‘AII right, Major . . . what was the name again?
Dunstone?”
‘That’s right, Philip Dunstone. Senior aide to
General Berkeley-Greene. ”
“Leave word for Mr. Converse that I’ll expect to
hear from him by eight o’clock.”
“Isn’t that a little harsh, old boy? It’s nearly two
A.M. now. The breakfast buffet usually starts about
nine-thirty out here.”
“Nine o’clock, then,” said Fitzpatrick firmly.
“I’ll tell him myself, Commander. Oh, one final
thing. Mr. Converse asked me to apologize for his
not having reached you by midnight. They’ve really
been at it hammer and tongs in there.”
That was it, thought Connal. Everything was
under control. Joel certainly would not have made
that remark otherwise. “Thanks, Major, and by the
way, I’m sorry I was rude. I was asleep and tried to
get it together too fast.”
“Lucky chap. You can head back to the pillows
while I stand watch. Next time you can take my
place.”
“If the food’s good, you’re on.”
“It’s not, really. A lot of pansy cooking, to tell
you the truth. Good night, Commander.”
“Good night, Major.”
Relieved, Fitzpatrick hung up the phone. He
looked over at the couch, thinking briefly of going
back to the dossiers but decided against it. He felt
hollow all over, hollow legs, hollow chest, a hollow
ache in his head. He needed sleep badly.
He gathered up the papers and took them into
Converse’s room. He placed them in the attache
case, locked it and turned the combination tumblers.
Carrying the case, he went back into the sitting
room, checked the door, turned off the lights and
headed for his own bedroom. He threw the case
294 ROBERT LUDLUM
on the bed and removed his shoes, then his trousers,
but that was as far as he got. He collapsed on the
pillows, somehow managing to wrap part of the
bedspread around him. The darkness was welcome.
“That was hardly necessary,” said Erich Leifhelm
to the Englishman, as the latter replaced the phone.
“‘Pansy cooking’ is not the way I would describe my
table.”
“He undoubtedly would,” said the man who had
called himself Philip Dunstone. “Let’s check the
patient.”
The two walked out of the library and down the
hall to a bedroom. Inside were the three other men
of Aquitaine along with a fourth, his black bag and
the exposed hypodermic needles denoting a
physician. On the bed was Joel Converse, his eyes
wide and grasslike, saliva oozing from the sides of
his mouth, his head moving back and forth as if in
a trance, unintelligible sounds emerging from his
lips.
The doctor glanced up and spoke. “There’s
nothing more he can give us because there is more,”
said the physician. “The chemicals don’t lie. Quite
simply, he’s a blind sent out by men in Washington,
but he has no idea who they are. He didn’t even
know they existed until this naval officer convinced
him they had to exist. His only referrals were
Anstett and Beale.”
“Both dead,” interrupted Van Headmer. “Anstett
is public, and I can vouch for Beale. My employee
on Santorini flew into Mykonos and confirmed the
kill. There can be no trace incidentally. The Greek
is back on the chalk cliffs selling laces and inflated
whisky in his taverna.”
“Prepare him for his odyssey,” said Chaim
Abrahms, looking down at Converse. “As our
specialist in the Mossad put it so clearly, distance is
now the necessary requirement. A vast separation
between this American and those who would send
him out.”
Fitzpatrick stirred as the bright morning sunlight
from the windows pierced the darkness and
expanding shades of white forced his eyelids open.
He stretched, his shoulder digging into a hard
corner of the attache case, the rest of him
constricted by the bedspread, which was tangled
about his legs. He kicked it off and Hung his arms
on both sides of the bed, breathing deeply, feeling
the relaxed swelling of his chest. He swung his left
hand above his head, twisted his wrist
THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 295
and looked at his watch. It was nine-twenty; he had
slept for seven and a half hours, but the
uninterrupted sleep seemed much longer. He got out
of bed and took several steps; his balance was steady,
his mind clearing. He looked at his watch again,
remembering. The major named Dunstone had said
breakfast at Leifhelm’s estate was served from
nine-thirty on and if the conference had moved to a
boat on the river at 2:00 A.M. Converse probably
would not call before ten o’clock.
