The Aquaintaine Progession

by Ludlum, Robert

  She was telling him to use the tactic in case thepolice were monitoring her calls. He would havedone so in any event; she was simply reminding him,warning him.

  The interview was over, the last few minutesobviously a recap in Dutch, the camera frozen on astill frame of Vale

  rie’s face. When had the tape been made? Howlong had she been in Berlin? t"oddamn it, whycouldn’t he understand anything unless it wasspoken in English? When she lied about herinability to speak German, Val had said it was anational disgrace. She was right, but she might havegone further; it was a national disorder rooted inarrogance. He looked around the cafe for atelephone; there was one on the rear wall severalfeet from the door to the men’s room, but he hadn’tthe vaguest idea of how to use it! His frustrationsgrew swirling into circles of panic. Suddenly heheard his name.

  ”De Amerikaanse moordenuar Converse isadvocaut. Hid iseen ex-pilootuitl:te Vietnamese oorlog.Fen anderadvocant hen Fransman, en e.en friend vanConverse. . .”

  Joel looked up at the screen bewildered, at onceshocked then paralysed. There was a film clip, ahand-held camera entered an office door andfocused on a body slumped over a desk, streams ofblood spreading from the head like a hideousMedusa wig. Oh, Christ! It was Rene!

  As the recognition came an insert appeared onthe upper left of the screen. It was a photograph ofMattilon then another photograph was suddenlyinserted on the right. It was he, themoordenaarAmerikoans, JoeLConverse. The Dutchnewscast had connected two events, the interviewwith Val and a death in France. Neither languagenor diagrams were necessary. Rene had been killedand he had been named the killer. It answered thequestion; it was the reason Aquitaine had put outthe word that an assassin was heading for Paris.

  He was a giver of death; it was his gift to newand old friends. Rene Mattilon, Edward Beale. . .Avery Fowler. And to enemies he did not know,could not evaluate, either as enemies or asindividuals a man in a tan overcoat in a Paris cel-lar, a guard above a riverbank on the Rhine, a piloton a train a memorably unmemorable face at thebase of a landfill pyramid, a chauffeur momentslater who had actually befriended him in a stonehouse with bars in the windows . . . an old womanwho had played her role brilliantly in a raucous rail-way car. Death. He was either the distant observeror the execuboner, all in the unholy name ofAquitaine. He was back back in the camps and thejungles that he had sworn never to return to. Hecould only survive and hope that someone betterthan himself would provide the solutions. But at themoment, death was both his closest ally and hismost hostile adversary. He wanted to collapse intonothingness let some

  one else take up the cause no one knew had beengiven him in Geneva.

  Jesus! The tape! If it was even twelve ortwenty-four hours old, Val probably had not receivedthe envelope he had sent from Bonn! She could nothave. She would not have flown to Europe if shehad!

  Oh, my God! thought Joel, swallowing the last ofthe whisky as he rubbed his forehead, his confusioncomplete. Without the envelope in Nathan Simon’shands, no plea to him made sense! No call to himwould evoke anything but a demand that Joel turnhimself in and a telephone trace would be put on theline. Natewould not disobey the law, he would fightviolently for a client afterward, but not before thatclient obeyed the law. It was his religion, far moreimportant to him than his temple, for the lawallowed mistakes; it was essentially human, notesoterically metaphysical. Converse’s hands began totremble; he had to find out!

  “Your filet of sole, Meneer.”

  “What?”

  “Your sole, sir,” repeated the waiter. You speakEnglish?”

  “But of course,” said the gaunt, bald-headed manwith detached courtesy. “We spoke before, but youwere very excited. This district can do that to a man,I understand.”

  “Listen to me.” Joel brought his hand acrosshis lips emphasising each word. "I will pay you a lotof money if you will place a phone call for me. Idon’t speak Dutch, or French or German or anythingbut English. Can you understand that?”

  "I understand.”

  “To West Berlin.”

  “It is not difficult, sir.”

  “Will you do it for me?”

  “But of course, Mender. You have a telephonecredit card?”

  “Yes . . . no. I don’t want to use it.”

  “Of course.”

  “I mean I don’t I don’t want it recordedanywhere. I have money.”

