The Aquaintaine Progession

by Ludlum, Robert

  " Commendable but dumb,” said the Southerner.“A one-man Iynching mobs”

  “Actually, no. By simple equations we can assumehe went to the embassy at least he metsomeonefrom the embassy to explain why he wasthere, perhaps to warn them, who knows? But therest speaks for itself. This Converse struck and ourcommander disappeared. We’d like to find outwhether he’s alive or dead.”

  It was the Southerner’s turn to pause, but hisbreathing was clearly heard on the line. Finally: “BrerRabbit, you’ve simply got to put a little flesh onthose bones.”

  “I’m about to, General Lee.”

  “Much obliged, Yankee.”

  “It’s also related. If you were a lieutenantcommander in the United States Navy and wanted toreach someone at the embassy in Bonn, someonewho would accord you the attention your rankdeserved, who would you call?”

  “The military charge d’affaires, who else?”

  “That’s the man, Uncle Remus. Among otherthings, he’s a liar, but I can’t go into that. It’s ourthinking that the commander spoke with him and thecharge dismissed him as a fringe case, probablydidn’t even give him an appointment withAmbassador Peregrine. And when it happened, tosave his ass and his career well, people do strangethings.”

  “What you’re suggesting is awful damned strange.”

  “I won’t back away from it,” said the civilian.

  “Okay, what’s his name?”

  "Washburn. He’s a “

  “Norman Washburn? Major Norman AnthonyWashburn, the Third, Fifth, or Sixth?”

  “That’s the one. "

  “Don’t back away. You left the field too early.Washburn was in Beirut, then Athens and, afterthat, Madrid. He gave every Company flack in theterritories the business! He d nail his Park Avenuemama to a velvet wall for a good evaluation report.He figures by forty-five he’ll be heading the JointChiefs and he intends to.”

  "By forty-five?”

  “I’ve been out of touch for a couple of years, buthe can’t be any more than thirty-six, thirty-seven.The last I heard they were going to jump thelight-colonel status and make him a full bird, then abrigadier soon after that. He is loved, Yan

  "He’s a liar,” said the civilian in the dimly litapartment on Nebraska Avenue.

  “Sure ’nuff,” agreed the man in Bern, “but Inever figured anything this radical. I mean, he’s gotto be scratchin’ mule shit for oil to do something sofar out.”

  “I still won’t back away,” repeated the civilian,drinking his bourbon.

  “Which means you know.”

  “Check.”

  “And you can’t talk about that, either.” A statement.

  “Check again.”

  “Are you firm?” i f No room for error. He knowswhere the command

  “Holy Jesus! What are you Northern boys into?”

  “Will you track? Starting yesterday?”

  “With pleasure, Yankee. How do you want it?”

  “In the twilight zone. Only words that come withneedles that’s important He has to wake upthinking he ate a bad piece of meat.”

  “Women?”

  “I don’t know. You probably have a better fix onthat than I do. Would he risk his; image?”

  “With two or three Frauleins I’ve got in Bonn,Jesuits would risk the papacy, sub. The name of thecommander,

  “Fitzpatrick. Lieutenant Commander ConnalFitzpatrick. And, Uncle Remus, whatever you hear underthe needles, give only to me. No one else. No one.”

  "Which is the last part of what you can’t tell me,right?”

  “Check. "

  “My blinders are in place. One objective with onlyone target. No side trips and no curiosity, just a taperecorder in my head or my hand.”

  Again Stone paused, filling the silence with atentative whisper. “Tape . . . ?” Then he continued.“The latter’s not a bad idea. Mini-micro, of course.”

  “Naturally. Those little mothers are so small youcan hide them in the most embarrassing places.Where do I reach you? My quill is poised.”

  “All right, the area code’s eight-zero-four.” Theformer CIA man gave the expatriate in Bern atelephone number in Charlotte, North Carolina. “Awoman.will answer. Tell her you’re from the Tatianafamily and leave a number.”

  Their brief good-byes concluded, Peter hung upthe phone, got out of the chair and carried his drinkto the window. It was a hot, still night in Washington,the air outside barely moving, the hint of a summerstorm. If the rains came they would wash the streetsand cleanse at least part of the pollution.

