Robert Ludlum - Aquatain Progression.txt
Page 80
station still visible in the darkness, the ocean waves
lapping at the pilings.
"Now we talk," said the guard. "Who are these
traitors and why should I believe you?"
"I want your word that you'll tell your superiors
I turned them in. I don't say anything until I have
your word!"
"My word, americano?" said the Italian, laughing
softly. "Very well, amino, you have my word."
The guard's quiet, cynical laughter covered the
seconds. Connal suddenly whipped out the chain and
crashed it down on the man's weapon; grabbing the
barrel of the gun with his right hand, he wrenched it
free; it fell to the grass below. He then raised the
chain as he kicked the guard in the groin, and
slammed the heavy links into the man's face,
smashing the manacles into the Italian's skull until
the guard's eyes grew wide and then closed in
unconsciousness. Fitzpatrick crouched, finding his
bearings.
It was directly ahead an old submarine slip, its
long pier extending out to the middle water. He got
up and ran. The air was exhilarating, the breezes
from the sea told him to run faster, faster. Escape
was seconds away.
He plunged over the dock into the water,
knowing he would find the strength to do anything,
swim anywhere! He was free!
Suddenly, he was blinded by the floodlights
everywhere.
514 ROBERT LUDIUM
Then a fusillade of bullets exploded from all sides,
ripping up the water around him, cracking the air
overhead, but none entering his body or blowing
apart his head. And words over a loudspeaker filled
the night: "You are most fortunate, Prisoner
Number Forty-three, that we still might have need
of you. Otherwise, your corpse would be food for
the North Sea fishes."
30
Joel walked out of the bright afternoon sun into
Amsterdam's cavernous Centroal station. The dark
suit and hat fit comfortably; the clerical collar and
the black shoes pinched but were bearable, and the
small suitcase was an impediment he could discard
at any time, although it was a correct accessory and
held odd bits of clothing, none of which was likely
to fit. Since a deja vu would be no illusion for those
he had encountered before, he walked cautiously,
alert to every sudden movement no matter how
inconsequential. He expected at any instant to see
men rushing toward him, their eyes filled with
purpose and the intent to kill.
No such men came, but even if they had come,
he would have had some comfort in knowing he had
done his best. He had written the most complete
brief of his legal career, written it with painstakingly
clear handwriting, organizing the material, pulling
together the facts to support his judgments and
conjectures. He had recalled the salient points of
each dossier to lend credibility to his own
conclusions. Regarding his own painful experiences
and firsthand observations, he had weighed every
statement, discarding those that might seem too
emotional, reshaping the rest to reflect the cold ob-
jectivity of a trained, sane legal mind. He had lain
awake for hours during the night, allowing the
organisational blocks to fall into place, then started
writing in the early morning, ending with a personal
letter that dispelled any misconceptions about his
madness. He was a pawn who had been manipulated
by frightened, invisible men who had supplied the
tools and knew exactly what they were doing. In
spite of everything
THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 515
that had happened he understood, and felt that
perhaps there had not been any other way to do it.
He had finished it all an hour ago and sealed the
pages in a large envelope supplied by the old man
who said he would post it on the Damrak after
dropping Converse off. Joel had sent it to Nathan
Simon.
"Pastoor Wilcrist! It is you, is it not?"
Converse spun around at the touch on his arm.
He saw that the shrill greeting came from a gaunt,
slightly bent woman in her late seventies. Her
wizened face was dominated by intense eyes, her
head framed by a nun's crown, her slender body
encased in a black habit. "Yes," he said, startled.
"Hello, Sister?"
"I can tell you don't remember me, Pastoor,"
exclaimed the woman, her English
heavily loudly accented. "No, don't fib, I can see
you have no idea who I aml"
"I might if you'd keep your voice down, Sister."
Joel spoke softly, leaning down and trying to smile.
"You'll call attention to us, lady."
"The religious always greet each other so," said
the old woman confidentially, her eyes wide and
direct, too direct. "They wish to appear like normal
people."
"Shall we walk over here so we can talk quietly?"
Converse took the woman by the arm and led her
toward a crowded area of a gate. "You have
something for me?"
"Where are you from?"
"Where am I from? What do you mean?"
"You know the rules. I have to be certain."
