know he's resourceful," said the

Britisher. "From what we can piece together in

Paris, he's considered an outstanding attorney. If he

sees through us or gets away from us, it could be

catastrophic. He will have met with our people,

spoken with them."

    "Then once you find him don't let him out of

your sight. By tomorrow I'll have other

instruetions~r you."

"Oh?"

    "Those records that are being gathered from all

over the country. For a man to do what Converse is

doing, he had to be manipulated very carefully, very

thoroughly, a driving intensity instilled in him. It's

the manipulators we have to find.

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 187

They're not even who we think they are. I'll be in

touch tomorrow."

    George Marcus Delavane replaced the telephone

in its cradle and slowly, awkwardly twisted his upper

body around in the chair. He gazed at the strange,

fragmented map as the first light of dawn fired the

eastern sky, its orange glow filling the windows.

Then, with effort, his hands gripping the arms of the

steel chair, he pivoted himself around again, his eyes

on the stark pool of light on the desk. He moved his

hands to his waist and carefully, trembling,

unbuttoned his dark-red velvet jacket, forcing his

gaze downward, ordering himself to observe the

terrible truth once more. He stared past the

five-inch-wide leather strap that diagonally held him

in place, now commanding his eyes to focus, to

accept with loathing what had been done to him.

    There was nothing to see but the edge of the

thick steel seat and, below it, the polished wood of

the floor. The long, sturdy legs that had carried his

trained, muscular body through battles in the snow

and the mud, through triumphant parades in the

sunlight, through ceremonies of honor and defiance,

had been stolen from him. The doctors had told him

that his diseased legs were instruments of death that

would kill the rest of him. He clenched his fists and

pressed them slowly down on the desk, his throat

filled with a silent scream.

9

    "Goddamn you, Converse, who do you think you

areP" cried Connal Fitzpatrick, his voice low, furious,

as he caught up with Joel, who was walking rapidly

between the tall trees near the Alter Zoll.

    "Someone who knew Avery Fowler as a boy and

watched a man named Press Halliday die a couple of

hundred years later in Geneva,' replied Converse,

quickening his pace heading toward the gates of the

national landmark where there were taxis.

"Don't puff that crap on mel I knew Press far better

and

188 ROBERT LUDIUM

far longer than you ever did. For Christ's sake, he

was married to my sister! We were close friends for

fifteen years!"

"You sound like a kid playing one-upmanship. Get

lost."

    Fitzpatrick rushed forward, pivoting in front of

Joel blocking him. "It's true! Please, I can help, I

want to help! I know the language: you don't! I have

connections here; you don't."

    "You also have your own idea about a deadline,

which I don't. Get out of my way, sailor. '

    "Come on," pleaded the naval officer. I didn't get

everything I wanted. Don't crowd me out."

"I beg your pardon?"

    Fitzpatrick shifted his weight awkwardly. "You've

come on strong before yourself, haven't you,

counselor?"

"Not if I didn't know the circumstances."

"Sometimes it's a way of finding them out."

"Not with me, it isn't."

    "Then my error was in not knowing you; the

circumstances were beyond that scope. With

someone else it might have worked."

    "Now you're talking tactics, but you meant it when you

said 'two days.'"

    "You're damned right I did," agreed Connal,

nodding. "Because I want whatever it is exposed, I

want whoever it is to pay! I'm mad, Converse, I'm

mad as hell. I don't want this thing to linger and die

away. The longer nothing is done the less people

care; you know that as well as I do and probably

better. Have you ever tried to reopen an old case? I

have with a few courts-martial where I thought things

had been screwed up. Well, I learned something: the

system doesn't like it! You know why?"

    "Yes I do," said Joel. "There are too many new

cases in the dockets, too many rewards in going after

the current ones."

    "Bingo, counselor. Press deserves better than that.

Meagen deserves better."

    "Yes, he does they do. But there's a

complication that Press Halliday understood better

than either of us. Put simply and cruelly his life

wasn't terribly important compared with what he was

going after."

"That's pretty damned cruel," said the officer..

    "It's very damned accurate," said Converse. "Your

brother-in-law would have wrestled you to the mat,

burns and all,

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 189

for walking into this and trying to call the shots.

Back off Commander. Go back to the funeral."

"No. I want to come on board. I withdraw the

deadline."

'4How considerate of you."

    "You call the shots," said Fitzpatrick, nodding

again, exhaling in defeat. "I'll do what you tell me to

do."

"Why?" asked Joel, their eyes locked.

    The Navy lawyer did not flinch; he spoke simply.

"Because Press trusted you. He said you were the

best."

    "Except for him," Converse added, permitting his

expression to relax slightly, with a hint of a smile.

"All right, I believe you, but there are ground rules.

You either accept them or, as you put it, on board

you're not."

"Let's hear them. I ll wince inside so you can't see

it."

    "Yes," agreed Joel, "you'll wince. To begin with,

I'll tell you only what I think you have to know in a

given situation. Whatever you develop will be on

your own; that way it's freewheeling, no way can you

tip the evidence we've compiled."

"That's rough."

    "That's the way it is. I'll give you a name now

and then when I think it will open a door, but it will

always be a name you heard second or third hand.

You're inventive; figure out your own unidentifiable

sources so as to protect yourself."

"I've done that on quite a few waterfronts "

wohu heave? How good are you at playactin'g?"

    "Never mind, I think you just answered that. You

didn't go down to those waterfronts in your dress

whites as a lieutenant commander."

"Hell, no."

"You'll do."

"You've got to tell me something."

    "I'll give you an overview, a lot of abstractions

and a few facts. As we progress ii we

progress you'll learn more. If you think you've put

it together, tell me. That's essential. We can't risk

blowing everything while you operate under wrong

assumptions."

"Who's 'we'?"

"I wish to hell I knew."

"That's comforting."

"Yes, isn't it."

    "Why don't you tell me everything now?" asked

fitzpatrick.

190 ROBERT LUDLUM

    "Because Meagen Halliday lost a husband. I

don't want to see her lose a brother."

"I'll accept that."

    "By the way, how long have you got? I mean

you're on active duty."

    "My initial leave is thirty days, with extensions as

warranted. Christ, an only sister with five kids and

her husband is killed. I could probably write my

own ticket."

    "We'll stick to the thirty days, Commander. It's

more than we're allowed. We may not have even

two weeks."

"Start talking, Converse."

    "Let's walk," said Joel, heading back to the Alter

Zoll wall and the view of the Rhine below.

    The "overview" delivered by Converse described

a current situation in which like-minded individuals

in various countries were coming together and using

their considerable influence to get around the laws

and ship armaments and technology to hostile

governments and organisations.

"For what purpose?" asked Fitzpatrick.

'I could say 'profits,' but you'd see through it."

    "As the only motive, yes," said the Navy lawyer

pensively. "Influential people as I understand the

word 'influential' as related to existing laws would

operate singly or at best in small groups within their

own countries. That is, if profits were the primary

objective. They wouldn't coordinate outside; it isn't

necessary. It's a sellers' market; they'd only water

down the profits."

"Bingo, counselor."

    "So?" Fitzpatrick looked at Joel, as they strolled

toward a break in the stone wall where a bronzed

cannon was in place.

    "Destabilization," said Converse. "Mass

destabilisation. A series of flash points in highly

volatile areas that will call into question the ability

of democratic governments to cope with the

violence."

"I've got to ask you again, for what purpose?"

    "You're quick," said Joel, "so I'll let you answer

that. What happens when an existing political

structure is crippled by disorder, when it can no

longer function, when things are out of control?"

    The two men stopped by the cannon, the naval

officer's eyes following the line of the huge,

threatening barrel. "It's

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 191

restructured or replaced," he said, turning to look at

Converse.

    "Bingo again," said Converse softly. "That's the

overview."

    "It doesn't make sense." Fitzpatrick creased his

eyes in the sunlight, as well as in thought. "Let me

recap. Am I allowed?"

"You're allowed."

    " 'Influential individuals' connotes people in

pretty good standing in very high places. Assuming

we're not talking about an out-and-out criminal

element which the lack of a pure profit motive

would seem to eliminate we're talking about

reasonably respectable citizens. Is there another

definition I'm not aware of?"

'If there is, I'm not aware of it, either."

    "Then why would they want to destabilise the

political structures that guarantee them their

influence? It doesn't make sense."

"Ever hear of the phrase 'Everything's relative'?"

"To a fare-thee-well. So what?"

"So think."

"About what?"

    "Influence." Joel took out his cigarettes, shook

one to his lips and lighted it. The younger man

stared at the Seven Mountains of the Westerwald in

the distance.

    "They want more," said Fitzgerald slowly, turning

back to Converse.

    "They want it all," said Joel. "And the only way

they can get it is to prove that their solutions are the

only solutions, all others having proved worthless

against the eruption of chaos suddenly everywhere."

    Connal's expression was fixed, immobile, as he

absorbed Converse's words. "Holy Mary. . . " he

began, his voice a whisper, yet still a cry. "An

international plebiscite the peoples' will for the

almighty state. Fascism. It's multinationalfasasm. "

    "I'm sick of saying 'Bingo,' so I'll say 'Right on,'

counselor. You've just said it better than any of us."

    "Us? Which is 'use,' but you don't know who you

arel" added Fitzpatrick, both bewildered and angry.

"Live with it," said Joel. "As I have."

"Why?"

"Avery Fowler. Remember him?"

192 ROBERT LUDLUM

    "Oh, jesust"

    "And an old man on the island of Mykonos.

That's all we have. But what they said is true. It's

real. I've seen it, and that's all I need to know. In

Geneva, Avery said there was very little time left.

Beale refined it; he called it a countdown.

Whatever's going to happen will happen before your

leave is up two weeks and four days is the earliest

report. That's what I meant before."

    "Oh my God," whispered Fitzpatrick. "What else

can you tell me will you tell me?"

"Very little."

    "The embassy," Connal interrupted. "It's been a

couple of years, but I was there. I worked with the

military attache. I don't need any introductions. We

can get help there."

"We can also get killed there."

"What?"

    "It's not clean. Those three men you saw at the

airport the ones from the embassy "

"What about them?"

"They're on the other side."

"I don't believe your"

"Why do you think they were at the airport?"

    "To meet you, talk to you. There could be a

dozen different reasons. Whether you know it or

not, you're considered a hotshot lawyer on the

international scene. Foreign service personnel

frequently want to touch base with guys like you."

    "I've had this conversation before," said

Converse, irritated.

"What does that mean?"

    "If they wanted to see me, why didn't they go to

the gate?"

    "Because they thought you'd come into the

terminal like everybody else."

    "And when I didn't according to you they

were upset, angry. That's what you said."

"They were."

"All the more reason to meet me at the gate."

Fitzpatrick frowned. "Still, that's kind of flimsy "

"The woman. Do you remember the woman?"

"Of course."

    "She spotted me in Copenhagen. She followed

me. Also there's something else. Later, on the

platform, all four were picked up by a car belonging

to a man we know we know is part of everything

I've described to you. They drove to

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 193

the embassy, and you'll have to take my word for

that. I saw them."

    Connal fixed his gaze on Joel, accepting what he

had heard. ' Oh, Jesus, " he said. 'Okay, no embassy.

What about Brussels, SHAPE? There's a Navy

intelligence unit; I ve dealt with those people

before."

Not yet. Maybe not at all."

    41 thought you wanted to use the uniform, my

connections."

`Maybe I will. It's nice to know they're there."

    ~Well, what do you want me to do? I've got to

do something. "

    Are you really fluent in German?"

    "Hochdeutsch, Schwa'bisch, Bayerisch, and several

dialects in between. I told you, I can handle five

languages "

    You've made it obnoxiously clear," interrupted

Converse. '4There's a woman named Fishbein here

in Bonn. That's the first name I'm going to give you.

She's involved we're not sure how, but she's

suspected of being a conduit a relayer of

information. I want you to meet her, talk with her

establish a relationship. We'll have to think of

something that'll be convincing in order for you to

do it. She's in her forties, and she's the youngest

daughter of Hermann Goring. She married a

survivor of the holocaust for obvious reasons; he's

long gone. Any ideas?"

    '~Sure," said Fitzpatrick without hesitating.

'`Inheritance. There are a couple of thousand last

wills and testaments every year that the deceased

want processed through the military. They're from

crazies who leave everything they've got to the other

survivors. The true Aryan Germanic stock and all

that horseshit. We bounce them back to the civil

courts, which don't know what to do with them, so

they end up in limbo and eventually in the Treasury

Department's coffers."

"No kidding?"

"girls, owed drei. Believe me, those people mean it."

"Can you use the device?"

    "How about a million-plus legacy from a small

Midwest brewer of lager beer?"

"You'll do," said Joel. "You're on board."

    Converse did not mention Aquitaine or George

Marcus Delavane or Jacques-Louis Bertholdier or

Erich Leifhelm, or twenty-odd names at the State

Department and the Pentagon. Nor did he describe

the network as it appeared in the dossiers, or as

described by Dr. Edward Beale on Mykonos.

.=OBERTLUDLUM

He gave Connal Fitzpatrick the barest bones of the body

of information. Joel's reasoning was far less benign than

he had stated: if the Navy lawyer was taken and

interrogated no matter how brutally there was little

of substance he could reveal.

    "You're not really telling me a hell of a lot," said

Fitzpatrick.

    "I've told you enough to get your head blown off,

and that's not a phrase normally in my lexicon."

"Nor mine."

    "Then consider me a nice fellow," said Converse, as

the two men headed for the entrance gate of the Alter

Zoll.

    "On the other hand," continued Halliday's broth-

er-in-law, "you've been through a lot more than I ever

have I read that stuff about you in the security

files files, not file they were cross-correlated with the

files of a lot of other prisoners. You were something

else. According to most of the men in those camps, you

held them together until they put you into solitary."

    "They were wrong, sailor. I was shaking and scared

to death and would have fucked a Peking duck to save

my skin."

"That's not what the files say. They say "

    "I'm really not interested, Commander," said Joel as

they passed through the ornate gate, "but I've got an

immediate problem you can help solve."

"What is it?"

    "I gave my word I'd call Dowling on some mobile

phone line. I wouldn't know how to ask for it."

    "There's a booth over there," said Connal, pointing

to a white plastic bubble that protruded from a concrete

pylon on the pavement abutting the drive. "Do you have

the number?"

    "It's here somewhere," replied Converse, rummaging

through various pockets. "Here it is," he said as he

separated the scrap of paper from several credit-card

charges.

    ''Vermittlung, bitts." The naval officer sounded

authentic as he spoke crisply into the telephone. "Sieben,

drei, pier zwei, zwei. Bitte, Fraulein. " Fitzpatrick then

inserted a series of coins into the metal box and turned

to Joel. "Here you are. They're ringing."

Stay there. Ask for him say it's his lawyer calling the

    "Guten Tag, Fraulein. Ist Herr Oh, no, I speak

English. Do you spealc English? No, I'm not calling

from California, but it's an emergency.... Dowling, I

have to reach "

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 195

"Caleb, " said Joel quickly.

    'Caleb Dowling." The Navy man covered the

mouthpiece. "What kind of name is that?"

"Something to do with Gucci shoes."

    "What? . . . la yes, thanks." Fitzpatrick handed

the phone to Converse. "They're getting him."

"foe?"

    "Yes, Cal. I said I'd call you after I met with

Fowler. Everything's okay."

    'No, it's not, Mr. Lawyer," said the actor quietly.

"You and I had better have a very serious talk, and

I don't mind telling you a hunk of beef named

Rosenberg will be just a few feet away."

"I don't understand."

"A man died in Paris. Does that clear things up for

you?"

    "Oh, God " Converse felt the blood draining from

his head and a hollowness in his throat. For a

moment he thought he was going to be sick. "They

came to you?" he whispered.

    "A man from the German police a little over an

hour ago, and this time I didn't have any doubts

about my visitor. He was the real item."

"I don't know what to say," stammered Joel.

"Did you do it?"

    "1. . . I guess I did." Converse stared at the

telephone dial, seeing the bloodied face of the man

in the alleyway, feeling the blood on his own fingers

"You guess? That's not something you guess about."

"Then yes.... The answer is yes. I did it."

"Did you have a reason?"

"I thought I did."

    "I want to hear it, but not now. I'll tell you where

to meet me."

    "Nor" exclaimed Joel, confused but emphatic. "I

can't involve you. You can't be involved!"

    "This fellow gave me a card and wants me to call

him if you got in touch with me. He was very specific

about withholding information, how it's considered

aiding a fugitive."

    "He was right, absolutely rightl For God's sake,

tell him everything, Call The truth. You got me a

room for the night because you thought I might not

have a reservation and we had a pleasant few hours

on the plane. You put it in your name because you

didn't want me to pay. Don't hide anything! Not even

this call."

"Why didn't I tell him before?"

196 ROBERT LUDLUM

    "That's all right, you're telling him now. It was

a shock and I'm a fellow American and you're in a

foreign country. You wanted time to think, to

reflect. My phone call shook you into behaving

rationally. Tell him you confronted me with the

accusation and I didn't deny it. Be honest with him,

Cal."

"How honest? Should I include my session with

Fowler?"

    "That's all right, too, but it's not necessary. Let

me back up and clarify. Fowler's a false name and

he's not relevant to Paris, I give you my word.

Bringing him in is only volunteering an unnecessary

complication."

"Should I tell him you're at the Alter Zoll?"

"It's where I'm calling you from. I just admitted it."

"You won't be able to go back to the Konigshof."

    "It doesn't matter," said Joel, speaking rapidly,

wanting to get off the phone and start thinking. "My

luggage is at the airport and I can't go back there

either."

"You had a briefcase."

"I've taken care of that. It's where I can get it."

    The actor paused, then spoke slowly. "So your

advice to me is to level with the police, to tell them

the truth."

    "Without volunteering extraneous and unrelated

material. Yes, that's my advice, Cal. It's the way you

can stay clean and you are clean."

    "It sounds like fine advice, Joe Joel, and I

certainly wish I could take it, but I'm afraid I can't."

"What? Why?"

    "Because bad men like thieves and killers don't

give advice like that. It's not in any script I ever

read."

"That's nonsense! For Christ's sake, do as I tell

you!"

    "Sorry, pardner, it's not good dramaturgy. So

you do as I tell you. There's a big stone building at

the university beautiful place, a restored palace

actually with a layout of gardens you don't see

very often. They're on the south side with benches

here and there on the main path. It's a nice place

on a summer's night, kind of out of the way and not

too crowded. Be there at ten o'clock."

"Cal, I won't involve you in thist"

    "I'm already involved. I've withheld information

and I've aided a fugitive." Dowling paused again.

"There's someone I want you to meet," he said.

"No. "

There was a click and the line went dead.

10

    Converse hung up the phone and braced himself

on the sides of the plastic booth, trying to clear his

head. He had killed a man, not in a war anyone knew

about, and not in the heat of survival in a Southeast

Asian jungle, but in a Paris alleyway because he had

to make an instant decision based on probabilities.

Rightly or wrongly the act had been done and he

could not dwell on it. The German police were

looking for him, which meant that Interpol had

entered the picture, transmitting the information from

Paris somehow supplied by Jacques-Louis Bertholdier,

who remained out of sight, beyond the scope of the

hunt. Joel recalled his own words spoken only

minutes ago. If Press Halliday's life was not terribly

important compared with what he was going after,

neither was the life of a minion who worked for

Bertholdier, Delavane's disciple, Aquitaine's arm in

France. There were no options, thought Converse. He

had to go on; he had to stay free.

    "What's the matter?" asked Fitzpatrick, standing

anxiously near him. "You look like you got kicked by

a mule."

"I got kicked," agreed Converse.

"What happened to Dowling? Is he in trouble?"

    "He mall be!" exploded Joel. "Because he's a

misguided idiot who thinks he's in some kind of

goddamned moviel"

"That wasn't your opinion a little while ago."

    "We met; it came out all right. This can't, not for

him." Converse pushed himself away from the booth

and looked at the Navy lawyer, his mind now trying

desperately to concentrate on the immediate. "I may

tell you and I may not," he said, glancing around for

an available taxi. "Come on, we're going to put your

awesome linguistic abilities to work. We need shelter,

expensive but not showy, especially not a place where

the well-heeled tourists go who don't speak German.

If there's one thing they'll spread about me, it's that

I can't talk my way through the five boroughs of New

York. I want

197

~g8 ROBERT LUDLUM

a rich hotel that doesn't need foreigners, doesn't

cater to them. Do you know the kind of place I

mean?"

    Fitzpatrick nodded. "Exclusive, clubby,German

business-oriented. Every large city has hotels like

that, and they're always twenty times my per diem

for breakfast."

    "That's okay, I ve got money here in Bonn. I

might as well try to get it out."

    "You're full of surprises," said Cormal. "I mean

real surprises."

"Do you think you can handle it? Find a hotel like

that?"

    "I can explain what I want to a cabdriver; he'll

probably know. Bonn's small, nothing like New

York or London or Paris.... There's a taxi letting

people out." The two men hurried to the curb,

where the cab was discharging a quartet of

passengers balancing camera equipment and

outsized Louis Vuitton handbags.

    "How will you do it?" asked Converse as they

nodded to the tourists, two couples in the midst of

an argument, male versus female, Nikon versus

Vuitton.

    "A combination of what we both said," answered

Fitzpatrick. "A quiet, nice hotel away from the

Ausl~nderl~r~n. "

"What?"

    "The clamor of tourists and worse. I'll tell him

we're calling on some very important German

businessmen bankers, say and we'd like a place

they'd be most comfortable in for confidential

meetings. He'll get the drift."

"He'll see we don't have any luggage," objected Joel.

    "He'll see the money in my hand first," said the

naval olficer, holding the door for Converse.

    Lieutenant Commander Connal Fitzpatrick,

USN, member of the military bar and limited

thereby, impressed Joel Converse, vaunted

international attorney, to the point where the latter

felt foolish. Effortlessly the Navy lawyer got them in

a two-bedroom suite at an inn on the banks of the

Rhine called Das Rektorat. It was one of those

converted prewar estates where most of the guests

seemed to have at least a nodding acquaintance with

several others and the clerks rarely looked anyone

in the eye, as if tacitly confirming their subser-

vience or the fact that they would certainly not

acknowledge having seen Herr So-and-So should

someone ask them.

    Fitzpatrick had begun his campaign with the taxi

driver by leaning forward in the seat and speaking

rapidly and quiet

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 199

ly.Their exchanges seemed to grow more confidential

as the cab sped toward the heart of the city; then it

abruptly veered away, crossing the railroad tracks

that intersected the capital, and entered a smooth

road paralleling the river north. Joel had started to

speak, to ask what was happening, but the Navy

lawyer had held up his hand, telling Converse to be

quiet.

    Once they had stopped at the entrance of an inn,

reached by an interminably long, manicured drive,

Fitzpatrick got out.

    "Stay here," he said toJoel. "I'll see if I can get us

a couple of rooms. And don't say anything."

    Twelve minutes later Connal returned, his

demeanor stern, his eyes, however, lively. "Come on,

Chairman of the Board, we're going straight up." He

paid the driver handsomely and once again held the

door for Converse now a touch more deferentially,

thought Joel.

    The lobby of Das Rektorat was unmistakably

German, with oddly delicate Victorian overtones;

thick heavy wood and sturdy leather chairs were

beside and below filigrees of brass ornamentation

forming arches over doorways, elegant borders for

large mirrors, and valances above thick bay windows

where none were required. One's first impression was

of a quiet, expensive spa from decades ago, its

solemnity lightened by flashes of reflecting metal and

glass. It was a strange mixture of the old and the very

old. It smelled of money.

    Fitzpatrick led Converse to a paneled elevator

recessed in the paneled corridor; no bellboy or

manservant was in attendance. It was a small

enclosure, room for no more than four people, the

walls of tinted, marbled glass, which vibrated as the

elevator ascended two stories.

    "I think you'll approve of the accommodations,"

said Connal. "I checked them out; that's why it took

me so long."

    "We're back in the nineteenth century, you know,"

countered Joel. "I trust they have telephones and not

just the Hessian express."

    "All the most modern communications, I made

sure of that, too." The elevator door opened. "This

way," said Fitzpatrick, gesturing to the right. "The

suite's at the end of the hall."

"The suited"

"You said you had money in Bonn."

    Two bedrooms flanked a tastefully furnished

sitting room, with French doors that opened onto a

small balcony overlook

200 ROBERT LUDLUM

ingthe Rhine. The rooms were sunlit and airy, the

decor of the walls again an odd mixture: a

reproduction of an Impressionist floral arrangement

was beside dramatic prints of past champion horses

from the leading German tracks and breeding farms.

    "All right, wonder boy," said Converse, looking

out the open French doors, then turning back to

Connal Fitzpatrick, who stood in the middle of the

room, the key skill in his hand. "How did you do it?"

    "It wasn't hard," replied the Navy lawyer, smiling.

"You'd be surprised what a set of military papers

will do for a person in this country. The older guys

sort of stiffen up and look like boxer puppies

smelling a pot roast, and there aren't that many

people here much under sixty."

"That doesn't tell me anything unless you're

enlisting us."

    "It does when I combine it with the fact that I'm

an aide assigned by the U.S. Navy to accompany an

important American financier over here to hold

confidential meetings with his German counterparts.

While in Bonn, naturally, incognito is the best

means for my eccentric financier to travel. Every-

thing's in my name."

"What about reservations?"

    "I told the manager that you'd rejected the hotel

reserved for us as having too many people you

might know. I also hinted that those countrymen of

his you're going to meet might be most appreciative

of his cooperation. He agreed that I might have a

point there."

    "How did we hear about this place?" asked Joel,

skill suspicious.

    "Simple. I remembered it from several

conversations I had at the Internahonal Economic

Conference in Dusseldorf last year."

"You were there?"

    "I didn't know there was one," said Fitzpatrick,

heading for the door on the left. "I'll take this

bedroom, okay? It's not as large as the other one

and that's the way it should be, since I'm an

aide which Jesus, Mary, and Joseph all know is the

truth."

    "Wait a minute," Converse broke in, stepping

forward. "What about our luggage? Since we don't

have any, didn't that strike your friend downstairs as

a little odd for such important characters?"

"Not at all," said Connal, turning. "It's skill in the

city at

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 201

that unnamed hotel you rejected so emphatically

after twenty minutes. But only I can pick it up."

"Why?"

    Fitzpatrick brought his index finger to his lips.

"You also have a compulsion for secrecy. Remember,

you're eccentric."

"The manager bought all that swill?"

"He calls me Kommandant."

"You're quite a bullshitter, sailor."

    "I remind you, sir, that in the land of Erin go

brash it's called good healthy blarney. And although

you lack certain qualifications, Press said you were a

master of it in negohations." Connal's expression

became serious. "He meant it in the best way,

counselor, and that's not bullshit."

    As the Navy lawyer began walking to the

bedroom, Joel felt an odd sense of recognition but

could not define it. What was it about the younger

man that struck a chord in him? Fitzpatrick had that

boldness that came with the untried, that lack of fear

in small things that caution would later teach him

often led to larger things. He tested waters bravely;

he had never come close to drowning.

    Suddenly Converse understood the recognition.

What he saw in Connal Fitzpatrick was

himself before things had happened. Before he had

learned the meaning of fear, raw fear. And finally of

loneliness.

    It was agreed that Connal would return to the

Cologne-Bonn airport, not for Joel's luggage but for

his own, which was stored in a locker in the

baggage-claim area. He would then go into Bonn

proper, buy an expensive suitcase and fill it with a

half-dozen shirts, underwear, socks and best

off-the-rack clothing he could find in Joel's

sizes namely, three pairs of trousers, a jacket or two

and a raincoat. It was further agreed that casual

clothes were the most appropriate an eccentric

financier was permitted such lapses of sartorial taste,

and also such attire more successfully concealed their

non-custom-made origins. Finally, the last stop he

would make before returning to Das Rektorat was at

a second locker in the railroad station where

Converse had left his attache case. Once the case

was in the Navy lawyer's possession and the taxi

waiting outside had picked up its passenger, there

were to be no further stops. The cab was to drive

directly to the countryside inn.

"I wanted to ask you something," said Fitzpatrick just

be

202 ROBERT LUDLUM

fore leaving. "Back at the Alter Zoll you said

something about how 'they' would spread the word

that you couldn't talk your way through the five

boroughs of New York. I gathered that referred to

the fact that you don't speak German."

    "That's right. Or any other language, adequate

English excepted. I tried but it never took. I was

married to a girl who spoke fluent French and

German, and even she gave up. I don't have the ear,

I guess."

    "Who did 'they' refer to?" asked Connal, barely

listening to Converse's explanation. "The embassy

men?"

    Joel hesitated. "A little wider, I'm afraid," he

said, choosing his words carefully. "You'll have to

know but not now, not yet. Later."

"Why later? Why not now?"

    "Because it wouldn't do you a damned bit of

good, and it might raise questions you wouldn't want

raised under, shall we say, adverse circumstances."

"That's elliptical."

'fit certainly is. '

"Is that it? Is that all you'll say?"

"No. There's one other thing. I want my briefcase."

    Fitzpatrick had assured him that the switchboard

of Das Rektorat was capable of handling telephone

calls in English as well as at least six other

languages, including Arabic and he should have no

qualms about placing a call to Lawrence Talbot in

New York.

    "Christ, where are you, Joel?" Talbot shouted

into the phone.

    "Amsterdam," replied Converse, not wanting to

say Bonn and having had the presence of mind to

make the call station-to-station. "I want to know

what happened to Judge Anstett, Larry. Can you tell

me anything?"

    "I want to know what's happened to you! Rene

called last night...."

"Mattilon?"

"You told him you were flying to London."

"I changed my mind."

    "What the hell ha opened ? The police were with

him; he had no choice. He had to tell them who you

were." Talbot suddenly paused, then spoke in a

calmer voice, a false voice. "Are you all right, Joel?

Is there something you want to tell me, something

bothering you?"

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 203

"Something bothering me?"

    ' Listen to me, Joel. We all know what you went

through, and we admire you, respect you. You're the

finest we've got in the international division "

    "I'm the only one you've got," Converse broke in,

trying to think, trying to buy time as well as

information. "What did Rene say? Why did he call

you?"

'You sound like your old self, fella."

    "I am my old self, Larry. What did Rene call you

about? Why were the police with him?" Joel could

feel the slippage; he was entering another sphere and

he knew it, accepted it. The lies would follow, guile

joining deceit, because time and freedom of

movement were paramount. He had to stay free;

there was so much to do, so little time.

    "He called me back after the police left to fill me

in incidentally, they were from the Surete. As he

understood it, the driver of a limousine was assaulted

outside the George Cinq's service entrance "

    "The driver of a limousine?" interrupted

Converse involuntarily. "They said he was a

chauffeur?"

    "From one of those high-priced services that ferry

around people who make odd stops at odd hours.

Very posh and very confidential. Apparently the

fellow was pretty well smashed up and they say you

did it. No one knows why, but you were identified

and they say the man may not live."

    "Larry, this is preposterousI" objected Joel, his

protestation accompanied by feigned outrage. "Yes,

I was there in the area but it had nothing to do

with me! Two hotheads got into a fight, and since I

couldn't stop them, I wasn't going to get my head

handed to me. I got out of there, and before I found

a taxi I yelled at the doorman to call for help. The

last thing I saw he was blowing his whistle and

running toward the alley."

    "You weren't even involved, then," said Talbot.

The statement was a lawyer's positive fact.

"Of course not! Why would I be?"

    "That's what we couldn't understand. It didn't

make sense."

    "It doesn't make sense. I'll call Rene and fly back

to Paris, if I have to."

    "Yes, do that," agreed Talbot haltingly. "I should

tell you I may have aggravated the situation."

"You? How?"

204 ROBERT LUDIUM

    "I told Mattilon that perhaps you were . . . well,

not yourself. When I spoke with you in Geneva, you

sounded awful, Joel. Just plain awful."

    'Good God, how did you think I'd feel? A man

I was negotiating with dies in front of me bleeding

from a dozen bullet wounds. How would you feel?"

    "I understand," said the lawyer in New York,

"but then Rene thought he saw something in

you heard something that disturbed him, too."

    "Oh, come on, will you people get off it!"

Converse's thoughts raced; every word he spoke had

to be credible, his now diminished "outrage" rooted

in believability. '`Mathlon saw me after I'd been

flying in and out of airports for damn near fourteen

hours. Christ, I was exhausted!"

    "Joel?" Talbot began, obviously not quite ready

to get off it. "Why did you tell Rene you were in

Paris for the firm?"

    Converse paused, not for lack of a response but

for effect. He was ready for the question; he had

been ready when he first approached Mattilon. "A

white lie, Larry, and no harm to anyone. I wanted

some information, and it seemed the best way to get

it."

"About this Bertholdier? He's the general, isn't he?"

    "He turned out to be the wrong source. I told

Rene as much, and he couldn't agree with me

more." Joel lightened his tone of voice. "Also it

would have appeared strange if I'd said I was in

Paris for somebody else, wouldn't it? I don't think

it would have done the firm any good. Rumors and

speculahon run rampant down our corridors; you

told me that once."

    "Yes, and it's true. You did the right thing....

Damn it Joel, why the hell did you leave the hotel

the way you did? From the basement, or wherever

it was."

    It was the moment for expressing with total

conviction a small inconsequential untruth that if

not carried off would lead to the larger, far more

dangerous lie. Connal Fitzpatrick could do it well,

reflected Converse. The Navy lawyer had not

learned to fear the small things; he did not know

they were spoors that could lead one back to a rat

cage in the Mekong River.

    "Bubba, my friend and sole support," said Joel,

as cavalierly as he could muster. "I owe you many

things, but not the intimacies of my private life."

"The what of your what?"

"I am approaching middle age at least it's not far

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 205

off and I have no matrimonial encumbrances or

guilt about fidelity."

"You were avoiding a woman?"

"Fortunately for the firm, not a man."

    "Jee-sus! I m so well into middle age I don't

think about those things. Sorry, young fella."

"Young and not so young, Larry."

    "We were all off base then. You'd better call

Rene right away and get this thing cleared up. I can't

tell you how relieved I am."

"You can tell me about Anstett. That's why I called

you."

    "Of course." Talbot lowered his voice. "A terrible

thing, a tragedy. What did the papers over there

say?"

    Converse was caught; he had not anticipated the

quesbon. "Very little," he replied, trying to remember

what Fitzpatrick had told him. "Just that he was shot

and apparently nothing was taken from his

apartment."

    "That's right. Naturally, the first thing Nathan

and I thought of was you, and whatever the hell

you're involved with, but that wasn't the case. It was

a Mafia vendetta, pure and simple. You know how

rough Anstett was on appeals from those people;

he'd throw them out as fast as he'd call their at-

torneys a disgrace to the profession."

"It was a confirmed Mafia killing?"

    "It will be, and that's straight from O'Neil down

at the commissioner's office. They know their man,

he's an execuboner for the Delvecchio family and

last month Anstett threw the key away on

Delvecchio's oldest son. He's in for twelve years with

no appeals left; the Supreme Court won't touch

him."

"They know the man?"

"It's only a matter of picking him up."

"How come it's so clear-cut?" asked Joe, confused.

    "The usual way," said Talbot. "An informer who

needs a favor. And since everything's happened so

fast and so quietly, it's assumed that the ballistics will

prove out."

"So fast? So quietly?"

    "The infommer reached the police first thing this

moming. A special unit was dispatched and only they

know the man's identity. They figure the gun will

skill be in his possession. He'll be picked up anytime

now; he lives in Syosset."

    Something was wrong, thought Converse. There

was an inconsistency, but he could not spot the flaw.

Then it came

206 ROBERT LUDLUM

to him. "Larry, if everything's so quiet, how do you

know about it?"

    "I was afraid you'd ask that," said Talbot

uneasily. "I might as well tell you; it'll probably be in

the newspaper follow-ups anyway. O'Neil's keeping

me posted; call it courtesy, and also because I'm

nervous."

"Why?"

    "Except for the man who killed him, I was the

last person to see Anstett alive."

"Your"

    "Yes. After Rene's second call I decided to

phone the judge, after conferring with Nathan, of

course. When I finally reached Anstett, I said I had

to see him. He wasn't happy about it but I was

adamant. I explained that it concerned you. All I

knew was that you were in terrible trouble and

something had to be done. I went over to his

apartment on Central Park South and we talked. I

told him what had happened and how frightened I

was for you, frankly letting hi[n know that I held

him responsible. He didn't say much, but I think he

was frightened, too. He said he'd get in touch with

me in the morning. I left, and according to the

coroner's report, he was killed approximately three

hours later."

    Joel's breath was short, his head splitting. His

concentration was absolute. "Let me get this straight,

Larry. You went over to Anstett's apartment after

Rene's call his second call. After he told the Surete

who I was."

"That's right."

"How long was it?"

"How long was what?"

    "Before you left for Anstett's. After you spoke

with Mattilon."

    "Well, let me see. Naturally, I wanted to talk to

Nathan first, but he was out to dinner, so I waited.

Incidentally, he concurred and offered to join me "

"How long, Larry?"

"An hour and a half, two hours at the outside."

    Two hours plus three hours totaled five hours.

More than enough ti1ne for the killer puppets to be put

in place. Converse did not know how it had been

done, only that it had been done. Things had

suddenly erupted in Paris, and in New York an

agitated Lawrence Talbot had been followed to an

apartment on Central Park South, where someone,

somewhere, recognized a name and a man and the

part he had

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 207

played against Aquitaine. Were it otherwise, Talbot

would be the corpse, not Lucas Anstett. All the rest

was a smoke screen behind which the disciples of

George Marcus Delavane manipulated the puppets.

    "~and the courts owed so much to him, the

country owed so much." Talbot was speaking, butJoel

could no longer listen.

"I have to go, Larry," he said, hanging up.

    The killing was obscene. That it was carried out

so quickly, so efficiently and with such precise

deception was as frightening as anything Converse

could imagine.

    Joseph Joey the Nice) Albanese drove his

Pontiac down the quiet, tree-lined street in Syosset,

Long Island, waving to a couple in a front yard. The

husband was trimming a hedge under his wife's

guidance. They stopped what they were doing, smiled

and waved back. Very nice. His neighbors liked him,

thought Joey. They considered him a sweet guy and

very generous, what with letting the kids use his pool

and serving their parents only the best booze when

they dropped over and the biggest steaks money

could buy when he had weekend barbecues which

he did often, rotating the neighbors so no one should

feel left out.

    He was a sweet guy, mused Joey. He was always

pleasant and never raised his voice in anger to

anyone, offering only a glad hand, a nice word and

a happy smile to everybody, no matter how lousy he

really felt. That was it, goddamn it! thought Joey.

Irra fuckin' gardless of how upset he was, he

never let it show! Joey the Nice was what they called

him and they were right. Sometimes he figured he

had to be some kind of saint may Jesus Christ

forgive him for having such thoughts. He had just

waved to neighbors, but in truth he felt like smashing

his fist through the windshield and shoving the glass

down their throats.

    It wasn't them, it was last night that did it! A

crazy night, a crazy hit, everything crazy! And that

Rumba they brought in from the West Coast, the

one they called Major, he was the nuttiest fruitcake

of them all! And a sadist to boot, the way he beat

the shit out of that old man and the crazy questions

he asked, and shouting all the time. Tutti pazzi!

    One minute he's playing cards in the Bronx, and

the next the phone is ringing. Get down to

Manhattan fast! A bad heat is needed attualmente!

So he goes and what does he find? It's

208 ROBERT LUDEUM

that iron-balled judge, the one who closed the steel

doors on Delvecchio's boy! What craziness! They'll

trace it back to the old man for sure. He'll know

such a~izione from the cops and the courts he'll be

lucky to own a small whorehouse in Paler mo if he

ever got back.

    Then maybe just maybe thought Joey at the

time, there was a turning muscle in the organisation.

Old Delvecchio was losing his grip; just maybe it was

being called for, this ap?izione that surely would

follow. And possibly just possibly Joey himself

was being tested. Maybe he was too nice, too soave,

to put the bad heat on someone like the old judge

who gave them all such a hard time. Well, he wasn't.

No sirree, the nice stopped with the handle of a

gun. It was his job, his profession. The Lord Jesus

decided who should live and who should die, only

He spoke through mortal men on earth who told

people like Joey whom to hit. There was no moral

dilemma for Joey the Nice. It was important,

however, that the orders always come from a man

with respect; that was necessary.

    They did last night; the order came from a man

with great respect. Although Joey did not know him

personally, he had heard for years about the

powerful padrone in Washington, D.C. The name

was whispered, never spoken out loud.

    Joey touched the brakes of his car, slowing down

so as to swing into his driveway. His wife, Angie,

would be pissed off at him, maybe shout a little

because he didn't come home last night. One more

irritation on top of all the craziness, but what the

hell was he going to say? Sorry, Angie, but I was

gainfully employed throwing six bullets into an old

guy who definitely discriminated against Italians. So,

you see, Angie, I had to stay across the the bridge in

Jersey where one of the paesans I played cards with

and who'll swear I was there all night happens to be

the chief of police.

    But, of course, he would never go into such

details with his wife. That was his own law. No

matter how aggravated he was he never brought the

job home. More husbands should be like him and

there would be happier households in Syosset.

    Shit/ One of the bucking kids had left a bicycle

in front of the attached garage; he wouldn't be able

to open the automatic door and drive inside. He'd

have to get out. Shill One more aggravation. He

couldn't even park by the Millers' curb next door;

some creep's car was there but it wasn't the Millers'

Buick. Double shill

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 209

    Joey brought the Pontiac to a stop halfway into

the sloping driveway and got out. He went up to the

bike and leaned down. The rotten kid didn't even

use the kickstand and Joey hated bending over, what

with his heavy gut and all.

'~Joseph Albanese!"

    Joey the Nice spun around, crouching, reaching

under his jacket. That tone of voice was used by only

one type of slimel He pulled out his .38 and dove

toward the grille of his car.

    The explosions reverberated throughout the

neighborhood. Birds fluttered out of trees and there

were screams along the block in the bright afternoon

sunlight. Joseph Albanese was sprawled against the

grille of the Pontiac, rivulets of blood slowly rolling

down the shiny chrome. Joey the Nice had been

caught in the fire, and gripped in his hand was the

gun he had used so effectively the night before.

Ballistics would prove out. The killer of Lucas

Anstett was dead. The judge had been the victim of

a gangland assassination, and as far as the world was

concerned, it had nothing to do with events taking

place six thousand miles away in Bonn, Germany.

    Converse stood on the small balcony, his hands

on the railing, looking down at the majestic river

beyond the forest of trees that formed the banks of

the Rhine. It was past seven o'clock; the sun was

going below the mountains in the west, its orange

rays shooting up, creating blocks of shadows over the

earth moving shadows that floated across the

waters in the descending distance. The vibrant colors

were hypnotic, the breezes cooling, but nothing

could stop the pounding echo in his chest. Where was

Fitzpatrick? Where was his attache cased The dossiers

He tried to stop thinking, to stop his imagination

from catapulting into frightening possibilities....

    There was a sudden harsh echo, not from his

chest but from inside the room. He turned quickly as

the door opened and Connal Fitzpatrick stood there,

removing his key from the lock. He stepped aside,

letting a uniformed porter enter with two suitcases,

instructing the man to leave them on the floor while

he reached into his pocket for a tip. The porter left

and the Navy lawyer stared at Joel. There was no

attache case in his hand.

    "Where is it?" said Converse, afraid to breathe,

afraid to move.

"I didn't pick it up.'

210 ROBERT LUDIUM

"Why note" cried Joel, rushing forward.

    "I couldn't be sure . . . maybe it was just a

feeling, I don't know."

"What are you talking about?"

    "I was at the airport for seven hours yesterday,

going from counter to counter asking about you,"

said Connal softly. "This afternoon I passed the

Lufthansa desk and the same clerk was there. When

I said hello, he didn't seem to want to acknowledge

me; he looked nervous, and I couldn't understand.

I came back out of the baggage claim with my

suitcase and watched him. I remembered how he

had glanced at me last night, and as I passed him I

swore his eyes kept shooting to the center of the

terminal, but there were so many people so much

confusion, I couldn't be certain."

"You think you were picked up? Followed ?"

    "That's just it, I don't know. When I was

shopping in Bonn, I went from store to store and

every now and then I'd turn around, or shift my

head, to see if I could spot anyone. A couple of

times I thought I saw the same people twice, but

then again, it was always crowded, and again I

couldn't be sure. But I kept thinking about that

Lufthansa clerk; something was wrong."

"What about when you were in the taxi? Did you "

    "Naturally. I kept looking out the rear window.

Even dun ing the drive out here. Several cars made

the same turns we did, but I told the driver to slow

down and they passed us."

"Did you watch where they went after they passed

you?"

"What was the point?"

    "There is one," said Joel, recalling a clever driver

who followed a deep-red Mercedes limousine.

    "All I knew was that you're pretty uptight about

that attache case. I don't know what's in it and I

figure you don't want anyone else to know, either."

"Bingo, counselor."

    There was a knocking at the door, and although

it was soft, it had the effect of a staccato burst of

thunder. Both men stood motionless, their eyes

riveted on the door.

"Ask who it is," whispered Converse.

    "Wer ist da, bitted" said Fitzpatrick, loud enough

to be heard. There was a brief reply in German and

Connal breathed again. "It's okay. It's a message for

me from the manager. He probably wants to sell us

a conference room." The Navy lawyer went to the

door and opened it.

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 211

    However, it was not the manager, or a bellboy, or

a porter bringing a message from the manager.

Instead, standing there, was a slender, elderly man in

a dark suit with erect posture and very broad

shoulders. He glanced first at Fitzpatrick, then

looked beyond at Converse.

    "Excuse me, please, Commander," he said

courteously walking through the door, and

approached Joel, his hand outstretched. "Herr

Converse, may I introduce myself? The name is

Leifhelm. Erich Leifhelm."

11

    Joel took the Cerman's hand, too stunned to do

anything else. "field Marshal . . . ?" he uttered,

instantly regretting it he could at least have had the

presence of mind to say "General." The pages of

Leifhelm's dossier flashed across Converse's mind as

he looked at the man his straight hair still more

blond than white, his pale-blue eyes glacial, his pink-

ish skin lined, waxen, as if preserved for decades to

come.

    "An old title and one, thankfully, I have not

heard in many years. But you flatter me. You were

sufficiently interested to learn something of my past."

"Not very much."

    "I suspect enough." Leifhelm turned to

Fitzpatrick. "I apologize for my little ruse,

Commander. I felt it was best."

    Fitzpatrick shrugged, bewildered. "You know

each other, apparently."

    "Of one another," corrected the German. "Mr.

Converse came to Bonn to meet with me, but I

imagine he's told you

"No, I haven't told him that," said Joel.

    Leifhelm turned back, studying Converse's eyes.

"I see Perhaps we should talk privately."

    "I think so. " Joel looked over at Fitzpatrick.

"Commander, I've taken up too much of your time.

Why not go downstairs to dinner and I'll join you in

a while?"

"Whatever you say, sir," said Connal, an officer

assuming

212 ROBERT LUDLUM

the status of an aide. He nodded and left, closing

the door firmly behind him.

    "A lovely room," said Leifhelm, taking several

steps toward the open French doors. "And with

such a lovely view."

"How did you find me?" asked Converse.

    "Him," replied the former field marshal, looking

et Joel. "in according to the front desk. Who is he?"

"How?" repeated Converse.

    "He spent hours last night at the airport

inquiring about you; many remembered him. He

was obviously a friend."

    "And you knew he'd checked his luggage? That

he'd be back for it?"

    "Frankly, no. We thought he might come for

yours. We knew you wouldn't. Now, please, who is

he?"

    Joel understood it was vital that he maintain a

level of arrogance, as he had done with Bertholdier

in Paris. It was the only route he could take with

such men; to be accepted by them, they had to see

something of themselves in him. "He's not

important and he knows nothing. He's a legal

officer in the Navy who's worked in Bonn before

and is over here now I gather, on personal business.

A prospective fiancee, I think he mentioned. I saw

him the other week; we chatted, and I told him I

was flying in today or tomorrow and he said he'd

make it a point to meet me. He's obsequious, and

persistent I'm sure he has delusions of a civilian

practice. Natural ly under the circumstances I

used him. As you did."

    "Naturally." Leifhelm smiled; he was polished.

"You gave him no arrival time?"

"Paris changed any possibility of that, didn't it?"

"Oh, yes, Paris. We must discuss Paris."

    "I spoke to a friend who deals with the Surete.

The man died."

"Such men do. Frequently."

"They said he was a driver, a chauffeur. He wasn't."

    "Would it have been wiser to say he was a

trusted associate of General Jacques-Louis

Bertholdier?"

"Obviously not. They say I killed him."

    "You did. We gather it was an uncontrollable

miscalculation, no doubt brought on by the man

himself."

"Interpol's after me."

    "We, too, have friends; the situation will change

You have nothing to fear as long as we have

nothing to fear.;'The German paused, glancing

around the room. "May I sit down?"

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 213

'Please. Shall I ring for a drink?"

    "I drink only light wine and very sparingly. Unless

you wish . . . it's not necessary."

    "It's not necessary," said Converse as Leifhelm sat

in a chair nearest the balcony doors. Joel would sit

when he felt the moment was right, not before.

    "You took extraordinary measures at the airport

to avoid us," continued Hitler's youngest field

marshal.

"I was followed from Copenhagen."

    "Very observant of you. You understand no harm

was intended."

    "I didn't understand anything. I just didn't like it.

I didn't know what effect Paris would have on my

arrival in Bonn, what it meant to you."

    "What Paris meant?" asked Leifhelm rhetorically.

"Paris meant that a man, an attorney using a false

name, said some very alarming things to a most

distinguished and brilliant statesman. This attorney,

who called himself Simon, said he was flying to Bonn

to see me. On his way and I'm sure with

provocation he kills a man, which tells us

something, he's guise ruthless and very capable. But

that is all we know, we would like to know more.

Where he goes, whom he meets. In our position,

would you have done otherwise?"

    It was the moment to sit down. "I would have

done it better."

    "Perhaps if we'd known how resourceful you

were, we might have been less obvious. Incidentally,

what happened in Paris? What did that man do to

provoke you?"

"He tried to stop me from leaving."

"Those were not his orders."

    "Then he grossly misunderstood them. I've a few

bruises on my chest and neck to prove it. I'm not in

the habit of physically defending myself, and I

certainly had no intention of killing him. In fact, I

didn't know I had. It was an accident purely in

self-defence."

"Obviously. Who would want such complications?"

    "Exactly," agreed Converse bluntly. ''As soon as

I can rearrange my last hours in Paris so as to

eliminate any mention of my seeing General

Bertholdier, I'll return and explain what happened to

the police."

    "As the adage goes, that may be easier said than

done. You were seen talking together at L'Etalon

Blanc. Undoubtedly, the general was recognised later

when he came to the

214 ROBERT LUDLUM

hotel; he's a celebrated man. No, I think you'd be

wiser to let us handle it. We can, you know."

    Joel looked hard at the German, his eyes cold

yet questioning. "I admit there are risks doing it my

way. I don't like them and neither would my client.

On the other hand, I can't go around being hated

by the police."

    "The hunt will be called off. It will be necessary

for you to remain out of sight for a few days, but by

then new instructions will be issued from Paris.

Your name will disappear from the Interpol lists,

you'll no longer be sought."

"I'll want assurances, guarantees."

    "What better could you have than my word? I

tell you nothing when I tell you that we could have

far more to lose than you."

    Converse controlled his astonishment. Leifhelm

had just told him a great deal, whether he knew it

or not. The German had as much as admitted he

was part of a covert organisation that could not take

any chance of exposure. It was the first concrete

evidence Joel had heard. Somehow it was too easy.

Or were these elders of Aquitaine simply frightened

old men?

    "I'll concede that," said Converse, crossing his

legs. "Well, General, you found me before I found

you, but then, as we agreed, my movements are

restricted. Where do we go from here?"

    "Precisely where you wanted to go, Mr.

Converse. When you were in Paris, you spoke of

Bonn, Tel Aviv, Johannesburg. You knew whom to

reach in Paris and whom to look for in Bonn. That

impresses us greatly; we must assume you know

more."

    "I've spent months in detailed research on

behalf of my client, of course."

"But who are you? Where do you come from?"

    Joel felt a sharp, sickening ache in his chest. He

had felt it many times before it was his physical

response to imminent danger and very real fear. "I

am who I want people to think I am, General

Leifhelm. I'm sure you can understand that."

    "I see," said the German, watching him closely.

"A sworn companion of the prevailing winds, but

with the power beneath to carry you to your own

destination."

    "That's a little heavy, but I guess it says it. As to

where I come from, I'm sure you know that by

now."

    Five hours. More than enough time to put the

puppets in place. A killing in New York; it had to be

dealt with.

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 215

    "Only bits and pieces, Mr. Converse. And even if

we knew more, how could we be certain it's true?

What people think you are you may not be."

"Are you, General?"

    "Ausqezeichnet!" said Leifhelm, slapping his knee

and laughing. It was a genuine laugh, the man's

waxen face creasing with humor. "You are a fine

lawyer, main Herr. You answer as they say in

English a pointed question with another question

that is both an answer and an indictment"

    "Under the circumstances, it's merely the truth.

Nothing more. "

'also modest. Very commendable, very attractive."

    Joel uncrossed his legs, then crossed them again

impatiently. "I don't like compliments, General. I

don't trust them under the circumstances. You

were saying before about where I wanted to go,

about Bonn, Tel Aviv, and Johannesburg. What did

you mean?"

    ' Only that we have complied with your wishes,"

said Leifhelm, spreading his hands in front of him.

"Rather than your making such tedious trips, we

have asked our representatives in Tel Aviv and

Johannesburg, as well as Bertholdier, of course, to

fly to Bonn for a conference. With you, Mr. Con-

verse. "

    He had done it! thought Joel. They were fright-

ened panicked was perhaps the better description.

Despite the pounding and the pain in his chest, he

spoke slowly, quietly. "I appreciate your

consideration, but in all frankness, my client isn't

ready for a summit. He wanted to understand the

parts before he looked further at the whole. The

spokes support the wheel, sir. I was to report how

strong they were how strong they appeared to me."

"Oh, yes, your client. Who is he, Mr. Converse?"

    "I'm sure General Bertholdier told you I'm not at

liberty to say."

"You were in San Francisco, California "

    "Where a great deal of my research was done,"

interrupted Joel. "It's not where my client lives.

Although I readily admit there's a man in San

Francisco Palo Alto, to be exact whom I'd like

very much to be my client."

    "Yes, yes, I see." LeifLelm put the ends of his

fingers together as he continued, "Am I to

understand that you reject the conference here in

Bonn?"

Converse had taken a thousand such questions in

opening

216 ROBERT IUDLUM

gambits with attorneys seeking accommodations

between corporate adversaries. Both parties wanted

the same thing; it was simply a question of

flattening out the responsibility so that no one party

would be the petitioner.

    "Well, you've gone to a lot of trouble," Joel

began. "And as long as it's understood that I have

the option of speaking to each man individually

should I wish to do so, I can't see any harm."

Converse permitted himself a strained smile, as he

had done a thousand times. "In the interests of my

client of course."

    "Of course," said the German. "Tomorrow say,

four o'clock in the afternoon. I'll send a car for you.

I assure you I set an excellent table."

"A table?"

    "Dinner, naturally. After we have our talk."

Leifhelm rose from the chair. '61 wouldn't think of

your coming to Bonn and forgoing the experience.

I'm known for my dinner parties, Mr. Converse.

And if it concerns you, make whatever security

arrangements you like. A platoon of personal

guards, if you wish. You'll be perfectly safe. Mein

Haus ist dein Haus. "

"I don't speak German."

    "Actually, it's an old Spanish saying. Mi casa, su

casa. 'My house is your house.' Your comfort and

well-being are my most urgent concerns."

    "Mine, too," said Joel, rising. "I wouldn't think of

having anyone accompany me, or follow me. It'd be

counterproductive. Of course, I'll inform my client

as to my whereabouts telling him approximately

when he can expect my subsequent call. He'll be

anxious to hear from me."

    "I should think so." Leifhelm and Converse

walked to the door; the German turned and once

more offered his hand. "Until tomorrow, then. And

may I again suggest while you're here that you be

careful, at least for several days."

"I understand."

    The puppets in New York. The killing that had to

tee deals with the first of two obstacles, two sharp,

sickening aches ... his chat.

    "By the way," said Joel, releasing the field

marshal's hand. "There was a news item on the BBC

this morning that interested me EO much that I

phoned an associate. A man was killed in New

York, a judge. They say it was a revenge killing,

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 217

a contract put out by organised. Did you happen to

hear anything about it?"

    "Id" asked Leithelm, his blond-white eyebrows

raised, his warlike lips parted. "It seems people are

killed by the dozens every day in New York, judges

included, I presume. Why should I know anything

about it? The answer, obviously, is no."

"I just wondered. Thank you."

"But . . . but you. You must have a . . ."

"Yes, General?"

    "Why does this judge interest you? Why did you

think I would know him?"

    Converse smiled, but without a trace of humor.

"I won't be telling you anything when I tell you he

was our mutual adversary enemy, if you like."

"Our? You really must explain yourselfl"

    "As you and as I said, I am what I want

people to think I am. This man knew the truth. I'm

on leave of absence from my firm, working

confidentially for a personal client. He tried to stop

me, tried to get the senior partner to cancel my leave

and call me back."

"By giving him reasons?"

    "No, just veiled threats of corruption and

impropriety. He wouldn't go any further; he's on the

bench and couldn't back it up; his own conduct

would be suspect. My employer is completely

ignorant angry as hell and confused but I've

calmed him down. It's a closed issue; the less it's

explored, the better for us all." Joel opened the door

for Leifhelm. "Till tomorrow " He paused for a

brief moment, loathing the man standing in front of

him but showing only respect in his eyes. "Field

Marshal," he added.

    "Gate Nacht," said Erich Leifhelm, nodding his

head sharply once in military acknowledgment.

    Converse persuaded the switchboard operator to

send someone into the dining room for the

American, Commander Fitzpatrick. The task of

finding the naval officer was not easy, for he was not

in the dining room or the bar but outside on the

Spanrsche Terrasse having a drink with friends,

watching the Rhine at twilight.

    "What goddamned friends?" demanded Joel over

the phone.

218 ROBERT LUDLUM

    'just a couple I met out there. He's a nice

guy an executive type, pretty much into his

seventies, I think."

    "And she?" asked Converse, his lawyer's antenna

struck by a signal.

    "Maybe thirty, forty years younger," replied

Connal with less elaboration.

"Get up here, sailor!"

    Fitzpatrick leaned forward on the couch, his

elbows on his knees, his expression a mixture of

concern and astonishment as he looked over at Joel,

who was smoking a cigarette in front of the open

balcony doors. "Let me run this again," he said

warily. "You want me to stop someone from getting

your service record?"

"Not all of it, just part of it."

"Who the hell do you think I am?"

    "You did it for Avery for Press. You can do it

for me. You have tol"

    "That's backwards. I opened those files for him,

I didn't keep them closed."

'Either way it's control. You've got access; you've

got a

    "I'm here, not there. I can't scissor something

out you don't like ten thousand miles away. Be

reasonable!"

    "Somebody can, somebody has tol It's only a

short segment, and it's got to be at the end. The

final interview."

    "An interview?" said Connal, startled, getting to

his feet. "In a service record? You mean some kind

of operational report? Because if you do, it

wouldn't be "

    "Not a report," interrupted Converse, shaking his

head. "The discharge my discharge interview. That

stuff Press Halliday quoted to me."

    "Wait a minute, wait a minute!" Fitzpatrick held

up his hands. "Are you referring to the remarks

made at your discharge hearing?"

"Yes, that's it. The hearing!"

    "Well, relax. They're not part of your service

record, or anyone else's."

    "Halliday had them Avery had theml I just told

you, he quoted my words verbatim!" Joel walked to

a table where there was an ashtray; he crushed out

his cigarette. "If they're not part of the record, how

did he get them? How did you get them for him?"

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 219

    "That's different," said Connal, obviously

remembering as he spoke. "You were a POW, and a

lot of those hearings were put under a debriefing

classification, and I do mean classified. Even after all

these years, many of those sessions are still touchy.

A lot of things were talked about that no one to this

day wants made public for everyone's good, not just

the military's."

"But you got them! I heard my own words, goddamn

ill"

    "Yes, I got them," admitted the Navy lawyer

without enthusiasm. "I got the transcript, and I'd be

busted to seaman third class if anyone knew about it.

You see, I believed Press. He swore to me he needed

it, needed everything. He couldn't make any

mistakes."

    "How did you do it? You weren't even in San

Diego at the time, that's what you saidl"

    "By calling the vaults and using my legal-release

number to have a photostat made. I said it was a

Four Zero emergency and I'd take responsibility. The

next morning when the authorization came in by

pouch for countersignature, I had the chief legal

officer at the base sign it with a lot of other things It

simply got buried in the paper work."

"But how did you know about it in the first place?"

    "Selected POW records have flags on their

discharge sheets."

"Clarification, please?"

    "Just what I said, flags. Small blue seals that

denote additional information stilt held under tight

security. No flags, everything's clean; but if there is

one, that means there's something else. I told Press,

and he said he had to have whatever it was, so I

went after it."

"Then anyone else could, too."

    "No, not anyone. You need an officer with a

legal-release number, and there aren't that many of

us. Also there's a minimum forty-eight-hour delay so

the material can be vetted. That's almost always in

the area of weapons and technology data that still

might be classified."

    "Forty~i'<h~" Converse swallowed as he tried

to count the hours since Paris, since the first moment

his name had surfaced. "There's still times" he said,

his voice taut, his words clipped. "If you can do it

there's still time. And if you can, I'll tell you

everything I know because you'll deserve it. No one

will deserve it more."

"Spell it out."

220 ROBERT LUDLUM

    Joel turned aimlessly, shaking his head. "That's

funny. I said the same thing to Avery. I said 'Spell

it out, Avery.' . . . Sorry, his name was Press."

Converse turned back to the Navy lawyer, a military

lawyer with a mystifying military privilege called a

legal-release number. "Listen to me and hear me

clearly. A few minutes ago something happened that

I wasn't sure would or could happen something

your brother-in-law was killed to prevent. Tomorrow

at four o'clock in the afternoon I'm going to walk

into the midst of that group of men who'vecome

together to promote a kind of violence that'll stun

this world, toppling governments, allowing these

same men to step in and fill the voids. They'll run

things their way, shape the laws their way. One big

Supreme Court, each chair owned by a fanatic with

specific convictions as to who and what has value

and who and what doesn't, and those who don't can

go to hell, no appeals on the agenda.... I'm going to

meet them Pace-to-face! I'm going to talk with

them, hear their words! I admit I'm the most

amateurish fox you've ever heard of in a chicken

coop only, in this case it's a vultures' nest, and I

mean the type that swoops down and tears the flesh

off your back with one pass. But I've got something

going for me: I'm one hell of a good lawyer, and I'll

learn things they won't know I've learned. Maybe

enough to piece together a couple of cases that will

blow it all apart blow them apart. I told you before

that I rejected your deadline. I still reject it, but

now it doesn't seem so out of the question.

Certainly not two days, but perhaps not ten! You

see, I thought I was going to have to fly to Tel Aviv,

then Johannesburg. Prime everyone, frighten them.

Now I don't have to! We've already done it! They're

coming to me because they're the ones who are

frightened now! They don't know what to think, and

that means they've panicked." Converse paused,

sweat forming on his hairline; then he added, "I

don't have to tell you what a good lawyer can do

with panicked hostile witnesses. The materials he

can collect for evidence."

    "Your plea's accepted, counselor," said

Fitzpatrick, not without awe. "You're convincing.

Now, tell me why my intercession can help? What

does it accomplish?"

    "I want those men to think I'm one of them! I

can live with everything they can put together about

me I'm not proud of it all; I've made my

compromises but I can't live with that transcript of

my discharge! Don't you see? It's what

Avery Press understood! I understand now. He

knew me

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 221

nearly twenty-five years ago, and when I think back

we were actually pretty damned good friends. And

no matter what happened to us individually, he was

banking on the fact that I hadn't really changed that

much, not in the deeper things. By the time we reach

the voting age we're pretty well set, all of us. The

real changes come later, much later, dictated by such

things as acceptance or rejection and the state of our

wallets the prices we pay for our convictions, or to

support our talents, defending success or explaining

failure. That transcript confirmed what Halliday

believed, at least enough to make him want to meet

me, talk with me, and finally to recruit me. Only, he

did it finally by dying as I held his head. I

couldn't walk away after that."

    Connal Fitzpatrick was silent as he walked out on

the balcony. He leaned over and gripped the railing

as Converse watched him. Then he stood up, raised

both his hands, and pulled back the sleeve of his left

wrist. "It's twelve-fifteen in San Diego. No one in

legal goes to lunch before one o'clock; the

Coronado's bar doesn't begin to jump until then."

"Can you do it?"

    "I can try," said the naval officer, crossing through

the French doors toward the telephone. "No, damn

it, if you've got your times straight, I can do better

than try, I can issue an order. That's what rank's all

about."

    The first five minutes were excruciating for Joel.

There were delays on all overseas calls, but somehow

the hi-, trim, or quadri-lingual Fitzpatrick, speaking

urgently, unctuously, in German, managed to get

through, the word dringend repeated frequently.

    "Lieutenant Senior Grade Remington, David.

Legal Division, SAND PAC. This is an emergency,

sailor, Commander Fitzpatrick calling. Break in if

the lines are occupied." Connal covered the

mouthpiece and turned to Converse. "If you'll open

my suitcase, there's a bottle of bourbon in the

middle."

"I'll open your suitcase, Commander."

    "Remington?... Hello, David, it's Connal.... Yes,

thanks very much, I'll tell Meagen.... No, I'm not in

San Francisco, don't call me there. But something's

come up I want you to handle, something on my

calendar that I didn't get to. For openers, it's a Four

Zero emergency. I'll fill you in when I get back, but

until I do you have to take care of it. Got a pencil?

. . . There's a POW service record under the name

of Converse, Joel, Lieutenant, one and a half stripes,

Air Arm,

222 ROBERT LUDLUM

pilot carrier-based, Vietnam duty. He was

discharged in the sixhes' Fitzpatrick looked down

at Converse, who held up his right hand and three

fingers of his left "nineteen sixty-eight, to be

exact."Joel stepped forward, his spread right hand

still raised, his left now showing only the index

finger. "June of '68," added the Navy lawyer,

nodding. "Point of separation our old hometown,

San Diego. Have you got all that? Read it back to

me, please, David."

    Connal nodded sporadically, as he listened.

"C-O-NV-E-R-S-E, that's right.... June, '68, Air

Arm, pilot, Vietnam POW section, San Diego

separation, that's it, you've got it. Now here's the

wicket, David. This Converse's SR is flag status; the

flag pertains to his discharge hearing, no weapons

or high tech involved.... Listen carefully, David. It's

my understanding that there may be a request

pending accompanied by a legal-release code for the

discharge transcript. Under no circumstances is that

transcript to be released. The flag stays fixed and

can't be removed by anyone without my authoriza-

tion. And if the release has been processed it'll still

be within the forty-eight-hour vet-delay. Kill it.

Understood?"

    Again Fitzpatrick listened, but instead of

nodding, he shook his head. "No, not under any

circumstances. I don't care if the secretaries of

State, Defense, and the Navy all sign a joint petition

on White House stationery, the answer is no. If

anyone questions the decision, tell him I'm

exercising my authority as Chief Legal Oflficer of

SAND PAC. There's some goddamned article in the

'shoals' that says a station CLO can impound

materials on the basis of conceivably privileged in-

formation relative to the security of the sector, et

cetera, et cetera. I don't recall the time

element seventy-two hours or five days or

something like that but find that statute. You may

need it.'

    Connal listened further, his brows creasing, his

eyes straying to Joel. He spoke slowly as Converse

felt the sickening ache again in his chest. "Where

can you reach me . . . ?" said the naval officer,

perplexed. Then suddenly he was no longer

bewildered. "I take back what I said before, call

Meagen in San Francisco. If I'm not with her and

the kids, she'll know where to reach me.... Thanks

again, David. Sweep your decks and get right on

this, okay? Thanks . . . I'll tell Meg. ' Fitzpatrick

hung up the phone and exhaled audibly. "There," he

said, slouched in relief, pushing his hand through

his loose light-brown hair. "I'll phone Meagen and

give her this num

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 223

her, tell her to say I've gone up to the Sonoma hills,

if Reming ton calls Press had some property there."

    "Give her the telephone number," said Joel, "but

don't tell her anything else."

    "Don't worry, she's got enough on her mind. '

The naval officer looked at Converse, frowning. "If

your hourly count is right, you've got your bme now."

    "My count's all right. Is Lieutenant Remington?

I mean that only in the sense that he wouldn't let

anyone override your order, would he?'

    "Don't mistake my officiousness where he's

concerned," replied Connal. "David isn't easily

pushed around. The reason I chose him and not one

of the four other senior lawyers in the department is

that he's got a reputation for being a sUckler prick.

He'll find that statute and nail it to the forehead of

any four-striper who tries to countermand that order.

I like Remington; he's very useful. He scares the hell

out of people."

    "We all have case partners like that. It's called

the good guy-bad guy routine."

    "David fits. He's got an eye that keeps straying

to the right." Fitzpatrick suddenly stood erect, his

bearing military. "I thought you were going to get the

bourbon, Lieutenant?"

    "Yes, sir, CommanderI" shot back Joel, heading

for fitzpatrick's suitcase.

    "And if I remember correctly, after you pour us

a drink you're going to tell me a story I want very

much to hear."

    "Aye, aye, sir!" said Converse, lifting the suitcase

off the floor and putting it on the couch. "And if I

may suggest, sir," conUnuedJoel, "a room-service

dinner might be in order. I'm sure the Commander

needs nourishment after his trying day at the wheel."

    "Good thinking, Lieutenant. I'll phone down to

the Em pfang. "

    "Before calling your bookie, may I also suggest

that you first call your sister?"

"Oh, Christ, I forgot!"

    Chaim Abrahms walked down the dark street in

Tel Aviv his stocky frame draped in his usual safari

jacket, boots beneath his khaki trousers, and a beret

covering his nearly bald head. The beret was the only

concession he made to the night's purpose; normally

he enjoyed being recognised, accepUng the adulation

with well-rehearsed humility. In day

224 ROBERT LUDLUM

light, his head uncovered and held erect, and

wearing his familiar jacket, he would acknowledge

the homage with a nod, his eyes boring in on his

followers.

    "First a Jew!" was the phrase with which he was

always greeted, whether in Tel Aviv or Jerusalem,

in sections of Paris and most of New York.

    The phrase had been born years ago when as a

young terrorist for the Irgun he had been

condemned to death in absentia by the British for

the slaughter of a Palestinian village with the Arab

corpses put on display for Nakama! He had then

issued a cry heard around the world: "I am first a

Jew a son of Abraham! All else follows, and rivers

of blood will follow if the children of Abraham are

denied!"

    The British, in 1948, not caring to create

another martyr commuted his sentence and gave

him a large moshav. Yet the acreage of the

settlement could not confine the militant sabre.

Three wars had broken his agricultural shackles as

well as unleashing his ferocity and his brilliance in

the field. It was a brilliance developed and refined

through the early years of racing with a fugitive,

fragmented army, for which the tactics of surprise,

shock, hit and melt away were constant, when being

outmanned and outgunned were the accepted odds

but only victory was the acceptable outcome. He

later applied the strategies and the philosophy of

those years to the ever-expanding war machine that

became the Army, Navy and Air Force of a mighty

Israel. Mars was in the heavens of Chaim Abrahm's

vision and, the prophets aside, the god of war was

his strength, his reason for being. From Ramat Aviv

to Har Hazeytim, from Rehovot to Masada of the

Negev Nakama! was the cry. Retribution to the

enemies of Abraham's children!

    If only the Poles and the Czechs, the Hungarians

and the Romanies, as well as the haughty Germans

and the impossible Russians, had not immigrated to

his country by such tens of thousands. They arrived

and the complications came with them. Faction

against faction, culture against culture, each group

trying to prove it was more entitled to the name Jew

than the others. It was all nonsense! They were

there because they had to be; they had succumbed

to Abraham's enemies permitted yes,

permitted the slaughter of millions rather than

rising as millions and slaughtering in return. Well,

they found out what their civilised ways could bring

them, and how much their Talmudic convolutions

could earn them. So

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 225

they came to the Holy Land their Holy Land, so

they procla~med. Well, it wasn't theirs. Where were

they when it was being clawed out of rock and arid

desert by strong hands with primitive tools Biblical

tools? Where were they when the hated Arab and

the despised English first felt the wrath of the tribal

Jew? They were in the capitals of Europe, in their

banks and their fancy drawing rooms, making money

and drinking expensive brandy out of crystal goblets.

No, they came here because they had to; they came

to the Holy Land of the sabre.

    They brought with them money and dandy ways

and elegant words and confusing arguments and

influence and the guilt of the world. But it was the

sabre who taught them how to fight. And it was a

sabre who would bring all Israel into the orbit of a

mighty new alliance.

    Abrahms reached the intersection of Ibn Gabirol

and Arlosoroff streets; the streetlamps were haloed,

their light hazy. It was just as well; he should not be

seen. He had another block to go, to an address on

Jabotinsky, an unprepossessing apartment house

where there was an undistinguished flat leased by a

man who appeared to be no more than an unim-

portant bureaucrat. What few realised, however, was

that this man, this specialist who operated

sophisticated computer equipment with

communications throughout most of the world, was

intrinsic to the global operations of the Mossad, Is-

rael's intelligence service, which many considered the

finest on earth. He, too, was a sabre. He was one of

them.

    Abrahms spoke his name quietly into the

mouthpiece above the mail slot in the outer lobby;

he heard the click in the lock of the heavy door and

walked inside. He began the climb up the three

flights of steps that would take him to the flat.

'~Some wine, Chaim?"

"Whisky," was the curt reply.

    "Always the same question and always the same

answer," said the specialist. "I say 'Some wine,

Chaim?' and you say one word. 'whisky,' you say.

You would drink whisky at the Seder, if you could

get away with it."

    "I can and I do." Abrahms sat in a cracked

leather chair looking around the plain, disheveled

room with books everywhere, wondering, as he

always did, why a man with such influence lived this

way. It was rumored that the Mossad officer did not

like company, and larger, more attractive quarters

226 ROBERT LUDLUM

might invite it. "I gathered from your grunts and

coughs over the telephone that you have what I

need."

    "Yes, I have it," said the specialist, bringing a

glass of very good Scotch to his guest. "I have it, but

I don't think you're going to like it."

    "Why not?" asked Abrahms, drinking, his eyes

alert over the rim of the glass and fixed on his host

as the latter sat down opposite him.

    "Basically because it's confusing, and what's

confusing in this business is to be approached

delicately. You are not a delicate man, Chaim

Abrahms, forgive the indelicacy of my saying it. You

tell me this Converse is your enemy, a would-be

infiltrator, and I tell you I find nothing to support

the conclusion. Before anything else, there must be

a deep personal motive for a nonprofessional to

engage in this kind of deception this kind of

behavior, if you will. There has to be a driving

compulsion to strike out at an image of a cause he

loathes. Well, there is a motive, and there is an

enemy for which he must have great hatred, but

neither is compatible with what you suggest. The

information, incidentally, is completely reliable. It

comes from the Quang Dinh "

"What in hell is that?" interrupted the general.

    "A specialised branch of North

Vietnamese now, of course,

Vietnamese intelligence."

"You have sources there?"

    "We fed them for years nothing terribly vital,

but sufficient to gain a few ears, and voices. There

were things we had to know, weapons we had to

understand; they could be turned against us."

"This Converse was in North Vietnam?"

    "For several years as a prisoner of war; there's

an extensive file on him. At first, his captors

thought he could be used for propaganda, radio

broadcasts, television imploring his brutal

government to withdraw and stop the bombing, all

the usual garbage. He spoke well, presented a good

picture, and was obviously very American. Initially

they televised him as a murderer from the skies,

saved from the angry mobs by humane troops, then

later while eating and exercising; you see, they were

programming him for a violently sudden reversal.

They thought he was a soft, privileged young man

who could be broken rather easily to do their

bidding in exchange for more comfortable

treatment after having experienced a period of

harsh deprivation. What they learned, however, was

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 227

quite different. Under that soft shell the inner lining

was made of hard metal, and the odd thing was that

as the months went by it grew harder, until they

realized they had created created was their word a

hellhound of sorts, somehow forged in steel."

"Hellhound? Was that their word, too?"

    "No, they called him an ugly troublemaker, which,

considering the source, is not without irony. The

point is, they recognized the fact that they had

created him. The harsher the treatment, the more

volatile he became, the more resilient."

    "Why not?" said Abrahms sharply. "He was angry.

Prod a desert snake and watch him strike."

    "I can assure you, Chaim, it is not the normal

human response under such conditions. A man can

go mad and strike in crazed fury, or he can become

reclusive to the point of catatonia, or fall apart

weeping, willing to compromise anything and

everything for the smallest kindness. He did none of

these things. His was a calculated and inventive

series of responses drawing on his own inner

resources to survive. He led two escapes the first

lasting three days and the second five before the

groups were recaptured. As the leader, he was placed

in a cage in the Mekong River, but he devised a way

to kill the water rats by grabbing them from beneath

the surface like a shark. He was then thrown into

solitary confinement, a pit in the ground twelve feet

deep with barbed wire anchored across the top. It

was from there, during a heavy rainstorm at night,

that he clawed his way up, bent the wire back.and

escaped alone. He made his way south through the

jungles and in the river streams for over a hundred

miles until he reached the American lines. It was no

easy feat. They created a savagely obsessed man who

won his own personal war."

"Why didn't they simply kill him before that?"

    "I wondered myself," said the specialist, "so I

phoned my source in Hanoi, the one who provided

the information. He said a strange thing, something

quite profound in its way. He said he wasn't there, of

course, but he thought it was probably respect."

"For an ugly troublemaker?"

    "Captivity in war does odd things, Chaim, to both

the captured and the captors. There are so many

factors at work in a vicious game. Aggression,

resistance, bravery, fear, and not the

least curiosity, especially when the players

228 ROBERT LUDLUM

come from such diverse cultures as the Occident

and the Orient. An abnormal bond is often formed,

as much from the weariness of the testing game as

from anything else, perhaps. It doesn't lessen the

national animosities, but a subtle recognition sets in

that tells these men, these players, that they are not

really in the game by their own choosing. In-depth

analyses further show us that it is the captors, not

the captured, who first perceive this commonality.

The latter are obsessed with freedom and survival,

while the former begin to question their absolute

authority over the lives and conditions of other

men. They start to wonder what it would be like to

be in the other player's shoes. It's all part of what

the psychiatrists call the Stockholm syndrome."

    "What in the name of God are you trying to say?

You sound like one of those bores in the Knesset

reading a position paper. A little of this, a little of

that and a lot of windI"

    "You are definitely not delicate, Chaim. I'm

trying to explain to you that while this Converse

nurtured his hatreds and his obsessions, his captors

wearied of the game, and as our source in Hanoi

suggests, they grudgingly spared his life out of

respect, before he made his final and successful

escape."

    To Abrahm's bewilderment the specialist had

apparently finished. "And?" said the sabre.

    "Well, there it is. There is the motive and the

enemy, but they are also your motive and your

enemy arrived at from different routes, of course.

Ultimately, you wish to smash insurgence wherever

it erupts, curb the spread of Third World

revolutions, especially Islamic, because you know

they're being fostered by the Marxists read

Soviets and are a direct threat to Israel. One way

or another it's the global threat that's brought you

all together, and in my judgment rightfully so. There

is a time and a place for a military-industrial com-

plex, and it is now. It must run the governments of

the free world before that world is buried by its

enemies."

Chaim Abrahms squinted and tried not to shout.

"And?"

    "Can't you see? This Converse is one of you.

Everything supports it. He has the motive and an

enemy he's seen in the harshest light. He is a highly

regarded attorney who makes a great deal of money

with a very conservative firm, and his clients are

among the wealthiest corporations and conglomer-

ates. Everything he's been and everything he stands

for can only benefit from your efforts. The

confusion lies in his unorthodox methods, and I

can't explain them except to say that

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 229

perhaps they are not unorthodox in the specialised

work he does. Markets can plummet on rumors;

concealment and diversion are surely respected.

Regardless, he doesn't want to destroy you, he wants

to join you."

    The sabre put his glass down on the floor and

struggled out of the chair. With his chin tucked into

his breastbone and his hands clasped behind his

back, Abrahms paced back and forth in silence. He

stopped and looked down at the specialist.

    "Suppose, just suppose," he said, ' the almighty

Mossad has made a mistake, that there's something

you didn't find."

"I would find that hard to accept."

"But it's a possibility!"

    "In light of the information we've gathered, I

doubt it. Why?"

"Because I have a sense of smell, that's why!"

    The man from the Mossad kept his eyes on

Abrahms, as if studying the soldier's face or

thinking from a different viewpoint. "There is only

one other possibility, Chaim. If this Converse is not

who and what I've described, which would be

contrary to all the data we've compiled, then he is an

agent of his government."

"That's what I smell," said the sabre softly.

    It was the specialist's turn to be silent. He

breathed deeply, then responded. "I respect your

nostrils, old friend. Not always your conduct but

certainly your sense of smell. What do the others

think?"

    "Only that he's Iying, that he's covering for others

he may or may not know, who are using him as a

scout an 'infantry point' was the term used by Palo

Alto."

    The Mossad officer continued to stare at the

sabre, but his eyes were no longer focused; he was

seeing abstract, twisted patterns, convolutions few

men would comprehend. They came from a lifetime

of analysing seen and unseen, legitimate and racial

enemies, parrying dagger thrusts with counterthrusts

in the blackest darkness. "It's possible," he whis-

pered, as if replying to an unspoken question heard

only by himself. "Almost inconceivable, but possible."

"What is? That Washington is behind him?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

    "As an outrageous alternative I do not subscribe

to, but the only one left that has the slightest

plausibility. Simply put, he has too much

information."

230 ROBERT LUDLUM

"And?"

    "Not Washington in the usual sense, not the

government in the broader sense, but within a

branch of the government a section that has heard

whispers about an organisation cannot be sure.

They believe that if there is such an organization,

they must invade it to expose it. So they choose a

man with the right history, the right memories, even

the right profession to do the job. He might even

believe everything he says."

    The sabre was transfixed but impatient. "That

has too many complications for me," he said bluntly.

    'Try it my way first. Try to accept him; he may

be genuine. He'll have to give you something

concrete; you can force that. Then again he may not

because he cannot."

"Andy"

    "And if he can't, you'll know you're right. Then

put as much distance between him and his sponsors

as is humanly and brutally possible. He must

become a pariah, a man hunted for crimes so insane

his madness is unquestioned."

"Why not just kill him?"

    "By all means, but not before he's been labeled

so mad that no one will step forward to claim him.

It will buy you the time you need. The final phase

of Aquitaine is when? Three, four weeks away?"

"That's when it begins, yes."

    The specialist got up from the chair and stood

pensively in front of the soldier. "I repeat, first try

to accept him, see if what I said before is true. But

if that sense of smell of yours is provoked further,

if there's the slightest possibility he has been

willingly or unwillingly, wittingly or unwittingly,

made a provocateur by men in Washington, then

build your case against him and throw him to the

wolves. Create that pariah as the North Vietnamese

created a hellhound. Then kill him quickly, before

anyone else reaches him."

"A sabre of the Mossad speaks?"

"As clearly as I can."

    The young Army captain and the older civilian

came out of the Pentagon from adjacent glass doors

and glanced briefly at each other with no

recognition. They walked separately down the short

bank of steps and turned left on the cement path

that led to the enormous parking lot; the Army

officer was perhaps ten feet ahead of the civilian.

Upon reaching the

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 231

huge asphalt area, each veered in a different

direction toward his car. If these two men had been

the subjects of photographic surveillance during the

past fifty seconds, there was no indication

whatsoever that they knew each other.

    The green Buick coupe turned right in the

middle of the block, going through the open chasm

that was the entrance to the hotel's underground

parking lot. At the bottom of the ramp the driver

showed his room key to the attendant, who raised

the yellow barrier and waved him along. There was

an empty space in the third column of stationary

automobiles. The Buick eased into it and the Army

captain got out.

    He circled through the revolving door and walked

to a bank of elevators in the hotel's lower lobby. The

panels of the second elevator opened, revealing two

couples who had not intended to reach the

underground level; they laughed as one of the men

repeatedly pressed the lobby button. The officer, in

turn, touched the button for the fourteenth floor.

Sixty seconds later he walked out into the corridor

toward the exit staircase. He was heading for the

eleventh floor.

    The blue Toyota station wagon came down the

ramp, the driver's hand extended, a room key held

out, the number visible. Inside the parking area the

driver found an empty space and carefully steered

the small station wagon into it.

    The civilian stepped out and looked at his watch.

Satisfied, he started toward the revolving door and

the elevators. The second elevator was empty, and

the civilian was tempted to press the button for the

eleventh floor; he was tired and did not relish the

thought of the additional walk. However there would

be other occupants on the way up, so he held to the

rules and placed his index finger over the button

beside the number 9.

    Standing in front of the hotel-room door the

civilian raised his hand, rapped once, waited several

beats, then rapped twice more. Seconds later the

door was opened by the Army captain. Beyond him

was a third man, also in uniform, the color and the

insignia denoting a lieutenant, junior grade, in the

Navy. He stood by a desk with a telephone on it.

    "Glad you got here on time," said the Army

officer. "The traffic was rotten. Our call should be

coming through in a few minutes."

232 ROBERT LUDLUM

    The civilian entered, nodding to the Navy man

as he spoke. 'What did you find out about

Fitzpatrick?" he asked.

"He's where he shouldn't be," replied the lieutenant.

"Can you bring him back?"

    "I'm working on it, but I don't know where to

begin. I'm a very low man on a very big totem

pole."

"Aren't we all?" said the captain.

    "Who'd have thought Halliday would have gone

to him?" asked the naval officer, frustration in his

voice. "Or if he was going to bring him in, why

didn't he go to him first? Or tell him about us?"

    "I can answer the last two questions," said the

Army man. "He was protecting him from a

Pentagon backlash. If we go down, his

brother-in-law stays clean."

    "And I can answer the first question," said the

civilian. ' Halliday went to Fitzpatrick because in

the final analysis, he d~dn t trust us. Geneva

proved he was right."

    "Hoop" asked the captain defensively, but

without apology. "We couldn't have prevented it."

    "No, we couldn't," agreed the civilian. "But we

couldn't do anything about it afterwards, either.

That was part of the trust, and there was no way we

could live up to it. We couldn't

    The telephone rang. The lieutenant picked it up

and listened. "It's Mykonos, ' he said.

PART TWO

12

    Connal Fitzpatrick sat opposite Joel at the

room-service table drinking the last of his coffee. The

dinner was finished the story completed, and all the

questions the Navy lawyer could raise had been

answered by Converse because he had given his

word; he needed a complete ally.

    "Except for a few identities and some dossier

material," said Connal, "I don't know an awful lot

more than I did before. Maybe I will when I see

those Pentagon names. You say you don't know who

supplied them?"

    "No. Like Topsy, they're just there. Beale said a

number of them are probably mistakes, but others

aren't; they have to be linked to Delavane."

    "They had to be supplied by someone too. There

had to be reasons why they were listed."

    "Beale called them 'decision makerst in military

procurements."

"Then I have to see them. I've dealt with those

people."

    "Yes. Not very often, but enough to know my way

around."

"Why you?"

    "Basically translating legal nuances from language

to language where Navy tech was involved. I think I

mentioned that I speak "

"You did," Joel broke in.

    "Goddamn itl" cried Fitzpatrick, crushing his

napkin in a fist.

"What's the matter?"

    "Press knew I had dealings with those committees,

with the technology and armaments boys! He even

asked me about them. Who I saw, who I liked who

I trusted. Jesus! Why didn't he come to me? Of all

the people he knew, I was the logical onel I'm down

the pike and his closest friend."

235

236 ROBERT LUDLUM

"That's why he didn't come to you," said Converse.

    "Stupid bastard!" Connal raised his eyes. "And

I hope you hear that, Press. You might still be

around to see Connal Two win the Bay Regatta."

"I think you really believe he might hear you."

    Fitzpatrick looked across the table at Joel. "Yes,

I do. You see, I believe, counselor. I know all the

reasons why I shouldn't Press enumerated them to

a fare-thee-well when we were in our cups but I

believe. I answered him once with a quote from one

of his laid-back Protestant forebears."

"What was that?" asked Joel, smiling kindly.

    "'There's more faith in honest doubt than is held

by all the archangels in the mind of God.'"

"It's very nice. I've never heard it before."

    "Maybe I didn't get it right.... Joel, I've got to

see those namest"

"And I have to get my attache case, but I can't go

myself."

    "Then I'm elected," said the Navy man. "Do you

think Leifhelm's right? You think he can really call

off Interpol?"

    "I'm of two thoughts about it. For my immediate

maneuverability I hope he can. But if he does, it'll

scare the hell out of me."

    "I'm on your side about that," agreed Connal,

getting out of the chair. "I'll call the desk and get a

taxi. Give me the key to the locker."

    Converse reached into his pocket and pulled out

the small, rounded key. "Leifhelm's seen you. He

could have you followed; he did before."

    "I'll be ten times more careful. If I see the same

pair of headlights twice, I'll go to a Bierkeller. I

know a few here."

    Joel looked at his watch. "It's twenty minutes to

ten. Do you think you could swing around to the

university first?"

"Dowling?"

    "He said he had someone he wanted me to

meet. Just walk by him or them and say

everything's under control, nothing else. I owe him

that much."

"Suppose he tries to stop me?"

    "Then pull out your ID and say it's high priority,

or ultrasecret, or whatever bullshit security phrases

that come to that very inventive mind of yours."

"Do I sense a touch of legal envy?"

    "No, just recognition. I know where you're

coming from. I,ve been there."

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 237

* * *

    Fitzpatrick walked slowly along the wide path on

the south facade of the immense university building,

once the great palace of the all-powerful archbishops

of Cologne. The unimpeded moonlight swelled over

the area, reflecting off the myriad rows of cathedral

windows and lending a luminous dimension to the

light stone walls of the majestic structure. Beyond

the path the winding gardens of August possessed an

eerie elegance circles of sleeping flowers, their

beauty heightened by the moonlight. Connal was so

struck by the tranquil loveliness of the nocturnal

setting that he nearly forgot why he was there.

    The reason was brought sharply back into focus

when he saw a slender figure slouched alone on a

bench. The man's legs were extended and crossed at

the ankles, his head covered by a soft cloth hat, but

not sufficiently to hide the flowing gray-blond hair

that protruded slightly over his temples and the back

of his neck. So this Caleb Dowling was an actor,

thought the Navy lawyer, amused by the fact that

Dowling had feigned shock when he realized Connal

did not recognize him. But then, neither had

Converse; they were obviously a minority in a world

of television addicts. A college professor who had

fulfilled the fantasies of youth, a risk-taker, according

to Joel, who had won a battle against astronomical

odds, was a nice thing to think about; the only sad

note was the haunted life of his wife, whom he loved

dearly. Also, a marine who had fought in the bloody

mess that was Kwajalein was a man to be reckoned

with.

    Fitzpatrick walked over to the bench and sat

down several feet away from Dowling. The actor

glanced at him, then did a perfectly natural double

take, his head snapping. "You9"

    "I'm sorry about last night," said Connal. "I

gather I wasn't very convincing."

    "You lacked a certain finish, young fella. Where

the hell is Converse?"

    "Sorry again. He couldn't make it, but not to

worry. Everything's A-okay and under control."

    "Whose okay and whose control?" countered the

actor, annoyed. "I told Joel to come here, not a

cub-scout interlocutor."

    "I resent that. I'm a lieutenant commander in the

United States Navy and the chief legal officer at a

major naval base. Mr. Converse accepted an

assignment from us which has an

238 ROBERT LUDLUM

element of personal risk for him and the highest

priority of classification for us. Back off, Mr.

Dowling. We appreciate and I speak for Converse

as well as myself your interest and your generosity,

but it's time for you to recede. For your own

benefit, incidentally."

"What about Interpol? He killed a man."

    "Who tried to kill him, " added Fitzpatrick

quickly, a lawyer rejoining a negative statement by

a witness on the stand. "That will be clarified

internally and the charges dropped."

    "You're pretty smooth, Commander," said

Dowling, sitting up. "Better than you were last

night this morning, actually."

    "I was upset. I'd lost him and I had to find him.

I had to deliver vital information."

    The actor now crossed his legs at the knees and

leaned back, his arm slung casually over the slatted

rim of the bench. "So this thing Converse and you

are involved with is a real hush-hush operation?"

"It's highly classified, yes."

    "And you and he being lawyers, it's got

something to do with legal irregularities over here

that somehow reach into the military, is that right?"

    "In the broadest sense, again yes. I'm afraid I

can't be any more specific. Converse mentioned that

there was someone you wanted him to meet."

    "Yes, there is. I said a couple of harsh things

about him, but I take them back; he was doing his

thing. He didn't know who the hell I was any more

than you did. He's one smart man, tough but fair."

    "I hope you understand that under the

circumstances Converse can't comply with your

request."

    "You'll do," said Dowling calmly, removing his

arm from the back of the bench.

    Connal was suddenly alarmed. There was

movement behind him in the shadowed moonlight;

he whipped his head around, peering over his

shoulder. Out of the protective darkness of the

building from within the pitch-black cover of a

doorway the figure of a man began walking across

the dark green lawn. An arm thrown casually over

the rim of the bench, then just as casually removed.

Both movements had been signals" Identity

confirmed; move in.

    "What the hell have you done?" asked the Navy

lawyer harshly.

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 239

    "Bringing you two bucks to your senses," replied

Dowling. '.If my celebrated instincts are valid, I did

the right thing. If they're wrong, I still did the right

thing.,'

"W7lat?"

    The man crossing the lawn entered the spill of

clear moonlight. He was heavyset and wore a dark

suit and tie; his scowling, late-middle-aged face and

straight grey hair gave him the air of a prosperous

businessman. It was clear that at the moment he was

intensely angry.

    Dowling spoke as he got up from the bench.

"Commander, may I introduce the Honorable Walter

Peregrine, United States ambassador to the Federal

Republic of Cermany."

    Lieutenant David Remington wiped his

steel-rimmed glasses with a silicone-treated tissue,

then threw the tissue into a wastebasket and got up

from his desk. Returning the glasses to his face, he

walked to a mirror secured to the back of his office

door and checked his appearance. He smoothed his

hair, shoved the knot of his tie in place, and looked

down at the failing crease of his trousers. All things

considered it was 1730 hours and he had been

harassed at his desk since 0800 in the morning,

including that crazy Four Zero emergency from

Fitzpatrick he looked quite presentable. And

anyway, Rear Admiral Hickman was not a stickler

for spit and polish where the desk corps was

concerned. He knew damn well that most of the

legal execs would bolt in a minute for much higher

paying jobs in the civilian sector if the dress and

other disposable codes were taken too seriously.

Well, David Remington wouldn't. Where the hell

else could a man travel all over the world, housing a

wife and three kids in some of the nicest quarters

imaginable, with all the medical and dental bills paid

for, and not have the terrible pressures of rising in

private or corporate practice. His father had been an

attorney for one of the biggest insurance companies

in Hartford Connecticut, and his father had had

ulcers at forty-three, a nervous breakdown at

forty-eight, his first stroke at fifty-one, and a final,

massive coronary at fifty-six; everyone had said he

was so terrific at his job he might even be in line for

the presidency. But then, people always said things

like that when a man died in the line of corporate

duty which men did too goddamned frequently.

    None of that for David Remington, no sir! He

was simply going to be one of the best lawyers in the

U.S. Navy, serve

240 RORERT LUDLUM

his thirty years, get out at fifty-five with a generous

pension, and become a well-paid legal-military

consultant at fifty-six. At the precise age when his

father died, he would start living very nicely, indeed.

It was simply a matter of building a reputation as a

man who knew more about naval and maritime

law and who stuck to it than any other lawyer in

the Navy. If he stepped on toes in his performance,

so be it; it could only enhance that reputation. He

didn't give a damn about being popular; he cared

only about being right. And he never made a

decision until he was certain of its correct legal

position. Consultants like that were prized

commodities in civilian practice.

    Remington wondered why Admiral Hickman

wanted to see him, especially at this hour when

most of the desk corps had gone for the day. There

was a court-martial pending that could become a

sensitive issue. A black officer, an Annapolis

graduate, had been caught selling cocaine off a

destroyer berthed in the Philippines; that was

probably it. Remington had pre-prepared the case

for the judge advocate, who frankly did not care to

prosecute; the amount was not that large, and

others were certainly selling far more, and they

were probably white. That was not the point,

Remington had insisted. If there were others, they

had not been caught, if there was evidence, it had

not been found. The law was color-blind.

    He would say the same thing to Hickman. The

"stickler prick," a derisive nickname Remington

knew was used behind his back, would stand firm.

Well, at fifty-six the age at which his father had

been killed by company policy a stickler prick

would have all the comforts of an exclusive country

club without paying the corporate price. Lieutenant

Remington opened the door, walked out into the

grey hallway, and started for the elevator that would

take him to the office of the highest ranking man at

the San Diego naval base.

    "Sit down, Remington," said Rear Admiral Brian

Hickman, shaking the lieutenant's hand and

indicating a chair in front of the large desk. "I don't

know about you, but this has been what I used to

call at your age one fucked-up day. Sometimes I

wish Congress wouldn't appropriate so damn much

money down here. Everyone gets on such a high

you'd think they'd smoked everything in Tijuana.

They forget they're supposed to have architects

before they start bribing the contractors."

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 241

    "Yes, sir, I know what you mean, sir," said

Remington sithng down with proper deference as

Hickman stood several feet to his left. The mere

reference to Tijuana and drugs confirmed his

suspicions; the admiral was about to launch into the

everybody-does-it routine, which would lead to "Why

should the Navy stir up a racial controversy with

something that took place in the Philippines?" Well,

he was prepared. The law naval law was

color-blind.

    "I m going to have a well-deserved drink,

Lieutenant," said Hickman, heading for a copper dry

bar against the wall. "Can I get you something?"

"No, thank you, sir. '

    "Hey, look, Remington, I appreciate your staying

late for this conference, I guess you'd call it, but I

don't expect any version of corporate military

behavior. Frankly, I'd feel foolish drinking by myself,

and what we've got to talk about isn't so almighty

important. I just want to ask you a couple of ques-

trons.

    "Corporate behavior, sir? I'll have some white

wine, if you have it, sir."

    "I always have it," said the admiral with

resignation. "It's usually for personnel who are about

to get divorced."

"I'm happily married, sir."

    "Glad to hear it. I'm on my third wife should

have stuck with the first."

    The drinks poured, the seating arrangements in

order Hickman spoke from behind the desk, his tie

loosened, his voice casual. But what he said evoked

anything but casualness in David Remington.

"Who the hell is Joel Converse?" asked the admiral.

"I beg your pardon, sir?"

    The admiral sighed, the sound indicating that he

would begin again. "At twelve hundred hours

twenty-one minutes today, you placed a CLO

negative on ail inquiries regarding a flag on one

Lieutenant Joel Converse's service record. He was a

pilot in the Vietnam action."

"I know what he was, sir," said Remington.

    "And at fifteen hundred hours, two minutes,"

continued Hickman, looking at a note on his desk. "I

get a teletype from the Fifth Naval District

requesting that the flag be removed in their favor

and the material released immediately. The basis for

their request was as it always is national security."

The admiral paused to sip his drink; he appeared to

be in no

242 ROBERT LUDLUM

hurry, simply weary. "I ordered my adjutant to call

you and ask why you did it."

    "And I answered him completely, sir,"

Remington broke in. "It was at the instructions of

the chief legal officer SAND PAC, and I cited the

specific regulation that states clearly that the CLO

of a naval base can withhold files on the basis that

his own inquiries can be compromised by the

entrance of a third party. It's standard in civil law,

sir. The Federal Bureau of Investigation rarely gives

a local or metropolitan police force the information

it's collected in an investigation for the simple

reason that the investigation could be compromised

by leaks or corrupt practices."

    "And our chief legal officer, Lieutenant

Commander Fitzpatrick, is currently carrying out an

investigation of an officer who left the service

eighteen years ago?"

    "I don't know, sir," said Remington, his eyes

noncommittal. "I only know those were his orders.

They're in force for seventy-two hours. After that,

you, of course, can sign the order of release. And

the President, naturally, can do so anytime in a

national emergency."

"I thought it was forty-eight hours," said Hickman.

    "No, sir. The forty-eight hours is standard with

the release of every flag regardless of who asks for

it except, of course the President. It's called the

vet delay. Naval intelligence cross-checks with the

CIA, the NSA, and G-Two to make sure there's no

material being released that's still considered classi-

fied. That procedure has nothing to do with the

prerogatives of a chief legal officer."."

"You know your law, don't you?''

    "I believe as well as any attorney in the United

States Navy, sir."

    "I seed' The admiral leaned back in his

upholstered swivel chair and placed his legs on the

corner of the desk. "Commander Fitzpatrick s off

the base, isn't he? Emergency leave, if I recall."

    "Yes, sir. He's in San Francisco with his sister

and her children. Her husband was killed in a

robbery in Geneva, the funeral's tomorrow morning,

I believe."

    "Yes, I read about it. Goddamned lousy.... But

you know where to reach him."

    "I have the telephone number, yes, sir. Do you

want me to call him, Admiral? Apprise him of the

Fifth Naval request."

^'No, no," said Hickman, shaking his head. "Not at

a time

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 243

like this. They can dry their mops at least until

tomorrow afternoon. I've got to assume they also

know the regulations if security's so damned

jeopardised, know where the Pentagon is and the

latest rumor out of Arlington is that they found out

where the White House is." The Admiral stopped,

frowned, and looked over at the lieutenant. 'Sum

pose you didn't

..But I do sirn,,ow where to reach Fitzpatrick?,

    "Yes, but suppose you didn't? And a legitimate

request was received below presidential

involvement, but still pretty damned urgent you

could release that flag, couldn't you?

    "Theoretically, as next in authority, yes I could.

As long as I accepted the legal responsibility for my

judgment."

"The what?"

    "That I believed the request was sufficiently

urgent to override the chief legal odficer's prior

order, which granted him seventy-two hours for

whatever action he deemed necessary. He was

adamant, sir. Frankly, short of presidential inter-

venhon, I'm legally bound to uphold the CLO's

privilege."

' I'd say morally) too," agreed Hickman.

    "Morality has nothing to do with it, sir. It's a

clear legal position. Now, shall I make that call,

Admiral?"

    'No, the hell with it." Hickman removed his feet

from the desk. "I was just curious and, frankly, you've

convinced me. Fitz wouldn't have given you the order

unless he had a reason. The Fifth D can wait three

days, unless those boys want to run up telephone

bills to Washington."

"May I ask, sir, who specifically made the request?"

    The admiral looked pointedly at Remington. "I'll

tell you in three days. You see, I've got a man's

privilege to uphold too. You'll know then anyway,

because in Fitz's absence you'll have to countersign

the transfer." Hickman finished his drink and the

lieutenant understood. The conference was over.

    Remington got up and returned the half-filled

wineglass by thlle ciop?,p,er bar; he stood at

attention and spoke "Will that

    "Yes, that's it," said the admiral, his gaze straying

to the window and the ocean beyond.

    The lieutenant saluted sharply as Hickman

brought a casual hand to his forehead. The lawyer

then did an about-face and started for the door.

"Remington?"

244 ROBERT LUDLUM

"Yes, sir?" replied the lieutenant, turning.

"Who the hell is this Converse?"

    "I don't know, sir. But Commander Fitzpatrick

said the status of the flag was a Four Zero

emergency."

'Jesus . "

    Hickman picked up his phone and touched a

combination of buttons on the console. Moments

later he was speaking to a fellow ranking officer in

the Fifth Naval District.

"I'm afraid you'll have to wait three days, Scanlon."

"Why is that?" asked the admiral named Scanlon.

    "The CLO negative holds on the Converse flag

as far as SAND PAC is concerned. If you want to

go the D.C. route be my guest. We'll cooperate."

    "I told you, Brian, my people don't want to go

through Washington. You've had these things

happen before. D.C. makes waves, and we don't

want waves."

    "Well then, why don't you tell me why you want

the Converse flag? Who is he?"

    "I'd tell you if I could, you know that. Frankly,

I'm not all that clear on it myself, and what I do

know I've sworn to keep secure."

    "Then go to Washington, I'm standing behind my

Chief Legal, who, incidentally, isn't even here."

"He isn't? But you talked to him."

    "No, to his next in line, a lieutenant named

Remington. He took the direct order from the

CLO. Believe me, Remington won't budget. I gave

him the chance and he covered himself with

legalities. Around here he's known as a stickler

prick."

"Did he say why the negative was put out?"

    "He didn't have any idea. Why don't you call

him yourself? He's probably still downstairs and

maybe you can "

    "You didn't use my name, did you?" interrupted

Scanlon apparently agitated.

    "No, you asked me not to, but he'll know it in

three days. He'll have to sign the release and I'll

have to tell him who requested it." Hickman paused,

then without warning exploded. "What the hell is

this all about, Admiral? Some pilot who was

discharged over eighteen years ago is suddenly on

everybody's most-wanted list. I get a departmental

priority teletype from the big Fifth D and you follow

it up with a personal call, playing the old Annapolis

memory game, but you won't tell

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 245

me anything. Then I find out my own CLO without

my knowing about it has put a negative on this

Converse flag and labeled it a Four Zero emergency

status! Now, I know he's got personal problems and

I won't bother him until tomorrow and I

realizeyou've given your word to stay secure, but

goddamn it, somebody had better start telling me

something!"

    There was no response from the other end of the

line. But there was the sound of breathing; and it

was tremulous.

"Scanlon!"

    ' What did you just say?" said the voice of the

admiral thirty-six hundred miles away.

"I'm going to find out anyway "

    "No, the status. The status of the flag." Scanlon

could barely be heard.

"Four-Zero emergency, that's what I said!"

    The interruption was abrupt) there was only an

echoing click. Admiral Scanlon had hung up the

phone.

    Walter Peregrine, United States ambassador to

the Federal Republic of Germany, confronted

Fitzpatrick. "What's your name, Commander?"

    "Fowler, sir," answered the Navy lawyer, glancing

briefly but hard at Dowling. "Lieutenant Commander

Avery Fowler, United States Navy." Again Connal

looked at the actor, who stared at him through the

moonlight.

    "I understand there's some question about that,"

said Peregrine, his glare as hostile as Dowling's.

"May I see your identification, please?"

    "I'm not carrying identification, sir. It's the nature

of my assignment not to do so, sir." Fitzpatrick's

words were rapid, precise, his posture squared and

erect.

    "I want verification of your name, your rank, and

your branch of service! Now!"

    "The name I've given you is the name I was

instructed to give should anyone beyond the scope of

the assignment inquire."

"Whose instructions?" barked the diplomat.

"My superior officers, sir."

"Am I to infer that Fowler is not your correct

name?"

    "With respect, Mr. Ambassador. My name is

Fowler, my rank is lieutenant commander, my

branch of the service is the United States Navy."

"Where the hell do you think you are? Behind the

lines,

246 ROBERT LUDLUM

captured by the enemy? 'Name, rank, and serial

number that's all I'm required to say under the

rules of the Geneva Convention'!"

"It's all I'm permitted to say, sir."

    "We'll damn well find out about that,

Commander if you are a commander. Also about

this Converse, who appears to be a very odd

liar one minute the soul of propriety, the next a

very strange man on the run."

    "Please try to understand, Mr. Ambassador, our

assignment is classified. In no way does it involve

diplomacy, nor will it impair your efforts as the chief

American representative of our government. But it

is classified. I will report this conversation to my

superiors and you will undoubtedly hear from them.

Now, if you gentlemen will forgive me, I'll be on my

way."

    "I don't think so, Commander or whoever you

are. But if you are who you say, nothing's

compromised. I'm not a damn fool. Nothing will be

said to anyone on the embassy staff. Mr. Dowling

insisted on that and I accepted the condition. You

and I will be locked in a communications room with

a phone on a scrambler and you're going to place a

call to Washington. I didn't take this job at a loss of

three-quarters of a million a year to find shoe clerks

running an investigation of my own company without

my knowing about it. If I want an outside audit, I'll

damn well order it myself."

    "I wish I could comply, sir; it sounds like a

reasonable request. But I'm afraid I can't."

"I'm afraid you will!"

"Sorry."

    "Do as he says, Commander," interjected

Dowling. "As he told you, nothing's been said to

anyone, and nothing will be. But Converse needs

protection; he's a wanted man in a foreign country

and he doesn't even speak the language. Take

Ambassador Peregrine's offer. He'll keep his word."

    "With respect, sirs, the answer is negative."

Connal turned away and started up the wide path.

    "Major!" shouted the ambassador, his voice

furious. "Stop him! Stop that man!"

    Fitzpatrick looked behind him; for reasons he

could not explain to himself he saw what he never

expected to see, and the instant he did, he knew he

should have expected it. From out of the distant

shadows of the immense, majestic building a man

rushed forward, a man who was obviously a military

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 247

aide to the ambassador a member of the embassy

staff! Connal froze, Joel's words coming back to him.

Those men you saw at the airport, the ones from the

embassy . . . they're on the other side.

    Under almost any other circumstances,

Fitzpatrick would have remained where he was and

weathered it out. He hadn't actually done anything

wrong; there was nothing illegal, no laws broken of

which he was cognizant, and no one could force him

to discuss personal matters where no law had been

violated. Then he realized how wrong he was! The

generals of George Marcus Delavane would force

him, could force him! He spun around and ran.

    Suddenly gunfire erupted. Two earsplitting shots

above him! He dove to the ground and rolled into

the shadows of the bushes as a man's voice roared

over the stillness of the night and the sleeping

gardens.

    "You goddamned son of a bitch! What do you

think you're doing!"

    There were further shouts, a further barrage of

obscenities, and the sounds of struggle filled the

quiet enclave of the university.

    "You don't kid a man! Besides, you bastard, there

could be other people! Don't say a word, Mr.

Ambassador!"

    Connal scrambled across the graveled path and

spread apart the bordering foliage. In the clear

moonlight of the distant bench, the actor Caleb

Dowling the former marine from Kwajalein stood

over the body of the major who had run out of the

shadow, his boot on the supine man's throat, his

hand grasping the man's extended arm to wrench the

weapon free.

    "You are one dumb son of a bitch, Major! Or,

goddamn you, maybe you're something else!"

    Fitzpatrick got to his knees, then to his feet, and,

crouching, raced into the receding darkness of the

wide path toward the exit.

13

    "I didn't have any choice!" said Connal. He had

dropped the attache case on the couch and was

sitting in an adjacent chair, leaning forward, still

shaking.

    "Calm down; try to relax." Converse walked to

the elegant antique hunt table against the wall

where there was a large silver tray with whisky, ice

and glasses. Joel had learned to make use of room

service in English. ' You need a drink," he said,

pouring Fitzpatrick's bourbon.

    Do I ever! I've never been shot at. You have.

Christ, is that what it's like?"

    "That's what it's like. You can't believe it. It's

unreal, just mind-blowing sounds that can't really

have anything to do with you, until until. you see

the evidence for yourself. It's real, it's meant for

you, and you're sick. There's no swelling music, no

brass horns, just vomit." Converse brought the naval

officer his drink.

    "You're omitting something," said Connal, taking

the glass and looking up at Joel.

    "No, I'm not. Let's think about tonight. If you

heard Dowling right, the ambassador won't say

anything around the embassy "

    "I remember," interrupted Fitzpatrick, taking

several swallows of the bourbon, his eyes still on

Converse. "It was in one of the other flags. During

your second escape a man got killed; it was

sundown. You reached him when it happened, and

the flag said you went crazy for a couple of minutes.

Somehow, according to this guy a sergeant, I

think you circled around in the jungle, caught the

North Vietnamese, killed him with his own knife

and got his repeating rifle. Then you blew away

three other Viets in the area."

    Joel held his place in front of the Navy lawyer.

He answered the younger man, his voice quiet, his

look angry. "I hate descriptions like that," he said

flatly. ' It raises all the im

248

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 249

ages I loathe.... Let me tell you the way it was like

it was, counselor. A kid, no more than nineteen, had

to relieve himself, and although we stuck together he

had the dignity to go ten or fifteen feet away to take

care of his private functions, using leaves because

squeezable toilet paper wasn't available. The

maniac I won't use the word 'soldier' who killed

him waited for the precise moment, then fired off a

burst that cut that kid's face apart. When I reached

him, half of that face in my hands, I heard the

cackle, the obscene laughter of an obscene man who

personified for me everything I found de-

spicable whether North Vietnamese or American.

If you want to know the truth, whatever I did I did

against both because both were guilty, all of us

turned into animals, myself included. Those other

three men, those enemies, those uniformed robots,

probably with wives and children back in villages

somewhere up north, had no idea I got behind them.

I shot them in the back, counselor. What would

Johnny Ringo say about that? Or John Wayne?"

    Connal was silent as Joel walked over to the hunt

table to pour himself a whisky. The Navy lawyer

drank, then spoke. "A few hours ago you said you

knew where I was coming from because you'd been

there. Well, I haven't been where you were, but I'm

beginning to see where you're coming from. You

really hate everything that Aquitaine stands for, don't

you? Especially those running it."

    Converse turned. "With everything that's in me,"

he said. "That's why we've got to talk about tonight."

    "I told you, I had no choice. You said the

embassy people I saw at the airport were with

Delavane. I couldn't take the chance."

    "I know. Now we're both running, hunted by our

own people and protected by the men we want to

trap. We've got to think, Commander."

