Robert Ludlum - Aquatain Progression.txt

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by The Aquitaine Progression [lit]


  cauld sense: it was socially, professionally and finan-

  cially beneficial for both parties. Moreover, it ap-

  pears to have been solely a business arrangement.

  There have been no children, and although Mme.

  Bertholdier appears frequently at her husband's

  side for state and social occasions, they have rarely

  been observed in close conversation. Also, as with

  his mother, Bertholdier has never been known to

  discuss his wife. There might be a psychological

  connection here, but we find no evidence to support

  it. Especially since Bertholdier is a notorious

  womaniser, supporting at times as many as three

  separate mistresses as well as numerous peripheral

  assignations. Among his peers there is a sobriquet

  that has never found its way into print: La Grand

  Machin, and if the reader here needs a translation,

  we recommend drinks in Montparnasse.

  On that compelling note the report was finished.

  It was a dossier that raised more questions than it

  answered. In broad strokes it described the whets

  and the bows but few of the whys; these were

  buried, and only imaginative speculation could

  unearth even the probabilities. But there were

  THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 73

  enough concrete facts to operate on. Joel glanced at

  his watch; an hour had passed. He had two more to

  reread, think, and absorb as much as possible. He

  had already made up his mind about whom he would

  contact in Paris.

  Not only was Rene Mattilon an astute lawyer

  frequently called upon by Talbot, Brooks and Simon

  when they needed representation in the French

  courts, but he was also a friend. Although he was

  older than Joel by a decade, their friendship was

  rooted in a common experience, common in the

  sense of global geography, futility and waste. Thirty

  years ago Mattilon was a young attorney in his

  twenties conscripted by his government and sent to

  French Indochina as a legal officer. He witnessed the

  inevitable and could never understand why it cost so

  much for his proud, intractable-nation to perceive it.

  Too, he could be scathing in his comments about the

  subsequent American involvement.

  "Mon Dieu! You thought you could do with arms

  what we could not do with arms and brains?

  Deraisonnable!"

  It had become standard that whenever Mattilon

  flew to New York or Joel to Paris they found time

  for dinner and drinks. Also, the Frenchman was

  amazingly tolerant of Converse's linguistic

  limitations; Joel simply could not learn another

  language. Even Val's patient tutoring had fallen on

  deaf and dead ears and an unreceptive brain. For

  four years his ex-wife, whose father was French and

  whose mother was German, tried to teach him the

  simplest phrases but found him hopeless.

  "How the hell can you call yourself an

  international lawyer when you can't be understood

  beyond Sandy Hook?" she had asked.

  "Hire interpreters trained by Swiss banks and put

  them on a point system," he had replied. "They won't

  miss a trick."

  Whenever he came to Paris, he stayed in a suite

  of two rooms at the opulent George V Hotel, an

  indulgence permitted by Talbot, Brooks and Simon,

  he had assumed, more to impress clients than to

  satisfy a balance sheet. The assumption was only half

  right, as Nathan Simon had made clear.

  "You have a fancy sitting room," Nate had told

  him in his sepulchral voice. 'Use it for conferences

  and you can avoid those ridiculously expensive

  French lunches and God forbid the dinners."

  74 ROBERT LUDLUM

  "Suppose they want to eat?"

  "You have another appointment. Wink and say

  it's personal; no one in Paris will argue."

  The impressive address could serve him now,

  mused Converse, as the taxi weaved maniacally

  through the midafternoon traffic on the

  Champs-Elysees toward the Avenue George V. If

  he made any progress and he intended to make

  progress with men around Bertholdier or

  Bertholdier himself, the expensive hotel would fit

  the image of an unknown client who had sent his

  personal attorney on a very confidential search. Of

  course, he had no reservation, an oversight to be

  blamed on a substituting secretary.

  He was greeted warmly by the assistant

  manager, albeit with surprise and finally apologies.

  No telexed request for reservations had come from

  Talbot, Brooks and Simon in New York, but

  naturally, accommodations would be found for an

  old friend. They were; the standard two-room suite

  on the second floor, and before Joel could unpack,

  a steward brought a bottle of the Scotch whisky he

  preferred, substituting it for the existing brand on

  the dry bar. He had forgotten the accuracy of the

  copious notes such hotels kept on repeating guests.

  Second floor, the right whisky, and no doubt during

  the evening he would be reminded that he usually

  requested a wake-up call for seven o'clock in the

  morning. It would be the same.

