4
Converse walked to the dry bar against the wall, conscious of the soldier’s gaze, wondering which tack the conversation would take. He was oddly calm, as he frequently was before a merger conference or a pretrial examination, knowing he knew things his adversaries were not aware of—buried information that had surfaced through long hours of hard work. In the present circumstances there had been no work at all on his part, but the results were the same. He knew a great deal about the legend across the room named Jacques-Louis Bertholdier. In a word, Joel was prepared, and over the years he had learned to trust his on-the-feet instincts—as he had once trusted those that had guided him through the skies years ago.
Also, as it was part of his job, he was familiar with the legal intricacies of import-export manipulations. They were a maze of often disconnected authorizations, easily made incomprehensible for the uninitiated, and during the next few minutes he intended to baffle this disciple of George Marcus Delavane—warlord of Saigon—until the soldier’s trace of fear became something far more pronounced.
Clearances for foreign shipments came in a wide variety of shapes and colors, from the basic export license with specific bills of lading to those with the less specific generic limitations. Then there were the more coveted licenses required for a wide variety of products subject to governmental reviews; these were usually shunted back and forth between vacillating departments until deadlines forced bureaucratic decisions often based on whose influence was the strongest or who among the bureaucrats were the weakest.
Finally, there was the most lethal authorization of all, a document too frequently conceived in corruption and delivered in blood. It was called the End-User’s Certificate, an innocuously named permit that was a license to ship the most abusive merchandise in the nation’s arsenals into air and sea lanes beyond the controls of those who should have them.
In theory, this deadly equipment was intended solely for allied governments with shared objectives, thus the “use” at the discretion of the parties at the receiving “end”—calculated death legitimized by a “certificate” that obfuscated everyone’s intentions. But once the equipment was en route, diversion was the practice. Shipments destined for the Bay of Haifa or Alexandria would find their way to the Gulf of Sidra and a madman in Libya, or an assassin named Carlos training killer teams anywhere from Beirut to the Sahara. Fictional corporations with nonexistent yet strangely influential officers operated through obscure brokers and out of hastily constructed or out-of-the-way warehouses in the U.S. and abroad. Millions upon millions were to be made; death was an unimportant consequence and there was a phrase for it all. Boardroom terrorism. It fit, and it would be Aquitaine’s method. There was no other.
These were the thoughts—the methods of operation—that flashed through Converse’s mind as he poured the drinks. He was ready; he turned and walked across the room.
“What are you seeking, Monsieur Simon?” asked Bertholdier, taking the brandy from Converse.
“Information, General.”
“About what?”
“World markets—expanding markets that my client might service.” Joel crossed back to the chair by the window and sat down.
“And what sort of service does he render?”
“He’s a broker.”
“Of what?”
“A wide range of products.” Converse brought his glass to his lips; he drank, then added, “I think I mentioned them in general terms at your club this afternoon. Planes, vehicles, oceangoing craft, munitions material. The spectrum.”
“Yes, you did. I’m afraid I did not understand.”
“My client has access to production and warehouse sources beyond anyone I’ve ever known or ever heard of.”
“Very impressive. Who is he?”
“I’m not at liberty to say.”
“Perhaps I know him.”
“You might, but not in the way I’ve described him. His profile is so low in this area, it’s nonexistent.”
“And you won’t tell me who he is,” said Bertholdier.
“It’s privileged information.”
“Yet, in your own words, you sought me out, sent a signal to which I responded, and now say you want information concerning expanding markets for all manner of merchandise, including Bonn, Tel Aviv, and Johannesburg. But you won’t divulge the name of your client who will benefit if I have this information—which I probably do not. Surely, you can’t be serious.”
“You have the information and, yes, I’m very serious. But I’m afraid you’ve jumped to the wrong conclusion.”
“I have no fear of it at all. My English is fluent and I heard what you said. You came out of nowhere, I know nothing about you, you speak elusively of this unnamed influential man—”
“You asked me, General,” interrupted Joel firmly without raising his voice. “What I was seeking.”
“And you said information.”
“Yes, I did, but I didn’t say I was seeking it from you.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Under the circumstances—for the reasons you just mentioned—you wouldn’t give it to me anyway, and I’m well aware of that.”
“Then what is the point of this—shall I say, induced—conversation? I do not like my time trifled with, monsieur.”
“That’s the last thing on earth we’d do—I’d do.”
“Please be specific.”
“My client wants your trust. I want it. But we know it can’t be given until you feel it’s justified. In a few days—a week at the outside—I hope to prove that it is.”
“By trips to Bonn, Tel Aviv—Johannesburg?”
“Frankly, yes.”
“Why?”
“You said it a few minutes ago. The signal.”
Bertholdier was suddenly wary. He shrugged too casually; he was pulling back. “I said it because my company has considerable investments in those areas. I thought it was entirely plausible you had a proposition, or propositions, to make relative to those interests.”
“I intend to have.”
“Please be specific,” said the soldier, controlling his irritation.
“You know I can’t,” replied Joel. “Not yet.”
“When?”
