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  THE

  AQUITAINE

  PROGRESSION

  ROBERT LUDLUM

  BANTAM BOOKS

  TORONTO NEW YORK - LONDON -SYDNEY-AUCKLAND

  For Jeffrey Michael Ludlum

  Welcome, friend

  Have a great life

  This low-priced Bantam Book

  has been completed reed in a type face

  designed for easy reading, and was printed

  from new plates. It contains the complete

  text of the original hard-cover edition.

  NOT ONE WORD HAS BEEN OMITTED.

  THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION

  A Bantam Book/published by arrangement with

  Random House,

  Inc.

  PRINTING HISTORY

  Random House edition published March 1984

  A Bool`-of-the-Month Club Main Selection,

  April 1984

  Bantam Export editionlApril 1984

  2nd printing.... August 1984

  Bantam edition/March 198~'i

  Grateful acknowledgment is made to Michael

  LudRum for

  permission to reprint Iyricsfrom "I Need You

  Darling. Copyright

  0 1983 by Michael Ludlum.

  Cover art by Paul Bacon courtesy of Random

  House.

  All rights reserved.

  Copyright O 1984 by Robert Ludlum.

  T Is book may not be reproduced in whole

  or in part, by

  mimeograph or any other means, without

  permission.

  For information address: Random House, Inc.

  ao1 East 50th Street, New York, N.Y. 10022.

  ISBN ~a;3-24900-2

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  H 098 76 54 3 81

  PART ONE

  Geneva. City of sunlight and bright reflections.

  Of billowing white sails on the lake sturdy,

  irregular buildings above, their rippling images on

  the water below. Of myriad flowers surrounding

  blue-green pools of fountains duets of exploding

  colors.Of small quaint bridges arching over the

  glassy surfaces of man-made ponds to tiny

  man-made islands, sanctuaries for lovers and friends

  and quiet negotiators. Reflections.

  Geneva, the old and the new. City of high

  medieval walls and glistening tinted glass, of sacred

  cathedrals and less holy institutions. Of sidewalk

  cafes and lakeside concerts, of miniature piers and

  gaily painted boats that chug around the vast

  shoreline, the guides extolling the virtues and the

  estimated value of the lakefront estates that surely

  belong to another time.

  Geneva. City of purpose, dedicated to the

  necessity of dedication, frivolity tolerated only when

  intrinsic to the agenda or the deal. Laughter is

  measured, controlled glances conveying approval

  of sufficiency or admonishing excess. The canton by

  the lake knows its soul. Its beauty coexists with

  industry, the balance not only accepted but jealously

  guarded.

  Geneva. City also of the unexpected, of

  predictability in conflict with sudden unwanted

  revelation, the violence of the mind struck by bolts

  of personal lightning.

  Cracks of thunder follow; the skies grow dark

  and the rains come. A deluge, pounding the angry

  waters taken by surprise, distorting vision, crashing

  down on the giant spray, Geneva's trademark on the

  lake, thejet d 'ear, that geyser designed by man to

  dazzle man. When sudden revelations come, the

  gigantic fountain dies. All the fountains die and

  without the sunlight the flowers wither. The bright

  reflections are gone and the mind is frozen.

  Geneva. City of inconstancy.

  3

  4 ROBERT LUDLUM

  * * *

  Joel Converse, attorney-at-law, walked out of

  the hotel Richemondinto the blinding morning

  sunlight on the Jardin Brunswick. Squinting, he

  turned left, shifting his attache case to his right

  hand, conscious of the value of its contents but

  thinking primarily about the man he was to meet

  for coffee and croissants at Le Chat Botte, a

  sidewalk cafe across from the waterfront. "Re-meet"

  was more accurate, thought Converse, if the man

  had not confused him with someone else.

  A. Preston Halliday was Joel's American

  adversary in the current negotiations, the finalising

  of last-minute details for a Swiss-American merger

  that had brought both men to Ge neva. Although

  the remaining work was minimal formalities,

  really, research having established that the

  agreements were in accord with the laws of both

  countries and acceptable to the International Court

  in The Hague Halliday was an odd choice. He had

  not been part of the American legal team fielded by

  the Swiss to keep tabs on Joel's firm. That in itself

  would not have excluded him fresh observation

  was frequently an asset but to elevate him to the

  position of point, or chief spokesman, was, to say

  the least, unorthodox. It was also unsettling.

