"You will see."
"Goddamn you, you're not part of them! You can't
bel"
"They pay. Up and down the railroad they pay.
On the piers, in the airports. They say you speak
nothing but English."
'What else do they say?"
"Why should I tell you? You're caught. It is you
who should let me go. It could be easier for you."
"How? A quick bullet in the head instead of a
Hanoi rack?"
"Whatever it is, the bullet could be better. You
are too young to know, Meneer. You were never
under occupation."
"And you're too old to be so goddamned strong,
I'll give you that."
'ha, I learn that, too."
"Let go!"
The train was braking and the drunken crowd in
the car roared its approval as men grabbed suitcases
from the upper racks. The passenger who had been
sitting next to Joel hastily yanked his from above the
seat, his stomach pressing into Converse's shoulder.
Joel tried to appear as though he were in deep
conversation with his grimacing half-prisoner; the
man fell back, suitcase in hand, laughing.
The old woman lurched forward, sinking her
mouth into Converse's upper arm, millimeters from
his wound. She bit him viciously, her yellow teeth
penetrating his flesh, blood bursting out of his skin,
trickling down the woman's grey chin.
He pulled back in pain. She freed her hand from
his grip in the canvas bag; the gun was hers! She
fired; the muted spit was followed by a shattering of
a section of the floor in the aisle, missingJoel's feet
by inches. He grabbed the unseen barrel, twisted it,
pulled it, trying with all his strength to wrench it
away. She fired again.
Her eyes grew wide as she arched back into the
seat. They remained open as she slumped into the
window, blood
454 ROBERT LUDIUM
spreading quickly through the thin fabric of her
dress in the upper section of her stomach. She was
dead, and Joel felt ill nauseated he had to swallow
air to keep from vomiting. Trembling, he wondered
who this old woman was, why she was what she
had lived through that made her become what she
was. You were too young to know.... You were never
under occupation.
No time to think about all this! She had wanted
to kill him, that was all he had to know, and men
were waiting for him only minutes away. He had to
think, move!
Twisting the gun from her rigid fingers inside
the canvas bag, he quickly lifted it up and shoved it
under his coarse jacket, inserting it under his belt,
feeling the weight of the other weapon in his
pocket. He reached over and bunched the woman's
dress in folds, then layered her shawl over the
bloodstains and pushed her mass of disheveled hair
over her right cheek, concealing the wide dead eyes.
Experience in the camps told him not to try to close
the eyes; too often they would not respond. fhe
action might only call attention to him to her. The
last thing he did was to pull a can of beer out of the
bag, open it, and place it on her lap; the liquid
spilled out, drenching' her lap.
"Amsterdam! Df volgende halls is Amsterdam-Cen-
traal.~"
A roar went up from the vacationing crowd as
the line began to form toward the door. Oh, Christ!
thought Converse. How? The old woman had said a
telephone call had been made. A telephone call,
which implied she had not made it herself. It was
logical; there was too little time. She had un-
doubtedly paid one of her sister bag ladies who
plied the trains at the station in Utrecht to make it.
The information therefore would be minimum,
simply because there was no time. She was a special
employee, one who had been researched as only
Aquitaine could research, an old woman who was
strong and who could use a weapon and who would
not shrink from taking a life who would not say
too much to anyone. She would merely give a
telephone number and instruct the hired caller to
repeat the time of the train's arrival. Again . . .
therefore . . . he had a chance. Every male
passenger would be scrutinised, every face matched
against the face in the newspapers. But he was and
he was not that face! And he did not speak any
language but English that information had been
spread with emphasis.
THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 455
Think!
"Ze is drunken!" The words were shouted by the
burly man with the enormously endowed wife at his
side as he pointed to the dead woman. Both were
laughing, and Joel did not need an interpreter to
understand. Converse nodded, grinning broadly as he
shrugged. He had found his way out of the station in
Amsterdam.
For Converse understood there was a universal
language employed when the decibel of noise was
such that one could neither hear nor be heard. It was
also used when one was bored at cocktail parties, or
when one watched football games on television with
clowns who were convinced they knew a great deal
more than coaches or quarterbacks, or when one was
gathered and trapped into an evening in New York
with the "beautiful people" most of whom qualified
as neither in the most rudimentary sense, egos far
outdistancing either talent or humanity. In such
situations one nodded; one smiled one occasionally
placed a friendly hand on a shoulder, the touch
signifying communication but one said nothing.
