The Aquaintaine Progession

by Ludlum, Robert

  Those memories belonged to another ffme, to anuncivilized time, when men became what they werenot in order to survive. Converse never wanted to goback. Above all things, he had promised himself henever would, a promise he made when the terror andthe violence were all around him, at their shatteringworst. He remembered so vividly, with such pain, thefinal hours before his last escape and the quiet,generous man without whom he would have diedtwenty feet down in the earth, a shaft in the grounddesigned for troublemakers.

  Colonel Sam Abbott, US. Air Force, would alwaysbe a part of his life no matter how many years mightseparate them. At the risk of torture and death, Samhad crawled out at night and had thrown a crudelyfashioned metal wedge down the “punishment hole’, itwas that primitive tool that allowedloel to build acrude ladderoutof earth and rock and finally tofreedom. Abbott and he had spent the last twenty-sevenmonths in the same cam p, both officers trying to holdtogether what sanity there was. But Sam understoodthe burning inside Joel; the Colonel had stayed behind,and during those final hours before breakout, Joel waswracked by the thoughts of what might happen to hisfriend

  “Don’t worry about me, sailor. Just keep yourminimum wits about you and get rid of that wedge.

  Take care, Sam.

  You take care. This is the last shot you’ve got.

  I know.

  Joel moved over toward the door and rolleddown the window several inches more to increasethe rush of wind from the highway. Christ, heneeded Sam Abbott’s quiet objectivity now! Hislawyer’s mind told him to get hold of himself; hehad

  to think and his thoughts had to stimulate whateverimaginahon he had. First things first. Think! Theradio he had to get rid of the radio. But not at theairport it might be found in the airport; it wasevidence, and worse, a means of tracing him. Herolled the window further down and threw it out, hiseyes on the rearview mirror above the windshield.The driver glanced up at him, saw the bloody facebut showed no alarm; Joel took repeated deepbreaths and then rolled the window back up. Think.He had to think! Bertholdier expected him to gofrom Paris to Bonn and when the general’s soldierwas found and he had undoubtedly been found bynow all flights to Bonn would be watched, whetherthe man was alive or dead.

  He would buy a ticket for somewhere else,someplace where connections to Cologne-Bonn wereaccessible on a regular basis. As the stream of aircooled his face it occurred to him to remove thehandkerchief from his breast pocket and wipe awaythe moist blood that covered his right cheek andlower chin.

  "Scandinavian Air Icings,” he said, raising hisvoice to the driver. “SAS. Do you . . . comprends?”

  “Very clearly, monsieur,’ said the bereted manbehind the wheel in good English. " Do you have areservation for Stockholm, Oslo, or Copenhagen?They are different gates.”

  “I’m . . . I’m not sure.”

  “We have time, monsieur. At least fifteen minutes.”

  The voice over the telephone from London wasfrigid, the words and the delivery an impersonalrebuke. “There is no attorney by that name inChicago, and certainly not at the address you gaveme. In fact, the address does not exist. Do you havesomething else to offer, or do we put this down asone of your more paranoid fantasies, mon general?”

  “You are a fool, I’Anglais, with no morecomprehension than a frightened rabbit. I heard whatI heard!”

  “From whom? A nonexistent man?”

  “A nonexistent man who has put my aide in ahospital! A fractured skull with a great loss of bloodand severe brain damage. He may not live, and if hedoes, he will no doubt be a vegetable. Speak to menot of fantasies, daffodil The man is real.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “”Call the hospital! L’hopital Saint-Jerome. Letthe doctors tell you.”

  “All right, all right, compose yourself. We mustthink.”

  “I am perfectly composed,” said Bertholdier,getting up from the desk in his study and carryingthe phone to the window, the extension cord snakingacross the floor. He looked out; it had begun torain, the street lights diffused in the spattered glass.“He’s on his way to Bonn,” continued the general.“It was his next stop, he was very clear about it.”

