“Very well,” said Leifhelm, glancing at each of his associates before he continued. Joel understood; permission was being sought based on prior discussions. It was granted. “What would you say to the compromising of certain powerful individuals in specific governments?”
“Blackmail?” asked Joel. “Extortion? It wouldn’t work. There are too many checks and balances. A man’s threatened, the threat’s discovered and he’s out anyway. Then the purification rites set in, and where there was once weakness, suddenly there’s a great deal of strength.”
“That’s an extremely narrow interpretation,” said Bertholdier.
“You do not take into consideration the time element!” cried Abrahms defiantly, for the first time raising his voice. “Accumulation, Converse! Rapid acceleration!”
Suddenly Joel was aware that the three other men were looking at the Israeli, but not simply watching him. In each pair of eyes was a warning. Abrahms shrugged. “It’s merely a point.”
“Well taken,” said Converse, without emphasis.
“I’m not even sure it applies,” added the Israeli, compounding his error.
“Well, I’m sure it’s time for dinner,” said Leifhelm, removing his hand from the side of his chair. “I’ve boasted so much about my table to our guest that I admit to a shortness of breath—concern, of course. I trust the chef has upheld my honor.” As if answering a signal—which Joel knew was the case—the British manservant appeared beneath an archway at the far end of the room. “I am clairvoyant!” Leifhelm rose. “Come, come, my friends. Saddle of lamb à citron, a dish created by the gods for themselves and stolen by the irrepressible thief who rules my kitchen.”
The dinner was indeed superb, each dish the result of an isolated effort to achieve perfection in both taste and presentation. Converse was no gourmet, his culinary education having been forced on him in expensive restaurants where his mind was only mildly distracted by the food, but he instinctively knew when a dish was the best in its class. There was nothing second-rate about Leifhelm’s table, including the table itself, an enormous solid mass of mahogany supported by two huge but delicately carved tripods resting on the intricate parquet floor. The deep-red velour walls in the high-ceilinged room were hung with oils of hunting scenes. The low candelabra in front of the silver-mirrored place mats did not obstruct a guest’s view of the person opposite, a feat Joel wished could be mastered by most of the hostesses in New York, London and Geneva.
The talk veered away from the serious topics explored in the sitting room. It was as if a recess had been called, a diversion to ease the burdens of statesmanship. If that was the aim, it was eminently successful, and it was the Afrikaner, Van Headmer, who led the way. In his soft-spoken, charming way (the dossier had been accurate—the “unfeeling killer” was charming) he described a safari he had taken Chaim Abrahms on in the veld.
“Do you realize, gentlemen, that I bought this poor Hebrew his first jacket at Safarics’ in Johannesburg and there’s never been a day when I haven’t regretted it. It’s become our great general’s trademark! Of course, you know why he wears it. It absorbs perspiration and requires very little washing, simply large applications of bay rum. This is a different jacket, isn’t it, great general?”
“Bleach, bleach, I tell my wife!” replied the sabra, grimacing. “It takes out the smell of the godless slave traders!”
“Talking of slaves, let me tell you,” said the Afrikaner, warming to his story with a glass of wine, changed with each new course.
The story of Chaim Abrahms’ first and only safarì was worthy of good vaudeville. Apparently the Israeli had been stalking a male lion for hours with his gun bearer, a Bantu he constantly abused, not realizing the black understood and spoke English as well as he. Abrahms had zeroed in each of his four rifles prior to the hunt, but whenever he had the lion in his sights, he missed. This supposedly superb marksman, this celebrated general with the rifle-eye of a hawk, could not hit eight feet of flesh a hundred yards away. At the end of the day an exhausted Chaim Abrahms, using broken English and a multiplicity of hand gestures, bribed the gun bearer not to tell the rest of the safari of his misses. The hunter and the Bantu returned to camp, the hunter lamenting the nonexistence of cats and the stupidity of gun bearers. The native went to Van Headmer’s tent, and as the Afrikaner told it in perfectly-mimicked Anglicized Bantu, said the following: “I liked the lion more than the Jew, sir. I altered his sights, sir, but apparently I will be forgiven my indiscretion, sir. Among other enticements, he has offered to have me bar-mitzvahed.”
