down and picked up the radio; he snapped off the
antenna and shoved the case into his pocket. He
stood up, confused, frightened, trying to orient
himself. Then, grabbing his attache case and suitcase,
he raced breathlessly out of the alley, conscious of
the blood that had somehow erupted over part of his
face. The taxi was at the curb, the driver smoking a
cigarette in the darkness, oblivious to the violence
that had taken place only thirty yards away.
“De Gaulle Airport!’ shouted Joel, opening the
door and throwing his luggage inside. “Please, I’m in
a hurry!” He lurched into the seat, gasping, his neck
stretched above the cushioned rim, swallowing the air
that would not fill his lungs.
The rushing lights and shadows that bombarded
the interior of the cab served to keep his thoughts
suspended, allowing his racing pulse to decelerate
and the air to reach him, slowly drying the
perspiration at his temples and his neck. He leaned
forward, wanUng a cigarette but afraid he would
vomit from the smoke trapped in his throat. He shut
his eyes so tightly a thousand specks of white light
assaulted the dark
104 ROBERT LUDLUM
screen of his mind. He felt ill, and he knew it was
not simply fear alone that had brought on the
nausea. It was something else, something that was in
and of itself as paralysing fear. He had committed
an act of utter brutality, and it both shocked and
appalled him. He had actually physically attacked a
man, wanUng to cripple him, perhaps kill
him which he may very well have done. No matter
why, he may have killed another human being! Did
the presence of a hand-held radio justify a shattered
skull? Did it constitute self-defence? Goddamn it, he
was a man of words, of logic, not blood! Never
blood, that was in the past, so long ago and so
painful.
Those memories belonged to another ffme, to an
uncivilized time, when men became what they were
not in order to survive. Converse never wanted to go
back. Above all things, he had promised himself he
never would, a promise he made when the terror and
the violence were all around him, at their shattering
worst. He remembered so vividly, with such pain, the
final hours before his last escape and the quiet,
generous man without whom he would have died
twenty feet down in the earth, a shaft in the ground
designed for troublemakers.
Colonel Sam Abbott, US. Air Force, would always
be a part of his life no matter how many years might
separate them. At the risk of torture and death, Sam
had crawled out at night and had thrown a crudely
fashioned metal wedge down the “punishment hole’, it
was that primitive tool that allowedloel to build a
crude ladderoutof earth and rock and finally to
freedom. Abbott and he had spent the last twenty-seven
months in the same cam p, both officers trying to hold
together what sanity there was. But Sam understood
the burning inside Joel; the Colonel had stayed behind,
and during those final hours before breakout, Joel was
wracked by the thoughts of what might happen to his
friend
“Don’t worry about me, sailor. Just keep your
minimum wits about you and get rid of that wedge.
Take care, Sam.
You take care. This is the last shot you’ve got.
I know.
Joel moved over toward the door and rolled
down the window several inches more to increase
the rush of wind from the highway. Christ, he
needed Sam Abbott’s quiet objectivity now! His
lawyer’s mind told him to get hold of himself; he
had
THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 105
to think and his thoughts had to stimulate whatever
imaginahon he had. First things first. Think! The
radio he had to get rid of the radio. But not at the
airport it might be found in the airport; it was
evidence, and worse, a means of tracing him. He
rolled the window further down and threw it out, his
eyes on the rearview mirror above the windshield.
The driver glanced up at him, saw the bloody face
but showed no alarm; Joel took repeated deep
breaths and then rolled the window back up. Think.
He had to think! Bertholdier expected him to go
from Paris to Bonn and when the general’s soldier
was found and he had undoubtedly been found by
now all flights to Bonn would be watched, whether
the man was alive or dead.
He would buy a ticket for somewhere else,
someplace where connections to Cologne-Bonn were
accessible on a regular basis. As the stream of air
cooled his face it occurred to him to remove the
handkerchief from his breast pocket and wipe away
the moist blood that covered his right cheek and
lower chin.
‘Scandinavian Air Icings,” he said, raising his
voice to the driver. “SAS. Do you . . . comprends?”
“Very clearly, monsieur,’ said the bereted man
behind the wheel in good English. ‘ Do you have a
reservation for Stockholm, Oslo, or Copenhagen?
They are different gates.”
“I’m . . . I’m not sure.”
“We have time, monsieur. At least fifteen minutes.”
The voice over the telephone from London was
frigid, the words and the delivery an impersonal
rebuke. “There is no attorney by that name in
Chicago, and certainly not at the address you gave
me. In fact, the address does not exist. Do you have
something else to offer, or do we put this down as
one of your more paranoid fantasies, mon general?”
“You are a fool, I’Anglais, with no more
comprehension than a frightened rabbit. I heard what
I heard!”
“From whom? A nonexistent man?”
“A nonexistent man who has put my aide in a
hospital! A fractured skull with a great loss of blood
and severe brain damage. He may not live, and if he
does, he will no doubt be a vegetable. Speak to me
not of fantasies, daffodil The man is real.”
“Are you serious?”
10h ROBERT LUDLUM
‘~Call the hospital! L’hopital Saint-Jerome. Let
the doctors tell you.”
“All right, all right, compose yourself. We must
think.”
“I am perfectly composed,” said Bertholdier,
getting up from the desk in his study and carrying
the phone to the window, the extension cord snaking
across the floor. He looked out; it had begun to
rain, the street lights diffused in the spattered glass.
“He’s on his way to Bonn,” continued the general.
“It was his next stop, he was very clear about it.”
“Intercept him. Call Bonn, reach Cologne, give
them his description. How many flights can there be
from Paris with a lone American on board? Take
him at the airport. ‘
Bertholdier sighed audibly into the phone, his
tone one of discouragement bordering on disgust. “It
was never my intention to take him. It would serve
no purpose and probably cut us off from what we
have to learn. I want him followed. I want to know
where he goes, whom he calls, whom he meets with;
these are the things we must learn.”
“You said he made a direct reference to our
associate. That he was going to reach him.”
“Not our people. H`s people.”
“I’ll say it again,” insisted the voice from
London. “Call Cologne, reach Bonn. Listen to me,
Jacques, he can be found, and once he is, he can be
followed.”
“Yes, yes, I’ll do as you My, but it may not be as
easy as you think. Three hours ago I would have
thought otherwise, but that was before I knew what
he was capable of. Someone who can take another
man and rush that man’s head into a stone wall at
full force is either an animal, a maniac, or a zealot
who will stop at nothing. In my judgment, he is the
last. He said he had a commitment and it was in
his eyes. And he’ll be clever; he’s already proven he
can be clever.”
“You say three hours?”
“Yes.”
“Then he may already be in Bonn.”
“I know.”
“Have you called our associate?”
“Yes, he’s not at home and the maid could not
give me another number. She doesn’t know where
he is, or when he’s expected.”
“Probably in the morning.”
“No doubt…. Auende^^I There was another
man at the dub this afternoon. With Luboque and
this Simon, whose
THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 107
name is not Simon. He brought him to Luboque!
Good-bye, I’Angla~s I’ll keep you informed.”
ReneMattilon opened his eyes. The streaks of
light on the ceiling seemed to shimmer, myriad tiny
clots bursting, breaking up the linear patterns. Then
he heard the sound of the rain on the windows and
understood. The shafts of light from the streetlamps
had been intercepted by the glass, distorting the
images he knew so well. It was the rain, he con-
cluded; that was what had awakened him. That and
perhaps the weight of his wife’s hand between his
legs. She stirred and he smiled, trying to make up his