Robert Ludlum - Aquatain Progression.txt

by The Aquitaine Progression [lit]

  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

  understoo
d. 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?"

&nbs
p; 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.