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Robert Ludlum - Aquatain Progression.txt

Page 6

by The Aquitaine Progression [lit]


  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 paralysing. 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

  rea

  THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 35

  son in 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 Geneval 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

  heard your name and I've been worried sickl Where

  have you beenk"

  "Answering a lot of unanswerable questions down

  at police headquarters." Questions that were

  answerable, but not by him, not to the authorities in

  Geneva. Avery Fowler Preston Halliday deserved

  better than that. A trust had been given, and been

  accepted in death.

  "Christ, you're drenched!" cried Henri, intense

  concern in his eyes. "You've been walking in the rain,

  haven't you? There were no taxis?"

  "I didn't look, I wanted to walk."

  "Of course, the shock, I understand. I'll send up

  some brandy, some decent Armagnac. And dinner,

  perhaps I'll release your table at the

  Gentilshommes."

  "Thanks. Give me thirty minutes and have your

  switchboard get New York for me, will you? I never

  seem to dial it right."

  "Joel?"

  "What?"

  "Can I help? Is there something you should tell

  me? We have won and lost together over too many

  grand cry bottles

  36 ROBERT LUDLUM

  for you to go alone when you don't have to. I know

  Geneva, my friend."

  Converse looked into the wide brown eyes, at

  the lined face, rigid in its concern. "Why do you say

  that?"

  "Because you so quickly denied the police

  reports of coeaine, what else? I watched you. There

  was more in what you said than what you said."

  Joel blinked, and for a moment shut his eyelids

  tight, the strain in the middle of his forehead acute.

  He took a deep breath and replied. "Do me a favor,

  Henri, and don't speculate. Just get me an overseas

  line in a half-hour, okay?"

  "Entendu, monsieur," said the Frenchman. "Le

  concderge du R*hemond is here only to serve her

  guests, special guests accorded special service, of

  course.... I'm here if you need me, my friend."

  "I know that. If I turn a wrong card, I'll let you

  know."

  "If you have to turn any card in Switzerland, call

  me. The suits vary with the players."

  "I'll remember that. Thirty minutes? A line?"

  "Certainement, monsieur."

  The shower was as hot as his skin could tolerate,

  the steam filling his lungs, cutting short the breath

  in his throat. He then forced himself to endure an

  ice-cold spray until his head shivered. He reasoned

  that the shock of extremes might clear his mind, at

  least reduce the numbness. He had to think; he had

  to decide; he had to listen.

  He came out of the bathroom, his white

  terrycloth robe blotting the residue of the shower,

  and shoved his feet into a pair of slippers on the

  floor beside the bed. He removed his cigarettes and

  lighter from the bureau top, and walked into the

  sitting room. The concerned Henri had been true to

  his word; on the coffee table a floor steward had

  placed a bottle of expensive Armagnac and two

  glasses for appearance, not function. He sat down

  on the soft, pillowed couch, poured himself a drink,

  and lighted a cigarette. Outside, the heavy August

  rain pounded the casement windows, the tattoo

  harsh and unrelenting. He looked at his watch; it

  was a few minutes past six shortly past noon in

  New York. Joel wondered if Henri had been able to

  get a clear transatlantic line. The lawyer in Converse

  wanted to hear the words spoken from New York,

  words that would either confirm or deny a dead

  man's revelation. It had been twenty-five minutes

  since Henri had

  THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 37

  stopped him on the staircase; he would wait another

  five and call the switchboard.

  The telephone rang, the blaring, vibrating

  European bell unnerving him. He reached for the

  phone on the table next to the couch; his breath was

  short and his hand trembled.

  byes? Hello?'

  Chew York calling, monsieur," said the hotel

  operator. "It's your office. Should I cancel the call

  listed for six-fifteen?"

  "Yes, please. And thank you."

  "Mr. Converse?" The intense, high-pitched voice

  belonged to Lawrence Talbot's secretary.

  "Hello, Jane."

  "Good God, we've been trying to reach you since

  ten o'clock! Are you all right? We heard the new
s

  then, around ten. It's all so horrible!"

  "I'm fine, Jane. Thanks for your concern."

  "Mr. Talbot's beside himself. He can't believe it!"

  "Don't believe what they're saying about Halliday.

  It's not true. May I speak with Larry, please?"

  "If he knew you were on the phone talking to me,

  I'd be fired."

  "No, you wouldn't. Who'd write his letters?"

  The secretary paused briefly, her voice calmer

  when she spoke. "Oh, God, Joel, you're the end.

  After what you've been through, you still find

  something funny to say."

  "It's easier, Jane. Let me have Bubba, will you?"

  "You are the limit!"

  Lawrence Talbot, senior partner of Talbot,

  Brooks and Simon, was a perfectly competent

  attorney, but his rise in law was as much due to his

  having been one of the few all-American football

  players from Yale as from any prowess in the

  courtroom. He was also a very decent human being

  more of a coordinating coach than the driving force

  of a conservative yet highly competitive law firm. He

  was also eminently fair and fair-minded; he kept his

  word. He was one of the reasons Joel had joined the

  firm; another was Nathan Simon, a giant both of a

  man and of an attorney. Converse had learned more

  about the law from Nate Simon than from any other

  lawyer or professor he had ever met. He felt closest

  to Nathan, yet Simon was the most difficult to get

  close to; one approached this uniquely private man

  with equal parts of fondness and reserve.

  38 ROBERT LUDLUM

  Lawrence Talbot burst over the phone. ' Good

  Lord, I'm appalled! What can I say? What can I

  do?"

  "To begin with, strike that horseshitabout

  Halliday. He was no more a drug connection than

  Nate Simon."

