The Aquitaine Progression (29 page)

“That was the lapse,” said the Britisher. “No one realized instructions to that effect had been left at the hospital desk—apparently by an inspector named Prudhomme, who was awakened and told of the man’s death.”

“And
he
was the one who called in Interpol?”

“Yes, but too late to intercept Converse at German immigration.”

“For which we can be profoundly grateful,” said the man, lowering his voice.

“Normally, of course, the hospital would have waited and reached Bertholdier in the morning, telling him what happened. As you say, the patient was an employee, not a member of the family. After that, undoubtedly the
arrondissement
police would have been informed and finally the Sûreté. By then our people would have been in place and fully capable of preventing Interpol’s involvement. We can still stop them, but it will take several days. Personnel transfers, new evidence, amendments to the case file; we need time.”

“Then don’t waste any.”

“It was those
damned
instructions.”

“Which no one had the brains to look for,” said the man in front of the shadowed map. “This Prudhomme’s instincts were aroused. Too many rich people, too much influence, the circumstances too bizarre. He smells something.”

“We’ll get him off the case, just a few days,” said the Englishman. “Converse is in Bonn, we know that. We’re closing in.”

“So possibly are Interpol and the German police. I don’t have to tell you how tragic that would be.”

“We have certain controls through the American embassy. The fugitive is American.”

“The
fugitive
has information!” insisted the man behind the desk, his fist clenched in the circle of light. “How much and supplied by whom we don’t know and we
must
know.”

“Nothing was learned in New York? The judge?”

“Only what Bertholdier suspected and what I knew the moment I heard his name. After forty years Anstett came back, still hounding me, still wanting my neck. The man was a bull, but only a go-between; he hated me as much as I hated him, and up to the end he shielded those behind him. Well, he’s gone and his holy righteousness with him. The point is, Converse is
not
what he pretends to be. Now,
find
him!”

“As I say, we’re closing in. We have more sources, more informers than Interpol. He’s an American fugitive in Bonn who, we understand, doesn’t speak the language. There are only so many places he can hide. We’ll find him; we’ll break him and learn where he comes from. After which, we’ll terminate immediately, of course.”

“
No!
” The sleek male cat again shrieked across the frozen lake. “We play
his
game! We welcome him, embrace him. In Paris he talked about Bonn, Tel Aviv, Johannesburg; therefore you’ll accommodate him. Bring him to Leifhelm—even better, have Leifhelm go to him. Fly in Abrahms from Israel, Van Headmer from Africa, and, yes, Bertholdier from Paris. He obviously knows who they are anyway. He claims ultimately to want a council meeting, to be a part of us. So we’ll hold a conference and listen to his lies. He’ll tell us more with his lies than he can with the truth.”

“I really don’t understand.”

“Converse is a
point
, but
only
a point. He’s exploring, studying the forward terrain, trying to understand the tactical forces ahead of him. If he were anything else, he’d deal directly through legitimate authorities and legitimate methods. There’d be no reason for him to use a false name or give false information—or to run away, forcibly overcoming a man he thinks is trying to stop him. He’s an infantry point who has certain information but doesn’t know where he’s going. Well, a point can be sucked into a trap, the advancing company ambushed. Oh, yes, we must give him his conference!”

“I submit that’s extraordinarily dangerous. He
has
to know who recruited him, who gave him the names, his sources. We can break him physically or chemically and get that information.”

“He probably doesn’t have it,” explained the man patiently. “Infantry points are not privileged to know command decisions; frankly, if they were, they might turn back. We have to know more about this Converse, and by six o’clock tonight I’ll have every report, every résumé, every word ever written about him. There’s something here we can’t see.”

“We already know he’s resourceful,” said the Britisher. “From what we can piece together in Paris, he’s considered an outstanding attorney. If he sees through us or gets away from us, it could be catastrophic. He will have met with our people,
spoken
with them.”

“Then once you find him don’t let him out of your sight. By tomorrow I’ll have other instructions for you.”

“Oh?”

