The Aquaintaine Progession

by Ludlum, Robert

  “Well, if you’ve got any time and you want a coupleof

  laughs with some actor types, call me at the hoteland leave a number.”

  “I probably will. I enjoyed riding shotgun. "

  "On a cattle drive, pardner?”

  Joel waited. The last stragglers were leaving theplane, nodding at the flanking stewardesses, someyawning, others in awkward combat with shoulderbags, camera equipment and suit-carriers. The finalpassenger exited through the aircraft’s concave doorand Converse got up, gripping the handle of hisattache case and sliding into the aisle. Instinctivelywithout having a conscious reason to do so, heglanced to his right, into the rear section of theplane.

  What he saw and what saw him made himfreeze. His breath exploded silently in his chest.Seated in the last row of the long fuselage was awoman. The pale skin under the wide brim of thehat, and the frightened, astonished eyes that abruptlylooked away all formed an image he vividly re-membered. She was the woman in the cafe at theKastrup Airport in Copenhagen! When he last sawher she was walking rapidly into the baggage-claimarea, away from the row of airlines’ counters. Shehad been stopped by a man in a hurry words hadbeen exchanged and now Joel knew they hadconcerned him.

  The woman had doubled back, unnoticed in thelast-minute rush for boarding. He felt it, he knew it.She had followed him from Denmark!

  Converse rushed up the aisle and through themetal door into the carpeted tunnel. Fifty feet downthe passageway the narrow walls opened into awaiting area, the plastic seats and the roped-offstanchions designating the gate. There was no one;the place was empty, the other gates shut down, thelights off. Beyond, suspended from the ceiling weresigns in German, French and English directingpassengers to the main terminal and the downstairsbaggage claim. There was no time for his luggage; hehad to run, to get away from the

  airport as fast as possible, get away without beingseen. Then the obvious struck him, and he felt sick.He had been seen; they knew he was on the Hightfrom Hamburg whoever they were. The instant hewalked into the terminal he would be spotted, andthere was nothing he could do about it. They hadfound him in Copenhagen; the woman had foundhim and she had been ordered on board to makecertain he did not stay in Hamburg, or switch planesto another destination.

  Howe How did they do it?

  There was no time to think about it; he wouldthink about it later if there was a later. He passedthe arches of the closed-down metal detectors andthe black conveyor belts where hand luggage wasX-rayed. Ahead, no more than seventy-five feetwere the doors to the terminal. What was he goingto do, what should he do?

  NUR FUR HIER BESCHAFTIGTE

  MANNER

  Joel stopped at a door. The sign on it wasemphatic, the German forbidding. Yet he had seenthose words before. Where? What was it? . . .Zurich! He had been in a department store inZurich when a stomach attack had descended to hisbowels. He had pleaded with a sympathetic clerkwho had taken him to a nearby employees’ men’sroom. In one of those odd moments of gratitudeand relief, he had focused on the strange words asthey had drawn nearer. Nur fur trier Beschaftigte.Manner.

  No further memory was required. He pushed thedoor open and went inside, not sure what he woulddo other than collect his thoughts. A man in greenoveralls was at the far end of the line of sinksagainst the wall; he was combing his hair whileinspecting a blemish on his face in the mirror. Con-verse walked to the row of urinals beyond the sinks,his demeanor that of an airlines executive. Theaffectation was accepted; the man mumbledsomething courteously and left The door swung shutand he was alone.

  Joel stepped back from the urinal and studiedthe tiled enclosure, hearing for the first time thesound of several voices . . . outside, somewhereoutside, beyond . . . the windows. Three-quarters upfrom the floor and recessed in the far wall werethree frosted-glass windows, the painted whiteframes melting into the whiteness of the room. Hewas con

  fused. In these security-conscious days of airlinetravel with the constant emphasis on guardingagainst smuggled arms and narcotics, a room insidea gate area that had a means of getting outsidebefore entering customs did not make sense. Thenthe obvious fact occurred to him. It could be his wayout! The flight from Hamburg was a domestic flight,this part of the Cologne-Bonn airport a domesticterminal; there were no customs! Of course therewere exterior windows in an enclosure like this.What difference did it make? Passengers still had topass through the electronic arches and, conversely,authorities wanting to pick up a passenger flyingdomestically would simply wait by a specific gate.

