Robert Ludlum - Aquatain Progression.txt

by The Aquitaine Progression [lit]

  closed the pocket.

  "You have done them much harm?"

  "Not yet, but I hope to." Converse held out the

  money. "There's enough for our friend downstairs

  and the rest is for you. Just bring me the car, along

  with one of those tourist maps of Amsterdam that

  show where all the major stores and hotels and

  restaurants are."

  "Perhaps I can tell you where it is you wish to go."

  "No, thank you."

  ']a. " The whore nodded knowingly and took the

  money. "These people are bad people?" she asked,

  counting out the

  "The pits, lady."

  "They do those things to your face?"

  "Yes. Mostly."

  "Go to the police.""

  476 ROBERT LUDIUM

  "The police? It's not practical. They wouldn't

  understand."

  "They want you also," concluded the woman.

  "Not for anything I did."

  The whore shrugged. "It is no problem for me,"

  she said going to the door. "I will say the auto is

  stolen. There is a Trom p garage twelve blocks from

  here; they know me. I have rented there when my

  Peugeot has troubles and I must get home. Ach,

  kinder`'n! Recitals, dance classes! Be downstairs in

  twenty minutes.',

  "Recitals?"

  "Don't look so, Veneer. I do my job and call it

  what it is. Most people do the same and call it

  something else. Twenty minutes.' The

  spangled-haired woman went out the door, closing

  it behind her.

  Joel approached the sink against the wall

  without enthusiasm, then saw it was spotless, a can

  of cleanser and a bottle of bleach below on the floor

  next to a roll of paper towels. Naturally. Dance

  lessons and recitals were part of the whore's life as

  well as a car that often gave her trouble, just like

  any other commuter. Converse looked in the mirror;

  the woman was right, he was "no fine picture," but

  one had to be quite close to him to notice the

  severity of the bruises. He splashed water on his

  face, then blotted it, put on the dark glasses and

  made himself as presentable as possible.

  It had happened. Val had come to find him, and

  despite the horrors surrounding their seeing each

  other again, a part of him wanted to

  sing silently or shout silently into the mists of his

  imagination. He wanted so much to look at her, to

  touch her, hear her voice close to him and he

  knew it was for all the wrong reasons. He was the

  hunted and in pain and vulnerable, all the things he

  had never been when they were together, and

  because he was what he had become, he permitted

  her to find him. It was hardly admirable. He did not

  care to be a hungry dog in a cold rain; it did not fit

  his part of their past dual image, the de suite, as

  Rene Mattilon had phrased it . . . Rene. A

  telephone call had signed the order for his

  execution. Aquitaine How in God's name could he

  let Val even come near him? thought Joel, a terrible

  pain in his throat. The answer was the same:

  Aquitaine. And the fact that he thought he knew

  what he was doing. Every move he made in the

  streets, and on the trains, and in the cafes, was as

  carefully thought out as the steps he had taken in

  the jungles in

  THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 477

  the routes he had chosen, in the rivers and streams

  he had forded and used as watery tunnels to bypass

  an enemy time and again. He would use an

  automobile in Amsterdam, and a map of Amsterdam.

  He looked at his w etch; it was almost five-thirty.

  He had roughly two and a half hours to find the

  Amstel Hotel and drive around again and again until

  he knew every foot of the area, every stoplight, every

  side street and canal. And then the route to one

  other place the American embassy or the consulate.

  It was part of his plan, the only protection he could

  give her if she followed his instructions. somewhere

  an airlines schedule; that, too, was part of the plan.

  Twelve minutes had passed, and he wanted to be

  at the doorway when Emma, the honest commuter,

  drove up in front of the house on the crowded street.

  If there was no place to park at the curb, he would

  walk out on the pavement, signal to her to leave the

  car and quickly replace her behind the wheel so as

  not to hold up traffic.. He left the small room, went

  to the staircase and started down, aware of the

  feigned groans of ecstasy behind several closed doors.

  He wondered briefly if the girls had thought of using

  cassette recorders; they could push buttons while

  reading magazines. He reached the second landing;

  below in clear view was the cherub-faced, mid-

  dle-aged owner of the establishment behind his

  counter. He was on the telephone. Joel continued

  down the steps, in his hand a $100 bill he had

  decided to give the man an addihonal gratuity in

  exchange for his life.

  As he set foot on the lobby floor he suddenly was

  not at all sure he should let the "concierge" have

  anything but a cage in the Mekong River. The

  pink-faced man looked over at Converse, his eyes

  wide, staring fixedly, the blood draining from his

  cherubic cheeks. He trembled as he hung up the

  phone, attempted a smile, then spoke in a

  high-pitched voice. "Problems! There are always

  problems, sir. Scheduling is so difficult I should buy

  a computer."

