The Aquitaine Progression

by Robert Ludlum

  The couples near by expressed alarm, talking loudly, rapidly in German. At a remark made by one of the diners, the Southerner turned and spoke to the man. “Das glaube ich nicht,” said Johnny Reb in flawless German. “Mein Wagen steht draussen. Ich weiss einen Arzt.”

  The maître d’ came rushing over and, seeing that the commotion involved the Americans, addressed his concern in English. “Is the major ill, sir? Shall I ask if there is …”

  “No doctor I’m not familiar with, thanks,” interrupted Thayer, bent over the embassy’s chargé d’affaires, who was now inhaling deeply, his eyes half closed, his head swaying back and forth. “This here is Molly Washburn’s boy and I’ll see he gets the best! My car’s outside. Maybe if a couple of your waiters will give a hand we can put him in the limo and I’ll take him right over to my man. He’s a specialist. At my age you gotta have ’em everywhere.”

  “Bestimmt. Certainly!” The maître d’ snapped his fingers; three busboys responded instantly.

  “The embassy … the embassy!” choked Washburn as the three men half carried the officer to the door of the restaurant.

  “Don’t you worry, Norman-boy!” said the Southerner, hearing the plea, walking behind with the maître d’. “I’ll phone ’em from the car, tell ’em to meet us at Rudi’s place.” Thayer turned to the German beside him. “You know what Ah think? Ah think this fine soldier is jest plumb wore out. He’s been workin’ from sunrise to sunrise with nary a break. I mean, can you imagine everything he’s had to contend with these last couple of days? That crazy mongrel goin’ around shootin’ up a feud, killin’ the ambassador, then that honcho in Brussels! You know, Molly’s boy here is the char-jay d’affaires.”

  “Yes, the major is our guest frequently—an honored guest.”

  “Well, even the most honorable among us has a right and a time to say ‘The hell with it, I’ll sit this one out.’ ”

  “I’m not sure I understand.”

  “Ah have an idea this fine young man who I knew as a mere saplin’ lad never learned about the quantitative effects of old demon whisky.”

  “Ohh?” The maître d’ looked at Johnny Reb—a fashionable gossipmonger relishing a new rumor.

  “He had several mites too much, that’s all—and that’s jest between us.”

  “He vas not in focus.…”

  “He started bustin’ corks before the sun hit the whites of the west cotton.” They reached the front entrance, the unit of busboys maneuvering Washburn out the door. “Who was more entitled? That’s what I say.” Thayer removed his wallet.

  “Ja, I agree.”

  “Here,” said the Southerner, removing bills. “I haven’t had time to convert, so there’s a hundred American—that should cover the tab and plenty for the boys outside.… And here’s a hundred for you—for not talkin’ too much, verstehen?”

  “Completely, mein Herr!” The German pocketed both $100 bills, smiling and nodding his head obsequiously. “I vill say absolutely nozzing!”

  “Well, I wouldn’t go that far. It might be a good thing for Molly’s boy to learn that it ain’t the end of the world if a few people know he’s had a drink or two. Might loosen him up a bit, and in mah Georgia judgment, he needs a little loosenin’. Maybe you might wink at him when he next comes in.”

  “Vink?”

  “Give him a friendly smile, like you know and it’s okay. Verstehen?”

  “Ja, I agree! He vas entitled!”

  Outside at the curb, Johnny Reb instructed the busboys just how to place Major Norman Anthony Washburn IV into the backseat. Stretched out, facing up, supine. The Southerner gave each man a $20 American bill and dismissed them. He then spoke to the two men in front, pressing a button so they could hear his voice beyond the glass partition.

  “Ah got the jump seats down,” he said, pulling the velvet backs out of the velvet wall. “He’s out. Come on and join me, Witch Doctor. And you, Klaus, you entertain us with a long drive in your beautiful countryside.”

  Minutes later, as the limousine entered a backcountry road, the overhead light switched on, the doctor unbuckled Washburn’s belt, slid the trousers down, and rolled the chargé d’affaires over and into the seat. He found the area he wanted at the base of the spine, the needle held above in his steady hand.