  But no one waited for him. He had been thelast the second to last passenger off the late nightflight. The roped-off gate had been deserted; anyonesitting in one of the plastic chairs or standing beyondthe counter would be obvious. Therefore, those whowere keeping him in their sights did not want to beseen themselves. Whoever they were, they werewaiting, watching for him from some remote spotinside the terminal. They could wait.

  He approached the far-right window and loweredhis attache case to the floor. When he stood erect,the sill was only inches above his head. He reachedfor the two white handles and pushed; the windowslid easily up several inches. He poked his fingersthrough the space; there was no screen. Once thewindow was raised to its full height, there would beenough room for him to crawl outside.

  There was a clattering behind him, rapid slaps ofmetal against wood. He spun around as the dooropened, revealing a hunched-over old man in a whitemaintenance uniform carrying a mop and a pail.Slowly, with deliberation, the old man took out apocket watch, squinted at it, said something in Ger-man, and waited for an answer. Not only was Joelaware that he was expected to speak, but he assumedthat he had been told the employees’ men’s roomwas being closed until moming. He had to think; hecould not leave; the only way out of the airport wasthrough the terminal. If there was another he did notknow where, and it was no time to be runningaround a section of an airport shut down for theremainder of the night. Patrolling guards mightcompound his problems.

  His eyes dropped, centering on the metal pail,and in desperation he knew what he had to do, butnot whether he could do it. With a sudden grimaceof pain, he moaned and grabbed

  his chest, falling to his knees. His face contorted, hesank to the floor.

  “Doctor, doctor . . . doctor!” he shouted overand over again.

  The old man dropped the mop and the pail; aguttural stream of panicked phrases accompaniedseveral cautious steps forward. Converse rolled tohis right against the wall he gasped for breath as hewatched the German with wide, blank eyes.

  “Doctor. . . !” he whispered.

  The old man trembled and backed away towardthe door; he turned, opened it and ran out, his frailvoice raised for help.

  There would be only seconds! The gate was nomore than two hundred feet to the left, the entranceto the terminal perhaps a hundred to the right. Joelgot up quickly, raced to the pail, turned it upsidedown, and brought it back to the window. Heplaced it on the floor and stepped up with one foot,his palms making contact with the base of thewindow; he shoved. The glass rose about four inchesand stopped, the frame lodged against the sash. Hepushed again with all the strength he could managein his awkward positron. The window would notbudge; breathing hard he studied it, his intense gazezeroing in on two small steel objects he wished toGod were not in place, but they were. Twoprotective braces were screwed into the opposingsashes, preventing the window from being openedmore than six inches. Cologne-Bonn might not bean international airport with a panoply of sophis-bcated security devices, but it was not without itsown safeguards.

  There were distant shouts from beyond thedoor; the old man had reached someone. The sweatrolled down Converse’s face as he stepped off thepail and reached for his attache case on the floor.Action and decision were simultaneous, only instinctunconsciously governing both. Joel picked up theleather case, stepped forward and crashed itrepeatedly into the window, shattering the glass andfinally breaking away the lower wooden frame. Hestepped back up on the pail and looked out.Beyond below was a cement
path bordered by aguardrail, floodlights in the distance, no one insight. He threw the attache case out the window,and pulled himself up, his left knee kickingfragments of glass and what was left of the frame tothe concrete below. Awkwardly, he hunched hiswhole body, pressing his head into his shoulderblades, and

  plunged through the opening. As he fell to theground he heard the shouts from inside: they grew involume, all in counterpoint, a mixture ofbewilderment and anger. He ran.

  Minutes later, at a sudden curve in the cementpath, he saw the floodlit entrance of the terminaland the line of taxis waiting for the passengers ofFlight 817 from Hamburg to pick up their luggagebefore the drivers collected their inHated nightprices to Bonn and Cologne. There were entranceand exit roads leading to the platform, broken bypedestrian crosswalks, and beyond these an immenseparking lot with several lighted booths still operatingfor those driving their own cars. Converse slippedover the guardrail and ran across an intersectinglawn until he reached the first road, racing into theshadows at the first blinding glare of a floodlight. Hehad to reach a taxi, a taxi with a driver who spokeEnglish; he could not remain on foot…. He had beencaptured on foot once, years ago. On a jungle trail,where if he had only been able to commandeer ajeep an enemy jeep he might have . . . Stop it!This is not "Nam, it’s a goddamn airport with amillion tons of concrete poured between flowers,grass and asphalt! He kept moving in and out of theshadows, until he had made a completesemicircle one-eight zero. He was in darkness, thelast of the taxis in the line ahead of him. He ap-proached the first, which was the last.