  Halliday's reputation what little Converse knew

  of it was as a troubleshooter, a legal mechanic

  from San Francisco who could spot a loose wire, rip

  it out and short an engine. Negotiations covering

  months and costing hundreds of thousands had been

  aborted by his presence, that much Converse

  recalled about A. Preston Halliday. But that was all

  he recalled. Yet Halliday said they knew each other.

  "It's Press Halliday," the voice had announced

  over the hotel phone. "I'm pointing for Rosen in the

  Comm Tech-gem merger."

  "What happened?"Joel had asked, a muted

  electric razor in his left hand, his mind trying to

  locate the name; it had come to him by the time

  Halliday replied.

  "The poor bastard had a stroke, so his partners

  called me in." The lawyer had paused. "You must

  have been mean, counselor."

  "We rarely argued, counselor. Christ, I'm sorry,

  I like Aaron. How is he?"

  "He'll make it. They've got him in bed and on a

  dozen versions of chicken soup. He told me to tell

  you he's going to check your finals for invisible ink."

  THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION S

  "Which means you 're going to check because I

  don't have any and neither did Aaron. This marriage

  is based on pure greed, a
nd if you've studied the

  papers you know that as well as I do."

  "The larceny of investment write-offs," agreed

  Halliday, "combined with a large chunk of a

  technological market. No invisible ink. But since I'm

  the new boy on the block, I've got a couple of

  questions. Let's have breakfast."

  "I was about to order room service."

  "It's a nice morning, why not get some air? I'm at

  the President, so let's split the distance. Do you

  know the Chat Botte?"

  'American coffee and croissants. Quai du Mont

  Blanc.- "You know it. How about twenty minutes?"

  "Make it a half hour, okay?"

  "Sure." Halliday had paused again. "It'll be good

  to see you again, Joel."

  "Oh? Again?"

  "You may not remember. A lot's happened since

  those days . . . more to you than to me, I'm afraid."

  "I'm not following you."

  "Well, there was Vietnam and you were a

  prisoner for a pretty long time."

  "That's not what I meant, and it was years ago.

  How do we know each other? What case?"

  "No case, no business. We were classmates."

  "Duke? It's a large law school."

  "Further back. Maybe you'll remember when we

  see each other. If you don't, I'll remind you."

  "You must like games.... Half an hour. Chat Botte."

  As Converse walked toward the Quai du Mont

  Blanc, the vibrant boulevard fronting the lake, he

  tried to fit Halliday's name into a time frame, the

  years to a school, a forgotten face to match an

  unremembered classmate. None came, and Halliday

  was not a common name, the short form "Press"

  even less so . . . unique, actually. If he had known

  someone named Press Halliday, he could not

  imagine forgetting it. Yet the tone of voice had

  implied familiarity, even closeness.

  It'll be good to see you again, Joel. He had spoken

  the words warmly, as he had the gratuitous reference

  to Joel's POW status. But then, those words were

  always spoken softly to imply sympathy if not to

  express it overtly. Too, Converse understood why

  under the circumstances Halliday felt he had

  6 ROBERT LUDLUM

  to bring up the subject of Vietnam, even fleetingly.

  The uninitiated assumed that all men imprisoned in

  the North Vietnamese camps for any length of time

  had been mentally damaged, per se, that a part of

  their minds had been altered by the experience,

  their recollections muddled. To a degree, some of

  these assumptions were undeniable, but not with re-

  spect to memory. Memories were sharpened because

  they were searched compulsively, often mercilessly.

  The accumulated years, the layers of experience . .

  . faces with eyes and voices, bodies of all sizes and

  shapes; scenes flashing across the inner screen, the

  sights and sounds, images and smells touching and

  the desire to touch . . . nothing of the past was too

  inconsequential to peel away and explore. Fre-

  quently it was all they had, especially at

  night always at night, with the cold, penetrating

  dampness stiffening the body and the infinitely

  colder fear paralysing the mind memories were

  everything. They helped mute the sharp reports of

  small-arms fire, which were gratuitously explained in

  the mornings as necessary executions of the unco-

  operative and unrepentant. Or they blocked out the

  distant screams in the dark, of even more

  unfortunate prisoners forced to play games, too

  obscene to describe, demanded by their captors in

  search of amusement.

