The Aquitaine Progression: A Novel

by Robert Ludlum

  The café! His Samaritans! He pulled up the collar of the leather jacket and forced the belt of the trousers lower, inching down the gap around his ankles. He then approached the door casually, feigning a slight stagger as he pushed it open. He was greeted by floating levels of smoke—not all of it tobacco, by any means—and adjusted his stinging eyes to the erratically flashing lights as he tried to block out the offending noise, a combination of guttural roars and disco music blaring from high-tech speakers. His Good Samaritans were gone: he looked for the young blond girl as his focal point, but she was not there. The table they had occupied was taken by another foursome—no, not four different people, only three, who had joined the English-speaking student who had sat beside him in the car. The three were young men who seemed also to be students. Joel approached them, and passing an empty chair in his path, he gripped the back and unobtrusively pulled it behind him to the table. He sat down and smiled at the blond-haired student.

  “I didn’t know if I’d left enough money for those twelve beers I promised,” he said pleasantly.

  “Ach! I was just talking about you, Herr Amerikaner! These are my friends—like me, all dreadful students!” The three newcomers were introduced rapidly, the names lost in the music and the smoke. Everyone nodded; the American was welcome.

  “Our other two friends left?”

  “I told you,” shouted the blond youngster through the noise. “They wished to drive to our house and make love. That’s all they do! Our parents went to Bayreuth for the music festival, so they shall make their own music on her bed and I shall come home late!”

  “Nice arrangement,” said Converse, trying to think of how to broach the subject that had to be broached quickly. He had very little time.

  “Very good, sir!” said a dark-haired young man on his right. “Hans would have missed that; his English is understandably inferior. I was an exchange student in the state of Massachusetts for two years. ‘Arrangement’ is also a musical term. You combined the two! Very good, sir!”

  “I keep trying,” said Joel aimlessly, looking at the student. “You really speak English?” he asked sincerely.

  “Very well. My scholarship depends upon it. My friends here are good people, make no mistake, but they are rich and come here for amusement. As a boy, I lived two streets away from this place. But they protect the lads here, and why not? Let them have fun; nobody is hurt and money is spread.”

  “You’re sober,” said Converse, the statement bordering on a question.

  The young man laughed as he nodded. “Tonight, yes. Tomorrow afternoon I have a difficult exam and need a clear head. The summer-session examinations are the worst. The professors would rather be on holiday.”

  “I was going to talk to him,” said Joel, nodding at the blond student, who was arguing with his two companions, his hands waving in the smoke, his voice strident. “But that doesn’t make sense. You do.”

  “In what sense, sir, if you will forgive the redundancy of the expression?”

  “ ‘Redundancy’? What’s your major?”

  “Preliminary law, sir.”

  “I don’t need that.”

  “It is a difficulty, sir?”

  “Not for me. Listen, I haven’t much time and I have a problem. I have to get out of here. I need to find another place to stay—just until tomorrow morning. I assure you I’ve done nothing wrong, nothing illegal—in case my clothes or my appearance gives another impression. It’s strictly a personal matter. Can you help me?”

  The dark-haired young German hesitated, as if reluctant to answer, but nevertheless did so, leaning forward to be heard. “Since you bring up the subject, I’m sure you can understand that it would not be seemly for a student of the law to help a man under questionable circumstances.”

  “That’s exactly why I brought it up,” said Converse rapidly, speaking into the student’s ear. “I’m an attorney and under these clothes a reasonably respectable one. I simply took on the wrong American client over here and can’t wait to get a plane out tomorrow morning.”

  The young man listened, studied Joel’s face and nodded. “Then these are not lodgings you would normally seek?”

  “To be avoided wherever possible. I just thought it would be a good idea to be inconspicuous for the night.”

  “There are very few places such as this in Bonn, sir.”

  “To Bonn’s credit, counselor.” Glancing about the café and its predominant clientele, Converse had another thought. “It’s summer!” he said urgently to the student through the bedlam. “Are there any youth hostels around here?”

