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Robert Ludlum - Aquatain Progression.txt

Page 81

by The Aquitaine Progression [lit]


  for cooperating with Interpol and the Surete. The

  manhunt is spread ing out from Paris and this station

  will bring you . . ."

  Valerie sprang from the chair and ran to the

  television set; she furiously pushed several buttons

  until the radio was silent. She stood for a moment,

  trembling with anger and fear. And something else

  she could not define did not care to define. It tore

  her apart and she had to stay together.

  She lay on the bed staring at the ceiling, at the

  reflections of light from things moving in the street

  below, and hearing the sounds of the city. None of it

  was comforting only abra

  520 ROBERT LUDIUM

  sive intrusions that kept her mind alert, rejecting

  sleep. She had not slept on the plane, but had only

  dozed intermittently, repeatedly jarred awake by

  half-formed nightmares probably induced by

  excessive turbulence over the North Atlantic. She

  needed sleep now . . . she neededJoel now. The

  first, mercifully, came; the latter was out of reach.

  There was a shattering noise accompanied by a

  burst of sunlight that blinded her as she shot up

  from the bed, kicking away the sheet and throwing

  her feet on the floor. It was the telephone. The

  telephone? She looked at her watch; it was

  seven-twenty-five. The phone rang once again,

  piercing the mists of sleep but not clearing them

  away. The telephoner How . . . ? Why? She picked

  it up, gripping it with all her strength, trying to find

  herself before speaking.

  "Hello?"

  "Mrs. DePinna?" inquired a male voice.

  "Yes."

  "We trust everything is satisfactory."

  "Are you in the habit of waking up your guests

  at seven o'clock in the morning to ask if they're

  comfortable?"

  "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 . . . since

  the flight from Amsterdam arrived at one-thirty this

  morning."

  "Who are you?" asked Val, petrified, holding her

  wrist 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 have

  woken up a hundred and fifty women who checked

  in at hotels since two A.M.... the 'flight from

  Amsterdam' did it; you didn't ask me what I was

  talking 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. Stay

  where 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 of

  identifying itself.... She had to get out! What did the

  ' fifteen minutes" mean? Was it a trap? Were men

  downstairs waiting for her now waiting to see if

  she would run? She had no choice!

  THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 521

  She ran to the bathroom, grabbing the carry-on

  case off a chair and throwing her things into it. She

  dressed in seconds and stuffed what clothes

  remained into the bag; snatching the room key off

  the bureau, she ran to the door, then stopped. Oh,

  Lord, the stationery with the Air Force number! She

  raced back to the desk, picked up the page beside

  the open telephone book and shoved it into her

  purse. She glanced wildly about was there anything

  else? No. She left the room and walked rapidly down

  the hall to the elevators.

  Maddeningly, the elevator stopped at nearly

  every floor where men and women got on, most of

  the men with puffed circles under their eyes, a few

  of the women looking drawn, sheepish. Several

  apparently knew each other, others nodded absently,

  gazes straying to plastic name plates worn by most of

  the passengers. Val realized that some sort of

  convention was going on.

  The doors opened to a crowded bank of

  elevators, the ornate lobby to the right was swarming

  with people, voices raised in greetings, questions and

  instructions. Cautiously Val approached the gilded

  arch that led to the lobby proper, looking around in

  controlled panic to see if anyone was looking at her.

  A large gold-framed sign with block letters arranged

  in black felt under glass was on the wall:

  WEECOME: MiCMAC DISTRIBUTORS. There

  followed 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 city

  tours.

  'they, sweet face," said a burly, red-eyed man

  standing 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 to

  smash it into his face and bolt for the glass doors

  thirty feet away. "I have no idea what you mean."

  "The name, princess! Where's your Micmac

  spirit? How can I ask you to have breakfast with me

  if I don t know your name?"

  "Oh . . . the name tag. I'm sorry."

  522 ROBERT LUDLUM

  "What's your region, beautiful creature?"

  "Region?" Valerie was puzzled but only for a

  moment. She suddenly smiled. "Actually, I'm

  new just hired yesterday. They said my instructions

  would be at the desk, but it's so crowded I'll never

  get over there. Of course, with your shoulders I

  might make it before I m fired."

