The Aquaintaine Progession

by Ludlum, Robert

”Johann. My hands are on the table. They’vebeen on the table since we sat down.”

  “What . . . ?” The young Cerman blinked andlooked at Converse’s forearms, both of which werein front of him, his hands clasped on the whitemetal surface. “You have no gun?”

  “Oh, yes, I have a gun. I took it from a man whowould have killed me if he’d had the chance.” Joelreached into his pocket as Johann stiffened.“Cigarettes,” said Converse, taking out a pack and abook of matches. “It’s a terrible habit. Don’t start ifyou don’t smoke.”

  “It’s very expensive.”

  “Among other things. ” Joel struck a match,lighting a cigarette, his eyes remaining on thestudent. “We’ve talked off and on since last night.Except for a few moments back there in the crowdwhen you could have had me Iynched, do I look orsound like the man described in that newspaperstory?”

  “I am no more a doctor than a lawyer.”

  “Two points for the opposition. The burden ofsanity’s on me. Besides, it said I appeared perfectlynormal.”

  “It said you suffered a great deal.”

  “Several hundred years ago, but no more thanthousands of others and far, far less than somefifty-eight thousand who never came back. I don’tthink an insane man is capable of making a rationalremark like that under these circumstances do you?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “”I’m trying to tell you that everything you just readto

  me is an example of a man being tried by negativejournalism. Truths mixed with half-truths, distortions,and implausible judgments were slanted to supportthe lies that are meant to convict me. There’s not acourt in any civilised country that would admit thatkind of testimony or permit a jury to hear t.

  “Men have been killed,” said Johann, again hiswords whispered. “The ambassador was killed.”

  “Not by me. I wasn’t anywhere near theAdenauer Bridge at eight o’clock last night. I don’teven know where it is.”

  “Where were you?’

  “Not where anyone saw me, if that’s what youmean. And those who know I couldn’t have been atthe bridge would be the last people on earth to sayso.”

  “There has to be some evidence of where youwere.” The young German nodded at the cigarette inConverse’s hand. “Perhaps one of those. Perhaps youfinished a cigarette.”

  “Or finger or foot prints? Pieces of clothing?There’s all of that, but they don’t tell the time.”

  “There are methods,” corrected Johann. “Theadvances in the technology of. . . Forschung. . . theinvestigation techniques have been rapid.”

  “Let me finish that for you. I’m not a criminallawyer but I know what you’re saying. Theoretically,for example, the ground depression of a footprintmatched with the scrapings off my shoes could putme where I was within the hour.”

  "7a!”

  “No. I’d be dead before a scrap of evidencereached a laboratory.”

  “Why?”

  “I can’t tell you. I wish to God I could but I can’t.”

  “Again, I must ask why?” The fear in the youngman’s eyes was joined by disappointment, the lastglimpse of believability, perhaps, gone with Joel’srefusal to explain.

  “Because I can’t, I won’t. You said a few minutesago that I’d done enough to you, and withoutmeaning to, I have. But I won’t do this. You’re notin a position to do anything but get yourself killed.That’s as frankly as I can put it, Johann.”

  “I see.”

  “No you don’t, but I wish there was a way toconvince you that I have to reach others. People whocan do something.

  They’re not here; they renot in Bonn, but I’ll reachthem if I can get away.”

  “There’s something else? You would have me dosomething else?” The young German stiffened again,and again his hands trembled.

  “No. I don’t want you to do anything. I’m askingyou not to do anything at least for a while.Nothing. Give me a chance to get out of here andsomehow get in touch with people who can helpme help all of us.”

  “All of us?”

  “I mean that, and it’s all I’ll say.”

  “These people are not to be found in your ownembassy A merikaner?”

  Converse looked hard at Johann, his eyes assteady as he could manage. “Ambassador WalterPeregrine was killed by one or more men at thatembassy. They came to kill me last night at thehotel.”

  Johann breathed deeply, taking his eyes offJoeland staring down at the table. “Back at the kiosk, inthe crowd, when you threatened me . . . you saidthree men had been killed already three decentmen.”

  “I’m sorry. I was desperate.”

  “It wasn’t simply that, it was what you said rightafterward. You said why should I be the exception.Because I was young? That was no reason, youclaimed, and then you shouted very strangewords I remember them precisely. You said,"When you come right down to it, who the hell arewe dying for?’ It was more than a question, I think.”

