“Permit me a small chuckle,” said Converse without smiling. “Even in my most paranoid moments I never subscribed to the conspiracy theory that has the military running Washington. It couldn’t happen.”
“It might be less apparent than in other countries, but that’s all I’ll grant you.”
“What does that mean?”
“It would undoubtedly be much more obvious in Israel, certainly in Johannesburg, quite possibly in France and Bonn, even the UK—none of them takes its pretenses that seriously. But I suppose you’ve got a point. Washington will drape the constitutional robes around itself until they become thread-bare and fall away—revealing a uniform, incidentally.”
Joel stared at the face in front of him. “You’re not joking, are you? And you’re too bright to try to snow me.”
“Or con you,” added Halliday. “Not after that label I wore while watching you in pajamas halfway across the world. I couldn’t do it.”
“I think I believe you.… You mentioned several countries, specific countries. Some aren’t speaking, others barely; a few have bad blood and worse memories. On purpose?”
“Yes,” nodded the Californian. “It doesn’t make any difference because the group I’m talking about thinks it has a cause that will ultimately unite them all. And run them all—their way.”
“The generals?”
“And admirals, and brigadiers, and field marshals—old soldiers who pitched their tents in the right camp. So far right there’s been no label since the Reichstag.”
“Come on, Avery!” Converse shook his head in exasperation. “A bunch of tired old warhorses—”
“Recruiting and indoctrinating young, hard, capable new commanders,” interrupted Halliday.
“—coughing their last bellows.” Joel stopped. “Have you proof of that?” he asked, each word spoken slowly.
“Not enough … but with some digging … maybe enough.”
“Goddamn it, stop being elliptical.”
“Among the possible recruits, twenty or so names at the State Department and the Pentagon,” said Halliday. “Men who clear export licenses and who spend millions upon millions because they’re allowed to spend it, all of which, naturally, widens any circle of friends.”
“And influence,” stated Converse. “What about London, Paris, and Bonn—Johannesburg and Tel Aviv?”
“Again names.”
“How firm?”
“They were there, I saw them myself. It was an accident. How many have taken an oath I don’t know, but they were there, and their stripes fit the philosophical pattern.”
“The Reichstag?”
“More encompassing. A global Third Reich. All they need is a Hitler.”
“Where does Delavane fit in?”
“He may anoint one. He may designate the Führer.”
“That’s ridiculous. Who’d take him seriously?”
“He was taken seriously before. You saw the results.”
“That was then, not now. You’re not answering the question.”
“Men who thought he was right before, and don’t fool yourself, they’re out there by the thousands. What’s mind-blowing is that there are a few dozen with enough seed money to finance his and their delusions—which, of course, they don’t see as delusions at all, only as the proper evolution of current history, all other ideologies having failed miserably.”
Joel started to speak, then stopped, his thoughts suddenly altered. “Why haven’t you gone to someone who can stop them? Stop him.”
“Who?”
“I shouldn’t have to tell you that. Any number of people in the government—elected and appointed—and more than a dozen departments. For starters, there’s Justice.”
“I’d be laughed out of Washington,” said Halliday. “Beyond the fact that we have no proof—as I told you, just names, suppositions—don’t forget that Yippie label I once wore. They’d pin it on me again and tell me to get lost.”
“But you represented Delavane.”
“Which only compounds the problem by introducing the legal aspects. I shouldn’t have to tell you that.”
“The lawyer-client relationship.” Converse nodded. “You’re in a morass before you can make a charge. Unless you’ve got hard evidence against your client, proof that he’s going to commit further crimes and that you’re aiding the commission of those crimes by keeping silent.”
“Which proof I don’t have,” interrupted the Californian.
“Then no one will touch you,” added Joel. “Especially ambitious lawyers at Justice; they don’t want their postgovernment avenues cut off. As you say, the Delavanes of this world have their constituencies.”
“Exactly,” agreed Halliday. “And when I began asking questions and tried to reach Delavane, he wouldn’t see me or talk to me. Instead, I got a letter telling me I was fired, that if he had known what I was he never would have retained me. ‘Smoking dope and screaming curses while brave young men answered their country’s call.’ ”
Converse whistled softly. “And you think you weren’t conned? You provide legal services for him, a structure he can use for all intents and purposes within the law, and if anything smells, you’re the last person who can blow the whistle. He drapes the old soldier’s flag around himself and calls you a vindictive freak.”
Halliday nodded. “There was a lot more in that letter—nothing that could damage me except where he was concerned, but it was brutal.”
“I’m certain of it.” Converse took out a pack of cigarettes; he held it forward as Halliday shook his head. “How did you represent him?” asked Joel.
“I set up a corporation, a small consulting firm in Palo Alto specializing in imports and exports. What’s allowed, what isn’t, what the quotas are, and how to legitimately reach the people in D.C. who will listen to your case. Essentially it was a lobbying effort, trading in on a name, if anyone remembered. At the time, it struck me as kind of pathetic.”
“I thought you said it wasn’t registered,” remarked Converse, lighting a cigarette.
