The Aquaintaine Progession

by Ludlum, Robert

  There ureas a clue to that meaning, but it, too,was beyond understanding. Every other day or so theprisoners were brought postcards from widely diverselocations resort areas in Europe and NorthAmerica and instructed to write specific messagesto specific individuals they all recognised as variousfellow officers at the posts or bases from which they

  were on leave. The messages were always in thevein of Ham ing wonderful fume; wish you were here;off to To refuse to write these peripatetic greetingswas to be denied the scant food they were given andto be driven out to the parade ground, where theywere forced to run as fast as they could in laps, withguns pointed at them, until they dropped.

  They agreed among themselves that the reasonbehind the near-starvation level of daily rations hada purpose. They were all trained, competentofficers.. Such men in decent physical and mentalcondition were capable of attempting escape or, atthe least, of creating serious disturbances. But thatwas all they could understand. All but Connal hadbeen there for a minimum of twenty-two to amaximum of thirty-four days. They were in aconcentration camp somewhere on someindeterminate coastline, not knowing their crimes,real or imagined by their captors.

  “Que pastas” asked a prisoner named Enriquefrom Madrid.

  “Es lo mismo Athena en el camps de manio/oras,” replied Fitzpatrick, nodding his head at thewindow, and continued in Spanish, “They’re killingstuffed dummies out there, figuring each hit makesthem heroes or martyrs or both.”

  “It’s crazy!” cried the Spaniard. “It’s crazy andit’s sick in the head! What do they accomplish? Whythis madness?”

  “They’re going to cut down a lot of importantpeople eight days from now. They’re going to killthem during some kind of international holiday orcelebration or something like that. What the hell ishappening eight days from now? Have you anyidea?”

  “I am only a major at the garrison at Zaragoza.I make my reports on the Basque provisionals, andread my books What do I know of such things?Whatever it is, it would not reachZaragoza barbarous country, but I would wearcorporal’s stripes to return to it.”

  “Vise! Contre la muraille!”

  “Schnell! Gegen die Mauer!”

  “Move! Against the wall!”

  “Pa presto! Contro it muro. “

  Four guards burst through the barracks doors,others following, repeating the same order indifferent languages. It was a manacles-and-chaininspection, carried out at whim day and night, neverless than once an hour during the daylight asfrequently as four times at night. The slightestevidence of

  any prisoner having attempted to break or weakenhis chain or crack his manacles by filing them againstthe concrete or smashing them into rock was metwith immediate punishment, which meant runningnaked preferably in the rain until collapse, andremaining in chains where he fell with no food orwater for thirty-six hours. Of the forty-three men,twenty-nine of the strongest among them had beenso punished, a number more than two and threetimes until they had little strength left. Connal hadrun the gauntlet only once thanks apparently to hisbilingual guard, an Italian who seemed to appreciatethe fact that his americano had taken the trouble tolearn italiano. The man from Genoa was a bitter,cynical former paratrooper and probably a con-vict who referred to himself as an outcast butpredicted he would come into his own when he wasrewarded for his work. But like most men from hispart of the world he instinctively responded to aforeigner’s praise of bella italia, bellissima Roma.

  It was from their short, whispered conversationsthat Fitzpatrick had learned as much as he had, hislegal military mind operating on the level ofaddressing a malcontented military client. He hadpushed the buttons he had pushed so often before.

  “What’s in it for you? They know you’re garbage!”

  “They promise me. They pay me much money toteach what I know. Without people like me manyof us here they will not accomplish.’

  “Accomplish what?”

  “That is for them to say. I am, as you say, employed.”

  “To show them how to kill?”

  “And to run and not be seen. That is ourlife the lives of many of us here.”

  “You could lose everything.”

  “Most of us have nothing. We were used anddiscarded.” “These men will do the same to you.”

  “Then we will kill again. We are experienced.”

  “Suppose their enemies find this place?”

  “They will not. They cannot.”

  “Why not?”

  “It’s an island no one thinks of.”

  “They know that.”

  “Im possible! No planes fly over, no boats come.We would know if they did.”

  “Why don’t you think about what was here?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Submarines. Surrounding your island.’.

