The Aquitaine Progression: A Novel

by Robert Ludlum

  “Et voici l’expert judiciaire des compagnies aériennes,” he said, looking at Converse and extending his hand.

  “Serge is delighted to meet you and is sure you can help us,” explained Mattilon.

  “I’ll do what I can,” said Converse. “And apologize for my not speaking French.”

  The lawyer obviously did so, and Luboque shrugged, speaking rapidly, incomprehensibly; the word anglais repeated several times.

  “He, too, apologizes for not speaking English,” said Mattilon, glancing at Joel, mischievousness in his look, as he added, “If he’s lying, Monsieur Simon, we may both be placed against these decorated walls and shot.”

  “No way,” said Converse, smiling. “Our executioners might dent the medals and blow up the pictures. Everybody knows you’re lousy shots.”

  “Qu’est-ce que vous dites?”

  “Monsieur Simon tient à vous remercier pour le déjeuner,” said Mattilon, turning to his client. “Il en est très fier car il estime que l’officier français est l’un des meilleurs du monde.”

  “What did you say?”

  “I explained,” said the lawyer, turning again, “that you were honored to be here, as you believe the French military—especially the officer corps—to be the finest on earth.”

  “Not only lousy shots but rotten pilots,” said Joel, smiling and nodding.

  “Est-il vrai que vous avez participé à nombreuses missions en Asie du Sud?” asked Luboque, his eyes fixed on Joel.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “He wants it confirmed that you are really an Attila of the skies, that you flew many missions.”

  “Quite a few,” answered Joel.

  “Beaucoup,” said Mattilon.

  Luboque again spoke rapidly, even more incomprehensibly, as he snapped his fingers for a steward.

  “What now?”

  “He’d rather tell you about his exploits—in the interests of the case, of course.”

  “Of course,” said Converse, his smile now fixed. “Lousy shots, rotten pilots and insufferable egos.”

  “Ah, but our food, our women, our incomparable understanding of life.”

  “There’s a very explicit word in French—one of the few I learned from my ex-wife—but I don’t think I should use it.” Joel’s smile was now cemented to his lips.

  “That’s right, I forgot,” said Mattilon. “She and I would converse in notre belle lanque; it used to irritate you so—Don’t use it. Remember your incentive.”

  “Qu’est-ce que vous dites encore? Notre belle lanque?” Luboque spoke as a steward stood by his side.

  “Notre ami, Monsieur Simon, suit un cours à l’école Berlitz et pourra ainsi s’entretenir directement avec vous.”

  “Bien!”

  “What?”

  “I told him you would learn the Berlitz French so you could dine with him whenever you flew into Paris. You’re to ring him up. Nod, smart ass.”

  Converse nodded.

  And so it went. Point, noncounterpoint, non sequitur. Serge Luboque held forth during drinks in the warriors’ playroom, Mattilon translating and advising Joel as to the expression to wear on his face as well as suggesting an appropriate reply.

  Finally Luboque stridently described the crash that had cost him his left foot and the obvious equipment failures for which he should be compensated. Converse looked properly pained and indignant, and offered to write a legal opinion for the court based on his expertise as a pilot of jet aircraft. Mattilon translated; Luboque beamed and rattled off a barrage of gargled vowels that Joel took for thanks.

  “He’s forever in your debt,” said René.

  “Not if I write that opinion,” replied Converse. “He locked himself in the cockpit and threw away the key.”

  “Write it,” countered Mattilon, smiling. “You’ve just paid for my time. We’ll use it as a wedge to open the door of retreat. Also, he’ll never ask you to dinner when you’re in Paris.”

  “When’s lunch? I’m running out of expressions.”

  They marched in hesitant lockstep into the dining room, matching Luboque’s gait as he thumped along on the hard, ornate parquet floor. The ridiculous three-sided conversation continued as wine was proffered—a bottle was sent back by Luboque—and Converse’s eyes kept straying to the dining room’s entrance.