  "You haven't heard, then? They've backed off

  on that. The story now is violent robbery; he

  resisted and the packets were stuffed under his shirt

  after they shot him. I think Jack Halliday must have

  burned the wires from San Francisco, threatened to

  beat the crap out of the whole Swiss government....

  He played for Stanford, you know."

  "You're too much, Bubba."

  "I never thought I'd enjoy hearing that from you,

  young man. I do now."

  "Young man and not so young, Larry. Clear

  something up for me, will you?"

  "Whatever I can."

  "Anstett. Lucas Anstett. '

  "We talked. Nathan and I listened, and he was

  most persuasive. We understand."

  "Do you?"

  "Not the particulars certainly; he wouldn't

  elaborate. But we think you're the best in the field,

  and granting his request wasn't difficult.. T., B. and

  S. has the best, and when a judge like Anstett

  confirms it through such a conversation, we have to

  congratulate ourselves, don't we?"

  "Are you doing it because of his bench?"

  "Christ, no. He even told us he'd be harder on

  us in Appeals if we agreed. He's one rough cookie

  when he wants something. He tells you you'd be

  worse off if you give it to him."

  "Did you believe him?"

  "Well, Nathan said something about billy goats

  having certain identifiable markings that were not

  removed without a great deal of squealing, so we

  should go along. Nathan frequently obfuscates

  issues, but goddamnit, Joel, he's usually right."

  "If you can take three hours to hear a

  five-minute summation," said Converse.

  "He's always thinking, young man."

  "Young and not so young. Everything's relative."

  "Your wife called.... Sorry, your ex-wife."

  "Oh?"

  THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 39

  "Your name came up on the radio or television

  or something, and she wanted to know what

  happened."

  "What did you tell her?"

  "That we were trying to reach you. We didn't

  know any more than she did. She sounded very

  upset."

  Call her and tell her I'm fine, will you, please?

  Do you have the number?"

  Jane does."

  "I'll be leaving, then."

  "On full pay," said Talbot from New York.

  "That's not necessary, Larry. I'm being given a

  great deal of money, so save the bookkeeping. I'll be

  back in three or four weeks."

  "I could do that, but I won't," said the senior

  partner. "I know when I've got the best and I intend

  to hold him. We'll bank it for you." Talbot paused,

  then spoke quietly, urgently. "Joel, I have to ask you.

  Did this thing a few hours ago have anything to do

  with the Anstett business?"

  Converse gripped the telephone with such force

  his wrist and fingers ached. "Nothing whatsoever,

  Larry," he said. "There's no connection."

  Mykonos, the sun-drenched, whitewashed island

  of the Cyclades, neighboring worshiper of Delos.

  Since Barbarossa's conquest it had been host to

  successive brigands of the sea who sailed on the

  Meltemi winds Turks, Russians, Cypriots, finally

  Greeks placed and displaced over the centuries, a

  small landmass alternately honored and forgotten

  until the arrival of sleek yachts and shining aircraft,

  symbols of a different age. Low-slung

  automobiles Porsches, Maseratis, ~Jaguars now

  sped over the narrow roads past starch-white

  windmills and alabaster churches; a new type of

  inhabitant had joined the laconic, tradition-bound

  residents who made their livings from the sea and

  the shops. Free-spirited youths of all ages, with their

  open shirts and tight pants, their sunburned skins

  serving as foil for adornments of heavy gold, had

  found a new playground. And ancient Mykonos, once

  a major port to the proud Phoenicians, had become

  the Saint-Tropez of the Aegean.

  Converse had taken the first Swissair flight out of

  Geneva to Athens, and from there a smaller Olympic

  plane to the island. Although he had lost an hour in

  the time zones, it was barely four o'clock in the

  afternoon when the airport taxi

  40 ROBERT LUDLUM

  crawled through the streets of the hot, blinding-white

  harbor and pulled up in front of the smooth white

  entrance of the bank. It was on the waterfront, and

  the crowds of flowered shirts and wild print dresses,

  and the sight of launches chopping over the gentle

  waves toward the slips on the main pier, were proof

  that the giant cruise ships far out in the harbor were

  managed by knowledgeable men. Mykonos was a daz-

  zling snare for tourists; money would be left on the

  whitewashed island; the tavernas and the shops would

  be full from early sunrise to burning twilight. The

  oozo would flow and Greek fishermen's caps would

  disappear from the shelves and appear on the swaying

  heads of suburbanites from Crosse Point and Short

  Hills. And when night came and the last efharisto and

  paracalo had
been awkwardly uttered by the visitors,

  other games would begin the courtiers and

  courtesans the beautiful, ageless, self-indulgent

  children of the blue Aegean, would start to play.

  Peals of laughter would be heard as drachmas were

  counted and spent in amounts that would stagger

  even those who had opulent suites on the highest

  decks of the most luxurious ships. Where Geneva was

  con-, trary, Mykonos was accommodating in ways

  the long-ago

  Turks might have envied.

  Joel had called the bank from the airport, not

  knowing its business hours, but knowing the name of

  the banker he was to contact. Kostas Laskaris greeted

  him cautiously over the phone, making it clear that he

  expected not only a passport that would clear a

  spectrograph but the original letter from A. Preston

  Halliday with his signature, said signature to be

  subjected to a scanner, matching the signature the

  bank had been provided by the deceased Mr. A.

  Preston Halliday.

  "We hear he was killed in Geneva. It is most

  unfortunate," Laskaris had said.

  "I'll tell his wife and children how your grief

  overwhelms me."

  Converse paid the taxi and climbed the short

  white steps of the entrance, carrying his suitcase and

  attache case, grateful that the door was opened by a

  uniformed guard whose appearance brought to mind

  a long-forgotten photograph of a mad sultan who

 

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