"Of what?"
"That you are the proper contact. There can be
no substitutes, no deviations. We are not fools,
Meneer. Now, where are you from? Quicklyl
Hesitation itself is a lie."
"Wait a minutel You were told to meet me here;
you were given a description. What more do you
want?"
"To know where you're from."
"Chest, how many sunburned priests did you
expect to see at the information booth?"
"They are not no un-normal. Some swim, I am
told. Others play tennis. The Pope himself once skied
in the moumtain sun! You see I am a good Catholic,
I know these things."
"You were given a description! Am I that man?"
"You all-look alike. The Father last week at
confession was not a good man. He told me I had
too many sins for my age and he had others waiting.
He was not a patient man of God."
516 ROBERT LUDLUM
"Neither am I."
"All alike."
"Please, " said Joel, looking at the thick, narrow
envelope in the woman's hands, knowing that if he
took it forcibly from her she would scream. "I have
to reach Osnabruck, you know that!"
'You are from Osnabru'ck?" The "nun" clutched
the envelope to her chest, her body bent further,
protecting a holy thing.
"No, not Osnabruck!" Converse tried to
remember Val's words. He was a priest on a
pilgrimage . . . to Auschwitz and Bergen-Belsen . .
. from, from. . . "LosAngeles!" he whispered harshly.
"Ja, Hoed. What country?"
"Jesus!"
"lariat?"
"The United States of America."
"Goed! Here you are, Meneer. " The old woman
handed him the envelope,
now smiling sweetly. "We
all must do our jobs, must we not? Go with God,
my fellow servant of the Lord.... I do like this
costume. I was on the stage, you know. I don't think
I'll give it back. Everyone smiles, and a gentleman
who came out of one of those dirty houses stopped
and gave me fifty Builder."
The old woman walked away, turning once and
smiling again, discreetly showing him a pint of
whisky she had taken from under her habit.
It might have been the same platform, he could
not tell, but his fears were the same as when he
arrived in Amsterdam twenty-four hours ago. He
had come to the city as an innocuous-looking
laborer with a beard and a pale, bruised face. He
was leaving as a priest, erect, clean-shaven,
sunburned, a properly dressed man of the cloth on
a pilgrimage for repentance and reaffirmation. Gone
was the outraged lawyer in Geneva, the
manipulating supplicant in Paris, the captured dupe
in Bonn. What remained was the hunted man, and
to survive he had to be able to stalk the hunters
before they could stalk him; that meant spotting
them before they spotted him. It was a lesson he
had learned eighteen years ago when his eyes were
sharper and his body more resilient. To compensate,
he had to use whatever other talents he had
developed; all were reduced to his ability to
concentrate without appearing to concentrate.
Which was how and why Joel saw the man.
THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 517
He was standing by a concrete pillar up ahead on
the platorm reading an unfolded train schedule in
the dim light. Converse glanced at him as, indeed,
he glanced briefly at Early everyone in sight then
seconds later he looked again. something was odd,
incongruous. There could be several reaons why a
man remained outside a well-lit railroad car to ead
a schedule a last cigarette in the open air, waiting
for omeone but that same man could hardly read
the very mall print while casually holding the
schedule midway beween his head and his waist
without any evidence of a squint. :t was like trying to
read a page from a telephone directory n a car stuck
in traffic in the Lincoln Tunnel, it took observble
effort.
Converse continued down the platform,
approaching the wo open doors that signified the end
of one railway car and :he beginning of the next. He
purposely let his suitcase catch n a protruding
window ledge, pivoting as it did so, and apolo~ized
to a couple behind him. Courteously he let them pass
md courteously, as each saw his collar, they smiled
and nodded. But while he remained facing them, his
eyes strayed to he man diagonally to the left by the
pillar. The man still -latched the schedule in his hand
but was concentrating now on Joel. It was enough.
Converse entered the second door, his gait casual
again, but the instant he could no longer see the man
by the pillar he rushed inside the railroad car. He
tripped, falling to the floor by the first seat, and
again apologised to those behind him a divine
undone by profane luggage. He looked out the
window, past the two passengers in the seat, both of
whom paid attention to his collar before looking at
his face.