  The former deep-cover agent wished there weresome balm on earth or from the skies that couldwash his hands and cleanse that part of his soul hehad not put on the auction block or for a disastrousperiod of time into a bottle of bourbon. Maybe all hehad done was hammer another nail in Converse’scoffin, one more scrap of credibility that labeled thelawyer something he was not. Stone realized thatinstead of casting reasonable doubts based on hisown certain knowledge, he had compounded thefiction that Converse was the psychopathic killer theinternational media described. Worse, he hadattributed that credibility to a responsible missingman, a naval officer who was most likely dead. Therewere two justifications for the lie, and only one wasremotely feasible; the other, however, was probablythe most productive move they could make. The firstassumed that Fitzpatrick might be alive, a weakpremise. But if he was dead, the missing commanderprovided the reason to call in an old debt and goafter a charge d’affaires named Washburn and do sowithout any connection to George Marcus Delavane.Even if “Johnny Reb” was caught and every man ina grey to black

  operation had to assume the possibility nomention could be made of an internationalconspiracy of generals…. Major Norman Washburn,IV, might or might not know the fate of ConnalFitzpatrick but everything else he might say underthe needles especially about thecommander would be of value.

  What surprised the civilian was Conversehimself in the matter of the Iying military attache.If Converse was running and not under lock Ed key,he certainly had to have learned about the lie thathad condemned him. If so why hadn’t the attorneydone something about it? The major’s lie was thechain’s weakest link; it could be snapped with aminimum of effort the man’s a liar. I was here orthere, or anywhere except where he placed me whenhe placed me. Stone drank sparingly from the glass;he knew the futility of speculating because he knewthe answer. It was why he did not feel that yetanother part of his soul had been clipped away.Converse was not in a position to do anything. Hewas either trapped or taken, soon to be offered upas a sacrificial corpse by the generals. There wasnothing anyone could do for him. He was a deadman, a sacrifice in the truest sense of theword given up even by his own.

  Peter walked back to the chair and sat down,loosening his tie and kicking off his shoes. He hadlearned years ago to cut losses in the field whereverpossible. If it meant disowning pawns or plants orblinds, one took the statistical approach and let theexecutions follow. It was better than losing more.But what was even better was to make significantprogress with whatever the loss. He was doing thatnow with Converse’s death and “Johnny Reb” inBern and a liar named Washburn.

  Oh, Chrtst! He was playing God again withcharts and diagrams pluses and minuses of humanvalue! Yet the objective was worth more thananything he had ever faced before. Delavane andhis legions had to be stopped, and they would notbe stopped in Washington. There were too manywatchful eyes, too many ears, too many men inunknown corners who believed in the myth -menwho had nothing else. The children were right aboutthat. And there would be no empty bottles ofbourbon on the floor now, or blurred memories ofnights past, or words passed. Despite advancing age,he was ready; he was primed.

  It was odd, thought the civilian. He had not usedthe Tatiana family in years.

  Joel watched from the ridge of the landfill asLeifLelm’s chauffeur and his companion approachedthe deserted building. Both were experienced; oneraced before the other, stopping behind displacedrocks from the fill and barrels used for early-morningfires. Almost
simultaneously they reached separatedoors, each door off its hinges, angling into the dirt.The chauffeur gestured with his weapon, and bothmen disappeared inside.

  Converse again looked behind him. The fencewas about two hundred yards away. Could he slidedown the stinking hill, race to the interwoven wireand climb over the fence before his executionerscame out of the decrepit building? Why not? Hecould try! He raised himself off his stomach, handssinking into the debris, spun to his right and plungeddownward.

  A distant crash came first and then a scream. Hespun around again and scrambled up the ten-odd feethis lunge had carried him. The chauffeur was racingout of his door, around the corner to where hiscompanion had entered, his gun leveled, prepared tofire. He approached cautiously, then seeingsomething, exploded in disgust as he entered theshadows. Seconds later he emerged holding the otherman; obviously a staircase or a floorboard hadcollapsed. The second man held his leg and limped.

  Two piercing blasts came from the station; theplatform was empty, the milling passengers back onboard. The panic had subsided and the train wouldmake a Teutonic effort to be on time. The last policecar and the ambulance were gone.