  “If that was true, americano, the how yousay? the custode . . . “

  “The warden.”

  “He would explode everything away. Everythingon this side of the island would befumo smoke,nothing. It is part of our contralto. We understand.”

  “The warden the custody he’s the big Germanwith the short grey hair, isn’t he?”

  “Enough talk. Have your drink of water.”

  “I have information for you,” whispered Connal,as the guard checked his manacles and chain.“Information that will guarantee you a big rewardand might possibly save my life.”

  “What kind of information?”

  “Not here. Not now. There isn’t time. Comeback tonight everyone’s so exhausted they’re asleepbefore they reach their cots. I’ll stay awake. Comeand get me, but come alone. You don’t want toshare this.”

  “My head is filled with zucchini? I come alone toa barracks filled with condemned mend”

  “What can any of us do? What can I do? I’ll stayby the door; you open it and I’ll step out, your gunno doubt at my head. I don’t want to die, that’s whyI’m talking to you!”

  You will die. May you go with God.”

  “You’re a fool, a "5uffone! You could have afortune instead of a bullet in your chest.”

  The Italian looked guardedly at Fitzpatrick, thenaround at the others; the inspections were nearlyfinished. “For me to do such a thing, I need morethan what you have told me.”

  “Two of your guards are traitors,” whispered Connal.

  “she rosa?”

  “That’s all you get until tonight.”

  Fitzpatrick lay on the cot in the darkness,waiting, listentng for the sound of footsteps, thesweat of anxiety drenching his face. All around himwere the sleep-induced moans of hungry, physicallyabused men. He pushed his own pains out of hismind; he had other things to think about. If hecould reach the water, the manacles would slow himdown but not stop hun, he could sidestroke nearlyindefinitely and somewhere

  down the coastline, away from “this side of theisland,” there would be a beach or a dock, a placewhere he could crawl out of the sea. There wasnothing else left, he had to try it. He also had tomake sure his Italian guard could raise no alarms.

  The bolt in the door was quietly sliding back! Hehad missed the footsteps; his thoughts had distractedhim. He got up silently and started down the aisle onthe balls of his feet, flexing his hands but keeping thechain taut. He could not make any noise whatsoever,because several prisoners had begun to have violentnightmares when there was the slightest disturbance.He reached the door and somehow understood hewas to push it open, not wait for it to be opened; theguard would stay back, his weapon aimed at him.

  It was so. The Italian gestured with his gun forConnal to move forward as he sidestepped to thedoor and secured the bolt. He then pointed with thebarrel of his weapon, ordering Fitzpatrick to walkahead. Moments later both men stood in theshadows in front of the barracks, the old refuelingstation still visible in the darkness, the ocean waveslapping at the pilings.

  “Now we talk,” said the guard. “Who are thesetraitors and why should I believe you?”

  “I want your word that you’ll tell your superiorsI turned
them in. I don’t say anything until I haveyour word!”

  “My word, americano?” said the Italian, laughingsoftly. “Very well, amino, you have my word.”

  The guard’s quiet, cynical laughter covered theseconds. Connal suddenly whipped out the chain andcrashed it down on the man’s weapon; grabbing thebarrel of the gun with his right hand, he wrenched itfree; it fell to the grass below. He then raised thechain as he kicked the guard in the groin, andslammed the heavy links into the man’s face,smashing the manacles into the Italian’s skull untilthe guard’s eyes grew wide and then closed inunconsciousness. Fitzpatrick crouched, finding hisbearings.

  It was directly ahead an old submarine slip, itslong pier extending out to the middle water. He gotup and ran. The air was exhilarating, the breezesfrom the sea told him to run faster, faster. Escapewas seconds away.

  He plunged over the dock into the water,knowing he would find the strength to do anything,swim anywhere! He was free!

  Suddenly, he was blinded by the floodlightseverywhere.

  Then a fusillade of bullets exploded from all sides,ripping up the water around him, cracking the airoverhead, but none entering his body or blowingapart his head. And words over a loudspeaker filledthe night: “You are most fortunate, PrisonerNumber Forty-three, that we still might have needof you. Otherwise, your corpse would be food forthe North Sea fishes.”