    The telephone rang twice abrasively. Fitzpatrick

leaped from the chair, his initial reaction one of

shock. Joel watched him, calming him with his look.

"Sorry," said Connal. "I'm still edgy. I'll get it; I'll be

all right." The Navy lawyer crossed to the phone and

picked it up. ':7a?" He listened for several seconds,

covered the mouthpiece and looked at Converse. "It's

the overseas operator. San Francisco. It's Meagen."

    "Which means Remington," saidJoel, his throat

suddenly dry, his pulse accelerating.

"Meagen? Yes, I'm here. What is it?" Fitzpatrick

stared

250 ROBERT LUDLUM

straight ahead as his sister talked; he nodded

frequently, the muscles of his jaw working as he

concentrated. "Oh, Chr~st! . . . No, it's all right. I

mean it, everything s okay. Do you have the

number?" Connal looked down at the small

telephone table; there was a message pad but no

pencil. He glanced over at Joel, who had already

started for the desk and a hotel pen. Fitzpatrick

held out his hand, took the pen and wrote out a

series of numbers. Converse stood aside, conscious

that he was barely breathing, his fingers gripping the

glass. "Thanks, Meagen. I know it's a hell of a time

for you; you don't need this but if you have to call

again, make it station-to-station, okay? . . . I will,

Meg, I give you my word. Good-bye." The Navy

lawyer hung up, his hand for a moment remaining

on the telephone.

"Remington called, didn't he?" said Joel.

"Yes."

'What happened ?"

    "Someone tried to get the flag on your service

record released," said Fitzpatrick, turning, looking at

Converse. "It's okay. Remington stopped it."

"Who was it?"

    "I don't know, I'll have to reach David. Meagen

doesn't have any idea what a flag is, much less who

you are. The message was only that 'a release was

sought for the flag,' but he stopped it."

"Then everything's all right."

"That's what I said, but it's not."

"Clarification, goddamn it!"

    "There's a time limit on how long my order

stands. It's only a day or two after the vetting

process "

"Which is forty-eight hours," interrupted Joel.

    "Yes, I'm sure of that; it's after that. You see,

you thought this would happen, but frankly I didn't.

Whoever's asking for that flag isn't small potatoes.

You could walk out of that meeting and a few hours

later your new associates could have that stuff in

their hands. Converse the Delavane-hater. Is he now

the Delavane-hunter?"

    "Call Remington."Joel went to the French doors,

opened them, and walked out on the small balcony.

Drifting wisps of clouds filtered the moonlight, and

far to the east there were Hashes of heat lightning

reminding Converse of the silent artillery fire he and

the other escaping prisoners would see in the hills,

knowing it was sanctuary but unreachable. He could

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 251

hear Fitzpatrick inside; from the sound of his voice

he was getting a line through to San Diego. Joel

reached into a pocket for his cigarettes; he lighted

one. Whether it was the bright glow of the flame

that illuminated the movement he did not know, but

he looked in the direction of that movement. Two

balconies away, about thirty feet to his right, a man

stood watching him. The figure was a silhouette in

the dim light; he nodded and went back inside. Was

the man simply another guest who had coincidentally

gone outside for a breath of air? Or had Aquitaine

posted a guard? Converse could hear the Navy

lawyer talking conversationally; he turned and

walked back into the room.

    Connal was seated in the chair on the other side

of the table. He held the phone to his ear with his

left hand; his right held the pen above the message

pad. He made a note, then said quickly, "Wait a

minute. You say Hickman told you to let it ride but

he wouldn't tell you who specifically made the re-

quest? . . . I see. All right, David, thanks very much.

Are you going out tonight? . . . So if I need you I

can reach you at this number.... Yes, I know, it's

these damn phones up in Sonoma. One heavy rain in

the hills and you're lucky to get a line, forget a clear

one. Thanks again, David. Good-bye." Fitzpatrick

hung up the phone and looked strangely, almost

guiltily, at Joel. Instead of speaking, he shook his

head, breathing out and frowning.

'What is it? What's the matter?"

    "You'd better get everything you can at that

meeting tomorrow. Or is it today?"

"It's past midnight. It's today. Why?"

    "Because twenty-four hours later that flag will be

released to a section in the Fifth Naval

District that's Norfolk, and it's powerful. They'll

know everything you don't want them to know about

you. The time limit is seventy-two hours."

"Get an extension!"

    Connal stood up, helplessness in his expression.

"On what basis?"

"What else? National security."

"I'd have to spell out the reasons, you know that."

    "I don't know that. Extensions are granted for all

sorts of contingencies. You need more time to

prepare. A source or a witness has been

postponed illness or an injury. Or per

252 ROBERT LUDLUM

sonal matters goddamn it, your brother-in-law's

funeral, your sister's grief--they've delayed your

progress!"

    "Forget it, Joel. If I tried that, they'd tie you in

with Press and good-bye Charlie. They killed him,

remember?"

    "No," said Converse firmly. "It's the other way

around. It separates us further."

"What are you talking about?"

    "I've thought about this, tried to put myself in

Avery's shoes. He knew his every move was being

watched, his telephone probably tapped. He said the

geography, the Comm Tech-Bern merger, the

breakfast, Geneva itself, everything had to be

logical; it couldn't be any other way. At the end of

that breakfast he said if I agreed we'd talk later."

"So?"

    "He knew we'd be seen together it was

unavoidable and I think he was going to give me

the words to say if someone in Aquitaine asked me

about him. He was going to turn everything around

and give me the push I needed to reach these men."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

    "Avery was going to stamp me with the label I

had to wear to get inside Delavane's network. We'll

never know, but I have an idea he was going to tell

me to say that he, A. Preston Halliday, suspected

me of being one of them, that he had inserted

himself in the Comm Tech-Bern merger to threaten

me with exposure, to stop me."

    "Wait a minute." Connal shook his head. "Press

didn't know what you were going to do or how you

were going to do it."

    "There was only one way to do it, he knew that!

He also knew I'd reach the same conclusion once I

understood the particulars. The only way to stop

Delavane and his field marshals is to infiltrate

Aquitaine. Why do you think all that money was put

up front? I don't need it and he knew he couldn't

buy me. But he knew it could be used would have

to be used to get inside and start talking, start

gathering evidence.... Call Remington again. Tell

him to prepare an extension."

    "It's not Remington, it's the commander of

SAND PAC an admiral named Hickman. David said

I could expect a call from him tomorrow. I'll have

to figure that one out and phone Meagen back.

Hickman's uptight; he wants to know who you are

and why all the interest."

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 253

'How well do you know this Hickman?"

    ' Fairly well. I was with him in New London and

Galveston. He requested me as his CLO in San

Diego; that's what gave me the stripe."

    Converse studied Fitzpatrick's face, then without

saying anything he turned and walked to the open

balcony doors. Connal did not interrupt; he

understood. He had seen too many attorneys, himself

included, struck by a thought they had to define for

themselves, an idea upon which a case might hinge.

Joel turned around slowly, haltingly, the dim,

abstract shadows of a possibility coming into focus.

    "Do it," he began. "Do what I think your

brother-in-law might have done. Finish what he

might have said but never got a chance to say it.

Assume he and I had that meeting after the merger

conference. Give me the springboard I need."

"As you would say, clarification, please, counselor."

    "Present Hickman with a scenario as it might

have been written by A. Preston Halliday. Tell him

that flag's got to remain in place because you have

reason to believe I was connected with your

brother-in-law's murder. Explain that before Halliday

flew to Geneva he came to see you as he did and

told you he was meeting me, an opposing attorney he

suspected of being involved with corrupt export

licensing, a legal front for some boardroom

profiteers. Say he said he was going to confront me.

Preston Halliday had a history of causes."

    "Not for the past ten or twelve years, he didn't,"

corrected Fitzpatrick. "He joined the establishment

with a vengeance and with a healthy respect for the

dollar."

    "It's the history that counts. He knew that; it was

one of the reasons he came to me. Say you're

convinced he did confront me, and since millions are

made out of that business you think I methodically

had him removed, covering myself by being there

when he died. I have a certain reputation for being

methodical."

    Connal lowered his head and ran his hand

through his hair, then walked in thought toward the

hunt table. He stopped, raised his gaze to one of the

racehorse prints and turned back to Converse. "Do

you know what you're asking me to do?"

    "Yes. Give me the springboard that'll catapult me

right in the middle of those would-be Genghis

Khans. To do it you'll have to go further with

Hickman. Because you're so person

254 ROBERT LUDLUM

ally involved and so goddamned angry which again

is the truth tell him to explain your position to

whoever wants the flag released. It's a nonmilitary

matter, so you're taking what you know to the

civilian authorities."

    "I understand all that," said Fitzpatrick.

"Everything I say is the truth, as I saw it when I flew

over here to find you. Except that I reverse the

targets. Instead of being the one who can help me,

you're now the one I want nailed."

    "Right on, counselor. And I'm met by a

welcoming committee at Leifhelm's estate."

"Then I guess you don't see."

"What?"

    "You're asking me to go on record implicating

you in first-degree murder. I'll be branding you as

a killer. Once I say it, I can't take the words back."

"I know that. Do it."

    George Marcus Delavane twisted his torso in his

chair behind the desk in front of the strangely

colored fragmented map on the wall. It was not a

controlled movement; it was an action in search of

control. Delavane did not care for obstrucbons and

one was being explained to him now by an admiral

in the Fifth Naval District.

    "The status of the Hag is Four Zero," said

Scanlon. "To get it released we'd have to go through

Pentagon procedures, and I don't have to tell you

what that means. Two senior officers, one from

naval intelligence, plus a supporting signature from

the National Security Agency; all would have to

appear on the request sheet, the level of the inquiry

stated, thus escalating the request to a sector

demand. Now, General, we can do all this, but we

run the risk "

    "I know the risk," interrupted Delavane. "The

signatures are the risk, the identities a risk. Why the

Four Zero? Who placed it and why?"

    "The chief legal officer of SAND PAC. I

checked him out. He's a lieutenant commander

named Fitzpatrick, and there's nothing in his record

to give us any indication as to why he did it."

    "I'll tell you why," said the warlord of Saigon.

"He's hiding something. He's protecting this

Converse."

    "Why would a chief legal officer in the Navy

protect a civilian under these circumstances?

There's no connection.

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 255

Furthermore, why would he exercise a Four Zero

condition? It only calls attention to his action."

    "It also clamps a lid down on that flag." Delavane

paused, then continued before the admiral could

interrupt. "This Fitzpatrick," he said. "You've checked

the master list?"

"He's not one of us."

"Has he ever been considered? Or approached?"

    ' I haven't had time to find out." There was the

sound of a buzzer, not part of the line over which

the two men spoke. Scanlon could be heard punching

a button, his voice clear, officious. "Yes?" Silence

followed, and seconds later the admiral returned to

Palo Alto. "It's Hickman again."

"Maybe he has something for us. Call me back."

    "Hickman wouldn't give us anything if he had the

slightest idea we existed," said Scanlon. In a few

weeks, he'll be one of the first to go. If it were up to

me he'd be shot."

    '~Call me back," said George Marcus Delavane,

looking at the map of the new Aquitaine on the wall.

    Chaim Abrahms sat at the kitchen table in his

small stone Mediterranean villa in Tzahala, a suburb

of Tel Aviv favored by the retired military and those

with sufficient income or influence to live there. The

windows were open and the breezes from the garden

stirred the oppressive summer's night air. There was

air conditioning in two other rooms and ceiling fans

in three more, but Chaim liked the kitchen. In the

old days he and his men would sit in primitive

kitchens and plan raids; in the Negev, ammunition

was often passed about while desert chicken boiled

on a wood stove. The kitchen was the soul of the

house. It gave warmth and sustenance to the body,

clearing the mind for tactics as long as the women

left after performing their chores and did not

interrupt the men with their incessant trivialities. His

wife was asleep upstairs; so be it. He had little to say

to her anymore, or she to him; she could not help

him now. And if she could, she would not. They had

lost a son in Lebanon, her son she said, a teacher, a

scholar, not a soldier, not a killer by choice. Too

many sons were lost on both sides, she said. Old

men, she said, old men infected the young with their

hatreds and used Biblical legends to justify death in

the pursuit of questionable real estate. Death, she

cried. Death before talk that might avert it! She had

forgotten the early days; too many forgot too quickly.

Chaim Abrahms did not forget, nor would he ever.

256 R08ERT LUDLUM

    And his sense of smell was as acute as ever. This

lawyer, this Converse, this talk! It was all too clever,

it had the stench of cold, analytical minds, not the

heat of believers. The Mossad specialist was the

best, but even the Mossad made mistakes. The

specialist looked for a motive, as if one could

dissect the human brain and say this action caused

that reaction, this punishment that commitment to

vengeance. Too damned clever! A believer was

fueled by the heat of his convictions. They were his

only motive, and they did not call for clever

manipulations.

    Chaim knew he was a plainspoken man, a direct

man, but it was not because he was unintelligent or

lacked subtle perceptions; his prowess on the

battlefield proved otherwise. He was direct because

he knew what he wanted, and it was a waste of time

to pretend and be clever. In all the years he had

lived with his convictions he had never met a fellow

believer who allowed himself to waste time.

    This Converse knew enough to reach Bertholdier

in Paris. He showed how much more he knew when

he mentioned Leifhelm in Bonn and specifically

named the cities of Tel Aviv and Johannesburg.

What more did he have to prove? Why should he

prove it if his belief was there? Why did he not

plead his case with his first connection and not

waste time? . . . No, this lawyer, this Converse, was

from somewhere else. The Mossad specialist said

the motive was there for affiliation. He was wrong.

The red-hot heat of the believer was not there. Only

cleverness, only talk.

    And the specialist had not dismissed Chaim s

sense of smell. As well he should not, as the two

sabres had fought together for years, as often as not

against the Europeans and their conniving

ways those immigrants who held up the Old

Testament as if they had written it, calling the true

inhabitants of Israel uneducated ruffians or clowns.

The Mossad specialist respected his sabre brother,

it was in his look, that respect. No one could dismiss

the instincts of Chaim Abrahms son of Abraham,

archangel of darkness to the enemies of Abraham's

children. Thank God his wife was asleep.

It was time to call Palo Alto.

My general, my friend."

    Shalom, Chaim," said the warlord of Saigon. Are

you on your way to Bonn?"

    I'm leaving in the morning we're leaving. Van

Headmer is in the air now. He'll arrive at Ben

Gurion at

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 257

eight-thirty, and together we'll take the ten o'clock

flight to Frankfurt, where Leifhelm's pilot will meet

us with the Cessna."

"Good. You can talk. '

    "We must talk now," said the Israeli. "What more

have you learned about this Converse?"

"He becomes more of an enigma, Chaim."

"I smell a fraud."

    "So do 1, but perhaps not the fraud I thought.

You know what my assessment was. I thought he was

no more than an infantry point, someone being used

by more knowledgeable men Lucas Anstett among

them to learn far more than they knew or heard

rumors about. I don't discount a degree of minor

leaks; they're to be anticipated and managed, scoffed

at as paranoia."

    "Get to the point, Marcus," said the impatient

Abrahms who always called Delavane by his middle

name. He considered it a Hebrew name, in spite of

the fact that Delavane's father had insisted on it for

his first son in honor of the Roman Caesar the

philosopher Marcus Aurelius, a proselytiser of

moderation.

    ' Three things happened today," continued the

former general in Palo Alto. "The first infuriated me

because I could not understand it, and frankly

disturbed me because it portended a far greater

penetration than I thought possible from a sector I

thought impossible."

"What was it?" the Israeli broke in.

    "A firm prohibition was placed on getting part of

Converse's service record."

"Yes!" cried Abrahms, in his voice the sound of

Triumph.

"What?"

    "Go on, Marcus! I'll tell you when you're

finished. What was the second calamity?"

    "Not a calamity, Chaim. An explanation so

blatantly offered it can't be turned aside. Leifhelm

called me and said Converse himself brought up

Anstett's death, claiming to be relieved, but saying

little else except that Anstett was his enemy that

was the word he used."

    "So instructed!" Abrahm's voice reverberated

around the kitchen. "What was the third gift, my

general?"

    "The most bewildering as well as

enlightening and, Chaim, do not shout into the

phone. You are not at one of your stadium rallies or

provoking the Knesset."

258 ROBERT LUDLUM

    1 am in the field, Marcus. Right now! Please

continue my friend."

    "The man who clamped the lid down on

Converse's military record is a naval officer who was

the brother-in-law of Preston Halliday."

"Geneva! Yes!"

"Stop that!"

"My apologies, my dear friend. It's just all so

perfect!"

    "Whatever you have in mind," said Delavane

'may be negated by the man's reason. This naval

officer, this brother-in-law, believes Converse

engineered Halliday's murder."

'Of course! Perfect!"

    "You will keep your voice down!" The cry of the

cat on a frozen lake was heard.

    "Again my deepest and most sincere apologies,

my general. Was that all this naval officer said?"

    '.No, he made it clear to the commander of his

base in San Diego that Halliday had come to him

and told him he was meeting a man in Geneva he

believed was involved with illegal exports to illegal

destinations. An attorney for profiteers in

armaments. He intended to confront this man, this

international lawyer named Converse, and threaten

to expose him. What do we have?"

"A fraud !"

    "But on whose side, sabre? The volume of your

voice doesn't convince me."

    "Be convinced! I'm right. This Converse is the

desert scorpions"

"What does that mean?"

"Don't you see? The Mossad seesI"

"The Mossad?"

    "Yesl I talked with our specialist and he senses

what I smell he admits the possibility! I grant you,

my general, my honored warrior, that he has

information that led him to think this Converse

might be genuine, that he wanted truly to be with

us, but when I said I smelled bad meat, he granted

one other, exceptional possibility. Converse may or

may not be programmed, but he could be an agent

for his government!"

"A provocateur?"

    "Who knows, Marcus? But the pattern is so

perfect. First, a prohibition is placed on his military

record it will tell us something, we know that.

Then he responds in the negative about the death of

an enemy not his, but ours, and claims

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 259

he was his enemy too so simple, so instructable.

Finally, it is insinuated that this Converse was the

killer in Geneva so orderly, so precisely to his

advantage. We are dealing with very analytical minds

that watch every move in the chess game, and match

every pawn with a king."

"Yet everything you say can be reversed. He could

be " "He can't be!" cried Abrahms.

"Why, Chaim? Tell me why?"

    "There is no heat, noire in him! It is not the way

of a believer! We are not clever, we are adamant!"

    George Marcus Delavane said nothing for several

moments, and the Israeli knew better than to speak.

He waited until the quiet cold voice came back on

the line. "Have your meeting tomorrow, General.

Listen to him and be courteous; play the game he

plays. But he must not leave that house until I give

the order. He may never leave it."

"Shalom, my friend."

"Shalom, Chaim."

14

    Valerie approached the glass doors of her stu-

dio identical with the doors of her balcony

upstairs and looked out at the calm, sun-washed

waters of Cape Ann. She thought briefly of the boat

that had dropped anchor so frighteningly in front of

her house several nights ago. It had not been back;

whatever had happened was past, leaving questions

but no answers. If she closed her eyes she could still

see the figure of a man crawling up out of the cabin

light, and the glow of the cigarette, and she still

wondered what that man was doing, what he was

thinking. Then she remembered the sight of the two

men in the early light, framed by the dark rims of her

binoculars staring back at her with far more pow-

erful lenses. Were they novices finding a safe harbor?

Amateurs navigating the dark waters of a coastline at

night? Questions, no answers.

Whatever, it was past. A brief, disturbing interlude

that

260 ROBERT LUDLUM

gave rise to black imaginings demons in search of

logic, as Joel would say.

    She tossed her long, dark hair aside and

returned to her easel, picking up a brush and

putting the final dabs of burnt umber beneath the

shadowed sand dunes of wild grass. She stepped

back, studied her work, and swore to herself for the

fifth time that the oil painting was finished. It was

another seascape; she never tired of them, and

fortunately she was beginning to get a fair share of

the market. Of course there were those painters in

the Boston-Boothbay axis who claimed she had

virtually cornered the market, but that was rubbish.

Indeed her prices had risen satisfactorily as a result

of the critical approval accorded her two showings

at the Copley Galleries, but the truth was that she

could hardly afford to live where she lived and the

way she lived without at least a part of Joel's check

every month.

    Then again, not too many artists had a house on

the beach with an attached twenty-by-thirty-foot

studio enclosed by full-length glass doors and with

a ceiling that was literally one entire skylight. The

rest of the house, the original house, on the

northern border of Cape Ann was more

rambling-quaint than functional. The initial

architecture was early-coastconfusion, with lots of

heavy bleached wood and curliques, a balustraded

second-story balcony, and outsized bay windows in

the front room that were charming to look at and

look out but leaked fiercely when the winter winds

came off the ocean. No amount of putty or sashing

compound seemed to work; nature was extracting a

price for observing her beauty.

    Still, it was Val's dream house, the one she had

promised herself years ago she would someday be

able to afford. She had come back from the Ecole

des Beaux Arts in Paris prepared to assault New

York's art world via the Greenwich Vil-

lage-Woodstock route only to have stark reality alter

her plans. The family circumstances had always been

sufficiently healthy for her to live comfortably, albeit

not lavishly, throughout three years in college and

two more in Paris. Her father was a passably good

if excessively enthusiastic amateur painter who

always complained that he had not taken the risks

and gone totally into the fine arts rather than

architecture. As a result, he supported his only child

both morally and financially, in a very real sense

living through her progress and devoted to her

determination. And her mother slightly mad,

always loving, always supportive in anything and

every

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 261

thing would take terrible photographs of Val's

crudest work and send the pictures back to her sister

and cousins in Cermany, writing outrageous lies that

spoke of museums and galleries and insane

commissions.

    "The crazy Berlinerin," her father would say

fondly in his heavy Gallic accent. "You should have

seen her during the war. She frightened us all to

death! We half expected she would return to

headquarters some night with a drunken Goebbels

or a doped-up Goring in tow, then tell us if we

wanted Hitler to give her the word!"

    Her father had been the Free French liaison

between the Allies and the German underground in

Berlin. A rather stiff Parisian autocrat who

happened to speak German had been assigned to the

cell in the Charlottenburg, which coordinated all the

activities of Berlin's underground. He frequently said

that he had more trouble with the wild Fraulein with

the impetuous ideas than he had avoiding the Nazis.

Nevertheless they married each other two months

after the armistice. In Berlin. Where neither his

family would talk to hers, nor hers to his. "We had

two small orchestras," her mother would say. "One

played pure, beautiful Viennese Schnitzel, the other

some white cream sauce with deer droppings."

    Whether family animosities had anything to do

with it neither ever said, but the Parisian and the

Berlinerin immigrated to St. Louis, Missouri, in the

United States of America, where the Berlinerin had

distant relations.

    The stark reality. Nine years ago, after she had

settled in New York from Paris, a frightened, tearful

father had flown in to see her and had told Val a

terrible truth. His beloved crazy Berlinerin had been

ill for years; it was cancer and it was about to kill

her. In desperation, he had spent nearly all the

money he had, including unpaid second and third

mortgages on the rambling house in Bellefontaine, to

stem the disease. Among the profiteers were clinics

in Mexico; there was nothing else he could say. He

could only weep, and his losses had nothing to do

with his tears. And she could only hold her father

and ask him why he had not told her before.

    "It was not your battle, ma cherie. It was ours.

Since Berlin, it was always we two. We fought then

together; we fight now as always as one."

    Her mother died six days later, and six months

after that her father lit a Gauloise on the

screened-in porch and mercifully fell asleep, not to

wake up. Valerie could not cry. It was

262 R08ERT IUDIUM

a shock but not a tragedy. Wherever he was he

wanted to be there.

    So Valerie Charpentier looked for a job, a

paying job that did not rely on the sales of an

unknown artist. What astonished her was not that

employment was so easy to find, but that it had very

little to do with the thick portfolio of sketches and

line drawings she presented. The second advertising

agency she applied to seemed more interested in

the fact that she spoke both German and French

fluently. It was the bme of corporate takeovers, of

multinational alliances where profits could be made

on both sides of the Atlantic by the same single

entities. Valerie Charpentier, artist-in-residence

inside, became a company hack on the outside.

Someone who could draw and sketch rapidly and

make presentations and speak the languages and

she hated it. Still, it was a remarkable living for a

woman who had anticipated a period of years

before her name on a canvas would mean

something.

    Then a man came into her life who made

whatever affairs she had had totally forgettable. A

nice man, a decent man even an exciting

man who had his own problems but did not talk

about them, would not talk about them, and that

should have given her a clue. Joel, her Joel, effusive

one moment, withdrawn the next, but always with

that shield, that facade of quick humor which was

often as biting as it was amusing. For a while they

had been good for each other. Both were ambitious

for entirely different reasons she for the in-

dependence that came with recognition, he for the

wasted years he could never reclaim and each

acted as a buffer when the other faced

disappointment or delay. But it all began to fall

apart. The reasons were painfully clear to her but

not to him. He became mesmerised by his own

progress by his own determination, to the exclusion

of everything else, starting with her. He never raised

his voice or made demands, but the words were ice

and the demands were increasingly there. If there

was a specific point when she recognised the

downhill slide, it was a Friday night in November.

The agency had wanted her to fly to West Berlin; a

Telefunken account required some fast personal

service and she was elected to calm the churning

waters. She had been packing when Joel came home

from work. He had walked into the bedroom of

their apartment and asked her what she was doing,

where she was going. When she told him, he had

said, ' You can't. We're expected at Brooks' house

in Larchmont tomorrow night. Tal

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 263

hot and Simon'll be there too. I m sure they'll talk

international. You've got to be there."

    She had looked at him, at the quiet desperation

in his eyes. She did not go to Germany. It was the

turning point; the downhill race had begun, and

within a brief few months she knew it was quickening

to its finish. She quit the agency, giving up authority

for the dog days of free-lancing, hoping the extra

time she had to devote to him might help. It did not;

he seemed to resent any overt act of sacrifice, no

matter how hard she tried to conceal it. His periods

of withdrawal multiplied, and in a way she felt sorry

for him. His furies were driving him and it was

obvious that he disliked what was happening; he

disliked what he was but could not help himself. He

was on his way to a burnout and she could not help

him, either.

    If there had been another woman, she could have

fought, staking out her claim and fiercely insisting on

the right to compete, but there was no one else, only

himself and his compulsions. Finally, she realized she

could not penetrate his shield; he had nothing left

for anyone else emotionally. That was what she had

hurled at him: 'Emotional burn-out!" He had agreed

in that quiet, kind voice and the next day he was

gone.

    So she took him. Four years, she demanded, the

exact amount of time he had taken from her. Those

four years of heady generosity were about to come to

an end, Val reflected, as she cleaned her brushes and

scraped the palette. In January they were over, the

last check, as always, posted by the fifteenth. Five

weeks ago, during lunch at the Ritz in Boston, Joel

had offered to continue the payments. He claimed he

was used to them and was making more in salary and

bonuses than he could spend soberly. The money was

no hardship, and besides it gave him a certain stature

among his peers and was a marvelous ploy to avoid

prolonged entanglements. She had declined,

borrowing words from her father or more likely her

mother, saying that things were far better than they

were. He had smiled that half-sad yet still infectious

smile and said, "If they turn out otherwise, I m here."

Coddamn himl

    Poor Joel. Sad Joel. He was a good man caught

in the vortex of his own conflicts. And Val had gone

as far as she could go to go further was to deny her

own identity. She would not do that; she had not

done it.

264 ROBERT LUDLUM

    She placed her brushes in the tray and walked

to the glass doors that looked over the dunes and

the ocean. He was out there, far away, still

somewhere in Europe. Valerie wondered if he

had given a thought to the day. It was the

anniversary of their marriage.

To summarize,Chaim Abrahms was molded in the

stress and chaos of fighting for daily survival. They

were years of never-ending violent skirmishes, of

outthinking and outliving enemies bent on killing

not only whole sabre settlements but the desertJews'

aspirations for a homeland as well as political free-

dom and religious expression. It is not difficult to

understand where Abrahms came from and why he

is what he is, but it is frightening to think about

where he is going. He is a fanatic with no sense of

balance or compromise where other peoples with

identical aspirations are concerned. If a man has a

different stripe, whether of the same species or not,

he is the enemy. Armed force takes precedence

over negotiations in all matters, and even those in

Israel who plead for more moderate stands based

on totally secure borders are branded as traitors.

Abrahms is an imperialist who sees an

ever-expanding Israel as the ruling kingdom of the

entire Middle East. An appropriate ending to this

report is a comment he made after the well-known

statement issued by the Prime Minister during the

Lebanon invasion: "We covet not one inch of

Lebanon." Abrahms' reply in the field to his

troops the majority by no means sympathetic was

the following.

    "Certainly not an inch! The whole damned

country! Then Gaza, the Golan, and the West Bank!

And why not Jordan, then Syria and Iraq! We have

the means and we have the willi We are the mighty

children of Abraham!"

He is Delavane's key in the volatile Middle East.

    It was nearly noon, the overhead sun beating

down on the small balcony beyond the French

doors. The late-breakfast remnants had been

cleared away by room service; only a silver pot

remained on the hunt table. They had been

reading for hours since the first coffee was

brought to

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 265

the suite at six-thirty. Converse put down the dossier,

and reached for his cigarettes on the table by the

armchair. It is not cliff cult to understand where

Abrahms came from . . . but it is frightening to think

about where he is going. Joel looked over at Connal

Fitzpatrick, who was seated on the couch, leaning

forward over the coffee table and reading a single

page while making notes on the telephone message

pad; the Bertholdier and LeifLelm dossiers were in

two neat piles on his left. The Navy lawyer had said

practically the same words to him, thought Converse,

lighting a cigarette. I'm beginning to see where you're

coming from.... The inherent question put to Joel's

legal mind was simple: Where was he himself going?

He hoped to hell he knew. Was he an inept gladiator

marching into a Roman arena facing far stronger,

better-armed and superior talent? Or were the

demons from his own past turning him into his own

sacrifice, leading him into the arena's hot sand where

angry, half-starved cats waited, ready to pounce and

tear him apart? So many questions, so many

variables he was incapable of addressing. He only

knew he could not turn back.

    Fitzpatrick looked up. "What's the matter?" he

asked, obviously aware that Converse was staring in

his direction. "You worried about the admiral?"

"Who?"

"Hickman, San Diego."

    "Among other things. In the clear light of day,

you're sure he bought the extension?"

    "No guarantees, but I told you he said he'll call

me if any emergency heat came down. I'm damn

sure he won't do anything before consulting me. If

he tries to reach me, Meagen knows what to do and

I'll lean harder. If need be, I'll claim point of

personal privilege and demand a meeting with those

unnamed people in the Fifth District, maybe go so

far as to imply they could be part of Geneva. That'd

be a full circle. We could end up with a

standoff the release of that flag only with a

full-scale investigation of the circumstances. Irony

and standoff."

    "You won't have a standoff if he's with them.

He'll override you."

    "If he was with them, he wouldn't have told

Remington he was going to call me. He wouldn't

have said anything; he'd have waited the extra day

and let it go. I know him. He wasn't just nonplussed,

he was mad. He stands by his people and he

266 ROBERT LUDIUM

doesn't like outside pressures, especially Navy

pressures. We're on hold, and as long as it's hold,

the flag's in place. I told you, he's a lot angrier with

Norfolk than with me. They won't even give him a

reason; they claim they can't."

    Converse nodded. ' AII right," he said. "Call it a

case of nerves on my part. I just finished the

Abrahms dossier. That maniac could blow up the

whole Middle East all by himself and drag the rest

of us in with him.... What did you think of Leifhelm

and Bertholdier?"

    "As far as the information goes, they're

everything you said and then some. They're more

than just influential ex-generals with fistfuls of

money, they're powerful rallying symbols for what a

lot of people think are justifiable extremes. That's as

far as the information goes but the operative word

for me is the information itself. Where did it come

from?"

"That's a step back. It's there."

    "It sure is, but how? You say Beale gave it to

you, that Press used the phrase 'we' 'the ones we're

after,' 'the tools we can give you,' 'the connections

as we think they are.' "

    "And we went over this," insisted Joel. "The man

in San Francisco, the one he went to who provided

the five hundred thousand and told him to build

cases against these people legally, and together

they'd turn them into plain and simple profiteers.

It's the ultimate ridicule for superpatriots. It's sound

reasoning, counselor, and that's the we."

"Press and this unknown man in San Francisco?"

"Yes."

    "And they could pick up a phone and hire

someone to put together these?" Fitzpatrick gestured

at the two dossiers on his left.

    "Why not? This is in the age of the computer.

Nobody today lives on an unmapped island or in an

undiscovered cave."

    "These," said Connal, "are not computer

printouts. They're well-researched, detailed, in-depth

dossiers that take in the importance of political

nuances and personal idiosyncrasies."

    "You have a way with words, sailor. Yes, they

are. A man who can forward half a million dollars

to the right bank on an Aegean island can hire just

about anyone he likes."

"He can't hire these."

"What does that mean?"

"Let me take a real step back," said the Navy lawyer,

get

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 267

tiny to his feet and reaching down for the single page

he had been reading. "I won't reiterate the details of

my relationship with Press because right now it hurts

a little to think about it." Fitzpatrick paused, seeing

the look in Converse's eyes that rejected this kind of

sentimentality in their discussion. "Don't mistake

me," he continued. "It's not his death, not the funer-

al; it s the other way around. It's not the Press

Halliday I knew. You see, I don't think he told us

the truth, either you or me."

    "Then you know something I don't know," said

Converse quietly.

    "I know there's no man in San Francisco that

even vaguely fits the description of the image he

gave you. I've lived there all my life, including

Berkeley and Stanford, just like Press. I knew

everyone he knew, especially the wealthiest and the

more exotic ones; we never held back on those with

each other. I was legal worlds away, and he always

filled me in if new ones came along. It was part of

the fun for him."

    '`That's tenuous, counselor. I'm sure he kept

certain associations to himself."

    ' Not those kinds," said Connal. "It wouldn't be

like him. Not with me."

"Well, I "

    ' Now let me step forward," interrupted

Fitzpatrick. "These dossiers I haven't seen them

before, but I've seen hundreds like them, maybe a

couple of thousand on their way to becoming

full-fledged versions of them."

Joel sat up. "Please explain that, Commander."

"You just hit it, Lieutenant. The rank says it."

"Says what?"

    "Those dossiers are the reworked, finished

products of intelligence probes utilizing heavy shots

of military data. They've been bounced around the

community, each branch contributing its input from

straight biographical data to past surveillances to

psychiatric evaluation and put together by teams of

specialists. Those were taken from way down in the

government vaults and rewritten with current

additions and conclusions, then shaped to appear as

the work of an outside nongovernment authority. But

they're not. They've got Classified, Top Secret, and

Eyes Only written all over them."

    Converse leaned forward. "That could be a

subjective judgment based on limited familiarity. I've

seen some very detailed, very in-depth reports put

together by high-priced firms specialising in that sort

of thing."

268 ROBERT IUDLUM

    "Describing precise military incidents during the

time of war? Pinpointing bombing raids and

specifying regiments and battalions and the current

strategies employed? Detailing through interviews

the internal conflicts of ranking enemy officers and

the tactical reasons for shifting military personnel

into civilian positions after the cessation of

hostilities? No firm would have access to those

materials."

    "They could be researched," said Joel, suddenly

not convinced himself.

    "Well, these couldn't," Connal broke in, holding

up the page of typewritten names, his thumb on the

lower two columns listing the "decision makers' from

the Pentagon and the State Department. "Maybe

five or six three from each side at maximum but

not the rest. These are people above the ones I've

dealt with, men who do their jobs under a variety of

titles so they can't be reached bribed, blackmailed

or threatened. When you said you had names, I

assumed I'd recognize most of them, or at least half

of them. I don't. I only know the departmental

execs, upper-echelon personnel who have to go even

higher, who obviously report to these people. Press

couldn't have gotten these names himself or through

others on the outside. He wouldn't know where to

look and they wouldn't know where to look I

wouldn't know.'

    Converse rose. "Are you sure you know what

you're talking about?"

    "Yes. Someone probably more than one- deep

in the Washington cellars provided these names just

as he or they provided the material for those

dossiers."

"Do you know what you're saying?"

    Connal stood still and nodded. "It's not easy for

me to say," he began grimly. "Press lied to us. He

lied to you by what he said, and to me by what he

didn't say. You're tied to a string and it goes right

back to Washington. And I wasn't to know anything

about it.'

    "The puppet's in place.... " Joel spoke so softly

he could barely be heard as he walked aimlessly

across the room toward the bright sunlight

streaming through the balcony doors.

"What?' asked Fitzpatrick.

    "Nothing, just a phrase that kept running

through my head when I heard about Anstett."

Converse turned. "But if there's a string, why have

they hidden it? Why did Avery hide it? For what

purpose?"

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 269

    The Navy lawyer remained motionless, his face

without expression. ' I don't think I have to answer

that. You answered it yourself yesterday afternoon

when we were talking about me and don't kid

yourself, Lieutenant, I knew exactly what you were

saying. 'I'll give you a name now and then that may

open a door . . . but that's all. Those were your

words. Freely translated, you were telling yourself

that the sailor you took on board might stumble on

to something, but in case he was taken by the wrong

people, they couldn't beat out of him what he didn't

know."

    Joel accepted the rebuke, not merely because it

was justified, but because it made clear a larger

truth, one he had not understood on Mykonos. Beale

had told him that among those raising questions in

Washington were military men who for one reason

or another had not pursued their inquiries; they had

kept silent. They had kept silent where they might be

overheard, perhaps, but they had not totally kept

their silence. They had talked in quiet voices until

another quiet voice from San Francisco a man who

knew whom to reach courtesy of a brother-in-law in

San Diego made contact. They had talked together,

and out of their secret conversations had come a

plan. They needed an infiltrator, a man with the

expertise who had a loathing they could fuel and,

once fired, send out into the labyrinth.

    The realisation was a shock, but oddly enough,

Joel could not fault the strategy. He did not even

fault the silence that remained after Preston

Halliday's murder; loud accusing voices would have

rendered that death meaningless. Instead, they had

stayed quiet, knowing that their puppet had the tools

to make his way through the maze of illegalities and

do the job they could not do themselves. He

understood that, too. But there was one thing

Converse could not accept, and that was his own

expendability as the puppet. He had tolerated being

left unprotected under the conditions outlined by

Avery Fowler-Preston Halliday, not under these. If

he was on a string, he wanted the puppeteers to

know he knew it. He also wanted the name of

someone in Bonn he could call, someone who was a

part of them. The old rules did not apply any longer,

a new dimension had been added.

    In four hours he would be driven through the

iron gates of Erich Leifhelm's estate; he wanted

someone on the outside, a man Fitzpatrick could

reach if he did not come out by midnight. The

demons were pressing hard, thought Joel. Still, he

270 ROBERT LUDIUM

could not turn back. He was so close to trapping the

warlord of Saigon, so close to making up for so

much that had warped his life in ways no one would

ever understand.... No, not no one,' he reflected.

One person did, and she had said she could not

help him any longer. Nor had it been fair any

longer to seek her help.

"What's your decision?" said Connal.

"Decision?" asked Joel, startled.

    "You don't have to go this afternoon. Throw it

all back! This belongs Stateside with the FBI in

conjunction with the Central Intelligence Agency

overseas. I'm appalled they didn't take that route."

    Converse breathed the start of a reply, then

stopped. It had to be clear, not only to Fitzpatrick

but to himself. He thought he understood. He had

seen the look of profound panic in Avery Fowler's

eyes Preston Halliday's eyes and he had heard the

cry in his voice. The lies were his strategy, but the

look and the cry were his innermost feelings.

    "Has it occurred to you, Commander, that they

can't take that route? That, perhaps, we're not

talking about men who can pick up a phone as

you said before and put those wheels in motion?

Or if they tried, they'd have their heads cut off,

perhaps literally, with an official and a bullet in the

back of their skulls? Let me add that I don't think

they're afraid for themselves any more than I

believe they chose the best man for the job, but I do

think they came to a persuasive conclusion. They

couldn't work from the inside because they didn't

know whom they could trust."

"Christ, you're a cold son of a bitch."

    "Ice, Commander. We're dealing with a paranoid

fantasy called Aquitaine, and it's controlled by

proven, committed, highly intelligent and

resourceful men, who if they achieve what they've

set out to do will appear as the voices of strength

and reason in a world gone mad. They'll control

that world our world because all other options

will pale beside their stability. Stability, counselor, as

opposed to chaos. What would you choose if you

were an everyday nine-to-fiver with a wife and kids,

and you could never be sure when you went home

at night whether or not your house had been broken

into, your wife raped, your kids strangled? You'd

opt for tanks in the street."

    "With justification," said the Navy lawyer, the

two words spiraling quietly off into the air of the

sunlit room.

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 271

    "Believe that, sailor. They're banking on it, and

that's just what they're planning to do on an

international scale. It's only a few days or a few

weeks away whatever it is, wherever it is. If I can

just get an inkling . . ." Converse turned and started

for the door of his bedroom.

"Where are you going?" asked Connal.

    'Beale's telephone number on Mykonos; it's in

my briefcase. He's my only contact and I want to talk

to him. I want him to know the puppet has just been

granted some unexpected free will."

    Three minutes later Joel stood at the table, the

phone to his ear as the Greek operator in Athens

routed his call to the island of Mykonos. Fitzpatrick

sat on the couch, Chaim Abrahms' dossier in front of

him on the coffee table, his eyes on Converse.

    "Are you getting through all right?" asked the

Navy lawyer.

    "It's ringing now." The erratic, stabbing signals

kept repeating four, five, six times. On the seventh

the telephone in the Aegean was picked up.

"Herete?"

"Dr. Beale, please. Dr. Edward Beale."

"Tee tha thelete?"

    "Beale. The owner of the house. Get him for me

please!" Joel turned to Fitzpatrick. "Do you speak

GreekP"

"No, but I've been thinking about taking it up."

    "You do that." Converse listened again to the

male voice in Mykonos. Greek phrases were spoken

rapidly, none comprehensible. "Thank yout

Good-bye." Joel tapped the telephone bar several

times, hoping the overseas line was still open and the

English-speaking Greek operator was still there.

"Operator? Is this the operator in Athens? . . .

Good! I want to call another number on Mykonos,

the same billing in Bonn." Converse reached down

on the table for the instructions Preston Halliday had

given him in Geneva. "It's the Bank of Rhodes. The

number is . . ."

    Moments later the waterfront banker, Kostas

Laskaris, was on the line. "Herete."

    "Mr. Laskaris, this is Joel Converse. Do you

remember me?"

    "Of course.... Mr. Converse?" The banker

sounded distant, somehow strange, as if wary or

bewildered.

"I've been trying to call Dr. Beale at the number you

272 ROBERT LUDLUM

gave me, but all I get is a man who can't speak

English. I wondered if you could tell me where

Beale is."

    A quiet expulsion of breath could be heard over

the phone. "I wondered," said Laskaris quietly. "The

man you reached was a police officer, Mr. Converse.

I had him placed there myself. A scholar has many

valuable things."

"Why? What do you mean?"

    "Shortly after sunrise this morning Dr. Beale

took his boat out of the harbor, accompanied by

another man. Several fishermen saw them. Two

hours ago Dr. Beale's boat was found crashed on

the rocks beyond the Stephanos. There was no one

on board."

    I killed him. With a scaling knife dropping his

body over a cluster of sharks beyond the shoals of the

Stephanos.

    Joel hung up the phone. Halliday, Anstett,

Beale, all of them gone all his contacts dead. He

was a puppet on the loose, his strings gone haywire,

leading only to shadows.

15

    Erich Leifhelm's warlike skin paled further as

his eyes narrowed and his starched white lips

parted. Then blood rushed to his head as he sat

forward at the desk in his library and spoke into the

telephone. "What was that name again, London?"

"Admiral Hickman. He's the "

    "No," interrupted the German sharply. "The

other one! The officer who has refused to release

the information."

    "Fitzpatrick, an Irish name. He's the ranking

legal officer at the naval base in San Diego."

"A Lieutenant Commander Fitzpatrick?"

"Yes, how did you know?"

"Unglaublich! Diese Stum per!"

"Warum?" asked the Englishman. "In what sense?"

    "He may be what you say he is in San Diego,

Englander, but he is not in San Diego! He's here in

Bonn!"

    "Are you mad? No, of course, you're not. Are

you certain ?"

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 273

    "He's with Converse! I spoke to him myself. The

two are registered in his name at Das Rektorat! He

is how we found Converse!"

'There was no attempt to conceal the name?"

"On the contrary, he used his papers to gain

entrance!"

    "How bloody third-rate," said London,

bewildered. "Or how downright sure of himself,"

added the Britisher, his tone changing. "A signal? No

one dares touch him?"

"Unsinn!It's not so."

"Why not?"

    "He spoke to Peregrine, the ambassador. Our

man was there. Peregrine wanted to take him,

wanted him brought forcibly to the embassy. There

were complications; he got away."

"Our man wasn't very good, then."

    "An obstruction. Some Schauspieler an actor.

Peregrine will not discuss the incident. He says

nothing."

    "Which means no one will touch his naval officer

from California," concluded London. "There's a very

good reason.

"What is it?"

"He's the brother-in-law of Preston Halliday."

"Geneva! Mein Gott, they are into us!"

    "Someone is, but not anyone with a great deal of

information. I agreed with Palo Alto, who also

agrees with our specialist in the Mossad with

Abrahms, as well."

"The Jew? What does the Jew say? What does he

say?"

    "He claims this Converse is an agent flying blind

out of Washington."

"What more do you need ?"

    "He is not to leave your house. Instructions will

follow."

    Stunned, Undersecretary of State Brewster

Tolland hung up the phone, sank back in his chair,

then shot forward and pressed the appropriate

buttons on his console.

"Chesapeake," said the female voice. "Code, please?"

    "Six thousand," said Tolland. "May I speak with

Consular Operations, Station Eight, please?"

"Station Eight requires "

"Plantagenet," interrupted the Undersecretary.

"Right away, sir."

"What is it, Six thousand?"

274 ROBERT LUDLUM

    'Cut the horseshit, Harry, this is Brew. What

have you got running in Bonn we don't know

about?"

"Off the top of my head, nothing."

"How far off the top is that?"

    "No, it's straight. You're current on everything

we're doing. There was an FRG review yesterday

morning, and I'd remember if there was anything

that excluded you."

"You might remember, but if I'm excluded I'm out."

    "That's right, and I'd tell you as much if only to

keep you out, you know that. What's your

problem?"

    "I just got off the scrambler with a very angry

ambassador, who may just call a very old friend at

Sixteen Hundred."

"Peregrine? What's his problem?"

    "If it's not you, then someone's playing Cons Op.

It's supposedly a covert investigation of the

embassy his embassy somehow connected with

the Navy Department."

    "The Navy? That's crazy I mean dumb crazyl

Bonn's a port?"

"Actually, I suppose it is."

    "I never heard of the Bismarek or the Graf Spee

steaming around the Rhine. No way, Brew. We

don't have anything like that and we wouldn't have.

Do you have any names?"

    "Yes, one," replied Tolland, looking down at a

pad with hastily scribbled notes on it. "An attorney

named Joel Converse. Who is he, Harry?"

    "For Christ's sake, I never heard of him. What's

the naval angle?"

    "Someone who claims to be the chief legal

officer of a major Navy base with the rank of

lieutenant commander."

"Claims to be?"

    "Well, before that he passed himself off as a

military attache working at the embassy."

"Somewhere the inmates broke out of a home."

    "This isn't funny, Harry. Peregrine s no fool. He

may be a vanity appointment, but he's damned good

and he's damned smart. He says these people aren't

only real but may know something he doesn't."

"What does he base that on?"

"First, the opinion of a man who's met this

Converse "

"Who?" interrupted Harry of Station Eight

    "He won't say, just that he trusts him, trusts his

judgment. This person with no name says Converse

is a highly qualified, very troubled man, not a black

hat."

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 275

"A what?"

    "That was the term Peregrine used. Obviously

someone who's okay. '

"What else?"

    "What Peregrine calls isolated odd behavior in

his personnel ranks. He wouldn't elaborate; he says

he'll discuss it with the Secretary or Sixteen Hundred

if I can't satisfy him. He wants answers fast, and we

don't want to rock the boat over there."

    "I'll try to help," said Harry. "Maybe it's

something from Langley or Arlington the bastards!

I can run a check on the Navy's chief legals in an

hour, and I'm sure the ABA can tell us who

Converse is if he is. At least narrow him down if

there's more than one."

    "Get back to me. I haven't got much time and we

don't want the White House raising its voice."

    "The last thing ever," agreed the director of

Consular Operations, the State Department's branch

of foreign clandestine activities.

    'Try that on for legal size!" shouted Rear

Admiral Hickman, standing by the window, angrily

addressing a rigid pale-faced David Remington. 'And

tell me with as few goddamned details as possible

how it fits!"

    "I find it impossible to believe, sir. I spoke with

him yesterday at noon and then again last

evening. He was in Sonoma!"

    "So did 1, Lieutenant. And whenever there was

a scratching or an echo, what were the words? All

that rain in the hills screwed up the telephone lines!"

"Those were the words, sir."

    "He passed through Dusseldorf immigration two

days ago! He's now in Bonn, Germany, with a man

he swore to me had something to do with his

brother-in-law's death. The same man he's protecting

by putting a clamp on that flag. This Converse!"

"I don't know what to say, sir."

    "Well, the State Department does and so do 1.

They're pushing through that vet-delay or whatever

the hell you called it in your legalese."

"It's vetted material, sir. It simply means "

"I don't want to hear, Lieutenant," said Hickman,

head

276 ROBERT LUDLUM

ingback to his desk, adding under his breath. "Do

you know how much you bastards cost me for the

two divorces?"

"I beg your pardon, sir?"

    "Never mind. I want that flag released. I brought

Fitz on board here. I gave him his striper and the

son of a bitch lied to me. He not only lied, he did it

ten thousand miles away lying about where he was

when he knew he shouldn't be there without my

authorizationt He knew itl . . . Do you have any

objections, Lieutenant? Something you can put into

a sentence or two that won't require my bringing in

three other legals to translate?"

    Lieutenant Remington, one of the finest lawyers

in the United States Navy, knew when to put the

engines in reverse. Legal ethics had been violated

by misinformation, the course was clear. Aggressive

retreat with full boilers or nuclear power, he

supposed, although he did not really know. "I'll

personally accelerate the vet-delay, Admiral. As the

officer responsible for the secondary CLO statute,

I'll make it clear that the direct order is now subject

to immediate cancellation. No such order can or

should originate under questionable circumstances.

Legally "

    "That will be all, Lieutenant," said the Admiral,

cutting off his subordinate and sitting down.

"Yes, sir."

    "No, that isn't allI" continued Hickman, abruptly

leaning forward. "How's that transcript released,

and how soon can you expect it?"

    "With State's input it'll only be a matter of

hours, sir, noon or shortly afterwards, I'd guess. A

classified teletype will be sent to those requesting

the Hag. However, since SAND PAC has only

placed a restriction and not a request "

    "Request it, Lieutenant. Bring it up to me the

minute it gets here and don't leave the base until it

does."

"Aye, aye, sirI"

    The deep-red Mercedes limousine weaved down

the curving road inside the massive gates of Erich

Leifhelm's estate. The late-afternoon orange sun

filtered diagonally through the tall trees, which not

only bordered the road but were everywhere beyond

on both sides. The drive might have been restful

had it not been for a sight that made the whole

scene grotesque: racing alongside the car were at

least a half-dozen giant Dobermans, not one of

them making a

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 277

sound. There was something unearthly about their

running furiously in silence, black eyes flashing up at

the windows, their jaws wide with rapid, erratic teeth

bared, but no sound emerging from their throats.

Somehow Converse knew that if he stepped out of

the car without the proper commands being issued,

the powerful dogs would tear him to pieces.

    The limousine pulled into a long circular drive

that fronted wide brown marble steps leading to an

arched doorway, the heavy panels covered with dark

bas-relief a remnant of some ancient pillaged

cathedral. Standing on the lower step was a man with

a silver whistle raised to his lips. Again there was no

sound a human could hear, but suddenly the animals

abandoned the car and ran to him, flanking him,

facing forward on their haunches, jaws slack, bodies

pulsating.

    "Please wait, sir," said the chauffeur as he

climbed out and ran around to Joel's door. "If you

will step out, please, and take two paces away from

the car. Only two paces, sir." The chauffeur now held

in his hand a black object with a rounded metal tube

extending from the front of the instrument, not

unlike a miniaturised electric charcoal starter.

"What's that?" asked Converse.

    "Protection, sir. For you, sir. The dogs, sir. They

are trained to sense heavy metal."

    Joel stood there as the German moved the

electronic detector over his clothes, including his

shoes, his inner thighs and the back of his waist. "Do

you people really think I'd come out here with a

gun?"

"I do not think, sir. I do as I am told."

    'How original," mumbled Converse as he

watched the man on the marble step raise the silver

whistle again to his lips. As one, the phalanx of

Dobermans suddenly leaped forward. In panic, Joel

grabbed the chauffeur, spinning the German in front

of him. There was no resistance; the man simply

turned his head and grinned as the dogs veered to

the right and raced around the circular drive into the

approach road cut out of the forest.

    "Don't apologize, mein Herr, " said the chauffeur.

"It happens often."

    "I wasn't going to apologise," said Converse flatly

as he released the man. "I was going to break your

neck." The German moved away, and Joel remained

motionless, stunned by

278 ROBERT LUDLUM

his own words. He had not spoken words like that

in over eighteen years.

    "This way, sir." said the man on the steps, his

accent oddly yet distinctly British.

    Inside, the great hall was lined with medieval

banners hanging down from an interior balcony.

The hal] led into an immense sitting room, the

motif again medieval, made comfortable by soft

leather chairs and couches, gaily fringed lamps and

silver services everywhere on thin polished tables.

The room was also made ugly by the profusion of

protruding animals'heads on the upper walls; large

cats, elephants and boar looked down in defiant

anger. It was a field marshal's lair.

    It was not, however, the furnishings that

absorbed Converse's attention but the sight of the

four men who stood beside four separate chairs

facing him.

    He knew Bertholdier and LeifLelm; they stood

beside each other on the right. It was the two on

the left he stared at. The medium-sized, stocky man

with the fringe of close-cropped hair on a balding

head and wearing a rumpled safari jacket, the

ever-present boots below his khaki trousers, could

be no one but Chaim Abrahms. His pouched, angry

face with its slits of glaring eyes was the face of an

avenger. The very tall man with the gaunt, aquiline

features and the straight grey hair was General Jan

van Headmer, the Slayer of Soweto. Joel had read

the Van Headmer dossier quickly; fortunately it was

the briefest, the final summary saying it all.

    In essence, Van Headmer is a Cape Town

aristocrat, an Afrikaner who has never really

accepted the British, to say nothing of the tribal

blacks. His convictions are rooted in a reality that

for him is unshakable. His forebears carved out a

savage land under savage conditions and at a great

loss of life brutally taken by savages. His thinking is

unalterably that of the late-nineteenth and

early-twentieth centuries. He will not accept the

sociological and political in

~roads made by the more educated Bantus because

he will never consider them anything more than

bush primitives. When he orders austere

deprivations and mass executions, he thinks he is

dealing only with subhuman animals. It is this

thinking that led him to be jailed along with Prime

Minister Verwoerd and the racist Vorster during

World War II. He con

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 279

curred wholeheartedly with the Nazi concept of su

perior races. His close association with Chaim

Abrahms is the single difference between him and

the Nazis, and not a contradiction for him. The

sabres carved a land out of a primitive Palestine;

their history parallels his country's, and both men

take pride in their strength and respective

accomplishments. Van Headmer, incidentally, is one

of the most charming men one could meet. On the

surface he is cultured, extremely courteous and

always willing to listen. Underneath, he is an

unfeeling killer, and he is Delavane's key figure in

South Africa with its vast resources.

    "Mein Haus ist dein Haus," said LeifLelm, walking

toward Joel, his hand outstretched.

    Converse stepped forward to accept the

German's hand. Their hands clasped. "That was an

odd greeting outside for such a warm sentiment,"

said Joel, abruptly releasing Leifhelm's hand and

turning to Bertholdier. "Good to see you again,

General. My apologies for the unfortunate incident

in Paris the other night. I don't mean to speak lightly

of a man's life, but in those few split seconds I didn't

think he had much regard for mine."

    Joel's boldness had the desired effect.

Bertholdier stared at him, momentarily unsure of

what to say. And Converse was aware that the other

three men were watching him intently without

question struck by his audacity, in both manners and

words.

    "To be sure, monsieur," said the Frenchman,

pointlessly but with composure. 'As you know, the

man disregarded his orders."

"Really? I was told he misunderstood them."

    "It is the samel" The sharp, heavily accented

voice came from behind.

Joel turned around. 'Is it?" he asked coldly.

    "In the field, yes," said Chaim Abrahms. "Either

one is an error, and errors are paid for with lives.

The man paid with his."

    "May I introduce Ceneral Abrahms?" Leifhelm

broke in touching Converse's elbow and leading him

to the Israeli.

    "General Abrahms, it's a privilege," said Joel with

convincing sincerity as they shook hands. "Like

everyone here,

280 ROBERT LUDLUM

I've admired you tremendously, although perhaps

your rhetoric has been excessive at times."

    The Israeli's face reddened as soft laughter filled

the large room. Suddenly Van Headmer stepped

forward, and Converse's eyes were drawn to the

strong face, the brows frowning, muscles taut.

    "You are addressing one of my closest

associates, sir," he said; the rebuke was

unmistakable. Then a thin smile creased his gaunt,

chiseled face. "And I could not have said it better

myself. A pleasure to know you, young man." The

Afrikaner's hand was stretched toward Joel, who

accepted it amid the subdued laughter.

    "I am insulted!" cried Abrahms, his thick

eyebrows raised, his head bobbing in mock despair.

"By talkers I'm insulted! Frankly, Mr. Converse, they

agree with you because none of them has had a

woman in a quarter of a century. They may tell you

otherwise others may tell you otherwise but

believe me they hire whores to play cards with them

or read stories into their old grey ears just to fool

their friends!" The laughter grew louder, and the

Israeli, now playing to an audience, went on,

leaning forward and pretending to speak sotto voce

to Joel. 'But you see, I hire the whores to tell me

the truth while I shtup them! They tell me these

fancy talkers nod off by nine o'clock, whining for

warm milk. With the Ovaltine, if it's possible!"

    "My dear sabre," said Leifhelm, talking through

his laughter, "you read your own romantic fiction

too assiduously. '

    "You see what I mean, Converse?" asked

Abrahms shrugging, palms extended. "You hear

that? 'Assiduously. Now you know why the Germans

lost the war. They forever spoke so dramatically of

the Blitzkrieg and the AngrifJ:e, but actually they

were talking assiduously about what to do next!"

    "They should have given you a commission,

Chaim," said Bertholdier, enjoying himself. "You

could have changed your name, called Rommel and

Von Runstedt Jews and taken over both fronts."

    "The High Command could have done worse,"

agreed the Israeli.

    "I wonder, though," continued the Frenchman,

"if you would have stopped there? Hitler was a fine

orator, as you are

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 281

a fine orator. Perhaps you would have claimed that

he, too, was a Jew and moved into the chancellery."

    "Oh, I have it on good authority that he was a

Jew. But from a very bad family. Even we have them;

of course, they're all from Europe."

    The laughter grew again and then rapidly began

to subside. Joel took the cue. "Sometimes I speak

too frankly, General," he said. 'I should learn better,

but, believe me, no insult was intended. I have

nothing but admiration for your stated positions,

your policies."

    "And that's precisely what we shall discuss," said

Erich Leifhelm, drawing everyone's attention.

"Positions, policies, overall philosophy, if you will.

We will stay as far away from specifics as we can,

although a few will undoubtedly intrude. However,

it is our approach to the larger abstractions that

count. Come, Mr. Converse, have a chair. Let us

begin our conference, the first of many, I trust."

    Rear Admiral Hickman slowly put down the

transcript on his desk, and looked aimlessly past his

propped-up feet out the window at the ocean under

a grey sky. He crossed his. arms, lowered his head

and frowned. He was as bewildered now as he had

been when he first read the transcript, as convinced

now as he was then that Remington's con-

clusions conclusion, really was off the mark. But

then the legal officer was too young to have any real

knowledge of the events as they had actually

happened; no one who had not been there could

really understand. Too many others did; it was the

reason for the flag, but it made no sense to apply

that reasoning to this Converse eighteen years later.

It was exhuming a corpse that had died from a fever,

whether the shell of a man lived on or not. It had to

be something else.

    Hickman looked at his watch, unfolded his arms

and removed his feet from the edge of the table. It

was three-ten in Norfolk; he reached for the

telephone.

    "Hello, Brian," said Rear Admiral Scanlon of the

Fifth Naval District. "I want you to know how much

we appreciate SAND PAC's help in this thing."

    "SAND PAC's?" asked Hickman, bemused that

no credit was given to the State Department.

"All right, Admiral, your help. I owe you one, old

Hicky."

"Start paying by dropping that name."

"Hey, come on, don't you remember the hockey

games?

282 ROBERT LUDEUM

You'd come racing up the ice and the whole cadet

corps would shout: 'Here comes Hicky! Here comes

Hicky!' "

"May I unblock my ears now?"

"I'm just trying to thank you, pal."

    "That s just it, I m not sure for what? Have you

read the transcript?"

"Naturally."

'What the hell s there?"

    Well," answered Scanlon tentatively. PI read it

pretty quickly. It's been an awful day and, frankly,

I just passed it on. What do you think is there?

Between you and me, I'd like to know, because I

barely had time to skim through it."

    What do I think is there? Absolutely nothing.

Oh, sure, we kept Hags on stuff like that back then

because the White House passed the order to put a

lid on officially recorded criticism and we all went

along. Also we were pretty sick and tired of it

ourselves. But there's nothing in that transcript that

hasn't been heard before, or that has any value for

anyone but military historians a hundred years from

now as a very small footnote."

    Swell," said Scanlon, even more tentatively, ' this

Converse had some pretty harsh things to say about

Command-Saigon."

    About Mad Marcus? Christ, I said worse during

the Force-Tonkin conferences and my CO did me

ten times better. We ferried in those kids up and

down the coast when all they were ready for was a

day at the beach with hot dogs and Ferris wheels....

I don't get it. You and my legal zero in on the same

thing, and I think it's old hat and discredited. Mad

Marcus is a relic."

Your who?"

    My legal exec. I told you about him, Remington."

Oh, yes. The stickler prick."

    .He picked up on the Saigon thing too. 'That's

it,' he said. It's in those remarks. It's Delavane.' He

wasn't around to know Delavane was fair game for

every antiwar group in the country. Hell, we gave

him the name Mad Marcus. No, it's not Delavane,

it's something else. Perhaps it's in those escapes,

specifically Converse's last escape. Maybe there's

some MIA input we don't know about."

    `Well," repeated the admiral in Norfolk for the

third time, but now far less tentatively. You may

have something there, but it doesn't concern us.

Look, I'll be honest with you.

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 283

I didn't want to say anything because I didn t want

you to think you went to a lot of trouble for nothing,

but the word I get is that the whole thing is a

bust-negative."

    "Oh?" said Hickman, suddenly listening very

carefully. "How so?"

    'lt's the wrong man. Apparently an

overenthusiastic JG was doing some digging in the

same time period, the same general circumstances.

He saw the flag and drew six wrong conclusions. I

hope he enjoys taking five A.M. muster."

    "And that's it?" asked SAND PAC's admiral,

controlling his astonishment.

    "That's the feedback we get here. Whatever your

CLO had in mind hasn't anything to do with our

people."

    Hickman could not believe what he was hearing.

Of course Scanlon had not mentioned the State

Department's efforts. He knew nothing about them!

He was quickly putting as much distance between

himself and the Converse flag as he could, Iying

because he had not been told. State was working

quietly probably through Cons Op and Scanlon

had no reason to think "old Hicky" knew a damn

thing about Bonn or Converse or Connal

Fitzpatrick's whereabouts. Or about a man named

Preston Halliday who had been murdered in Geneva.

What was happening? He would not find out from

Scanlon. Nor did he care to.

    "To hell with it, then. My CLO will be back in

three or four days and maybe I'll learn something."

    "Whatever it is, it's back in your sandbox,

Aclmiral. My people had the wrong man."

    "Your people couldn't navigate a row boat in the

D.C. Reflecting Pool."

"Can't blame you for that, Hicky."

    Hickman hung up the phone and resumed his

standard position when in thought, gazing beyond his

propped-up shoes at the ocean. The sun was trying to

break through the overcast without much success.

    He had never liked Scanlon for reasons too petty

to examine. Except one; he knew Scanlon was a liar.

What he had not known was that he was such a

stupid liar.

    Lieutenant David Remington was flattered by the

call. The well-known four-striper had invited him to

lunch not only invited him but had apologized for

the lateness of the invitation and told him that it was

perfectly understandable

284 ROBERT LUDIUM

if it was inconvenient. Further, the captain wanted

him to know that the call was of a personal nature,

having nothing to do with naval business. The

high-ranking officer, a resident of La Jolla, was in

port for only a few days and needed legal advice.

He had been told that Lieutenant Remington was

just about the best lawyer in the United States

Navy. Would the lieutenant accept?

    Of course Remington had made it perfectly

clear that whatever advice he might offer would be

offered on the basis of amicus-amicae; no

remuneration could possibly be considered, as that

would be a violation of Statute . . .

    'May I buy you lunch, Lieutenant, or do we have

to split the check?" the four-striper had

asked somewhat impatiently, thought Remington.

    The restaurant was high in the hills above La

Jolla, an out-of-the-way roadside inn that apparently

catered to diners of the area and those from San

Diego and University City who did not care to be

seen together in the usual places. Remington had

not been too pleased; he would have preferred

being seen at the Coronado with the captain than

traveling ten miles north so as no! to be seen in the

hills of La Jolla. Nevertheless, the four-striper had

been politely adamant) it was where he wanted to

meet. David had checked him out. The much

decorated captain not only was in line for

promotion but was considered a potential candidate

for the Joint Chiefs of Staff. Remington would have

ridden a bicycle on the exposed Alaskan pipeline to

keep the appointment.

    Which was exactly what he thought he was

doing, as he spun the steering wheel right, then left,

then right and right again as he made his way up

the steep narrow roads. It was important to keep in

mind, he thought, as he whipped the car to the left,

that personal advice was nevertheless professional

advice, and without payment of any sort whatsoever,

it constituted a debt that would one day be

acknowledged. And if a man was elevated to the

Joint Chiefs . . . Remington could not help it: in a

glow of self-importance he had let drop to a fellow

legal officer the one who had coined the name

"stickler prick" that he was lunching with a highly

regarded four-striper in La Jolla and might be late

returning to the office. Then to drive his point

home, he had asked his associate for directions.

Oh, my Godl What was it? Oh, my God ~

At the apex of the hairpin curve was an enormous

black

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 285

rig, thirty feet in length, and out of control. It

weaved right and left on the narrow incline, its speed

gathering with every foot, measured in racing yards,

a black behemoth swerving, crashing down on

everything in front of it, a wild beast gone mad!

    Remington whipped his head to his right as he

spun the wheel to avoid impact. There were only thin

trunks of young trees and saplings in late-summer

bloom; below was a floral abyss. These were the last

images he saw as the car careened on its side and

began the plunge.

    Far above on another hill a man kneeled,

binoculars raised to his face as the explosion below

confirmed the kill. His expression was one of neither

joy nor sadness, merely acceptance. A mission had

been accomplished. After all, it was war.

    And Lieutenant David Remington, whose life was

so ordered and orderly, who knew exactly where he

was going and how in this world, who knew above all

that he would never be trapped by the forces that

had killed his father in the name of corporate policy,

was put to death by the policy of a company he had

never heard of. An enterprise called Aquitaine. He

had seen the name Delavane.

    Their view is that it's the pro per evolution of

current history, all other ideologies having failed.... The

words spoken by Preston Halliday in Geneva kept

repeating themselves in Converse's inner ear as he

listened to the four voices of Aquitaine. The

frightening thing was that they believed what they

said without equivocation, morally and intellectually,

their convictions rooted in observations going back

decades, their arguments persuasive as they

illuminated past global mistakes of judgment that

resulted in horrible suffering and unnecessary loss of

life.

    The simple objective of their coming

together allies and former enemies alike was to

bring benevolent order to a world in chaos, to permit

the industrial states to flourish for the good of all

people, spreading the strengths and benefits of

multinational trade to the impoverished,

uncommitted Third World and, by so doing, secure

its commitment. Only in this way, in this coming

together, could Communism be stopped stopped

and reversed until it collapsed under the sheer force

of superior armed might and financial resources.

To bring all this about required a shift in values and

prior

286 ROBERT WDLUM

ities.Industrial decisions everywhere must be

coordinated to bring about the total strength of the

free states. Government treasuries, multinational

corporations and giant conglomerates must look to

a stratum of interlocking committees, agree to be

directed by these committees, to accept their deci-

sions which would in effect be their respective

governments' decisions each keeping the others

apprised of its current agenda. What was this

ultimate stratum of negotiators? Who would be the

members of these committees that would in effect

speak for the free nations and set their policiesP

    Throughout history only one class of people

remained constant in its excellence, who when

called upon in Ames of crisis performed far beyond

human expectations even in defeat. The reasons for

this segment's unique contributions in war and

even in peace, though to a lesser degree were his-

torically clear: these men were selfless.. They

belonged to a class trained to serve without thought

of reward except for the recognition of excellence.

Wealth was irrelevant because their needs were

furnished and perquisites granted only through the

outstanding performance of duty.

    In the new order this class of people would not

be subject to the corruptions of the marketplace. In

reality it was unusually well equipped to deal with

such corruptions, for it could not be touched by

them. The mere presence of any illegally gained

wealth within its ranks would instantly be recognised

and condemned, resulting in courts-martial. This

class of society, this novel branch of the human

race, was not only incorrupUble at the highest

levels, it would be the ultimate savior of mankind as

we know it today.

    It was the military. The world over, even

encompassing one's enemies. Together even as

enemies they best understood the catastrophic

results of weakness.

    To be sure, certain minor liberties would

perforce have to be withheld from the body politic,

but these were small sacrifices for survival. Who

could argue?

    None of the four spokesmen for Aquitaine

raised his voice. They were the quiet prophets of

reason, each with his own history, his own identity

allies and enemies together in a world gone mad.

    Converse responded in the affirmative to

everything that was said this was not difficult to

do and asked abstract quesbons of philosophy, as

he was expected to do. Even the court

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 287

jester, Chaim Abrahms, became deeply serious and

answered Converses questions quietly

    At one point Abrahms said, "You think we Jews

are the only ones in the Diaspora, my friend? You

are wrong. The whole human race is dispersed

everywhere, all of us locking rams' horns and not

knowing where to go. Certain rabbis claim we Jews

shall not see salvation until the Messianic era, the

time of divine redemption when a god will appear to

show us the way to our own promised land. He was

far too late arriving we could not wait for Him any

longer. We created Israel. Do you see the lesson?

We we here are now the divine intervention on

earth. And I even I, a man of accomplishment and

ego will give up my life in silence so we may

succeed. "

    Jacques-Louis Bertholdier: "You must

understand, Mr. Converse, that Voltaire said it best

in his Discours sur l'homme. Essentially he wrote that

man attained his highest freedom only when he

understood the parameters of his behavior. We will

establish those parameters. Is anything more logical?

    Erich Leilhelm: "Goethe said it perhaps better

when he insisted that the romance of politics was

best used to numb and quell the fears of the

uninformed. In his definitive Aus meinem Leben he

states clearly that all governing classes must be

imbued above all with discipline. Where is it more

prevalent?"

    Jan van Headmer: "My own country, sir, is the

living embodiment of the lesson. We took the beast

out of the savage and formed a vast, productive

nation. The beast returns and my nation is in

turmoil."

    And so it went for several hours. Quiet

dissertations delivered thoughtfully, reflectively,

passions apparent only in the deep sincerity of their

convictions. Twice Joel was pressed to reveal the

name of his client and twice he demurred, stating the

legal position of confidentiality which could change

in a matter of days, perhaps less.

    "I'd have to offer my client something concrete.

An approach, a strategy that would warrant his

immediate involvement, his commitment, if you will."

    "Why is that necessary at this juncture?" asked

Bertholdier. "You've heard our reasoning. Certainly

an approach can be discerned."

    "All right, scratch approach. A strategy, then. Not

the why but the how."

288 ROBERT LUDLlJM

    "You ask for a plan?" said Abrahms. "On what

    basis?"

    "Because you'll be asking for an investment

surpassing anything in your experience."

    "That's an extraordinary statement," interjected

Van Headmer.

"He has extraordinary resources," replied Converse.

    "Very well," said LeifLelm, glancing at each of

his associates before he continued. Joel understood;

permission was being sought based on prior

discussions. It was granted "What would you say to

the compromising of certain powerful individuals in

specific governments?"

    "Blackmail?" asked Joel. "Extortion? It wouldn't

work There are too many checks and balances. A

man's threatened the threat's discovered and he's

out anyway. Then the purification rites set in, and

where there was once weakness, suddenly there's a

great deal of strength."

    "That's an extremely narrow interpretation," said

Bertholdier.

    "You do not take into consideration the time

element!)' cried Abrahms defiantly, for the first

time raising his voice. "Accumulation, Converse!

Rapid acceleration!"

    Suddenly Joel was aware that the three other

men were looking at the Israeli, but not simply

watching him. In each pair of eyes was a warning.

Abrahms shrugged. "It's merely

"Well taken," said Converse, without emphasis.

    "I'm not even sure it applies," added the Israeli,

compounding his error.

    "Well, I'm sure it's time for dinner," said

Leilhelm, removing his hand from the side of his

chair. "I've boasted so much about my table to our

guest that I admit to a shortness of

breath concern, of course. I trust the chef has

upheld my honor." As if answering a signal which

Joel knew was the case the British manservant

appeared beneath an archway at the far end of the

room. "I am clairvoyant!" Leifhelm rose. "Come,

come, my friends. Saddle of lamb a citron, a dish

created by the gods for themselves and stolen by the

irrepressible thief who rules my kitchen."

    The dinner was indeed superb, each dish the

result of an isolated effort to achieve perfection in

both taste and presentation. Converse was no

gourmet, his culinary education having been forced

on him in expensive restaurants where his mind was

only mildly distracted by the food, but he instinc

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 289

tively knew when a dish was the best in its class.

There was nothing second-rate about Leifhelm's

table, including the table itself, an enormous solid

mass of mahogany supported by two huge but

delicately carved tripods resting on the intricate

parquet floor. The deep-red velour walls in the

high-ceilinged room were hung with oils of hunting

scenes. The low candelabra in front of the

silver-mirrored place mats did not obstruct a guest s

view of the person opposite, a feat Joel wished could

be mastered by most of the hostesses in New York,

London and Ceneva.

    The talk veered away from the serious topics

explored in the sitting room. It was as if a recess had

been called, a diversion to ease the burdens of

statesmanship. If that was the aim, it was eminently

successful, and it was the Afrikaner, Van Headmer,

who led the way. In his soft-spoken, charming way

(the dossier had been accurate the "unfeeling killer"

was charming) he described a safari he had taken

Chaim Abrahms on in the veldt

    "Do you realize, gentlemen that I bought this

poor Hebrew his first jacket at Safarics' in

Johannesburg and there's never been a day when I

haven't regretted it. It's become our great general's

trademark! Of course, you know why he wears it. It

absorbs perspiration and requires very little washing

simply large applications of bay rum. This is a

different jacket, isn't it, great general?"

    "Bleach, bleach, I tell my wife!" replied the sabre,

grimacing. "It takes out the smell of the godless slave

traders!"

    "Talking of slaves, let me tell you," said the

Afrikaner warming to his story with a glass of wine,

changed with each new course.

    The story of Chaim Abrahms' first and only safari

was worthy of good vaudeville. Apparently the Israeli

had been stalking a male lion for hours with his gun

bearer, a Bantu he constantly abused, not realizing

the black understood and spoke English as well as

he. Abrahms had zeroed in each of his four rifles

prior to the hunt, but whenever he had the lion in

his sights, he missed. This supposedly superb

marksman, this celebrated general with the rifle-eye

of a hawk, could not hit eight feet of flesh a hundred

yards away. At the end of the day an exhausted

Chaim Abrahms, using broken English and a

multiplicity of hand gestures, bribed the gun bearer

not to tell the rest of the safari of his misses. The

hunter and the Bantu returned to camp, the hunter

lamenting the nonexis

290 ROBERT LUDLUM

fence of cats and the stupidity of gun bearers. The

native went to Van Headmer's tent, and as the

Afrikaner told it in perfectly-mimicked Anglicized

Bantu, said the following: 'I liked the lion more

than the Jew, sir. I altered his sights, sir, but appar-

ently I will be forgiven my indiscretion, sir. Among

other enticements, he has offered to have me

bar-mitzvahed."

    The diners collapsed in laughter Abrahms, to

his credit, loudest of all. Obviously, he had heard

the story before and relished the telling. It occurred

to Joel that only the most secure could listen to

such telling tales about themselves and respond with

genuine laughter. The Israeli was a rock in the

firmament of his convictions and could easily

tolerate a laugh on himself. That, too, was

frightening.

    The British servant intruded, walking silently on

the hard wood floor and spoke into Erich

Leifhelm's ear.

    "Forgive me, please," said the German, rising to

take the call. "A nervous broker in Munich who

consistently picks up rumors from Riyadh. A sheik

goes to the toilet and he hears thunder from the

east."

    The ebullient conversation went on without a

break in the flow, the three men of Aquitaine

behaving like old comrades sincerely trying to make

a stranger feel welcome. This, too, was frightening.

Where were the fanatics who wanted to destroy

governments, ruthlessly grabbir g control and shack-

ling whole societies, channeling the body politic into

their vision of the military state? These were men of

intellect. They spoke of Voltaire and Goethe, and

had compassion for suffering and pain and

unnecessary loss of life. They had humor and could

even laugh at themselves while speaking calmly of

sacrificing their own lives for the betterment of a

world gone mad. ButJoel understood their true

nature. These were interlopers assuming the mantels

of statesmen. What had Leifhelm said, quoting

Goethe? "The romance of politics was best used to

numb and quell the fears of the uninformed."

Frightening.

    LeifLelm returned, followed by the British

servant carrying two open bottles of wine. If the call

from Munich had brought unfavorable news, the

German gave no indication of it. His spirits were as

before, his waxen smile at the ready and his

enthusiasm for the next course unbridled. "And

now, my friends, the lamb d citron medallions of

ambrosia and, hyperbole aside, actually rather good.

Also, in honor of our guest we have a bonus this

evening. My astute English friend and

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 291

companion was in Siegburg the other day and ran

across several bottles of Beerenauslese, '71. What

could be a more fitting tribute?"

    The men of Aquitaine glanced at one another,

then Bertholdier spoke. 'Certainly a find, Erich. It's

one of the more acceptable German varieties."

    ' The '82 Klausberg Riesling in Johannesburg

promises to be among the finest in years, ' said Van

Headmer.

    'I doubt it will rival the Richon-le-Zion Carmel,

' added the Israeli.

"You are all impossible!"

    A behatted chef rolled in a silver service cart,

uncovered the saddle of lamb and, under

appreciative looks, proceeded to carve and serve.

The Englishman presented the various side dishes to

each diner, then poured the wine.

    Erich Leifhelm raised his glass, the flickering

light of the candles reflecting off the carved crystal

and the edges of the silver-mirrored place mats. To

our guest and his unknown client, both of whom we

trust will soon be in our fold."

Converse nodded his head and drank.

    He took the glass from his lips, and was suddenly

aware that the four men of Aquitaine were staring at

him, their own glasses still on the table. None had

drunk the wine.

    LeifLelm spoke again, his voice nasal, cold, a

fury held in check by an intellect in control. `4

General Delavane was the enemy, our enemy! Men

like that can't be allowed anymore, can't you

understand!' Those were the words, were they not,

Mr. Converse?"

    WhatP"Joel heard his voice but was not sure it

was his. The flames of the candles suddenly erupted,

fire filled his eyes and the burning in his throat

became an unbearable pain. He grabbed his neck as

he struggled out of the chair, hurling it back, he

heard the crash, but only as a succession of echoes.

He was falling. The pain surged into his stomach; it

was intolerable; he clutched his groin, frantically

trying to suppress the pain. Then he felt the chill of

a hard surface and somehow knew he was writhing

wildly on the floor while being held in check by

powerful arms.

    `The gun. Step back. Hold him." The voice, too,

was a series of echoes, though sharply enunciated in

a searing British accent. "Now. Fire!"

16

    The telephone rang, jolting Connal Fitzpatrick

out of a deep sleep. He had fallen back on the

couch, the Van Headmer dossier in his hand, both

feet still planted on the floor. Shaking his head and

rapidly blinking and widening his eyes, he tried to

orient himself. Where was he? What time it? The

phone rang again, now a prolonged, shattering

sound. He lurched off the couch, his breathing

erratic, his exhaustion too complete to shake offin

a few seconds. He had not really slept since

California; his body and mind could barely function.

He grabbed the phone, nearly dropping it as he

momentarily lost his balance.

"Yes... hello!"

    "Commander Fitzpatrick, if you please," said a

male voice in a clipped British accent.

"This Is he."

    "Philip Dunstone here, Commander. I'm calling

for Mr Converse. He wanted me to tell you that the

conference is goings - well, far better than he

thought possible."

    "Dunstone. Major Philip Dunstone. I'm senior

aide to General Berkeley-Greene."

"Berkeley-Greene?"

    "Yes, Commander. Mr. Converse said to tell you

that along with the others he's decided to accept

General Leifhelm's hospitality for the night. He'll

be in touch with you first thing in the morning."

'Let me talk to him. Now."

    "I'm afraid that's not possible. They've all gone

out on the motor launch for a spin downriver.

Frankly, they're a secretive lot, aren't they?

Actually, I'm not permitted to attend their

discussions any more than you are."

"I'm not settling for this, Major!"

"Really, Commander, I'm simply relaying a

message.

292

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 293

. . . Oh yes, Mr. Converse did mention that if you

were concerned I should also tell you that if the

admiral called, you were to thank him and give him

his regards."

    Fitzpatrick stared at the wall. Converse would

not bring up the Hickman business unless he was

sending a message. The request made no sense to

anyone but the two of them. Everything was all right.

Also there could be several reasons why Joel did not

care to talk directly on the phone. Among them,

thought Connal resentfully, was probably the fact

that he didn't trust his "aide" to say the proper words

in the event their conversation was being overheard.

    'AII right, Major . . . what was the name again?

Dunstone?"

    'That's right, Philip Dunstone. Senior aide to

General Berkeley-Greene. "

    "Leave word for Mr. Converse that I'll expect to

hear from him by eight o'clock."

    "Isn't that a little harsh, old boy? It's nearly two

A.M. now. The breakfast buffet usually starts about

nine-thirty out here."

"Nine o'clock, then," said Fitzpatrick firmly.

    "I'll tell him myself, Commander. Oh, one final

thing. Mr. Converse asked me to apologize for his

not having reached you by midnight. They've really

been at it hammer and tongs in there."

    That was it, thought Connal. Everything was

under control. Joel certainly would not have made

that remark otherwise. "Thanks, Major, and by the

way, I'm sorry I was rude. I was asleep and tried to

get it together too fast."

    "Lucky chap. You can head back to the pillows

while I stand watch. Next time you can take my

place."

"If the food's good, you're on."

    "It's not, really. A lot of pansy cooking, to tell

you the truth. Good night, Commander."

"Good night, Major."

    Relieved, Fitzpatrick hung up the phone. He

looked over at the couch, thinking briefly of going

back to the dossiers but decided against it. He felt

hollow all over, hollow legs, hollow chest, a hollow

ache in his head. He needed sleep badly.

    He gathered up the papers and took them into

Converse's room. He placed them in the attache

case, locked it and turned the combination tumblers.

Carrying the case, he went back into the sitting

room, checked the door, turned off the lights and

headed for his own bedroom. He threw the case

294 ROBERT LUDLUM

on the bed and removed his shoes, then his trousers,

but that was as far as he got. He collapsed on the

pillows, somehow managing to wrap part of the

bedspread around him. The darkness was welcome.

    "That was hardly necessary," said Erich Leifhelm

to the Englishman, as the latter replaced the phone.

"'Pansy cooking' is not the way I would describe my

table."

    "He undoubtedly would," said the man who had

called himself Philip Dunstone. "Let's check the

patient."

    The two walked out of the library and down the

hall to a bedroom. Inside were the three other men

of Aquitaine along with a fourth, his black bag and

the exposed hypodermic needles denoting a

physician. On the bed was Joel Converse, his eyes

wide and grasslike, saliva oozing from the sides of

his mouth, his head moving back and forth as if in

a trance, unintelligible sounds emerging from his

lips.

    The doctor glanced up and spoke. "There's

nothing more he can give us because there is more,"

said the physician. "The chemicals don't lie. Quite

simply, he's a blind sent out by men in Washington,

but he has no idea who they are. He didn't even

know they existed until this naval officer convinced

him they had to exist. His only referrals were

Anstett and Beale."

    "Both dead," interrupted Van Headmer. "Anstett

is public, and I can vouch for Beale. My employee

on Santorini flew into Mykonos and confirmed the

kill. There can be no trace incidentally. The Greek

is back on the chalk cliffs selling laces and inflated

whisky in his taverna."

    "Prepare him for his odyssey," said Chaim

Abrahms, looking down at Converse. "As our

specialist in the Mossad put it so clearly, distance is

now the necessary requirement. A vast separation

between this American and those who would send

him out."

    Fitzpatrick stirred as the bright morning sunlight

from the windows pierced the darkness and

expanding shades of white forced his eyelids open.

He stretched, his shoulder digging into a hard

corner of the attache case, the rest of him

constricted by the bedspread, which was tangled

about his legs. He kicked it off and Hung his arms

on both sides of the bed, breathing deeply, feeling

the relaxed swelling of his chest. He swung his left

hand above his head, twisted his wrist

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 295

and looked at his watch. It was nine-twenty; he had

slept for seven and a half hours, but the

uninterrupted sleep seemed much longer. He got out

of bed and took several steps; his balance was steady,

his mind clearing. He looked at his watch again,

remembering. The major named Dunstone had said

breakfast at Leifhelm's estate was served from

nine-thirty on and if the conference had moved to a

boat on the river at 2:00 A.M. Converse probably

would not call before ten o'clock.

    Connal walked into the bathroom; there was a

phone on the wall by the toilet if he was wrong

about the call. A shave followed by a hot and cold

shower and he would be fully himself again.

    Eighteen minutes later Fitzpatrick walked back

into the bedroom, a towel around his waist, his skin

still smarting from the harsh sprays of water. He

crossed to his open suitcase on a luggage rack and

took out his miniaturised radio, placed it on the

bureau and, deciding against the Armed Forces

band, dialed in what was left of a German newscast.

There were the usual threats of strikes in the

industrial south, as well as charges and

countercharges hurled around the Bundestag, but

nothing earthshaking. He selected comfortable

clothes lightweight slacks, a blue oxford shirt and

his cord jacket. He got dressed and walked out into

the sitting room toward the phone, he would call

room service for a small breakfast and a great deal

of coffee.

    He stopped. Something was wrong. What was it?

The pillows on the couch were still rumpled, a glass

half filled with stale whisky still on the coffee table,

as were pencils and a blank telephone message pad.

The balcony doors were closed, the curtains drawn,

and across the room the silver ice bucket remained

in the canter of the silver tray on the antique hunt

table. Everything was as he had last seen it, yet there

was something.... The door! The door to Converse's

bedroom was shut. Had he closed it? No, he had not!

    He walked rapidly over and opened the door. He

studied the room, conscious of the fact that he had

stopped breathing. It was immaculate cleaned and

smoothed to a fare-thee-well. The suitcase was gone;

the few articles Converse had left on the bureau

were no longer there. Connal rushed to the closet

and yanked it open. It was empty. He went into the

bathroom; it was spotless, new soap in the re-

ceptacles, the glasses wrapped in clinging paper

ready for incoming guests. He walked out of the

bathroom stunned.

296 ROBERT IUDLUM

There was not the slightest sign that anyone except

a maid had been in that bedroom for days.

    He ran out to the sitting room and the

telephone. Seconds later the manager was on the

line; it was the same man Connal had spoken with

yesterday. "Yes, indeed, your businessman was even

more eccentric than you described, Commander. He

checked out at three-thirty this morning, paying all

the bills, incidentally."

"He was here?"

Of course."

You saw him?"

    Not personally. I don't come on duty until eight

o'clock. He spoke with the night manager and

settled your account before going up to pack."

    "How could your man know it was him? He

never saw him before!"

    Really, Commander, he identified himself as

your associate and paid the bill. He also had his

key; he left it at the desk."

    Fitzpatrick paused, astonished, then spoke

harshly. The room was cleaned! Was that also

done at three-thirty this morning? '

    No, main Herr, at seven o'clock. By the first

housekeeping shift."

But not the outer room?"

    The commotion might have disturbed you.

Frankly Commander, that suite must be prepared

for an early-afternoon arrival. I'm sure the staff felt

it would not bother you if they got a head start on

the task. Obviously, it

Early afternoons I'm here!"

    And welcome to stay until twelve noon, the bill

has been paid. Your friend has departed and the

suite has been reserved."

And I don't suppose you have another room."

'I'm afraid there's nothing available, Commander."

    Connal slammed down the phone. Really,

Commander . . . Those same words had been spoken

by another over the same telephone at two o'clock

in the morning. There were three directories in a

wicker rack by the table, he pulled out the one for

Bonn and found the number

"Guten Morgen. Hier bei General Leifhelm. "

"Herrn Major Dunstone, bitts. "

    THE AQUITAINE

    PROGRESSION 297

"Wer2"

    "Dunstone,~' he said, then continued in German,

"He's a guest. Philip Dunstone. He's the senior aide

to to a General Berkeley-Greene. They're English."

    "English? There are no Englishmen here, sir.

There's no one here that is to say, there are no

guests."

    "He was there last night! They both were. I spoke

with Major Dunstone."

    "The general had a small dinner party for a few

friends but no English people, sir."

"Look, I'm trying to reach a man named Converse."

"Oh, yes, Mr. Converse. He was here, sir."

"Was?"

"I believe he left."

"Where's Leifhelm?" shouted Connal.

    There was a pause before the German replied

coldly "Who should I say is calling General

Leifhelm?"

"Fitzpatrick. Lieutenant Commander Fitzpatricki"

    "I believe he's in the dining room. If you'll stay

on the telephone." The line was put on hold; the

suspended silence was unnerving.

    finally there was a click and Leifhelm's voice

reverberated over the phone. "Good morning,

Commander. Bonn has provided a lovely day, no?

The Seven Mountains are as clear as in a picture

postcard. I believe you can see them "

"Where's Converse?" interrupted the Navy lawyer.

"I would assume at Das Rektorat."

"He was supposed to be staying at your place."

    "No such arrangements were made. They were

neither requested nor offered. He left rather late,

but he did leave Commander. My car drove him

back."

    "That's not what I was toldl A Major Dunstone

called me around two this morning "

    "I believe Mr. Converse left shortly before then....

Who did you say called?"

    "Dunstone. A Major Philip Dunstone. He's

English. He said he was the senior aide to General

Berkeley-Greene."

    "I don't know this Major Dunstone, there was no

such person here. However, I'm familiar with just

about every general officer in the British Army and

I've never heard of anyone named Berkeley-Greene."

"Stow it, Leifhelml"

"I beg your pardon."

298 ROBERT LUDLUM

    "I spoke to Dunstone! He he said the right

words. He said Converse was staying at your

place with the others!"

    "I think you should have spoken directly with

Herr Converse, because there was no Major

Dunstone or General Berkeley-Greene at my home

last night. Perhaps you should check with the

British embassy; certainly they d know if these

people were in Bonn. Perhaps you heard the words

incorrectly; perhaps they met later at a cafe."

    "I couldn't speak to him! Dunstone said you

were out on the river in a boat." Fitzpatrick's breath

was now coming in short gasps.

    "Now, that's ridiculous, Commander. It's true I

keep a small launch for guests, but it's a well-known

fact that I am not partial to the water." The general

paused, adding with a short laugh. "The great field

marshal gets seasick in a llatboat six feet from

shore."

"You re Iying!"

    "I resent that, sir. Especially about the water. I

never feared the Russian front, only the Black Sea.

And if we had invaded England, I assure you I

would have crossed the Channel in a plane." The

Cerman was toying with him; he was enjoying

himself.

    "You know exactly what I mean!" Connal

shouted again. "They said Converse checked out of

here at three-thirty this morning! I say he never

came back!"

    "And I say this conversation is pointless. If you

are truly alarmed, call me back when you can be

civil. I have friends in the Staatspolizei." Again a

click; the German had hung up.

    As Fitzpatrick replaced the phone another

thought suddenly struck him. Frightened, he walked

quickly into the bedroom, his eyes instantly zeroing

in on the attache case. It was partly under the

pillow; oh Cod, he had been in such a sound sleep!

He yanked the case out and examined it. Breathing

again, he saw that it was the same case, the

combination locks secure; no amount of pressure on

the small brass buttons would release the plates. He

lifted the case and shook it; the weight and the

sounds were proof that the papers were inside and

intact, proof also that Converse had not returned to

the inn and checked out. All other considerations

aside and regardless of whatever emergencies that

might have arisen, he would never have left without

the dossiers and the list of names.

Connal carried the case back into the sitting room

trying

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 299

to collect his thoughts, putting them in alphabetical

sequence so as to impose some kind of order. A: He

had to assume that the flag on Joel's service record

had been lifted or the damaging information

unearthed in some other way and that Converse was

now being held by LeifLelm and the contingent from

Aquitaine that had flown in from Paris, Tel Aviv and

Johannesburg. B:They would not kill him until they

had used every means possible to find out what he

knew which was far less than they imagined and

could take several days. C: The LeifLelm estate,

according to his dossier, was a fortress; thus the

chances of going in and bringing Converse out were

nil. D: Fitzpatrick knew he could not appeal to the

American embassy. To begin with, Walter Peregrine

would place him under territory arrest and those

doing the arresting might put a bullet in his head.

One had tried. E: He could not risk seeking help

from Hickman in San Diego, which under different

circumstances might be a logical course of action.

Everything in the admiral's makeup ruled out any

connection with Aquitaine; he was a fiercely

independent officer whose conversations were laced

with barbed remarks about the Pentagon's policies

and mentality. But if that flag had been officially re-

leased whether with his consent or over his objec-

tions Hickman would have no choice but to call

him back to the base for a full inquiry. Any contact

at all could result in the immediate cancellation of

his leave, but if there was no contact and no way to

reach him, the order, obviously, could not be given.

    Connal sat down on the couch, the attache case

at his feet, and picked up a pencil; he wrote out two

words on the telephone message pad: Call Meagen.

He would tell his sister to say that after Press's

funeral he had left for parts unknown without

explanation. It was consistent with what he had said

to the admiral, that he was taking his information to

"the authoribes" investigating Preston Halliday's

death.

    F: He could go to the Bonn police and tell them

the truth. He had every reason to believe that an

American colleague was being held against his will

inside the gates of General Erich Leifhelm's estate.

Then, of course, the inevitable question would arise:

Why didn't the Lieutenant Commander contact the

American embassy? The unspoken would be just

below the surface: General Leifhelm was a

prominent figure, and such a serious charge should

have diplomatic support. The embassy again. Strike

out. Then again, if Leifhelm said

300 ROBERT LUDLUM

he had "friends" in the Staatspolizei, he probably

owned key men in the Bonn Police. If he was

alarmed, Converse could be moved. Or killed. G:. .

. was insane, thought the Navy lawyer as a legal

phrase crept slowly into his consciousness, suddenly

taking on a blurred viability. Trade-o~: It was a

daily occurrence in pretrial examinations, both

civilian and military. We'll drop this if you accept that

We'll stay out of this area if you stay out of that one.

Standard practice. Trade-off. Was it possible? Could

it even be considered? It was crazy and it was

desperate, but then nothing was sane, nothing held

much hope. Since force was out of the question,

could an exchange be made? LeifLelm for

Converse. A general for a lieutenant.

    Connal did not dare analyze; there were too

many negatives. He had to act on instinct because

there was nothing else left, nowhere he could turn

that did not lead to a blank wall or a bullet. He got

up from the couch, went to the table with the

telephone and and reached for the directory on the

floor. What he had in mind was insane, but he could

not think about that. He found the name. Fishbein,

rise. The illegitimate daughter of Hermann Goring.

    The rendezvous was set: a back table at the

Hansa-Keller cafe on the Kaiserplatz, the

reservation in the name of Parnell. Fitzpatrick had

had the presence of mind in California to pack a

conservative civilian suit; he wore it now as the

American attorney, Mr. Parnell, who was fluent in

German and sent by his firm in Milwaukee,

Wisconsin, to make contact with one use Fishbein in

Bonn, West Germany. He also had the presence of

mind in Bonn, West Germany, to have managed a

single room at the Schlosspark on the

Venusbergweg and placed Converse's attache case

where it would be safe for a considerable length of

time, a trail left for Converse should everything

blow apart. A trail he would recognize if Joel was

alive and able to hunt.

    Connal arrived ten minutes early, not merely to

secure the table but to familiarise himself with the

surroundings and silently practice his approach. He

had done the same thing many times before,

walking into military courtrooms before a trial,

testing the chairs, the height of the tables, the scan

of vision of the tribunal on the dais. It all helped.

    He knew it was she when the woman arrived and

spoke to the mau^tre d' at his lectern. She was tall

and heavy, not

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 301

obese but fleshy in a statuesque way, conscious of

her mature sensuality but smart enough not to

parade it. She was dressed in a light-grey summer

suit, the jacket buttoned above her generous breasts,

a wide white collar demurely angled over the fabric.

Her face, too, was full but not soft, the high cheek-

bones lending an appearance of character that might

not otherwise have been there, her hair was dark

and shoulder-length, with slight streaks of premature

gray. She was escorted to the table by the dining

room's captain. Fitzpatrick rose as she approached.

    "Guten Tag, Frau Fishhein, " he said, extending

his hand. "Bitte, setzen Sie sich. "

    ' It's not necessary for you to speak German,

Herr Parnell," said the woman, releasing his hand

and sliding into the chair under the guidance of the

captain, who bowed and left. "I make my living as a

translator."

"Whatever you feel most comfortable with," said

Connal.

    "I think under the circumstances I should prefer

English, and spoken softly, if you please. Now, what

is this incredible thing you alluded to over the

telephone, Mr. Parnell?"

    "Quite simply an inheritance, Mrs. Fishbein,"

replied Fitzpatrick, his expression sincere, his eyes

steady. "If a few technical questions can be settled,

and I'm sure they can be, as a rightful legatee you

will receive a substantial sum of money."

"From someone in America I never knew?"

"He knew your father."

    "I did not," said use fishbein quickly, her eyes

darting about at the adjacent tables. "Who is this

man?"

    "He was a member of your father's staff during

the war," answered Connal, lowering his voice still

further. "With your father's help certain contacts in

Holland he got out of Germany before the

Nuremberg trials with a great deal of money. He

came to the United States by way of London, his

funds intact, and started a business in the Midwest.

It became enormously successful. He died recently,

leaving sealed instructions with my firm, his

attorneys."

"But why me?"

    "A debt. Without your father's influence and

assistance our client would probably have withered

for years in jail instead of flourishing as he did in

America. As far as anyone was concerned, he was a

Dutch immigrant from the Netherlands whose family

business was destroyed in the war and who

302 ROBERT LUDLUM

sought his future in America. That future included

considerable real estate holdings and a very

successful meat-packing plant all in the process of

being sold. Your inheritance is in excess of two

million American dollars. Would you care for an

aperitif, Mrs. Fishbein?"

    The woman could not at first reply. Her eyes

had grown wide, her full jaw slackened, her stare

was trancelike."I believe I will, Herr Parnell," she

said in a monotone, finding her voice. "A large

whisky, if you please."

    Fitzpatrick signaled the waiter, ordered drinks

and tried several times to make idle conversation,

commenting on the beautiful weather and asking

what sites he should see while in Bonn. It was no

use. Ilse Fishbein was as close to being in a

catatonic state as Connal could imagine. She had

gripped his wrist, clutching it in silence with

extremely strong fingers, her lips parted, her eyes

two blank glass orbs. The drinks came, the waiter

left, and still she would not let go of him. Instead,

she drank somewhat awkwardly, lifting the glass

with her left hand.

    '~What are these questions to be settled? Ask

anything, demand anything. Do you have a place to

stay? Things are so crowded in Bonn."

    "You're very kind; yes, I do. Try to understand,

Mrs. Fishbein, this is an extremely sensitive matter

for my firm. As you can well imagine, it's not the

sort of legal work American attorneys are too happy

with, and, frankly, had our client not made certain

provisos connecting the successful completion of

this aspect of his last will and testament to the full

execution of other aspects, we might have "

'.The questions! What are the questions?"

    Fitzpatrick paused before answering, the

thoughtful lawyer permitting the interruption but

still intent on making his point. 'everything will be

handled confidentially, the probate court operating

in camera "

'~With photographs?"

    'fin private, Mrs. Fishbein. For the good of the

community, in exchange for specific state and local

taxes that might not be paid in the event of

confiscation. You see, the higher courts might

decide the entire estate is open to question."

"Yes, the questions! What are they?"

    "Really quite simple. I've prepared certain

statements, which you will sign and to which I can

swear to your signature. They establish your

bloodline. Then there is a short de

- THE AQUITAINE

PROGRESSION 303

position required substantiating the claim. We need

only one, but it must be given by a former

high-ranking member of the Cerman forces,

preferably a man whose name is recognizable, whom

the recent history books or war accounts establish as

a working colleague of your natural father. Of course,

it would be advantageous to have someone known to

the American military in the event the judge decides

to call the Pentagon and ask Who is this fellow?' '

    "I know the maul" whispered use Fishbein. "He

was a field marshal, a brilliant General!"

    "Who is he?" asked the Navy lawyer, then

instantly shrugging, dispensing with the question of

identity as irrelevant. "Never mind. Just tell me why

you think he's the right man, this field marshal."

    "He is greatly respected, although not everyone

agrees with him. He was one of the grossmachtigen

young commanders, once decorated by my father

himself for his brilliancel"

    "But would anyone in the American military

establishment know him?"

    "Mein Gott! He worked for the Allies in Berlin

and Vienna after the war!"

"Yes?"

"And at SHAPE Headquarters in Brussels!"

    Yes, thought Connal, we're talking aloout the same

man "Fine," said Fitzpatrick casually but seriously.

"Don't bother giving me his name. It doesn't matter,

and I probably wouldn't know it anyway. Can you

reach him quickly?"

"In minutes! He's here in Bonn."

    "Splendid. I should catch the plane back to

Milwaukee by tomorrow noon."

    "You will come to his house and he will dictate

what you need to his secretary."

    "I'm sorry I can't do that. The deposition must be

countersigned by a notary. I understand you have the

same rules over here -- and why not, you invented

them and the Schlosspark Hotel has both typing and

notary services. Say this evening, or perhaps early in

the morning? I should be more than happy to send a

taxi for your friend. I don't want this to cost him a

pfennig. Any expenses he incurs my firm will be

happy to repay."

    use Fishbein giggled a slightly hysterical giggle.

"You do not know my friend, main Herr."

304 ROBERT LUDLUM

"I'm sure we'll get along. Now, how about lunch?"

    '.Ihave to go to the toilet," said the German

woman, her eyes glass orbs again. As she rose,

Connal rising with her, she whispered, "Mein Gott!

Zwei Millionen Dollar!"

    "He does not even care to know your namer"

cried Ilse Fishbein into the phone. "He's from a

place called Milwaukee, Wisconsin, and is offering

me two million dollarsAmerican!"

"He did not ask who I was?"

    "He said it didn't matter! He probably wouldn't

know you, in any event. Can you imagine? He

offered to send a taxi for you! He said you should

not spend a penny!"

    "It's true Goring was excessively generous during

the last weeks," mused Leimelm. "Of course, he was

more often drugged than not, and those who

supplied him with narcotics which were difficult to

obtain, were rewarded with the whereabouts of

priceless art treasures. The one who later smuggled

him the poisoned suppositories still lives like a

Roman emperor in Luxembourg."

"So you see, it's true! Goring did these things!"

    "Rarely knowing what he was doing, however,"

agreed the general reluctantly. "This is really most

unusual and very inconvenient, Ilse. Did this man

show you any documents, any proof of his

assignment?"

    "Naturally!" lied Fishbein, close to panic, picking

remembered words out of the air. "There was a

formal page of legal statements and a . . .

deposition all to be handled by the courts

confidentially! In private! You see, there is a ques-

tion of taxes, which would not be paid if the estate

was confiscated "

    "I've heard it all before, Ilse," Leifhelm broke in

wearily. "There are no statutes for so-called war

criminals and expatriated funds. So the hypocrites

choke on their hypocritical rules the instant they

cost money, and abandon them."

    "You are always so perceptive, my general, and

I have always been so loyal. I've never refused you

a single request whether it was professional in

nature or far more intimate. Please. Two million

American! It will take but ten or fifteen minutes!"

    "You've been like a good niece, I can't deny it,

Ilse. And there is no way anyone could know about

you in other matters.... Very well, this evening then.

I'm dining at the Stei

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 305

genberger at nine o'clock. I'll stop at the Schlosspark

at eight-fifteen or thereabouts. You can buy me a

gift with your shall we say ill-conceived new

riches."

"I'll meet you in the lobby.'

"My driver will accompany me."

"Ach, bring twenty men!"

'He's worth twenty-five," Leifhelm said.

    Fitzpatrick sat in the chair in the small

conference room on the second floor of the hotel

and examined the gun, the manual of instructions on

his lap. He tried to match what the clerk had told

him to the diagrams and instructions, and was

satisfied that he knew enough. There were basic

similarities to the standard Navy issue Colt .45, the

only handgun he was familiar with, and the technical

information was extraneous to his needs. The

weapon he had purchased was a Heckler & Koch

PGS auto pistol, about six inches long its caliber

nine millimeters, and with a nine-shell magazine clip.

The instructions emphasized such points as

"polygonal rifling" and "sliding roller lock functions';

he let the manual slip to the floor, and practiced

removing the clip and slapping it back into place. He

could load the weapon, aim it and fire it; those were

all that was necessary and he trusted the last would

not be necessary.

    He glanced at his watch) it was almost eight

o'clock. He shoved the automatic into his belt,

reached down for the instructions and stood up,

looking around the room, mentally checking off the

movements and the locations he had designated for

himself. As he had expected, the Fishbein woman

had told him Leifhelm would be accompanied by

someone, a "driver" in this case, and it could be

assumed the man had other functions. If so, he

would have no chance to perform them.

    The room one of twenty-odd conference rooms

in the hotel that he had reserved under the name

of a fictitious company was not large, but there were

structural arrangements that could be put to

advantage. The usual rectangular table was in the

center, three chairs on each side and two at the

ends, one with a telephone. There were additional

chairs against the walls for stenographers and

observers all this was normal. However, in the center

of the left wall was a doorway that led to a very

small room apparently used for private con-

versations. Inside was another telephone, which

when off the

306 ROBERT LUDIUM

hook caused a button on the first telephone on the

conference table to light up; confidentiality had its

limits in Bonn. The hallway door opened onto a

small foyer, thus prohibiting those entering from

scanning the room while standing in the corridor.

    Connalfolded the Heckler & Koch instructions,

put them in his jacket pocket, and walked over to

the table to survey his set pieces. He had gone to an

oflfice-supply store and purchased the appropriate

items. On the far end of the table by the

telephone which was placed perpendicular to the

edge, the buttons in clear view were several file

folders next to an open briefcase (from a distance

its dark plastic looked like expensive leather).

Scattered about were papers, pencils and a yellow

legal pad, the top pages looped over. The setting

was familiar to anyone who had ever had an

appointment with an attorney, said learned counsel

having put his astute observations down on paper

prior to the conference.

    Fitzpatrick retraced his steps to the chair, moved

it forward several feet, and crossed to the door of

the small side room. He had turned on the

lights two table lamps flanking a short couch) he

went to the one above the telephone and turned it

off. He then walked back to the open door and

stood between it and the wall, peering through the

narrow vertical space broken up by upper and lower

hinges. He had a clear view of the foyer's entrance;

three people would pass into the conference room

and he would come out.

    There was a knock on the hallway door the

rapid, impatient tapping of an heiress unable to

control herself. He had told the Fishbein woman the

location of the room, but nothing else. No name or

number, and in her anxiety she had not asked about

either. Fitzpatrick went to the telephone table in the

small room, lifted the phone out of its cradle and

placed it on its side. He returned to his position

behind the door, angling himself so as to look

through the crack, his body in the shadows. He took

the pistol from his belt, held it in front of him and

shouted in a friendly voice, loud enough to be heard

outside in the hotel corridor. "Bitte, kommen Sie

herein! Die Tare ist offer. Ich telefoniere gerade!"

    The sound of the door as it opened preceded

Ilse Fishbein as she walked rapidly into the room,

her eyes directed at the conference table. She was

followed by Erich LeifLelm, who glanced about and

then turned slightly, nodding his head. A third man

in the uniform of a chauffeur came into view, his

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 307

hand in the pocket of his black jacket. Connal then

heard the second sound he needed to hear. The

hallway door was slammed shut.

    He yanked back the small door and quickly

stepped around it, the gun extended, aimed directly

at the chauffeur.

    "You!" he cried in German. "Take your hand out

of your pocket! Slowly!" The woman gasped, then

opened her mouth to scream. Fitzpatrick interrupted

harshly. "Be quiet! As your friend will tell you, I

haven't anything to lose. I can kill the three of you

and be out of the country in an hour, leaving the

police to look for a Mr. Parnell who doesn't exist."

    The chauffeur, the muscles of his jaw rippling,

removed his hand from his pocket, his fingers rigid.

Leifhelm stared in anger and fear at Connal's gun,

his face no longer ashen but flushed. "You dare?"

    "I dare, Field Marshal," said Fitzpatrick. "Just as

you dared forty years ago to rape a young kid and

make damned sure that she and her whole family

never walked out of the camps. You bet your ass I

dare, and if I were you, I wouldn't give me the

slightest cause to be any angrier than I am.' Connal

spoke to the woman. "You. Inside that briefcase on

the table are eight strands of rope. Start with the

driver. Bind his hands and feet; I'll tell you how.

Now! Quickly!"

    Four minutes later the chauffeur and Leifhelm

sat in two conference chairs, their ankles and wrists

bound, the driver's weapon removed from his pocket.

Connal checked the ropes the knots having been tied

under his instructions. Everything was secure; the

more one writhed, the tighter the knots would

become. He ordered the panicked Fishbein woman

into a third chair; he lashed her hands to the arms

and her feet to the legs.

    Rising, Connal picked up the automatic from the

table and approached Leifhelm, who was sitting in

the chair next to the lighted telephone. "Now," he

said, the gun pointed at the German's head. "As

soon as I hang up the phone in the other room we re

going to make a call from here." He walked quickly

into the small side room, hung up the telephone, and

returned. He sat down next to the bound Leifhelm

and took a scrap of paper out of the open briefcase.

On it was written the phone number of the general's

estate on the Rhine beyond Bad Godesberg.

"What do you think you'll accomplish? ' asked

Leifhelm.

308 ROBERT LUDLUM

    "Trade-off," replied Fitzpatrick, the barrel of the

gun pressed against the German's temple. "You for

Converse."

    "Mein Gott!" whispered Ilse Fishbein as the

chauffeur writhed, his hands straining against the

ropes, which were now biting into his wrists.

    "You believe anyone will listen to you, much less

carry out your orders?"

    "They will if they want to see you alive again.

You know I'm right, General. This gun isn't so

loud I made sure of that. I can turn on the radio

and kill you and be on a plane out of Germany

before you're found. This room is reserved for the

night with instructions that we're not to be disturbed

for any reason whatsoever." Connal shifted the

weapon to his left hand, picked up the telephone,

and dialed the number written on the scrap of

paper.

"Guten Tag. Hier bet General LeifAelm."

    "Put someone in authority on this phone," said

the Navy lawyer in perfect German. ' I have a gun

less than a foot away from General Leifhelm's head

and I'll kill him right now unless you do as I say.'

    There were muffled shouts over the line as a

hand was held against the mouthpiece. In seconds a

crisp British accent was speaking slowly, deliberately

in English.

"Who is this and what do you want?"

    "Well, what do you know? This sounds like

Major Philip Dunstone that was the name, wasn't

it? You don't sound half so friendly as you did last

night."

"Don't do anything rash, Commander. You'll regret

it."

    "And don't you do anything stupid, or Leifhelm

will regret it sooner that is, until he can't regret

anything any longer. You've got one hour to get

Converse to the airport and inside the Lufthansa

security gate. He has a reservation on the ten

o'clock flight to Washington, D.C., by way of Frank-

furt. I've made arrangements. I'll be calling a

number in a room where he'll be taken and I'll

expect to talk with him. After I do, I'll leave here

and call you on another phone, telling you where

your employer is. Just get Converse to that security

gate. One hour, Major!" Fitzpatrick shoved the

phone in front of Leifhelm's face, and pressed the

barrel of the gun into the German's temple.

"Do as he says," said the General, choking on the

words.

    The minutes went by slowly, stretching into a

quarter of an hour, then thirty, the silence finally

broken by Leifhelm.

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 309

"So you found her," he said, gesturing his head at use

Fishbein, who trembled as tears streaked down her

full cheeks.