“Those records that are being gathered from all over the country. For a man to do what Converse is doing, he had to be manipulated very carefully, very thoroughly, a driving intensity instilled in him. It’s the manipulators we have to find.
They’re not even who we think they are. I’ll be in touch tomorrow.”

George Marcus Delavane replaced the telephone in its cradle and slowly, awkwardly twisted his upper body around in the chair. He gazed at the strange, fragmented map as the first light of dawn fired the eastern sky, its orange glow filling the windows. Then, with effort, his hands gripping the arms of the steel chair, he pivoted himself around again, his eyes on the stark pool of light on the desk. He moved his hands to his waist and carefully, trembling, unbuttoned his dark-red velvet jacket, forcing his gaze downward, ordering himself to observe the terrible truth once more. He stared past the five-inch-wide leather strap that diagonally held him in place, now commanding his eyes to focus, to accept with loathing what had been done to him.

There was nothing to see but the edge of the thick steel seat and, below it, the polished wood of the floor. The long, sturdy legs that had carried his trained, muscular body through battles in the snow and the mud, through triumphant parades in the sunlight, through ceremonies of honor and defiance, had been stolen from him. The doctors had told him that his diseased legs were instruments of death that would kill the rest of him. He clenched his fists and pressed them slowly down on the desk, his throat filled with a silent scream.

“
Goddamn you
, Converse, who do you think you are?” cried Connal Fitzpatrick, his voice low, furious, as he caught up with Joel, who was walking rapidly between the tall trees near the Alter Zoll.

“Someone who knew Avery Fowler as a boy and watched a man named Press Halliday die a couple of hundred years later in Geneva,” replied Converse, quickening his pace, heading toward the gates of the national landmark where there were taxis.

“Don’t pull that crap on me! I knew Press far better and
far longer than you
ever
did. For Christ’s sake, he was married to my sister! We were close friends for fifteen years!”

“You sound like a kid playing one-upmanship. Get lost.”

Fitzpatrick rushed forward, pivoting in front of Joel, blocking him. “It’s true! Please, I can help, I
want
to help! I know the language; you don’t! I have connections here; you don’t.”

“You also have your own idea about a deadline, which
I
don’t. Get out of my way, sailor.”

“
Come
on,” pleaded the naval officer. “So I didn’t get everything I wanted. Don’t crowd me out.”

“I beg your pardon?”

Fitzpatrick shifted his weight awkwardly. “You’ve come on strong before yourself, haven’t you, counselor?”

“Not if I didn’t know the circumstances.”

“Sometimes it’s a way of finding them out.”

“Not with me, it isn’t.”

“Then my error was in not knowing you; the circumstances were beyond that scope. With someone else it might have worked.”

“Now you’re talking tactics, but you meant it when you said ‘two days.’ ”

“You’re damned right I did,” agreed Connal, nodding. “Because I want whatever it is exposed, I want
whoever
it is to
pay
! I’m mad, Converse, I’m mad as hell. I don’t want this thing to linger and die away. The longer nothing is done the less people care; you know that as well as I do and probably better. Have you ever tried to reopen an old case? I have with a few courts-martial where I thought things had been screwed up. Well, I learned something: the system doesn’t like it! You know why?”

“Yes I do,” said Joel. “There are too many new cases in the dockets, too many rewards in going after the current ones.”

“
Bingo
, counselor. Press deserves better than that. Meagen deserves better.”

“Yes, he does—they do. But there’s a complication that Press Halliday understood better than either of us. Put simply—and cruelly—his life wasn’t terribly important compared with what he was going after.”

“That’s pretty damned cruel,” said the officer.

“It’s very damned accurate,” said Converse. “Your brother-in-law would have wrestled you to the mat, burns and all,
for walking into this and trying to call the shots. Back off, Commander. Go back to the funeral.”

“
No
. I want to come on board. I withdraw the deadline.”

“How considerate of you.”

“You call the shots,” said Fitzpatrick, nodding again, exhaling in defeat. “I’ll do what you tell me to do.”

“Why?” asked Joel, their eyes locked.

The Navy lawyer did not flinch; he spoke simply. “Because Press trusted you. He said you were the best.”