The man by the pillar had dropped the schedule
and was now frantically signaling with quick
beckoning gestures. In seconds he was joined by
another man, their conversation was rapid, then they
separated, with one going to the door at the front of
the car, the other heading for the entrance Joel had
just passed through.
They had found him. He was trapped.
Valerie paid the driver and climbed out of the
cab, thanking the doorman, who greeted her. It was
the second hotel reservation she had made in the
space of two hours, having left a dead-end trail in
case anyone was following her. She had taken a cab
from Kennedy to LaGuardia, bought a ticket to
518 ROBERT IUDLUM
Boston on a midmorning shuttle, then registered at
the air port motel, both under the name of
Charpentier. She had lef the motel thirty minutes
later, having paid the cabdriver k return for her at
a side exit and calling the hotel in Manhattar to see
if a reservation was possible at that hour. It was.
The St. Regis would welcome Mrs. DePinna, who
had flown ir from Tulsa, Oklahoma, on a sudden
emergency.
At the all-night Travelers Shop in Schilphol
Airport, Va had purchased a carry-on bag, filling it
with toiletries anc whatever more inconspicuous
articles of clothing she could find among the all too
colorful garments on the racks. It we. still the
height of the summer, and depending upon the cir
cumstances, such clothes might come in handy. Also
she needed something to show customs.
She registered at the hotel desk, using a
"Cherrywooc Lane" but without a number she
remembered from hel childhood in St. Louis.
Indeed, the name DePinna came from those early
days as well, a neighbor down the street, the face a
blur now, only the memory of a sad, vituperative
woman who loathed all things foreign, including
Val's parents. "Mrs R. DePinna," she had written;
she had no idea where the "R' came from possibly
Roger for balance.
In the room she turned on the radio to the
all-news station, a habit she had inherited from her
marriage, and proceeded to umpack. She undressed,
took a shower, washed out her underthings, and
slipped into the outsized T-shirt. This last was
another habit; "T-sacks," as she called them, had
replaced bathrobes and morning coats on her patio
in Cape Ann, although none had a sunburst
emblazoned on the front with words above and
below heralding TOT ZIENS AMSTERDAM:
She resisted calling room service for a pot of
tea; it would be calming, but it was an unnecessary
act that at three o'clock in the morning would
certainly call attention, however minor to the
woman in 714. She sat in the chair staring absently
at the window, wishing she hadn't given up
cigarettes it would give her something to do while
thinldng, and she had to think She had to rest, too,
but first she had to think, organize herself She
looked around the room, and then at her purse,
which she had placed on a bedside table. She was
rich, if nothing else. Joel had insisted she take the
risk of getting through customs with more than the
$5,0001egal limit. So she had rolled up an
additional twenty $500 bills and shoved them into
her
THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 519
brassiere. had been right; she could not use credit
cards or anything that carried her name.
She saw two telephone directories on the shelf of
the table. Sitting on the edge of the bed, she
removed both volumes. The cover of one read, New
York County, Business to Business; the other,
Manhattan and in the upper left-hand corner,
printed across a blue diagonal strip: GovernmentList-
ings See Blue Pages. It was a place to start. She
returned the business directory to the shelf and
carried the Manhattan book over to the desk. She sat
down, opened to the blue pages and found
Department of the Air Force . . . Command Post
ARPC. It was an 800 number, the address on York
Street in Denver, Colorado. If it was not the number
she needed, whoever she reached could supply the
correct one. She wrote it down on a page of St. Regis
stationery.
Suddenly Val heard the words. She snapped her
head around toward the television set, her eyes on
the vertical radio dial.
" . . And now the latest update on the search for the
American attorney, Joel Converse, one of the most
tragic stories of the decade. The former Navy pilot, once
honored for outstanding bravery in the Vietnam war,
whose dramatic esca pe electrified the nation, and
whose subsequent tactical reports shocked the military,
leading, many believed, to basic changes in
Washington's Southeast Asian policies, is still at large,
hunted not for the man he was, but for the homicidal
killer he has become. Reports are that he may still be in
Paris. Although not of ficial, word has been leaked
from unnamed but authoritative sources within the
Surete that fingerprints found on the premises where the
French lawyer, Rene Mattilon, was slain are definitely
those of Converse, thus confirming what the authorities
believed that Converse killed his French acquaintance