The Aquaintaine Progession

by Ludlum, Robert

  “Goddamn, little lady, why didn’t you tell mebeforel How are you, sweet child?”

  “Doing fine in my dotage, Johnny. I’m out, youknow. This is just a courtesy for an old friend.”

  “An oldfriend? Fair girl, if it wasn’t for Petey,I’d have made one hell of a play for you!”

  “You should have, Reb. I wasn’t in his cards, histerribly important cards. And you were one of thenicest a little more subterranean than most, but anice person. What was it? "Gentleman JohnnyReb’?”

  “I’ve always tried to keep up appearances,Annie. May I request the privilege of calling youone day, if we ever get out of this mess?”

  “I don’t know what the mess is, Reb, but I doknow you have my telephone number.”

  “You give me heart, fair girl!”

  “We’re older now, Johnny, but I guess youwouldn’t understand that.”

  “Never, child. Never.”

  “Stay well, Reb. You’re too good to lose.”

  The operator at the Algonquin Hotel wasadamant. “I’m sorry, sir, Mr. Marcus is not in hisroom and does not answer the page.”

  “I’ll call back,” said the Rebel.

  “Sorry, sir. There’s no answer in Mr. Marcus’sroom and no response to the page.”

  “I believe we spoke several hours ago, sir. There’sstill no answer in Mr. Marcus’s room, so I took theliberty of calling the desk. He hasn’t checked out andhe didn’t list an alternate number. Why not leave amessage?”

  “I believe I will. As follows, please. "Stay put untilI reach you. Or you reach me. Imperative. Signed, Z.Tabana. That’s T-a-t-i-a “

  “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. Z. sire”

  “As in zero, miss.” Johnny Reb hung up thephone in the flat in Cuxhaven. The taste in hismouth was overpoweringly sour.

  Erich Leifhelm entertained his luncheon guests athis favorite table at the Ambassador restaurant onthe eighteenth floor of the Steigenberger Hotel inBonn. The spacious, elegant room had a magnificentview not only of the city and the river but also of themountains beyond, and this particular table waspositioned to take advantage of that view. It was abright, cloudless afternoon, and the natural wondersof the northern Rhineland were there for thefortunate to observe.

  “I never tire of it,” said the former field marshal,addressing the three men at his table, gesturing withmasculine grace at the enormous window behindhim. “I wanted you to see it before returning toBuenos Aires indeed, one of the most beautifulcities in the world, I must add.”

  The maitre d’ intruded with deference, bowing ashe spoke softly to Leifhelm. “Herr General, there isa telephone call for you.”

  “An aide is dining at table fifty-five,” saidLeiPhelm casually, in spite of his racing pulse.Perhaps there was word of a priest in Strasbourg!“I’m sure he can take it for me.”

  “The gentleman on the line specifically requestedthat I speak with you personally. He said to tell youhe was calling from California.”

  “I see. Very well.” Leifhelm got out of his chair,apologizing to his guests. “No surcease from thevagaries of commerce, is there? Forgive me, I shallonly be a moment or two. Please, more wine.”

  The maitre d’ nodded, adding, “I’ve had the call put

  through to my private office, Herr Ceneral. It s rightinside the foyer.”

  "That pleases me. Thank you.”

  Erich Leifhelm shook his head subtly as hepassed table 55 near the entrance. The lone dineracknowledged the dismissal with a nod of his head.In all the years of strategies and tactics, military andpolitical, that dismissal would prove to be one of thefield marshal’s gravest errors.

  Two men stood in the foyer, one looking at hiswatch, the other looking annoyed. To judge by theirexpensive clothes they belonged to theAmbassador’s regular clientele and were obviouslywaiting for late luncheon companions, probablytheir wives, as they had not gone to their table. Athird man stood outside the glass doors in thecorridor; he was dressed in the maintenanceuniform of the hotel and watched the two meninside.

  Leifhelm thanked the maitre d’ as the latter heldopen the door to his modest office. The restaurateurclosed the door and returned to the dining room.The two men swiftly, as one raced inside afterthe old soldier, who was at that moment picking upthe telephone.

  “Was geht trier for? Wer ist . . . !”

  The first man lunged across the desk andgripped Leifhelm’s head, clamping the general’smouth with very strong hands. The second manpulled a hypodermic needle from his pocket andremoved the rubber shield as he tore at Leifhelm’sjacket and then the collar of his shirt. He plungedthe needle into the base of the general’s throat,released the serum pulled out the syringe andimmediately began massaging the flesh as herestored the collar and pulled the jacket back inplace.

