The Aquitaine Progression: A Novel

by Robert Ludlum

  “Two points for the opposition. The burden of sanity’s on me. Besides, it said I appeared perfectly normal.”

  “It said you suffered a great deal.”

  “Several hundred years ago, but no more than thousands of others and far, far less than some fifty-eight thousand who never came back. I don’t think an insane man is capable of making a rational remark 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 read to me is an example of a man being tried by negative journalism. Truths mixed with half-truths, distortions, and implausible judgments were slanted to support the lies that are meant to convict me. There’s not a court in any civilized country that would admit that kind of testimony or permit a jury to hear it.”

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

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

  “Where were you?”

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

  “There has to be some evidence of where you were.” The young German nodded at the cigarette in Converse’s hand. “Perhaps one of those. Perhaps you finished 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. “The advances in the technology of … Forschung… the investigation techniques have been rapid.”

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

  “Ja!”

  “No. I’d be dead before a scrap of evidence reached 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 young man’s eyes was joined by disappointment, the last glimpse of believability, perhaps, gone with Joel’s refusal to explain.

  “Because I can’t, I won’t. You said a few minutes ago that I’d done enough to you, and without meaning to, I have. But I won’t do this. You’re not in 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 to convince you that I have to reach others. People who can do something. They’re not here; they’re not in Bonn, but I’ll reach them if I can get away.”

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

  “No. I don’t want you to do anything. I’m asking you not to do anything—at least for a while. Nothing. Give me a chance to get out of here and somehow get in touch with people who can help me—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 own embassy, Amerikaner?”

  Converse looked hard at Johann, his eyes as steady as he could manage. “Ambassador Walter Peregrine was killed by one or more men at that embassy. They came to kill me last night at the hotel.”

  Johann breathed deeply, taking his eyes off Joel and staring down at the table. “Back at the kiosk, in the crowd, when you threatened me … you said three men had been killed already—three decent men.”

  “I’m sorry. I was desperate.”

  “It wasn’t simply that, it was what you said right afterward. You said why should I be the exception. Because I was young? That was no reason, you claimed, and then you shouted very strange words—I remember them precisely. You said, ‘When you come right down to it, who the hell are we 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 can only tell you what I’ve told dozens of clients over the years. When a decision is reduced to several strong opposing arguments—mine included—and you’ve listened to them all, put them behind you and follow your own gut instinct. Depending upon who and what you are, it’ll be the right one for you.” Converse paused, pushing back his chair. “Now I’m going to get up and walk out of here. If you start screaming, I’ll run and try to hide somewhere where I’ll be safe before anyone recognizes me. Then I’ll do whatever I can do. If you don’t set off an alarm, I’ll have a better chance, and that in my view would be best—for all of us. You could go to the university 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 hand instantly to his face, his fingers spread, touching his eyebrows. He turned and walked through the tables to the pavement, veering right, heading for the first intersection. He barely took a breath; his lungs were bursting for air but he dared not let even a breath impair his hearing. He waited as he walked, his pulse accelerating, his ears so keenly tuned that the slightest dissonance would have burned them.

  There were only the sounds of the excited street conversations in counterpoint with the blaring horns of taxis—not the screams of a young male voice raising an alarm. He walked faster, entering the flow of pedestrians crossing the square—faster, faster—passing strollers who saw no need to rush. He reached the curb of the opposite pavement and slowed down—a rapidly walking man called attention to himself. Yet the impulse to break into a run was almost uncontrollable the farther he distanced himself from the tables of the sidewalk bakery-café. His ear had picked up no alarm and every split second of that absence told him to race into whatever secluded side streets he could find.

  Nothing. Nothing broke the discordant sounds of the square, but there was a change, a discernible change, and it had nothing to do with strident alarms provoked by a single screaming voice. The discordant sounds themselves had become subdued, replaced by shrugs and relaxed gestures indicating inability to comprehend. The word Amerikaner was repeated everywhere. The panic initially ignited by the news had passed. An American had killed an American; it was not a German assassin, or a Communist, or even a terrorist who had eluded the Federal Republic’s security arrangements. Life could go on; Deutschland could not be held responsible for the death—and the citizens of Bonn breathed a sigh of relief.