  “Those in the vicinity of Bonn or Cologne are filled, sir, mostly with Americans and the Dutch. The others which might have spaces are quite far north toward Hanover. However, there is another solution, I think.”

  “What?”

  “Summer, sir. The rooming houses usually filled by those attending the university have many spaces during the summer months. In the house where I stay there are two empty rooms on the third floor.”

  “I thought you lived around here.”

  “That was long ago. My parents are retired and live with my sister in Mannheim.”

  “I’m in a great hurry. May we go? I’ll pay you what I can tonight and more tomorrow morning.”

  “I thought you said you were taking the plane in the morning.”

  “I have two stops to make first. You can come with me; you can show me where they are.”

  The young man and Joel excused themselves, knowing they would not be missed. The student started toward the lobby door, but Converse grabbed his elbow, gesturing at the street entrance.

  “Your luggage, sir!” shouted the German through the din and the flashing lights.

  “You can lend me a razor in the morning!” Converse yelled back, pulling the young man through the mingling bodies toward the door. Several tables before the entrance was an empty chair, on the seat a soft, rumpled cloth cap. He bent down and picked it up, holding it in front of him as he reached the door and walked outside to the pavement, the student behind him. “Which way?” he asked, pulling the cap over his head.

  “This way, sir,” replied the young German, pointing beneath the shabby canopy of the adjacent hotel entrance.

  “Let’s go,” said Joel, stepping forward.

  They stopped—that is, Converse stopped first, gripping the student’s shoulder and turning him into the building. A black sedan had come speeding down the street, swerving into the open space in front of the canopy. Two men got out of the back doors and rushed toward the entrance, the second man running around the trunk to catch up with the first. Joel angled his head as the young German stared at him. He recognized both men; both were Americans. They had been at the Cologne-Bonn airport eight nights ago, hoping to trap him then as they were coming to trap him now. The black car moved forward out of the glare of the lights into the shadows. It pulled into the curb and waited, a hearse prepared to receive its cargo.

  “Was ist los?” asked the German youth, unable to conceal his fear.

  “Nothing, really.” Converse removed his hand and gave the student two friendly claps on the shoulder. “Just let this be a lesson to you, counselor. Know who your client is before you get greedy and accept too large a retainer.”

  “Ja,” said the young German, attempting a smile but not succeeding, his eyes on the black sedan.

  They walked rapidly past the parked automobile with the driver inside, the glow of a cigarette seen in the darkness of the front seat. Joel pulled down the cloth cap and again angled his head, now away from one of his countrymen.

  The truth was a fantasy bolstered by lies.… Survival was in running and concealment. Insanity!

  The early morning was mercifully uneventful except for his raging thoughts. The student, whose name was Johann, had secured him a room at the boardinghouse, the proprietess delighted with a hundred deutsche marks for the rental. It more than made up for the gauze, tape, and antiseptic she gave him to rebandage h
is wound. Converse had slept soundly, if intermittently, awakened by fears transposed into macabre dreams. By seven o’clock sleep was impossible.

  There was an urgent piece of business that had to be taken care of; he understood the risk, but the money was necessary, now more than ever. On Mykonos, the knowledgeable if serpentine Laskaris had forwarded $100,000 to banks in Paris, London, Bonn and New York, using the accepted practice of written-out numbers as a signature to withdraw the funds. Laskaris further had suggested that Joel should not attempt to carry with him or try to memorize four sets of lengthy and entirely different digits. Instead the banker would wire the American Express travel offices in the four cities to hold for a period of three months a message for—who, Mr. Converse? It should be a name meaningful to you but not to others. It will be your code, no other identification necessary—as with certain telephone banking facilities in your own country.… Make it Charpentier. J. Charpentier.