  “Intercept him. Call Bonn, reach Cologne, givethem his description. How many flights can there befrom Paris with a lone American on board? Takehim at the airport. "

  Bertholdier sighed audibly into the phone, histone one of discouragement bordering on disgust. “Itwas never my intention to take him. It would serveno purpose and probably cut us off from what wehave to learn. I want him followed. I want to knowwhere he goes, whom he calls, whom he meets with;these are the things we must learn.”

  “You said he made a direct reference to ourassociate. That he was going to reach him.”

  “Not our people. H"s people.”

  “I’ll say it again,” insisted the voice fromLondon. “Call Cologne, reach Bonn. Listen to me,Jacques, he can be found, and once he is, he can befollowed.”

  “Yes, yes, I’ll do as you My, but it may not be aseasy as you think. Three hours ago I would havethought otherwise, but that was before I knew whathe was capable of. Someone who can take anotherman and rush that man’s head into a stone wall atfull force is either an animal, a maniac, or a zealotwho will stop at nothing. In my judgment, he is thelast. He said he had a commitment and it was inhis eyes. And he’ll be clever; he’s already proven hecan be clever.”

  “You say three hours?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then he may already be in Bonn.”

  “I know.”

  “Have you called our associate?”

  “Yes, he’s not at home and the maid could notgive me another number. She doesn’t know wherehe is, or when he’s expected.”

  “Probably in the morning.”

  “No doubt…. Auende^^I There was anotherman at the dub this afternoon. With Luboque andthis Simon, whose

  name is not Simon. He brought him to Luboque!Good-bye, I’Angla"s I’ll keep you informed.”

  ReneMattilon opened his eyes. The streaks oflight on the ceiling seemed to shimmer, myriad tinyclots bursting, breaking up the linear patterns. Thenhe heard the sound of the rain on the windows andunderstood. The shafts of light from the streetlampshad been intercepted by the glass, distorting theimages he knew so well. It was the rain, he con-cluded; that was what had awakened him. That andperhaps the weight of his wife’s hand between hislegs. She stirred and he smiled, trying to make up hismind or find the energy to reach for her. She hadfilled a void for him he had thought would always bethere after his first wife died. He was grateful, andalong with his feeling of gratitude came excitement,two emotions satisfyingly compatible. He wasbecoming aroused; he rolled over on his side andpulled down the covers, revealing the swell of herbreasts encased in laced silk, the diffused light andthe pounding on the windows heightening thesensuality. He reached for her.

  Suddenly, there was another sound besides therain, and though still wrapped in the mists of sleephe recognized it. Quickly he withdrew his hand andturned away from his wife. He had heard that noiseonly moments before; it was the sound that hadawakened him, an insistent tone that had broken thesteady rhythm of the downpour: the chimes of hisapartment doorbell.

  Mattilon climbed out of bed as carefully as hecould, reaching for his bathrobe on a nearby chairand sliding his feet into his slippers. He walked outof the bedroom, closing the door quietly behind him,and found the wall switch that turned on the lampsin the living room. He glanced at the ornate clock onthe fireplace mantel. it was nearly two-thirty in themorning. Who could possibly be calling on them atthis hour? He tied the sash around his robe andwalked to the door.

  “Yes, who is it?”

  “Surete, monsieur. Inspector Prudhomme. Mystate identification is zero-five-seven-two-zero.” Theman’s accent was Gascon, not Parisian. It was oftensaid that Gascons made the best police officials. “Ishall wait while you call my station, monsieur. Thetelephone number is “

  “No need,” said Mattilon, alarmed, unlatching thedoor.

&nb
sp; He knew the man was genuine not only from theinformation offered, but anyone from the Suretecalling on him at this hour would know he was anattorney. The Surete was legally circumspect.

  There were two men, both in raincoats spottedby the downpour, their hats drenched; one wasolder than the other and shorter. Each held out anopen identification for Rene’s inspection. He wavedthe cards aside and gestured for the two men tocome in, adding, “It’s an odd time for visitors,gentlemen. You must have pressing business.”

  “Very pressing, monsieur,” said the older man,entering first. He was the one who had spokenthrough the door, giving his name as Prudhomme,and was obviously the senior. “We apologize for theinconvenience, of course.” Both men removed theirhats.

  “Of course. May I take your coats?”