The diners collapsed in laughter—Abrahms, to his credit, loudest of all. Obviously, he had heard the story before and relished the telling. It occurred to Joel that only the most secure could listen to such telling tales about themselves and respond with genuine laughter. The Israeli was a rock in the firmament of his convictions and could easily tolerate a laugh on himself. That, too, was frightening.
The British servant intruded, walking silently on the hard wood floor and spoke into Erich Leifhelm’s ear.
“Forgive me, please,” said the German, rising to take the call. “A nervous broker in Munich who consistently picks up rumors from Riyadh. A sheik goes to the toilet and he hears thunder from the east.”
The ebullient conversation went on without a break in the flow, the three men of Aquitaine behaving like old comrades sincerely trying to make a stranger feel welcome. This, too, was frightening. Where were the fanatics who wanted to destroy governments, ruthlessly grabbing control and shackling whole societies, channeling the body politic into their vision of the military state? These were men of intellect. They spoke of Voltaire and Goethe, and had compassion for suffering and pain and unnecessary loss of life. They had humor and could even laugh at themselves while speaking calmly of sacrificing their own lives for the betterment of a world gone mad. But Joel understood their true nature. These were interlopers assuming the mantels of statesmen. What had Leifhelm said, quoting Goethe? “The romance of politics was best used to numb and quell the fears of the uninformed.”
Frightening.
Leifhelm returned, followed by the British servant carrying two open bottles of wine. If the call from Munich had brought unfavorable news, the German gave no indication of it. His spirits were as before, his waxen smile at the ready and his enthusiasm for the next course unbridled. “And now, my friends, the lamb à citron—medallions of ambrosia and, hyperbole aside, actually rather good. Also, in honor of our guest we have a bonus this evening. My astute English friend and companion was in Siegburg the other day and ran across several bottles of Beerenauslese, ’71. What could be a more fitting tribute?”
The men of Aquitaine glanced at one another, then Bertholdier spoke. “Certainly a find, Erich. It’s one of the more acceptable German varieties.”
“The ’82 Klausberg Riesling in Johannesburg promises to be among the finest in years,” said Van Headmer.
“I doubt it will rival the Richon-le-Zion Carmel,” added the Israeli.
“You are all impossible!”
A behatted chef rolled in a silver service cart, uncovered the saddle of lamb and, under appreciative looks, proceeded to carve and serve. The Englishman presented the various side dishes to each diner, then poured the wine.
Erich Leifhelm raised his glass, the flickering light of the candles reflecting off the carved crystal and the edges of the silver-mirrored place mats. “To our guest and his unknown client, both of whom we trust will soon be in our fold.”
Converse nodded his head and drank.
He took the glass from his lips, and was suddenly aware that the four men of Aquitaine were staring at him, their own glasses still on the table. None had drunk the wine.
Leifhelm spoke again, his voice nasal, cold, a fury held in check by an intellect in control. “ ‘General Delavane was the enemy, our enemy! Men like that can’t be allowed anymore, can’t you understand!’ Those were the words, were they not, Mr. Converse?”
“Wh
at?” Joel heard his voice but was not sure it was his. The flames of the candles suddenly erupted; fire filled his eyes and the burning in his throat became an unbearable pain. He grabbed his neck as he struggled out of the chair, hurling it back; he heard the crash, but only as a succession of echoes. He was falling. The pain surged into his stomach; it was intolerable; he clutched his groin, frantically trying to suppress the pain. Then he felt the chill of a hard surface and somehow knew he was writhing wildly on the floor while being held in check by powerful arms.
“The gun. Step back. Hold him.” The voice, too, was a series of echoes, though sharply enunciated in a searing British accent. “Now. Fire!”
