The Aquaintaine Progession

by Ludlum, Robert

  She registered at the hotel desk, using a“Cherrywooc Lane” but without a number sheremembered from hel childhood in St. Louis.Indeed, the name DePinna came from those earlydays as well, a neighbor down the street, the face ablur now, only the memory of a sad, vituperativewoman who loathed all things foreign, includingVal’s parents. “Mrs R. DePinna,” she had written;she had no idea where the “R’ came from possiblyRoger for balance.

  In the room she turned on the radio to theall-news station, a habit she had inherited from hermarriage, and proceeded to umpack. She undressed,took a shower, washed out her underthings, andslipped into the outsized T-shirt. This last wasanother habit; “T-sacks,” as she called them, hadreplaced bathrobes and morning coats on her patioin Cape Ann, although none had a sunburstemblazoned on the front with words above andbelow heralding TOT ZIENS AMSTERDAM:

  She resisted calling room service for a pot oftea; it would be calming, but it was an unnecessaryact that at three o’clock in the morning wouldcertainly call attention, however minor to thewoman in 714. She sat in the chair staring absentlyat the window, wishing she hadn’t given upcigarettes it would give her something to do whilethinldng, and she had to think She had to rest, too,but first she had to think, organize herself Shelooked around the room, and then at her purse,which she had placed on a bedside table. She wasrich, if nothing else. Joel had insisted she take therisk of getting through customs with more than the $5,000 legal limit. So she had rolled up anadditional twenty $500 bills and shoved them intoher

  brassiere. had been right; she could not use creditcards or anything that carried her name.

  She saw two telephone directories on the shelf ofthe table. Sitting on the edge of the bed, sheremoved both volumes. The cover of one read, NewYork 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. Shereturned the business directory to the shelf andcarried the Manhattan book over to the desk. She satdown, opened to the blue pages and foundDepartment of the Air Force . . . Command PostARPC. It was an 800 number, the address on YorkStreet in Denver, Colorado. If it was not the numbershe needed, whoever she reached could supply thecorrect one. She wrote it down on a page of St. Regisstationery.

  Suddenly Val heard the words. She snapped herhead around toward the television set, her eyes onthe vertical radio dial.

  ” . . And now the latest update on the search for theAmerican attorney, Joel Converse, one of the mosttragic stories of the decade. The former Navy pilot, oncehonored for outstanding bravery in the Vietnam war,whose dramatic esca pe electrified the nation, andwhose subsequent tactical reports shocked the military,leading, many believed, to basic changes inWashington’s Southeast Asian policies, is still at large,hunted not for the man he was, but for the homicidalkiller he has become. Reports are that he may still be inParis. Although not of ficial, word has been leakedfrom unnamed but authoritative sources within theSurete that fingerprints found on the premises where theFrench lawyer, Rene Mattilon, was slain are definitelythose of Converse, thus confirming what the authoritiesbelieved that Converse killed his French acquaintancefor cooperating with Interpol and the Surete. Themanhunt is spread ing out from Paris and this stationwill bring you . . .”

  Valerie sprang from the chair and ran to thetelevision set; she furiously pushed several buttonsuntil the radio was silent. She stood for a moment,trembling with anger and fear. And something elseshe could not define did not care to define. It toreher apart and she had to stay together.

  She lay on the bed staring at the ceiling, at thereflections of light from things moving in the streetbelow, and hearing the sounds of the city. None of itwas comforting only abra

  sive intrusions that kept her mind alert, rejectingsleep. She had not slept on the plane, but had onlydozed intermittently, repeatedly jarred awake byhalf-formed nightmares probably induced byexcessive turbulence over the North Atlantic. Sheneeded sleep now . . . she neededJoel now. Thefirst, mercifully, came; the latter was out of reach.

  There was a shattering noise accompanied by aburst of sunlight that blinded her as she shot upfrom the bed, kicking away the sheet and throwingher feet on the floor. It was the telephone. Thetelephone? She looked at her watch; it wasseven-twenty-five. The phone rang once again,piercing the mists of sleep but not clearing themaway. The telephoner How . . . ? Why? She pickedit up, gripping it with all her strength, trying to findherself before speaking.

  “Hello?”

