“I have to do it!” he screamed, raising his eyes in supplication. “It is for the best, can’t you understand?”
Prudhomme poured himself a cup of coffee and returned to his chair. Valerie sat opposite him as Converse stood by the window looking over at the man from the Sûreté, listening.
“I cannot think of any other questions,” said the Frenchman, his intensely troubled eyes darting about, his lined face looking wearier than before. “Although it’s possible I’m still too deep in shock to think at all. To say it’s incredible serves no purpose; also it would not be true. It’s all too credible. The world is so frightened it cries out for stability, for a place to hide, for protection—from the skies, from the streets, from each other. I believe the time has come when it will settle for sheer, absolute strength, no matter the cost.”
“The operative word is ‘absolute,’ ” said Joel, “as in controls and power. A confederation of military governments fueling one another, interlocking policies and altering the laws, all in the name of stability—and anyone who disagrees with them is declared unstable and silenced. And if too many disagree, the chaos erupts again—stability wins, Aquitaine wins. All they need is that initial wave of terror, a tidal wave of killing and confusion. ‘Key figures’ were the words they used. ‘Accumulation’ … ‘rapid acceleration’—chaos. Powerful men cut down as riots break out. in half a dozen capitals and the generals march in with their commanders. That’s the scenario, right from their own words.”
“That also is the problem, monsieur. They are only words, but they are words you can pass along to very few people, for they could be the wrong people. You could move up this countdown, as you call it, trigger this holocaust yourself.”
“The countdown’s running out, make no mistake,” Converse broke in. “But there is a way. ‘Accumulation’ and ‘rapid acceleration’ can be used in another manner, and you’re right, it’s only with words—accumulated words, accelerated words. I can’t come out, not yet. I can’t show myself. There’s no protection any court or government agency or the police could provide that would stop them from killing me, and then, once I’m dead, calling whatever I said the ravings of a psychopath. Don’t misunderstand me, I have no death wish, but my death in itself isn’t important. What is important is that the truth goes down with me, because I’m the only one who’s talked directly to Delavane’s four caesars over here, and probably the fifth, the Englishman.”
“And these déclarations—these affidavits you speak of—can change that?”
“They can turn things around, maybe just enough.”
“Why?”
“Because that’s a real world out there, a practical, complicated world that has to be penetrated as fast as possible—people have to be reached who can be trusted, who can do something. Quickly. It’s what I wanted to do a couple of weeks ago, but I was going about it the wrong way. I wanted to get everything I knew to someone I knew. Nathan Simon, the best attorney I’ve ever met. I wrote it all out—twice—not realizing that I was only tying his hands, probably killing him.” Joel stepped away from the window, a lawyer in summation. “Whom could he go to without me, without the presence of an obviously sane man and not simply the words of a ‘psychopathic killer’? And if I did come out, as he would have rightfully insisted, we’re both dead. Then Val told me about the man in New York who reached her on the phone and the other who chased her down the street and I guessed right. Those aren’t the methods of people who want to kill you; they don’t announce themselves. They were the men in Washington who had sent me out and were now trying to make contact with me. Then she described her meeting with Sam Abbott and his mentioning this Metcalf, a man he trusted and who had to be some kind of very important person for him to tell the story to. Finally, there was you in Paris—what you said, what you did, and how you offered to help, using the same code as René Mattilon—the Tatiana family. Tatiana, a name or a word I think means trust, even among sharks.”
“You are right, monsieur.”
“That’s when it all came together for me. If I could somehow establish lines of communication and reach all of you, there was a way. You people knew the truth—some of you knew all of it; others, like yourself, knew only fragments, but regardless, you understood the immensity, the reality of the generals and their Aquitaine and what they could do, what they’re doing. Even you, Prudhomme. What did you say? Interpol is compromised, the police manipulated, the Sûreté corrupted—official reports all lies. Added to these, Anstett in New York, Peregrine, the commander of NATO, Mattilon, Beale, Sam Abbott … Connal Fitzpatrick—the only question mark—and God knows how many others. All dead. The generals are marching—forget theories, they’re killing!… If I could convince all of you to write out affidavits—or have depositions taken—and get them to Nathan Simon, he’d have the ammunition he needs. I fed legal mumbo jumbo to Stone in New York; some of it applies, most of it doesn’t, but he’ll do his part and force the others to join him—he has no choice. The main point, the only point, is to get this material to Simon. Once he has written testimony, a series of events and observations all sworn to be true by diverse men of experience, he has a case. Believe me, he’ll treat them like the plans of a neutron bomb. He’ll have it all tomorrow, and he’ll reach the right people if he has to walk into the Oval Office—which he could do, but may not choose to.” Joel paused and looked hard at the man from the Sûreté; he nodded at the pages of his own affidavit on the table beside the Frenchman. “I’ve made arrangements for that to be flown to New York tomorrow. I’d like one from you.”
“Certainly you may have it. But can you trust the courier?”
“The world could blow apart and she’d still be sitting in her house in the mountains and not know it. Or care. How’s your English?”