Joel did all of these things as he got off the train
with the burly man and his wife. He became almost
manic, playing the role as one who knew there was
nothing left between death and survival but a certain
kind of controlled madness. The lawyer in him
provided the control; the child pilot tested the winds,
knowing his aircraft would respond to the elemental
pressures because it was sound and he was good and
he enjoyed the craziness of a stall forced by a
downdraft; he could easily pull out.
He had removed his dark glasses and pulled his
cap far down over his forehead. His hand was on the
burly man's shoulder as they walked up the platform,
the Dutchman laughing as he spoke, Joel nodding,
slapping his companion's shoulder, laughing in return
whenever there was a break in the man's monologue.
Since the couple had been drinking neither took
much notice of his incomprehensible replies, he
seemed like a nice person, and in their state nothing
else really mattered.
As they walked up out of the platform toward
the terminal Converse's constantly roving eyes were
drawn to a man standing in a crowd of welcomers
beyond the archway at the end of the ramp. Joel first
noticed him because unlike those around
him whose f
aces were lit up in varying degrees of
anticipation this man's expression was serious to
the point
456 ROBERT LUDLUM
of being solemn. Ile was not there to offer welcome.
Then suddenly Converse knew there was another
reason why this man had caught his attention. The
moment he recognised the face he knew exactly
where he had seen it walking rapidly down a path
surrounded by thick foliage with another man,
another guard. The man up ahead was one of the
patrols from Erich Leifhelm's compound above the
Rhine.
As they approached the arch, Joel laughed a
little louder and made it a point to clap the
Dutchman's shoulder a little harder, his cap still
angled down over his forehead. He followed several
nods with a shrug or two and then with a
good-humored shaking of the head; with brows
furrowed and lips constantly moving, he was
obviously in fluent conversation. Through narrowed
eyes Converse saw that Leifhelm's guard was staring
at him; then the man looked away. They passed
through the arch and in the corner of his vision Joel
was abruptly aware of a head whipping around, then
of a figure pushing other figures out of his path.
Converse turned, looking over the Dutchman s
shoulder. It happened. His eyes locked with those of
LeifLelm s guard. The recognition was instant, and
for that instant the Cerman panicked, turning his
head back toward the ramp. He started to shout,
then stopped. He reached under his jacket and
moved forward.
Joel broke away from the couple and began
racing threading his way through succeeding walls of
bodies, heading for a series of archlike ascending
exits through which sunlight streamed into the
ornate terminal. Twice he looked behind him as he
ran; the first time he could not see the man, the
second time he did. LeifLelm's guard was screaming
orders to someone across the way, rising on the
balls of his feet to see and be seen, gesturing at the
exit doors in the distance. Converse ran faster,
pulling his way through the crowd toward the steps
that led to the massive exit. He climbed the
staircase swiftly but within the rhythm of the most
harried departing passengers, holding to the center,
trying to call as little attention to himself as
possible.
He bolted through a door into the sunlight, into
total confusion. Below was water and piers and
glass-covered boats bobbing up and down, people
rushing past them, others ushered on board under
the watchful eyes of men in white-and-blue
uniforms. He had come off a train only to emerge
on some kind of strange waterfront. Then he
remembered: the railroad station in Amsterdam was
built on an is
THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 457
land facing the center of the city; thus it was known
as the Centraal. Yet there was a street two streets,
three streets bridging the water toward other streets
and trees and buildings . . . no time! He was out in
the open and those streets in the distance were his
caves of survival; they were the ravines and the thick,
impenetrable acres of bush and swamp that would
hide him from the enemy! He ran as fast as he could
along the wide boulevard bordered by water and
reached an even wider thoroughfare clogged with
traffic, buses, trams, and automobiles, all at their
own starting gates, anxious for bells to release them.
He saw a dwindling line at the door of an electric
tramway, the final two passengers climbing on board;
he raced ahead and, just before the door swung shut,
he stepped up into the tram the last fare.