  Like most men kept isolated for the greater part

  of their imprisonment, Converse had examined and

  reexamined every stage of his life, trying to

  understand . . . to like . . . the cohesive whole. There

  was much that he did not understand or like but

  he could live with the product of those intensive

  investigations. Die with it, if he had to; that was the

  peace he had to reach for himself. Without it the

  fear was intolerable.

  And because these self-examinations went on

  night after night and required the discipline of

  accuracy, Converse found it easier than most men to

  remember whole segments of his life. Like a

  spinning disk attached to a computer that suddenly

  stops, his mind, given only basic information, could

  isolate a place or a person or a name. Repetition

  had simplified and accelerated the process, and that

  was what bewildered him now. Unless Halliday was

  referring to a time so far back as to have been only

  a brief, forgotten childhood acquaintance, no one of

  that name belonged to his past.

  It'll tee good to see you again, JoeL Were the

  words a ruse, a lawyer's trick?

  THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 7

  Converse rounded the corner, the brass railing of

  Le Chat Botte glistening, hurling back tiny explosions

  of sunlight. The boulevard was alive with gleaming

  small cars and spotless buses; the pavements were

  washed clean, the strollers in various stages of

  hurried but orderly progress. Morning was a time for

  benign energy in Geneva. Even the newspapers

  above the tables in the sidewalk cafes were snapped

  with precision, not crushed or mutilated into legible

  positio~And vehicles and pedestrians were not at

  war; combat was supplanted by looks and nods, stops

  and gestures of acknowledgment. As Joel walked

  through the open brass gate of Le Chat Botte he

  wondered briefly if Geneva could export its mornings

  to New York. But then the City Council would vote

  the import down, he concluded the citizens of New

  York could not stand the civility.

  A newspaper was snapped directly below him on

  his left, and when it was lowered Converse saw a

  face he knew. It was a coordinated face, not unlike

  his own, the features compatible and in place. The

  hair was straight and dark, neatly parted and

  brushed, the nose sharp, above well-defined lips. The

  face belonged to his past, thought Joel, but the name

  he remembered did not belong to the face.

  The familiar-looking man raised his head; their

  eyes met and A. Preston Halliday rose, his short

  compact body obviously muscular under the

  expensive suit.

  "Joel, how are you?" said the now familiar voice,

  a hand outstretched above the table.

  "Hello . . . Avery," replied Converse, staring,

  awkwardly shifting his attache case to grip the hand.

  "It is Avery, isn't it? Avery Fowler. Taft, early

  sixties.. You never came back For the senior year,

  and no one knew why; we all talked about it. You

  were a wrestler."

  "Twice All New England," said the attorney,

  laughing, gesturing at the chair across from his own.

  "Sit down and we'll catch up. I guess it's sort of a

  surprise for you. That's why I wanted us to meet

  before the conference this morning. ~ me
an, it'd be

  a hell of a note for you to get up and scream

  'Impostort' when I walked in, wouldn't it?"

  "I'm still not sure I won't." Converse sat down,

  attache case at his feet, studying his legal opponent.

  "What's this Halliday routine? Why didn't you say

  something on the phone?"

  "Oh, come on, what was I going to say? 'By the way,

  old

  8 ROBERT LUDLUM

  sport, you used to know me as Tinkerbell Jones.'

  You never would have showed up."

  "Is Fowler in jail somewhere?"

  "He would have been if he hadn't blown his

  head off," answered Halliday, not laughing.

  "You're full of surprises. Are you a clone?"

  "No, the son."

  Converse paused. ' Maybe I should apologize."

  "No need to, you couldn't have known. It's why

  I never came back for the senior year . . . and,

  goddamn it, I wanted that trophy. I would have

  been the only mat jock to win it three years in a

  row."

  "I'm sorry. What happened . . . or is it privileged

  information, counselor? I'll accept that."

  "Not for you, counselor. Remember when you

  and I broke out to New Haven and picked up those

  pigs at the bus station?"

  'We said we were Yalies "

  "And only got taken, never got laid."

  "Our eyebrows were working overtime."

  "Preppies," said Halliday. "They wrote a book

  about us. Are we really that emasculated?"

  "Reduced in stature, but we'll come back. We're

  the last minority, so we'll end up getting sympathy....

  What happened, Avery?"

  A waiter approached; the moment was broken.

  Both men ordered American coffee and croissants,