  "Grab hold, princess! These shoulders used to

  play semi-pro ball." The heavyset salesman was an

  effective blocking back; they reached the counter

  and the man growled appropriately, a lion preening

  before its conquest. "Hey, fellal This lady's been

  trying to get your attention. Need I say more Della?"

  The salesman, holding in his stomach, grinned at

  Val.

  "No, sir yes, ma'am?" said the perplexed clerk,

  who was not at all busy. The activity was taking

  place in front of the counter, not at the counter.

  Valerie leaned forward, ostensibly to be heard

  through the noise. She placed her key on the

  counter and opened her purse, taking out three $50

  bills. "This should cover the room. I've been here

  one night, and there are no charges. What's left is

  yours."

  "Thank you, ma'arn."

  "I need a favor."

  ' Of coursel"

  'my name is Mrs. DePinna but of course the

  key tells you that."

  "What is it you want me to do, ma'am?"

  "I'm visiting a friend who's just had an

  operation. Could you tell me where the Lebanon

  Hospital is?"

  "The Lebanon? It's in the Bronx,
I think.

  Somewhere on the Grand Concourse. Any cabdriver

  will know, ma'am."

  'Mrs. DePinna's the name."

  "Yes, Mrs. DePinna. Thank you."

  Valerie turned to the heavyset, red-eyed

  salesman, again smiling. "I'm sorry. Apparently I'm

  at the wrong hotel, the wrong company, can you

  imagine? It would have been nice. Thanks for your

  help." She turned and quickly dodged her way

  through the crowd toward the revolving doors.

  The street was only beginning to come alive.

  Valerie walked rapidly down the pavement, then

  stopped almost immediately in front of a small,

  elegant bookstore and decided to wait in the

  doorway. The stories she had heard all her life

  included not only tales of leaving false information

  but lessons

  THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 523

  showing the need for knowing what the enemy

  looked like it was often the difference.

  A taxi drove up in front of the St. Regis, and

  before it came to a-stop the rear door opened. She

  could see the passenger clearly, he was paying the

  fare hurriedly without thought of change. He climbed

  out swiftly and started running toward the glass

  doors. He was hatless, with unkempt, blandish hair,

  and dressed in a madras jacket and light-blue

  summer jeans. He was the enemy, Valerie knew that

  and accepted it. What she found hard to accept was

  his youth. He was in his twenties, hardly more than

  a boy. But the face was hard and set in anger, the

  eyes cold distant flashes of steel in the sunlight. Wie

  ein HitlerJunge, thought Val, walking out of the book-

  store doorway.

  A car streaked past her, heading west toward the

  hotel; within seconds she heard screeching tires and

  expected a crash to follow. Like the other

  pedestrians, she turned around to look. Fifty feet

  away a brown sedan had come to a stop; on its door

  panels and trunk were the clear black letters u.s.

  ARMY. A uniformed officer got out quickly. He was

  staring at her.

  She broke into a run.

  Converse sat in an aisle seat roughly in the

  middle of the railway car. His palms perspired as he

  turned the pages of the small black prayer book,

  which had been placed in the envelope along with his

  passport, the letter of pilgrimage, and a typewritten

  sheet of instructions, which included a few basic facts

  about Father William Wilcrist, should they be

  necessary. On the bottom of the page was a final

  order: Commit to memory, tear up, and flush down

  toilet before immigration at Oldenzaal.

  The instructions were unnecessary, even

  distracting. Quite simply, he was to take a stroll

  through the railway cars twenty minutes out of a

  station called Rheine, leaving the suitcase behind as

  if he intended to return to his seat, and get off at

  Osnabruck. The details of his supposedly changing

  trains at Hanover for Celle and the subsequent

  morning drive north to Bergen-Belsen could have

  been said in one sentence rather than buried in the

  complicated paragraphs describing the underground's

  motivations and past successes. The facts about

  Father William Wilcrist, however, were succinct, and

  he had memorised them after the second reading.