  “I won’t discuss the implications of that remark,counselor. And I can’t tell you what to do. I canonly tell you what I’ve told dozens of clients overthe years. When a decision is reduced to severalstrong opposing arguments mine included andyou’ve listened to them all, put them behind youand follow your own gut instinct. Depending uponwho and what you are, it’ll be the right one for you.”Converse paused, pushing back his chair. “Now I’mgoing to get up and walk out of here. If you startscreaming, I’ll run and try to hide somewhere whereI’ll be safe before anyone recognises me. Then I’lldo whatever I can do. If you don’t set off an alarm,I’ll have a better chance, and that in my view wouldbe best for all of us. You could go to theuniversity library and come out in an hour or so,buy a paper, and go to the police. I’d expect

  you to do that, if you felt you had to. That’s my view.I don’t know what yours is. Good-bye, Johann.”

  Joel rose from the table, bringing his handinstantly to his face, his fingers spread, touching hiseyebrows. He turned and walked through the tablesto the pavement, veering right, heading for the firstintersection. He barely took a breath; his lungs werebursting for air but he dared not let even a breathimpair his hearing. He waited as he walked, his pulseaccelerating, his ears so keenly tuned that theslightest dissonance would have burned them.

  There were only the sounds of the excited streetconversations in counterpoint with the blaring hornsof taxis not the screams of a young male voiceraising an alarm. He walked faster, entering the flowof pedestrians crossing thesquare faster,faster passing strollers who saw noneed to rush. He reached the curb of the oppositepavement and slowed down a rapidly walking mancalled attention to himself. Yet the impulse to breakinto a run was almost uncontrollable the farther hedistanced himself from the tables of the sidewalkbakery-cafe. His ear had picked up no alarm andevery split second of that absence told him to raceinto whatever secluded side streets he could find.

  Nothing. Nothing broke the discordant sounds ofthe square, but there was a change, a discerniblechange, and it had nothing to do with strident alarmsprovoked by a single screaming voice. The discordantsounds themselves had become subdued, replaced byshrugs and relaxed gestures indicating inability tocomprehend. The word Amerikaner was repeatedeverywhere. The panic initially ignited by the newshad passed. An American had killed an American; itwas not a German assassin, or a Communist, or evena terrorist who had eluded the Federal Republic’ssecurity arrangements. Life could go on; Deutschlandcould not be held responsible for the death and thecitizens of Bonn breathed a sigh of relief.

  Converse spun around the corner of a brickbuilding and stared across the square at the tables ofthe bakery-cafe. The student, Johann, remained inhis chair, his head bowed, supported by both hands,reading the newspaper. Then he got up and walkedinto the bakery itself. Was there a telephone insiderWould he talk to someone?

  How long, can I waits thought Converse, preparedto run, as instinct held him back.

  Johann came out of the bakery carrying a tray ofcoffee and rolls. He sat down and m
eticulouslyseparated the plates from the tray and once againstared at the newspaper in front of him. Then helooked up at nothing in particular as if he knew hewas being watched by unseen eyes and noddedonce.

  Another risk-taker, thoughtJoel,as he turned andlooked and listened to the unfamiliar sights andsounds of the side street he had entered. He hadbeen given a few hours; he wished he knew how touse them he wished he knew what to do.

  Valerie ran to the phone. If it was anotherreporter, she would say the same thing she had saidto the last five. I don’t believe a word of it and I’venothing more to say; And if it was one more personfrom Washington from the FBI or the CIA or theVA or any other combinations of the alphabet shewould scream! She had spent three hours beinginterviewed that morning until she had literallyordered the crucifiers out of the house. They wereliars trying to force her to support their lies. Itwould be far easier to take the phone off the hook,but she could not do that. She had called LawrenceTalbot in New York twice, telling his office to tracehim wherever he was and have him call her back. Itwas all madness. Insanity! as Joel used to say withsuch quiet intensity she thought his voice was a wildroar of protest.

  "Hello?”

  “Valleys It’s Roger.”

  “Dad!” Only one person had ever called her bythat name and that man was her formerfather-in-law. The fact that she was no longermarried to his son had made no difference in theirrelationship. She adored the old pilot and knew hefelt the same about her. “Where are you? Ginnydidn’t know and she’s frantic. You forgot to turn onyour answering machine.”

