The Aquitaine Progression (52 page)

The motor launch swung away from the dock and sped within a few feet past Joel, who was buffeted underwater by its wake. Once more the boat veered toward the shoreline and slowed down, its searchlight peering into the dense foliage of the bank, heading west, back toward Leifhelm’s estate. Converse held his head above the surface, his mouth wide open, swallowing all the air he could as he made his way slowly—very slowly—into the mud. He pulled himself up through the wet reeds and branches until he felt dry ground.
Huong Khe
. He pulled the underbrush over him as best he could, finally covering his upturned face. He would rest until he felt the blood flowing steadily if painfully through his limbs, until the muscles of his neck lost their tension—it was always the neck; the neck was the warning signal—and then he would consider the man on the dark hill above him.

He dozed, until a slapping wave below woke him. He pushed the branches and the leaves away from his face and looked at the chauffeur’s watch on his wrist, squinting at the weak radium dial. He had slept for nearly an hour—fitfully, to be sure, the slightest sounds forcing his eyelids briefly open, but he had rested. He rolled his neck back and forth, then moved his arms and legs. Everything still hurt, but the excruciating pain was gone. And now he faced a man on a hill above
him. He tried to examine his thoughts. He was frightened, of course, but his anger would control that terrible fear; it had done so before, it would do so now. The objective was all that mattered—some kind of sanctuary, a place where he could think and put things together and somehow make the most important telephone call in his life. To Larry Talbot and Nathan Simon in New York. Unless he could do these things he was dead—as Connal Fitzpatrick was undoubtedly dead.
Jesus!
What had they done to him? A man with the purity of vengeance purely sought caught in a diseased web called Aquitaine! It was an unfair world.… But he could not think about it; he had to concentrate on a man on the hill.

He crept on his hands and knees. Stretch by stretch he crawled through the woods bordering the dirt road that wound up the hill from the lawn and the riverbank. Whenever a twig crunched or a rock was displaced he stopped, waiting for the moment to dissolve back into the sounds of the forest. He kept telling himself he had the advantage; he was the unexpected. It helped counteract the fear of the darkness and the knowledge that a physical confrontation was before him. Like the patrol scout years ago in the Huong Khe, that man above him now had things he needed. The combat could not be avoided, so it was best not to think about it but to simply force himself into a mind-set empty of any feeling, and do it. But do it well, his mind had to understand that, too. There could be no hesitation, no intrusions of conscience—and no sound of a gun, only the use of the steel.

He saw him, oddly enough, silhouetted in the distant glare of a single streetlamp far above on a road. The man was leaning against the trunk of a tree and facing down, his sweep of vision taking in everything below. As Joel crept up the slope the space between his hands and knees became inches, the stops more frequent, silence more vital. He made his way in an arc above the tree and the man and then started down, like a large cat descending on its prey. He was the predator he had once been long ago, everything blocked out but the requirement of the lifeline.

He was within six feet; he could hear the man’s breathing. There was a snap beneath him. A branch! The scout turned, his eyes alive in the glare of light. Converse lunged, the barrel of the gun gripped in his hand. He crashed the steel handle into the German’s temple and then into his throat. The man fell backward, dazed but not unconscious; he started to
scream. Joel sprang for his enemy’s neck and half choked him before bringing the steel handle down with all his strength on the German’s forehead; instantly there was an eruption of blood and crushed tissue.

Silence. No movement. Another scout separated from his patrol had been taken out. And as he had years ago, Converse permitted himself no feeling. It was done, and he had to go on.

The man’s dry clothes, including the dark leather jacket, fit reasonably well. Like most small or medium-sized commanders, Leifhelm surrounded himself with tall men, as much to protect himself as to proclaim his superiority over his larger compatriots.

There was also another gun; Joel struggled with the clip, removed it, and threw it along with the weapon into the woods. The bonus came with the German’s billfold; it contained a sizable sum of money as well as a frayed, much stamped passport. Apparently, this trusted employee of Leifhelm traveled widely for Aquitaine—probably knowing nothing and being very expendable, but always available at the moment of decision. The man’s shoes did not fit; they were too small. So Converse used his drenched clothing to wipe his own, and the German’s dry socks helped to absorb some of the moisture of the leather inside. He covered the man with branches and walked up the hill to the road.