    "Just as we found out about Munich forty years

ago, and a hell of a lot of other things. You're all on

your way to that great big war room in the sky, Field

Marshal, so don't worry about whether I'll go back

on my word to your English butler. I wouldn't miss

seeing you bastards paraded for everyone to see what

you really are. People like you give the military ev-

erywhere a goddamned rotten name."

    There was a slight commotion from the hallway

beyond the door. Connal looked up, raising the gun

and holding it directly at Leifhelm's head.

"Was ist?" said the Cerman, shrugging.

"Seine Bewegung!"

    From the hotel corridor came the strains of a

melody sung by several male voices more off key

than on. Another conference in one of the other

rooms had broken up, obviously as much from the

excessive intake of alcohol as from the completion of

a business agenda. Raucous laughter pierced a

refrain as harmony was unsuccessfully attempted.

Fitzpatrick relaxed, lowering the automatic; no one

on the outside knew the name or number of the

room.

    "You say men like me give your

profession which is my profession as well a

seriously bad name," said Leifhelm. "Has it occurred

to you, Commander, that we might elevate that

profession to one of indispensable greatness in a

world that needs us badly?"

    "Needs us?" asked Connal. "We need the world

first and not your kind of world. You tried it once

and blew it, don't you remember?"

    "That was one nation led by a madman trying to

impose his imprimatur over the globe. This is many

nations with one class of self-abnegating

professionals coming together for the good of all."

    "Whose definition? Yours? You're a funny fellow,

General. Somehow I question your benevolent

tendencies."

    "Indiscretions of a deprived youth whose name

and rightful opportunities were stolen from him

should not be held against the man a half-century

later."

    "Deprived or depraved? I think you made up for

lost time pretty quickly and as brutally as you could.

I don't like your remedies."

"You have no vision."

310 ROBERT LUDIUM

    "Thanks be to Jesus, Mary, and Joseph it's not

yours. " The singing out in the corridor faded

briefly, then swelled again, more discordant and

louder than before. "Maybe that's some of your old

Dachau playboys having a beer bust."

Leifhelm shrugged.

    Suddenly the door burst open, crashing into the

wall as three men raced in, spits filling the air as

silenced guns fired hands jerking back and forth, the

surface of the table chewed up, splinters of wood

flying everywhere. Fitzpatrick felt the repeated stabs

of intense pain in his arm as the automatic was

blown out of his grip. He looked down and saw the

blood drenching the fabric of his right sleeve.

Though in shock he glanced about him. Ilse

Fishbein was dead, her bleeding skull shattered by

a fusillade of bullets; the chauffeur was smiling

obscenely. The door was closed as if nothing had

happened.

    "Stumper," Leifhelm said as one of the invaders

cut the ropes around his wrists. "I used that term

only yesterday, Commander, but I did not know

how right I was. Did you think a single telephone

call could not be traced to a single room? It was all

too coincidentally symmetrical. Converse is ours and

suddenly this poor whore comes into immense

riches American riches. I grant you it was entirely

possible such bequests are made frequently by

sausage-soaked idiots who don't realize the harm

they do, but the timing was too perfect,

too amateurish."

    "You're one son of a bitch." Connal shut his

eyes, trying to force the pain out of his mind,

unable to move his fingers

    "Why, Commander," said the general, getting

out of the chair, "do I sense the bravado of fear?

Do you think I'm going to have you killed?"

"You sense it. I won't give you any more than that."

    "You're quite wrong. Considering the nature of

your military leave, you can be of minor but unique

service to us. One more statistic to disrupt a

pattern. You'll be our guest, Commander, but not

in Germany proper. You are gomg on a trip."

17

    Converse slowly opened his eyes, a dead, iron

weight on his lids and nausea in his throat blurred

darkness everywhere and a terrible stinging at his

side, on his arm, flesh separated from flesh, stretched

and inflamed. Blindly he tried to touch the offending

spot, then gasping, pulled back in pain. Somewhere

light was creeping around the dark space above him,

picking its way through moving obstructions, peering

into the shadows. Objects slowly came into focus the

metal rim of the cot next to his face, two wooden

chairs opposite each other at a small table in the

distance, a door also in the distance, but farther away

and shut . . . then another door, this one open, a

white sink with a pair of dull-metal faucets on the left

in a far-away cubicle. The light? It was still moving,

now dancing, flickering. Where was it?

    He found it: high in the wall on either side of the

closed door were two rectangular windows, the short

curtains billowing in the breeze. The windows were

open, but oddly not open, not clear, the spaces

interrupted. Joel raised his head, supporting himself

on his forearm and squinted, trying to see more

clearly. He focused on the interruptions behind the

swelling curtains thin black metal shafts vertically

connecting the window frames. They were bars. He

was in a cell.

    He fell back on the cot, swallowing repeatedly to

lessen the burning in his throat, and moved his arm in

circles trying to lessen the pain of the . . . wound?

Yes, a wound, a gunshot! The realization jarred his

memory; a dinner party had turned into a

battleground filled with hysteria. Blinding lights and

sudden jolts of pain had been accompanied by strident

voices bombarding him, incessant echoes pounding in

his ears as he tried desperately to repel the piercing

assaults. Then there had been moments of calm, the

drone of a single voice in the mists. Converse closed

his eyes, pressing his lids tightly together with all his

strength as another realization struck him

3

312 ROBERT LUDLUM

and disturbed him deeply. That voice in the swirling

mists was his voice; he had been drugged, and he

knew he had given up secrets.

    He had been drugged before, a number of times

in the North Vietnamese camps, and as always there

was the sickening feeling of numbed outrage. His

mind had been stripped and violated, his voice made

to perform obscenities against the last vestiges of his

will.

    And, again as always, there was the empty hole

in his stomach, a vacuum that ran deep and

produced only weakness. He felt starved and

probably was. The chemicals usually induced

vomiting as the intestines rejected the unnatural

substance. It was strange, he reflected, opening his

eyes and following the moving shafts of light, but

those memories from years ago evoked the same

self-protective instincts that had helped him

then so many years ago. He could not waste en-

ergy; he had to conserve what strength he had.

Regain new strength. Otherwise there was nothing

but the numbed outrage and neither his mind nor

his body could do anything about it.

    There was a sound across the room! Then

another and another after that! The grating sound

of sliding metal told him that a bolt was being

released; the sharp sound of a key followed by the

twisting of a knob meant that the door in the far

distant wall was about to be opened. It was, and a

blinding burst of sunlight filled the cell. Converse

shielded his eyes peering between his fingers. The

blurred, frazzled silhouette of a man stood in the

doorframe carrying a flat object. The figure walked

in and Joel, blinking, saw it was the chauffeur who

had electronically searched him in the driveway.

    The uniformed driver crossed to the.table and

deftly lowered the flat object; it was a tray, its

contents covered by a cloth. It was only then that

Converse's attention was drawn back to the sunlit

doorway. Outside, milling about in anxious contempt

was the pack of Dobermans, their shining black eyes

continually shifting toward the door, their lips curled

teeth bared in unending quiet snarls.

    "GutenMorgen, main Herr," said Leifhelm's

chauffeur, then shifting to English, 'Another

beautiful day on the northern Rhine, no?'

    "It's bright out there, if that's what you mean,"

replied Joel, his hand still cupping his eyes. "I

suppose I should be grateful to be able to notice

after last night."

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 313

    "Last night?" The German paused, then added

quietly, "It was two nights ago, Amerikaner. You've

been here for the past thirty-three hours."

    "Thirty?" Converse pushed himself up and swung

his legs over the side of the cot. Instantly he was

overcome by dizziness too much strength had been

drained. Oh Christ! Don't waste movement. They'll be

back. The bastards! "You bastards," he said out loud

but without any real emotion. Then for the first time

he realized he was shirtless, and noticed the bandage

on his left arm between his elbow and his shoulder.

It covered the gunshot wound. "Did somebody miss

my head?" he asked.

    "I'm told you inflicted the injury yourself. You

tried to kill General Leifhelm but shot yourself when

the others were taking your gun away."

    "I tried to kill? With my nonexistent gun? The

one you made sure I didn't have?"

"You were too clever for me, mein Herr."

"What happens now?"

    "Now? Now you eat. I have instructions from the

doctor. You begin with the Hafergrlitze how do you

say? the porridge."

    "Hot mush or cereal," said Joel. "With skimmed

or powdered milk. Then some kind of soft-boiled

eggs taken with pills. And if it all goes down, a little

ground meat, and if that stays down, a few spoonfuls

of crushed turnips or potatoes or squash. Whatever's

available."

    "How do you know this?" asked the uniformed

man, genuinely surprised.

    "It's a basic diet," said Converse cynically.

"Variations with the territory and the supplies. I once

had some comparatively good meals.... You're

planning to put me under again."

    The German shrugged. "I do what I'm told. I

bring you food. Here, let me help you."

    Joel looked up as the chauffeur approached the

cot. "Under other circumstances I'd spit in your

goddamned face. But if I did I wouldn't have that

slight, slight possibility of spitting in it some other

time. You may help me. Be careful of my arm."

"You are a very strange man, main Herr."

    "And you're all perfectly normal citizens catching

the early train to Larchmont so you can put down

ten martinis before going to the PTA meeting."

314 ROBERT LUDLUM

"Was ist? I know of no such meeting. '

    'They're keeping it secret; they don't want you

to know. If I were you, I'd get out of town before

they make you president."

"Mich? President?"

    "Just help me to the chair, like a good ale

Aryan boy, will you?'

"Hah, you are being amusing, ja?"

    "Probably not," said Converse, easing into the

wooden chair. 'it's a terrible habit I wish I could

break." He looked up at the bewildered German.

"You see, I keep trying," he said in utter

seriousness.

    Three more days passed, his only visitor the

chauffeur accompanied by the sullen, high-strung

pack of Dobermans. His well-searched suitcase was

given to him, scissors and a nail file removed from

the traveling kit his electric razor intact. It was

their way of telling him that his presence had been

removed from Bonn, leaving him to painfully

speculate about the life or death of Connal

Fitzpatrick. Yet there was an inconsistency and, as

such, the basis for hope. No allusions were made to

his attache case, either with visual evidence the

page of a dossier, perhaps or through his brief

exchanges with Leifhelm's driver. The generals of

Aquitaine were men of immense egos; if they had

those materials in their possession, they would have

let him know it.

    As to his conversations with the chauffeur, they

were lirnited to questions on his part and

disciplined pleasantries on the German's part, no

answers at all at least, none that made any sense:

    "How long is this going to go on? When am I

going to see someone other than you?"

    "There is no one here, sir, except the staff.

General Leifhelm is away in Essen, I believe. Our

instructions are to feed you well and restore your

health."

Incommunicado. He was in solitary.

    But the food was not like that given to

prisoners anywhere else. Roasts of beef and lamb,

chops, poultry and fresh fish; vegetables that

unquestionably had come directly from a nearby

garden. And wine which at first Joel was reluctant

to drink, but when he did, even he knew it was

superior.

    On the second day, as much to keep from

thinking as from anything else, he had begun to

perform mild exer

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 315

cises as he had done so many years ago. By the

third day he had actually worked up a sweat during

a running-in-place session, a healthy sweat, telling

him the drugs had left his body. The wound on his

arm was still there, but he thought about it less and

less. Curiously, it was not serious.

    On the fourth day questions and reflections were

no longer good enough. Confinement and the

maddening frustration of having no answers forced

him to turn elsewhere, to the practical, to the most

necessary consideration facing him. Escape.

Regardless of the outcome the attempt had to be

made. Whatever plans Delavane and his disciples in

Aquitaine had for him, they obviously included

parading a drugless man more than likely a dead

man with no narcotics in his system. Otherwise they

would have killed him at once, disposing of his body

in any number of untraceable ways. He had done it

before. Could he do it again?

    He was not rotting in a rat-infested cell and there

was no terrible gunfire in the distant darkness, but it

was far more important that he succeed now than it

ever was eighteen years ago. And there was an

extraordinary irony: eighteen years ago he had

wanted to break out and tell whoever would listen to

him about a madman in Saigon who sent countless

children to their deaths or worse, who left those

children to suffer broken minds and hollow feelings

for the rest of their lives. Now he had to tell the

world about that same madman.

He had to get out. He had to tell the world what he

knew.

    Converse stood on the wooden chair, the short

curtain pulled back, and peered between the black

metal bars outside. His cabin, or cottage, or

jailhouse, whatever it was, seemed to have been

lowered from above onto a clearing in the forest.

There was a wall of tall trees and thick foliage as far

as he could see in either direction, a dirt path

angling to the right beneath the window. The

clearing itself extended no more than twenty feet in

front of the structure before the dense greenery

began; he presumed it was the same on all sideshow

it was from the other window to the left of the door

except that there was no path below, only a short,

coarse stubble of brown grass. The two front

windows were the only views he had. The rest of this

isolated jailhouse consisted of unbroken walls and a

small ceiling vent in the bathroom but no other

openings.

All he could be certain of, since the chauffeur and

the

316 ROBERT LUDLUM

dogs and the warm meals were proof he was still

within the grounds of Leifhelm's estate, was that the

river could not be far away. He could not see it, but

it was there and it gave him hope more than hope,

a sense of morbid exhilaration rooted in his

memory. Once before the waters of a river had been

his friend, his guide, ultimately the lifeline that had

taken him through the worst of his journey. A

tributary of the Huong Khe south of Duc Tho had

rushed him silently at night under bridges and past

patrols and the encampments of three battalions.

The waters of the Rhine, like the currents of the

Huong Khe years ago, would be his way out.

    The multiple sounds of animal feet pounding the

earth preceded the streaking dark coats of the

Dobermans as they raced belong the window,

instantly stopping and crowding angrily in front of

the door. The chauffeur was on his way with a

breakfast no prisoner in isolation should expect.

Joel climbed off the chair and quickly carried it

back to the table, setting it in place and going to his

cot. He sat down, kicked off his shoes, and lay back

on the pillow, his legs stretched out over the

rumpled blanket.

    The bolt was slid back, the key inserted and the

heavy knob turned; the door opened. As he did

every time he entered, the German pushed the

center of the door with his right hand as he

supported the tray with his left. However this

morning he was gripping a bulging object in his

right hand, the blinding sunlight obscuring it for

Converse. The man walked in and, more awkwardly

than usual, placed the tray on the table.

    ' 1 have a pleasant surprise for you, main Herr.

I spoke with General Leifhelm on the telephone last

night and he asked about you. I told him you were

recovering splendidly and that I had changed the

bandage on your unfortunate injury. Then it

occurred to him that you had nothing to read and

he was very upset. So an hour ago I drove into

Bonn and purchased three days of the International

Herald Tribune. " The driver placed the rolled-up

newspapers next to the tray on the table.

    But it was not the issues of the Herald Tribune

that Joel stared at. It was the German s neck and

the upper outside pocket of his uniform jacket. For

looped around that neck and angled over to that

pocket was a thin silver chain, with the protruding

top of a tubular silver whistle clearly visible against

the dark fabric. Converse shifted his eyes to the

door;

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 317

the Dobermans were sitting on their haunches, each

breathing noisily and salivating, but, to all intents and

purposes, immobile. Converse remembered his

arrival at the general s monumental lair and the

strange Englishman who had controlled the dogs with

a silver whistle.

    'Tell Leifhelm I appreciate the reading material,

but I'd be even more grateful if I could get out of

this place for a few minutes. "

    ':la, with a plane ticket to the beaches in the

south of France, rein?"

    "For Christ's sake, just to take a walk and stretch

my legs What's the matter? Can't you and that

drooling band of mas tiffs handle one unarmed man

getting a little air? . . . No you're probably too

frightened to try." Joel paused, then added in an

insulting mock-Cerman accent. '''I do vot I am tort.

    The driver's smile faded. "The other evening you

said you would not apologise but instead break my

neck. That was a joke. Do you understand? A joke

I find so amusing I can laugh at it."

    "Hey, come on,' said Converse, changing his tone

as he swung his legs off the cot and sat up. "You're

ten years younger than I am and twenty times

stronger. I felt insulted and reacted stupidly, but if

you think I'd raise a hand against you you're out of

your mind. I m sorry. You've been decent to me and

I was stupid again."

    "la, you were stupid," said the German without

rancor "But also you were right. I do as I am told.

And why not? It is a privilege to take orders from

General Leifhelm. He has Been gut to me."

"Have you been with him long?"

    "Since Brussels. I was a sergeant in the Federal

Republic's border patrols. He heard about my

problem and took an interest in my case. I was

transferred to the Brabant garrison and made his

chauffeur."

"What was your problem? I'm a lawyer, you know."

Dhde charge was that I strangled a man With my "

    'ha. He was trying to put a knife in my

stomach and lower. He said I took advantage of his

daughter. I took no advantage; it was not necessary.

She was a whore it was in the clothes she wore, the

way she walked es ist klar! The father was a pig!"

318 ROBERT LUDLUM

    Joel looked at the man, at the clouded

malevolence in his eyes. "I can understand General

Leifhelm's sympathies," he said.

"Now you know why I do as I am told."

"Clearly."

    He is calling for his messages at noon. I shall

ask him about your walking. You understand that

one word from me and the Dobermans will rip your

body from its bones."

    "Nice puppies," said Converse, addressing the

pack of dogs outside.

    Noon came and the privilege was granted. The

walk was to take place after lunch when the driver

returned to remove the tray. He returned, and after

several severe warnings Joel ventured outside, the

Dobermans crowding around him black nostrils

flared, white teeth glistening, bluish-red tongues

flattened out in anticipation. Converse looked

around; for the first time he saw that the small

house was made of thick, solid stone. The unique

squad began its constitutional up the path, Joel

growing bolder as the dogs lost a degree of interest

in him under the harsh admonitions of the German

s commands. They began racing ahead and regroup-

ing in circles, snapping at one another but always

whipping their heads back or across at their master

and his prisoner. Converse walked faster.

"I used to jog a lot back home," he lied.

"Was ist? 'Jog'?"

"Run. It's good for the circulation."

    "You run now, main Herr, you will have no

circulation. The Dobermans will see to it."

    "I've heard of people getting coronaries from

jogging too," said Joel, slowing down, but not

reducing the speed with which his eyes darted in all

directions. The sun was directly overhead; it was no

help in determining direction.

    The dirt path was like a marked single line in an

intricate network of hidden trails. It was bordered

by thick foliage, more often than not roofed by

low-hanging branches, then breaking open into short

stretches of wild grass that might or might not lead

to other paths. They reached a fork, the leg to the

right curving sharply into a tunnel of greenery. The

dogs instinctively raced into it but were stopped by

the chauffeur, who shouted commands in German.

The Dobermans spun around, bouncing off each

other, and returned to the fork, then raced into the

wider path on the left. It was an in

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 319

cline and they started up a steep hill, the trees

shorter and less full, the bramble bush wilder,

coarser, lower to the ground. Wind, thought

Converse. A valley wind; a wind whipping up from a

trough, a long narrow slice in the earth, the kind of

wind a pilot of a small plane avoided at the first sign

of weather. A river.

    It was there. To his left; they were traveling east.

The Rhine was below, perhaps a mile beyond the

lower line of tall trees. He had seen enough. He

began breathing audibly. The exhilaration inside him

was intense; he could have walked for miles. He was

back on the banks of the Huong Khe, the dark

watery lifeline that would take him away from the

Mekong cages and the cells and the chemicals. He

had done it before he was going to do it again!

    "Okay, Field Marshal," he said to Leifhelm's

driver, looking at the silver whistle in the German's

pocket. "I'm not in as good shape as I thought I was.

This is a mountain! Don't you have any flat pastures

or grazing fields?"

    "I do as I am told, mein Herr, " replied the man,

grinning. "Those are nearer the main house. This is

where you must walk."

    "This is where I say thank you and no thank you.

Take me back to my little grass shack and I'll play

you a simple

"I do not understand."

    "I'm bushed and I haven't finished the

newspapers. Seriously, I want to thank you. I really

needed the air."

"Sehr gut You are a pleasant fellow."

"You have no idea, good ale Aryan boy."

    "Ach, so amusing. Die Juden sind in Israel, rein?

Better than in Cermany."

    Nate Simon would love you. He'd take your case

for nothing just to blow it No, he wouldn't. He'd

probably give you the best defense you ever had."

    Converse stood on the wooden chair under the

window to the left of the door. All he had to hear

and see was the sound and the sight of the dogs;

after that he had twenty or thirty seconds. The

faucets in the bathroom were turned on, the door

open; there was sufficient time to run across the

room, flush the toilet, close the door and return to

the chair. But he would not be standing on it.

Instead, it would be gripped in his hands, laterally.

The sun was descending rapidly; in an

320 ROBERT IUDIUM

hour it would be dark. Darkness had been his friend

before as the waters of a river had been his friend.

They had to be his friends again. They had to be!

    The sounds came first racing paws and nasal

explosions then the sight of gleaming dark coats of

animal fur rushing in circles in front of the

jailhouse. Joel ran to the bathroom, concentrating

on the seconds as he waited for the sliding of the

bolt. It came; he flushed the toilet, then closed the

bathroom door and raced back to the chair. He

raised it and stood in place, his legs and feet locked

to the floor. The door was opened several

inches only seconds now then the German's right

hand pushed it back.

"Herr Converse? Wo sind . . . Bach, die Toilette. "

    The chauffeur walked in with the tray, and Joel

swung the chair with all his strength into the

German's head. The driver arched back off his feet,

tray and dishes crashing to the floor. He was

stunned, nothing more. Converse kicked the door

shut and brought the heavy chair repeatedly down

on the chauffeur's skull until the man went limp,

blood and saliva pouring down his eyes and face.

    The phalanx of dogs had lurched as one at the

suddenly closed door and began to bark maniacally

while clawing at the wood.

    Joel grabbed the silver chain, slipped it over the

unconscious German's head and pulled the silver

whistle out of the pocket. There were four tiny

holes on the tube; each meant something. He pulled

the remaining chair to the window at the right of

the door, climbed up and put the whistle to his lips.

He covered the first hole and blew into the

mouthpiece. There was no sound, but it had an

effect.

    The Dobermans went mad! They began to attack

the door in suicidal assaults. He removed his finger,

placed it over the second hole and blew.

    The dogs were confused; they circled around

each other snapping, yelping, snarling, but still they

would not take their concentration off the door. He

tried the third tiny hole and blew into the whistle

with all the breath he had.

    Suddenly, the dogs stopped all movement, their

tapered close-cropped ears upright, shifting they

were waiting for a second signal. He blew again,

again with all the breath that was in him. It was the

sound they were waiting for, and again, as one, the

pack raced to the right beneath the window,

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 321

pounding to some other place where they were

meant to be by command.

    Converse leaped down from the chair and knelt

by the unconscious German. He went rapidly

through the driver's pockets, taking his billfold and

all the money he had, as well as his wristwatch and

his gun. For an instant Joel looked at the weapon,

loathing the memories it evoked. He shoved it under

his belt and went to the door.

    Outside, he pulled the heavy door shut, heard

the click of the lock and slid the bolt in place. He

ran up the dirt path estimating the distance to the

fork where the right leg was verboten and the left led

to the steep hill and the sight of the Rhine below. It

was actually no more than two hundred yards away,

but the winding curves and the thick bordering

foliage made it seem longer. If he remembered

accurately and on the walk back he was like a pilot

without instruments relying on sightings there was

a flat stretch of about eighty feet below the fork.

    He reached it, the same flat area, the same

diverging paths up ahead. He ran faster.

    Voices! Angry, questioning? Not far away and

coming nearer! He dove into the brush to his right,

rolling over the needle-like bushes until he could

barely see through the foliage. Two men walked

rapidly into his limited view, talking loudly, as if

arguing but somehow not with each other.

"Was haben die Hunde?"

"Die sollten bat Heinrich sein!"

    Joel had no idea what they were saying; he only

knew as they passed him that they were heading for

the isolated cabin. He also knew that they would pot

spend much time trying to raise anyone inside before

they took more direct methods. And once they did,

all the alarms in LeifLelm's fortress would be

activated. Time was measured for him in minutes

and he had a great deal of ground to cover. He crept

cautiously out of the brush on his hands and feet.

The Germans were out of sight, beyond a rounding

curve. He got up and raced for the fork and the

steep hill to the left.

    The three guards at the immense iron gate that

was the entrance to Leifhelm's estate were

bewildered. The pack of Dobermans were circling

around impatiently in the out grass, obviously

confused.

"Why are they here?" asked one man.

322 ROBERT LUDLUM

"It makes no sense!" replied a second.

"Heinrich has let them loose, but why?" said the third.

    "Nobody tells us anything," muttered the first guard,

shrugging. "If we don't hear something in the next few

minutes, we should call."

    "I don't like this!" shouted the second guard. "I'm

calling right now!"

    The first guard walked into the gatehouse and picked

up the telephone.

    Converse ran up the steep hill, his breath short, his

lips dry, his heartbeat thundering in his chest. There it

was! The river! He started running down, gathering

speed, the wind whipping his face, stinging him. It was

exhilarahng. He was back! He was racing through the

sudden, open clearings of another jungle, no fellow

prisoners to worry about, only the outrage within himself

to prod him, to make him break through the barriers

and somehow, somewhere, strike back at those who had

stripped him naked and raped an innocence

and goddamn it turned him into an animal! A

reasonably pleasant human being had been turned into

a half-man with more hatreds than a person should live

with. He would get back at them all, all enemies, all

animals!

He reached the bottom of the open slope of gnarled

grass

    and bush, the trees and intertwining underbrush

once more

a wall to be penetrated. But he had his bearings; no

matter

how dense the woods, he simply had to keep the last

rays of

the sun on his left, heading due north, and he would

reach

the river.

    Rapid explosions made him spin around. Five

gunshots followed one upon the other in the distance. It

was easy to imagine the target: a circle of wood around

the cylinder of a lock in the door of an isolated cabin in

the forest. His jailhouse was being assaulted, entrance

gained. The minutes were growing shorter.

    And then two distinctly different sounds pierced the

twilight, interwoven in dissonance. The first was a series

of short, staccato bursts of a high-pitched siren. The

second, between and under the repeated blasts, was the

hysterical yelping of running dogs. The alarms had been

set off; scraps of discarded clothing and slept-on sheets

would be pressed onto inflamed nostrils and the

Dobermans would come after him, no quarter

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 323

considered no cornered prey only animal teeth

ripping human flesh a satisfactory reward.

    Converse plunged into the wall of green and ran

as fast as he could, dodging, crouching, lurching

from one side to the other, his arms outstretched, his

hands working furiously against the strong, supple

impediment of the woods. His face and body were

repeatedly whipped by slashing branches and

obstinate limbs, his feet continually tripped by fallen

debris and exposed roots. He stumbled more times

than he could count, each time bringing an instant of

silence that emphasized the sound of the dogs

somewhere between the fork and the hill and the

lower forest. They were no farther away, perhaps

nearer. They were nearer, they had entered the

woods. All around him were the echoes of their

hysteria, punctuated by howling yelps of frustration

as one or another or several were caught in the

tangled ground cover, straining and roaring to be

free to join the pursuit.

    The water! He could see the water through the

trees. Sweat was now rolling down his face, the salt

blinding his eyes and stinging the scrapes on his neck

and chin. His hands were bleeding from the sharp

nettles and the coarse bark everywhere.

    He fell, his foot plunging into a hole burrowed by

some riverbank animal, his ankle twisted and in pain.

    He got up, pulling at his leg, freeing his foot,

and, limping badly, tried to resume running. The

Dobermans were gaining, the yelping and the harsh

barking louder and more furious; they had picked up

his direct scent, the trail of undried sweat maddening

them, preparing them for the kill.

    The riverbank! It was filled with soft mud and

floating debris, a webbing of nature's garbage caught

in a cavity, whirling slowly, waiting for a strong

current to pull it all away. Joel grabbed the handle

of the chauffeur's gun, not to pull it out but to

secure it as he limped down the bank to look for the

quickest way into the water.

    He heard nothing until the instant when a

massive roar came out of the shadows and the huge

body of an animal flew through the air over the

riverbank directly at him. The monstrous face of the

dog was contorted with fury, the eyes on fire, the

enormous jaw widest all teeth and a gaping, shining

black mouth. Converse fell to his knees as the

Doberman whipped past his right shoulder, ripping

his shirt with its upper eye teeth and flipping over on

its back in the mud. The

324 ROBERT LUDLUM

momentary defeat was more than the animal could

stand. It writhed furiously, rolling over, snarling,

then rising on its hind legs, lunged up from the mud

for Joel's groin.

    The gun was in his hand. Converse fired,

blowing off the top of the attack dog's head; blood

and tissue sprayed the shadows, and the slack,

shining jaws fell into his crotch.

    The rest of the pack was now racing toward the

bank, accompanied by ear-shattering crescendos of

animal cries. Joel threw himself into the water and

swam as rapidly as he could away from the

shoreline; the weapon was an impediment but he

knew he could not let it go.

    Years ago centuries ago he had desperately

needed a weapon, knowing it could be the difference

between survival and death, and forgive days none

could be had. But on that fifth day he had found one

on the banks of the Huong Khe. He had }boated half

underwater past a squad on patrol, and found the

point ten minutes later downriver too far from the

scout's unit to be logical a man perha ps thinking

angry thoughts that made him walk faster, or bored

with his job and wanting a few moments to be by

himself and out of it all. Whichever, it made no

difference to that soldier. Converse had killed him with

a rock from the river and had taken his gun. He had

fired that gun twice, twice saving his life before he

reached an advance unit south of Phu Loc.

    As he pushed against the shoreline currents of

the Rhine, Joel suddenly remembered. This was the

fifth day of his imprisonment in Leifhelm's

compound no jungle cell, to be sure, but no less a

prison camp. He had done it! And on the fifth day

a weapon was his! There were omens wherever one

wished to find them; he did not believe in omens,

but for the moment he accepted the possibility.

    He was in the shadows of the river now, the

surrounding mountains blocking the dying sun. He

paddled in place and turned. Back on shore, at the

cavity in the bank that had been his plank to the

water, the dogs were circling in confused anger,

snarling, yelping, as several ventured down to sniff

their slain leader, each urinating as it did

so territory and status were being established. The

beams of powerful flashlights suddenly broke

through the trees. Converse swam farther out; he

had survived searchlights in the Mekong. He had no

fear of them now; he had been there here and he

knew when he had won.

He let the outer currents carry him east along the

river.

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 325

Somewhere there would be other lights, lights that

would lead him to shelter and a telephone. He had to

get everything in place and build his brief quickly, but

he could do it. Yet the attorney in him told him that

a man with a bandaged gunshot wound in soaked

clothing and speaking a foreign language in the

streets was no match for the disciples of George

Marcus Delavane; they would find him. So it would

have to be done another way with whatever artifices

he could muster. He had to get to a telephone. He

had to place an overseas call. He could do it; he

would do it! The Huong Khe faded; the Rhine was

now his lifeline.

    Swimming breaststroke, the gun still gripped in

his hand, his arm smarting in the water, he saw the

lights of a village in the distance.

18

    Valerie frowned as she listened on the phone in

her studio, the spiraling cord outstretched as she

reached over and placed a brush in the track of her

easel. Her eyes scanned the sunlit dunes outside the

glass doors, but her mind was on the words she was

hearing, words that implied things without saying

them. 'Larry, what's wrong with you?" she interrupted,

unable to hold herself in check any longer. "Joel's not

just an employee or a junior partner, he's your friend

! You sound like you're trying to build a case against

him. What's that term you all use? . . .

Circumstantial, that's it. He was here, he was there;

someone said this and somebody else said that."

    "I'm trying to understand, Val," protested Talbot,

who had called from his office in New York. "You've

got to try to understand too. There's a great deal I

can't tell you because I've been instructed by people

whose offices I have to respect to say very little or

preferably nothing at all. I'm bending those

instructions because Joel is my friend and I want to

help."

    "All right, let's go back," said Valerie. "What

exactly were you leading up to?"

326 ROBERT IUDLUM

    'I know it's none of my damned business and I

wouldn't ask it if I didn't think I had to '

"111 accept that," agreed Val. "Now, what is it?"

    "Well, I know you and Joel had your problems,"

continued the senior partner of Talbot, Brooks and

Simon, as though he were referring to an

inconsequential spat between children. "But there

are problems and there are problems."

    "Larry," interrupted Val again. "There were

problems. We're divorced. That means the problems

were serious.'

    "Was physical abuse one of them?" asked Talbot

quickly in a low voice, the words obviously

repugnant to him.

    Valerie was stunned; it was a question she

would never have expected. "What?"

    You know what I mean. In fits of anger did he

strike you? Cause you bodily harm?"

    'You're not in a courtroom, and the answer is

no, of course not. I might have welcomed it at

least the anger.'

1 beg your pardon?"

    "Nothing,' said Valerie, recovering from her

astonishment. ' 1 don't know what prompted you to

ask, but it couldn't be further from the truth. Joel

had far more effective ways to deflate my ego than

hitting me. Among them, dear Larry was his

dedication to the career of one Joel Converse in

Talbot, Brooks and Simon."

    "I'm aware of that, my dear, and I'm sorry.

Those complaints are perennial in the divorce

courts and I'm not sure there's anything we can do

about them not in this day and age, perhaps not

ever. But that's different. I'm talking about his black

moods we knew he had them."

    "Do you know any rational person who doesn't?"

asked the former Mrs. Converse. "This isn't really

the best of all possible worlds, is it?"

    "No, it isn't. But then Joel lived through a

period of time in a far worse world than most of us

will ever know or could imagine. I can't believe he

emerged from it without a scar or two "

    Valerie paused, touched by the older man's

unadorned directness; it had its basis in concern.

"You're sweet Larry and I suspect you're right in

fact, I know it. So I think you should tell me more

than you have. The term physical abuse is what you

lawyers call a leading something-or-other. It s not

fair because it could also be misleading. Come on,

Larry, be fair. He's not my husband anymore, but

we didn t break apart

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 327

because he chased girls or bashed my head in. I may

not want to be married to him but I respect him.

He's got his problems and l ve got mine, and now

you're implying his are a lot bigger. What's

happened?"

    Talbot was silent for a moment, then blurted out

the words, again quickly, quietly; once more they

were obviously repugnant to him. ' They say he

assaulted a man in Paris without provocation. The

man died."

"No, that's impossible! He didn't, he couldn't!"

    "That's what he told me, but he lied. He told me

he was in Amsterdam, but he wasn't. He said he was

going back to Paris to clear things up, but he didn't

go. He was in Cermany he's still somewhere in

Germany. He hasn't left the country and Interpol

has a warrant for him; they're searching everywhere.

Word reached him to turn himself in to the

American embassy but he refused. He's

disappeared."

    "Oh, my God, you're all so wrong!" exploded

Valerie. "You don't know him! If what you say

happened, he was at-tacked first physically

attacked and had no choice but to hit back!"

    "Not according to an impartial witness who didn't

know either man."

    "Then he's not impartial, he's Iying! Listen to me.

I lived with that man for four years and, except for

a few trips, all of them in New York City. I've seen

him accosted by drunks and street garbage punks

he could have pushed through the pavements, and

perhaps some of them he should have but I never

saw him so much as take a step forward. He'd simply

raise the palms of his hands and walk away. A few

times some damn fools would call him names and

he'd just stand there and look at them. And let me

tell you, Larry, that look was enough to make you

feel cold all over. But that's all he'd do, never

anything more."

    "Val, I want to believe you. I want to believe it

was self-defence, but he ran away, he's disappeared.

The embassy can help him, protect him, but he won't

come in."

    "Then he's frightened. That can happen, but it

was always for only a few minutes, usually at night

when he'd wake up. He'd bolt up, his eyes shut so

tight his whole face was a mass of wrinkles. It never

lasted long, and he said it was perfectly natural and

not to worry about it he didn't, he said. And I

don't think he really did; he wanted all that in the

past, none of it was ever mentioned."

328 ROBERT LUDIUM

"Perhaps it should have been," said Talbot softly.

    Valerie replied with equal softness, "douche.

Larry. Don't think I haven't thought about that

these last couple of years. But whatever's happened

he's acting this way only because he's afraid you

know it's quite possible he's been hurt. Or, oh my

CrJd "

    "All the hospitals and registered doctors have

been checked," Talbot broke in.

    'Well, damn it, there's got to be a reason! This

isn't like him and you know it!"

    "That's just it, Val. Nothing he's done is like the

man I know. '

    The ex-Mrs. Converse stiffened. "To use one of

Joel's favorite expressions," she said apprehensively,

"clarification please?"

    ''Why not?" answered Talbot, the question was

directed as much at himself as her. "Perhaps you can

shed some light; nobody else can."

"What about this man in Paris, the one who died?"

    "There's not much to tell; apparently he was a

chauffeur for one of those limousine services.

According to the witness a basement guard in the

hotel, Joel approached him, yelled something at him

and pushed him out the door. There were sounds of

a scuffle and a few minutes later the man was found

severely beaten in an alley."

'It's ridiculous! What did Joel say?"

    "That he walked out the door, saw two men

fighting and ran to tell the doorman on the way to

his taxi."

"That's what he'd have done," said Val firmly.

    "The doorman at the George Cinq says it didn't

happen. The police say follicles of hair found on the

beaten man matched those in Joel's shower."

"Utterly unbelievable!''

    "Let's say there was provocation we don't know

about," Talhot went on rapidly. "It doesn't explain

what happened later, but before I tell.you, I want to

ask you another question. You'll understand."

"I don't understand a single thing! What is its"

    "During those periods of depression, his dark

moods, did Joel ever fantasise? I mean, did he

indulge in what psychiatrists call role-playing?"

    "You mean did he assume other personalities,

other kinds of behavior?"

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 329

Exactly."

'Absolutely not."

' Oh."

"Oh, what? Let's have it, Larry."

    "Talking about what's believable and what isn t,

you're in for a jolt, my dear. According to those

people who don't want me to say very much and

you'll have to take my word they know Joel flew

into Germany claiming he was involved in an

undercover investigation of the embassy in Bonn."

    "Perhaps he wasl He was on a leave of absence

from T. B. and S., wasn't he?"

    "On an unrelated matter in the private sector,

that much we know. There is no

investigation undercover or otherwise of the

embassy in Bonn. Frankly, the people who reached

me were from the State Department."

    "Oh, my God . . . " Valerie fell silent, but before

the lawyer could speak, she whispered, "Geneva. That

horrible business in Genevat"

    "If there's a connection and both Nathan and I

considered it first it's so buried it can't be

followed."

"It's there. It's where it all started."

"Assuming your husband's rational."

"He's not my husband and he is rational!"

    "The scars, Val. There had to be scars. You

agreed with me."

    'Not the kind you're talking about. Not killing,

and Iying and running away That's not Joel! That

isn't wasn't my husband!"

    "The mind is a highly complex and delicate

instrument. The stresses of the past can leap forward

from years ago "

    "Get off it, Larry!" shouted Valerie. "Save it for

a jury, but don't pin that nonsense on Converse!"

"You're upset."

    "You're damned right I am! Because you're

looking for explanations that don't fit the man! They

fit what you've been told. By those people you say

you have to respect."

    "Only in the sense that they're

knowledgeable they have access to information we

don't have. Then there's the overriding fact that they

hadn't the faintest idea who Joel Converse was until

the American Bar Association gave them the address

and telephone number of Talbot, Brooks and Simon.

"And you believed them? With everything you know

330 ROBERT LUDLUM

about Washington you simply accepted their word?

How many fumes did Joel come back from a trip to

Washington and say the same thing to me? 'Larry

says they're Iying. They don't know what to do, so

they're Iying.' '

    'Valerie," said the attorney sternly. "This isn't a

case of bureaucratic clearance, and after all these

years I think I can tell the difference between

someone playing games and a man who's genuinely

angry angry and frightened, I should add. The man

who reached me was an Undersecretary of State,

Brewster Tolland I had a call-back

confirmation and he wasn't putting on an act. He

was appalled, furious, and, as I say, a very worried

man."

"What did you tell him?"

    "The truth, of course. Not only because it was

the right thing to do, but it wouldn't help Joel to do

anything else. If he's ill he needs help, not

complicity."

"And you deal with Washington every week."

    "Several times a week, and of course it was a

consideration."

"I'm sorry, Larry, that was unfair."

    "But realistic, and I meant what I said. It

wouldn't help Joel to lie for him. You see, I really

believe something's happened. He's not himself."

    "Wait a minute," cried Valerie, the obvious

striking her. "Maybe it's not Joel!"

"It's him," said Talbot simply.

    "Why? Just because people you don't know in

Washington say it is?"

    "No, Val," replied the lawyer. "Because I spoke

with Rene in Paris before Washington entered the

picture."

'`Maffilon?~,

    "Joel went to Paris to ask for Rene's help. He

lied to him just as he lied to me, but it was more

than the lies Mattilon and I agreed on that. It was

something he saw in Joel's eyes something I heard

in his voice. An unhinging, a form of desperation;

Rene saw it and I heard it. He tried to conceal it

from both of us but he couldn't. When I last spoke

to him, he hung up before we'd finished talking, in

the middle of the sentence, his voice echoing like a

zombie's."

    Valerie stared at the harsh, dancing reflections

of sunlight off the waters of Cape Ann. "Rene

agreed with you?' she asked, barely above a whisper.

"Everything I've just told you we said to each other."

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 331

' Larry, I'm frightened.'

    ChaimAbrahms walked into the room, his heavy

boots pounding the floor. 'So he did it!' shouted the

Israeli. 'The Mossad was right, he s a hellhound!"

    Erich Leifhelm sat behind his desk, the only

other person in the book-lined study. "Patrols,

alarms, dogs!' cried the German, slamming his frail

hand on the red blotter. "How did he do it?"

    "I repeat a hellhound that's what our specialist

called him. The longer he's restricted, the angrier he

gets. It goes back a long time. So our provocateur

starts his odyssey before we planned. Have you been'

in touch with the others?"

    "I've called London," said Leifhelm, breathing

deeply. "He'll reach Paris, and Bertholdier will have

the units flown up from Marseilles, one to Brussels,

the other here to Bonn. We can't waste an hour."

"You're looking for him now, of course.

    "Naturlich! Every inch of the shoreline for miles

in both directions. Every back road and path that

leads up from the river and into the city.'

"He can elude you, he's proven it.

    "Where can he go, sabre? To his own embassy?

There he's a dead man. To the Bonn police or the

Staatspolizei? He ll be put in an armored van and

brought back here. He goes nowhere."

    "I heard that when he left Paris, and I heard it

again when he flew into Bonn. Errors were made in

both places both costing a great many hours. I tell

you I'm more concerned now than at any moment in

three wars and a lifetime of skirmishes."

    "Be reasonable, Chaim, and try to be calm. He

has no clothes but what he wears in the river and

the mud, he possesses no identification, no passport,

no money. He doesn't speak the language "

    "He has money!" yelled Abrahms, suddenly

remembering. "When he was under the needle, he

spoke of a large sum of money promised in Geneva

and delivered on Mykonos."

    "And where is it?" asked Leifhelm. "In this desk,

that's where it is. Nearly seventy thousand American

dollars. He hasn't got a deutsche mark in his pocket,

or a watch or a piece of jewelry. A man in filthy,

soaked clothing, with no idenhfication, no money, no

coherent use of the language, and telling

332 ROBERT LUDLUM

an outlandish tale of imprisonment involving der

Ceneral LeifLelm, would undoubtedly be put in jail

as a vagrant or a psychopath or both. In which case,

we shall be informed instantly and our people will

bring him to us. And bear in mind, sabre, by ten

o'clock tomorrow morning it won't make any

difference. That was your contribution, the Mossad's

ingenuity. We simply had the resources to make it

come to pass as is said in the Old Testament."

    Abrahms stood in front of the enormous desk,

arms akimbo above the pockets of his safari jacket.

' So the Jew and the {elect marshal set it all in

motion. Ironical, isn't it, Nazi?"

    "Not as much as you think,Jude. Impurity, as

with beauty, is in the eye of the frightened beholder.

You are not my enemy; you never were. If more of

us in the old days had your commitment, your

audacity, we never would have lost the war."

    '1 know that,' said the sabre. 'I watched and

listened when you reached the English Ch-annel.

You lost it then. You were weak."

"It was not us! It was the frightened Debutanten in

Ber

    "Then keep them away when we create a truly

new orde,, Cerman. We can't afford weakness.''

"You do try me, Chaim."

"I mean to."

    The chauffeur felt the bandages on his face, the

swelling around his eyes and his lips painful to the

touch. He was in his own room, where the doctor

had turned on the television probably as an insult,

as he could barely see it.

    He was disgraced. The prisoner had escaped in

spite of his own formidable talents and the

supposedly impassable pack of Dobermans. The

American had used the silver whistle, that much the

other guards had told him, and the fact that it had

been removed from his neck was a further

embarrassment.

    He would not add to his disgrace. With blurred

vision he had gone through his pockets which no

one in the panic of the chase had thought to

do and found that his billfold, his expensive Swiss

watch, and all his money had been taken. He would

say nothing about them. He was embarrassed

enough, and any such revelations might be cause for

dismissal or conceivably his death.

* A: *

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 333

    Joel headed for the shoreline as fast as he could,

submerging his head underwater whenever the beam

of the searchlight swept toward him. The boat was a

large motor launch, its bass-toned engines signifying

power, its sudden turns and circles evidence of rapid

maneuverability. It hugged the overgrown banks,

then would sweep out toward the open water at the

slightest sign of an object in the river.

    Converse felt the soft mud below; he half swam,

half trudged toward the darkest spot on the shore,

the chauffeur's gun securely in his belt. The boat

approached, its penetrating beam studying every

foot, every moving branch or limb or cluster of river

weeds. Joel took a deep breath and slowly lows ered

himself under the water, his face angled up toward

the surface, his eyes open, his vision a muddy dark

blur. The searchlight grew brighter and seemed to

hover above him for an eternity; he inched his way

to the left and the beam moved away. He rose to the

surface, his lungs bursting, but suddenly realized he

could make no sound, he could not fill his chest with

gasps of air. For directly above him, less than five

feet away loomed the broad stern of the motor

launch, bobbing in the water as if idling. The dark

figure of a man was peering through very large

binoculars at the riverbank.

    Converse was bewildered; it was too dark now to

see anything even with magnification. Then he

remembered, and the memory accounted for the size

of the binoculars. The man was focusing through

infrared lenses; they had been used by patrols in

Southeast Asia and were often the difference, he had

been told, between search-and-destroy and

search-andbe-destroyed. They revealed objects in the

darkness, soldiers in the darkness.

    The boat moved forward, but the idle increased

only slightly, entering the slowest of trawling speeds.

Again Joel was confused. What had brought

Leifhelm's searching party to this particular spot on

the riverfront? There were several other boats

behind and out in the distance, their searchlights

sweeping the water, but they kept moving, circling.

Why did the huge motor launch concentrate on this

stretch of the shore? Could they have spotted him

through infrared binoculars? If they had, they were

proceeding very strangely; the North Vietnamese had

been far swifter more aggressive, more effective.

    Silently, Converse lowered himself beneath the

surface and breaststroked out beyond the boat.

Seconds later he

334 ROBERT LUDLUM

raised his head above the water, his vision clear,

and he began to understand the odd maneuverings

of LeifLelm's patrol. Beyond the darkest part of the

riverbank into which he had lurched for

concealment were the lights he had seen eight or

nine minutes ago, before the launch and its

searchlight monopolized all his attention. He had

thought they were the lights of a small village, but

he was in the wrong part of the world. Instead they

were the inside lights of four or five small houses,

a river colony with a common dock, summer homes

perhaps of those fortunate enough to own

waterfront property.

    If there were houses and a dock, there had to be

a drive an open passage up to the road or roads

leading into Bonn and the surrounding towns.

Leifhelm's men were combing every inch of the

riverbank, cautiously, quietly, the searchlights angled

down so as not to alarm the inhabitants or forewarn

the fugitive if he had reached the cluster of cottages

and was on his way up to the unseen road or roads.

A ship's radio would be activated, its frequency

aligned to those in cars roaming above, ready to

spring the trap. In some ways it was the Huong Khe

again for Joel, the obstacles far less primitive but no

less lethal. And then as now there was a bme to

wait, to wait in the black silence and let the hunters

make their moves.

    They made them quickly. The launch slid into

the dock, the powerful twin screws quietly churning

in reverse, as a man jumped off the bow with a

heavy line and looped it around a piling. Three

others followed, instantly racing off the short pier

up onto the sloping lawn, one heading diagonally to

the right, the other two toward the first house.

What they were doing was obvious: one man would

position himself in the bordering woods of the

downhill entrance drive while his colleagues checked

the houses, looking for signs of entry.

    Converse's arms and legs began to feel like

weights, each an anvil he could barely support,

much less keep moving, but there was no choice.

The beam of the searchlight kept moving up and

down the base of the riverbank, its spill illuminating

everything in its vicinity. A head surfacing at the

wrong moment would be blown out of the water.

Huong Khe. Tread water in the reeds. Do it! Don 't

die!

    He knew the waiting was no longer than thirty

minutes, but it seemed more like thirty hours or

thirty days suspended in a floabng torture rack. His

arms and legs were now in

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 335

agony; sharp pains shot through his body

everywhere; muscles formed cramps that he

dispersed by holding his breath and Hoating in a

fetal position, his thumbs pressing relentlessly into

the cores of the knotted muscles. Twice while

gasping for air he swallowed water, coughing it out

below the surface, his nostrils drowning, and twice

found the air again. There were moments when it

crossed his inner consciousness that it would be so

simple just to drift away. Huang Khe. Don't do it!

Don 't die!

    Finally through waterlogged eyes he saw the men

returning. One, two . . . three? . . . They ran down to

the dock, to the man with the rope. No! The man

with the rope had rushed forward! His eyes were

playing tricks! Only two men had run onto the dock,

the first man joining them, asking questions. The line

man returned to the piling and released the rope;

the other two jumped on board. The first man once

again joined his companions, now on the bow of the

launch leaving another on shore, a lone observer

somewhere unseen between the riverbank and the

road above. Huong Khe. An infantry scout separated

from his patrol.

    The motor launch swung away from the dock and

sped within a few feet past Joel, who was buffeted

underwater by its wake. Once more the boat veered

toward the shoreline and slowed down, its searchlight

peering into the dense foliage of the bank, heading

west, back toward LeifLelm's estate. Converse held

his head above the surface, his mouth wide open,

swallowing all the air he could as he made his way

slowly very slowly into the mud. He pulled

himself up through the wet reeds and branches until

he felt dry ground. Huong Khe. He pulled the

underbrush over him as best he could, finally

covering his upturned face. He would rest until he

felt the blood flowing steadily if painfully through his

limbs, until the muscles of his neck lost their

tension it was always the neck; the neck was the

warning signal and then he would consider the man

on the dark hill above him.

    He dozed, until a slapping wave below woke him.

He pushed the branches and the leaves away from

his face and looked at the chauffeur's watch on his

wrist, squinting at the weak radium dial. He had

slept for nearly an hour fitfully, to be sure, the

slightest sounds forcing his eyelids briefly open, but

he had rested. He rolled his neck back and forth,

then moved his arms and legs. Everything still hurt,

but the excruciating pain was gone. And now he

faced a man on a hill above

336 ROBERT LUDLUM

him. He tried to examine his thoughts. He was

frightened, of course, but his anger would control

that terrible fear, it had done so before, it would do

so now. The objective was all that mattered some

kind of sanctuary, a place where he could think and

put things together and somehow make the most

important telephone call in his life. To Larry Talbot

and Nathan Simon in New York. Unless he could

do these things he was dead as Connal Fitzpatrick

was undoubtedly dead. esus! What had they done to

him? A man with the purity of vengeance purely

sought caught in a diseased web called Aquitainel It

was an unfair world.... But he could not think about

it; he had to concentrate on a man on the hill.

    He crept on his hands and knees. Stretch by

stretch he crawled through the woods bordering the

dirt road that wound up the hill from the lawn and

the riverbank. Whenever a twig crunched or a rock

was displaced he stopped, waiting for the moment to

dissolve back into the sounds of the forest. He kept

telling himself he had the advantage; he was the

unexpected. It helped counteract the fear of the

darkness and the knowledge that a physical

confrontation was before him. Like the patrol scout

years ago in the Huang Khe, that man above him

now had things he needed. The combat could not be

avoided, so it was best not to think about it but to

simply force himself into a mind-set empty of any

feeling, and do it. But do it well, his mind had to

understand that, too. There could be no hesitation,

no intrusions of conscience and no sound of a gun,

only the use of the steel.

    He saw him, oddly enough, silhouetted in the

distant glare of a single streetlamp far above on a

road. The man was leaning against the trunk of a

tree and facing down, his sweep of vision taking in

everything below. As Joel crept up the slope the

space between his hands and knees became inches,

the stops more frequent, silence more vital. He

made his way in an arc above the tree and the man

and then started down like a large cat descending on

its prey. He was the predator he had once been long

ago, everything blocked out but the requirement of

the lifeline.

    He was within six feet; he could hear the man's

breathing. There was a snap beneath him. A branch

The scout turned his eyes alive in the glare of light.

Converse lunged, the barrel of the gun gripped in

his hand. He crashed the steel handle into the

German's temple and then into his throat. The man

fell backward, dazed but not unconscious; he started

to

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 337

screarn..loel sprang for his enemy's neck and half

choked him before bringing the steel handle down

with all his strength on the C;erman's forehead,

instantly there was an eruption of blood and crushed

tissue.

    Silence. No movement. Anotile'; SC'C'llt

separated from his patrol had been taken out. And

as be hac] years ago, Converse permitted himself no

feeling. it was done, and he had to go on.

    The man's dry clothes, including the dark leather

jacket, fit reasonably well. Like most small or

medium-sized commanders, LeiFhelm surrounded

himself with tall men, as much to protect himself as

to proclaim his superiority over his larger

compatriots.

    There was also another gull; Joel struggled with

the clip, removed it, and threw it along with the

weapon into the woods. The bonus came with the

Cerman s billfold; it contained ti sizable sum of

money as well as a frayed, much stamped passport.

Apparently, this trusted employee of Leifhelm

traveled widely for 4quitaine probably knowing

nothing and being very expendable, but always

available at the moment of decision. The ma!1 s

shoes did not tat; they were too small. So Converse

used his drenched clothing to wipe his OWI1, and the

Cerman's dry socks Iqelped to absorb some of the

moisture of the leather inside. He covered the man

with branches and walked up the hit' to the road.

    He stayed out of sight between the trees as five

cars passed by, all sedans, all possibly belonging to

Erich Leifhelm. Then he saw a bright-yellow

Volkswagen come into view, weaving slightly. He

stepped out and held up his hands, the gesture of a

man in trouble.

    The small car stopped a blond girl in the

passenger seat, the driver no more than eighteen or

twenty, another young man in back, also blond, who

looked as though he might be the girl's brother.

"Was ist los, Opa?" asked the driver.

    "I'm afraid I don't speak German. Can you speak

any English?"

    "I speak some English," said the boy in back,

slurring his words. "Better than these two! All they

want to do is get to our place and make love. See! I

do speak English?"

    "You certainly do, and very well, indeed. Would

you explain to them, please? Frankly, I've had a fight

with my wife

338 ROBERT IUDLUM

at a party down there you know, at those

cottages and I want to get back to Bonn. 111 pay

you, of course."

    "Ein Streit mit seiner Frau! Er will nach Bonn. Er

wind uns hezahlen."

    "Warum night? Sie hat mich halite sowieso schon

zu viol gekostet," said the driver.

    "Nichtfuer was du kriegst, du Drecksack!" cried

the girl laughing.

    "Get in, main Herr! We are your chauffeurs.

Just pray he stays on the road, ja! What hotel are

you staying ate"

    "Actually, I'd rather not go back there. I'm

really very angry. I'd like to teach her a lesson by

staying away tonight. Do you think you could find

me a room? I'll pay you even more, of course.

Frankly, I've been drinking a bit myself."

    "Ein betrunkener Tourist! Er will ein Hotel.

Fahren wir ihn ins Rosencafe?"

"sort sind mehr Nutten als der alte knocker schafft. "

    We are your guides, Amerikaner, " said the

young man beside Converse. "We are students from

the university who will not only find you a room,

but with excellent prospects of getting back at your

wife with some pleasure! There's also a cafe. You'll

buy us a lager or six, ja?'

    "All you want. But Ed also like to make a

telephone call. To the United States it's business.

Will I be able to?"

    "Most everyone in Bonn speaks English. If they

don't at this Rosbencafe, 1, myself, will take care of

it Six lager th h

"Twelve, if you like."

"Da wird es im Pissoir sine t~berschwemmung

geben!"

    He knew the rate of exchange, and once inside

the raucous cafe actually a run-down bar favored

by the university crowd he counted the money he

had taken from the two Germans. It was roughly

five hundred dollars, over three from the man on

the hill. The seedy clerk at the registration desk

explained in convoluted English that, indeed, the

switchboard could place a call to America, but it

might take several minutes. Joel left fifty dollars in

deutsche marks for his youthful Good Samaritans,

excused himself and headed for his room such as

it was. An hour later the call came through

"Larry?"

"Joel?"

"Thank God you're there!" cried Converse in relief.

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 339

"You ll never know how I kept hoping you weren't

out of town. Getting a call through from here is a

bitch!'

    ' I m here, said Talbot, his voice suddenly calm

and in control. 'Where are you. Joel?" he asked

quietly.

    'Some poor excuse for a hotel in Boml. I just

got here. I didn t get the name. '

    You re in a hotel in Bonn but you don t know

which one?

    'it doesn't matter, Larry! Get Simon on the line

I want to talk to you both. Quickly.'

    'Nathan s in court He should be back here by

four o clock our time. That's about an hour from

now.

"Coddamn it!"

"Take it easy, Joel. Don't upset yourself."

    "Don't upset. . . ? For Christ s sake, I ve been

locked up in a stone cabin with bars in the windows

for five days! I broke out a couple of hours ago, and

ran like hell through the woods with a pack of dogs

and lunatics carrying guns chasing me. I spent an

hour in the water damn near drowning before I

cohuldd reach land without getting my head shot off

and the

    ' You had to what, Joel?" asked Talbot, a

strange passivity in his voice 'What did you have to

do?'

    'Goddamn it, Larry, I may have killed a man to

get out of there!'

    'You had to kill someone, Joel? Why did you

think you had to do that?"

    "He was waiting for me! They were searching for

me! On the land, in the woods along the

riverbanks he was a scout separated from his

patrol. Scouts, patrols! I had to get out, get away!

And you tell me not to be upset!"

    ' Calm down, Joel, try to get hold of yourself....

You escaped before, didn't you? A long time ago "

    'What s that got to do with anything? Converse

broke in.

    "You had to kill people then, didn t you? Those

memories must always be with you

    Larry, that s bullshit! Listen to me and take

down everything I say the names I give you, the

facts get it all down.

    "Perhaps I should bring Janet on the line. Her

shorthand

'No! Only you, no one else! They can trace people,

any

340 ROBERT LUDLUM

one who knows anything. It's not that complicated.

Are you ready?"

"Of course."

    Joel sat down on the narrow bed and took a

deep breath. "The best way to put it as it was put

to me, but you don't have to write this down, just

understand is that they've come back."

"Who?"

    "The generals field marshals, admirals,

colonels allies and enemies, all field and fleet

commanders and above. They've come together

from everywhere to change things, change

governments and laws and foreign policies, every-

thing to be based on military priorities and

decisions. It's crazy, but they could do it. We'd live

out their fantasies because they'd be in control,

believing they're right and selfless and

dedicated as they've always believed.'

"Who are these people, Joel?"

    "Yes, write this down. The organisation is called

Aquitaine. It's based on a historical theory that the

region in France once known as Aquitaine might

have become all of Europe and by extension as

colonies the North American continent as well."

"Whose theory?"

    "It doesn't matter, it's just a theory. The

organizahon was conceived by General George

Delavane he was known as Mad Marcus in

Vietnam and I saw only a fraction of the damage

that son of a bitch did! He's pulled in military

personnel from all over the place, all commanders,

and they're fanning out recruiting their own kind,

fanatics who believe as they do, that theirs is the

only way. For the past year or so they've been

shipping illegal weapons and armaments to terrorist

groups, encouraging destabilisation wherever they

can, the ultimate purpose being that they'll be

called in to restore order, and when they do, they'll

take over.... Five days ago I met with Delavane's

key men from France and Germany Israel and

South Africa and, I think, possibly England."

    "You met with these people, Joel? Did they

invite you to a meeting?"

    "They thought I was one of them, that I believed

in everything they stood for. You see, Larry, they

didn't know how much I hated them. They hadn't

been where I'd been, hadn't seen what I saw as

you said, years ago."

"When you had to escape," added Talbot

sympathetical

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 341

ly. "When you had to kill people times you'll never

forget. They must have been terrible for you."

    "Yes, they were. Goddamn it, yes! Sorry, let's stay

on course. I'm so bred still frightened, too, I think."

"Relax, Joel."

    "Sure. Where was I?" Converse rubbed his eyes.

"Oh, yes, I remember. They got information on me,

information from my service record, my status as a

POW, which wasn't actually part of the record, but

they got it and they found out what and who I was.

They heard the words that told them how much I

hated them, hated what Delavane had done what

they all had done. They drugged me, got whatever

they could and threw me into a Godforsaken stone

house set in the middle of the woods above the

Rhine. While under the chemicals I must have told

them everything I knew "

    "Chemicals?" asked Talbot, obviously never

having heard the term.

    Amytols, Pentothals, scopolamine. I've been the

route, Larry. I've been there and back."

'You have? Where?"

In the camps. It's immaterial."

"I'm not sure it is."

    "It is! The point is they found out what I know.

That means they'll move up their schedule."

"Schedule?"

    "We're in the countdown. Now! Two weeks, three

weeks, four at the outside! No one knows how or

where or what the targets are, but there'll be

eruptions of violence and terrorism all over the

place, giving them the excuse to move in and take

over. 'Accumulation,' 'rapid acceleration,' those were

the words they used! Right now in Northern

Ireland everything's blown apart, nothing but

chaos whole armored divisions are moving in. They

did it, Larry! It's a test, a trial run for them! I'm

going to give you the names." Converse did so both

surprised and annoyed that Talbot did not react to

any of the men of Aquitaine. "Have you got them?"

"Yes, I have."

    "Those are the salient facts and the names I can

vouch for. There's a lot more people in the State

Department and the Pentagon, but the lists are in

my briefcase and it's been stolen, or hidden

somewhere. I'll get some rest and start writing out

everything I know, then call you in the morning. I

have to get out of here. I'm going to need help."

342 ROBERT LUDIUM

    "I agree, so may I talk now?" said the lawyer in

New York in that odd flat voice. "First, where are

you, Joel? Look on the phone or read the print on

an ashtray or check the desk; there must be

stationery."

    "There's no desk and the ashtrays are chipped

glass. . . . Wait a minute, I picked up some matches

from the bar when I bought cigarettes." Converse

reached into the pocket of the leather jacket and

pulled out the book of matches. "Here it is.

Riesendrinks. '

    Look below that. My German is limited, but I

think it means big drinks' or something.'

"Oh? Then it must be this. 'Rosencafe.'"

"That sounds more like it. Spell it for me, Joel."

    Converse did, an undefined feeling disturbing

him. "Have you got it?" he asked. "Here's a

telephone number." Joel read off the numbers

printed on the cover.

    "Good, that's splendid," said Talbot. "But before

you get off the line and I know you need rest

badly I have a couple of questions."

"I would hope to hell you do!"

    "When we spoke after that man was hurt in

Paris, after that fight you saw in the alley, you told

me you were in Amsterdam. You said you were

going to Hy back to Paris and see Rene, straighten

everything out. Why didn't you, Joel?"

    "For Cod's sake, Larry, I just told you what I've

been through! It took every minute I had to set

things up. I was going after these people this

goddamned Aquitaine and it could only be done

one way. I had to work myself in, I couldn't waste

time!"

"That man died. Did you have anything to do with

his

    "Christ, yes, I killed him! He tried to stop me,

they all tried to stop me! They found me in

Copenhagen and had me followed. They were

waiting for me at the airport here. It was a trap!"

    "To stop you from reaching these men, these

generals and field marshals?"

"Yes!"

    "Yet you just told me these same men invited

you to meet with them."

    "I'll spell it all out for you in the morning," said

Converse wearily, the tension of the last

hours days culminating in exhaustion and a

wracking headache. "By then I'll have ev

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 343

erything down on paper, but you may have to come

over here to get it and me. The main thing is we're

in touch. You've got the names, the overview, and

you know where I am. Talk with Nathan, think about

everything I've said and the three of us will figure

out what to do. We have contacts in Washington, but

we'll have to be careful. We don't know who's with

whom. But there's a plus here. Some of the material

I have I had could only have come from people

down there. One view is that I was set in motion by

them, that men I don't know are watching every

move I make because I'm doing what they can't do."

    "By yourself," said Talbot, agreeing. "Without

Washington's help. Without their help."

    "That's right. They can't show themselves; they

have to stay in the background until I bring out

something concrete. That was the plan. When you

and Nathan talk, if you have questions call me. I'm

just going to lie down for an hour or so anyway."

    "I've got another question now, if you don't mind.

You know Interpol has an international warrant for

you."

"I do."

"And the American embassy is looking for you."

"I know that, too."

    "I was told that word reached you to come into

the embassy."

"You were told?"

"Why haven't you done it, Joel?"

    "Jesus, I can't! Don't you think I would if I could

? The place is crawling with Delavane's people. Well,

that's an exaggeration, but I know of three. I saw

them."

    "It's my understanding that Ambassador

Peregrine himself got word to you, guaranteeing you

protection, confidentiality. Wasn't that enough?"

    "Your understanding . . ." The answer is no!

Peregrine hasn't any idea what he's got inside that

place. Or maybe he does. I saw Leifhelm's car go

through those gates like he had a lifetime pass. At

three o'clock in the morning. Leifhelm's a Nazi,

Larry, he's never been anything else! So what does

that make Peregrine?"

    "Come on, Joel. You're maligning a man by

implication who doesn't deserve it. Walter Peregrine

was one of the heroes of Bastogne. His command at

the Battle of the Bulge is

344 ROBERT LUDLUM

a legend of the war. And he was a reserve officer,

not part of the regular Army. I doubt that Nazis are

his favorite guests. '

    "His command? Another commander? Then

maybe he knows exactly what he s got in that

embassy!"

    "That's not fair. His outspoken criticisms of the

Pentagon are a documented part of his postwar

career. He's called them megalomaniacs with too

damn much money feeding their egos at the

taxpayers' expense. No, you're not being fair, Joel.

I think you should listen to him. Call him on the

phone, talk to him."

    ' Not being fairy" said Converse softly, the

undefined feel~ng coming Into focus, now a

warning. Wait a minute! You're the one who's not

being fair. I was told'. . . it's my understanding?'

What oracle have you been in touch with? Who's

imparting these pearls of wisdom about me? On

what basis and where from?"

    "All right, Joel, all right, calm down. Yes, I have

talked to people people who want to help you. A

man is dead in Paris, and now you say there's

another in Bonn. You talk of scouts and patrols and

those horrible chemicals, and how you ran through

the woods and had to hide in the river. Don t you

understand, son? Nobody's blaming you or even

holding you responsible. Something happened;

you're living it all over again."

    "My God!" broke in Converse, stunned. 'You

don't believe a word I've said!"

    You believe it, and that s all that matters. I saw

my share in North Africa and Italy, but nothing to

compare with what you went through later. You

have a deep, understandable hatred for war and all

things military. You wouldn't be human if you

didn't, not with the suffering you experienced and

the terrible things you endured."

~Larry, everything I've told you is true!"

    Fine, splendid. Then reach Peregrine go to the

embassy and tell them. They'll listen to you. He'll

listen."

    Are you denser than I think?,' shouted Joel. 1

just told you, I can t! I'd never get to see Peregrine!

I'd get my head blown away!'

    ' 1 spoke to your wife sorry, your ex-wife. She

said you'd have these moments at night...."

    '~You spoke to Val? You brought her into this!

Christ, are you out of your mind ? Don't you know

they trace everyone

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 345

down ? It was right under your nose, counselor!

LucasAnstett Stay away from her! Stay away or

I'll I'll "

"You'll what, son?" asked Talbot quietly. "Kiln' me,

too?"

"Oh, 1esust"

' Do as I say, Joel. Call Peregrine. Everything wilt be

all

    Suddenly Converse heard an odd sound over the

line, odd in context but one he had heard hundreds

of times before. It was a short buzz, barely significant

but there was significance to it. It was Lawrence

Talbot's courteous signal to his secretary to come

into his office and pick up a revised letter or a

corrected brief or a dictation tape. Joel knew what it

was now. The address of a seedy hotel in Bonn.

    "All right, Larry," he said, feigning an exhaustion

that was all too real. "I'm so damned tired. Let me lie

down for a while and maybe I will call the embassy.

Maybe I should get in touch with Peregrine.

Everything's so confused."

    "That's the way, son. Everything's going to be fine

now. Just splendid."

"Good-bye, Larry."

"Good-bye for now, Joel. See you in a couple of

days."

    Converse slammed down the phone and looked

around the dimly lit room. What was he checking

for? He had come with nothing and he would leave

with nothing but what was on his back what he had

stolen. And he had to leave quickly. He had to run.

In minutes men would be speeding in cars from the

embassy, and at least one of those men would have

a gun and a bullet meant for him!

    What in hell was happening to him? The truth

was a fantasy bolstered by lies, and the lies were his

only means of survival. Insanity!

19

    He ran past the elevator to the staircase,

descending the steps two and three at a time, his

hand on the iron railing as he lurched around the

landings, and reached the lobby door four stories

below. He swung it open, suddenly gripping the

346 R06ERT IUDLUM

edge and slowing his pace so as not to call attention

to himself. He need not have been concerned. The

small band of people milling about in front of the

benches against the wall and wandering around the

warm tile floor were the neighborhoodelderly,

looking for nightly companionship, and a few drunks

walking in and out of the neon-lit door to the noisy

cafe. Oh Christ! His mind was in a frenzy. He could

walk around in the night, hiding in alleys, but a lone

man in unfamiliar streets was too easily spotted by

unofficial hunters or by the official police. He had

to get inside somewhere, somehow. Out of sight.

    The cafe! His Samaritans! He pulled up the

collar of the leather jacket and forced the belt of

the trousers lower, inching down the gap around his

ankles. He then approached the door casually,

feigning a slight stagger as he pushed it open. He

was greeted by Roating levels of smoke not all of

it tobacco, by any means and adjusted his stinging

eyes to the erratically flashing lights as he tried to

block out the offending noise, a combination of

guttural roars and disco music blaring from

high-tech speakers. His Good Samaritans were

gone: he looked for the young blond girl as his focal

point, but she was not there. The table they had

occupied was taken by another foursome no, not

four different people, only three, who had joined

the English-speaking student who had sat beside

him in the car. The three were young men who

seemed also to be students. Joel approached them,

and passing an empty chair in his path, he gripped

the back and unobtrusively pulled it behind him to

the table. He sat down and smiled at the

blond-haired student.

    "I didn't know- if I'd left enough money for

those twelve beers I promised," he said pleasantly

    "Ach! I was just talking about you, Herr

AmerJkaner! These are my friends like me, all

dreadful students!" The three newcomers were

introduced rapidly, the names lost in the music and

the smoke. Everyone nodded; the American was

welcome.

"Our other two friends left?"

    "I told you," shouted the blond youngster

through the noise. "They wished to drive to our

house and make love That's all they do! Our

parents went to Bayreuth for the music festival, so

they shall make their own music on her bed and I

shall come home late!"

"Nice arrangement," said Converse, trying to think

of

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 347

how to broach the subject that had to be broached

quickly. He had very little time.

    'Very good, sir!" said a dark-haired young man on

his right. "Hans would have missed that; his English

is understandably inferior. I was an exchange student

in the state of Massachusetts for two years.

'Arrangement' is also a musical term. You combined

the two! Very good, sir!'

    "I keep trying," saidJoel aimlessly, looking at the

student. "You really speak English?" he asked

sincerely.

    "Very well. My scholarship depends upon it. My

friends here are good people, make no mistake, but

they are rich and come here for amusement. As a

boy, I lived two streets away from this place. But

they protect the lads here, and why not? Let them

have fun; nobody is hurt and money is spread."

    "You're sober," said Converse, the statement

bordering on a question.

    The young man laughed as he nodded. "Tonight,

yes. Tomorrow afternoon I have a difficult exam and

need a clear head. The summer-session examinations

are the worst. The professors would rather be on

holiday."

    "I was going to talk to him," said Joel, nodding at

the blond student, who was arguing with his two

companions, his hands waving in the smoke, his voice

strident. "But that doesn't make sense. You do."

    "In what sense, sir, if you will forgive the

redundancy of the expression?"

"'Redundancy'? What's your major?"

"Preliminary law, sir."

"I don't need that."

"It is a difficulty, sir?"

    "Not for me. Listen, I haven't much time and I

have a problem. I have to get out of here. I need to

find another place to stay just until tomorrow

morning. I assure you I've done nothing wrong,

nothing illegal in case my clothes or my appearance

gives another impression. It's strictly a personal

matter. Can you help me?"

    The dark-haired young German hesitated, as if

reluctant to answer, but nevertheless did so, leaning

forward to be heard. "Since you bring up the subject,

I'm sure you can understand that it would not be

seemly for a student of the law to help a man under

questionable circumstances."

    "That's exactly why I brought it up," said

Converse rapidly, speaking into the student's ear.

"I'm an attorney and under

348 ROBERT LUDLUM

these clothes a reasonably respectable one. I simply

took on the wrong American client over here and

can't wait to get a plane out tomorrow morning."

    The young man listened, studied Joel's face and

nodded. 'Then these are not lodgings you would

normally seek?"

    'To be avoided wherever possible. I just thought

it would be a good idea to be inconspicuous for the

night."

"There are very few places such as this in Bonn, sir."

    "To Bonn's credit, counselor." Glancing about

the cafe and its predominant clientele, Converse

had another thought. "It's summer!" he said urgently

to the student through the bedlam. "Are there any

youth hostels around here?"

    "Those in the vicinity of Bonn or Cologne are

filled, sir mostly with Americans and the Dutch. The

others which might have spaces are quite far north

toward Hanover. However, there is another

solution, I think."

"What?"

    "Summer, sir. The rooming houses usually filled

by those attending the university have many spaces

during the summer months. In the house where I

stay there are two empty rooms on the third floor."

"I thought you lived around here."

    "That was long ago. My parents are retired and

live with my sister in Mannheim."

    "I'm in a great hurry. May we go? I'll pay you

what I can tonight and more tomorrow morning."

    "I thought you said you were taking the plane in

the morning."

    "I have two stops to make first. You can come

with me; you can show me where they are."

    The young man and Joel excused themselves,

knowing they would not be missed. The student

started toward the lobby door, but Converse

grabbed his elbow, gesturing at the street entrance.

    "Your luggage, sir!" shouted the Cerman

through the din and the flashing lights.

    "You can lend me a razor in the morning!"

Converse yelled back, pulling the young man

through the mingling bodies toward the door.

Several tables before the entrance was an empty

chair, on the seat a soft, rumpled cloth cap. He bent

down and picked it up, holding it in front of him as

he reached the door and walked outside to the

pavement, the student be

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 349

hind him. "Which way?" he asked, pulling the cap

over his head.

    "This way, sir," replied the young Cerman,

pointing beneath the shabby canopy of the adjacent

hotel entrance.

"Let's go, ' said Joel, stepping forward.

    They stopped that is, Converse stopped first,

gripping the student s shoulder and turning him into

the building. A black sedan had come speeding down

the street, swerving into the open space in front of

the canopy. Two men got out of the back doors and

rushed toward the entrance, the second man running

around the trunk to catch up with the first. Joel

angled his head as the young German stared at him.

He recognized both men; both were Americans. They

had been at the Cologne-Bonn airport eight nights

ago, hoping to trap him then as they were coming to

trap him now. The black car moved forward out of

the glare of the lights into the shadows. It pulled into

the curb and waited, a hearse prepared to receive its

cargo.

    "Was ist los?" asked the German youth, unable to

conceal his fear.

    "Nothing, really." Converse removed his hand and

gave the student two friendly claps on the shoulder.

"Just let this be a lesson to you, counselor. Know

who your client is before you get greedy and accept

too large a retainer."

    'ha, " said the young German, attempting a smile

but not succeeding, his eyes on the black sedan.

    They walked rapidly past the parked automobile

with the driver inside, the glow of a cigarette seen in

the darkness of the front seat. Joel pulled down the

cloth cap and again angled his head, now away from

one of his countrymen.

    The truth was a fantasy bolstered by lies.... Survival

was in running and concealment Insanity!

    The early morning was mercifully uneventful

except for his raging thoughts. The student, whose

name was Johann, had secured him a room at the

boardinghouse, the proprietess delighted with a

hundred deutsche marks for the rental. It more than

made up for the gauze, tape, and antiseptic she gave

him to rebandage his wound. Converse had slept

soundly, if intermittently, awakened by fears

transposed into macabre dreams. By seven o'clock

sleep was impossible.

    There was an urgent piece of business that had to

be taken care of; he understood the risk, but the

money was nec

350 ROBERT LUDLUM

essary,nowmore than ever. On Mykonos, the

knowledgeable if serpentine Laskaris had forwarded

$100,000 to banks in Paris, London, Bonn and New

York, using the accepted practice of written-out

numbers as a signature to withdraw the funds.

Laskaris further had suggested that Joel should not

attempt to carry with him or try to memorize four

sets of lengthy and entirely different digits. Instead

the banker would wire the American Express travel

offices in the four cities to hold for a period of

three months a message for who, Mr. Converse?It

should be a name meaningful to you but not to others.

It will be your code, no other idenfff cation neces-

sary as with certain telephone banking facilities in

your own country.... Make it Charpentier. 1.

Charpenffer.

    Joel understood that he might have revealed the

device while under narcotics. Also, he might not

have; his mind was not on money. He had a great

deal in his possession, and the chemicals tended to

elicit only feverish priorities.. He had learned that in

the camps a lifetime ago, twice astonished that he

had not mentioned far-off tactics down the roads of

escape. There was also a backup, ethics

notwithstanding. The young German, Johann, would

be his intermediary. The risks could not be avoided,

only minimized; he had also learned that a lifetime

ago. If the boy was taken, his conscience would be

stricken, but then, what could be the worst that

would happen to him? There was no point in

thinking about it.

    "Go inside and ask if there's a message for J.

Charpentier," said Joel to the student. They were in

the backseat of a taxi across the street from the

American Express office. "If the answer is yes, say

the following words. 'It must be a wire from

Mykonos,'" he added, recalling Laskaris' precise in-

structions.

    "That is necessary, sir?" asked the dark-haired

Johann, frowning.

    "Yes, it is. Without mentioning Mykonos and the

fact that the message is a cable, they won't give it to

you. Also it identifies you. You won't have to sign

anything."

"This is all very strange, sir."

    "If you're going to be a lawyer, get used to odd

forms of communication. There's nothing illegal,

simply a means of protecting your client's and your

firm's confidentiality."

"I have much to learn, it seems."

"You're not doing anything wrong," continuedJoel

quiet

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 351

Iy,his eyes level withJohann's. "On the contrary,

you're doing something very right, and I'll pay you

very well for doing it."

"Sehr gut, " said the young man.

    Converse waited in the taxi, his eyes scanning the

street concentrating on stationary automobiles and

those pedestrians walking too slowly or not at all, or

anyone whose glances even seemingly strayed to the

American Express office.. Johann went inside and

Joel swallowed repeatedly, a tightness in his throat;

the waiting was awful, made worse by the knowledge

that he was using the student in a high-risk situation

Then he thought briefly of Avery Fowler-Halliday

and Connal Fitzpatrick; they had lost. The young

German had an infinitely far greater chance of living

for many years.

    The minutes went by as the sweat crawled

through Converse's hair and down his neck; time was

suspended in fear Finally, Johann came outside,

blinking in the sunlight, inno cence personified. He

crossed the street and climbed into the taxi.

    "What did they say to your" asked Joel, trying to

sound casual, his eyes still roaming the street.

    "Only if I had been waiting long for the message.

I replied that I expected it was a cablegram from

Mykonos. I didn't know what else to say."

    "You did fine." Joel tore open the envelope and

unfolded the wire. There was an unbroken series of

written-out numbers, well over twenty, he judged at

a glance. Again he remembered Laskaris'

instructions: Pick every third number beginning with

the third and ending with the third from the last. Think

merely in terms of three. It's quite simple these things

usually are and in any event, no one else can sign for

you. It's merely a precaution.

"Is everything all right?" asked Johann.

    "So far we're ahead one step and you're one step

nearer a bonus, counselor."

"I'm also nearer my examination."

"What time do you take it?"

"Three-thirty this afternoon."

"Good omen. Think in terms of three."

"I beg your pardon?"

    "Nothing. Let's find a pay telephone. You've only

got one more thing to do, and tonight you can buy

your friends the biggest dinner in Bonn."

* * *

352 ROBERT LUDLUM

    The taxi waited at the corner while Converse

and the young German stood outside the booth,

Johann having written down the bank's number

from the telephone book. The student was reluctant

to go any further; the exotic chores asked of him

now were more than he cared to accept.

    'AII you have to do is tell the truth!" insisted

Joel. "Only the truth. You met an American

attorney who doesn't speak German and he's asked

you to make a call for him. This attorney has to

withdraw funds for a client from a confidential ac-

counts-transfer and wants to know whom he should

see. That's all. No one will ask your name, or mine,

either, for that matter."

    ' And when I do this there will be something

else, main Herr? Nein, I think not. You call

yourself "

    "I can't make a mistake! I can't misunderstand

a word. And there is nothing else. Just wait

wherever you like around the bank or near the

bank. When I come out I'll give you two thousand

deutsche marks, and as far as I'm concerned far as

anyone's concerned we never met."

"So much for so little, sir. You can understand my

fears."

    "They're nothing compared to mine," said

Converse quietly yet urgently. "Please, do this. I

need your help."

    As he had done the night before through the

noise and the smoke and the flashing lights of the

raucous bar, the young German looked hard at Joel,

as if trying to see something he could not be sure

was there. Finally, he nodded once without

enthusiasm. "Sehr gut, " he said, stepping into the

booth with several coins in his hand.

    Converse watched through the glass as the

student dialed and obviously had brief conversations

with two or three different people before reaching

the correct party. The one-sided dialogue as

observed by Joel seemed interminable far too long

and too complicated for the simple request of a

name in the transferred-accounts department. At

one point, as he wrote something down on the scrap

of paper with the bank's number on it, Johann

appeared to object and Converse had to restrain

himself from opening the door and terminabng the

call. The German youth hung up and came out, his

expression confused and angry.

"What happened? Was there a problem?"

"Only with the hour and institutional policy, sir."

"What does that mean?"

"Such accounts are serviced only after twelve noon.

I

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 353

made it clear that you had to be at the airport by

then, but Herr Direktor said the bank's policy would

stand." Johann handed Converse the slip of paper.

'You're to see a man named Lachmann on the

second floor."

    "I'll catch a later plane." Joel looked at the

chauffeur's watch on his wrist. It was ten-thirty-five;

an hour and a half to go.

    "I was hoping to be at the university library long

before noon."

    "You can still be there," said Converse sincerely.

"We can stop, get a stamped envelope, and you can

write out your name and address. I'll mail the money

to you."

    Johann glanced at the pavement, his hesitation all

too obvious. "I think, perhaps . . . the examination is

not so difficult for me. It's one of my better subjects."

    "Of course," agreed Joel. "There's no reason on

earth why you should trust me."

    "You mistake me, sir. I believe you would mail

the money to me. It's just that I'm not sure it's such

a good idea for me to receive the envelope."

    Converse smiled; he understood. "Fingerprints?"

he asked kindly. "Accepted rules of evidence?"

"It's also one of my better subjects."

    "Okay, you're stuck with me for another couple of

hours. I've got about seven hundred deutsche marks

left until I reach the bank. Do you know some

clothing store away from the main shopping district

where I can buy a pair of trousers and a jacket?"

    "Yes, sir. And if I may suggest, if you are going

to withdraw enough funds to give me two thousand

deutsche marks perhaps a clean shirt and a tie might

be in order."

    "Always check your client's appearance. You may

go far, counselor."

    The ritual at the Bank aus der Bonner Sparkasse

was a study in awkward but adamant efficiency. Joel

was ushered into Herr Lachmann's office on the

second floor where nei, ther a handshake nor small

talk was offered. Only the business at hand was

addressed.

    "Origin of transfer, please?" asked the blunt,

corpulent executive.

"Bank of Rhodes, Mykonos branch, waterfront office.

The

354 ROBERT LUDLUM

name of the dispatcher,' I guess you'd call him, is

Laskaris. I don't recall his first name."

    "Even his last is unnecessary,' said the German,

as though he did not care to hear it. The transaction

itself seemed somehow to offend him.

    "Sorry, I just wanted to be helpful. As you

know, I'm in a great hurry. I have a plane to catch.'

    'Everything will be done according to the

regulations, sir."

~Naturally."

    The banker shoved a sheet of paper across the

desk. "You will write out your numerical signature

five times, one below the other, as I read you the

regulations which constitute the policy of the Bank

aus der Bonner Sparkasse as they pertain to the

laws of the Federal Republic of Germany. You will

then be required to sign again in your numerical

signature an affidavit that you thoroughly

understood and accept these prohibitions.

"I thought you said 'regulations.'"

"One and the same, sir."

    Converse took the cablegram out of the inside

pocket of his newly purchased sport jacket and

placed it beside the blank page of stationery. He

had underlined the correct numbers and began

writing.

    "'You the numerically undersigned, traceable

from the origin of transfer,'" droned the obese

Lachmann, leaning back in his chair and reading

from a single page, " 'swear to the fact that

whatever funds withdrawn from the Bank aus der

Bonner Sparkasse from this confidential account

have been subject to all taxes, individual and

corporate, from whatever sources of revenue. That

they are not being processed through differing

currencies to avoid said taxes, or for the purpose of

making unlawful payments to individuals,

companies, or corporations trafficking in illegal

and

"Forget it, Joel broke in. "I know it; I'll sign it.

    "' egregious activities outside the laws of the

Federal Republic of Germany or the laws of the

nation of which the undersigned is a legal resident

with full citizenship.'

    "Ever tried half-full or resident alien status?

said Converse, starting the last line of numbers. "I

know a law student who could punch holes in that

affidavit.

"There is more, but you say you ll sign?"

"Im sure there s more and of course I'll sign." Joel

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 355

pushed the page with the handwritten numbers back

to the banker. "There. Just get me the money. One

hundred thousand American, minus your fee. Split it

two thirds and a third. U.S. and Cenman, no bills

over six hundred deutsche marks and five hundred

American."

"That is quite a bit of paper, sir."

"I'll handle it. Please, as quickly as possible."

    'Is that amount the entire account? I would not

know of course, until the scanners verify your

'signature.' "

"It's the entire account."

"It could take several hours, natu'rlich."

"What9"

    "The regulations, the policy. " The fat man

extended his arms in supplication.

"I don't have several hours!"

"What can I do?" What can you do? A thousand

American for you." One hour, sir."

"Five thousand?"

"Five minutes, my good friend."

    Converse walked out of the elevator. The

abrasive newly acquired money belt was far less

comfortable than the one he had purchased in

Geneva, but it would have been pointless to refuse it.

It was a courtesy of the bank, Lachmann had said as

the German pocketed nearly twelve thousand

deutsche marks for himself. The 'five minutes' had

been a persuasive exaggeration, thought Joel as he

glanced at the clock on the wall; it was nearly

twelve-forty-five. The ritual had taken over half an

hour, from his "indoctrination" to the verification of

his "signature" by electronic scanners capable of

detecting the slightest "fundamental" variation in the

writing charactenstics. Apparently no one dared

make any mistakes in the German banks where

questionable practices were concerned. The

regulations were followed right to the borders of

illegality, with everyone covered by following orders

that placed the burden of innocence solely on the

recipients.

    Converse started for the bronze-bordered doors

of the entrance when he saw the student,Johann,

sitting on a marble bench, looking out of place but

not uncomfortable. The young man was reading

some sort of pamphlet put out by the bank. Or more

precisely, he was pretending to read it; his eyes, dart-

ing above the page, were watching the crowds

crisscrossing

356 ROBERT LUDLUM

the marble floor. Converse nodded es Johann saw

him; the student got up from the bench and waited

until Joel reached the entrance before he began to

follow.

    Something had happened. Outside on the

pavement people were rushing in both directions,

but mainly to the right; voices were raised, questions

shouted, replies blurred with anger and angry

ignorance.

'What the hell is it?" asked Converse.

    "I don't know," replied Johann, next to him.

"Something ugly, I think. People are running to the

kiosk on the corner. The newspapers."

    "Let's get one," said Joel, touching the young

man's arm, as they started toward the growing

crowd on the block.

"Attentat! Mord!Amerikanische Botschafter ermordet!"

    The newsstand operators were shouting, handing

out papers as they grabbed coins and bills with little

or no attempt to give change. There was a sense of

swelling panic that came with sudden unexplained

events that presaged greater disasters. All around

them people were snapping papers, their eyes

riveted on the headlines and the stories beneath.

    "Mein Gott!" cried Johann, glancing at a folded

newspaper on his left. "The American ambassador

has been assassinated!"

    "Christ! Get one of those!" Converse threw a

number of coins into the kiosk as the young

German grabbed a paper from the extended hand of

a newsstand operator. "Let's get out of here!" yelled

Joel, gripping the student's arm.

    But Johann did not move. He stood there in the

middle of the shouting crowd, staring at the

newspaper, his eyes wide, his lips trembling.

Converse shoved two men away with his shoulders

as he pulled the young man forward, now both of

them surrounded by anxious, protesting Germans

obsessed with getting to the newsstand.

    "You!" Johann's scream was muted by some

intolerable fear.

    Joel ripped the newspaper from the student's

hands. In the upper canter of the front page were

photographs of two men. On the left was the

murdered Walter Peregrine, American ambassador

to the Federal Republic. On the right was the face

of an American Rechtsanwalt one of the few words

in German Converse knew; it meant attomey. The

photograph was of himself.

20

    "No!" roared Joel, crushing the paper in his left

fist, his right hand gripping Johann's shoulder.

"Whatever it says, it's a lie! I'm not any part of this!

Don't you see what they're trying to do? Come on

with me!"

    "Rein!" the young German, looking frantically

around, realising his voice was lost in the enveloping

bedlam.

    "I said yes!" Converse shoved the newspaper inside

his jacket, and throwing his right arm around

Johann's neck, pulled him alongside. "You can think

and do what you like, but first you come with me!

You're going to read me every goddamned word!"

    "Da ist er! Der Affentater!" shrieked the young

German, reaching out, clutching the trousers of a

man in the crowd who cursed and swung his arm

down on the offending hand.

    Joel wrenched the student's neck to his left, and

shouted into his ear, his words stunning himself as

much as they did the young man. "You want it this

way, you can have it! I've got a gun in my pocket and

if I have to use it I will! Two decent men have been

killed already now three why should you be the

exception? Because you're young? That's no reason!

When you come right down to it, who the hell are we

dying for?"

    Converse yanked the youth back and forth,

dragging him out of the crowd. Once on the clear

pavement he released his armlock, replacing it with a

strong grip on the back of Johann's neck. He

propelled the student forward, his eyes roving the

street, trying to find a secluded area where they could

talk where Johann could talk, after reading a string

of lies put out by the men of Aquitaine. The

newspaper slipped down beneath his jacket; he

reached in and grabbed it by the edge, pulling the

paper out intact. He could not just keep walking,

pushing his captive down the pavement; several peo-

ple had glanced at them, fuel for the curious. Oh,

Christ! The

357

358 ROBERT IUDIUM

photograph hisJace! Anyone might recognize him,

and he was calling attention to himself by keeping

the boy in tow.

    Up ahead, on the right, there was a bakery or a

coffee shop or a combination of both with tables

under umbrellas on the sidewalk; several were

empty at the far end. He would have preferred a

deserted alley or a cobblestoned side street too

narrow for vehicles, but he could not keep doing

what he was doing walking so rapidly with a

prisoner in his grip.

    'Over there! That table in the rear. You sit

facing out. And remember, I wasn't joking about the

gun, my hand will be in my pocket. '

    "Please, let me go! You've done enough to me!

My friends know we left together last night; my

landlady knows I got you a room! The police will

question me!"

    "Get in there," said Converse, shoving Johann

between the chairs to the table at the rear of the

pavement. Both sat down; the young German was

no longer trembling, but his eyes were darting in all

directions. "Don't even think about it," continued

Joel. "And when a waiter comes over, speak in

English. Only English!"

    "There are no waiters. Customers go inside and

bring out their own sweet rolls and coffee."

    "We'll do without you can get something later.

I owe you money and I pay my debts."

    . . . I always pay my debts. At least during the last

four years I have. Words from a note left by a

risk-taker. An actor named Caleb Dowling.

    "I want no money from you," saidJohann, his

English guttural with fear.

' You think it's tainted, makes you a true accessory,

is that

"You are the lawyer, I am merely a student."

    "Let me set you straight. It's not tainted because

I didn't do whatever they said I did, and there's no

such thing as an accessory to innocence."

"You are the lawyer, sir."

    Converse pushed the newspaper in front of the

young German and with his right hand reached into

his pocket where he had put ten thousand deutsche

marks in ascending denominations for his immediate

use. He counted out seven thousand and reached

over, placing it in front of Johann. "Put that away

before I shove it down your throat."

"I will not take your money!"

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 359

    "You'll take it and tell them I gave it to you, if

you want to. They'll have to give it back."

'What do you mean?"

    'The truth, counselor. You'll find out one day

that it's the best shield you've got. Now, read me

what the paper saysI"

    "'The ambassador was killed sometime last

night,'" began the student haltingly as he awkwardly

put the deutsche marks in his pocket. ". . . The

approximate time of death is difficult to establish

until further examinations,'" he continued, translating

the words in the article in fits and starts, trying to

find the appropriate meanings. " '. . . The fatal

wound was . . . 'Scha'del' cranial, a head wound 'the

body in the water for many hours, washed up on the

riverbank in the Plittersdorf and found early this

morning.... The military charge d'affaires was quoted

as saying that the last person known to have been

with the ambassador was an American by the name

of Joel Converse. When that name appeared, there

were . . .' " The young German squinted, shaking his

head nervously. "How do you say it?"

    "I don't know," said Joel coldly, his voice flat.

"What am I trying to say?"

    "'. . . very excited' frantic 'communications

between the governments of Switzerland, France and

the Federal Republic, all in coordination with the

International Criminal Police, otherwise known as

Interpol, and the . . . pieces of the tragic . . . Ratsel

. . . puzzle fell into place,' became clear, it means.

'Unknown to Ambassador Peregrine, the American

Converse has been the object of an Interpol . . .

Suche. . . search as a result of killings in Geneva and

Paris as well as several attempted murders not yet

clarified.' " Johann looked up at Converse. There was

a throbbing in his throat.

    "Go on," ordered Joel. "You don't know how

enlightening this is. Go on 1"

    "'According to the ambassador's office, a

confidential meeting was arranged at the request of

this man Converse, who claimed to have information

injurious to American interests and which has

subsequently proven to be false. The two men were

to meet at the entrance of the Adenauer Bridge

between seven-thirty and eight o'clock last evening.

The charge d'affaires who accompanied Ambassador

Peregrine confirmed that the two men met at

seven-fifty-one P.M. and started across the bridge on

the pedestrian walkway. It was the last time anyone

from the embassy saw the ambassador

360 ROBERT LUDLUM

alive.' " Johann swallowed, his hands trembling. He

took several deep breaths and went on, his eyes

rushing forward across the print, beads of

perspiration breaking out on his hairline. Below are

more complete . . . eingehendere . . . details as they

are known, but a statement issued by Interpol

described the suspect, Joel as an apparently normal

man who is in reality a ... wandernde....'" The young

German lowered his voice to a whisper. "'a walking

explosive with severe mental disturbances. He is

judged by several behavioral experts in the United

States to be psychopathically ill as a result of nearly

four years as a prisoner of war during the Vietnam

conflict....'"

    As Johann stammered on, frightened by his own

voice, the telling words and damning phrases came

with staccato regularity, backed up by hastily

contacted departmental "sources" and unnamed,

faceless `authorities." The portrait was that of a

mentally deranged man who had been thrown back

in time, his derangement triggered by some violent

event that left him with his intelligence intact but

without moral or physical control. In addition,

Interpolts search for him was spoken of in clouded

terms, implying a secret manhunt that had been in

progress for a number of days, if not weeks.

    " '. . . His homicidal tendencies are channeled,'

" continued the now near-panicked student as the

article quoted another "authoritative" source. " . . .

He has a pathological hatred for present or former

high-ranking military personnel, especially those

who had gained prominent public stature. . . .

Ambassador Peregrine was a celebrated battalion

commander in World War Two's Bastogne

campaign, during which many American lives were

lost.... Authorities in Washington have speculated

that the disturbed man, who after several harrowing

attempts finally escaped from a maximum-security

camp in North Vietnam years ago, traveling over a

hundred miles through enemy. . . Dschungel . . .

jungle to reach his lines, is reliving his own

experiences.... His jusfffication for

survival according to a military psychiatrist is the

killing of superior officers, past or present, who

gave orders in combat, or, in the extreme, even

civilians who in his imaginings bore some

responsibility for the suffering he and others

endured. Yet he is outwardly a normal man, as so

many like him.... Guards have been placed in

Washington, London, Brussels, and here in Bonn....

As an international law

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 361

yer,whois presumed to have access to numerous

criminal elements who deal in illegal passports . . .'"

    It was a brilliantly executed trap, the crucial lies

supported by truths, half-truths, distortions and

complete falsehoods. Even the precise timing of the

evening was considered. The charge d'affaires at the

embassy stated unequivocally that he had seen Joel

at the Adenauer Bridge "at 7:51 P.M.,"

approximately twenty-five minutes after he had

broken out of the stone jailhouse on Leifhelm's

estate, and less than ten minutes after he had

plunged into the Rhine. Every fragment of the hour

was accounted for. That he was 'officially" placed at

the bridge by 7:51" denied his story of capture and

escape any credibility.

    The incident in Geneva the death of A. Preston

Halliday was introduced as a possible explanation

for the violent act that had hurled him back in time,

triggering Joel's maniacal behavior. '. . . It has been

learned that the attorney who was shot to death had

been a well-known leader in the American protest

movement in the sixties...." The veiled conclusion

was that Converse might have hired the killers. Even

the death of the man in Paris was given a very

different and far more important dimension oddly

enough, based in reality. ". . . Initially the victim's

true identity was withheld in hopes of aiding the

manhunt, as suspicions were aroused as a result of

an interview the Surete had with a French lawyer

who has known the suspect for a number of years.

The attorney who had lunched with the suspect that

day indicated that his American friend was in

'serious troubles and needed 'medical attention.' . .

." The dead man in Paris, of course, was an out-

standing colonel in the French Army, and an aide

successively to several "prominent generals."

    Finally, as if to convince any remaining

unbelievers in this public trial by "authoritative"

journalism, references were made not only to his

conduct but to the remarks he made upon his

separation from service over a decade and a half

ago. These were released by the United States

Department of the Navy, Fifth Naval District, which

included its own recommendation at the time that

one Lieutenant Converse be placed under voluntary

psychiatric observation; it was refused. His conduct

had been insulting in the extreme to the panel of

officers who wished only to help him, and his

remarks were nothing short of violent threats against

numerous

362 ROBERT LUDIUM

high-ranking military personnel, whom, as a carrier

pilot, he could have known nothing about.

    It all completed the portrait as painted by the

artists of Aquitaine. Johann finished the article, the

newspaper now clutched in his hands, his eyes wide

and frightened. "That s all there is . . . sir."

    "I d hate to think there's any more," said Joel.

"Do you believe it?"

"I have no thoughts. I'm too frightened to think."

    "That s an honest answer. Uppermost in your

mind is the fact that I might kill you, so you can't

face what you think. That's what you're really saying.

You're afraid that by a look or a wrong word I

could take offence and pull a trigger."

"Please, sir, I am not adequate!"

"Neither was 1."

"Let me go. "

    ''Johann. My hands are on the table. They've

been on the table since we sat down."

    "What . . . ?" The young Cerman blinked and

looked at Converse's forearms, both of which were

in front of him, his hands clasped on the white

metal surface. "You have no gun?"

    "Oh, yes, I have a gun. I took it from a man who

would have killed me if he'd had the chance." Joel

reached into his pocket as Johann stiffened.

"Cigarettes," said Converse, taking out a pack and a

book of matches. "It's a terrible habit. Don't start if

you don't smoke."

"It's very expensive."

    "Among other things. " Joel struck a match,

lighting a cigarette, his eyes remaining on the

student. "We've talked off and on since last night.

Except for a few moments back there in the crowd

when you could have had me Iynched, do I look or

sound like the man described in that newspaper

story?"

"I am no more a doctor than a lawyer."

    "Two points for the opposition. The burden of

sanity's on me. Besides, it said I appeared perfectly

normal."

"It said you suffered a great deal."

    "Several hundred years ago, but no more than

thousands of others and far, far less than some

fifty-eight thousand who never came back. I don't

think an insane man is capable of making a rational

remark like that under these circumstances do you?"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

'~I'm trying to tell you that everything you just read

to

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 363

me is an example of a man being tried by negative

journalism. Truths mixed with half-truths, distortions,

and implausible judgments were slanted to support

the lies that are meant to convict me. There's not a

court in any civilised country that would admit that

kind of testimony or permit a jury to hear t.

    "Men have been killed," said Johann, again his

words whispered. "The ambassador was killed."

    "Not by me. I wasn't anywhere near the

Adenauer Bridge at eight o'clock last night. I don't

even know where it is."

"Where were you?'

    "Not where anyone saw me, if that's what you

mean. And those who know I couldn't have been at

the bridge would be the last people on earth to say

so."

    "There has to be some evidence of where you

were." The young German nodded at the cigarette in

Converse's hand. "Perhaps one of those. Perhaps you

finished a cigarette."

    "Or finger or foot prints? Pieces of clothing?

There's all of that, but they don't tell the time."

    "There are methods," corrected Johann. "The

advances in the technology of. . . Forschung. . . the

investigation techniques have been rapid."

    "Let me finish that for you. I'm not a criminal

lawyer but I know what you're saying. Theoretically,

for example, the ground depression of a footprint

matched with the scrapings off my shoes could put

me where I was within the hour."

'7a!"

    "No. I'd be dead before a scrap of evidence

reached a laboratory."

"Why?"

"I can't tell you. I wish to God I could but I can't."

    "Again, I must ask why?" The fear in the young

man's eyes was joined by disappointment, the last

glimpse of believability, perhaps, gone with Joel's

refusal to explain.

    "Because I can't, I won't. You said a few minutes

ago that I'd done enough to you, and without

meaning to, I have. But I won't do this. You're not

in a position to do anything but get yourself killed.

That's as frankly as I can put it, Johann."

"I see."

    "No you don't, but I wish there was a way to

convince you that I have to reach others. People who

can do something.

364 ROBERT LUDLUM

They're not here; they renot in Bonn, but I'll reach

them if I can get away."

    "There's something else? You would have me do

something else?" The young German stiffened again,

and again his hands trembled.

    "No. I don't want you to do anything. I'm asking

you not to do anything at least for a while.

Nothing. Give me a chance to get out of here and

somehow get in touch with people who can help

me help all of us."

"All of us?"

"I mean that, and it's all I'll say."

    "These people are not to be found in your own

embassy A merikaner?"

    Converse looked hard at Johann, his eyes as

steady as he could manage. "Ambassador Walter

Peregrine was killed by one or more men at that

embassy. They came to kill me last night at the

hotel."

    Johann breathed deeply, taking his eyes offJoel

and staring down at the table. "Back at the kiosk, in

the crowd, when you threatened me . . . you said

three men had been killed already three decent

men."

"I'm sorry. I was desperate."

    "It wasn't simply that, it was what you said right

afterward. You said why should I be the exception.

Because I was young? That was no reason, you

claimed, and then you shouted very strange

words I remember them precisely. You said,

'When you come right down to it, who the hell are

we dying for?' It was more than a question, I think."

    "I won't discuss the implications of that remark,

counselor. And I can't tell you what to do. I can

only tell you what I've told dozens of clients over

the years. When a decision is reduced to several

strong opposing arguments mine included and

you've listened to them all, put them behind you

and follow your own gut instinct. Depending upon

who and what you are, it'll be the right one for you."

Converse paused, pushing back his chair. "Now I'm

going to get up and walk out of here. If you start

screaming, I'll run and try to hide somewhere where

I'll be safe before anyone recognises me. Then I'll

do whatever I can do. If you don't set off an alarm,

I'll have a better chance, and that in my view would

be best for all of us. You could go to the

university library and come out in an hour or so,

buy a paper, and go to the police. I'd expect

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 365

you to do that, if you felt you had to. That's my view.

I don't know what yours is. Good-bye, Johann."

    Joel rose from the table, bringing his hand

instantly to his face, his fingers spread, touching his

eyebrows. He turned and walked through the tables

to the pavement, veering right, heading for the first

intersection. He barely took a breath; his lungs were

bursting for air but he dared not let even a breath

impair his hearing. He waited as he walked, his pulse

accelerating, his ears so keenly tuned that the

slightest dissonance would have burned them.

    There were only the sounds of the excited street

conversations in counterpoint with the blaring horns

of taxis not the screams of a young male voice

raising an alarm. He walked faster, entering the flow

of pedestrians crossing the

square faster,faster passing strollers who saw no

need to rush. He reached the curb of the opposite

pavement and slowed down a rapidly walking man

called attention to himself. Yet the impulse to break

into a run was almost uncontrollable the farther he

distanced himself from the tables of the sidewalk

bakery-cafe. His ear had picked up no alarm and

every split second of that absence told him to race

into whatever secluded side streets he could find.

    Nothing. Nothing broke the discordant sounds of

the square, but there was a change, a discernible

change, and it had nothing to do with strident alarms

provoked by a single screaming voice. The discordant

sounds themselves had become subdued, replaced by

shrugs and relaxed gestures indicating inability to

comprehend. The word Amerikaner was repeated

everywhere. The panic initially ignited by the news

had passed. An American had killed an American; it

was not a German assassin, or a Communist, or even

a terrorist who had eluded the Federal Republic's

security arrangements. Life could go on; Deutschland

could not be held responsible for the death and the

citizens of Bonn breathed a sigh of relief.

    Converse spun around the corner of a brick

building and stared across the square at the tables of

the bakery-cafe. The student, Johann, remained in

his chair, his head bowed, supported by both hands,

reading the newspaper. Then he got up and walked

into the bakery itself. Was there a telephone insider

Would he talk to someone?

    How long, can I waits thought Converse, prepared

to run, as instinct held him back.

366 ROBERT LUDLUM

    Johann came out of the bakery carrying a tray of

coffee and rolls. He sat down and meticulously

separated the plates from the tray and once again

stared at the newspaper in front of him. Then he

looked up at nothing in particular as if he knew he

was being watched by unseen eyes and nodded

once.

    Another risk-taker, thoughtJoel,as he turned and

looked and listened to the unfamiliar sights and

sounds of the side street he had entered. He had

been given a few hours; he wished he knew how to

use them he wished he knew what to do.

    Valerie ran to the phone. If it was another

reporter, she would say the same thing she had said

to the last five. I don't believe a word of it and I've

nothing more to say; And if it was one more person

from Washington from the FBI or the CIA or the

VA or any other combinations of the alphabet she

would scream! She had spent three hours being

interviewed that morning until she had literally

ordered the crucifiers out of the house. They were

liars trying to force her to support their lies. It

would be far easier to take the phone off the hook,

but she could not do that. She had called Lawrence

Talbot in New York twice, telling his office to trace

him wherever he was and have him call her back. It

was all madness. Insanity! as Joel used to say with

such quiet intensity she thought his voice was a wild

roar of protest.

'Hello?"

"Valleys It's Roger."

    "Dad!" Only one person had ever called her by

that name and that man was her former

father-in-law. The fact that she was no longer

married to his son had made no difference in their

relationship. She adored the old pilot and knew he

felt the same about her. "Where are you? Ginny

didn't know and she's frantic. You forgot to turn on

your answering machine."

    "I didn't forget, Valley. Too damned many

people to call back. I just flew in from Hong Kong,

and when I got off the plane I was upwinded by fifty

or sixty screaming newspaper people and so many

lights and cameras I won't be able to see or hear

for a week."

    "Some enterprising airline clerk let out the word

you were on board. Whoever it was will eat for a

week offa generous expense account. Where are

you?"

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 367

    "Still at the airport in the traffic manager's of

lice. I'll say this for 'em, they got me out of there....

Valley, I just read the papers. They got me the latest

editions. What the hell is this all about?"

"I don't know, Dad, but I do know it's a lie."

    "That boy's the sanest thing I ever had anything

to do with! They re twisting everything, making the

good things he did into something . . . I don't know,

sinister or something. He s too damned up-front to

be crazy!'

    "He s not crazy, Roger. He's being taken, he's

being put through a wringer. '

'What for?"

    "I don't know. But I think Larry Talbot does at

least more than he's told me."

"What has he told you?"

"Not now, Dad. Later. '

"Why?"

"I'm not sure.... Something I feel, perhaps.'

"You're not making sense, Valley."

"I'm sorry."

'What did Ginny say? I'll call her, of course."

'She's hysterical."

"She always was a little bit."

    "No, not that way. She's blaming herself. She

thinks people are striking out at her brother for the

things she did in the sixties. I tried to tell her that

was nonsense but I'm afraid I made it worse. She

asked me perfectly calmly if I believed what was

being said about Joel. I told her of course I didn't."

    "The old paranoia. Three kids and an accountant

for a husband and it still comes back. I never could

handle that girl. Damned good pilot, though. Soloed

before Joel, and she was two years younger. I'll phone

her."

"You may not be able to reach her."

"Oh?"

    "Sine s having her number changed, and I think

you should do the same thing. I know I'm going to

the minute I hear from Larry."

"Valley . . ." Roger Converse paused. "Don't do that."

"Why not? Have you any idea what it's been like

here?" "Look, you know I've never asked what

happened between you and Joel, but I usually have

dinner with that piss ant lawyer once a week when

I'm in town. He thinks it's some

368 ROBERT IUDLUM

kind of filial necessity, but I'd knock it offina minute

if I didn't like him. I mean he's a likable guy, kind of

funny sometimes."

"I know all that, Roger. What are you trying to

say?"

They say he disappeared, that no one can find

him."

'He may call you. I can't think of anyone else he

would

    Valerie closed her eyes; the afternoon sun

through the skylight was blinding. 'is that based on

your weekly dinner conversations? "

"It's not intuition. I never had any except in the air

. . Of course it is. It was never said outright, but it

was always ust below the cloud cover."

"You're impossible, Dad."

    "Pilot error's like any other. There are times

when you can ,t,lafford it; . . . Don't change your

number Vall "

"Now, what about me?"

    "Ginny's husband had a good idea. They're

referring all questions to their attorney. Maybe you

should do the same. Do you have one?"

    "Sure," said Roger Converse. "I got three. Talbot,

Brooks and Simon. Nate's the best, if you want to

know the truth. Did you know that at the age of

sixty-seven that son of a bitch took up flying? He's

qualified in multiengines now can you imagine?"

"Dad!" Valerie broke in suddenly. "You're at the

air

"That's what I said. Kennedy."

    "Don't go home. Don't go to your apartment.

Take the first plane you can to Boston. Use another

name. Call me back and let me know what flight

you're on. I'll pick you up."

"Just do as I say, Roger. Please!"

"What for?"

"You're staying here. I'm leaving."

21

    Converse hurried out of the clothing store on the

crowded Bornheimer Strasse and studied his

reflection in the window. He surveyed the overall

effect of his purchases, not as a customer inside in

front of the full-length mirror for fit and appearance,

but as one of the strolling pedestrians on the

sidewalk. He was satisfied; there was nothing about

the clothes that called attention to him. The

photograph in the papers the only one in the past

fifteen years that would be in a wire service or

newspaper file was taken about a year ago when he

was one of several merger attorneys interviewed by

Reuters. It was a head-and-shoulders shot, showing

him in his lawyer's clothes a dark suit and vest,

white shirt and striped tie the image of a rising

international specialist. It was also the image

everyone who read the papers had of him, and since

it would not change but only spread with later edi-

tions, then he was the one who had to change.

    Also, he could not continue to wear the clothes

he had worn to the bank. A panicked Lachmann

would undoubtedly give a complete description to the

police, but even if his panic rendered him silent, he

had seen him in a dark jacket, white shirt and striped

tie. Unconsciously or not, thought Joel, he had

sought a patina of respectability. Perhaps all men

running for their lives did so because their essential

dignity had been stolen from them. Regardless,

dressed in those clothes he was the man in the

newspaper photograph.

    The appearance he had in mind belonged to a

history professor he had known in college, a man

whose various articles of clothing were all related.

His jackets were subdued tweeds with elbow patches,

the trousers grey heavy or light flannel, never

anything else and his shirts were blue but-

toned-down oxford, again without exception. Above

his thick horn-rimmed glasses was perched a soft

Irish walking hat, the brim sloped downward front

and back. Wherever that man

369

370 ROBERT LUDLUM

went, whether down a street in Boston or New

York's Fifth Avenue or Beverly Hills' Rodeo

Drive the last a place that oel was sure he never

saw one would know he belonged to academic

New England.

    Converse had managed to duplicate the outward

appearance of the man in his memory, except for

the tinted glasses, which he would have to replace

with horn rims. He had passed a large variety store,

Bonn's equivalent of an American five-and-dime,

and he knew that there would be a counter with

glasses of different sizes and shapes, a few slightly

magnified for reading, others clear.