  Wilcrist was thir

  524 ROBERT IUDLUM

  ty-eight years old, a graduate of Fordham, with a

  theological degree from Catholic University in

  Washington. Ordained at St. Ignatius in New York,

  he was an "activist priest" and currently assigned to

  the Church of the Blessed Sacrament in Los

  Angeles. In Valerie's words, if he was asked to

  recite 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 in

  the front of the car, the same man who had joined

  another standing by a pillar on the platform in

  Amsterdam. Undoubtedly that first man was now

  looking at the back of his head from a seat in the

  rear, mused Converse, turning another page in the

  prayer book. On the surface, the odds against him

  were overwhelming, but there was a fact and a

  factor just below the surface. The fact was that he

  knew who his executioners were and they did not

  know he knew. The factor was a state of mind he

  had drawn upon in the past.

  The train traveled north, then east; there were

  two stops before Oldenzaal, after which he

  presumed they would cross the Rhine into West

  Germany. They had pulled in and out of the

  Deventer station; that left one more, a city named

  Hengelo. The announcement came, and Joel got out

  of his seat before any of the Hengelo commuters

  rose from theirs; he turned in the aisle and walked

  back to the rear of the car. As he passed the man

  who stood by the pillar he saw that Aquitaine's

  hunter was staring straight ahead, his body so rigid

  it barely moved with the movement of the train.

  Converse had seen such postures many times

  before, at trials and in boardrooms; they invariably

  belonged to insecure witnesses and unsure

  negotiators. The man was tense, afraid perhaps of

  failing an assignment or of the people who had sent

  him to Amsterdam whatever it was, his anxiety was

  showing and Joel would use it. He was crawling out

  of a deep shaft in the ground, one tenuous grasp of

  earth afteranother, the indentations preformed after

  nights of preparation. The wire fence was in the

  distance, the rain falling, the patrols concerned,

  anxious frightened by every sound they could not

  quickly identify. He needed only one to move away

  and 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 the

  pieces into the bowl, pressing

  THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 525

  the foot button as he did so. They disappeared with

  the flush; he turned back to the door and waited.

  A second announcement blared from the

  speakers outside as the train slowed down; the sound

  of gathering feet was inches away beyond the door.

  The train came to a stop, he could feel the vibration

  of moving bodies, determined commuters thinking of

  home and relief and undoubtedly the Dutch

  equivalent of a martini. The vibrations the sounds

  faded away. Converse opened the door no more than

  half an inch. The rigid hunter was not in his seat.

  Now.

  Joel slid out of the door and stepped quickly into

  the open separation between cars, excusing himself

  between the stragglers getting off from the car

  behind, and walked rapidly inside and down the

  aisle. As he approached the last rows he saw an

  empty seat two seats, facing the platform and

&
nbsp; swung in, he sat down beside the window, his hand

  in front of his face, peering outside through his

  fingers.

  Aquitaine's hunter raced back and forth,

  sufficiently aggressive to stop three men who were

  walking away, their backs to him; rapid apologies

  followed. The hunter turned to the train, having

  exhausted the departing possibilities. He got back on

  board, his face a creased map falling apart.

  More, thought Converse. I want more. I want you

  stretched, as patrols before you were stretched. Until

  you can 't stand it!

  Oldenzaal arrived, then was left behind. The

  train crossed the Rhine, the clattering of the bridge

  below like snare drums. The hunter had crashed the

  forward door open too panicked to do anything but

  quickly look around and return to his companion, or

  to a lone suitcase perhaps. Joel's head was below the

  back of the seat in front of him. Minutes later came

  the Sonderpolizei checking the border, scrutinizing

  every male of a vague description, dozens of

  uniformed men walking through the railway cars.

  They were courteous, to be sure, but nevertheless

  they gave rise to ugly vestiges of a time past.

  Converse showed his passport and the letter written

  in German for the conscience of Germans. A

  policeman grimaced sadly, then nodded and went on

  to the next seat. The uniforms left; the minutes

  became quarter-hours. He could see through the

  windows into the forward car; the two hunters met

  several rows behind where he had been sitting. Again

  they separated; one fore, one aft. Now.

  Joel got up from his seat and sidestepped into the

 

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