Robert Ludlum - Aquatain Progression.txt
Page 14
his lips.
"That's right, I forgot," said Mattilon. "She and I
would converse in notre belle lanque; it used to
irritate you so Don't use it. Remember your
incentive."
"Qu'est-ce que was cites encore? Notre belle
lanqueP" Luboque spoke as a steward stood by his
side.
"Notre ami, Monsieur Simon, suit an sours ~
I'ecole Berlitz et pourra ainsi s'entretenir directement
aver vous. "
"Bien!"
"WhatP"
"I told him you would learn the Berlitz French so
you could dine with him whenever you flew into
Paris. You're to ring him up. Nod, smart ass."
Converse nodded.
And so it went. Point, noncounterpoint, non
sequitur. Serge Luboque held forth during drinks in
the warriors" playroom, Mattilon translating and
advising Joel as to the expression to wear on his face
as well as suggesting an appropriate reply.
Fmally Luboque stridently described the crash
that had cost him his left foot and the obvious
equipment failures for which he should be
compensated. Converse looked properly pained and
indignant, and offered to write a legal opinion for
the court based on his expertise as a pilot of jet
aircraft. Mattilon translated; Luboque beamed and
rattled off a barrage of gargled vowels that Joel took
for thanks.
"He's forever in your debt," said Rene.
86 ROBERT LUDIUM
"Not if I write that opinion,'' replied Converse.
"He locked himself in the cockpit and threw away
the key."
'Write it," countered Mattilon, smiling. "You've
just paid for my time. We'll use it as a wedge to
open the door of retreat. Also, he'll never ask you
to dinner when you're in Paris."
"When's lunch? I'm running out of expressions."
They marched in hesitant lockstep into the
dining room, matching Luboque's gait as he
thumped along on the hard, ornate parquet floor.
The ridiculous three-sided conversation continued as
wine was proffered a bottle was sent back by
Luboque and Converse's eyes kept straying to the
dining room's entrance.
The moment came: Bertholdier arrived. He
stood in the open archway, his head turned slightly
to his left as another man in a light-brown
gabardine topcoat spoke without expression. The
general nodded his head and the subordinate re-
treated. Then the great man walked into the room
quietly but imperially. Heads turned and the man
acknowledged the homage as a dauphin who will
soon be king accepts the attentions of the ministers
of a failing monarch. The effect was extraordinary,
for there were no kingdoms, no monarchies, no
lands to be divided through conquest to the knights
of Crecy or anybody else, but this man of no royal
lineage was tacitly being recognized goddamn it,
thought Joel as an emperor in his own right.
Jacques-Louis Bertholdier was of medium
height, between five nine and five eleven, certainly
no more, but his bearing the sheer straight shaft of
his posture, the breadth of his shoulders and the
length of his strong slender neck made him appear
much taller, much more imposing than another
might. He was among his own, and here, indeed, he
was above the others, elevated by their own
consensus.
"Say something reverential," said Mattilon, as
Bertholdier approached, heading for the table next
to theirs. "Glance up at him and look tastefully
awed. I'll do the rest."
Converse did as he was told, uttering
Bertholdier's full name under his breath, but loud
enough to be heard. He followed this quiet
exclamation by leaning toward Mattilon and saying,
"He's a man I've always wanted to meet."
There followed a brief exchange in French
between Rene and his client, whereupon Luboque
nodded, his expres
THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 87
sion that of an arrogant man willing to dispense a
favor to a new friend.
Bertholdier reached his chair, the maitre d' and
the dining room captain hovering on either side. The
pavane took place less than four feet away.
"Mon general," said Luboque, rising.
"Serge," replied Bertholdier, stepping forward,
hand extended a superior officer aware of a worthy
subordinate's disability. "Comment pa van"
"Bien, Jacques. Et was?"
"Les temps vent bier etranges, mon amt."
The greetings were brief, and the direction of the
conversabon was changed quickly by Luboque, who
gestured at Converse as he continued speaking.
InsUnchvely Joel got to his feet, posture straight, his
eyes level, unblinking, staring at Bertholdier, his look
as piercing as the general's professional but without
awe. He had been right in an unexpected way. The
shared Southeast Asian experience had validity for
Jacques-Louis Bertholdier. And why not? He, too,
had his memories. Mathlon was introduced aknost as
an afterthought, and the soldier gave a brief nod as
he crossed behind Rene to shake hands with Joel.
