The Aquitaine Progression: A Novel

by Robert Ludlum

  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 bei 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 not spend much time trying to raise anyone inside before they took more direct methods. And once they did, all the alarms in Leifhelm’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.

  “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 exhilarating. 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 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 wide—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 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 for five days none could be had. But on that fifth day he had found one on the banks of the Huong Khe. He had floated 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 perhaps 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. 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, b
ut 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?”

  “I know it’s none of my damned business and I wouldn’t ask it if I didn’t think I had to—”

  “I’ll 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.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Nothing,” said Valerie, recovering from her astonishment. “I 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 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 I’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 Germany—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 attacked 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 lying! 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-defense, 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.”

  “Perhaps it should have been,” said Talbot softly.

  Valerie replied with equal softness, “Touché, 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—or you know it’s quite possible he’s been hurt. Or, oh my God—”

  “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 w
e don’t know about,” Talbot 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 it?”

  “During those periods of depression, his dark moods, did Joel ever fantasize? I mean, did he indulge in what psychiatrists call role-playing?”

  “You mean did he assume other personalities, other kinds of behavior?”

  “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 was! 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 Geneva!”

  “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 lying and running away! That’s not Joel! That isn’t—wasn’t—my husband!”