  “I didn’t forget, Valley. Too damned manypeople to call back. I just flew in from Hong Kong,and when I got off the plane I was upwinded by fiftyor sixty screaming newspaper people and so manylights and cameras I won’t be able to see or hearfor a week.”

  “Some enterprising airline clerk let out the wordyou were on board. Whoever it was will eat for aweek offa generous expense account. Where areyou?”

  “Still at the airport in the traffic manager’s oflice. I’ll say this for "em, they got me out of there….Valley, I just read the papers. They got me the latesteditions. What the hell is this all about?”

  “I don’t know, Dad, but I do know it’s a lie.”

  “That boy’s the sanest thing I ever had anythingto do with! They re twisting everything, making thegood things he did into something . . . I don’t know,sinister or something. He s too damned up-front tobe crazy!’

  “He s not crazy, Roger. He’s being taken, he’sbeing put through a wringer. "

  "What for?”

  “I don’t know. But I think Larry Talbot does atleast more than he’s told me.”

  “What has he told you?”

  “Not now, Dad. Later. "

  “Why?”

  “I’m not sure…. Something I feel, perhaps.’

  “You’re not making sense, Valley.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  "What did Ginny say? I’ll call her, of course.”

  "She’s hysterical.”

  “She always was a little bit.”

  “No, not that way. She’s blaming herself. Shethinks people are striking out at her brother for thethings she did in the sixties. I tried to tell her thatwas nonsense but I’m afraid I made it worse. Sheasked me perfectly calmly if I believed what wasbeing said about Joel. I told her of course I didn’t.”

  “The old paranoia. Three kids and an accountantfor a husband and it still comes back. I never couldhandle that girl. Damned good pilot, though. Soloedbefore Joel, and she was two years younger. I’ll phoneher.”

  “You may not be able to reach her.”

  “Oh?”

  “Sine s having her number changed, and I thinkyou should do the same thing. I know I’m going tothe minute I hear from Larry.”

  “Valley . . .” Roger Converse paused. “Don’t do that.”

  “Why not? Have you any idea what it’s been likehere?” “Look, you know I’ve never asked whathappened between you and Joel, but I usually havedinner with that piss ant lawyer once a week whenI’m in town. He thinks it’s some

  kind of filial necessity, but I’d knock it offina minuteif I didn’t like him. I mean he’s a likable guy, kind offunny sometimes.”

  “I know all that, Roger. What are you trying tosay?”

  They say he disappeared, that no one can findhim.”

  "He may call you. I can’t think of anyone else hewould

  Valerie closed her eyes; the afternoon sunthrough the skylight was blinding. "is that based onyour weekly dinner conversations? “

  “It’s not intuition. I never had any except in the air

  . . Of course it is. It was never said outright, but itwas always ust below the cloud cover.”

  “You’re impossible, Dad.”

  “Pilot error’s like any other. There are timeswhen you can ,t,lafford it; . . . Don’t change yournumber Vall “

  “Now, what about me?”

  “Ginny’s husband had a good idea. They’rereferring all questions to their attorney. Maybe youshould do the same. Do you have one?”

  “Sure,” said Roger Converse. “I got three. Talbot,Brooks and Simon. Nate’s the best, if you want toknow the truth. Did you know that at the age ofsixty-seven that son of a bitch took up flying? He’squalified in multiengines now can you imagine?”

  “Dad!” Valerie broke in suddenly. “You’re at theair

  “That’s what I said. Kennedy.”

  “Don’t go home. Don’t go to your apartment.Take the first plane you can to Boston. Use anothername. Call me back and let me know what flightyou’re on. I’ll pick you up.”

  “Just do as I say, Roger. Please!”

  “What for?”

  “You’re staying here. I’m leaving.”

  Converse hurried out of the clothing store on thecrowded Bornheimer Strasse and studied hisreflection in the window. He surveyed the overalleffect of his purchases, not as a customer inside infront of the full-length mirror for fit and appearance,but as one of the strolling pedestrians on thesidewalk. He was satisfied; there was nothing aboutthe clothes that called attention to him. Thephotograph in the papers the only one in the pastfifteen years that would be in a wire service ornewspaper file was taken about a year ago when hewas one of several merger attorneys interviewed byReuters. It was a head-and-shoulders shot, showinghim in his lawyer’s clothes a dark suit and vest,white shirt and striped tie the image of a risinginternational specialist. It was also the imageeveryone who read the papers had of him, and sinceit would not change but only spread with later edi-tions, then he was the one who had to change.

