The Aquitaine Progression by Robert Ludlum Read Free Book Online Page A

blood, his chest a mass of tiny, bleeding holes. As the wounded man fell, his upturned collar separated to reveal more blood on his throat. The expulsions of breath were too well known to Joel; he had held the heads of children in the camps as they had wept in anger and the ultimate fear. He held Avery Fowler’s head now, lowering him to the floor.
    “My God, what
happened?
” cried Converse, cradling the dying man in his arms.
    “They’re … back,” coughed the classmate from long ago. “The elevator. They trapped me in the elevator!… They said it was for Aquitaine, that was the name they used … 
Aquitaine
. Oh, Christ! Meg … the
kids!
” Avery Fowler’s head twisted spastically into his right shoulder, then the final expulsion of air came from his bloodied throat.
    Converse stood in the rain, his clothes drenched, staring at the unseen place on the water where only an hour ago thefountain had shot up to the sky proclaiming
this
was Geneva. The lake was angry, an infinity of whitecaps had replaced the graceful white sails. There were no reflections anywhere. But there was distant thunder from the north. From the Alps.
    And Joel’s mind was frozen.

2
    He walked past the long marble counter of the hotel Richemond’s front desk and headed for the winding staircase on the left. It was habit; his suite was on the second floor and the brass-grilled elevators with their wine-colored velvet interiors were things of beauty, but not of swiftness. Too, he enjoyed passing the casement displays of outrageously priced, brilliantly lit jewels that lined the walls of the elegant staircase—shimmering diamonds, blood-red rubies, webbed necklaces of spun gold. Somehow they reminded him of change, of extraordinary change. For him. For a life he had thought would end violently, thousands of miles away in a dozen different yet always the same rat-infested cells, with muted gunfire and the screams of children in the dark distance. Diamonds, rubies, and spun gold were symbols of the unattainable and unrealistic, but they were there, and he passed them, observed them, smiling at their existence … and they seemed to acknowledge him, large shining eyes of infinite depth staring back, telling him they were there,
he
was there. Change.
    But he did not see them now, nor did they acknowledge him. He saw nothing, felt nothing; every tentacle of his mind and body was numbed, suspended in airless space. A man he had known as a boy under one name had died in his arms years later under another, and the words he had whispered at the brutal moment of death were as incomprehensible as they were paralyzing.
Aquitaine. They said it was for Aquitaine
.… Where was sanity, where was reason? What did the words mean and why had he been drawn into that elusive meaning? He
had
been drawn in, he knew, and there was reasonin that terrible manipulation. The magnet was a name, a man. George Marcus Delavane, warlord of Saigon.
    “Monsieur!” The suppressed shout came from below; he turned on the stairs and saw the formally attired concierge rushing across the lobby and up the steps. The man’s name was Henri, and they had known each other for nearly five years. Their friendship went beyond that of hotel executive and hotel guest; they had gambled together frequently at Divonne-les-bains, across the French border.
    “Hello, Henri.”
    “
Mon Dieu
, are you all right, Joel? Your office in New York has been calling you repeatedly. I heard it on the radio, it is all over Geneva!
La drogue!
Drugs, crime, guns … 
murder!
It touches even us now!”
    “Is that what they say?”
    “They say small packages of cocaine were found under his shirt, a respected
avocat international
a suspected connection—”
    “It’s a lie,” Converse broke in.
    “It’s what they say, what can I tell you? Your name was mentioned; it was reported that he died as you reached him.… You were not implicated, of course; you were merely there with the others. I