Connal walked into the bathroom; there was a
phone on the wall by the toilet if he was wrong
about the call. A shave followed by a hot and cold
shower and he would be fully himself again.
Eighteen minutes later Fitzpatrick walked back
into the bedroom, a towel around his waist, his skin
still smarting from the harsh sprays of water. He
crossed to his open suitcase on a luggage rack and
took out his miniaturised radio, placed it on the
bureau and, deciding against the Armed Forces
band, dialed in what was left of a German newscast.
There were the usual threats of strikes in the
industrial south, as well as charges and
countercharges hurled around the Bundestag, but
nothing earthshaking. He selected comfortable
clothes lightweight slacks, a blue oxford shirt and
his cord jacket. He got dressed and walked out into
the sitting room toward the phone, he would call
room service for a small breakfast and a great deal
of coffee.
He stopped. Something was wrong. What was it?
The pillows on the couch were still rumpled, a glass
half filled with stale whisky still on the coffee table,
as were pencils and a blank telephone message pad.
The balcony doors were closed, the curtains drawn,
and across the room the silver ice bucket remained
in the canter of the silver tray on the antique hunt
table. Everything was as he had last seen it, yet there
was something…. The door! The door to Converse’s
bedroom was shut. Had he closed it? No, he had not!
He walked rapidly over and opened the door. He
studied the room, conscious of the fact that he had
stopped breathing. It was immaculate cleaned and
smoothed to a fare-thee-well. The suitcase was gone;
the few articles Converse had left on the bureau
were no longer there. Connal rushed to the closet
and yanked it open. It was empty. He went into the
bathroom; it was spotless, new soap in the re-
ceptacles, the glasses wrapped in clinging paper
ready for incoming guests. He walked out of the
bathroom stunned.
296 ROBERT IUDLUM
There was not the slightest sign that anyone except
a maid had been in that bedroom for days.
He ran out to the sitting room and the
telephone. Seconds later the manager was on the
line; it was the same man Connal had spoken with
yesterday. “Yes, indeed, your businessman was even
more eccentric than you described, Commander. He
checked out at three-thirty this morning, paying all
the bills, incidentally.”
“He was here?”
Of course.”
You saw him?”
Not personally. I don’t come on duty until eight
o’clock. He spoke with the night manager and
settled your account before going up to pack.”
“How could your man know it was him? He
never saw him before!”
Really, Commander, he identified himself as
your associate and paid the bill. He also had his
key; he left it at the desk.”
Fitzpatrick paused, astonished, then spoke
harshly. The room was cleaned! Was that also
done at three-thirty this morning? ‘
No, main Herr, at seven o’clock. By the first
housekeeping shift.”
But not the outer room?”
The commotion might have disturbed you.
Frankly Commander, that suite must be prepared
for an early-afternoon arrival. I’m sure the staff felt
it would not bother you if they got a head start on
the task. Obviously, it
Early afternoons I’m here!”
And welcome to stay until twelve noon, the bill
has been paid. Your friend has departed and the
suite has been reserved.”
And I don’t suppose you have another room.”
‘I’m afraid there’s nothing available, Commander.”
Connal slammed down the phone. Really,
Commander . . . Those same words had been spoken
by another over the same telephone at two o’clock
in the morning. There were three directories in a
wicker rack by the table, he pulled out the one for
Bonn and found the number
“Guten Morgen. Hier bei General Leifhelm. ”
“Herrn Major Dunstone, bitts. ”
THE AQUITAINE
PROGRESSION 297
“Wer2”
“Dunstone,~’ he said, then continued in German,
“He’s a guest. Philip Dunstone. He’s the senior aide
to to a General Berkeley-Greene. They’re English.”
“English? There are no Englishmen here, sir.
There’s no one here that is to say, there are no
guests.”
“He was there last night! They both were. I spoke
with Major Dunstone.”
“The general had a small dinner party for a few
friends but no English people, sir.”