"A pleasure, Monsieur Simon," said Bertholdier,
his English precise, his grip firm, a comrade
acknowledging another comrade, the man's
imperious charm instantly apparent.
"I'm sure you've heard it thousands of Ames, sir,"
said Joel, maintaining the steady, professional burn
in his eyes, "but this is an occasion I never expected.
If I may say so, General, it's an honor to meet you."
"It is an honor to meet you," rejoined
Bertholdier. "You gentlemen of the air did all you
could, and I know something about the
circumstances. So many missions' I think it was eas-
ier on the ground!" The general laughed quietly.
"Gentlemen of the air" the man was unreal,
thought Converse. But the connection was firm; it
was real, he felt it, he knew it. The combination of
words and looks had brought it about. So simple: a
lawyer's ruse, taming an adversary in this case an
enemy. The enemy.
"I ~onidn't agree with that, General; it was a
lot~eaner in the air. But if there'd been more like
you on the ground in Indochina, there never would
have been a Dienbienphu."
"A flattering statement, but I'm not sure it could
stand the test of reality."
88 ROBERT LUDLUM
"I'm sure," said Joel quietly, clearly. "I'm convinced
of
Luboque, who had been engaged in
conversation by Mattilon, interrupted. "Mon general,
voulez-vous vous joinder a nous?"
"Pardonnez-moi. ye suds occupy aver mes
visiteurs, " answered Bertholdier, turning back to
Converse. "I must decline Rene's invitation, I'm
expecting guests. He tells me you are an attorney,
a specialist in aircraft litigation."
"It's part of the broader field, yes. Ai
r, ground,
oceangoing craft we try to represent the spectrum.
Actually, I'm fairly new at it not the expertise, I
hope but the represen
'1 see, 'said the general, obviously bewildered.
"Are you in Paris on business?"
This was it, thought Joel. Above all, he would
have to be subtle. The words but especially the
eyes must convey the unspoken. "No, I'm just here
to catch my breath. I flew from San Francisco to
New York and on to Paris. Tomorrow I'll be in
Bonn for a day or so, then off to Tel Aviv."
"How tiring for you." Bertholdier was now
returning his stare.
"Not the worst, I'm afraid," said Converse, a
half-smile on his lips. "After Tel Aviv, there's a
night flight to Johannes
"Bonn, Tel Aviv, Johannesburg . . ." The soldier
spoke softly. "A most unusual itinerary."
"Productive, we think. At least, we hope so."
"We?"
"My client, General. My new client."
"Deraisonnable!" cried Mattilon, laughing at
something Luboque had said, and, just as obviously,
telling Joel he could no longer keep his impatient
litigant in conversation.
Bertholdier, however, did not take his eyes off
Converse. 'Where are you staying, my young
fighter-pilot friend?"
"Young and not so young, General."
"Where?"
"The George Cinq. Suite two-three-five."
"A fine establishment."
"It's habit. My previous firm always posted me
there."
"Posted? As in 'garrisoned'?" asked Bertholdier,
a half-smile now on his lips.
THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 89
"An unconscious slip," said Joel. "But then again,
it says it, doesn't it, sir?"
"It does, indeed.... Ah ha, my guests arrive!" The
soldier extended his hand. "It's been a pleasure,
Monsieur Simon."
Swift au revoir's accompanied nods and rapid
handshakes as Bertholdier returned to his table to
greet his luncheon companions. Through Mathlon,
Joel thanked Luboque for the introduction; the
disabled pilot gestured with both hands, palms up,
and Converse had the distinct feeling that he had
been baptised. The insane three-sided dialogue then
resumed at high speed, and it was all Joel could do
to maintain even minimum concentration.
Progress had been made; it was in Bertholdier's
eyes, and he could feel those eyes straying over to
him even while the conversation at both tables
became animated. The general was diagonally to
Converse's left; with the slightest turning of either
face, the line of sight between them was direct.
Twice it happened. The first time, Joel felt the
forceful gaze resting on him as if magnified sunlight
were burning into his flesh. He shifted his head
barely an inch; their eyes locked, the soldier's
penetrating, severe, questioning. The second time
was a half-hour later, when the eye contact was
initiated by Converse himself. Luboque and Mattilon
were discussing legal strategy, and as if drawn by a
magnet, Joel slowly turned to his left and watched
Bertholdier, who was quietly, emphatically making a
point with one of his guests. Suddenly, as a voice
replied across the adjacent table, the general
snapped his head in Converse's direction, his eyes no
longer questioning, only cold and ice-like. Then just
as abruptly, there was warmth in them; the
celebrated soldier nodded, a half-smile on his face.
