Robert Ludlum - Aquatain Progression.txt
Page 72
him from coming to us."
"You couldn't. It was the gesture he had to make.
Put some business where the son is. Very touching."
"With an unnecessary will that you much too
generously charged him only two hundred dollars for,
and some crazy disposition of his war medals to
three differentnshtutions for which you refused to
bill him on patriotic grounds?"
"We were in the same theater of operations."
"Where?"
"Europe."
"Come on, Nate. He's my father and I love him
but I also know he's off the wall. Take him out of a
vintage prop and he's not sure where he is. Pan Am
got their money's worth, not in any administrative
sense, but because he was a pistol at conventions."
Nathan Simon had gripped his glass that late
afternoon at "21," and when he spoke, the quiet
thunder of a deeply troubled man poured forth.
"You have respect for your father do you hear me,
Joel? My friend Roger offered a gesture to his son,
for it was all he had, all he could imagine. I had a
great deal more and I didn't know how to make such
gestures. I only gave commands.... He said I could
still do it. I'm going to take up flying."
Simon would help him only if he was convinced
there was substance to his case. But he would legally
lean over backwards in the negative if he thought a
relationship or personal sentimentality was being
used to manipulate him. Of course, if an indictment
followed, he would rush in for the defense after the
fact. That was professional; those were his ethics.
And by now Valerie would have sent him the
envelope with the dossiers and their awesome
implications. They were the substance Simon
required. Knowing Val, she would have sent them
down by car, the great American postal service
having
460 ROBERT LUDLUM
given rise to a score of competitors who eschewed
the taxpayer's dollar. Joel's d' cisionwas made. Since
there was a five-hour time difference, he would wait
until early evening and then call Nathan Simon. He
was functioning again.
The tram came to the last stop before its return
run. At least he was the only one left on board; he
walked up the aisle, got off and saw another. He got
on. Sanctuary.
A hundred streets and a dozen crisscrossed
canals later, he looked out the window, encouraged
by the seedy neighborhood he saw, washed clean on
the surface but with the promise of far more
interesting bacteria below. There was a row of
pornography shops, their wares in magnified displays
in the storefronts. Above, in open windows, garishly
painted girls stood provocatively, brassieres slipped
on and off lethargically, faces bored but pelvises
churning. The crowds in the streets were animated,
some curious, some feigning shock, others interested
in buying. There was a carnival atmosphere, one
into which he could melt, thought Converse, as he
got out of his seat and went to the door.
He wandered aro~md the streets, astonished,
even embarrassed, as he always was when sex was
paraded so publicly. He enjoyed sexual encounters
and never lacked for them, but for him the privacy
of the acts was intrinsic to their fulfillment. He
could no more walk through one of those neon-lit
doors up-to-heaven than he could have performed
a bowel movement on the curb.
There was a cafe across the street; it was above
a canal, tables on the sidewalk, dark within. What
struck him was the crowd that hovered around the
doorway, many people simply glancing in and going
on, drawn briefly to some curious oddity inside.
Regardless, it was the crowd that attracted him;
there was anonymity in numbers. He crossed the
thoroughfare, weaved his way through the crowd
and went inside. Sleep might be out of the question,
but he needed food. He had not eaten a real meal
in nearly three days. He found a small empty table
in the back of the room, and was stunned that a
television set, clamped above on the wall, was
blaring inanities. He could not understand. There
was no television in the Netherlands during the
afternoons" How many times had he heard
colleagues and friends remark that one of the most
civilised aspects of traveling in Holland was the
absence of the idiot box until seven o'clock in the
evening? Conversely, there were those sports
enthusiasts who bemoaned the fact that cer
THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 461
tain events were not shown, but on the whole the
verdict came down in favor of Dutch civility and
restraint. Yet here was a television set in full
operation. It undoubtedly accounted for those
curious passersby on the street who glanced inside,
shaking their heads in bewilderment as they went on
their way.
Then Joel saw the folded card on the table, the
announcement in four languages, English first.
In accord with the advances in teknology we are
pleased to bring our patrons and visitors from
outside
the Netherlands recordings of our national pro
grams.
Video tapes! It was a come-on, an innovative ploy to
lure customers; this was the district for it. And he
understood why the English language was first: e
pluribus unum. Let's not lose touch with the tube.
