The Aquitaine Progression: A Novel

by Robert Ludlum

  “Danke,” said the man, sitting down, the attaché 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 traveler wishing only to catch a few minutes’ sleep. Moments later, as the train started forward, he had an inkling that he had succeeded.

  “Verrückt, nicht wahr?” said the man with the attaché 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 moments when he was not sure he could keep up the façade of strength and revolt, when everything in him wanted to capitulate, to hear even a few kind words, to see a smile that had 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 fünf Minuten in Düsseldorf 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 attaché 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 pünklich,” 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 circumstances? 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 Düsseldorf. Converse wondered if the German next to him would get off. He had closed his attaché 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 recognizable names in the fashion industry. The train to Emmerich was a suburban “mink run,” as Val used to call the afternoon 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 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, können wir die Plätze tauschen? Dieser Herr ist ein Bekannter. Ich sitze in der nächsten Reihe.”

  “Sicher, aber er schläft ja doch nur.”

  “Ich wecke 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 turned 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 ole Yank! Only made a couple of mistakes in all the years of hopping around selling my li’l ole 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 German,” 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 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 fucking 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 ole housewives who can’t afford that Paris crap. And I earn my bread, ole Yankee Doodle. Take that wrinkled old broad I was with; she owns a half-dozen specialty shops in Cologne and Düsseldorf, 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 fünf 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 several 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.

  “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 a
mong 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 translation.

  “A full inquiry … Eine vollständiges Verhör… entailing all security forces … sie erfordert alle Sicherheitskräfte… 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 conversations 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.

  “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 fucking 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 Düsseldorf. It only takes forty-five minutes to get from ‘Düssel’ 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 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 center of 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 scrutinizing 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 somewhere asking for temporary asylum until he could make a case for himself? How could they take the chance?

  Then the realization 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 René’s phone could have been tapped, by either the Sûreté 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 Düsseldorf 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 move.

  “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 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 position. 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 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 outside, 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 significance. The colonists were, indeed, a violent breed.