The Aquaintaine Progession

by Ludlum, Robert

  tee in the red lacquered bowl on the wall table, theold *Roman had dropped them there last night thekeys to her car. The bathroom door pulled out itwas the solution. Once she was inside, Joel draggedover a heavy chair from against the wall and jammedthe thick rim under the knob, kicking the legs inplace, wedging them into the floor. She heard thecommotion and tried to open the door; it held. Theharder she pressed, the more firmly the legs becameembedded.

  “We convene again tonight!” she roared. “We willsend out our best people! The best!”

  “God help Eisenhower when you meet,” mutteredConverse, inwardly relieved. If Aquitaine did nothave the phone covered, the old woman would befound in a few hours. The envelope under his arm,he took the keys from the lacquered bowl and pulledthe gun from his belt. He ran to the front door andopened it cautiously. There was no one, nothing onlyHermione Geyner’s car parked on the weed-riddendrive. He went outside and pulled the door shut,leaving it unlocked, and raced down the steps to theautomobile. He started the engine; there was half atank of gas, enough to get him far away fromOsnabruck before refilling. Until he could get a map,he would go by the sun heading south.

  Valerie made arrangements at the travel office inCaesars Palace, paying cash and using her mother’smaiden name, perhaps hoping some of thatresourceful woman’s wartime expertise might find itsway to the daughter. There was a 6:00 P.M. AirFrance flight to Paris from Los Angeles. She wouldbe on it, the hour’s trip to LAX made on a charteredplane to which she would be chauffeured, thusavoiding the terminal at McCarran Airport. Suchcourtesies were always available, usually forcelebrities and casino winners. There was no basicproblem with a false name on the Air Francepassenger manifest at worst, only embarrassment,in her case easily explained: her former husband,now a stranger, was an infamous man, a hunted man;she preferred anonymity. She would not legally berequired to produce her passport until she arrived atimmigration in Paris, and once through, she couldtravel anywhere she wished, under any name shegave, for she would not be leaving the borders ofFrance. It was why she had thought of Chamonix.

  She sat in the chair, looking out the window,thinking of those days in Chamonix. She had flownover with Joel to Ge

  neva,where he had three days of conferences withthe promise of five days off to go skiing at MontBlanc, a bonus from John Brooks, the brilliantinternational negotiator of Talbot, Brooks andSimon, who flatly refused to give up some reuniondinner for what he termed “lizard-shit meetingsbetween idiots our boy can do it. He’ll charm theirasses off while emptying their corporate pockets.” Itwas the first time Joel really knew that he was on hisway, yet oddly enough he was almost as excitedabout the skiing. They both enjoyed it so much. To-gether. Perhaps because they were both good.

  ButJoel had not enjoyed the skiing at Chamonixthat trip. On the second day he had taken a terriblefall and sprained his ankle. The swelling wasenormous, the pain as acute in his head as in hisfoot. She had knighted him “Sir Grump”, hedemanded his Herald Tribune in the morning,childishly refusing to have his breakfast before thepaper arrived, and even more childishly planing themartyr as his wife went off to the slopes. When shehad suggested that she really did not care to gowithout him, it was worse. He had charged her withtrying to be some kind of saint. He would beperfectly fine he had things to read, which artistswould not understand. Reading, that was.

  Oh, what a little boy he had been, thought Val.But during the nights it was so different, he was sodifferent. He became the man again, loving andtender, at once the generous lion and the sensitivelamb. They made love, it seemed, for hours on end,the moonlight on the snow outside, finally the hintof the sun’s earliest rays on the mountains until theyfell together into exhausted sleep.

  On their last day before heading back to Genevafor the night flight to New York, she had surprisedhim. Instead of going out for a few final hours ofskiing, she had gone downstairs at the hotel andbought him a sweater, to which she sewed a largepatch on the sleeve. It read: DOWNHILLRACER CHAMONIX. She had presented it tohim while a porter waited outside the door with awheelchair she had made arrangements throughthe influential manager of the hotel. They weretaken to the confer of Chamonix, to the cable carthat scaled thirteen thousand feet to the top ofMont Blanc through the clouds to the top of theworld, it seemed. When they reached the final apex,where the view was breathtaking, Joel had turned toher, with that silly, oblique look in his eyes thatbelied everything he was and everything had been through again, as always, his way ofthanking

  "Enough of this foolish scenery,” he had said.“Take off our clothes. It’s not really that cold.”