  The bastard had done it! He had made the call to

  a man down the street in a cafe! "Keep your hands

  on the counter!" shouted Joel.

  The command did not come in time, the

  Dutchman raised a gun from below. Converse lunged

  forward, his hand tearing at the buttons of his jacket,

  finding the handle of the revolver in his belt. The

  "concierge" fired wildly as Joel crashed his left

  shoulder up into the flimsy counter; it col

  478 ROBERT LUDLUM

  lapsed and Converse saw the extended arm, the

  hand holding the gun. He swung the barrel of his

  own weapon onto the Dutchman's wrist; the gun

  went flying, clattering over the lobby floor.

  "You bastard!" cried Joel, grabbing the man by

  the front of his shirt, pulling him up. "You bastard!

  I paid you!"

  "Don't kill me! Please! I am a poor man in much

  debt! They said they only wished to talk to you!

  What harm is there in that? Please! Don't do this!"

  "You're not worth the price to me, you son of

  a bitch." Converse crashed the barrel of the gun

  down on the Dutchman's head and ran to the door.

  The street was crowded with traffic, then suddenly

  there was a break and the cars and buses and open

  tourist vans lurched forward. Where was she?

  Where was Emma the Prachcal?

  "Theodoor! Doze kerel is onmogelijk! Hid wil . . .

  !" The hysterical words came from a bare-breasted

  woman rushing down the staircas
e, a thin, short slip

  covering the essentials of her trade. She stopped on

  the next to last step, saw the carnage and the

  unconscious Theodoor and screamed. Joel ran to

  her and clamped his left hand over her mouth; his

  right with the gun pressed against her shoulder,

  pushing her into the railing.

  "Be quiet!" Converse could not restrain himself

  from showing. "Shut up!" He slammed his elbow

  into the proshtute's neck, the weapon now in front

  of her face. She screamed again and kicked viciously

  at his groin, gouging his nostrils with two fingers,

  scratching, pushing him away. He could do nothing

  else but to pummel the handle of the gun into the

  base of her law. Her red lips parted and remained

  open; she went limp.

  Doors crashed everywhere above, beyond the

  staircase, metal and wood smashing into walls. He

  heard shouts, angry frightened, questioning. A horn

  suddenly intruded, blaring from the street beyond

  the open front door. He ran to the doorframe, his

  right arm supporting him, the gun out of sight.

  It was Emma the whore, the car in the middle of

  the street, unable to crawl to the curb. He shoved

  the weapon under his jacket, under his belt, and ran

  outside. She understood his gestures and got out of

  the car; he raced around the hood. "Thank you!" he

  said.

  , "It was stolen!" she said, shrugging. "Good

  fortune, Meneer. I think you will need it, but it is not

  my problem."

  THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 479

  He jumped into the seat behind the wheel and

  studied the panel as if he were approaching Mach I

  and had to understand the readouts of every dial. It

  was simple, primitive; he pulled the gear into D and

  started up with the surrounding traffic.

  Without warning, the figure of an immense man

  slammed against the window on his right. Joel

  lurched and slapped the lock on the window; taking

  advantage of another break in the traffic, he spurted

  forward. The killer held on as he yanked out a gun.

  Converse careened into the side of an automobile

  parked at the curb, and still the man held on. Joel

  reached under his jacket as the killer, holding on to

  God knew what, brought his weapon up and aimed

  at Converse. Joel ducked, smashing his head into the

  window frame as the explosion shattered the glass,

  fragments entering his skin above his eyes. But his

  gun was free; he pointed it at the figure hugging the

  window and pulled the trigger. Twice.

  Two muted spits echoed in the darkness of the

  car as two holes appeared in the area of the glass

  that had not been shattered. Screaming, both hands

  covering his throat, the man fell away, rolling onto

  the curb between two trucks. Converse turned right

  into a wide, empty alleyway. One man remains

  behind, down the street . . . He will bring back the

  others. He was free again for a while thought Joel.

  A dead man could not identify an automobile. He

  parked the car in shadows and pulled out a cigarette,

  trying to steady his hand as he struck the match.

  Inhaling deeply, he felt his forehead, and slowly,

  carefully removed the particles of glass.