  But it was close to five o'clock in the afternoon

  now. If he was going to reach Mattilon before the

  lawyer left his of lice for the day, he had to do so

  quickly. If Rene could have drinks with him, it

  would be a start. Either Mattilon was his man or he

  was not, and the thought of losing even an hour of

  any kind of progress was disturbing. He reached for

  the Paris directory on a shelf beneath the phone on

  the bedside table, he looked up the firm's number

  and dialed.

  "Good Christ, Joel!" exclaimed the Frenchman.

  "I read about that terrible business in Geneva! It

  was in the morning papers and I tried to call

  you Le Richemond, of course but they said you'd

  checked out. Are you all right?"

  "I'm fine. I was just there, that's all."

  "He was American. Did you know him?"

  "Only across a table. By the way, that crap about

  his having something to do with narcotics was just

  that. Crap. He was cornered, robbed, shot and set

  up for postmortem confusion."

  THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 75

  "And an overzealous official leaped at the

  obvious, trying to protect his city's image. I know; it

  was made clear.... It's all so horrible. Crime, killing,

  terrorism; it spreads everywhere. Less so here in

  Paris, thank God."

  "You don't need muggers, the taxi drivers more

  than fill the bill. Except nastier, maybe."

  "You are, as always, impossible, my friend! When

  can we get together?"

  Converse paused. "I was hoping tonight. After

  you left the office."

  "It's very short notice, mon ami. I wish you had

  called before."

  "I just got in ten minutes ago."

  "But you left Geneva "

  "I had business in Athens," interrupted Joel.

>   "Ah, yes, the money flees from the Greeks these

  days. Precipitously, I think. Just as it was here."

  "How about drinks, Rene. It's important."

  It was blattilon's turn to pause; it was obvious he

  had caught the trace of urgency in Converse's

  brevity, in his voice. "Of course," said the

  F'renchman. "You're at the George Cinq, I assume?"

  "Yes."

  "I'll be there as soon as I can. Say, forty-five

  minutes."

  "Thanks very much. I'll get a couple of chairs in the

  gal

  . ..

  ery.

  "I'll find you."

  That area of the immense marble-arched lobby

  outside the tinted glass doors of the George V bar is

  known informally as the "gallery" by habitues, its

  name derived from the fact that there is an art

  gallery narrowly enclosed within a corridor of clear

  glass on the left. However, just as reasonably, the

  name fits the luxurious room itself. The deeply

  cushioned cut-velvet chairs, settees, and polished

  low, dark tables that line the marble walls are

  beneath works of art mammoth tapestries from

  long-forgotten chateaux and huge heroic canvases by

  artists, both old and new. And the smooth stone of

  the floor is covered with giant Oriental rugs, while

  affixed to the high ceiling are a series of intricate

  chandeliers, throwing soft light through filigrees of

  lacelike gold.

  Quiet conversations take place between men and

  women of wealth and power at these upholstered

  enclaves, in calcu

  76 ROBERT LUDLUM

  lated shadows under spotlit paintings and woven

  cloth from centuries ago. Frequently they are

  opening dialogues, testing questions that as often as

  not are resolved in boardrooms peopled by

  chairmen and presidents, treasurers, and prides of

  lawyers. The movers and the shakers feel

  comfortable with the initial informality the

  uncommitted explorations of first meetings in this

  very formal room. The ceremonial environs

  somehow lend an air of ritualised disbelief; denials

  are not hard to come by later. The gallery also lives

  up to the implications of its name: within the

  fraternity of those who have achieved success on the

  international scene, it is said that if any of its

  members spend a certain length of time there,

  sooner or later he will run into almost everyone he

  knows. Therefore, if one does not care to be seen,

  he should go somewhere else.

  The room was filling up, and waiters moved

  away from the raucous bar to take orders at the

  tables, knowing where the real money was. Converse

  found two chairs at the far end, where the dim light

  was even more subdued. He looked at his watch and

  was barely able to read it. Forty minutes had passed

  since his call to Rene, a shower taking up the time

  as it washed away the sweat-stained dirt of his

  all-day journey from Mykonos. Placing his cigarettes

  and lighter on the table, he ordered a drink from an

  alert waiter, his eyes on the marble entrance to the

  room.