  Joel understood that he might have revealed the device while under narcotics. Also, he might not have; his mind was not on money. He had a great deal in his possession, and the chemicals tended to elicit only feverish priorities. He had learned that in the camps a lifetime ago, twice astonished that he had not mentioned far-off tactics down the roads of escape. There was also a backup, ethics notwithstanding. The young German, Johann, would be his intermediary. The risks could not be avoided, only minimized; he had also learned that a lifetime ago. If the boy was taken, his conscience would be stricken, but then, what could be the worst that would happen to him? There was no point in thinking about it.

  “Go inside and ask if there’s a message for J. Charpentier,” said Joel to the student. They were in the backseat of a taxi across the street from the American Express office. “If the answer is yes, say the following words. ‘It must be a wire from Mykonos,’ ” he added, recalling Laskaris’ precise instructions.

  “That is necessary, sir?” asked the dark-haired Johann, frowning.

  “Yes, it is. Without mentioning Mykonos and the fact that the message is a cable, they won’t give it to you. Also it identifies you. You won’t have to sign anything.”

  “This is all very strange, sir.”

  “If you’re going to be a lawyer, get used to odd forms of communication. There’s nothing illegal, simply a means of protecting your client’s and your firm’s confidentiality.”

  “I have much to learn, it seems.”

  “You’re not doing anything wrong,” continued Joel quietly, his eyes level with Johann’s. “On the contrary, you’re doing something very right, and I’ll pay you very well for doing it.”

  “Sehr gut,” said the young man.

  Converse waited in the taxi, his eyes scanning the street, concentrating on stationary automobiles and those pedestrians walking too slowly or not at all, or anyone whose glances even seemingly strayed to the American Express office. Johann went inside and Joel swallowed repeatedly, a tightness in his throat; the waiting was awful, made worse by the knowledge that he was using the student in a high-risk situation. Then he thought briefly of Avery Fowler-Halliday and Connal Fitzpatrick; they had lost. The young German had an infinitely far greater chance of living for many years.

  The minutes went by as the sweat crawled through Converse’s hair and down his neck; time was suspended in fear. Finally, Johann came outside, blinking in the sunlight, innocence personified. He crossed the street and climbed into the taxi.

  “What did they say to you?” asked Joel, trying to sound casual, his eyes still roaming the street.

  “Only if I had been waiting long for the message. I replied that I expected it was a cablegram from Mykonos. I didn’t know what else to say.”

  “You did fine.” Joel tore open the envelope and unfolded the wire. There was an unbroken series of written-out numbers, well over twenty, he judged at a glance. Again he remembered Laskaris’ instructions: Pick every third number beginning with the third and ending with the third from the last. Think merely in terms of three. It’s quite simple—these things usually are—and in any event, no one else can sign for you. It’s merely a precaution.

  “Is everything all right?” asked Johann.

  “So far we’re ahead one step and you’re one step nearer a bonus, counselor.”

  “I’m also nearer my examination.”

  “What time do you take it?”

  “Three-thirty this afternoon.”

  “Good omen. Think in terms of three.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Nothing. Let’s find a pay telephone. You’ve only got one more thing to do, and tonight you can buy your friends the biggest dinner in Bonn.”

  * * *

  The taxi waited at the corner while Converse and the young German stood outside the booth, Johann having written down the bank’s number from the telephone book. The student was reluctant to go any further; the exotic chores asked of him now were more than he cared to accept.

  “All you have to do is tell the truth!” insisted Joel. “Only the truth. You met an American attorney who doesn’t speak German and he’s asked you to make a call for him. This attorney has to withdraw funds for a client from a confidential accounts-transfer and wants to know whom he should see. That’s all. No one will ask your name, or mine, either, for that matter.”

  “And when I do this there will be something else, mein Herr? Nein, I think not. You call yourself—”

  “I can’t make a mistake! I can’t misunderstand a word. And there is nothing else. Just wait wherever you like around the bank or near the bank. When I come out I’ll give you two thousand deutsche marks, and as far as I’m concerned—as far as anyone’s concerned—we never met.”