Spotting an empty seat in the last row, he walked
quickly to the back of the huge vehicle. He sat down,
breathing hard, desperately, the sweat mathng his
hairline and his temples and rolling down his face,
the shirt under his jacket drenched. It was only then
that he realized how exhausted he was, how loud and
rapid the tattoo in his chest, how blurred his vision
and his thoughts. Fear and pain had combined into
a form of hysteria. The desire to stay alive and the
hatred of Aquitaine had kept him going. Pain? He
was suddenly aware of the ache in his arm above his
wound, an old woman's last act of ven-
geance against what? For what? An enemy?
Money? No time!
The tram started up and he turned in his seat to
look out the rear window. He saw what he wanted to
see. Leifhelm's guard was racing across the
intersection, a second man running to join him from
the waterfront quad. They met, and the words they
exchanged were obviously exchanged in near panic.
Another joined them, from where Joel could not see;
he was suddenly just there. The three men spoke
rapidly, Leifhelm's guard apparently the leader; he
pointed in several directions, issuing orders. One
man ran down the street, below the curb, and began
checking the half-dozen or so taxis in the traffic jam;
a second stayed on the pavement, slowly making his
way around the tables of a sidewalk cafe, then going
inside. Finally, Leifhelm's guard ran back across the
intersection, dodging cars, and reaching the curb, he
signaled. A woman walked out of a store and met
him at the corner.
No one had thought of the tram. It was his first
cave of survival. He sat back and tried to collect his
thoughts, know
458 ROKERT LUDLUM
ingthey would be difficult to face. Aquitaine would
penetrate all of Amsterdam, canvass it, tear it apart
until they found hirn. Was there conceivably a way
to reach Thorbecke or had he been fooling himself,
reaching into the past where too often accidents and
misplaced arrogance led to success? No, he could
not think for a while. He had to lie down in the
cave and rest, and if sleep came, he hoped the
nightmares did not come with it. He looked out the
window and saw a sign. It read DAMBAK.
He remained on the electric conveyance for well
over an hour. The lively streets, the lovely
architecture of the centuries-old buildings and the
endless canals calmed him. His arm still ached from
the old woman's teeth but not severely, and
thoughts of cleansing the wound faded. He could
not weep for the old woman, but as with certain,
strange witnesses at a trial, he wished he knew her
story.
Hotels were out. The foot soldiers of Aquitaine
would scour them, offering large sums for any
information about any American of his general
description which they now specifically had.
Thorbecke would be watched, his telephone tapped,
his every move and conversation scrutinised. Even
the embassy, or consulate whichever it was in
Amster dam would have another milit
ary charge
d'affaires or his equivalent on the prowl for a signal
that a non-assassin wanted to come in and start the
process of rectification. If his perceptions were
right, that left him with only one escape hatch. Na-
than Simon.
Nathan the Wise, Joel had dubbed him once,
only to be told that a Gentile with his intelligence
should certainly come up with something more
original. Then after a particularly long session at the
office in which Nate detailed in excruciating detail
why they should not take on a client named Lie-
bowitz, who in his opinion would put too great a
burden on the obligation to respect a client's
confidence, and during which Lawrence Talbot had
dozed off, Converse suggested that he alter his
sobriquet to Nathan the Talmudic-pain-in-the-ass.
Nate had roared, shocking Talbot awake, and
proclaiming, "I love it! And Sylvia will love it
betterI"
Joel had learned more about the law from
Nathan Simon than from anyone else, but there was
always a distance between them. It was as though
Nate never really wanted them to be too close in
spite of the obvious affection the older man had for
the younger. Converse thought he understood; it
was
THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 459
a question of loyalty. Simon had two sons, who, m
the properly guarded phrase, "were in business for
themselves in California and Florida." One sold
insurance in Santa Barbara, and the other ran a bar
in Key West. Nate Simon was a tough act to follow,
and Joel was given a hint of just how hard it was one
late afternoon when Simon offered to buy him a
drink at '21" after a harrowing conference on Fifth
Avenue.
"I like your father, Converse. I like Roger. He
has minimal legal requirements, of course, but he's
a good man."
"He has no legal requirements, and I tried to stop
Robert Ludlum - Aquatain Progression.txt Page 71