  The moment came: Bertholdier arrived. He stood in the open archway, his head turned slightly to his left as another man in a light-brown gabardine topcoat spoke without expression. The general nodded his head and the subordinate retreated. Then the great man walked into the room quietly but imperially. Heads turned and the man acknowledged the homage as a dauphin who will soon be king accepts the attentions of the ministers of a failing monarch. The effect was extraordinary, for there were no kingdoms, no monarchies, no lands to be divided through conquest to the knights of Crécy or anybody else, but this man of no royal lineage was tacitly being recognized—goddamn it, thought Joel—as an emperor in his own right.

  Jacques-Louis Bertholdier was of medium height, between five nine and five eleven, certainly no more, but his bearing—the sheer straight shaft of his posture, the breadth of his shoulders and the length of his strong slender neck made him appear much taller, much more imposing than another might. He was among his own, and here, indeed, he was above the others, elevated by their own consensus.

  “Say something reverential,” said Mattilon, as Bertholdier approached, heading for the table next to theirs. “Glance up at him and look tastefully awed. I’ll do the rest.”

  Converse did as he was told, uttering Bertholdier’s full name under his breath, but loud enough to be heard. He followed this quiet exclamation by leaning toward Mattilon and saying, “He’s a man I’ve always wanted to meet.”

  There followed a brief exchange in French between René and his client, whereupon Luboque nodded, his expression that of an arrogant man willing to dispense a favor to a new friend.

  Bertholdier reached his chair, the maître d’ and the dining room captain hovering on either side. The pavane took place less than four feet away.

  “Mon général,” said Luboque, rising.

  “Serge,” replied Bertholdier, stepping forward, hand extended—a superior officer aware of a worthy subordinate’s disability. “Comment ça va?”

  “Bien, Jacques. Et vous?”

  “Les temps sont bien étranges, mon ami.”

  The greetings were brief, and the direction of the conversation was changed quickly by Luboque, who gestured at Converse as he continued speaking. Instinctively Joel got to his feet, posture straight, his eyes level, unblinking, staring at Bertholdier, his look as piercing as the general’s professional but without awe. He had been right—in an unexpected way. The shared Southeast Asian experience had validity for Jacques-Louis Bertholdier. And why not? He, too, had his memories. Mattilon was introduced almost as an afterthought, and the soldier gave a brief nod as he crossed behind René to shake hands with Joel.

  “A pleasure, Monsieur Simon,” said Bertholdier, his English precise, his grip firm, a comrade acknowledging another comrade, the man’s imperious charm instantly apparent.

  “I’m sure you’ve heard it thousands of times, sir,” said Joel, maintaining the steady, professional burn in his eyes, “but this is an occasion I never expected. If I may say so, General, it’s an honor to meet you.”

  “It is an honor to meet you,” rejoined Bertholdier. “You gentlemen of the air did all you could, and I know something about the circumstances. So many missions! I think it was easier on the ground!” The general laughed quietly.

  “Gentlemen of the air”—the man was unreal, thought Converse. But the connection was firm; it was real, he felt it, he knew it. The combination of words and looks had brought it about. So simple: a lawyer’s ruse, taming an adversary—in this case an enemy. The enemy.

  “I couldn’t agree with that, General; it was a lot cleaner in the air. But if there’d been more like you on the ground in Indochina, there
never would have been a Dienbienphu.”

  “A flattering statement, but I’m not sure it could stand the test of reality.”

  “I’m sure,” said Joel quietly, clearly. “I’m convinced of it.”

  Luboque, who had been engaged in conversation by Mattilon, interrupted. “Mon général, voulez-vous vousjoindre à nous?”

  “Pardonnez-moi. Je suis occupé avec mes visiteurs,” answered Bertholdier, turning back to Converse. “I must decline René’s invitation, I’m expecting guests. He tells me you are an attorney, a specialist in aircraft litigation.”

  “It’s part of the broader field, yes. Air, ground, oceangoing craft—we try to represent the spectrum. Actually, I’m fairly new at it—not the expertise, I hope—but the representation.”

  “I see,” said the general, obviously bewildered. “Are you in Paris on business?”