  They had hot coffee, sitting on a bench outside,the magificence of nature all around them. They heldhands, and ,hrist! She had felt such love that she hadto hold back the ears.

  She felt the love now and got out of the chair,rejecting he intrusion of emotion. It was the wrongtime. Whatever .larity of mind she could summon wasneeded now. She had o travel halfway across theworld avoiding God knew how nany people who werelooking for her.

  He had said he loved her “so much.” Was it loveor was t need . . . support? She had replied with thewords “my daring” no, she had said more than that;she had been far more Specific.. She had said “myonly darling.” Was it a response corn of the panic?

  Not knowing was the worst of it, thoughtConverse, tudying the road signs in the wash of theheadlights. He had Steen driving for nearly sevenhours after picking up a map in the city of Hagenwhile refilling the tank seven hours, and accordingto the map he was still a long way from the bordercrossing he had chosen. The reason lay in hisignorance, in not knowing whether HermioneGeyner’s car had been the object of a search in thefirst few hours out of Osnabruck. It undoubtedly wasnow officially by the police but during those sarlyhours he could have made better time on thehighways he dared not use in case Aquitaine hadraced to Geyner’s house with Val’s call. He hadtraveled circuitous backcountry "roads, his pilot’seye on the sun, veering always south until he reachedHagen. Now the back roads were a necessity;whether they were before he would never know.Now, however, Hermione Geyner and her band oflunatics must have gone to the police to report herstolen car. Joel had no idea what they could possiblysay that would convince the Polizei that Valerie’saunt was an injured party, but a stolen car was astolen car, whether driven by Saint Francis of Assisior Jack the Ripper. He would stay on the back roads.

  Lennestadt to Kreuztal, crossing the Rhine atBendorf and following the west bank of the riverthrough Koblenz, Oberwesel, and Bingen, then southto Neustadt and east to

  Speyerand the Rhine again. And again souththrough the bor der towns of Alsace-Lorraine, finallyto the city of Kehl. It we’ where he would cross intoFrance, a decision based on the fact that severalyears agoJohn Brooks had sent him to Strasbourgthe French city across the river border, to a terriblydull con ference at which eight lawyers argued socontinuously wit! each other over minor aspects oflanguage and translation that nothing of substancewas accomplished. As a result, Joe had walked thecity and driven out to the countryside, awec by itsbeauty. He had taken several boat trips up and downthe Rhine, and now he remembered the ferries thatshuttle: back and forth between the piers ofGermany and France Above all, he remembered thecrowds in Strasbourg. Always the crowds had helpedhim he needed them especially now

  It would take another three to four hours ofdriving, but somewhere he would have to stop andsleep for a while. He was exhausted; he had notslept for so long he could not accu rately rememberwhen he had last closed his eyes. But there wasChamonix and Val ahead. He had told her he lovedher he had said it. He had gotten it out after somany years: the relief was incredible, but theresponse even more incredi” ble. “My darling myonly darling.” Did she mean it? Or was shesupporting him again, the artist’s emotions ridingover reason and experience?

  Aquitaine! Push everything out of your mind andget into Francet

  The polar flight from Los Angeles to Paris wasuneventful, the moonscapes of ice over thenorthernmost regions of, the world hypnotica
llypeaceful, suspending thought by the sheer expanseof their cold infinity. Nothing seemed to matter toVal as she looked down from the substratosphere.But what’ ever tranquility the flight produced, itcame to an end in Paris.

  “Are you in France on business or on holiday,madame?” asked the immigration official, takingValerie’s passport and typing her name into thecomputer.

  “En pen de l’un et de l’autre.”

  “Vous parley franpais?”

  “C’est ma lance preferee. Mes parentsetaientparisiens, ” explained Val, and continued in French,“I’m an artist and I’ll be talking with severalgalleries. Naturally, I’ll want to travel ” Shestopped, seeing the ofllcial’s eyes glance up

  from his screen, studying her. “Is anything thematter? " she asked.