  Below, the chauffeur slapped his companionrepeatedly in fury, shoving him backwards to theground. The man got up, gesturing, pleading for nomore, and the chauffeur relented, ordering hissubordinate to a position between the building, thelandfill and the fence, and when the man was inplace the chauffeur went back into the desertedbuilding.

  The minutes passed, the descending sunintercepted by low-flying clouds in the west, creatinglong, lateral shadows over the outskirts of therailroad yard. Finally the chauffeur came into view,emerging from an unseen exit on another side of thebuilding. He stood for a moment and looked westacross the tracks to the expanse of wild grass andmarshland

  beyond. Then he turned and stared at the moundsof landfill and made up his mind.

  “Rechts uber Ihnen!” he screamed at hiscompanion, pointing to the second mound. “HinterIhnen! Er schiesst. “

  Joel crawled, racing down the debris like apanicked sand crab. Halfway to the bottom his lefthand was snared; he yanked at the loopingentrapment, pulled it free and was about to fling itaway when he saw it was a length of ordinaryelectric cord. He blmched it up in his hand andfrantically continued downward. When he waswithin six feet of the ground, he whipped his wholebody into a frenzy and clawed at the dirt andgarbage. He stabbed his legs repeatedly into therubbish and loose earth, and sank his body into themass pulling debris around his head. The stench wasoverpowering, and he could feel the insectspenetrating his clothes, crawling over his skin. Buthe was hidden, of that he was certain. He began tocomprehend what his fragmented mind was trying totell him. He was back in the jungle, about to springon a scout from an unseen place.

  Again minutes passed, and the shadows becamelonger, then permanent, as the sun’s trajectorydropped below the top of the landfill. Converseremained immobile, straining every muscle, grindinghis teeth to stop himself from thrashing his armsand scratching his clothes and his exposed skin torip away the maddening insects. But he knew hecould not move. It would happen any moment, anysecond.

  The prelude came. The limping man was inview, peering up at the hill of refuse and dirt,squinting against the residue of sunlight at the top,his gun held out, angled diagonally, prepared to fire.He sidestepped slowly, cautiously, apprehensive ofwhat he could not see. He passed directly in frontof Joel, the extended gun no more than three feetaway from Converse’s face. Another step and theline of contact could be clear.

  Now! Joel lunged out, grabbing the barrel of thegun, instantly and violently twisting it clockwise anddownward. As the German fell forward Conversecrashed his knee up into the bridge of the man’snose, stunning him before he could scream. Theweapon spiraled off into the debris. The manstaggered, and was about to find his voice when Joellunged again, a section of the wire cord stretchedout in both hands he whipped it over the scout’shead, pulling it taut around the scout’s throat.

  The man went limp, and Converse bent over thebody, about to roll it into the base of the landfill andconceal it, but then he stopped. There had to beanother way because there was another option, onehe had taken a hundred years ago with another scoutin a jungle. He looked around; there was a pile ofcarelessly dumped railroad ties thirty-odd yards awayon his right old ties, several broken, forming a lowwall. A wall.

  It was a risk. If Leifhelm’s chauffeur finished hisexamination of the first mound of landfill andstepped out toward the second one at any three ofthe four angles, he would have a clear line of sight.The man had been sent to the Emmerich train fortwo reasons one, he knew the quarry by sight, and,two, the quarry had disgraced him; Joel’s corpsewould be his redemption. Such a man was an expertwith weapons which the quarry was not. What wasthe point of thinking! Since Geneva, everything was arisk, a gamble against death.

  He gripped the German’s body under thearmpits, and breathing hard for some reasonfoolishly counting off "One, two, three” he lurchedbackwards, hauling the dead man across a deadman’s zone.

  He reached the railroad ties and swung thecorpse around them, the heels of its shoes digging anarc into the dirt as he dragged the dead German intothe base of the wall. Then without thinking, actingonly on instinct, Converse did what he had beenwanting to do for the last hour. Concealed by theties, he ripped off his jacket and shirt and rolled onthe ground, scattering the insects like an infested dogin a field, scratching them out of his hair, away fromhis face. It was all he could do for the moment. Hecrawled into the bank of railroad ties and found aspace between two separated logs.

  “Werner! Wo sind Sie?”