  “English? Do you speak English?”

  “"nglisch? Nein. “

  The second cabdriver was equally negative, butthe third was not. “As you Americans say, only theasshole would drive a taxi here wizzout the Englishreasonable. Is so?”

  “It’s reasonable, " said Joel, opening the door.

  “Rein! You cannot do thatl”

  “Do what?”

  “Come in the taxi.”

  “Why not?”

  “The line. Allviss is the line.”

  Converse reached into his jacket pocket andwithdrew a folded layer of deutsche marks. “I’mgenerous. Can you understand thatP”

  “Is also urgent sickness. Get in, main Herr.”

  The cab pulled out of the line and sped towardthe exit road. “Bonn or Koln?” asked the driver.

  “Bonn,” replied Converse, “but not yet. I want youto

  drive into the other lane and stop across the way infront of that parking lot.”

  “”Was… 9″

  “The other lane. I want to watch the entranceback there. I think there was someone on theHamburg plane I know.”

  “Many have come out. Only those with luggage “

  “She’s still inside,” insisted Joel. “Please, just do as Isay.”

  " She? . . . Ach, ein Fraulein. Ist ja Ihr Geld, mainHerr. “

  The driver swung the cab into a cutoff that ledto the incoming road and the parking lot. Hestopped in the shadows beyond the second booth;the terminal doors were on the left, no more thana hundred yards away. Converse watched as wearypassengers, carrying assorted suitcases, golf bags,and the ever-present camera equipment, began tofile out of the terminal’s entrance, most raising theirhands for taxis, a few walking across the pedestrianlanes toward the parking lot.

  Twelve minutes passed and still there was nosign of the woman from Copenhagen. She could nothave been carrying luggage, so the delay wasdeliberate, or instructed. The driver of the cab hadassumed the role of nonobserver; he had turned offthe lights and, with a bowed head, appeared to bedozing. Silence…. Across the parallel roads, thetravelers from Hamburg had dwindled. Severalyoung men, undoubtedly students, two in cut-offjeans, their companions drinking from cans of beer,were laughing as they counted the deutsche marksbetween them. A yawning businessman in athree-piece suit struggled with a bulging suitcaseand an enormous cardboard box wrapped in a floralprint, while an elderly couple argued, their disputeemphasized by two shaking heads of grey hair. Fiveothers, men and women, were by the curb at the farend of the platform apparently waiting for pre-arranged transportation. But where . . .

  Suddenly she was there, but she was not alone.Instead, she was flanked by two men, a thirddirectly behind her. All four walked slowly, casually,out of the automatic glass doors, moving to the left,their pace quickening until they reached thedimmest area of the canopied entrance. Then thethree men angled themselves in front of the woman,as if mounting a wall of protection, their headsturning, talking to her over their shoulders whilestudying the crowd. Their conversation becameanimated but controlled, anger joining confusion,

  tempers held in check. The man on the right brokeaway and crossed to the corner of the building, thenwalked beyond into the shadows. He pulled anobject out of an inside pocket and Joel instantlyknew what it was; the man raised it to his lips. Hewas talking by radio to someone in or around theairport.

  Barely seconds passed when the beams ofpowerful headlights burst through the glass overConverse’s right shoulder, filling the back of the taxi.He pressed himself into the seat his head turned,neck arched, his face at the edge of the rear window.Beyond, by the exit booth of the parking lot, adark-red limousine had stopped, the driver’s armextended a bill clutched in his hand. The attendanttook the money turning to make change, when thelarge car lurched forward leaving the man in thebooth bewildered. It careened around the taxi andheaded for the curve in the road that led to theairport terminal’s entrance. The timing was tooprecise; radio contact had been made and Joel spoketo the driver.

  “I told you I was generous,” he said, startled bythe words he was forming in his head. “I can be verygenerous if you’ll do as I ask you to.”