  This was it, thought Joel. Above all, he would have to be subtle. The words—but especially the eyes—must convey the unspoken. “No, I’m just here to catch my breath. I flew from San Francisco to New York and on to Paris. Tomorrow I’ll be in Bonn for a day or so, then off to Tel Aviv.”

  “How tiring for you.” Bertholdier was now returning his stare.

  “Not the worst, I’m afraid,” said Converse, a half-smile on his lips. “After Tel Aviv, there’s a night flight to Johannesburg.”

  “Bonn, Tel Aviv, Johannesburg …” The soldier spoke softly. “A most unusual itinerary.”

  “Productive, we think. At least, we hope so.”

  “We?”

  “My client, General. My new client.”

  “Déraisonnable!” cried Mattilon, laughing at something Luboque had said, and, just as obviously, telling Joel he could no longer keep his impatient litigant in conversation.

  Bertholdier, however, did not take his eyes off Converse. “Where are you staying, my young fighter-pilot friend?”

  “Young and not so young, General.”

  “Where?”

  “The George Cinq. Suite two-three-five.”

  “A fine establishment.”

  “It’s habit. My previous firm always posted me there.”

  “Posted? As in ‘garrisoned’?” asked Bertholdier, a half-smile now on his lips.

  “An unconscious slip,” said Joel. “But then again, it says it, doesn’t it, sir?”

  “It does, indeed.… Ah ha, my guests arrive!” The soldier extended his hand. “It’s been a pleasure, Monsieur Simon.”

  Swift au revoir’s accompanied nods and rapid handshakes as Bertholdier returned to his table to greet his luncheon companions. Through Mattilon, Joel thanked Luboque for the introduction; the disabled pilot gestured with both hands, palms up, and Converse had the distinct feeling that he had been baptized. The insane three-sided dialogue then resumed at high speed, and it was all Joel could do to maintain even minimum concentration.

  Progress had been made; it was in Bertholdier’s eyes, and he could feel those eyes straying over to him even while the conversation at both tables became animated. The general was diagonally to Converse’s left; with the slightest turning of either face, the line of sight between them was direct. Twice it happened. The first time, Joel felt the forceful gaze resting on him as if magnified sunlight were burning into his flesh. He shifted his head barely an inch; their eyes locked, the soldier’s penetrating, severe, questioning. The second time was a half-hour later, when the eye contact was initiated by Converse himself. Luboque and Mattilon were discussing legal strategy, and as if drawn by a magnet, Joel slowly turned to his left and watched Bertholdier, who was quietly, emphatically making a point with one of his guests. Suddenly, as a voice replied across the adjacent table, the general snapped his head in Converse’s direction, his eyes no longer questioning, only cold and ice-like. Then just as abruptly, there was warmth in them; the celebrated soldier nodded, a half-smile on his face.

  Joel sat in the soft leather chair by the window in the dimly lit sitting room; what light there was came from a fringed lamp on the desk. Alternately he stared at the telephone in front of the lamp and looked out the window at the weaving night traffic of Paris and the lights on the wide boulevard below. Then he focused entirely on the phone as he so frequently did when waiting for a call from a legal adversary he expected would capitulate, knowing that man or woman would capitulate. It was simply a question of time.

  What he expected now was communication, not capitulation—a connection, the connection. He had no idea what form it would take, but it would come. It had to come.

  It was nearly seven-thirty, four hours since he had left L’Etalon Blanc after a final, firm handshake exchanged with Jacques-Louis Bertholdier. The look in the soldier’s eyes was unmistakable: If nothing else, Converse reasoned, Bertholdier would have to satisfy his sheer curiosity.