  “Ready, chap?” asked the dark-skinned Palestinian, yanking down the elastic top of the unconscious man’s shorts.

  “You got it, Pookie,” answered Johnny Reb, holding a small recorder over the edge of the jump seat. “Right where he won’t find it for a week, if he ever does. Take him up, Arab. I want him to fly.”

  The doctor inserted the long hypodermic needle, slowly pressing his thumb on the plunger. “It will be quick,” said the Palestinian. “It is a heavy dose and I’ve seen it happen when the patient began babbling before the interrogator was ready.”

  “I’m ready.”

  “Put him on track instantly. Ask direct questions, center his concentration immediately.”

  “Oh, Ah will, indeed. This is a bad man, Pookie. A nasty little boy who tells tall tales that ain’t got nothin’ to do with a big catfish that broke off a hook.” The Southerner gripped the unconscious Washburn’s left shoulder and yanked him forward, face up on the seat. “All right, Molly’s boy, let’s you and me talk. How come you got the audacity to mess around with an officer of the United States Navy named Fitzpatrick? Connal Fitzpatrick, boy! Fitzpatrick, Fitzpatrick, Fitzpatrick! C’mon, baby, talk to Daddy, ’cause you’ve got nobody else but Daddy! Everyone you think you got is gone! They set you up, Molly’s boy! They made you lie in print so the whole world knows you lied! But Daddy can make it right. Daddy can straighten it all out and put you on top—right on the very top! The Joint Chiefs—the big chief! Daddy’s your tit, boy! Grab it or suck air! Where’d you put Fitzpatrick? Fitzpatrick, Fitzpatrick!”

  The whisper came as Washburn’s body writhed on the seat, his head whipping back and forth, saliva oozing out of the edges of his mouth. “Scharhörn, the isle of Scharhörn.… The Heligoland Bight.”

  Caleb Dowling was not only angry but bewildered. Despite a thousand doubts he could not let it go; too many things did not make sense, not the least of which was the fact that for three days he had been unable to get an appointment with the acting ambassador. The scheduling attaché claimed there was too much confusion resulting from Walter Peregrine’s assassination to permit an audience at this time. Perhaps in a week.… In short words, actor, get lost, we have important things to do and you’re not one of them. He was being checked, shoved into a corner and given the lip service one gives to a well-known but insignificant person. His motives as well as his intelligence were undoubtedly being questioned out loud by arrogant, harried diplomats. Or someone else.

  Which was why he was sitting now at a back table in the dimly lit bar of the Königshof Hotel. He had learned the name of Peregrine’s secretary, one Enid Heathley, and had sent the stunt man, Moose Rosenberg, to the embassy with a sealed letter purportedly from a close friend of Miss Heathley’s in the States. Moose’s instructions had been to deliver the envelope personally, and as Rosenberg’s size was formidable, no one in the reception room had argued. Heathley had come down in person. The message was short and to the point.

  Dear Miss Heathley:

  I believe it to be of the utmost importance that we talk as soon as possible. I will be in the bar of the Königshof at 7:30 this evening. If it is convenient, please have a drink with me, but I urge you not to speak to anyone about our meeting. Please, no one.

  Sincerely,

  C. Dowling

  It was seven-thirty-eight and Caleb was growing anxious. For the past several years he was used to people being on time for appointments and interviews; it was one of the minor perks of being Pa Ratchet. But there could be several reasons why the secretary might not wish to meet with him. She knew that Peregrine and he had become friends of sorts and also that there were actors who were known to seek publicity from events they had not
hing to do with, posturing with statesmen and politicians when they couldn’t spell out a position on slavery. He hoped to hell …

  There she was. The middle-aged woman had come through the door, squinting in the dim light. The maître d’ approached her, and moments later she was escorted to Dowling’s table.

  “Thank you for coming,” said Caleb, rising as Enid Heathley took her chair. “I wouldn’t have asked you if I didn’t think it was important,” he added, sitting down again.

  “I gathered that from your note,” said the pleasant-faced woman with signs of gray in her hair and very intelligent eyes. Her drink ordered, casual talk covered its arrival.