He stayed out of sight between the trees as five cars passed by, all sedans, all possibly belonging to Erich Leifhelm. Then he saw a bright-yellow Volkswagen come into view, weaving slightly. He stepped out and held up his hands, the gesture of a man in trouble.

The small car stopped—a blond girl in the passenger seat, the driver no more than eighteen or twenty, another young man in back, also blond, who looked as though he might be the girl’s brother.

“Was ist los, Opa?”
asked the driver.

“I’m afraid I don’t speak German. Can you speak any English?”

“I speak some English,” said the boy in back, slurring his words. “Better than these two! All they want to do is get to our place and make love. See! I do speak English?”

“You certainly do, and very well, indeed. Would you explain to them, please? Frankly, I’ve had a fight with my wife
at a party down there—you know, at those cottages—and I want to get back to Bonn. I’ll pay you, of course.”

“
Ein Streit mit seiner Frau! Er will nach Bonn. Er wird uns bezahlen
.”

“
Warum nicht? Sie hat mich heute sowieso schon zu viel gekostet
,” said the driver.

“
Nicht fuer was du kriegst, du Drecksack!
” cried the girl, laughing.

“Get in,
mein Herr
! We are your chauffeurs. Just pray he stays on the road,
ja
! What hotel are you staying at?”

“Actually, I’d rather not go back there. I’m really very angry. I’d like to teach her a lesson by staying away tonight. Do you think you could find me a room? I’ll pay you even more, of course. Frankly, I’ve been drinking a bit myself.”

“
Ein betrunkener Tourist! Er will ein Hotel. Fahren wir ihn ins Rosencafé?
”

“
Dort sind mehr Nutten als der alte knacker schafft
.”

“We are your guides,
Amerikaner
,” said the young man beside Converse. “We are students from the university who will not only find you a room, but with excellent prospects of getting back at your wife with some pleasure! There’s also a café. You’ll buy us a lager or six,
ja
?”

“All you want. But I’d also luce to make a telephone call. To the United States—it’s business. Will I be able to?”

“Most everyone in Bonn speaks English. If they don’t at this Rosencafé, I, myself, will take care of it. Six lagers, though, remember that!”

“Twelve, if you like.”

“
Da wird es im Pissoir eine Überschwemmung geben!
”

He knew the rate of exchange, and once inside the raucous café—actually a run-down bar favored by the university crowd—he counted the money he had taken from the two Germans. It was roughly five hundred dollars, over three from the man on the hill. The seedy clerk at the registration desk explained in convoluted English that, indeed, the switchboard could place a call to America, but it might take several minutes. Joel left fifty dollars in deutsche marks for his youthful Good Samaritans, excused himself and headed for his room—such as it was. An hour later the call came through.

“Larry?”

“Joel?”

“Thank
God
you’re there!” cried Converse in relief.
“You’ll never know how I kept hoping you weren’t out of town. Getting a call through from here is a bitch!”

“I’m here,” said Talbot, his voice suddenly calm and in control. “Where are
you
, Joel?” he asked quietly.

“Some poor excuse for a hotel in Bonn. I just got here. I didn’t get the name.”

“You’re in a hotel in Bonn but you don’t know which one?”

“It doesn’t matter, Larry! Get Simon on the line. I want to talk to you both. Quickly.”

“Nathan’s in court. He should be back here by four o’clock—our time. That’s about an hour from now.”

“
Goddamn
it!”

“Take it easy, Joel. Don’t upset yourself.”

“Don’t
upset
…? For Christ’s sake, I’ve been locked up in a stone cabin with bars in the windows for five days! I broke out a couple of hours ago, and ran like hell through the woods with a pack of dogs and lunatics carrying guns chasing me. I spent an hour in the water damn near drowning before I could reach land without getting my head shot off, and then I had to—I had to—”

“You had to what, Joel?” asked Talbot, a strange passivity in his voice. “What did you have to do?”

“Goddamn it, Larry, I may have
killed
a man to get out of there!”