    For reasons that were only beginning to come

into focus, those glasses were now vital to him.

Then he understood. He was preoccupied with what

he knew he could do change his appearance. He

was procrastinating, uncertain what to do next, not

sure he was capable of doing anything.

    He looked at his face in the oval mirror of the

variety store, again satisfied with what he saw. The

ersatz tortoiseshell rims were thick, the glass clear;

the effect was owlish, scholarly. He was no longer

the man in the newspaper photograph, and equally

important, the concentration he had devoted to his

appearance had begun to clear his mind. He could

think again, sit down somewhere and sort things

out. He also needed food and a drink.

    The cafe was crowded, the stained-glass windows

muting the summer sunlight into shafts of blue and

red piercing the smoke. He was shown to a table

against the black-leather upholstered banquette,

assured by the maitre d', or whoever he was, that

an he had to do was request a menu in English; the

items were numbered. Whisky on the Continent,

however was universaDy accepted as Scotch; he

ordered a double, and took out the pad and

bar-point pen he had picked up at the variety store.

His drink came and he proceeded to write.

Connal Fitzpatrick?

BriefcaseP

$93,000 plus

Embassy out

No Larry 7albot et al.

No Beale

No A nstett

No man in San Francisco

Men in Washington. WhoP

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 371

Caleb Dowling? No. Hickman, Navy, San Diego?

Possible.

. . . Mattilon?

    Rene! Why hadn't he thought of Mathlonbefore?

He understood why the Frenchman made the

remarks attributed to him anonymously in the

newspaper story. Rene was trying to be protective. If

there was no defence, or if it was so weak so as not

to be viable, the most logical backup was temporary

insanity. Joel circled Mattilon's name and wrote the

number I on the left, circling it also. He would find

a telephone exchange in the streets, the kind where

operators assigned booths to bewildered tourists, and

call Rene in Paris. He took two swallows of whisky,

relaxing as the warmth spread through him, then

went back to his list, stardng at the top.

    Connal . . ? The presumption that he had been

killed was inevitable, but it was not conclusive. If he

was alive, he was being held for whatever

information could be pried out of him. As the chief

legal officer of the West Coast's largest and most

powerful naval base, and a man who had a history of

meetings with the State Department's Office of

Munibons Control as well as its counterparts at the

Pentagon, Fitzpatrick could be an asset to the men

of Aquitaine. Yet to call attention to him was to

guarantee his execution, if he had not been killed

already. If he was still alive, the only way to save him

was to find him, but not in any orthodox or official

manner; it had to be done secretly. Connal had to be

rescued secretly.

    Suddenly, Joel saw the figure of a man in the

uniform of the United States Army across the room

talking with two civilians at the bar. He did not know

the man. It was the uniform that struck him. It

brought to mind the military charge d'affaires at the

embassy, that extraordinarily observant and precise

officer who was capable of seeing a man who was

not at a bridge at the exact moment he was not

there. A liar for Aquitaine, someone whose lies

identified him. If that liar did not know where

Fitzpatrick was, he could be made to find out.

Perhaps there was a way, after all. Converse drew a

line on the right side of his list, connecting Connal

Fitzpatrick with Admiral Hickman in San Diego. He

did not give it a number; there was too much to

consider.

    Briefoase? He was still convinced that Leifhelm's

men had not found it. If the generals of Aquitaine

had that attache

372 ROBERT LUDLUM

case, they would have let him know. It was not like

those men to conceal such a prize, not from the

prisoner who had thought he was a match for them.

No, they would have told him one way or another,

if only to make clear to him how totally he had

failed. If he was right, Connal had hidden it. At the

inn called Das Rektorat? It was worth a try. Joel

circled the word Briefoase and numbered it 2.

    "Speisekarte, main Herr?" said a waiter before

Converse knew he was standing there.

"English, please?"

    "Certainly, sir." The waiter separated his menus

as though they were an outsized deck of cards. He

selected one and handed it to Joel as he spoke.

"The Spezialitat for today is Wienerschnitzel it is the

same in English."

"That's fine. Keep the menu, I'll take it."

    "Danke. " The man swept away before Joel

could order another drink. It was just as well, he

thought.

    $93,000 plus. There was nothing more to be

said, the irritating bulge around his waist said it all.

He had the money; it was to be used.

    Embassy out . . . No Larry Talbot, et al . . . No

Beale . . . No A nstett . . . No man in San Francisco.

Throughout the meal he thought about each item,

each statement, wondering how it all could have

happened. Every step had been considered carefully,

facts absorbed, dossiers memorized, caution

uppermost. But everything had been blown away by

complications far beyond the simple facts provided

by Preston Halliday in Geneva.

    Build just two or thme cases that are tied to Dela-

vane even circumstantially and it'll be enough.

    In light of the revelations on Mykonos, then in

Paris, Copenhagen and Bonn, the simplicity of that

remark was almost criminal. Halliday would have

been appalled at the depth and the breadth of

influence Delavane's legions had attained, at the

penetrations they had made at the highest levels of

the military, the police, Interpol and, obviously, now

those who controlled the flow of news from

so-called authoritative sources in Western

governments.

    Converse abruptly checked his racing thoughts.

He suddenly realised that he was thinking about

Halliday in the context of a man who saw only a

pair of eyes at night in the jungle, unaware of the

size or the ferocity of the unseen animal in the

darkness. That was wrong. Halliday knew the

materials

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 373

Beale was handing over to him on an island in the

Aegean; he knew about the connections between

Paris, Bonn, Tel Aviv and Johannesburg; he knew

about the decision makers in the State Department

and the Pentagon he knew it all! He had arranged

it all with unknown men in Washington! Halliday had

lied in Geneva. A California wrestler he had

befriended years ago in school named Avery Fowler

was the manipulator, and in the name of A. Preston

Halliday, he had lied.

    Where were those subterranean men in

Washington who had the audacity to raise half a

million dollars for an incredible gamble but were too

frightened to come out in the open? What kind of

men were they? Their scout had been killed, their

puppet accused of being a psychopathic assassin.

How long could they wait? What were they?

    The questions disturbed Converse so much that

he tried not to pursue them they would lead only to

rage, which would blind his reason. He needed

reason and, above all, the strength that came with

awareness.

    It was time to find a telephone exchange and

reach Mattilon in Paris. Rene would believe him,

Rene would help him. It was unthinkable that his old

friend would do anything else.

    The civilian walked in silence to the hotel

window, knowing he was expected to deliver a

pronouncement that would form the basis of a

miracle not a solution but a miracle, and there were

no such things in the business he knew so well. Peter

Stone was by all the rules a relic, a castaway who had

seen it all, and in the final years of seeing had finally

fallen apart. Alcohol had taken the place of true

audacity, at the end rendering him a professional

mutant, a part of him still proud of past

accomplishments, another part sickened by the waste,

by the knowledge of wasted lives, wasted

strategies morality thrown into a gargantuan

wastebasket of a collective nonconscience.

    Still, he had once been one of the best he could

not forget that. And when he knew it was all over, he

had faced the fact that he was killing himself with a

plethora of bourbon and self-pity. He had pulled out.

But not before he had gained the enmity of his past

employers in the Central Intelligence Agency, not for

speaking out publicly but for telling them privately

who and what they were. Fortunately, as sobriety re-

turned he learned that his past employers had other

enemies in Washington, enemies having nothing to

do with foreign en

374 R08ERT LUVIUM

tanglements or competition. Simply men and women

serving the republic who wanted to know what the

hell was going on when Langley wouldn't tell them.

He had survived was surviving. He thought about

these things, knowing that the two other men in the

room believed he was concentrating on the issue at

hand.

    There was no issue. The file was closed, the

border rimmed in black. The two who were with

him were so young God, so damned young., they

would find it too terrible to accept. He

remembered, vaguely, when such a conclusion would

have appalled him. But that was nearly forty years

ago; he was almost sixty now, and he had heard

such conclusions repeated too often to shed tears of

regret. The regret the sadness was there but time

and repetition had dulled his senses; clear

evaluation was everything.

    Stone turned and said with quiet authority, ' We

can't do anything " The Army captain and the Navy

lieutenant were visibly upset. Peter Stone continued,

' 1 spent twenty-three years in the tunnels, including

a decade with Angleton, and I m telling you there's

absolutely nothing we can do. We have to let him

hang out, we can't touch him."

    ' Because we can't afford to?" asked the naval

oflicer scathingly. "That's what you said when

Halliday was killed in Geneva. We can't afford tot"

"We can't. We were outmaneuvered."

    "That's a man out there," insisted the lieutenant.

"We sent him out "

    "And they set him up," the civilian broke in, his

voice calm, his eyes sadly knowledgeable. "He's as

good as dead We'll have to start looking elsewhere."

    "Why is that?" asked the Army captain. "Why is

he as good as dead?"

    "They have too many controls, we can see that

now. If they don't have him locked up in a cellar,

they know pretty much where he is. Whoever finds

him will kill him. A riddled body of a crazed killer

is delivered up and there's a collective sigh of relief.

That's the scenario."

    "And that's the most cold-blooded analysis of a

murder I've ever heard! Murder, an unwarranted

execution!"

    "Look, Lieutenant," said Stone, stepping away

from the window, "you asked me to come with

you convinced me I should because you wanted

some experience in this room. With that experience

comes the moment when you recognize

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 375

and accept the fact that you've been beaten. It

doesn't mean you're finished, but you've been

punched out of the round. We've been punched out,

and it's my guess the punches haven't stopped yet."

    "Maybe . . ." began the captain haltingly. "Maybe

we should go to the Agency, tell them everything we

know everything we think we know and what

we've done. It might get Converse out alive."

    "Sorry," countered the former CIA man. "They

want his head and they'll get it. They wouldn't have

gone to all this trouble if 'dead' wasn't written all

over him. He found out something, or they found out

something about him. That's the way it works."

    "What kind of world do you live in? 'asked the

naval officer quietly, shaking his head.

    "I don't live in it anymore, Lieutenant, you know

that. I think it's one of the reasons you came to me.

I did what you two and whoever else is with

you are doing now. I blew a whistle only, I did it

with two months of bourbon in my veins and ten

years of disgust in my head. You say you might go to

the Company? Good, go ahead, but you'll do it

without me. No one worth a quarter in Langley will

touch me."

    "We can't go to G-Two or naval intelligence,"

said the Army officer. "We know that, we've all

agreed. Delavane's people are there; they'd shoot us

down."

    "Aptly put, Captain. Would you believe with real

bullets?"

    "I do now," said the Navy man, nodding at Stone.

"The report out of San Diego is that the legal,

Remington, was killed in an automobile accident in

La Jolla. He's the one who last spoke to Fitzpatrick,

and before he left the base, he asked another legal

the directions to a restaurant in the hills. He'd never

been there and I don't think it was an accident."

    "Neither do I," agreed the civilian. "But it takes

us to the somewhere-else we can look."

"What do you mean?" said the Army captain.

"Fitzpatrick. SAND PAC can't find him, right?"

    "He's on leave," interjected the naval officer.

"He's got another twenty days or so. He wasn't

ordered to list his itinerary."

"Still, they've tried to find him but they can't."

"And I still don't understand," objected the captain.

"We go after Fitzpatrick," said Stone. "Out of San

Diego,

376 ROBERT LUDIUM

not Washington. We find a reason to really want

him back. A SAND PAC emergency, routed strictly

through Eyes Only a base problem nobody else's."

    "I hate to repeat myself," said the Army man,

"but you've lost me. Where do we start? Whom do

we start with?"

    "With one of your own, Captain. Right now he's

a very important person. The charge d'affaires at

the Mehlemer House."

"The what?"

    "The American embassy in Bonn. He s one of

them. He lied when it counted most," said Stone.

"His name is Washburn. Major Norman Anthony

Washburn, the Fourth."

    The telephone complex was off the lobby of an

office building. It was a large square room with five

enclosed booths built into three walls and a high,

squared counter in the center where four operators

sat in front of consoles, each woman obviously

capable of speaking two or more languages. Tele-

phone directories of the major European cities and

their suburbs were on racks to the left and right of

the entrance; small pads with attached ball-point

pens had been placed on the ledges above for the

convenience of those seeking numbers. The routine

was familiar: a caller delivered a written-out number

to an operator, specified the manner of pay-

ment cash, credit card or collect and was

assigned a booth. There were no lines; a half-dozen

booths were empty.

    Joel found the number of Mattilon's law firm in

the Paris directory. He wrote it out, brought it to an

operator and said he would pay in cash. He was

told to go to booth number seven and wait for the

ring. He entered it quickly, the soft cloth brim of his

hat falling over his forehead above the tortoiseshell

glasses. Any enclosure, whether a toilet stall or a

glass booth, was preferable to being out in the open.

He felt his pulse accelerating; it seemed to explode

when the bell rang.

    "Saint-Pierre, Nelli, et Mattilon," said the female

voice in Paris.

"Monsieur Mattilon, please s'il vous plait."

    "Votre. . . ?" The woman stopped, undoubtedly

recoginzing an American's abysmal attempt at

French. "Who may I say is calling, please?"

"His friend from New York. He'll know. I'm a

client."

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 377

    Rene did know. After several clicks his strained

voice came on the line. 'Joel?" he whispered. "I don't

believe itI"

    ' Don't," said Converse. "It's not true not what

they say about Geneva or Bonn, not even what you

said. I had nothing to do with those killings, and

Paris was an accident. I had every reason to think I

did think that man was reaching for a gun.'

"Why didn't you stay where you were, then, my

friend?"

    "Because they wanted to stop me from going on.

It's what I honestly believed, and I couldn't let them

do that. Let me tally.... At the George Cinq you

asked me questions and I gave you evasive answers

and I think you saw through me. But you were kind

and went along. You have nothing to be sorry about,

take my word for it my very sane word. Bertholdier

came to me that evening in my room; we talked and

he panicked. Six days ago I saw him again here in

Bonn only, this time it was different. He was

ordered to be there, along with three other very

powerful men, two generals and a former field

marshal. It's a cabal, Rene, an international cabal,

and they can pull it off. Everything's secret and

moving fast. They've recruited key military personnel

all over Europe, the Mediterranean, Canada, and the

U.S. There's no way to tell who's with them and who

isn't and there isn't time to make a mistake.

They've got millions at their disposal, warehouses all

over filled with munitions ready to ship to their

people when the moment comes."

"The moment?" Mattilon broke in. "What moment?"

    "Please," insistedJoel, rushing ahead. "They've

been funneling weapons and explosives to maniacs

everywhere terrorists, proves, certified

lunatics with one purpose only: destabilisation

through violence. It's their excuse to move in. Right

now they're blowing up Northern Ireland."

    "The madness in Ulster?" interrupted the

Frenchman again. "The horrors going on "

    "It's their horror! It's a trial run. They did it with

one massive shipment from the States to prove they

can do it! But Ireland's only a test, a minor exercise.

The big explosion's coming in a matter of days, a few

weeks at most. I've got to reach the people who can

stop them, and I can't do that if I'm dead!" Converse

paused, only to catch his breath, giving Mattilon no

chance to speak. "These are the men I was after,

Rene after legally, to build a few cases against

them, expose

378 R08ERT IUDLUM

them in the courts before they got anywhere. But

then, I found out. They're already there. I was too

late."

"But why you?"

    'it in Geneva with Halliday, the man who was

shot to death. He was killed by their gunmen, but

not before he recruited me. You asked me about

Geneva and I lied to you, but that's the truth. Now,

you'll either help me, or try to help me, or you

won't. Not for me I'm insignificant but what I got

roped into isn't. And I was roped into it, I know

that now. But I've seen them, talked to them, and

they're so goddamned logical, so bucking persuasive,

they'll turn all Europe fascist; they'll set up a

military federation with my country the progenitor.

Because it started in my country, it started in San

Francisco with a man named Delavane."

"Saigon? The Mad Marcus of Saigon?"

    "Alive and well and living in Palo Alto, pushing

his military buttons all over the place. He's still a

magnet and they're drawn to him like flies to a pig."

"Joel, are you . . . are you . . . all right?"

    "Let's put it this way, Rene. I took a lousy watch

offa man who guarded me a paranoid who

nevertheless was nice to me and it's got a sweep

hand. You've got thirty seconds to think about what

I've told you, then I'll hang up. Now, old friend,

twenty-nine seconds."

    Ten passed and Mattilon spoke. "An insane man

does not deliver such a precise explanation so

precisely. Very well, perhaps I am mad, too, but

what you speak of God knows the times are right,

what else can I say? Everything is crazy'"

    "I've got to get back to the States alive, to

Washington. I know people there. If I can reach

them and show myself for what I am, they'll listen

to me. Can you help?"

"I have contacts in the Quai d'Orsay. Let me go to

them."

    "No," objected Converse. "They know we're

friends. One word to the wrong person and you'd be

killed. Forgive wee~cbaunttmaffrOedimthpotrtant,

your talking would set off alarms.

    "Very well," said Mattilon. "There is a man in

Amsterdam don't ask me how I know him_who

can arrange such things. I assume you have no

passport."

    "I have one but it's not mine. It's German. I

took it off a guard who was ready to put a bullet in

my head."

    "Then I'm sure he's not in a position to

complain to the authorities."

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 379

"He's not."

    "In your mind you really did go back, didn't you,

my friend?"

"Let's not talk about it, okay?"

"Bien. You are you. Keep that passport, it will be

useful."

"Amsterdam. How do I get there?"

"You are in Bonn, no?"

"Yes."

    "There is a train to Emmerich on the Dutch

border. In Emmerich, switch to local

transport streetcars, autobuses, whatever. The

customs are lax, especially during the peak hours

when workers go back and forth. No one looks, so

just show the passport you have quickly, partially

covering the photograph, perhaps. It's good that it's

German. You should have no trouble."

"Suppose I do?"

    "Then I can't help you, my friend. I'm being

honest. And then I must go to the Quai d'Orsay."

"All right. I get across, then what?"

    "You'll reach Arnhem. From there you take the

train to Amsterdam."

"And then?"

    "The man. His name is on a card in my bottom

drawer. Do you have something to write on write

with?"

    "Go ahead," said Converse, reaching for the note

pad and the ball-point pen on the ledge beneath the

telephone.

    "Here it is. Thorbecke. Cort Thorbecke. The

apartment house is on the southwest corner of

Utrechtsestraat and Kerkstraat. The telephone

number is zero-two-zero, four-oneone-three-zero.

When you call for an appointment, tell him you are

a member of the Tabana family. Do you have that?

Tatiana. "

    "Rend?" said Joel, writing. "I never would have

guessed. How come you know someone like this?"

    "I told you not to ask, but on the other hand he

may probe and you should have at least vague

answers everything was always vague. Tatiana is a

Russian name, one of the Czar's daughters reputedly

executed at Ekaterinburg in 1918. I say 'reputedly'

because many believe she was spared along with her

sister Anastasia and smuggled out with a nurse who

had a fortune in jewels on her. The nurse favored

Tatiana and once free, gave everything to the child

and nothing to her sis

380 ROBERT IUDLUM

ten It's said she lived anonymously in great

wealth may even be living today but no one

knows where."

"That's what I have to know?" asked Converse.

    "NO, it's merely the origins of its present

meaning. Today it is a symbol of trust given to very

few people in recent years, people who themselves

are trusted by the most suspicious men on earth,

men who cannot afford to make mistakes."

"Good Lord, who?"

    "Russians, powerful Soviet commissars who have

a fond" ness for Western banking, who broker

money out of Moscow for investments. You can

understand why the circle is small. Few are called

and fewer chosen. Thorbecke is one of them and he

does an extensive business in passports. I'll reach

him and tell him to expect your call. Remember, no

name, just Tatiana. He'll have you on a KLM to

Washington in short order. You'll need money,

however, so we must think how I can "

    "Money's one thing I don't need," interrupted

Converse. "Just a passport and a plane ticket to

Dulles Airport without being picked up."

"Get to Amsterdam. Thorbecke will help."

    "Thank you, Rene. I wanted to count on you

and you came through. It means a lot to me. It

means my life."

    "You're not in Washington yet, my friend. But

call me when you get there, no matter the hour."

"I will. Thanks, again.'

    Joel hung up, put the note pad and the pen into

his pocket, and went out of the booth to the

counter. He asked for his charges, and while the

English-speaking operator was getting them he

remembered the item he had marked 2 on his list.

His attache case with the dossiers and the names of

the deci sion makers at the Pentagon and the State

Department. Das Rektorat. Through some

extraordinary oversight on Leifhelm's part, had

Connal managed to hide it somewhere? Could it

have been found perhaps by an employee at the

country inn? Converse spoke to the operator who

was handing him his bill.

    There's a place called Das Rektorat. It's a hotel

in the countryside where I'm not sure, but I'd like

to call it and reach the manager. I'm told he speaks

English."

    'Yes, sir. Das Rektorat has splendid

accommodations, if they are available."

    "I'm not looking for a reservation. A friend of

mine stayed there last week and thinks he may have

left a valuable item

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 381

in his room. He called me and asked me to check for

him, to speak with the manager. If I find the

number, would you place the call for me and get him

on the line? I'm sorry to say I don't speak German;

I'd probably reach the chef."

    ' Certainly, sir," replied the woman, smiling. It

would be easier for me to get the number. Return to

booth seven and I'll ring you. You can pay for both

calls when you are finished."

    Inside the glass enclosure Joel lit a cigarette,

thinking about what he was going to say. He barely

had time to formulate his words when the ring came.

    "This is the Vorsteher the manager of Das

Rektorat, sir," said the operator. ' And he does speak

English."

    "Thank you." The operator broke off her

connection "Hello?"

"Yes, may I help you, sir?"

    "I hope so. I'm an American friend of

Commander Connal Fitzpatrick, chief legal officer of

the San Diego Naval Base in California. I

understand he stayed there last week."

    'Indeed he did, sir. We were so sorry we could

not have extended his visit with us, but there was a

prior reservation."

"Oh? He left unexpectedly?"

    "I shouldn't put it that way. We spoke in the

morning and I believe he understood our situation.

I myself made arrangements for a taxi."

"He was alone when he left?"

"Yes, sir."

    "Oh. Then if you'll tell me which hotel he went

to, I can check there as well."

'Check, sir?"

    "The Commander misplaced one of his briefcases,

a flat leather type with two combination locks. The

contents are of no value except to him, but he very

much wants to find it. It was a present from his wife,

I think. Have you come across it?"

'No, sir."

    "Are you sure? The commander has a habit of

concealing his legal papers, sometimes under a bed

or in the back of a closet. '

    He left nothing here, sir. The room was

thoroughly examined and cleaned by our staff."

"Perhaps someone came to see him and took the

wrong

382 ROBERT LUDLUM

case." Converse knew he was pressing but there was

no reason not to.

    ' He had no visitors." The German paused. "Just

one moment, I do recall now."

Yes?''

    "You say a flat briefcase, what is generally

referred to as an attache case?"

"Yes!"

"He carried it with him. It was in his hand when he

left."

    "Oh . . . " Joel tried to recover quickly. "Then if

you'll just tell me what forwarding address he left,

what hotel he went to."

"I'm sorry, sir. There were no such instructions."

    "Somebody had to make a reservation for him!

Rooms are tight in Bonul"

    "Please, sir. I myself offered to try, but he

refused my aid somewhat discourteously, I might

add."

    "I'm sorry." Joel was annoyed that he had lost

control. "Those legal papers were important. Then

you have no idea where he went?"

    "But I do, sir, if one wishes to be humored. I

made a point of asking. He said he was going to the

Bahnhof; the train station. If anyone asked for him,

we were to say he was sleeping in a baggage locker.

I'm afraid it was also meant discourteous

    The train station? A locker! It was a message!

Fitzpatrick was telling him where to look! Without

speaking further, Converse hung up the phone, left

the booth, and went to the counter. He paid for

both calls and thanked the operator, wanting to

leave her a tip but knowing it would only call at-

tension to him. "You've been very kind and, if I

may, one last favor."

"Sir?"

"Where is the train station?"

    "You can't miss it. Turn left out of the building

and walk four streets, then left again for two more.

It is one of the more uncertain prides of Bonn."

"You've been very kind."

    Joel hurried down the pavement, constantly

reminding himself to check his speed. Everything

depended on control now, eve~7,~thing. Every

move he made had to be normal even casual,

nothing to cause anyone to take a second glance at

him. Mattilon had told him to take a train;

Fitzpatrick had

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 383

told him to go to the train station a locker! It was

another omen! He was beginning to think that such

a thing did exist.

    He walked through the large open doors of the

entrance and turned to his right toward the row of

lockers where he had left the attache case before

heading out to the Alter Zoll to meet "Avery

Fowler." He reached the locker itself; there was a

key in it, nothing inside. He began scrutinising the

lockers around it, on both sides, below, not at all

sure what he was looking for but knowing there

would be something. He found it! Two rows above on

the left! The initials were small but clear, scratched

into the metal by a strong, precise hand: C.F. Connal

Fitzpatrick!

    The Navy lawyer had done it! He had put the

explosive papers back where only the two of them

knew where they would be. Suddenly Converse felt

sick. How could he get them out? How could he get

inside? He looked around the station at the summer

crowds. The huge clock read two-thirty, in two and a

half hours the of flees would be closed the business

day over, the crowds fuller. Mattilon had told him to

reach Emmerich during the busiest time, when

workers traveled back and forth across the border at

the end of the day, and it took nearly two hours to

reach Emmerich, if there was a train. He had less

than a half hour to get inside the locker.

    There was an information booth at the far end of

the cavernous station. He walked toward it, his mind

again racing, choosing words that might produce a

key. The abrasive weight of the money belt around

his waist gave him a glimpse of hope.

    "Thank you very much, ' he said to the clerk, his

tortoiseshell glasses perched on his nose, the cloth

hat falling over his forehead. He had been assigned

an English-speaking, middle-aged information

dispenser with a pinched face and a bored, irritated

expression. "Quite simply I've lost the key to the

locker in which I stored my luggage and I have to get

a train to Emmerich. By the way, when is the next

one?"

    "Ach, it is always ze case," replied the clerk,

thumbing a schedule. "Zozzing but trouble wiz zer

sommer people. You lose ziss, you lose zat; and you

expect everyone to help youl Zer train for Emmerich

left twenty-seven minutes ago. Zer iss another in

nineteen minuted, but nozzing after that for an

hour."

"Thank you. I have to be on it. Now, about the

locker?"

384 ROBERT LUDLUM

Joel removed a hundred-deutsche-mark note below

the counter and raised it slowly above the ledge.

"It's very important that I get my luggage and take

that train. May I shake your hand for helping me?"

    "It will be donet" exclaimed the clerk quietly,

looking to his right and left, as he grasped

Converse's hand and the money. He picked up the

phone at his side and dialed abusively. "Schnell! Wir

masses ein Schliessfach offnen. Standort zehn A

uskunit!" He slammed down the phone and looked

up atJoel, a smile sculpted onto his rigid lips. "A

man will be here instantly to be of service. We are

always eager to be of service. The Amerikanen, so

thoughtful."

    The man came, bulging out of his railroad

uniform, his eyes dull, his authority questionable.

"Was ist?"

    The clerk explained in German, then looked

again at Converse. "He speaks some English, not

well, of course, but adequately, and he will assist

you."

    "Zer are our regulations," said the official keeper

of the locker keys. "Come, show me."

    "Happy birthday," said Joel to the clerk behind

the information booth.

"It is not my birthday, sir.'

    "How would you know?', asked Converse,

smiling, taking the fat man's arm.

    "Zer are procedures,,, said the railroad

bureaucrat, opening the locker with a master key.

"You will sign for zer contents at zer office.

    It was there! His attache case was on its side,

nothing broken or slashed. He reached into his

pocket and took out his money. "I'm in a great

hurry,~' he said as he slipped out first a

hundred-deutsche-mark note, then, with hesitation,

another. "My train leaves in a few minutes." He

shook the German's hand, passing the money, and

asked calmly but with cheerful friendliness in his

eyes. "Couldn't you say it was a mistaken,

    "It vas a mistaker' answered the uniformed man

enthusiastically. "You must catch a trains"

"Thank you. You're a nice person. Happy birthday.'

"I know, don't bother. Thank you again."

    Glancing around rapidly but subtly, hoping

against hope that no one was watching him, Joel

walked to an unoccupied wooden bench against the

wall, sat down, and opened the attache

case everything was there. But he could not keep

it.

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 385

Again he looked around the station, knowing what

he had to find; he saw it. A drugstore or its

equivalent, there would be envelopes somewhere

inside. He closed the briefcase and got up, trusting

someone in the store would speak English.

    "Nearly all of Us speak English," said the

matronly woman behind the counter near the

stationery section. 'it is practically a requirement,

especially during the summer months. What are your

needs?"

    "I have to send a business report back to the

United States," answered Converse, a large, thick

envelope and a roll of tape in his right hand, the

attache case in his left, 'but my train leaves in a few

minutes and I don't have time to get to a post office.

'

    "There are several post-collection boxes in the

Bahnhof; sir.

    "I need stamps, postage. I don't know how

much," said Joel helplessly.

    "If you will put your materials in the envelope,

seal it and address it, I shall weigh the package and

suggest the appropriate amount of stamping. We

keep sheets here for convenience, but they are more

expensive than in the post office."

    "It doesn't matter. I'd like it to go airmail, with

more postage rather than less." Five minutes later

Converse handed the accommodating clerk the

heavily sealed package for weighing. He had written

a note on the top of the first dossier and printed the

address clearly on the front of the envelope. The

woman returned with the appropriate postage. He

paid her and placed the envelope on the counter in

front of him.

    "Thank you," he said, looking at his watch, as he

began frantically licking the stamps and securing

them. "Would you by any chance know where I can

buy a ticket to . . . Emmerich or Arnhem, I guess?"

"Emmerich is German, Arnhem is Dutch. Any stall,

sir."

    "I may not have time," said Joel, on the last three

stamps. "I suppose I could buy one on the train."

"They will not stop it if you have money."

    "There." He had finished. "Where's the nearest

mailbox collection box?"

"At the other end of the Bahnhof:"

    Again Joel looked at his watch, and again his

chest began to pound as he ran out into the station;

then instantly checking himself, he watched the

crowds for anyone who might be watching him. He

had less than eight minutes to mail the en

386 ROBERT LUDLUM

velope, buy a ticket and find the train. Depending

on the complications, perhaps he could eliminate

the second step. But to pay his fare on board would

mean engaging in conversahon, conceivably having

to find someone to translate the possibilities and

the possible consequences were frightening.

    As he feverishly looked for the mailbox, he kept

repeating to himself the exact words he had

scribbled on the top of the first dossier's cover: Do

not repeat, do not let anyone know you have this.

If you don't hear from me within f he days, send it to

Nathan S. I'll call him if Ican. Youronceand obedient

husband. Love, 1 He then looked down at the name

and the address he had written on the envelope in

his hand and wondered, stricken by a dull, sickening

pain how could he do this to her?

Ills. Valerie Charpentier R.F.D. 16 Dunes Ridge Ca

pe Ann, Massachusetts US.A.

    Three minutes later he found a mailbox and

deposited the envelope, opening and closing the slot

several times to make sure it had fallen inside. He

looked around at the signs everywhere, the German

script confusing him, the lines in front of the

windows discouraging him. He felt helpless, wanting

to ask questions but afraid of stopping anyone,

afraid that someone would study his face.

    There was a window across the station, far away

on the other side; two couples had left the

line four people with a sudden change of plans.

Only one person was left. Converse hurried through

the crowds, once again trying to hold himself in

check and minimising his movements.

    "Emmerich, please," he said to the clerk, as the

lone customer finally left the window. "Netherlands."

he added, enunciating clearly.

    The attendant briefly turned and looked at the

clock on the wall behind him. Then he spoke in

German, the phrases fast and guttural. "Verstehen?"

he asked.

    "Nein . . . Here!" Converse put three hun-

dred-deutsche-mark notes on the ledge of the

counter, shaking his head, shrugging. "Please, a

ticket! I know, I've only got a few minutes."

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 387

    The man took two of the bills, shoving the third

back. He made change and pressed several buttons

beneath him; a ticket spewed out and he handed it to

Joel. "Danke. Zwei Minuten!"

The track. What track? Can you understand? Where?

'

`Wo?"

Yes, yes that's it! Where?'

`Acht. "

    'What?" Then Converse held up his right hand,

raising and lowering the fingers to indicate numbers.

    The attendant responded by holding up both

hands, a five-finger spread and three middle fingers.

'Acht," he repeated, pointing across the station to

Joel's left.

    'Eight! Thank you. ' Converse began walking as

fast as possible without breaking into a run. He saw

the gate through the throngs of people; a conductor

was making an announcement while looking at his

watch and backing into the archway.

    A woman carrying packages collided with him,

careening into his left shoulder, the bundles

plummeting out of her arms, scattering on the floor.

He tried to apologize through the abuse she hurled

at him, loud words that caused the surrounding

travelers to stop and gape. He picked up several

shopping bags as the woman's barking voice reached

a crescendo.

    '`Up yours, lady," he mumbled, dropping the

packages and turning, now running to the closing

gate. The conductor saw him and pushed it open.

    He got to his seat, gasping, his soft hat pulled

down over his forehead. The wound in his left arm

was aching sharply, and he thought he might have

ripped it open in the collision. He felt under his

jacket, past the handle of the gun he had taken from

Leifhelm's chauffeur. There was no blood and he

closed his eyes briefly in relief.

    He was oblivious of the man across the aisle who

was staring at him.

    In Paris, the secretary sat at her desk speaking on

the telephone in a low voice that was muted further

by her cupped hand over the mouthpiece. Her

Parisian French was cultured if not aristocratic.

'That is everything," she said quietly. Do you have

it?"

388 ROBERT LUDLUM

    "Yes," said the man on the other end of the line.

"It's extraordinary."

"Why? It's the reason I'm here."

"Of course. I should say you're extraordinary."

"Of course. What are your instructions?"

"The gravest. I'm afraid."

"I thought so. You have no choice."

"Can you?"

"It's done. I'll see you at Taillevent. Eight o'clock?"

"Wear your black Galanos. I adore it so."

"The Great Spike anticipates."

"It is ever so, my dearest. Eight o'clock."

    The secretary hung up the phone, rose from the

chair and smoothed her dress. She opened a drawer

and took out a purse with long straps; she slipped it

over her shoulder and walked to her employer's

closed door. She knocked.

"Yes?" asked Mattilon inside.

"It is Suzanne, monsieur."

    "Come in, come in, " said Rene, leaning back in

his chair as the woman entered. "The last letter is

filled with incomprehensible language, no?"

    "Not at all, monsieur. It's just that I . . . well, I'm

not sure it's proper to say."

    "What could be improper? And if it is, at my age

I'd be so flattered I'd probably tell my wife."

"Oh, monsieur . . ."

    "No, really, Suzanne, you've been here what

now? a week, ten days? One would think you had

been here for months. Your work is excellent and I

appreciate your Wiling in.

    "Your secretary is a dear friend, monsieur. I

could do no less."

    "Well, I thank you. I hope the good Lord sees

His way to pull her through. Young people today,

they drive so fast so terribly fast and so

dangerously. I'm sorry, what is it, Suzanne?"

"I've had no lunch, sir. I was wondering "

    "My Cod, I'm inconsiderate! I'm afraid it goes

with two partners who take August seriously and go

on holiday! Please as long as you like, and I insist

you bring the bill to me and let me reimburse you."

"That's not necessary, but thank you for the offer."

"Not an offer, Suzanne, an order. Have lots of wine

and

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 389

let's both of us make messes of my partners" clients.

Now, off you go."

    "Thank you, monsieur." Suzanne went to the door

opened it slightly and then stopped. She turned her

head and saw that Mattilon was absorbed in reading.

She closed the door silently, reached into her purse

and withdrew a large pistol with the perforated

cylinder of a silencer attached to the barrel. She

pivoted slowly and walked toward the desk.

The lawyer looked up as she approached. "What?"

    Suzanne fired four times in rapid succession.

Rene Mattilon sprang back in his chair, his skull

pierced from his right eye to his left forehead. Blood

streaked down his face and over his white shirt.

22

    "Where in God's name have you been?" cried

Valerie into the phone. "I've been trying to reach you

since early this morning!"

    "Early this morning," said Lawrence Talbot, "when

the news broke, I knew I had to get the first plane to

Washington."

"You don't believe what they're saying? You can't!"

    "I do, and worse, I feel responsible. I feel as if I'd

unwittingly pulled the trigger myself, and in a way

that's exactly what happened."

"Goddamn you, Larry, explain that."

    "Joel called me from a hotel in Bonn only, he

didn't know which one. He wasn't rational, Val. He

was calm one moment, shouting the next, finally

admitting to me that he was confused and frightened.

He rambled on most of the time

incoherently telling some incredible story of having

been captured and thrown into a stone house in the

woods, and how he escaped, hiding in the river,

eluding guards and patrols and killing a man he

called a 'scout.' He kept screaming that he had to get

away, that men were searching for him, in the woods,

along the riverbank.... Something's happened to him.

He's gone back to those terrible days when he was a

390 ROBERT LUDLUM

prisoner of war. Everything he says, everything he

describes, is a variation of those experiences the

pain, the stress, the tensions of running for his life

through the jungles and down rivers. He's sick, my

dear, and this morning was the horrible proof. '

    Valerie felt the hollowness in her throat, the

sudden, awful vacuum below. She was beyond

thinking; she could only react to words. "Why did

you say you were responsible, that in some way you

pulled the trigger?"

    "I told him to go to Peregrine. I tried to

convince him that Peregrine would listen to him,

that he wasn't the man Joel thought he was."

" 'Thought he was'? What did Joel say?"

    "Very little that made sense. He ranted about

generals and field marshals and some obscure

historical theory that brought all the commanders

from various wars and armies together in a

combined effort to take control of governments. He

wasn't lucid. He d pretend to be, but the minute I

questioned a statement he made or a point in his

story, he'd blow up and tell me it didn't matter, or

I wasn't listening, or I was too dense to understand.

But at the end he admitted he was terribly tired and

confused and how badly he needed sleep. That was

when I made my last pitch about Peregrine, but Joel

didn't trust him. He was actually hostile toward him

because he said he saw a former Gemman general's

car go through the embassy gates, and as you may

or may not know, Peregrine was an outstanding

officer during the Second World War. I explained as

patiently and as fimmly as I could that Peregrine

was not one of 'them,' that he was no friend of the

military. . . . Obviously, I failed. Joel reached him,

set up a rendezvous and killed him. I had no idea

how sick he was."

    "Larry, ' began Valerie slowly, her voice weak. '

1 hear everything you say, but it doesn't ring true. It

isn't that I don't believe you Joel once said you

were an embarrassingly honest man but

something's missing. The Converse I know and lived

with for four years never bent the facts to support

abstractions he wanted to believe. Even when he

was angry as hell, he couldn't do that. I told him

he'd make a lousy painter because he couldn't bend

a shape to fit a concept. It wasn't in him, and I

think he explained it. At five hundred miles an

hour, he said, you can mistake a shadow on the

ocean for a carrier if your instruments are out."

"You're telling me he doesn't lie."

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 391

    "I'm sure he does I'm sure he did but never

about important things. It simply isn't in him."

    "That was before he became ill, violently ill. He

killed that man in Paris, he admitted it to me."

Valerie gasped. "No!"

"Yes, I'm afraid. Just as he killed Walter Peregrine."

    "Because of some obscure historical theory? It's

all wrong, Larry!"

    "Two psychiatrists at the State Department

explained it, but in phrases I'm sure I'd mangle if I

tried to repeat them. 'Progressive latent

retrogression,' I think, was one of them."

"Bullshit!"

    "But you may be right about one thing. Geneva.

Remember you said it all had something to do with

Geneva?"

"I remember. What about Geneva?"

    "It's where it started, everyone in Washington

agrees with that. I don't know if you've read the

papers "

"Only the Globe; it's delivered. I haven't left the

phone."

    "It was Jack Halliday's son stepson, actually. He

was the lawyer who was killed in Geneva. It seems

he was a prominent leaderof the antiwar movement

in the sixties and he was Converse's opponent in the

merger. It was established that they met for

breakfast before the conference. The theory is that

he baitedJoel, and we can assume it was brutal, as he

had a reputation for going for the jugular."

    "Why would he do that?" asked Val, her frayed

nerves now suddenly alert.

    "To throw Joel off. To distract him. Remember,

they were dealing in millions, and the attorney who

came off best could do very well for himself clients

lining up all over Wall Street to retain him. There's

even evidence that Halliday succeeded."

"What evidence?"

    "The first part's technical, so I won't try to

explain it except to say that there was a subtle

transfer of voting stock which under certain isolated

market conditions might give Halliday's clients more

say in management than the merger intended. Joel

accepted it; I don't think he would have normally."

"Normally? What's the other part?"

    "Joel's behavior at the conference itself.

According to the reports interviews with everyone

in that room he wasn't himself, he was distracted,

some said agitated. Several law

392 ROBERT IUDLUM

yers on both sides commented on the fact that he

kept to himself, standing by a window most of the

time, looking out as if he expected something. His

concentration was so lax that questions addressed to

him had to be repeated, and when they were, he

appeared as though he didn't understand them. His

mind was somewhere else, on something that

consumed him."

    "Larry!" shouted Valerie. "What are you saying?

That Joel had something to do with this Halliday

being killed?"

    "It can't be ruled out," said Talbot sadly. "Either

psychologically or in light of what people saw in the

anteroom when Halliday died."

    "What they saw?" whispered Valerie. "The paper

said he died with Joel holding his head."

    "I'm afraid there's more, my dear. I've read the

reports. According to a receptionist and two other

attorneys, there was a violent exchange between

them just before Halliday died. No one's sure what

was said, but they all agree it seemed ViCiOUS,

with Halliday clutching Joel's lapels, as though

accusing him. Later, when questioned by the

Geneva police, Joel claimed there was no coherent

conversation, only the hysterical words of a dying

man. The police report added that he was not a

cooperative witness."

    "My God, he was probably in shock! You know

what he went through the sight of that man dying

literally in his arms must have been traumatic for

him!"

    "Admittedly, this is hindsight, Valerie, but

everything must be examined above all, his

behavior."

    "What do they think he did? What's the theory

now? That Joel went out into the street, saw

someone who fit the bill and hired him to kill a

man? Really, Larry, this is ludicrous. "

    "There are more questions, than there are

answers, certainly, but what's happened what we

know has happened isn't ludicrous at all. It's

tragic."

    "All right, all right," said Valerie, her words

rushed. "But why would he do it? Why would he

want Halliday killed? Why. "

    "I think that's obvious. How he must have

despised someone like Halliday. A man who stayed

safely at home, who condemned and ridiculed

everything men like Joel went through, calling them

goons and murderers and lackeys and unnecessary

sacrifices. Along with his hated 'commanders,'

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 393

the Hallidays of this world must have stood for

everything else he loathed. One group ordering men

into battle, to be maimed, killed, captured . . .

tortured, the other making a mockery of everything

they endured. Whatever Halliday said at that

breakfast table must have made something snap in

Joel's head."

    "And you think," said Valerie quietly, the words

echoing in her throat, "that's why he wanted Halliday

dead?"

    "Latent vengeance. It's the prevalent theory, the

consensus, if you will."

"I don's 'will.' Because it's not true, it couldn't be

true."

    "These are highly qualified experts, Val, doctors

in the behavioral sciences. They've analyzed

everything in the records and they feel the pattern is

there. Shock-induced, instant pathological

schizophrenia."

    "That's very impressive. They should embroider

it on their Snoopy baseball caps because that's where

it belongs."

"I don't think you're in a position to dispute "

    "I'm in a hell of a position," interrupted the

ex-Mrs. Converse. "But nobody bothered to ask me,

or Joel's father, or his sister who just happened to

have been one of those wild-eyed protesters you all

speak of. There's no way Halliday could have

provoked Joel the way they say he did at breakfast,

lunch or dinner."

    "You can't make such a statement, my dear. You

simply don't know that."

    "I do know, Larry. Because Joel thought the

Hallidays of this world, as you put it, were right. He

wasn't always crazy about the way they did things,

but he thought they were right!"

"I don't believe that. Not after what he went

through."

    "Then go to another source if that's what you

call it. To some of those records your high priests of

the behavioral sciences conveniently overlooked.

When Joel came back, there was a parade for him at

Travis Air Force Base in California, where he was

given everything but the keys to every starlet's

apartment in Los Angeles. Am I right?"

    "I recall there was a military welcome for a man

who had escaped under extraordinary circumstances.

The Secretary of State greeted him at the plane, in

fact."

    "In absolute fact, Larry. Then what? Where else

was he paraded?"

"I don't know what you mean."

394 ROBERT LUDLUM

    'Look at the records. Nowhere. He wouldn't do

it. How many invitations did he get? From how

many towns and cities and companies and

organisations all pushed like hell by the White

House? A hundred, five hundred, five thousand? At

least that many, Larry. And do you know how many

he accepted? Tell me, Larry, do you know? Did

those high priests talk about this?"

"It wasn't an issue."

    "Of course it wasn't. It warped the pattern, it

bent the shapes Joel Converse wouldn't bend! The

answer is zero Larry. He wouldn't do it, any of it!

He thought one day more of that war was one more

day in hell too long. He refused to lend his name."

"What are you trying to say?" said Talbot sternly.

    "Halliday wasn't his enemy, not the way you're

trying to paint him. The brushstrokes aren't there.

They're not on the canvas."

    "Your metaphors are more than I can handle,

Val. What are you trying to tell meP"

    "That something smells, Larry. It's so rotten I

can hardly breathe, but the stench isn't coming from

my former husband. It's coming from all of you."

    "I have to take exception to that. All I want to

do is help I thought you knew that."

"I do, really I do. It's not your fault. Good-bye,

Larry."

"111 call you the minute I learn anything."

    "Do that. Good-bye." Valerie hung up the phone

and looked at her watch. It was time to get down to

Logan Airport in Boston to pick up Roger

Converse.

    "Koln in zehn Minuten!" shouted the voice over

the loudspeaker.

    Converse sat by the window, his face next to the

glass as the towns sped by on the way to

Cologne Bornheim, Wesel, Bruhl. The train was

perhaps three-quarters full which was to say that

each double seat had at least one occupant. When

they pulled out of the station a woman had been

sitting where he sat now, a fashionably dressed

suburbanite. Several seats behind them another

woman a friend spotted her. His seatmate spoke

to Joel. The brief attention she had called to both of

them when he could not reply unnerved him. He

shrugged and shook his head; she exhaled im-

patient}y, got up in irritation and joined her friend.

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 395

    She had left a newspaper behind, the same

newspaper with his photograph on the front page,

which remained flat out on the seat. He stared at it

until he realized what he was doing and instantly

shifted seats, picking up the paper and folding it so

that the picture would be out of sight. He glanced

around cautiously, holding his hand casually above

his lips, frowning, pensive, trying to seem like a man

in thought whose eyes saw nothing. But he had seen

another pair of eyes and they were studying

him staring at him while the owner was engaged in

what appeared to be a lively conversation with an

elderly woman next to him. The man had looked

away, and Converse had a brief half-second to

observe the face before he turned to the window. He

knew that face; he had talked to that man, but he

could not remember where it was or when it was,

only that they had spoken. The realisation was as

maddening as it was frightening. Where was it? When

was it? Did the man know him, know his name?

    If the man did, he had done nothing about it. He

had returned his concentration to the woman, the

conversation still lively. Joel tried to picture the

whole man, perhaps it would help. He was large, not

so much in height as in girth, and on the surface

jovial, but Converse sensed a meanness in him. Was

that now or before? When was before? Wherek Ten

minutes or so had passed since the exchange of

looks, end Joel was no further ahead in peeling away

the layers of memory. He was stymied and afraid.

    "Wir kommen in zwei Minuten in Koln an. Bitte

achten Sie auf Ihr Gepa'ck!"

    A number of passengers got up from their seats,

tugging at their jackets and skirts, reaching for

luggage. As the train began to slow down, Converse

pressed his forehead against the cool glass of the

window. He let his mind go slack, unfocused,

expecting the next few minutes to tell him what to

do.

    The minutes passed, the suspension on hold, his

mind blank as passengers got off and others got in,

many carrying attache cases, several very much like

his own, which he had left in a trash can in Bonn. He

had wanted to keep it but he could not. It had been

a gift from Valerie, as his gold pen was a gift, both

initiated in those better days.... No, not better, he

told himself, simply different. Nothing was better or

worse; there were no comparisons where

commitments were con

396 ROBERT LUDLUM

corned. They either stuck or they did not. Theirs

came unstuck.

    Then why, he asked himself, as the train ground

to a stop at Cologne, had he sent the contents of his

briefcase to Val? His answer was the essence of

logic, he thought. She would know what to do; the

others would not. Talbot, Brooks and Simon were

out. His sister, Virginia, was even further out. His

father? The fly-boy with a sense of responsibility

that went as far as his last wing dip? It could not be

the pilot. He loved old Roger, more than he

suspected Roger loved him, but the pilot could

never come to grips with the ground. Hard earth

meant relationships, and old Roger never knew how

to handle them even with a wife he claimed to have

loved dearly. The doctors said she had died of a

coronary occlusion; her son thought it was from

neglect. Roger was not on the scene, had not been

for several weeks. So that left Valerie . . . his once

and former Valerie.

    "Entschuldigen Sie. Ist dieser Platz fret?" The

intruding voice came from a man about his own age,

carrying an attache case.

    Joel nodded, assuming the words referred to the

empty seat beside him.

    "Danke, " said the man, sitting down, the attache

case at his feet. He withdrew a newspaper from

under his left arm and snapped it open. Converse

tensed as he saw his photograph, his own serious

face staring at him. He turned again to the window,

pulling the soft brim of the hat lower, his face

down, hoping he looked like an exhausted traveller

wishing only to catch a few minuses' sleep.

Moments later, as the train started forward, he had

an inkling that he had succeeded.

    "Verru'ckt, nicht wahr.P" said the man with the

attache case reading the newspaper.

    Joel stirred and blinked open his eyes beneath

the brim of the hat. "Umm?"

    "Schade, " added the man, his right hand

separated from the paper in a gesture of apology.

    Converse settled back against the window, the

coolness of the glass an anchor, his eyes closed, the

darkness more welcome than he could ever

remember.... No, that was not true he remembered

to the contrary. In the camps there were momenh

when he was not sure he could keep up the facade

of strength and revolt, when everything in him

wanted to capitulate, to hear even a few kind words,

to see a smile that had

THE AQUlTAlNE PROGRESSION 397

meaning. Then the darkness would come and he

would cry, the tears drenching his face. And when

they stopped, the anger would be inexplicably

restored. Somehow the tears had cleansed him,

purged the doubts and the fears and made him whole

again. And angry again.

"Wir kommen in fief Minuten in Dusseldorf an!'

    Joel bolted forward, his neck painfully stiff, his

head cold. He had dozed for a considerable length of

time, judging from the stiffness above his shoulder

blades. The man beside him was reading and

marking a report of some kind, the attache case on

his lap, the newspaper folded neatly between himself

and Converse, folded maddeningly with his

photograph in clear view. The man opened his case,

put the report inside, and snapped it shut. He turned

to Converse.

"Der Zug ist punklich, " he said, nodding his head.

    Joel nodded back, suddenly aware that the

passenger across the aisle had gotten up with the

elderly woman, shaking her hand and replying to

something she had said. But he was not looking at

her; his eyes had strayed over to Converse. Joel

slumped back into the seat and the window, resuming

the appearance of a weary traveler, the soft brim of

his hat pulled down to the rims of his glasses. Who

was that man? If they knew each other, how could he

be silent under the circum. stances? How could he

simply look over now and then and casually return to

his conversation with the woman? At the very least,

he would have to betray some sense of alarm or fear,

or, at the minimum, excited recognition.

    The train began to slow down, the metallic

grinding of the steel plates against the huge wheels

swelling; soon the whistles would commence for their

arrival in Dusseldorf. Converse wondered if the

German next to him would get off. He had closed his

attache case but made no preliminary moves to rise

and join the line forming at the forward door.

Instead, he picked up the newspaper, opening it,

mercifully, to an inside page.

    The train stopped, passengers disembarked and

others got on board mostly women with shopping

boxes and plastic bags emblazoned with the logos of

expensive boutiques and recognisable names in the

fashion industry. The train to [:mmerich was a

suburban "mink run," as Val used to call the af-

ternoon trains from New York to Westchester and

Connecticut. Joel saw that the man from across the

aisle had walked the elderly woman up to the rear of

the line, again shaking

398 ROBERT LUDIUM

her hand solicitously before sidestepping his way

back toward his seat. Converse turned his face to

the glass, his head bowed, and closed his eyes.

    "Bitte, konnen wir die Pldtze tauschen? Dieser

Herr ist ein Bekannter. Ich sitze in der ndchsten

Reihe."

"Sicher, aber or schldft ja doch nun "

    "Ich wocke ihn. " said Converse s seatmate,

laughing and getting up. The man from across the

aisle had changed seats. He sat down next to Joel.

    Converse stretched, covering a yawn with his left

hand, his right slipping under his jacket to the

handle of the gun he had taken from Leifhelm's

chauffeur. If it became necessary he would show

that gun to his new yet familiar companion. The

train started, the noise below growing in volume; it

was the moment. Joel hlrned to the man, his eyes

knowing but conveying nothing.

    "I figured it was you," said the man, obviously an

American, grinning broadly but not attractively.

    Converse had been right, there was a meanness

about the obese man; he heard it in the voice as he

had heard it before but where he did not

remember. "Are you sure?' asked Joel.

"Sure I'm sure. But I'll bet you're not, are you?"

'Frankly, no.

    "I ll give you a hint. I can always spot a good ale

Yank! Only made a couple of mistakes in all the

years of hopping around selling my lid ale line of

look-alike, almost originals."

    "Copenhagen," said Converse, remembering with

distaste waiting for his luggage with the man. "And

one of your mistakes was in Rome when you

thought an Italian was a Hispanic from Florida.'

    "You got it! That guinea bastard had me

buffaloed, figured him for a spik with a lot of

bread probably from running dope, you know what

I mean? You know how they are, how they cornered

the market from the Keys up.... Say, what s your

name again?"

    "Rogers, replied Joel for no other reason than

the fact that he had been thinking about his father

a while ago. "You speak Cerman, he added, making

a statement.

    "Shit, I'd better. West Germany s just about our

biggest market. My old man was a Kraut; it's all he

spoke."

"What do you sell?"

"The best imitations on Seventh Avenue, but don't

get

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 399

me wrong, I'm not one of the Jew boys. You take a

Balenciaga, right? You change a few buttons and a

few pleats, put a ruffle maybe where the Latino

doesn't have one. Then farm the patterns out to the

Bronx and Jersey, lower Miami and Pennsylvania,

where they sew in a label like 'Valenciana.' Then you

wholesale the batch at a third of the price and

everybody's happy except the Latino. But there's

not a tucking thing he can do that'd be worth his

time in court because for the most part it's legal."

"I wouldn't be so sure about that."

    "Well, a guy would have to plow through a road

of chazzerai to prove it wasn't legal."

' Sadly, that's true."

    "Hey, don't get me wrong! We provide the

merchandise and a service for thousands of nice li'l

ale housewives who can't afford that Paris crap. And

I earn my bread, ale Yankee Doodle. Take that

wrinkled old broad I was with; she owns a half-dozen

specialty shops in Cologne and Dusseldorf, and now

she's looking into Bonn. Let me tell you, I waltz

her...."

    The towns and small cities went by. Leverkusen

. . . Lagenfeld . . . Hilden, and still the salesman

went on, one tasteless anecdote leading to the next,

his voice grating, his comments repetitive.

"Wir kommen in fu'nf Minuten in Essen an!"

It happened in Essen.

    The commotion came first but it was not sudden.

Instead it grew in volume as an immense rolling

wave gathers force approaching a ragged coastline, a

sustained crescendo culminating in the crash over the

rocks. The embarking passengers all seemed to be

talking excitedly, with one another, heads turned,

necks craned to listen to the voices coming from sev-

eral transistor radios. Some were held against the

ear, others with the volume turned up at the request

of those nearby. The more crowded the train

became, the louder everyone talked as the

conversations were almost drowned out by the shrill

metallic voices of the newscasters. A thin young girl

in the uniform of a private school, her books in a

canvas beach bag and a blaring radio in her left

hand, sat down in the seat in front of Joel and the

salesman. Passengers gathered around shouting,

apparently asking the girl if she could make the radio

louder.

    "What's it all about?" asked Converse, turning to

the obese man.

400 ROBERT LUDLUM

    'Wait a minute!" replied the salesman, leaning

forward with difficulty and in greater discomfort

rising partially from the seat. "Let me listen."

    There was a perceptible lull, but only among the

crowd around the girl, who now held up the radio.

Suddenly there was a burst of static and Converse

could hear two voices, in addition to that of the

newscaster, a remote report from somewhere away

from the radio. And then Joel heard the words

spoken in English; they were nearly impossible to

pick out, as an interpreter kept rushing in to give

the German translahon.

    "A full inquiry . . . Eine vollstandiges Verhor. . .

entailing all security forces . . . sin erfordert alle

Sicherheitskrafte . . . has been ordered . . . wurde

veranlasst."

    Converse grabbed the salesman's coat. "What is

it tell me what happened?" he asked rapidly.

    "That nut hit again! . . . Wait, they're going

back. Lemme hear this." Again there was a short

burst of static and the excited newscaster came back

on the air. A terrible sense of dread spread through

Joel as the onslaught of German crackled out of the

small radio, each phrase more breathless than the

last. Finally the guttural recitation ended. The

passengers straightened their backs. Some stood up,

turning to one another, their voices raised in

counterpoint, excited conversahons resumed. The

salesman lowered himself into the seat, breathing

hard not, apparently, because of the alarming news

he had heard but because of sheer physical

discomfort.

    "Would you please tell me what this is all

about?" asked Converse, controlling his anxiety.

    "Yeah, sure," said the heavyset man, taking a

handkerchief from his breast pocket and mopping

his forehead. "This mother-loving world is full of

crazies, you know what I mean? For Christ's sake,

you can't tell who the fuck you're talking to! If it

was up to me, every kid who was born cross-eyed or

couldn't find a tit would be buried in dirt. I'm just

sick of the weirdos, you know what I mean?"

"That's very enlightening now, what happened?"

    "Yeah, okay." The salesman put the

handkerchief back in his pocket, then loosened his

belt and undid the buttons above his zippered fly.

"The soldier boy, the one who runs the

headquarters in Brussels "

    "The supreme commander of NATO, " said Joel,

his dread complete.

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 401

    "Yeah, that one. He was shot, his head blown off

right in the goddamned street when he was leaving

some little restaurant in the old section. He was in

civilian clothes, too. '

"When?"

"A couple of hours ago."

"Who do they say did it?"

    "The same creep who knocked off that

ambassador in Bonn. The nut!"

"How do they know that?"

"They got the gun."

"The what?"

    "The gun. It's why they didn't release the news

right away; they wanted to check the fingerprints

with Washington. It's his, and they figure the

ballistics will show it's the same gun that was used to

kill what's-his-name."

    "Peregrine," said Converse quietly, aware that his

dread was not complete. The worst part was only

coming into focus. "How did they get the gun?"

    "Yeah, well, that's where they've marked the

bastard. The soldier boy had a guard with him who

shot at the nut and hit him they think on the left

arm. When the weirdo grabbed his arm, the gun

dropped out of his hand. The hospitals and the

doctors have been alerted and all the borders all

over the place are being checked, every tucking

American male passport made to roll up his sleeves,

and anyone looking anywhere's near like him hauled

off to a customs tank."

    "They're being thorough," said Joel, not knowing

what else to say,-feeling only the pain of his wound.

    "I'll say this for the creep," continued the

salesman, eyes wide and nodding his head in some

obscene gesture of respect. "He's got 'em chasing

their asses from the North Sea to the Mediterranean.

They got reports he was seen on planes in Antwerp,

Rotterdam, and back there in Dusseldorf. It only

takes forty-five minutes to get from 'Dussel' to

Brussels, you know. I got a friend in Munich who

flies a couple times a week to have lunch in Venice.

Every place over here's a short hop. Sometimes we

forget that, you know what I mean?"

"Yes, I do. Short flights . . . Did you hear anything

else?"

    "They said he could be heading for Paris or

London or maybe even Moscow he could be a

Commie, you know. They're checking the private

airfields, too, figuring he's got friends who are

helping him some friends, huh? A regular happy

group of drooling psychos. They're even comparing

402 ROBERT LUDLUM

him to that Carlos, the one they call 'the jackal,'

what do you think of that? They say if he does go to

Paris, the two of them might link up and there

could be a few more executions. This Converse,

though, he's got his own regular trademark. He puts

bullets in their heads. Some kind of Boy Scout,

huh?"

    Joel stiffened, feeling the tension throughout his

slumped body, a sharp hollow pain in the centerof

his chest. It was the first time he had heard his

name spoken casually by a stranger identifying him

as the psychopathic killer, an assassin hunted by

governments whose border patrols were scrutinising

everyone at every checkpoint private airfields

watched, a dragnet in progress. The generals of

Aquitaine had done their job with precision, right

down to his fingerprints on a gun and a flesh wound

in his arm. But the timing how could they dare?

How did they know he was not in an embassy some-

where asking for temporary asylum until he could

make a case for himself? How could they take the

chance?

    Then the realisation came to him, and he had to

dig his fingers into his wrist to control himself, to

contain his panic. The call to Mattilon! How easily

Rene's phone could have been tapped, by either the

Surete or Interpol, and how quickly Aquitaine's

informers would have spread the word! Oh, Christ!

Neither one of them had thought of it! They did

know where he was, and no matter where he went

he was trapped! As the offensive salesman had

accurately phrased it, "Every place over here's a

short hop." A man could fly from Munich to Venice

for lunch and be back in his office for a three-thirty

appointment. Another man could kill in Brussels

and be on a train in Dusseldorf forty-five minutes

later. Distances were measured in half-hours. From

ground-zero in Brussels, "a couple of hours ago"

covered a wide circle of cities and a great many

borders. Were his hunters on the train? They might

be, but there was no way they could know which

train he had taken. It would be easier and far less

time-consuming to wait for him in Emmerich. He

had to think, he had to mow.

    "Excuse me," said Converse, getting up. "I have

to use the men's room."

    "You're lucky." The salesman moved his heavy

legs, holding his trousers as he let Joel pass. "I can

hardly squeeze into those boxes. I always take a leak

before . . ."

    Joel made his way up the aisle. He stopped

abruptly, swallowing, trying to decide whether to

continue or turn back. He

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 403

had left the newspaper on his seat, the photograph

easily revealed by unfolding the top page. He had to

continue; any change of movement, however minor,

might attract attention. His objective was not the

men's room but the passageway between the cars; he

had to see it. A number of people had opened the

door and gone through, several apparently looking

for someone they expected to find on the train. He

would look down at the lock on the bathroom door

and proceed.

    He stood in the swerving, vibrating passageway

studying the metal door. It was a standard two-tiered

exit, the top had to be opened first before the lower

part could be unlocked and pulled back, revealing

the steps. It was all he had to know.

    He returned to his seat, and to his relief the

salesman was splayed back, his thick lips parted, his

eyes closed, a high-pitched wheeze emanating from

his throat. Converse cautiously lifted one foot after

the other over the fat man's legs and maneuvered

himself into his seat. The newspaper had not been

touched. Another relief.

    Diagonally above and in front of him, he saw a

small receptacle in the curved wall with what

appeared to be a sheaf of railroad schedules fanned

out by disuse. Limp, bent pieces of paper ignored

because these commuters knew where they were

going. Joel raised himself off the seat, reached out,

and took one, apologizing with several nods of his

head to the young girl below. She giggled.

    Oberhausen . . . Dinslaken . . . Voerde . . . Wesel

. . . Emmerich.

    WeseL The last stop before Emmerich. He had

no idea how many miles Wesel was from Emmerich,

but he had no choice. He would get off the train at

Wesel, not with departing passengers but by himself.

He would disappear in Wesel

    He felt a slight deceleration beneath him, his

pilot's instincts telling him it was the outer perimeter

of an approach, the final path to touchdown in the

scope. He stood up and carefully maneuvered

between the fat man's legs to reach the aisle; at the

last second the salesman snorted, shifting his posi-

tion. Squinting under the brim of his hat, Joel

casually glanced around, as if he were momentarily

unsure of which way to go. He moved his head

slowly; as far as he could see, no one was paying the

slightest attention to him.

    He walked with carefully weary steps up the aisle,

a tired passenger in search of relief. He reached the

toilet door and

404 ROBERT LUDIUM

was greeted by an ironic sign of true relief. The

white slot below the handle spelled out BESETZT.

His first maneuver had its basis in credibility; the

toilet was in use. He turned toward the heavy

passageway door, pulled it open and, stepping out-

side, crossed the vibrating, narrow coupling area to

the opposite door. He pushed it open, but instead of

going inside he took a single stride forward, then

lowered his body, turning as he did so, and stepped

back into the passageway, into the shadows. He

stood up, his back against the external bulkhead,

and inched his way to the edge of the thick glass

window. Ahead was the inside of the rear car, and

by turning he had a clear view of the car in front.

He waited, watching, turning, at any moment

expecting to see someone lowering a newspaper or

breaking off a conversation and looking over at his

empty seat.

    None did. The excitement over the news of the

assassination in Brussels had tapered off, as had the

rush of near panic in Bonn when the streets learned

that an ambassador had been killed. A number of

people were obviously still talking about both

incidents, shaking their heads and grappling with the

implications and the future possibilities, but their

voices were lowered; the crisis of the first reports

had passed. After all, it was not fundamentally the

concern of these citizens. It was American against

American. There was even a certain gloating in the

air; the gunfight at O.K. Corral had new signifi-

cance. The colonists were, indeed, a violent breed.

    "Wir kommen in . . . " The rapid clacking of the

wheels below, echoing in the metal chamber,

obscured the distant announcement over the

loudspeakers. Only moments now, thought Converse

as he turned and looked at the exit door. When the

train slowed sufficiently and the lines began to form

at both inner doors, he would make his move.

"Wir kommen in drei Minuten in Wesel an!"

    Several passengers in both cars got out of their

seats, adjusted their briefcases and shopping bags

and started up the aisle. The grinding of the giant

wheels underneath signified the approach to

touchdown. Now.

    Joel turned to the exit door and, finding the

upper latch, snapped it open, pulling the upper

section back; the rush of air was deafening. He

spotted the handle of the lower release and gripped

it, prepared to yank it up as soon as the ground

beyond slowed down. It would be in only seconds.

The sounds below grew louder and the sunlight

outside created a racing

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 405

silhouette of the train. Then the abrasive words

broke through the dissonance and he froze.

    "Very well thought out, Herr Converse! Some win,

some lose. You lost"

    Joel spun around. The man yelling at him in the

metal chamber was the passenger who had gotten on

the train at Dusseldorf, the apologetic commuter

who had sat next to him until the obese salesman

had asked him to exchange seats. In his left hand was

a gun held far below his waist, in his right the

ever-respectable attache case.

"You're a surprise," said Converse.

    "I would hope so. I barely made the train in

Dusseldorf. Ach, three cars I walked through like a

madman but not the madman you are, ja?"

    "What happens now? You fire that gun and save

the world from a madman?'

"Nothing so simplistic, pilot."

"Pilot."

    "Names are immaterial, but I am a colonel in the

West German Luftwaffe. Pilots only kill one another

in the air. It is embarrassing on the ground."

"You're comforting."

    "I also exaggerate. One disconcerting move on

your part and I shall be a hero of the Fatherland,

having cornered a crazed assassin and killed him

before he killed me."

"'Fatherland'? You still call it that?"

    "Natiirlich. Most of us do. From the father comes

the strength; the female is the vessel."

"They'd love you in a Vassar biology class."

"Is that meant to be amusing?"

    "No, just disconcerting in a very minor way,

nothing serious." Joel had moved imperceptibly until

his back was against the bulkhead, his whole mind,

his entire thinking process, on pre-set. He had no

choice except to die, now or in a matter of hours

from now. "I suppose you have an itinerary for me,"

he asked as he swung his left arm forward with the

question.

    "Quite definitely, pilot. We will get off the train

at Wesel, and you and I will share a telephone, my

gun firmly against your chest. Within a short time a

car will meet us and you will be taken "

Converse slammed his concealed right elbow into the

406 ROBERT LUDLUM

bulkhead, his left arm in plain sight. The German

glanced at the door of the forward car. Alow!

    Joel lunged for the gun, both hands surging for

the black barrel as he crashed his right knee with all

the force he could command into the man's

testicles. As the German fell back he grabbed his

hair and smashed the man's head down onto a

protruding hinge of the opposite door.

    It was over. The German's eyes were wide,

alarmed, glassy. Another scout was dead, but this

man was no ignorant conscript from an impersonal

government, this was a soldier of Aquitaine.

    A stout woman screamed in the window, her

mouth opened wide with her screams, her face

hysterical.

"Wesel. . . !"

    The train had slowed down and other excited

faces appeared at the window, the frenzied crowd

now blocking those who tried to open the door.

    Converse lunged across the vibrating metal

enclosure to the exit panel. He grasped the latch

and pulled it open, crashing the door into the

bulkhead. The steps were below, gravel and tar

beyond. He took a deep breath and plunged outside

curling his body to lessen the impact of the hard

ground, and when he made contact he rolled over,

and over, and over.

23

    He careened off a rock and into a cluster of

bushes. Nettles and coarse tendrils enveloped him,

scraping his face and hands. His body was a mass of

bruises, the wound in his left arm moist and

stinging, but there was no time even to acknowledge

pain. He had to get away; in minutes the whole area

would be swarming with men searching for him,

hunting for the murderer of an officer in the

Federal Republic's air arm. It took no imagination

to foresee what would happen next. The passengers

would be questioned including the salesman and

suddenly a newspaper would be in someone's hand,

a photograph studied, the connection made. A

crazed killer last seen in a back street in Brussels

was not on his way

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 407

to Paris or London or Moscow. He was on a train

out of Bonn, passing through Cologne, Essen and

Dusseldorf and he killed again in a town called

Wesel.

    Suddenly he heard the high-pitched wail of a

horn. He looked up the small hill toward the tracks;

a south-bound train was gathering speed out of the

station several thousand feet away. Then he saw his

hat; it was on the hill, halfway down. Joel crept out

of the tangling brush, staggered to his feet, and ran

to it, refusing to listen to that part of his mind which

told him he could barely walk. He grabbed the hat

and began running to his right. The south-bound

train passed; he raced up the hill and across the

tracks, heading for an old building, apparently

deserted. More of its windows were shattered than

intact. He might rest there for a few moments but no

longer; it was too obvious a hiding place. In ten or

fifteen minutes it would be surrounded by men with

guns aimed at every exit, every window.

    He tried desperately to remember. How had he

done it before? How had he eluded the patrols in the

jungles north of Phu Loc? . . . Vantage points! Get

where you can see them but they can't see you! But

there were tall trees then and he was younger and

stronger and could climb them, concealing himself

behind green screens of full branches on firm limbs.

There was nothing like that here on the outskirts of

a railroad yard . . . or maybe there wasl To the right

of the building was a landfill dump, tons of earth and

debris piled high in several pyramids; it was his only

choice.

    Gasping, his arms and legs aching, his wound

inflamed, he ran toward the last of the pyramids. He

reached it, propelled his way around the mass, and

started climbing the rear side, his feet slipping into

soft earth, and wood and cardboard and patches of

garbage, where it had been layered. The sickening

smells took his mind off the pain. He kept crawling,

clawing with each slipping foot. If he had to, he

could burrow himself into the stinking mess. There

were no rules for survival, and if sinking himself into

the putrid hill kept a spray of bullets from ending his

life, so be it.

    He reached the top and lay prone below the

ridge, dirt and protruding debris all around him.

Sweat rolled down his face, stinging the scrapes on

his face; his legs and arms were heavy with pain, and

his breathing was erratic from the trembling caused

not only by unused muscles but by fear. He looked

down at the outskirts of the railroad yard, then up

408 R08ERT LUDIUM

ahead at the station. The train had stopped, and the

platform was filled with people milling around,

bewildered. Several uniformed men were shouting

orders, trying to separate passengers apparently

those in the two cars flanking the scene of the

killing or anyone else who knew anything. In the

parking lot surrounding the station a

blue-and-whitestriped police car, its red roof light

spinning, the signal of emergency. There was a rapid

clanging in the distance, and seconds later a long

white ambulance streaked into the lot whipped into

a horseshoe turn and plunged back, stopping close

to the platform. As the rear doors opened, two

attendants jumped out carrying a stretcher; a police

officer above them on the steps shouted at them,

gesturing with his arm. They ran up the metal

staircase and followed him.

    A second patrol car swerved into the lot, tires

screeching as it stopped next to the ambulance. Two

police officers got out and walked up the steps; the

officer who had directed the ambulance attendants

joined them, with two civilians, a man and a woman,

beside him. The five talked, and moments later the

two patrolmen returned to their vehicle. The driver

backed up and spun to his left, gunning the engine,

heading for the south end of the parking lot,

directly toward Converse. Again they stopped and

got out, now with weapons drawn they raced across

the tracks and down the slope of gravel and tar into

the wild grass. They would be coming back in min-

utes, thought Joel, absently clawing the ragged

surface by his shoulders. They would stop and check

out the deserted building, perhaps call for

assistance, but sooner or later they would examine

the huge mounds of landfill.

    Converse looked behind him; there was a dirt

road marked with the tracks of heavy trucks leading

to a tall link fence, the gate held in place with a

thick chain. A man running up that road and

climbing that fence would be seen, he had to stay

where he was, hidden in the putrid rubble.

    Another sound interrupted his frantic

calculations a sound like one he had heard only

moments before. On his right, in the parking lot. A

third patrol car came speeding in its claxon howling,

but instead of heading for the ambulance and the

first police vehicle by the platform, it veered to its

left, racing over to jOill the striped car at the south

end of the lot. The two policemen in the field had

radioed for assistance, and Joel felt a numbing sense

of despair. He was looking at his own executioners.

Executioner. The newly arrived patrol

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 409

car contained only the driver or did it? Did the

policeman turn his head and speak? No, he was

disengaging something, a seat belt probably.

    A gray-haired uniformed man got out, looked

around then started walking rapidly toward the

tracks. He crossed them and stood on the top of the

slope, shouting down at the police officers in the

sun-drenched brown grass. Converse had no idea

what the man was saying, but the scene appeared

strangely out of place.

    The two policemen came racing into view, their

guns no longer in their hands but holstered. There

was a brief heated conversation. The older officer

was pointing to a distant area south of the landfill;

his words, to judge by their volume, were commands.

Joel looked back at his patrol car; on the panel of

the front door was an insignia that was absent on the

other car. The man held a rank superior to those of

his young associates; he was issuing orders.

    The younger policemen ran back across the tracks

to their vehicle, their superior following but not

running. They swung back the doors, literally jumped

in and, in a burst of the engine's roar, swerved to the

right and sped out of the parking lot. The older man

reached his patrol car, but he made no movement to

open the door or get inside. Instead, he spoke at

least his lips moved and five seconds later the rear

doors opened and two men emerged. One man

Converse knew well. His gun was in Joel's pocket. It

was LeifLelm's chauffeur, a taped bandage across his

forehead, another on the ridge of his nose. He pulled

out a gun and barked a command to the other man;

in his voice was the vengeful fury of a soldier

dishonored in combat.

    Peter Stone left the hotel in Washington. He had

told the young Navy lieutenant and the slightly older

Army captain that he would contact them in the

morning. Children, he thought. Idealistic amateurs

were the worst, because their righteousness was

usually as valid as their actions were impractical.

Their childish disdain for duplicity and deceit did not

countenance the fact that to rip out the maniacal

bastards frequently required greater malevolence and

far more deception than they could imagine.

    Stone got into a taxi leaving his car in the

basement parking area and gave the driver the

address of an apartment building on Nebraska

Avenue. It was a lovely apart

410 ROBERT LUDLUM

meet, but it did not belong to him; it was leased by

an Albanian diplomat at the United Nations who

was rarely there naturally, because he was based in

New York. But the former intelligence officer had

worked hard and turned the Albanian several years

ago, not merely with ideological pleas to a fine

scholar s conscience but also with photographs of

this same scholar in all manner of sexual

indulgences with very strange women women in

their sixties and seventies, bag ladies off the streets,

who after carnal abuse were subject to sheer

physical abuse. He was a winner, the

scholar-diplomat. A psychiatrist in Langley had said

something about wish-fulfillment sexually

repressed matricide. Stone did not need that

nonsense; he had the photographs of a son-of-abitch

sadist. But it was the children that occupied his

mind now, not the excesses of a fool that permitted

him access to a luxury apartment far beyond his

consultation fees.

    The children. Jesus! They were so right, their

sensibilities so correctly on target, but they did not

understand that when they took on the Ceorge

Marcus Delavanes of today's world it was war in all

its worst forms of brutality, because that was the

way these men fought. Righteousness had to join

with a commitment to crawl in the gutter if

necessary, no quarter sought, for none would be

given. This was the last fifth of the twentieth century

and the generals were going for it all; the paranoia

of their disgust and frustrations had come to the

end of endurance.

    Stone had seen it coming for years, and there

were fumes when he had come close to applauding,

throwing his hands up in frustration, willing to sell

what was left of his soul. Strategies had been

aborted men lost because of the maddening

bureaucratic restraints that led back to laws and a

conshtudon that were never written with anything

like Moscow in mind. The Mad Marcuses of this

planet this part of the planet had a number of

very plausible points. There were those in the

Company years ago who were adamant and not

squirrelly about it. They said, "Bomb the nuclear

plants in Tashkent and Tselinogradl Blow them the

hell up in Chengdu and Shenyang! Don't let them

begin! We are responsible and they are not!"

Who knew? Would the world have been better off?

    Then Peter would wake up in the morning and

that part of his soul he had not sold would tell him,

no, we cannot do that. There had to be another

way, a way without confronta

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 411

tionand wholesale death. He still clung to that

alternative, but he could not dismiss the Delavanes

as megabomb off-the-willers. Where were we heading

now?

    He knew where he was heading had been

heading for years. It was why he had joined the

children. Their righteousness was justified, their

indignation valid. He had seen it all before in too

many places, always at the extremes of the political

spectrum. The Delavanes of the planet would turn

everyone into robots. In many ways, death was

preferable.

    Stone unlocked the door of the apartment, closed

it, took off his jacket and made himself the only

drink he would permit himself for the evening. He

walked to the leather chair by the telephone and sat

down, taking several swallows before putting the

glass on the table beneath the floor lamp. He picked

up the phone and dialed seven digits, then three

more, and one more after that. A very faint dial tone

replaced the original, and he dialed again. Everything

was in order. The call was being routed through a

KGB diplomatic scrambler cable on an island in the

Cabot Strait southwest of Newfoundland. Only

DzerzLinsky Square would be confused. Peter had

paid six negatives for the service. Five rings preceded

the sound of a male voice in Bern, Switzerland.

"Allo?"

    "This is your old friend from Bahrain, also the

vendor in Lisbon and a buyer in the Dardanelles. Do

I have to sing 'Dixie'?"

    "Well, mah wahd, " said the man in Bern

stretching out the phrase in a dialect bred in the

American Deep South, the French pretence dropped.

"You go back a long time, don't you, sub?"

"I do, sir."

'1 hear you're one of the bad guys now."

    "Unloved, mistrusted, but still appreciated," said

Stone. "That's more accurate. The Company won't

touch me, but it's got its share of unfriendlies in

town who throw me consultations pretty regularly. I

wasn't as smart as you. No deposits from Uncle

No-Name in Swiss accounts."

"I was told you had a little juice problem."

"A big one, but it's over."

    "Never negotiate a release from people worse

than you if you can't pass a Breathalyzer test. You've

got to scare them, not make 'em laugh."

412 ROBERT LUDI.UM

    "I found that out. I hear you do some consulting

yourself. "

    "On a limited basis and only with clients who

could pass Uncle No-Name's muster. That's the

agreement and I stick to it. Either I do or some

Boom Boom Botticelli is flown over and Massa's in

de core, cole ground. '

    "Where the threats don't do you any good," said

the civil~an.

"That's the stand-off, Pearlie May. It's our little

detente. "

    "Would I pass muster? I give you my word I'm

working with good people. They're young and

they're on to something and they haven't got an evil

thought in their heads, which under the

circumstances is no recommendation. But I can't

tell you anything substantive. For your sake as well

as mine and theirs. Is that good enough?"

    'If the consultation doesn't take place in outer

space, it's more than enough, and you know it. You

saved Johnny Reb's ass three times, only y'awl got

the sequence backwards. In the Dardanelles and

Lisbon you got me out before the guns came in.

Over in Bahrain you rewrote a report about a little

matter of missing contingency funds that probably

kept me from five years in a Leavenworth

stockade."

    "You were too valuable to lose over a minor

indiscretion. Besides, you weren't the only one, you

merely got caught or nearly did."

"Regardless, Johrmy Reb owes. What is it?"

    Stone reached for his glass and took a drink. He

spoke, choosing his words carefully. "One of our

commanders is missing. It's a Navy problem, SAND

PAC-based, and the people I'm with want to keep

it contained. No Washington input at this stage."

    "Which is part of what you can't tell me," said

the Southerner. "Okay. SAND l'AC that's San

Diego and points west and wet until the date line,

right?"

    "Yes, but it's not relevant. He's the chief legal

out there maybe was, by now. If he's not past

tense, if he's alive he's nearer you than me. Also if

I get on a plane, my passport ignites the computers

and things can't go that way."

"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 unite in

Brus

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 413

sets. 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 Bonn. "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 Iynching mobs"

    "Actually, no. By simple equations we can assume

he went to the embassy at least he met

someonefrom 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 charge 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

charge 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?"

414 ROBERT IUDLUM

    '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, Yan

    '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?" i f No room for error. He knows

where the command

"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 Frauleins I've got in Bonn,

Jesuits would risk the papacy, sub. The name of the

commander,

"Fitzpatrick. Lieutenant Commander Connal

Fitzpat

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 415

rick. 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 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 charge 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 grey to black

416 ROBERT LUDLUM

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 Iying military attache.

If Converse was running and not under lock Ed 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, Chrtst! 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.

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 417

    It was odd, thought the civilian. He had not used

the Tatiana family in years.

    Joel watched from the ridge of the landfill as

LeifLelm'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

418 ROBERT LUDIUM

beyond. Then he turned and stared at the mounds

of landfill and made up his mind.

    "Rechts uber 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 blmched 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 AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 419

    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 dock!"

Silence.

420 ROBERT LU[)LUM

    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.

    "Auaghh . . . !" 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 ties. 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

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 421

charm, photographs in the wallets he did not care

to look at them. Death was death, enemy and friend

fundamentally equalised. 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.

    He selected the articles of clothing that fit best

and put them on; the rest he threw into the marsh.

Whatever he looked like, there was little or no

resemblance to the tweedy academic he had tried to

be in Bonn. If anything, he could be mistaken for a

man who worked on the Rhine, a roughhewn mate

or a foreman of a barge crew. He had chosen the

chauffeur's coat, a dark, coarse-woven jacket cut to

the hips with the man's blue denim shirt

underneath both bullet holes washed clean of

blood. The trousers were those of the subordinate

executioner; brown creaseless corduroys, flared

slightly at the ankles, which, thankfully, they reached.

Neither man had worn a hat, and his was somewhere

in the landfill; he would find one or buy one or steal

one. He had to; without a hat or a cap covering part

of his face, he felt as naked as exposed and as

frightened as he would have felt without clothes.

    He lay back in the dry wild grass as the sun

disappeared over an unseen horizon and stared up at

the sky.

24

    "Well, Ahh'l be . . . !" exclaimed the distinguished-

looking man with the flowing mane of white hair, his

full, nearly white eyebrows arched in astonishment.

"You're Molly Washburn's boy?"

    "I beg your pardon?" said the Army officer at the

adjacent table along the banquette in Bonn's Am

Tulpenfeld restaurant. "Have we met, sir?"

    "Not so's you'd remember, Major.... Please

forgive my intruding." The Southerner addressed the

apology to the offi

422 ROBERT LUDLUM

cer's companion across the table, a balding

middle-aged man who had been speaking English

with a pronounced German accent. "But Molly

would never forgive this pore old Georgia cracker if

he didn't say hello to her son and insist on buyin'

him a drink. '

    "I'm afraid I'm at a loss,' said Washburn

pleasantly but without enthusiasm.

    "I would be, too, young fella. I know it sounds

cornpone, but you were just barely in long pants

back then. The last time I saw you, you were in a

blue blazer jacket and madder 'n hell at losing

a.soccer game. I think you blamed it on your left

wing, which in my opinion then and now is a logical

place to blame anythtug. "

The major and his companion laughed

appreciatively.

Good Lord, that does go back a long hme to

when I was at Dalton."

"And captain of the team, as I recall."

"How did you ever recognize me?"

    "I dropped in on your momma the other week at

the house in Southampton. Proud girl that she is,

there were a few real handsome photographs of you

in the living room."

"Of course, on the piano."

"That's where they were, silver frames and all."

"I'm afraid I've forgotten your name."

    "Thayer. Thomas Thayer, or just plain old T.T.

as your momma calls me." The two shook hands.

    "Good to see you again, sir," said Washburn,

gesturing at his companion. "This is Herr Stammler.

He handles a great deal of our press relations with

the West German media."

"How do you do Mr. Stammler."

"A pleasure, Herr Thayer."

    "Speakin' of the embassy and I assume you were,

I promised Molly I'd ring you up over there when I

got here. Mah word on it, I was gain' to do just that

tomorrow I'm fightin' .'et lag today. One hell of a

coincidence, isn't it? You bein' here and my bein'

here, right next to each other!"

    "Major," interrupted the German courteously.

"Two people who go back so many years must have

a great deal to reminisce about. And since our

business is fundamentally concluded, I think I shall

press on."

    "Now, hold on, Mr. Stammler," objected Thayer.

"Ah simply couldn't allow you to do that!"

"No, really, it's perfectly all right." The German

smiled.

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 423

"Truthfully, Major Washburn felt he should insist on

taking me to dinner this evening after the terrible

things we've had to deal with during the past few

days he far more than I but to be quite honest,

I'm exhausted. Also I am far older than my young

friend and nowhere near as resilient. The bed cries

out, Herr Thayer. Believe me when I tell you that."

    "Hey, Mr. Stammler, Ah've got an idea. You're

fanned out and I'm droppin' from the jet stream, so

why don't we leave the young skunk here and both

hit the pillows?"

    "But I couldn't allow you to do that." The

German got up from the table and extended his hand

to Thayer. They shook, and Stammler turned to

Washburn, shaking his hand also. "I'll call you in the

morning, Norman."

    "All right, Gerhard.... Why didn't you just say you

were tired?"

    "And conceivably offend one of my largest

clients? Be reasonable, Norman. Good night,

gentlemen." The German smiled again, and walked

away.

    "Ah guess we're stuck with each other, young

man," said the Southerner. "Why not move over here

and let me save the embassy a couple of dollars?"

    "All right," replied Washburn, getting up with his

drink and sidling between the tables to the chair

opposite Thayer. He sat down. "How is Mother? I

haven't called her in a couple of weeks."

    "Molly is always Molly, my boy. She came forth

and they broke the mold, but I don't have to tell you

that. She looks the same as she did twenty years ago.

I swear I don't know how she does ill"

"And she's not going to tell you, either."

    Both men laughed as the Southerner raised his

glass and brought it forward for the touch. The

glasses met, a gentle ring was heard. It was the

beginning.

    Converse waited, watching from a dark storefront

on the shabby street in Emmerich. Across the way

were the dim lights of a cheap hotel, the entrance

uninviting, sleazy. Yet with any luck he would have

a bed there in the next few minutes. A bed with a

sink in the corner of the room and, with even more

luck, hot water with which he could bathe his wound

and change the bandage again. During the last two

nights he had learned that such places were his only

possibilities for refuge. No questions would be asked

and a false name

424 ROBERT LUDLUM

on a registration card expected. But even the most

sullen greeting was a menace for him. He had only

to open his mouth and whatever came out identified

him as an American who could not speak German.

    He felt like a deaf-mute running a gauntlet,

careening off walls of people. He was helpless, so

goddamned helpless! The killings in Bonn, Brussels

and Wesel had made every American male over

thirty and under fifty suspect. The melodramatic

suspicions were compounded by speculations that

the obsessed man was being aided, perhaps

manipulated, by terrorist organizahons

Baader-Meinhof, the PLO, Libyan splinter groups,

even KGB destabilizahon teams sent out by the

dreaded Voennaya. He was being hunted

everywhere, and as of yesterday, the International

Herald Tribune printed further reports that the

assassin was heading for Paris which meant that

the generals of Aquitaine wanted the concentration

to be on Paris, not where they knew he was, where

their soldiers could run him down, take him, kill

him.

    To get off the streets he had to move with the

flotsam and jetsam and he needed a run-down hotel

like the one across the street. He knew he had to

get off the streets; there were too many traps

outside. So on the first night in Wesel he re-

membered the student Johann, and looked for ways

to re-create similar circumstances. Young people

were less prone to be suspicious and more receptive

to the promise of financial reward for a friendly

service.

    It was odd, but that first night in Wesel was both

the most difficult and the easiest. Difficult because

he had no idea where to look, easy because it

happened so rapidly, so logically.

    First he stopped at a drugstore, buying gauze,

adhesive tape, antiseptic and an inexpensive cap

with a visor. Then he went to a cafe, to the men's

room, where he washed his face and the wound,

which he bound tight, skin joining skin, the bandage

firmly in place. Suddenly, as he finished his

ministrations, he heard the familiar words and

emphatic melody young raucous voices in song: "On,

Wisconsin.... On, Wisconsin . . . on to victoreee. . ."

    The singers were a group of students from the

German Society at the University of Wisconsin, as

he later found out who were bicycling through the

northern Rhineland. Casually approaching a young

man getting more beers from the bar and

introducing himself as a fellow American, he told an

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 425

outrageous story of having been taken by a whore

and rolled by her pimp, who stole his passport-but

never thought of a money belt. He was a respected

businessman who had to sleep it off, gather his wits,

and reach his firm back in New York. However, he

spoke no German, would the student consider the

payment of $100 for helping him out?

    He would and did. Down the block was a dingy

hotel where no questions were asked; the young man

paid for a room and brought Converse, who was

waiting outside, his receipt and his key.

    All yesterday he had walked, following the roads

in sight of the railroad tracks until he reached a town

named Halden. It was smaller than Wesel, but there

was a run-down, industrial section east of the

railroad yards. The only "hotel" he could find,

however, was a large, shoddy house at the end of a

row of shoddy houses with signs saying ZIMMER, 20

MARK in two first-floor windows and a larger one

over the front door. It was a boardinghouse, and

several doors beyond in the spill of the streetlampsa

heated argument was taking place between an older

woman and a young man. Above, a few neighbors sat

in their windows, arms on the sills, obviously

listening. Joel also listened to the sporadic words

shouted in heavily accented English.

    ". . . 'I hate it here!' Das habe ich ihm gesagt. 'I

do not care to stay, Onkel! I vill go back to

Germany! Maybe join .Baader-Meinhofl' Das halve

ich item gesagt."

    "Barr!" screamed the woman, turning and going

up the steps. "Schweinehund!" she roared, as she

opened the door, went inside and slammed it shut

behind her.

    The young man had looked up at his audience in

the windows and shrugged. A few clapped, so he

made an exaggerated, elaborate bow. Converse

approached; there was no harm in trying, he thought.

"You speak very good English," he said.

    "dye not?" replied the German. "They spend bags

of groceries for five years to give me lessons. I must

go to her brother in America. I say Nein! They say

da! I go. I hate it!"

    "I'm sorry to hear that. I'm an American and I

like the Cerrnan people. Where were you?"

"In Yorktown."

"Virginia?"

"Nein! The city of New York."

"Oh, that Yorktown."

426 ROBERT LUDLUM

    'Ja, my uncle has two butcher shops in New

York, in what they call Yorktown. Shit, as you say

in America!'

"I'm sorry. Why?"

    "The Schwarzen and theJuden! If you speak like

me, the black people steal from you with knives, and

the Jews steal from you with their cash registers.

hreinie, they call me, and Nazi. I told a Jew he

cheated me I vas nice, I vas not impolite and he

told me to get out of his shop or he call the 'cops !

I vas shit, he said! . . . You vear a good German

suit and spend good German money, they don t say

those things. You are a delivery boy trying to learn,

they kick the shit out of you, What do I know! My

father vas only a fourteen-year-old sol dier. Shit!"

    "Again, I'm telling you I'm sorry. I mean it. It's

not in our nature to blame children.'

"Shit!"

    "Perhaps I can make up for a little of what you

went through. I m in trouble because I was a

stupid American. But I'll pay you a hundred

American dollars . . ."

    The young German happily got him a room at

the boardinghouse. It was no better than the one in

Wesel, but the water was hotter, the toilet nearer

his door.

    Tonight was different from the other nights he

had spent in Germany, thought Joel, as he looked

across the street at the decrepit hotel in Emmerich.

Tonight could lead to his passage into Holland. To

Cort Thorbecke and a plane to Washington The

man Joel had recruited was somewhat older than

the oth ers who had helped him. He was a merchant

seaman out of Bremerhaven, in Emmerich to make

a duty call on his family with whom he felt ill at

ease. He had made the obligatory call been soundly

rebuked by his mother and father, and had returned

to the place and the people he loved best a bar at

the bend of the riverbank.

    Again, as it had been in Wesel, it was the

English Iyrics of a song that had caught Joel's

attention. He stared at the young seaman standing

at the bar and playing a guitar. This time it was not

a college football song but an odd, haunting mixture

of slow biting rock and a sad madrigal: ". . . When

you finally came down, when your feet hit the

ground, did you know where you were? When you

finally were real, could you touch what you feel,

were you there in the know? . . . '

The men around the bar were caught up by the

precise

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 427

beat of the minor-key music. When the seaman

finished there was respectful applause, followed by a

resumption of fast talk and faster refilling of mugs of

beer. Minutes later Converse was standing next to

the seagoing troubador, the guitar now slung over his

shoulder and held in place by a wide strap like a

weapon. Joel wondered if the man really knew

English or only Iyrics. He would find out in seconds.

The seaman laughed at a companion's remark; when

the laughter subsided, Converse said, 'I'd like to buy

you a drink for reminding me of home. It was a nice

song."

    The man looked at him quizzically. Joel

stammered thinking that the seaman had no idea

what he was talking about. Then, to Converse's

relief, the man answered. "Danke. It is a good song.

Sad but good, like some of ours. You are

Amerikaner?"

"Yes. And you speak English."

    "Okay. I don't read no good, aber I speak okay.

I'm on merchant ship. We sail Boston, New York,

Baltimore sometimes ports, Florida."

"What'll you have?"

"Sin Bier," said the seaman, shrugging.

"Why not whisky?"

'Baja?"

"Certainly."

"Ja. "

    Minutes later they were at a table. Joel told his

story about a nonexistent whore and a fictional pimp.

He told it slowly not because he felt he had to pace

the narrative to his listener's understanding, but

because another option was coming sharply into

focus. The guitar-playing merchantman was young,

but there was a patina about him that indicated he

knew the docks and the waterfront and the various

businesses that flourished in that very special world.

    "You should go to the Polizei, " said the man

when Converse had finished. "They know the whores

and they will not print your name." The German

smiled. "We want you back to spend more money."

    "I can't take the chance. In spite of the way I

look, I deal with a lot of important people here and

in America."

"Which makes you important, ja?"

    "And very stupid. If I could just get over into

Holland, I could handle everything."

"Die IViederlande? Vat is problem?"

428 ROBERT LUDLUM

    "I told you, my passport was taken. And it's just

my luck that every American crossing any border is

looked at very carefully. You know, that crazy

bastard who killed the ambassador in Bonn and the

NATO commander.

    "Ja, and in Wesel two, three days ago, said the

German. "They say he goes to Paris.

    'I m afraid that doesn t help me.... Look, you

know the river people, the men who have boats

going out every day. I told you l d pay you a

hundred dollars for the hotel....

"I agreed. You are generous.

    "I'll pay you a great deal more if you can

somehow get me over into Holland. You see, my

company has an office in Amsterdam. They can help

me. Will you help me?"

    The German grimaced and looked at his watch.

"Is too late for such arrangements tonight and I

leave for Bremerhaven on the morning train. My

ship sails at fifteen hundred.

"That was the amount I had in mind. Fifteen

hundred. '

"Deutsche marks?"

"Dollars.

    "You are more crazy than your Landsmann who

kills soldiers. If you knew the language, it cost no

more than fifty.

    "I don t know the language. Fifteen hundred

American dollars for you if you can arrange it.

    The young man looked hard at Converse, then

moved back his chair. "Wait here. I will make phone

call.

"Send over more whisky on your way.

"Danke. "

    The waiting was spent in a vacuum of anxiety.

Joel looked at the weathered guitar Iying across an

extra chair. What were the words? . . . When you f

nally came down, when your feet hit the ground . . .

did you know where you were? When you f sally were

real, could you touch . . . what you feel, were you

there in the know?. . .

    "I will stop for you at five o'clock in the

morning, announced the merchant seaman, who sat

down with two glasses of whisky. "The captain will

accept two hundred dollars, aber only if there are no

drugs. If there are drugs, you don't come on board."

    "I have no drugs, 'said Converse, smiling,

controlling his elation. "That's done and you ve

earned your money. 111 pay you at the dock or pier

or whatever it is.

"Natu'rlich.

* * *

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 429

    It had all happened less than an hour ago,

thought Joel, watching the hotel entrance across the

street. At five o'clock in the morning he would be on

his way to Holland, to Amsterdam, to a man named

Cort Thorbecke, Mattilon's broker of illegal

passports. All the passenger manifests on all aircraft

heading for the United States would be watched by

Aquitaine, but a hundred years ago he had learned

that there were ways to elude the watchers. He had

done it before from a deep, cold shaft in the ground

and despite a barbed-wire fence in the darkness. He

could do it again.

    A figure emerged under the dimly lit marquee of

the hotel. It was the young merchant seaman.

Grinning, he beckoned Converse to join him.

    "Hell's fire and Jeesus H. what is it, Norman?"

cried the Southerner, as Washburn suddenly went

into an erratic of convulsions, his lips trembling as he

gasped for air.

    "I . . . don't . . . know." The major's eyes grew

wide, the pupils now dancing and out of control.

    'Maybe it's that Heimlich thing!" said Thomas

Thayer, rising from the banquette and quickly

moving toward Washburn. Hell no, it can't be! Our

food's not here; you haven't eaten!"

    The couples near by expressed alarm, talking

loudly, rapidly in German. At a remark made by one

of the diners, the Southerner turned and spoke to

the man. 'Midas glaube ich night, " said Johnny Reb

in flawless German. 'A1ein Wagen sight draussen Ich

weiss einen Arzt. "

    The maitre d' came rushing over and, seeing that

the commotion involved the Americans, addressed

his concern in English. "Is the major ill, sir? Shall I

ask if there is . . ."

    "No doctor I'm not familiar with, thanks,"

interrupted Thayer, bent over the embassy's charge

d'affaires, who was now inhaling deeply, his eyes half

closed, his head swaying back and forth. 'This here is

Molly Washburn s boy and I'll see he gets the best!

My car's outside. Maybe if a couple of your waiters

will give a hand we can put him in the limo and I'll

take him right over to my man. He's a specialist. At

my age you gatta have 'em everywhere."

    'Restimmt. Certainly!" The maitre d' snapped his

fingers; three busboys responded instantly.

"The embassy . . . the embassy! ' choked Washburn as

the

430 ROBERT LUDLlJM

three men half carried the officer to the door of the

restaurant.

    "Don't you worry, Norman-boy!" said the

Southerner hearing the plea, walking with the

maltre d'. "I'll phone 'em from the car, tell 'em to

meet us at Rudi's place." Thayer turned to the

German beside him. "You know what Ah think? Ah

think this fine soldier is jest plumb wore out. He's

been workin'from sunrise to sunrise with nary a

break. I mean, can you imagine everything he's had

to contend with these last couple of days? That

crazy mongrel goin around shootin' up a feud, killin'

the ambassador, then that honcho in Brussels! You

know, Molly's boy here is the charday d'affaires."

    "Yes, the major is our guest frequently an

honored guest."

    ' Well, even the most honorable among us has a

right and a hme to say 'The hell with it, I'll sit this

one out.'"

"I'm not sure I understand."

    "Ah have an idea this fine young man who I

knew as a mere saplin' led never learned about the

quantitative effects of old demon whisky."

    "Ohh?" The metre d' looked at Johnny Reb a

fashionable gossipmonger relishing a new rumor.

    "He had several mites too much, that's all and

that's jest between us."

"He vas not in focus...."

    "He started bustin' corks before the sun hit the

whites of the west cotton." They reached the front

entrance, the unit of busboys maneuvering

Washburn out the door. "Who was more entitled?

That's what I say." Thayer removed his wallet.

'ha, I agree."

    "Here," said the Southerner, removing bills. "I

haven't had hme to convert, so there's a hundred

American that should cover the tab and plenty for

the boys outside.... And here's a hundred for

you for not talkie' too much, verstehen ?"

    "Completely, main Herr!" The German pocketed

both $100 bills, smiling and nodding his head

obsequiously. "I vill say absolutely nozzing!''

    "Well, I wouldn't go that far. It might be a good

thing for Molly's boy to learn that it ain't the end of

the world if a few people know he's had a drink or

two. Might loosen him up a bit, and in mah Georgia

judgment, he needs a little

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 431

Joosenin . Maybe you might wink at him when he

next comes m.

"Vink?"

    'Give him a friendly smile, like you know and it's

okay. Verstehen?"

'/a, I agree! He vas entitled!'

    Outside at the curb, Johnny Reb instructed the

busboys just how to place Major Norman Anthony

Washburn IV into the backseat. Stretched out, facing

up, supine. The Southerner gave each man a $20

American bill and dismissed them. He then spoke to

the two men in front, pressing a button so they could

hear his voice beyond the glass partition.

    'Ah got the jump seats down," he said, pulling

the velvet backs out of the velvet wall. He's out.

Come on and join me, Witch Doctor. And you,

Klaus, you entertain us with a long drive in your

beautiful countryside."

    Minutes later, as the limousine entered a

backcountry road, the overhead light switched on,

the doctor unbuckled Washburn's belt, slid the

trousers down, and rolled the charge d'affaires over

and into the seat. He found the area he wanted at

the base of the spine, the needle held above in his

steady hand.

    "Ready, chap? 'asked the dark-skinned

Palestinian, yanking down the elastic top of the

unconscious man's shorts

    "You got it, Pookie," answered Johnny Reb,

holding a small recorder over the edge of the jump

seat. "Right where he won't find it for a week, if he

ever does. Take him up, Arab. I want him tony."

    The doctor inserted the long hypodermic needle,

slowly pressing his thumb on the plunger. "It will be

quick," said the Palestinian. "It is a heavy dose and

I've seen it happen when the patient began babbling

before the interrogator was ready."

"I'm ready."

    "Put him on track instantly. Ask direct questions,

canter his concentration immediately."

    "Oh, Ah will, indeed. This is a bad man, Pookie.

A nasty little boy who tells tall tales that ain't got

nothin' to do with a big catfish that broke off a

hook." The Southerner gripped the unconscious

Washburn's left shoulder and yanked him forward,

face up on the seat. "All right, Molly's boy, let's you

and me talk. How come you got the audacity to mess

around with an officer of the United States Navy

named Fitzpatrick? Con

432 ROBERT LUDLUM

nal Fitzpatrick, boy! Fitzpatrick, Fitzpatrick,

Fitzpatrick! C'mon, baby, talk to Daddy, 'cause

you've got nobody else but Daddy! Everyone you

think you got is gone! They set you up Molly's boy!

They made you lie in print so the whole world

knows you lied! But Daddy can make it right. Daddy

can straighten it all out and put you on top right

on the very top! The Joint Chiefs the bid chief!

Daddy's your tit, boy! Grab it or suck air! Where'd

you put Fitzpatrick? Fitzpatrick, Fitzpatrick! "

    The whisper came as Washburn's body writhed

on the seat, his head whipping back and forth, saliva

oozing out of the edges of his mouth. 'Scharhorn,

the isle of Scharhorn. . . . The Heligoland Right.'

    Caleb Dowling was not only angry but

bewildered. Despite a thousand doubts he could not

let it go; too many things did not make sense, not

the least of which was the fact that for three days

he had been unable to get an appointment with the

acting ambassador The scheduling attache claimed

there was too much confusion resulting from Walter

Peregrine's assassination to permit an audience at

this time. Perhaps in a week.... In short words,

actor, get lost, we have important things to do and

you're not one of them. He was being checked,

shoved into a corner and given the lip service one

gives to a well-known but insignificant person. His

motives as well as his intelligence were undoubtedly

being questioned out loud by arrogant, harried

diplomats. Or someone else.

    Which was why he was sitting now at a back

table in the dimly lit bar of the Konigshof 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.

Dear Miss Heathley:

    I believe it to be of the utmost importance

    that

we talk as soon as possible. I will be in the bar of

the

Konigshof at 7:30 this evening. If it is convenient

please have a drink with me, but I urge you not to

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 433

speak to anyone about our meeting. Please, no one.

Sincerely,

C. Dowling

    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 Divas. The middle-aged woman had

come through the door, squinting in the dim light.

The maltre 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 grey 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

434 ROBERT LUDLUM

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

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 435

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 achons 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 ureas 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, Washhurn 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?"

436 ROBERT LUDIUM

    "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 Inquirer, 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 Konigshof secured him

a taxi, and eight minutes later he got out in front of

an ornate Victorian house on the outskirts of Borm.

He walked up to the door and rang the bell.

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 437

    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.

25

    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!

438 ROBERT LUDIUM

    "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."

    "la, 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 l 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."

    "dye? 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 AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 439

    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 Amer~kaner," 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.

    "That was a rotten thing to do," said Converse,

breathing hard, still holding his stomach. "Now, you

bastard, your jacketl"

"Was... 9"

    "You heard mel Take it off, hold it upside down,

and shake the goddamned thingI"

    The German slowly, reluctantly, slid off his

waist-length coat, twice darting his eyes to the left of

Joel, toward the wheelhouse door. "I look only for

drugs."

    "I'm not carrying any, and if I were, I suspect

whoever sold them to me would have a better way to

get across the river than with you. Turn it upside

down! Shake it!"

    The captain held his coat by the bottom edge and

let it fall away. A short, ugly revolver plummeted to

the floor, clacking on the wood, followed by the

lighter sound of a long knife encased in a flat bone

handle, flared at the end. As it struck the deck the

blade shot out.

"This is the river," said the German without

elaboration.

    "And I just want to cross it without any

trouble and trouble to someone as nervous as I am

is anyone walking through that door." Converse

angled his head, gesturing at

440 ROBERT LUDLUM

the wheelhouse entrance on his left. ' In my state of

mind, I'd fire this gun. I'd probably kill you and

whoever else came in here. I'm not as strong as you,

Captain, but I'm afraid, and that makes me much

more dangerous. Can you understand that?"

"Ja. I not hurt you. I look only for drugs.''

    "You hurt me plenty," corrected Joel. "And that

frightens me."

"Nein. Bitte . . . please."

"When do you take the boat out?"

"When I say."

"How many crew?"

"One man, that is all."

    "Liar/" whispered Converse sharply, the gun

thrust forward.

    "Zwei. Two men . . . today. We pick up heavy

crates in Elten. On my word, is normal only one

man. I can t pay more."

    "Start the engine," ordered Joel. "Or engines. I

only know Chris-Crafts and Bertrams, which is a

silly fucking thing to say."

"What?"

"Do it!"

"Die Mannschaft. The . . . crew. I must give orders."

    "WaitI" Converse crawled sideways past the

wheelhouse door, glancing above to his left at the

thick wooden paneling of the pilot's window, his gun

never once wavering from its line of fire into the

German's chest. Again, he used the bulkhead and

his braced legs to shinny himself up the wall; he was

in shadows, with a clear view of the bow and,

through both wheelhouse windows behind him, the

stern of the boat. In sight were the fore and aft

pilings on both sides, the lines looped around the

thick protrusions of weather-beaten logs. The two

crewmen were sitting on a storage hatchway, smok-

ing cigarettes, one drinking from a can of beer. "All

right," said Joel, clicking the hammer back on the

automatic a weapon he was not sure he could use

accurately within ten feet. "Open that door and give

your orders. And if either of those men down there

does anything but free those ropes, I'll kill you. Can

you understand that?"

    "I understand . . . everything you say, but you do

not understand me. I search you for drugs not a

grosse Mann the Polizei do not go after such

people, they leave them alone.

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 441

They go after the small people who use the

riverboats. It makes them look good, you see. I

would not hurt you. I only protect myself. I want to

believe what my Neffe nephew told me, but I must

be sure."

"Your nephew?"

    "The seaman from Bremerhaven. How you think

he got his job? Ach, main Bruder sells flowers! It is

his Frau's shop! He once sailed the oceans as I did.

Now, he is a Blumenhandler!

    "I swear to Christ I don't understand anything,"

said Joel, partially lowering his gun.

    "Maybe you understand if I tell you he offered to

pay me one half of the fifteen hundred dollars you

pay him."

"A consortium of thieves."

"Rein, I not take. I tell him buy a new Gitarre."

Converse sighed. "I have no drugs. Do you believe

me?"

    "Ja, you are only a fool, he told me. Rich fools

pay more. They cannot tell people how foolish they

are. The poor do not care."

"Do those little bromides run in the family?"

"What?"

"Forget it. Give the orders. Let's get out of here."

    "Ja. Watch through the windows, please. I do not

want you to be more afraid. You are right. A man

afraid is much more dangerous."

    Joel leaned back against the bulkhead as the

captain shouted his orders. The engines started and

the lines were released from their pilings. It was so

contrary, he thought. Hostile, belligerent men who

struck out in anger were not always his enemies,

while pleasant, seemingly friendly people wanted to

kill him. It was a world he knew nothing about, a

long stretch from a courtroom or a boardroom where

courtesy and "killing" could mean a variety of things.

There were no such grey areas a hundred years ago

in the camps and the jungles. One knew who the

enemy was; the definition was clear on all sides. But

during the past four days he had learned that there

were no defined lines for him now. Converse stared

out the window, at the pockets of mist rising out of

the water, a few spiraling up to catch the early light

in their clouds of vapor. His mind went blank. He

did not care to think for a while....

    "Five, perhaps six minutes," said the captain,

swinging the wheel to his left.

442 ROBERT LUDLUM

    Joel blinked; he had been in a peaceful,

rest-filled void, for how long he was not sure. "What

are the procedures?" he asked, conscious of the

rising orange sun firing what was left of the river

mists. "I mean, what do I do?"

    "As little as you can, answered the German. "Just

walk like you walk the pier every morning and go

through the repair yard to the street. You will be in

the south part of the town of Lobith. You will be in

die Niederlande and we never saw each other.

"I understand that, but how?"

    "You see that Bootshafen?' said the captain,

pointing to a complex of docks with heavy winch

machinery and hoisting devices across the water.

"It s a marina. '

    Ja, marina. My second petrol tank is empty I

say I test. I stall the engines three hundred meters

offshore and go in. I yell at the Dutchman's price

but I pay, because I do not buy from the deutsche

thief this far downriver. You get off with one of my

crew, have a cigarette and laugh at your stupid cap-

tain then you walk away.

"Just like that?'

''la. ,,

"It's so easy.

    "la. No one said it was difficult. You only have

to keep your eyes clear.

"For the police?"

    "Nein," said the captain, shrugging. "If there is

Polizei they come to boat, you stay on board."

"Then who am I looking for?"

"Men who may watch you, may see you walk away.

'

"What men?"

    "Gesindel, Gauner what you call scum. They

come each morning to the piers and look for work,

most still drunk. Watch for such men. They will

think you have drugs or money. They will break

your head and steal."

    "Your nephew told me to watch the men on

your own boat."

    "Only the new man, he is a Gauner. He chokes

on his beer hoping it will clear his head. He thinks

he fools me but he does not. I keep him on board,

tell him to scrape the rail something. The other is

no problem for you. He is loyal to me an Idiot with

a strong back and no head. The riverboats do not

hire him. I do. Verstehen?"

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 443

    '1 think so. By the way, I have to get to

Amsterdam. Is there a train here?"

    "No train in Lobith. You take the omnibus to

Arnhem. The train to Amsterdam is in Arnhem. I

use it many times when my ships dock in die

Niederlande. The omnibus stops at the railroad

station. Not long ride."

    "Ships? Large ships?" asked Joel, struck by the

captain's words.

    "I once sailed the oceans, not a stinking river.

Fifteen years of age I ship out with main Bruder. By

twenty-three I am Obermaat 'petit' officer good

money, good life.... Very happy." The German

lowered his voice as he throttled back the engines

and spun the wheel starboard; the boat skidded on

the water. "Why talk? It is over," he added angrily.

"What happened?"

    "It is not for you, Amerikaner. " The captain

pushed the throttle forward; the engines coughed.

"I'm interested."

"Warum? Why?"

    "I don't know. Maybe it takes my mind off my

own problems," said Converse honestly.

    The German looked briefly at him. "You ask?

Okay. We never see each other.... I stole money,

much money. It took the company purser nine

months to find me. Aber, ach, he find me! It was

many years ago. No more oceans, only the

. ,,

ever.

    "But you said you were making good money.

Why did you steal?"

"Why do most men steal?"

    "They need it the money or they want things

they can't have normally, or they're just basically

dishonest, which I don't think you are."

"Go back. Adam stole the apple, Amerikaner."

"Not exactly. You mean a woman?"

    "Many years ago. She was with child and she

did not want her man on the seas and the ships.