  Also, he could not continue to wear the clotheshe had worn to the bank. A panicked Lachmannwould undoubtedly give a complete description to thepolice, but even if his panic rendered him silent, hehad seen him in a dark jacket, white shirt and stripedtie. Unconsciously or not, thought Joel, he hadsought a patina of respectability. Perhaps all menrunning for their lives did so because their essentialdignity had been stolen from them. Regardless,dressed in those clothes he was the man in thenewspaper photograph.

  The appearance he had in mind belonged to ahistory professor he had known in college, a manwhose various articles of clothing were all related.His jackets were subdued tweeds with elbow patches,the trousers grey heavy or light flannel, neveranything else and his shirts were blue but-toned-down oxford, again without exception. Abovehis thick horn-rimmed glasses was perched a softIrish walking hat, the brim sloped downward frontand back. Wherever that man

  went, whether down a street in Boston or NewYork’s Fifth Avenue or Beverly Hills’ RodeoDrive the last a place that oel was sure he neversaw one would know he belonged to academicNew England.

  Converse had managed to duplicate the outwardappearance of the man in his memory, except forthe tinted glasses, which he would have to replacewith horn rims. He had passed a large variety store,Bonn’s equivalent of an American five-and-dime,and he knew that there would be a counter withglasses of different sizes and shapes, a
few slightlymagnified for reading, others clear.

  For reasons that were only beginning to comeinto focus, those glasses were now vital to him.Then he understood. He was preoccupied with whathe knew he could do change his appearance. Hewas procrastinating, uncertain what to do next, notsure he was capable of doing anything.

  He looked at his face in the oval mirror of thevariety store, again satisfied with what he saw. Theersatz tortoiseshell rims were thick, the glass clear;the effect was owlish, scholarly. He was no longerthe man in the newspaper photograph, and equallyimportant, the concentration he had devoted to hisappearance had begun to clear his mind. He couldthink again, sit down somewhere and sort thingsout. He also needed food and a drink.

  The cafe was crowded, the stained-glass windowsmuting the summer sunlight into shafts of blue andred piercing the smoke. He was shown to a tableagainst the black-leather upholstered banquette,assured by the maitre d’, or whoever he was, thatan he had to do was request a menu in English; theitems were numbered. Whisky on the Continent,however was universaDy accepted as Scotch; heordered a double, and took out the pad andbar-point pen he had picked up at the variety store.His drink came and he proceeded to write.

  Connal Fitzpatrick?BriefcaseP$93,000 plusEmbassy outNo Larry 7albot et al.No BealeNo A nstettNo man in San FranciscoMen in Washington. WhoP

  Caleb Dowling? No. Hickman, Navy, San Diego?Possible.

  . . . Mattilon?

  Rene! Why hadn’t he thought of Mathlonbefore?He understood why the Frenchman made theremarks attributed to him anonymously in thenewspaper story. Rene was trying to be protective. Ifthere was no defence, or if it was so weak so as notto be viable, the most logical backup was temporaryinsanity. Joel circled Mattilon’s name and wrote thenumber I on the left, circling it also. He would finda telephone exchange in the streets, the kind whereoperators assigned booths to bewildered tourists, andcall Rene in Paris. He took two swallows of whisky,relaxing as the warmth spread through him, thenwent back to his list, stardng at the top.

  Connal . . ? The presumption that he had beenkilled was inevitable, but it was not conclusive. If hewas alive, he was being held for whateverinformation could be pried out of him. As the chieflegal officer of the West Coast’s largest and mostpowerful naval base, and a man who had a history ofmeetings with the State Department’s Office ofMunibons Control as well as its counterparts at thePentagon, Fitzpatrick could be an asset to the menof Aquitaine. Yet to call attention to him was toguarantee his execution, if he had not been killedalready. If he was still alive, the only way to save himwas to find him, but not in any orthodox or officialmanner; it had to be done secretly. Connal had to berescued secretly.