  “It won’t be necessary, monsieur. With yourcooperation we’ll only be a few minutes.”

  “And I shall be most interested to know how Ican cooperate with the Surete at this time of night."

  “A matter of identification, sir. Monsieur SergeAntoine Luboque is a client of yours, we areinformed. Is this so?”

  “My God, has something happened to Serge? Iwas with him only this afternoon!”

  “Monsieur Luboque appears to be in excellenthealth. We left his country house barely an hourago. And to the point, it is your meeting with himthis afternoon yesterday afternoon that concernsthe Surete.”

  “In what way?”

  “There was a third party at your table. Likeyourself, an attorney, introduced to MonsieurLuboquc-" man named Simon. Henry Simon, anAmerican.”

  “And a pilot,” said Mattilon warily. “Withconsiderable expertise in aircraft litigation. I trustLuboque explained that; it was the reason he wasthere at my request. Monsieur Luboque is theplaintiff in just such a lawsuit. That, of course, is allI can say on the subject.”

  “It is not the subject that interests the Surete.”

  “What is, then?”

  “There is no attorney by the name of HenrySimon in the city of Chicago, Illinois, in the UnitedStates.”

  “I find that hard to believe.”

  The name is false At least, it is not his. Theaddress he gave the hotel does not exist”

  The address he gave the hotels, Rene,astonished. Joel did not have to give an address tothe George V it knew him well, knew the firm ofTalbot, Brooks and Simon very well, indeed

  fin his own handwriting, monsieur,” added theyounger man sbfily

  Has the hotel management confirmed this?”

  eyes,” said Prudhomme The night concierge wasvery cooperative He told us he escorted MonsieurSimon down the freight elevator to the hotel cellars.”

  The cellars?”

  Monsieur Simon wished to leave the hotelwithout being seen. He paid his bill in his room”

  A minute, please,” said Mathlon, perplexed, hishands protesting, as he turned and walked aimlesslyaround an armchair. He stopped, his hands on therim. " What precisely do you want from mew

  Ewe want you to help us,” answered Prudhomme.We think you know who he is. You brought him toMonsieur Luboque.”

  On a confidential matter entailing a legalopinion He agreed to listen and to evaluate on thecondition that his idenbty be protected. It’s notunusual when seeking expertise if one is involvedwith, shall we say, an individual as wealthy and astemperamental as Monsieur Luboque You’ve spokenwith him; need I say more?”

  “”Not on that subject,” said the older man fromthe Surete permitting himself a smile. “He thinks allgovernment personnel work for Moscow. We weresurrounded by dogs in his foyer, all salivating, Imight add.”

  "When you can understand why my Americancolleague prefers to remain unnamed. I know himwell, he’s a splendid man.”

  Who is he? And do you know where we can findhim?”

  Why do you want him?”

  “We wish to question him about an incident thattook place at the hotel.”

  “I’m sorry. As Luboque is a client, so byextension is Simon “

  “That is not acceptable to us under thecircumstances, monsieur “

  “I’m afraid it will have to be, at least for a fewhours. Tomorrow I shall try to reach him throughhis office in . . . in the United States, and I’m surehe’ll get in touch with you immediately.”

  “We don’t think he will.”

  “Why not?”

  Prudhomme glanced at his starchly posturedassociate and shrugged. “He may have killed a man,”he said matter-of-factly.

  Mattilon stared at the Surete officer in disbelief.He … what?’

  It was a particularly vicious assault, monsieur.A man’s head was rammed into a wall; there areextensive cranial injuries and the prognosis is notgood. His condition as of midnight was critical, thechances of recovery less than half. He may be deadby now, which one doctor said could be a blessing.”

  No . . . no! You are mistaken! You’re wrong!”The lawyer’s hands gripped the back of the chair.A terrible error has been made!”

  No error. The identification was positive thatis, Monsieur Simon was identified as the last personseen with the man who was beaten. He forced theman out into an alley; there were sounds ofscuffling and minutes later that man was found, hisskull fractured, bleeding, near death.”

  "Impossible! You don’t know him! What yousuggest is inconceivable. He couldn’t.”