At least the tapes were in Dutch; it helped, but not
much.
Straight whisky helped, too, but again not much.
The anxiety of the hunted came back and he kept
turning his head toward the entrance, at any moment
expecting to see one of the foot soldiers of Aquitaine
walk through the door, out of the sunlight and into
the cave to find him. He went to the men's room at
the rear of the cafe, removed his jacket, placed the
gun with the silencer in the inside pocket, and tore
his left sleeve. He filled one of the two basins with
cold water, and then he plunged his face into it,
pouring the water through his hair over the back of
his neck. He felt a vibration, a sound! He whipped
his head up, gasping, frightened, his hand
insdncbvely reaching for his coat on a hook. A portly
middle-aged man nodded and went to a urinal.
Quickly Joel looked at the teeth marks on his arm;
they were like a dog bite. He drained the sink,
turned on the hot water faucet, and with a paper
towel squeezed and blotted the painful area until
blood emerged from the broken skin. It was the best
he could do; he had done much the same thing a
lifetime ago when attacking water rats swam through
the bars of his bamboo cage. Then in another kind
of panic, he had learned that rats could be
frightened. And killed. The man at the urinal turned
and went out the door, glancing uncomfortably at
Converse.
Joel layered a paper towel over the teeth marks,
put on his coat and combed his hair. He opened the
door and went
462 ROBERT LUDLUM
back to his table, once again annoyed by the blaring
television on the wall.
The menu, like the announcement about the
television, was in four languages, the last Oriental,
undoubtedly Japanese. He was tempted to go for
the largest, rarest piece of meat he could find, but
here his pilot's control dictated otherwise. He'd had
no solid sleep in days oddly enough since his
imprisonment at I eifhelm's compound, where the
sleep itself had been greatly induced by the huge
quantities of very decent food, all part of the
healing process for a deflecting pawn. A heavy meal
would make him drowsy, and one did not By a jet
going six hundred miles an hour in that condition.
At the moment his air speed was approaching Mach
I. He ordered filet of sole and rice; he could always
order twice. And one more whisky.
The voice! Oh, Christ. The voice! He was
hallucinating! He was going mad! He was hearing a
voice an echo of a voice he could not possibly be
hearing!
". . . Actually, I think it's a national disgrace, but
like so many others, I speak only English."
"Frau Converse "
"Miss Fraulein I think that's
right Charpentier, if you don't mmd.''
"Dames en heron . . .'' a third voice broke in
quietly, authoritatively, speaking Dutch.
Converse gasped for the air he could not find,
gripping his wrist, closing his eyes with such
intensity that every muscle in his face was in pain,
twisting his neck away from the source of the
terrible, horrible hallucination.
"I'm in Berlin on business I'm a consultant for
a firm in New York '
"Mevrouw Con verse, of juffronw Charpen tier,
coals use . . . ~,
Joel was now sure that he was mad, insane! He
was hearing the impossible. Ilearing! He spun
around and looked up. The television screen! It was
Valerie! She was there!
"Whatever you S.ly, Fraulein Charpentier, will
be accurately translated, I can assure you."
"Coals juJfrouw (>harpentier zoduist zei . . ." The
third voice, the voice in Dutch.
"I haven't seen my former husband in several
years three or four, I'd say. Actually, we're
strangers. I can only express the shock my whole
country feels...."
THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 463
'7uffrouw Charpentier, de uroogere mevronw Con-
~erse . . . "
' . . . he was a deeply disturbed man, subject to
extreme depressions, but I never imagined anything
like this."
"Hid most mentaal gestoord zidn . . ."
"There's no connection between us, and I'm
surprised you learned I was flying to Berlin. But I
appreciate the chance to clear the air, as we say."
"Mevrouw Converse gelooft . . . "
"In spite of the dreadful circumstances over which,
of ourse, I had no control, I'm delighted to be in
your beautiful city. Half-city, I guess, but yours is the
beautiful part. And I :lear the Bristol-Kempinski....
I'm terribly sorry, that's what Ale call a 'plug' and I
shouldn't. '
"It is a landmark, Fraulein Charpentier. It is not
verboten ver here. Do you feel at all threatened?"
"Mevrouw Converse, vault u rich bedreigd?"