  “He’ll be mobile for about five minutes,” said thedoctor in German. “But he can neither speak norreason. His motor controls are now mechanical andhave to be guided.”

  “And after five minutesP” asked the first man.

  “He collapses, probably vomiting.”

  “A nice picture. Hurry! Get him up and guidehim, for God’s sake! I’ll check outside and knockonce.”

  Seconds later the knock came, and the doctor,with Leifhelm firmly in his grip, propelled thegeneral out of the of lice and through the glassdoors into the hotel corridor.

  “This way!” ordered the third man in themaintenance uniform, heading to the right.

  “quickly!” added the doctor.

  Among the strollers in the plush hallway and thediners heading for the restaurant, a numberrecognised the legendary old soldier and stared at hispale face with the lips trembling, trying to speak. Orscream.

  “The great man has had terrible news,” said thedoctor repeatedly and reverentially. “”It’s terrible,simply terrible”"

  They reached a service elevator, which was onHOLD, and went inside. A stretcher on wheels stoodagainst the padded back wall. The third man took akey from his pocket, inserted it in the HOLD lock torelease the controls and pressed the nonstop switchfor the basement. The other two lifted Leifhelm upon the stretcher and covered his entire body with asheet.

  “They’ll start talking up there,” said the first man.“His bulls will come running. They’re never faraway.”

  “The ambulance is downstairs now by theelevator door,” said the man in the maintenanceuniform. “The plane is waiting at the airfield.”

  The once great field marshal of the Third Reichthrew up under the sheet.

  Jacques-Louis Bertholdier let himself into theapartment on the Boulevard Montaigne and removedhis silk jacket. He walked over to the mirrored baragainst the wall, poured a vodka, threw in two cubesof ice from a sterling-silver bucket, and strolled tothe window beyond the elegantly upholstered couch.The tree-lined boulevard was so peaceful atmidafternoon, so spotlessly clean, and somehow sopastoral although very much a part of the city. Therewere times when he thought it was the essence of theParis he loved, the Paris of influence and wealth,whose inhabitants never had to soil their hands. Itwas why he had purchased the extravagant flat andinstalled his most extravagant and desirable mistress.He needed her now. My God, how he neededreleasel

  The Legionnaire shot and garroted in his ownautomobilet In the parking lot of the Bois deBolognel And Prudhomme, the filthy bureaucrat,supposedly in Calais! No fingerprintsl Nothing! Theonce and foremost general of France needed an houror so of tranquility.

  "canine! Where are you? Come out, Egyptiant Itrust you’re wearing what I instructed you to wear. Ifyou need re

  minding, it’s the short black Givenchy, nothingunderneath you understand! Absolutely nothing”

  “Of course, my general, "came the words,strangely hesitant, from behind the bedroom door.

  Bertholdier laughed silently to himself as heturned and walked back to the couch. LeGrandMachin was still an event to be reckoned with, evenby highly sexual twenty-five-year-olds who lovedmoney and fast cars and elegant apartments asmuch as they adored having their bodi
es penetrated.Well, he was too upset to disrobe, his nerves toofrayed to go through any prolonged preliminarynonsense. He had something else in mind releasewithout effort.

  The sound of the turning knob broke off histhoughts. The door opened and a raven-haired girlemerged, her elongated, perfectly proportioned faceset in anticipation, her brown eyes wide in a distantwonder. Perhaps she had been smoking marijuana,thought Bertholdier. She was dressed in a shortnegligee of black lace, her breasts wreathed in gray,her hips revolving in sexual provocation as sheapproached the couch.

  “Exquisite, you whore of the Nile. Sit down. It’sbeen a dreadful day, a horrible day, and it is notover. My driver will return in two hours, and untilthen I need rest and release Give it to me,Egyptian. ” Bertholdier zipped down the fly of histrousers and reached for the girl. “Fondle it, as Iwill fondle you, and then do what you can do.” Hegrabbed her breasts and pulled her head down intohis groin. “Now. Now. Do it!”

  A blinding flash filled the room, and two menwalked out of the bedroom. The girl sprang backonto the couch as Bertholdier looked up in shock.The man in front put the camera in his pocket; hiscompanion, a short, middle-aged heavyset man witha gun in his hand, walked slowly toward the legendof France.