  “I understand. In a few minutes I shall be off myshift. I shall come for you. We shall place your calland I shall know the amount from the operator. Youshall pay.”

  “Absolutely.”

  “And "a lot of money, ja? Fifty builder, ja?”

  “You’re on. Yes.”

  Twenty minutes later Converse sat behind asmall desk n a very small office. The waiter handedhim the phone. ”They speak English, Meneer.”

  “Miss Charpentier, please,” said Joel, his voicechoking overwhelmed by a kind of paralysis. If heheard her voice he was not sure he could handle hisown reaction. For an instant he thought aboutslamming down the phone. He could not involveher!

  “Hello?”

  It was she, and as a part of him died anotherpart came alive. A thousand pictures flashed acrosshis mind, memories of happiness and anger, of loveand of hate. He could not speak.

  “HelloP Who’s this?”

  “Oh . . . there you are. Sorry, it’s a lousyconnection. This is Jack Talbot from . . . BostonGraphics. How are you, Val?”

  “Fine . . . Jack. How are you? It’s been a coupleof months. Since lunch at the Four Seasons, if Iremember.”

  “That’s right. When did you get in?”

  “Last night.”

  “Staying long?”

  “Just for the day. I’ve been in crisis meetings allmorning with another one this afternoon. If I’m nottoo bushed I’ll catch the plane back tonight. Whendid you get to Berlin?”

  “Actually, I’m not in Berlin. I saw you on aBelgian broadcast. I’m in . . . Antwerp, but I’mgoing to Amsterdam this afternoon. Christ, I’m sorryabout all that crap you had to take. Who would everhave guessed it? About Joel, I mean.”

  “I should have guessed it, Jack. It’s all sohorrible. He’s so very sick. I hope they catch himquickly for everyone’s sake. He needs help.”

  “He needs a firing squad, if you don’t mind mysaying so.”

  “I’d rather not discuss it.”

  “Did you get the sketches I sent you when welost the Gillette account? I figured it was a way toyour sackP”

  “Sketches? . . . No. Jack, I never got anythinglike that. But thanks for the thought, the sacknotwithstanding.”

  Christ! “Oh? I thought you might have looked atyour marl.

  “I did . . . until the day before yesterday. Itdoesn’t matter you’ll be in Amsterdam?”

  “For a week. I wondered if you were going tocheck any of the agency’s accounts up there beforeheading back to New

  “I should, but I don’t think so. There’s no time.If I do, I’ll be at the Amstel Hotel. If not, I’ll seeyou back in New York. You can buy me lunch atLutece, and we’ll swap trade secrets.”

  “I’ve got more of them. You buy. Take care,youngster.”

  “Take care . . . Jack.”

  She was magnificent. And she had not receivedthe envelope from Bonn.

  He roamed the streets, afraid of walking too fast,afraid of staying in one place too long, knowing onlythat he had to keep moving, watching, finding theshadows and letting them envelope him. She wouldbe in Amsterdam by evening; he knew that, it was inher voice, and she had told him to reach her at theAmstel Hotel. Whys Why had she come? What didshe think she was doing? Suddenly, the face of ReneMattilon came to him. It was in sharp focus, fillinghis inner eye, surrounded by sunlight, the face amask a death mask. Rene had been killed byAquitaine for sending him to Amsterdam. Valeriewould not be spared if the disciples of GeorgeMarcw Delavane thought she had flown over to findhim, to help him.

  He would not reach her! He could not! It wassigning another death warrant! Her death warrant.He
had taken so much from her, given so little. Thelast gift could not be the taking of her life. Yet . . .yet there was Aquitaine and he meant what he hadsaid to Larry Talbot on the phone. He one JoelConverse, was inconsequential where the gatheringof the generals was concerned. So was A. PrestonHalliday and Edward Beale and Connal Fitzpatrick.If Val could help, he had no right to let his feelingsstop her the lawyer in him told him that, theoutraged man confirmed it. And it was possible shecould help, do the things he could not do himselfShe could fly back, get the envelope and go toNathan Simon herself, saying that she had seen him,talked to him, believed he

  It was three-thirty; it would be dark by eighto’clock or so. He had roughly five hours to remainunseen and stay alive. And somehow find a car.