"No, not really. We've had nothing to do with
each other or so long."
My God! Val had come over to find him! She
was sending him a signal signals! She spoke every
bit as fluent German Is the interviewer! They kept in
touch every month; they had lunch together six
weeks ago in Boston! Everything she was saying was
a lie and in those lies was the code. Their coder
Reach me!
PART THREE
27
Joel was stunned, but he had to control his panic
and try to isolate the words, the phrases. The
message was in them! The Bristol-Kempinski was a
hotel in West Berlin, he knew that. It was something
else she had said, something that should trigger a
memory one of their memories. What was it?
I haven't seen my former husband in years.... No,
only one of the lies. He was a deeply disturbed man....
Less a lie, but not what she was trying to tell him.
Actually, we're strangers.... There's no connection
between us....Another lie, but with some truth in it....
Stop it! What was it! ... Before, earlier.... I'm a
consultant.... That was it! .
"May I speak with Miss Charpenher, pleased My
name is Mr. Whistletoe, Bruce Whistletoe. I'm the
confidential consultant for Springtime antiperspirant
for which your agency is doing some artwork, and it's
urgent, most urgent!" Con molta forza.
Val's secretary had been a talker, a marvelous
spreader of in-house gossip, and whenever Joel and
Valerie had wanted an extra hour for lunch or even
a day, he would make such a phone call. It never
failed. If a demanding vice-president (one of dozens)
wanted to know where she was, the excitable
secretary would tell of an urgent call from one of
those outside watchdogs of a very large account. It
was enough for any ulcer-prone executive, and
Valerie's understated professionalism took care of
the rest. She would say "things" were under control
and rarely did a relieved account man pursue what
might give him an acid attack.
She was telling him to use the tactic in case the
police were monitoring her calls. He would have
done so in any event; she was simply reminding him,
warning him.
The interview was over, the last few minutes
obviously a recap in Dutch, the camera frozen on a
still frame of Vale
467
468 ROBERT LUDIUM
rie's face. When had the tape been made? How
long had she been in Berlin? t~oddamn it, why
couldn't he understand anything unless it was
spoken in English? When she lied about her
inability to speak German, Val had said it was a
national disgrace. She was right, but she might have
gone further; it was a national disorder rooted in
arrogance. He looked around the cafe for a
telephone; there was one on the rear wall several
feet from the door to the men's room, but he hadn't
the vaguest idea of how to use it! His frustrations
grew swirling into circles of panic. Suddenly he
heard his name.
''De Amerikaanse moordenuar Converse is
advocaut. Hid iseen ex-pilootuitl:te Vietnamese oorlog.
Fen anderadvocant hen Fransman, en e.en friend van
Converse. . ."
Joel looked up at the screen bewildered, at once
shocked then paralysed. There was a film clip, a
hand-held camera entered an office door and
focused on a body slumped over a desk, str
eams of
blood spreading from the head like a hideous
Medusa wig. Oh, Christ! It was Rene!
As the recognition came an insert appeared on
the upper left of the screen. It was a photograph of
Mattilon then another photograph was suddenly
inserted on the right. It was he, the
moordenaarAmerikoans, JoeLConverse. The Dutch
newscast had connected two events, the interview
with Val and a death in France. Neither language
nor diagrams were necessary. Rene had been killed
and he had been named the killer. It answered the
question; it was the reason Aquitaine had put out
the word that an assassin was heading for Paris.
He was a giver of death; it was his gift to new
and old friends. Rene Mattilon, Edward Beale. . .
Avery Fowler. And to enemies he did not know,
could not evaluate, either as enemies or as
individuals a man in a tan overcoat in a Paris cel-
lar, a guard above a riverbank on the Rhine, a pilot
on a train a memorably unmemorable face at the
base of a landfill pyramid, a chauffeur moments
later who had actually befriended him in a stone
house with bars in the windows . . . an old woman
who had played her role brilliantly in a raucous rail-
way car. Death. He was either the distant observer
or the execuboner, all in the unholy name of
Aquitaine. He was back back in the camps and the
jungles that he had sworn never to return to. He
could only survive and hope that someone better
than himself would provide the solutions. But at the
moment, death was both his closest ally and his
most hostile adversary. He wanted to collapse into
nothingness let some
THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 469