16
The telephone rang, jolting Connal Fitzpatrick out of a deep sleep. He had fallen back on the couch, the Van Headmer dossier in his hand, both feet still planted on the floor. Shaking his head and rapidly blinking and widening his eyes, he tried to orient himself. Where was he? What time was it? The phone rang again, now a prolonged, shattering sound. He lurched off the couch, his breathing erratic, his exhaustion too complete to shake off in a few seconds. He had not really slept since California; his body and mind could barely function. He grabbed the phone, nearly dropping it as he momentarily lost his balance.
“Yes … hello!”
“Commander Fitzpatrick, if you please,” said a male voice in a clipped British accent.
“This is he.”
“Philip Dunstone here, Commander. I’m calling for Mr. Converse. He wanted me to tell you that the conference is going extremely well, far better than he thought possible.”
“You’re who?”
“Dunstone. Major Philip Dunstone. I’m senior aide to General Berkeley-Greene.”
“Berkeley-Greene?”
“Yes, Commander. Mr. Converse said to tell you that along with the others he’s decided to accept General Leifhelm’s hospitality for the night. He’ll be in touch with you first thing in the morning.”
“Let me talk to him. Now.”
“I’m afraid that’s not possible. They’ve all gone out on the motor launch for a spin downriver. Frankly, they’re a secretive lot, aren’t they? Actually, I’m not permitted to attend their discussions any more than you are.”
“I’m not settling for this, Major!”
“Really, Commander, I’m simply relaying a message…. Oh yes, Mr. Converse did mention that if you were concerned I should also tell you that if the admiral called, you were to thank him and give him his regards.”
Fitzpatrick stared at the wall. Converse would not bring up the Hickman business unless he was sending a message. The request made no sense to anyone but the two of them. Everything was all right. Also there could be several reasons why Joel did not care to talk directly on the phone. Among them, thought Connal resentfully, was probably the fact that he didn’t trust his “aide” to say the proper words in the event their conversation was being overheard.
“All right, Major … what was the name again? Dunstone?”
“That’s right, Philip Dunstone. Senior aide to General Berkeley-Greene.”
“Leave word for Mr. Converse that I’ll expect to hear from him by eight o’clock.”
“Isn’t that a little harsh, old boy? It’s nearly two A.M. now. The breakfast buffet usually starts about nine-thirty out here.”
“Nine o’clock, then,” said Fitzpatrick firmly.
“I’ll tell him myself, Commander. Oh, one final thing. Mr. Converse asked me to apologize for his not having reached you by midnight. They’ve really been at it hammer and tongs in there.”
That was it, thought Connal. Everything was under control. Joel certainly would not have made that remark otherwise. “Thanks, Major, and by the way, I’m sorry I was rude. I was asleep and tried to get it together too fast.”
“Lucky chap. You can head back to the pillows while I stand watch. Next time you can take my place.”
“If the food’s good, you’re on.”
“It’s not, really. A lot of pansy cooking, to tell you the truth. Good night, Commander.”
“Good night, Major.”
Relieved, Fitzpatrick hung up the phone. He looked over at the couch, thinking briefly of going back to the dossiers but decided against it. He felt hollow all over, hollow legs, hollow chest, a hollow ache in his head. He needed sleep badly.
He gathered up the papers and took them into Converse’s room. He placed them in the attaché case, locked it and turned the combination tumblers. Carrying the case, he went back into the sitting room, checked the door, turned off the lights and headed for his own bedroom. He threw the case on the bed and removed his shoes, then his trousers, but that was as far as he got. He collapsed on the pillows, somehow managing to wrap part of the bedspread around him. The darkness was welcome.
“That was hardly necessary,” said Erich Leifhelm to the Englishman, as the latter replaced the phone. “ ‘Pansy cooking’ is not the way I would describe my table.”
“He undoubtedly would,” said the man who had called himself Philip Dunstone. “Let’s check the patient.”
The two walked out of the library and down the hall to a bedroom. Inside were the three other men of Aquitaine along with a fourth, his black bag and the exposed hypodermic needles denoting a physician. On the bed was Joel Converse, his eyes wide and glasslike, saliva oozing from the sides of his mouth, his head moving back and forth as if in a trance, unintelligible sounds emerging from his lips.