  “I imagine it’s been very difficult for you,” said Dowling.

  “It hasn’t been easy,” agreed Miss Heathley. “I was Mr. Peregrine’s secretary for nearly twenty years. He used to call us a team, and Jane and I—Mrs. Peregrine—are quite close. I should be with her now, but I told her I had some last-minute things to do at the office.”

  “How is she?”

  “Still in shock, of course. But she’ll make it. She’s strong. Walter wanted the women around him strong. He thought they were worthwhile and they shouldn’t hide their worth.”

  “I like that kind of thinking, Miss Heathley.”

  Her drink came, the waiter left, and the secretary looked quizzically at Caleb. “Forgive me, Mr. Dowling, I can’t say I’m a devoted follower of your television show, but, of course, I’ve seen it a number of times. It seems that whenever I’m asked to dinner and the magic hour arrives, meals are suspended.”

  “I’d suggest those people upgrade their kitchens.”

  The woman smiled. “You’re too modest, but that’s not what I mean. You don’t sound at all like the man on the television screen.”

  “Because I’m not he, Miss Heathley,” said the former university professor, his expression serious, his intelligent eyes level with hers. “I assume we share certain traits because I’ve the physical instrument through which his fictions are filtered, but that’s the extent of any similarity.”

  “I see. That’s very well put.”

  “I’ve had practice saying it. But I didn’t ask you here to expound on theories of acting. It’s a subject with limited appeal.”

  “Why did you ask me?”

  “Because I don’t know whom else to go to. Well, I do, but I can’t get near him.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “The acting ambassador, the one who flew over from Washington.”

  “He’s up to his ears—”

  “He should be told,” interrupted Caleb. “Warned.”

  “Warned?” The woman’s eyes grew wide. “An attempt on his life? Another killing—that maniac, Converse?”

  “Miss Heathley,” began the actor, his posture rigid, his voice quiet. “What I’m about to say may shock you, even offend you, but as I said, I don’t know another person I can go to at the embassy. However, I do know there are people over there I can’t go to.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I’m not convinced that Converse is either a maniac or that he killed Walter Peregrine.”

  “What? You can’t be serious! You’ve heard what they say about him, how unbalanced he is. He was the last person with Mr. Peregrine. Major Washburn established that!”

  “Major Washburn is one of those people I’d rather not see.”

  “He’s considered one of the finest officers in the United States Army,” objected the secretary.

  “Then, for an officer he has a strange concept of taking orders from a superior. Last week I brought Peregrine to meet someone. The man ran and Walter told the major to stop him. Instead, Washburn tried to kill him.”

  “Oh, now I understand,” said Enid Heathley, her tone unpleasant. “That was the night you arranged a meeting with Converse—it was you, I remember now! Mr. Peregrine told me. What is this, Mr. Dowling? A Hollywood actor protecting his image? Afraid he’ll be held responsible and his ratings, or whatever they are, will plummet—that is the word, isn’t it? This conversation is despicable.” The woman moved her chair back, prepared to leave.

  “Walter Peregrine was a man of his word, Miss Heathley,” said Caleb, still immobile, staring at the secretary. “I think you’ll agree with that.”

  “And?”

  “He made a promise to me. He told me that if Converse reached him and asked to meet with him, I’d come along. Me, Miss Heathley. Specifically not Major Washburn, whose actions that night at the university were as bewildering to him as they were to me.”

  The middle-aged woman held her place, her eyes narrowed, concerned. “He was upset the next morning,” she said softly.

  “Damned angry better describes him, I think. The man who ran away wasn’t Converse—and he also wasn’t crazy. He was dead serious, with the speech of someone used to authority. There was—or is—some kind of confidential investigation going on involving the embassy. Peregrine didn’t know what it was, but he intended to find out. He mentioned that he was going to call Washington on a scrambler phone. I’m not up on the technology, but I don’t think a person places a call like that unless he’s worried that someone might try to tap the line.”

  “He did place a scrambler call. He told you that?”

