The Aquitaine Progession by Robert Ludlum

Author:Robert Ludlum
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Published: 2010-06-10T04:00:00+00:00

PART THREE

Joel was stunned, but he had to control his panicand try to isolate the words, the phrases. Themessage was in them! The Bristol-Kempinski was ahotel in West Berlin, he knew that. It was somethingelse she had said, something that should trigger amemory one of their memories. What was it?

I haven’t seen my former husband in years…. No,only one of the lies. He was a deeply disturbed man….Less a lie, but not what she was trying to tell him.Actually, we’re strangers…. There’s no connectionbetween us….Another lie, but with some truth in it….Stop it! What was it! … Before, earlier…. I’m aconsultant…. That was it! .

“May I speak with Miss Charpenher, pleased Myname is Mr. Whistletoe, Bruce Whistletoe. I’m theconfidential consultant for Springtime antiperspirantfor which your agency is doing some artwork, and it’surgent, most urgent!” Con molta forza.

Val’s secretary had been a talker, a marvelousspreader of in-house gossip, and whenever Joel andValerie had wanted an extra hour for lunch or evena day, he would make such a phone call. It neverfailed. If a demanding vice-president (one of dozens)wanted to know where she was, the excitablesecretary would tell of an urgent call from one ofthose outside watchdogs of a very large account. Itwas enough for any ulcer-prone executive, andValerie’s understated professionalism took care ofthe rest. She would say “things” were under controland rarely did a relieved account man pursue whatmight give him an acid attack.

She was telling him to use the tactic in case thepolice were monitoring her calls. He would havedone so in any event; she was simply reminding him,warning him.

The interview was over, the last few minutesobviously a recap in Dutch, the camera frozen on astill frame of Vale

rie’s face. When had the tape been made? Howlong had she been in Berlin? t"oddamn it, whycouldn’t he understand anything unless it wasspoken in English? When she lied about herinability to speak German, Val had said it was anational disgrace. She was right, but she might havegone further; it was a national disorder rooted inarrogance. He looked around the cafe for atelephone; there was one on the rear wall severalfeet from the door to the men’s room, but he hadn’tthe vaguest idea of how to use it! His frustrationsgrew swirling into circles of panic. Suddenly heheard his name.

”De Amerikaanse moordenuar Converse isadvocaut. Hid iseen ex-pilootuitl:te Vietnamese oorlog.Fen anderadvocant hen Fransman, en e.en friend vanConverse. . .”

Joel looked up at the screen bewildered, at onceshocked then paralysed. There was a film clip, ahand-held camera entered an office door andfocused on a body slumped over a desk, streams ofblood spreading from the head like a hideousMedusa wig. Oh, Christ! It was Rene!

As the recognition came an insert appeared onthe upper left of the screen. It was a photograph ofMattilon then another photograph was suddenlyinserted on the right. It was he, themoordenaarAmerikoans, JoeLConverse. The Dutchnewscast had connected two events, the interviewwith Val and a death in France. Neither languagenor diagrams were necessary. Rene had been killedand he had been named the killer. It answered thequestion; it was the reason Aquitaine had put outthe word that an assassin was heading for Paris.

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