  He stopped on the pavement and looked up atan overly made-up, extremely bored whore in awindow on the third

  floor of a colorful brick house. Their eyes madecontact and she smiled a bored smile at him, thethumb and forefinger of her right hand meeting, thewrist motion leaving little to the imagination.

  Why not? thought Converse. The only certainthing in a very uncertain world was the fact thatthere was a bed beyond that window.

  The “concierge” was a clerk, a man in his middlefifhes with the pink face of an aging cherub, whoexplained in perfectly fluent English that paymentwas based on twenty-minute sessions, two sessionspaid in advance, one to be refunded should theguest come downstairs during the final five minutesof the fir st period. It was a loan shark’s dreamthought Converse, glancing at the various clocksplaced on numbered squares on the counter. As anelderly man walked down the staircase the clerkhastily grabbed one of the clocks and pushed the setond hand forward.

  Joel calculated rapidly, converting Builders todollars, the rate of acceleration based on roughly$30 per session. He gave the astonished “concierge”the equivalent of $275, accepted his number andheaded for the staircase.

  “She is a friend, sir?” asked the stunnedcustodian of the revels as Converse reached the firststep. “An old lover, perhaps?”

  “She’s a Dutch cousin I haven’t seen in years,”replied Joel sadly. “We have to have a long talk.”With heavy shoulders, he continued up the staircase.

  “Slapen?” exclaimed the woman with thespangled dark hair and heavily rouged cheeks. Shewas as astonished as her keeper below. “You wantslapen?”

  “It doesn’t translate well, but yes,” said Converse,removing his glasses and his cap and sitting on thebed. “Pm very tired and sleep would be terrific, butI suspect I’ll just rest. Read one of your magazines,I won’t bother you.”

  “What is the matter? You think I am not pretty?Not clean? You yourself are no fine picture, Meneer!Cuts on your face, a bruise here and there, red eyes.Perhaps it is you who are not clean!”

  “I fell down. Come on, I think you’re adorableand I love your deep-purple eye shadow but I reallywant to rest.”

  “Why here)>”

  “I don’t want to go back to the hotel. My wife’slover is there. He’s my boss.”

  “A merikoans!”

  " You speak our language very well. ” Joel tookoff his shoes and stretched out on the bed.

  Ach, I start with Amerikoan college boys. Alltalk, most are too afraid for nothing but talk. Thosewho get on the bed poo].7 is over. Then talk, toogoddamn much talk. Then your soldiers and yoursailors and your businessmen. Most drunk; theybehave like giggle-children. All talk. Twelve years, Ilearn.”

  Don’t write a book. They’re probably allsenators and congressmen and priests by now.”Converse placed his hands behind his head andstared at the ceiling. There was a glimmer of peace.He softly whistled the tune first, then found thewords: Yankee Doodle’ came to Holland/ nothing inhis pistol . . .’ “

  "You are amusing, Meneer,” said the whore,laughing coarsely and picking up a thin blanket off achair. She carried it to the bed and spread it overhim. “You don’t tell the truth but you are amusing.”

  “How do you know I’m not telling you the truth?”

  If your wife had a lover, you would kill him.”

  "Not so.”

  “Then she would not be your wife. I see manymen, Meneer. It’s in your face. You are a good man,perhaps, but you would kill.”

  "I'll have to think about that,” said Joeluncomfortably.

  "Sleep, if you wish. You paid. I am here.” Thewoman walked to the chair against the wall and satdown with a magazine.

  "What’s your name’s” asked Converse.

  "Emma,” replied the whore.

  "You’re a nice person, Emma.”

  No, Meneer, I am not.”

  He awoke, startled by the touch, and boltedupright on the bed, his hand instinctively rushing tohis waist to make sure his money belt was in place.He had been so deep in sleep that for a moment hehad no idea where he was, then he saw the garishlymade-up woman standing beside him, her hand onhis shoulder as she spoke.

  “Meneer, are you hiding from people?” she askedsoftly.

  “What?”

  “Word goes up and down the Leidseplein. Menare asking questions.”

  “What?’ Conv’ rse whipped the blanket off thebed and swung his legs to the floor. “What men? Upand down where?”