  “Yes, he did. And there’s something else, Miss Heathley. As you correctly stated, I’m the one responsible for Walter Peregrine ever having heard of Converse, and I don’t feel very good about it. But isn’t it odd that in spite of the fact that it wasn’t a secret—you knew, Washburn knew—nobody has come to question me since Walter was killed?”

  “No one?” asked the woman incredulously. “But I included your name in my report.”

  “Whom did you give it to?”

  “Well, Norman was handling everything.…” Enid Heathley stopped.

  “Washburn?”

  “Yes.”

  “Didn’t you speak to anyone else? Weren’t you questioned?”

  “Yes, of course. An inspector from the Bonn police. I’m sure I mentioned your name—I’m positive I did.”

  “Was anybody else in the room?”

  “Yes,” said the murdered ambassador’s secretary. “Norman,” she whispered.

  “Strange behavior for a police department, isn’t it?” Caleb leaned forward, but only slightly. “Let me reemphasize something you just said, Miss Heathley. You asked me if I was a Hollywood actor trying to protect his image. It’s a logical question, and if you ever saw the unemployment lines in Los Angeles you’d understand just how logical it is. Don’t you think other people believe the same thing? I haven’t been questioned because specific people here in Bonn think I’m shaking in Pa Ratchet’s boots, keeping silent so as to protect that image and the ratings that make it possible. Oddly enough, that reasoning is my best physical protection. You don’t kill off a Pa Ratchet unless you want the wrath of millions of viewers who, in my judgment, would latch on to the flimsiest connection to raise hysterical questions. National Enquirer, you are there.”

  “But you’re not keeping silent,” said Enid Heathley.

  “I’m not talking loudly, either,” corrected the actor. “But not for the reasons I’ve described. I owe Walter Peregrine—I know that better than anyone else. And I can’t pay that debt if a man I think is innocent is hanged for his murder. But here’s where I step back into my own confusion. I can’t be certain. I could be wrong.”

  The woman returned Dowling’s stare, then slowly frowned, keeping her eyes on him. “I’m going to leave now, but I’d like you to stay here for a while, if you wouldn’t mind. I’m going to call someone I think you should see. You’ll understand. He’ll reach you here—no paging, of course. Do as he says, go where he wants you to go.”

  “Can I trust him?”

  “Mr. Peregrine did,” said Enid Heathley, nodding. “And he didn’t like him.”

  “That’s trust,” said the actor.

  The phone call came and Caleb wrote out the address. The door
man at the Königshof secured him a taxi, and eight minutes later he got out in front of an ornate Victorian house on the outskirts of Bonn. He walked up to the door and rang the bell.

  Two minutes later he was ushered into a large room—once a library, perhaps—but now with shades covering the obvious bookshelves. Shades that were detailed maps of East and West Germany. A man wearing glasses got up from behind a desk. He nodded perfunctorily and spoke. “Mr. Dowling?”

  “Yes.”

  “I appreciate your coming out here, sir. My name is not important—why not call me George?”

  “All right, George.”

  “But for your own confidential information—and I must stress confidential—I am the station chief for the Central Intelligence Agency here in Bonn.”

  “All right, George.”

  “What do you do, Mr. Dowling? What’s your line of work?”

  “Ciao, baby,” said the actor, shaking his head.

  25

  The first indefinite light of dawn crept up the lower wall of the eastern sky, and along the river pier boats bobbed in their slips, straining their lines, creating an eerie symphony of creaks and thumps. Joel walked beside the young merchant seaman, his hand unconsciously straying to his face, to the new soft hair that was the outgrowth of a stubble. He had not shaved in four days, not since Bonn, and now he had the beginnings of a short, neat beard, not yet full but no longer an unkempt bristle. One more day and he would have to begin clipping it, shaping it, another plane of removal from the photograph in the newspapers.

  And in one more day he would have to decide whether or not to phone Val at Cape Ann. Actually, he had made his decision—negative. His instructions had been clear enough, and the possibility that her telephone was tapped was more than he could handle. Yet he wanted so terribly to hear her voice, to hear the support he knew he would find in it. Negative. To hear it was to involve her. Negative!

  “It is the last boat on the right,” said the seaman, slowing his pace. “I must ask you again, because I gave my word. You carry no drugs.”