Converse watched from the far dark corner of
the railroad station as the train for Osnabruck
started up, its huge wheels pressing into the tracks,
groaning for momentum. At any moment he
expected whistles to pierce the quiet night and the
train to stop, a bewildered half-drunken guard run-
ning from the freight car, screaming. None of it
happened. Why? Was the man more than half
drunk? Had the sounds of the enraged animals
driven him further into the bottle strengthening his
resolve to remain in the safety of his cage? Had he
seen only a blur racing to the door in the dim light,
or perhaps nothing, an unconscious body
subsequently not discovered? Then Joel saw that
there was another possibility a brutal one. He could
see a figure running forward through the second to
last car, twice lunging between the seats, his face
pressed against the glass. Moments later the man was
leaning out above the lower door of the first exit, the
steps below blocked off by the heavy solid gate. In
his hand was a gun, held laterally across his forehead
as he squinted against the station lights, peering into
the shadows.
Suddenly the killer made his decision. He gripped
the metal rim and leaped over the guardrail,
dropping to the ground, rolling over in the gravel
away from the gathering speed of the train. The
hunter from Aquitaine was in panic he dared not
lose the quarry, dared not fail to carry out his
assignment.
Converse spun around the corner and raced
along the dark side of the building to a parking area.
The passengers who had gotten off the train were
starting their automobiles
538 ROBERT LUDLUM
or climbing into them; two couples were chatting on
the near platform, obviously waiting to be picked
up. A car came curving in off the road beyond; the
men waved, and in moments all four were inside,
laughing as the car sped away. The parking area was
deserted, the station shut down for the night. A
single floodlight from the roof illuminated the
emptiness, a border of tall trees beyond the wide
expanse of coarse gravel gave the appearance of an
immense impenetrable wall.
Staying as best he could in the shadows, Joel
darted from one space of darkness to another until
he reached a solid, indented arch at the end of the
building. He pressed his back against the brick and
waited, his hand gripping the gun at his side,
wondering if he would have to use it, if he would
even have a chance to use it. He had been lucky on
the train and he knew it; he was no match for
professional killers. And no matter how strongly he
tried to convince himself, he was not in the jungles
a lifetime ago, not the younger man he had been
then. But when he thought about it as he was
thinking about it now those memories were all he
had to guide him. He ducked out of the shadowed
arch and quickly dashed to the corner.
The explosion came, blowing out the stone to
the left of his head! He lunged to his right, rolling
on the gravel, then quickly rose to get away from
the spill of the floodlight. Three more shattering
explosions tore up the rock and earth around his
feet. He reached a dark row of foliage and dove
into the bushes, instinctively knowing exactly what
he had to do.
“Augh!Aughhh . . . !” His final scream ended on
a convincing note of agony.
He then crawled through the underbrush as fast
as he could penetrate the tangled nets of prickly
green. He was at least ten feet away from where he
had shouted; he pivoted on his knees and remained
still, facing the floodlit expanse beyond the bushes.
It happened, as it had happened before when
three children in official pajamas had killed another
child indelicately in the jungle. Anxious men were
drawn to the last sounds they heard as this hunter
from Aquitaine was drawn now. The man stalked
out of the darkness of the railroad station’s rear
platform, his gun extended, held steady with both
hands. He walked directly, cautiously, to that small
section in the overgrowth where the screams had
come from.
Converse scratched the ground noiselessly until he
found
THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 539
a rock larger than his fist. He gripped it and waited,
staring, feeling the drumming in his chest. The killer
was within eight feet of the border of greenery. Joel
lobbed the rock, arcing it in the air to his right.
The crunching thud was loud. Instantly
Aquitaine’s soldier crouched and fired one round
after another two, three, four! Converse raised his
weapon and pulled the trigger twice. The man spun
to his left, gasping, as he clutched his stomach and
fell to the ground.
There was no time to think or feel or consider
what had happened. Joel crawled out to the gravel
and raced over to his would-be executioner; he
grabbed him by the arms and dragged him back into
the bushes. Still, he had to find out. He knelt down
and held his fingers against the base of the man’s
throat. He was dead, another scout taken out in the
war of the modern Aquitaine, the military
confederation of George Marcus Delavane.
There was no one around if there had been, the
gunshots would have provoked screams and brought
running feet; the police would have been summoned;
they would have been there by now. How far away
was Osnabruck? He had read the schedule and tried
to figure out the times, but everything had happened
so swiftly, so brutally, he had not absorbed what he
read. It was less than an hour, that much he knew.
Somehow he had to get word to the station at Osna-
bruck. Christ, how?
He walked out on the platform, glancing up at
the sign: RHEINE. It was a start; he had counted
only the stops, not the names. Then he saw
something in the distance above the ground, high
above with lights on the inside. A tower! He had
seen such towers dozens of times in Switzerland and
France they were signal depots. They dotted the
Eurail’s landscape, controlling the trains that sped
across their sectors. He started running along the
tracks, suddenly wondering what he looked like. His
hat was gone, his clothes soiled, but his clerical collar
was still in place he was still a priest.
He reached the base of the tower. He brushed off
his clothes and tried to smooth his hair; Composing
himself, he began climbing the metal steps. At the
top he saw that the steel door to the tower itself was
bolted, the inch-thick bulletproof glass a sign of the
terrorist times speeding trains were vulnerable
targets. He approached the door and rapped on the
metal frame. Three men were inside, huddled over
elec
540 ROBERT LUDLUM
tronic consoles; an elderly man turned from the
numerous green screens and came to the door. He
peered through the glass and crossed himself, but
did not open the door. Instead there was a sudden
echoing sound projected into the air, and the man’s
voice emerged from a speaker: “Was ist, Hochwur-
den?”
“I don’t speak German. Do you speak English?”
“Englander?”
“Yes ja. ”
The old man turned to his associates and
shouted something. Both shook their heads, but one
held up his hand and came to the door.
“Ich spreche. . . a little, Mr. Englander. Nicht
come enter here, verstehen?”
“I have to call Osnabruck! A woman is waiting
for me a Frau!
“Ohh? Hochwurden! Eine Frau?”
“No, no! You don’t understand! Can’t anybody
here speak English ?”
“Sie speeches Deutsch?”
“No!”
“Warten Sie, ” said the third man from the
console. There was a rapid exchange between the
two men. The one who spoke “a little” turned back
to the door.
“Eine Kirche, ” said the man groping for words.
“Church! Din Pfarrer priest! Er spricht Englisch.
Drei . . . three strassen . . . there!” The German
pointed to his left; Joel looked down over his
shoulder. There was a street in the distance. He
understood; there was a church three blocks away,
and a priest who spoke English, presumably a priest
who had a telephone.
“The train to Osnabruck. WhenP When does it
get there?” Converse pointed to his watch. “When?
Osnabruck?”
The man looked over at the console, then
turned back to Joel and smiled. “Zwolf Minuten,
Hochwurden!”
“How? What?”
“Zwolf… tvelf.”
“Twelve?”
”la!”
Converse turned and clattered down the steps;
on the ground he ran as fast as he could toward the
streetlamps in the distance. Once there, he raced in
the middle of the street clutching his chest, vowing
for the five hundredth time to
THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 541
give up cigarettes. He had persuaded Val to throw
them away; why hadn’t he taken his own advice? He
was invulnerable, that’s why. Or did he simply care