the platform and Prudhomme spoke. “I will make
myself clear madame. You may take a taxi here and
I shall bid you adieu, or you may permit me to drive
you wherever you like perhaps to another taxi
stand in the city, to go wherever you wish and I will
know if anyone is following you.”
“You would?”
“In thirty-two years, even a fool learns something.
My wife keeps telling me she has no lovers only
because I have learned the rudiments of my
profession.”
“I accept your invitation,” interrupted Val,
smiling. “I’m terribly tired. A small hotel, perhaps.
Le Pont Royal, I know it.”
“An excellent choice, but I must say that my wife
would welcome you without any questions.”
“My time must be my own, monsieur,” said
Valerie, climbing into the car.
“D ‘accord. ”
“Why are you doing this?” she asked as
Prudhomme got behind the wheel. “My husband was
a lawyer is a lawyer. The rules can’t be that
different. Aren’t you some kind of ac-
cessory assuming what I know damned well you’re
assuming?”
“I only wish that you will call me, saying that you
are from the Tatiana family. That is my risk and that
is my reward.”
Converse looked at his watch a watch taken
from a collapsed body so long ago he could not
remember when and saw that it was five-forty-five
in the morning, the sun abruptly illuminating his
fortress ravine. The stream was below, and so he
took care of his necessities downstream and plunged
his face into the flow of water upstream. He had to
move; as he remembered, he had five miles to walk
to the border.
He reached Kehl. There he bought a razor,
reasoning that a priest would maintain his
appearance as best he could even under the duress
of poor travel accommodations. He shaved at the
river depot, then took the ferry across the scenic
Rhine to Strasbourg. The customs officials were so
deferential to his collar and his passport as well as to
his shabby appearance undoubtedly taken as a sign
of the vow of poverty that he found himself
blessing a number of men, and by extension their
entire families, as he was passed through the
building.
580 ROBERT LUDLUM
Out on the bustling streets he knew that the first
thing he had to do was to get into a hotel room,
shower off two days of fear and violence, and have
his clothes cleaned or replaced. An
impoverished-looking priest would not travel to the
expensive wonders of Chamonix; it would be
unseemly. But a normally dressed priest, would be
perfectly acceptable, even desirable, a figure of
respectability among the crowds. And a priest he
would remain, Converse had decided the decision
here based again on legal experience. Think out
anticipate what your adversary expects you to do,
then do not conform unless you retain the
advantage. The hunters of Aquitaine would expect
him to shed his priestly habit, as it was his last
known means of disguise; he would not do that;
there were too many priests in France and too much
advantage in being one.
He registered at the Sofitel on the Place Saint-
Pierre-le-Jeune and without elaboration explained to
the concierge that he had been through a dreadful
three days of traveling and would the kind man see
to several items he needed rather desperately. He
was from a very well-endowed parish in Los Angeles
and An American $100 bill took care of the rest.
His suit was cleaned and pressed within the hour,
his muddy shoes shined, and two new shirts with
clerical collars purchased from a shop “unfortunately
quite a distance away on the Quai Kellermann,” thus
necessitating an additional charge. The gratuities,
the expenses and the surcharges for rush service —
all were a hotelman’s dream. The suntanned priest
with a blemish or two on his face, and odd demands
based on time, certainly had to come from a
“well-endowed” parish. It was worth it. He had
checked in at eight-thirty in the morning, and by
nine-fifty-five he was ready to make his final
arrangements for Chamonix.
He could not risk taking a plane or going by rail;
too much had happened to him at airports and on
trains they would be watched. And sooner or later
Hermione Geyner’s car would be found, and his
direction if not his destination would be known.
Aquitaine’s alarms would go out across the three
borders of Germany, France and Switzerland; again
the safest way was by automobile. The eagerly
accommodating concierge was summoned; a fine
rental car was arranged for the youngish monsignor,
and a route planned to Geneva, some two hundred
thirty-eight miles south.
Of course, he would not cross over into Geneva but
would
THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 581
go along the border roads and head for Chamonix,
an hour-plus away. His estimated travel time was
between five and six hours; he would reach the base
of Mont Blanc by four-thirty in the afternoon, five at
the latest. He wasted no time speeding out of
Strasbourg on the Alpine Autoroute marked 83 on
his map.
Valerie dressed as the first light silhouetted the
irregularly shaped buildings of Paris outside her
windows on the Boulevard Raspail. She had not been
able to sleep, nor had she made any attempt to to do
so; she had lain awake pondering the words of the
strange Frenchman from the Surete who could not
speak officially. She had been tempted to tell him
the truth but knew she would not, not yet, perhaps
not at all, for the possibility of a trap was
considerable revelations based on truth could too
easily be employed to corner the hunted. Still, his
plea had the ring of truth, his own truth, not
someone else’s: “Call and say you are from the
Tatiana family. That is my wish and my reward.”
Joel would have an opinion. If the man was not
simply bait put out by Aquitaine, it was a crack in
their strategy the generals knew nothing about. She
hoped he was his own man, but to trust him at this
point was impossible.
She had read the domestic schedules provided by
Air France on the plane from Los Angeles and knew
the routing she would take to Chamonix. Air
Touraine had four flights daily to Annecy, the
nearest airport to Chamonix and Mont Blanc. She
had hoped to make a reservation on the 7:00 A.M.
flight last night but the sudden, unnerving intrusion
of Prudhomme had ruled it out, and by the time she
called Touraine from the Pont Royal there were no
seats it was summer and Mont Blanc was a tourist
attraction. Nevertheless, she was on standby for the
eleven o’clock flight. It was better to be at Orly
Airport, better to be in the crowds, as Joel insisted.
She took the open, brass-grilled elevator down to
the lobby, paid her bill, and asked for a taxi.
“A queue heure, madameF”
“Maintenant, s’il vous plait. ”
“Dans quelques minutes.”
“Merci. ”
The taxi arrived and Val went outside, greeted by
a surly sleepy-eyed driver who had no intention of
getting out of the
582 ROBERT LUDIUM
cab to help her m and was only vaguely willing to
accept her patronage.
“Orly, s’il vous plaint.”
The driver started up, reached the corner and
swung his wheel to the left to make a rapid U-turn
so as to head back into the Raspail toward the
expressway leading to the airport. The intersection
appeared to be deserted. It was not.
The crash behind them was close by and
sudden metal striking metal as glass shattered and
tires screeched. The driver slammed on his brakes,
screaming in shock and fear as the taxi veered into
the curb. Val was thrown against the front seat, her
knees scraping the floor. Awkwardly she started to
get up as the driver leaped from the cab yelling at
the offending parties behind.
Suddenly the right rear door opened and the
lined, weary face of Prudhomme was above her, a
trickle of blood rolling down from a gash in his
forehead. He spoke quickly, quietly. “Go,
madame wherever it is you go. No one will follow
you now.”
“You9. . . You’ve been here all night! You were
waiting for me, watching. It was you who crashed
into that car!”
“There is no time. I will send your driver back.
I must make out my tedious report while scattering
a few items in the man’s car, and you must leave.
Now before others
‘ That namer” cried Val. “It was Tatiana?”
“Thank your”
“Au revoir. Tonne chance.” The man from the
SGrete ducked away and ran back to the two
Frenchmen shouting at each other behind the taxi.
It was three-twenty in the afternoon when
Converse saw the sign: SAINT-JULlEN EN
CENEVOlS 15 KM. He had rounded the border
of Switzerland, the autoroute to Chamonix directly
ahead, east of Geneva, just south of Annemasse. He