in a huge leather chair that engulfed his frail body,
the telephone beside him. “You are safe, quite safe!
That was Kabel code name, Kabel, nataurlijk. He
has left the hotel and reports his progress.” Fragile,
in his seventies the Dutchman struggled out of the
chair and stood erect, his thin shoulders back, his
body rigid a foolish old man playing soldier.
“Operation Osnabruck proceeds”” he said, as if
reporting to a commanding officer. “As
contemplated by underground intelligence reports,
the enemy infiltrated the area and he has been
compromised.”
“He’s been what?”
“Executed, Meneer. A wire around the throat,
taken from behind. The blood stays on the clothes
as the neck is pulled back, thus there are no signs of
combat and the enemy is removed from the place of
compromise.”
“What did you say?”
“Kabel is strong for one of his age,” said the old
man, grinning, his weathered face a thousand
creases, his posture now relaxed. “He took the body
from the room, dragged it to the fire exit, and down
into the alley. From there he gained access to the
cellars and put the corpse back by the furnaces. It is
summer; the man may not be found for
days unless the stench becomes too much.”
Converse heard the words, but his concentration
was only on one. Compromise. In this odd language
of another time it meant . . . execution. Execution .
. . murder . . . assassinationl
What would you say to compromising certain
powerful individuals in specif c governments . . . ~
Leifhelm’s words.
It wouldn’t Turk. His own.
THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 507
You do not take into consideration the time
element! AN cumulation! Rapid acceleration! Chaim
Abrahms.
Good Christ! thought Joel. Was that what the
generals of Aquitaine meant? Assassinations? Was it
the reason for the glaring, disapproving looks
directed at the Israeli and Abrahms’ sudden retreat
into qualification, then dismissal: It’s merely a point .
. . I’m not sure it even applies.
Accumulation, rapid acceleration, one after
another national leaders cut down everywhere.
Presidents and prime ministers, ministers of state and
vice-presidents, powerful men and women from all
shades of the narrow, acceptable political spectrums
violently eliminated governments in chaos. All to
take place in a matter of hours, savagery erupting in
the streets, fueled by hysteria, victims and violators
blurred until the commanders were summoned to
restore order, not to leave until the controls were
theirs. The climate was established, the day was
coming. Assassinations!
He had to get back into Germany. He had to
reach Osnabruck and be there when Val called. Sam
Abbott had to be told.
29
His hands manacled and chained, his wounded
right forearm encased in a filthy bandage, Connal
Fitzpatrick gripped the ledge of the small window and
peered out beyond the bars at the strange, violent
activity taking place on the huge concrete parade
ground. That it was a parade ground had been clear
on the second morning of his capture when, along
with the other prisoners, he was granted an hour’s
exercise outside the concrete barracks and they
severe barracks once part of an old refueling station
for submarines was his guess. The slips along the
water as well as the winching machinery were far too
small and too obsolete for today’s nuclear
marauders no Trident could fit in any space along
the concrete and steel piers but once, he judged, the
base had served the German undersea Navy well.
Now, however, it was being used to the great
disservice
508 ROBERT LUDLUM
of the Federal Republic of Germany and of free
governments everywhere. It was Aquitaine’s training
ground, the place where strategies were being
refined, maneuvers perfected, and the final
preparations made for the massive assaults that
would propel Delavane’s military commanders to
power over paralysed civilian authorities. Everything
was reduced to killing swift and brutal, the shock
of the acts themselves intrinsic to the wave of
violence.
Beyond the window, units of four and five men
raced separately and in succession around and
between a crowd of perhaps a hundred others,
taking their turns at the sickening exercise they were
perfecting. For at the end of the parade ground was
a concrete platform, seven feet high and perhaps
thirty feet long, where mannequins were lined up in
a row some standing, others in chairs their
inanimate figures rigid, their lifeless glass eyes
staring straight ahead. They were the targets. At the
center of each clothed chest, “male” and “female,”
was an encased circle of bullet-proof wire mesh;
within each was a high-intensity orange light, seen
clearly in the afternoon sun. At the discretion of the
compound’s trainer, it flashed on. It was the signal
that this particular mannequin was the particular
unit’s specific target or, if more than one, targets.
Hits were recorded electronically by other lights on
the high stone wall above each figure on the
platform. Red was a kill, blue merely a wound. Red
was acceptable, blue was not.
The screaming admonitions over the
loudspeakers were delivered in nine languages, four
of which Connal understood. The words were the
same:
Thirteen days to ground -zero!Accuracy is u
pper~nost! Escape is with the diversion of a kill!
Otherwise there is only death!
Eleven days to ground-zero! Accuracy is upper-
most. . . !
Eight days to ground-zero!Accuracy is . . . !
Individual members of the killer teams fired at
their targets, exploding stuffed skulls and pulverising
chests and stomachs, sometimes by themselves, other
times in unison with their comrades. Each “kill’ was
greeted with exuberant shouts as the men raced
through the crowd, melting into it, finally becoming
part of it as their maneuver was completed. Another
team was then instantly formed from within the
ranks of the spectators; and another exercise in
assassination
THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 509
was mounted, executed swiftly. And so it went, hour
after hour, the crowd reacting to the “kills” with roars
of approval as weapons were reloaded for upcoming
assaults against the mannequins. Every twenty
minutes or so, as sections of the lifeless figures on
the platform were progressively blown apart, they
would be replaced with fresh heads and torsos. All
that was missing were rivers of blood and mass
hysteria.
In anger and frustration, Connal spread his
manacled wrists apart, pulling at the unbreakable
chain and yanking with all his might as the rusted,
circular braces dug into his flesh and bruised his
wrist bones. There was nothing he could do, no way
to get out! He knew the secret of Aquitaine; the
evidence of its ultimate strategy was right there
before his eyes. The mass killing of political figures
in nine different nations eight days away!
He turned from the window, arms aching, wrists
stinging, and looked around at the barracks full of
prisoners forty-three men trying not to fail but
failing fast. Many were lying listlessly on their cots,
others stared forlornly out various windows; a
number talked quietly in small groups against the
blank walls. All were manacled as he was. The
abysmally short rations and the prolonged, brutal
periods of “exercise” had weakened them all in both
body and mind. Whispering among themselves, they
had come to several erroneous conclusions about
their captors’ goal, but their own captivity eluded
reason. They were part of a strategy they could not
understand. In unwatched corners Connal tried to
explain, only to be met with blank stares and
bewilderment.
Several points were established for whatever
they signified. To begin with, they were all military
officers ranging in rank from the middle to the
higher echelons. Secondly, all were bachelors or
divorced, none with children or currently involved in
serious relationships that demanded constant
communications. Lastly, all were on 30- to 45-day
leaves, only one other like Connal with emergency
status, the rest on normal summer holidays. There
was a pattern, but what did it mean?
There ureas a clue to that meaning, but it, too,
was beyond understanding. Every other day or so the
prisoners were brought postcards from widely diverse
locations resort areas in Europe and North
America and instructed to write specific messages
to specific individuals they all recognised as various
fellow officers at the posts or bases from which they
510 ROBERT LUDLUM
were on leave. The messages were always in the
vein of Ham ing wonderful fume; wish you were here;
off to To refuse to write these peripatetic greetings
was to be denied the scant food they were given and
to be driven out to the parade ground, where they
were forced to run as fast as they could in laps, with
guns pointed at them, until they dropped.
They agreed among themselves that the reason
behind the near-starvation level of daily rations had
a purpose. They were all trained, competent
officers.. Such men in decent physical and mental
condition were capable of attempting escape or, at
the least, of creating serious disturbances. But that
was all they could understand. All but Connal had