The doctor glanced up and spoke. “There’s nothing more he can give us because there is nothing more,” said the physician. “The chemicals don’t lie. Quite simply, he’s a blind sent out by men in Washington, but he has no idea who they are. He didn’t even know they existed until this naval officer convinced him they had to exist. His only referrals were Anstett and Beale.”
“Both dead,” interrupted Van Headmer. “Anstett is public, and I can vouch for Beale. My employee on Santorini flew into Mykonos and confirmed the kill. There can be no trace, incidentally. The Greek is back on the chalk cliffs selling laces and inflated whisky in his taverna.”
“Prepare him for his odyssey,” said Chaim Abrahms, looking down at Converse. “As our specialist in the Mossad put it so clearly, distance is now the necessary requirement. A vast separation between this American and those who would send him out.”
Fitzpatrick stirred as the bright morning sunlight from the windows pierced the darkness and expanding shades of white forced his eyelids open. He stretched, his shoulder digging into a hard corner of the attaché case, the rest of him constricted by the bedspread, which was tangled about his legs. He kicked it off and flung his arms on both sides of the bed, breathing deeply, feeling the relaxed swelling of his chest. He swung his left hand above his head, twisted his wrist and looked at his watch. It was nine-twenty; he had slept for seven and a half hours, but the uninterrupted sleep seemed much longer. He got out of bed and took several steps; his balance was steady, his mind clearing. He looked at his watch again, remembering. The major named Dunstone had said breakfast at Leifhelm’s estate was served from nine-thirty on, and if the conference had moved to a boat on the river at 2:00 A.M. Converse probably would not call before ten o’clock.
Connal walked into the bathroom; there was a phone on the wall by the toilet if he was wrong about the call. A shave followed by a hot and cold shower and he would be fully himself again.
Eighteen minutes later Fitzpatrick walked back into the bedroom, a towel around his waist, his skin still smarting from the harsh sprays of water. He crossed to his open suitcase on a luggage rack and took out his miniaturized radio, placed it on the bureau and, deciding against the Armed Forces band, dialed in what was left of a German newscast. There were the usual threats of strikes in the industrial south, as well as charges and countercharges hurled around the Bundestag, but nothing earthshaking. He selected comfortable clothes—lightweight slacks, a blue oxford shirt and his cord jacket. He got dressed and walked out into the sitting room toward the ph
one; he would call room service for a small breakfast and a great deal of coffee.
He stopped. Something was wrong. What was it? The pillows on the couch were still rumpled, a glass half filled with stale whisky still on the coffee table, as were pencils and a blank telephone message pad. The balcony doors were closed, the curtains drawn, and across the room the silver ice bucket remained in the center of the silver tray on the antique hunt table. Everything was as he had last seen it, yet there was something.… The door! The door to Converse’s bedroom was shut. Had he closed it? No, he had not!
He walked rapidly over and opened the door. He studied the room, conscious of the fact that he had stopped breathing. It was immaculate—cleaned and smoothed to a fare-thee-well. The suitcase was gone; the few articles Converse had left on the bureau were no longer there. Connal rushed to the closet and yanked it open. It was empty. He went into the bathroom; it was spotless, new soap in the receptacles, the glasses wrapped in clinging paper ready for incoming guests. He walked out of the bathroom stunned. There was not the slightest sign that anyone except a maid had been in that bedroom for days.
He ran out to the sitting room and the telephone. Seconds later the manager was on the line; it was the same man Connal had spoken with yesterday. “Yes, indeed, your businessman was even more eccentric than you described, Commander. He checked out at three-thirty this morning, paying all the bills, incidentally.”
“He was here?”
“Of course.”
“You saw him?”
“Not personally. I don’t come on duty until eight o’clock. He spoke with the night manager and settled your account before going up to pack.”
“How could your man know it was him? He never saw him before!”
“Really, Commander, he identified himself as your associate and paid the bill. He also had his key; he left it at the desk.”
Fitzpatrick paused, astonished, then spoke harshly. “The room was cleaned! Was that also done at three-thirty this morning?”
The Aquitaine Progression: A Novel Page 35