“When it’s clear to you—all of you—that my client, and by extension myself, have as strong motives for being a part of you as the most dedicated among you.”
“A part of my company? Juneau et Compagnie?”
“Forgive me, General, I won’t bother to answer that.”
Bertholdier glanced at the brandy in his hand, then back at Converse. “You say you flew from San Francisco.”
“I’m not based there,” Joel broke in.
“But you came from San Francisco. To Paris. Why were you there?”
“I’ll answer that if for no other reason than to show you how thorough we are—and how much more thorough others are. We traced—I traced—overseas shipments back to export licenses originating in the northern California area. The licensees were companies with no histories, and warehouses with no records—chains of four walls erected for brief, temporary periods of convenience. It was a mass of confusion leading nowhere and everywhere. Names on documents where no such people existed, documents themselves that came out of bureaucratic labyrinths virtually un-traceable—rubber stamps, official seals, and signatures of authorization where no authority was granted. Unknowing middle-level personnel told to expedite departmental clearances—That’s what I found in San Francisco. A morass of complex, highly questionable transactions that could not bear intense scrutiny.”
Bertholdier’s eyes were fixed, too controlled. “I would know nothing about such things, of course,” he said.
“Of course,” agreed Converse. “But the fact that my client does—through me—and the additional fact that neither he nor I have any desire whatsoever to call attention to them must tell you something.”
“Frankly, not a thing.”
“Please, General. One of
the first principles of free enterprise is to cripple your competition, step in, and fill the void.”
The soldier drank, gripping the glass firmly. He lowered it and spoke. “Why did you come to me?”
“Because you were there.”
“What?”
“Your name was there—among the morass, way down deep, but there.”
Bertholdier shot forward. “Impossible! Preposterous!”
“Then why am I here? Why are you here? Joel placed his glass on the table by the chair, the movement that of a man not finished speaking. “Try to understand me. Depending upon which government department a person’s dealing with, certain recommendations are bound to be helpful. You wouldn’t do a damn thing for someone appealing to Housing and Urban Development, but over at the State Department’s Munitions Controls or at Pentagon procurements, you’re golden.”
“I have never lent my name to any such appeals.”
“Others did. Men whose recommendations carried a lot of weight, but who perhaps needed extra clout.”
“What do you mean? This ‘clout.’ ”
“A final push for an affirmative decision—without any apparent personal involvement. It’s called support for an action through viable second and third parties. For instance, a memo might read: ‘We’—the department, not a person—‘don’t know much about this, but if a man like General Bertholdier is favorably disposed, and we are informed that he is, why should we argue?’ ”
“Never. It could not happen.”
“It did,” said Converse softly, knowing it was the moment to bring in reality to support his abstractions. He. would be able to tell instantly if Beale was right, if this legend of France was responsible for the slaughter and chaos in the cities and towns of a violently upended Northern Ireland. “You were there, not often but enough for me to find you. Just as you were there in a different way when a shipment was air-freighted out of Beloit, Wisconsin, on its way to Tel Aviv. Of course it never got there. Somehow it was diverted to maniacs on both sides in Belfast. I wonder where it happened? Montreal? Paris? Marseilles? The Separatists in Quebec would certainly follow your orders, as would men in Paris and Marseilles. It’s a shame a company named Solidaire had to pay off the insurance claim. Oh, yes, you’re a director of the firm, aren’t you? And it’s so convenient that insurance carriers have access to the merchandise they cover.”
Bertholdier was frozen to the chair, the muscles of his face pulsating, his eyes wide, staring at Joel. His guilt was suppressed, but no less apparent for that control. “I cannot believe what you are implying. It’s shocking and incredible!”
“I repeat, why am I here?”
“Only you can answer that, monsieur,” said Bertholdier, abruptly getting to his feet, the brandy in his hand. Then slowly, with military precision, he leaned over and placed the glass on the coffee table; it was a gesture of finality—the conference was over. “Quite obviously I made a foolish error,” he continued, shoulders square again and head rigid, but now with a strained yet oddly convincing smile on his lips. “I am a soldier, not a businessman; it is a late direction in my life. A soldier tries to seize an initiative and I attempted to do just that; only, there was—there is—no initiative. Forgive me, I misread your signal this afternoon.”
“You didn’t misread anything, General.”
“Am I contradicted by a stranger—I might even say a devious stranger—who arranges a meeting under false pretenses and proceeds to make outrageous statements regarding my honor and my conduct? I think not.” As Bertholdier strode across the room toward the hallway door Joel rose from his chair. “Don’t bother, monsieur, I’ll let myself out. You’ve gone to enough trouble, for what purpose I haven’t the faintest idea.”
“I’m on my way to Bonn,” said Converse. “Tell your friends I’m coming. Tell them to expect me. And please, General, tell them not to prejudge me. I mean that.”
“Your elliptical references are most annoying—Lieutenant. It was ‘lieutenant,’ wasn’t it? Unless you also deceived poor Luboque as well.”
“Whatever deception I employed to meet you can only be for his benefit. I’ve offered to write a legal opinion for his case. He may not like it, but it’ll save him a lot of pain and money. And I have not deceived you.”
