Aquitaine. And the fact that he thought he knew
what he was doing. Every move he made in the
streets, and on the trains, and in the cafes, was as
carefully thought out as the steps he had taken in
the jungles in
THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 477
the routes he had chosen, in the rivers and streams
he had forded and used as watery tunnels to bypass
an enemy time and again. He would use an
automobile in Amsterdam, and a map of Amsterdam.
He looked at his w etch; it was almost five-thirty.
He had roughly two and a half hours to find the
Amstel Hotel and drive around again and again until
he knew every foot of the area, every stoplight, every
side street and canal. And then the route to one
other place the American embassy or the consulate.
It was part of his plan, the only protection he could
give her if she followed his instructions. somewhere
an airlines schedule; that, too, was part of the plan.
Twelve minutes had passed, and he wanted to be
at the doorway when Emma, the honest commuter,
drove up in front of the house on the crowded street.
If there was no place to park at the curb, he would
walk out on the pavement, signal to her to leave the
car and quickly replace her behind the wheel so as
not to hold up traffic.. He left the small room, went
to the staircase and started down, aware of the
feigned groans of ecstasy behind several closed doors.
He wondered briefly if the girls had thought of using
cassette recorders; they could push buttons while
reading magazines. He reached the second landing;
below in clear view was the cherub-faced, mid-
dle-aged owner of the establishment behind his
counter. He was on the telephone. Joel continued
down the steps, in his hand a $100 bill he had
decided to give the man an addihonal gratuity in
exchange for his life.
As he set foot on the lobby floor he suddenly was
not at all sure he should let the “concierge” have
anything but a cage in the Mekong River. The
pink-faced man looked over at Converse, his eyes
wide, staring fixedly, the blood draining from his
cherubic cheeks. He trembled as he hung up the
phone, attempted a smile, then spoke in a
high-pitched voice. “Problems! There are always
problems, sir. Scheduling is so difficult I should buy
a computer.”
The bastard had done it! He had made the call to
a man down the street in a cafe! “Keep your hands
on the counter!” shouted Joel.
The command did not come in time, the
Dutchman raised a gun from below. Converse lunged
forward, his hand tearing at the buttons of his jacket,
finding the handle of the revolver in his belt. The
“concierge” fired wildly as Joel crashed his left
shoulder up into the flimsy counter; it col
478 ROBERT LUDLUM
lapsed and Converse saw the extended arm, the
hand holding the gun. He swung the barrel of his
own weapon onto the Dutchman’s wrist; the gun
went flying, clattering over the lobby floor.
“You bastard!” cried Joel, grabbing the man by
the front of his shirt, pulling him up. “You bastard!
I paid you!”
“Don’t kill me! Please! I am a poor man in much
debt! They said they only wished to talk to you!
What harm is there in that? Please! Don’t do this!”
“You’re not worth the price to me, you son of
a bitch.” Converse crashed the barrel of the gun
down on the Dutchman’s head and ran to the door.
The street was crowded with traffic, then suddenly
there was a break and the cars and buses and open
tourist vans lurched forward. Where was she?
Where was Emma the Prachcal?
“Theodoor! Doze kerel is onmogelijk! Hid wil . . .
!” The hysterical words came from a bare-breasted
woman rushing down the staircase, a thin, short slip
covering the essentials of her trade. She stopped on
the next to last step, saw the carnage and the
unconscious Theodoor and screamed. Joel ran to
her and clamped his left hand over her mouth; his
right with the gun pressed against her shoulder,
pushing her into the railing.
“Be quiet!” Converse could not restrain himself
from showing. “Shut up!” He slammed his elbow
into the proshtute’s neck, the weapon now in front
of her face. She screamed again and kicked viciously
at his groin, gouging his nostrils with two fingers,
scratching, pushing him away. He could do nothing
else but to pummel the handle of the gun into the
base of her law. Her red lips parted and remained
open; she went limp.
Doors crashed everywhere above, beyond the
staircase, metal and wood smashing into walls. He
heard shouts, angry frightened, questioning. A horn
suddenly intruded, blaring from the street beyond
the open front door. He ran to the doorframe, his
right arm supporting him, the gun out of sight.
It was Emma the whore, the car in the middle of
the street, unable to crawl to the curb. He shoved
the weapon under his jacket, under his belt, and ran
outside. She understood his gestures and got out of
the car; he raced around the hood. “Thank you!” he
said.
, “It was stolen!” she said, shrugging. “Good
fortune, Meneer. I think you will need it, but it is not
my problem.”
THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 479
He jumped into the seat behind the wheel and
studied the panel as if he were approaching Mach I
and had to understand the readouts of every dial. It
was simple, primitive; he pulled the gear into D and
started up with the surrounding traffic.
Without warning, the figure of an immense man
slammed against the window on his right. Joel
lurched and slapped the lock on the window; taking
advantage of another break in the traffic, he spurted
forward. The killer held on as he yanked out a gun.
Converse careened into the side of an automobile
parked at the curb, and still the man held on. Joel
reached under his jacket as the killer, holding on to
God knew what, brought his weapon up and aimed
at Converse. Joel ducked, smashing his head into the
window frame as the explosion shattered the glass,
fragments entering his skin above his eyes. But his
gun was free; he pointed it at the figure hugging the
window and pulled the trigger. Twice.
Two muted spits echoed in the darkness of the
car as two holes appeared in the area of the glass
that had not been shattered. Screaming, both hands
covering his throat, the man fell away, rolling onto
the curb between two trucks. Converse turned right
into a wide, empty alleyway. One man remains
behind, down the street . . . He will bring back the
others. He was free again for a while thought Joel.
A dead man could not identify an automobile. He
parked the car in shadows and pulled out a cigarette,
trying to steady his hand as he struck the match.
Inhaling deeply, he felt his forehead, and slowly,
carefully removed the particles of glass.
He now prowled the streets like a mechanised
animal, but with each hesitation, each stop,;he used
his eyes and nostrils as if he were a primitive thing
conscious only of its need to survive in a violently
hostile environment. He had made the run four times
from the Amstel Hotel on the Tulpplein across the
streets and over the canals to the American consul-
ate on the city square called the Museumplein. He
had learned the alternate approaches, he knew the
side streets that would bring him back to the main
route without interruphon. Lastly, he drove east and
crossed the Schellingwouder Brug, the bridge over
the ~ River and took the road along the coast until
he found a stretch of deserted fields above the water.
They would do; they were isolated. He turned
around and headed back to Amsterdam.
480 ROBERT LUDI.UM
It was eight-thirty, the sky dark; he was ready.
He had studied the tourist map, which included a
paragraph on the use of pay phones. I le had once
been a pilot; instructions were second nature. Thev
were the difference between blowing an aircraft
apart and landing it on a carrier. He parked the car
across the street from the Amstel Hotel and walked
into a booth.
‘Miss Charpentier, please. ‘
“Dank u, ” said the operator, shifting instantly to
English. ‘ One moment, please…. Oh, yes, Missen
Charpentier arrive only one hour ago. 1 have her
room now.”
“Thank you.”
“Hello?”
Oh God, should he speak? Could he speak?
Aquitaine. “Val, it’s Jack Talbot. I took a chance you
might fly in. Glad you did. How are you,
youngster?”
“Totally exhausted, you awful man. I talked to
New York this afternoon and mentioned our
accounts in Amsterdam courtesy of one Jack
Talbot. The orders were for me to get to Canal City