  “Nothing of concern, madame,” said the man,picking up his telephone and talking in a low voice,the words indishnguishable in the hum of the hugecustoms hall. “There is someone who wishes to speakwith you.”

  “That’s of considerable concern to me, ” objectedValerie frightened. “I’m not travelingunder my ownname for a very good reason which I suspect thatmachine of yours has told you, and I will not besubjected to interrogations or the indignity of thepress! I’ve said all I have to say. Please reach theAmerican embassy for me.”

  " There is no need for that, madame,” said theman, replacing the phone. “It is not an interrogationand no one of the press will know you are in Parisunless you tell them. Also there is nothing in thismachine but the name on your passport and arequest.”

  A second uniformed official hurriedly entered theroped-offaisle from a nearby office. He bowedpolitely. “If you will come with me, madame,” he saidquietly in English, obviously noticing the fear in hereyes and assuming her reluctance. “You may, ofcourse, refuse, as this is in no way official but I hopeyou will not. It is a favor between old friends.”

  “Who are you?”

  “Chief inspector of immigrations, madame.”

  “And who wishes to speak with me?”

  “It would be up to him to tell you that his namedoes not appear on the request. However, I’m togive you another name. Mathlon. He says you twowere old friends and he respected him a great deal.”

  “Mamlon?”

  “If you will be so kind as to wait in my office, Iwill personally clear your luggage.”

  “This is my luggage,” said Val, her thoughts onsomeone who would bring up Rene’s name. “I’ll wanta police officer nearby, one who can watch througha glass door.”

  “PourquoiP. . . Why, madame?”

  “One mesure de surety, ” replied Valerie.

  “Out, bier sur, mais ce n’est pas necessaire.”

  "7′insiste ou je pars. “

  “D’accord. “

  It was explained that the person who wished tospeak with her was driving out to De Gaulle Airportfrom the center

  of Paris; it would take thirty-five minutes. Waiting,she had coffee and a small glass of Calvados. Theman walked through the door. Of late middle age,he was dressed in rumpled clothing, as if hisappearance did not matter any longer. His faceseemed lined as much from weariness as from age,and when he spoke his voice was tired butnevertheless precise.

  “I will keep you but a few minutes, madame. I’msure you have places to go, people to see.”

  “As I explained,” said Val, looking hard at theFrenchman, “I’m in Paris to talk with severalgalleries “

  “That is no concern of mine,” interrupted theman, holding up his hands. “Forgive me, I do notcare to hear. I care to hear nothing unless madamewishes to speak after I’ve spoken to her.”

  - “Why did you use the name of Mattilon?”

  “An introduction. You were friends. May I goback before Monsieur Mattilon?”

  “Go back by all means.”

  “My name is Prudhomme. I am with the Surete.A man died in a hospital here in Paris several weeksago. It is said your former husband, MonsieurConverse, was responsible.”

  “I’m aware of that.”

  “It was not possible,” said the Frenchman calmly,sitting down and taking out a cigarette. “Have nofear, this office is not “tapped’ or ”bugged.’ The chiefinspector and I go back to the Resistance.”

  “That man died after a brutal fight with myformer husband,” said Val cautiously. “I read it inthe newspapers, heard it on the radio. Yet you’retelling me he wasn’t responsible for his death. Howcan you say that?”

  “The man did not die in the hospital, he waskilled. Between two-fifteen and two-forty-five in themorning. Your husband was on a flight fromCopenhagen to Hamburg during those hours. It hasbeen established.”

  “You know this),”

  “Not officially, madame. I was removed from thecase. A subordinate, a man with little policeexperience but with the Army later in the ForeignLegion, no less was given the assignment while Iwas shifted to more "important’ matters. I askedquestions; I will not bore you with details, but theman’s lungs collapsed a sudden trauma unrelatedto his wounds. The man was suffocated. It was notin the report. It was removed.”

  “I gather that. It’s Stone.”

  “Mah wand, the Tatiana re-route!” exclaimed theSoutherner. “Someday you must tell me about thishere fascinatin’ family of yours, Brer Rabbit.”