“Adequate, I believe. We’ve talked for several hours.”
“I mean written English. It’d save time if you wrote it out tonight.”
“My spelling is probably no better than yours is in French.”
“Make that English,” said Valerie. “I’ll straighten it out and if you’re not sure of something, write it in French.”
“That would help. I must write it tonight?”
“The secretary will be here first thing in the morning,” explained Converse. “She’ll type it up. She’s the one taking the flight from Geneva to New York tomorrow afternoon.”
“She agreed to do this?”
“She agreed to accept a large donation to a nature organization that apparently runs her life.”
“Very convenient.”
“There’s something else,” said Joel sitting on an arm of Valerie’s chair and leaning forward. “You know the truth now, and beyond the material that has to reach Simon, there’s one last thing I have to do. I’ve got a lot of money and a banker in Mykonos who’ll confirm I have access to a great deal more—but you’ve read all that. With time to find the personnel and the equipment I might be able to pull it off myself, but we don’t have the time. I need your help, I need the resources you have.”
“For what, monsieur?”
“The final depositions. The last part of the testimony. I want to kidnap three men.”
37
I, Peter Charles Stone, age fifty-eight, a resident of Washington, D.C., was employed by the Central Intelligence Agency for twenty-nine years, during which time I attained the rank of station chief in various European posts and ultimately Second Director of Clandestine Operations, Langley, Virginia. My record is on file at the Central Intelligence Agency and may be obtained pursuant to the regulations governing such procedures. Since separation from the CIA, I have worked as a consultant and analyst for numerous intelligence departments, the specifics therein withheld from this statement pending government clearances should they be deemed pertinent to this document.
On or about last March 15, I was contacted by Captain Andrew Packard, United States Army, who asked if he might come to my apartment to discuss a confidential matter. W
hen he arrived, he stated at the outset that he was speaking for a small group of men from both the military services and the State Department, the number and identities of which he would not divulge. He stated further that they sought professional consultation from an experienced intelligence officer no longer associated (permanently) with any branch of the intelligence community. He said he had certain funds available he believed would be adequate and would I be interested. It should be noted here that Captain Packard and his associates had made a thorough if not exhaustive search of my background—warts and alcohol and all, as is said.…
* * *
I, Captain Howard NMI Packard, U.S. Army, 507538, age thirty-one, currently residing in Oxon Hill, Maryland, am assigned to Section 27, Department of Technological Controls, the Pentagon, Arlington, Virginia. In December of last year, Mr. A. Preston Halliday, an attorney from San Francisco with whom I had struck up a friendship as a result of his numerous petitions to our section on behalf of clients (all successful and above reproach), asked me to have dinner with him at a small restaurant in Clinton, approximately ten miles from my house. He apologized for not asking my wife, explaining that what he had to say would only disturb her, as, indeed, it would disturb me, but in this case it was my responsibility to be disturbed. He added that there was no conceivable conflict in our meeting, as he had no business pending, only business that should be investigated and stopped …
I, Lieutenant (J.G.) William Michael Landis, U.S. Navy, a bachelor, age twenty-eight; current address, Somerset Garden Apartments, Vienna, Virginia, am a computer programmer for the Department of the Navy, Sea-Armament’s Procurements Division, stationed at the Pentagon, Arlington, Virginia. Actually, in all but rank (due within sixty days), I’m in command of most programming for Pentagon-Navy, having received a doctorate in advanced computer technology from the University of Michigan, College of Engineering.… I’m probably not saying this right, sir.
Go ahead, young man.
I state this because with the highly sophisticated equipment at my disposal as well as the classified micro-conversion codes available to me, I’m able to tap into a great many restricted computers with a tracing capacity that can circumvent—or penetrate, if you like—closures placed on extremely sensitive information.
Last February, Captain Howard Packard, United States Army, and three other men—two from the Department of State, Office of Munitions Controls, and the third a Marine Corps officer I knew from the Amphibious Section, Navy Procurements—came out to see me on a Sunday morning. They said they were alarmed over a series of weapons and high-tech transfers that appeared to violate D.O.D. and State Department sanctions. They gave me the data they had concerning nine such incidents, impressing upon me the confidentiality of the inquiry.
The next afternoon I went to the maximum-security computers and with the conversion codes inserted the data for the nine transfers. The initial entries were confirmed—those numbers never change so as to eliminate the possibilities of duplication—but in each case, after confirmation, the remaining information was erased, wiped off the computer tapes. Six of those nine transfers were traced through the initial entries to a firm called Palo Alto International, owned by a retired Army general named Delavane. This was my first involvement, sir.
Who were the three other men, Lieutenant?
It wouldn’t do any good to give their names, sir. It could only hurt their families.
I’m not sure I understand—can possibly understand.