  “Mrs. DePinna?” inquired a male voice.

  “Yes.”

  “We trust everything is satisfactory.”

  “Are you in the habit of waking up your guestsat seven o’clock in the morning to ask if they’recomfortable?”

  “I’m terribly sorry, but we were anxious for you.This is the Mrs. DePinna from Tulsa, Oklahoma,isn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  “We’ve been looking for you all night . . . sincethe flight from Amsterdam arrived at one-thirty thismorning.”

  “Who are you?” asked Val, petrified, holding herwrist below the phone.

  “Someone who wants to help you, Mrs.Converse,” said the voice, now relaxed and friendly.“You’ve given us quite a runaround. We must havewoken up a hundred and fifty women who checkedin at hotels since two A.M…. the "flight fromAmsterdam’ did it; you didn’t ask me what I wastalking about. Believe me, we want to help, Mrs.Converse. We’re both after the same thing.”

  “Who are you?”

  “The United States Government covers it. Staywhere you are. I’ll be over in fifteen minutes.”

  The hell the United States Government covers it!thought Val, shivering, as she hung up the phone.The United States Government had cleaner ways ofidentifying itself…. She had to get out! What did the" fifteen minutes” mean? Was it a trap? Were mendownstairs waiting for her now waiting to see ifshe would run? She had no choice!

  She ran to the bathroom, grabbing the carry-oncase off a chair and throwing her things into it. Shedressed in seconds and stuffed what clothesremained into the bag; snatching the room key offthe bureau, she ran to the door, then stopped. Oh,Lord, the stationery with the Air Force number! Sheraced back to the desk, picked up the page besidethe open telephone book and shoved it into herpurse. She glanced wildly about was there anythingelse? No. She left the room and walked rapidly downthe hall to the elevators.

  Maddeningly, the elevator stopped at nearlyevery floor where men and women got on, most ofthe men with puffed circles under their eyes, a fewof the women looking drawn, sheepish. Severalapparently knew each other, others nodded absently,gazes straying to plastic name plates worn by most ofthe passengers. Val realized that some sort ofconvention was going on.

  The doors opened to a crowded bank ofelevators, the ornate lobby to the right was swarmingwith people, voices raised in greetings, questions andinstructions. Cautiously Val approached the gildedarch that led to the lobby proper, looking around incontrolled panic to see if anyone was looking at her.A large gold-framed sign with block letters arrangedin black felt under glass was on the wall:WEECOME: MiCMAC DISTRIBUTORS. Therefollowed a list of meetings and activibes.

  Buffet Breakfast 7:30-8:30 A.M.

  Regional Conferences 8:4“10:00 A.M.Advertising Symposium Q and A 10:1”11:00 A.M.Midmorning Break. Make Reservations for citytours.

  "they, sweet face,” said a burly, red-eyed manstanding next to Val. “That s a no-no.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “We are marked, princess!”

  Valerie stopped breathing; she stared at the man,gripping the handles of her carry-on, prepared tosmash it into his face and bolt for the glass doorsthirty feet away. “I have no idea what you mean.”

  “The name, princess! Where’s your Micmacspirit? How can I ask you to have breakfast with meif I don t know your name?”

  “Oh . . . the name tag. I’m sorry.”

  “What’s your region, beautiful creature?”

  “Region?” Va
lerie was puzzled but only for amoment. She suddenly smiled. “Actually, I’mnew just hired yesterday. They said my instructionswould be at the desk, but it’s so crowded I’ll neverget over there. Of course, with your shoulders Imight make it before I m fired.”

  “Grab hold, princess! These shoulders used toplay semi-pro ball.” The heavyset salesman was aneffective blocking back; they reached the counterand the man growled appropriately, a lion preeningbefore its conquest. “Hey, fellal This lady’s beentrying to get your attention. Need I say more Della?”The salesman, holding in his stomach, grinned atVal.

  “No, sir yes, ma’am?” said the perplexed clerk,who was not at all busy. The activity was takingplace in front of the counter, not at the counter.

  Valerie leaned forward, ostensibly to be heardthrough the noise. She placed her key on thecounter and opened her purse, taking out three $50bills. “This should cover the room. I’ve been hereone night, and there are no charges. What’s left isyours.”

