behaving like everyone else, opening their attache
cases on planes and trains, reading company
reports, sipping drinks but not too many, skimming
an occasional paperback novel ostensibly to ease the
strain of business going wherever they were ordered
to go.
That was it, thought the Rebel, as he lowered
the binoculars. That was it! These were the hit
teams! The stomach never lied; the bile was sent up
for a reason, its acrid, sickening taste an ugly alarm
that came to those privileged enough to have
survived. Johnny Reb turned and fingered the
motor, cautiously pushing the rudder to the right
and inching the throttle forward. The small boat
spun around in the water, and the rogue intelligence
officer_former intelligence officer_headed back to
his berth in Cuxhaven, accelerating the engine with
each fifty feet of distance.
Twenty-five minutes later he pulled into the slip,
lashed the lines to the cleats, grabbed his small
waterproof case, and with effort climbed up onto
the pier. He had to move quickly, but very, very
cautiously. He knew vaguely the area of the
Cuxhaven waterfront where the motor launch would
return, for he had watched the lights of the vessel as
it bobbed its way out of the harbor toward the
island. Once in the vicinity he could determine the
specific dock as the boat headed into port, and then
he would have only minutes to scout the area and
get into position. Carrying his waterproof case, he
hurried to the base of the pier and turned left,
walking rapidly through the shadows toward the
area where he judged the launch had departed. He
passed a huge warehouse and reached an open
space beyond; there were five short piers, one after
the other, extending no more than two hundred feet
out into the water. It was dockage for small and
medium-sized craft; several trawlers and a few
antiquated pleasure boats were lashed to the pilings
on each of the piers except one. The fourth pier was
empty. The Rebel knew it belonged to the
THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 627
launch; he could taste the bitterness in his mouth.
He started out across the space; he would find a
place to conceal himself.
“Halt stehenbleiben!” shot out the guttural
command as a man walked out of the darkness from
around the hull of a trawler at the third pier. “Was
machen Sie trier? Wer sind Sie?”
Johnny Reb knew when to use his age; he
stooped his shoulders and hung his head slightly
forward. “Passer Sie auf diese alien Kdsten auf?” he
asked, and continued in German, “I’m a fisherman
on one of these relics and I lost my billfold this
afternoon. Is it a crime to look for it?”
“Come back later, old man. You can’t look for it
now.”
“Ah? What?” The Rebel raised his right hand to
his ear twisting the ring on his middle finger as he
did so and pressing a catch on the band. “My
hearing’s not what it was, Mr. Watchman. What did
you say?”
The man stepped forward, first looking out at the
water, as the sound of a powerful engine was heard
in the distance. “Get out of herel” he shouted, his
lips close to Johnny’s ear. “Now!”
“Good heavens, you’re Hans!”
“Who?”
“Hans! It’s so good to see you!” The Rebel
slapped his hand around the German’s
neck prelude to an affectionate embrace and
plunged the surface of his ring into the man’s flesh,
deeply embedding the needle.
“Get your hands off me, you stinking old man!
My name’s not Hans and I never saw you before.
Get out of here or I’ll put a . . . a bullet . . . in your
. . . head!” The German’s hand plunged inside his
jacket but there it remained as he collapsed.
“You younger catfish really ought to have more
respect for your elders,” mumbled Johnny as he
dragged the unconscious body into the shadows to
the left of the trawler on the third pier. “‘Cause you
don’t know the flies we use. Your daddies do, but
you little pricks don’t. And I want your daddies,
those mind-suckers!”
The Rebel climbed aboard the trawler and
dashed across the deck to the gunwale. The motor
launch was heading directly into the fourth pier. He
opened his waterproof case into which he had
snapped the binoculars in place, and adjusted his
eyes to the dim light, studying the tools of his trade.
He unlatched a camera and then a lens, a Zeiss-lkon
telescopic,
628 ROBERT LUDLUM
developed by conscientious Germans during World
War II for photographing Allied installations at
night) it was the best. He inserted it into the lens
mount, locked it into position and switched on the
camera’s motor, noting with satisfaction that the
battery was at full capacity, but then he knew it
would be. He had been too long in the deadly game
to make amateurish mistakes.
The huge motor launch slid into the pier like a
mammoth black whale, a killer whale. The lines
were secured, and as the passengers disembarked,
Johnny Reb began taking pictures.
“Honeychile, this is Tatiana. I’ve got to reach my
boy.”
“The Algonquin Hotel in New York City,” said
the calm female voice. “The number is Area Code
two-one-two, eight-four-zero, six-eight-zero-zero.
Ask for Peter Marcus.”
‘ Subtle son of a bitch, isn’t he?” saidJohnny
Reb. ‘ Pardon my language, ma’am.”
“I’ve heard it before, Rebel. This is Anne.”
“Goddamn, little lady, why didn’t you tell me
beforel How are you, sweet child?”
“Doing fine in my dotage, Johnny. I’m out, you
know. 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, his
terribly important cards. And you were one of the
nicest a little more subterranean than most, but a
nice person. What was it? ‘Gentleman Johnny
Reb’?”
“I’ve always tried to keep up appearances,
Annie. May I request the privilege of calling you
one day, if we ever get out of this mess?”
“I don’t know what the mess is, Reb, but I do
know you have my telephone number.”
“You give me heart, fair girl!”
“We’re older now, Johnny, but I guess you
wouldn’t understand that.”
“Never, child. Never.”
“Stay well, Reb. You’re too good to lose.”
The operator at the Algonquin Hotel was
adamant. “I’m sorry, sir, Mr. Marcus is not in his
room and does not answer the page.”
“I’ll call back,” said the Rebel.
THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 629
“Sorry, sir. There’s no answer in Mr. Marcus’s
room and no response to the page.”
“I believe we spoke several hours ago, sir. There’s
still no answer in Mr. Marcus’s room, so I took the
liberty of calling the desk. He hasn’t checked out and
he didn’t list an alternate number. Why not leave a
message?”
“I believe I will. As follows, please. ‘Stay put until
I 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 the
phone in the flat in Cuxhaven. The taste in his
mouth was overpoweringly sour.
Erich Leifhelm entertained his luncheon guests at
his favorite table at the Ambassador restaurant on
the eighteenth floor of the Steigenberger Hotel in
Bonn. The spacious, elegant room had a magnificent
view not only of the city and the river but also of the
mountains beyond, and this particular table was
positioned to take advantage of that view. It was a
bright, cloudless afternoon, and the natural wonders
of the northern Rhineland were there for the
fortunate to observe.
“I never tire of it,” said the former field marshal,
addressing the three men at his table, gesturing with
masculine grace at the enormous window behind
him. “I wanted you to see it before returning to
Buenos Aires indeed, one of the most beautiful
cities in the world, I must add.”
The maitre d’ intruded with deference, bowing as
he spoke softly to Leifhelm. “Herr General, there is
a telephone call for you.”
“An aide is dining at table fifty-five,” said
LeiPhelm 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 requested
that I speak with you personally. He said to tell you
he was calling from California.”
“I see. Very well.” Leifhelm got out of his chair,
apologizing to his guests. “No surcease from the
vagaries of commerce, is there? Forgive me, I shall
only be a moment or two. Please, more wine.”
The maitre d’ nodded, adding, “I’ve had the call put
630 ROBERT LUDIUM
through to my private office, Herr Ceneral. It s right
inside the foyer.”
‘That pleases me. Thank you.”
Erich Leifhelm shook his head subtly as he
passed table 55 near the entrance. The lone diner