They’re dead. They went back and asked questions and they’re dead, sir. Two supposedly in automobile accidents involving trucks—on back roads they never took home—and the third indiscriminately shot by a deranged sniper while jogging in Rock Creek Park. All those joggers and he was the one who got it.…
[Captain Packard]
As an Army captain with full security clearance and frequently dealing in top-secret procedures, I was able to set up a sterile telephone (i.e., one that is constantly scanned for taps or intercepts) so Mr. Halliday could reach me at any time of day or night without fear of being overheard. Also in concert with Mr. Stone and Lieutenant Landis, we pooled our sources and obtained in-depth intelligence dossiers on the well-known names Halliday found among General Delavane’s notes. Specifically, Generals Bertholdier, Leifhelm, Abrahms, and Van Headmer. Using funds provided by Dr. Edward Beale, we secured the services of private firms in Paris, Bonn, Tel Aviv, and Johannesburg to up-date the dossiers with all available current information about the subjects.
By now we had uncovered ninety-seven additional computer erasures directly related to export licensing and military transfers involving an estimated $45 million. A great many were initiated by Palo Alto International, but without further data there was nothing to trace. It was like a series of blips disappearing from a radar screen.…
* * *
[Stone]
My years in the CIA’s Clandestine Operations taught me that the larger the pattern, the greater the numbers, and that those areas with the heaviest concentration of activity invariably held the tightest and most ruthless security. Nothing terribly original here but the reverse application is frequently overlooked. Since Washington was the clearinghouse for illegal exports totaling millions upon millions in American merchandise and matériel, it stood to reason that there would be a range of safeguards, scores of Delavane’s informants—both knowing and unknowing, that is, ideologically involved or simply hired or threatened—in the government agencies and departments related to the activities of Palo Alto International. Without going into specifics, Captain Packard confirmed this judgment by telling me that an incident had recently taken place that cost the lives of three men who tried to follow up on a number of computer erasures. We had moved from the realm of ideological extremists into one of fanatics and killers. Therefore it was my contention—and I hereby assume full responsibility for the decision—that safer and more rapid progress could be made by sending a man out into the peripheral sectors of Delavane’s operation with enough information to trace connections back to Palo Alto International. By the very nature of illegal export licensing itself there is more open territory at the receiving ends. The obvious place to start was with the four generals whose names were found in Delavane’s notes. I had no candidate with the expertise I felt was necessary for the assignment.…
[Captain Packard]
On or about July 10, Mr. Halliday called me on the sterile phone I’d set up for him and said he believed he’d found the proper candidate for the assignment as outlined by Mr. Stone. An attorney whose field was international law, a man he had known years ago and a former prisoner of war in Vietnam who conceivably had the motivation to go after someone like General Delavane. His name was Joel Converse.…
I, Alan Bruce Metcalf age forty-eight, am an officer in the United States Air Force, holding the rank of colonel and currently stationed at the Nellis Air Force Base, Clark County, Nevada, as chief intelligence officer. Thirty-six hours ago, as I dictate this statement, on August 25 at four o’clock in the afternoon, I received a telephone call from Brigadier General Samuel Abbott, commanding officer, Tactical Operations, Nellis A.F.B. The general said it was urgent that we meet, preferably off base, as soon as possible. He had new and extraordinary information regarding the recent assassinations of the supreme commander of NATO and the American ambassador to Bonn, West Germany. He insisted that we be in civilian clothes and suggested the library at the University of Nevada, Las Vegas campus. We met at approximately 5:30 P.M. and talked for five hours. I will be as accurate as possible, and that will be very accurate, as the conversation is still fresh in my mind, engraved there by the tragic death of General Abbott, a close friend for many years and a man I admired greatly.…
The above, then, are the events as told to General Abbott by the former Mrs. Converse, and as he related them to me, and the subsequent actions I took to convene an emergency meeting of the highest-level intelligence personnel in Washington. General Abbott believed what he had
been told because of his knowledge and perceptions of the individuals involved. He was a brilliant and stable man, not given to bias where judgments were concerned. In my opinion, he was deliberately murdered because he had “new and extraordinary information” about a fellow prisoner of war, one Joel Converse.
Nathan Simon, tall, portly, sitting well back in his chair, removed the tortoiseshell glasses from his tired face and tugged at the Vandyke beard that covered the scars of shrapnel embedded at Anzio years ago. His thick salt-and-pepper eyebrows were arched above his hazel eyes and sharp, straight nose. The only other person in the room was Peter Stone. The stenographer had been dismissed; Metcalf, exhausted, had retired to his room, and the two other officers, Packard and Landis, had opted to return to Washington—on separate planes. Simon carefully placed the typewritten affidavits on the table beside his chair.
“There was no one else, Mr. Stone?” he asked, his deep voice gentle, far gentler than his eyes.
“No one I knew, Mr. Simon,” replied the former intelligence officer. “Everyone I’ve used since—what we call pulling in old debts—was lower-level with access to upper-level equipment, not decisions. Please remember, three men were killed when this thing barely started.”
“Yes, I know.”
“Can you do what Converse said? Can you get something ‘under seal’ and move some mountains we can’t move?”
“He told you that?”
“Yes. It’s why I agreed to all of this.”
“He had his reasons. And I have to think.”
“There’s no time to think. We have to act, we have to do something! Time’s running out!”
The Aquitaine Progression Page 74