  The shouts preceded the figure of Leifhelm’schauffeur. He appeared at the far end of the secondmound, moving slowly, his gun raised, each steptaken cautiously, his head shifting in all directions, asoldier experienced in combat patrol. Conversethought how much better off the world would be ifhe were an expert shot. He was not. In pilot traininghe had gone through the obligatory small-armscourse, and at twenty-five feet had rarely hit thetarget. This second soldier of Aquitaine had to besucked in much closer.

  “Werner!Antworten Sie dock!”

  Silence.

  The chauffeur was alarmed; he walkedbackward, now crouching, scanning the hill ofrefuse, kicking away any object in his backwardpath, his head pivoting. Joel knew what he had todo; he had done it before. Divert the killer’sattention, pulling him closer to the encounter, thenmove away.

  “Auaghh . . . !” Converse let the wail come outof his throat. Then added in clear English, “Oh, myGod!” Instantly he crawled to the far end of the wallof railroad ties. He peered around the side, hishead in shadows.

  “Werner! Wo sind !” The German stood erect,his eyes following his line of hearing. Suddenly hebroke into a run his weapon thrust in front ofhim a man cornering a hated object, the sound ofEnglish leading him to the loathed enemy.

  The chauffeur threw himself prone across therailroad ties, his expression alert, his gun in front ofhim. He fired into the shadowed corpse below, aroar of vengeance accompanying the explosions.

  Joel got to his knees, aimed his automatic, andpulled the trigger twice. The German spun off theties, blood erupting in his chest.

  “Some win,” whispered Converse rising to hisfeet, remembering the man on the train toEmmerich.

  He was down in the marshlands, the clothes inhis arms. He had scrambled across the railroadtracks, down through the wild grass into the swampydampness of the marsh. It was water, and that wasall he had to know. Water was a benefit whether asan escape route or as a purifying agent for awracked body also lessons he had learned yearsago. He sat naked on a sloping marsh bank, takingoff his inhibiting money belt, wondering if the paperbills inside were soaked but not caring enough toexamine them.

  He did, however, examine every pocket of theclothes he had stripped from his would-beexecutioners. He was not sure what was of valueand what was not. The money was irrelevant, exceptfor the small bills; and the driver’s licenses h
adphotographs embedded in plastic neither wasworth the risk of scrutiny. There was anominous-looking knife, the long blade releasedthrough the head by the touch of a button on thehandle; he kept it. Also a cheap butane lighter anda comb and, for the drinking man, two breathfresheners. The rest were personal effects keys, afour-leaf-clover good-luck

  charm, photographs in the wallets he did not careto look at them. Death was death, enemy and friendfundamentally equalised. only things he wasinterested in were the clothes. They were the option,the option he had used in the jungle a lifetime ago.He had crammed himself inside a scout’s tattereduniform, and twice across a narrow riverbank he hadnot been shot by the enemy who had spotted him.Instead, they had waved.

  He selected the articles of clothing that fit bestand put them on; the rest he threw into the marsh.Whatever he looked like, there was little or noresemblance to the tweedy academic he had tried tobe in Bonn. If anything, he could be mistaken for aman who worked on the Rhine, a roughhewn mateor a foreman of a barge crew. He had chosen thechauffeur’s coat, a dark, coarse-woven jacket cut tothe hips with the man’s blue denim shirtunderneath both bullet holes washed clean ofblood. The trousers were those of the subordinateexecutioner; brown creaseless corduroys, flaredslightly at the ankles, which, thankfully, they reached.Neither man had worn a hat, and his was somewherein the landfill; he would find one or buy one or stealone. He had to; without a hat or a cap covering partof his face, he felt as naked as exposed and asfrightened as he would have felt without clothes.

  He lay back in the dry wild grass as the sundisappeared over an unseen horizon and stared up atthe sky.

  “Well, Ahh’l be . . . !” exclaimed the distinguished-looking man with the flowing mane of white hair, hisfull, nearly white eyebrows arched in astonishment.“You’re Molly Washburn’s boy?”

  “I beg your pardon?” said the Army officer at theadjacent table along the banquette in Bonn’s AmTulpenfeld restaurant. “Have we met, sir?”

  “Not so’s you’d remember, Major…. Pleaseforgive my intruding.” The Southerner addressed theapology to the offi