  “Thank you, ma’arn.”

  “I need a favor.”

  " Of coursel”

  "my name is Mrs. DePinna but of course thekey tells you that.”

  “What is it you want me to do, ma’am?”

  “I’m visiting a friend who’s just had anoperation. Could you tell me where the LebanonHospital is?”

  “The Lebanon? It’s in the Bronx, I think.Somewhere on the Grand Concourse. Any cabdriverwill know, ma’am.”

  "Mrs. DePinna’s the name.”

  “Yes, Mrs. DePinna. Thank you.”

  Valerie turned to the heavyset, red-eyedsalesman, again smiling. “I’m sorry. Apparently I’mat the wrong hotel, the wrong company, can youimagine? It would have been nice. Thanks for yourhelp.” She turned and quickly dodged her waythrough the crowd toward the revolving doors.

  The street was only beginning to come alive.Valerie walked rapidly down the pavement, thenstopped almost immediately in front of a small,elegant bookstore and decided to wait in thedoorway. The stories she had heard all her lifeincluded not only tales of leaving false informationbut lessons

  showing the need for knowing what the enemylooked like it was often the difference.

  A taxi drove up in front of the St. Regis, andbefore it came to a-stop the rear door opened. Shecould see the passenger clearly, he was paying thefare hurriedly without thought of change. He climbedout swiftly and started running toward the glassdoors. He was hatless, with unkempt, blandish hair,and dressed in a madras jacket and light-bluesummer jeans. He was the enemy, Valerie knew thatand accepted it. What she found hard to accept washis youth. He was in his twenties, hardly more thana boy. But the face was hard and set in anger, theeyes cold distant flashes of steel in the sunlight. Wieein HitlerJunge, thought Val, walking out of the book-store doorway.

  A car streaked past her, heading west toward thehotel; within seconds she heard screeching tires andexpected a crash to follow. Like the otherpedestrians, she turned around to look. Fifty feetaway a brown sedan had come to a stop; on its doorpanels and trunk were the clear black letters u.s.ARMY. A uniformed officer got out quickly. He wasstaring at her.

  She broke into a run.

  Converse sat in an aisle seat roughly in themiddle of the railway car. His palms perspired as heturned the pages of the small black prayer book,which had been placed in the envelope along with hispassport, the letter of pilgrimage, and a typewrittensheet of instructions, which included a few basic factsabout Father William Wilcrist, should they benecessary. On the bottom of the page was a finalorder: Commit to memory, tear up, and flush downtoilet before immigration at Oldenzaal.

  The instructions were unnecessary, evendistracting. Quite simply, he was to take a strollthrough the railway cars twenty minutes out of astation called Rheine, leaving the suitcase behind asif he intended to return to his seat, and get off atOsnabruck. The details of his supposedly changingtrains at Hanover for Celle and the subsequentmorning drive north to Bergen-Belsen could havebeen said in one sentence rather than buried in thecomplicated paragraphs describing the underground’smotivations and past successes. The facts aboutFather William Wilcrist, however, were succinct, andhe had memorised them after the second reading.Wilcrist was thir

  ty-eight years old, a graduate of Fordham, with atheological degree from Catholic University inWashington. Ordained at St. Ignatius in New York,he was an “activist priest” and currently assigned tothe Church of the Blessed Sacrament in LosAngeles. In Valerie’s words, if he was asked torecite more than that he was probably caught.

  For all practical purposes he was caught now,thought Joel, gazing at the back of a man’s head inthe front of the car, the same man who had joinedanother standing by a pillar on the platform inAmsterdam. Undoubtedly that first man was nowlooking at the back of his head from a seat in therear, mused Converse, turning another page in theprayer book. On the surface, the odds against himwere overwhelming, but there was a fact and afactor just below the surface. The fact was that heknew who his executioners were and they did notknow he knew. The factor was a state of mind hehad drawn upon in the past.