  “I admire your taste, General,” he said in a gruffvoice. “But then, I suppose I’ve always admired you,even when I disagreed with you. You don’tremember me, but you court-martialed me inAlgiers, sending me to the stockade for thirty-sixmonths because I struck an officer.. I was a sergeantmajor and he had brutally abused my men withexcessive penalties for minor offecses. Three yearsfor hitting a Paris-tailored pig. Three years in thosefilthy barracks for taking care of my men.”

  “Sergeant Major Lefevre,” said Bertholdier withauthority, calmly zipping up his fly. “I remember. Inever forget. You

  were guilty of treasonous conduct: assaulting. Ishould have had you shot.”

  “There were moments during those three yearswhen I would have welcomed the execution.. But I’mnot here to discuss Algiers it’s when I knew youwere all crazy. I’m here to tell you you’re comingwith me. You’ll be returned unharmed to Paris inseveral days.”

  “Preposterous!” spat out the general. “You thinkyour weapon frightens me?”

  “No, it’s merely to protect myself from you, fromthe last gesture of a brave and famous soldier. Iknow you too wed to think that threats of bodilyharm, or even death, could move you. I have anotherpersuasion, however, one you’ve just made quiteirresistible.” The ex-sergeant major withdrew asecond, oddly shaped gun from his pocket. “Thisweapon does not hold bullets. Instead it fires dartscontaining a chemical that accelerates the heart tothe bursting point. My thoughts were to threaten youwith fielding the photograph after your death,showing that the great general died ignominiously atwhat he did best. Now, perhaps, there is anotherapproach. The angle was advantageous for certainexpert brushwork your position and the expressionon your face would not be touched, of course butyour companion might easily become a he ratherthan a she, a little boy rather than a girl. There wererumors of your excesses once, and a hastily arrangedmarriage few could understand. Was this the secretLe Grand Machin ran from all his life? Was it thethreat the great De Gaulle held over the head of hispopular but all too ambitious and rebellious colonel?That the appetites of this pretender, this would-besuccessor, were so extensive they included anythinghe could get his hands on, his body on, the gendermaking no difference. Small boys when there wereno women. The whispers of corrupted younglieutenants and captains, of rapes, convenientlycalled interrogations in your quarters “

  “Enough!” cried Bertholdier, shooting up fromthe couch. “Further conversation is pointless.Regardless of how absurd and unfounded youraccusations are, I will not permit my name to bedragged through filth! I went that film!”

  “My God, it’s true,” said the ex-infantry sergeant.“All of

  ".The filml” shouted the general. “Give it to me!”

  "You shall have it,” replied Lefevre. “On the plane.”

  * * *

  Chaim Yakov Abrahms walked with a bowedhead out of the Ihud Shivat Zion synagogue on theBen Yehuda in Tel Aviv. The solemn crowdsoutside formed two deep flanks of devotedfollowers, men and women who wept openly at theterrible suffering this great man, this patriot-soldierof Israel, had been forced to endure at the hands ofhis wife. “Hitabdut, ” they said in hushed voices.“Ebude atzmo, ” they whispered to one another,cupping mouths to ears, out of Chaim’s hearing. Therabbis would not relent; the sins of a despicablewoman were visited upon this son of sabres, thisfierce child of Abraham, this Biblical warrior wholoved the land and the Talmud with equal fervor.The woman had been refused burial in a holy place;she was to remain outside the gates of the behthakoahroht, her soul left to struggle with the wrathof Almighty God, the pain of that knowledge anunbearable burden for the one left behind.

  It was said she did it out of vengeance and adiseased mind. She had her daughters. It was thefather’s son always the father’s son who had beenslain on the father’s battlefield. Who would weepmore, who could weep more, or be in greateranguish than the father? And now this, the furtheragony of knowing that the woman he had given hislife to had most heinously violated God’s Talmud.The shame of it, the shame! Oh, Chaim, ourbrother, father, son and leader, we weep with you.For you! Tell us what to do and we will do it. Youare our king! King of Eretz Yisrael, of Judea andSamaria, and all the lands you seek for ourprotection! Show us the way and we shall follow, OKing!

  “She’s done more for him in death than shecould ever have done alive,” said a man on theoutskirts of the crowd and not part of it.

  “What do you think really happened?” asked theman’s companion.