“Except for him,” Converse added, permitting his expression to relax slightly, with a hint of a smile. “All right, I believe you, but there are ground rules. You either accept them or, as you put it, on board you’re not.”

“Let’s hear them. I’ll wince inside so you can’t see it.”

“Yes,” agreed Joel, “you’ll wince. To begin with, I’ll tell you only what I think you have to know in a given situation. Whatever you develop will be on your own; that way it’s free-wheeling, no way can you tip the evidence we’ve compiled.”

“That’s rough.”

“That’s the way it is. I’ll give you a name now and then when I think it will open a door, but it will
always
be a name you heard second or third hand. You’re inventive; figure out your own unidentifiable sources so as to protect yourself.”

“I’ve done that on quite a few waterfronts.”

“You have? How good are you at playacting?”

“What?”

“Never mind, I think you just answered that. You didn’t go down to those waterfronts in your dress whites as a lieutenant commander.”

“Hell, no.”

“You’ll do.”

“You’ve got to tell me
something
.”

“I’ll give you an overview, a lot of abstractions and a few facts. As we progress—
if
we progress—you’ll learn more. If you think you’ve put it together, tell me. That’s essential. We can’t risk blowing everything while you operate under wrong assumptions.”

“Who’s ‘we’?”

“I wish to hell I knew.”

“That’s comforting.”

“Yes, isn’t it.”

“Why don’t you tell me everything now?” asked Fitzpatrick.

“Because Meagen Halliday lost a husband. I don’t want to see her lose a brother.”

“I’ll accept that.”

“By the way, how long have you got? I mean you’re on active duty.”

“My initial leave is thirty days, with extensions as warranted. Christ, an only sister with five kids and her husband is killed. I could probably write my own ticket.”

“We’ll stick to the thirty days, Commander. It’s more than we’re allowed. We may not have even two weeks.”

“Start talking, Converse.”

“Let’s walk,” said Joel, heading back to the Alter Zoll wall and the view of the Rhine below.

The “overview” delivered by Converse described a current situation in which like-minded individuals in various countries were coming together and using their considerable influence to get around the laws and ship armaments and technology to hostile governments and organizations.

“For what purpose?” asked Fitzpatrick.

“I could say ‘profits,’ but you’d see through it.”

“As the only motive, yes,” said the Navy lawyer pensively. “Influential people—as I understand the word ‘influential’ as related to existing laws—would operate singly or at best in small groups within their own countries. That is, if profits were the primary objective. They wouldn’t coordinate outside; it isn’t necessary. It’s a sellers’ market; they’d only water down the profits.”

“Bingo, counselor.”

“So?” Fitzpatrick looked at Joel, as they strolled toward a break in the stone wall where a bronzed cannon was in place.

“Destabilization,” said Converse. “Mass destabilization. A series of flash points in highly volatile areas that will call into question the ability of democratic governments to cope with the violence.”

“I’ve got to ask you again, for what purpose?”

“You’re quick,” said Joel, “so I’ll let you answer that. What happens when an existing political structure is crippled by disorder, when it can no longer function, when things are out of control?”

The two men stopped by the cannon, the naval officer’s eyes following the line of the huge, threatening barrel. “It’s
restructured or replaced,” he said, turning to look at Converse.

“Bingo again,” said Converse softly. “That’s the overview.”

“It doesn’t make sense.” Fitzpatrick creased his eyes in the sunlight, as well as in thought. “Let me recap. Am I allowed?”

“You’re allowed.”

“ ‘Influential individuals’ connotes people in pretty good standing in very high places. Assuming we’re not talking about an out-and-out criminal element—which the lack of a pure profit motive would seem to eliminate—we’re talking about reasonably respectable citizens. Is there another definition I’m not aware of?”

“If there is, I’m not aware of it, either.”

“Then why would they want to destabilize the political structures that guarantee them their influence? It
doesn’t
make sense.”

“Ever hear of the phrase ‘Everything’s relative’?”

“To a fare-thee-well. So what?”

“So think.”