“A matter of judgment, I think.” Bertholdier turned and reached for the outsized brass knob.
“Bonn, Germany,” pressed Joel.
“I heard you. I haven’t the vaguest notion what you—”
“Leifhelm,” said Converse quietly. “Erich Leifhelm.”
The soldier’s head turned slowly; his eyes were banked fires, the coals glowing, about to erupt at the merest gust of wind. “A name known to me, but not the man.”
“Tell him I’m coming.”
“Good night, monsieur,” said Bertholdier, opening the door, his face ashen.
Joel raced into the bedroom, grabbed his suitcase and threw it on the luggage rack. He had to get out of Paris. Within hours, perhaps minutes, Bertholdier would have him watched, and if he was followed to an airport, his passport would expose the name Simon as a lie. He could not let that happen, not yet.
It was strange, unsettling. He had never had any reason to leave a hotel surreptitiously, and he was not sure he knew how to do it—only that it had to be done. The altering of the registration card had been done instinctively; there were occasions when legal negotiations had to be kept quiet for everyone’s benefit. But this was different—it was abnormal. He had said to Beale on Mykonos that he was going to become someone he was not. It was an easy thing to say, not at all easy to do.
His suitcase packed, he checked the battery charge on his electric razor and absently turned it on, moving it around his chin, as he walked to the bedside telephone. He shut the switch off as he dialed, unsure of what he would say to the night concierge but nevertheless instinctively orienting his mind to a business approach. After initial remarks, mutually flattering, the words came.
“There’s an extremely sensitive situation, and my firm is anxious that I leave for London just as soon as possible—and as discreetly as possible. Frankly, I would prefer not to be seen checking out.”
“Discretion, monsieur, is honored here, and haste is a normal request. I shall come up and present your bill myself. Say, ten minutes?”
“I’ve only one piece of luggage. I’ll carry it, but I’ll need a cab. Not in front.”
“Not in front, of course. The freight elevator, monsieur. It connects below with our corridor for deliveries. Arrangements will be made.”
“I’ve made arrangements!” said Bertholdier harshly into the limousine’s mobile phone, the glass partition between him and the chauffeur tightly shut. “One man remains in the gallery in sight of the elevators, another in the cellars where the hotel supplies are brought in. If he attempts to leave during the night, it is the only other exit available to him. I’ve used it myself on several occasions.”
“This … is all most difficult to absorb.” The voice on the line spoke with a clipped British accent, the speaker obviously astonished, his breathing audible, a man suddenly afraid. “Are you sure? Could there be some other linkage?”
“Imbecile! I repeat. He knew about the munitions shipment from Beloit! He knew the routing, even the method of theft. He went so far as to identify Solidaire and my position as a board member! He made a direct reference to our business associate in Bonn! Then to Tel Aviv … Johannesburg! What other linkage could there be?”
“Corporate entanglements, perhaps. One can’t rule them out. Multinational subsidiaries, munitions investments, our associate in West Germany also sits on several boards.… And the locations—money pours into them.”
“What in the name of God do you think I’m talking about? I can say no more now, but what I’ve told you, my English flower, take it to be the worst!”
There was a brief silence from London. “I understand,” said the voice of a subordinate rebuked.
“I hope you do. Ge
t in touch with New York. His name is Simon, Henry Simon. He’s an attorney from Chicago. I have the address; it’s from the hotel’s registration file.” Bertholdier squinted under the glare of the reading lamp, haltingly deciphering the numbers and the numbered street written down by an assistant bell captain, well paid by one of the general’s men to go into the office and obtain information on the occupant of suite two-three-five. “Do you have that?”
“Yes.” The voice was now sharp, a subordinate about to redress a grievance. “Was it wise to get it that way? A friend or a greedy employee might tell him someone was inquiring about him.”
“Really, my British daffodil? An innocuous bellboy checking the registry so as to post a lost garment to a recent guest?”
Again the brief silence. “Yes, I see. You know, Jacques, we work for a great cause—a business cause, of course—more important than either of us, as we did once years ago. I must constantly remind myself of that, or I don’t think I could tolerate your insults.”
“And what would be your recourse, l’Anglais?”
“To cut your arrogant Frog balls off in Trafalgar Square and stuff them in a lion’s mouth. The repository wouldn’t have to be large; an ancient crack would do. I’ll ring you up in an hour or so.” There was a click and the line went dead.
The soldier lowered the mobile phone in his hand, and a smile slowly emerged on his lips. They were the best, all of them! They were the hope, the only hope of a very sick world.
Then the smile faded, the blood again draining from his face, arrogance turning into fear. What did this Henry Simon want, really want? Who was the unknown man with access to extraordinary sources—planes, vehicles, munitions? What in God’s name did they know?
The padded elevator descended slowly, its interior designed for moving furniture and luggage, its speed adjusted for room-service deliveries. The night concierge stood beside Joel, his face pleasantly impassive; in his right hand was the leather bourse containing a copy of Converse’s bill and the franc notes covering it—as well as a substantial gratuity for the Frenchman’s courtesy.
The Aquitaine Progression: A Novel Page 12