“It’s not the one we’re after. It’d be a waste of time.”
“But it’s where you first got your information, isn’t it? Your leads?”
“That was the accident, and it won’t happen again. It’s so legitimate it’s legal Clorox.”
“Still it’s a front,” insisted Joel. “It has to be if everything—or anything—you’ve said is true.”
“It’s true, and it is. But nothing’s written down. It’s an instrument for travel, an excuse for Delavane and the men around him to go from one place to another, carrying on legitimate business. But while they’re in a given area, they do their real thing.”
“The gathering of the generals and the field marshals?” said Converse.
“We think it’s a spreading missionary operation. Very quiet and very intense.”
“What’s the name of Delavane’s firm?”
“Palo Alto International.”
Joel suddenly crushed out his cigarette. “Who’s we, Avery? Who’s putting up this kind of money when amounts like that mean they’re people who can reach anyone they want to in Washington?”
“Are you interested?”
“Not in working for someone I don’t know—or approve of. No, I’m not.”
“Do you approve of the objectives as I’ve outlined them to you?”
“If what you’ve told me is true, and I can’t think of any reason why you’d lie about it, of course I do. You knew I would. That still doesn’t answer my question.”
“Suppose,” went on Halliday rapidly, “I were to give you a letter stating that the sum of five hundred thousand dollars 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 intensit
y 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 me to be an outstanding citizen who insists on anonymity. I endorse both the man and the work he’s asked you to do, and swear not only to the legality of the objectives but to the extraordinary benefits that would be derived by any success you might have. You’re covered, you’ve got five hundred thousand dollars, and I expect just as important to you, perhaps more so, you have the chance to stop a maniac—maniacs—from carrying out an unthinkable plan. At the least, they’d create widespread unrest, political crises everywhere, enormous suffering. At the worst, they might change the course of history to the point where there wouldn’t be any history.”
Converse sat rigid in his chair, his gaze unbroken. “That’s quite a speech. Practice it long?”
“No, you son of a bitch! It wasn’t necessary to practice. Any more than you rehearsed that little explosion of yours twelve years ago in San Diego. ‘Men like that can’t be allowed anymore, don’t you understand? He was the enemy, our enemy?’ … Those were the words, weren’t they?”
“You did your homework, counselor,” said Joel, his anger controlled. “Why does your client insist on being anonymous? Why doesn’t he take his money, make a political contribution, and talk to the director of the CIA, or the National Security Council, or the White House, any of which he could do easily? A half-million dollars isn’t chopped chicken liver even today.”
“Because he can’t be involved officially in any way whatsoever.” Halliday frowned as he expelled his breath. “I know it sounds crazy, but that’s the way it is. He is an outstanding man and I went to him because I was cornered. Frankly, I thought he’d pick up the phone and do what you just said. Call the White House, if it came to it, but he wanted to go this route.”
“With me?”
“Sorry, he didn’t know you. He said a strange thing to me. He told me to find someone to shoot down the bastards without giving them the dignity of the government’s concern, even its recognition. At first I couldn’t understand, but then I did. It fit in with my own theory that laughing at the Delavanes of this world renders them impotent more thoroughly than any other way.”
“It also eliminates the specter of martyrdom,” added Converse. “Why would this—outstanding citizen do what he’s doing? Why is it worth the money to him?”
“If I told you, I’d be breaking the confidence.”
“I didn’t ask you his name. I want to know why.”
“By telling you,” said the Californian, “you’d know who he is. I can’t do that. Take my word for it, you’d approve of him.”
“Next question,” said Joel, a sharp edge to his voice. “Just what the hell did you say to Talbot, Brooks that they found so acceptable?”
“Resigned to finding it acceptable,” corrected Halliday. “I had help. Do you know Judge Lucas Anstett?”
“Second Circuit Court,” said Converse, nodding. “He should have been tapped for the Supreme Court years ago.”
“That seems to be the consensus. He’s also a friend of my client, and as I understand it, he met with John Talbot and Nathan Simon—Brooks was out of town—and without revealing my client’s name, told them there was a problem that might well erupt into a national crisis if immediate legal action wasn’t taken. Several U.S. firms were involved, he explained, but the problem basically lay in Europe and required the talents of an experienced international lawyer. If their junior partner, Joel Converse, was selected and he accepted, would they consent to a leave of absence so he could pursue the matter on a confidential basis? Naturally, the judge strongly endorsed the project.”
“And naturally Talbot and Simon went along,” said Joel. “You don’t refuse Anstett. He’s too damned reasonable, to say nothing of the power of his court.”
“I don’t think he’d use that lever.”
“It’s there.”
Halliday reached into his jacket pocket and took out a long white business envelope. “Here’s the letter. It spells out everything I said. There’s also a separate page defining the schedule in Mykonos. Once you make arrangements at the bank—how you want the money paid or where you want it transferred—you’ll be given the name of a man who lives on the island; he’s retired. Phone him; he’ll tell you when and where to meet. He has all the tools we can give you. The names, the connections as we think they are, and the activities they’re most likely engaged in that violate the laws of their respective governments—sending arms, equipment, and technological information where it shouldn’t be sent. Build just two or three cases that are tied to Delavane—even circumstantially—and it’ll be enough. We’ll turn it all into ridicule, It will be enough.”