  Joel walked out of the bright afternoon sun intoAmsterdam’s cavernous Centroal station. The darksuit and hat fit comfortably; the clerical collar andthe black shoes pinched but were bearable, and thesmall suitcase was an impediment he could discardat any time, although it was a correct accessory andheld odd bits of clothing, none of which was likelyto fit. Since a deja vu would be no illusion for thosehe had encountered before, he walked cautiously,alert to every sudden movement no matter howinconsequential. He expected at any instant to seemen rushing toward him, their eyes filled withpurpose and the intent to kill.

  No such men came, but even if they had come,he would have had some comfort in knowing he haddone his best. He had written the most completebrief of his legal career, written it with painstakinglyclear handwriting, organizing the material, pullingtogether the facts to support his judgments andconjectures. He had recalled the salient points ofeach dossier to lend credibility to his ownconclusions. Regarding his own painful experiencesand firsthand observations, he had weighed everystatement, discarding those that might seem tooemotional, reshaping the rest to reflect the cold ob-jectivity of a trained, sane legal mind. He had lainawake for hours during the night, allowing theorganisational blocks to fall into place, then startedwriting in the early morning, ending with a personalletter that dispelled any misconceptions about hismadness. He was a pawn who had been manipulatedby frightened, invisible men who had supplied thetools and knew exactly what they were doing. Inspite of everything

  that had happened he understood, and felt thatperhaps there had not been any other way to do it.He had finished it all an hour ago and sealed thepages in a large envelope supplied by the old manwho said he would post it on the Damrak afterdropping Converse off. Joel had sent it to NathanSimon.

  “Pastoor Wilcrist! It is you, is it not?”

  Converse spun around at the touch on his arm.He saw that the shrill greeting came from a gaunt,slightly bent woman in her late seventies. Herwizened face was dominated by intense eyes, herhead framed by a nun’s crown, her slender bodyencased in a black habit. “Yes,” he said, startled.“Hello, Sister?”

  “I can tell you don’t remember me, Pastoor,”exclaimed the woman, her Englishheavily loudly accented. “No, don’t fib, I can seeyou have no idea who I aml”

  “I might if you’d keep your voice down, Sister.”Joel spoke softly, leaning down and trying to smile.“You’ll call attention to us, lady.”

  “The religious always greet each other so,” saidthe old woman confidentially, her eyes wide anddirect, too direct. “They wish to appear like normalpeople.”

  “Shall we walk over here so we can talk quietly?”Converse took the woman by the arm and led hertoward a crowded area of a gate. “You havesomething for me?”

  “Where are you from?”

  “Where am I from? What do you mean?”

  “You know the rules. I have to be certain.”

  “Of what?”

  “That you are the proper contact. There can beno substitutes, no deviations. We are not fools,Meneer. Now, where are you from? QuicklylHesitation itself is a lie.”

  “Wait a minutel You were told to meet me here;you were given a description. What more do youwant?”

  “To know where you’re from.”

  “Chest, how many sunburned priests did youexpect to see at the information booth?”

  “They are not no un-normal. Some swim, I amtold. Others play tennis. The Pope himself once skiedin the moumtain sun! You see I am a good Catholic,I know these things.”

  “You were given a description! Am I that man?”

  “You all-look alike. The Father last week atconfession was not a good man. He told me I hadtoo many sins for my age and he had others waiting.He was not a patient man of God.”

  “Neither am I.”

  “All alike.”

  “Please, ” said Joel, looking at the thick, narrowenvelope in the woman’s hands, knowing that if hetook it forcibly from her she would scream. “I haveto reach Osnabruck, you know that!”

  "You are from Osnabru’ck?” The “nun” clutchedthe envelope to her chest, her body bent further,protecting a holy thing.

  “No, not Osnabruck!” Converse tried toremember Val’s words. He was a priest on apilgrimage . . . to Auschwitz and Bergen-Belsen . .. from, from. . . “LosAngeles!” he whispered harshly.

  “Ja, Hoed. What country?”