  Converse spun around the corner of a brick building and stared across the square at the tables of the bakery-café. The student, Johann, remained in his chair, his head bowed, supported by both hands, reading the newspaper. Then he got up and walked into the bakery itself. Was there a telephone inside? Would he talk to someone?

  How long can I wait? thought Converse, prepared to run, as instinct held him back.

  Johann came out of the bakery carrying a tray of coffee and rolls. He sat down and meticulously separated the plates from the tray and once again stared at the newspaper in front of him. Then he looked up at nothing in particular—as if he knew he was being watched by unseen eyes—and nodded once.

  Another risk-taker, thought Joel, as he turned and looked and listened to the unfamiliar sights and sounds of the side street he had entered. He had been given a few hours; he wished he knew how to use them—he wished he knew what to do.

  Valerie ran to the phone. If it was another reporter, she would say the same thing she had said to the last five. I don’t believe a word of it and I’ve nothing more to say! And if it was one more person from Washington—from the FBI or the CIA or the VA or any other combinations of the alphabet—she would scream! She had spent three hours being interviewed that morning until she had literally ordered the crucifiers out of the
house. They were liars trying to force her to support their lies. It would be far easier to take the phone off the hook, but she could not do that. She had called Lawrence Talbot in New York twice, telling his office to trace him wherever he was and have him call her back. It was all madness. Insanity! as Joel used to say with such quiet intensity she thought his voice was a wild roar of protest.

  “Hello?”

  “Valley? It’s Roger.”

  “Dad!” Only one person had ever called her by that name and that man was her former father-in-law. The fact that she was no longer married to his son had made no difference in their relationship. She adored the old pilot and knew he felt the same about her. “Where are you? Ginny didn’t know and she’s frantic. You forgot to turn on your answering machine.”

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

  “Some enterprising airline clerk let out the word you were on board. Whoever it was will eat for a week off a generous expense account. Where are you?”

  “Still at the airport—in the traffic manager’s office. I’ll say this for ’em, they got me out of there.… Valley, I just read the papers. They got me the latest editions. 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 anything to do with! They’re twisting everything, making the good things he did into something … I don’t know, sinister or something. He’s too damned up-front to be crazy!”

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

  “What for?”

  “I don’t know. But I think Larry Talbot does—at least 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. She thinks people are striking out at her brother for the things she did in the sixties. I tried to tell her that was nonsense, but I’m afraid I made it worse. She asked me perfectly calmly if I believed what was being said about Joel. I told her of course I didn’t.”

  “The old paranoia. Three kids and an accountant for a husband and it still comes back. I never could handle that girl. Damned good pilot, though. Soloed before Joel, and she was two years younger. I’ll phone her.”

  “You may not be able to reach her.”

  “Oh?”

  “She’s having her number changed, and I think you should do the same thing. I know I’m going to the minute I hear from Larry.”

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

  “Why not? Have you any idea what it’s been like here?”

  “Look, you know I’ve never asked what happened between you and Joel, but I usually have dinner with that piss ant lawyer once a week when I’m in town. He thinks it’s some kind of filial necessity, but I’d knock it off in a minute if I didn’t like him. I mean he’s a likable guy, kind of funny sometimes.”

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

  “They say he disappeared, that no one can find him.”

  “And?”

  “He may call you. I can’t think of anyone else he would call.”

  Valerie closed her eyes; the afternoon sun through the skylight was blinding. “Is that based on your 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 it was always just below the cloud cover.”

  “You’re impossible, Dad.”

  “Pilot error’s like any other. There are times when you can’t afford it.… Don’t change your number, Valley.”

  “I won’t.”

  “Now, what about me?”

  “Ginny’s husband had a good idea. They’re referring all questions to their attorney. Maybe you should 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 to know the truth. Did you know that at the age of sixty-seven that son of a bitch took up flying? He’s qualified in multiengines now—can you imagine?”

  “Dad!” Valerie broke in suddenly. “You’re at the airport?”

  “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 another name. Call me back and let me know what flight you’re on. I’ll pick you up.”

  “Why?”

  “Just do as I say, Roger. Please!”

  “What for?”

  “You’re staying here. I’m leaving.”