She wanted more." The captain permitted himself

the slightest glint in his eyes and a touch of a smile

on his lips. "She wanted a flower shop."

    From the core of his stomach, his pain

momentarily forgotten, Joel laughed. "You're quite

a guy, Captain." I never see you again."

"Then your nephew "

"Never see you again!" the German broke in, now

laugh

444 ROBERT LUDLUM

ing out loud himself, his eyes on the water as he

headed into the Dutch marina.

    Converse leaned against a piling smoking a

cigarette, the visor of his cheap cap angled over his

forehead, his eyes roaming up and down the pier

and beyond to the repair yard in the Dutch marina.

The men milling about the huge machinery were

mechanically going about their tasks while those

around the boats seemed more intent on inspecting

than doing, shaking their heads solemnly. The

captain argued with the dispenser of fuel, making

obscene gestures at the rapidly climbing figures on

the glass-encased face of the pump while his

softheaded deckhand grinned several feet away. On

board, the Gauner alternately leaned over the

railing, a large wire brush in his hands, and abruptly

turned back to his scraping whenever his employer

glanced over at him.

    The time was right, thought Joel as he pushed

himself away from the piling. No one anywhere had

the slightest interest in him; the dismal chores and

the early-morning dissatisfactions took precedence

over the insignificant and unfamiliar.

    He started walking up the pier, his pace casual

to the point of being slovenly but his eyes alert. He

proceeded to the edge of the repair yard

approaching a row of hulls in dry dock. Beyond the

last elevated boat, no more than three hundred feet

away, was an inordinately tall hurricane fence and

an open gate. A uniformed guard sat on the left

drinking coffee and reading a newspaper, his chair

angled back into the crisscrossing wire mesh. Seeing

him, Joel stopped, his breath suspended, an internal

alarm going off for no reason. Men passed back

and forth through the gate, but the guard did not so

much as glance at anyone, his eyes devouring only

the tabloid on his lap.

    Converse turned, a last look at the river.

Suddenly he became aware of the captain. The

German had run to the base of the pier and was

gesturing wildly, pressing his hands forward in short,

rapid strokes. He was trying to warn Converse.

Then he shouted at the top of his lungs; men stared

at him and turned away, none caring to be involved.

They had seen too much in the early hours on the

waterfront, the slashing with hooks too frequently

the language of the docks.

"Laugh Run! Get oral!"

Joel was mystified; he looked around. Then he saw

them.

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION "5

Two no three burly men were lurching up from the

pier, their glassy eyes focused on him. The first man

staggered forward to the left of the captain. The

Cerman grabbed his shoulder, swinging him around,

stopping him, but only for seconds as the other two

men crashed their fists into the captain's neck and

spine. They were animals Gauner their nostrils in-

flamed by the scent of a trapped fat quarry who

might keep them in food and drink for days.

    Converse dove under the row of dry-docked

boats, smashing his head on several hurts as he

scrambled toward the other side and the shafts of

light beyond. He could see frantic legs pounding the

earth behind him; they were gaining on him; they

were running, he was crawling. He reached the end

of the suspended row of hulls, sprang out and started

for the gate. He pulled out his shirt, tore off the

lower section and held it against the cuts on his head

as he walked rapidly past the guard and through the

gate. He looked around. The three men were arguing

furiously, drunkenly, among themselves, two

crouching and peering unsteadily under the boats.

Then the man standing saw him. He shouted to the

others; they stood up and started after Joel. He ran

faster, unfit he could see them no longer; the animals

had given up.

    He was in the Netherlands; the welcome was less

than gracious, but he was there, one step closer to

Amsterdam. On the other hand he had no idea

where he was right now except that the town was

named Lobith. He had to catch his breath and think.

He stepped into a deserted storefront, where a dark

shade behind the entrance made the glass a dim

mirror it was enough. He was a mess. Think. For

God's sake, think)

    Mattilon had told him to take the train from

Arnhem to Amsterdam, he remembered that clearly.

And the captain of the barge had said he had to take

an "omnibus" from Lobith to Arnhem; there was no

train in Lobith. The first thing he had to do was

reach the railroad station in Arnhem, clean himself

up, then study the crowds and judge whether to risk

becoming part of them. And relative to this

consideration, his mind darted in several directions

at once. The plain-lensed glasses had long since

disappeared, undoubtedly during the insane events in

Wesel; he would replace them with dark glasses.

There was little he could do about the scrapes on his

face, but they would appear less menacing after soap

and water, and certainly in or around a railroad

station something could be done about his torn

clothing.... And a map. God

446 ROBERT LUDLUM

damn it, he was a pilot! He could reach Point A

from Point B and he had to do so quickly. He had

to reach Amsterdam and find a way to make

contact with a man named Cort Thorbecke and

call Nathan Simon in New York. There was so

much to do!

    As he walked out of the storefront he was

suddenly aware of what was happening to him. It

had happened before a lifetime ago, in the j

tingles when the fear of the night sounds had

passed and he c ould watch the dawn and accurately

plot his directions, his lines of march, his survival.

He was thinking, his mind functioning again. All

things considered, he was far less the man than

what he had been, but he could be better than he

was he had to be. Every day that passed brought

the generals of Aquitaine closer to whatever

madness they were planning. Everywhere. He and

they had to reverse roles. The hunted had to

become the hunter. Delavane's disciples had

convinced the world he was a psychopathic assassin,

and so they had to find him, take him, kill him and

hold him up as one more example of the spreading

insanity that could be contained only with their

solutions. Aquitaine had to be exposed and

destroyed before it was too late. The countdown

was in progress, the commanders surely, inexorably,

moving into their positions, consolidating their

powers.

    Move! shouted Converse silently to himself as he

walked faster down the pavement.

    He sat in the last car of the train, still wary but

satisfied by the progress he had made. He had done

everything cautiously but without wasting mohon,

his concentration absolute, aware of a dozen

possible dangers eyes that stared at him, a man or

a woman seen twice in too short a bme, a clerk

delaying him by being more helpful than the hour

and the crowds would normally permit. These

calculated possibilities were his readouts, his dials,

his gauges; without clearance he would abort all

forward motion, takeoff canceled, the escape hatch

sprung, safety found in the streets. His equipment

was not an aircraft that was an extension of himself,

it was himself; and he had never flown with such

precision in his life.

    ENGLISH SPOKE had been the sign tacked to

the roof of the busy corner newsst.md in Lobith. He

had asked directions to the "omnibus" to Arnhem

while buying a map and a newspaper, holding both

close to his face. The owner was too preoccupied

with customers to notice his appearance and

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 447

shouted rapid instructions, more useful in the

pointed finger than in the words. Joel found the bus

stop some four blocks away. He sat in the crowded

vehicle, his face buried in a newspaper he could not

read, and forty-odd minutes later he got off at the

railroad station in Arnhem.

    First on his checklist was a trip to the farthest

washbasin in the men's room, where he cleaned

himself up. He had brushed his clothes as best he

could and looked in the mirror. He was still a mess,

but somehow he looked more like a man who had

been injured than one who had been beaten; there

was a difference.

    Next, outside in the station, he converted his

deutsche marks and five hundred American dollars

into florins and guilders. He then bought a pair of

wide-rimmed dark glasses at a pharmacy several

doors from the currency exchange. As he got into the

cashier's line, his hand casually covering the bruises

on his face, his eyes fell on a cosmetics counter

across the far aisle. It triggered a memory.

    Shortly after their marriage, in one of those

maddening accidents that only happen at the most

inopportune times, Valerie had slipped on a foyer

rug and fell, hitting her head against the corner of an

antique hallway table. By seven that night she had

what Joel had described as 'one hell of a mouse"; the

black eye was an almost perfect oval, arcing from the

bridge of her nose to the edge of her left temple. At

ten the next morning she was scheduled to lead a

bilingual presentation for agency clients from

Stuttgart. She had sent him out to the drugstore for

a small bottle of liquid makeup, which, except at

close range, had concealed the bruise remarkably

well.

    "I don't want people to think my brand-new

husband beat the hell out of me for not fulfilling his

wildest sexual fantasies."

"Which one did you miss?" he had asked.

    He stepped out of the cashier's line and made his

way around the cases to the display of creams and

colognes, shampoos, and nail polish. He recognized

the bottle, chose a darker shade, and returned to the

line.

    A second trip to a washbasin had taken ten

minutes, but the results justified the time. He applied

the makeup carefully; the scrapes and bruises faded.

Unless someone stood very close to him, he was no

longer a battered brawler but a man who had

perhaps suffered a not too serious fall. Converse

con

448 ROBERT LUDLUM

gratulated himself in that men's room in the

railroad station. Under other circumstances, he

might not have dressed a client so well before a

trial for assault and battery.

    The checklist continued. It had taken him to

where he was now, in the last car on the

straight-through train from Arnhem to Amsterdam.

After buying his ticket on what he inferred was a

low-priced excursion train that made numerous

stops, he had walked out on the platform prepared

to run back at the slightest negative readout, the

first steady glance that held him in focus. Instead he

saw a group of men and women, couples around his

own age, talking and laughing together, friends

more than likely off for a short summer's holiday,

perhaps leaving the river for the sea. The men

carried worn, dented suitcases, most held together

with rope, while a number of the women held

wicker baskets looped over their arms. Their

luggage and their clothing denoted working

class factories for the men, home and children or

the less demanding clerical jobs for the women all

within that part of the spectrum that suited Joel's

own appearance. He had walked behind them,

laughing quietly when they laughed climbing on

board as though he were part of the group, sitting

in an aisle seat across from a burly man with a

slender woman who, despite her thin frame, proudly

bore a pair of enormous breasts. Converse's eyes

could hardly avoid them and the man grinned at

Joel, no malice in his look as he raised a bottle of

beer to his lips.

    Somewhere Converse had read or heard that in

the northern countries people going on summer

vacations or on holiday, as was the

term gravitated to the last cars in the

Trans-Europe-Express. It was a custom that

somehow signified their status, producing a general

camaraderie that enlivened the working man's

junket. Joel observed the none too subtle

transformation. Men and women got out of their

seats and walked up and down the aisle talking to

friends and strangers alike, cans and bottles in their

hands. From the front of the car a few people broke

into song, obviously a familiar country song; others

took it up only to be drowned out by Converse's

group, who raised their voices in an entirely differ-

ent chorus until the singing of both camps dwindled

away into laughter. Conviviality, indeed, was the

order of the morning in the last car on the train to

Amsterdam. The stations went by, a few passengers

getting off at each, more getting on, with suitcases,

baskets, and broad smiles, and being welcomed on

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 449

board with boisterous greetings. A number of men

wore T-shirts emblazoned with the names of town

and district teams soccer, Converse assumed.

Catcalls and amiably derisive shouts were hurled at

them by age-old competitors. The railroad car was

turning into an odd Dutch version of a trainload of

suddenly freed adults going off to a summer camp.

The volume grew.

    The towns were aumounced, the brief stops made

as Joel remained in his seat, motionless and

unobtrusive, now and then glancing at his adopted

group, half smiling or laughing softly when it seemed

appropriate. Otherwise he looked like someone of

limited intelligence poring over a map as a child

might, equal parts wonderment and confusion. He

was studying the streets and canals of Amsterdam.

There was a man who lived on the southwest corner

of Utrechtsestraat and Kerkstrsat, a man he had to

identify by sight, isolate and make contact with . . .

his springboard to Washington would be as a '

member of the Tatiana family." He had to pull Cort

Thorbecke away from his base of operations without

alerting the hunters of Aquitaine. He would pay an

English-speaking intermediary to get to a telephone

and use words sufficiently plausible to draw the

broker out to some other location, with no mention

of the Tatiana connection or its source in Paris.

Those words would have to be found; he would find

them somehow, he had to. He was psychologically on

his way back toward friendly fire in terms of actual

time less than seven hours from Washington and

men who would listen to him with Nathan Simon's

help and an extraordinary file that would persuade

them to hide him and protect him until the soldiers

of Aquitaine were exposed. It was not the way

envisioned by a man he had once known in

Connecticut as Avery Fowler hardly the legal tactics

whose roots were in ridicule as prescribed by A.

Preston Halliday in Geneva, but there was no time

now. Time was running out for manipulated webs of

legality.

    The train slowed down, jerking as it did so, as if

the engineer far up ahead was trying to send another

kind of message to a rowdy car in the rear, which felt

the shocks most severely. If that was his intent, it,

too, backfired. The pitching motion served only to

accelerate the laughter and provoke insults shouted

at an unseen incompetent.

    "Amstel!" screamed a conductor, opening the

forward door between the cars. "Amsterdam!

Amst i" The poor man

450 ROBERT IUDLUM

could not finish the call he had to pull the door

shut to avoid a barrage of rolled-up newspapers

thrown at him. Summer camp in the Netherlands.

    The train pulled into the station and a

contingent of T-shirted chests and breasts

announced their arrival with shouts of recognition.

Five or six people at the front of Joel's group rose

as one to welcome their friends, again cans and

bottles were held in the air and laughter bounced

off the narrow walls, nearly drowning out the

whistles of departure outside. Bodies fell over

bodies, hugs were exchanged, breasts playfully

grabbed at.

    Beyond the new an ivals, walking unsteadily, was

the illogically logical capstone for the juvenile antics

taking place in front of Converse. An old woman,

obviously drunk, made her way down the aisle, her

disheveled clothes matching the large, tattered

canvas bag she clutched in her left hand while she

steadied herself with her right on the edge of the

seats as the train accelerated. Grinning, she

accepted a bottle of beer as another was thrown into

her satchel, followed by several sandwiches wrapped

in waxed paper. Again, there were greetings of

welcome as two men in the aisle bowed to the waist

as if to a queen. A third slapped her behind and

whistled. For several minutes the ritual continued,

a new mechanical toy for the children off to summer

camp. The old woman drank and danced a jig and

made playfully suggestive gestures at men and

women alike, sticking out her tongue and rolling it

around, her ancient eyes bulging, rolling, her ragged

shawl twirling in circles like the ballet of some

macabre Scheherazade. She amused everyone with

her drunken antics as she accepted all that was

dropped into her offering cloth, including coins. The

Dutch vacationers were kind, thoughtJoel they took

care of someone less fortunate than themselves

someone who would be banred from another class

of car on another train. The woman approached

him, her canvas bag now held in front of her so as

to accept alms from both sides. Converse reached

into his pocket for a few Builders, letting them slip

from his hand into the bag.

    "Goedemorgen, " said the old woman, weaving.

"Dank u wel, haste man, erg vriendelijk van u!"

    Joel nodded, resuming to his map, but the bag

lady remained.

"Uw hoold! Ach, heb je een ongeluk Chad, jongen?"

Again Converse nodded, reaching again into his

pocket

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 451

and giving the inebriated old hag more money. He

pointed to his map and waved her away, as yet

another raucous chorus erupted.

    "Spreekt u Engels?" shouted the bag lady, leaning

over unsteadily.

    Joel shrugged, sinking back into the seat, his eyes

riveted on the map.

    "I think you do. " The old woman spoke hoarsely,

clearly soberly, her right hand no longer on the edge

of the seat but instead in the canvas bag. "We've been

looking for you every day, on every train. Don t

move! The gun is equipped with a silencer. With all

this noise, if I pull the trigger no one would know the

difference, including the man beside you who wants

only to join the party and the big-breasted women. I

think we shall let him. We have you, Meneer

Converse!"

    There was no summer camp, after all. Only death

minutes away from Amsterdam.

26

    "Mag ik u even lastig fallen?" shouted the old

woman, once more weaving unsteadily as she spoke

to the passenger beside Converse. The man took his

eyes off the raucous festivities in the aisle and

glanced up at the harridan. She shouted again, her

right hand still in the bag, her mass of disheveled

grey hair springing back and forth as she nodded to

her right, toward the front of the car. ' Zou ik op uw

plants molten zitten?"

    "Mid loest!" The man got up grinning, as Joel

instinctively moved his legs to let him pass. "Dank u

wel, " the man added heading for a single empty seat

beyond a couple dancing in the aisle.

    "Move over!" commanded the old woman harshly,

swaying with the rhythm of the racing train.

    If it was going to happen, thought Converse, it

was going to happen now. He started to rise, his eyes

straight ahead, his right elbow on the armrest inches

from the bulging bag. Suddenly he plunged his hand

into the open canvas bag and

452 ROBERT LUDIUM

gripped the fat wrist of the woman's hand that held

the unseen gun. Straining, pressing farther down,

clutching flesh and metal, he swung violently to his

left and yanked the old woman through the narrow

space, twisting her, crashing her down into the seat

next to the window. There was a sharp spit as the

gun exploded, burning a hole in the heavy cloth,

smoke billowing, the bullet embedding itself

somewhere below. The hag's strength was maniacal,

unlike anything he might have imagined. She fought

viciously, clawing at his face until he pulled her arm

above her head, twisting it, clamping it behind her,

their two hands still struggling below in the bag. She

would not let go of the weapon and he could not

pry it loose; he could only hold it downward, his

grip immobilising her fingers, force against force,

her contorted face telling him she would not

surrender.

    The midmorning revels of the railroad car

reached a crescendo; a cacophony of voices raised

in jumbled song competed with the swelling echoes

of laughter. And no one paid the slightest attention

to the savage struggle that was taking place in the

narrow seat. Suddenly, within the panic of that

struggle, within the violent impasse, Joel was aware

that the train was slowing don n, if only

imperceptibly. Once again his pilot's instincts told

him a descent was imminent. He jammed his elbow

into the old woman's right breast to jolt her into

freeing the gun. Still she held on, bracing herself

against the seat, her arm pinned, her fat legs

stretched below, angled like thick pylons anchored

beneath the forward seat, her obese body twisted,

locking his own arm in place so he could not

dislodge the weapon from her grip.

    "Let go!" he whispered hoarsely. 'I won't hurt

you I won't kill you. Whatever you're being paid,

I'll pay you more!"

    "Bee! I would be found at the bottom of a canal!

You can't escape, Menheer! They wait for you in

Amsterdam, they wait for the train!" Grimacing, the

old woman kicked out, briefly freeing her left arm.

She swung her hand around, clawing his face, her

nails sliding down his beard until he grabbed her

wrist, pulling her arm across the seat and cracking

it into her own knee, twisting her hand clockwise,

forcing her to be still. It made no difference. Her

right hand had the strength of an aging lioness

protecting its pride; she would not release the gun

below.

    'You're Iying!" cried Converse. "No one knows

I'm on this trains You just got on twenty minutes

ago!"

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 453

    "Wrong, A mer~knan ! I've been on since

Arnhem I start in the front, walk back. I found you

out at Utrecht and a teiephone call was made."

'Liar!"

"You will see."

"Who hired you?"

"Men."

"Who?"

"You will see."

"Goddamn you, you're not part of them! You can't

bel"

    "They pay. Up and down the railroad they pay.

On the piers, in the airports. They say you speak

nothing but English."

'What else do they say?"

    "Why should I tell you? You're caught. It is you

who should let me go. It could be easier for you."

    "How? A quick bullet in the head instead of a

Hanoi rack?"

    "Whatever it is, the bullet could be better. You

are too young to know, Meneer. You were never

under occupation."

    "And you're too old to be so goddamned strong,

I'll give you that."

'ha, I learn that, too."

"Let go!"

    The train was braking and the drunken crowd in

the car roared its approval as men grabbed suitcases

from the upper racks. The passenger who had been

sitting next to Joel hastily yanked his from above the

seat, his stomach pressing into Converse's shoulder.

Joel tried to appear as though he were in deep

conversation with his grimacing half-prisoner; the

man fell back, suitcase in hand, laughing.

    The old woman lurched forward, sinking her

mouth into Converse's upper arm, millimeters from

his wound. She bit him viciously, her yellow teeth

penetrating his flesh, blood bursting out of his skin,

trickling down the woman's grey chin.

    He pulled back in pain. She freed her hand from

his grip in the canvas bag; the gun was hers! She

fired; the muted spit was followed by a shattering of

a section of the floor in the aisle, missingJoel's feet

by inches. He grabbed the unseen barrel, twisted it,

pulled it, trying with all his strength to wrench it

away. She fired again.

    Her eyes grew wide as she arched back into the

seat. They remained open as she slumped into the

window, blood

454 ROBERT LUDIUM

spreading quickly through the thin fabric of her

dress in the upper section of her stomach. She was

dead, and Joel felt ill nauseated he had to swallow

air to keep from vomiting. Trembling, he wondered

who this old woman was, why she was what she

had lived through that made her become what she

was. You were too young to know.... You were never

under occupation.

    No time to think about all this! She had wanted

to kill him, that was all he had to know, and men

were waiting for him only minutes away. He had to

think, move!

    Twisting the gun from her rigid fingers inside

the canvas bag, he quickly lifted it up and shoved it

under his coarse jacket, inserting it under his belt,

feeling the weight of the other weapon in his

pocket. He reached over and bunched the woman's

dress in folds, then layered her shawl over the

bloodstains and pushed her mass of disheveled hair

over her right cheek, concealing the wide dead eyes.

Experience in the camps told him not to try to close

the eyes; too often they would not respond. fhe

action might only call attention to him to her. The

last thing he did was to pull a can of beer out of the

bag, open it, and place it on her lap; the liquid

spilled out, drenching' her lap.

    "Amsterdam! Df volgende halls is Amsterdam-Cen-

traal.~"

    A roar went up from the vacationing crowd as

the line began to form toward the door. Oh, Christ!

thought Converse. How? The old woman had said a

telephone call had been made. A telephone call,

which implied she had not made it herself. It was

logical; there was too little time. She had un-

doubtedly paid one of her sister bag ladies who

plied the trains at the station in Utrecht to make it.

The information therefore would be minimum,

simply because there was no time. She was a special

employee, one who had been researched as only

Aquitaine could research, an old woman who was

strong and who could use a weapon and who would

not shrink from taking a life who would not say

too much to anyone. She would merely give a

telephone number and instruct the hired caller to

repeat the time of the train's arrival. Again . . .

therefore . . . he had a chance. Every male

passenger would be scrutinised, every face matched

against the face in the newspapers. But he was and

he was not that face! And he did not speak any

language but English that information had been

spread with emphasis.

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 455

Think!

    "Ze is drunken!" The words were shouted by the

burly man with the enormously endowed wife at his

side as he pointed to the dead woman. Both were

laughing, and Joel did not need an interpreter to

understand. Converse nodded, grinning broadly as he

shrugged. He had found his way out of the station in

Amsterdam.

    For Converse understood there was a universal

language employed when the decibel of noise was

such that one could neither hear nor be heard. It was

also used when one was bored at cocktail parties, or

when one watched football games on television with

clowns who were convinced they knew a great deal

more than coaches or quarterbacks, or when one was

gathered and trapped into an evening in New York

with the "beautiful people" most of whom qualified

as neither in the most rudimentary sense, egos far

outdistancing either talent or humanity. In such

situations one nodded; one smiled one occasionally

placed a friendly hand on a shoulder, the touch

signifying communication but one said nothing.

    Joel did all of these things as he got off the train

with the burly man and his wife. He became almost

manic, playing the role as one who knew there was

nothing left between death and survival but a certain

kind of controlled madness. The lawyer in him

provided the control; the child pilot tested the winds,

knowing his aircraft would respond to the elemental

pressures because it was sound and he was good and

he enjoyed the craziness of a stall forced by a

downdraft; he could easily pull out.

    He had removed his dark glasses and pulled his

cap far down over his forehead. His hand was on the

burly man's shoulder as they walked up the platform,

the Dutchman laughing as he spoke, Joel nodding,

slapping his companion's shoulder, laughing in return

whenever there was a break in the man's monologue.

Since the couple had been drinking neither took

much notice of his incomprehensible replies, he

seemed like a nice person, and in their state nothing

else really mattered.

    As they walked up out of the platform toward

the terminal Converse's constantly roving eyes were

drawn to a man standing in a crowd of welcomers

beyond the archway at the end of the ramp. Joel first

noticed him because unlike those around

him whose faces were lit up in varying degrees of

anticipation this man's expression was serious to

the point

456 ROBERT LUDLUM

of being solemn. Ile was not there to offer welcome.

Then suddenly Converse knew there was another

reason why this man had caught his attention. The

moment he recognised the face he knew exactly

where he had seen it walking rapidly down a path

surrounded by thick foliage with another man,

another guard. The man up ahead was one of the

patrols from Erich Leifhelm's compound above the

Rhine.

    As they approached the arch, Joel laughed a

little louder and made it a point to clap the

Dutchman's shoulder a little harder, his cap still

angled down over his forehead. He followed several

nods with a shrug or two and then with a

good-humored shaking of the head; with brows

furrowed and lips constantly moving, he was

obviously in fluent conversation. Through narrowed

eyes Converse saw that Leifhelm's guard was staring

at him; then the man looked away. They passed

through the arch and in the corner of his vision Joel

was abruptly aware of a head whipping around, then

of a figure pushing other figures out of his path.

Converse turned, looking over the Dutchman s

shoulder. It happened. His eyes locked with those of

LeifLelm s guard. The recognition was instant, and

for that instant the Cerman panicked, turning his

head back toward the ramp. He started to shout,

then stopped. He reached under his jacket and

moved forward.

    Joel broke away from the couple and began

racing threading his way through succeeding walls of

bodies, heading for a series of archlike ascending

exits through which sunlight streamed into the

ornate terminal. Twice he looked behind him as he

ran; the first time he could not see the man, the

second time he did. LeifLelm's guard was screaming

orders to someone across the way, rising on the

balls of his feet to see and be seen, gesturing at the

exit doors in the distance. Converse ran faster,

pulling his way through the crowd toward the steps

that led to the massive exit. He climbed the

staircase swiftly but within the rhythm of the most

harried departing passengers, holding to the center,

trying to call as little attention to himself as

possible.

    He bolted through a door into the sunlight, into

total confusion. Below was water and piers and

glass-covered boats bobbing up and down, people

rushing past them, others ushered on board under

the watchful eyes of men in white-and-blue

uniforms. He had come off a train only to emerge

on some kind of strange waterfront. Then he

remembered: the railroad station in Amsterdam was

built on an is

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 457

land facing the center of the city; thus it was known

as the Centraal. Yet there was a street two streets,

three streets bridging the water toward other streets

and trees and buildings . . . no time! He was out in

the open and those streets in the distance were his

caves of survival; they were the ravines and the thick,

impenetrable acres of bush and swamp that would

hide him from the enemy! He ran as fast as he could

along the wide boulevard bordered by water and

reached an even wider thoroughfare clogged with

traffic, buses, trams, and automobiles, all at their

own starting gates, anxious for bells to release them.

He saw a dwindling line at the door of an electric

tramway, the final two passengers climbing on board;

he raced ahead and, just before the door swung shut,

he stepped up into the tram the last fare.

    Spotting an empty seat in the last row, he walked

quickly to the back of the huge vehicle. He sat down,

breathing hard, desperately, the sweat mathng his

hairline and his temples and rolling down his face,

the shirt under his jacket drenched. It was only then

that he realized how exhausted he was, how loud and

rapid the tattoo in his chest, how blurred his vision

and his thoughts. Fear and pain had combined into

a form of hysteria. The desire to stay alive and the

hatred of Aquitaine had kept him going. Pain? He

was suddenly aware of the ache in his arm above his

wound, an old woman's last act of ven-

geance against what? For what? An enemy?

Money? No time!

    The tram started up and he turned in his seat to

look out the rear window. He saw what he wanted to

see. Leifhelm's guard was racing across the

intersection, a second man running to join him from

the waterfront quad. They met, and the words they

exchanged were obviously exchanged in near panic.

Another joined them, from where Joel could not see;

he was suddenly just there. The three men spoke

rapidly, Leifhelm's guard apparently the leader; he

pointed in several directions, issuing orders. One

man ran down the street, below the curb, and began

checking the half-dozen or so taxis in the traffic jam;

a second stayed on the pavement, slowly making his

way around the tables of a sidewalk cafe, then going

inside. Finally, Leifhelm's guard ran back across the

intersection, dodging cars, and reaching the curb, he

signaled. A woman walked out of a store and met

him at the corner.

    No one had thought of the tram. It was his first

cave of survival. He sat back and tried to collect his

thoughts, know

458 ROKERT LUDLUM

ingthey would be difficult to face. Aquitaine would

penetrate all of Amsterdam, canvass it, tear it apart

until they found hirn. Was there conceivably a way

to reach Thorbecke or had he been fooling himself,

reaching into the past where too often accidents and

misplaced arrogance led to success? No, he could

not think for a while. He had to lie down in the

cave and rest, and if sleep came, he hoped the

nightmares did not come with it. He looked out the

window and saw a sign. It read DAMBAK.

    He remained on the electric conveyance for well

over an hour. The lively streets, the lovely

architecture of the centuries-old buildings and the

endless canals calmed him. His arm still ached from

the old woman's teeth but not severely, and

thoughts of cleansing the wound faded. He could

not weep for the old woman, but as with certain,

strange witnesses at a trial, he wished he knew her

story.

    Hotels were out. The foot soldiers of Aquitaine

would scour them, offering large sums for any

information about any American of his general

description which they now specifically had.

Thorbecke would be watched, his telephone tapped,

his every move and conversation scrutinised. Even

the embassy, or consulate whichever it was in

Amster dam would have another military charge

d'affaires or his equivalent on the prowl for a signal

that a non-assassin wanted to come in and start the

process of rectification. If his perceptions were

right, that left him with only one escape hatch. Na-

than Simon.

    Nathan the Wise, Joel had dubbed him once,

only to be told that a Gentile with his intelligence

should certainly come up with something more

original. Then after a particularly long session at the

office in which Nate detailed in excruciating detail

why they should not take on a client named Lie-

bowitz, who in his opinion would put too great a

burden on the obligation to respect a client's

confidence, and during which Lawrence Talbot had

dozed off, Converse suggested that he alter his

sobriquet to Nathan the Talmudic-pain-in-the-ass.

Nate had roared, shocking Talbot awake, and

proclaiming, "I love it! And Sylvia will love it

betterI"

    Joel had learned more about the law from

Nathan Simon than from anyone else, but there was

always a distance between them. It was as though

Nate never really wanted them to be too close in

spite of the obvious affection the older man had for

the younger. Converse thought he understood; it

was

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 459

a question of loyalty. Simon had two sons, who, m

the properly guarded phrase, "were in business for

themselves in California and Florida." One sold

insurance in Santa Barbara, and the other ran a bar

in Key West. Nate Simon was a tough act to follow,

and Joel was given a hint of just how hard it was one

late afternoon when Simon offered to buy him a

drink at '21" after a harrowing conference on Fifth

Avenue.

    "I like your father, Converse. I like Roger. He

has minimal legal requirements, of course, but he's

a good man."

    "He has no legal requirements, and I tried to stop

him from coming to us."

    "You couldn't. It was the gesture he had to make.

Put some business where the son is. Very touching."

    "With an unnecessary will that you much too

generously charged him only two hundred dollars for,

and some crazy disposition of his war medals to

three differentnshtutions for which you refused to

bill him on patriotic grounds?"

"We were in the same theater of operations."

"Where?"

"Europe."

    "Come on, Nate. He's my father and I love him

but I also know he's off the wall. Take him out of a

vintage prop and he's not sure where he is. Pan Am

got their money's worth, not in any administrative

sense, but because he was a pistol at conventions."

    Nathan Simon had gripped his glass that late

afternoon at "21," and when he spoke, the quiet

thunder of a deeply troubled man poured forth.

"You have respect for your father do you hear me,

Joel? My friend Roger offered a gesture to his son,

for it was all he had, all he could imagine. I had a

great deal more and I didn't know how to make such

gestures. I only gave commands.... He said I could

still do it. I'm going to take up flying."

    Simon would help him only if he was convinced

there was substance to his case. But he would legally

lean over backwards in the negative if he thought a

relationship or personal sentimentality was being

used to manipulate him. Of course, if an indictment

followed, he would rush in for the defense after the

fact. That was professional; those were his ethics.

And by now Valerie would have sent him the

envelope with the dossiers and their awesome

implications. They were the substance Simon

required. Knowing Val, she would have sent them

down by car, the great American postal service

having

460 ROBERT LUDLUM

given rise to a score of competitors who eschewed

the taxpayer's dollar. Joel's d' cisionwas made. Since

there was a five-hour time difference, he would wait

until early evening and then call Nathan Simon. He

was functioning again.

    The tram came to the last stop before its return

run. At least he was the only one left on board; he

walked up the aisle, got off and saw another. He got

on. Sanctuary.

    A hundred streets and a dozen crisscrossed

canals later, he looked out the window, encouraged

by the seedy neighborhood he saw, washed clean on

the surface but with the promise of far more

interesting bacteria below. There was a row of

pornography shops, their wares in magnified displays

in the storefronts. Above, in open windows, garishly

painted girls stood provocatively, brassieres slipped

on and off lethargically, faces bored but pelvises

churning. The crowds in the streets were animated,

some curious, some feigning shock, others interested

in buying. There was a carnival atmosphere, one

into which he could melt, thought Converse, as he

got out of his seat and went to the door.

    He wandered aro~md the streets, astonished,

even embarrassed, as he always was when sex was

paraded so publicly. He enjoyed sexual encounters

and never lacked for them, but for him the privacy

of the acts was intrinsic to their fulfillment. He

could no more walk through one of those neon-lit

doors up-to-heaven than he could have performed

a bowel movement on the curb.

    There was a cafe across the street; it was above

a canal, tables on the sidewalk, dark within. What

struck him was the crowd that hovered around the

doorway, many people simply glancing in and going

on, drawn briefly to some curious oddity inside.

Regardless, it was the crowd that attracted him;

there was anonymity in numbers. He crossed the

thoroughfare, weaved his way through the crowd

and went inside. Sleep might be out of the question,

but he needed food. He had not eaten a real meal

in nearly three days. He found a small empty table

in the back of the room, and was stunned that a

television set, clamped above on the wall, was

blaring inanities. He could not understand. There

was no television in the Netherlands during the

afternoons" How many times had he heard

colleagues and friends remark that one of the most

civilised aspects of traveling in Holland was the

absence of the idiot box until seven o'clock in the

evening? Conversely, there were those sports

enthusiasts who bemoaned the fact that cer

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 461

tain events were not shown, but on the whole the

verdict came down in favor of Dutch civility and

restraint. Yet here was a television set in full

operation. It undoubtedly accounted for those

curious passersby on the street who glanced inside,

shaking their heads in bewilderment as they went on

their way.

    Then Joel saw the folded card on the table, the

announcement in four languages, English first.

In accord with the advances in teknology we are

pleased to bring our patrons and visitors from

outside

the Netherlands recordings of our national pro

grams.

Video tapes! It was a come-on, an innovative ploy to

lure customers; this was the district for it. And he

understood why the English language was first: e

pluribus unum. Let's not lose touch with the tube.

At least the tapes were in Dutch; it helped, but not

much.

    Straight whisky helped, too, but again not much.

The anxiety of the hunted came back and he kept

turning his head toward the entrance, at any moment

expecting to see one of the foot soldiers of Aquitaine

walk through the door, out of the sunlight and into

the cave to find him. He went to the men's room at

the rear of the cafe, removed his jacket, placed the

gun with the silencer in the inside pocket, and tore

his left sleeve. He filled one of the two basins with

cold water, and then he plunged his face into it,

pouring the water through his hair over the back of

his neck. He felt a vibration, a sound! He whipped

his head up, gasping, frightened, his hand

insdncbvely reaching for his coat on a hook. A portly

middle-aged man nodded and went to a urinal.

Quickly Joel looked at the teeth marks on his arm;

they were like a dog bite. He drained the sink,

turned on the hot water faucet, and with a paper

towel squeezed and blotted the painful area until

blood emerged from the broken skin. It was the best

he could do; he had done much the same thing a

lifetime ago when attacking water rats swam through

the bars of his bamboo cage. Then in another kind

of panic, he had learned that rats could be

frightened. And killed. The man at the urinal turned

and went out the door, glancing uncomfortably at

Converse.

    Joel layered a paper towel over the teeth marks,

put on his coat and combed his hair. He opened the

door and went

462 ROBERT LUDLUM

back to his table, once again annoyed by the blaring

television on the wall.

    The menu, like the announcement about the

television, was in four languages, the last Oriental,

undoubtedly Japanese. He was tempted to go for

the largest, rarest piece of meat he could find, but

here his pilot's control dictated otherwise. He'd had

no solid sleep in days oddly enough since his

imprisonment at I eifhelm's compound, where the

sleep itself had been greatly induced by the huge

quantities of very decent food, all part of the

healing process for a deflecting pawn. A heavy meal

would make him drowsy, and one did not By a jet

going six hundred miles an hour in that condition.

At the moment his air speed was approaching Mach

I. He ordered filet of sole and rice; he could always

order twice. And one more whisky.

    The voice! Oh, Christ. The voice! He was

hallucinating! He was going mad! He was hearing a

voice an echo of a voice he could not possibly be

hearing!

    ". . . Actually, I think it's a national disgrace, but

like so many others, I speak only English."

"Frau Converse "

    "Miss Fraulein I think that's

right Charpentier, if you don't mmd.''

    "Dames en heron . . .'' a third voice broke in

quietly, authoritatively, speaking Dutch.

    Converse gasped for the air he could not find,

gripping his wrist, closing his eyes with such

intensity that every muscle in his face was in pain,

twisting his neck away from the source of the

terrible, horrible hallucination.

    "I'm in Berlin on business I'm a consultant for

a firm in New York '

    "Mevrouw Con verse, of juffronw Charpen tier,

coals use . . . ~,

    Joel was now sure that he was mad, insane! He

was hearing the impossible. Ilearing! He spun

around and looked up. The television screen! It was

Valerie! She was there!

    "Whatever you S.ly, Fraulein Charpentier, will

be accurately translated, I can assure you."

    "Coals juJfrouw (>harpentier zoduist zei . . ." The

third voice, the voice in Dutch.

    "I haven't seen my former husband in several

years three or four, I'd say. Actually, we're

strangers. I can only express the shock my whole

country feels...."

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 463

    '7uffrouw Charpentier, de uroogere mevronw Con-

~erse . . . "

    ' . . . he was a deeply disturbed man, subject to

extreme depressions, but I never imagined anything

like this."

"Hid most mentaal gestoord zidn . . ."

    "There's no connection between us, and I'm

surprised you learned I was flying to Berlin. But I

appreciate the chance to clear the air, as we say."

"Mevrouw Converse gelooft . . . "

    "In spite of the dreadful circumstances over which,

of ourse, I had no control, I'm delighted to be in

your beautiful city. Half-city, I guess, but yours is the

beautiful part. And I :lear the Bristol-Kempinski....

I'm terribly sorry, that's what Ale call a 'plug' and I

shouldn't. '

    "It is a landmark, Fraulein Charpentier. It is not

verboten ver here. Do you feel at all threatened?"

"Mevrouw Converse, vault u rich bedreigd?"

    "No, not really. We've had nothing to do with

each other or so long."

    My God! Val had come over to find him! She

was sending him a signal signals! She spoke every

bit as fluent German Is the interviewer! They kept in

touch every month; they had lunch together six

weeks ago in Boston! Everything she was saying was

a lie and in those lies was the code. Their coder

Reach me!

PART THREE

27

    Joel was stunned, but he had to control his panic

and try to isolate the words, the phrases. The

message was in them! The Bristol-Kempinski was a

hotel in West Berlin, he knew that. It was something

else she had said, something that should trigger a

memory one of their memories. What was it?

    I haven't seen my former husband in years.... No,

only one of the lies. He was a deeply disturbed man....

Less a lie, but not what she was trying to tell him.

Actually, we're strangers.... There's no connection

between us....Another lie, but with some truth in it....

Stop it! What was it! ... Before, earlier.... I'm a

consultant.... That was it! .

    "May I speak with Miss Charpenher, pleased My

name is Mr. Whistletoe, Bruce Whistletoe. I'm the

confidential consultant for Springtime antiperspirant

for which your agency is doing some artwork, and it's

urgent, most urgent!" Con molta forza.

    Val's secretary had been a talker, a marvelous

spreader of in-house gossip, and whenever Joel and

Valerie had wanted an extra hour for lunch or even

a day, he would make such a phone call. It never

failed. If a demanding vice-president (one of dozens)

wanted to know where she was, the excitable

secretary would tell of an urgent call from one of

those outside watchdogs of a very large account. It

was enough for any ulcer-prone executive, and

Valerie's understated professionalism took care of

the rest. She would say "things" were under control

and rarely did a relieved account man pursue what

might give him an acid attack.

    She was telling him to use the tactic in case the

police were monitoring her calls. He would have

done so in any event; she was simply reminding him,

warning him.

    The interview was over, the last few minutes

obviously a recap in Dutch, the camera frozen on a

still frame of Vale

467

468 ROBERT LUDIUM

rie's face. When had the tape been made? How

long had she been in Berlin? t~oddamn it, why

couldn't he understand anything unless it was

spoken in English? When she lied about her

inability to speak German, Val had said it was a

national disgrace. She was right, but she might have

gone further; it was a national disorder rooted in

arrogance. He looked around the cafe for a

telephone; there was one on the rear wall several

feet from the door to the men's room, but he hadn't

the vaguest idea of how to use it! His frustrations

grew swirling into circles of panic. Suddenly he

heard his name.

    ''De Amerikaanse moordenuar Converse is

advocaut. Hid iseen ex-pilootuitl:te Vietnamese oorlog.

Fen anderadvocant hen Fransman, en e.en friend van

Converse. . ."

    Joel looked up at the screen bewildered, at once

shocked then paralysed. There was a film clip, a

hand-held camera entered an office door and

focused on a body slumped over a desk, streams of

blood spreading from the head like a hideous

Medusa wig. Oh, Christ! It was Rene!

    As the recognition came an insert appeared on

the upper left of the screen. It was a photograph of

Mattilon then another photograph was suddenly

inserted on the right. It was he, the

moordenaarAmerikoans, JoeLConverse. The Dutch

newscast had connected two events, the interview

with Val and a death in France. Neither language

nor diagrams were necessary. Rene had been killed

and he had been named the killer. It answered the

question; it was the reason Aquitaine had put out

the word that an assassin was heading for Paris.

    He was a giver of death; it was his gift to new

and old friends. Rene Mattilon, Edward Beale. . .

Avery Fowler. And to enemies he did not know,

could not evaluate, either as enemies or as

individuals a man in a tan overcoat in a Paris cel-

lar, a guard above a riverbank on the Rhine, a pilot

on a train a memorably unmemorable face at the

base of a landfill pyramid, a chauffeur moments

later who had actually befriended him in a stone

house with bars in the windows . . . an old woman

who had played her role brilliantly in a raucous rail-

way car. Death. He was either the distant observer

or the execuboner, all in the unholy name of

Aquitaine. He was back back in the camps and the

jungles that he had sworn never to return to. He

could only survive and hope that someone better

than himself would provide the solutions. But at the

moment, death was both his closest ally and his

most hostile adversary. He wanted to collapse into

nothingness let some

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 469

one else take up the cause no one knew had been

given him in Geneva.

    Jesus! The tape! If it was even twelve or

twenty-four hours old, Val probably had not received

the envelope he had sent from Bonn! She could not

have. She would not have flown to Europe if she

had!

    Oh, my God! thought Joel, swallowing the last of

the whisky as he rubbed his forehead, his confusion

complete. Without the envelope in Nathan Simon's

hands, no plea to him made sense! No call to him

would evoke anything but a demand that Joel turn

himself in and a telephone trace would be put on the

line. Natewould not disobey the law, he would fight

violently for a client afterward, but not before that

client obeyed the law. It was his religion, far more

important to him than his temple, for the law

allowed mistakes; it was essentially human, not

esoterically metaphysical. Converse's hands began to

tremble; he had to find out!

"Your filet of sole, Meneer."

"What?"

"Your sole, sir," repeated the waiter. You speak

English?"

    "But of course," said the gaunt, bald-headed man

with detached courtesy. "We spoke before, but you

were very excited. This district can do that to a man,

I understand."

    "Listen to me." Joel brought his hand across

his lips emphasising each word. 'I will pay you a lot

of money if you will place a phone call for me. I

don't speak Dutch, or French or German or anything

but English. Can you understand that?"

'1 understand."

"To West Berlin."

"It is not difficult, sir."

"Will you do it for me?"

    "But of course, Mender. You have a telephone

credit card?"

"Yes . . . no. I don't want to use it."

"Of course."

    "I mean I don't I don't want it recorded

anywhere. I have money."

    "I understand. In a few minutes I shall be off my

shift. I shall come for you. We shall place your call

and I shall know the amount from the operator. You

shall pay."

"Absolutely."

470 ROBERT LUDLUM

"And 'a lot of money, ja? Fifty builder, ja?"

"You're on. Yes."

    Twenty minutes later Converse sat behind a

small desk n a very small office. The waiter handed

him the phone. ''They speak English, Meneer."

    "Miss Charpentier, please," said Joel, his voice

choking overwhelmed by a kind of paralysis. If he

heard her voice he was not sure he could handle his

own reaction. For an instant he thought about

slamming down the phone. He could not involve

her!

"Hello?"

    It was she, and as a part of him died another

part came alive. A thousand pictures flashed across

his mind, memories of happiness and anger, of love

and of hate. He could not speak.

"HelloP Who's this?"

    "Oh . . . there you are. Sorry, it's a lousy

connection. This is Jack Talbot from . . . Boston

Graphics. How are you, Val?"

    "Fine . . . Jack. How are you? It's been a couple

of months. Since lunch at the Four Seasons, if I

remember."

"That's right. When did you get in?"

"Last night."

"Staying long?"

    "Just for the day. I've been in crisis meetings all

morning with another one this afternoon. If I'm not

too bushed I'll catch the plane back tonight. When

did you get to Berlin?"

    "Actually, I'm not in Berlin. I saw you on a

Belgian broadcast. I'm in . . . Antwerp, but I'm

going to Amsterdam this afternoon. Christ, I'm sorry

about all that crap you had to take. Who would ever

have guessed it? About Joel, I mean."

    "I should have guessed it, Jack. It's all so

horrible. He's so very sick. I hope they catch him

quickly for everyone's sake. He needs help."

"He needs a firing squad, if you don't mind my

saying so."

"I'd rather not discuss it."

    "Did you get the sketches I sent you when we

lost the Gillette account? I figured it was a way to

your sackP"

    "Sketches? . . . No. Jack, I never got anything

like that. But thanks for the thought, the sack

notwithstanding."

    Christ! "Oh? I thought you might have looked at

your marl.

    "I did . . . until the day before yesterday. It

doesn't matter you'll be in Amsterdam?"

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 471

    "For a week. I wondered if you were going to

check any of the agency's accounts up there before

heading back to New

    "I should, but I don't think so. There's no time.

If I do, I'll be at the Amstel Hotel. If not, I'll see

you back in New York. You can buy me lunch at

Lutece, and we'll swap trade secrets."

"I've got more of them. You buy. Take care,

youngster."

"Take care . . . Jack."

    She was magnificent. And she had not received

the envelope from Bonn.

    He roamed the streets, afraid of walking too fast,

afraid of staying in one place too long, knowing only

that he had to keep moving, watching, finding the

shadows and letting them envelope him. She would

be in Amsterdam by evening; he knew that, it was in

her voice, and she had told him to reach her at the

Amstel Hotel. Whys Why had she come? What did

she think she was doing? Suddenly, the face of Rene

Mattilon came to him. It was in sharp focus, filling

his inner eye, surrounded by sunlight, the face a

mask a death mask. Rene had been killed by

Aquitaine for sending him to Amsterdam. Valerie

would not be spared if the disciples of George

Marcw Delavane thought she had flown over to find

him, to help him.

    He would not reach her! He could not! It was

signing another death warrant! Her death warrant.

He had taken so much from her, given so little. The

last gift could not be the taking of her life. Yet . . .

yet there was Aquitaine and he meant what he had

said to Larry Talbot on the phone. He one Joel

Converse, was inconsequential where the gathering

of the generals was concerned. So was A. Preston

Halliday and Edward Beale and Connal Fitzpatrick.

If Val could help, he had no right to let his feelings

stop her the lawyer in him told him that, the

outraged man confirmed it. And it was possible she

could help, do the things he could not do himself

She could fly back, get the envelope and go to

Nathan Simon herself, saying that she had seen him,

talked to him, believed he

    It was three-thirty; it would be dark by eight

o'clock or so. He had roughly five hours to remain

unseen and stay alive. And somehow find a car.

    He stopped on the pavement and looked up at

an overly made-up, extremely bored whore in a

window on the third

472 ROBERT IUDLUM

floor of a colorful brick house. Their eyes made

contact and she smiled a bored smile at him, the

thumb and forefinger of her right hand meeting, the

wrist motion leaving little to the imagination.

    Why not? thought Converse. The only certain

thing in a very uncertain world was the fact that

there was a bed beyond that window.

    The "concierge" was a clerk, a man in his middle

fifhes with the pink face of an aging cherub, who

explained in perfectly fluent English that payment

was based on twenty-minute sessions, two sessions

paid in advance, one to be refunded should the

guest come downstairs during the final five minutes

of the fir st period. It was a loan shark's dream

thought Converse, glancing at the various clocks

placed on numbered squares on the counter. As an

elderly man walked down the staircase the clerk

hastily grabbed one of the clocks and pushed the set

ond hand forward.

    Joel calculated rapidly, converting Builders to

dollars, the rate of acceleration based on roughly

$30 per session. He gave the astonished "concierge"

the equivalent of $275, accepted his number and

headed for the staircase.

    "She is a friend, sir?" asked the stunned

custodian of the revels as Converse reached the first

step. "An old lover, perhaps?"

    "She's a Dutch cousin I haven't seen in years,"

replied Joel sadly. "We have to have a long talk."

With heavy shoulders, he continued up the staircase.

    "Slapen?" exclaimed the woman with the

spangled dark hair and heavily rouged cheeks. She

was as astonished as her keeper below. "You want

slapen?"

    "It doesn't translate well, but yes," said Converse,

removing his glasses and his cap and sitting on the

bed. "Pm very tired and sleep would be terrific, but

I suspect I'll just rest. Read one of your magazines,

I won't bother you."

    "What is the matter? You think I am not pretty?

Not clean? You yourself are no fine picture, Meneer!

Cuts on your face, a bruise here and there, red eyes.

Perhaps it is you who are not clean!"

    "I fell down. Come on, I think you're adorable

and I love your deep-purple eye shadow but I really

want to rest."

"Why here)>"

    "I don't want to go back to the hotel. My wife's

lover is there. He's my boss.''

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 473

"A merikoans!"

    ' You speak our language very well. " Joel took

off his shoes and stretched out on the bed.

    Ach, I start with Amerikoan college boys. All

talk, most are too afraid for nothing but talk. Those

who get on the bed poo].7 is over. Then talk, too

goddamn much talk. Then your soldiers and your

sailors and your businessmen. Most drunk; they

behave like giggle-children. All talk. Twelve years, I

learn."

    Don't write a book. They're probably all

senators and congressmen and priests by now."

Converse placed his hands behind his head and

stared at the ceiling. There was a glimmer of peace.

He softly whistled the tune first, then found the

words: Yankee Doodle' came to Holland/ nothing in

his pistol . . .' "

    'You are amusing, Meneer," said the whore,

laughing coarsely and picking up a thin blanket off a

chair. She carried it to the bed and spread it over

him. "You don't tell the truth but you are amusing."

"How do you know I'm not telling you the truth?"

If your wife had a lover, you would kill him."

'Not so."

    "Then she would not be your wife. I see many

men, Meneer. It's in your face. You are a good man,

perhaps, but you would kill."

-1'11 have to think about that," said Joel

uncomfortably.

    'Sleep, if you wish. You paid. I am here." The

woman walked to the chair against the wall and sat

down with a magazine.

What's your name's" asked Converse.

Emma," replied the whore.

'You're a nice person, Emma."

No, Meneer, I am not."

    He awoke, startled by the touch, and bolted

upright on the bed, his hand instinctively rushing to

his waist to make sure his money belt was in place.

He had been so deep in sleep that for a moment he

had no idea where he was, then he saw the garishly

made-up woman standing beside him, her hand on

his shoulder as she spoke.

"Meneer, are you hiding from people?" she asked

softly.

"What?"

474 ROBERT LUDIUM

    "Word goes up and down the Leidseplein. Men

are asking questions."

    "What?' Conv' rse whipped the blanket off the

bed and swung his legs to the floor. "What men? Up

and down where?"

    "Her Leidseplein This district. Men ask

questions. They look for an American. '

    "Why here?" Joel moved his right hand from the

money belt up to the outline of the weapon above.

    "People who wish not to be seen often come

down to the Leidseplein. "

    Why not? thought Converse. If he thought of it,

why wouldn't the enemy? "Do they have a

description?"

"It is you," answered the whore frankly.

"And?" Joel looked into the woman s eyes.

"Nothing was said."

    "I can't believe our friend downstairs felt so

charitable toward me. I'm sure they offered money."

    "It was given," corrected the whore. "More

promised with additional information. A man

remains behind down the street. In a cafe next to a

telephone. He is to be called and will bring back the

others. Our . . . friend downstairs thought you might

want to match the funds."

"I see. An auction. One head on the block.'

"I do not understand."

"What are we talking aboutP How much?"

A thousand Builder. Much more if you are taken."

    "Our friend still sounds too charitable. I'd think

he'd grab it and close up shop."

    ' He owns the building. Also, the man was

German and spoke like a soldier giving orders,

that's what our friend downstairs said."

    "He was right. The man is a soldier but not in

any army Bonn knows about."

"Zo?"

    "Nothing. Find Ollt if our friend will take

American money."

"Of course he will."

"Then I'll match the offer and double it."

The whore hesitated. "Now it is my turn."

"I beg your pardon?"

"En? As you say and'?"

'Oh. You?'

'ha. "

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 475

    "I have something special for you. Can you drive

a car, or do you know someone who can?"

    'I do myself, nataurlijk. In bad weather I drive

my children to school."

"Oh, Jesus.... I mean, that's good."

"Without my face like no, course."

    The stories. Oh, God, the stories! thought

Converse. "I want you to rent a car and bring it

around here to the front door. Then get out and

leave the keys inside. Can you do that?"

':la, but nothing is for nothing."

    "Three hundred dollars eight hundred Builders,

give or take."

    "Five hundred fourteen hundred, take or give,"

countered the woman. "And the money to rent the

automobile."

    Joel nodded as he unbuttoned his jacket and

pulled out his shirt. The handle of the gun with the

short barrel and the extended silencer was clearly

visible beneath the wide canvas belt. The whore saw

it and gasped. "It's not mine," said Converse quickly.

"Whether you believe it or not doesn't matter to me,

but I took it from someone who tried to kill me."

    The woman stared at him, her look partially one

of fear but it was not hostile, only curious. "The

man this soldier from no German army the others

who ask questions in the street. They wish to kill

you?"

    "Yes." Joel unzipped the belt and counted off the

money with his thumb. He pulled out the bills and

closed the pocket.

"You have done them much harm?"

    "Not yet, but I hope to." Converse held out the

money. "There's enough for our friend downstairs

and the rest is for you. Just bring me the car, along

with one of those tourist maps of Amsterdam that

show where all the major stores and hotels and

restaurants are."

"Perhaps I can tell you where it is you wish to go."

"No, thank you."

    ']a. " The whore nodded knowingly and took the

money. "These people are bad people?" she asked,

counting out the

"The pits, lady."

"They do those things to your face?"

"Yes. Mostly."

"Go to the police.""

476 ROBERT LUDIUM

    "The police? It's not practical. They wouldn't

understand."

"They want you also," concluded the woman.

"Not for anything I did."

    The whore shrugged. "It is no problem for me,"

she said going to the door. "I will say the auto is

stolen. There is a Trom p garage twelve blocks from

here; they know me. I have rented there when my

Peugeot has troubles and I must get home. Ach,

kinder`'n! Recitals, dance classes! Be downstairs in

twenty minutes.',

"Recitals?"

    "Don't look so, Veneer. I do my job and call it

what it is. Most people do the same and call it

something else. Twenty minutes.' The

spangled-haired woman went out the door, closing

it behind her.

    Joel approached the sink against the wall

without enthusiasm, then saw it was spotless, a can

of cleanser and a bottle of bleach below on the floor

next to a roll of paper towels. Naturally. Dance

lessons and recitals were part of the whore's life as

well as a car that often gave her trouble, just like

any other commuter. Converse looked in the mirror;

the woman was right, he was "no fine picture," but

one had to be quite close to him to notice the

severity of the bruises. He splashed water on his

face, then blotted it, put on the dark glasses and

made himself as presentable as possible.

    It had happened. Val had come to find him, and

despite the horrors surrounding their seeing each

other again, a part of him wanted to

sing silently or shout silently into the mists of his

imagination. He wanted so much to look at her, to

touch her, hear her voice close to him and he

knew it was for all the wrong reasons. He was the

hunted and in pain and vulnerable, all the things he

had never been when they were together, and

because he was what he had become, he permitted

her to find him. It was hardly admirable. He did not

care to be a hungry dog in a cold rain; it did not fit

his part of their past dual image, the de suite, as

Rene Mattilon had phrased it . . . Rene. A

telephone call had signed the order for his

execution. Aquitaine How in God's name could he

let Val even come near him? thought Joel, a terrible

pain in his throat. The answer was the same:

Aquitaine. And the fact that he thought he knew

what he was doing. Every move he made in the

streets, and on the trains, and in the cafes, was as

carefully thought out as the steps he had taken in

the jungles in

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 477

the routes he had chosen, in the rivers and streams

he had forded and used as watery tunnels to bypass

an enemy time and again. He would use an

automobile in Amsterdam, and a map of Amsterdam.

    He looked at his w etch; it was almost five-thirty.

He had roughly two and a half hours to find the

Amstel Hotel and drive around again and again until

he knew every foot of the area, every stoplight, every

side street and canal. And then the route to one

other place the American embassy or the consulate.

It was part of his plan, the only protection he could

give her if she followed his instructions. somewhere

an airlines schedule; that, too, was part of the plan.

    Twelve minutes had passed, and he wanted to be

at the doorway when Emma, the honest commuter,

drove up in front of the house on the crowded street.

If there was no place to park at the curb, he would

walk out on the pavement, signal to her to leave the

car and quickly replace her behind the wheel so as

not to hold up traffic.. He left the small room, went

to the staircase and started down, aware of the

feigned groans of ecstasy behind several closed doors.

He wondered briefly if the girls had thought of using

cassette recorders; they could push buttons while

reading magazines. He reached the second landing;

below in clear view was the cherub-faced, mid-

dle-aged owner of the establishment behind his

counter. He was on the telephone. Joel continued

down the steps, in his hand a $100 bill he had

decided to give the man an addihonal gratuity in

exchange for his life.

    As he set foot on the lobby floor he suddenly was

not at all sure he should let the "concierge" have

anything but a cage in the Mekong River. The

pink-faced man looked over at Converse, his eyes

wide, staring fixedly, the blood draining from his

cherubic cheeks. He trembled as he hung up the

phone, attempted a smile, then spoke in a

high-pitched voice. "Problems! There are always

problems, sir. Scheduling is so difficult I should buy

a computer."

    The bastard had done it! He had made the call to

a man down the street in a cafe! "Keep your hands

on the counter!" shouted Joel.

    The command did not come in time, the

Dutchman raised a gun from below. Converse lunged

forward, his hand tearing at the buttons of his jacket,

finding the handle of the revolver in his belt. The

"concierge" fired wildly as Joel crashed his left

shoulder up into the flimsy counter; it col

478 ROBERT LUDLUM

lapsed and Converse saw the extended arm, the

hand holding the gun. He swung the barrel of his

own weapon onto the Dutchman's wrist; the gun

went flying, clattering over the lobby floor.

    "You bastard!" cried Joel, grabbing the man by

the front of his shirt, pulling him up. "You bastard!

I paid you!"

    "Don't kill me! Please! I am a poor man in much

debt! They said they only wished to talk to you!

What harm is there in that? Please! Don't do this!"

    "You're not worth the price to me, you son of

a bitch." Converse crashed the barrel of the gun

down on the Dutchman's head and ran to the door.

The street was crowded with traffic, then suddenly

there was a break and the cars and buses and open

tourist vans lurched forward. Where was she?

Where was Emma the Prachcal?

    "Theodoor! Doze kerel is onmogelijk! Hid wil . . .

!" The hysterical words came from a bare-breasted

woman rushing down the staircase, a thin, short slip

covering the essentials of her trade. She stopped on

the next to last step, saw the carnage and the

unconscious Theodoor and screamed. Joel ran to

her and clamped his left hand over her mouth; his

right with the gun pressed against her shoulder,

pushing her into the railing.

    "Be quiet!" Converse could not restrain himself

from showing. "Shut up!" He slammed his elbow

into the proshtute's neck, the weapon now in front

of her face. She screamed again and kicked viciously

at his groin, gouging his nostrils with two fingers,

scratching, pushing him away. He could do nothing

else but to pummel the handle of the gun into the

base of her law. Her red lips parted and remained

open; she went limp.

    Doors crashed everywhere above, beyond the

staircase, metal and wood smashing into walls. He

heard shouts, angry frightened, questioning. A horn

suddenly intruded, blaring from the street beyond

the open front door. He ran to the doorframe, his

right arm supporting him, the gun out of sight.

    It was Emma the whore, the car in the middle of

the street, unable to crawl to the curb. He shoved

the weapon under his jacket, under his belt, and ran

outside. She understood his gestures and got out of

the car; he raced around the hood. "Thank you!" he

said.

, "It was stolen!" she said, shrugging. "Good

fortune, Meneer. I think you will need it, but it is not

my problem."

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 479

    He jumped into the seat behind the wheel and

studied the panel as if he were approaching Mach I

and had to understand the readouts of every dial. It

was simple, primitive; he pulled the gear into D and

started up with the surrounding traffic.

    Without warning, the figure of an immense man

slammed against the window on his right. Joel

lurched and slapped the lock on the window; taking

advantage of another break in the traffic, he spurted

forward. The killer held on as he yanked out a gun.

Converse careened into the side of an automobile

parked at the curb, and still the man held on. Joel

reached under his jacket as the killer, holding on to

God knew what, brought his weapon up and aimed

at Converse. Joel ducked, smashing his head into the

window frame as the explosion shattered the glass,

fragments entering his skin above his eyes. But his

gun was free; he pointed it at the figure hugging the

window and pulled the trigger. Twice.

    Two muted spits echoed in the darkness of the

car as two holes appeared in the area of the glass

that had not been shattered. Screaming, both hands

covering his throat, the man fell away, rolling onto

the curb between two trucks. Converse turned right

into a wide, empty alleyway. One man remains

behind, down the street . . . He will bring back the

others. He was free again for a while thought Joel.

A dead man could not identify an automobile. He

parked the car in shadows and pulled out a cigarette,

trying to steady his hand as he struck the match.

Inhaling deeply, he felt his forehead, and slowly,

carefully removed the particles of glass.

    He now prowled the streets like a mechanised

animal, but with each hesitation, each stop,;he used

his eyes and nostrils as if he were a primitive thing

conscious only of its need to survive in a violently

hostile environment. He had made the run four times

from the Amstel Hotel on the Tulpplein across the

streets and over the canals to the American consul-

ate on the city square called the Museumplein. He

had learned the alternate approaches, he knew the

side streets that would bring him back to the main

route without interruphon. Lastly, he drove east and

crossed the Schellingwouder Brug, the bridge over

the ~ River and took the road along the coast until

he found a stretch of deserted fields above the water.

They would do; they were isolated. He turned

around and headed back to Amsterdam.

480 ROBERT LUDI.UM

    It was eight-thirty, the sky dark; he was ready.

He had studied the tourist map, which included a

paragraph on the use of pay phones. I le had once

been a pilot; instructions were second nature. Thev

were the difference between blowing an aircraft

apart and landing it on a carrier. He parked the car

across the street from the Amstel Hotel and walked

into a booth.

'Miss Charpentier, please. '

    "Dank u, " said the operator, shifting instantly to

English. ' One moment, please.... Oh, yes, Missen

Charpentier arrive only one hour ago. 1 have her

room now."

"Thank you."

"Hello?"

    Oh God, should he speak? Could he speak?

Aquitaine. "Val, it's Jack Talbot. I took a chance you

might fly in. Glad you did. How are you,

youngster?"

    "Totally exhausted, you awful man. I talked to

New York this afternoon and mentioned our

accounts in Amsterdam courtesy of one Jack

Talbot. The orders were for me to get to Canal City

and spend tomorrow morning holding hands."

"Why not hold mine?"

"They're too cold. You can, however, buy me

dinner."

    "Be delighted, but first I need a favor. Can you

grab a cab and pick me up at the consulate on

Museumplein?"

    "What. . . ?" The pause was filled with fear.

"Why, Jack?" The question was a whisper.

    Converse lowered his voice. "I've been here for

a couple of hours taking too damn much abuse and

I'm afraid I blew my cork."

"What happened? "

    "It was dumb. My passport expired today and I

needed a temporary extension. Instead I got a

half-dozen lectures and told to come back in the

morning. I was very loud and not too benign."

    "And now it would be embarrassing for you to

ask them to call you a cab, is that it?"

    "That's it. If I knew this part of the city I'd walk

and try to find one, but I've never been over here

before."

    "I'll straighten my face and pick you up. Say in

about twenty minutes?"

    "Thanks, I'll be outside. If I'm not, wait in the

cab, I'll only be a few minutes. You've got yourself

a good dinner, young

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 481

ster." Joel hung up the phone, left the booth and

went back to the rented car. The waiting had begun,

the watching would soon follow.

    Ten minutes later he saw her, and the pounding

in his chest accelerated. A mist clouded his eyes. She

walked out the glass doors of the Amstel, carrying a

large, dark cloth bag, her posture erect, her stride

long and graceful, bespeaking the dancer she might

have been, announcing her presence without

pretence, telling anyone who watched her that she

was herself; no artifices were necessary. He had once

loved her so, as much for the person she appeared

to be as for the woman she was. But he had not

loved her enough, she had slipped away from him

because he had not cared enough. There was not

that muc h love or care in him. "Burn-out!" she had

shouted. "Emotional burn-out!"

    There had been nothing left to say; he could not

dispute her. He had been running so fast, so

furiously, wanting it all yet not wanting to remember

the reasons why wanting only to get even. He had

concealed the intensity of his feelings with flippancy

and a casualness that bordered on disdain, but he

was not casual at all, and there was little room for

the time consumed in being disdainful. There was

also very little room for people, for Val. Being

together demanded the responsibility that was part

of any relationship, and as the months stretched into

a year, then two and three, he knew it was not in

him to live up to that responsibility. As much as he

profoundly disliked himself for it, he could not be

dishonest with either himself or Valerie. He had

nothing left to give; he could only take. It was better

to break clean.

    The waiting was over; the watching began. The

Amstel doorman hailed her a cab and she climbed

in, immediately leaning forward in the seat to give

instructions. Twenty tense seconds later, during

which his eyes scanned the street and the pavements

in every direction, he started the car and switched on

the headlights. No automobile had crept out from

the curb after the taxi; still, he had to be certain.

Joel swung the wheel and drove into the street,

heading for the most direct route to the consulate. A

minute later he saw Val's cab take the correct right

turn over a canal. There were two cars behind her;

he concentrated on their shapes and sizes; instead of

following, he continued straight ahead, pressing

down on the accelerator, using an alternate route on

the bare chance that he himself had been picked up

by a hunter from Aqui

482 ROBERT LUDLUM

taine.Three minutes later, after two right turns and

a left, he entered the Museumplein. The taxi was

directly ahead, the two other automobiles no longer

in sight. His strategy was working. The possibility

that Val's phone was being tapped was real Rene's

had been, and his death was the result so in Val's

case he assumed the worst. If it was relayed that the

Charpentier woman was heading over to the

American consulate to pick up a business

acquaintance, one Joel Converse would be ruled

out. The consulate was no place for the fugitive

assassin; he would not go near it. He was a killer of

Americans.

    The taxi pulled into the curb in front of 19

Museumplein, the stone building that was the

consulate. Converse remained a half-block behind,

waiting again, watching again. Several cars went by,

none stopping or even slowing down. A lone cyclist

pedaled down the street, an old man who braked

and turned around and disappeared in the opposite

direction. The tactic had worked. \'al was alone in

the cab thirty yards away and no one had followed

her from the Amstel. He could make his final move

to her, his hand under his coat, gripping the gun

with the perforated silencer attached to the barrel.

    He got out of the car and walked up the

pavement, his gait slow, casual, a man taking a

summer night's stroll in the square. There were

perhaps a dozen people couples mainly also

walking, strolling in both directions. He studied

them as a frenzied but rigid cat studies the new

mounds of mole holes in a field; no one in the

street had the slightest interest in the stationary taxi.

He approached the rear door and knocked once on

the window. She rolled it down.

    They stared at each other for a brief moment,

then Val brought her hand to her lips, stifling a

gasp. "Oh, my Cod," she whispered.

    "Pay him and walk back to a grey car about two

hundred feet behind us. The last three numbers on

the license are one three, six. I'll be there in a few

minutes." He tipped his hat, as if he had just

answered a question from a bewildered tourist, and

proceeded down the pavement. Forty feet past the

taxi, at the end of the block, he turned and crossed

the square reaching the other side with his head

angled to the left, a pedestrian watching for traffic;

in reality he was apprehensively watching a lone

woman make her way down the sidewalk toward an

automobile. He went swiftly into the shadows of a

doorway and stood there watching, breathing

erratically,

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 483

peering into every pocket of darkness along the

opposite pavement. Nothing. No one. He walked out

of the doorway, suppressing a maddening desire to

run, and ambled casually down the block until he was

directly across from the rented car. Again he paused,

now lighting a cigarette, the flame cupped in his

hand, again waiting, watching.... No one. He threw

the cigarette to the curb and, unable to contain

himself any longer, ran across the street, opened the

door and climbed in behind the wheel.

    She was inches from him, her long, dark hair

framing her face in the dim light, that lovely face

taut, filled now with anxiety, her wide eyes burning

into his.

    "Why, Val? Why did you do it?" he asked, a cry in

the question.

    "I didn't have a choice," she answered quietly,

enigmahcally. "Drive away from here, please."

28

    They drove for several minutes. Neither of them

spoke. Joel was concentrating on the streets, knowing

the turns he wanted to make knowing, too, he

wanted to shout. It was all he could do to control

himself, to keep from stopping the car and grabbing

her, demanding to know why she had done what she

did, furiously replying to whatever she said that she

was a goddamnedfool! Why had she come back into

his life? He was death! . . . Above all, he wanted to

hold her in his arms his face against hers, and thank

her and tell her how sorry he was for so much, for

now.

    "Do you know where you're going?" asked Val,

breaking the silence.

    "I've had the car since six o'clock. A map of the

city came with it and I've spent the hme driving

around, learning what I thought I had to learn."

"Yes, you'd do that. You were always methodical. '

    'I thought I should, " he said defensively. "I

followed you from the hotel just in case anybody else

did. Also I'm better off in a car than on the streets."

484 ROBERT LUDLUM

"I wasn't insulting you."

    Converse glanced at her; she was studying him,

her eyes roving over his face in the erratic

progressions of light and shadow. "Sorry. I guess I'm

a little sensitive these days. Can't imagine why."

    "Neither can 1. You're only wanted on two

continents and in some eight countries. They say

you're the most talented assassin since that maniac

they call Carlos."

    "Do I have to tell you it's all a lie? All a huge lie

with a very clear motive purpose is better."

    "No," replied Vulerie simply. "You don't have to

tell me that because I know it. But you've got to tell

me everything else. Everything"

    He looked at her again, searching her eyes in the

flashes of light, trying to penetrate, trying to peel

away the layers of clouded glass that hi id her

thoughts, her reasons. Once he had been able to do

that, in love and in anger. He could not do it now;

what she felt was too deep inside her, but it was not

love, he knew that. It was something else, and the

lawyer in him was cautious, oblique. "What made

you think l d see you on television? I almost missed

you."

    "I didn't think about television, I was counting

on the newspapers. I knew my face would be on the

front pages all over Europe. I assumed your memory

was not so dulled that you wouldn't recognise me,

and reporters always pick up on hotels or

addresses it lends authenticity."

"I can't read anything but English."

    "Your memory is dulled. I made three trips with

you to Europe, two to Geneva and one to Paris.

You wouldn't have coffee in the morning unless the

Herald Tribune was on the room-service table. Even

when we went skiing in Chamonix from

Geneva you made an awful fuss until the waiter

brought the Tribune."

"You were in the Tribune?"

    "Class acts aside, it's their kind of story. With all

the details. I assumed you'd pick one up and realize

what I was doing."

    "Because we were strangers and hadn't seen each

other in years, and, of course, you couldn't speak

German or French or anything else."

    "Yes. It was an acceptable explanation for those

who knew I did. A cover, I guess. A lot of people

who speak several languages do it all the time. It's

common practice; it cuts con

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 485

versations short or at least keeps them to basic

statements, and you always know if you're

misquoted."

"I forgot, that's your business in a way."

'It's not where the idea came from. It came from

Roger."

"Dad?"

    "Yes. He flew in from Hong Kong a few days ago

and some hungry clerk alerted the newspapers that

he was on the flight. When he got into Kennedy it

was a media blitz. He hadn't read a newspaper or

listened to a radio or seen a television screen in two

days. He was in a panic and called me. I simply

made sure the wire services in West Berlin knew I

was flying in."

"How is Dad? He can't handle this."

    "He's handling it. So's your sister less so than

your father, but her husband stepped into the breach

and took over. He's a better man than you thought,

Converse."

"What's happening to them? How are they taking it?"

    "Confused, angry, bewildered. They've changed

their telephone numbers. They speak through

attorneys supporting you, incidentally. You may not

realize it but they love you very much, although I'm

not sure you gave them much reason to."

    "I think we're closer to home," said Joel quietly,

as they approached the Schellingwouder Brug. "Our

once and former home." They entered the dark span

of the bridge, diaphanous lights above, speckled dots

far below on the water. Valerie did not respond to

his statement; it was not like her to avoid a

provocation. He could not stand it. "Why, Val?" he

cried, "I asked you before, and I have to know! Why

did you fly over?"

    "I'm sorry, I was thinking," she said, her eyes

leaving his face, staring straight ahead through the

windshield. "I guess it's better I say it now while

you're driving and I don't have to look at you. You

look awful, you're a mess, and your face tells me

what you've gone through, and I don't want to look

at you."

    "I'm hurt," said Converse gently, trying genuinely

to lessen the impact of his appearance. "Helen

Gurley Brown called and wants me for

Cosmopolitan's centerfold."

    "Stop that! It's not remotely funny and you know

it worse, you don't even feel like saying it!"

    "I retreat. There were times when you never did

read me right."

486 ROBERT LUDLUM

    "I always read you right, Joel!" Valerie continued

to focus on the road and the beams of the

headlights; she did not move her head. "Don't play

the serious fool any longer. We haven't time for

that; we haven't time for your flip remarks. It was

always a little sad to watch you put people off who

really wanted to talk to you, but it's finished now."

    'Glad to hear it. Then talk! Why the hell did you

walk into this?"

    Their eyes met in anger, in abrupt recognition,

in a love once remembered, perhaps. She turned

away as Converse steered the car into the right exit

off the bridge, then peeled into the road that ran

along the coastline.

    "All right," said Valerie, hesitant but in complete

control. "I'll spell it out as best I can. I say 'as best

I can' because I'm not entirely sure there are too

many complications to be absolutely sure.... You

may be a rotten husband and careless beyond

stoning where another person's feelings are con-

cerned, but you're not what they say you are. You

didn't kill those men."

    "I know that. You said you knew it, too. Why

did you come over here?"

    "Because I had tO,-' said Val, her voice firm,

still staring straight ahead. "The other night after

the news your picture was on every channel, so

different from what it was years ago I walked

along the beach and thought about- you. They

weren't pleasant thoughts, but they were honest

ones.... You put me through my own personal hell,

Joel. You were driven by terrible things in your

past, and I tried to understand because I knew what

had happened to you. But you never tried to

understand me. 1, too, had things I wanted to do,

but they faded, they weren't important.... Okay, I

thought. Someday it'll pass and the nightmares will

go away for him and he'll stop and look at me and

say, 'Hey, you're you. 'Well, the nightmares went

away and it never happened."

    ' 1 concede my adversary's logic," said Converse

painfully. 41 still don't understand."

    61 needed you, Joel, but you couldn't respond.

You were amusing as hell, even when I knew you

didn't feel like it, and you were terrific in bed, but

your only real concerns were for you, always you."

"Conceded again, learned counselor. Arld?''

    ' I remembered something I said to myself that

afternoon when you left the apartment, said it

silently as I watched you

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 487

leave. I promised myself that if ever a person I was

close to needed me as much as I needed you then, I

wouldn't walk away. Call it the one moral

commitment I've ever made in my life. Only the

irony is that that person turned out to be you. You're

not a madman and you're not a killer, but someone

wants the world to think you are. And whoever it is

has done it very well. Even your friends who've

known you for years believe what's being said about

you. I don't and I can't walk away."

"Oh Christ, Val "

    'No strings, Converse. No playing an old sweet

song and hopping into bed. That's out. I came here

to help you, not console you. And over here I can.

My roots go back several generabons. They may be

withering underground but they were the

underground undergrounds and they're willing to

help. For once you need me, and that's a twist, isn't

it, friend?"

    ' A veritable twist," saidJoel, understanding her

last statement but little else, speeding down the coast

road toward the deserted fields. "Only a few

minutes," he added. "I can't be seen in the city and

neither can you and you not a chance with me."

    "I wouldn't worry so much. We're being watched

by friends."

"What? What 'friends'?"

    "Keep your eyes on the road. There were people

in front of the Amstel, didn't you see them?"

"I suppose so. No one got in a car and went after

you."

    "Why should they? There were others on the

streets and over the canals to the consulate "

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"And an old man on a bicycle in the Museumplein."

"I saw him Was he . . . ?"

    "Later," said Valerie, shifting the large cloth bag

at her feet into another position and stretching her

long legs. "They may follow us out here but they'll

stay out of sight."

"Who are you, lady?"

    "The niece of Hermione Geyner, my mother's

sister. You never knew my father, of course, but if

you had he would have regaled you with tales of

Mom during the war, but he would have choked at

the mention of my aunt. Even according to the

French she went too far. The Dutch and German

undergrounds worked together. I'll tell you all about

it later."

"You'll tell me later? Following us?"

488 ROBERT LUDLUM

"You're new at this. You won't see them."

"Shit!"

"That's expressive."

"All right, all right! . . . What about Dad?"

"He's weathering it. He's staying at my place."

"Cape Ann?"

"Yes. "

    "I sent the envelope there! The 'sketches' I

mentioned on the phone. It's i verything! Everything

about what's happened. It names the names, gives

the reasons. Everything!"

    "I left three days ago. It hadn't arrived by then.

But Roger's there." Valerie s face paled. "Oh, my

God!"

"What?"

    "I've been trying to call him! Two days ago, then

yesterday and again today!"

    "Coddamn it!" In the distance there were the

lights of a bay-front cafe. Joe} spoke rapidly, giving

an order that could not be disobeyed. "I don't care

how you do it, but you call Cape Ann! You come

back here and tell me my father's all right, do you

understand?"

"Yes. Because I want to hear it, too."

    Converse skidded to a stop in front of the cafe,

knowing he should not have done so, but not caring.

Valerie rushed out of the car, her purse open, her

telephone credit card in her hand. If there was a

phone on the premises, she would use it; no one

could stop her. Joel lit a cigarette; the smoke was

acrid, stinging his throat; it was no relief. He stared

out at the dark water, at the lights spanning the

bridge in the distance trying not to think. It was no

use. What had he done? His father knew his

handwriting, and the instant he recognized it he

would rip open the envelope. He would be looking

for exculpation for his son and he would find it. He

would undoubtedly call Nathan Simon

immediately and therein was the horrible

possibility. Val would know enough from the mate-

rial itself to say little or nothing on the phone, but

not his father, not Roger. He would blurt out

everything in a frenzy of anger and defense of his

son. And if others were listening on that line....

Where was Val? She was taking too long!

    Converse could not stop himself. He cracked the

handle of the door and leaped out of the car. He

raced toward the entrance of the cafe, then stopped

abruptly on the gravel. Valerie walked out, gesturing

for him to back away. He could see the tears rolling

down her cheeks.

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 489

'Get in the car," she said, approaching him.

"No. Tell me what happened. Now."

    "Please, Joel, get back in the car. Two men in

there kept watching me while I was on the phone. I

spoke Cerman, but they knew I was placing a call to

the States, and they saw I was upset. I think they

recognizedme. We have to get out of here."

"Tell me what happened!"

    "In the car." Valerie tossed her head to the side,

her dark hair flying over her shoulder as she brushed

away her tears, and walked past Converse to the

automobile. She opened the door and got in, sitting

motionless in the seat.

    "Goddamn you!" Trembling, Converse ran to

the car, jumped in behind the wheel and started the

engine, slamming the door shut as he pulled on the

gearshift. Turning the wheel, he backed up, then shot

forward into the road, the tires spinning on the

border of gravel. He kept his foot on the accelerator

until the dark scenery outside was a racing blur.

    "Slow down," said Val simply, without emphasis.

"You'll only call attention to us."

    He could barely hear her through his panic, but

he heard the order. He eased his foot off the pedal.

'He's dead, isn't he?"

' Yes."

    ' Oh, Christ! What happened? What did they

tell you? Whom did you talk to?"

    "A neighbor, the name's not important. We have

keys to each other's house. She volunteered to take

in the newspapers and check the place until the

police reached me. She happened to be there when

I called. I asked her if there was a large envelope

sent from Germany in the pile of mail. She said

there wasn't."

'The police? What happened?"

    "You know my house is on the beach. There's a

jetty of rocks about a hundred yards up-water. It's

not large or long really, just some kind of marking

from years ago "

"Tell me!" shouted Joel, gripping the wheel.

    "They say he must have gone for a walk last

night, went out on the jetty and slipped on the wet

rocks. There was a large bruise on his head. His

body was washed up onshore and found this

morning."

"Lies! Lies! They heard him! They went after

himI"

490 ROBERT LUDLUM

    "My telephone? On the plane over here I

thought about that. '

    "You would, he wouldn't! I killed him. Goddamn

it, I killed him!"

    ' No more than I did,Joel," insisted the ex-Mrs.

Converse, touching his arm, wincing at the sight of

tears in his eyes. ' And I loved him very much. You

and I left each other, but he was still a very ~ lose

friend, perhaps my closest."

    "He called you 'Valley,'" said Joel, choking,

trying to push back the pain. "The bastards!

Bastards!"

"Do you want me to drive?"

"No!"

    "The telephone I have to ask you I thought the

police or the FBI or people like that might get a

court order.'

    "Of course they would! It s why I knew I couldn

t call you. I was going to call Nate Simon."

    "But you're not talking about the police or the

FBI. You're talking about someone else, some thing

else."

    "Yes. No one knows who they are where they

are. But they're there. And they can do whatever

they want to do. Jesusl Even Dad! That's what's so

goddamned frightening."

    "And that s what you re going to tell me about,

isn t it?" said Valerie, gripping his arm.

    "Yes. A few minutes ago I was going to hold

back and not tell you everything, instead try to

convince you to get Nate to fly over here so we

could meet and he could see I wasn't crazy. But not

now. There's no time now; they're cutting off every

outlet. They've got the envelope it was all I had!

. . . I'm sorry, Val, but I am going to tell you

everything. I wish to God I didn t have to for your

sake but like you, I don't have a choice anymore."

"I didn't come over here to give you a choice.

    He drove into the field near the water's edge

and stopped the car. The grass was high, the moon

a bright crescent over the bay, the lights of

Amsterdam in the distance. They got out and he led

her to the darkest spot he could find, holding her

hand, suddenly realizir g that he had not held her

hand in years the touch, the gyp, so comfortable,

so much a part of them. He repelled the thought; he

was a provider of death.

"Here, I guess," he said, releasing her hand.

"All right." She lowered herself gracefully, like a

dancer,

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 491

and sat down on the soft grass, pushing the reeds

aside. 'How do you feel?" she asked.

    'Awful," said Joel, looking up at the dark sky. "I

meant what I said. I killed him. All the years of

trying his trying, my trying and I end up killing

him. If I'd only let him alone, let him be himself, not

someone I wanted him to be, he'd probably be

drinking up a storm somewhere thousands of miles

away, telling his crazy stories, making everyone

laugh. But not in your house at Cape Ann

yesterday."

"You didn't force him to fly back from Hong Kong,

Joel. '

    "Oh, hell, not by pleading or giving him an order,

if that's what you mean. But the order was there

nevertheless. After Mother died it was the unspoken

words between us. 'Grow up, Dad! Have your little

trips but don't stay away so long people worry. Be

responsible, father mine.' Christ, I was so fucking

holier than thou! And I end up killing him."

    "You didn't kill him! Others did! Now, tell me

about them."

    Converse swallowed, brushing the tears from his

eyes. "Yes, you're right there isn't time, even for

old Roger."

"There'll be time later."

    "If there's a later," said Joel, breathing deeply,

finding control. "You know about Rene, don't you?"

    "Yes, I read about it yesterday. I was sick.... Larry

Talbot told me that you saw him in Paris. How even

Rene thought you were disturbed, as Larry did when

you talked to him. And Rene was killed for seeing

you. Larry must be going out of his mind."

    "That's not the reason Rene was killed. Let's talk

about Larry. The first time I reached him I needed

information without asking him directly. He was

being used because of me, followed, and he didn't

know it. If I'd told him, the jock in him would have

reacted, and he'd have been shot down in the street.

But the last time I spoke with him I walked into it.

I'd broken away from the people who d caught

me I was exhausted, still frightened, and I was open

with him. I told him everything."

    "He mentioned it to me," interrupted Val. "He

said you were reliving your experiences in North

Vietnam. There was a psychiatric term for it '

    Converse shook his head, a short, derisive laugh

emerging from his throat. "Isn t there always? I

suppose there were similarities and I m sure I

alluded to them, but that's all they

492 ROBERT lUDtUN1

were, similarities.... didn't hear what I was saying.

He was listening for words that confirmed what

others had said about me, what he believed was

true. He pretended to be the friend I knew but he

wasn't. He was a lawyer trying to convince a client

that he was sick, that for everyone's safety the client

should turn himself in. When I realized what he was

doing and that l d told him where I was, I knew

he'd spread the word, thinking he was doing the

right thing. I just wanted to get out of there, so I

halfway agreed with him, hung up, and ran.... I was

lucky. Twenty minutes later I saw a car drive up in

front of the hotel with two of my would-be

executioners."

"You're sure of that?"

    Joel nodded. 'Y'he next day one of them stated

for the record that he'd seen me at the Adenauer

Bridge with Walter Peregrine. I wasn't anywhere

near that bridge at least I don't think so, I don't

know where it is."

    ~ "I read that story in the Times. The man was

an Army officer, a major from the embassy named

Washburn."

    "That's right." Converse broke off a long blade

of grass, twisting it, tearing it in his fingers. 'They're

great at manipulating the media newspapers, radio,

television. Every word they put out is cleansed

through channels, branded authentic official. They

take out lives as if people were pieces in a chess

game, including their own. They don't care; they

only want to win. And it's the biggest game in

modern history. The terrifying thing is that they can

win it."

    "Joel, do you know what you're saying? An

American ambassador, the supreme commander of

NATO, Rene, your father . . . you. Then killers in

the embassy, a manipulated press, lies out of

Washington, Paris, Bonn all given official status.

You're describing some kind of Anschluss, some de-

monic, political takeover!"

    Converse looked at her in the moonlight, the

breezes off the water bending the tall grass. "That's

exactly what it is, conceived by one man and run by

a handful of others, all completely sincere in their

beliefs and as persuasive as any group of

professionals I've ester heard. But the bottom line

is that they're fanatics, killers in a quest they

consider nothing less than holy. They've

recruited are recruiting like-minded men

everywhere, other frustrated professionals who think

there's nowhere else to turn. They grab at the

theories and the promises, accepting accepting,

hell, extolling the

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 493

myths of efficiency and discipline and self-sacrifice,

because they know it leads to power. Power to

replace the inefficient, the undisciplined, the c

orrupters and the corrupted. They're blind; they can't

see beyond their own distorted image of

themselves.... If that sounds like a summation it

probably is. I haven't slept much, but I do a lot of

thinking. '

    'The jury's still in place, Joel, ' said Valerie, her

eyes alive, again levered at his. "I don't want a

summation, I want it all. I think you should begin at

the beginning where it began for you."

"Okay. It started in Geneva '

"I knew it,' interrupted Val, whispering.

"What?"

"Nothing. Go on."

    "With a man I hadn't seen in twenty-three years.

I knew him by one name then, but in Geneva he was

using another. He explained it and it didn't matter.

Except that it was a little eerie. I didn't know how

eerie it was, or how much he didn't explain, or how

many lies he told me in order to manipulate me. The

hell of it is he did what he did for all the right

reasons. I was the man they needed. They. And I

don't know who they are, only that they're there,

somewhere.... As long as I live however long I'm

permitted I'll never forget the words he used when

he reached the core of why he had come to Geneva.

'They're beck,' he said. 'The generals are back.'"

    He told her everything, allowing his mind and his

thoughts to wander, to include every detail he could

recall. The countdown was in progress. In a matter of

days or at best a week or two there would be

eruptions of violence everywhere like what was

taking place in Northern Ireland right now.

'Accumulations,' they said. 'Rapid acceleration!'

Only, no one knew who or what or where the targets

were. George Marcus Delavane was the madman

who conceived it all, and other powerful madmen

were listening to him, following his orders, moving

into positions from which they would leap for the

controls. Everywhere

    Finally he was finished, a part of him in anguish,

knowing that if she was caught by the soldiers of

Aquitaine, the narcotics inserted in her body would

reveal the information that would result in her death.

He said as much when he had finished, wanting

desperate! v to breach the space between them and

hold her, telling her how much he hated himself for

doing what he knew he had to do. But he made no

move toward

494 ROBERT LUDLUM

her; her eyes told him not to; she was evaluating,

thinking things out for herself.

    "Sometimes," she said quietly, 'when the dreams

would come, or you drank too much, you'd talk

about this Delavane. You d become so panicked

you'd tremble and close your eyes and every now

and then you'd scream. You hated that man so.

You were also frightened to death of him."

    "He caused' a lot of death, unnecessary death.

Kids . . . children in grown-up uniforms who didn't

know that Bung ho meant search and destroy and

get blown apart."

    "There's no way you could be what do they call

it transferring your emotions?"

    "If you believe that, I'll drive you back to the

Amstel and you can fly home in the morning and go

back to your easels. I'm not crazy, Val. I'm here

and it's happening."

    "All right, I had to ask. You didn't live through

some of those nights, I did. You were either

crashing into the bed or so scratched by a bottle you

didn't know where you were:"

"It didn't happen often."

    "I'll grant you that; but when it did you were

there. And hurting."

    "Which is exactly why I was reached in Gene-

va recruited in Geneva."

    "And this Fowler, or Halliday, knew the exact

words to use. Your own."

    "Fitzpatrick got it all for him. He thought he was

doing the right thing too."

    "Yes, I know, you told me. What do you think

happened to him? Fitzpatrick, I mean."

    "For days I've tried to come up with a reason for

them to keep him alive. I can't. He's more

dangerous to them than I am. He's worked the

streets they're undermining; he knows his way

around Pentagon procurements and export clear-

ances so well he could nail them with half the

evidence They've killed him."

"You liked him, didn't you?"

    "Yes, I did, and just as important, I was almost

in awe of that mind of his. He was quick and

perceptive and had one hell of an imagination,

which he wasn't afraid to use."

    "He sounds like someone I was married to," said

Val gently.

    Converse kept his e yes on her for a moment,

then looked away at the water. "If I get out of this

alive and I don't really

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 495

think I will I'm going hunting. I'm going to find out

who did it, who pulled the trigger. There won't be

any trial, no witnesses for the prosecution the

defence, no circumstances mitigating or otherwise.

Just me and a gun."

    "Sorry to hear that, Joel. I always admired your

principles. They were a constant, like your

attraction your reverence, I think for the law. It

wasn't all conceit and ambition, I knew that. It gave

you the only real roots you ever had. You could look

at the law and argue, as a child does with a parent

knowing the parent is some kind of absolute.... Your

father never gave you that by his own admission,

incidentally."

"I think that's pretty tasteless. '

"I'm sorry. He brought it up once. I am sorry."

    "It's all right. We're talking. We didn't do much

of that the last year or so together, did we?"

"I didn't think you wanted to."

"You're on target. Forget it. There's now."

    'And there's so much you can deny! All they

have is words against you! I said the same thing to

Larry they say you were here, you were there, you

did this and you did that, but you weren't where they

said you were and you didn't do what they say!

You're the lawyer, Converse. For God's sake, stand

up and defend yourself"

    "I'd never get near a courtroom, can't you

understand that? Wherever and whenever I showed

up, someone would be there, someone ordered to kill

me even if it meant losing his own life considering

the consequences, an insignificant sacrifice. My idea

was to use the envelope the dossiers and all the

information they contained, the information that

could only have come from government sources,

which means I have partners somewhere in

Washington. With all of that I could reach people I

knew the firm knew and with Nathan's help get

them to listen to me, see I wasn't crazy. Hear from

me what I saw, what I heard, what I learned. But

without that envelope, even Nate couldn't help.

Besides, he'd insist I go by the book and come in,

telling me he had guarantees of full protection.

There is no protection, not from them. They're in

embassies and naval stations and Army bases; in the

Pentagon, police departments, Interpol, and the

Department of State. They're bag ladies on a train

and commuters with attache cases you don't know

who they are but they're there. And they can't afford

to let me live. I've heard their almighty credo

firsthand."

496 ROBERT LUDLUM

'Checkmate," said Val softly.

'Check," agreed Converse.

"Then we have to find somebody else."

"What?'

    "Someone those people you want to reach would

listen to. Someone whose presence might force

those men in Washington who sent you out from

Geneva to say who they are to show themselves."

"Who are you thinking of? John the Baptist?"

"Not John. Sam. Sam Abbott."

    "Sam? I thought about him that night in Paris!

How did you ?"

"Like you, I've had a lot of time to think. In New

York

t,h~eyOpuane, Ita?s,t, night after I saw my aunt

in Berlin."

    "I'll get to that.... I knew that if you were alive

there had to be a reason why you stayed in hiding,

why you didn't come out shouting, denying all those

insane things they were saying about you. It didn't

make sense; it wasn't you And if you'd been killed

or captured it would have been on the front pages

everywhere, on all the broadcasts. Since there was

no such story, I assumed you had to be alive. But

why did you keep running, hiding? Then I thought,

My God, if Larry Talbot doesn't believe him, who

will? And if Larry didn't, it meant that the people

around him, men like him, all your friends and

those so-called contacts you had had been reached

and convinced that you were the maniac everyone

in Europe was talking about. No one would touch

you and you needed someone. Not me, heaven

knows. I'm your ex-wife and I don't carry any weight

and you needed someone who did.... So I thought

about everyone you'd ever talked about, everyone

we knew. One name kept on coming back to me.

Sam Abbott. Brigadier General Abhott now,

according to the papers about SIX months ago."

" 'Sam the Man,' ' said Joel, shaking his head in

approval.

    e was shot down three days after I was, and we

were both shoved around from one camp to

another. Once he was in the cell next to mine and

we d tap out Morse on the walls until they moved

me. He stayed in the Air Force for all the right

reasons. He knew he could be his best there."

    "He thought the world of you," said Val, her

voice a mixture of conviction and quiet enthusiasm.

"He said you did

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 497

more for morale than anyone in the camps, that your

last escape gave everyone hope."

    "That's a crock. I was a troublemaker that's

what they called me who could afford to take

chances. Sam had the roughest job. He could have

done what I did, but he was the ranking officer. He

knew there'd be reprisals if he ever tried. He held

everyone together, I didn't."

    "He said otherwise. I think he's the reason you

never thought much of your sister's husband.

Remember when Sam flew into New York and you

tried to match him up with Ginny? We all had

dinner at that restaurant we couldn't afford."

    "Ginny scared the hell out of him. He told me

later that if she'd been drafted and put in charge of

Command-Saigon it never would have fallen. He

wasn't going to refight that war for the rest of his

life."

    "And you lost a desirable brother-in-law." Valerie

smiled then the smile faded and she leaned forward.

"I can reach him Joel. I'll find him and talk to him,

tell him everything you ve told me. Above all, that

you're no more insane than I am, than he is. That

you were manipulated by people you don't know,

men who lied to you so you'd do the work they

either couldn't do or were afraid to do."

    "That's unfair," said Converse. "If they started

digging around State and the Pentagon, there could

be a rash of accidents very fatal and very dead....

No, they were right. It had to start over here and be

traced back. It was the only way."

    "If you can say that after all you've been through,

you're saner than any of us. Sam will know that.

He'll help."

    "He could, " said Joel slowly, pensively, breaking

off another reed of grass. "He'd have to be

careful none of the usual channels but he could

do it. Three or four years ago, after you and I broke

up, he found out I was in Washington for a few days

and called me. We had dinner and later too many

drinks; he ended up spending the night on the sofa

in my hotel room. We talked both of us too much.

Me about me and you and Sam about his newest

monumental frustration."

"Then you're still close. It wasn't the tong ago."

    "That isn't my point. It's what he was doing. He'd

worked his ass off to get into the NASA program,

but they turned him down. They said he was too

valuable where he was. No one

498 ROBERT LUDLUM

was in his class when it came to all-altitude,

sub-mach maneuvers. He designed more patterns in

the sky than any designer on Seventh Avenue ever

did on the ground. He could look at an

aircraft specs aside and tell you what it could

do."

"I don't understand."

    'Oh, sorry. He'd been brought to Washington

from wherever he was stationed as a consultant to

the National Security Agency, cross-pollinating with

the CIA. It was his job to evaluate the capabilities

of the new Soviet and Chinese equipment. '

"What?"

    "Airplanes, Val. He worked over at Langley and

at a dozen different safe houses in Virginia and

Maryland, appraising photographs brought out by

agents, questioning defectors especially pilots,

mechanics and technicians. He knows the people I

have to reach, he's worked with them."

    "You're talking about the intelligence service or

services I gather." '

    "Not just services," corrected Joel. "Men who

crawl around in the shadows of those paintings of

yours. People trained to cut down bastards like

Delavane and his tribe, cut them out silently by

using methods and techniques you and I know

nothing about drugs and whores and little boys.

They should have been brought in at the beginning!

Not Geneva, not me. They kill when it's the

pragmatic thing to do, and justify the killing because

it's in the ultimate interests of the country. And

Lord, how I railed against them, the righteous

attorney in me demanding that they be held

accountable. Well, Mr. Naive has changed been

changed because I've seen the enemy and he isn't

us, not the us I think we are. If it takes a garrote to

choke off a cancer when legal medicine can't do it,

hand me the wire, pal, and I'll read the manual."

"I thought you loathed fanatics."

"I do. I . . . do."

    "Sam," persisted Valerie. "I'll go home tomorrow

and find him."

    "No," said Converse. "I want you to fly back

tonight. You always carried your passport in your

purse still the same?"

"Of course. But I have "

    "I don't want you going back to the Amstel.

You've got to get out of Amsterdam. There's a

KLM night Hight to New York at eleven-forty-five."

"But my things "

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 499

    "They're not worth it. Call the hotel when you get

back. Wire them money and say it was an

emergency. They'll mail everything to you. '

"You're serious, aren't you?',

    "Never more so in my life. I think you should

know the truth about Rene. He wasn't killed because

we met in Paris nothing had happened then. I called

him from Bonn four days ago and we talked. He

believed me. He was shot to death because he sent

me to Amsterdam, to reach a man who might have

gotten me on a plane to Washington. That's out now

and it doesn't matter. You do. You came here and

you found me, and the people who are looking for

me all over the city will know it soon if they don't

know it already."

    "I never said I was going to Amsterdam," Valerie

broke in. "I specifically left word at the Kempinski

that I was Hying directly home, that if I got any calls

to refer them to New York."

"Did you have a reservation on the plane?"

"Naturally. I just never showed up."

    "Good, but not good enough. Delavane's people

are efficient. Leifhelm has connections at every

airport and immigration point in Germany. They'll

find out otherwise. We might have fooled them once

tonight, not twice. My guess is there's a German

waiting for you at the Amstel now, probably in your

room. I want him to think you're coming back, that

you're still here."

    "If someone like that goes to my room into my

room he's in for a shock."

"What do you mean?"

    "Someone else is there. An old man with a long

memory, who's been given instructions I'd rather not

repeat."

"Your aunt's doing?"

    "She sees things in black and white, no grays.

There is the enemy and there is not the enemy. And

anyone who would harm her sister's daughter is very

definitely the enemy. You don't know these people,

Joel. They live in the past; they never forget. They're

old now and not what they once were, but they

remember what they were and why they did the

things they did. It was so simple for them. Good and

evil. They live with those memories frankly, it's a

little scary, they're a little scary, to tell you the truth.

Nothing in their lives since has been so alive, so

important to them. I honestly think they'd all prefer

going back to those days, the horror and all."

500 ROBERT LUDLUM

    "What about your aunt, though? After everything

that's been said about me in the newspapers and on

television, she went along with you? She didn't ask

any questions? The fact that you were her sister's

daughter was enough ?"

    "Oh, no, she asked one very specific question

and I answered it. That was enough. I must tell you,

though. She's odd very odd but she can do what

has to be done and that's all that matters."

"Okay.... You will go back tonight?"

    "Yes," said Val, nodding. "It's reasonable and I

can do more from New York in the morning than

from here. From everything you've said, every hour's

important."

    "Vital. Thanks.... Also you may have trouble

reaching Sam. I don't have any idea where he is and

the services aren't cooperative when it comes to a

woman trying to locate an oflicer especially one

with high rank. It's too complicated an overseas

love affair, a child the man never knew about,

probably not his they're very circumspect."

    "Then I won't ask them to tell me where he is.

I'll say I'm a relative he's been trying to reach, that

I travel a great deal and if he wishes to call me, I'll

be at the such-and-such hotel for the next

twenty-four hours. Certainly they have to relay that

kind of message to a general."

    "Certainly," agreed Joel. "But if you leave your

name you're risking too much. For you and Sam."

    "I'll use a variation, one he'll recognize." Valerie

blinked, staring at the ground. "Like Parquet only,

I'll feminine it Parquette. A floor,

wood something associated with a Charpentier, a

carpenter. Then I'll add Virginia he'd remember

Ginny because of you. Virginia Parquette, he'll fig-

ure it out."

    "He probably will. So might others. When you

don't show up tonight, Leifhelm will have the

airports checked. They could pick you up at

Kennedy."

    "Then I'll lose them at LaGuardia. I'll go to a

motel where I stay when I take the plane to Boston.

I'll check in and get out without their knowing it."

"You're very quick."

"I told you, my roots go back; I've heard the

stories. . Now, what about you?"

    "I'll stay out of sight. I'm getting pretty good at

it and I can pay for anything I need."

"Your words, Converse: 'Not good enough.' The

more

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 501

money you spread, the more of a trail you leave.

They'll find you. You have to get out of Amsterdam

too."

    ' Well, I could slip across a few borders and head

down to Paris for my old suite at the George Cinq.

Of course, it might be a little obvious, but then if I

tapped high enough they are French."

"Don't try to be funny."

    "I don't feel remotely amusing. Also, I'd like a

private toilet and a shower even a secondhand

bath. The rooms I find you can't find in the most

esoteric travel guides."

    "You haven't had a shower in God knows how

long, that much I can tell you in the open air."

    "Oh, beware the wife who's offended by her

husband's hygiene. It's a sign of something."

    "Cut it out, Joel, I'm not your wife.... I've got to

be able to reach you."

    "Let me think, I'm also getting very inventive. I'll

figure out something. I could "

    "I've already figured it out," interrupted Val

firmly. ~Before I flew over I talked with my aunt."

From your house?"

    From the midtown hotel in New York where I

registered under a different name."

Lyon were thinking about your phone."

    4Not the way you were. I told her what I thought

had happened, what I was going to try to do. She

came to see me in Berlin last night. She talked up a

storm how she could do this do that but it all

boiled down to the fact that she'll help. She ll hide

you. So will others."

`In Germany?"

    4Yes. She lives in the countryside, on the

outskirts of Osnabruck. It's the safest place you

could go, the last place those people would think to

look for you."

    How do I get back into Germany? It was rough

enough getting out! Delavane's people aside every

border's on the alert, my photograph on every wall.

'

    "I talked to Hermione this afternoon, after you

called from a pay phone; she was staying with a

friend. She started making arrangements right away,

and when I flew in here a few hours ago, an old man

met me at the airport, the same man you'll be

staying with tonight. You don't know him but you've

seen him; he was riding the bicycle in the Museum-

plein. I was taken to a house on the Lindengracht

where I was

502 ROBERT LUDLUM

to call my aunt; the phone was what they term

'unberuhrt,' clean, untouched."

"My God, they are back in the forties.,'

"Not much has changed, has it?"

"No, I guess not. What did she say?"

    "Only your instructions. Late tomorrow

afternoon, when the terminal's full, you're to go to

the Central Station here in Amsterdam and walk

around by the information booth. A woman will

come up to you and say hello, saying she recognized

you as someone she met in Los Angeles. Respond

to her and during the conversation she'll hand you

an envelope. Inside will be a passport, a letter, and

a train ticket."

"A passport? Hawk"

    "All they needed was a photograph. I knew that

much when I left your father in Cape Ann."

"You knew?"

    "I told you, I've heard the stories all my life.

How they got Jews and Gypsies and all the men

who parachuted down from planes out of Germany

and into neutral or occupied countries. The false

papers, the photographs, they became an art form."

''And you brought a photograph?"

    "It seemed logical. Roger thought so, too.

Remember, he was in that war."

"Logical . . . a photograph."

    "Yes. I found one in an album. Do you

remember when we went to the Virgin Islands and

you scorched yourself that first day in the sun?"

    "Sure. You made me wear a tie to dinner and

my neck was killing me."

    "I was trying to teach you a lesson. That

picture's a close-up. I wanted your sunburn in all its

agony."

"It's still my face, Val."

    "That photograph was taken eight years ago and

the burn softened your features. It'll do."

"Don't I have to know anything?"

    "If you're detained for that kind of questioning,

you'll probably be caught. My aunt doesn't think you

will be."

"Why is she so confident?"

"The letter. It spells out what you're doing."

"Which is?"

"A pilgrimage to Bergen-Belsen, later to Auschwitz

in Po

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 503

land. It's written in German and you're to hand it to

anyone who stops you because you speak only

English."

"But why would that ?"

    "You're a priest," interrupted Valerie. "The

pilgrimage was financed by an organisation in Los

Angeles called the Coalition of Christians and Jews

for World Peace and Repentance. Only a German

very sure of himself will call attention to you. I've got

a dark suit in your size in my tote bag, along with a

black hat, shoes, and a clerical collar. The

instructions will be with your ticket. You'll take the

northern express to Hanover where you're supposed

to switch trains for Celle and be driven to

Bergen-Belsen in the morning, but of course you

won't. When you reach Osnabruck, get off. My aunt

will be waiting for her priest. And by then I'll be

back in New York getting in touch with Sam..'

    Converse shook his head. "Val, it's all very

impressive, but you weren't listening to me.

Leifhelm's men have seen me in that station, as a

matter of fact. They know what I look like."

    "They saw a pale-faced man with a beard and a

battered face. Shave off the beard tonight."

' And apply for cosmetic surgery?"

    "No, apply a generous amount of lotion called

Instant Sun it's with the clothes I brought you. It'll

darken your face more like the photograph on the

passport and also cover the bruises they won't be

that noticeable. The black hat and the clerical collar

will take care of the rest."

    "Omens," said Joel, touching the bruises on his

face and noting that they were less painful. "Do you

remember when you fell and hit the table in the

foyer, the black eye?"

    "I was in a panic; I had a presentation the next

day. You went out and got the makeup for me."

"I bought the same stuff this morning. It helped."

"I'm glad."

    They looked at each other across the short

distance between them in the moonlit field. "I'm

sorry about everything, Val. I wish you weren't part

of this. If there was any other way I wouldn't let you

be, you know that."

    "I know it, but it doesn't matter to me one way or

the other. I came over here because of a promise I

made to myself a promise I meant. Not you. I'm

over you, Joel, believe that."

"The promise you made to yourself was provoked by

me.

504 ROBERT LUDLUM

Since I was the offending party of the second part,

that should have canceled it."

    "That's probably a rotten legal opinion," said

Val, shifting her legs and looking away. "There's

also the obvious. Everything you've told me terrifies

me not fact A and fact B. or who's conspiring with

whom; I'm a landscape painter; I can't deal with

such things. But I'm so terribly afraid because I can

personalise. I can see how these people this

Aquitaine can win, can take control of our lives,

turning us all into complacent flocks of sheep. Good

God, Joel, we'd uvelcome them!"

"I missed something."

    "Then you're blind. I don't think it's just women,

or women who live alone like me, I think it's most

of the people walking around in the streets, trying

to earn a living, trying to make the rent or a

mortgage or a car payment, trying to make it

through life. We're sick of everything around us!

We're told one minute we may be blown up in a

nuclear war unless we're taxed out of our houses to

pay for bigger bombs and that our water's

contaminated, or that we can't buy this or that

because it might be poisoned. Children disappear,

and people are killed walking into a store for a

quart of milk, and addicts and muggers with guns

and knives cut people down on the streets. I live in

a small town and I won't go there after dark, and if

I'm in the city any city I look behind me in broad

daylight, and I'll be damned if I'll get into an

elevator unless it's crowded.... I couldn't afford it

but I put in a burglar alarm system in a house I

don't own because there was a boat out in the water

one day that stayed there overnight. In my mind I

saw men crawling up the beach to my windows. We

all see such things, whether out on the water, or

down city blocks, or in a field like this. We're

frightened; we're sick of the problems, sick of the

violence. We want someone strong to stop it and

I'm not sure it even matters who they are. And if

the men you're talking about push things any fur-

ther_believe me, they know what they're doing.

They can walk in and be crowned, no votes

required.... And in spite of everything I've said,

that's even more frightening. Which is why you're

going to take me to the airport."

    "Why did I ever let you go?" whispered Joel,

more to himself than to her.

"Cut it out, Converse. It's over. We're over.''

* * *

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 505

    He watched from the darkest area of the parking

lot at Amsterdam's Schilphol Airport as the plane

sped down the runway and lifted off into the night

sky. He had driven up to a crowded platform where

Val had gotten out, giving him the scrap of paper

with the address that was to be his refuge for the

night. So that he would know she had been able to

get on board the flight, she was to come out the

glass doors, look at her watch and go back inside. If

the plane was overbooked, she was to continue on

the pedestrian walk to the temporary lot a hundred

yards away from the entrance where he would be

waiting for her. She had come outside, glanced at

her watch and returned to the terminal. A part of

him had felt relief, another part a quiet, hollow

emptiness.

    He watched the huge silver plane bank to the left

and disappear, its fading lights a trajectory in the

dark sky.

    He stood naked in front of the mirror in the

small bathroom in the house on the Lindengracht.

The car was some twenty streets away. He had made

the return journey cautiously on foot. The old man

who owned the flat was pleasant and spoke in

haltingly clear English, but his eyes were far away

and never really made contact. His mind was in

another place, another time.

    Joel had shaved carefully, showered far longer

than a guest should, and had finished applying the

deep red lotion to his face, neck and hands. In

moments his skin was bronzed. The result was far

more authentic than it used to be with the earlier

products he remembered, when anyone who used

them stood out the mask of sickly brown was too

smooth and cosmeticized to be anything but

unnatural. The new coloring further concealed the

bruises on his face; he looked almost normal. He

would discard the tinted glasses; they would only call

attention to him, especially from anyone who had

seen him or had been given his description. He

washed his hands repeatedly, kneading them together

to remove the stains from his fingertips.

    He stiffened. From somewhere beyond the door

came the sound of an erratic bell. He quickly turned

off the water and listened, his breathing suspended,

his eyes on the gun he had placed on the narrow

windowsill. He heard the sound again; it stopped.

Then he heard a single voice, a man on a telephone.

He dried his hands and slipped on the short cotton

bathrobe that had been left on the bed in his small,

immacu

506 ROBERT LUDLUM

late room. He put the gun in his pocket went out

the door and down the dark, narrow hallway that

fed to the old man's "study." It was a former

bedroom filled with old magazines a few books, and

tabloid newspapers on tables and chairs opened to

the bloodiest sections, with red crayon marks cir-

cling articles and pictures. On the walls were prints

and photographs of long-past wartime

accomplishments including corpses in various poses

of death. In an odd way it reminded Converse of

L'Etalon Blanc in Paris, except that here there were

no glories of war, only the ugliness of death. It was

more honest, he thought, if nothing else.

    "Ah, Meneer, " said the old man, sitting forward

in a huge leather chair that engulfed his frail body,

the telephone beside him. "You are safe, quite safe!

That was Kabel code name, Kabel, nataurlijk. He

has left the hotel and reports his progress." Fragile,

in his seventies the Dutchman struggled out of the

chair and stood erect, his thin shoulders back, his

body rigid a foolish old man playing soldier.

"Operation Osnabruck proceeds"" he said, as if

reporting to a commanding officer. "As

contemplated by underground intelligence reports,

the enemy infiltrated the area and he has been

compromised."

"He's been what?"

    "Executed, Meneer. A wire around the throat,

taken from behind. The blood stays on the clothes

as the neck is pulled back, thus there are no signs of

combat and the enemy is removed from the place of

compromise."

"What did you say?"