“Where the hell do you get your nerve?” said Converse angrily. “I haven’t agreed to anything! You don’t make decisions for me, and neither does Talbot or Simon, nor the holy Judge Anstett, nor your goddamned client! What did you think you were doing? Appraising me like a piece of horse-flesh, making arrangements about me behind my back! Who do you people think you are?”
“Concerned people who think we’ve found the right man for the right job at the right time,” said Halliday, dropping the envelope in front of Joel. “Only there’s not that much time left. You’ve been where they want to take us and you know what it’s like.” Suddenly the Californian got up. “Think about it. We’ll talk later. By the way, the Swiss know we were meeting this morning. If anyone asks what we talked about, tell them I agreed to the final disposition of the Class A stock. It’s in our favor even though you may think otherwise. Thanks for the coffee. I’ll be across the table in an hour. It’s good to see you again, Joel.”
The Californian walked swiftly into the aisle and out through the brass gate of the Chat Botté into the sunlight of the Quai du Mont Blanc.
The telephone console was built into the far end of a long, dark conference table. Its muted hum was in keeping with the dignified surroundings. The Swiss arbitre, the legal representative of the canton of Geneva, picked it up and spoke softly, nodding his head twice, then replaced the phone in its cradle. He looked around the table; seven of the eight attorneys were in their chairs talking quietly with one another. The eighth, Joel Converse, stood in front of an enormous window flanked by drapes and overlooking the Quai Gustave Ador. The giant jet d’eau erupted beyond, its pulsating spray cascading to the left under the force of a north wind. The sky was growing dark; a summer storm was on its way from the Alps.
“Messieurs,” said the arbitre. Conversations trailed off as faces were turned to the Swiss. “That was Monsieur Halliday. He has been detained, but urges you to proceed. His associate, Monsieur Rogeteau, has his recommendations, and it is understood that he met with Monsieur Converse earlier this morning to resolve one of the last details. Is that not so, Monsieur Converse?”
Heads turned again, now in the opposite direction toward the figure by the window. There was no response. Converse continued to stare down at the lake.
“Monsieur Converse?”
“I beg your pardon?” Joel turned, a frown creasing his brow, his thoughts far away, nowhere near Geneva.
“It is so, monsieur?”
“What was the question?”
“You met earlier with Monsieur Halliday?”
Converse paused. “It is so,” he replied.
“And?”
“And—he agreed to the final disposition of the Class A stock.”
There was an audible expression of relief on the part of the Americans and a silent acceptance from the Bern contingent, their eyes noncommittal. Neither reaction was lost on Joel, and under different circumstances he might have tabled the item for additional consideration. Halliday’s judgment of Bern’s advantage notwithstanding, the acceptance was too easily achieved; he would have postponed it anyway, at least for an hour’s worth of analysis. Somehow it did not matter. Goddamn him! thought Converse.
“T
hen let us proceed as Monsieur Halliday suggested,” said the arbitre, glancing at his watch.
An hour stretched into two, then three, the hum of voices mingling in counterpoint as pages were passed back and forth, points clarified, paragraphs initialed. And still Halliday did not appear. Lamps were turned on as darkness filled the midday sky outside the huge windows; there was talk of the approaching storm.
Then, suddenly, screams came from beyond the thick oak door of the conference room, swelling in volume until images of horror filled the minds of all who heard the prolonged terrible sounds. Some around the enormous table lunged under it, others got out of their chairs and stood in shock, and a few rushed to the door, among them Converse. The arbitre twisted the knob and yanked it back with such force that the door crashed into the wall. What they saw was a sight none of them would ever forget. Joel lashed out, gripping, pulling, pushing away those in front of him as he raced into the anteroom.
He saw Avery Fowler, his white shirt covered with blood, his chest a mass of tiny, bleeding holes. As the wounded man fell, his upturned collar separated to reveal more blood on his throat. The expulsions of breath were too well known to Joel; he had held the heads of children in the camps as they had wept in anger and the ultimate fear. He held Avery Fowler’s head now, lowering him to the floor.
“My God, what happened?” cried Converse, cradling the dying man in his arms.
“They’re … back,” coughed the classmate from long ago. “The elevator. They trapped me in the elevator!… They said it was for Aquitaine, that was the name they used … Aquitaine. Oh, Christ! Meg … the kids!” Avery Fowler’s head twisted spastically into his right shoulder, then the final expulsion of air came from his bloodied throat.
Converse stood in the rain, his clothes drenched, staring at the unseen place on the water where only an hour ago the fountain had shot up to the sky proclaiming this was Geneva. The lake was angry, an infinity of whitecaps had replaced the graceful white sails. There were no reflections anywhere. But there was distant thunder from the north. From the Alps.
The Aquitaine Progression: A Novel Page 4