  " Someday I will.”

  “I seem to recollect having heard the namesomewheres around the late sixties, but I didn’tknow what it meant.”

  “Trust whoever used it.”

  “Why should I do that?”

  " Because whoever it was was trusted by thehangingest judges in the world.”

  “Who might that be?”

  “The enemy, Rebel.”

  “If that’s a parable, Yankee, you lost me.”

  “Someday, Johnny, not now. What have you got?”

  “Well, let me tell you, I saw the damnedest littleisland over here you ever did see. It’s not twentymiles off the coast near the mouth of the Elbe, rightwhere it’s supposed to be. In the Heligoland Bight,they call it, which is a section of the North Sea.”

  “Scharhorn,” said Stone, making a statement.“You found it.”

  “It wasn’t tough to find everybody seems toknow about it but nobody goes near a certainsouthwest shoreline. It used to be a U-boatrefueling station in World War Two. The securitywas so tight most of the German High Commanddidn’t know about it, and the Allies never got aclue. The old concrete-and-steel structures are stillthere, and it’s supposed to be deserted except for acouple of caretakers, who, I’m told wouldn’t pickyou out of the water if your boat crashed into oneof the old submarine winches.” Johnny Reb paused,then continued softly, “I went out there last nightand saw lights, too many lights in too many places.There are people out there on that old base, notjust a couple of watchmen, and you can bet aYankee pot roast your lieutenant commander is oneof them. Also around two o’clock in the morningafter the lights went out, the tallest mother-lovin’antenna this side of Houston slid up like a bioniccornstalk, but there was no corn on the top. Instead,it bloomed like a regular sunflower. It was a disk,the kind they use for satellite transmissions…. Youwant me to mount a team? I can do it; there’s a lotof unemployment these days. Also the cost will beminimal, because the more I think about it, themore I appreciate your swinging

  Valerie controlled herself, keeping her voice cooland distant despite her anxiety. “Now,” she said,“what about Mattilon? My friend, Mattilon. ”

  “Fingerprints,” replied the Frenchman wearily.“They suddenly are discovered twelve hours after thearrondissement police who are very good haveexamined that office. And yet there was a death inWesel, West Germany, within the rising and thesetting of the same sun. Your former husband’scountenance was described, his identity all but con-firmed. And an old woman on a train toAmsterdam the same routing who is found with agun in her hand again a description given. Has thisConverse wings? Does he fly unobserved overborders by himself? Again it is not possible.”

  “What are you try
ing to tell me, MonsieurPrudhomme?”

  The man from the Surete inhaled on his cigaretteas he tore off a page from his note pad and wrotesomething on it. “I’m not certain, madame, since Iam no longer officially leged in these matters. But ifyour former husband did not cause the man in Paristo die and could not have shot your old friendMonsieur Mattilon, how many others did he not kill,including the American ambassador in Bonn and thesupreme commander of NATO? And who are thesepeople who can tell government sources to confirmthis and confirm that, to change assignments ofsenior police personnel at will, to alter medicalreports removing suppressing evidence? There arethings I do not understand, madame, but I am cer-tain those are the very things I am not meant tounderstand. And that is why I’m giving you thistelephone number. It is not my office; it is my flat inParis my wife will know where to reach me. Simplyremember, in an emergency say that you are fromthe Tatiana family.”

  Stone sat at the desk, the ever-present telephonein his hand. He was alone had been alone when thecall came from Charlotte, North Carolina, from awoman he had once loved very dearly years ago inthe field. She had left the “terrible game,” as shecalled it; he had stayed, their love not strong enough.

  The connection was completed to Cuxhaven,West Germany, to a telephone he was sure would besterile. That certainty was one of the pleasures indealing with Johnny Reb.

  “Bobbie-Jo’s Chicken FryI” was the greeting overthe line. “We deliver.”

  me out of the Dardanelles before those guns gotthere. That was really more important than gettingme off the hook with those contingency funds inBahrain.”

  “Thanks, but not yet. If you go in for him now,we show cards we can’t show.”

  “How long can you wait? Remember I taped thatprick Washburn.”

  “How much did you put together?”