“The name, princess! Where’s your Micmac
spirit? How can I ask you to have breakfast with me
if I don t know your name?”
“Oh . . . the name tag. I’m sorry.”
522 ROBERT LUDLUM
“What’s your region, beautiful creature?”
“Region?” Valerie was puzzled but only for a
moment. She suddenly smiled. “Actually, I’m
new just hired yesterday. They said my instructions
would be at the desk, but it’s so crowded I’ll never
get over there. Of course, with your shoulders I
might make it before I m fired.”
“Grab hold, princess! These shoulders used to
play semi-pro ball.” The heavyset salesman was an
effective blocking back; they reached the counter
and the man growled appropriately, a lion preening
before its conquest. “Hey, fellal This lady’s been
trying to get your attention. Need I say more Della?”
The salesman, holding in his stomach, grinned at
Val.
“No, sir yes, ma’am?” said the perplexed clerk,
who was not at all busy. The activity was taking
place in front of the counter, not at the counter.
Valerie leaned forward, ostensibly to be heard
through the noise. She placed her key on the
counter and opened her purse, taking out three $50
bills. “This should cover the room. I’ve been here
one night, and there are no charges. What’s left is
yours.”
“Thank you, ma’arn.”
“I need a favor.”
‘ Of coursel”
‘my name is Mrs. DePinna but of course the
key tells you that.”
“What is it you want me to do, ma’am?”
“I’m visiting a friend who’s just had an
operation. Could you tell me where the Lebanon
Hospital is?”
“The Lebanon? It’s in the Bronx, I think.
Somewhere on the Grand Concourse. Any cabdriver
will know, ma’am.”
‘Mrs. DePinna’s the name.”
“Yes, Mrs. DePinna. Thank you.”
Valerie turned to the heavyset, red-eyed
salesman, again smiling. “I’m sorry. Apparently I’m
at the wrong hotel, the wrong company, can you
imagine? It would have been nice. Thanks for your
help.” She turned and quickly dodged her way
through the crowd toward the revolving doors.
The street was only beginning to come alive.
Valerie walked rapidly down the pavement, then
stopped almost immediately in front of a small,
elegant bookstore and decided to wait in the
doorway. The stories she had heard all her life
included not only tales of leaving false information
but lessons
THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 523
showing the need for knowing what the enemy
looked like it was often the difference.
A taxi drove up in front of the St. Regis, and
before it came to a-stop the rear door opened. She
could see the passenger clearly, he was paying the
fare hurriedly without thought of change. He climbed
out swiftly and started running toward the glass
doors. He was hatless, with unkempt, blandish hair,
and dressed in a madras jacket and light-blue
summer jeans. He was the enemy, Valerie knew that
and accepted it. What she found hard to accept was
his youth. He was in his twenties, hardly more than
a boy. But the face was hard and set in anger, the
eyes cold distant flashes of steel in the sunlight. Wie
ein HitlerJunge, thought Val, walking out of the book-
store doorway.
A car streaked past her, heading west toward the
hotel; within seconds she heard screeching tires and
expected a crash to follow. Like the other
pedestrians, she turned around to look. Fifty feet
away a brown sedan had come to a stop; on its door
panels and trunk were the clear black letters u.s.
ARMY. A uniformed officer got out quickly. He was
staring at her.
She broke into a run.
Converse sat in an aisle seat roughly in the
middle of the railway car. His palms perspired as he
turned the pages of the small black prayer book,
which had been placed in the envelope along with his
passport, the letter of pilgrimage, and a typewritten
sheet of instructions, which included a few basic facts
about Father William Wilcrist, should they be
necessary. On the bottom of the page was a final
order: Commit to memory, tear up, and flush down
toilet before immigration at Oldenzaal.
The instructions were unnecessary, even
distracting. Quite simply, he was to take a stroll
through the railway cars twenty minutes out of a
station called Rheine, leaving the suitcase behind as
if he intended to return to his seat, and get off at
Osnabruck. The details of his supposedly changing
trains at Hanover for Celle and the subsequent
morning drive north to Bergen-Belsen could have
been said in one sentence rather than buried in the
complicated paragraphs describing the underground’s
motivations and past successes. The facts about
Father William Wilcrist, however, were succinct, and
he had memorised them after the second reading.
Wilcrist was thir
524 ROBERT IUDLUM
ty-eight years old, a graduate of Fordham, with a
theological degree from Catholic University in
Washington. Ordained at St. Ignatius in New York,
he was an “activist priest” and currently assigned to
the Church of the Blessed Sacrament in Los
Angeles. In Valerie’s words, if he was asked to
recite more than that he was probably caught.
For all practical purposes he was caught now,
thought Joel, gazing at the back of a man’s head in
the front of the car, the same man who had joined
another standing by a pillar on the platform in
Amsterdam. Undoubtedly that first man was now
looking at the back of his head from a seat in the
rear, mused Converse, turning another page in the
prayer book. On the surface, the odds against him
were overwhelming, but there was a fact and a
factor just below the surface. The fact was that he
knew who his executioners were and they did not
know he knew. The factor was a state of mind he
had drawn upon in the past.
The train traveled north, then east; there were
two stops before Oldenzaal, after which he
presumed they would cross the Rhine into West
Germany. They had pulled in and out of the
Deventer station; that left one more, a city named
Hengelo. The announcement came, and Joel got out
of his seat before any of the Hengelo commuters
rose from theirs; he turned in the aisle and walked
back to the rear of the car. As he passed the man
who stood by the pillar he saw that Aquitaine’s
hunter was staring straight ahead, his body so rigid
it barely moved with the movement of the train.
Converse had seen such postures many times
before, at trials and in boardrooms; they invariably
belonged to insecure witnesses and unsure
negotiators. The man was tense, afraid perhaps of
failing an assignment or of the people who had sent
him to Amsterdam whatever it was, his anxiety was
showing and Joel would use it. He was crawling out
of a deep shaft in the ground, one tenuous grasp of
earth afteranother, the indentations preformed after
nights of preparation. The wire fence was in the
distance, the rain falling, the patrols concerned,
anxious frightened by every sound they could not
quickly identify. He needed only one to move away
and he had it. . . . He could reach the fence!
Reach Osnabruck alone.
The toilet was unoccupied; he opened the door,
went inside, and took out the page of instructions.
He folded it, tore it in shreds, and dropped the
pieces into the bowl, pressing
THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 525
the foot button as he did so. They disappeared with
the flush; he turned back to the door and waited.
A second announcement blared from the
speakers outside as the train slowed down; the sound
of gathering feet was inches away beyond the door.
The train came to a stop, he could feel the vibration
of moving bodies, determined commuters thinking of
home and relief and undoubtedly the Dutch
equivalent of a martini. The vibrations the sounds
faded away. Converse opened the door no more than
half an inch. The rigid hunter was not in his seat.
Now.
Joel slid out of the door and stepped quickly into
the open separation between cars, excusing himself
between the stragglers getting off from the car
behind, and walked rapidly inside and down the
aisle. As he approached the last rows he saw an
empty seat two seats, facing the platform and
swung in, he sat down beside the window, his hand
in front of his face, peering outside through his
fingers.
Aquitaine’s hunter raced back and forth,
sufficiently aggressive to stop three men who were
walking away, their backs to him; rapid apologies
followed. The hunter turned to the train, having
exhausted the departing possibilities. He got back on
board, his face a creased map falling apart.
More, thought Converse. I want more. I want you
stretched, as patrols before you were stretched. Until
you can ‘t stand it!
Oldenzaal arrived, then was left behind. The
train crossed the Rhine, the clattering of the bridge
below like snare drums. The hunter had crashed the