  21

  Converse hurried out of the clothing store on the crowded Bornheimer Strasse and studied his reflection in the window. He surveyed the overall effect of his purchases, not as a customer inside in front of the full-length mirror for fit and appearance, but as one of the strolling pedestrians on the sidewalk. He was satisfied; there was nothing about the clothes that called attention to him. The photograph in the papers—the only one in the past fifteen years that would be in a wire service or newspaper file—was taken about a year ago when he was one of several merger attorneys interviewed by Reuters. It was a head-and-shoulders shot, showing him in his lawyer’s clothes—a dark suit and vest, white shirt and striped tie—the image of a rising international specialist. It was also the image everyone who read the papers had of him, and since it would not change but only spread with later editions, then he was the one who had to change.

  Also, he could not continue to wear the clothes he had worn to the bank. A panicked Lachmann would undoubtedly give a complete description to the police, but even if his panic rendered him silent, he had seen him in a dark jacket, white shirt and striped tie. Unconsciously or not, thought Joel, he had sought a patina of respectability. Perhaps all men running for their lives did so because their essential dignity had been stolen from them. Regardless, dressed in those clothes he was the man in the newspaper photograph.

  The appearance he had in mind belonged to a history professor he had known in college, a man whose various articles of clothing were all related. His jackets were subdued tweeds with elbow patches, the trousers gray—heavy or light flannel, never anything else—and his shirts were blue buttoned-down oxford, again without exception. Above his thick horn-rimmed glasses was perched a soft Irish walking hat, the brim sloped downward front and back. Wherever that man went, whether down a street in Boston or New York’s Fifth Avenue or Beverly Hills’ Rodeo Drive—the last a place that Joel was sure he never saw—one would know he belonged to academic New England.

  Converse had managed to duplicate the outward appearance of the man in his memory, except for the tinted glasses, which he would have to replace with 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 with glasses of different sizes and shapes, a few slightly magnified for reading, others clear.

  For reasons that were only beginning to come into focus, those glasses were now vital to him. Then he understood. He was preoccupied with what he knew he could do—change his appearance. He was procrastinating, uncertain what to do next, not sure he was capable of doing anything.

  He looked at his face in the oval mirror of the variety store, again satisfied with what he saw. The ersatz tortoiseshell rims were thick, the glass clear; the effect was owlish, scholarly. He was no longer the man in the newspaper photograph, and equally important, the co
ncentration he had devoted to his appearance had begun to clear his mind. He could think again, sit down somewhere and sort things out. He also needed food and a drink.

  The café was crowded, the stained-glass windows muting the summer sunlight into shafts of blue and red piercing the smoke. He was shown to a table against the black-leather upholstered banquette, assured by the maitre d’, or whoever he was, that all he had to do was request a menu in English; the items were numbered. Whisky on the Continent, however, was universally accepted as Scotch; he ordered a double, and took out the pad and ball-point pen he had picked up at the variety store. His drink came and he proceeded to write.

  Connal Fitzpatrick?

  Briefcase?

  $93,000 plus

  Embassy out

  No Larry Talbot et al.

  No Beale

  No Anstett

  No man in San Francisco

  Men in Washington. Who?

  Caleb Dowling? No.

  Hickman, Navy, San Diego? Possible.

  … Mattilon?

  René! Why hadn’t he thought of Mattilon before? He understood why the Frenchman made the remarks attributed to him anonymously in the newspaper story. René was trying to be protective. If there was no defense, or if it was so weak so as not to be viable, the most logical backup was temporary insanity. Joel circled Mattilon’s name and wrote the number 1 on the left, circling it also. He would find a telephone exchange in the streets, the kind where operators assigned booths to bewildered tourists, and call René in Paris. He took two swallows of whisky, relaxing as the warmth spread through him, then went back to his list, starting at the top.

  Connal …? The presumption that he had been killed was inevitable, but it was not conclusive. If he was alive, he was being held for whatever information could be pried out of him. As the chief legal officer of the West Coast’s largest and most powerful naval base, and a man who had a history of meetings with the State Department’s Office of Munitions Control as well as its counterparts at the Pentagon, Fitzpatrick could be an asset to the men of Aquitaine. Yet to call attention to him was to guarantee his execution, if he had not been killed already. If he was still alive, the only way to save him was to find him, but not in any orthodox or official manner; it had to be done secretly. Connal had to be rescued secretly.