“Emmerich is German, Arnhem is Dutch. Any stall,
sir.”
“I may not have time,” said Joel, on the last three
stamps. “I suppose I could buy one on the train.”
“They will not stop it if you have money.”
“There.” He had finished. “Where’s the nearest
mailbox collection box?”
“At the other end of the Bahnhof:”
Again Joel looked at his watch, and again his
chest began to pound as he ran out into the station;
then instantly checking himself, he watched the
crowds for anyone who might be watching him. He
had less than eight minutes to mail the en
386 ROBERT LUDLUM
velope, buy a ticket and find the train. Depending
on the complications, perhaps he could eliminate
the second step. But to pay his fare on board would
mean engaging in conversahon, conceivably having
to find someone to translate the possibilities and
the possible consequences were frightening.
As he feverishly looked for the mailbox, he kept
repeating to himself the exact words he had
scribbled on the top of the first dossier’s cover: Do
not repeat, do not let anyone know you have this.
If you don’t hear from me within f he days, send it to
Nathan S. I’ll call him if Ican. Youronceand obedient
husband. Love, 1 He then looked down at the name
and the address he had written on the envelope in
his hand and wondered, stricken by a dull, sickening
pain how could he do this to her?
Ills. Valerie Charpentier R.F.D. 16 Dunes Ridge Ca
pe Ann, Massachusetts US.A.
Three minutes later he found a mailbox and
deposited the envelope, opening and closing the slot
several times to make sure it had fallen inside. He
looked around at the signs everywhere, the German
script confusing him, the lines in front of the
windows discouraging him. He felt helpless, wanting
to ask questions but afraid of stopping anyone,
afraid that someone would study his face.
There was a window across the station, far away
on the other side; two couples had left the
line four people with a sudden change of plans.
Only one person was left. Converse hurried through
the crowds, once again trying to hold himself in
check and minimising his movements.
“Emmerich, please,” he said to the clerk, as the
lone customer finally left the window. “Netherlands.”
he added, enunciating clearly.
The attendant briefly turned and looked at the
clock on the wall behind him. Then he spoke in
German, the phrases fast and guttural. “Verstehen?”
he asked.
“Nein . . . Here!” Converse put three hun-
dred-deutsche-mark notes on the ledge of the
counter, shaking his head, shrugging. “Please, a
ticket! I know, I’ve only got a few minutes.”
THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 387
The man took two of the bills, shoving the third
back. He made change and pressed several buttons
beneath him; a ticket spewed out and he handed it to
Joel. “Danke. Zwei Minuten!”
The track. What track? Can you understand? Where?
‘
`Wo?”
Yes, yes that’s it! Where?’
`Acht. ”
‘What?” Then Converse held up his right hand,
raising and lowering the fingers to indicate numbers.
The attendant responded by holding up both
hands, a five-finger spread and three middle fingers.
‘Acht,” he repeated, pointing across the station to
Joel’s left.
‘Eight! Thank you. ‘ Converse began walking as
fast as possible without breaking into a run. He saw
the gate through the throngs of people; a conductor
was making an announcement while looking at his
watch and backing into the archway.
A woman carrying packages collided with him,
careening into his left shoulder, the bundles
plummeting out of her arms, scattering on the floor.
He tried to apologize through the abuse she hurled
at him, loud words that caused the surrounding
travelers to stop and gape. He picked up several
shopping bags as the woman’s barking voice reached
a crescendo.
‘`Up yours, lady,” he mumbled, dropping the
packages and turning, now running to the closing
gate. The conductor saw him and pushed it open.
He got to his seat, gasping, his soft hat pulled
down over his forehead. The wound in his left arm
was aching sharply, and he thought he might have
ripped it open in the collision. He felt under his
jacket, past the handle of the gun he had taken from
Leifhelm’s chauffeur. There was no blood and he
closed his eyes briefly in relief.
He was oblivious of the man across the aisle who
was staring at him.
In Paris, the secretary sat at her desk speaking on
the telephone in a low voice that was muted further
by her cupped hand over the mouthpiece. Her
Parisian French was cultured if not aristocratic.