  Twelve minutes later he saw him. Mattilon

  walked energetically out of the harsh glare of the

  street lobby into the soft light of the gallery. He

  stopped for a moment, squinting, then nodded. He

  started down the canter of the carpeted floor, his

  eyes levered at Joel from a distance, a broad,

  genuine smile on his face. Rene Mattilon was in his

  mid to late fifties, but his stride, like his outlook,

  was that of a younger man. There was about him

  that aura peculiar to successful trial lawyers; his

  confidence was apparent because it was the essence

  of his success, yet it was born of diligence, not

  merely ego and performance. He was the secure

  actor comfortable in his role his graying hair and

  blunt, masculine features all part of a caiculated

  effect. Beyond that appearance, however, there was

  also something else, thought Joel, as he rose from

  his chair. Rene was a thoroughly decent man; it was

  a disarming conclusion. God knew they both had

  their flaws, but they were both decent men; perhaps

  that was why they enjoyed each other's company.

  THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 77

  A firm handshake preceded a brief embrace. The

  Frenchman sat down across from Converse as Joel

  signaled an attentive waiter. "Order in French, 'Joel

  said. "I'd end up getting you a hot fudge sundae."

  "This man speaks better English than either of us.

  Campari and ice, please."

  "Merci, monsieur. " The waiter left.

  "Thanks again for coming over," said Converse. "I

  mean it. '

  "I'm sure you do.... You look well, Joel, tired but

  well. That shocking business in Geneva must give

  you nightmares."

  "Not really. I told you, I was simply there."

  "Still, it might have been you. The newspapers

  said he died while you held his head."

  "I was the first one to reach him."

  "How horrible."

  "I've seen it happen before, Rene," said Converse

  quietly, no comment in his voice.

  "Yes, of course. You were better prepared than

  most, I imagine."

  "I don't think anyone's ever prepared.... But it's

  over. How about you? How are things?"

  Mattilon shook his head, pinching his rugged,

  weather-beaten features into a sudden look of

  exasperation. "France is madness, of course, but we

  survive. For months and months now, there are more

  plans than are stored in an architect's library, but the

  planners keep colliding with each other in

  government hallways. The courts are full, business

  thrives."

  "I'm glad to hear it." The waiter returned with

  the Campari; both men nodded to him, and then

  Mattilon fixed his eyes on Joel. "No, I really am,"

  Converse continued as the waiter walked away. "You

  hear so many stories."

  "Is that why you're in Paris?" The Frenchman

  studied Joel. "Because of the stories of our so-called

  upheavals? They re not so earthshaking, you know,

  not so different from before. Not yet. Most private

  industry here was publicly financed through the

  government. But, naturally, not managed by

  government incompetents, and for that we pay. Is

  that what's bothering you, or more to the point, your

  clients?"

  Converse drank. "No, that's not why I'm here. It's

  something else."

  "You're troubled, I can see that. Your customary

  glibness

  78 ROBERT LUDLUM

  doesn't fool me. I know you too well. So tell me,

  what's so important? That was the word you used

  on the telephone."

  "Yes, I guess it was. It may have been too

  strong." Joel drained his glass and reached for his

  cigarettes.

  "Not from your eyes, my friend. I see them and

  I don't see them. They're filled with clouds."

>   "You've got it wrong. As you said, I'm tired. I've

  been on planes all day, with some ungodly layovers."

  He picked up his lighter, snapping it twice until the

  flame appeared.

  "We haggle over foolishness. What is it?"

  Converse lit a cigarette, consciously trying to

  sound casual as he spoke. "Do you know a private

  club called L'Etalon Blanc?"

  "I know it, but I couldn't get in the door,"

  replied the Frenchman, laughing. "I was a young,

  inconsequential lieutenant worse, attached to the

  judge advocate essentially with our forces to lend an

  appearance of legality, but, mind you, only an

  appearance. Murder was a misdemeanor, and rape

  to be congratulated. L'Etalon Blanc is a refuge for

  les grands militaires and those rich enough or

  foolish enough to listen to their trumpets."

  "I want to meet someone who lunches there

  three or four times a week."

  "You can't call him?"

  'He doesn't know me, doesn't know I want to

  meet him. It's got to be spontaneous."

  "Really? For Talbot, Brooks and Simon? That

  sounds most unusual."

  "It is. We may be dealing with someone we don't

  want to deal with."

  "Ahh, missionary work. Who is he?"

  "Will you keep it confidential? I mean that, not

  a word to anyone?"

  "Do I breathe? If the name is in conflict with

  something on our schedule, I will tell you and,

  frankly, be of no help to

  you. "

  "Fair enough. Jacques-Louis Bertholdier."

 

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