“You had to kill someone, Joel? Why did you think you had to do that?”

“He was waiting for me! They were searching for me! On the land, in the woods along the riverbanks—he was a scout separated from his patrol.
Scouts, patrols!
I had to get out, get
away
! And you tell me not to be upset!”

“Calm down, Joel, try to get hold of yourself.… You escaped before, didn’t you? A long time ago—”

“What’s that got to do with anything?” Converse broke in.

“You had to kill people then, didn’t you? Those memories must always be with you.”

“Larry, that’s bullshit! Listen to me and take down everything I say—the names I give you, the facts—get it all down.”

“Perhaps I should bring Janet on the line. Her shorthand—”

“No! Only you, no one else! They can trace people, anyone
who knows anything. It’s not that complicated. Are you ready?”

“Of course.”

Joel sat down on the narrow bed and took a deep breath. “The best way to put it—as it was put to me, but you don’t have to write this down, just understand—is that they’ve come back.”

“Who?”

“The generals—field marshals, admirals, colonels—allies and enemies, all field and fleet commanders and above. They’ve come together from everywhere to change things, change governments and laws and foreign policies, everything to be based on military priorities and decisions. It’s crazy, but they could do it. We’d live out their fantasies because they’d be in control, believing they’re right and selfless and dedicated—as they’ve always believed.”

“Who are these people, Joel?”

“Yes, write this down. The organization is called Aquitaine. It’s based on a historical theory that the region in France once known as Aquitaine might have become all of Europe and by extension—as colonies—the North American continent as well.”

“Whose theory?”

“It doesn’t
matter
, it’s just a theory. The organization was conceived by General George Delavane—he was known as Mad Marcus in Vietnam—and I saw only a fraction of the damage that son of a bitch did! He’s pulled in military personnel from all over the place, all commanders, and they’re fanning out recruiting their own kind, fanatics who believe as they do, that theirs is the only way. For the past year or so, they’ve been shipping illegal weapons and armaments to terrorist groups, encouraging destabilization wherever they can, the ultimate purpose being that they’ll be called in to restore order, and when they do, they’ll take over.… Five days ago I met with Delavane’s key men from France and Germany, Israel and South Africa—and, I think, possibly England.”

“You met with these people, Joel? Did they invite you to a meeting?”

“They thought I was one of them, that I believed in everything they stood for. You see, Larry, they didn’t know how much I hated them. They hadn’t been where I’d been, hadn’t seen what I saw—as you said, years ago.”

“When you
had
to escape,” added Talbot sympathetically.
“When you had to kill people—times you’ll never forget. They must have been terrible for you.”

“Yes, they were. Goddamn it,
yes
! Sorry, let’s stay on course. I’m so tired—still frightened, too, I think.”

“Relax, Joel.”

“Sure. Where was I?” Converse rubbed his eyes. “Oh, yes, I remember. They got information on me, information from my service record, my status as a POW, which wasn’t actually part of the record, but they got it and they found out what and who I was. They heard the words that told them how much I hated them, hated what Delavane had done, what they all had done. They drugged me, got whatever they could and threw me into a Godforsaken stone house set in the middle of the woods above the Rhine. While under the chemicals I must have told them everything I knew—”

“Chemicals?” asked Talbot, obviously never having heard the term.

“Amytols, Pentothals, scopolamine. I’ve been the route, Larry. I’ve been there and back.”

“You
have
? Where?”

“In the camps. It’s immaterial.”

“I’m not sure it is.”

“It is! The point is they found out what I know. That means they’ll move up their schedule.”

“Schedule?”

“We’re in the countdown.
Now!
Two weeks, three weeks, four at the outside! No one knows how or where or what the targets are, but there’ll be eruptions of violence and terrorism all over the place, giving them the excuse to move in and take over. ‘Accumulation,’ ‘rapid acceleration,’ those were the words they used! Right now in Northern Ireland—everything’s blown apart, nothing but chaos—whole armored divisions are moving in.
They
did it, Larry! It’s a test, a trial run for them! I’m going to give you the names.” Converse did so, both surprised and annoyed that Talbot did not react to any of the men of Aquitaine. “Have you got them?”