The Aquitaine Progression (44 page)

The restaurant was high in the hills above La Jolla, an out-of-the-way roadside inn that apparently catered to diners of the area and those from San Diego and University City who did not care to be seen together in the usual places. Remington had not been too pleased; he would have preferred being seen at the Coronado with the captain than traveling ten miles north so as
not
to be seen in the hills of La Jolla. Nevertheless, the four-striper had been politely adamant; it was where he wanted to meet. David had checked him out. The much decorated captain not only was in line for promotion but was considered a potential candidate for the Joint Chiefs of Staff. Remington would have ridden a bicycle on the exposed Alaskan pipeline to keep the appointment.

Which was exactly what he thought he was doing, as he spun the steering wheel right, then left, then right and right again as he made his way up the steep narrow roads. It was important to keep in mind, he thought, as he whipped the car to the left, that personal advice was nevertheless professional advice, and without payment of any sort whatsoever, it constituted a debt that would one day be acknowledged. And if a man was elevated to the Joint Chiefs … Remington could not help it: in a glow of self-importance he had let drop to a fellow legal officer—the one who had coined the name “stickler prick”—that he was lunching with a highly regarded four-striper in La Jolla and might be late returning to the office. Then to drive his point home, he had asked his associate for directions.

Oh, my God! What
was
it? Oh, my
God
!

At the apex of the hairpin curve was an enormous black
rig, thirty feet in length, and out of control. It weaved right and left on the narrow incline, its speed gathering with every foot, measured in racing yards, a black behemoth swerving, crashing down on everything in front of it, a wild beast gone mad!

Remington whipped his head to his right as he spun the wheel to avoid impact. There were only thin trunks of young trees and saplings in late-summer bloom; below was a floral abyss. These were the last images he saw as the car careened on its side and began the plunge.

Far above on another hill a man kneeled, binoculars raised to his face as the explosion below confirmed the kill. His expression was one of neither joy nor sadness, merely acceptance. A mission had been accomplished. After all, it was war.

And Lieutenant David Remington, whose life was so ordered and orderly, who knew exactly where he was going and how in this world, who knew above all that he would never be trapped by the forces that had killed his father in the name of corporate policy, was put to death by the policy of a company he had never heard of. An enterprise called Aquitaine. He had seen the name Delavane.

Their view is that it’s the proper evolution of current history, all other ideologies having failed
.… The words spoken by Preston Halliday in Geneva kept repeating themselves in Converse’s inner ear as he listened to the four voices of Aquitaine. The frightening thing was that they believed what they said without equivocation, morally and intellectually, their convictions rooted in observations going back decades, their arguments persuasive as they illuminated past global mistakes of judgment that resulted in horrible suffering and unnecessary loss of life.

The simple objective of their coming together—allies and former enemies alike—was to bring benevolent order to a world in chaos, to permit the industrial states to flourish for the good of all people, spreading the strengths and benefits of multinational trade to the impoverished, uncommitted Third World and, by so doing, secure its commitment. Only in this way, in this coming together, could Communism be stopped—stopped and reversed until it collapsed under the sheer force of superior armed might and financial resources.

To bring all this about required a shift in values and priorities.
Industrial decisions everywhere must be coordinated to bring about the total strength of the free states. Government treasuries, multinational corporations and giant conglomerates must look to a stratum of interlocking committees, agree to be directed by these committees, to accept their decisions—which would in effect be their respective governments’ decisions—each keeping the others apprised of its current agenda. What was this ultimate stratum of negotiators? Who would be the members of these committees that would in effect speak for the free nations and set their policies?

Throughout history only one class of people remained constant in its excellence, who when called upon in times of crisis performed far beyond human expectations—even in defeat. The reasons for this segment’s unique contributions in war—and even in peace, though to a lesser degree—were historically clear: these men were selfless. They belonged to a class trained to serve without thought of reward except for the recognition of excellence. Wealth was irrelevant because their needs were furnished and perquisites granted only through the outstanding performance of duty.

In the new order this class of people would not be subject to the corruptions of the marketplace. In reality it was unusually well equipped to deal with such corruptions, for it could not be touched by them. The mere presence of any illegally gained wealth within its ranks would instantly be recognized and condemned, resulting in courts-martial. This class of society, this novel branch of the human race, was not only incorruptible at the highest levels, it would be the ultimate savior of mankind as we know it today.

It was the military. The world over, even encompassing one’s enemies. Together—even as enemies—they best understood the catastrophic results of weakness.

To be sure, certain minor liberties would perforce have to be withheld from the body politic, but these were small sacrifices for survival. Who could argue?

None of the four spokesmen for Aquitaine raised his voice. They were the quiet prophets of reason, each with his own history, his own identity—allies and enemies together in a world gone mad.

Converse responded in the affirmative to everything that was said—this was not difficult to do—and asked abstract questions of philosophy, as he was expected to do. Even the court
jester, Chaim Abrahms, became deeply serious and answered Converse’s questions quietly.

At one point Abrahms said, “You think we Jews are the only ones in the Diaspora, my friend? You are wrong. The whole human race is dispersed everywhere, all of us locking rams’ horns and not knowing where to go. Certain rabbis claim we Jews shall not see salvation until the Messianic era, the time of divine redemption when a god will appear to show us the way to our own promised land. He was far too late arriving; we could not wait for Him any longer. We created Israel. Do you see the lesson? We—we
here
—are now the divine intervention on earth. And I—even
I
, a man of accomplishment and ego—will give up my life in silence so we may succeed.”

Jacques-Louis Bertholdier: “You must understand, Mr. Converse, that Voltaire said it best in his
Discours sur l’homme
. Essentially he wrote that man attained his highest freedom only when he understood the parameters of his behavior. We will establish those parameters. Is anything more logical?”

Erich Leifhelm: “Goethe said it perhaps better when he insisted that the
romance
of politics was best used to numb and quell the fears of the uninformed. In his definitive
Aus meinem Leben
he states clearly that all governing classes must be imbued above all with discipline. Where is it more prevalent?”

Jan van Headmer: “My own country, sir, is the living embodiment of the lesson. We took the beast out of the savage and formed a vast, productive nation. The beast returns and my nation is in turmoil.”

And so it went for several hours. Quiet dissertations delivered thoughtfully, reflectively, passions apparent only in the deep sincerity of their convictions. Twice Joel was pressed to reveal the name of his client and twice he demurred, stating the legal position of confidentiality—which could change in a matter of days, perhaps less.

“I’d have to offer my client something concrete. An approach, a strategy that would warrant his immediate involvement, his commitment, if you will.”

“Why is that necessary at this juncture?” asked Bertholdier. “You’ve heard our reasoning, Certainly an approach can be discerned.”

“All right, scratch approach. A strategy, then. Not the why but the how.”

“You ask for a plan?” said Abrahms. “On what basis?”

“Because you’ll be asking for an investment surpassing anything in your experience.”

“That’s an extraordinary statement,” interjected Van Headmer.

“He has extraordinary resources,” replied Converse.

“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.”