  Joel had covered himself with the hotel’s front desk, distributing several well-placed 100-franc notes. The tactic was not at all unusual in these days of national and financial unrest—had not been for years, actually, even without the unrest. Visiting businessmen frequently chose to use pseudonyms for any number of reasons, ranging from negotiations best kept quiet to amorous engagements best left untraceable. In Converse’s case, the use of the name Simon made it appear logical, if not eminently respectable. If Talbot, Brooks and Simon preferred that all communications be made in the surname of one of the senior partners, who could question the decision? Joel, however, carried the ploy one step further. After telephoning New York, he explained, he was told that his own name was not to be used at all; no one knew he was in Paris and that was the way his firm wanted it. Obviously, the delayed instructions accounted for the mix-up in the reservation, which was void at any rate. There was to be no billing; he would pay in cash, and since this was Paris, no one raised the slightest objection. Cash was infinitely preferable, delayed payment a national anathema.

  Whether anyone believed this nonsense or not was irrelevant. The logic was sufficiently adequate and the franc notes persuasive; the original registration card was torn up and another placed in the hotel file. H. Simon replaced J. Converse. The permanent address of the former was a figment of Joel’s imagination, a numbered house on a numbered street in Chicago, Illinois, said house and said street most likely nonexistent. Anyone asking or calling for Mr. Converse—which was highly unlikely—would be told no guest of that name was currently at the George V. Even René Mattilon was not a problem, for Joel had been specific. Since he had no further business in Paris, he was taking the six o’clock shuttle to London and staying with friends for several days before flying back to New York. He had thanked René profusely, telling the Frenchman that his firm’s fears about Bertholdier had been groundless. During their quiet conversation he had brought up three key names with the general, and each had been greeted with a blank look from Bertholdier, who apologized for his faulty memory.

  “He wasn’t lying,” Joel had said.

  “I can’t imagine why he would,” Mattilon had replied.

  I can, Converse had thought to himself. They call it Aquitaine.

  A crack! There was a sudden sound, a harsh metallic snap, then another, and another—the tumblers of a lock falling out of place, a knob being turned. It came from beyond the open door to the bedroom. Joel bolted forward in his chair; then, looking at his watch, just as rapidly he let out his breath and relaxed. It was the hour when the floor maid turned down the bed; the tension of the expected call and what it represented had frayed his nerves. Again he leaned back, his gaze resting on the telephone. When would it ring? Would it ring?

  “Pardon, monsieur,” said a feminine voice, accompanied by a light tapping on the open doorframe. Joel could not see the speaker.

  “Yes?” Converse turned away from the silent phone, expecting to see the maid.

  What he saw made him gasp. It was the figure of Bertholdier, his posture erect, his angled head rigid, his eyes a strange admixture of cold appraisal, condescension, and—if Joel was not mistaken—a trace of fear.
He walked through the door and stood motionless; when he spoke his voice was a rippling sheet of ice.

  “I was on my way to a dinner engagement on the fourth floor, Monsieur Simon. By chance, I remembered you were in this very hotel. You did give me the number of your suite. Do I intrude?”

  “Of course not, General,” said Converse, on his feet.

  “Did you expect me?”

  “Not this way.”

  “But you did expect me?”

  Joel paused. “Yes.”

  “A signal sent and received?”

  Again Joel paused. “Yes.”

  “You are either a provocatively subtle attorney or a strangely obsessed man. Which is it, Monsieur Simon?”

  “If I provoked you into coming to see me and I was subtle about it, I’ll accept that gladly. As to being obsessed, the word implies an exaggerated or unwarranted concern. Whatever concerns I have, I know damned well they’re neither exaggerated nor unwarranted. No obsession, General. I’m too good a lawyer for that.”

  “A pilot cannot lie to himself. If he does so blindly, he crashes to his death.”

  “I’ve been shot down. I’ve never crashed through pilot error.”

  Bertholdier walked slowly to the brocaded couch against the wall. “Bonn, Tel Aviv, and Johannesburg,” he said quietly as he sat down and crossed his legs. “The signal?”

  “The signal.”

  “My company has interests in those areas.”

  “So does my client,” said Converse.

  “And what do you have, Monsieur Simon?”

  Joel stared at the soldier. “A commitment, General.”

  Bertholdier was silent, his body immobile, his eyes searching “May I have a brandy?” he said finally. “My escort will remain in the corridor outside this door.”