shot at the nut and hit him they think on the left
arm. When the weirdo grabbed his arm, the gun
dropped out of his hand. The hospitals and the
doctors have been alerted and all the borders all
over the place are being checked, every tucking
American male passport made to roll up his sleeves,
and anyone looking anywhere’s near like him hauled
off to a customs tank.”
“They’re being thorough,” said Joel, not knowing
what else to say,-feeling only the pain of his wound.
“I’ll say this for the creep,” continued the
salesman, eyes wide and nodding his head in some
obscene gesture of respect. “He’s got ’em chasing
their asses from the North Sea to the Mediterranean.
They got reports he was seen on planes in Antwerp,
Rotterdam, and back there in Dusseldorf. It only
takes forty-five minutes to get from ‘Dussel’ to
Brussels, you know. I got a friend in Munich who
flies a couple times a week to have lunch in Venice.
Every place over here’s a short hop. Sometimes we
forget that, you know what I mean?”
“Yes, I do. Short flights . . . Did you hear anything
else?”
“They said he could be heading for Paris or
London or maybe even Moscow he could be a
Commie, you know. They’re checking the private
airfields, too, figuring he’s got friends who are
helping him some friends, huh? A regular happy
group of drooling psychos. They’re even comparing
402 ROBERT LUDLUM
him to that Carlos, the one they call ‘the jackal,’
what do you think of that? They say if he does go to
Paris, the two of them might link up and there
could be a few more executions. This Converse,
though, he’s got his own regular trademark. He puts
bullets in their heads. Some kind of Boy Scout,
huh?”
Joel stiffened, feeling the tension throughout his
slumped body, a sharp hollow pain in the centerof
his chest. It was the first time he had heard his
name spoken casually by a stranger identifying him
as the psychopathic killer, an assassin hunted by
governments whose border patrols were scrutinising
everyone at every checkpoint private airfields
watched, a dragnet in progress. The generals of
Aquitaine had done their job with precision, right
down to his fingerprints on a gun and a flesh wound
in his arm. But the timing how could they dare?
How did they know he was not in an embassy some-
where asking for temporary asylum until he could
make a case for himself? How could they take the
chance?
Then the realisation came to him, and he had to
dig his fingers into his wrist to control himself, to
contain his panic. The call to Mattilon! How easily
Rene’s phone could have been tapped, by either the
Surete or Interpol, and how quickly Aquitaine’s
informers would have spread the word! Oh, Christ!
Neither one of them had thought of it! They did
know where he was, and no matter where he went
he was trapped! As the offensive salesman had
accurately phrased it, “Every place over here’s a
short hop.” A man could fly from Munich to Venice
for lunch and be back in his office for a three-thirty
appointment. Another man could kill in Brussels
and be on a train in Dusseldorf forty-five minutes
later. Distances were measured in half-hours. From
ground-zero in Brussels, “a couple of hours ago”
covered a wide circle of cities and a great many
borders. Were his hunters on the train? They might
be, but there was no way they could know which
train he had taken. It would be easier and far less
time-consuming to wait for him in Emmerich. He
had to think, he had to mow.
“Excuse me,” said Converse, getting up. “I have
to use the men’s room.”
“You’re lucky.” The salesman moved his heavy
legs, holding his trousers as he let Joel pass. “I can
hardly squeeze into those boxes. I always take a leak
before . . .”
Joel made his way up the aisle. He stopped
abruptly, swallowing, trying to decide whether to
continue or turn back. He
THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 403
had left the newspaper on his seat, the photograph
easily revealed by unfolding the top page. He had to
continue; any change of movement, however minor,
might attract attention. His objective was not the
men’s room but the passageway between the cars; he
had to see it. A number of people had opened the
door and gone through, several apparently looking
for someone they expected to find on the train. He
would look down at the lock on the bathroom door
and proceed.
He stood in the swerving, vibrating passageway
studying the metal door. It was a standard two-tiered
exit, the top had to be opened first before the lower
part could be unlocked and pulled back, revealing
the steps. It was all he had to know.
He returned to his seat, and to his relief the
salesman was splayed back, his thick lips parted, his
eyes closed, a high-pitched wheeze emanating from
his throat. Converse cautiously lifted one foot after
the other over the fat man’s legs and maneuvered
himself into his seat. The newspaper had not been
touched. Another relief.
Diagonally above and in front of him, he saw a
small receptacle in the curved wall with what
appeared to be a sheaf of railroad schedules fanned
out by disuse. Limp, bent pieces of paper ignored
because these commuters knew where they were
going. Joel raised himself off the seat, reached out,
and took one, apologizing with several nods of his
head to the young girl below. She giggled.
Oberhausen . . . Dinslaken . . . Voerde . . . Wesel
. . . Emmerich.
WeseL The last stop before Emmerich. He had
no idea how many miles Wesel was from Emmerich,
but he had no choice. He would get off the train at
Wesel, not with departing passengers but by himself.
He would disappear in Wesel
He felt a slight deceleration beneath him, his
pilot’s instincts telling him it was the outer perimeter
of an approach, the final path to touchdown in the
scope. He stood up and carefully maneuvered
between the fat man’s legs to reach the aisle; at the
last second the salesman snorted, shifting his posi-
tion. Squinting under the brim of his hat, Joel
casually glanced around, as if he were momentarily
unsure of which way to go. He moved his head
slowly; as far as he could see, no one was paying the
slightest attention to him.
He walked with carefully weary steps up the aisle,
a tired passenger in search of relief. He reached the
toilet door and
404 ROBERT LUDIUM
was greeted by an ironic sign of true relief. The
white slot below the handle spelled out BESETZT.
His first maneuver had its basis in credibility; the
toilet was in use. He turned toward the heavy
passageway door, pulled it open and, stepping out-
side, crossed the vibrating, narrow coupling area to
the opposite door. He pushed it open, but instead of
going inside he took a single stride forward, then
lowered his body, turning as he did so, and stepped
back into the passageway, into the shadows. He
stood up, his back against the external bulkhead,
and inched his way to the edge of the thick glass
window. Ahead was the inside of the rear car, and
by turning he had a clear view of the car in front.
He waited, watching, turning, at any moment
expecting to see someone lowering a newspaper or
breaking off a conversation and looking over at his
empty seat.
None did. The excitement over the news of the
assassination in Brussels had tapered off, as had the
rush of near panic in Bonn when the streets learned
that an ambassador had been killed. A number of
people were obviously still talking about both
incidents, shaking their heads and grappling with the
implications and the future possibilities, but their
voices were lowered; the crisis of the first reports
had passed. After all, it was not fundamentally the
concern of these citizens. It was American against
American. There was even a certain gloating in the
air; the gunfight at O.K. Corral had new signifi-
cance. The colonists were, indeed, a violent breed.
“Wir kommen in . . . ” The rapid clacking of the
wheels below, echoing in the metal chamber,
obscured the distant announcement over the
loudspeakers. Only moments now, thought Converse
as he turned and looked at the exit door. When the
train slowed sufficiently and the lines began to form
at both inner doors, he would make his move.
“Wir kommen in drei Minuten in Wesel an!”
Several passengers in both cars got out of their
seats, adjusted their briefcases and shopping bags
and started up the aisle. The grinding of the giant
wheels underneath signified the approach to
touchdown. Now.
Joel turned to the exit door and, finding the