  “I awn an honest man,” replied the German,uncertainty in his voice, his eyes looking at Joel inthe rearview mirror.

  “So am I,” said Converse. “But I’m also honestlycurious and there’s nothing wrong with that. You seethe dark-red car over there, the one that’s stoppingat the corner of the building?”

  "pa. “

  “Do you think you could follow it without beingseen? You’d have to stay pretty Or behind, but keepit in sight. Could you do it?”

  “Is not a reasonable request. How generous isthe A merikaner?”

  “Two hundred deutsche marks over the fare.”

  “You are generous, and I am a superior driver.”

  The German did not underestimate his talentsbehind the wheel. Skillfully he weaved the cabunobtrusively through a cutoff, swinging abruptly leftinto the parallel exit road and bypassing the entranceto the terminal.

  “What are you doing?” asked Joel, confused. “Iwant you to follow “

  “Is only way out,” interrupted the driver, glancingback at the airport platform while maintainingmoderate speed. “I

  shall let him pass me. I am just one moreinsignificant taxi on the autobahn.”

  Converse sank back into the corner of the seat,his head away from the windows. “That’s reasonablygood thinking,” he said.

  “Superior, mein Herr.’, Again the driver lookedbriefly back out the window, then concentrated onthe road and the rearview mirror. Moments later hegradually accelerated his speed; it was notnoticeable; there was no breaking away, insteadmerely a faster pace. He eased to the left, passing aMercedes coupe, staying in the lane to overtake aVolkswagen, then returning to the right.

  “I hope you know what you’re doing,” muttered Joel.

  No reply was necessary as the dark-red vehiclestreaked by on the left.

  “Directly ahead the road separates,” said thedriver. “One way to Koln, the other to Bonn. Yousay you are going to Bonn, but what if your friendgoes to KolnP”

  “Stay with him.”

  The limousine entered the road for Bonn andConverse lighted a cigarette, his thoughts on thereality of having been found, which meant his namewas known from the passenger manifest. So be it; hewould have preferred otherwise, but once the initialcontact had been made with
Bertholdier it was nota vital point. He could operate as himself; his pastmight even be an asset. Also, there was a positiveside to the immediate situation; he had learnedsomething several things. Those followinghim who now had lost him were no part of theauthorities; they were not connected with either theGerman or the French police, or the coordinatingInterpol. If they were, they would have taken him atthe gate or on the plane itself, and that told himsomething else. Joel Converse was not wanted forassault or God forbid murder back in Paris. Andthis assumption could only lead to a thirdprobability: the violent, bloody struggle in the alleywas being covered up. Jacques-Louis Bertholdierwas taking no chances that because of his severelywounded aide his own name might surface in anyconnection whatsoever with a wealthy guest of thehotel who had made such alarming insinuations tothe revered general. The protection of Aquitainewas paramount.

  There was a fourth possibility, so realisticallyarrived at it could be considered fact. The men inthe dark-red limou

  sine who had met the Hamburg plane were also partof Aquitaine, underlings of Erich Leifhelm, thespoke of Aquitaine in West Germany. Sometimeduring the last five hours, Bertholdier had learnedthe identity of the ersatz Henry Simon probablythrough the management of the George V andcontacted Leifhelm. Then, alarmed that no passengermanifest listed an American named Converse flyingfrom Paris to Bonn, they had checked the otherairlines and found he had gone to Copenhagen. Thealarms must have been strident. Why Copenhagen?He said he was going to Bonn. Why did this strangeman with his extraordinary information go toCopenhagen? Who are his contacts, whom will hemeet? Find him. Find them! Another phone call hadbeen made, a description given, and a woman hadstared at him in a cafe in the Kastrup Airport. It wasall so throughthe-looking-glass.

  He had flown to Denmark for one reason, butanother purpose had been served. They had foundhim, but in the finding they had revealed their ownpanic. An agitated reception committee, the use ofa radio at night to reach an unseen vehicle only afew hundred feet away, a racing limousine: thesewere the ingredients of anxiety. The enemy wasoff-balance and the lawyer in Converse was satisfied.At this moment that enemy was a quarter of a miledown the road speeding into Bonn, unaware that ataxi behind them, skillfully maneuvered by a driverslipping around the intermittent traffic, was keepingthem in sight.