‘That is everything,” she said quietly. Do you have
it?”
388 ROBERT LUDLUM
“Yes,” said the man on the other end of the line.
“It’s extraordinary.”
“Why? It’s the reason I’m here.”
“Of course. I should say you’re extraordinary.”
“Of course. What are your instructions?”
“The gravest. I’m afraid.”
“I thought so. You have no choice.”
“Can you?”
“It’s done. I’ll see you at Taillevent. Eight o’clock?”
“Wear your black Galanos. I adore it so.”
“The Great Spike anticipates.”
“It is ever so, my dearest. Eight o’clock.”
The secretary hung up the phone, rose from the
chair and smoothed her dress. She opened a drawer
and took out a purse with long straps; she slipped it
over her shoulder and walked to her employer’s
closed door. She knocked.
“Yes?” asked Mattilon inside.
“It is Suzanne, monsieur.”
“Come in, come in, ” said Rene, leaning back in
his chair as the woman entered. “The last letter is
filled with incomprehensible language, no?”
“Not at all, monsieur. It’s just that I . . . well, I’m
not sure it’s proper to say.”
“What could be improper? And if it is, at my age
I’d be so flattered I’d probably tell my wife.”
“Oh, monsieur . . .”
“No, really, Suzanne, you’ve been here what
now? a week, ten days? One would think you had
been here for months. Your work is excellent and I
appreciate your Wiling in.
“Your secretary is a dear friend, monsieur. I
could do no less.”
“Well, I thank you. I hope the good Lord sees
His way to pull her through. Young people today,
they drive so fast so terribly fast and so
dangerously. I’m sorry, what is it, Suzanne?”
“I’ve had no lunch, sir. I was wondering ”
“My Cod, I’m inconsiderate! I’m afraid it goes
with two partners who take August seriously and go
on holiday! Please as long as you like, and I insist
you bring the bill to me and let me reimburse you.”
“That’s not necessary, but thank you for the offer.”
“Not an offer, Suzanne, an order. Have lots of wine
and
THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 389
let’s both of us make messes of my partners” clients.
Now, off you go.”
“Thank you, monsieur.” Suzanne went to the door
opened it slightly and then stopped. She turned her
head and saw that Mattilon was absorbed in reading.
She closed the door silently, reached into her purse
and withdrew a large pistol with the perforated
cylinder of a silencer attached to the barrel. She
pivoted slowly and walked toward the desk.
The lawyer looked up as she approached. “What?”
Suzanne fired four times in rapid succession.
Rene Mattilon sprang back in his chair, his skull
pierced from his right eye to his left forehead. Blood
streaked down his face and over his white shirt.
22
“Where in God’s name have you been?” cried
Valerie into the phone. “I’ve been trying to reach you
since early this morning!”
“Early this morning,” said Lawrence Talbot, “when
the news broke, I knew I had to get the first plane to
Washington.”
“You don’t believe what they’re saying? You can’t!”
“I do, and worse, I feel responsible. I feel as if I’d
unwittingly pulled the trigger myself, and in a way
that’s exactly what happened.”
“Goddamn you, Larry, explain that.”
“Joel called me from a hotel in Bonn only, he
didn’t know which one. He wasn’t rational, Val. He
was calm one moment, shouting the next, finally
admitting to me that he was confused and frightened.
He rambled on most of the time
incoherently telling some incredible story of having
been captured and thrown into a stone house in the
woods, and how he escaped, hiding in the river,
eluding guards and patrols and killing a man he
called a ‘scout.’ He kept screaming that he had to get
away, that men were searching for him, in the woods,
along the riverbank…. Something’s happened to him.
He’s gone back to those terrible days when he was a
390 ROBERT LUDLUM
prisoner of war. Everything he says, everything he
describes, is a variation of those experiences the
pain, the stress, the tensions of running for his life
through the jungles and down rivers. He’s sick, my
dear, and this morning was the horrible proof. ‘
Valerie felt the hollowness in her throat, the