    "Kabel is strong for one of his age," said the old

man, grinning, his weathered face a thousand

creases, his posture now relaxed. "He took the body

from the room, dragged it to the fire exit, and down

into the alley. From there he gained access to the

cellars and put the corpse back by the furnaces. It is

summer; the man may not be found for

days unless the stench becomes too much."

    Converse heard the words, but his concentration

was only on one. Compromise. In this odd language

of another time it meant . . . execution. Execution .

. . murder . . . assassinationl

    What would you say to compromising certain

powerful individuals in specif c governments . . . ~

Leifhelm's words.

It wouldn't Turk. His own.

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 507

    You do not take into consideration the time

element! AN cumulation! Rapid acceleration! Chaim

Abrahms.

    Good Christ! thought Joel. Was that what the

generals of Aquitaine meant? Assassinations? Was it

the reason for the glaring, disapproving looks

directed at the Israeli and Abrahms' sudden retreat

into qualification, then dismissal: It's merely a point .

. . I'm not sure it even applies.

    Accumulation, rapid acceleration, one after

another national leaders cut down everywhere.

Presidents and prime ministers, ministers of state and

vice-presidents, powerful men and women from all

shades of the narrow, acceptable political spectrums

violently eliminated governments in chaos. All to

take place in a matter of hours, savagery erupting in

the streets, fueled by hysteria, victims and violators

blurred until the commanders were summoned to

restore order, not to leave until the controls were

theirs. The climate was established, the day was

coming. Assassinations!

    He had to get back into Germany. He had to

reach Osnabruck and be there when Val called. Sam

Abbott had to be told.

29

    His hands manacled and chained, his wounded

right forearm encased in a filthy bandage, Connal

Fitzpatrick gripped the ledge of the small window and

peered out beyond the bars at the strange, violent

activity taking place on the huge concrete parade

ground. That it was a parade ground had been clear

on the second morning of his capture when, along

with the other prisoners, he was granted an hour's

exercise outside the concrete barracks and they

severe barracks once part of an old refueling station

for submarines was his guess. The slips along the

water as well as the winching machinery were far too

small and too obsolete for today's nuclear

marauders no Trident could fit in any space along

the concrete and steel piers but once, he judged, the

base had served the German undersea Navy well.

Now, however, it was being used to the great

disservice

508 ROBERT LUDLUM

of the Federal Republic of Germany and of free

governments everywhere. It was Aquitaine's training

ground, the place where strategies were being

refined, maneuvers perfected, and the final

preparations made for the massive assaults that

would propel Delavane's military commanders to

power over paralysed civilian authorities. Everything

was reduced to killing swift and brutal, the shock

of the acts themselves intrinsic to the wave of

violence.

    Beyond the window, units of four and five men

raced separately and in succession around and

between a crowd of perhaps a hundred others,

taking their turns at the sickening exercise they were

perfecting. For at the end of the parade ground was

a concrete platform, seven feet high and perhaps

thirty feet long, where mannequins were lined up in

a row some standing, others in chairs their

inanimate figures rigid, their lifeless glass eyes

staring straight ahead. They were the targets. At the

center of each clothed chest, "male" and "female,"

was an encased circle of bullet-proof wire mesh;

within each was a high-intensity orange light, seen

clearly in the afternoon sun. At the discretion of the

compound's trainer, it flashed on. It was the signal

that this particular mannequin was the particular

unit's specific target or, if more than one, targets.

Hits were recorded electronically by other lights on

the high stone wall above each figure on the

platform. Red was a kill, blue merely a wound. Red

was acceptable, blue was not.

    The screaming admonitions over the

loudspeakers were delivered in nine languages, four

of which Connal understood. The words were the

same:

    Thirteen days to ground -zero!Accuracy is u

pper~nost! Escape is with the diversion of a kill!

Otherwise there is only death!

    Eleven days to ground-zero! Accuracy is upper-

most. . . !

Eight days to ground-zero!Accuracy is . . . !

    Individual members of the killer teams fired at

their targets, exploding stuffed skulls and pulverising

chests and stomachs, sometimes by themselves, other

times in unison with their comrades. Each "kill' was

greeted with exuberant shouts as the men raced

through the crowd, melting into it, finally becoming

part of it as their maneuver was completed. Another

team was then instantly formed from within the

ranks of the spectators; and another exercise in

assassination

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 509

was mounted, executed swiftly. And so it went, hour

after hour, the crowd reacting to the "kills" with roars

of approval as weapons were reloaded for upcoming

assaults against the mannequins. Every twenty

minutes or so, as sections of the lifeless figures on

the platform were progressively blown apart, they

would be replaced with fresh heads and torsos. All

that was missing were rivers of blood and mass

hysteria.

    In anger and frustration, Connal spread his

manacled wrists apart, pulling at the unbreakable

chain and yanking with all his might as the rusted,

circular braces dug into his flesh and bruised his

wrist bones. There was nothing he could do, no way

to get out! He knew the secret of Aquitaine; the

evidence of its ultimate strategy was right there

before his eyes. The mass killing of political figures

in nine different nations eight days away!

    He turned from the window, arms aching, wrists

stinging, and looked around at the barracks full of

prisoners forty-three men trying not to fail but

failing fast. Many were lying listlessly on their cots,

others stared forlornly out various windows; a

number talked quietly in small groups against the

blank walls. All were manacled as he was. The

abysmally short rations and the prolonged, brutal

periods of "exercise" had weakened them all in both

body and mind. Whispering among themselves, they

had come to several erroneous conclusions about

their captors' goal, but their own captivity eluded

reason. They were part of a strategy they could not

understand. In unwatched corners Connal tried to

explain, only to be met with blank stares and

bewilderment.

    Several points were established for whatever

they signified. To begin with, they were all military

officers ranging in rank from the middle to the

higher echelons. Secondly, all were bachelors or

divorced, none with children or currently involved in

serious relationships that demanded constant

communications. Lastly, all were on 30- to 45-day

leaves, only one other like Connal with emergency

status, the rest on normal summer holidays. There

was a pattern, but what did it mean?

    There ureas a clue to that meaning, but it, too,

was beyond understanding. Every other day or so the

prisoners were brought postcards from widely diverse

locations resort areas in Europe and North

America and instructed to write specific messages

to specific individuals they all recognised as various

fellow officers at the posts or bases from which they

510 ROBERT LUDLUM

were on leave. The messages were always in the

vein of Ham ing wonderful fume; wish you were here;

off to To refuse to write these peripatetic greetings

was to be denied the scant food they were given and

to be driven out to the parade ground, where they

were forced to run as fast as they could in laps, with

guns pointed at them, until they dropped.

    They agreed among themselves that the reason

behind the near-starvation level of daily rations had

a purpose. They were all trained, competent

officers.. Such men in decent physical and mental

condition were capable of attempting escape or, at

the least, of creating serious disturbances. But that

was all they could understand. All but Connal had

been there for a minimum of twenty-two to a

maximum of thirty-four days. They were in a

concentration camp somewhere on some

indeterminate coastline, not knowing their crimes,

real or imagined by their captors.

    "Que pastas" asked a prisoner named Enrique

from Madrid.

    "Es lo mismo Athena en el camps de manio/oras,

" replied Fitzpatrick, nodding his head at the

window, and continued in Spanish, "They're killing

stuffed dummies out there, figuring each hit makes

them heroes or martyrs or both."

    "It's crazy!" cried the Spaniard. "It's crazy and

it's sick in the head! What do they accomplish? Why

this madness?"

    "They're going to cut down a lot of important

people eight days from now. They're going to kill

them during some kind of international holiday or

celebration or something like that. What the hell is

happening eight days from now? Have you any

idea?"

    "I am only a major at the garrison at Zaragoza.

I make my reports on the Basque provisionals, and

read my books What do I know of such things?

Whatever it is, it would not reach

Zaragoza barbarous country, but I would wear

corporal's stripes to return to it."

"Vise! Contre la muraille!"

"Schnell! Gegen die Mauer!"

"Move! Against the wall!"

"Pa presto! Contro it muro. "

    Four guards burst through the barracks doors,

others following, repeating the same order in

different languages. It was a manacles-and-chain

inspection, carried out at whim day and night, never

less than once an hour during the daylight as

frequently as four times at night. The slightest

evidence of

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 511

any prisoner having attempted to break or weaken

his chain or crack his manacles by filing them against

the concrete or smashing them into rock was met

with immediate punishment, which meant running

naked preferably in the rain until collapse, and

remaining in chains where he fell with no food or

water for thirty-six hours. Of the forty-three men,

twenty-nine of the strongest among them had been

so punished, a number more than two and three

times until they had little strength left. Connal had

run the gauntlet only once thanks apparently to his

bilingual guard, an Italian who seemed to appreciate

the fact that his americano had taken the trouble to

learn italiano. The man from Genoa was a bitter,

cynical former paratrooper and probably a con-

vict who referred to himself as an outcast but

predicted he would come into his own when he was

rewarded for his work. But like most men from his

part of the world he instinctively responded to a

foreigner's praise of bella italia, bellissima Roma.

    It was from their short, whispered conversations

that Fitzpatrick had learned as much as he had, his

legal military mind operating on the level of

addressing a malcontented military client. He had

pushed the buttons he had pushed so often before.

"What's in it for you? They know you're garbage!"

    "They promise me. They pay me much money to

teach what I know. Without people like me many

of us here they will not accomplish.'

"Accomplish what?"

"That is for them to say. I am, as you say, employed."

"To show them how to kill?"

    "And to run and not be seen. That is our

life the lives of many of us here."

"You could lose everything."

"Most of us have nothing. We were used and

discarded." "These men will do the same to you."

"Then we will kill again. We are experienced."

"Suppose their enemies find this place?"

"They will not. They cannot."

"Why not?"

"It's an island no one thinks of."

"They know that."

    "Im possible! No planes fly over, no boats come.

We would know if they did."

512 ROBERT LUDLUM

"Why don't you think about what was here?"

"What do you mean?"

"Submarines. Surrounding your island.'.

    "If that was true, americano, the how you

say? the custode . . . "

"The warden."

    "He would explode everything away. Everything

on this side of the island would befumo smoke,

nothing. It is part of our contralto. We understand."

    "The warden the custody he's the big German

with the short grey hair, isn't he?"

"Enough talk. Have your drink of water."

    "I have information for you," whispered Connal,

as the guard checked his manacles and chain.

"Information that will guarantee you a big reward

and might possibly save my life."

"What kind of information?"

    "Not here. Not now. There isn't time. Come

back tonight everyone's so exhausted they're asleep

before they reach their cots. I'll stay awake. Come

and get me, but come alone. You don't want to

share this."

    "My head is filled with zucchini? I come alone to

a barracks filled with condemned mend"

    "What can any of us do? What can I do? I'll stay

by the door; you open it and I'll step out, your gun

no doubt at my head. I don't want to die, that's why

I'm talking to you!"

You will die. May you go with God."

    "You're a fool, a '5uffone! You could have a

fortune instead of a bullet in your chest."

    The Italian looked guardedly at Fitzpatrick, then

around at the others; the inspections were nearly

finished. "For me to do such a thing, I need more

than what you have told me."

"Two of your guards are traitors," whispered Connal.

"she rosa?"

"That's all you get until tonight."

    Fitzpatrick lay on the cot in the darkness,

waiting, listentng for the sound of footsteps, the

sweat of anxiety drenching his face. All around him

were the sleep-induced moans of hungry, physically

abused men. He pushed his own pains out of his

mind; he had other things to think about. If he

could reach the water, the manacles would slow him

down but not stop hun, he could sidestroke nearly

indefinitely and somewhere

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 513

down the coastline, away from "this side of the

island," there would be a beach or a dock, a place

where he could crawl out of the sea. There was

nothing else left, he had to try it. He also had to

make sure his Italian guard could raise no alarms.

    The bolt in the door was quietly sliding back! He

had missed the footsteps; his thoughts had distracted

him. He got up silently and started down the aisle on

the balls of his feet, flexing his hands but keeping the

chain taut. He could not make any noise whatsoever,

because several prisoners had begun to have violent

nightmares when there was the slightest disturbance.

He reached the door and somehow understood he

was to push it open, not wait for it to be opened; the

guard would stay back, his weapon aimed at him.

    It was so. The Italian gestured with his gun for

Connal to move forward as he sidestepped to the

door and secured the bolt. He then pointed with the

barrel of his weapon, ordering Fitzpatrick to walk

ahead. Moments later both men stood in the

shadows in front of the barracks, the old refueling

station still visible in the darkness, the ocean waves

lapping at the pilings.

    "Now we talk," said the guard. "Who are these

traitors and why should I believe you?"

    "I want your word that you'll tell your superiors

I turned them in. I don't say anything until I have

your word!"

    "My word, americano?" said the Italian, laughing

softly. "Very well, amino, you have my word."

    The guard's quiet, cynical laughter covered the

seconds. Connal suddenly whipped out the chain and

crashed it down on the man's weapon; grabbing the

barrel of the gun with his right hand, he wrenched it

free; it fell to the grass below. He then raised the

chain as he kicked the guard in the groin, and

slammed the heavy links into the man's face,

smashing the manacles into the Italian's skull until

the guard's eyes grew wide and then closed in

unconsciousness. Fitzpatrick crouched, finding his

bearings.

    It was directly ahead an old submarine slip, its

long pier extending out to the middle water. He got

up and ran. The air was exhilarating, the breezes

from the sea told him to run faster, faster. Escape

was seconds away.

    He plunged over the dock into the water,

knowing he would find the strength to do anything,

swim anywhere! He was free!

Suddenly, he was blinded by the floodlights

everywhere.

514 ROBERT LUDIUM

Then a fusillade of bullets exploded from all sides,

ripping up the water around him, cracking the air

overhead, but none entering his body or blowing

apart his head. And words over a loudspeaker filled

the night: "You are most fortunate, Prisoner

Number Forty-three, that we still might have need

of you. Otherwise, your corpse would be food for

the North Sea fishes."

30

    Joel walked out of the bright afternoon sun into

Amsterdam's cavernous Centroal station. The dark

suit and hat fit comfortably; the clerical collar and

the black shoes pinched but were bearable, and the

small suitcase was an impediment he could discard

at any time, although it was a correct accessory and

held odd bits of clothing, none of which was likely

to fit. Since a deja vu would be no illusion for those

he had encountered before, he walked cautiously,

alert to every sudden movement no matter how

inconsequential. He expected at any instant to see

men rushing toward him, their eyes filled with

purpose and the intent to kill.

    No such men came, but even if they had come,

he would have had some comfort in knowing he had

done his best. He had written the most complete

brief of his legal career, written it with painstakingly

clear handwriting, organizing the material, pulling

together the facts to support his judgments and

conjectures. He had recalled the salient points of

each dossier to lend credibility to his own

conclusions. Regarding his own painful experiences

and firsthand observations, he had weighed every

statement, discarding those that might seem too

emotional, reshaping the rest to reflect the cold ob-

jectivity of a trained, sane legal mind. He had lain

awake for hours during the night, allowing the

organisational blocks to fall into place, then started

writing in the early morning, ending with a personal

letter that dispelled any misconceptions about his

madness. He was a pawn who had been manipulated

by frightened, invisible men who had supplied the

tools and knew exactly what they were doing. In

spite of everything

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 515

that had happened he understood, and felt that

perhaps there had not been any other way to do it.

He had finished it all an hour ago and sealed the

pages in a large envelope supplied by the old man

who said he would post it on the Damrak after

dropping Converse off. Joel had sent it to Nathan

Simon.

"Pastoor Wilcrist! It is you, is it not?"

    Converse spun around at the touch on his arm.

He saw that the shrill greeting came from a gaunt,

slightly bent woman in her late seventies. Her

wizened face was dominated by intense eyes, her

head framed by a nun's crown, her slender body

encased in a black habit. "Yes," he said, startled.

"Hello, Sister?"

    "I can tell you don't remember me, Pastoor,"

exclaimed the woman, her English

heavily loudly accented. "No, don't fib, I can see

you have no idea who I aml"

    "I might if you'd keep your voice down, Sister."

Joel spoke softly, leaning down and trying to smile.

"You'll call attention to us, lady."

    "The religious always greet each other so," said

the old woman confidentially, her eyes wide and

direct, too direct. "They wish to appear like normal

people."

    "Shall we walk over here so we can talk quietly?"

Converse took the woman by the arm and led her

toward a crowded area of a gate. "You have

something for me?"

"Where are you from?"

"Where am I from? What do you mean?"

"You know the rules. I have to be certain."

"Of what?"

    "That you are the proper contact. There can be

no substitutes, no deviations. We are not fools,

Meneer. Now, where are you from? Quicklyl

Hesitation itself is a lie."

    "Wait a minutel You were told to meet me here;

you were given a description. What more do you

want?"

"To know where you're from."

    "Chest, how many sunburned priests did you

expect to see at the information booth?"

    "They are not no un-normal. Some swim, I am

told. Others play tennis. The Pope himself once skied

in the moumtain sun! You see I am a good Catholic,

I know these things."

"You were given a description! Am I that man?"

    "You all-look alike. The Father last week at

confession was not a good man. He told me I had

too many sins for my age and he had others waiting.

He was not a patient man of God."

516 ROBERT LUDLUM

"Neither am I."

"All alike."

    "Please, " said Joel, looking at the thick, narrow

envelope in the woman's hands, knowing that if he

took it forcibly from her she would scream. "I have

to reach Osnabruck, you know that!"

    'You are from Osnabru'ck?" The "nun" clutched

the envelope to her chest, her body bent further,

protecting a holy thing.

    "No, not Osnabruck!" Converse tried to

remember Val's words. He was a priest on a

pilgrimage . . . to Auschwitz and Bergen-Belsen . .

. from, from. . . "LosAngeles!" he whispered harshly.

"Ja, Hoed. What country?"

"Jesus!"

"lariat?"

"The United States of America."

    "Goed! Here you are, Meneer. " The old woman

handed him the envelope, now smiling sweetly. "We

all must do our jobs, must we not? Go with God,

my fellow servant of the Lord.... I do like this

costume. I was on the stage, you know. I don't think

I'll give it back. Everyone smiles, and a gentleman

who came out of one of those dirty houses stopped

and gave me fifty Builder."

    The old woman walked away, turning once and

smiling again, discreetly showing him a pint of

whisky she had taken from under her habit.

    It might have been the same platform, he could

not tell, but his fears were the same as when he

arrived in Amsterdam twenty-four hours ago. He

had come to the city as an innocuous-looking

laborer with a beard and a pale, bruised face. He

was leaving as a priest, erect, clean-shaven,

sunburned, a properly dressed man of the cloth on

a pilgrimage for repentance and reaffirmation. Gone

was the outraged lawyer in Geneva, the

manipulating supplicant in Paris, the captured dupe

in Bonn. What remained was the hunted man, and

to survive he had to be able to stalk the hunters

before they could stalk him; that meant spotting

them before they spotted him. It was a lesson he

had learned eighteen years ago when his eyes were

sharper and his body more resilient. To compensate,

he had to use whatever other talents he had

developed; all were reduced to his ability to

concentrate without appearing to concentrate.

Which was how and why Joel saw the man.

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 517

    He was standing by a concrete pillar up ahead on

the platorm reading an unfolded train schedule in

the dim light. Converse glanced at him as, indeed,

he glanced briefly at Early everyone in sight then

seconds later he looked again. something was odd,

incongruous. There could be several reaons why a

man remained outside a well-lit railroad car to ead

a schedule a last cigarette in the open air, waiting

for omeone but that same man could hardly read

the very mall print while casually holding the

schedule midway beween his head and his waist

without any evidence of a squint. :t was like trying to

read a page from a telephone directory n a car stuck

in traffic in the Lincoln Tunnel, it took observble

effort.

    Converse continued down the platform,

approaching the wo open doors that signified the end

of one railway car and :he beginning of the next. He

purposely let his suitcase catch n a protruding

window ledge, pivoting as it did so, and apolo~ized

to a couple behind him. Courteously he let them pass

md courteously, as each saw his collar, they smiled

and nodded. But while he remained facing them, his

eyes strayed to he man diagonally to the left by the

pillar. The man still -latched the schedule in his hand

but was concentrating now on Joel. It was enough.

    Converse entered the second door, his gait casual

again, but the instant he could no longer see the man

by the pillar he rushed inside the railroad car. He

tripped, falling to the floor by the first seat, and

again apologised to those behind him a divine

undone by profane luggage. He looked out the

window, past the two passengers in the seat, both of

whom paid attention to his collar before looking at

his face.

    The man by the pillar had dropped the schedule

and was now frantically signaling with quick

beckoning gestures. In seconds he was joined by

another man, their conversation was rapid, then they

separated, with one going to the door at the front of

the car, the other heading for the entrance Joel had

just passed through.

They had found him. He was trapped.

    Valerie paid the driver and climbed out of the

cab, thanking the doorman, who greeted her. It was

the second hotel reservation she had made in the

space of two hours, having left a dead-end trail in

case anyone was following her. She had taken a cab

from Kennedy to LaGuardia, bought a ticket to

518 ROBERT IUDLUM

Boston on a midmorning shuttle, then registered at

the air port motel, both under the name of

Charpentier. She had lef the motel thirty minutes

later, having paid the cabdriver k return for her at

a side exit and calling the hotel in Manhattar to see

if a reservation was possible at that hour. It was.

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."

    "The name, princess! Where's your Micmac

spirit? How can I ask you to have breakfast with me

if I don t know your name?"

"Oh . . . the name tag. I'm sorry."

522 ROBERT LUDLUM

"What's your region, beautiful creature?"

    "Region?" Valerie was puzzled but only for a

moment. She suddenly smiled. "Actually, I'm

new just hired yesterday. They said my instructions

would be at the desk, but it's so crowded I'll never

get over there. Of course, with your shoulders I

might make it before I m fired."

    "Grab hold, princess! These shoulders used to

play semi-pro ball." The heavyset salesman was an

effective blocking back; they reached the counter

and the man growled appropriately, a lion preening

before its conquest. "Hey, fellal This lady's been

trying to get your attention. Need I say more Della?"

The salesman, holding in his stomach, grinned at

Val.

    "No, sir yes, ma'am?" said the perplexed clerk,

who was not at all busy. The activity was taking

place in front of the counter, not at the counter.

    Valerie leaned forward, ostensibly to be heard

through the noise. She placed her key on the

counter and opened her purse, taking out three $50

bills. "This should cover the room. I've been here

one night, and there are no charges. What's left is

yours."

"Thank you, ma'arn."

"I need a favor."

' Of coursel"

    'my name is Mrs. DePinna but of course the

key tells you that."

"What is it you want me to do, ma'am?"

    "I'm visiting a friend who's just had an

operation. Could you tell me where the Lebanon

Hospital is?"

    "The Lebanon? It's in the Bronx, I think.

Somewhere on the Grand Concourse. Any cabdriver

will know, ma'am."

'Mrs. DePinna's the name."

"Yes, Mrs. DePinna. Thank you."

    Valerie turned to the heavyset, red-eyed

salesman, again smiling. "I'm sorry. Apparently I'm

at the wrong hotel, the wrong company, can you

imagine? It would have been nice. Thanks for your

help." She turned and quickly dodged her way

through the crowd toward the revolving doors.

    The street was only beginning to come alive.

Valerie walked rapidly down the pavement, then

stopped almost immediately in front of a small,

elegant bookstore and decided to wait in the

doorway. The stories she had heard all her life

included not only tales of leaving false information

but lessons

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 523

showing the need for knowing what the enemy

looked like it was often the difference.

    A taxi drove up in front of the St. Regis, and

before it came to a-stop the rear door opened. She

could see the passenger clearly, he was paying the

fare hurriedly without thought of change. He climbed

out swiftly and started running toward the glass

doors. He was hatless, with unkempt, blandish hair,

and dressed in a madras jacket and light-blue

summer jeans. He was the enemy, Valerie knew that

and accepted it. What she found hard to accept was

his youth. He was in his twenties, hardly more than

a boy. But the face was hard and set in anger, the

eyes cold distant flashes of steel in the sunlight. Wie

ein HitlerJunge, thought Val, walking out of the book-

store doorway.

    A car streaked past her, heading west toward the

hotel; within seconds she heard screeching tires and

expected a crash to follow. Like the other

pedestrians, she turned around to look. Fifty feet

away a brown sedan had come to a stop; on its door

panels and trunk were the clear black letters u.s.

ARMY. A uniformed officer got out quickly. He was

staring at her.

She broke into a run.

    Converse sat in an aisle seat roughly in the

middle of the railway car. His palms perspired as he

turned the pages of the small black prayer book,

which had been placed in the envelope along with his

passport, the letter of pilgrimage, and a typewritten

sheet of instructions, which included a few basic facts

about Father William Wilcrist, should they be

necessary. On the bottom of the page was a final

order: Commit to memory, tear up, and flush down

toilet before immigration at Oldenzaal.

    The instructions were unnecessary, even

distracting. Quite simply, he was to take a stroll

through the railway cars twenty minutes out of a

station called Rheine, leaving the suitcase behind as

if he intended to return to his seat, and get off at

Osnabruck. The details of his supposedly changing

trains at Hanover for Celle and the subsequent

morning drive north to Bergen-Belsen could have

been said in one sentence rather than buried in the

complicated paragraphs describing the underground's

motivations and past successes. The facts about

Father William Wilcrist, however, were succinct, and

he had memorised them after the second reading.

Wilcrist was thir

524 ROBERT IUDLUM

ty-eight years old, a graduate of Fordham, with a

theological degree from Catholic University in

Washington. Ordained at St. Ignatius in New York,

he was an "activist priest" and currently assigned to

the Church of the Blessed Sacrament in Los

Angeles. In Valerie's words, if he was asked to

recite more than that he was probably caught.

    For all practical purposes he was caught now,

thought Joel, gazing at the back of a man's head in

the front of the car, the same man who had joined

another standing by a pillar on the platform in

Amsterdam. Undoubtedly that first man was now

looking at the back of his head from a seat in the

rear, mused Converse, turning another page in the

prayer book. On the surface, the odds against him

were overwhelming, but there was a fact and a

factor just below the surface. The fact was that he

knew who his executioners were and they did not

know he knew. The factor was a state of mind he

had drawn upon in the past.

    The train traveled north, then east; there were

two stops before Oldenzaal, after which he

presumed they would cross the Rhine into West

Germany. They had pulled in and out of the

Deventer station; that left one more, a city named

Hengelo. The announcement came, and Joel got out

of his seat before any of the Hengelo commuters

rose from theirs; he turned in the aisle and walked

back to the rear of the car. As he passed the man

who stood by the pillar he saw that Aquitaine's

hunter was staring straight ahead, his body so rigid

it barely moved with the movement of the train.

Converse had seen such postures many times

before, at trials and in boardrooms; they invariably

belonged to insecure witnesses and unsure

negotiators. The man was tense, afraid perhaps of

failing an assignment or of the people who had sent

him to Amsterdam whatever it was, his anxiety was

showing and Joel would use it. He was crawling out

of a deep shaft in the ground, one tenuous grasp of

earth afteranother, the indentations preformed after

nights of preparation. The wire fence was in the

distance, the rain falling, the patrols concerned,

anxious frightened by every sound they could not

quickly identify. He needed only one to move away

and he had it. . . . He could reach the fence!

Reach Osnabruck alone.

    The toilet was unoccupied; he opened the door,

went inside, and took out the page of instructions.

He folded it, tore it in shreds, and dropped the

pieces into the bowl, pressing

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 525

the foot button as he did so. They disappeared with

the flush; he turned back to the door and waited.

    A second announcement blared from the

speakers outside as the train slowed down; the sound

of gathering feet was inches away beyond the door.

The train came to a stop, he could feel the vibration

of moving bodies, determined commuters thinking of

home and relief and undoubtedly the Dutch

equivalent of a martini. The vibrations the sounds

faded away. Converse opened the door no more than

half an inch. The rigid hunter was not in his seat.

Now.

    Joel slid out of the door and stepped quickly into

the open separation between cars, excusing himself

between the stragglers getting off from the car

behind, and walked rapidly inside and down the

aisle. As he approached the last rows he saw an

empty seat two seats, facing the platform and

swung in, he sat down beside the window, his hand

in front of his face, peering outside through his

fingers.

    Aquitaine's hunter raced back and forth,

sufficiently aggressive to stop three men who were

walking away, their backs to him; rapid apologies

followed. The hunter turned to the train, having

exhausted the departing possibilities. He got back on

board, his face a creased map falling apart.

    More, thought Converse. I want more. I want you

stretched, as patrols before you were stretched. Until

you can 't stand it!

    Oldenzaal arrived, then was left behind. The

train crossed the Rhine, the clattering of the bridge

below like snare drums. The hunter had crashed the

forward door open too panicked to do anything but

quickly look around and return to his companion, or

to a lone suitcase perhaps. Joel's head was below the

back of the seat in front of him. Minutes later came

the Sonderpolizei checking the border, scrutinizing

every male of a vague description, dozens of

uniformed men walking through the railway cars.

They were courteous, to be sure, but nevertheless

they gave rise to ugly vestiges of a time past.

Converse showed his passport and the letter written

in German for the conscience of Germans. A

policeman grimaced sadly, then nodded and went on

to the next seat. The uniforms left; the minutes

became quarter-hours. He could see through the

windows into the forward car; the two hunters met

several rows behind where he had been sitting. Again

they separated; one fore, one aft. Now.

Joel got up from his seat and sidestepped into the

aisle,

526 ROBERT LUDLUM

pretending to check his schedule and bending down

to look out the darkened window. He would stay

there for as long as he had to, until one of the

hunters spotted him. It took less than ten seconds.

As Converse pitched his head down supposedly to

see a passing sign outside he caught a glimpse of a

figure moving into the upper panel of glass on the

forward door. Joel stood up. The man behind the

glass spun out of sight. It was the sign he had been

waiting for, the moment to move quickly.

    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! Nachste Station, Benthelm!"

    The train was slowing down, the first of two

stops before Osnabruck. 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

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 527

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.

    "Sin Zigarette for Sei, wahrend ich sum 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 Whss

. ,,

icy.

    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-wirefence!Hecould 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.

528 ROBERT LUDLUM

"You speak any English?"

"la/" 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 Iying; 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 un-

employed!"

    Joel crashed the weapon into the man's

skull the patrol had been taken out! Ile 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/ Nachste Station, Rheine!"

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 529

    The last stop before Osnabruck. 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.

31

    Valerie kept running, afraid to look behind, but

when she forced herself to turn her head she saw the

Army officer ing 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.

530 ROBERT LUDLUM

What the hell? "My husband is running up the street

after me and I win not be hit again! I hurt.

He's he's an Arrny 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 mel"

    "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,

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 531

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 rennin' 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 Vial, 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 un-

mistakable 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."

532 ROBERT IUDLUM

"I don't want to believe that."

    'Oh, my, we have a liberal! Suck to it, ma'am,

until they stick it to you. Me, I want 'em all toiry!

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 darUng 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 . . ."

"One minute, please. I'll transfer you."

    "Personnel, Denver Units," came a second voice,

now male. "Sergeant Porter."

    "Sergeant, I'm trying to locate an officer,

'repeated Valerie. "A relative of mine who left word

with an aunt that he wanted to reach me."

"Where in Colorado, ma'am?"

"Well, I'm not sure."

    "The Springs? The Academy? Lowry Field or

possibly Cheyenne Mountain?"

"I don't know that he is in Colorado, Sergeant."

"Why did you call Denver, then?"

"You were in the telephone book."

    "I see." The Army man paused. "And this officer

left word that he wanted to reach you?"

"Yes."

"But he didn't leave an address or a telephone

number."

"If he did, my aunt lost it. She's quite elderly."

    "The procedure is as follows, miss. If you will

write a letter to the MPC Military Personnel

Center at the Randolph Air Force Base, San

Antonio, Texas, staking your request and the

officer's name and rank, the letter will be

processed."

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 533

    "I don't have time, Sergeant! I travel a great

deal I'm calling from an airport now, as a matter of

fact."

"I'm sorry, miss, those are the regulations.'

    "I'm not a 'miss' and my cousin's a general and

he really does want to speak to me! I just want to

know where he is, and if you can't tell me, certainly

you can call him and give him my name. I'll call you

back with a number where he can reach me. That's

reasonable, isn't it, Sergeant? Frankly, this is an

emergency."

"A general, ma'am?"

"Yes, Sergeant Potter. A General Abbott."

    "Sam Abbott? I mean, Brigadier General Samuel

Abbott?"

"That's the one, Sergeant Potter."

"Porter, ma'am."

"I'll remember that."

    "Well, I can't see any security breach here,

miss ma'am. Everybody knows where General

Abbott is stationed. He's a popular officer and in the

newspapers a lot."

    "Where is that, Sergeant? I'll personally tell him

you've been most helpful to both of us."

    "Nellie Air Force Base in Nevada, ma'am, just

outside Las Vegas. He commands the advanced

tactical maneuver squadrons. All the squadron

commanders get their final training at Nellis. He's

the man.... May I have your name, please?"

    "Oh, good Lord! There's the last boarding call for

my plane! Thank you, Sergeant." Valerie hung up the

phone, her eyes still scanning the street, trying to

decide what to do whether to call Sam now or wait.

Suddenly she realized she could not call; it would

mean using a credit card, origin of call and

destination listed. She went back to the taxi.

    "Lady, I'd just as soon get out of here, if you

don't mind," said the driver, a quiet urgency in his

voice.

"What's the matter?"

    "I keep a police scanner in my cab in case there's

problems in my neighborhood, and I just heard the

word. An Army captain was clobbered on Fifty-fifth

and Madison by a black driver of a taxi heading

north. Lucky for me they didn't get the license or the

company, but the description's pretty good. 'A big

black son of a bitch with a size-twelve fist' was the

way those mothers put it."

    "Let's go," said Val. "I hate to say this, and I

mean that but I can't get involved." The cab sped

forward, the driver

534 R03ERT LUDLUM

turning east on Eightieth Street. "Is my husband

pressing charges?" she asked.

    "No, I'm off the hook there," replied the driver.

"He must have punched you real bad. He just fled

and had nuthin' to say. Bless his white heart. Where

to?"

"Let me think."

"It's your meter."

    She had to get to Las Vegas, but the idea of

going back to Kennedy or LaGuardia airports

frightened her. They seemed too logical, too easily

anticipated. remembered. About five or six years

ago she and Joel were weekending with friends in

Short HiDs, New Jersey, when Joel got a call from

Nathan Simon, teeing him he had to fly to Los

Angeles on Sunday for a Monday-morning meeting.

All the legal papers would be sent to the Beverly

Hills Hotel by air express. Joel had taken the plane

from Newark Airport.

"Can you drive me to Newark?"

"I can drive you to Alaska, lady, but Newark?"

"The airport."

    "That's better. It's one of the best. I guess

Newark's okay, too. I got a brother there and, hell,

he's stiD alive. I'D swing through the park at

Sixty-fifth and head down to the Lincoln Tunnel. Do

you mind if I turn on the scanner again?"

"No, go right ahead."

    The voices went in and out, then the driver

pushed a button and they became steady: "Incident

at Fifty-fifth and Madison is a negative.. Precinct

Ten has called it off as the victim refused assistance

and did not identify himself. So patrols, onward and

upward. We helps them what helps themselves. On,

brothers."

    "Oh, he's a brother!" shouted the driver in relief

as he turned off the radio. "You catch that 'incident

is a negative'? They coulda used him in Nam, in

those big body-count press conferences.... Come to

think of it, he was probably there not with the

press, just one of the bodies. They never did get it

right."

    Valerie leaned forward on the seat. "I asked you

about Nam. About General Delavane. Would you

ted me about him?"

    It was nearly a minute before the black replied,

and when he did so, his voice was soft, even

mellifluous. And somewhere at the base of it was

abject defeat. "My driver's identification is lookin' at

you, lady. I'm drivin' you to Newark Air

    THE AQUITAINE

    PROGRESSION 535

port thaws what you're payin' for, and that's what

you'll

    The rest of the ride was made in silence, an

oppressive sense of fear pervading the cab. After all

these years, thought Val. Oh, God

    They hit heavy traffic at the tunnel and then on

the turnpike; it was the start of the weekend and

vacationers were heading for the Jersey shore. The

airport was worse; it was jammed, cars backed up for

a quarter of a mile in the departure lanes. Finally

they edged up into a parking space and Valerie got

out. She paid the driver a hundred dollars above the

fare and thanked him. "You've been much more than

helpful, you know that.... I'll never really know why

but I'll think about it."

"Like I said, it's my business. I got my reasons."

    "I wish I could say something, something that

could help."

"Don't try, lady. The green is enough."

"No, it's not."

    "Sure, it is until something better comes along,

and that ain't gonna be in my lifetime.... You take

care, missus. I think you got bigger problems than

most of us. You said too much, which I don't recall,

of course."

    Valerie turned and went into the terminal. The

lines in front of the counters were horrendous, and

before joining one she had to know which one.

Twenty minutes later she was in the proper line and

nearly an hour after that she had a ticket to Las

Vegas on American's 12:30 flight, another hour

before boarding. It was time to see if it all made

sense. If Sam Abbott made sense, or whether she

was grasping desperately at a man she once

remembered who might not be that man any longer.

She had exchanged $20 in bills for two $10 rolls of

quarters. She hoped it would be enough. She took an

escalator up to the second floor and went to a

telephone at the far end of the wide corridor past

the shops. Nevada information gave her the number

of the main switchboard at Nellis Air Force Base.

She dialed and asked to be put through to Brigadier

General Samuel Abbott.

"I don't know if he's on the base yet," said the

operator.

    "Oh?" she had forgotten. There was a three-hour

time difference.

    "Just a minute, he's checked in. Early-morning

flight schedule."

536 ROBERT LUDLUM

"General Abbott's office."

    'May I speak to the general, please. The name

is Parquette, Mrs. Virginia Parquette."

    "May I ask what this is in reference to?" asked

the secretary. "The general's extremely busy and is

about to head down to the field."

    "I'm a cousin he hasn't seen in a long time,

actually. There's been a tragedy in the family."

"Oh, I'm terribly sorry."

    "Please tell him I'm on the line. He may not

recall my name; it's been so many years. But you

might remind him that in the old days we had some

wonderful dinners in New York. It's really most

urgent. I wish someone else were making this call,

but I'm afraid I was elected."

"Yes yes, of course."

    The waiting put Valerie in the last circle of hell.

Finally there was a click, followed by the voice she

remembered.

"Virginia . . . Parquette?"

"Yes."

"Ginny from New York? Dinner in New York?"

"Yes."

"You're the wife, not the sister."

"Yes!"

"Give me a number. I'll call you back in ten

minutes."

"It's a pay phone."

"Stay there. The number."

    She gave it to him and hung up, frightened,

wondering what she had done, but knowing that she

could not have done anything else. She sat in the

plastic chair by the phone, watching the escalators,

looking at the people going in and out of the

various shops, the bar, the fast-food restaurant. She

tried not to look at her watch; twelve minutes

passed. The phone rang.

"Yes?"

"Valerie?"

"Yes!"

    "I wanted to get out of the office too many

interruptions. Where are you? I know the area

code's New Jersey."

    "Newark Airport. I'm on the twelve-thirty flight

to Las Vegas. I've got to see you!"

    "I tried to call you. Talbot's secretary gave me

your number "

"When?"

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 537

    '~Starting two days ago. I was in the Mojave on

maneuvers and too bushed to turn on a radio we

didn't have newspapers. A man answered, and when

he said you weren't there I hung up."

"That was Roger, Joel's father. He's dead."

"I know. They say it was most likely suicide."

"No!. . . I've seen him, Sam. I've seen Joel! It's all

lies!"

    "That's what we have to talk about," said the

general. "Call me when you get in. Same name. I

don't want to pick you up at the airport; too many

people know me over there. I'll figure out a place

where we can meet."

"Thank you, Sam!" said Valerie. "You're all we have

left."

"We?"

"For the time being, yes. I'm all he has left."

    Converse watched from the far dark corner of

the railroad station as the train for Osnabruck

started up, its huge wheels pressing into the tracks,

groaning for momentum. At any moment he

expected whistles to pierce the quiet night and the

train to stop, a bewildered half-drunken guard run-

ning from the freight car, screaming. None of it

happened. Why? Was the man more than half

drunk? Had the sounds of the enraged animals

driven him further into the bottle strengthening his

resolve to remain in the safety of his cage? Had he

seen only a blur racing to the door in the dim light,

or perhaps nothing, an unconscious body

subsequently not discovered? Then Joel saw that

there was another possibility a brutal one. He could

see a figure running forward through the second to

last car, twice lunging between the seats, his face

pressed against the glass. Moments later the man was

leaning out above the lower door of the first exit, the

steps below blocked off by the heavy solid gate. In

his hand was a gun, held laterally across his forehead

as he squinted against the station lights, peering into

the shadows.

    Suddenly the killer made his decision. He gripped

the metal rim and leaped over the guardrail,

dropping to the ground, rolling over in the gravel

away from the gathering speed of the train. The

hunter from Aquitaine was in panic he dared not

lose the quarry, dared not fail to carry out his

assignment.

    Converse spun around the corner and raced

along the dark side of the building to a parking area.

The passengers who had gotten off the train were

starting their automobiles

538 ROBERT LUDLUM

or climbing into them; two couples were chatting on

the near platform, obviously waiting to be picked

up. A car came curving in off the road beyond; the

men waved, and in moments all four were inside,

laughing as the car sped away. The parking area was

deserted, the station shut down for the night. A

single floodlight from the roof illuminated the

emptiness, a border of tall trees beyond the wide

expanse of coarse gravel gave the appearance of an

immense impenetrable wall.

    Staying as best he could in the shadows, Joel

darted from one space of darkness to another until

he reached a solid, indented arch at the end of the

building. He pressed his back against the brick and

waited, his hand gripping the gun at his side,

wondering if he would have to use it, if he would

even have a chance to use it. He had been lucky on

the train and he knew it; he was no match for

professional killers. And no matter how strongly he

tried to convince himself, he was not in the jungles

a lifetime ago, not the younger man he had been

then. But when he thought about it as he was

thinking about it now those memories were all he

had to guide him. He ducked out of the shadowed

arch and quickly dashed to the corner.

    The explosion came, blowing out the stone to

the left of his head! He lunged to his right, rolling

on the gravel, then quickly rose to get away from

the spill of the floodlight. Three more shattering

explosions tore up the rock and earth around his

feet. He reached a dark row of foliage and dove

into the bushes, instinctively knowing exactly what

he had to do.

    "Augh!Aughhh . . . !" His final scream ended on

a convincing note of agony.

    He then crawled through the underbrush as fast

as he could penetrate the tangled nets of prickly

green. He was at least ten feet away from where he

had shouted; he pivoted on his knees and remained

still, facing the floodlit expanse beyond the bushes.

    It happened, as it had happened before when

three children in official pajamas had killed another

child indelicately in the jungle. Anxious men were

drawn to the last sounds they heard as this hunter

from Aquitaine was drawn now. The man stalked

out of the darkness of the railroad station's rear

platform, his gun extended, held steady with both

hands. He walked directly, cautiously, to that small

section in the overgrowth where the screams had

come from.

Converse scratched the ground noiselessly until he

found

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 539

a rock larger than his fist. He gripped it and waited,

staring, feeling the drumming in his chest. The killer

was within eight feet of the border of greenery. Joel

lobbed the rock, arcing it in the air to his right.

    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 Osnabruck? 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 Osna-

bruck. 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

elec

540 ROBERT LUDLUM

tronic 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, Hochwur-

den?"

"I don't speak German. Do you speak English?"

"Englander?"

"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. Englander. Nicht

come enter here, verstehen?"

    "I have to call Osnabruck! A woman is waiting

for me a Frau!

"Ohh? Hochwurden! Eine Frau?"

    "No, no! You don't understand! Can't anybody

here speak English ?"

"Sie speeches 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! Din 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 Osnabruck. WhenP When does it

get there?" Converse pointed to his watch. "When?

Osnabruck?"

    The man looked over at the console, then

turned back to Joel and smiled. "Zwolf Minuten,

Hochwurden!"

"How? What?"

"Zwolf... tvelf."

"Twelve?"

''la!''

    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

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 541

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 rnl 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 youmg manl"

'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

Darknessl"

    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

misunderstand

542 ROBERT LUDIUM

me. l have to reach a woman who's waiting for me at

Osnabruck. It's important!"

    "A woman? Satan! He is Lucifer with the eyes of

fire! You thinly 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 tat 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 Ceyner 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, remmding 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

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 543

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 Mannheiml 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, jaP"

"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? Franzase! 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

Osnabruck 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! Cal,

call me. For God's sake, call me!

544 ROBERT LUDLUM

    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

applause 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. "lean. Pragen!"

    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.

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 545

    ' Come, my friendI"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

    The old women began to shout, their lined,

contorted faces filled with hate. Converse got to his

feet; he understood. Hermione Geyner and everyone

else in that room were mad or senile or both. They

were living in a violent time that was forty years in

the past.

    And then, as if on some demented cue, a door

opened across the room and two men came out. One

in a raincoat had his right hand in his pocket and

was carrying some kind of package in his left. The

second man held a topcoat over one arm, no doubt

concealing a weapon. And then a third man

appeared, and Joel closed his eyes, pressing them

shut tight, the pain in his chest unbearable. The third

man had a bandage across his forehead and one arm

in a sling. Converse had caused those wounds; he

had last seen the man in a freight car filled with

frantic animals.

    The first man came up to him and held out the

package, a thick manila envelope with no stamps on

the cover. It was the brief he had sent to Nathan

Simon in New York.

    "General Leifhelm sends you his regards, even his

respects," said the man, pronouncing the word

"general" with the hard German g

32

    Peter Stone watched as the CIA-approved doctor

put the third and final stitch into the corner of the

Army officer's mouth as the captain sat straining in

the chair.

546 ROBERT LUDLUM

    "The bridge will have to be repaired," said the

doctor. "I have a man in the laboratory who'd do it

in a few hours and a dentist on Seventy-second

Street, he'll do the rest. "I'll call you later when I've

made the arrangements."

    "Son of a bitch!" roared the captain, as loud as

he could with half his mouth Novocained. "He was

a tank, a tucking black tank! He couldn't have been

working for her, he was just a goddamned

cabdriver! Why the hell?"

    "Maybe you triggered him," said Stone, walking

away as he looked at several pages of notes. "It

happens."

"What happens?" yelled the officer.

    "Cut it out, Captain. You'll break the stitches."

The doctor held up a hypodermic needle; it was a

threat.

    "Okay, okay." The officer spoke in a softer voice.

"What does 'trigger' mean in that esoteric language

of yours?"

    "It's perfectly clear English." Stone turned to the

doctor. "You know I'm not employed any longer, so

you'd better give me a bill."

    "When you're in town a dinner will do. The lab

and the dentist are different, though. I'd suggest

cash. And get him out of uniform."

"Will do."

    "What . . . ?" The captain stopped, seeing

Stone's hand held unobtrusively in front of his

chest, telling the officer to be quiet.

    The doctor put his instruments in the black bag

and went to the door. "By the way, Stone," he said

to the former CIA agent, "thanks for the Albanian.

His wife is spending Moscow's rubles like mad for

every ache I can find a name for."

    "The ache is her husband. He has an apartment

in D.C. she doesn't know about and some very

strange sex habits."

"I'll never tell."

    The doctor left, and Stone turned back to the

captain. "When you're with men like that, don't say

any more than you have to, and that includes

questions. They don't want to hear and they don't

want to know."

"Sorry. What did you mean I triggered that hulk?"

    "Come on. An attractive woman being chased

down the street by a beribboned Army officer. How

many memories black memories do you think are

out there with less than fondness for your ilk."

    "ilk? I never thought of myself as an ilk, but I

see what you mean.... You were on the phone when

I got here, and

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 547

then there were two other calls. What is it? Any line

on the Converse woman?"

    "No." Stone again looked down at his notes,

shuffling the pages. "We can assume she came back

to reach someone someone she and her ex-husband

trust."

    "He knows his way around Washington. Maybe

someone on the Hill, or even in the administration,

or State."

    "I don't think so. If he knew anyone like that and

thought his story would get out before his head was

shot off, he would have surfaced days ago.

Remember, he's been tried, convicted, and

condemned. Can you think of anyone in Washington

who wouldn't play it play him strictly by the rules?

He's contaminated. Too many 'authoritative sources'

have confirmed it, even diagnosed the disease."

    "And by now he's learned what we foumd out

months ago. You don't know where they are or who

you're talking to."

    "Or whom they've hired," added Stone. "Or whom

they've blackmailed into doing what they want

without giving away any trade secrets." He sat down

opposite the Army officer. "But a couple of other

things have fallen into place. We're getting a pattern

and a few additional names. If we could pull

Converse out and combine what he's learned with

what we've got it might just possibly be enough."

"What?" The captain shot forward in the chair.

    "Take it easy. I said just possibly. I've been

calling in some old debts, and if we could put it all

together, there are one or two left I can trust."

    "That's why we called you in," said the officer

quietly. "Because you know what to do, we don't....

What have you got?"

    "To begin with, have you ever heard of an actor

named Caleb Dowling actually, it's Calvin, but

that's not important except for the computers."

    "I know who he is. He plays the father on a

television show called Santa Fe. Don't shout it from

the rooftops, but my wife and I watch it now and

then. What about him?"

    Stone looked at his watch. "He'll be here in a few

mix! uses."

"No kidding? I'm impressed."

"You may be more impressed after we've talked to

him."

'Jesus, fill me inl"

    "It's one of those odd breaks we all look for that

seem to come out of left field but are perfectly

logical. It's the timing

548 ROBERT IUDLUM

that's not logical.... Dowling was in Bonn filming a

picture and struck up a friendship with Peregrine.

American celebrity, et cetera. He also met Converse

on a plane and got him a hotel room when they

were tough to find. Most significant, Dowling was

the initial contact between Peregrine and Con-

verse which didn't work out because Fitzpatrick

stepped in.',

"So?"

    "When Peregrine was killed, Dowling called the

embassy a number of times trying to get an

appointment with the acting ambassador, but he was

put on hold. Finally he sent a note to Peregrine's

secretary saying he had to see her, that it was

important. The secretary met with him, and this

Dowling dropped a bomb on her lap. Apparently he

and Peregrine had an agreement that if Converse

called the embassy and contact was to be made,

Dowling would go along. He didn't think Peregrine

would go back on his word. Secondly, Peregrine told

Dowling that something was rotten in the embassy

ranks some very odd behavior. One incident

Dowling witnessed himself. He said there were too

many things that didn't make sense from

Converse's sane and lucid conversations to the fact

that he, Dowling, hadn't been officially questioned,

as if people were avoiding one of the last people to

see Converse. The bottom line was that he didn't

think Converse had anything to do with Peregrine's

murder. The secretary damn near fainted but told

him he would be contacted. She knew the Agency's

station chief in Bonn and called him. So did I, two

days ago, telling him I was brought in deep down by

"He confirmed all of this?"

    "Yes. He called Dowling in, listened to him, and

has begun digging himself. He's coming up with

names, one of which we know, but there'll be

others. I was on the phone with him when you got

here. Dowling flew in yesterday, he's at the Pierre

and will be here by eleven-thirty."

"That's movement," said the captain, nodding.

"Any

    "Two other things. You know how stymied we

were when Judge Anstett caught it and how strong

the case was made for a mob killing. Hell, we

weren't even sure why Halliday used Anstett in the

first place. Well, the computer boys at the Army

data banks have come up with the answer. It goes

back to October of 1944. Anstett was a legal officer

in Brad

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 549

fey's First Army, where Delavane held a battalion

command. Delavane railroaded a sergeant who'd

cracked through a court-martial. The charge was

desertion under fire, and Colonel Delavane wanted

an example both for his own troops and for the

Germans, to let the first know they were being led by

a ramrod, and the second that they were fighting

one. The verdict was guilty, the sentence execution."

    "Oh, my God," exclaimed the Army officer.

"Slovik all over again."

    "Exactly. Except that a lowly lieutenant named

Anstett heard about it and came rolling in with all

his legal barrels smoking. By using psychiatric

evaluation reports he not only got the sergeant sent

home for treatment but literally turned the

proceedings around and put Delavane himself on

trial. Using the same kind of psychological

evaluations stress mainly he called into question

Delavane's fitness for command. It damned near

ruined an illustrious military career, and would have

if it wasn't for the colonel's friends in the War

Department. They buried the report so well it was

under another Delavane's name and wasn't picked

up until all the records were computerised in the

sixties."

'That's one hell of an explanation, Stone."

    "It's only part of it. It didn't explain Anstett's

killing itself. And make no mistake, it was the Mafia

down to the man with the gun. ' Stone paused and

turned a page. "So there had to be a connection

somewhere, somehow a link, probably going back

years. The boys with the disks looked further, and I

think we've got it. Guess who was Colonel

Delavane's chief aide in the First Army. No, don't

bother, you couldn't. He was a Captain Parelli,

Mario Alberto Parelli. '

"Good Christ! The senator?"

    "The five-term senator, thirty years in that august

body. Up-from-the-bootstraps Mario, with a slight

push from the G.I. Bill, some early benefactors and

a few lucrative legal retainers."

    "Wow . . ." said the captain softly, without

enthusiasm, as he leaned back in the chair. "That's

heavy, isn't it?"

    "It's there. It fits. And I don't mind telling you

that in '62 and '63, during the Let's-get-Fidel days,

Parelli was a frequent visitor at the White House,

courtesy of both the Kennedy boys."

    "Even in the Senate. He's one of the biggest

cannons on the Hill."

550 ROBERT LUDLUM

    "While you're staring, let me give you the last

item. We've found Commander Fitzpatrick."

"Whatfl"

    "At least we know where he is," completed

Stone. "As to whether we can bring him out, or

even want to try, that's another question."

    Valerie got in the cab at McCarran Airport in

Las Vegas and gave the driver the address of a

restaurant on Route 93 repeated twice by Sam

Abbott over the phone. The driver, creasing his

forehead, looked at her in his rearview mirror. Val

was used to men scrutinizing her; she was neither

flattered nor annoyed anymore. Frankly, she was

just bored by the childishness of it all, by the

fantasies of grown-up children abusing themselves

with their eyes.

"Are you sure, miss?" asked the driver.

"I beg your pardon?'

    "That isn't a restaurant like I mean a

restaurant. It's a diner, a pit stop for trucks."

"It's where I wish to go,', said Val coolly.

    "Sure, okay, fine." The taxi pulled out into the

departing traffic.

    The driver was right. A half-acre of asphalt

surrounded the long, low, L-shaped diner; a dozen

huge trucks dwarfed the cars, which were parked at

respectful distances from the intimidating rigs. Val

paid the driver and went inside; she looked around

and walked past the cashier's counter toward the

L-shaped section. Sam had told her he would be in

one of the booths m that area.

    He was, at the rear of the second aisle. As

Valerie approached she looked at the man she had

not seen in nearly seven years. He had not changed

much, the brown hair had a fringe of grey around

the temples, but the strong, relaxed face was not

very different perhaps the eyes were a little

deeper, a few more lines at the sides and the

cheekbones a touch more pronounced. It was a

better face for a portrait now, she thought; the

character beneath was emerging. Their eyes met,

and the brigadier general got out of the booth, his

clothes denying his rank and profession. He was

dressed in an open sport shirt, tan summer slacks

and dark loafers. He was somewhat shorter than

Joel, but not by much. His grey eyes said she was a

welcome sight.

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 551

    "Val. " Abbott held her briefly, obviously not

wanting to call attention to them.

    "You look well, Sam," she said, sitting down

across from him, putting the carry-on beside her.

    "You look merely outstanding, which is military

for all those other adjectives." Abbott smiled. it's

funny, but I come out here a lot because no one

pays any attention to me, so I thought, hell, it's the

perfect place. I should have remembered you walk

through that arcade of gorillas and eggs get put in

ears with coffee spoons."

'Thanks. I could use some confidence."

    "I could probably use a strong alibi. If someone

does recognize me, word will go back that the

brigadier's pulling outside duty."

"You're mamed, Sam?"

    "Five years ago. Late, but with all the fixings. A

lovely bride and two beguiling daughters."

    I'm so happy for you. I hope I get a chance to

meet her, meet them but not this trip. Definitely

not this trip."

    Abbott paused, looking into her eyes, a touch of

sadness in his. Thank you for understanding," he

said.

    'There's nothing to understand, or rather, there's

everything to understand. The fact that you're willing

to meet me after all that's happened is more than we

had a right to expect. Both Joel and I know the risks

you're taking legally, as a general, all of it and if

there was any other way, we wouldn't involve you.

But after you hear what I have to say, you'll un-

derstand why we can't wait any longer, why Joel

agreed to let me try to find you.... You were my

idea, Sam, but Joel wouldn't have heard of it unless

he felt he had to not for himself; he doesn't expect

to live. That's what he said and he believes it."

    A waitress brought coffee and Abbott thanked

her. "We'll order later," he added, staring at Valerie.

You'll have to trust my judgment, you understand

that, don't you?"

    Yes. Because I trust you."

    "When I couldn't reach you I made a few calls to

people I worked with a couple of years ago in

Washington. They're men who're deep into these

kinds of things, who have answers long before most

of us know the questions."

    "Those are the people Joel wants you to reach!"

interrupted Val. "You saw him then; you spent a

night at his hotel, don't you remember? He said you

both drank too much."

552 ROBERT LUDLUM

"We did," agreed Sam. "And talked too much."

    "You were evaluating aircraft 'equipment,' Joel

called it with specialists from various intelligence

units."

"That's right."

    "They're the ones he has to contact! He has to

see them, talk to them, tell them everything he

knows! I'm getting ahead of myself, Sam, butJoel

thinks those people should have come in at the

beginning the beginning for him. He understands

why he was chosen and, incredibly, he doesn't even

now fault that decision! But they should have been

therel"

"You're way ahead of yourself.'

"I'll go back."

    "Let me finish first. I talked to them, telling

them I didn't believe what I was reading and

hearing; it wasn't the Converse I knew, and to a

man they told me to back off. It was hopeless and I

could get badly tarnished. It wasn't the Converse I

knew, they said. He'd psyched out; he was another

person. There was too much evidence to support the

blow-out."

"But you took my call. Why?"

    "Two reasons. The first is obvious I knew Joel;

we went through a lot together and none of this

makes sense to me maybe I don't want it to make

sense. The second reason is a lot less subjective. I

know a lie when I hear one when I know it can't

be the truth and a lie was fed to me just as it was

fed to the people who delivered it." Abbott sipped

his coffee as if telling himself to slow down and be

clear. The leader of the squadron was in control; he

had to be. "I spoke to three men I knew, men I

trust, and each checked with his own sources. They

all came back to me, each telling me essentially the

same thing but in different language, different

viewpoints depending on their priorities that's the

way it works with these people. But one item didn't

vary so much as a syllable and it was the lie. The

label is drugs. Narcotics."

";Joel9"

    "Their words were practically identical. 'Evidence

is pouring in from New fork, Geneva, Paris, that

Converse was a heavy buyer.' That was one phrase;

the other was 'Medical opinion has it that the

hypodermics finally blew him up and blew him

back.'"

    "That's crazyl It's insane!" cried Valerie as

Abbott grabbed her hand to quiet her down. "I'm

sorry, but it's such a terrible lie," she whispered.

"You don't know "

"Yes, Val, I do know. Joel was pumped five or six

times

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 553

in the camps with substances sent down from Hanoi,

and no one fought it harder or hated it more than he

did. The only chemicals he'd allow in his body after

that were tobacco and alcohol. I've seen us both with

third-degree hangovers and while I tore medicine

cabinets apart for a Bromo or an aspirin, he wouldn't

touch them."

    'Whenever his passport shots came up, he had to

have four martinis before he went to the doctor,"

said Valerie. "Good God, who would spread a thing

like that?"

    "When I tried to find out I was told that even I

couldn't have that information."

    The former Mrs. Converse now stared at the

brigadier general. "You have to find out, Sam, you

know that, don't you?"

"Tell me why, Val. Put it together for me."

    "It began in Geneva, and for Joel the operative

name the operative name was George Marcus

Delavane."

    Abbott flinched and shut his eyes; his face

became suddenly older.

    The cry of the cat on a frozen lake became a

scream as the man in the wheelchair fell to the floor,

his two stumps that once were legs scissoring

maniacally to no avail. With strong arms he pushed

his torso up from the rug.

    "Adjutant! Adjutantl" roared General George

Marcus Delavane as the dark-red telephone kept

ringing on the desk below the fragmented map.

    A large, muscular middle-aged man in full

uniform ran out of a door and rushed to his

superior. "Let me help you sir," he said emphatically,

pulling the wheelchair toward them both.

    "Not me!" yelled Delavane. "The phone! Get the

phone! Tell whoever it is I'll be right there!" The old

soldier began crawling pathetically toward the desk.

    "Just one minute, please," said the adjutant into

the phone. "The general will be with you in a

moment." The lieutenant colonel placed the

telephone on the desk and ran first to the chair and

then to Delavane. "Please, sir, let me help

you.

    With a look of loathing on his face, the half-man

permitted himself to be maneuvered back into the

wheelchair. He propelled himself forward and took

the phone. "Palo Alto International. You're red!

What is the day's code?"

554 ROflERT LUDIUM

"Charing Cross" was the reply in a clipped British

accent.

"What is it, England?"

Radio relay from Osnabruck. We ve got him.

    Chaim Abrahms sat in his kitchen, tapping his

fingers on the table, trying to take his eyes off the

telephone and the clock on the wall. It was the

fourth time span, and still there was no word from

New York. The orders had been clear: the calls were

to be placed within thirty-minute periods every six

hours commencing twenty-four hours ago, the

estimated arrival time of the plane from Amsterdam.

Twenty-four hours and nothing! The first omission

had not troubled him; rarely were transatlantic

flights on schedule. The second he had rationalized;

if the woman was in transit, traveling somewhere

else either in a car or by plane, the surveillance

might find itself in a difficult position to place an

overseas call to Israel The third omission was

unacceptable, this fourth lapse intoler able! It was

nearly the end of the thirty-minute span, six minutes

to go. When in the name of God would it ring?

It rang. Abrahms leaped from the chair and picked

it up.

"We lost her" was the flat statement.

"You what?"

    "She took a taxi to LaGuardia Airport and

bought a ticket for a morning Hight to Boston. Then

she checked into a motel and must have left minutes

later."

"Where were our people?"

    "One parked in a car outside, the other in a

room down the hall. There was no reason to suspect

she would leave. She had a ticket to Boston."

"Idiots! Garbage!"

    "They will be disciplined. Our men in Boston

have checked every Hight, every train. She hasn't

shown up."

"What makes you think she wills"

"The ticket. There was nothing else."

Imbeciles!"

    Valerie had finished; there was nothing more to

say. She looked at Sam Abbott, who seemed far

older than he had been an hour ago.

    "There are so many questions," said the brigadier

general. "So much I want to ask Joel. The lousy

thing is I'm not qual

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 555

ified, but I know someone who is. I'll talk to him

tonight, and tomorrow the three of us will fly to

Washington. Like today, I have an early A.M.

squadron run, but I'll be finished by ten. I'll take the

rest of the day off one of the kids is sick, but noth-

ing serious, nothing out of the ordinary. Alan will

know whom we should go to, whom we can trust."

"Can you trust him?"

"Metcalf? With my life."

    '~Joel says you're to be careful. He warns you

that they can be anywhere where you least expect

them."

"But somewhere there's got to be a list. Somewhere."

"Delavane? San Francisco?"

    "Probably not. It's too simple, too dangerous. It's

the first place anyone would look; he'd consider

that.... This countdown Joel thinks it's tied into

massive riots taking place in different cities, various

capitals?"

    "On a vast scale, larger and more violent than

anything we can imagine. Eruptions, total

destabilisation, spreading from one place to another,

fueled by the same people who are called in to

restore order."

    Abbott shook his head. "It doesn't sound right.

It's too complicated, and there are too many built-in

controls. Police troops from the National Guardi

they have separate commands. The chain would

break somewhere."

    "It's what he believes. He says they could do it.

He's convinced they have warehouses everywhere

stocked with weapons and explosives, even armored

vehicles and conceivably planes in out-of-the-way

airfields."

    "Val, that's craz~sorry, wrong word. The logistics

are simply too overwhelming."

"Newark, Watts, Miami. They were also

overwhelming."

    "They were different. They were essentially racial

and economic."

    "The cities burned, Sam. People were killed and

order came with guns. Suppose there were more

guns than either of us could count? On both sides.

Just like what's happening in Northern Ireland right

now."

    "Ireland? The slaughter in Belfast? It's a war no

one can stop."

"It's their war! They did it! Joel called it a test, a trial

run!"

"It's wild," said the pilot.

    "'Accumulation, rapid acceleration.' Those were

the words Abrahms used in Bonn. Joel tried to

figure them out.

556 ROBERT EUDLUM

He couldn't buy LeifLelm's statement that they

referred to blackmail or extortion. It wouldn't work,

he said."

    "Extortion?" Abbott frowned. "I don't remember

your mentioning that."

    '1 probably didn't because Joel discounted it.

Leifhelm asked him what he thought about powerful

figures in various governments being compromised,

and Joel said it wouldn't work. The cleansing

process was too certain, the reactions too quick."

    "Compromised?" Sam Abbott leaned forward in

the booth. "Com promised, Val?"

"Yes. "

"Oh, my God."

"What do you mean?"

    "Mean? . . . Meaning, that's what I mean.

'Compromised' has more than one meaning. Like

'neutralise' end 'take out,' and probably a dozen

others I don't know about."

"You're beyond me, Sam."

    "In one context, the word 'compromise' means

killing Pure and simple murder. Assassination."

    Valerie checked into the MGM-Grand Hotel

giving the bewildered clerk three days' advance

payment for the room in lieu of a credit card. Key

in hand, she took the elevator up to the ninth floor

and let herself into a room with the kind of

pleasantly garish opulence found only in Las Vegas.

She stood briefly on the balcony, watching the

orange setting sun thinking about the insanity of

everything. She would call Joei first thing in the

morning noon or thereabouts in Osnabruck, West

Germany.

    She ordered from room service, ate what she

could, watched an hour or so of mind-numbing

television, and finally lay down on the bed. She had

been right about Sam Abbott. Dear Sam,

straight-as-the-proverbial-arrow Sam, direct and

uncomplicated. If anyone would know what to do,

Sam would and if he did not know, he would find

out. For the first time in days, Val felt a degree of

relief. Sleep came, and this time there were no

horrible dreams.

    She awoke to the sight of the early sun firing the

mountains beyond the balcony doors in the distance.

For a moment or two while she emerged through

the layers of vanishing sleep she thought she was

back at Cape Ann, the sunlight streaming into her

bedroom from the balcony outside, and

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 557

vaguely recalled a distant nightmare. Then the bold

floral drapes came into focus, and then the faraway

mountains and the slightly stale odor of thick hotel

carpeting, and she knew the nightmare was very

much with her.

    She got out of the oversized bed, and navigated

to the bathroom, stopping on the way to switch on

the radio. She reached the door and suddenly

stopped, gripping its edge to brace herself, her head

detonating with a thousand explosions, her eyes and

throat on fire.

    She could only scream. And scream again and

again as she fell to the floor.

    Peter Stone turned up the radio in the New York

apartment, then walked quickly to the table where

there was an open telephone directory, the pages

blue, the book itself having been taken from "Mrs.

DePinna's" room in the St. Regis Hotel. Stone

listened to the news report as he scanned the op-

posing blue pages of government listings.

    ". . . It has now been confirmed that the earlier

reports of the crash of an F-18 jetfighterplane at Nellis

Air Force Base in Nevada are accurate. The accident

took place this morning at seven-forty-two, Pacific time,

during first-light maneuvers over the desert thirty-eight

miles northwest of the Nellisfield. The pilot, Brigadier

General Samuel Abbott, was chief of Tactical

Operations and considered one of the finest pilots in the

Air Force as well as a su perb aerial tactician. The

press of dicer at Nellis said a full inquiry will be

launched, but stated that according to the other pilots

the lead plane of the squadron, }-town by General

Abbott, plunged to the ground afterexecuffng a relatively

low-altitude maneuver. The explosion could be heard as

far away as Las Vegas. The press ofticer's remarks were

charged with emotion as he described the downed pilot.

'The death of General Abbott is a tragic loss for the A

ir Force and the nation, 'he told re porters. A few min-

utes ago the President . . ."

    "That's it," said Stone, turning to the Army

captain across the room. "That's where she was

heading.... Shut that damn thing off, will you? I knew

Abbott; I worked with him out of Langley a couple

of years ago."

    The Army officer stared at the civilian as he

turned off the radio. "Do you know what you're

saying?" he asked.

    "Here it is," replied Stone, pointing to the lower

left-hand corner of a page in the thick telephone

directory.

558 ROBERT LUDLUM

"Blue thirteen, three pages from the end of the

book. 'United States Government offices.

Department of the ' "

    'There are dozens of other listings, too,

including your former employer. 'Central

Intelligence New York field Office.' Why not it?

Them? It fits better."

'He can't go that route and he knows it."

"He didn't go," corrected the captain. "He sent her.,'

    "That doesn't fit with everything we know

about him. She'd be sent to Virginia and come out

a basket case. No, she came back here to find a

particular person, not a faceless department or a

section or an agency. A man they both knew and

trusted. Abbott. She found him, told him everything

Con~eOrdd told h!e,,r and he talked to others the

w h

'How can you be sure?" pressed the Army man.

    "Christ, Gptain, what do you want, a diagram ?

Sam Abbott was shot down over the coast of the

Tonkin Gulf. He was a POW and so was Converse.

I have an idea that if we put it through the

computers, we'd find out they knew each other. I'm

so sure I won't use up another debt. Puck it./"

    "You know," said the Army officer, "I've never

seen you lose your temper. The cold can get hot,

can't it, Stone. I be

lieve you."

    The former intelligence officer looked hard at

the captain, and when he spoke his voice was

flat and cold. 'Abbott was a good man even an

exceptional man for someone in uniform but don't

mistake me, Captain. He was killed and he was

killed because whatever that woman told him was

so conclusive he had to be compromised hours

later."

"Compromised?"

    "Figure it out.... I'm angry at Sam's death, yes,

you're damned right. But I'm a lot angrier that we

don't have the woman. Among other things, with us

she has a chance, without us I judge very little and

I don't want her on my conscience~what little I've

got left. Also to get Converse out we have to find

her, there's no other way."

    ' But if you re right she's somewhere near Nellis,

probably Las Vegas. '

    Undoubtedly Las Vegas, and by the time we

reached anyone who could check around for us,

she'll be on her way somewhere else.... You know,

I d hate to be her now. The only avenue she had

was neutralised. Whom can she turn to where can

she go? It's what Dowling said about Converse yes

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 559

terday, what he didn't tell Peregrine's secretary. Our

man was systematically isolated and more afraid of

U.S. embassy personnel than anyone else. He would

never have agreed to a meeting with Peregrine

because he knew it'd be a trap, therefore he couldn't

have killed him. He was set up; everywhere he

looked there was another trap to keep him running

and out of sight." The civilian paused, then added

firmly, "The woman's finished, Captain. She's at the

end of a bad road their road. And that may be the

best part of it for us. If she panics, we could find her.

But we're going to have to take some risks. How's

that neck of yours? Have you made out a will?"

    Valerie wept quietly by the glass doors

overlooking the gaudy strip of Las Vegas. Her tears

were not only for Sam Abbott and his wife and

children, but for herself and Joel. It was permitted

under the circumstances, and she could not lie to

herself. She had no idea what to do next. No matter

whom she went to the answer would be the same.

Tell him to come out of hiding and well listen to him.

And the minute he did, Joel would be dead, fulfilling

his own prophecy. And if through a bureaucratic

miracle she was granted a meeting with someone of

power and influence, how strong would her case be?

What words would she use?

    I was married to this man for four years and I

divorced him let's call it incom patibility but I know

him! I know he couldn't have done what they say he

did, he didn't kill those men.... What proof? I just told

you, I know him! . . . What does incom patibility

mean? I'm not SUK, we didn't get along he was

remote, distant. What difference does it make? What

are you implying? Oh, God! You 're so wrong! I have

no interest in him that way. Yes, he's successful and

he's paid me alimony, but I don't need his money. I

don't want it!. . . You see, he told me about this . . .

this incredible plot to put the military establishments of

the United States and the countries of Western Europe

in virtual control of their governments, that they could

do it by instigating massive rioting in key cities,

terrorism, destabilisation everywhere. He's met them

and talked with them; there's a plan already in

progress! They see themselves as a dedicated

international organization, as a strong alternative to the

weak governments of the West who won't stand up to

the Soviet bloc. But they're not a reasonable alternative,

they're fanatics! They're killers;

560 ROBERT LUDLUM

they want total control of all of us!. . . My former

husband wrote it all up, everything he's learned, and

sent it to me, but it was stolen, his own father killed

because he read it. IVo, it was not suicide!. . . He calls

it a conspiracy of generals conceived by a general

who'd been labeled a madman. General George

Delavane 'Mad Marcus' Delavane... . Yes, I know

what the police in Paris and Bonn and Brussels say,

what Interpol says, what our own embassy has

reported fingerprints and ballistics and seeing him in

this place and that place, and drugs, and meeting with

Peregrine butcan't you understand, they're all lies!. .

. Yes, I know what happened when he was a prisoner

of war what he went through the things he said when

he was discharged. IVone of that is

relevant!Hisfeelingsaren 't relevant!He told me that!He

told me he looks so terrible . . . he's been so hurt.

Who would believe her?

Tell him to come in. We'll listen.

He can 't! He'll be killed! . . . You '11 kill him!

    The telephone rang, for a moment paralysing

her. She stared at it, terrified but forcing herself to

stay in control. Sam Abbott was dead, and he told

her only he would call only he. My God, thought

Val, they'd found her, just as they'd found her in

New York. But they would not repeat the mistakes

they had made in New York. She had to remain

calm and think and outthink them. The ringing

stopped. She approached the phone and picked it

up, then pressed the button marked O. 'Operator,

this is room nine-one-four. Please send the security

police up here right away. It's an emergency."

    She had to move quickly, be ready to leave the

instant the security men arrived. She had to get out

and find a safe telephone. She had heard the stories;

she knew what to do. She had to reach Joel in

Osnabruck.

    Colonel Alan Metcalf, chief intelligence officer,

Nellis Air Force Base, walked out of the telephone

booth and looked around the shopping mall, his

hand in the pocket of his sport jacket, gripping the

small revolver inside. He glanced at his watch; his

wife and three children would be in Los Angeles

soon, then reach Cleveland by late afternoon. The

four of them would stay with her parents until he

said otherwise. It was better this way since he had

no idea what the "way" would be like.

He only knew that Sam Abbott had run that

sub-mach

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 561

maneuver a thousand times; he knew every stress

point and P.S.I. throughout the entire aircraft, and

he never flew a jet that had not been scanned

electronically. To ascribe that crash to pilot error was

ludicrous; instead, someone had lied to that pilot, a

circuit and backup shorted. Sam was killed because

his friend, Metcalf, had made a terrible mistake.

After talking with Abbott for nearly five hours,

Metcalf had called a man in Washington, telling him

to prepare a conference the following afternoon with

two ranking members each from the NSC, G-Two

and naval intelligence. The reason-of-record:

Brigadier General Samuel Abbott had pertinent and

startling information about the fugitive Joel Converse

relative to the assassinations of the American

ambassador in Bonn and the supreme commander of

NATO.

    And if they could so readily, so efficiently kill the

man who had the information, they might easily go

after the messenger, the intelligence officer bringing

him in. It was better this way, with Doris and the

kids in Cleveland. He had a great deal to do and a

terrible debt to repay.

    The Converse woman! Oh, Christ, why had she

done it, why had she run so quickly? He had

expected it, of course, but he had hoped against

hope that he would reach her in time, but it had not

been possible. First there was Dpris and the kids and

plane reservations and the call to her folks; they had

to get out; he could be next. Then racing to the field,

his revolver beside him in the car, and ransacking

Sam's office as Nellis' intelligence officer, a

particularly loathsome duty, but in this case

vital and questioning Abbott's distraught secretary.

A name had emerged: Parquette.

    "I'll pick her up," Sam had said last night. "She's

staying at the Grand and I promised only I'd phone

her. She's a cool lady, but she had a close call in

New York. She wants to hear a voice she knows and

I can't blame her."

    Cool lady, thought Alan Metcalf, as he climbed

into his car, you made the biggest mistake of

yourshortenedlife. With me you had a chance to

live perhaps but now as they say in this part of

Nevada, the odds are heavily against.

    Nevertheless she would be on his conscience,

reasoned the intelligence officer, now speeding into

the cutoff toward Route 15 and points south.

    Conscience. He wondered if those silent bastards

in Washington had Joel Converse on their collective

conscience. They had sent a man out and abandoned

him, not even having

562 ROBERT LUDLUM

the grace to make sure he was killed quickly,

mercifully. The programmers of the kamikazes

were saints beside such people.

Converse. Where was he?

33

    Joel stood silently as Leifhelm's man removed

his gun and turned to speak to the assembled row of

senile old women in the high-backed chairs. He

spoke for less than a minute, then grabbed Converse

by the arm his and their trophy forcing Joel to

face Hermione Geyner, whose true prisoner he was.

It was a mystical ritual of triumph from a time long

past.

    'I have just told these brave women of the

underground," said the Cerman looking at Converse,

"that they have uncovered a traitor to our cause.

Frau Geyner will confirm this, ja, meine Dame?"

    'Baja!" spat out the intense old woman, her face

alive with the fierce joy of victory. "Betrayal!" she

screamed.

    "The telephone calls have been made and our

instructions received," continued Leifhelm's soldier.

"We shall leave now, A merikaner. There's nothing

you can do, so let us go qui

    "If you had this whole thing so organized, why

those two men on the train, including that one?"

asked Joel, nodding at the man with his arm in the

sling, instinctively stalling for time, an attorney

allowing an adversary to compliment himself.

    "Observed, not organised," answered the

German. "We had to be sure you did everything

expected of you. Everyone here agrees, Stimmt Has,

Frau Geyner?"

"Pa!" exploded Valerie's aunt.

"The other one is dead," said Joel.

    "A loss for the cause and we shall mourn him.

Come!" The German bowed to the ladies, as did his

two companions, and led Converse through the

large double doors to the front entrance. Outside on

the decrepit porch, Leifhelm's hunter gave the thick

envelope to the man with the sling and issued

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 563

orders. Both nodded and walked rapidly down the

steps, the wounded man steadying himself on a

rickety railing, and then they hurried to the right of

the long circular drive. Down at the far exit, near the

country road, Joel could see the shape of a long

sedan in the darkness.

    The three prison guards led him out of the

compound It was the middle of the night, and he was

being transferred either to another camp or to his own

execution, the killing ground somewhere in the dense

jungle where his screams would be muted. The head

guard barked a command to his two subordinates, who

bowed and began running down the road toward a

captured American Jeep several hundred yards away in

the darkness He was alone with the man, thought

Converse, knowing the moment would not come again

except as a corpse. If f t was going to ha Open, it had

to ha ppen now. He moved his head slightly, lowering

his gaze to the dark outline of the gun in the guard's

hand....

    The German's hand was steady, the weapon it

held rigid against Joel's chest. Inside the house, the

old women had broken into song; their pathetic frail

voices were raised in some victory anthem heard

through the large casement windows open for the

summer breezes. Converse inched his right foot

around the floorboards on the porch, testing several

and finding one weaker than the others. He pressed

down with his full weight; the resulting creak was

loud and sharp. Startled, the German turned at the

echoing sound.

    Now. Joel grabbed the barrel of the gun, twisting

hand and steel back and clockwise; he hammered the

man across the porch into the wall while gripping the

weapon with all his strength, twisting tighter and

shoving it into the man's stomach.

    The gunshot was partially muffled by cloth and

flesh, by the noise of an engine starting and the

excited singing of senile voices that came through the

open windows. The German collapsed, his head

snapping, his eyes bulging; there was a stench of

burnt fabric and intestines he was dead. Converse

crouched, then whipped around to look down at the

long U-shaped drive, half expecting to see the two

other men racing toward him with guns extended.

Instead, he saw the lights of the car in the distance;

it was on the country road outside, now turning into

the entrance gate on the left. It would be at the

porch in moments.

Prying the weapon out of the German's hand, Joel

564 ROBERT LUDLUM

dragged him across the floorboards into the shadows

to the right of the steps. Seconds now.

    Get the Jeep. Use the Jeep. The nearest vehicle

check was five miles down the road they had seen it

on work details. Get the Jeep! Cover the ground! The

Jeep!

    The long sedan pulled up in front of the porch

and the man with his arm in the sling got out of the

right front door. Converse watched him from behind

the thick corner pillar as the wounded German

stood on the pavement, looking up into the

shadows.

    "Konig?"he asked softly, questioning. "Konig,

was ist?" He started up the steps, his left hand

awkwardly, tentatively, going inside his jacket.

    Joel spun around the pillar and rushed down the

old stair case. Grabbing the wounded man by the

sling, he jammed the pistol into the foot soldier's

throat; he turned him around and rushed him back

to the car, then crashed his head against the roof as

he crouched and thrust the weapon through the

open front window.

    The astonished driver was quicker than the foot

soldier; he was already yanking his gun out of an

unseen holster. He fired wildly, shattering the

windshield. Converse fired back blowing the man's

head half out of the window.

    Take the bodies into the jungle! Don't leave them

here near the compound! Every second counts, every

minute!

    Joel sprang up and pulled the wounded German

away from the car as he opened the front door.

"You're going to help me, you good Christian!" he

whispered, remembering the whining supplication of

a killer in a freight car. "You do as I tell you or

you'll join your friends. Capisce, or is it verstehen?

Whatever the hell it is, you do as I say, do you

understand me? I'm a panicked man, mister on the

edge, and I'll argue that position in front of the

Supreme Court! . . . What the hell am I saying? I've

got the gun and I've killed again it gets easier

when you don't want to be killed yourself. Afovel

That lousy son of Gestapo on the porch! Bring him

down here! In the backl"

    Perhaps a minute later, Joel would never know

the time the wounded man was behind the wheel

driving with diflficulty, the two corpses in the

backseat. A tableau of horror Converse thought he

would vomit. Fighting back the nausea, he watched

every landmark in the countryside as he directed the

driver to take this turn and that pilotage indeli

THE QQUITAINE PROGRESSION 567

left and sped down the country road as Hermione

Geyner slammed the door shut on the porch.

    There was nothing any longer without risk,

thought Joel, as he crawled out of the foliage, but

the risk for him now was one he faced with a degree

of confidence. Aquitaine had used up Frau Geyner;

there was nothing more it could learn from her. To

return to a madwoman held a greater risk for them.

Envelope in hand, he walked across the ugly drive,

up the creaking steps, and across the sagging porch

to the door. He knocked, and ten seconds later a

screeching Hermione Geyner opened it. He then did

something so totally unpredictable so completely out

of character, he did not believe it himself as he

followed through with the sudden impulse.

    He punched the old woman squarely in the

center of her lower jaw. It was the beginning of the

longest eight hours of his life.

    The bewildered security police from the

MGM-Grand Hotel reluctantly refused Valerie's

offer of a gratuity, especially as she had raised it

from $50 to $100, thinking that the economy of Las

Vegas was somewhat different from New York's and

certainly Cape Ann's. They had driven around the

streets of the old and the new city for nearly

forty-five minutes, until both men, both professionals

in their work, assured her that no one was following

their car. And they would put a special patrol on the

ninth floor in an attempt to catch the man who had

harassed her, who had attempted to gain entrance to

the room. They were, of course, naturally chagrined

that she took a room across the boulevard at Caesars

Palace.

    Val tipped the bellman, took her small overnight

bag from him, and closed the door. She ran to the

phone on the table by the bed.

    "I half to go to the toilet!" shouted Hermione

Geyner, holding an fee pack under her chin.

    "Again?" asked Converse, his eyes barely open,

sitting across from the old woman, the envelope and

the gun in his lap.

"You make me nervous. You struck me."

    "You did the same and a hell of a lot more to me

last night," said Joel, getting up from the chair and

shoving the gun under his belt, the envelope in his

hand.

"I vill see you hanging from a rope! Betrayer! How

many

568 ROBERT LUDIUM

hours now? You think our operatives in the

Untergrund will not miss me?"

    "I think they're probably feeding pigeons in the

park cooing along with the best of them. Go on, I'll

follow."

    The telephone rang. Converse grabbed the old

woman by the back of her neck and propelled her

to the antique desk and the phone. "Just as we

practiced," he whispered, holding her firmly. "Do it!"

    'Baja?" said Hermione Geyner into the

telephone, Joel's ear next to hers.

"Tame! Ich bin 's, Valerie!"

    "Val!" shouted Converse, pushing the old woman

away. "It's me! I'm not sure the phone's clean; she

was set up, I was set up! Quickly! Tell Sam I was

wrong I think I was wrongl The countdown could

be assassinations all over the goddamned place!"

    "He knew that!" shouted Valerie in reply. "He's

dead Joel! He's dead! They killed him!"

"Oh, Christ! There's no time, Val, no time! The

phone!"

"Meet me!" screamed the ex-Mrs. Converse.

"Where? Tell me where?"

    The pause was less than several seconds, an

eternity for both. "Where it began, my darling!"

cried Valerie. "Where it began but not where it

began.... The clouds, darling! The patch and the

clouds!"

    Where it began. Geneva. But not Geneva. Clouds,

a patch. A patch!

"Yes, I know!"

"Tomorrow! The next day! I'll be there!"

    "I have to get out of here.... Val ... I love you so

muchl So much!"

''The clouds, my darling my only darling oh,

God, stay

    Joel ripped the telephone out of the wall as

Hermione Geyner came rushing at him, swinging a

heavy brass-handled poker from the fireplace. The

iron hook glanced off his cheek; he grabbed her

arm and shouted, "I haven't got time for you, you

crazy bitch! My client doesn't have time!" He spun

her around and pushed her forward, picking up the

envelope from the table. "You were on your way to

the bathroom, remember?"

In the hall Converse saw what he had hoped he

would

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 565

bly imprinted on the mind for the flight back without

a radio or a map or a means to obtain either. They

reached what looked like a series of rocky pastures

at the base of a mountain, and Converse told the

Cerman to get off the road. They clambered over

several hundred yards until there was a sharp decline

that ended at a dense row of trees. He ordered the

driver out.

    He had given the last guard a chance. He was a kid

in a mismatched uniform; his eyes were intense but his

face raised questions. How much was felt, how much

indoctrinated? He had given the boy the child a

simple exam, and a believer had failed the examination.

    "Listen to me," said Joel. "You told me on the

train that you were hired but that you didn't want to

kill anybody. You were just unemployed and needed

a job, is that right?"

"Yes! I kill no one! I only watched, followed!"

    "All right. I'll put the gun away and I'm going to

walk out of here. You go wherever you want to go,

okay?"

"Ich verstehe! Yes, of course!"

    Converse shoved the weapon in his belt and

turned, his fingers still gripping the handle as he

started up the slope. A scratch! The crunching sound

of rocks displaced by moving feet! He pivoted,

dropping to his knees as the German lunged.

    He fired once at the body above him. The foot

soldier screamed as he arced in the air and rolled

down the hill. A believer had failed the examination.

    Joel walked up the incline with the envelope

addressed to Nathan Simon and across the rocky

field to the road. He knew the landmarks; the pilot

in him would make no mistakes. He knew what he

had to do.

    He was concealed far back in the bushes on the

edge of Hermione Geyner's property, thirty yards

from the decaying house, twenty from the U-shaped

drive,~which was filled with ruts and bordered by

brown overgrown grass, dead from the heat and lack

of water. He had to stay awake, for if it was going to

happen, it would happen soon. Human nature could

take only so much anxiety; he had played upon the

truism too often as a lawyer. Answers had to be

given to anxious men panicked men. The sun was

up, the birds foraging in the early light, myriad

noises replacing the stillness of the night. But the

house was silent, the large casement windows,

through which only hours ago the voices of

demented old women had helped muffle gunshots,

were closed, many of the panes

566 ROBERT IUDIUM

cracked. And through all the madness, the insanity

of violent events, he still wore the clerical collar,

still had his priestly passport and the letter of

pilgrimage. The next few hours would tell him

whether or not they were of any value.

    The roar of an engine came first and then the

sight of a black Mercedes swerving off the country

road into the drive. It sped up to the porch, jolting

to a stop; two men climbed out and the driver raced

around the trunk to join his companion. They stood

for a moment looking up at the porch and the

windows of the house, then turned and scanned the

grounds, walking over to Hermione Geyner's car

and peering inside. The driver nodded and reached

under his jacket to pull out a gun; they went back to

the steps, taking them rapidly, heading across the

porch to the door. Finding no bell, the man without

a gun in his hand knocked harshly, repeatedly,

finally pounding with a closed fist while twisting the

knob to no avail.

    Guttural shouts came from inside as the door

swung back, revealing an angry Frau Geyner dressed

in a tattered bathrobe. Her voice was that of a

shrewish teacher lambasting two students for

cheating when in fact they had not. Each time one

of the men tried to speak her voice became even

more shrill. Cowed, the man with the gun put it

away, but his companion suddenly grabbed Valerie's

aunt by the shoulders and spoke harshly, directly,

forcing her to listen.

    Hermione Geyner did listen, but when she

replied her answers were equally harsh and

delivered with authority. She pointed down at the

overgrown drive and described what she had

apparently witnessed in the dark, early-morning

hours what she herself had accomplished. The men

looked at each other, their eyes questioning and

afraid, but not questioning what the old woman had

told them, only what she could not tell them. They

raced across the porch and down the steps to their

car. The driver started the engine with a vengeance

so pronounced the ignition mechanism flew into a

high-pitched, grinding scream. The Mercedes

plunged forward, skirting past Frau Geyner's car,

and in a sudden attempt to avoid a hole in the

overgrown pavement, the driver swung to his left,

then to his right, skidding on the surface, the tires

sliding on the crawling vine weeds until the side of

the car careened into the disintegrating stone gate.

Roars of abuse from both men filled the morning

air as the Mercedes straightened itself out and raced

through the exit. It swung

THE AQUlTAINE PROGRESSION 569

tee in the red lacquered bowl on the wall table, the

old *Roman had dropped them there last night the

keys to her car. The bathroom door pulled out it

was the solution. Once she was inside, Joel dragged

over a heavy chair from against the wall and jammed

the thick rim under the knob, kicking the legs in

place, wedging them into the floor. She heard the

commotion and tried to open the door; it held. The

harder she pressed, the more firmly the legs became

embedded.

    "We convene again tonight!" she roared. "We will

send out our best people! The best!"

    "God help Eisenhower when you meet," muttered

Converse, inwardly relieved. If Aquitaine did not

have the phone covered, the old woman would be

found in a few hours. The envelope under his arm,

he took the keys from the lacquered bowl and pulled

the gun from his belt. He ran to the front door and

opened it cautiously. There was no one, nothing only

Hermione Geyner's car parked on the weed-ridden

drive. He went outside and pulled the door shut,

leaving it unlocked, and raced down the steps to the

automobile. He started the engine; there was half a

tank of gas, enough to get him far away from

Osnabruck before refilling. Until he could get a map,

he would go by the sun heading south.

    Valerie made arrangements at the travel office in

Caesars Palace, paying cash and using her mother's

maiden name, perhaps hoping some of that

resourceful woman's wartime expertise might find its

way to the daughter. There was a 6:00 P.M. Air

France flight to Paris from Los Angeles. She would

be on it, the hour's trip to LAX made on a chartered

plane to which she would be chauffeured, thus

avoiding the terminal at McCarran Airport. Such

courtesies were always available, usually for

celebrities and casino winners. There was no basic

problem with a false name on the Air France

passenger manifest at worst, only embarrassment,

in her case easily explained: her former husband,

now a stranger, was an infamous man, a hunted man;

she preferred anonymity. She would not legally be

required to produce her passport until she arrived at

immigration in Paris, and once through, she could

travel anywhere she wished, under any name she

gave, for she would not be leaving the borders of

France. It was why she had thought of Chamonix.

    She sat in the chair, looking out the window,

thinking of those days in Chamonix. She had flown

over with Joel to Ge

570 ROBERT LUDLUM

neva,where he had three days of conferences with

the promise of five days off to go skiing at Mont

Blanc, a bonus from John Brooks, the brilliant

international negotiator of Talbot, Brooks and

Simon, who flatly refused to give up some reunion

dinner for what he termed "lizard-shit meetings

between idiots our boy can do it. He'll charm their

asses off while emptying their corporate pockets." It

was the first time Joel really knew that he was on his

way, yet oddly enough he was almost as excited

about the skiing. They both enjoyed it so much. To-

gether. Perhaps because they were both good.

    ButJoel had not enjoyed the skiing at Chamonix

that trip. On the second day he had taken a terrible

fall and sprained his ankle. The swelling was

enormous, the pain as acute in his head as in his

foot. She had knighted him "Sir Grump", he

demanded his Herald Tribune in the morning,

childishly refusing to have his breakfast before the

paper arrived, and even more childishly planing the

martyr as his wife went off to the slopes. When she

had suggested that she really did not care to go

without him, it was worse. He had charged her with

trying to be some kind of saint. He would be

perfectly fine he had things to read, which artists

would not understand. Reading, that was.

    Oh, what a little boy he had been, thought Val.

But during the nights it was so different, he was so

different. He became the man again, loving and

tender, at once the generous lion and the sensitive

lamb. They made love, it seemed, for hours on end,

the moonlight on the snow outside, finally the hint

of the sun's earliest rays on the mountains until they

fell together into exhausted sleep.

    On their last day before heading back to Geneva

for the night flight to New York, she had surprised

him. Instead of going out for a few final hours of

skiing, she had gone downstairs at the hotel and

bought him a sweater, to which she sewed a large

patch on the sleeve. It read: DOWNHILL

RACER CHAMONIX. She had presented it to

him while a porter waited outside the door with a

wheelchair she had made arrangements through

the influential manager of the hotel. They were

taken to the confer of Chamonix, to the cable car

that scaled thirteen thousand feet to the top of

Mont Blanc through the clouds to the top of the

world, it seemed. When they reached the final apex,

where the view was breathtaking, Joel had turned to

her, with that silly, oblique look in his eyes that

belied everything he was and everything

    THE AQUITAINE

    PROGRESSION 571

..ehad been through again, as always, his way of

thanking

    'Enough of this foolish scenery," he had said.

"Take off our clothes. It's not really that cold."

    They had hot coffee, sitting on a bench outside,

the magificence of nature all around them. They held

hands, and ,hrist! She had felt such love that she had

to hold back the ears.

    She felt the love now and got out of the chair,

rejecting he intrusion of emotion. It was the wrong

time. Whatever .larity of mind she could summon was

needed now. She had o travel halfway across the

world avoiding God knew how nany people who were

looking for her.

    He had said he loved her "so much." Was it love

or was t need . . . support? She had replied with the

words "my daring" no, she had said more than that;

she had been far more Specific.. She had said "my

only darling." Was it a response corn of the panic?

    Not knowing was the worst of it, thought

Converse, tudying the road signs in the wash of the

headlights. He had Steen driving for nearly seven

hours after picking up a map in the city of Hagen

while refilling the tank seven hours, and according

to the map he was still a long way from the border

crossing he had chosen. The reason lay in his

ignorance, in not knowing whether Hermione

Geyner's car had been the object of a search in the

first few hours out of Osnabruck. It undoubtedly was

now officially by the police but during those sarly

hours he could have made better time on the

highways he dared not use in case Aquitaine had

raced to Geyner's house with Val's call. He had

traveled circuitous backcountry ~roads, his pilot's

eye on the sun, veering always south until he reached

Hagen. Now the back roads were a necessity;

whether they were before he would never know.

Now, however, Hermione Geyner and her band of

lunatics must have gone to the police to report her

stolen car. Joel had no idea what they could possibly

say that would convince the Polizei that Valerie's

aunt was an injured party, but a stolen car was a

stolen car, whether driven by Saint Francis of Assisi

or Jack the Ripper. He would stay on the back roads.

    Lennestadt to Kreuztal, crossing the Rhine at

Bendorf and following the west bank of the river

through Koblenz, Oberwesel, and Bingen, then south

to Neustadt and east to

572 ROBERT IUDLUM

Speyerand the Rhine again. And again south

through the bor der towns of Alsace-Lorraine, finally

to the city of Kehl. It we' where he would cross into

France, a decision based on the fact that several

years agoJohn Brooks had sent him to Strasbourg

the French city across the river border, to a terribly

dull con ference at which eight lawyers argued so

continuously wit! each other over minor aspects of

language and translation that nothing of substance

was accomplished. As a result, Joe had walked the

city and driven out to the countryside, awec by its

beauty. He had taken several boat trips up and down

the Rhine, and now he remembered the ferries that

shuttle: back and forth between the piers of

Germany and France Above all, he remembered the

crowds in Strasbourg. Always the crowds had helped

him he needed them especially now

    It would take another three to four hours of

driving, but somewhere he would have to stop and

sleep for a while. He was exhausted; he had not

slept for so long he could not accu rately remember

when he had last closed his eyes. But there was

Chamonix and Val ahead. He had told her he loved

her he had said it. He had gotten it out after so

many years: the relief was incredible, but the

response even more incredi" ble. "My darling my

only darling." Did she mean it? Or was she

supporting him again, the artist's emotions riding

over reason and experience?

    Aquitaine! Push everything out of your mind and

get into Francet

    The polar flight from Los Angeles to Paris was

uneventful, the moonscapes of ice over the

northernmost regions of, the world hypnotically

peaceful, suspending thought by the sheer expanse

of their cold infinity. Nothing seemed to matter to

Val as she looked down from the substratosphere.

But what' ever tranquility the flight produced, it

came to an end in Paris.

    "Are you in France on business or on holiday,

madame?" asked the immigration official, taking

Valerie's passport and typing her name into the

computer.

"En pen de l'un et de l'autre."

"Vous parley franpais?"

    "C'est ma lance preferee. Mes parentsetaient

parisiens, " explained Val, and continued in French,

"I'm an artist and I'll be talking with several

galleries. Naturally, I'll want to travel " She

stopped, seeing the ofllcial's eyes glance up

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 573

from his screen, studying her. "Is anything the

matter? ' she asked.

    "Nothing of concern, madame," said the man,

picking up his telephone and talking in a low voice,

the words indishnguishable in the hum of the huge

customs hall. "There is someone who wishes to speak

with you."

    "That's of considerable concern to me, " objected

Valerie frightened. "I'm not travelingunder my own

name for a very good reason which I suspect that

machine of yours has told you, and I will not be

subjected to interrogations or the indignity of the

press! I've said all I have to say. Please reach the

American embassy for me."

    ' There is no need for that, madame," said the

man, replacing the phone. "It is not an interrogation

and no one of the press will know you are in Paris

unless you tell them. Also there is nothing in this

machine but the name on your passport and a

request."

    A second uniformed official hurriedly entered the

roped-offaisle from a nearby office. He bowed

politely. "If you will come with me, madame," he said

quietly in English, obviously noticing the fear in her

eyes and assuming her reluctance. "You may, of

course, refuse, as this is in no way official but I hope

you will not. It is a favor between old friends."

"Who are you?"

"Chief inspector of immigrations, madame."

"And who wishes to speak with me?"

    "It would be up to him to tell you that his name

does not appear on the request. However, I'm to

give you another name. Mathlon. He says you two

were old friends and he respected him a great deal."

"Mamlon?"

    "If you will be so kind as to wait in my office, I

will personally clear your luggage."

    "This is my luggage," said Val, her thoughts on

someone who would bring up Rene's name. "I'll want

a police officer nearby, one who can watch through

a glass door."

"PourquoiP. . . Why, madame?"

"One mesure de surety, " replied Valerie.

"Out, bier sur, mais ce n'est pas necessaire."

'7'insiste ou je pars. "

"D'accord. "

    It was explained that the person who wished to

speak with her was driving out to De Gaulle Airport

from the center

574 ROBERT LUDLUM

of Paris; it would take thirty-five minutes. Waiting,

she had coffee and a small glass of Calvados. The

man walked through the door. Of late middle age,

he was dressed in rumpled clothing, as if his

appearance did not matter any longer. His face

seemed lined as much from weariness as from age,

and when he spoke his voice was tired but

nevertheless precise.

    "I will keep you but a few minutes, madame. I'm

sure you have places to go, people to see."

    "As I explained," said Val, looking hard at the

Frenchman, "I'm in Paris to talk with several

galleries "

    "That is no concern of mine," interrupted the

man, holding up his hands. "Forgive me, I do not

care to hear. I care to hear nothing unless madame

wishes to speak after I've spoken to her."

- "Why did you use the name of Mattilon?"

    "An introduction. You were friends. May I go

back before Monsieur Mattilon?"

"Go back by all means."

    "My name is Prudhomme. I am with the Surete.

A man died in a hospital here in Paris several weeks

ago. It is said your former husband, Monsieur

Converse, was responsible."

"I'm aware of that."

    "It was not possible," said the Frenchman calmly,

sitting down and taking out a cigarette. "Have no

fear, this office is not 'tapped' or 'bugged.' The chief

inspector and I go back to the Resistance."

    "That man died after a brutal fight with my

former husband," said Val cautiously. "I read it in

the newspapers, heard it on the radio. Yet you're

telling me he wasn't responsible for his death. How

can you say that?"

    "The man did not die in the hospital, he was

killed. Between two-fifteen and two-forty-five in the

morning. Your husband was on a flight from

Copenhagen to Hamburg during those hours. It has

been established."

"You know this),"

    "Not officially, madame. I was removed from the

case. A subordinate, a man with little police

experience but with the Army later in the Foreign

Legion, no less was given the assignment while I

was shifted to more 'important' matters. I asked

questions; I will not bore you with details, but the

man's lungs collapsed a sudden trauma unrelated

to his wounds. The man was suffocated. It was not

in the report. It was removed."

576 ROBERT LUDLUM

"I gather that. It's Stone."

    "Mah wand, the Tatiana re-route!" exclaimed the

Southerner. "Someday you must tell me about this

here fascinatin' family of yours, Brer Rabbit."

' Someday I will."

    "I seem to recollect having heard the name

somewheres around the late sixties, but I didn't

know what it meant."

"Trust whoever used it."

"Why should I do that?"

    ' Because whoever it was was trusted by the

hangingest judges in the world."

"Who might that be?"

"The enemy, Rebel."

"If that's a parable, Yankee, you lost me."

"Someday, Johnny, not now. What have you got?"

    "Well, let me tell you, I saw the damnedest little

island over here you ever did see. It's not twenty

miles off the coast near the mouth of the Elbe, right

where it's supposed to be. In the Heligoland Bight,

they call it, which is a section of the North Sea."

    "Scharhorn," said Stone, making a statement.

"You found it."

    "It wasn't tough to find everybody seems to

know about it but nobody goes near a certain

southwest shoreline. It used to be a U-boat

refueling station in World War Two. The security

was so tight most of the German High Command

didn't know about it, and the Allies never got a

clue. The old concrete-and-steel structures are still

there, and it's supposed to be deserted except for a

couple of caretakers, who, I'm told wouldn't pick

you out of the water if your boat crashed into one

of the old submarine winches." Johnny Reb paused,

then continued softly, "I went out there last night

and saw lights, too many lights in too many places.

There are people out there on that old base, not

just a couple of watchmen, and you can bet a

Yankee pot roast your lieutenant commander is one

of them. Also around two o'clock in the morning

after the lights went out, the tallest mother-lovin'

antenna this side of Houston slid up like a bionic

cornstalk, but there was no corn on the top. Instead,

it bloomed like a regular sunflower. It was a disk,

the kind they use for satellite transmissions.... You

want me to mount a team? I can do it; there's a lot

of unemployment these days. Also the cost will be

minimal, because the more I think about it, the

more I appreciate your swinging

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 575

    Valerie controlled herself, keeping her voice cool

and distant despite her anxiety. 'Now," she said,

"what about Mattilon? My friend, Mattilon. '

    "Fingerprints," replied the Frenchman wearily.

"They suddenly are discovered twelve hours after the

arrondissement police who are very good have

examined that office. And yet there was a death in

Wesel, West Germany, within the rising and the

setting of the same sun. Your former husband's

countenance was described, his identity all but con-

firmed. And an old woman on a train to

Amsterdam the same routing who is found with a

gun in her hand again a description given. Has this

Converse wings? Does he fly unobserved over

borders by himself? Again it is not possible."

"What are you trying to tell me, Monsieur

Prudhomme?"

    The man from the Surete inhaled on his cigarette

as he tore off a page from his note pad and wrote

something on it. "I'm not certain, madame, since I

am no longer officially leged in these matters. But if

your former husband did not cause the man in Paris

to die and could not have shot your old friend

Monsieur Mattilon, how many others did he not kill,

including the American ambassador in Bonn and the

supreme commander of NATO? And who are these

people who can tell government sources to confirm

this and confirm that, to change assignments of

senior police personnel at will, to alter medical

reports removing suppressing evidence? There are

things I do not understand, madame, but I am cer-

tain those are the very things I am not meant to

understand. And that is why I'm giving you this

telephone number. It is not my office; it is my flat in

Paris my wife will know where to reach me. Simply

remember, in an emergency say that you are from

the Tatiana family."

    Stone sat at the desk, the ever-present telephone

in his hand. He was alone had been alone when the

call came from Charlotte, North Carolina, from a

woman he had once loved very dearly years ago in

the field. She had left the "terrible game," as she

called it; he had stayed, their love not strong enough.

    The connection was completed to Cuxhaven,

West Germany, to a telephone he was sure would be

sterile. That certainty was one of the pleasures in

dealing with Johnny Reb.

    "Bobbie-Jo's Chicken FryI" was the greeting over

the line. "We deliver."

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 577

me out of the Dardanelles before those guns got

there. That was really more important than getting

me off the hook with those contingency funds in

Bahrain."

    "Thanks, but not yet. If you go in for him now,

we show cards we can't show."

    "How long can you wait? Remember I taped that

prick Washburn."

"How much did you put together?"

    "More than this old brain can absorb, if you want

the truth. But not more than I can accept. It's been

a long time coming, hasn't it? The eagles think

they're gonna catch the goddamned sparrows after

all, don't they? 'Cause they're gonna turn everyone

into sparrows.... You know, Stone, I shouldn't say

this because in your old age you became a bit softer

than I did in mine, but if they get it off the ground,

a lot of people everywhere may just lie back in their

hammocks or go fishin', and say the hell with it let

the big, uniformed daddies do it. Let'em straighten

things out get the potheads with their guns and

switchblades off the streets and out of the parks.

Show the Russkies and the oil boys in bathrobes we

don't take their crap anymore. Let's show Jesus

we're the good guys with a lot of clout. Those

soldiers, they got the guts and the guns, the

corporations and the conglomerates, so what does it

mean to me? Where do I change, says the Joe in the

hammock, except maybe for the better?"

    "Not better," said Stone icily. "Those same people

become robots. We all become robots, if we live.

Don't you understand that?"

    "Yeah, I do," answered Johnny Reb. "I guess I

always have. I live on a hog-high in Bern while you

scratch in D.C Yes, old buddy, I understand. Maybe

better than you do. . . . Forget it, I'm enlisted. But

what in all-fire hell are you going to do about this

Converse? I don't think he's going to get out."

    "He has to. We think he has the answers the

firsthand answers that give us the proof."

    "In my opinion he's dead," said the Southerner.

"Maybe not now but soon soon's they find him."

"We have to find him first. Can you help?"

    "I started the night I needled Major Norman

Anthony Washburn the Fourth, Fifth, or Sixth I

keep rosin' track of the numerals. You got the

computers the ones you have ac

578 ROBERT LUDLUM

cess to and I've got the streets where they sell

things you're not supposed to buy. So far, nothing."

    '.Try to find something, because you were right

before we don't have much time. And, Johnny, do

you have the same feeling I have about that island,

about Scharhorn?"

    "Like Appomattox, way down deep in the

stomach. I can taste the bile, Brer Rabbit, which is

why I'm going to possum down here for a few days.

We found ourselves a beehive, boy and the drones

are restless, I can sense it."

34

    Joel put the map and the thick envelope on the

grass and began pulling branches down from a small

tree in the orchard to cover Hermione Geyner's car.

Each yanking of a limb filled him with pain, as

much from fatigue as from the strain on his arms.

Finally, he bunched together reeds of tall grass and

threw them everywhere over the frame The effect in

the moonlight was that of an immense mound of

hay. He picked up the map and the envelope and

started walking toward the road two hundred yards

away. According to the map, he was on the outskirts

of a city or town called Appenweier, ten miles from

the border at Kehl, directly across the Rhine from

Strasbourg.

    He walked along the road, running into the grass

whenever he saw the headlights of a car in either

direction. He had traveled perhaps five or six

miles there was no way to tell and knew that he

could go no farther.

    In the jungles he had rested, knowing that rest was

as much a wee pon as a gun, the eyes and the mind

far more lethal when alert than a dozen steel weapons

strapped to his bady.

    He found a short ravine that bordered a brook,

the rocks would be his fortress he fell asleep.

    Valerie walked out of the Charles De Gaulle

Airport on the arm of the man from the Surete,

Prudhomme, having accepted the scrap of paper

with his telephone number but vol

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 579

tmteering nothing. They approached the cabstand on

the platform and Prudhomme spoke. "I will make

myself clear madame. You may take a taxi here and

I shall bid you adieu, or you may permit me to drive

you wherever you like perhaps to another taxi

stand in the city, to go wherever you wish and I will

know if anyone is following you."

"You would?"

    "In thirty-two years, even a fool learns something.

My wife keeps telling me she has no lovers only

because I have learned the rudiments of my

profession."

    "I accept your invitation," interrupted Val,

smiling. "I'm terribly tired. A small hotel, perhaps.

Le Pont Royal, I know it."

    "An excellent choice, but I must say that my wife

would welcome you without any questions."

    "My time must be my own, monsieur," said

Valerie, climbing into the car.

"D 'accord. "

    "Why are you doing this?" she asked as

Prudhomme got behind the wheel. "My husband was

a lawyer is a lawyer. The rules can't be that

different. Aren't you some kind of ac-

cessory assuming what I know damned well you're

assuming?"

    "I only wish that you will call me, saying that you

are from the Tatiana family. That is my risk and that

is my reward."

    Converse looked at his watch a watch taken

from a collapsed body so long ago he could not

remember when and saw that it was five-forty-five

in the morning, the sun abruptly illuminating his

fortress ravine. The stream was below, and so he

took care of his necessities downstream and plunged

his face into the flow of water upstream. He had to

move; as he remembered, he had five miles to walk

to the border.

    He reached Kehl. There he bought a razor,

reasoning that a priest would maintain his

appearance as best he could even under the duress

of poor travel accommodations. He shaved at the

river depot, then took the ferry across the scenic

Rhine to Strasbourg. The customs officials were so

deferential to his collar and his passport as well as to

his shabby appearance undoubtedly taken as a sign

of the vow of poverty that he found himself

blessing a number of men, and by extension their

entire families, as he was passed through the

building.

580 ROBERT LUDLUM

    Out on the bustling streets he knew that the first

thing he had to do was to get into a hotel room,

shower off two days of fear and violence, and have

his clothes cleaned or replaced. An

impoverished-looking priest would not travel to the

expensive wonders of Chamonix; it would be

unseemly. But a normally dressed priest, would be

perfectly acceptable, even desirable, a figure of

respectability among the crowds. And a priest he

would remain, Converse had decided the decision

here based again on legal experience. Think out

anticipate what your adversary expects you to do,

then do not conform unless you retain the

advantage. The hunters of Aquitaine would expect

him to shed his priestly habit, as it was his last

known means of disguise; he would not do that;

there were too many priests in France and too much

advantage in being one.

    He registered at the Sofitel on the Place Saint-

Pierre-le-Jeune and without elaboration explained to

the concierge that he had been through a dreadful

three days of traveling and would the kind man see

to several items he needed rather desperately. He

was from a very well-endowed parish in Los Angeles

and An American $100 bill took care of the rest.

His suit was cleaned and pressed within the hour,

his muddy shoes shined, and two new shirts with

clerical collars purchased from a shop "unfortunately

quite a distance away on the Quai Kellermann," thus

necessitating an additional charge. The gratuities,

the expenses and the surcharges for rush service --

all were a hotelman's dream. The suntanned priest

with a blemish or two on his face, and odd demands

based on time, certainly had to come from a

"well-endowed" parish. It was worth it. He had

checked in at eight-thirty in the morning, and by

nine-fifty-five he was ready to make his final

arrangements for Chamonix.

    He could not risk taking a plane or going by rail;

too much had happened to him at airports and on

trains they would be watched. And sooner or later

Hermione Geyner's car would be found, and his

direction if not his destination would be known.

Aquitaine's alarms would go out across the three

borders of Germany, France and Switzerland; again

the safest way was by automobile. The eagerly

accommodating concierge was summoned; a fine

rental car was arranged for the youngish monsignor,

and a route planned to Geneva, some two hundred

thirty-eight miles south.

Of course, he would not cross over into Geneva but

would

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 581

go along the border roads and head for Chamonix,

an hour-plus away. His estimated travel time was

between five and six hours; he would reach the base

of Mont Blanc by four-thirty in the afternoon, five at

the latest. He wasted no time speeding out of

Strasbourg on the Alpine Autoroute marked 83 on

his map.

    Valerie dressed as the first light silhouetted the

irregularly shaped buildings of Paris outside her

windows on the Boulevard Raspail. She had not been

able to sleep, nor had she made any attempt to to do

so; she had lain awake pondering the words of the

strange Frenchman from the Surete who could not

speak officially. She had been tempted to tell him

the truth but knew she would not, not yet, perhaps

not at all, for the possibility of a trap was

considerable revelations based on truth could too

easily be employed to corner the hunted. Still, his

plea had the ring of truth, his own truth, not

someone else's: "Call and say you are from the

Tatiana family. That is my wish and my reward."