Joel sat in the soft leather chair by the window in
the dimly lit sitting room; what light there was came
from a fringed lamp on the desk. Alternately he
stared at the telephone in front of the lamp and
looked out the window at the weaving night traffic of
Paris and the lights on the wide boulevard below.
Then he focused entirely on the phone as he so
frequently did when waiting for a call from a legal
adversary he expected would capitulate, knowing that
man or woman would capitulate. It was simply a
question of time.
What he expected now was communication, not
capitula
90 ROBERT LUDLUM
tion a connection, the connection. He had no idea
what form it would take, but it would come. It had
to come.
It was nearly seven-thirty, four hours since he
had left L'Etalon Blanc after a final, firm handshake
exchanged with Jacques-Louis Bertholdier. The look
in the soldier's eyes was unmistakable: If nothing
else, Converse reasoned, Bertholdier would have to
satisfy his sheer curiosity.
Joel had covered himself with the hotel's front
desk, distributing several well-placed 100-franc
notes. The tactic was not at all unusual in these
days of national and financial unrest had not been
for years, actually, even without the unrest. Visiting
businessmen frequently chose to use pseudonyms
for any number of reasons, ranging from
negotiations best kept quiet to amorous
engagements best left untraceable. In Converse's
case, the use of the name Simon made it appear
logical, if not eminently respectable. If Talbot,
Brooks and Simon preferred that all
communications be made in the surname of one of
the senior partners, who could question the
decisions Joel, however, carried the ploy one step
further. After telephoning New York, he explained,
he was told that his own name was not to be used
at all; no one knew he was in Paris and that was the
way his firm wanted it. Obviously, the delayed
instructions accounted for the mix-up in the res-
ervation, which was void at any rate. There was to
be no billing; he would pay in cash, and since this
was Paris, no one raised the slightest objection.
Cash was infinitely preferable, delayed payment a
national anathema.
Whether anyone believed this nonsense or not
was irrelevant. The logic was sufficiently adequate
and the franc notes persuasive; the original
registration card was torn up and another placed in
the hotel file. H. Simon replaced J. Converse. The
permanent address of the former was a figment of
Joel's imagination, a numbered house on a
numbered street in Chicago, Illinois, said house and
said street most likely nonexistent. Anyone asking
or calling for Mr. Converse which was highly
unlikely would be told no guest of that name was
currently at the George V. Even Rene Mattilon was
not a problem, for Joel had been specific. Since he
had no further business in Paris, he was taking the
six o'clock shuttle to London and staying with
friends for several days before flying back to New
York. He had thanked Rene profusely, telling the
Frenchman that his firm's fears about Bertholdier
had been groundless. During their quiet
conversation he had brought
THE AQUITAINE PR
OGRESSION 91
up three key names with the general, and each had
been greeted with a blank look from Bertholdier,
who apologized for his faulty memory.
"He wasn't Iying," Joel had said.
"I can't imagine why he would," Mattilon had replied.
I can, Converse had thought to himself. They call
itAquitaine.
A crack! There was a sudden sound, a harsh
metallic snap, then another, and another the
tumblers of a lock falling out of place, a knob being
turned. It came from beyond the open door to the
bedroom. Joel bolted forward in his chair; then,
looking at his watch, just as rapidly he let out his
breath and relaxed. It was the hour when the floor
maid turned down the bed; the tension of the
expected call and what it represented had frayed his
nerves. Again he leaned back, his gaze resting on the
telephone. When would it ring? Would it ring?
"Pardon, monsieur, " said a feminine voice,
accompanied by a light tapping on the open
doorframe. Joel could not see the speaker.
"Yes?" Converse turned away from the silent
phone, expecting to see the maid.
What he saw made him gasp. It was the figure of
Bertholdier, his posture erect, his angled head rigid,
his eyes a strange admixture of cold appraisal,
condescension, and if Joel was not mistaken a
trace of fear. He walked through the door and stood
motionless; when he spoke his voice was a rippling
sheet of ice.
"I was on my way to a dinner engagement on the
fourth floor, Monsieur Simon. By chance, I