Robert Ludlum - Aquatain Progression.txt

by The Aquitaine Progression [lit]

"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 f
aces 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 milit
ary 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