  The train traveled north, then east; there weretwo stops before Oldenzaal, after which hepresumed they would cross the Rhine into WestGermany. They had pulled in and out of theDeventer station; that left one more, a city namedHengelo. The announcement came, and Joel got outof his seat before any of the Hengelo commutersrose from theirs; he turned in the aisle and walkedback to the rear of the car. As he passed the manwho stood by the pillar he saw that Aquitaine’shunter was staring straight ahead, his body so rigidit barely moved with the movement of the train.Converse had seen such postures many timesbefore, at trials and in boardrooms; they invariablybelonged to insecure witnesses and unsurenegotiators. The man was tense, afraid perhaps offailing an assignment or of the people who had senthim to Amsterdam whatever it was, his anxiety wasshowing and Joel would use it. He was crawling outof a deep shaft in the ground, one tenuous grasp ofearth afteranother, the indentations preformed afternights of preparation. The wire fence was in thedistance, the rain falling, the patrols concerned,anxious frightened by every sound they could notquickly identify. He needed only one to move awayand he had it. . . . He could reach the fence!

  Reach Osnabruck alone.

  The toilet was unoccupied; he opened the door,went inside, and took out the page of instructions.He folded it, tore it in shreds, and dropped thepieces into the bowl, pressing

  the foot button as he did so. They disappeared withthe flush; he turned back to the door and waited.

  A second announcement blared from thespeakers outside as the train slowed down; the soundof gathering feet was inches away beyond the door.The train came to a stop, he could feel the vibrationof moving bodies, determined commuters thinking ofhome and relief and undoubtedly the Dutchequivalent of a martini. The vibrations the soundsfaded away. Converse opened the door no more thanhalf an inch. The rigid hunter was not in his seat.Now.

  Joel slid out of the door and stepped quickly intothe open separation between cars, excusing himselfbetween the stragglers getting off from the carbehind, and walked rapidly inside and down theaisle. As he approached the last rows he saw anempty seat two seats, facing the platform andswung in, he sat down beside the window, his handin front of his face, peering outside through hisfingers.

  Aquitaine’s hunter raced back and forth,sufficiently aggressive to stop three men who werewalking away, their backs to him; rapid apologiesfollowed. The hunter turned to the train, havingexhausted the departing possibilities. He got back onboard, his face a creased map falling apart.

  More, thought Converse. I want more. I want youstretched, as patrols before you were stretched. Untilyou can "t stand it!

  Oldenzaal arrived, then was left behind. Thetrain crossed the Rhine, the clattering of the bridgebelow like snare drums. The hunter had crashed theforward door open too panicked to do anything butquickly look around and return to his companion, orto a lone suitcase perhaps. Joel’s head was below theback of the seat in front of him. M
inutes later camethe Sonderpolizei checking the border, scrutinizingevery male of a vague description, dozens ofuniformed men walking through the railway cars.They were courteous, to be sure, but neverthelessthey gave rise to ugly vestiges of a time past.Converse showed his passport and the letter writtenin German for the conscience of Germans. Apoliceman grimaced sadly, then nodded and went onto the next seat. The uniforms left; the minutesbecame quarter-hours. He could see through thewindows into the forward car; the two hunters metseveral rows behind where he had been sitting. Againthey separated; one fore, one aft. Now.

  Joel got up from his seat and sidestepped into theaisle,

  pretending to check his schedule and bending downto look out the darkened window. He would staythere for as long as he had to, until one of thehunters spotted him. It took less than ten seconds.As Converse pitched his head down supposedly tosee a passing sign outside he caught a glimpse of afigure moving into the upper panel of glass on theforward door. Joel stood up. The man behind theglass spun out of sight. It was the sign he had beenwaiting for, the moment to move quickly.

  He turned and walked to the rear of the car,opened the door and crossed the dark clatteringspace to the car behind. He went inside and swiftlymade his way down the aisle, again to the rear andagain into the next car, turning in the interveningdarkness to see what he expected to see, what hewanted to see. The man was following him. A guardwas taking himself out of position in the downpour.Only seconds and he could reach the barbed wire.

  As he ran through the third car a number ofpassengers looked up at him, at a running priest.Most turned in their seats to see if there was anemergency, and seeing none shook their heads inbewilderment. He reached the door, pulled it open,and stepped into the shadows, suddenly startled bywhat he saw. In front of him, instead of anotherrailroad-car door, the upper part a window, therewas a solid panel of heavy wood, the wordFRACHT printed across the midsection above alarge steel knob. Then he heard the announcementover the loud-speakers: