For seven years Bertholdier was stationed atvarious influential posts, rising to the rank ofgeneral; more often than not he was the chiefmilitary charge d’affaires at major embassiesduring the period of France’s parhcipahon inthe Military Committee of NATO. He wasfrequently recalled to the Quai d’Orsay,accompanying De Gaulle to internationalconferences, always visible in newspaper photo-graphs, usually within several feet of the greatman himself. Oddly enough, although hiscontributions appear to have been considerable,after these conferences or summits he wasinvariably sent back to his previous stationwhile internal debates continued and decisionswere reached without him. It was as though hewas constantly being groomed but neversummoned for the critical post. Was thatultimate
summons the signal he had been waiting for sevenyears before at Dienbienphu? It is a question forwhich we have no answer here, but we believe it’svital to pursue it.
With De Gaulle’s dramatic resignation after therejection of his demands for constitutional reform in 1969, Bertholdier’s career went into an eclipse. Hisassignments were far from the canters of power andremained so until his resignation. Research intobank and credit-card references as well as passengermanifests shows that during the past eighteenmonths our subject made trips to the following:London, 3; New York, 2; San Francisco, 2; Bonn, 3;Johannesburg, 1; Tel Aviv, 1 (combined withJohannesburg). The pattern is clear. It is compatiblewith the rising geographical pressure points ofGeneral Delavane’s operation.
Converse rubbed his eyes and rang for a drink.While waiting for the Scotch he scanned the nextfew paragraphs, his memory of the man now jogged;the information was familiar history and not terriblyrelevant. Bertholdier’s name had been put forwardby several ultraconservative factions, hoping to pullhim out of the military into the political wars butnothing had come of the attempts. The ultimatesummons had passed him by; it never came.Currently, as a director of a large firm on the Parisstock exchange, he is basically a figurehead capableof impressing the wealthy and keeping thesocialistically inclined at bay by the sheer weight ofhis own legend.
He travels everywhere in a company limousine(read: staff car), and wherever he goes his arrival isexpected, the proper welcome arranged. The vehicleis a dark-blue American Lincoln Continental, Li-cense Plate 100-1. The restaurants he frequents are:Taillevent, the Ritz, Julien, and Lucas-Carton. Forlunches, however, he consistently goes to a privateclub called L’Etalon Blanc three to four times aweek. It is a very-off-the-track establishment whosemembership is restricted to the highest-ranking mili-tary, what’s left of the rich nobility, and wealthy
fawners who, if they can’t be either, put theirmoney on both so as to be in with the crowd.
Joel smiled; the editor of the report was notwithout humor. Still, something was missing. Hislawyer’s mind looked for the lapse that was notexplained. What was the signal Bertholdier had notbeen given at Dienbienphu? What had theimperious De Gaulle said to the rebellious officer,and what had the rebel said to the great man? Whywas he consistently accommodated but onlyaccommodated never summoned to power? AnAlexander had been primed, forgiven elevated, thendropped? There was a message buried in thesepages, but Joel could not find it.
Converse reached what the writer of the reportconsidered relevant only in that it completed theportrait, adding little, however, to previousinformation.
Bertholdier’s private life appears barely perti-nent to the activities that concern us. His marriagewas one of convenience in the purest La Rochefou-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’sside for state and social occasions, they have rarelybeen observed in close conversation. Also, as withhis mother, Bertholdier has never been known todiscuss his wife. There might be a psychologicalconnection here, but we find no evidence to supportit. Especially since Bertholdier is a notoriouswomaniser, supporting at times as many as threeseparate mistresses as well as numerous peripheralassignations. Among his peers there is a sobriquetthat has never found its way into print: La GrandMachin, 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 itanswered. In broad strokes it described the whetsand the bows but few of the whys; these wereburied, and only imaginative speculation couldunearth even the probabilities. But there were
enough concrete facts to operate on. Joel glanced athis watch; an hour had passed. He had two more toreread, think, and absorb as much as possible. Hehad already made up his mind about whom he wouldcontact in Paris.
Not only was Rene Mattilon an astute lawyerfrequently called upon by Talbot, Brooks and Simonwhen they needed representation in the Frenchcourts, but he was also a friend. Although he wasolder than Joel by a decade, their friendship wasrooted in a common experience, common in thesense of global geography, futility and waste. Thirtyyears ago Mattilon was a young attorney in histwenties conscripted by his government and sent toFrench Indochina as a legal officer. He witnessed theinevitable and could never understand why it cost somuch for his proud, intractable-nation to perceive it.Too, he could be scathing in his comments about thesubsequent American involvement.
“Mon Dieu! You thought you could do with armswhat we could not do with arms and brains?Deraisonnable!”
It had become standard that whenever Mattilonflew to New York or Joel to Paris they found timefor dinner and drinks. Also, the Frenchman wasamazingly tolerant of Converse’s linguisticlimitations; Joel simply could not learn anotherlanguage. Even Val’s patient tutoring had fallen ondeaf and dead ears and an unreceptive brain. Forfour years his ex-wife, whose father was French andwhose mother was German, tried to teach him thesimplest phrases but found him hopeless.
“How the hell can you call yourself aninternational lawyer when you can’t be understoodbeyond Sandy Hook?” she had asked.
“Hire interpreters trained by Swiss banks and putthem on a point system,” he had replied. “They won’tmiss a trick.”
Whenever he came to Paris, he stayed in a suiteof two rooms at the opulent George V Hotel, anindulgence permitted by Talbot, Brooks and Simon,he had assumed, more to impress clients than tosatisfy a balance sheet. The assumption was only halfright, as Nathan Simon had made clear.
“You have a fancy sitting room,” Nate had toldhim in his sepulchral voice. "Use it for conferencesand you can avoid those ridiculously expensiveFrench lunches and God forbid the dinners.”
“Suppose they want to eat?”
“You have another appointment. Wink and sayit’s personal; no one in Paris will argue.”
The impressive address could serve him now,mused Converse, as the taxi weaved maniacallythrough the midafternoon traffic on theChamps-Elysees toward the Avenue George V. Ifhe made any progress and he intended to makeprogress with men around Bertholdier orBertholdier himself, the expensive hotel would fitthe image of an unknown client who had sent hispersonal attorney on a very confidential search. Ofcourse, he had no reservation, an oversight to beblamed on a substituting secretary.
He was greeted warmly by the assistantmanager, albeit with surprise and finally apologies.No telexed request for reservations had come fromTalbot, Brooks and Simon in New York, butnaturally, accommodations would be found for anold friend. They were; the standard two-room suiteon the second floor, and before Joel could unpack,a steward brought a bottle of the Scotch whisky hepreferred, substituting it for the existing brand onthe dry bar. He had forgotten the accuracy of thecopious notes such hotels kept on repeating guests.Second floor, the right whisky, and no doubt duringthe evening he would be reminded that he usuallyrequested a wake-up call for seven o’clock in themorning. It would be the same.
But it was close to five o’clock in the afternoonnow. If he was going to reach Mattilon before thelawyer left his of lice for the day, he had to do soquickly. If Rene could have drinks wi
th him, itwould be a start. Either Mattilon was his man or hewas not, and the thought of losing even an hour ofany kind of progress was disturbing. He reached forthe Paris directory on a shelf beneath the phone onthe bedside table, he looked up the firm’s numberand dialed.
“Good Christ, Joel!” exclaimed the Frenchman.“I read about that terrible business in Geneva! Itwas in the morning papers and I tried to callyou Le Richemond, of course but they said you’dchecked 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 abouthis having something to do with narcotics was justthat. Crap. He was cornered, robbed, shot and setup for postmortem confusion.”
“And an overzealous official leaped at theobvious, trying to protect his city’s image. I know; itwas made clear…. It’s all so horrible. Crime, killing,terrorism; it spreads everywhere. Less so here inParis, thank God.”
“You don’t need muggers, the taxi drivers morethan fill the bill. Except nastier, maybe.”
“You are, as always, impossible, my friend! Whencan we get together?”
Converse paused. “I was hoping tonight. Afteryou left the office.”
“It’s very short notice, mon ami. I wish you hadcalled 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 thesedays. 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 hehad caught the trace of urgency in Converse’sbrevity, in his voice. “Of course,” said theF’renchman. “You’re at the George Cinq, I assume?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll be there as soon as I can. Say, forty-fiveminutes.”
“Thanks very much. I’ll get a couple of chairs in thegal
. ..
ery.
“I’ll find you.”
That area of the immense marble-arched lobbyoutside the tinted glass doors of the George V bar isknown informally as the “gallery” by habitues, itsname derived from the fact that there is an artgallery narrowly enclosed within a corridor of clearglass on the left. However, just as reasonably, thename fits the luxurious room itself. The deeplycushioned cut-velvet chairs, settees, and polishedlow, dark tables that line the marble walls arebeneath works of art mammoth tapestries fromlong-forgotten chateaux and huge heroic canvases byartists, both old and new. And the smooth stone ofthe floor is covered with giant Oriental rugs, whileaffixed to the high ceiling are a series of intricatechandeliers, throwing soft light through filigrees oflacelike gold.
Quiet conversations take place between men andwomen of wealth and power at these upholsteredenclaves, in calcu
lated shadows under spotlit paintings and wovencloth from centuries ago. Frequently they areopening dialogues, testing questions that as often asnot are resolved in boardrooms peopled bychairmen and presidents, treasurers, and prides oflawyers. The movers and the shakers feelcomfortable with the initial informality theuncommitted explorations of first meetings in thisvery formal room. The ceremonial environssomehow lend an air of ritualised disbelief; denialsare not hard to come by later. The gallery also livesup to the implications of its name: within thefraternity of those who have achieved success on theinternational scene, it is said that if any of itsmembers spend a certain length of time there,sooner or later he will run into almost everyone heknows. Therefore, if one does not care to be seen,he should go somewhere else.
The room was filling up, and waiters movedaway from the raucous bar to take orders at thetables, knowing where the real money was. Conversefound two chairs at the far end, where the dim lightwas even more subdued. He looked at his watch andwas barely able to read it. Forty minutes had passedsince his call to Rene, a shower taking up the timeas it washed away the sweat-stained dirt of hisall-day journey from Mykonos. Placing his cigarettesand lighter on the table, he ordered a drink from analert waiter, his eyes on the marble entrance to theroom.
Twelve minutes later he saw him. Mattilonwalked energetically out of the harsh glare of thestreet lobby into the soft light of the gallery. Hestopped for a moment, squinting, then nodded. Hestarted down the canter of the carpeted floor, hiseyes levered at Joel from a distance, a broad,genuine smile on his face. Rene Mattilon was in hismid to late fifties, but his stride, like his outlook,was that of a younger man. There was about himthat aura peculiar to successful trial lawyers; hisconfidence was apparent because it was the essenceof his success, yet it was born of diligence, notmerely ego and performance. He was the secureactor comfortable in his role his graying hair andblunt, masculine features all part of a caiculatedeffect. Beyond that appearance, however, there wasalso something else, thought Joel, as he rose fromhis chair. Rene was a thoroughly decent man; it wasa disarming conclusion. God knew they both hadtheir flaws, but they were both decent men; perhapsthat was why they enjoyed each other’s company.
A firm handshake preceded a brief embrace. TheFrenchman sat down across from Converse as Joelsignaled an attentive waiter. “Order in French, "Joelsaid. “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. “Imean it. "
“I’m sure you do…. You look well, Joel, tired butwell. That shocking business in Geneva must giveyou nightmares.”
“Not really. I told you, I was simply there.”
“Still, it might have been you. The newspaperssaid 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 Conversequietly, no comment in his voice.
“Yes, of course. You were better prepared thanmost, I imagine.”
“I don’t think anyone’s ever prepared…. But it’sover. How about you? How are things?”
Mattilon shook his head, pinching his rugged,weather-beaten features into a sudden look ofexasperation. “France is madness, of course, but wesurvive. For months and months now, there are moreplans than are stored in an architect’s library, but theplanners keep colliding with each other ingovernment hallways. The courts are full, businessthrives.”
“I’m glad to hear it.” The waiter returned withthe Campari; both men nodded to him, and thenMattilon fixed his eyes on Joel. “No, I really am,”Converse continued as the waiter walked away. “Youhear so many stories.”
“Is that why you’re in Paris?” The Frenchmanstudied Joel. “Because of the stories of our so-calledupheavals? They re not so earthshaking, you know,not so different from before. Not yet. Most privateindustry here was publicly financed through thegovernment. But, naturally, not managed bygovernment incompetents, and for that we pay. Isthat what’s bothering you, or more to the point, yourclients?”
Converse drank. “No, that’s not why I’m here. It’ssomething else.”
“You’re troubled, I can see that. Your customaryglibness
doesn’t fool me. I know you too well. So tell me,what’s so important? That was the word you usedon the telephone.”
“Yes, I guess it was. It may have been toostrong.” Joel drained his glass and reached for hiscigarettes.
“Not from your eyes, my friend. I see them andI don’t see them. They’re filled with clouds.”
“You’ve got it wrong. As you said, I’m tired. I’vebeen on planes all day, with some ungodly layovers.”He picked up his lighter, snapping it twice until theflame appeared.
“We haggle over foolishness. What is it?”
Converse lit a cigarette, consciously trying tosound casual as he spoke. “Do you know a privateclub called L’Etalon Blanc?”
“I k
now it, but I couldn’t get in the door,”replied the Frenchman, laughing. “I was a young,inconsequential lieutenant worse, attached to thejudge advocate essentially with our forces to lend anappearance of legality, but, mind you, only anappearance. Murder was a misdemeanor, and rapeto be congratulated. L’Etalon Blanc is a refuge forles grands militaires and those rich enough orfoolish enough to listen to their trumpets.”
“I want to meet someone who lunches therethree or four times a week.”
“You can’t call him?”
"He doesn’t know me, doesn’t know I want tomeet him. It’s got to be spontaneous.”
“Really? For Talbot, Brooks and Simon? Thatsounds most unusual.”
“It is. We may be dealing with someone we don’twant to deal with.”
“Ahh, missionary work. Who is he?”
“Will you keep it confidential? I mean that, nota word to anyone?”
“Do I breathe? If the name is in conflict withsomething on our schedule, I will tell you and,frankly, be of no help to
you. “
The Aquaintaine Progession Page 9