    Joel would have an opinion. If the man was not

simply bait put out by Aquitaine, it was a crack in

their strategy the generals knew nothing about. She

hoped he was his own man, but to trust him at this

point was impossible.

    She had read the domestic schedules provided by

Air France on the plane from Los Angeles and knew

the routing she would take to Chamonix. Air

Touraine had four flights daily to Annecy, the

nearest airport to Chamonix and Mont Blanc. She

had hoped to make a reservation on the 7:00 A.M.

flight last night but the sudden, unnerving intrusion

of Prudhomme had ruled it out, and by the time she

called Touraine from the Pont Royal there were no

seats it was summer and Mont Blanc was a tourist

attraction. Nevertheless, she was on standby for the

eleven o'clock flight. It was better to be at Orly

Airport, better to be in the crowds, as Joel insisted.

    She took the open, brass-grilled elevator down to

the lobby, paid her bill, and asked for a taxi.

"A queue heure, madameF"

"Maintenant, s'il vous plait. "

"Dans quelques minutes."

"Merci. "

    The taxi arrived and Val went outside, greeted by

a surly sleepy-eyed driver who had no intention of

getting out of the

582 ROBERT LUDIUM

cab to help her m and was only vaguely willing to

accept her patronage.

"Orly, s'il vous plaint."

    The driver started up, reached the corner and

swung his wheel to the left to make a rapid U-turn

so as to head back into the Raspail toward the

expressway leading to the airport. The intersection

appeared to be deserted. It was not.

    The crash behind them was close by and

sudden metal striking metal as glass shattered and

tires screeched. The driver slammed on his brakes,

screaming in shock and fear as the taxi veered into

the curb. Val was thrown against the front seat, her

knees scraping the floor. Awkwardly she started to

get up as the driver leaped from the cab yelling at

the offending parties behind.

    Suddenly the right rear door opened and the

lined, weary face of Prudhomme was above her, a

trickle of blood rolling down from a gash in his

forehead. He spoke quickly, quietly. "Go,

madame wherever it is you go. No one will follow

you now."

    "You9. . . You've been here all night! You were

waiting for me, watching. It was you who crashed

into that car!"

    "There is no time. I will send your driver back.

I must make out my tedious report while scattering

a few items in the man's car, and you must leave.

Now before others

' That namer" cried Val. "It was Tatiana?"

"Thank your"

    "Au revoir. Tonne chance." The man from the

SGrete ducked away and ran back to the two

Frenchmen shouting at each other behind the taxi.

    It was three-twenty in the afternoon when

Converse saw the sign: SAINT-JULlEN EN

CENEVOlS 15 KM. He had rounded the border

of Switzerland, the autoroute to Chamonix directly

ahead, east of Geneva, just south of Annemasse. He

would reach Mont Blanc in something over an hour;

he had done it! He had also driven as he had never

before driven in his life, the powerful Citroen

responding to his pilot's touch, his pilot's mind

oblivious to everything but the sweep in front of

him, the equipment around him the feel of the

hard road beneath as he took the Alpine curves. He

had stopped to refuel once at Pontarlier, where he

drank steaming

THE AOUITAINE PROGRESSION 583

hot tea from a vending machine. Since he had left

the expressway for the shorter distance of the

mountain roads, his speed depended on his every

reaction being instantaneous and accurate. An hour

now. Be there, Val. Be there, my loved

    Valerie looked at her watch ready to scream~s

she had wanted to scream since six-thirty in the

morning at Orly Airport. It was four-ten in the

afternoon, and the entire day had been filled with

one crisis after another, from the crash in the

Boulevard Raspail, and Prudhomme's revelation that

she was being followed, to her arrival at Annecy on

the one o'clock flight from Paris itself delayed by a

malfunctioning luggage door. Her nerves were

stretched to the outer limits, but she knew above all

that she could not lose her control. l:)oing so would

only rivet attention on her; it briefly had.

    There were no seats on the seven o'clock flight

and the eleven o'clock plane had been overbooked.

Only those with lockets in their hands were

permitted through the gate. She had protested so

angrily that people began staring at her. Then she

had retreated to the soft-spoken bribe, which only

served to irritate the clerk not because he was

morally offended but because he could not

accommodate her and accept the money. Again

passengers behind and on both sides, in both lines,

had looked over as the clerk admonished her with

true Gallic hauteur. It was no way to get to

Chamonix alive, Val had thought, and had accepted

a locket on the one o'clock flight.

    The plane landed at Annecy over a half-hour late,

several minutes after three, and the subsequent crush

at the taxi platform caused her to behave in a way

she generally tried to avoid. Being a relatively tall

woman tall in appearance, certainly she knew the

effect she provoked when she looked down

disdainfully at those around her. A genetic

preordinabon had made her privileged, didn't they

know? Foolishly, too many people accepted the

posturing as proof of innate superiority; the women

were intimidated, the men both inbmidated and

sexually aroused. The tactic had gained her a few

forward places in the taxi line, but the line was still

long. Then she had happened to glance to her right;

at the far end of the platform were glistening

limousines, with several chauffeurs leaning against

them, smoking cigarettes, picking their teeth and

chattering. What in heaven's name was she doings She

had broken away from the line, opening her purse as

she ran.

584 ROBERT LUDLUM

    Her final frustration now was the result of

something she should have remembered. There was

a point in the theatrical setting that was the

wondrous "village" of Chamonix where automobiles

could not pass and only small official and jitneys for

tourists were allowed. She got out of the limousine

and walked rapidly down the wide, crowded

boulevard. She could see the large red cable-car

terminal in the distance. Somewhere above, above

the clouds, was Joel. Her Joel. She could not stop

herself; she did not try to maintain the control she

had imposed on herself all day. She began to

run faster faster! Be up there, my darling! Be alive,

my darling my only darling!

    It was ten minutes to five when Converse

screeched into the parking lot; he slammed on the

brakes and leaped out of the car. There had been

tragic on the Mont Blanc autoroute a holdover at

the new construction over the vast gorge bridge.

Every muscle in his right leg had been cramped by

the exertion of seizing every opportunity to swing

around the lethargic traffic.. He was here! He was in

Chamonix, the majestic splendor of the Alps in

front of him, the village below. He started running,

taking swallows of breath from the clear air of the

mountains, forgetting the pain for she had to be

there' Please, Val, make itil love you so . . . goddamn

it, I need you so! Be there!

    She stood outside the cable lift looking at the

clouds below on the mountains that formed a wall

of mist hiding all earthly concerns. She shivered in

the Alpine cold but she could not leave. She stood

by the stone railing, by a thick mountain telescope

through which tourists could observe the wonders of

the Alpine world for a few francs. She was fright-

ened to death that he would not come could not

come. Death.

    It was the last cable car, none were permitted

after the sun descended over the western

peaks cables were suddenly frozen with shadows.

Except for the bartender and several customers

inside the glass doors of the bar, she was the only

one there. Joel! I told you to stay alive! Please do

what I said, my darling my only darling! My only

love!

    The cable car laboriously approached, then

screechingly came to a stop. There was no one

there. It was empty! Death.

And then he walked into view, a tall man in a

clerical col

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 585

far, and the top of the world made sense again. He

stepped out of the car and she ran to him as he ran

to her. They embraced, holding each other as they

had never held each other as man and wife.

"I love you!" he whispered. ' Oh, God, I love you."

    She pulled back, holding his shoulders, tears

filling her eyes. "You're alive, you're here! You did

what I asked you to do."

"What l had to do," he said. "Because it was you."

35

    They slept naked, their bodies together, their

arms around each other, for a while pushing out the

world as they knew it to be, a world they would face

in the morning. But for a bme there had to be

something for themselves, for each other, giving and

receiving, precious hours alone, speaking in whispers,

trying to understand what they had lost and why,

each telling the other it would never be lost again.

    When morning came, they wanted to deny its

arrival, yet not completely. There ureas the world as

they knew it, and there was another world as the

generals of Aquitaine would have it.

    They ordered Continental breakfasts and an extra

pot of coffee. While Val combed her hair Joel went

to Me window and looked down at the colorful,

vibrant town of Chamonix. Hoses pouring out water

were seemingly everywhere the streets were being

washed down. The storefronts were splashed until

they glistened. Chamonix was preparing for the

onslaught of summer tourists thinking of which,

mused Converse, they had been lucky to find rooms.

They had gone to three hotels the first was nearly

a disaster before they reached the desk. "For Cod's

sake, get rid of that collar!" Valerie had whispered.

None of the three had anything available, but the

fourth, the Croix Blanche, had just received a

cancellation.

    "I'll go out and get you some clothes later," said

Val, coming up behind him, placing her head on his

shoulder.

586 ROBERT LUDIUM

    "I've missed that," he said, turning, putting his

arms around her. "I've missed you. So much."

    "We've found each other, darling. That's all that

matters." There was a knock on the door, the polite

knock of a waiter. "That'll be the coffee. Go use my

toothbrush."

    They sat across from each other at the small

marble table in front of the window. It was time,

and they both knew it. Joel placed a sheet of hotel

stationery beside his coffee and a hotel pen on top.

    "I still can't get over my aunt!" said Val

suddenly. "How could I have done it? How could I

not have known?"

    "A couple of times I asked myself the same

question." Converse smiled gently. "About you, I

mean."

"I'm surprised you didn't throw me out of the cable

car."

"Only crossed my mind twice."

"God, I was stupid!"

    "No, you were desperate, " corrected Joel. "Just

as she was desperate. You were grasping at

possibilities, for help. She was desperately trying to

go back to the only meaningful days of her life. A

person can be terribly convincing feeling like that.

She had the proper words, all those esoteric phrases

you'd heard all your life. You believed her. I would

have believed her too."

    "You're devastating when you're kind, darling.

Go easy, it's morning."

"Tell me about Sam Abbott," he said.

    "Yes, of course, but before I do, I want you to

know we're not alone. There's a man in Paris, an

inspector from the Surete, who knows you didn't kill

Rene and you couldn't have killed the one they

called a chauffeur at the George Cinq."

    Startled, Joel leaned forward over his coffee.

"But I did kill that man. God knows I didn't mean

to I thought he was reaching for a gun, not a

radio but I fought him, I smashed his head into

the wall; he died from a cranial something-or-other."

    "No, he didn't. He was killed in the hospital. He

was suffocated; his lungs were collapsed by

suffocation. It was unrelated to his injuries, that's

what Prudhomme said. As he put it, if you didn't

kill the driver and you didn't kill Rene, how many

others didn't you kill? He thinks you've been set up,

he doesn't know why any more than he can

understand why evidence has been suppressed, or

suddenly found when it should have been found

earlier if it existed in this case your finger

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 587

prints in Mattilon's office. He wants to help; he gave

me a telephone number where we can reach him."

    "Can we trust him?" asked Joel, writing a note on

the stationery.

    "I think so. He did something remarkable this

morning, but I'll get to that."

    ' The man at the George Cinq," said Converse

softly. "Bertholdier's aide. It's where the running

began. It's as though the moment was suddenly

seized upon, someone recognizing a possible strategy,

not wanting to let the opportunity slip away. 'Brand

him a killer now, maybe we can use it, build on it.

All it costs is a life.'lesus!''Joel struck a match and lit

a cigarette. "Go on, ' he continued. "Go back. What

about Sam?"

    She told him everything, starting with the

madness at the St. Regis in New York the

frightening telephone call that led to an intense

young man racing up the steps and an Army officer

running after her down the street.

    "The odd thing here," interrupted Converse, "is

that those men, that call, might have been

legitimate."

    "What? How? The first one looked like a Hitler

youth, and the other was in uniform!"

    'Most people in uniform would be the first ones

to want the generals of Aquitaine cut loose in a

typhoon. Remember, Fitzpatrick said those four

dossiers came from way down deep in official vaults,

and judging from much of the material, Connal

thought there was heavy military input. Maybe my

silent partners in Washington are beginning to crawl

out of their sewers. Sorry. Go on."

    She told him of meeting Sam at the diner in Las

Vegas the married Sam, Sam the father of two

young girls. Wincing, Joel listened, all his antennae

revolving, catching every turn of phrase, every

meaning that might have more than one meaning,

trying desperately to find a clue, a wayffomething,

anything they might use or act upon. And then he

held up his hand, signaling Val to stop.

"The three of you were going to Washington?"

"Yes."

    "You and Sam and this third person he was going

to see, going to talk to the one he said would know

what to do."

    "Yes. The man who had Sam killed. He was the

only one Sam talked to."

588 ROBERT LUDLUM

    "But Abbott said he trusted him. With 'his life,'

I think you said."

"Sam said," corrected Valerie. "He was wrong."

    "Not necessarily. Sam was easygoing but not

easily conned. He chose his friends carefully; he

didn't have too many because he knew his rank was

vulnerable."

"But he didn't talk with anyone else_"

    "I'm sure he didn't, but this other man had to. I

know something about crisis conferences in

Washington and that's exactly what Sam meant

when he said you were going there. Those meetings

don't just happen; some strong words are used to

cut a path through the bureaucratic mess. Certainly

Sam's name would be put forward first he had the

status and the rank and just possibly my name, or

yours, or even Delavane's, any of which would have

been enough." Converse picked up the pen. "What

was his name?"

    "Oh, Lord," said Val, closing her eyes, her

fingers massaging her forehead. "Let me think....

Alan, the first name was Alan.... Alan Metzger?

Metland... ?"

"Was there a rank, a title of some kind?"

"No. Metcalf! Alan Metcalf, that was it."

    Joel wrote down the name. "Okay, let's get to

Paris, the man from the Surete."

    She began with the odd behavior of the

immigration officials, which led to the strange

meeting with the weary, rumpled Prudhomme. She

reached the end of the Frenchman's startling

revelations, repeating herself but filling in all the de-

tails she had omitted previously. When she finished,

Converse held up his palm for the second time, his

mouth open in astonishment, his eyes wide and

alive.

    "The Taffana family?" he asked incredulously.

"Are you certain?"

"Completely. I asked him again this morning."

    "This morning? Yes, you said he did something

remarkable this morning. What happened?"

    "He stayed up all night outside the hotel in his

car, and when I left in a taxi shortly after the sun

was up he crashed and I mean crashed into the

car behind us. I was being followed. He told me to

hurry up and get out of there. That's when I asked

him to repeat the name. It was Tatiana."

    "That was the name Rene told me to use with

Cort Thorbecke in Amsterdam. 'Say you're a

member of the Tatiana family. Those were his

instructions. '

    THE AQUITAINE

    PROGRESSION 589

"What does it meant"

    "Rene didn't go into it too deeply, but I got the

drift. Ap~arently it means some kind of trust, a

litmus test that clears omeone for a level of

information that would be withheld rom ninety-nine

percent of the people wanting it. '

"Why?"

    "It sounds crazy, but Mattilon said it was because

who~ver was part of Tatiana was trusted by the

most suspicious eople on earth men who couldn't

afford to make a mis:ake."

"My God, who?"

    "Russians. Commissars in the Kremlin who float

money ut to brokers in the West who invest it."

"You're right," said Val. "It's crazy."

    "But it works, don't you see? Decent men who for

one reason or another found themselves in a world

they probably rated, never knowing whom they could

trust, figured out a rode among themselves. To be a

member of the Tahanas is some kind of clearance.

It's not only a signal of emergency it's more than

that. It means that whoever sends that signal is all

right in spite of what he may have to do. I'll bet it's

one hell of a small circle. Rene, this Prudhomme,

they'd fit into it. And for us it's a key, we can trust

it."

    "You're in court, aren't you?" said the now and

former Mrs. Converse, reaching across the table for

his free hand.

    "I don't know any other way to do it. Facts,

names, tactics; somewhere there's a crack, a road we

can take we have to take. Quickly."

"I'd start with Prudhomme," said Val.

    "We'll call in his hand but maybe not first. Let's

take things in sequence. Are there two phones in

here? A certain ex-wife had me too preoccupied to

notice last night."

"She's probably pregnant."

"Wouldn't that be wonderful?"

    "Down, boy. Yes, there's another phone. It's in

the bathroom."

    "I want you to call this Metcalf, Alan Metcalf, in

Las Vegas. We'll get the number from information.

I'll listen."

"What do I say?"

"What name did you and Sam use?"

"The one I told you. Parquette."

"Say that's who's calling, nothing else. Let him make

the

590 ROBERT LUDLUM

first move. If it's wrong, I'll know we'll both

know and I'll hang up. You'll hear me and you

hang up, too."

    "Suppose he's not there? Suppose I get a wife or

a girl friend or a child?"

    "Leave your name quickly and say you'll call

back m an hour."

    Peter Stone sat on the sofa, his feet up on the

coffee table. Across, in two armchairs, were the

Army captain out of uniform and the young Navy

lieutenant, also in street clothes.

    "We agree, then," said Stone. "We try this

Metcalf and hope for the best. If we're wrong if

I'm wrong we could be traced, and don't fool

yourselves, you've been seen here, you could be

identified. But as I told you before, there comes a

time when you have to take a risk you'd rather not

take. You're out of safe territory and you hope to

Christ you get through it fast. I can't promise that

you will. This phone is tapped into another number,

a hotel across town, so any trace would be delayed,

but only delayed while everyone registered is

checked, every room checked. Once that's over with,

any experienced telephone repairman could go

down in the cellars and find the intercept."

    "How much time would that give us?" asked the

Army of ficer.

    "It's one of the largest hotels in New York,"

replied the civilian. "With luck, twenty-four to

thirty-six hours."

"Go for it!" ordered the Navy man.

    '.Oh, for God's sake," said the captain, running

his hand through his hair. "Yes, of course, try it, try

him. But I'm still not sure why."

    "Scat patterns. It was routine information and

easy to get. Abbott wrote out his schedules every

day and he was preciseabout them. There was a

preponderance of lunches alone with Metcalf, and

dinners with both families at either the Abbott or

the Metcalf home. I think he trusted the man, and

as a longtime intelligence officer Metcalf was the

logical one to go to. Also, there's something else.

Along with Converse, all three were prisoners of

war in Vietnam."

"Go for it!" cried the Navy lieutenant.

"For Christ's sake, find another phrase," said the

captain.

    "It's an answering machine!" shouted Val,

gripping the mouthpiece of the telephone.

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 591

    Joel came out of the bathroom. "One hour," he

whis~ered.

    "One hour," she said. "Miss Parquette will call

back in n hour." She hung up.

    "And every hour after that," added Converse,

staring town at the phone. "I don't like this. It's one

o'clock in the Horning back there, and if there's a

wife or children aroumd, omeone should have been

there."

"Sam didn't mention a wife or children, except his

own."

"No reason why he would."

"There could be a dozen explanations, Joel."

"I just hope it's not the one I keep thinking about."

    "Let me call Prudhomme," said Valerie. "Let's

use this atiana family."

"Not yet."

"Why not?"

    "We need something else he needs something

else.' ;uddenly, Converse's gaze fell on the thick

envelope adlressed to Nathan Simon. It was on the

bureau, his false pass~ort on top. "My God, we

may have it," he said quietly. "It's een right there all

the time and I didn't see it."

    Val followed his eyes. "The analysis you wrote for

Nahan?"

    "I called it the best brief I ever wrote, but of

course it's lot a brief at all. It doesn't address points

of law except in the videst, most abstract sense,

without acceptable evidence to upport the

accusations. What it does address is the perverted

mbitions of powerful men who want to change the

laws, alering governments, supplanting them with

raw military conrols, all in the name of maintaining

the law and preserving he order they themselves will

be called upon to maintain and ~reserve. And if

'compromise' means killing if they intend nounting

wholesale assassinations they can do it."

"What's your point, Joel?"

    "If I'm going to build a case, I'd better do it the

only way know how from premise to conclusion

based on affidavits, repositions starting with my

own and ending with pretrial xaminahons."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

    ' The law, Mrs. Converse," said Joel, picking up

the enveope. "And what it's meant to do. I can use

most of what's in ere just in a different form.

Naturally, I'll want other coroborating depositions,

the farther afield the better. That's

592 R08ERT LUDLUM

when you'll call this Prudhomme and join the

Tatiana family. Then hopefully we'll reach Sam's

friend, Metcalf goddamn it, he'll have something to

give us.... Finally, I'm going to want to examine at

least two of the alleged defendants oral-

ly Leifhelm, for one, and probably Abrahms,

maybe Delavane himself."

"You're mad! ' cried Valerie.

    "No, I'm not," said Converse simply. "I'll need

help, I know that. But I've got enough money to

hire a couple of squads of miscreants and once

Prudhomme understands, I have an Idea he'll know

where the union hall is. We've got a lot of work to

do, Val. All courts like immaculate menu"

scripts. "

"For Christ's sake, Joel, speak English."

    "You're a romantic, Mrs. Converse," he said

approaching her. These are the nuts and bolts you

don't find in seascapes. "

    T eydo have to be sketched, my darling. And

balanced or unbalanced, the colors

deliberate What are you talking

    "A stenographer a legal secretary, if you can

find one Someone who's willing to stay here all day

and half the night; if need be. Offer three times the

going rate."

    "Say I find one," said Val. ' What in heaven's

name are you going to tell her? Or him?"

    Joel frowned as he crossed aimlessly to the

window. 'A novel," he said, turning. "We're writing

a novel. The first twenty or thirty pages are to be

read as an upcoming court case, a trial."

'Based on real people, men everyone's read about?"

It's a new kind of fiction, but it's only a novel.

That's all

    Morning came to New York and Stone was

alone again. The Navy lieutenant and the Army

captain were back at their desks in Washington. It

was better this way; they could not help him, and

the less they were seen around the apartment the

more likely they might escape detection if the

hammer came down. And the hammer could come

down, Stone knew It. It was as clear as the fact that

Colonel Alan Metcalf was the chord they needed to

start the music. "Without him," as Johnny Reb might

have said in the old days, "the tune ain't gonna get

out of the fiddle no stompin' unless he shows up."

But could he show up? wondered the former

operations offi

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 593

cer for Central Intelligence. To all intents and

purposes he had disappeared, that was the word

from Nellis, and the investigating unit did not

pretend to understand or appreciate his absence.

That, too, was the word and it was delivered harshly.

    But Stone understood. Metcalf now knew what

he knew what they knew and the colonel would

not play by any rules written in the regulations, not

if he was any good. Not if he was alive. And the

ex-agent also understood something else when it

came to telephone answering machines and

intelligence personnel. The equipment was adaptable

and sophisticated, courtesy of the American taxpayer

and, considering the extraordinary waste, one of his

better investments. Metcalf would play it well if he

was alive and any good. He would use a remote,

programming it and reprogramming it, hearing what

he wanted to hear, erasing what he wanted to erase,

and leaving in certain information, preferably

misleading. There would also be a code, probably

changed daily, that if not inserted accurately would

melt the tape with a ten-second burst of

microwaves all standard. If he was any good. If he

was alive.

    Stone counted on both that the colonel was

good and that he was alive. There was no point in

thinking otherwise; that only led to staying in Johnny

Reb's hammock or ' gain' fishin'," doing whatever

one did as a robot. Which was why Stone had left a

message on MetcalPs machine an hour ago at

six-thirty-five. He had chosen a name Converse's

wife former wife would have to have relayed to

the dead Samuel Abbott. Marcus Aurelius ascending.

Respond and erase, please. Then Stone had given the

telephone number at the apartment, which, if traced,

would lead the tracers to the Hilton Hotel on

Fifty-third Street.

    There was only one other person in the world

Stone wished he could reach, but that man was "on

holiday we have no means of getting in touch." The

words were patently a lie, but to challenge that lie

would mean that Peter would have to say more than

he wanted to say. The man was Derek Belamy, chief

of Clandestine Operations for Britain's M.1.6 and

one of the only real friends Stone had ever had in all

his years with the Central Intelligence Agency.

Belamy was such a good friend that when Peter was

station chief in London, the Englishman had told

him bluntly to get out for a while before the whisky

took over altogether and his ass was nailed to an

alcoholic cross: '`I have a doctor who'll certify a

minor

594 ROBERT LUDLUM

breakdown, Peter. I've a guest cottage on the

grounds in Kent. Stay there, get well, old boy. '

    Stone had refused, and it was the most

destructive decision he had ever made. The rest was

the drunken nightmare Belamy had predicted.

    But it was not Derek's concern for a friend that

made Peter want to reach him. It was Belamy's

brilliance, his perceptiveness, quietly concealed

behind a pleasant, even prosaic exterior. And the

knowledge that Derek Belamy had the pulse of

Europe in his head, and given the most basic

information, could smell out a Delavane operation.

And, in fact, thought Stone hopefully, he was

smelling them out now in Ireland certainly where

he was now. Sooner or later preferably

sooner Belamy would return his call. When he did,

a munitions shipment from Beloit, Wisconsin, would

be described in full. Derek Belamy loathed the

Delavanes of this world. His old friend would

become an ally against the generals.

    The telephone rang; Stone looked at it and let

it ring again. Metcalf? He reached over and picked

it up. 'Yes?"

"AureliusP"

"Somehow I knew you'd come through, Colonel."

"Who the hell are you?"

    "The name's Stone and we're on the same side,

at least I think we are. However, you wear a

uniform and I don't, so I need a little more

confidence in you. Can you understand

"You're one of those bastards in D.C. who sent him

outl" "You're warmer, Colonel. I came on late, but

yes, I am one of those bastards. What happened to

General Abbott?"

    "He was killed, you son of a bitchl . . . I assume

this phone s clean."

    "For at least twenty-four hours. Then we all

disappear just like you disappeared."

    "No remorse? No conscience? Do you know

what you've done?"

    "We don't have time for that, Colonel. Perhaps

later, if there's a later for w.... Get to, it, soldier!

I've lived with thisl Now. Where do we meet?

Where are you?"

    "Okay, okay," said the obviously exhausted Air

Force officer. "I took a dozen different Bights. I'm

in where the hell am 1? in Knoxville, Tennessee.

I've got a night to Washington in twenty minutes."

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 595

"Why?"

"To blow this tucking thing out of the air, what else?"

    "Forget it, you're a dead man. I'd think you'd

have learned that by now. You set up something on

the information Abbott gave you, right?"

"Yes."

"And he was blown out of the air, right?"

"Goddamn you, shut up!"

    "You should have learned. They're where you

can't see them or find them. But the wrong word to

the wrong person and they can find you."

    "I know that!" shouted Metcalf. "But I've been in

this business for twenty years. There's got to be

someone I can trust!"

    "Let's talk about it, Colonel. Scratch D.C. and fly

up to New York. I'll get a room at the

Algonquin actually, I've already reserved one."

"What name?"

"What else? Marcus."

    "You're on, but as long as we're in this deep I

should tell you. The woman's been trying to reach

me since one o'clock this morning."

"Converse's wife?"

"Yes."

"We need her. We need him!"

"I'll reprogram the machine. The Algonquin?"

"That's it."

    "He's from New York, isn't he? I mean he's a

New Yorker."

"Whatever that means, yes. He's lived here for

years."

"I hope he's bright they're bright."

    "Neither of them would be alive now if they

weren't very bright, Colonel."

"See you in a few hours, Stone."

    The civilian hung up the phone, his hands

shaking, his eyes on a bottle of bourbon across the

room. No! There would be no drinks, he had

promised himself. He got out of the chair and went

to the bed, where his small suitcase was open, a gap-

ing mouth waiting to be filled. He filled it, leaving

the bottle of whisky on the table, and went outside to

the elevators down the hall.

* * *

596 ROBERT LUDLUM

    1, Joel Harrison Converse, an attorney admitted

to practice before the bar of the State of New York

and employed by the firm of Talbot, Brooks and

Simon, 666 Fifth Avenue, New York City, New

York arrived in Geneva, Switzerland, on August 9

for legal conferences on behalf of our client, the

Comm Tech Corporation, for the purpose of

finalising a contemplated business association

referred to hereafter as the Comm Tech-Bern

merger. On the morning of August 10, at

approximately eight o'clock, I was contacted by the

chief counsel representing the Bern Croup, Mr.

Avery Preston Halliday of San Francisco,

California. As he was an American only recently re-

tained by the Swiss companies, I agreed to meet

with him to clarify the existing points of argument

and our positions with respect to them. When I

arrived at the cafe on the Quai du Mont Blanc, I

recognized Mr. Halliday as a student and close

friend I had known years ago at the Taft School in

Watertown, Connecticut. His name then was Avery

P. Fowler. Mr. Halliday readily confirmed this fact,

explaining that his surname had been changed upon

the death of his father and the remarriage of his

mother to a John Halliday of San Francisco. The

explanation was acceptable, the circumstances,

however, were not. Mr. Halliday had ample prior

time and opportunity to apprise me of his

identity the identity with which I was

familiar but did not do so. There was a reason.

On that morning of August 10, Mr. Halliday sought

a confidential meeting with the undersigned regard-

ing a matter totally unrelated to the Comm

Tech-Bern merger. This meeting was the primary

reason for his being in Geneva. It was the first of

many disturbing revelations....

    If the very proper and distant British

stenographer had the slightest interest in the

material she was transcribing in segments from

dictation to the typewritten page, she did not show

it. Her thin lips pursed, her grey hair knotted into

a forbidding bun on the top of her head, she

performed like a machine, as if everything was

accepted in rote and by rote. Valerie's somewhat

guarded explanation that her husband was an

American novelist intrigued by recent events in

Europe was

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 597

greeted with a cold stare and the gratuituous

information that the legal secretary never watched

television and rarely read the newspapers. She was a

member of the Franco-ltalian Alpine Society, whose

purpose was to defend the natural endowments being

eroded by man; working for the society took up all

her time and energy when she was not earning a

living to enable her to remain in her beloved

mountains. She was an automaton putting in her

time; one could dictate the book of Genesis and Val

doubted the woman would know what she was typing.

    It was the seventh hour and there was still no

answer at Alan MetcalPs telephone in Las Vegas.

Only a machine. It was time for the eighth call.

    "If we don't get him now," said Converse grimly,

above the quiet tapping of the typewriter across the

room, "go ahead and reach Prudhomme. I wanted to

talk to this Metcalf first, but it's possible that_it may

not be possible."

    "What difference does it make? You need help

quickly, and he's willing to help."

    "The difference is I know where Prudhomme's

coming from, you've told me. I got an idea what he

can do and what he can't do, but I don't know

anything about Metcalf except that Sam put him

way up on a high priority. Whoever I call first I've

got to make specific statements to him, accusations

and observations that'll blow his mind. Those are

commitments, Val, and I have to go with the

strongest.... Try Metcalf again."Joel turned and

headed for the telephone in the bathroom as Valerie

dialed the international codes for Las Vegas, Nevada.

    "Caller C, message received. Please reidentify

yourself twice, followed by a slow count to ten. Stay

on the line."

    Joel put the phone down on the edge of the basin

and rushed out to the bedroom-sitting room. He

walked over to Val, holding up his hand as he

reached for a pencil on the desk. He wrote out the

words: "Go ahead. Stay calm. P.S.E."

    "This is Miss Parquette speaking," said Valerie,

frowning bewildered. "This is Miss Parquette

speaking. One, two, three, four . . ."

    Converse returned to the bathroom, picked up

the telephone and listened.

". . . eight, nine, ten."

    Silence. Finally, there were two sharp clicks and

the metaJlic voice came back on the line.

"Confirmed, thank you.

598 ROBERT LUDLUM

This is the second tape and will be microed out when

completed. Listen carefully. There is a place on an

island well known for its tribal nights. The King will

be in his chair. That's it. We are burning."

    Joel hung up the phone and studied the

half-legible words he had hastily scribbled in soap on

the mirror above the basin. The door opened and

Valerie walked in, a piece of paper in her hand.

"I wrote it down," she said, handing it to him.

"I wrote it sideways your way is better. Christ, a nd

    "No more than the one you gave me. What in

heaven's name does 'P.S.E.' mean?"

    " 'Psychological Stress Evaluator,' " answered

Converse, leaning against the wall and reading

MetcalPs message. He looked up at her. "It's a voice

scanner you can attach to a phone or a recording

machine that supposedly tells you whether the person

you're talking to is Iying or not. Larry Talbot played

around with one for a while but claimed he couldn't

find anyone telling the truth, including his nine-

ty-two-year-old mother. He threw it away."

"Does it work?"

    "They say it's much more accurate than a lie

detector, and I suppose it is if you know how to read

it or use it. It worked in your case. Your voice was

matched against the other calls you made, which

means this Metcalf is into pretty high-tech equipment.

That scanner tripped the second tape and it was all

done by remote, from another phone, otherwise he

would have answered himself after you passed the

test."

- "But if I passed, why the riddle? Why an island

with tribal

nights?"

    "Because any machine like that can be beaten. It's

why they're not admissible in court. Years ago Willie

Sutton was wired into a lie detector, and according to

the result, he never even broke into a piggy bank,

much less Chase Manhattan Metcalf was willing to

take a risk, but not all the way. He's running too."

Converse returned to what Val had written down.

    "An island." Val spoke softly, reading the soaped

words on the mirror. "Tribes . . . The Caribe tribes;

they were all through the Antilles. OrJamaica tribal

nights, Obeah rituals, voodoo rites in Haiti. Even the

Bahamas the Lucayan Indians they held puberty

rituals, they all did."

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 599

    "You impress me," said Joel, looking up from the

paper. "How come?"

    "Art courses," she replied. "Those nuts and bolts

you won't grant us that go into the makeup of a

culture's visual work.... And it doesn't fit. It's too

loose."

    "Why? It could mean someplace in the

Caribbean, some resort that's advertised a lot. The

King is an emperor and that has to mean

Delavane Mad Marcus, as in Aurelius. It has to be

Marcus; no one's named Aurelius! . . . All those

television commercials, the newspaper ads pictures

of people doing the limbo under torches with

costumed blacks smiling down benignly, counting the

dollars. Which one?"

    "Too loose," repeated Val. "Too abstract blocks

and geometric shapes without specifics no

representational images."

    "Now what the hell are you talking about?"

objected Converse.

    "It's too wide, Joel, too many places to choose

from, places you might not know anything about. It

has to be closer, more familiar to you or to me,

something we can recognize. Like Bruegel or

Vermeer, littered with specific detail."

"They sound like dentists."

    Valerie took the paper from him. "Manhattan's an

in land," she said softly, reading and frowning again.

    "If there are torches and tribal puberty rites, it's

not my part of town."

    "Not tribal rites, tribal nights," corrected Val.

"Tribal not Black but Red? The King will be in his

chair chair . . . table. His table. Tribal . . . nights.

Nights! That's where we're misreading it. Nights!"

"How else can you read it?"

"Not nights but knights! With a k!"

    "And a table," broke in Converse. "Knights of the

Round Table."

    "But not the King Arthllr legend, not Camelot.

Much nearer, much closer. Tribal American natives.

American Indians. "

"Algonquins. The Round Table!"

    "The Algonquin Hotel," cried Valerie. "That's it,

that's what he meant!"

    "We'll know in a few minutes," said Joel. "Co

inside and place the call."

    The wait was both intolerable and interminable.

Converse looked at his face in-the mirror;

perspiration began to

600 ROBERT LUDLUM

drench his face, the salt sunging his scrapes and

burning his eyes. Far more telling, his hand shook

and his breath was short. The Algonquin

switchboard answered and Val asked for a Mr.

Marcus. There was a stretch of silence, and when

the operator came back on the line, Joel thought he

would smash the telephone into the mirror.

    "There are two Marcuses registered, ma'am.

Which one did you wish to speak to?"

    "Already it's a rotten day!" Val broke in suddenly

over the phone, startling Converse with her words.

"My boss, the clown, told me to call Mr. Marcus at

the Algonquin right away and give him the time and

place for lunch. Now the clown's disappeared to a

meeting somewhere outside and I'm left holding it.

Sorry, dear, I didn't mean to take it out on you."

"It's okay, hon. we got a few like that around here."

    "Maybe you can help me. Which Marcus is

which? Maybe I'll recognize a first name or a

company."

    "Sure. Lemme plug into Big Reggie. We all

gotta suck together when it comes to the clowns,

right? . . . Okay, here they are. Marcus, Myron.

Sugarman's Original Replicas, Los Angeles. And

Marcus, Peter . . . not much help here, sweetie. Just

says Georgetown, Washington, D.C."

"That's the one. Peter. I'm sure of it. Thanks, dear."

"Glad to be of help, hon. I'll ring now."

    The folded New York Times resting on his knee,

Stone inked in the last two words of the crossword

puzzle and looked at his watch. It had taken him

nine minutes, nine minutes of relief; he wished it

had been longer. One of the joys of having been

station chief in London was the London Times

crossword. He could always count on at least a

half-hour when he could forget problems in the

search for words and meanings.

    The telephone rang. Stone stared at it, his pulse

accelerat~ng, his throat suddenly dry. No one knew

he had checked into the Algonquin under the name

of Marcus. No one! . . . Yes, there was someone,

but he was in the air, flying up from Knoxville,

Tennessee. What had gone wrong? Or had he been

wrong about Metcalf? Was the supposedly angry,

sermonising Air Force intelligence officer one of

them? Had his own insuncts, honed over a thousand

years of sorting out garbage deserted him because

he so desperately sought an opening,

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 601

an escape from a steel net that was dropping down

on him? He got out of the chair and walked slowly,

in fear, to the bedside table. He picked up the

insistently ringing phone.

"Yes?"

"Alan Metcalf?" said the soft, firm voice of a woman.

    "Who?" Stone was so thrown by the natne he

could barely concentrate, barely think!

"I beg your pardon, I have the wrong room."

"Wait! Don't hang up. Metcalfs on his way here."

"I'm sorry."

    "Please! Oh Christ, please! I was tired, I was

asleep. We've been up night and day.... Metcalf. I

talked with him two hours ago he said he was going

to reprogram his machine, that someone was trying

to reach him since one o'clock this morning. He had

to get out of there. A man was killed, a pilot. It was

not an accident! Am I making sense to you?"

    "Why should I talk to you?" asked the woman.

"So you can trace the call?"

    "Listen to me," said Stone, his voice now in total

control. "Even if I wanted to and I don't this is a

hotel, not a private line,-and to do what you suggest

would take at least three men on the trunk lines and

another controlling the switchboard. And even with

such a unit it would be at least four minutes before

they could isolate the wire and send out a tracer sig-

nal which initially would only give us an area

location, not a specific phone. And if you were

calling from overseas we'd have to have another

man, an expert, in that specific location to narrow it

down to perhaps a twenty-mile radius, but only if you

stayed on your phone for at least six minutes.... Now,

for God's sake, give me at least two!"

"Go on. Quickly!"

    "I'm going to assume something. Maybe I

shouldn't, but you're a clever woman, Mrs. DePinna,

and you could do it."

"DePinna?"

    "Yes. You left a telephone book open to the blue

pages, the government pages. When the accident

happened in Nevada, I made a simple connection

with a listing, and two hours ago I learned I was

right. Metcalf returned my call from a pay phone at

an airport. A pilot, a general, had talked to him at

length. He's joining us. You ran from the wrong

people, Mrs. DePinna. But as for what I'm thinking,

I think the man we want to find is listening on this

phone."

"There's no one else here!"

602 ROBERT LUDIUM

    "Please don't interrupt me, I've got to use every

second." Stone's voice suddenly became stronger.

"Leifhelm, Bertholdier, Van Headmer, Abrahms. And

a fifth man we can't identify, an Englishman who's

down so deep he makes Burgess Maclean and Blunt

look like amateurs. We don't know whohe is, but

he's there, using warehouses in Ireland and offshore

cargo ships, and long-forgotten airfields to transport

materials that shouldn't be going out. Those dossiers

came from us, Converse! We sent them to you!

You're a lawyer, and you know that by using your

name I'm incriminating myself or committing suicide

if anyone's taping this. I'll go further. We sent you

out through Preston Halliday in Geneva. We sent

you out to build a legal case from left field so we

could abort this thing with a minimum of fallout,

sending all those goddamned idiots back to reality.

But we were wrong! They were much further ahead

than we ever suspected we ever suspected but not

Beale on Mykonos. He was dead right, and he's

dead because he was right! Incidentally, he was the

'men from San Francisco.' It was his five hundred

thousand dollars; he came from a rich family, which,

among other things, bequeathed him a conscience.

Think back to Mykonos! To what he told you what

his life was all about. From celebrated soldier to a

scholar to a killing that must have killed a part of

him to commit.... He said you almost caught him up

on a couple of things he didn't mean to say. He said

you were a good lawyer, a good choice. Preston

Halliday was a student of his at Berkeley, and when

this broke a year and a half ago when Halliday

realized what Delavane was doing and how he was

being used, he went to Beale, who was about to

retire. The rest you can figure out."

    The woman's voice interrupted. "Say what I want

to hear you say. Say it!"

    "Of course I will! Converse didn't kill Peregrine

and he didn't kill the commander of NATO. Both of

them were marked by Delavane George Marcus

Delavane because both those men would have

taken him and his ilk to the mat! They were

convenient, very convenient, targets. I don't know

about the others I don't know what you've been

through but we broke a liar in Bad Godesberg, the

major from the embassy who put you, Converse, at

the Adenauer Bridge! He doesn't know it, but we

broke him, and we learned something. We think we

know where Connal Fitzpatrick is. We think he's

alive!"

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 603

    A male voice intruded. "You bastards," said Joel

Converse.

    "Thank God!" said the civilian, sitting down on the

hotel bed. "Now we can talk. We have to talk. Tell

me everything you can. This phone is clean."

    Twenty minutes later, his hands trembling, Peter

Stone hung up the phone.

36

    General Jacques-Louis Bertholdier ceased the

rushing pelvic thrusts of intercourse, withdrew himself

from the moaning dark-haired woman beneath him,

and rolled over, grabbing the telephone.

    "Yesfl"he shouted angrily. And then he listened,

his flushed face growing ashen as his organ collapsed.

"Where did it happen?" he whispered, not in

confidence but in sudden fear. "The Boulevard

Raspail? The charges? . . . NarcoticsPlmpossible!"

    Holding the phone, the general swung his legs

over the side of the bed, listening carefully,

concentrating as he stared at the wall. The naked

woman rose to her knees and leaned into him, her

breasts pressed into his back, her open mouth

caressing his ear, her teeth gently biting his lobe.

    Bertholdier suddenly, viciously, swung his arm

back cracking the phone into the woman's face,

sending her reeling to the other side of the bed,

blood erupting from her broken lower lip.

    "Repeat that, please," he said into the phone. "It's

obvious, then, isn't it? The man cannot be questioned

further, can he? There is always the larger strategy to

consider, losses to be anticipated in the field, no? It

is the hospital all over again, I'm afraid. See to it,

then, like the fine officer you are. The Legion's loss

was our immense gain.... Oh? What is it? The ar-

resting officer was PruHhomme?" Bertholdier paused,

his breathing steady and audible; then he spoke,

rendering a command decision. "A stubborn

bureaucrat from the Surete will not let go, will he? .

. . He is your second assignment to

604 ROBERT LUDLUM

be carried out with your usual expertise before the

day is over. Call me when both are

accomplishments, and consider yourself the aide to

General Jacques-Louis Bertholdier."

    The general hung up and turned to the

dark-haired woman, who was wiping her lips with a

bed sheet, the expression in her eyes an admixture

of anger, embarrassment and fear.

    "Apologies, my dear," he said courteously. "But

you must leave now. I have telephone calls to make,

business to attend to.

"I will not come back!" cried the woman defiantly.

    "You will come back," said the legend of France

standing up, his body rigid in its nakedness. "If you

are asked."

    Erich Leifhelm walked rapidly into his study and

directly over to the large desk, where he took the

phone from a whitejacketed attendant, dismissing

the man with a nod. The instant the door was

closed he spoke. "What is it?"

"The Geyner car was found, Herr General."

"Where?"

"Appenweier."

'And what is that?"

"A town fifteen or eighteen kilometers from Kehl.

In the

"Strasbourg! He crossed into France! He was a

priest!"

"I don't understand, Herr "

    "We never thought. . . ! Never mind! Whom have

you got in the sector?"

"Only one man. The man with the police."

"Tell him to hire others. Send them into Strasbourg!

Look

    "Get out of here!" roared Chaim Abrahms as his

wife walked through the kitchen door. "This is no

place for you now!"

    "The Testaments say otherwise, my

husband yet not my husband," said the frail woman

dressed in black; a circle of soft white hair framed

gentle features and her brown eyes were dark,

receding mirrors. "Will you deny the Bible you

employ so readily when it suits you? It is not all

thunder and vengeance. Must I read it to you?"

"Read nothing! Say nothing! These are matters for

men!"

"Men who kill? Men who use the primitive savagery

of

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 605

the Scriptures to justify the spilling of children's

blood? My son's blood? I wonder what the mothers

of the Masada would have said had they been

permitted to speak their hearts. . . . Well, I speak

now, General. You will not kill anymore. You will not

use this house to move your armies of death, to plot

your tactics of death always your holy tactics,

Chaim, your holy vengeance."

    Abrahms slowly got out of the chair. "What are

you talking about?"

    "You think I haven't heard you? Phone calls in

the middle of the night, calls from men who sound

like you, who speak of killing so easily "

"You listened !"

    "Several times. You were breathing so hard you

heard nothing but the sound of your own voice, your

own orders to kill. Whatever you're doing will be

done without you now, my husband yet not my

husband. The killing is over for you. It lost its

purpose years ago, but you could not stop. You in-

vented new reasons until there was no reason left in

you."

    The sabre's wife removed her right hand from

the folds of her black dress. She was holding

Abrahms' service automatic. The soldier slapped his

holster in disbelief, then suddenly lunged toward the

woman he had lived with for thirty-eight years and

grabbed her wrist, spinning her around. She would

not relent! She resisted him, clawing at his face as he

crashed her back into the wall, twisting her hand in

the attempt to disarm her.

    The sound of the explosion filled the kitchen, and

the woman who had borne him four children, the

last finally a son fell to the floor at his feet. In

horror Chaim Abrahms looked down. Her

dark-brown eyes were wide, her black dress drenched

with blood, half her chest torn away.

    The telephone rang. Abrahms ran to the wall and

grabbed it, screaming, "The children of Abraham will

not be denied! A bloodbath will follow we will have

the land delivered to us by God! Judea,

Samaria they are ours!"

"Stop it!" roared the voice over the line. "Stop it,

Jew!"

    "Who calls me Jew calls me righteous!" yelled

Chaim Abrahms, the tears falling down his face, as

he stared at the dead woman with the wide brown

eyes. "I have sacrificed with Abraham! No one could

ask more!"

    "I ask more!" came the cry of the cat. "I ask

always morel"

606 ROBERT IUDLUM

    "Marcus?" whispered the sabre, closing his eyes

and collapsing against the wall, turning away from

the corpse. "Is it you . . . my leader, my conscience?

Is it you?"

    "It is I, Chaim, my friend. We have to move fast.

Are the units in place?"

    "Yes. Scharhorn. Twelve units in place, all

trained, prepared. Death is no consideration."

"That's what I had to know, ' said Delavane.

    '.Theyawait your codes, my general." Abrahms

gasped then began to weep uncontrollably.

"What is it, Chaim? Get hold of yourselfl"

"She's dead. My wife lies dead at my feetI"

"My God, what happened?"

    "She overheard, she listened . . she tried to kill

me. We fought and she's dead."

    "A terrible, terrible loss, my dear friend. You

have my deepest affection and condolences iri your

bereavement."

"Thank you, Marcus."

"You know what you must do, don't you, Chairn?"

"Yes, Marcus. I know."

    There was a knock at the door. Stone got out of

the chair and picked up his gun awkwardly from the

table. In all the years of sorting out garbage, he had

fired a weapon only once He had blown a foot off

a KGB informant in Istanbul for the simple reason

that the man had been exposed while drunk and had

lunged at him with a knife. That one incident was

enough. Stone did not like guns.

"Yes?" he said, the automatic at his side.

"Aurelius," replied the voice behind the door.

Stone opened it and greeted his visitor "Metcalf?"

"Come in. And I think we'd better change the code."

    "I suppose I could use 'Aquitaine'," said the

intelligence officer, walking into the room.

"Somehow I'd rather you didn't."

"Somehow I don't think I will. Do you have coffee?"

"I'll get some. You look exhausted."

    "I ve looked better on a beach in Hawaii," said

the slender, muscular middle-aged Air Force man.

He was dressed in summer slacks and a white Izod

jacket, and his thin face matched his short, thinning

brown hair; dark circles were prominent under his

clear authoritative eyes. "At nine o'clock

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 607

yesterday morning I drove south out of Las Vegas to

Halloran, and from there I began a series of

cross-country flights a computer couldn't follow,

hopping from airport to airport under more names

than I can remember."

'You're a frightened man," said the civilian.

lf you're not, I'm talking to the wrong person."

    I'm not only frightened, Colonel, I'm petrified."

Stone went to the phone, ordered coffee, and before

hanging up he turned to Metcalf. `Would you like a

drink?" he asked.

    1 would. Canadian on the rocks, please."

    '1 envy you." The civilian gave the order, and

both men sat down; for several moments only the

sounds of the street outside broke the silence. They

looked at each other, neither concealing the fact that

he was silently evaluating the other.

    "You know who and what I am," said the

Colonel. 'Who are you? What?"

    "CIA. Twenty-nine years. Station chief in

London, Athens, Istanbul, and points east and north.

A once disciple of Angleton and coordinator of

clandestine operations until I was fired. Anything

else?"

"No."

    "Whatever you did to your answering machine,

you did it right. The Converse woman called."

Metcalf shot forward in the chair. "And?"

    "It was touch and go for a while I wasn't at my

best but he finally got on the line, or I should say

he finally spoke. He was there all the time."

"Your second best must have been pretty good."

"All he wanted to hear was the truth. It wasn't hard."

"Where is he? Where are they?"

"The Alps, that's all he'd say "

'Goddamn it!"

    " for now," completed the civilian. "He wants

something from me first."

"What?"

"Affidavits. You could call them depositions."

"What9"

    "You heard me. Affidavits from myself and the

people I'm working with working for,

actually stating what we know and what we did."

"He's out to hang you, and I don't blame him."

    "That's part of it, and I don't blame him, either,

but he says it's secondary and I believe that. He

wants Aquitaine. He

608 ROBERT LUDIUM

wants Delavane and his crowd of maniacs nailed to

the wall before the whole damn thing

erupts before the killing begins."

    'That was Sam Abbott's judgment. The

killing multiple assassinations, here and

throughout Europe, the quickest and surest way to

international chaos."

' The woman told him."

    "No, he pieced it together from things Converse

told her. Converse didn't understand the words."

    "He does now," said Stone. "Did I say I was

petrified? What's a stronger phrase?"

    "Whatever it is, it applies to both of us because

we both know how simple it would be so sim pie.

We're not dealing with woolly-brained crazies or

even your run-of-the-mill terrorists we've got thirty

years' experience and ninety percent of them are in

our computers. When the signals break out, we

know where they are and usually we can stop them.

But here we're dealing with the roughest

professionals in our own and in allied ranks, also

with years of experience. They're walking around

the Pentagon, and on Army and Navy bases and at

an Air Force base in Nevada. Christ, where are

they? You open your mouth and you don't know

whom you're talking to, who'll cut you down or

program an aircraft to break apart in the sky. How

can we stop what we can't see?"

"Perhaps Converse's way."

"With Affidavits:"

    "Maybe. Incidentally, he wants one from you.

Your meeting with Abbott, everything he told you,

as well as your evaluation of his mental capacities

and stability. That means you'll have to stay here

tonight. A half-hour ago I reserved three other

rooms I said I'd give the front desk the names

later."

    "Would you mind answering my question? What

the hell are affidavits going to do? We're dealing

with an army out there how large and how

widespread we don't know but it is an army! At

minimum, a couple of battalions, here and in

Europe. Professional officers trained to carry out

orders, believing in those orders and in the generals

who are issuing them. Affidavits, depositions, for

Christ's sake! Is this some kind of flaky legal

handspring that doesn't mean anything? Do we have

time for this?"

    "You're not thinking anything I didn't think,

Colonel. But then, I'm not a lawyer and neither are

you. Converse is, and I had a long conversation with

him. He's taking the only route

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 609

he knows. The legal route. Oddly enough, it's why we

sent him out."

"Give me an answer, Stone " said Metcalf coldly.

    "Protection," replied Stone. 'What Converse wants

is instant protection and for all of us to be taken

seriously. Not as psychopaths or as cranks or as

people with mental aberrations or diminished

capacities I think those were his words."

    "Aren't they nice? What in the name of sweet

Jesus do they mean? How?"

    "With formal legal documents. Responsible men

setting forth what they know and, in the case of

depositions, under qualified examination. Through

the courts, Colonel. A court it only takes one, only

one judge. On the basis of the affidavits a petition is

made to the court a court, a judge that protection

be given under seal."

"Under what?"

    "Under seal. It's completely confidential no

press, no divulging of information, simply an order

from the court transmitted to the authorities most

suited to carry out the order. In this case, all the

branches of the Secret Service instructed by the court

to provide extraordinary service."

"Extraordinary? For whom?"

    "The President of the United States, the

Vice-President, the Speaker of the House, the

Secretary of Defense, the Secretary of State right

on down the line. The law, Colonel. That's what the

law can do also his words, I think."

"Jesus/"

    There was a rapping on the door. This time

Stone covered his automatic with the folded New

York Times. He got up and admitted a waiter, who

rolled in a table with a pot of coffee, two cups, a

bottle of Canadian whisky, ice and glasses. He signed

the bill and the man left.

"Coffee or a drink first?" asked Stone.

"My God, a drink. Please."

"I envy you."

"You're not going to join me?"

    "Sorry, I can't. I allow myself one in the evening;

I'll join you then. You live in Las Vegas, so you'll

understand. I'm trying to beat the odds, Colonel. I

intend to beat them. I was fired, remember?" Stone

brought the Air Force officer a drink and sat down.

"You can't beat the odds, don't you know that?"

"I've beaten a few. I'm still here."

610 ROBERT LUDLUM

    "The courts," said Metcalf, shaking his head. "A

court! It's an end run. He's using the law to go

around the flanks of the government people he

should reach but whom he can't trust. Can it work?"

    "It buys time, a few days perhaps, it's hard to

tell. 'Under seal' lasts only so long. The law also

calls for full disclosure. But what's most important

is that it legitimately tightens the security around

potential targets, hopefully screwing up whatever

tactics Aquitaine is mounting, forcing the generals

to regroup, rethink. Again time."

"But that's only over here in the States."

"Yes. That's why Converse wants the time."

"What for?"

    "He won't tell me, and I'm in no position to

make demands."

"I see," said the Colonel, his drink to his lips.

"You said three rooms. Who are the others?"

    "You'll meet them and you won't like them.

They're two kids who stumbled into this along with

a few others I don't know, and they won't say who

they are. After Halliday reached them or one of

them they provided the dossiers for Converse.

They're young, but they're all right, Colonel. If I

ever had a son, I'd like to think he'd be one of

them."

    "I have a son and I expect he would be," said

Metcalf. "Otherwise, I blew it. What are the

procedures?"

    Stone sat rigidly back in the chair and spoke

slowly, his voice pitched to the static emphasis of a

monotone. He was repeating instructions not of his

own making and certainly not to his liking. "At three

o'clock this afternoon I'm to call an attorney named

Simon, Nathan Simon, one of the senior partners of

Converse's firm here in New York. Presumably by

then Converse's wife will have reached him, telling

him to expect a call from me and to please do as I

ask apparently they believe he will. To be brief

about it, Simon will come over here to the hotel

accompanied by a stenographer and take all our

depositions, along with our credentials, ranks, and

current responsibilities. He'll stay until he's

finished."

    "You were right on the phone," interrupted the

military man. "We're dead."

    "I said as much to Converse and he asked me

how it felt. He was inquiring, of course, from

firsthand knowledge."

"He wants all of you."

"But not you," said Stone. "He'd like your testimo

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 611

ny and, by extension, Abbott's but he won't insist

on it. He knows he can't ask you to walk in on this."

    '1 walked in when that plane went down. Also

there's something else. If we can't stop Delavane and

his generals, what the hell's left for people like us?.

. . Converse wouldn't tell you what he was going to

do?"

    'Not in terms of what he calls the countdown, but

yes, as far as tomorrow is concerned. He's sending

over his own affidavit and, he expects, another from

a man from the Surete who has information showing

that most of the official reports out of Paris are

lies.... And we're not dead yet, Colonel. Converse

made it clear that Nathan Simon was the best

attorney we could have as long as he believes us."

'What can a lawyer do?"

    "I asked Converse the same thing, and he gave

me a strange answer. He said, 'He can use the law,

because the law isn't men, it's the law.'"

    "That's beyond me," said Metcalf, irritated. "Not

in a philosophical context but how it applies

now right goddamned now! . . . Hell, it doesn't

make any difference we don't make any difference!

Once those guns go off and the bodies fall in

Washington and London, Paris or Bonn wher-

ever they've got the controls and we won't get them

back. I know that because I know how long so many

people have wanted someone to take control. Stop

the carnage, make things safe, piss on the Soviets.

God help me, there were times I thought that way

myself."

"So did 1," said the civilian quietly.

"We were wrong."

"I know that. It's why I'm here."

    Metcalf drank, holding the cold glass against his

warm cheek. "I keep thinking about what Sam said

to me. 'There's got to be a fist,' he said. 'A master

list of everyone in this Aquitaine.' He ruled out all

the obvious places not in a vault, not on

paper probably electronically programmed, flashed

on with codes, as his aerial tactics were frequently

flashed on a screen inside a jet's cockpit. Someplace

no one would ever think of, away from anything

official or tied in with anyone remotely military. 'A

list. There has to be a listI' he kept saying. For a

pilot, he had a hell of an imagination. I guess it's

why he was so good at that tactical stuff at forty

thousand feet in the air. Come out of the sun where

they don't expect you,

612 ROBERT LUDLUM

or from a dark horizon where the radar can't pick

you up. He knew it all. He was a tactical genius."

    As Metcalf talked, Stone leaned forward in the

chair looking intently at the Air Force officer and

absorbing every word he spoke.

    'Scharhorn," he said, barely above a whisper.

"It's Sashay horn!"

    The twin-engined Riems 408 circled the private

airfield at Saint-Gervais, fifteen miles east of

Chamonix, the amber lights of the two runways

throwing an orange glow up into the lower night

sky. Inside, Prudhomme checked the strap of his

seat belt as the pilot on his left received clearance

to make his final approach to the north-south strip.

    Mon Dieu, what an incredible day! thought the

man from the Surete as he glanced at his right hand

under the spill of the panel lights. The dark bruises

on his fingers were at least less noticeable than the

blood that had covered his entire hand only hours

ago. His would-be executioner had not even

bothered to conceal his assignment, such was his

arrogance bred undoubtedly in the Legion

etrangere! And the sentence of death had been

delivered right inside the car at the far end of the

parking area in the Bois de Boulogne! The man had

called him at the office and, in truth, it had entered

Prudhomme's mind that this man might call him,

and so it was less a surprise than it could have

been and certainly gave him cause to be prepared.

The man had asked his recent superior to meet him

at the Bois, in the parking lot he had startling

news. He would be driving his official Peugeot, and

since he could not leave his radio phone, would the

inspector mind joining him. Of course not.

    But there had been no startling news. Only

questions, asked very arrogantly.

"Why did you do what you did this morning?"

    "Shave? Go to the toilet? Eat breakfast? Kiss

my wife good-bye? What are you talking about?"

    "You know what I refer to! Earlier! The man on

the Boulevard Raspail. You crashed into his car,

stopping him. You threw narcotics inside. You

arrested him falselyI"

    "I didn't approve of what he was doing. Any

more than I approve of this conversation."

Prudhomme had awkwardly reached for the handle

of the door with his left hand, his right having other

business.

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 613

    "Stopl" his former subordinate had shouted,

grabbing his shoulder. "You were protecting the

woman!"

'Read my report. Let me go."

    "I'll let you go to hell! I'm going to kill you,

meddler! Insignificant bureaucrat!"

    The former subordinate had yanked a gun from

his jacket holster but he was too late. Prudhomme

had fired twice the small weapon he gripped under

his coat. Unfortunately, it was small caliber and the

ex-colonel of the Legion was a very large man; he

had lunged at Prudhomme inside the automobile.

However, the veteran of the Resistance had gone

back to an old wartime habit just in case: along the

lapels of his coat was threaded a long wire a wire

with two braided loops at each end. He had whipped

it out, and looping it over his would-be executioner's

head with his wrists crossed, he violently yanked it

taut until the flesh burst around the throat and blood

drenched Prudhomme's hands.

    "We're cleared for landing, Inspector,' said the

pilot, grinning. "I swear to Christ no one would

believe this! Of course I have no intention of saying

a thing, I swear on my mother's grave!"

    "She's probably drinking brandy in Montmartre at

this moment," interjected Prudhomme dryly. 'Say

nothing, and you may have another six months flying

in your foolish tobacco from Malta."

    "Nothing else! Never anything else, Inspector. I

am a father!"

    "You are to be commended. Six months and then

get out, do you understand?"

"On my father's grave, I swear!"

    "He's very much alive and in jail he'll be out in

sixty days. Tell him to stop his presses. Government

relief checks really. "

    Joel and Valerie listened in silence as the man

from the SOrete told his story. He was finished now;

there was nothing left to say. Interpol had been

compromised, the arrondissement police manipulated,

the Surete itself corrupted, and official government

communiques issued on the basis of lies all lies.

Why?

    "I'll tell you because I want your help much

more help," said Converse, getting out of the chair

and going to the

614 ROBERT LUDIUM

desk, where the typewritten pages of his affidavit

were in the center of the green blotter. "Better, you

can read it yourself but I'm afraid you'll have to

read it here. In the morning I'll have copies made;

until then I don't want it to leave this room. By the

way, Val got you a reservation, a single don't ask

me how, but a clerk downstairs will have a new

wardrobe if not a new house by tomorrow."

"Merci, madame."

"The name is French," added Joel.

"Yes."

"No, I mean the name is French."

"Out. "

"No, what I mean is "

    "Pardon, monsieur, " interrupted Valerie. "Le

nom sur le registry est 'Monsieur French, ' mais

'French, ' comme en anglais French. A rthur French.

"

"But I will have to sign, talk. Surely they will know."

    "You sign nothing and you say nothing," said

Val, taking a key off the bedside table and handing

it to Prudhomme.

The room is paid for three days, to be precise.

After that before, if possible, if you agree to

help the three of us will be someplace else."

"Formidable. I must read."

"Mon ami mon epoux est an avocat exceptionnel.

"

'ye com prends. "

    "There are some forty pages here," said

Converse, bringing the papers to Prudhomme. "To

absorb it will take you at least an hour. We'll go

downstairs and grab a bite to eat and leave you

alone."

"Bien. There is much I wish to learn."

    "What about you?" asked Joel, standing over the

Frenchman. "I mean now. They'll find that body in

the car."

    "Most certainly," agreed Prudhomme. "I left it

where it was along with that pig from the Legion.

But for the Surete there will be no connection to

me."

"Fingerprints? The fact that you were away from

your

    "Another old habit from the war," said the man

from the Silrete, reaching into his pocket. He pulled

out a pair of extremely thin rubberised

gloves surgical gloves cut off at the wrist. "I

washed these out at the Bois. The German occu-

pation forces had all our fingerprints in a thousand

files. There was no point in asking for our own

executions. As for my ab

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 615

settee at my desk, it is quite simple. I explained to an

assistant that I would be m Calais for several days on

a contraband investigation and would call in. My

years permit a certain latitude and Hexibility."

    "That's the Surete, not the others. Not where the

Legionnaire came from."

    "I am aware of that, monsieur. So I must be

careful. It vill not be the first time."

    "Enjoy your reading," said Converse, nodding at

Val to join him. "If you want anything, call room

service."

"Bon appetrt," said Prudhomme.

    Chaim Abrahms lifted the stiffening wrist of his

dead wife's hand, the weapon gripped fiercely in her

white fingers, and angled the gun toward her chest,

into the bloody cavern between her breasts.

    The wide, brown eyes would not stay closed.

They stared up at him, accusing accusing!

    "What do you want from me!" he screamed. '.1

have seen the dead. I have lived with the dead! Leave

me be, womanl You couldn't understand!"

    Yet she had, for so many years. She had cooked

the meat the desert chicken and the lamb, caught

in the outlying marshes and fed the units of the

Irgun and the Haganah, never questioning death

then. Fighting for a hope, a simple hope that was the

beginning of a dream. The land was theirs, rightfully,

Biblically, logically theirs! They had fought and they

had won! Two thousand years of being out-

casts despised, reviled, and spat upon by the

almighty Gentiles until the tribes were burned and

gassed and told to eliminate themselves from the

face of the earth and yet they had survived. Now

the tribes were strong. They were the conquerors, not

the conquered.

    "It's what we fought for! What we prayed for!

Why do you insult me with your eyes!" Chaim

Abrahms roared as he pressed his forehead against

the dead flesh of his wife's face.

    Hitabdut was among the most heinous crimes

committed against the laws of the Talmud. It was

ebudeatzmo, the taking of one's own life against the

wishes of Almighty God, in whose image man was

created. A Jew who consigned his or her earthly

being to hitabdut was denied burial in the Hebrew

cemetery. It would be so for Chaim Abrahm's wife,

the most devout human being he had ever known.

616 ROBERT LUDLUM

    ' I have to do it!" he screamed, raising his eyes

in supplication. ' It is for the best, can t you

understand ?"

    Prudhomme poured himself a cup of coffee and

returned to his chair. Valerie sat opposite him as

Converse stood by the window looking over at the

man from the Surete, listening.

    "I cannot think of any other questions," said the

Frenchman, his intensely troubled eyes darting

about, his lined face looking wearier than before.

"Although it's possible I'm still too deep in shock to

think at all. To say it's incredible serves no purpose;

also it would not be true. It's all too credible. The

world is so frightened it cries out for stability, for a

place to hide, for protection from the skies, from

the streets, from each other. I believe the time has

come when it will settle for sheer, absolute strength,

no matter the cost."

    "The operative word is 'absolute,' " said Joel, "as

in controls and power. A confederation of military

governments fueling one another, interlocking

policies and altering the laws all in the name of

stability and anyone who disagrees with them is

declared unstable and silenced. And if too many

disagree, the chaos erupts again stability wins,

Aquitaine wins. All they need is that initial wave of

terror, a tidal wave of killing and confusion. 'Key

figures' were the words they used. 'Accumulation' .

. . 'rapid accelerahon' chaos. Powerful men cut

down as riots break out in half a dozen capitals and

the generals march in with their commanders.

That's the scenario, right from their own words."

    "That also is the problem, monsieur. They are

only words, but they are words you can pass along

to very few people, for they could be the wrong

people. You could move up this countdown, as you

call it, trigger this holocaust yourself."

    "The countdown's running out, make no

mistake," Converse broke in. "But there is a way.

'accumulation' end 'rapid acceleration'can be used

in another manner, and you're right it's only with

words accumulated words, accelerated words. I

can't come out, not yet. I can't show myself. There's

no protection any court or government agency or

the police could provide that would stop them from

killing me, and then, once I'm dead, calling

whatever I said the ravings of a psychopath. Don't

misunderstand me, I have no death wish, but my

death in itself isn't important. What is important is

that the truth goes down with me, because I'm the

only one who's talked

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 617

directly to Delavane's four caesars over here, and

probably the fifth, the Englishman."

    "And these declaration~these affidavits you speak

of can change that?"

"They can turn things around, maybe just enough."

"Why?"

    "Because that's a real world out there, a practical,

complicated world that has to be penetrated as fast

as possible people have to be reached who can be

trusted, who can do something. Quickly. It's what I

wanted to do a couple of weeks ago, but I was going

about it the wrong way. I wanted to get everything I

knew to someone I knew. Nathan Simon, the best

attorney I've ever met. I wrote it all out twice not

realizing that I was only tying his hands, probably

killing him." Joel stepped away from the window, a

lawyer in summation. 'Whom could he go to without

me, without the presence of an obviously sane man

and not simply the words of a 'psychopathic killer'?

And if I did come out, as he would have rightfully

insisted, we're both dead. Then Val told me about

the man in New York who reached her on the phone

and the other who chased her down the street and I

guessed right. Those aren't the methods of people

who want to kill you; they don't announce

themselves. They were the men in Washington who

had sent me out and were now trying to make

contact with me. Then she described her meeting

with Sam Abbott and his mentioning this Metcalf, a

man he trusted and who had to be some kind of very

important person for him to tell the story to. Finally,

there was you in Paris what you said, what you did,

and how you offered to help, using the same code as

Rene Mattilon the Tatiana family. Tatiana, a name

or a word I think means trust, even among sharks."

"You are right, monsieur."

    "That's when it all came together for me. If I

could somehow establish lines of communication and

reach all of you, there was a way. You people knew

the truth some of you knew all of it; others, like

yourself, knew only fragments, but regardless, you

understood the immensity, the reality of the generals

and their Aquitaine and what they could do, what

they're doing. Even you, Prudhomme. What did you

say? Interpol is compromised, the police

manipulated, the Surete corrupted official reports

all lies. Added to these, Anstett in New York,

Peregrine, the commander of NATO, Mattilon,

Beale, Sam Abbott . . . Connal Fitzpatrick the only

question

618 ROBERT LUDLUM

mark and God knows how many others. All dead.

The generals are marching forget theories, they're

killing! . . . If I could convince all of you to write out

affidavits have depositions taken and get them to

Nathan Simon, he'd have the ammunition he needs.

I fed legal mumbo jumbo to Stone in New York;

some of it applies, most of it doesn't, but he'll do

his part and force the others to join him he has no

choice. The main point, the only point, is to get this

material to Simon. Once he has written testimony,

a series of events and observations all sworn to be

true by diverse men of experience, he has a case.

Believe me, he'll treat them like the plans of a

neutron bomb. He'll have it all tomorrow, and he'll

reach the right people if he has to walk into the

Oval Office which he could do, but may not

choose to. " Joel paused and looked hard at the

man from the Surete; he nodded at the pages of his

own affidavit on the table beside the Frenchman.

"I've made arrangements for that to be flown to

New York tomorrow. I'd like one from you."

"Certainly you may have it. But can you trust the

couri

    "The world could blow apart and she'd still be

sitting in her house in the mountains and not know

it. Or care. How's your English?"

"Adequate, I believe. We've talked for several

hours."

    "I mean written English. It'd save time if you

wrote it out tonight."

    "My spelling is probably no better than yours is

in French."

    "Make that English," said Valerie. "I'll straighten

it out and if you're not sure of something, write it in

French."

"That would help. I must write it tonight?"

    "The secretary will be here first thing in the

morning," explained Converse. 'She'll type it up.

She's the one taking the Hight from Geneva to New

York tomorrow afternoon."

"She agreed to do this?"

    "She agreed to accept a large donation to a

nature organizahon that apparently runs her life."

"Very convenient."

    "There's something else," said Joel, sitting on an

arm of Valerie's chair and leaning forward. "You

know the truth now, and beyond the material that

has to reach Simon, there's one last thing I have to

do. I've got a lot of money and a banker in

Mykonos who'll confirm I have access to a great

deal

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 619

more but you've read all that. With hme to find the

personnel and the equipment I might be able to pull

it off myself, but we don't have the time. I need your

help, I need the resources you have."

"For what, monsieur?"

    "The final depositions. The last part of the

testimony. I want to kidnap three men."

37

    1, Peter Charles Stone, ageffty-eight, a residentof

Washington, D.C, was employed by the Central

Intelligence Agency for twenty-nine years, during which

time l attained the rank of station chief in various

European posts and ultimately Second Director of

Clandestine Operations, Langley, Virginia. My record is

on file at the Central Intelligence Agency and may be

obtained pursuant to the regulations governingsuch

procedures. Sinceseparation from the CIA, I have

worked asa consultantand anaIystfor numerous

intelligence departments, the specif as therein withheld

from this statement pending government clearances

should they be deemed pertinent to this document.

    On or about last March 15, I was contacted by

Captain Andrew Packard, United StatesArmy, who

asked if he might come to my apartment to discuss a

conk dential matter. When he arrived, he stated at the

outset that he was speaking for a small group of men

from both the military services and the State

Department, the number and identities of which he

would not divulge. He statedfurther that they sought

professional consultation from an experienced

intelligence officer no longer associated (permanently)

with any branch of the intelligence community. Ile said

he had certain funds available he believed would be

adequate and would I be interested. It should be noted

here that Captain Packard and his associates had made

a thorough if not exhaustive search of my

background warts and alcohol and all, as is said....

* * *

620 ROBERT LUDLUM

    I, Captain Howard NMI Packard, US. Army,

507538, age thirty-one, currently residing in Oxon Hill,

Maryland, am assigned to Section 27, Department of

Technological Controls, the Pentagon, Arlington,

Virginia. In December of last year, Mr. A. Preston

Halliday, an attorney from San Francisco with whom

I had struck u p a friendship as a result of his

numerous petitions to oursectionon behalf of clients

(all successful and above reproach), asked me to have

dinner with him at a small restaurant in Clinton,

approximately ten miles from my house. He a

pologized for not asking my wife, explaining that what

he had to say would only disturb her, as, indeed, it

would disturb me, but in this case it was my

responsibility to be disturbed. He added that there was

no conceivable conJqiCt in our meeting, as he had no

business pending, only business that should be

investigated and stopped . . .

    1, Lieutenant U G.) William Michael Landis, Us.

Navy, a bachelor, age twenty-eight; current address,

Somerset Garden Apartments, Vienna, Virginia, am a

computer programmer for the Department of the Navy,

Sea-Armament's Procurements Division, stationed at

the Pentagon, Arlington Virginia. Actually, in all but

rank (due within sixty days), I'm in command of most

programming for Pentagon-Navy, having received a

doctorate in advanced computer technology from the

University of Michigan, College of Engineering. . . .

I'm probably not saying this right, sir.

Go ahead, young man.

    I state this because with the highly sophisticated

equipment at my disposal as well as the classified

micro-conversion codes available to me, I'm able to

tap into a great many restricted computers with a

tracing capacity that can circumvent or penetrate, if

you like closures placed on extremely sensitive

information.

    Last February, Captain Howard Packard, United

States Army, and three other men two from the

Department of State, Office of Munitions Controls,

and the third a Marine Corps officer I knew from the

Am phibious Section, Navy Procurements came out

to see me on a Sunday morning. They said they

werealarmed opera series of weapons and high-tech

transfers that appeared to violate D.O.D. and State

Department sanctions. They gave me the data they had

concerning nine such incidents, impressing upon me

the confidentiality of the inquiry.

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 621

    The next afternoon I went to the maximum-security

computers and with the conversion codes inserted the

data for the nine transfers. The initial entries were

confirmed those numbers never change so as to

eliminate the possibilities of duplication but in each

case, after confirmation, the remaining information was

erased, wiped off the computer tapes. Six of those nine

transfers were traced through the initial entries to a firm

Palo Alto International, owned by a retired Army

general named Delavane. This was myfirst involvement,

sir.

Who were the three other men, Lieutenant?

    It wouldn't do any good to give their names, sir. It

could only hurt their families.

I'm not sure I understand can possibly understand.

    They're dead. They went back and asked questions

and they're dead, sir. Two supposedly in automobile

accidents involving trucks on back roads they never

took home and the third indiscriminately shot by a

deranged sniper while jagging in Rock Creek Park. All

those joggers and he was the one who got it....

[Captain Packard]

    As an Army captain with full security clearance

andirequently dealing in top-secret procedures, I was

able to set up a sterile telephone (i.e., one that is

constantly scannedfor taps or intercepts) so Mr.

Halliday could reach me at any time of day or night

withoutiear of being overheard. Also in concert with Mr.

Stone and LieutenantLandis, we pooled oursources and

obtained in-depth intelligence dossiers on the

well-known names Halliday found among General

Delavane's notes. Specifically, Generals Bertholdier,

Leifhelm, Abrahms, and Van Headmer. Using funds

provided by Dr. Edward Beale, we secured the services

of private firms in Paris, Bonn, Tel Aviv, and

Johannesburg to up-date the dossiers with all available

current information about the subjects.

    By now we had uncovered ninety-seven additional

computer erasures directly related to export licensing

and military transfers involving an estimated $45

million. A great many were initiated by Palo Alto

International, but without further data there was

nothing to trace. It was like a series of blips

disappearing from a radar screen....

* * *.

622 ROBERT LUDIUM

[Stone]

    My years in the CIA 'sClandestine Operations

taught me that the larger the pattern, the greater the

numbers, and that those areas with the heaviest

concentration of activity invariably held the tightest and

most ruthless security. Nothing terribly original here but

the reverse application is frequently overlooked. Since

Washington was the clearinghouse for illegal ex ports

totaling millions u pon millions in A merican mer-

chandise and materiel, it stood to reason that there

would be a range of safeguards, scores of Delavane's

informants both knowing and unknowing, that is,

ideologically involved or sim ply hired or

threatened in the government agencies and

departments related to the activities of Palo Alto

International. Without going into specifics, Captain

Packard confirmed this judgment by telling me that an

incident had recently taken place that cost the lives of

three men who tried to follow up on a number of com

peter erasures. We had moved from the realm of

ideological extremists into one of fanatics and killers.

Therefore it was my contention and I hereby assume

full responsibility for the decision that saferand more

ra pid progress could be made by sending a man out

into the peripheral sectors of Delavane's operation with

enough information to trace connections back to Palo

Alto International. By the very nature of illegal

exportlicensingitself thereis more open territory at the

receiving ends. The obvious place to start was with

thefourgenerals whose names werefound in Delavane's

notes. I had no candidate with the expertise If elt was

necks sary for the assignment....

[Captain Packard]

    On or aboutJuly 10, Mr. Halliday called me on the

sterile phone I'd set u p for him and said he believed

he'd found the proper candidate for the assignment as

outlined by Mr. Stone. An attorney whose field was

international law, a man he had known years ago and

a former prisoner of war in Vietnam who conceivably

had the motivation to go after someone like General

Delavane. His name was Joel Converse....

    1, Alan Bruce Metcalf age forty-eight, am an of

dicer in the United States Air Force, holding the rank

of colonel and currently stationed at the NellisAirForce

Base, Clark County Nevada, as chief intelligence of

dicer. Thirty-six hours ago, as I dictate this statement,

on August 25 at four o'clock in the

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 623

afternoon, I received a telephone callfromBrigadier

General Samuel Abbott, commanding officer, Tactical

Operations Nellis A.F.B. The general said it was urgent

that we meet preferably off base, as soon as possible.

He had new and extraordinary information regarding

the recent assassinations of the supreme commander of

NA TO and the American ambassador to Bonn, West

Germany. He insisted that we be in civilian clothes and

suggested the library at the University of Nevada, Las

Vegas campus. We met at approximately 5:~30 P.M.

and talkedforfive hours. I will be as accurate as

possible, and that will be very accurate, as the

conversation is stillfresh in my mind, engraved there by

the tragic death of General Abbott, a close friend for

many years and a man I admired greatly....

    The above, then, are the events as told to General

Abbott by the former Mrs. Converse, and as he related

them to me, and the subsequent actions I took to

convene an emergency meeting of the highest-level

intelligence personnel in Washington. General Abbott

believed what he had been told because of his

knowledge and perceptions of the individuals involved.

He was a brilliant and stable man, not given to bias

where judgments were concerned. In my opinion, he

was deliberately murdered because he had "new and

extraordinary information" about a fellow prisoner of

war, one Joel Converse.

    Nathan Simon, tall, portly, sithng well back in his

chair, removed the tortoiseshell glasses from his tired

face and tugged at the Vandyke beard that covered

the scars of shrapnel embedded at Anzio years ago.

His thick salt-and-pepper eyebrows were arched

above his hazel eyes and sharp, straight nose. The

only other person in the room was Peter Stone. The

stenographer had been dismissed; Metcalf, exhausted,

had retired to his room, and the two other officers,

Packard and Landis, had opted to return to

Washington on separate planes. Simon carefully

placed the typewritten affidavits on the table beside

his chair.

    "There was no one else, Mr. Stone?" he asked, his

deep voice gentle, far gentler than his eyes.

    "No one I knew, Mr. Simon, ' replied the former

intelligence officer. "Everyone I've used since what

we call pulling in old debts was lower-level with

access to upper-level

624 ROBERT IUDLUM

equipment, not decisions. Please remember, three

men were killed when this thing barely started."

"Yes, I know."

    "Can you do what Converse said? Can you get

something 'under seal' and move some mountains

we can't move?"

"He told you that?"

"Yes. It's why I agreed to all of this."

"He had his reasons. And I have to think."

    "There's no time to think. We have to act, we

have to do something! Time's running out!"

"To be sure, but we cannot do the wrong thing, can

we?"

    "Converse said you had access to powerful

people in Washington. I could trust you to reach

them."

    "But you've just told me I don't know whom to

trust, isn't that right?"

"Oh, Chr7st!"

    "A lovely and inspired prophet." Simon looked

at his watch as he gathered up the papers and rose

from the chair. "It's two-thirty in the morning, Mr.

Stone, and this weary body has come to the end of

its endurance. I'll be in touch with you later in the

day. Don't try to reach me. I'll be in touch.

    "In touch ? The package from Converse is on its

way here. I m picking it up at Kennedy Airport on

the Geneva flight at two-forty-five this afternoon.

He wants you to have it right away. I want you to

have it!"

"You'll be at the airport?" asked the lawyer.

    "Yes, meeting our courier. I'll be back here by

four or four-thirty, depending on when the plane

gets in and traffic, of course."

    "No, don't do that, Mr. Stone, stay at the

airport. I'll want everything Joel has compiled for us

in my hands as soon as possible, of course. Just as

there is a courier from Geneva, you may be the

courier from New York."

"Where are you going? Washington?"

    "Perhaps, perhaps not. At this moment I'm going

home to my apartment and think. Also, I hope to

sleep, which is doubtful. Give me a name I can use

to have you paged at the airport."

    Johnny Reb sat low in the small boat, the motor

idling the waves slapping the sides of the shallow

hull in the darkness. He was dressed in black

trousers, a black turtleneck

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 625

sweater and a black knit hat, and he was as close as

he dared drift into the southwest coast of the island

of Scharhorn. He had spotted the bobbing green

glows on the series of buoys the first night; they were

trip lights, beams intersecting one another above the

water, ringing the approach to the old U-boat base.

They formed an unseen wall to penetrate it would

set off alarms. This was the third night, and he was

beginning to feel vindicated.

    Trust the gut, trust the stomach and the bile that

crept up into the mouth. The bellies of the old-time

whores of the community knew when things were

going to happen partly out of dread, partly because

a score was near that would enlarge an account in

Bern. There was no account in the offing now, of

course only a succession of outlays to pay back a

considerable debt, but there was a score to be made.

Against the Delavanes and the Washburns, and those

German and French and Jewish catfish who would

sweep the ponds and make it impossible for

gentlemen like Johnny Reb to make a high-hog

living. He didn't know much about the South

African, except that those rigger-haters had better

the hell wise up. The coloreds were coming along

just fine, and that was fine by Johnny; his current

girlfriend was a lovely black singer from Tallahassee,

who just happened to be in Switzerland for silly

reasons involving a little cocaine and a good-sized

account in Bern.

    But the other catfish were bad. Real bad. Johnny

Reb had it in for men who would make it jailhouse

for people to think the way they wanted to. No sir,

those people had to go! Johnny Reb was very

seriously committed to that proposition.

    It was happening! He focused his infrared

binoculars on the old concrete piers of the sub base.

It was also flat-out crazy! The seventy-foot motor

launch had pulled into a dock, and moving out on

the pier was a long, double line of men forty, sixty,

eighty . . . nearly lO~preparing to board. What was

crazy was the way they were dressed. Dark suits and

conservative summer jackets and ties; a number wore

hats and every damned one of them carried luggage

and a briefcase. They looked like a convention of

bankers or a parade of lace-pants from the

diplomatic corps. Or thought the Rebel as he

inched his binoculars backward along the line of

passengers ordinary businessmen, executives, men

seen every day standing on railroad platforms and

getting out of taxis and flying in planes. It was the

very ordinariness of their collective

626 ROBERT IUDLUM

appearance contrasted with the exotically macabre

dark out1ines of the old U-boat refuelingstation that

gnawed at Johnny's imagination. These men could

go unnoticed almost anywhere, yet they did not

come from anywhere. They came from Scharhorn,

from what was undoubtedly a highly sophisticated

cell of this multinational military collusion that

could put the goddamned catfish generals in the

catbird seats. Ordinary people going wherever they

were ordered to go_ looking like everyone else,

behaving like everyone else, opening their attache

cases on planes and trains, reading company

reports, sipping drinks but not too many, skimming

an occasional paperback novel ostensibly to ease the

strain of business going wherever they were ordered

to go.

    That was it, thought the Rebel, as he lowered

the binoculars. That was it! These were the hit

teams! The stomach never lied; the bile was sent up

for a reason, its acrid, sickening taste an ugly alarm

that came to those privileged enough to have

survived. Johnny Reb turned and fingered the

motor, cautiously pushing the rudder to the right

and inching the throttle forward. The small boat

spun around in the water, and the rogue intelligence

officer_former intelligence officer_headed back to

his berth in Cuxhaven, accelerating the engine with

each fifty feet of distance.

    Twenty-five minutes later he pulled into the slip,

lashed the lines to the cleats, grabbed his small

waterproof case, and with effort climbed up onto

the pier. He had to move quickly, but very, very

cautiously. He knew vaguely the area of the

Cuxhaven waterfront where the motor launch would

return, for he had watched the lights of the vessel as

it bobbed its way out of the harbor toward the

island. Once in the vicinity he could determine the

specific dock as the boat headed into port, and then

he would have only minutes to scout the area and

get into position. Carrying his waterproof case, he

hurried to the base of the pier and turned left,

walking rapidly through the shadows toward the

area where he judged the launch had departed. He

passed a huge warehouse and reached an open

space beyond; there were five short piers, one after

the other, extending no more than two hundred feet

out into the water. It was dockage for small and

medium-sized craft; several trawlers and a few

antiquated pleasure boats were lashed to the pilings

on each of the piers except one. The fourth pier was

empty. The Rebel knew it belonged to the

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 627

launch; he could taste the bitterness in his mouth.

He started out across the space; he would find a

place to conceal himself.

    "Halt stehenbleiben!" shot out the guttural

command as a man walked out of the darkness from

around the hull of a trawler at the third pier. "Was

machen Sie trier? Wer sind Sie?"

    Johnny Reb knew when to use his age; he

stooped his shoulders and hung his head slightly

forward. "Passer Sie auf diese alien Kdsten auf?" he

asked, and continued in German, "I'm a fisherman

on one of these relics and I lost my billfold this

afternoon. Is it a crime to look for it?"

"Come back later, old man. You can't look for it

now."

    "Ah? What?" The Rebel raised his right hand to

his ear twisting the ring on his middle finger as he

did so and pressing a catch on the band. "My

hearing's not what it was, Mr. Watchman. What did

you say?"

    The man stepped forward, first looking out at the

water, as the sound of a powerful engine was heard

in the distance. "Get out of herel" he shouted, his

lips close to Johnny's ear. "Now!"

"Good heavens, you're Hans!"

"Who?"

    "Hans! It's so good to see you!" The Rebel

slapped his hand around the German's

neck prelude to an affectionate embrace and

plunged the surface of his ring into the man's flesh,

deeply embedding the needle.

    "Get your hands off me, you stinking old man!

My name's not Hans and I never saw you before.

Get out of here or I'll put a . . . a bullet . . . in your

. . . head!" The German's hand plunged inside his

jacket but there it remained as he collapsed.

    "You younger catfish really ought to have more

respect for your elders," mumbled Johnny as he

dragged the unconscious body into the shadows to

the left of the trawler on the third pier. "'Cause you

don't know the flies we use. Your daddies do, but

you little pricks don't. And I want your daddies,

those mind-suckers!"

    The Rebel climbed aboard the trawler and

dashed across the deck to the gunwale. The motor

launch was heading directly into the fourth pier. He

opened his waterproof case into which he had

snapped the binoculars in place, and adjusted his

eyes to the dim light, studying the tools of his trade.

He unlatched a camera and then a lens, a Zeiss-lkon

telescopic,

628 ROBERT LUDLUM

developed by conscientious Germans during World

War II for photographing Allied installations at

night) it was the best. He inserted it into the lens

mount, locked it into position and switched on the

camera's motor, noting with satisfaction that the

battery was at full capacity, but then he knew it

would be. He had been too long in the deadly game

to make amateurish mistakes.

    The huge motor launch slid into the pier like a

mammoth black whale, a killer whale. The lines

were secured, and as the passengers disembarked,

Johnny Reb began taking pictures.

"Honeychile, this is Tatiana. I've got to reach my

boy."

    "The Algonquin Hotel in New York City," said

the calm female voice. "The number is Area Code

two-one-two, eight-four-zero, six-eight-zero-zero.

Ask for Peter Marcus."

    ' Subtle son of a bitch, isn't he?" saidJohnny

Reb. ' Pardon my language, ma'am."

"I've heard it before, Rebel. This is Anne."

    "Goddamn, little lady, why didn't you tell me

beforel How are you, sweet child?"

    "Doing fine in my dotage, Johnny. I'm out, you

know. This is just a courtesy for an old friend."

    "An oldfriend? Fair girl, if it wasn't for Petey,

I'd have made one hell of a play for you!"

    "You should have, Reb. I wasn't in his cards, his

terribly important cards. And you were one of the

nicest a little more subterranean than most, but a

nice person. What was it? 'Gentleman Johnny

Reb'?"

    "I've always tried to keep up appearances,

Annie. May I request the privilege of calling you

one day, if we ever get out of this mess?"

    "I don't know what the mess is, Reb, but I do

know you have my telephone number."

"You give me heart, fair girl!"

    "We're older now, Johnny, but I guess you

wouldn't understand that."

"Never, child. Never."

"Stay well, Reb. You're too good to lose."

    The operator at the Algonquin Hotel was

adamant. "I'm sorry, sir, Mr. Marcus is not in his

room and does not answer the page."

"I'll call back," said the Rebel.

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 629

    "Sorry, sir. There's no answer in Mr. Marcus's

room and no response to the page."

    "I believe we spoke several hours ago, sir. There's

still no answer in Mr. Marcus's room, so I took the

liberty of calling the desk. He hasn't checked out and

he didn't list an alternate number. Why not leave a

message?"

    "I believe I will. As follows, please. 'Stay put until

I reach you. Or you reach me. Imperative. Signed, Z.

Tabana. That's T-a-t-i-a "

"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. Z. sire"

    "As in zero, miss." Johnny Reb hung up the

phone in the flat in Cuxhaven. The taste in his

mouth was overpoweringly sour.

    Erich Leifhelm entertained his luncheon guests at

his favorite table at the Ambassador restaurant on

the eighteenth floor of the Steigenberger Hotel in

Bonn. The spacious, elegant room had a magnificent

view not only of the city and the river but also of the

mountains beyond, and this particular table was

positioned to take advantage of that view. It was a

bright, cloudless afternoon, and the natural wonders

of the northern Rhineland were there for the

fortunate to observe.

    "I never tire of it," said the former field marshal,

addressing the three men at his table, gesturing with

masculine grace at the enormous window behind

him. "I wanted you to see it before returning to

Buenos Aires indeed, one of the most beautiful

cities in the world, I must add."

    The maitre d' intruded with deference, bowing as

he spoke softly to Leifhelm. "Herr General, there is

a telephone call for you."

    "An aide is dining at table fifty-five," said

LeiPhelm casually, in spite of his racing pulse.

Perhaps there was word of a priest in Strasbourg!

"I'm sure he can take it for me."

    "The gentleman on the line specifically requested

that I speak with you personally. He said to tell you

he was calling from California."

    "I see. Very well." Leifhelm got out of his chair,

apologizing to his guests. "No surcease from the

vagaries of commerce, is there? Forgive me, I shall

only be a moment or two. Please, more wine."

The maitre d' nodded, adding, "I've had the call put

630 ROBERT LUDIUM

through to my private office, Herr Ceneral. It s right

inside the foyer."

'That pleases me. Thank you."

    Erich Leifhelm shook his head subtly as he

passed table 55 near the entrance. The lone diner

acknowledged the dismissal with a nod of his head.

In all the years of strategies and tactics, military and

political, that dismissal would prove to be one of the

field marshal's gravest errors.

    Two men stood in the foyer, one looking at his

watch, the other looking annoyed. To judge by their

expensive clothes they belonged to the

Ambassador's regular clientele and were obviously

waiting for late luncheon companions, probably

their wives, as they had not gone to their table. A

third man stood outside the glass doors in the

corridor; he was dressed in the maintenance

uniform of the hotel and watched the two men

inside.

    Leifhelm thanked the maitre d' as the latter held

open the door to his modest office. The restaurateur

closed the door and returned to the dining room.

The two men swiftly, as one raced inside after

the old soldier, who was at that moment picking up

the telephone.

"Was geht trier for? Wer ist . . . !"

    The first man lunged across the desk and

gripped Leifhelm's head, clamping the general's

mouth with very strong hands. The second man

pulled a hypodermic needle from his pocket and

removed the rubber shield as he tore at Leifhelm's

jacket and then the collar of his shirt. He plunged

the needle into the base of the general's throat,

released the serum pulled out the syringe and

immediately began massaging the flesh as he

restored the collar and pulled the jacket back in

place.

    "He'll be mobile for about five minutes," said the

doctor in German. "But he can neither speak nor

reason. His motor controls are now mechanical and

have to be guided."

"And after five minutesP" asked the first man.

"He collapses, probably vomiting."

    "A nice picture. Hurry! Get him up and guide

him, for God's sake! I'll check outside and knock

once."

    Seconds later the knock came, and the doctor,

with Leifhelm firmly in his grip, propelled the

general out of the of lice and through the glass

doors into the hotel corridor.

    "This way!" ordered the third man in the

maintenance uniform, heading to the right.

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 631

"quickly!" added the doctor.

    Among the strollers in the plush hallway and the

diners heading for the restaurant, a number

recognised the legendary old soldier and stared at his

pale face with the lips trembling, trying to speak. Or

scream.

    "The great man has had terrible news," said the

doctor repeatedly and reverentially. '`It's terrible,

simply terrible""

    They reached a service elevator, which was on

HOLD, and went inside. A stretcher on wheels stood

against the padded back wall. The third man took a

key from his pocket, inserted it in the HOLD lock to

release the controls and pressed the nonstop switch

for the basement. The other two lifted Leifhelm up

on the stretcher and covered his entire body with a

sheet.

    "They'll start talking up there," said the first man.

"His bulls will come running. They're never far

away."

    "The ambulance is downstairs now by the

elevator door," said the man in the maintenance

uniform. "The plane is waiting at the airfield."

    The once great field marshal of the Third Reich

threw up under the sheet.

    Jacques-Louis Bertholdier let himself into the

apartment on the Boulevard Montaigne and removed

his silk jacket. He walked over to the mirrored bar

against the wall, poured a vodka, threw in two cubes

of ice from a sterling-silver bucket, and strolled to

the window beyond the elegantly upholstered couch.

The tree-lined boulevard was so peaceful at

midafternoon, so spotlessly clean, and somehow so

pastoral although very much a part of the city. There

were times when he thought it was the essence of the

Paris he loved, the Paris of influence and wealth,

whose inhabitants never had to soil their hands. It

was why he had purchased the extravagant flat and

installed his most extravagant and desirable mistress.

He needed her now. My God, how he needed

releasel

    The Legionnaire shot and garroted in his own

automobilet In the parking lot of the Bois de

Bolognel And Prudhomme, the filthy bureaucrat,

supposedly in Calais! No fingerprintsl Nothing! The

once and foremost general of France needed an hour

or so of tranquility.

    'canine! Where are you? Come out, Egyptiant I

trust you're wearing what I instructed you to wear. If

you need re

632 ROBERT LUDLUM

minding, it's the short black Givenchy, nothing

underneath you understand! Absolutely nothing"

    "Of course, my general, 'came the words,

strangely hesitant, from behind the bedroom door.

    Bertholdier laughed silently to himself as he

turned and walked back to the couch. LeGrand

Machin was still an event to be reckoned with, even

by highly sexual twenty-five-year-olds who loved

money and fast cars and elegant apartments as

much as they adored having their bodies penetrated.

Well, he was too upset to disrobe, his nerves too

frayed to go through any prolonged preliminary

nonsense. He had something else in mind release

without effort.

    The sound of the turning knob broke off his

thoughts. The door opened and a raven-haired girl

emerged, her elongated, perfectly proportioned face

set in anticipation, her brown eyes wide in a distant

wonder. Perhaps she had been smoking marijuana,

thought Bertholdier. She was dressed in a short

negligee of black lace, her breasts wreathed in gray,

her hips revolving in sexual provocation as she

approached the couch.

    "Exquisite, you whore of the Nile. Sit down. It's

been a dreadful day, a horrible day, and it is not

over. My driver will return in two hours, and until

then I need rest and release Give it to me,

Egyptian. " Bertholdier zipped down the fly of his

trousers and reached for the girl. "Fondle it, as I

will fondle you, and then do what you can do." He

grabbed her breasts and pulled her head down into

his groin. "Now. Now. Do it!"

    A blinding flash filled the room, and two men

walked out of the bedroom. The girl sprang back

onto the couch as Bertholdier looked up in shock.

The man in front put the camera in his pocket; his

companion, a short, middle-aged heavyset man with

a gun in his hand, walked slowly toward the legend

of France.

    "I admire your taste, General," he said in a gruff

voice. "But then, I suppose I've always admired you,

even when I disagreed with you. You don't

remember me, but you court-martialed me in

Algiers, sending me to the stockade for thirty-six

months because I struck an officer.. I was a sergeant

major and he had brutally abused my men with

excessive penalties for minor offecses. Three years

for hitting a Paris-tailored pig. Three years in those

filthy barracks for taking care of my men."

    "Sergeant Major Lefevre," said Bertholdier with

authority, calmly zipping up his fly. "I remember. I

never forget. You

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 633

were guilty of treasonous conduct: assaulting. I

should have had you shot."

    "There were moments during those three years

when I would have welcomed the execution.. But I'm

not here to discuss Algiers it's when I knew you

were all crazy. I'm here to tell you you're coming

with me. You'll be returned unharmed to Paris in

several days."

    "Preposterous!" spat out the general. "You think

your weapon frightens me?"

    "No, it's merely to protect myself from you, from

the last gesture of a brave and famous soldier. I

know you too wed to think that threats of bodily

harm, or even death, could move you. I have another

persuasion, however, one you've just made quite

irresistible." The ex-sergeant major withdrew a

second, oddly shaped gun from his pocket. "This

weapon does not hold bullets. Instead it fires darts

containing a chemical that accelerates the heart to

the bursting point. My thoughts were to threaten you

with fielding the photograph after your death,

showing that the great general died ignominiously at

what he did best. Now, perhaps, there is another

approach. The angle was advantageous for certain

expert brushwork your position and the expression

on your face would not be touched, of course but

your companion might easily become a he rather

than a she, a little boy rather than a girl. There were

rumors of your excesses once, and a hastily arranged

marriage few could understand. Was this the secret

Le Grand Machin ran from all his life? Was it the

threat the great De Gaulle held over the head of his

popular but all too ambitious and rebellious colonel?

That the appetites of this pretender, this would-be

successor, were so extensive they included anything

he could get his hands on, his body on, the gender

making no difference. Small boys when there were

no women. The whispers of corrupted young

lieutenants and captains, of rapes, conveniently

called interrogations in your quarters "

    "Enough!" cried Bertholdier, shooting up from

the couch. "Further conversation is pointless.

Regardless of how absurd and unfounded your

accusations are, I will not permit my name to be

dragged through filth! I went that film!"

"My God, it's true," said the ex-infantry sergeant.

"All of

'.The filml" shouted the general. "Give it to me!"

'You shall have it," replied Lefevre. "On the plane."

* * *

634 ROBERT LUDLUM

    Chaim Yakov Abrahms walked with a bowed

head out of the Ihud Shivat Zion synagogue on the

Ben Yehuda in Tel Aviv. The solemn crowds

outside formed two deep flanks of devoted

followers, men and women who wept openly at the

terrible suffering this great man, this patriot-soldier

of Israel, had been forced to endure at the hands of

his wife. "Hitabdut, " they said in hushed voices.

"Ebude atzmo, " they whispered to one another,

cupping mouths to ears, out of Chaim's hearing. The

rabbis would not relent; the sins of a despicable

woman were visited upon this son of sabres, this

fierce child of Abraham, this Biblical warrior who

loved the land and the Talmud with equal fervor.

The woman had been refused burial in a holy place;

she was to remain outside the gates of the beht

hakoahroht, her soul left to struggle with the wrath

of Almighty God, the pain of that knowledge an

unbearable burden for the one left behind.

    It was said she did it out of vengeance and a

diseased mind. She had her daughters. It was the

father's son always the father's son who had been

slain on the father's battlefield. Who would weep

more, who could weep more, or be in greater

anguish than the father? And now this, the further

agony of knowing that the woman he had given his

life to had most heinously violated God's Talmud.

The shame of it, the shame! Oh, Chaim, our

brother, father, son and leader, we weep with you.

For you! Tell us what to do and we will do it. You

are our king! King of Eretz Yisrael, of Judea and

Samaria, and all the lands you seek for our

protection! Show us the way and we shall follow, O

King!

    "She's done more for him in death than she

could ever have done alive," said a man on the

outskirts of the crowd and not part of it.

    "What do you think really happened?" asked the

man's companion.

    "An accident. Or worse, far worse. She came to

our temple frequently, and I can tell you this. She

never would have considered hitabdut . . . We must

watch him carefully before these fools and

thousands like them crown him emperor of the

Mediterranean and he marches us to oblivion."

    An Army staff car, two flags of blue and white

on either side of the hood, made its way up the

street to the curb in front of the synagogue.

Abrahms, wearing his bereavement like a heavy

mantle of sorrow only his extraordinary strength

could endure, kept bowing his lowered head to the

crowds,

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 635

his eyes opening and closing, his hands reaching out

to touch and be touched. At his side a young soldier

said, "Your car, General."

    "Thank you, my son," said the legend of Israel as

he climbed inside and sank back in the seat, his eyes

shut in anguish while weeping faces pressed against

the windows. The door closed, and when he spoke,

his eyes still closed, there was anything but anguish

in his harsh voice. "Get me out of beret Take me to

my house in the country. We'll all have whisky and

forget this crap. Holy rabbinical bastards! They had

the temerity to lecture me! The next war, 1-11 call up

the rabbis and put those Talmudic chicken-chits in

the front lines! Let them lecture while the shrapnel

flies up their asses!"

    No one spoke as the car gathered speed and left

the crowds behind. Moments later Chaim opened his

eyes and pulled his thick back from the seat; he

stretched his barrel-chested frame and reclined again

in a more comfortable position. Then slowly, as if

aware of the stares of the two soldiers beside him, he

looked at both men, his head whipping back and

forth.

    "Who are you?" he shouted. "You're not my men,

not my aides!"

    "They'll wake up in an hour or so," said the man

in the front seat beside the driver. He turned to face

Abrahms. "Good afternoon, General."

"You!"

    "Yes, it is 1, Chaim. Your goons couldn't stop me

from testifying before the Lebanon tribunal, and

nothing on earth could stop me from what I'm doing

today. I told you about the slaughter of women and

children and quivering old men as they pleaded for

their lives and watched you laugh. You call yourself

a Jew? You can't begin to understand. You're just a

man filled with hate, and I don t care for you to

claim to be any part of what I am or what I believe.

You're shit, Abrahms. But you'll be brought back to

Tel Aviv in several days."

    One by one the planes landed, the

propeller-driven aircraft from Bonn and Paris having

flown at low altitudes, the jet from Israel, a

Dassault-Breguet Mystere 10/ 100, dropping swiftly

from twenty-eight thousand feet to the private

airfield at Saint-Gervais. And as each taxied to a

stop at the end of the runway, there was the same

dark-blue sedan waiting to drive the "guest" and his

escort to an Alpine chateau fifteen

636 ROBERT LUDLUM

miles east in the mountains. It had been rented for

two weeks from a real estate firm in Chamonix.

    The arrivals had been scheduled carefully, as

none of the three visitors was to know that the

others were there. The planes from Bonn and Paris

landed at 4:30 and 5:45, respectively, the jet from

the Mediterranean nearly three hours later at 8:27.

And to each stunned guest Joel Converse said the

identical words: "As I was offered hospitality in

Bonn, I offer you mine here. Your accommodations

will be better than I was given, although I doubt the

food will be as good. However, I know one

thing your departure will be far less dramatic than

mine."

    But not your stay' thought Converse, as he spoke

to each man. Not your stay. It was part of the plan.

38

    The first light floated up into the dark sky above

the trees in Central Park. Nathan Simon sat in his

study and watched the new day's arrival from the

large, soft leather chair facing the huge window. It

was his thinking seat, as he called it. Recently he

had used it as much for dozing as for thought. But

there were no brief interludes of sleep tonight this

morning. His mind was on fire; he had to explore

and reexplore the options, stretching the limits of

his perception of the dangers within each. To

choose the wrong one would send out alarms that

would force the generals to act immediately, and

once under way, events would race swiftly out of

control; the control of events would be solely in the

hands of the generals everywhere. Of course, they

might decide within hours to begin the onslaught,

but Nathan did not think so they were not fools.

All chaos had its visual beginnings, the initial

turbulence that would give credibility to subsequent

violence. If nothing else, confusion had to be

established as the players moved into place without

being seen. And the concept of military control over

governments was a timeworn idea since the age of

the Pharaohs. It bore early fruit in the

Peloponnesus and Sparta's conquest of Athens, later

with the

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 637

Caesars, and, later still, was exercised by the

emperors of the Holy Roman Empire, then by the

Renaissance princes, and finally brought to its

apotheosis by the Soviets and the Germans in the

twentieth century. Unrest preceded violence, and

violence preceded takeover, whether it was a

revolution sparked by hundreds of thousands of

oppressed Russians or the strangling inequities of a

Versailles treaty.

    Therein lay the weakness of the generals'

strategy: the unrest had to exist before the violence

erupted. It required mobs of malcontented

people ordinary people who could be worked into

a frenzy, but for that to happen the mobs had to be

there in the first place. The people's discontent

would be the sign, the prelude, as it were, but where,

when? And what could he do, what moves could he

make that would escape the attention of Delavane's

informers? He was the employer and friend of Joel

Converse, the "psychopathic assassin" the generals

had created. He had to presume he was being

watched at the very least any overt action he took

would be scrutinised, and if he became suspect he

would be thwarted. His life was immaterial. In a

sense he was trapped, as he and others like him had

been trapped on the beaches of Anzio. They had

realised that there was a degree of safety in the

foxholes behind the dunes, that to emerge from them

was to face unending mortar fire. Yet they had

known, too that nothing would be accomplished if

they remained where they were.

    Contrary to what he had told Peter Stone,

Nathan knew precisely whom he had to see not one

man, but three. The President, the Speaker of the

House, and the Attorney General. The apex of the

executive branch, the leader of the legislative, and

the nahon's chief law-enforcement officer. He would

see no one of lesser stature, and it was far more

advantageous to see them all together rather than

individually. He had to see them, whether separately

or as a group, and there was his dilemma; it was the

trap. One did not simply pick up a telephone and

make appointments with such men. There were

procedures, formalities, and screening processes to

ensure the validity of the requests; men with their

responsibilities could not waste time. The trap. The

minute his name was mentioned, the word would go

out. Delavane himself would know within a matter of

hours, if not minutes.

    Despite Joel's gratuitous and highly dubious

statements to Peter Stone, it was not easy to reach

powerful government

638 ROBERT LUDIUM

figures any more than it was logical to have a judge

issue a court order under seal that somehow

miraculously, legally, guaranteed extraordinary

protection for those same people without informing

the entire security apparatus as to why the

protection was deemed vital. Ridiculous! Such court

orders were reasonable where intimidated witnesses

were concerned before a criminal trial and even

afterward in terms of fabricated rehabilitation, but

that process hardly applied to the White House, the

Congress, or the Justice Department. Joel had taken

a legal maneuver, ballooned it way out of prob-

ability, and scaled it up into orbit for a reason, of

course. Stone and his colleagues had provided

depositions.

    And yet, thought Simon, there was an odd logic

in Converse's misapplied exaggerations. Not in any

way Joel had considered but as a means to reach

these men. "A court, a single judge . . ." Converse

had said to Stone. That was the logic, the rest was

nonsense. The so preme Court, a justice of that

court. Not a request from one Nathan Simon who

would have to be screened, if only in terms of

content, not character, but an urgent message to the

President from a venerated justice of the Supreme

Court! No one would dare question such a man if

he pronounced his business to be between the

President and himself. Presidents were far more

solicitous of the Court than of Congress, and with

good reason. The latter was a political battleground,

the former an arena of moral judgment. Nathan

Simon knew the man he could call and see, a justice

in his late seventies. The Court was not in session;

October was a month away. The justice was

somewhere in New England; his private number was

at the office.

    Nathan blinked, then brought his hand up to

shield his eyes. For a brief moment the fireball of

the early sun had careened a blinding ray through a

geometric maze of glass and steel across the park

and entered his window before being blocked by a

distant building. And suddenly, at that instant of

blindness, he was given the answer to the terrifying

quesbon of where and when the unrest that had to

be the prelude for the eruption of violence. There

was scheduled throughout Free Europe, Great

Britain, Canada, and the United States an

internationally coordinated week-long series of

antinuclear protests. Millions of concerned people

joining hands and snarling traffic in the streets of

the major cibes and capitals, making their voices

heard at the expense of normalcy. Rallies to be held

in the parks and in the squares and in

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 639

rout government buildings. Politicians and statesmen,

pereiving as always the power of ground swells, had

promised o address huge crowds everywhere in

Paris and Bonn, tome and Madrid, Brussels and

London, Toronto, Ottawa, lew York, and

Washington. And again, as always, both the incere

advocates and the posturing sycophants of the bodies

olitic would blame the lack of arms-control progress

on the ntransigence of evil adversaries, not on their

own deficien~ies. The genuine and the phony would

walk hand in hand cross the many podiums, none

sure of the other's stripes.

    Crowds everywhere would espouse deeply felt,

deeply divisive issues: the believers of universal

restraint would be gifted against those who intensely

believe in the effectiveness -Jf raw power, and the

latter would surely be heard. No one thought the

massive demonstrations would be without incidents,

yet how far might these minor confrontations

escalate if the incidents themselves were massive?

Units of terrorist fanatics financed anonymously,

convinced of their mission to infiltrate and savagely

disrupt so as to get their messages across, messages

of real and or imagined grievances that had nothing

to do with the protests, creating chaos primarily be-

cause the crowds were not of their world or their

fevers. Crowds- everywhere. These were the hordes

of people who could be galvanised by sudden

violence and worked into a state of madness. It

would be the prelude. Everywhere.

    The demonstrations were scheduled to begin in

three days.

    Peter Stone walked down the wide dirt path

toward the lake behind the A-frame house

somewhere in lower New Hampshire he did not

know precisely where, only that it was twenty minutes

from the airport. It was close to dusk, the end of a

day filled with surprises, and apparently more were

to come. Ten hours ago, in his room at the

Algonquin, he had called Swissair to see if the flight

from Geneva was on schedule; he had been told it

was thirty-four minutes ahead of schedule and,

barring landing delays, was expected a half-hour

early. It was the first surprise and an inconsequential

one. The second was not. He had arrived at Kennedy

shortly before two o'clock, and within a few minutes

he heard the page over the public address system for

a 'Mr. Lackland," the name he had given Nathan

Simon.

"Take Pilgrim Airlines to Manchester, New

Hampshire,'

640 ROBERT LUDIUM

the lawyer had said. "There's a reservation for Mr.

Lacklanc on the three-fifteen plane. Can you make

it?"

    "Easily. The flight from Geneva's early. I assume

that's La Guardi a? "

    "Yes. You'll be met in Manchester by a man

with red hair. I've described you to him. See you

around five-thirty."

    Manchester, New Hampshire? Stone had been

so sure Simon would ask him to fly to Washington

that he had not even bothered to put a toothbrush

in his pocket.

    Surprise number three was the courier from

Geneva. A prim, gaunt Englishwoman with a face of

pale granite and the most uncommunicative pair of

eyes he had seen outside of Dzerzhinsky Square. As

arranged, she had met him in front of the Swissair

lounge, a copy of the Economist in her left hand.

After studying the wrong side of his out-of-date

government identification, she had given him the

attache case and made the following statement in

high dudgeon. "I don't like New York, I never have.

I don't like flying either, but everyone's been so

lovely and it's better to get the whole whack-a-doo

over all at once, righto? They've arranged for me to

take the next plane back to Geneva. I miss my

mountains. They need me and I do try to give them

my very all, righto?"

    With that abstruse bit of information she had

smiled wanly and started back somewhat uncertainly

toward the escalator. It was then that Stone had

begun to understand. The woman's eyes did not

reveal her condition but the whole person did. She

was drunk or, perhaps, "pickled" having over-

come her fear of flying with liquid courage.

Converse had made a strange choice of a courier,

Stone had thought, but had instantly changed his

mind. Who could be less suspect?

    The fourth surprise came at the Manchester

airport. An ebullient, middle-aged redheaded man

had greeted him as though they were long-lost

fraternity brothers from some Midwestern university

in the late thirties, when such fraternal ties were

deemed far deeper than blood. He was effusive to

the point where Stone was not only embarrassed by

the display of camaraderie but seriously concerned

that unwarranted attention would be drawn to them.

But once in the parking lot, the redhead had

suddenly slammed him into the doorframe of the

car and shoved the barrel of a gun into the back of

his neck while the man's free hand stabbed his

clothes for a weapon.