  “Are you telling us he is disabled, physicallyincapable of assault?”

  “No,” said Mattilon, shaking his head. Thensuddenly he stopped all movement. “Yes,” hecontinued thoughtfully, his eyes pensive, nownodding, rushing ahead. “He’s incapable, yes, butnot physically. Mentally. In that sense he is disabled.He could not do what you say he did.”

  “He’s mentally deranged?”

  “My God, no! He’s one of the most lucid menI’ve ever met. You have to understand. He wentthrough a prolonged period of extreme physicalstress and mental anguish. He endured punishment,to both his body and his mind. There was nopermanent damage but there are indeliblememories. Like so many men who’ve been subjectedto such treatment, he avoids all forms of physicalconfrontation or abuse. It is repugnant to him. Hecan’t inflict punishment because too much wasinflicted on him.”

  “You mean he would not defend himself, hisown? He would turn the other cheek if he, or hiswife, or his children were attacked?”

  “Of course not, but that’s not what you described.You said "a particularly vicious assault, implyingsomething quite different. And if it wereotherwise if he were threatened or attacked anddefended himself he most certainly would not haveleft the scene. He’s too fine a lawyer.” Mattilonpaused. “Was that the case? Is that what you’resaying? Is the injured man known to you from thepolice files? Is he “

  “A limousine chauffeur,” interrupted Prudhomme.“An unarmed man who was waiting for his assignedpassenger of the evening.”

  “In the cellars?”

  “Apparently it is a customary service and not anunfamiliar one. These firms are discreet. This onesent another driver to cover before inquiring as totheir employee’s condition. The client would notknow.”

  “Very chic, I’m sure. What do they say happened?”

  “According to a witness, a guard who’s been withthe hotel for eighteen years, this Simon approachedin a loud voice, speaking English the guard thinksangrily, although he does not understand thelanguage and forced the man outside.”

  “The guard is wrong! It had to be someone else.”

  “Simon identified himself. The concierge hadcleared his departure. The description fits; it was theone who called himself Simon.”

  “But why? There has to be a reason!”

  “We should like to hear it, monsieur.”

  Rene shook his head in bewilderment; nothingmade sense. A man could register at any hotel underany name he wished, of course, but there werecharges, credit cards, people calling; a false nameserved no purpose. Especially at a hotel where onewas presumably known, and if one was known andchose to travel incogmto, that status would no
t beprotected if a front desk was questioned by theSurete. “I must ask you again, Inspector, have youchecked thoroughly with the hotel?”

  “Not personally, monsieur,” replied Prudhomme,looking at his associate. “My time was taken upinterrogating those in the vicinity of the assault.”

  “I checked with the concierge myself, monsieur,” said

  the younger, taller man, speaking like aprogrammed robot. “ Naturally, the hotel is notanxious for the incident to receive attention, wascooperative. The night concierge is newly employedfrom the Hotel Meurice and wished to minimize theincident, but he himself showed me the registrationform. ”

  I see.” And Matfflon did see, at least insofar asJoel’s identity was concerned. Hundreds of guests ata large hotel and a nervous concierge protecting hisnew employer’s image. The obvious source wasaccepted as truth, another truth no doubtforthcoming in the morning from more knowl-edgeable men. But that was all Reneunderstood nothing else. He needed a fewmoments to think, to try to understand.

  “I’m curious,” he said, reaching for words. ”"Atworst, this is an assault with severe results, butnevertheless an assault. Why isn’t it a simple policematter? Why the Surete?”

  “My first question, monsieur,” said theplainspoken Prudhomme. The reason given us wasthat the incident involved a foreigner, obviously awealthy foreigner. One does not know these dayswhere such things may lead. We have certaincontrols not available to the arrond”ssement police."

  PI see.

  Ado you?” asked the man from the Surete. MayI remind you that as an attorney you have anobligation to uphold the courts and the law? Youhave been offered our credentials and I havesuggested you call my station for any furtherverification you might wish. Please, monsieur, whois Henry Simon?”

  PI have other obligations, as well, Inspector. Tomy word, to a client, to an old friendship “