  “Jesus!”

  “lariat?”

  “The United States of America.”

  “Goed! Here you are, Meneer. ” The old womanhanded him the envelope, now smiling sweetly. “Weall must do our jobs, must we not? Go with God,my fellow servant of the Lord…. I do like thiscostume. I was on the stage, you know. I don’t thinkI’ll give it back. Everyone smiles, and a gentlemanwho came out of one of those dirty houses stoppedand gave me fifty Builder.”

  The old woman walked away, turning once andsmiling again, discreetly showing him a pint ofwhisky she had taken from under her habit.

  It might have been the same platform, he couldnot tell, but his fears were the same as when hearrived in Amsterdam twenty-four hours ago. Hehad come to the city as an innocuous-lookinglaborer with a beard and a pale, bruised face. Hewas leaving as a priest, erect, clean-shaven,sunburned, a properly dressed man of the cloth ona pilgrimage for repentance and reaffirmation. Gonewas the outraged lawyer in Geneva, themanipulating supplicant in Paris, the captured dupein Bonn. What remained was the hunted man, andto survive he had to be able to stalk the huntersbefore they could stalk him; that meant spottingthem before they spotted him. It was a lesson hehad learned eighteen years ago when his eyes weresharper and his body more resilient. To compensate,he had to use whatever other talents he haddeveloped; all were reduced to his ability toconcentrate without appearing to concentrate.Which was how and why Joel saw the man.

  He was standing by a concrete pillar up ahead onthe platorm reading an unfolded train schedule inthe dim light. Converse glanced at him as, indeed,he glanced briefly at Early everyone in sight thenseconds later he looked again. something was odd,incongruous. There could be several reaons why aman remained outside a well-lit railroad car to eada schedule a last cigarette in the open air, waitingfor omeone but that same man could hardly readthe very mall print while casually holding theschedule midway beween his head and his waistwithout any evidence of a squint. :t was like trying toread a page from a telephone directory n a car stuckin traffic in the Lincoln Tunnel, it took observbleeffort.

  Converse continued down the platform,approaching the wo open doors that signified the endof one railway car and :he beginning of the next. Hepurposely let his suitcase catc
h n a protrudingwindow ledge, pivoting as it did so, and apolo"izedto a couple behind him. Courteously he let them passmd courteously, as each saw his collar, they smiledand nodded. But while he remained facing them, hiseyes strayed to he man diagonally to the left by thepillar. The man still -latched the schedule in his handbut was concentrating now on Joel. It was enough.

  Converse entered the second door, his gait casualagain, but the instant he could no longer see the manby the pillar he rushed inside the railroad car. Hetripped, falling to the floor by the first seat, andagain apologised to those behind him a divineundone by profane luggage. He looked out thewindow, past the two passengers in the seat, both ofwhom paid attention to his collar before looking athis face.

  The man by the pillar had dropped the scheduleand was now frantically signaling with quickbeckoning gestures. In seconds he was joined byanother man, their conversation was rapid, then theyseparated, with one going to the door at the front ofthe car, the other heading for the entrance Joel hadjust passed through.

  They had found him. He was trapped.

  Valerie paid the driver and climbed out of thecab, thanking the doorman, who greeted her. It wasthe second hotel reservation she had made in thespace of two hours, having left a dead-end trail incase anyone was following her. She had taken a cabfrom Kennedy to LaGuardia, bought a ticket to

  Boston on a midmorning shuttle, then registered atthe air port motel, both under the name ofCharpentier. She had lef the motel thirty minuteslater, having paid the cabdriver k return for her ata side exit and calling the hotel in Manhattar to seeif a reservation was possible at that hour. It was.The St. Regis would welcome Mrs. DePinna, whohad flown ir from Tulsa, Oklahoma, on a suddenemergency.

  At the all-night Travelers Shop in SchilpholAirport, Va had purchased a carry-on bag, filling itwith toiletries anc whatever more inconspicuousarticles of clothing she could find among the all toocolorful garments on the racks. It we. still theheight of the summer, and depending upon the circumstances, such clothes might come in handy. Alsoshe needed something to show customs.