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 641

    "I wouldn't take the risk of going through metal

detectors with a gun, damn it!" protested the ex-CIA

agent.

    "Just making sure, spook. I've dealt with you

assholes, you think you're something else. Me, I was

Federal."

"Which explains a great deal, ' said Stone, meaning

it.

"You drive.

"Is that a question or an order?"

"An order. All spooks drive," replied the redhead.

    Surprise number five came in the car as Stone

took the sudden turns commanded by the redheaded

man, who casually replaced the gun in his jacket

holster.

    "Sorry about the horseshit," he had said in a voice

far less hostile than it had been in the parking lot,

but nowhere near the false ebullience in the

terminal. "I had to be careful, piss you off, see where

you stood, you know what I mean? And I was never

Federal I hated those turkeys. They always wanted

you to know they were better than you were just be-

cause they came from D.C. I was a cop in Cleveland,

name's Gary Frazier. How are you?"

    "Somewhat more comfortable," Stone had said.

"Where are we going?"

"Sorry, pal. If he wants you to know, he'll tell you."

    Surprise number six awaited Stone when he

drove the car up through the New Hampshire hills to

an isolated house of wood and glass, surrounded by

forests, the structure an inverted V, two narrowing

stories looking out in all directions on woods and

water. Nathan Simon had walked down the stone

steps from the front door.

"You've brought it?" he asked.

    "Here it is," said Stone, handing the attache case

to the lawyer through the open window. "Where are

we? Who are you seeing?"

    "It's an unlisted residence, but if everything is in

order we'll call you. There are guest quarters

attached to the boathouse down at the lake. Why not

freshen up after your trip? The driver will point the

way. If we need you for anything we'll ring you on

the phone. It's a separate number from the house, so

just pick it up."

    And now Peter Stone was walking down the wide

dirt path that led to the boathouse by the lake,

aware that eyes were following him. Surprise number

six: be had no idea where he was and Simon wasn't

going to tell him unless "everything was in order,"

whatever that meant.

642 ROBERT LUDLUM

    The guest quarters alluded to by the attorney

was a three-room cottage on the edge of the lake

with an entrance to the adjacent boathouse, in

which was berthed a small sleek motorboat and a

nondescript catamaran that looked more like a raft

with two canvas seats and fishing equipment for

drift trawling. Stone wandered about trying to find

some clue as to the owner's identity but there was

nothing. Even the names on the boats were

meaningless, but not lacking in humor.The

cumbersome, raftlike sail was named Hawk while

the aggressive-looking little speedboat was Dove.

    The former deep-cover intelligence officer sat

on the porch and looked out at the peaceful waters

of the lake and the rolling, darkening green hills of

New Hampshire. Everything was peaceful. Even the

cries of the loons seemed to proclaim the

permanence of tranquility in this special place. But

Stone's insides were not peaceful; his stomach

churned and he remembered what Johnny Reb used

to say in the field. "Trust the stomach, Brer Rabbit,

trust the bile. They never lie." He wondered what

the Rebel was doing, what he was learning.

    The phone inside the cottage rang, accompanied

by a strident, unnerving clanging of the porch bell.

As if jolted by an electric prod, Stone sprang from

the chair, swung back the door and walked rapidly

across the room to the telephone.

    "Come up to the house, please," said Nathan

Simon, adding, "If you were out on the porch, I

apologise for not telling you about that damned

bell."

"I accept your apology. I was."

    "It's for guests who expect calls and may be out

in one of the boats."

"The loons are quiet. I'll be right there."

    Stone walked up the dirt path and saw the

lawyer standing by a screen door that was the

lake-side entrance to the house; it was on a patio

reached by curving brick steps. He started climbing,

prepared for surprise number seven.

    Supreme Court Justice Andrew Wellfleet, his

thinning unkempt white hair falling in strands over

his wide forehead, sat behind the large desk in his

library. Converse's thick affidavit was in front of

hirn, and a floor lamp on his left threw light on the

pages. It was several moments before he looked up

and removed his steel-rimmed glasses. His eyes

were stern and disapproving, matching the

nickname given him over two decades ago when he

was summoned to the Court. "Iras

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 643

cibleAndy" was the sobriquet the clerks had given

him, but no one ever questioned his awesome

intelligence, his fairness or his devotion to the law.

All things considered, surprise number seven was as

welcome a shock as Stone could imagine.

    "Have you read this?' asked Wellfleet, offering

neither his hand nor a chair.

    "Yes, sir," replied Stone. "On the plane. It's

essentially what he told me over the phone, in far

greater detail, of course. The affidavit from the

Frenchman, Prudhomme, was a bonus. It tells us how

they operate how they re capable

    of operating."

    "And what in hell did you think you were going to

do with all of this?" The elderly justice waved his

hand over the desk, on which were scattered the

other, affidavits. "Petition the courts here and in

Europe to please, if they'd be so kind, to issue

injunctions restricting the activities of all military per-

sonnel above a certain rank on the conceivable

possibility that they may be part of this?"

    "I'm not a lawyer, sir, the courts never entered my

mind. But I did think that once we had Converse's

own words along with what we knew they'd be

sufficient to reach the right people in the highest

places who could do something. Obviously, Converse

thought the same thing insofar as he called in Mr.

Simon, and if you'll forgive me, Mr. Justice, you're

reading it all now."

    "It isn't enough," said the Supreme Court justice.

"And damn the courts, I shouldn't have to tell you

that, Mr. Former CIA Man. You need names, a lot

more names, not just five generals, three of whom are

retired and one of them, the so-called instigator, a

man who had an operation several months ago that

left him without legs."

    "Delavane?" asked Simon, stepping away from the

window.

    "That's right," said Wellfleet. "Kind of pathetic,

huh? Not exactly the picture of a very imposing

threat, is he?"

"It could drive him into being an extraordinary

threat."

    "I'm not denying that, Nate. I'm just looking at the

collection you've got here. Abrahms? As anyone

worth his kosher salt in Israel will tell you, he's a

strutting, bombastic hothead a brilliant soldier but

with ten screws loose. Besides his only real concerns

are for Israel. Van Headmer? He's a relic of the

nineteenth century, pretty fast with a hangman's

644 ROBERT LUDLUM

rope but his voice doesn't mean doodlly-shit outside

of South Africa."

    "Mr. Justice," said Stone, speaking more firmly

than he had before, 'are you implying that we're

wrong? Because if you are, there are other

names and I don't just mean a couple of attaches

at the embassy in Bonn names of men who have

been killed because they tried to find answers."

    "You weren't listening!" snapped Wellfleet. "I

just told Nate I wasn't denying anything. How in

hell could I? Forty-five million in untraceable, illegal

exports! An apparatus that can shape the news

media here and in Europe, that can corrupt

government agencies, and as Nate here puts it

'create a psychopathic assassin' so they can find you,

or make you back down.. Oh, no, mister, I'm not

saying you're wrong. I'm saying you better damn

well do what I'm told you're pretty good at, and

you'd better do it quickly. Haul in this Washburn

and any others you can find in Bonn; pick a cross

section of those people at State and the Pentagon

and fill 'em full of dope or whatever the hell you

use and get names! And if you ever mention that I

suggested such wanton measures that violate our

most sacred human rights, I'll say you're full of shit.

Talk to Nate here. You don't have time for niceties

mister."

    "We don't have the resources, either," said

Stone. "As I explained to Mr. Simon, there are a

few friends I can call upon for information but

nothing like what you suggest like what you didn't

suggest. I simply don't have the leverage, the men

or the equipment. I'm not even employed by the

government any longer."

    "I can help you there." Wellfleet made a note.

"You'll get whatever you need."

    "There's the other problem," continued Stone.

"No matter how careful we are, we'd send out

alarms. These people are believers, notjust mindless

extremists. They're orchestrated; they have lines of

fullbacks and know exactly what they're doing. It's

a progression, a logical capitalising on sequences

until we're all forced to accept them or accept the

unacceptable, the continuation of violence, of

wholesale rioting, of the killing."

"Very nice, mister. And what are you going to do?

Noth

    "Of course not. Rightly or wrongly, I believed

Converse when he told me that with our

affidavits with all the evi

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 645

dencewe provided him Mr. Simon could reach

people we couldn't reach. Why shouldn't I have

believed him? It was an extension of my own

thinking without a Nathan Simon but with Converse

himself. Only, my way would take longer. The

precautions would be far more elaborate, but it could

be done. We'd reach the right people and start the

counterattack."

'Who'd you have in mind?" asked Wellfleet sharply.

    ' The President first, obviously. Then, because

we're dealing with half a dozen other countries, the

Secretary of State. A maximum-security screening

process would be set up immediately one

undoubtedly using those chemicals you didn't speak

of until we had unblemished personnel, men and

women we were certain beyond doubt had no

connections to this Aquitaine. We create cells,

command posts here and abroad. Incidentally, there's

a man who can help us immeasurably in this, a man

named Belamy in Britain's M.1.6. I've worked with

him and he's the best knows the best and he's

done this sort of thing before. Once our cells are in

place and in deep cover, we then pull in Washburn

and at least two others we know of by description in

Bonn. Prudhomme can furnish us with the names of

those in the Surete who approve transfers, and who

furnished evidence against Converse when it didn't

exist. And as you know from my own affidavit, we've

got the island of Scharhdrn under surveillance

now we think it's a nerve confer or a

communications relay. With the proper equipment

we could tap in. The whole point is we widen the

circles of information. Once you know a strategy, you

can mount a counterstrategy without setting off

alarms." Stone paused and looked at both men. "Mr.

Justice, Mr. Simon. I was station chief in five vital

posts in Great Britain and the Continent. I know it

can be done."

    "I don't doubt you," said Nathan Simon. "How

long would it take?"

    "If Justice Wellfleet can get me the cooperation

and the equipment I need, with the people I

select here and abroad Derek Belamy and I can

mount a crash program. We'd be operational in eight

to ten days."

    Simon looked at the Supreme Court justice then

back at Stone. "We don't have eight or ten days," he

said. "We have three less than three days now."

Peter Stone stared at the tall, portly attorney with

the

646 ROBERT LUDLUM

sad, penetrating eyes. He could feel the blood

draining from his face.

    The cry of the cat was muted in fury. General

Ceorge Marcus Delavane slowly replaced the

telephone on the console. His half-body was

propped into the wheelchair, his waist strapped to

the steel poles, his arms as heavy as his breath was

short, the veins in his neck distended. He brought

his hands together, entwining his fingers and

pressing the knuckles against each other until the

surrounding flesh was white. He raised his large

head, his cold, angry eyes narrowing as he looked

up at the uniformed aide standing in front of the

desk.

    "They've disappeared," he said, his high-pitched

voice icily controlled. "Leifhelm was taken from a

restaurant in Bonn. They say there was an

ambulance that raced away, no one knows where.

Abrahms'guards were drugged. Others took their

places. He was driven offin his own staffcar, picked

up in front of a synagogue. Bertholdier did not

come down from his apartment on the Montaigne,

so the driver went up to discreetly remind him of

the time. The woman was bound naked on the bed,

the word 'whore' written in lipstick across her

breasts. She said two men took him away at

gunpoint. There was talk of a plane, she said."

"What about Van Headmer?" asked the aide.

    "Nothing. Our charming and oblivious Afrikaner

dines at the Johannesburg Military Club and says he

will put himself under extra guard. He's not part of

the orbit; he's too far away to matter."

"What do you mean, General? What happened?"

    "What happened? This Converse happened! We

created our own most accomplished enemy,

Colonel and I can't say we weren't warned. Chaim

said it, our man in the Mossad made it clear. The

North Vietnamese created a hellhound the

Mossad's words and we created a monster. He

should have been killed in Paris, certainly in Bonn."

    "You couldn t have ordered it then," said the

aide, shaking his head. "You had to know where he

came from, and if you couldn't find out, you had to

isolate him, make him what was it.P_a pariah, so

no one would come forth to claim him. It was sound

strategy, General. It still remains sound. No one's

come forth no one's coming forth. You held them

back, and now it's too late."

Delavane's eyes widened as he appraised the

calonel's

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 647

face. "You've always been the best of adjutants, Paul.

You tactfully remind a superior that regardless of

periodic setbacks, his decisions were based on sound

reasons, and that those reasons will prevail."

    "I've disagreed when I thought it was necessary,

General, because whatever I learned I learned from

you, so l merely reminded you of yourself. Right

now, at this moment, I'm right. You were right."

    "Yes, I was I am. Nothing matters now.

Everything's set in motion and nothing can stop it.

This Converse this bold, resourceful enemy was

also held in check by having to keep running. And

now he's too late. In any event, the men he's taken

are merely symbols, magnets to attract others. That's

the beauty of clean strategy, Colonel. Once it's set in

motion, it rolls like the ocean wave. The power

underneath is unseen, but it is relentless. Events will

dictate the only acceptable solutions. It's my legacy,

Colonel."

    Nathan Simon had nearly finished his

explanation. It had taken less than three minutes,

during which time Peter Stone remained motionless,

his eyes riveted on the older man, his face ashen, the

taste in his mouth unbearable.

    "You can see the pattern, can't you?" concluded

the attorney. "The protests begin in the Middle East

and follow the sun and the time zones across the

Mediterranean, up through Europe, and over the

Atlantic, culminating in Canada and the United

States. They start with the Peace Now movement in

Jerusalem, then Beirut, Rome, Paris, Bonn, London,

Toronto, Washington, New York, Chicago, et cetera.

Gigantic rallies in the major cities and capitals,

covering every nation and government Delavane and

his people have infiltrated. Confrontations

occur the initial unrest growing into major disrup-

tions with the infusion of terrorist units. Bombs

wired into cars, or under the streets in sewers, or

simply rolled into the crowds the second wave of

greater violence all leading to the mass confusion

and disorder they require to put their leading players

in position. Or more precisely, once in position to

exercise their assignments."

    ' The final assaults," said Stone quietly. Selected

assassinations."

    Chaos," agreed Simon. 'World leaders suddenly

dead, the descending mantles of authority unclear,

too many men

648 ROBERT LUDLUM

protesting, one another, screaming that they are in

charge. Total chaos."

    "Scharhorn!" said the former intelligence officer.

' We have no other choice now. We have to go in!

May I use your telephone, Mr. Justice?" Without

waning for a reply, Stone walked to Wellfleet's desk

as he removed his billfold and pulled out the small

piece of paper with a number in Cuxhaven, West

Germany, written on it. He turned the phone

around under the harsh gaze of the Supreme Court

justice, picked it up and dialed. The sequence of

transatlantic relays was intolerable. It rang.

"Rebel?"

    The explosive invective over the line from half

a world away could be heard even by Simon and

Wellfleet. Stone broke it off. "Stop it, Johnny! I

haven't been near the hotel in hours and I haven't

time for this! . . . You what?" The CIA man

listened, holding his breath, his eyes growing wide.

He covered the mouthpiece and turned to Nathan

Simon. "My God, there's a breakthrough!" he

whispered. "Photographs. Infrared, taken last night

and developed this morning all clear. Ninety-seven

men from Scharhorn getting off a boat, heading for

the airport and train station. He thinks they're the

hit teams."

    "Get those photographs to Brussels and flown to

Washington on the fastest goddamned military

transport you can find!" ordered the venerated

justice of the Supreme Court.

39

    "Preposterous!" shouted General Jacques-Louis

Bertholdier from the brocaded wing chair in the

spacious study of the Alpine chateau. "I don't

believe you for a minute'"

    "That's a favorite word of yours, isn't it?" said

Converse, standing by the open cathedral window

across the room, the mountain fields beyond. He

was dressed in a dark suit, white shirt and a

regimental tie, all purchased in Chamonix. "The

word 'preposterous,' I mean," he continued. "You

used it at least twice when we spoke in Paris, I

think. It's as though

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 649

whatever information you don't like is

preposterous absurd, unwarranted not only the

information itself but also the person who gives you

the information. Is that the way you look at people

who don't accommodate you?"

    "Certainly not! It is the way I treat liars." The

legend of France began to rise. 'And I see no

reason "

    "Stay in that chair!" Joel commanded. "Or only

your corpse will get back to Paris," he added simply,

without hostility. "I told you, all I wanted was this

conversation with you. It won't take long, and then

you'll be free to go. That's more charity than any of

you showed me."

    "You were expendable. I apologise for being so

blunt, but it is the truth.'

    "If I was so expendable, why didn't you just kill

me? Why the elaborate buildup, all that trouble to

make me a killer, an assassin, a man hunted all over

Europe."

"The Jew gave us that."

"The Jew? Chaim Abrahms?"

    "It makes no difference now," said Bertholdier.

"Our man in the Mossad incidentally, a brilliant

analyst made it clear that if we could not find out

where you came from, if you yourself did not know,

then we had to put you in'forbidden territory' I

believe that was the expression. And that was not

preposterous. No one claims you. You were you

are indeed, untouchable."

    "Why doesn't it make any difference now the

fact that you've told me what you presume I already

know?"

"You've lost, Monsieur Converse."

"I have?"

    "Yes, and if you have delusions about drugging

me as we drugged you let me spare you and me

the discomfort of such procedures. I do not have the

information. Actually, no one does. Only a machine

that is set in motion and issues commands."

"To other machines?"

    "Of course not. To men men who will do what

they have been trained to do, who believe in what

they're doing. I have no idea who they are."

"That's the killing, isn't it? They're the killers."

    "All war is reduced to killing, young man. And

make no mistake. This is war. The world has had

enough. We will put it to rights, as the English say.

You will see; we will not be opposed. We are not

only needed, we are wanted."

650 ROBERT LUDLUM

    "'Accumulation, rapid acceleration,' those were

the words, weren't they?"

'The Jew was precipitate. He talks too much.

    "He says you re the pompous asshole of creation.

He told me that he and Van Headmer were going

to put you in a glass room with little boys and girls

and watch you screw yourself into a coronary.

    "His conversations were always tasteless. . . But

no, I don't believe you.

    "So we re back to my original statement." Joel

walked away from the window and sat down in an

armchair diagonally opposite Bertholdier. "Why do

you find it so difficult to believe? Because you didn

t think of it?"

"No, monsieur. Because it s unthinkable.'

    Converse pointed to a telephone on the desk.

"You know their private numbers, he said. "Call

them. Call Leifhelm in Bonn and Abrahms in Tel

Aviv. Also Van Headmer, if you like, although I'm

told he s in the States, probably California."

"California?"

    "Ask each of them if he came to see me at that

little stone house on Leifhelm s property. Ask them

what we talked about. Go on, the phone s right over

there."

    Bertholdier looked sharply at the telephone as

Joel held his breath. Then the soldier turned back to

Converse, reluctance winning out over inclination.

"What are you trying to do? What sort of trick is

this?"

    "What trick? There s the phone. I can't rig it, I

can't make it dial numbers or hire people hundreds

or thousands of miles away to impersonate those

men."

    The Frenchman looked again at the telephone.

"What could I say?" he asked quietly, the question

directed more at himself than at Joel.

    "Try the truth. You're very big on the truth as

you see it, as it pertains to large global concepts,

and this is only a small matter of several minor

omissions. They're omitting to tell you that each one

of them came to see me. Or perhaps the omissions

weren't so minor."

"How would I know they came to see you?'

    "You weren't listening to me. I said 'Try the

truth. I had you kidnapped, no one else. I did it

because I didn t understand, and if push comes to

shove, I want to save my life. There's a huge world

out there, General. Large parts of it you'll leave

intact, and I could live very nicely as long as I

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 651

didn't have to worry about someone coming out of

a doorway to blow my head off."

    ' You're not the man I thought you were we

thought you were."

    "We're all what circumstances make us. I've had

my share of sweat. I'm bowing out of the crusading

business, or the lid-blowing business, or whatever

you want to call it. Would you like to know why?"

    "Very much so," said Bertholdier, staring at Joel,

confusion and curiosity fighting each other in his

eyes.

    "Because I listened to you in Bonn. Maybe you're

right, or maybe I just don't care anymore because I

was left way out in the cold. Maybe the world really

does need you arrogant bastards right now."

"It does! There's no other way!"

"It's the year of the generals then, isn't it?"

    "No, not simply the generals! We are the

consolidators, the symbols of strength and discipline

and lawful order. Surely what follows in the

aggregate in the international marketplaces, in joint

foreign policies, and yes, in the legal processes

themselves will reflect our leadership, our example,

and out of it all will come what is most lacking in

today's world. Stability, Monsieur Converse! No

more madmen like the senile Khomeini or the

hollow braggardQaddafi, or the insane Palestinians.

Such men and such nations and would-be nations

will be pincered by truly international forces, crushed

by the overwhelming might of like-minded

governments. Retribution will be swift and total. I

am a military strategist of some reputation, so let me

assure you the Russians will stand aside, appalled,

not daring to interfere knowing at last that they

cannot divide us any longer. They cannot rattle their

sabers, frightening one segment while appeasing

others, for we are all one!"

"Aquitaine," said Joel softly.

"An adequate code name, yes," agreed Bertholdier.

    "You're as convincing as you were in Bonn,"

added Converse. "And maybe it could all work, but

not this way, not with you people."

"I beg your pardon?"

    "Nobody has to divide you you're already

oceans apart."

"I don't understand."

"Place those calls, General. Make it easy on yourself.

652 ROBERT LUDLUM

Reach Leifhelm first. Tell him you just heard from

Abrahms in Tel Aviv and you're appalled. Say

Abrahms wants to meet with you because he has

information about me, that he admitted he and Van

Headmer came to see me alone in Bonn. You could

add that I told Abrahms he and his Afrikaner friend

were my second and third visitors. Leifhelm was the

first. '

'Why would I tell him this?"

    "Because you're angry as hell. No one told you

about these separate meetings with me and you

consider them highly improper which, if you don't

you damn well should. A little while ago you said I

was expendable. Well, you're in for a shock,

General. '

"Explain that!"

    "No. Use the phone. Listen to what he says how

he reacts, how they all react. You'll know. See if I'm

telling you the truth. "

    Bertholdier placed both his hands on the arms

of the brocaded chair and started to rise, his eyes

on the telephone. Converse sat motionless, watching

the Frenchman closely barely breathing, his pulse

racing. Suddenly the general pushed himself

violently back into the chair and gripped its arms

"AII right!" he shouted. "What was said ? What did

they say?

"I think you should use that phone first.'

    "Pointless!" snapped Bertholdier. "As you say,

you cannot make it dial other numbers well, I

suppose you could, but to what end? Impostors?

Ridiculous! I could ask any of several hundred

questions and know they were merely playactors."

    "All the more reason to call them," said Joel

calmly. "You'd know I was telling the truth."

"And give an advantage where none was shown to

me. "

    Converse breathed normally again. "It's up to

you, General. I'm just looking for a safe way out."

"Then tell me what was said to you."

    "Each asked me the obvious as if he didn't

trust the drugs or the one who adminstered them or

each other. Whom did I really represent?"Joel

paused; he was about to fish with a witness, but

knew he had to pull back instantly if the pond was

barren. "I guess I mentioned Beale on Mykonos,'he

offered hesitantly.

    "You did," confirmed the general. 'He was

reached several months ago, but our contact never

returned. You expla~ned that also."

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 653

'You thought he might be one of you, didn't you?'

    "We thought he threw away a brilliant military

career out of disgust. Apparently it was a different

disgust, the very weakness we abhorred. But these

are not the things I want to hear. You made

reference to some aspect of expendability That is

what I want to hear. Now."

'You want it straight? Without the frills?'

"No frills, monsieur."

    "LeifLelm said you'll be out in a matter of

months, if not sooner. You give too many orders; the

others are sick of them and you want too much for

France."

    "Leifhelm? The hypocritical weasel who sold his

very soul to deny everything he espoused? Who

betrayed his leaders in the dock at Nuremberg,

furnishing the court with all manner of evidence so

as to worm his way into the Allies' bowels!

Everywhere, whatever our commitments, we cringed!

He brought dishonoron the most honorable

profession in this world. Let me tell you, monsieur,

it is not I who will be out, it is he!"

    "Abrahms said you were a sexual

embarrassment," con .inued Converse, as though

Bertholdier's response was irrelevant. "That was the

phrase he used, 'a sexual embarrassment. He

mentioned the fact that there was a record one he

obtained, in fact that spelled out a string of rapes,

female and male, that were covered up by the

French Army because you were damned good at

what you did. But then he asked the question. Could

a bisexual opportunist, one who ravaged women at

will and who sodomised young men and boys, who

corrupted the word 'interrogations' as well as whole

sections of the officer corps, be truly considered the

French leader of code-name Aquitaine. He also said

you wanted too many controls cantered in your own

government. But by the time there were such

controls, you'd be gone."

    "Gone?" cried the Frenchman, his eyes once more

on fire as they had been weeks ago in Paris, his

whole body trembling with rage. "Convicted by a

barbarian, a smelly, uneducated Jew?"

    "Van Headmer didn't go that far. He said you

were simply too vulnerable "

    "Forget Van Headmer!" roared Bertholdier. "He's

a fossil! He was courted solely on the basis that he

might deliver raw materials. He's of no

consequence."

"I didn't think he was," agreed Joel truthfully.

654 ROBERT LUDLUM

    'But the strutting, foul-mouthed Israeli thinks

he can move against me? Let me tell you, I have

been threatened before by a great man and

nothing ever came of those threats because, as you

put it, I was 'damned good' at what I did. I still am!

And there is another record, one of outstanding and

brilliant service, that dwarfs any compilation of

filthy rumors and barracks gossip. My record is

unmatched by any in code-name Aquitaine, and that

includes the legless egomaniac in San Francisco. He

believes it was all his idea! Preposterous! I refined it!

He merely gave it a name based on a far-fetched

reading of history."

    "He also got the ball started by exporting one

hell of a lot of hardware," interrupted Converse.

    ' Because it was there! And there were profits to

be made!" The general paused, leaning forward in

the chair. "I will be frank with you. As with any elite

corps of leadership, one man rises above the others

by the sheer strength of his character and his mind.

Beside me the others all others pale into

mediocrity. Delavane is a deformed, hysterical

caricature. Leifhelm is a Nazi, and Abrahms is a

bombastic polarizer; alone he could set off waves of

anti-Semitism, the worst sort of symbol of

leadership. When the tribunals rise out of the

confusion and the panic, they will look to me. I

shall be the true leader of code-name Aquitaine."

    Joel got out of the chair and walked back to the

window, staring out at the mountain fields, feeling

the soft breezes on his face. "This examination is

finished, General," he said.

    As if on cue the door opened, and a former

sergeant major in the French Army based in Algiers

stood there waiting to escort the bewildered legend

of France out of the room.

    Chaim Abrahms sprang out of the brocaded

chair, his barrel chest straining the seams of his

black safari jacket. "He said those things about me?

About himself?"

    "I told you before we got into any of this to use

the phone," said Converse, sitting across from the

Israeli, a pistol on a table beside his chair. "Don't

take my word for it. I've heard it said you've got

good gut instincts. Call Bertholdier. You don t have

to say where you are as a matter of fact, I'd put a

bullet in your head if you tried. Just tell him one of

Leifhelm's guards, a man you bought to keep his

eyes open for you because of a certain innate

mistrust you have of Germans, told you that he,

Bertholdier, came to see me alone on two

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 655

separate occasions. Since I haven't been found, you

want to know why. It'll work. You'll hear enough to

know whether I'm telling you the truth or not."

    Abrahms stared down at Joel. 'But why do you

tell me this truth? If it is the truth. Why do you

abduct me to tell me these things. Why?"

    "I thought I made that clear. My money's running

out, and although I'm not wild about lox or kreplach,

I'd be better off living in Israel under a protective

cover than being hunted and ultimately killed

running around Europe. You can do that for me, but

I know I've got to deliver something to you first. I'm

delivering it now. Bertholdier intends to take over

what he calls code-name Aquitaine. He said you're

a foul-mouthed Jew, a destructive symbol, you'll

have to go. He said the same about Leifhelm; the

specter of a Nazi couldn't be tolerated and Van

Headmer was a 'fossil' that was the word, 'fossil.''

    "I can hear him," said Abrahms softly, his hands

clasped behind his back, pacing toward the window.

"Are you sure our military boulevardier with the

cock of steel did not say 'smelly Jew'? I've heard our

French hero use such words always, of course,

apologising to me, saying I was exempt."

"He used them."

    "But why? Why would he say such things to you?

I don't deny his logic, for Christ's sake. Leifhelm will

be shot once controls are established. A l~lazi

running the goddamned German government?

Absurd! Even Delavane understands this, he will be

eliminated. And poor old Van Headmer is a relic we

all know that. Still, there is gold in South Africa. He

could deliver it. But why you? Why would

Bertholdier come to you?"

"Ask him yourself. There's the phone. Use it."

    The Israeli stood motionless, his narrow eyes

encased in swells of flesh riveted on Converse. ' 1

will," he said quietly emphatically. "You are far too

clever, Mr. Lawyer. The fire inside you remains in

your head it has not reached your stomach. You

think too much. You say you were manipulated? I

say you manipulate." Abrahms turned and strode like

a bulky Coriolanus to the phone. He stood for a

moment squinting, remembering, then picked up the

phone and dialed the series of numbers long ago

committed to memory.

    Joel remained in the chair, every muscle in his

body taut, his throat suddenly dry. Slowly he inched

his hand over the

656 ROBERT LUDLUM

arm of the chair nearer the pistol. In seconds he

might have to use it, his strategy his only

strategy blown apart by a phone call he had never

thought would be made. What was wrong with him?

Where were his vaunted examining tactics taking him?

Had he forgotten whom he was dealing with?

    "Code Isaiah, ' said Abrahms into the phone, his

angry eyes again staring across the room at

Converse. "Patch me through to Verdun-sur-Meuse.

(prickly!" The Israeli's massive chest heaved with

every breath, but it was the only part of his stocky

frame that moved. He spoke again, furiously. "Yes,

code Isaiah! I have no time to waste! Reach Ver-

dun-sur-Meuse! Now!" Abrahms eyes grew wide as

he listened. He looked briefly away from Converse,

then snapped his head back toward him, his eyes

filled with loathing. "Repeat that!" he shouted. And

then he slammed the telephone down with such

force the desk shook. "Liar!" he screamed.

    "You mean me?" asked Joel, his hand inches

from the gun.

"They say he disappeared! They cannot find him!"

    "And?" Converse's throat was now a vacuum. He

had lost.

    "He lies! The cock of steel is no more than a

whining coward! He's hiding he avoids me! He will

not face me!"

    Joel swallowed repeatedly as he moved his hand

away from the weapon. "Force the issue," he said,

somehow managing to keep the tremor out of his

voice. "Trace him down. Call LeifLelm, Van

Headmer. Say it's imperative you reach

Bertholdier."

    "Stop it! And let him know I know? He had to

give you a reason! Why did he come to see you in

the first place?"

    ' I wanted to wait until you'd spoken to him,"

said Converse, crossing his legs and picking up a

pack of cigarettes next to the pistol. "He might have

told you himself then again, he might not. He has

this idea that I was sent out by Delavane to test all

of you. To see who might betray him. '

    "Betray him? Betray the legless one? How?

Why? And if our French peacock believed that,

again why would he say these things to you?"

    "I'm an attorney. I provoked him. Once he

understood how I felt about Delavane, what that

bastard did to me, he knew I couldn't possibly have

anything to do with him. His defences were down;

the rest was easy. And as he talked I saw

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 657

a way to save my own life.' Joel struck a match,

lighting a cigarette. "By reaching you," he added.

    "At the end you bank on the morality of a Jew,

then? His acknowledgment of a debt.'

    "In part, yes, but not entirely, General. I know

something about Leifhelm, about the way he's

maneuvered through the years. He'd have me shot,

then send his men after the rest of you, leaving

himself in the number one position."

"That's exactly what he'd do," agreed the Israeli.

    "And I didn't think Van Headmer had any real

authority north of Pretoria."

    "Right again," said Abrahms, walking back toward

Converse. "So the hellhound created in Southeast

Asia is a survivor."

    "Let's be more specific," countered Joel. "I was

sent out by people I don't know who abandoned me

without raising the slightest question as to my guilt

or innocence. For all I know, they joined in the hunt

to kill me to save their own lives. Given these

conditions I intend to survive."

"What about the woman? Your woman?"

    "She goes with me." Converse put down the

cigarette and picked up the gun. "What's your

answer? I can kill you now, or leave that to

Bertholdier, or Leifhelm, if he kills the Frenchman

first. Or I can bank on your morality, your ac-

knowledgment of a debt. What's it going to be?"

    "Put away the gun," said Chaim Abrahms. "You

have the word of a sabre."

    "What'll you do?" asked Joel, placing the weapon

back on the table.

    "Do?" shouted the Israeli in a sudden burst of

anger. "What I've always intended to do! You think

I give a horse's fart for this abstraction, this

Aquitaine's infrastructure? Do you think I care one

whit for titles or labels or chains of command? Let

them have it all! I only care that it works, and for it

to work respectability must come out of the chaos

along with strength. Bertholdier was right. I am too

divisive a figure as well as a Jew to be so visible

on the Euro-American scene. So I will be

invisible except in Eretz Yisrael, where my word will

be the law of this new order. 1, myself, will help the

French bull get whatever medals he wants. I will not

fight him, I will control him."

"How?"

"Because I can destroy his respectability."

658 R08ERT LUDLUM

    Converse sat forward, suppressing his

astonishment. "His sex life? Those buried scandals?"

    "My God, no, you imbecile! You kick a man

below his belt in public you ask for trouble. Half the

people cry 'Foul,'thinking it could happen to them,

and the other half applaud his courage to indulge

himself which they would very much like to do."

    "Then how, General? How can you do this,

destroy his respectability?"

    Abrahms sat down again in the brocaded chair

his thick body squeezed dangerously between the

delicately carved mahogany arms. "By exposing the

role he played in 'code-name Aquitaine.' The roles

we all played in this extraordinary adventure that

forced the civilized world to summon us and the

strengths of our professional leadership. It's entirely

possible that all free Europe will turn to Bertholdier

as France nearly turned to him after De Gaulle. But

one must understand a man like Bertholdier. He

doesn't merely seek power, he seeks the glory of

power the trappings, the adulation, the mysticism.

He would rather give up certain intrinsic authority

than lose any part of the glory. Me? I don't give a

shit about the glory. All I want is the power to get

what I need what I command. For the kingdom of

Israel and its imprimatur in all of the Middle East."

    'You expose him, you expose yourself. How can

you win that way?"

    "Because he'll blink first. He'll think of the glory

and submit. He'll do as I say, give me what I want."

"I think he'll have you shot."

    "Not when he's told that if I die several hundred

documents will be released describing every meeting

we attended, every decision we made. Everything is

scrupulously detailed, I assure you."

"You intended this from the beginning?"

"From the beginning."

"You play rough."

    "I'm a sabre. I play for the advantage without

it we would have been massacred decades ago."

    "Among these documents is there a list of

everyone in Aquitaine?"

    "No. It has never been my intention to

jeopardise the movement. Call it whatever name you

will, I believe truly in the concept. There must be a

unified, international mili

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 659

tary-industrial complex. The world will not stay sane

without it.'

'But there is such a list.

    "In a machine, a computer, but it must be

programmed correctly, the proper codes used.'

"Could you do it?

"Not without help.

"What about Delavane?'

    'You have certain perceptions yourself, said the

Israeli, nodding. "What about him?

    Again Joel had to control his astonishment. The

computer codes that released the master list of

Aquitaine were with Delavane. At least the key

symbols were. The remainder were provided by the

four leaders across the Atlantic. Converse shrugged.

"You haven t really mentioned him. You've talked

about Bertholdier, about the elimination of Leifhelm,

and the impotence of Van Headmer, who could,

however, bring in raw materials "

"I said 'gold,'" corrected Abrahms.

    "Bertholdier said 'raw materiels.' But what about

George Marcus Delavane?"

    "Marcus is finished," said the Israeli flatly. "He

was coddled we all coddled him because he

brought us the concept and he worked his end in the

United States. We have equipment and materiel all

over Europe, to say nothing of the contraband we've

shipped to insurgents, just to keep them occupied. '

    "Clarification," interrupted Joel. " 'Occupied'

means killing?"

    "All is killing. Disingenuous philosophers

notwithstanding, the ends do justify the means. Ask

a man hunted by killers if he will jump into human

excrement to conceal himself."

    "I've asked him," said Converse. "I'm he,

remember? What about Delavane?"

    "He's a madman, a maniac. Have you ever heard

his voice? He speaks like a man with his testicles in

a vise. They cut off his legs, you know, amputated

only months ago for diabetes. The great general

felled from an excess of sugar! He's tried to keep it

a secret. He sees no one and no longer goes to his

impressive office filled with photographs and flags

and a thousand decorations. He operates out of his

home, where the servants come only when he's

hidden in a darkened bedroom. How he wished it

could have been a mortar shell or a

660 ROBERT LUDLUM

bayonet charge, but no. Only sugar. He's become

worse, a raving fool, but even fools can have flashes of

brilliance. He had it once."

"What about him?"

    "We have a man with him, an aide with the rank of

colonel. When everything begins, when our commands

are in place, the colonel will do as instructed. Marcus

will be shot for the good of his own concept."

    It was Joel's turn to get out of his chair. Once

again he walked to the cathedral window across the

room and felt the cool mountain breezes on his face.

"This examination is finished, General,' he said.

    "What?" roared Abrahms. "You want your life. /

want guarantees!"

    "Finished, ' repeated Converse as the door opened

and a captain m the Israeli Army walked inside, his

gun levered at Chaim Abrahms.

    "There will be no discussion between us, Herr Con-

verse," said Erich LeifLelm, standing by the door of the

study. The doctor from Bonn had just left.the room.

"You have your prisoner. Execute him. Over many

years and in many ways

    I have been waiting for this moment. In truth, I'm weary

of the morbidity."

    "Are you telling me you want to die?" asked Joel,

standing by the table with the pistol on top.

    "No one wants to die, least of all a soldier in the

quiet of a strange room. Drums and sharp commands

to a firing squad are preferable there's a certain

meaning in that. But I've seen too much death to go

into hysterics. Pick up your pistol and get it over with.

I would if I were you."

    Converse studied the German's face, whose strange

eyes were noncommittal, expressing only contempt.

"You mean it don't you?"

    "Shall I give orders myself? There was a newsreel

years ago. A black man did that against a bloodstained

wall in Castro's Cuba. I've always admired that soldier."

Leifhelm suddenly shouted, "Achtung! Soldaten!

P~sentiert das Gewehr!"

    "For Christ's sake, why not talk ?" roared Joel,

riding over the fanatical voice.

    "Because I have nothing to say. My actions speak,

my life has spoken! What is it, Herr Converse? You

have no stomach for executions? You cannot give the

order to yourself? A small,

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 661

insignificant man's conscience will not permit him to

kill? You are laughable!"

    "I remind you, General, I've killed several people

these past few weeks. Killed with less feeling than I

ever thought possible."

    ' The lowliest coward running for his life will kill

in panic. There is no character in that, merely

survival. No, Herr Converse, you are insignificant, an

impediment even your own forces care nothing

about. You abound in this world. There is an odd

phrase you have in your country that so readily ap-

plies to you, a phrase our associate uses frequently.

You are a 'shit-kicker,' Herr Converse, nothing more

and probably less."

'What did you say? What did you call me?"

    "You heard me clearly. A shit-kicker. A little

man who steps in waste. Shit-kicker, Herr Converse.

Shit-kicker!"

    He was back a lifetime ago, on the bridge of a

carrier, the face in front of him contorted, obscene, the

twice shrill. Shit-kicker! Shit-kicker, shit-kicker,

shit-kicker! Then other explosions followed, and he was

blown into the dark clouds, the wind and the rain

buffeting him, hammering him as he swung down

toward the earth. Down to the ground and four years

of madness and death and dying children weeping.

Madness! Shit-kicker . . . shit-kicker . . . shit-kicker!

    Converse reached down for the pistol on the

table. He picked it up and, with his index finger

around the trigger, leveled it at Erich Leifhelm.

    And then a sudden shock went through him.

What was he doing? He needed all three men of

Aquitaine. Not one, not two, but three! It was the

basis, the spine of what he had to do! But still there

was something else. He had to kill, he had to destroy

the deadly human virus staring at him, wanting

death. Oh, Jesus! Had Aquitaine won, after ally Had

he become one of them? If he had, he had lost.

    'Your kind of courage is cheap, Leifhelm," he

said softly, lowering the gun. "Better a quick bullet

than other alternatives."

"I live by my code. I die by it gladly."

"Cleanly, you mean. Swiftly. No Dachau, no

Auschwitz."

"You have the gun."

"I thought you had so much to offer."

    "My successor has been chosen carefully. He will

carry out details, every nuance of my agenda.

662 ROBERT LUDLUM

    The opening was there, a strategy suddenly

revealed. Joel pushed the /outton

"Your successor?"

'ha. "

"You have no successor, Field Marshal."

"What?"

    "Any more than you have an agenda. You don't

have anything without me. It's why I brought you

here. Just you."

"What are you saying?"

    "Sit down, General. I've several things to tell

you, and for your own sake you'd better be seated.

Your own execution might be more preferable to

you than what I've got to say "

    "Liar!" screamed Erich Leifhelm four minutes

later, his hands gripping the arms of the brocaded

chair. "Liar, liar liar!" he roared.

    "I didn't expect you to believe me," said Joel

calmly standing in the middle of the spacious,

book-lined study "Cali Bertholdier in Paris .md tell

him you just heard some dlsturbing news and you'd

like a clarification. Say it outright, you've learned

that while you were in Essen, Bertholdier and

Abrahms came to see me at your place in Bonn."

"How would I know that?"

    "The truth. They paid a guard to open the

door I don't know which one, I didn't see

him but a guard did unlock the door and let them

in."

    "Because they believed you were an informer,

sent out by Delavane, himself?"

"That's what they told me."

"You were drugged! There were no such

indications!"

    "They were suspicious. They didn't know the

doctor and they didn't trust the Englishman. I don't

have to tell you they don't trust you. They thought

the whole thing might be a hoax. They wanted to

cover themselves."

"Incredible!"

    "Not when you think about it," said Converse,

sitting down opposite the German. "How did I really

get the information I had? How did I know the

exact people to reach except through Delavane?

That was their thinking."

    "That Delavane would do this could do it?"

began the astonished Leifhelm.

    "I know what that means now," interrupted Joel

quickly seizing on the new opening presented him.

"Delavane's finished, they both admitted it when

they understood he was the

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 663

last person on earth I'd work for. Maybe they were

throwing me a few crumbs before setting me up for

my own execution."

    "That had to be done!" exclaimed the Third

Reich's once youngest field marshal. 'Certainly you

can understand. Who were you? Where did you come

from? You yourself did not know. You spoke of

inconsequential names and lists and a great deal of

money but nothing that made sense. Who had

penetrated us? Since we could not find out, you had

to be turned into a pariah. Into something rotten. A

thing of rot no one would touch."

"You did it very well."

    "For that I must take credit," said LeifLelm,

nodding. "It was essentially my organization.

Everything was mine."

    "I didn't bring you here to discuss your

achievements. I brought you here to save my life.

You can do that for me the people who sent me

out either can't or won't but you can. All I have to

do is give you a reason."

    "By implying that Abrahms and Bertholdier

conspire against me?"

    "I won't imply anything, I'll give it to you straight

in their own words. Remember, neither one of them

thought I'd leave your place except as a corpse

conveniently shot in the vicinity of some particularly

gruesome assassination." Suddenly Converse got out

of the chair, shaking his head. "No!" he said em-

phatically. "Call your trusted French and Israeli

allies, your fellow Aquitainians. Say anything you

like, just listen to their voices you'll be able to tell.

It takes an accomplished liar to spot other liars, and

you're the best."

"I find that offensive."

    "Oddly enough, I meant it as a compliment. It's

why I reached you. I think you're going to be the

winner over here and after what I've been through I

want to go with a winner.'

"Why do you say that?"

    "Oh, come on, let's be honest. Abrahms is hated;

he's insulted everyone in Europe, the U.K. and the

U.S. who doesn't agree with his expansionist policies

for Israel. Even his own countrymen can't shut him

up. All they can do is censure him and he keeps on

screaming. He'd never be tolerated in any kind of

international federation."

    The Nazi quickly, repeatedly shook his head.

"Never!" he shouted. "He is the most loathsome man

to come out of the Middle East. And, of course, he's

aJew. But how is Bertholdier to be equated in this

manner?"

664 ROBERT LUDLUM

    Joel paused before answering. "His manner," he

replied thoughtfully. "He's imperious, arrogant. He

sees himself not only as a great military figure and

a history-making power broker, but also as some

sort of god, above other men. There's no room on

his Olympus for mortals. Also he's French. The

English and the Americans wouldn't give him spit:

one De Gaulle in a century is enough for them."

    "There's clarity in your thoughts. He's the sort of

abominable egotist only the French can suffer. He

is, of course, a reflection of the entire country."

    "Van Headmer doesn't count except where he

can bring South Africa around for raw materials."

"Agreed," said the German.

    "But you, on the other hand," Converse went on

rapidly again sitting down, "worked with the

Americans and the English in Berlin and Vienna.

You helped implement occupation policies, and in

good conscience you turned over evidence to both

the U.S. and the U.K. prosecution teams in

Nuremberg. Finally, you became Bonn's spokesman

in NATO. Whatever you were in the past, they like

you." Again Joel paused, and when he continued

there was a degree of deference in his voice.

"Therefore, General, you're the winner, and you can

save my life. All you need is a reason."

"Then give it to me."

"Use the phone first."

    "Don't be an idiot and don't take me for one!

You would not insist so unless you were sure of

yourself, which means you are telling the truth. And

if those Schweine conspire against me, I will not

inform them that I'm aware of it! What did they

    "You're to be killed. They can't risk the

accusation that an old-line member of the Nazi

party has assumed vital controls in West Germany.

Even under Aquitaine there'd be too many cries

of'Foul!' too much fuel for the inevitable dissent-

ers. A younger man or someone who thinks like

they do, but with no party affiliations in his past,

will take your place. But no one you recommend."

    Leifhelm was braced rigidly in the brocaded

chair, his aged but still taut body immobile, his

pallid face with the piercing light-blue eyes like an

alabaster mask. "They have made this most holy

decision?" he said icily through lips that barely

moved. "The vulgar Jew and the depraved French

prince of maggots dare to attempt such a move

against me?"

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 665

"Not that it matters, but Delavane agrees."

    "Delavane! A raging, infantile clump of fantasies!

The man we knew two years ago has disintegrated to

a point beyond senility! He doesn't know it, but we

give him orders, couched naturally as suggestions

and beneficial possibilities. He has no more powers

of reason than Adolf Hitler had in his last years of

madness."

    "I don t know about that," said Converse.

'Abrahmsand Bertholdier didn't go into it other than

to say he was finished. They talked about you."

    "Really? Well, let me talk about me! Who do you

think it was that made Aquituine feasible throughout

all Europe and the Mediterranean? Who fed the

terrorists with weapons and millions of pounds of

explosives from the Baader-Meinhof to the Brigate

Rosse to the Palestinians priming them for their

final, let's say their {nest, hours? Who? It was l! Why

are our conferences always in Bonn? Why are all

directives funneled, ultimately issued, through me?

Let me explain. I have the organisation! I have the

manpower dedicated men ready to do my bidding

with a single order. I have the money! I created an

advanced, highly sophisticated communications

canter out of rubble, no one else in Europe could

have done that this I've known all along.

Bertholdier has nothing to speak of in Paris other

than influence and the aura that hovers about

him in true battle, meaningless. The Jew and the

South African are a continent away. When the chaos

comes, it is I who will be the voice of Aquitaine in

Europe. I never thought otherwise! My men will cut

down Bertholdier and Abrahms at their toilets!"

    "Scharhorn's the communications center, isn't it?"

asked Joel with no emphasis whatsoever.

"They told you that?"

    "The name was dropped. The master list of

Aquitaine's in a computer there, isn't it?"

"That, also?"

    "It's not important. I don't care anymore. I was

abandoned, remember? You must have figured out

the computer, too no one else could. '

    "A considerable accomplishment," admitted

Leifhelm, his humility shining brightly on his waxen

face. "I even prepared for the catastrophe of death.

There are sixteen letters we each carry different sets

of four, the remaining twelve are with the legless

maniac. He thinks no one can activate the

666 ROBERT LUDLUM

codes without his primary set, but in truth a

pre-coded combination of two sequences doubled

will do it."

    'That's ingenious,' said Converse. Do the others

know?"

    'Only my trusted French comrade," answered

the German coldly. "The prince of traitors,

Bertholdier. But, naturally, I never gave him the

accurate combination, and an inaccurate insertion

would erase everything."

    "That was a winner thinking." Joel nodded

approvingly, then frowned with concern. "What

would happen, though, if your center was

assaulted?"

    "Like Hitler's plans for the bunker, it would go

up in flames. There are explosives everywhere."

"I see."

    "But since you speak of winners, and in my

judgment such men are prophets," continued

Leifhelm, leaning forward in the chair, his eyes

widening with enthusiasm, "let me tell you about the

isle of Scharhorn. Years ago, in 1945, out of the

ashes of defeat, it was to be the site of the most

incredible creation designed by true believers the

world has ever known, only to be aborted by

cowards and traitors. It was called Operation

Sonnenkinder the children of the sun infants

biologically selected and sent out all over the world

to people waiting for them, prepared to guide them

through their lives to positions of power and wealth.

As adults, the Sonnenkinder were to have but one

mission across the globe. The rising of the Fourth

Reich! You see now the symbolic choice of

Scharhorn? From this inner complex of Aquitaine

will come forth the new order! We will have done it!"

    ' Stow it," said Converse, getting out of the chair

and walking away from Erich Leifhelm. The

examination s finished."

'What?"

    'You heard me, get out of here. You make me

sick. 'The door opened, and the young doctor from

Bonn came in, his eyes on the once celebrated field

marshal. Strip him,' ordered Converse. "Search him.

    Joel entered the dimly lit room where Valerie

and the Surete s Prudhomme flanked a man behind

a video camera mounted on a tripod. The thick lens

of the camera was inserted in the wall and ten feet

away was a television monitor,

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 667

which showed only the deserted study, with the

brocaded wing chair in the center of the screen.

"Everything go all right?" he asked.

    "Beautifully," said Valerie. "The operator didn't

understand a word, but he claimed the lighting was

exquisite. Au bel nature!, he called it. He can make

as many copies as you like; they'll take about

thirty-five minutes each."

    "Ten and the original print will be enough," said

Converse, looking at his watch, then at Prudhomme

as Val spoke quietly in French to the cameraman.

"You can take the first copy and skill make the five

o'clock flight to Washington."

    "With the greatest of enthusiasm, my friend. I

assume one of these prints will be for Paris."

    "And every other head of government along with

our affidavits. You'll bring back copies of the

depositions Simon took in New York?"

    "I'll go make arrangements," said Prudhomme. "It

is best my name does not appear on the passenger

manifest." He turned and left the room, followed by

the cameraman, who headed for his duplicating

equipment down the hall.

    Valerie went to Joel, and taking his face in both

her hands, she kissed him lightly on the lips. "For a

few minutes in their you had me in knots. I didn't

think you were going to make it."

"Neither did 1."

    "But you did. That was some display, mister. I'm

so very proud of you, my darling."

    ' A lot of lawyerstll cringe. It was the worst sort

of entrapment. As an old, bewildering, but very

bright law professor of mine would have put it, they

were admissions elicited on the basis of false

statements, those same admissions forming the basis

of further entrapment."

    "Stow it, Converse. Let's go for a walk. We used

to walk a lot, and I'd like to get back in the habit.

It's not much fun alone."

    Joel took her in his arms. They kissed, gently at

first, feeling the warmth and the comfort that had

come back to them. He pulled his head away, his

hands sliding to her shoulders, and looked into her

wide, vibrant eyes. "Will you marry me, Mrs.

Converse?" he said.

    "Good Lord, again? Well, why not? As you said

once before, I wouldn't even have to change the

initials on my lingerie.

668 ROBERT LUDLUM

"You never had initials on it."

"You found that out long before you made the

remark."

"I didn't want you to think I stared."

    "Yes, my darling, I'll marry you. But first we

have things to do. Even before our walk."

    "I know. Peter Stone by way of the Tabana family

in Charlotte, North Carolina. He did terrible things

to me, but strange as it seems, I think I like him."

"I don't," said Valerie firmly. "I want to kill him."

40

    It was the end of the second day in the

countdown of three. The worldwide demonstrations

against nuclear war were only ten hours away, to

start at the first light halfway across the world. The

killings would begin, setting the chaos in mobon.

    The group of eighteen men and five women sat

scattered about in the dark projection room in the

underground strategy complex of the White House.

Each had a small writing tray attached to his seat

with a yellow pad lighted by a Tensor lamp. On the

screen was flashed in thirty-second intervals one face

after another, each with a number in the upper

right-hand corner. The instructions had been terse, in

the language best understood by these people, and

delivered by Peter Stone who had selected them.

Study the faces, make no audible comments, and mark

down by number any you recognise, bearing in mind

terminal operations. At the end of the series the lights

will be turned on and we'll talk. And, if need be, run

the series again and again until we come up with

something Remember, we believe these men are killers.

Concentrate on that.

    They were told nothing else. Except M.1.6's

Derek Belamy, who had arrived within a half-hour of

the extraordinary session, looking haggard from his

obviously exhausting journey. When Derek walked

through the door, Peter had pulled him aside and

each gripped the other's arms. Stone was never so

happy or so relieved in his life to see any man.

Whatever

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 669

he might have missed, or could miss, Belamy would

find it. The British agent had a tenth sense above

anyone else's sixth, including Peter's, which, of

course, was denied modestly by Derek.

"I need you, old friend,' said Peter. "I need you

badly."

    "It's why I'm here, old friend," replied Belamy

warmly. Can you tell me anything?"

    "There's no time now, but I can give you a name.

Delavane.

"Mad Marcus?"

"The same. It's his crisis and it's real."

    "The bastard!" whispered the Englishman.

"There's no one I'd rather see at the end of a

barbed-wire rope. Talk to you later, Peter. You've

got your socialising do. Incidentally, from what I can

see, you've got the best here tonight."

"The best, Derek. We can't afford any less."

    Beyond the American military personnel who had

initially approached Stone, as well as Colonel Alan

Metcalf, Nathan Simon, Justice Andrew Wellfleet

and the Secretary of State, the remaining audience

was composed of the most experienced and secure

intelligence officers Peter Stone had known in a

lifetime of clandestine operations. They had been

flown over by military transport from France, Creat

Britain, West Germany, Israel, Spain and the

Netherlands. Among them were, besides the

extraordinary Derek Belamy, Frangois Villard, chief

of France's highly secretive Organisation Etrangere;

Yosef Behrens, the Mossad's leading authority on

terrorism; Pablo Amandarez, Madrid's specialist in

KCB Mediterranean penetrations, and Hans

Vonmeer of the Netherlands' secret state police. The

others, including the women, were equally respected

in the caverns of deep-cover, beyond-salvage

operations. They knew by name, face or reputahon

the legions of killers for hire, killers by order, and

killers by reason of ideology. Above all, each was

trusted, each a man or woman Stone had worked

withi collectively they were the elite of the shadow

world.

    A face! He knew the face! It stayed on the screen

and he wrote on his pad: "Dobbins. Number 57.

Cecil or Cyril Dobbins. British Army. Transferred to

British Intelligence. Personal aide to . . . Derek

Belamy!"

    Stone looked over at his friend across the aisle,

fully expecting him to be writing on his yellow pad.

Instead, the Englishman frowned and sat motionless

in his chair, his pencil

670 ROBERT LUDLUIU

poised above the paper. The next face appeared on

the screen. And the next, and the next, until the

series was over. The lights came on, and the first

person to speak was the Mossad's Yosef Behrens.

"Number seventeen is an artillery officer in the IDF

recently transferred to the Security Branch, Jeru-

salem. His name is Arnold."

    "Number thirty-eight," said Francois Villard, ' is

a colonel in the French Army attached to the guard

of Invalides. It is the face; the name I do not

recall."

    'Number twenty-six," said the man from Bonn,

"is Oberleutnant Ernst Muller of the Federal

Republic's Luftwaffe. He is a highly skilled pilot

frequently assigned to fly ministers of state to

conferences both within and without West

Cermany."

    "Number forty-four," said a dark-skinned woman

with a pronounced Hispanic accent, "has no such

credentials as your candidates. He is a drug dealer,

suspected of many killings and operates out of Iviza.

He was once a paratrooper. Name Orejo."

    "Son of a gun, I just don't believe it!" said the

young lieutenant William Landis, the computer

expert from the Pentagon. "I know number fifty-one,

I'm almost positive! He's one of the adjutants in

Middle East procurements. I've seen him a lot but

I don't know his name."

    Six other men and two women volunteered

twelve additional identities and positions as

everyone in the room silently looked for an

emerging pattern. There was a preponderance of

military personnel, and the umbrella of the rest was

puzzling. In the main they were ex-combat soldiers

from high-casualty outfits who had drifted into

crime largely violent crime, the sort of men Peter

Stone knew the generals of Aquitaine considered

human garbage.

    Finally Derek Belamy spoke in his hard, clipped

distant voice. "There are four or five faces I

associate with dossiers but I'm not making

connections." He looked over at Stone. 'You'll run

them again, won't you, old boy?"

    "Of course, Derek," replied the former station

chief in London. Stone, who had said nothing, rose

from his chair and addressed the gathering.

"Everything you've given us will be fed immediately

into computers, and we'll see if we come up with

any correlations. And to repeat what I said

previously, I want to thank you all and apologise

again for not giving you the explanations you

deserve, not only for your help but for the trouble

we've caused you. Speaking personally, my conso

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 671

ration is that you've all been here before and I know

you understand. We'll break for fifteen minutes and

start again. There are coffee and sandwiches in the

next room.' Stone nodded his thanks once more and

started for the door. Derek Belamy intercepted him

in the aisle.

    "Peter, I'm dreadfully sorry it took me so long to

get back to you. Truth is, the office had a devil of a

time tracking me down. I was visiting friends in

Scotland."

    "I thought you might be in Northern Ireland. It's

a hell of a mess, isn't it?"

    "You were always better than you thought you

were. I was in Belfast, of course. But right now I

promise to do better I'm sure I will but the fact

is I'm bushed, it was a perfectly terrible trip and, of

course, no sleep whatsoever. All those faces began to

look alike I either knew them all or I didn't know

a damned one!"

"Running them again will help," said Stone.

    "Quite so," agreed Belamy. "And Peter, whatever

this tangle is with that maniac, Delavane, I couldn't

have been more delighted to see you in the control

chair. We were all told you were out, rather firmly

out."

"I'm back in. Very firmly."

    "I can see that, chap. That is your Secretary of

State in the back row, isn't it?"

"Yes, it is."

    "Congratulations, old boy. Well, off for coffee,

black and hot. See you in a few minutes."

"Across the aisle, old friend."

    Stone walked out the door and turned right in

the white corridor. He could feel the rapid

acceleration of his heartbeat it was a cousin to

Johnny Reb's claims of a churning stomach and an

acid taste in his mouth bile, the Rebel called it. He

had to get to a telephone quickly. Converse's courier,

the Surete's Prudhomme, would be arriving within

the hour; a Secret Service escort was waiting for him

at Dulles Airport with instructions to bring him

directly to the White House. But it was not the

Frenchman who concerned Stone now, it was Con-

verse himself. He had to reach him before the

session began again. He had to!

    When the lawyer had contacted him through the

Tatiana relay, Peter had been astonished by the

sheer audacity of what Converse had done.

Kidnapping the three generals video-taping the

interrogations or the "oral examina

672 ROBERT IUDLUM

lions" or whatever the legal terminology was, it was

insanel The only thing more insane was the fact that

he had carried it off thanks obviously to the

resources of a very determined, very angry man from

the Surete. The computer was in Scharhorn, the

master list of Aquitaine buried somewhere in its in-

tricate mechanism, only to be erased by inaccurate

codes, the complex itself mined with explosives.

Jesus!

    And now the final insanity. The man no one

could find, the source so deeply shrouded they

frequently doubted his existence despite the fact that

all logic insisted he was there. There had to be

Aquitaine's man in England, for there could be no

Aquitaine without the British. Further, Stone knew

he was the conduit, the primary communicator

between Palo Alto and the generals overseas, for

constant screenings of Delavane's telephone charges

showed repeated calls to a number in the Hebrides,

and such a relay device was all too familiar to the

former intelligence agent. The calls disappeared at

that number in the Scottish islands, just as the KGB

calls processed through Canada's Prince Edward

disappeared, and the Company's communications

routed through Key West could not be traced.

    Belamy! The man whose face never appeared in

any publication film was destroyed instantly by

aides if he was even in the background of a

photograph. The most guarded operations of ficer in

England, with access to secrets culled over decades

and scores of devices created by the best minds of

M.I.6. And yet, was it possible? Derek Belamy, the

quiet good-humored chess player, the friend who

gave good whisky and a fine ear to an American

colleague who had progressively had serious doubts

about his calling in life. The betterfriend for having

the wisdom and the courage to warn his cotleague

that he was drinking too much, that perhaps he

should take a sabbatical, and if money was a

problem, surely some sort of quiet consultation

agreement could be worked out with his own

organization. Was it possible, this decent man this

friend ?

    Stone reached the door in the hallway marked

simply by the number 14, OCCUPIED. He walked

inside the small room and went to the desk and the

telephone. He did not sit down; his anxiety would

not permit it. He picked up the phone and dialed

the White House switchboard as he took out the slip

of paper in his pocket with Converse's number

somewhere in France. He gave it to the operator,

adding simply, "This

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 673

should be scrambled. I'm talking from Strategy

Fourteen confirm by trace. '

    "Trace confirmed, sir. Scrambler will be in

operation. Shall I call you back?"

    "No, thanks, I'll stay on the line." Stone remained

standing as he heard the hollow echo of numbers

being punched and the faint hum of the scrambling

machine. And then he heard the sound of a door

opening. He turned.

    ' Put the phone down, Peter," said Derek Belamy

quietly as he shut the door. "There's no point to

this."

    "It is you, isn't it?" Stone slowly, awkwardly

replaced the phone in its cradle.

    "Yes, it is. And I want everything you want, my

old friend. Neither of us could deny ourselves the

parting shots, could we? I said I was visiting friends

in Scotland and you said you thought I was in

Ireland. We've learned over the years haven't we?

The eyes don't lie. Scotland calls to the Hebrides;

the glass fell over your eyes. And earlier, when that

face came on the screen, you looked across the Esle

a bit too obviously, I thmk.

"Dobbins. He worked for you."

"You wrote frantically on your pad, yet you said

nothing.'

"I was waiting for you to say something."

"Yes, of course, but I couldn't, could 1?"

"Why, Derek? For Christ's sake, why?"

"Because it's right and you know it."

    "I don't know it! You're a sane, reasonable man.

They're not!"

    "They'll be replaced, naturally. How often have

you and I used drones we couldn't abide because

their contributions were necessary to the objectives"

    "What objective? An international totalitarian

alliance? A military state without borders? All of us

robots marching to the drums of fanatics?"

    "Oh, come off it, Peter. Spare us both the liberal

drivel. You left this business once, drinking yourself

into a stupor because of the waste, the futility, the

deceits we all practiced the people we killed to

maintain what we laughingly called the status quo.

What status quo, old man? To be continuously

harassed by our inferiors the world over? To be held

hostage by screaming mullahs and hysterical fools

who still live in the Dark Ages and would cut our

throats over the price of a barrel of oil? To be

manipulated at every turn by Soviet

674 ROBERT LUDLUM

deceptions? No, Peter, there really is a better way.

The means may be distasteful, but the end result is

not only desirable, it's also honorable."

    'Whose definition? George Marcus Delavane's?

Erich Leifhelm's? Chaim ".

They'll be replaced!'.

    They can't be!" shouted Stone. Once it starts,

you can't stop it. The image becomes the reality. It's

expected, de manded! To deviate is to be accused, to

oppose is to be ostracized, penalized! It's lockstep

and lockjaw, and you damn well know that!"

The telephone rang.

"Let it ring," ordered the man from M.1.6.

    "It doesn't matter now. You were the

Englishman at Leifhelm's house in Bonn. A brief

description of you would have confirmed it for me."

'That's Converse?" The phone rang again.

    "Would you like to talk to him? I understand

he's quite a lawyer, although he broke a

fundamental rule he took himself on as a client.

He's coming out, Derek, and he's going after you,

all of you. We all are after all of you."

    "You won't!" cried Belamy. 'You can't! As you

yourself put it, once it starts you can't stop it!"

    Without the slightest indication that he was

about to move, the Englishman suddenly lunged at

Stone, the three middle fingers of his right hand

rigid, zeroing in like steel projectiles on the CIA

man's throat. Stone took the agonizing blow, gasping

for air as the room spiraled out of his vision, a

thousand dazzling spots of white light flashing in his

eyes. He could hear the door opening and closing as

the phone insistently rang again. But Peter could

not see it. the white lights had turned into darkness.

The ringing stopped as Stone wildly, blindly

careened around the room, trying to trace the bell

trying to find the phone. The minutes passed in

madness as he smashed into walls and fell over the

desk. Then the door crashed open and Colonel Alan

Metcalf rushed in.

    "Stone! What ha opened ?'' Racing to Peter, the

Air Force officer instantly recognised the effects of

the judo chop. He began massaging Stone's throat,

pressing his knee into the CIA man's stomach to

force up air. The switchboard reached us, saying

that room fourteen had placed a scrambler call but

didn't pick up. Christ, who was it?"

Vague images came back to Stone, but still he could

not

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 675

speak; he was capable only of gasping coughs. He

writhed under MetcalEs strong hands, pointing to a

note pad that had fallen from the desk. The colonel

understood; he reached for it and yanked out a

ball-point pen from his pocket. He rolled Stone over

and, placing the pen in his hand, guided the hand to

the pad.

    Struggling for control, Peter wrote: BELMY.

STP. AQUTAIN.

    "Oh, my God!" whispered Metcalf, reaching for

the phone and dialing zero. "Operator, this is an

emergency. Give me Security.... Security? Colonel

Alan Metcalf talking from Strategy Fourteen.

Emergency! There's an Englishman named Belamy

who may still be on the premises trying to leave.

Stop him! Hold him! Consider him dangerous. And

get word to the infirmary. Send a doctor to Strategy

Fourteen. Quickly!"

    The White House staff doctor removed the

oxygen mask from Stone's face and placed it on the

desk next to the cylinder. He then gently moved

Peter's head back in the chair, inserted a tongue

depressor and peered into the CIA man's throat with

a pencil light.

    "It was a nasty shot," he said, "but you'll feel

better in a couple of hours. I'll give you some pills

for the pain."

"What's in them?" asked Stone hoarsely.

"A mild analgesic with some codeine."

    "No thanks, Doctor," said Peter, looking over at

Metcalf. '51 don't think I like what I see on your

face."

    "I don't either. Belamy got out. His pass was high

priority, and he told the East Gate he was needed

urgently at the British embassy."

"Goddomn it!"

"Try not to strain your voice," said the doctor.

    '~Yes, of course," replied Stone. "Thank you

very much, and now if you'll excuse us." He got out

of the chair as the doctor picked up his medical bag

and headed for the door.

    The telephone rang as the door closed. Metcalf

picked it up. "Yes? Yes it is; he's right here." The

colonel listened for several moments then turned to

Stone. "Breakthrough," he said. "All those military

who were identified have two things in common.

Each is on a minimum thirty-day summer leave, and

every request was made five months ago, nearly to

the day."

676 ROBERT LUDIUM

    "Thus guaranteeing request-granted status

because they were first in line," added the CIA man

with difficulty. "And the plans for the antinuclear

demonstrations were announced in Sweden six

months ago."

    "Clockwork," said Metcalf. "To identify and

neutralize the others we'll send out the word. Every

officer in half a dozen armies and navies who's

currently returning from summer leave is to be

restricted to quarters. There'll be errors but that's

rough. We can send out the photographs and correct

them."

    "It's time for Scharhorn." Stone got out of the

chair, massaging his throat. "And I don't mind

telling you it scares me to death. A wrong symbol

and we erase Aquitaine's master list. Worse, a

wrong move and that whole complex is blown away."

The CIA man went to the phone.

"Are you going to call the Rebel?" asked the

colonel.

"Converse first. He's working on the codes."

    The three generals of Aquitaine sat stunned,

staring straight ahead, refusing to look at one

another. The lights had been turned on, the large

television screen turned off. Behind each general

was a man with a gun and concise instructions "If he

gets up, kill him."

    "You know what I want," said Converse, walking

in front of the three. "And as you've just seen,

there's really no reason -why any of you shouldn't

give it to me. Four little numbers or letters each of

you has memorized in sequence. Of course if you

refuse, there's a doctor here who I'm told has a bag

of magic the same sort of magic you administered

to me in Bonn What'll it be, gentlemen?"

Sllence.

    "Four, three, L, one," said Chaim Abrahms,

looking down at the floor. "They'reilth," he added

quietly

    "Thank you, General." Joel wrote in a small note

pad. "You're free to go now. You can get out of the

chair."

"Go?" said the Israeli, getting up. "Where9"

    "Wherever you like," replied Converse. "I;m sure

you'll have no trouble at the airport in Annecy.

You'll be recog

    General Chaim Abrahms left the room

accompanied by the Israeli Army captain.

"Two, M, zero, six," said Erich Leifhelm. "And, if

you

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 677

wish, I will submit to the drugs for verification. I will

not be associated with such treacherous pigs."

    "I want the combination," pressed Joel, writing.

"And I won't hesitate to send you up into space to

get it."

    "Inversion," said the German. "Reverse the order

of the symbols in the second sequence."

    'He's yours, Doctor." Converse nodded to the

man behind Leifhelm's chair. "We can't take the

chance of blowing this one."

    General Erich Leifhelm, once the youngest field

marshal of the Third Reich, got up and walked

slowly out of the room, followed by the doctor from

Bonn.

    "You're all unworthy, all blind," said General

JacquesLouis Bertholdier with imperious calm. "I

prefer to be shot."

    "I'm sure you would, but no such luck," answered

Joel. "I don't need you now, and I want to know

you're back in Paris, where everyone can see you.

Take him to his room."

    "The room? I thought I was free to leave, or was

that another lie?"

    "Not at all. Just a matter of logistics you know

what logishcs are, General. We're a little short of

transportation and drivers here, so when the doctor's

finished, I'm lending the three of you a car. You can

draw straws for who drives."

"What?"

    "Get him out of here," said Converse, addressing

a former sergeant major in the French Army once

stationed at Algiers.

"Allen, cochon!"

    The door opened, only coincidentally for

Bertholdier. It was Valerie and she looked at Joel.

"Stone's on the telephone. He says hurry."

    It was 2:05 A.6f. when the Mystere jet dropped

out of the night sky and landed at the airstrip eight

miles from Cuxhaven, West Germany. It taxied to

the north end of the runway where the stately,

white-maned figure of Johnny Reb waited by a black

Mercedes sedan.

    The doors of the plane opened and the short

steps swung down in place; Converse climbed out,

taking Valerie's hand as she descended after him.

Next came the former sergeant major from Algiers,

followed by a fourth passenger, a slender blond man

in his mid-forties who wore tortoiseshell glasses.

678 ROBERT IUDIUM

They walked away from the aircraft as the pilot

retracted the steps and closed the automatic doors,

the twin engines accelerated and the plane swerved

around heading back toward the maintenance

hangars. The Rebel came away from the car and

met them, extending his hand to Joel. "Ah've seen

your picture here and there and it's a pleasure, sir.

Frankly, I never thought I'd meet you, leastways not

in this world."

    "There were a number of times I had my doubts

just how long I'd be here. This is my wife, Valerie."

    "Ah m enchanted, ma'am," said the Southerner,

bringing Val's hand to his lips as he bowed gallantly.

And then to Joel: "Your accomplishments have

astonished some of the best minds in my former

profession."

"I hope not too former," interjected Converse.

'knot at the moment, son."

    "This is Monsieur Lefevre and Dr. Geoffrey

Larson. Stone said you've been briefed."

    "A pleasure, sir,' exclaimed the Rebel, shaking

the Frenchman's hand. ' My hat's off to you, to all

of you for what You did with those three generals.

Absolutely remarkable!"

    "Such men have enemies," said Lefevre simply.

' They are not hard to find and Inspector

Prudhomme knew that. We are in many places with

many memories. Let us hope they will be put to rest

tonight."

    "Let's hope," said the Rebel, turning to the

fourth passenger. "Dr. Larson, so nice to meet you,

sir. I understand you know just about everything

there is to know about every computer ever made."

    "An exaggeration, I'm sure," said the Englishman

shyly. "But I suspect if it kicks I can make it hum.

Actually, I was vacationing in Geneva."

    The non sequitur momentarily threw Johnny

Reb, who could only utter "Sorry about that" as he

looked at Joel.

    It had been the most difficult decision Peter Stone

had made in all his years of agonising decisions. To

make the wrong move to telegraph the incursion into

the complex at Scharho'rn~ould result in its

destruction by the setting off of explosivesall over the

communica*ons renter. There would be nothing left of

the old U-boat station but shattered concrete and

twisted equipment. Stone had gone by instincts honed

over a life*me in the shadow world There could be no

elite commando units, no official specialforces ordered

up Moran extraordinary assignment, for there was no

telling who

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 679

within the various government forces could be a

member, an of finer of Aquitaine. Such a man could

make a telephone call and the complex at Scharhorn

would be blown up. Therefore the incursion had to be

made by rogue elements, men hired by outlaws who

had no allegiance to anyone or anything but money

and their immediate employers. Nothing was a secret

any longer without the master list of Aquitaine. The

President of the United States gave Stone twelve hours,

after which he said he would convene an emergency

session of the Security Council of the United Nations.

Peter Stone could hardly believe he had replied to the

most powerful man in the free world with the words:

"That's meaningless. It would be too late. "

    The Rebel finished his briefing, his flashlight still

shining on the map spread over the hood of the

Mercedes. "As I told you, this is the original layout

we got from the Zoning Commission in Cuxhaven.

Those Nazis sure were particular when it came to

specifics I figure everyone was justifyin' a salary or

a rank. We get over the ocean radar and head to the

old strip that was used for supplies, then do our

number. Now, mind you, there are still a lot of lights

out there, still a lot of people, but a hell of a lot less

than there were two days ago. There are some walls,

but we got grappling hooks and a few boys who

know how to use them."

"Who are they?" asked Converse.

    'No one you'd ask into your mother's parlor, my

friend, but five of the meanest hornets you could

find. I tell you they have absolutely no redeeming

social qualities. They're perfect."

"What's the aircraft?"

    "The best Petey could get, and it's the best. A

Fairchild Scout. It holds nine people."

    "With a glide ratio of eight to one at four

thousand feet," said Joel. "I'm flying."

41

    Converse inched the half-wheel forward as he

cut the engines and entered a left-bank glide over

the small airstrip 2,400 feet below. It was erratically

visible through the tails of low-flying North Sea

clouds, but Joel guessed it could be seen clearly at

500 feet. He would then start his final circle for the

short approach, his touchdown heading away from

the old U-boat base, minimising sound the outsized

balloon tires made while braking. The maneuver

itself was the nearest thing to a carrier landing he

could imagine, and he noted with satisfaction that

his hands were as steady as his concentration. The

fear he was afraid of did not materialise; it was

strangely absent. The anxiety and the anger were

another matter.

    Valerie and Lefevre over the Frenchman's

strenuous objections remained behind on a

deserted pier in Cuxhaven where Johnny Reb had

managed to install a primitive but functional relay

station. It was Val's job to stay in radio contact with

the team either the Rebel or Converse operating

the powerful handheld equipment on

Scharhorn and the former sergeant from Algiers

was to stand guard, letting no one on that pier. The

five "recruits"Johnny Reb had hired for apparently

large amounts of money were difficult to appraise,

for they said very little and wore dark wool-knit

caps pulled down above their eyes and black

turtleneck sweaters pulled up around their throats.

The same clothing was provided for Joel and the

British computer expert, Geoffrey Larson; the Rebel

had his in the Mercedes. Each man, except Larson,

carried a pistol with an attached silencer that was

held firmly in an extended holster strapped to his

waist. On the left side of the black leather belt was

a long-bladed hunting knife, and beside it a coil of

thin wire. Situated in back, above the kidneys, and

held in place by clips, were two canisters of a

Mace-like gas that rendered their victims helpless

and silent.

680

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 681

The fact that each, including the aging Johnny Reb,

wore his eqt~ipment with such casual authority

made Converse feel out of place, but the degree of

concentration they gave to the installation's plans

and the curt suggestions they had for gaining entry

and subsequent explorations also made him feel that

the Rebel had hired well.

    Joel circled slowly, delicately into his final

approach, silently gliding over the darkened U-boat

base, his eyes on both the strip ahead and the

instrument-guidance altimeter. He struck the flaps

and dropped; the heavy tires absorbed the jarring

shock of contact. Touchdown.

    ' We're down," said Johnny Reb into the radio.

And with a little luck we'll stop, won't we, son?"

    "We'll stop," said Converse. They did, no more

than forty feet from the end of the airstrip. Joel

removed the knit hat, breathing deeply; his hairline

and forehead were drenched with sweat.

    "We're going out." The Rebel snapped off the

radio and pressed it into the front of his chest; it

stayed in place. "Oh," he added, seeing that Converse

was watching him. 1 forgot to mention it. There's

heavy-duty Velcro around the case and on your

sweater."

'You're full of surprises."

    "You had a fair share yourself during the past

few weeks. Let's go catfishin', boy." Johnny Reb

opened his door; Joel did the same, and they

climbed out, followed-by Larson and the five men,

three of them carrying rubberized grappling hooks

attached to coils of rope.

    The second man who had said nothing during the

strategy session stood before Converse and spoke

quietly, startling Joel with his American accent. ' I'm

a pilot, mister, and that was supposed to be part of

my job. I'm glad it wasn't. You'r? good, man."

"Where did you fly? With whom?"

    ' Let's say a new kind of Peruvian airline. The

scenic Florida run."

    "Come onI" The Rebel ordered, starting for the

overgrown borders of the airstrip.

    They approached the high walls of the old

U-boat base, all crouching in the tall grass, studying

what was before them. Converse was struck by the

sheer immensity of the unending thick concrete. It

was like a fortress with no fort inside, no treasured

structure that warranted the protection of the mas

682 ROBERT LUDLUM

sive walls. The only break was over on the left, in a

section that faced the airstrip. A pair of steel double

doors layered with plates of bolted, reinforced iron

stood ominously in the erratic moonlight. They were

impenetrable.

    "This place has quite a history," whispered

Johnny Reb beside Joel. "Half the German High

Command had no idea it was here and the Allies

never got a smell of it. It was Doenitz's private base.

Some said he was going to use it as a threat if

Hitler didn t turn things over to him. '

    "It was also going to be used for something else,'

said Converse, remembering Leifhelm's incredible

story of the rising of the Fourth Reich a generation

after the war. Operation Sonnenkinder.

    One of the men with a grappling hook crawled

over and spoke to the Rebel in German. The

Southerner replied angrily, looking pained, but

finally nodded as the man crawled away. He turned

to Joel.

    "Son of a no-account hound dog hitch!" he

exclaimed under his breath. "He stole me blind! He

said he'd make the first assault on the east

flank which you know damn well that mother

studied if I guaranteed him an additional five

thousand American!"

"And you'll pay, of course."

    "Of course. We're honorable men. If he's killed,

every penny goes to his wife and children. I know

the lad; we took a building once with the Meinhof

inside. He scaled eight stories, dropped down

through an elevator shaft, kicked a door open and

shot the bastards cold with his Uzi on rapid fire.

"I don t believe all this,' whispered Converse.

    "Believe, ~ said the Rebel softly as he looked at

Joel. "We do it because no one else will. And

somebody has to do it. We may be rogues, son, but

there are times we're on the side of the angels for

a price.

    The muted sound of the rubberized grappling

hook taking hold on top of the wall split the air; the

rope stretched taut. In seconds the black-clothed

man could be seen climbing hand over hand, racing

up the dark concrete. He reached the ledge, his left

hand disappearing over the top, his right leg

swinging up as he vaulted into a prone position, his

body level with the ledge of concrete. Suddenly he

held out his left arm waving it back and forth twice,

a signal. Then bracing himself he reached for his

holstered weapon with his right hand and pulled it

out slowly.

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 683

    A single spit was heard, and once more there was

silence as the man's left arm shot out. A second

signal.

    The two other men with grappling hooks raced

out of the grass; flanking the first man, they swung

their hooks in circles and heaved them up, each

accurately as the ropes were yanked taut, and then

began scaling the wall. Joel knew it was his turn; it

was part of the plan if he was up to it and he was

determined to be. He rose and joined the remaining

two men hired by the Rebel; the American pilot who

had spoken to him pointed to the center rope. He

gripped it and started the painful climb to the top of

the wall.

    Only in the last extremity were the elderly Johnny

Reb and the slender, professorial Geoffrey Larson

expected to use the ropes. By his own admission the

Southerner might not be capable, and the risk of

injury to the computer expert was unacceptable.

    Arms and legs aching, Converse was hauled up

the final inches by his German companion. "Pull up

the rope!" ordered the man in a heavily accented

whisper. "Drop it slowly down the other side and

reverse the hooks."

    Joel did as he was told, and saw for the first time

the interior of the strange fortress and a uniformed

man below on the ground, dead, blood trickling down

the center of his forehead from the incredibly

accurate shot. In the intermittent moonlight he could

make out a series of huge watery slips in the distance

broken up by concrete piers on which were giant

winches, black wheels of immense machinery, long

out of use, relics of a violent past. In a semicircle

facing the U-boat docks and the sea were five low

concrete one-story buildings with 'small windows, the

first two dimly lit inside. The buildings were joined

by cement walkways, wide steps where they were

necessary, as the central structures were higher off

the ground; these no doubt had once been the

officers' quarters, commanders of the behemoths that

prowled the deep waters of the Atlantic, killers for

an abominable cause.

    Directly below the wall where the three ropes

now dangled were more wide steps that led up both

sides of what appeared to be a concrete podium or

platform, the area in front some kind of courtyard,

perhaps two hundred feet wide, that led to the rear

of the buildings facing the U-boat slips. A parade

ground, thought Converse, visualising rows of subma-

rine crews standing at attention, receiving orders and

listen

684 ROBERT LUDLUM

ing to the exhortations of their of fleers as they

prepared once more to enter the deep in search of

tonnage and carnage.

    "Follow me!" said the German, tapping Joel's

shoulder and grabbing the rope as he slid over the

wall and lowered himself onto the concrete platform

beneath. On both sides the four men were on their

way down, one after the other. Converse, less

gingerly than the professionals, rolled over the

ledge, his hands gripping the rope, and slid to the

ground.

    The two men on Joel's left raced silently across

the platform and down the steps toward the huge

steel doors. The two men on his right, as if by

instinct, ran down the opposite steps, returning

below to crouch in front of the platform, their

weapons drawn. Converse, following the German,

swiftly joined the pair at the doors. Both men were

studying the bolts and the layers of plating and the

complicated lock with tiny flashlights.

    "Fuse it and blow it," said the American.

"There's no alarm."

    "Are you sure?" asked Joel. "From what I

gathered, this whole place is wired."

    'The trips are down there," explained the other

pilot pointing toward the three-foot-high concrete

wall on each side of the parade ground.

"Trips?"

"Trip lights. Intersechng beams."

    "Which means there are no animals," said the

German, nodding. "Keine Hunde. Sehr gut!"

    The fourth man had finished stuffing wads of a

soft, puttylike substance into the lock mechanism,

using his knife to finish the job. He then took out a

small circular device no larger than a fifty-cent coin

from his pocket, layered another mound of the

substance directly over the lock and plunged the

coin into it. "Move back," he ordered.

    Converse watched, mesmerised. There was no

explosion, no detonation whatsoever, but there was

intense heat and a glowing blue-white flame that

literally melted the steel. Then a series of clicks

could be heard, and the American quickly slid back

the triple bolts. He pushed the right door open and

blinked his flashlight outside. Moments later Johnny

Reb and Geoffrey Larson walked through the door

into the strange compound.

    "Trips," repeated the American to the Rebel.

"They're all along those two walls," he said, pointing.

"See them?"

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 685

    "I can," replied the Southerner. "And that means

there'll be a few shooting straight up on top for

tiptoeing feet. All right, boys, let's do a little

crawling. Bellies down with knees and asses

wiggling." The six at the door joined the two

crouched in front of the platform. Johnny whispered

in German, then turned to Larson. "My English

friend, I want you to stay right here until us

old-timers give you the high sign to catch up with

us." He looked at Joel. "Sure you want to come?"

"I won't bother to answer that. Let's go.'

    One by one, with the German who was $5,000

richer in the lead, the seven men snaked their way

across the old parade ground. Barely breathing,

trousers torn, knees and hands scraped by the rough,

cracked concrete. The German headed for the break

between buildings 2 and 3, counting from the right.

It was a connecting cement path with gradually rising

steps on the left. He reached the open space and

stood up.

    Suddenly he snapped his fingers once not very

loud but loud enough. Everyone froze where he was

under the field of intersecting alarm beams.

Converse turned his head on the ground to try to see

what was happening. The German was crouched in

the shadows as a man came into view, a guard with

a rifle slung over his shoulder. Aware of another

presence, the guard whipped his head around; the

German lunged out of the shadows, his long-bladed

knife arcing in midair toward the man's head. Joel

closed his eyes, the sound of savagely expunged air

telling him more than he cared to know.

    The movement began again, and again, one by

one, each member of the unit reached the path.

Converse was soaked with sweat. He looked at the

row of U-boat slips ahead and the sea beyond them

and wished to God he could fall into the water. The

Rebel touched his elbow, indicating that Joel should

take out his gun as the Southerner had done. It was

now Johnny Reb who took the lead; he crept out to

the front of building 2 and turned right, crouching

close to the ground, heading toward the lighted

windows. His fingers snapped; all movement stopped,

bodies now prone. Diagonally to the left, by the edge

of a giant slip were the glow of cigarettes and the

sound of men talking quietly three men, guards

with rifles.

    As if they had been given an order, three of the

five men hired by the Rebel which ones Converse

could not tell broke away and started crawling in a

wide arc toward

686 ROBERT LUDIUM

the opposite side of the old U-boat berth.

Approximately a minute and a half later the

longest ninety secondsJoel could remember a

barrage of muted reports punctured the night

breezes off the sea. The subsequent sounds were

minimal as hands clutched at heads and bodies

snapped before falling to the concrete ground. The

hired guns returned and Johnny Reb waved them

forward, with Converse forced to be the last as men

grabbed his shoulders and passed him. They

reached the only lighted window in building 2; the

Rebel stood up and inched his way to the glass. He

turned and shook his head; the unit proceeded.

    They came to the open space between buildings

1 and 2. Cautiously each man ran across, crouching

the instant he reached the opposite edge and then

racing ahead. It was Joel's turn; he got to his knees,

then to his feet.

    "Horst? Bist das au?" said a man harshly, walking

out of a door and up the cement path.

    Converse stood motionless. The rest of the unit

was well past the edge of building 1 as the sounds

of the North Sea crashing on the rocks in the

distance blocked out the intruder's voice. Joel tried

not to panic. He was alone, and if he panicked, he

could blow the operation apart, destroy the complex

at Scharhorn, killing everyone, including Connal

Fitzpatrick, if, indeed, the young commander was

there.

    "Ja, " he heard himself saying as he turned away

into the shadows, his right hand reaching across his

waist for the hunting knife. He could not trust his

gun in the darkness

"Warten Sie einen Augen/,lick! Sin sind nicht Horst'"

    Joel shrugged, and waited. The footsteps

approached, a hand grabbed his shoulder. He spun

around, gripping the handle of the knife with such

force that it nearly blocked out the terrible thing his

mind told him he had to do. He grabbed the man's

hair and brought the razor-sharp blade across the

throat.

    Wanting to vomit, he pulled the man into the

darker shadows; the head was all but severed from

the body. He raced across the open space and

caught up with the others No one had missed him;

each man was taking his turn peering into one of

the four lighted windows in a row. Johnny Reb was

beyond the first, successively pointing in different

directions firmly, rapidly, and each man, after a

crisp nod, ducked away. An assault was about to be

immediately executed. Converse raised himself to

the edge of the last window and looked in

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 687

side. Instantly he understood why the Rebel had to

act quickly. There were ten guards in what could only

be described as paramilitary uniforms belonging to

no recognisable army. Each was either strapping on

a weapon, looking at his watch or crushing out a

cigarette. Then, more ominously, they checked the

ammunition clips in their rifles and automatics.

Several laughed, raising their voices as if making

demands at the expense of the others. Joel could not

understand the words. He moved away from the

window and confronted Johnny Reb, who was close

to the ground.

'It's a patrol going out, isn't it?" whispered Converse.

    "No, son," replied the Southerner. ' It s a firing

squad. They just got their orders."

"My God!''

    "We follow them, staying low and out of sight.

You may find your old buddy Fitzpatrick, after all."

    The next minutes were straight out of Kafka,

thought Joel. The ten men lined up and walked out

the door leading to building 2. Suddenly floodlights

blazed throughout the parade ground, the trip lights

obviously turned off as the squad walked out on the

concrete. Two men with automatics in their hands

ran to building 4; they unlocked and then unbolted

the heavy door, and raced inside shouting orders as

lights were turned on.

"Alles auistehen! 'Raus! Mach schnell! Schnell!"

    Seconds later, gaunt, manacled figures began

straggling out in their ragged clothes, blinking at the

harsh lights, some barely able to walk and supported

by others who were stronger. Ten, twenty,

twenty-five, thirty-two, forty. . . forty-three.

Forty-three prisoners of Aquitaine about to be

executed! They were marched toward the concrete

wall fronting the platform at the far end of the

parade ground.

    It happened with the hysterical force of a crowd

gone mad! The condemned men suddenly bolted in

all directions, those nearest the two guards with the

automatics crashing the chains of their manacled

hands into the stunned faces. Shots rang out, three

prisoners fell and writhed on the ground. The firing

squad raised their rifles.

    "Now, you mother-lovin' catfish hunters!" shouted

Johnny Reb as the entire Scharhorn unit raced into

the melee, pistols firing, muted spits mingling with

the ear-shattenng explosions of the unsilenced

weapons.

It was over in less than twenty seconds. The ten men

of

688 ROBERT LUDLUM

Aquitaine lay on the ground. Six were dead, three

wounded, one on his knees trembling with fear. Two

men of the Scharhorn unit sustained minor

wounds the American pilot and one other.

    "Connal!" roared Joel, racing about the scattered

prisoners, relieved that most were moving.

"Fitzpatrick! Where the hell are you? '

    'Over here, Lieutenant," said a weak voice on

Converse's right. Joel threaded his way through the

fallen bodies and knelt down beside the frail,

bearded Navy lawyer. "You took your sweet time

getting here,' continued the commander. "But then

junior-grade officers usually have deficiencies."

    "What happened back there?' asked Converse.

"You could all have been killed!

    'That was the point, wasn t it? It was made clear

to us last night, so we figured what the hell?'

"But why you? Why all of you?

    'We talked and we couldn t figure it out. Except

one thing we were all senior officers on thirty- to

forty-day leaves, most of them summer leaves. What

did it mean? '

    "It was meant to throw people off if they began

to see a pattern. There are ninety-seven men out in

hit teams all on summer leaves. Numerically you

were nearly fifty percent of that number,

presumably above suspicion. You were a bonus and

it saved your life."

    Suddenly Connal whipped his head to the left.

A man was running out of building 5, racing down

the concrete path "That's the warden! 'shouted

Fitzpatrick as loud as he could "Stop him! If he gets

into the second barracks he ll blow the whole place

up!

    Joel got to his feet and, gun in hand, started

after the racing figure as fast as his painful legs

would carry him. The man had reached the

midpoint of building 3; he had less than thirty yards

to go to the door of 2. Converse fired, the bullet

was way off its mark, ricocheting off a steel window

frame. The man reached the door, smashed it open

and slammed it shut Joel raced to it and crashed the

full weight of his body into the heavy wood. It gave

way, swinging violently back into the wall. The man

was running to a metal-encased panel, Converse

fired wildly, frantically, again and again. The man

spun wounded in the legs, but he had opened the

panel. He reached up for a bank of switches. Joel

lunged, gripping the man s hand, smashing his head

against the stone floor.

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 689

    Gasping for breath, Converse crawled away from

the man, his hands covered with warm blood, his

empty pistol on the floor. One of the Scharhorn team

burst through the door. "Are you fine?" he asked in

an accent Joel could not place.

"Splendid," said Converse, feeling weak and sick.

    The hired gun walked past Joel and glanced at

the still figure on the floor on his way to the open

panel. He studied it and reached into his pocket for

some kind of small, multifaceted tool. In seconds he

was taking out screws and pulling off the interior

metal plating. Moments later, with another part of

the instrument he was cutting wires far back into

their receptacles, leaving nothing but stubs of copper.

    "You are not to worry," said the man, finished. "I

am best of Norwegian demolitions. Now we do not

concern ourselves that a stray pig can do damage.

Come, there is much work left to do." The team

member stopped and stood above Converse. "We

owe you our lives. We will pay."

"It's not necessary," said Joel, getting up.

"It is the custom," replied the man, heading for the

door.

    Out on the parade ground, Aquitaine's prisoners

were sitting up against the wall all but five, whose

bodies were covered with sheets. Converse went over

to Fitzpatrick.

    "We lost them," said the naval officer, with no

strength in his voice.

    "Look to the things you believe in, Connal," said

Joel. "It may sound banal, but it's the only thing I

can think of to say."

    "It's good enough." Fitzpatrick looked up, a wan

smile on his lips. "Thanks for reminding me. Go on.

They need you over there."

    "Larson!" shouted Johnny Reb, standing above

the trembling unhurt guard. "Get in here!"

    The professorial Englishman walked hesitantly

through the steel door at the base of the airstrip into

the floodlights. He came over to the Rebel, his eyes

wandering about the parade ground, his expression

one of consternation and awe. "Good Cod!" he

uttered.

    "I guess that says it," said the Southerner as two

members of the Scharhorn team came running out of

building 5. "What'd you find ?" yelled Johnny Reb.

    "Seven others!" shouted one of the men. "They're

in a toilet, which is suitable to their conditions!"

    "I say!" said Ceoffrey Larson, raising his voice.

"Would any by chance be the computer chap?"

690 ROBERT LUDLUM

"We did not ask!"

    "Go ask!" ordered the Rebel. "Time's run out!"

He turned to Converse. 'I've been in touch with

your lady. The word out of Israel and Rome is

downright awful some of the hit teams eluded

Stone's men. The demonstrations began an hour

ago, and already twelve government people have

been killed. In Jerusalem and Tel Aviv they're

screaming for Abrahms to take over. In Rome the

police can't handle the riots and the panic; the

Army's moved in."

    Joel felt the sharp, hollow pain in his lower

chest and for the first time noticed the early light in

the sky beyond the walls. The day had come, and so

had the killing. Everywhere. "Oh, Jesus, " he said.

    "The computer, boy!" roared Johnny Reb, his

pistol jammed into the temple of the guard beneath

him. "You don't have any choices left, catfish!"

"Baracke pier!"

    "Danke! It's in building four. Come on, Brit, let's

go! Move!"

    The enormous, glistening machine covering the

length of the fifteen-foot wall stood in an air-filtered

room. With Joel's note pad in front of him, Larson

spent nine agonising minutes studying it, turning

dials, punching the keyboard and flipping switches

on the console. Finally he announced "There's a

lock on the inner reels. They can't be released

without an access code."

    "What in goddamned catfish hell are you talkie'

about!" screamed the Rebel.

    "There's a predesigned set of symbols that when

inserted releases the springs that permit the locked

reels to be activated. It's why I asked if there was a

computer man about."

    Johnny Reb's radio hummed, and Converse

ripped it off the Southerner's Velcroed chest.

"Cal?"

"Darling! You're all right?"

"Yes. What's happening?"

    "Radio-France. Bombs set off in the Elysee

Palace. Two deputies were shot riding to the dawn

rallies. The government's calling in the armed

forces."

"Christ! Out!"

    A man was brought into the room by two

members of the Scharhorn team, who were gripping

him by the arms. "He did not care to admit his

function," said the hired gun on the

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 691

left. "But when all were against the wall, the others

were not so secretive."

    The Rebel went to the man and grabbed him by

the throat, but Joel, with the hunting knife in his

hand, rushed forward, pushing the Southerner aside.

    "I've been through a lot because of you bastards,"

he said, raising the bloodstained blade to the man s

nose. "And now it's the end!" He shoved the point

into the man's nostrils; the computer expert

screamed as blood erupted and streamed down.

Then Converse raised the blade again, the point now

in the corner of the man's right eye. "The codes, or

it goes inl" he roared.

"Zwei Bins, null, elf!" Again the technician screamed.

"Process it!" yelled Joel.

"They'refree!" said the Englishman.

    "Now the symbols!' cried Converse, shoving the

man back into the hands of the Scharhorn invaders.

    They all looked in astonishment at the green

letters on the black television screen. Name after

name, rank after rank, position after position. Larson

had punched the printout button, and the curling,

continuous sheet of paper spewed out with hundreds

of identities.

    "it won't do any good!" shouted Joel. "We can't

get them vat!"

    "Don't be so antediluvian, chap," said the

Englishman, pointing to a strange-looking telephone

recessed in the console. "This is splendid equipment.

There are those lovely satellites in the sky, and I can

send this to anyone anywhere with compatible

software. This is the age of technology, no longer

Aquarius."

    "Get it out, " said Converse, leaning against the

wall and sliding down to the floor in exhaustion.

    The world watched, stunned by the eruption of

widespread assassinations and random homicidal

violence. Everywhere people cried out for protection,

for leadership, for an end to the savagery that had

turned whole cities into battlegrounds, as panicked,

polarized groups of citizens hurled rocks and gas at

one another and finally turned to bullets because

bullets were being fired at them. Since few could tell

who their enemies were, anyone who attacked was

assumed to be an enemy, and the attackers were

everywhere, the orders issued from unseen command

posts. The police were

692 ROBERT LUDLUM

helpless; then militias and state troops appeared,

but it was soon evident that they and their leaders

were also powerless. Stronger measures would have

to be implemented to control the chaos. Martial law

was proclaimed. Everywhere. And military

commanders would assume control. Everywhere.

    In Palo Alto, (California, former general of the

Army George Marcus Delavane sat strapped to his

wheelchair, watching the hysteria recorded on three

television sets. The set on the left went blank,

preceded by the screams of a mobile crew as their

truck came under sudden attack and the entire unit

was blown up by grenades. On the center screen a

woman newscaster, with tears streaming down her

face, read in a barely controlled, angry voice the

reports of wholesale destruction and wanton

murder. The screen on the right showed a Marine

colonel being interviewed on a barricaded street in

New York's financial district. His .45 Marine issue

Colt automatic was in his hand as he tried to answer

questions while shouting orders to his subordinates.

The screen on the left pulsated with new light as a

familiar anchorman came into focus, his eyes glassy.

He started to speak, but could not; he turned in his

chair and vomited as the camera swung away to an

unsuspecting newsroom editor screaming into a

phone, "Goddamned shit-bastards! What the fuck

happened?" He, too, was weeping. He pounded the

desk with his fist, then collapsed, dropping his head

on his arms while his whole body shook in spasms

as the screen again went dark.

    A slow smile emerged on Delavane's face.

Abruptly he reached for two remote controls,

switching off the sets on the right and left, as he

concentrated on the canter screen. A helmeted

Army lieutenant general was picked by the camera

as he strode into a press room somewhere in

Washington. The soldier removed his helmet, went

to a lectern and spoke harshly into the microphone.

"We have sealed off all roads leading to

Washington, and my words are to serve as a warning

to unauthorised personnel and civilians everywhere!

Any attempts to cross the checkpoints will be met

by immediate force. My orders are brief and clear.

Shoot to kill. My authority is derived from the

emergency powers just granted to me by the

Speaker of the House in the absence of the

President and the Vice President, who have been

flown out of the capital for security purposes. The

military is now in charge, the Army

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 693

its spokesman, and martial law is in full effect until

further notice."

    Delavane snapped off the set with a gesture of

triumph. "We did it, Paul!" he said, turning to his

uniformed aide, who stood next to the fragmented

map on the wall. "Not even the whining pacifists

want that law reversed! And if they do . . ." The

general of Aquitaine raised his right hand, his index

finger extended, thumb upright, and mimed a series

of pistol shots.

    "Yes, it's done," agreed the aide, reaching down

to Delavane's desk and opening a drawer.

"What are you doing?"

    "I'm sorry, General. This also must be done." The

aide pulled out a .357 magnum revolver.

    Before he could raise it, however, Delavane's left

hand shot up out of the inside cushion of the

wheelchair. In it was a short-barreled automatic. He

shouted as he fired four times in rapid succession.

    "You think I haven't been waiting for this? Scum!

Coward! Traitor! You think I trust any of you? The

way you look at me! The way you talk in whispers in

the hallways! None of you can stand the fact that

without legs I'm better than all of you! Now you

know, scum! And soon the others will know because

they'll be shot! Executed for treason against the

founder of Aquitaine! You think any of you are

worth trusting? You've all tried to be what I am and

you can't do it!"

    The uniformed aide had crashed back into the

wall, into the fragmented map. Gasping, blood

flowing from his neck, he stared wide-eyed at the

raving general. From some inner core of strength he

raised the powerful magnum and fired once as he

collapsed.

    George Marcus Delavane was blown across the

room, a massive hemorrhage in his chest, as the

wheelchair spun and fell on its side, its strapped-in

occupant dead.

    No one knew when it started to happen, but

gradually, miraculously, the gunfire slowly began to

diminish. The restoration of order was accompanied

by squads of uniformed men, many units having

broken away from their commanders, racing through

the streets and buildings and confronting other men.

It was soldier against soldier, the eyes of the inter-

rogators filled with anger and disgust, staring at faces

consumed with arrogance and defiance. The

commanders of

694 ROBERT LUDLUM

Aquitaine were adamant. They were right! Could

not their inferiors understand? Many refused to

surrender, preferring final assaults that cost them

their lives. Others bit into cyanide capsules.

    In Palo Alto, California, a legless legend named

George Marcus Delavane was found shot to death,

but apparently not before he had been able to kill

his assailant, an obscure Army colonel. No one

knew what had happened. In Southern France, the

bodies of two other legendary heroes were found in

a mountain ravine, each of whom, upon leaving a

chateau in the Alps, had been given a weapon.

Generals Bertholdier and LeifLelm had lost.

General Chaim Abrahms had disappeared. On

military bases throughout the Middle East, all Eu-

rope, Great Britain, Gnada and the United States,

officers of high rank and responsibilities were

challenged by subordinates with levered weapons.

Were they members of an organization called

Aquitaine? Their names were on a list!Answer! In

Norfolk, Virginia, an admiral named Scanlon threw

himself out of a sixth-story window; and in San

Diego, California, another admiral named Hickman

was ordered to arrest a four-striper who lived in La

Jolla the charge: murder of a legal officer in the

hills above that elegant suburb. Colonel Alan

Metcalf personally made the call the chief

operations officer of Nellis Air Force Base; the

order was blunt throw into a maximum-security

cell the major who was in charge of all aircraft

maintenance. In Washington the venerated Senator

Mario Parelli was called out of the cloakroom by a

Captain Guardino of Army G-2 and taken away;

while at State and the Pentagon, eleven men in

armaments controls and procurements were placed

under guard.

    In Tel Aviv, Israeli Army intelligence rounded

up twenty-three aides and fellow officers of General

Chaim Abrahms, as well as one of the Mossad's

most brilliant analysts. In Paris, thirty-one

associates military and nonmilitary of General

Jacques-Louis Bertholdier, including deputy

directors of both the Surete and Interpol, were held

in isolation, and in Bonn no fewer than fifty-seven

colleagues of General Erich Leifhelm, among them

former Wehrmacht commanders and current officers

of the Federal Republic's Army and its Luftwaffe,

were seized. Also in Bonn, the Marine Corps guard

at the American embassy, on orders from the State

Department, arrested four attaches, including the

military charge d'affaires, Major Norman Anthony

Washburn IV.

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 695

    And so it went. Everywhere. The fever of

madness that was Aquitaine was broken by legions of

the very military the generals assumed would carry

them to absolute global power. By nightfall the guns

were still and people began to come out from behind

their barricades from cellars, subways boarded-up

buildings, railroad yards, wherever sanctuary could

be found. They wandered out on the streets,

numbed, wondering what had happened, as trucks

with loudspeakers roamed the cities everywhere

telling the citizens that the crisis was over. In Tel

Aviv, Rome, Paris, Bonn, London, and across the

Atlantic in Toronto, New York, Washington and

points west, the lights were turned on, but certainly

the world had not returned to normal. A terrible

force had struck in the midst of a universal cry for

peace. What was it? What had ham pened?

    It would be explained on the following day,

blared the sound trucks in a dozen different

languages, pleading for pahence on the part of

citizens everywhere. The hour chosen was 3:00 P.M.,

Greenwich Mean Time; 10:00 A.M. Washington 7:00

A.M. Los Angeles. Throughout the night and the

morning hours in all the hme zones, heads of state

conferred over telephones until the texts of all the

statements were essentially the same. At 10:03 A.M.

the President of the United States went on the air.

    "Yesterday an unprecedented wave of violence

swept through the free world taking lives, paralysing

governments, creaking a climate of terror that very

nearly cost free nations everywhere their freedom

and might have led them to look for solutions where

no solutions should be sought in democraUc

societies namely, turning ourselves into police

states handing over controls to men who would

subjugate free people to their collective military will.

It was an organized conspiracy led by demented and

deluded men who sought power for its own sake,

willing even to sacrifice their own fellow conspirators

to achieve it, and to deceive others who were se-

duced into believing it was the way of the future, the

answer to the serious ills of the world. It is not, nor

can it ever be.

    "As the days and weeks go by as this terrible

thing is put behind us the facts will be placed

before you. For this has been our warning, the toll

taken in blood and in the shaken confidence of our

institutions. I remind you, however, that our

institutions have prevailed. They will prevail.

'in an hour from now a series of meetings will start

taking

696 ROBERT LUDLUM

place involving the White House, the departments

of State and Defense, the majority and minority

leaders of the House and the Senate, and the

National Security Council. Beginning tomorrow, in

concert with other governments, reports will be

issued on a daily basis until all the facts are before

you.

    "The nightmare is over. Let the sunlight of truth

guide us and clear away the darkness."

    On the following morning Deputy Director Peter

Stone of the Central Intelligence Agency,

accompanied by Captain Howard Packard and

Lieutenant William Landis, were brought to the

Oval Office for a private ceremony. The specific

honors awarded them were never made public, as

there was no reason to do so. Each man, with deep

respect and grahtude but with no

regrets declined to accept, each stating that

whatever honors were involved belonged to a man

not currently residing in the United States.

    A week later, in Los Angeles, California, an

actor named Caleb Dowling stunned the producers

of a television show called Santa Fe by giving them

his notice effective before the start of the new

season. He refused all inducements, claiming simply

that there was not enough time to spend with his

wife. They were going to travel. Alone. And if the

residuals ever ran out, hell, she could always type

and he could always teach. Together. Ciao, friends.

EPILOGUE

Geneva. City of bright reflections and inconstancy.

    Joel and Valerie Converse sat at the table where

it had all begun, by the glistening brass railing in the

Chat Botte. The traffic on the lakeside Quai du

Mont Blanc was disciplined, unhurried purpose

mixed with civility. As the pedestrians passed by,

both were aware of the glances directed at Joel.

There he is, the eyes were saying. There is . . . the

man. It was rumored he was living in Geneva, at

least for a while.

By agreement, the second report issued across the

free

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 697

world made a direct but on Converses

insistence brief reference to his role in the tragedy

that was Aquitaine. He was exonerated of all

charges. The labels were removed and refuted, the

debt to him acknowledged without specifics on the

basis of NATO security. He refused all interviews,

and was not pleased when the media dredged up his

experiences in Southeast Asia and speculated on

correlations with the drama of the generals. But he

was consoled by the knowledge that just.as the

interest in him had dwindled years ago, it would do

so again faster in Geneva, city of purpose.

    They had leased a house on the lake, an artist's

house with a studio built on the slope leading to the

water, the skylight catching the sun from early

morning to dusk. The beach house in Cape Ann was

closed, the lease paid in full and returned to the real

estate agent in Boston. Vals friend and neighbor had

packed her clothes and all her paints, brushes and

favorite easel, and sent everything air freight to

Geneva. Valerie worked for several hours each

morning, happier than she had ever been in her life,

permitting her husband to evaluate her progress daily

He judged it to be eminently acceptable, wondering

out loud whether there was a market for "lakescapes"

as opposed to seascapes. It took him two days to

remove the last dabs of paint from his hair.

    Nor was Joel without employment; he was Talbot

Brooks and Simons European branch all by himself.

The income itself, however, was not a vital factor, as

Converse never remotely considered himself in the

mold of those attorneys in films and on television

who rarely if ever collected fees. Since his legal

talents had been called upon for crucial evidence, he

billed the major governments a reasonable

$40O,OOO apiece the minor ones, $250,000. No one

argued. The total came to something over $2.5

million, safely deposited in an interestbearing Swiss

account.

    "What are you thinking about?" asked Valerie,

reaching for his hand.

    'About Chaim Abrahms and Derek Belamy They

haven't been found they're still out there, and I

wonder if they will ever be found. I hope so, because

until they are, it really islet over.

    "Its over, Joel, you've got to believe it. But thats

not what I meant. I meant you. How do you feel?"

    "I'm not sure. I only knew I had to come here

and find out." He looked into her eyes, and at the

cascading dark hair

698 ROBERT LUDLUM

that fell to her shoulders, framing the face he loved

so much. "Empty, I think. Except for you."

"No anger? No resentment?"

    "Not against Avery, or Stone or any of the

others. That s past. They did what they had to do;

there wasn't any other way."

"You re far more generous than I am, my darling.

'

    "I'm more realistic, that's all. The evidence had

to be gotten by penetrating the outside by an

outsider wandng to get inside. The core was too

tight, too lethal."

"I think they were bastards. And cowards."

    "I don't. I think they should all be canonized,

immortalized, bronzed and with poems written

about them for the ages."

    "That's absolute rubbish! How can you possibly

say such a thing?"

    Joel again looked into his wife's eyes. "Because

you're here. I'm here. And you're painting

lakescapes, not seascapes. And I'm not in New

York and you're not in Cape Ann. And I don't have

to worry about you, hoping that you're worrying

about me."

    "If only there'd been another woman or another

man. It would have been so much easier, so much

more logical, darling. '

"There was always you. Only you."

"Try to get away from me again, Converse."

"No way, Converse."

    Their hands gripped, unashamed tears were in

their eyes. The nightmare was over.

    LUDLUM ON LUDLUM

Few writers have skyrocketed to popularity with the

speed of Row ERT LUDLUM, with each

succeeding thriller becoming a bigger bestseHer.

The key to his success may lie in John Leonard s

comment in The New York Times, "Mr. Ludlum

stuffs more surprises into his nov els than any other

six-pack of thriller writers combined.'

- Some people claim Ludlum has secret sources for

information found in his stories. In one, an early

book, a key theme was CIA involvement in domestic

surveillance. At that hme the subject shocked many

people. Later, of course, this fact proved to be

correct. Other people suspect Ludlum was an agent

himself during the years prior to his career as a

novelist. Not true. For close to twenty years he was

in show business as an actor, producer, and as the

' voice' of dozens of television commercials for

products ranging from TipariHos to Tuna Helper.

    During his `voice period, Ludlum's wife crowned

him King of the Toilet Bowls. As he tells it, "there

was this product caned Plunge. All I had to do was

read three words: Plunge works fast. In spite of my

off-hand delivery, they used my three words in over

one hundred different commercials. The money

from this put one of my children through two years

of college.

    Although none of Ludlum's novels draws on his

show business background for subject matter, they

all reflect techniques he learned in the "heater.

Ludlum says, 'the theater man knows that he must

involve the audience. He understands structure

more than anyone else the logical evolving of one

event into another event without losing the audience

s attention. Because if you lose their interest, you're

closing Saturday night.'" ,

    Ludlum admits, 1 write primarily as an

entertainer. But I find that whether you re writing

comically or dramatically,you write from a point of

view of something that disturbs or outrages you.

And that's what l do. I admit to being

outraged mostly by the abuse of power by the

fanatics. The extremes bother me, right or left. ' Yet

he adds, "I disapprove of violence, that's why I show

pain for what it is. When my characters get hit, they

hurt. They don't jump back into action like John

Wayne."

    All of this and more can be found in the

published work of Robert Ludlum. Since his first

novel, The Scarlatti Inheritance, he has amassed an

enviable record of success: The Osterman Weekend,

The Matlock Papers, The Rhinemann Exchange, The

Cemini Contenders, more recently, The Chancellor

Manuscript, The Holoroft Covenant The Matarese

Circle, The Bourne Identity, The Parsifal Mosaic, and

now, The Aquitaine Progression.

    ROBERT LUDLUM

These hammering bestselling superthr~llers by

Robert Ludlum prove why he reigns as the world's

master of intrigue, conspiracy and suspense.

24900 THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION$4.50

O 23021THE PARSIFAL MOSAIC $4.50

0 24296BOURNE IDENTllY $4.50

C! 24902CHANCELLOR MANUSCRIPT $4.50

~ 24640HOLCROFT COVENANT $4.50

0 24157THE MATARESE CIRCLE $4.50

0 24605OSTERMAN WEEKEND $3.95

0 11427SCARI,ATTI INHERITANCE $3.95

O 23232ROAD TO GANDOLFO $3.95

Prices and availability subject to change without

notke.

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