"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 cornerin
g 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
Robert Ludlum - Aquatain Progression.txt Page 65