  “An accident. Or worse, far worse. She came toour temple frequently, and I can tell you this. Shenever would have considered hitabdut . . . We mustwatch him carefully before these fools andthousands like them crown him emperor of theMediterranean and he marches us to oblivion.”

  An Army staff car, two flags of blue and whiteon either side of the hood, made its way up thestreet to the curb in front of the synagogue.Abrahms, wearing his bereavement like a heavymantle of sorrow only his extraordinary strengthcould endure, kept bowing his lowered head to thecrowds,

  his eyes opening and closing, his hands reaching outto touch and be touched. At his side a young soldiersaid, “Your car, General.”

  “Thank you, my son,” said the legend of Israel ashe climbed inside and sank back in the seat, his eyesshut in anguish while weeping faces pressed againstthe windows. The door closed, and when he spoke,his eyes still closed, there was anything but anguishin his harsh voice. “Get me out of beret Take me tomy house in the country. We’ll all have whisky andforget this crap. Holy rabbinical bastards! They hadthe temerity to lecture me! The next war, I'll call up the rabbis and put those Talmudic chicken-chits inthe front lines! Let them lecture while the shrapnelflies up their asses!”

  No one spoke as the car gathered speed and leftthe crowds behind. Moments later Chaim opened hiseyes and pulled his thick back from the seat; hestretched his barrel-chested frame and reclined againin a more comfortable position. Then slowly, as ifaware of the stares of the two soldiers beside him, helooked at both men, his head whipping back andforth.

  “Who are you?” he shouted. “You’re not my men,not my aides!”

  “They’ll wake up in an hour or so,” said the manin the front seat beside the driver. He turned to faceAbrahms. “Good afternoon, General.”

  “You!”

  “Yes, it is I, Chaim. Your goons couldn’t stop me from testifying before the Lebanon tribunal, and nothing on earth could stop me from what I’m doingtoday. I told you about the slaughter of women andchildren and quivering old men as they pleaded fortheir lives and watched you laugh. You call yourselfa Jew? You can’t begin to understand. You’re just aman filled with hate, and I don t care for you toclaim to be any part of what I am or what I believe.You’re shit, Abrahms. But you’ll be brought back toTel Aviv in
several days.”

  One by one the planes landed, thepropeller-driven aircraft from Bonn and Paris havingflown at low altitudes, the jet from Israel, aDassault-Breguet Mystere 10/ 100, dropping swiftlyfrom twenty-eight thousand feet to the privateairfield at Saint-Gervais. And as each taxied to astop at the end of the runway, there was the samedark-blue sedan waiting to drive the “guest” and hisescort to an Alpine chateau fifteen

  miles east in the mountains. It had been rented fortwo weeks from a real estate firm in Chamonix.

  The arrivals had been scheduled carefully, asnone of the three visitors was to know that theothers were there. The planes from Bonn and Parislanded at 4:30 and 5:45, respectively, the jet fromthe Mediterranean nearly three hours later at 8:27.And to each stunned guest Joel Converse said theidentical words: “As I was offered hospitality inBonn, I offer you mine here. Your accommodationswill be better than I was given, although I doubt thefood will be as good. However, I know onething your departure will be far less dramatic thanmine.”

  But not your stay’ thought Converse, as he spoketo each man. Not your stay. It was part of the plan.

  The first light floated up into the dark sky abovethe trees in Central Park. Nathan Simon sat in hisstudy and watched the new day’s arrival from thelarge, soft leather chair facing the huge window. Itwas his thinking seat, as he called it. Recently hehad used it as much for dozing as for thought. Butthere were no brief interludes of sleep tonight thismorning. His mind was on fire; he had to exploreand reexplore the options, stretching the limits ofhis perception of the dangers within each. Tochoose the wrong one would send out alarms thatwould force the generals to act immediately, andonce under way, events would race swiftly out ofcontrol; the control of events would be solely in thehands of the generals everywhere. Of course, theymight decide within hours to begin the onslaught,but Nathan did not think so they were not fools.All chaos had its visual beginnings, the initialturbulence that would give credibility to subsequentviolence. If nothing else, confusion had to beestablished as the players moved into place withoutbeing seen. And the concept of military control overgovernments was a timeworn idea since the age ofthe Pharaohs. It bore early fruit in thePeloponnesus and Sparta’s conquest of Athens, laterwith the