The Aquitaine Progression: A Novel
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In Geneva, American lawyer Joel Converse meets a man he hasn’t seen in twenty years, a covert operative who dies violently at his feet, whispering words that hand Converse a staggering legacy of death: “The generals . . . they’re back . . . Aquitaine!” Suddenly Converse is running for his life, alone with the world’s most shattering secret. Pursued by anonymous executioners to the dark corners of Europe, he is forced to play a game of survival by blood rules he thought he’d long left behind. One by one, he traces each thread of a lethal progression to the heart of every major government, a network of coordinated global violence that no one believes possible—no one but Converse and the woman he once loved and lost, the only two people on earth who can wrest the world from the iron grasp of Aquitaine.
Praise for Robert Ludlum and The Aquitaine Progression
“You won’t be able to put it down. (Don’t ever begin a Ludlum novel if you have to go to work the next day).”—Chicago Sun-Times
“Ludlum at his best.”—Publishers Weekly
to be allocated to you from a blind account on the island of Mykonos was provided by a client of mine whose character and reputation are of the highest order. That his—” “Wait a minute, Press,” Converse broke in harshly. “Please don’t interrupt me, Please!” Halliday’s eyes were riveted on Joel, a manic intensity in his stare. “There’s no other way, not now. I’ll put my name—my professional life on the line. You’ve been hired to do confidential work within your specialization by a man known to
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 connection between us.… Another lie, but with some truth in it.… Stop it! What was it!… Before, earlier.… I’m a consultant.… That was it! “May I speak with Miss Charpentier, please? My name is Mr. Whistletoe, Bruce Whistletoe. I’m the confidential consultant for Springtime antiperspirant for which your agency is doing some artwork, and it’s urgent, most urgent!” Con molta
rang. Stone stared at it, his pulse accelerating, his throat suddenly dry. No one knew he had checked into the Algonquin under the name of Marcus. No one!… Yes, there was someone, but he was in the air, flying up from Knoxville, Tennessee. What had gone wrong? Or had he been wrong about Metcalf? Was the supposedly angry, sermonizing Air Force intelligence officer one of them? Had his own instincts, honed over a thousand years of sorting out garbage, deserted him because he so desperately sought
open window. “Where are we? Who are you seeing?” “It’s an unlisted residence, but if everything is in order we’ll call you. There are guest quarters attached to the boat-house down at the lake. Why not freshen up after your trip? The driver will point the way. If we need you for anything, we’ll ring you on the phone. It’s a separate number from the house, so just pick it up.” And now Peter Stone was walking down the wide dirt path that led to the boathouse by the lake, aware that eyes were
deserve, not only for your help but for the trouble we’ve caused you. Speaking personally, my consolation is that you’ve all been here before and I know you understand. We’ll break for fifteen minutes and start again. There are coffee and sandwiches in the next room.” Stone nodded his thanks once more and started for the door. Derek Belamy intercepted him in the aisle. “Peter, I’m dreadfully sorry it took me so long to get back to you. Truth is, the office had a devil of a time tracking me down.