  “So much for so little, sir. You can understand my fears.”

  “They’re nothing compared to mine,” said Converse quietly yet urgently. “Please, do this. I need your help.”

  As he had done the night before through the noise and the smoke and the flashing lights of the raucous bar, the young German looked hard at Joel, as if trying to see something he could not be sure was there. Finally, he nodded once without enthusiasm. “Sehr gut,” he said, stepping into the booth with several coins in his hand.

  Converse watched through the glass as the student dialed and obviously had brief conversations with two or three different people before reaching the correct party. The one-sided dialogue as observed by Joel seemed interminable—far too long and too complicated for the simple request of a name in the transferred-accounts department. At one point, as he wrote something down on the scrap of paper with the bank’s number on it, Johann appeared to object and Converse had to restrain himself from opening the door and terminating the call. The German youth hung up and came out, his expression confused and angry.

  “What happened? Was there a problem?”

  “Only with the hour and institutional policy, sir.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Such accounts are serviced only after twelve noon. I made it clear that you had to be at the airport by then, but Herr Direktor said the bank’s policy would stand.” Johann handed Converse the slip of paper. “You’re to see a man named Lachmann on the second floor.”

  “I’ll catch a later plane.” Joel looked at the chauffeur’s watch on his wrist. It was ten-thirty-five; an hour and a half to go.

  “I was hoping to be at the university library long before noon.”

  “You can still be there,” said Converse sincerely. “We can stop, get a stamped envelope, and you can write out your name and address. I’ll mail the money to you.”

  Johann glanced at the pavement, his hesitation all too obvious. “I think, perhaps … the examination is not so difficult for me. It’s one of my better subjects.”

  “Of course,” agreed Joel. “There’s no reason on earth why you should trust me.”

  “You mistake me, sir. I believe you would mail the money to me. It’s just that I’m not sure it’s such a good idea for me to receive the envelope.”
/>   Converse smiled; he understood. “Fingerprints?” he asked kindly. “Accepted rules of evidence?”

  “It’s also one of my better subjects.”

  “Okay, you’re stuck with me for another couple of hours. I’ve got about seven hundred deutsche marks left until I reach the bank. Do you know some clothing store away from the main shopping district where I can buy a pair of trousers and a jacket?”

  “Yes, sir. And if I may suggest, if you are going to withdraw enough funds to give me two thousand deutsche marks, perhaps a clean shirt and a tie might be in order.”

  “Always check your client’s appearance. You may go far, counselor.”

  The ritual at the Bank aus der Bonner Sparkasse was a study in awkward but adamant efficiency. Joel was ushered into Herr Lachmann’s office on the second floor where neither a handshake nor small talk was offered. Only the business at hand was addressed.

  “Origin of transfer, please?” asked the blunt, corpulent executive.

  “Bank of Rhodes, Mykonos branch, waterfront office. The name of the—‘dispatcher,’ I guess you’d call him, is Laskaris. I don’t recall his first name.”

  “Even his last is unnecessary,” said the German, as though he did not care to hear it. The transaction itself seemed somehow to offend him.

  “Sorry, I just wanted to be helpful. As you know, I’m in a great hurry. I have a plane to catch.”

  “Everything will be done according to the regulations, sir.”

  “Naturally.”

  The banker shoved a sheet of paper across the desk. “You will write out your numerical signature five times, one below the other, as I read you the regulations which constitute the policy of the Bank aus der Bonner Sparkasse as they pertain to the laws of the Federal Republic of Germany. You will then be required to sign—again in your numerical signature—an affidavit that you thoroughly understood and accept these prohibitions.”

  “I thought you said ‘regulations.’ ”

  “One and the same, sir.”

  Converse took the cablegram out of the inside pocket of his newly purchased sport jacket and placed it beside the blank page of stationery. He had underlined the correct numbers and began writing.