  “Her Leidseplein This district. Men askquestions. They look for an American. "

  “Why here?” Joel moved his right hand from themoney belt up to the outline of the weapon above.

  “People who wish not to be seen often comedown to the Leidseplein. “

  Why not? thought Converse. If he thought of it,why wouldn’t the enemy? “Do they have adescription?”

  “It is you,” answered the whore frankly.

  “And?” Joel looked into the woman s eyes.

  “Nothing was said.”

  “I can’t believe our friend downstairs felt socharitable toward me. I’m sure they offered money.”

  “It was given,” corrected the whore. “Morepromised with additional information. A manremains behind down the street. In a cafe next to atelephone. He is to be called and will bring back theothers. Our . . . friend downstairs thought you mightwant to match the funds.”

  “I see. An auction. One head on the block.’

  “I do not understand.”

  “What are we talking aboutP How much?”

  A thousand Builder. Much more if you are taken.”

  “Our friend still sounds too charitable. I’d thinkhe’d grab it and close up shop.”

  " He owns the building. Also, the man wasGerman and spoke like a soldier giving orders,that’s what our friend downstairs said.”

  “He was right. The man is a soldier but not inany army Bonn knows about.”

  “Zo?”

  “Nothing. Find Ollt if our friend will takeAmerican money.”

  “Of course he will.”

  “Then I’ll match the offer and double it.”

  The whore hesitated. “Now it is my turn.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “En? As you say and’?”

  "Oh. You?’

  "ha. “

  “I have something special for you. Can you drivea car, or do you know someone who can?”

  "I do myself, nataurlijk. In bad weather I drivemy children to school.”

  “Oh, Jesus…. I mean, that’s good.”

  “Without my face like no, course.”

  The stories. Oh, God, the stories! thoughtConverse. “I want you to rent a car and bring itaround here to the front door. Then get out andleave the keys inside. Can you do that?”

  ":la, but nothing is for nothing.”

  “Three hundred dollars eight hundred Builders,give or take.”

  “Five hundred fourteen hundred, take or give,”countered the woman. “And the money to rent theautomobile.”

  Joel nodded as he unbuttoned his jacket andpulled out his shirt. The handle of the gun with theshort barrel and the extended silencer was clearlyvisible beneath the wide canvas belt. The whore sawit and gasped. “It’s not mine,” said Converse quickly
.“Whether you believe it or not doesn’t matter to me,but I took it from someone who tried to kill me.”

  The woman stared at him, her look partially oneof fear but it was not hostile, only curious. “Theman this soldier from no German army the otherswho ask questions in the street. They wish to killyou?”

  “Yes.” Joel unzipped the belt and counted off themoney with his thumb. He pulled out the bills andclosed the pocket.

  “You have done them much harm?”

  “Not yet, but I hope to.” Converse held out themoney. “There’s enough for our friend downstairsand the rest is for you. Just bring me the car, alongwith one of those tourist maps of Amsterdam thatshow where all the major stores and hotels andrestaurants are.”

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

  “No, thank you.”

  "]a. ” The whore nodded knowingly and took themoney. “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.”"

  “The police? It’s not practical. They wouldn’tunderstand.”

  “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 isstolen. There is a Trom p garage twelve blocks fromhere; they know me. I have rented there when myPeugeot has troubles and I must get home. Ach,kinder"’n! Recitals, dance classes! Be downstairs intwenty minutes.’,

  “Recitals?”

  “Don’t look so, Veneer. I do my job and call itwhat it is. Most people do the same and call itsomething else. Twenty minutes.’ Thespangled-haired woman went out the door, closingit behind her.

  Joel approached the sink against the wallwithout enthusiasm, then saw it was spotless, a canof cleanser and a bottle of bleach below on the floornext to a roll of paper towels. Naturally. Dancelessons and recitals were part of the whore’s life aswell as a car that often gave her trouble, just likeany other commuter. Converse looked in the mirror;the woman was right, he was “no fine picture,” butone had to be quite close to him to notice theseverity of the bruises. He splashed water on hisface, then blotted it, put on the dark glasses andmade himself as presentable as possible.