  He now prowled the streets like a mechanised

  animal, but with each hesitation, each stop,;he used

  his eyes and nostrils as if he were a primitive thing

  conscious only of its need to survive in a violently

  hostile environment. He had made the run four times

  from the Amstel Hotel on the Tulpplein across the

  streets and over the canals to the American consul-

  ate on the city square called the Museumplein. He

  had learned the alternate approaches, he knew the

  side streets that would bring him back to the main

  route without interruphon. Lastly, he drove east and

  crossed the Schellingwouder Brug, the bridge over

  the ~ River and took the road along the coast until

  he found a stretch of deserted fields above the water.

  They would do; they were isolated. He turned

  around and headed back to Amsterdam.

  480 ROBERT LUDI.UM

  It was eight-thirty, the sky dark; he was ready.

  He had studied the tourist map, which included a

  paragraph on the use of pay phones. I le had once

  been a pilot; instructions were second nature. Thev

  were the difference between blowing an aircraft

  apart and landing it on a carrier. He parked the car

  across the street from the Amstel Hotel and walked

  into a booth.

  'Miss Charpentier, please. '

  "Dank u, " said the operator, shifting instantly to

  English. ' One moment, please.... Oh, yes, Missen

  Charpentier arrive only one hour ago. 1 have her

  room now."

  "Thank you."

  "Hello?"

  Oh God, should he speak? Could he speak?

  Aquitaine. "Val, it's Jack Talbot. I took a chance you

  might fly in. Glad you did. How are you,

  youngster?"

  "Totally exhausted, you awful man. I talked to

  New York this afternoon and mentioned our

  accounts in Amsterdam courtesy of one Jack

  Talbot. The orders were for me to get to Canal City

  and spend tomorrow morning holding hands."

  "Why not hold mine?"

  "They're too cold. You can, however, buy me

  dinner."

  "Be delighted, but first I need a favor. Can you

  grab a cab and pick me up at the consulate on

  Museumplein?"

  "What. . . ?" The pause was filled with fear.

  "Why, Jack?" The question was a whisper.

  Converse lowered his voice. "I've been here for

  a couple of hours taking too damn much abuse and

  I'm afraid I blew my cork."

  "What happened? "

  "It was dumb. My passport expired today and I

  needed a temporary extension. Instead I got a

  half-dozen lectures and told to come back in the

  morning. I was very loud and not too benign."

  "And now it would be embarrassing for you to

  ask them to call you a cab, is that it?"

  "That's it. If I knew this part of the city I'd walk

  and try to find one, but I've never been over here

  before."

  "I'll straighten my face and pick you up. Say in

  about twenty minutes?"

  "Thanks, I'll be outside. If I'm not, wait in the

  cab, I'll only be a few minutes. You've got yourself

  a good dinner, young

  THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 481

  ster." Joel hung up the phone, left the booth and

  went back to the rented car. The waiting had begun,

  the watching would soon follow.

  Ten minutes later he saw her, and the pounding

  in his chest accelerated. A mist clouded his eyes. She

  walked out the glass doors of the Amstel, carrying a

  large, dark cloth bag, her posture erect, her stride

  long and graceful, bespeaking the dancer she might

  have been, announcing her presence without

  pretence, telling anyone who watched her that she

  was he
rself; no artifices were necessary. He had once

  loved her so, as much for the person she appeared

  to be as for the woman she was. But he had not

  loved her enough, she had slipped away from him

  because he had not cared enough. There was not

  that muc h love or care in him. "Burn-out!" she had

  shouted. "Emotional burn-out!"

  There had been nothing left to say; he could not

  dispute her. He had been running so fast, so

  furiously, wanting it all yet not wanting to remember

  the reasons why wanting only to get even. He had

  concealed the intensity of his feelings with flippancy

  and a casualness that bordered on disdain, but he

  was not casual at all, and there was little room for

  the time consumed in being disdainful. There was

  also very little room for people, for Val. Being

  together demanded the responsibility that was part

  of any relationship, and as the months stretched into

  a year, then two and three, he knew it was not in

  him to live up to that responsibility. As much as he

  profoundly disliked himself for it, he could not be

  dishonest with either himself or Valerie. He had

  nothing left to give; he could only take. It was better

  to break clean.

  The waiting was over; the watching began. The

  Amstel doorman hailed her a cab and she climbed

  in, immediately leaning forward in the seat to give

  instructions. Twenty tense seconds later, during

  which his eyes scanned the street and the pavements

  in every direction, he started the car and switched on

  the headlights. No automobile had crept out from

  the curb after the taxi; still, he had to be certain.

  Joel swung the wheel and drove into the street,

  heading for the most direct route to the consulate. A