The Aquitaine Progression (8 page)

“Sound strategy?”

“Approach, if you like.” Beale reached between the widely separated buttons of his jacket and withdrew a folded sheet of paper. “Here are the names,” he said, handing it to Joel. “There are five key figures in Delavane’s operation over here. One each from France, West Germany, Israel, South Africa, and England. We’ve identified four—the first four—but we can’t find the Englishman.”

“How did you get these?”

“Originally from notes found among Delavane’s papers by Halliday when the general was his client.”

“That was the accident he mentioned, then? He said it was an accident that wouldn’t happen again.”

“I don’t know what he told you, of course, but it certainly was an accident. A faulty memory on Delavane’s part, an affliction
I can personally assure you touches the aging. The general simply forgot he had a meeting with Halliday, and when Preston arrived, his secretary let him into the office so he could prepare papers for Delavane, who was expected in a half hour or so. Preston saw a file folder on the general’s desk; he knew that folder, knew it contained material he could cross-check. Without thinking twice, he sat down and began working. He found the names, and knowing Delavane’s recent itinerary in Europe and Africa, everything suddenly began to fall into place—very ominously. For anyone politically aware, those four names are frightening—they dredge up frightening memories.”

“Did Delavane ever learn that he’d found them?”

“In my judgment, he could never be certain. Halliday wrote them down and left before the general returned. But then Geneva tells us something else, doesn’t it?”

“That Delavane did find out,” said Converse grimly.

“Or he wasn’t going to take any further chances, especially if there was a schedule, and we’re convinced there is one. We’re in the countdown now.”

“To what?”

“From the pattern of their operations—what we’ve pieced together—a prolonged series of massive, orchestrated conflagrations designed to spin governments out of control and destabilize them.”

“That’s a tall order. In what way?”

“Guesswork,” said the scholar, frowning. “Probably widespread, coordinated eruptions of violence led by terrorists everywhere—terrorists fueled by Delavane and his people. When the chaos becomes intolerable, it would be their excuse to march in with military units and assume the controls, initially with martial law.”

“It’s been done before,” said Joel. “Feed and arm a presumed enemy, then send out provocateurs—”

“With massive sums of money and material.”

“And when they rise up,” continued Converse, “pull out the rug, crush them, and take over. The citizens give thanks and call the heroes saviors, as they start marching to their drums. But how could they
do
it?”

“That’s the all-consuming question. What are the targets? Where are they,
who
are they? We have no idea. If we had an inkling, we might approach from that end, but we don’t,
and we can’t waste time hunting for unknowns. We must go after what we do know.”

“Again, time,” Joel broke in. “Why are you so sure we’re in a countdown?”

“Increased activity everywhere—in many cases frantic. Shipments originating in the States are funneled out of warehouses in England, Ireland, France, and Germany to groups of insurgents in all the troubled areas. There are rumors out of Munich, the Mediterranean and the Arab states. The talk is in terms of final preparations, but no one seems to know what exactly for—except that all of them must be ready. It’s as though such groups as Baader-Meinhof, the Brigate Rosse, the PLO, and the red legions of Paris and Madrid were all in a race with none knowing the course, only the moment when it begins.”

“When is that?”

“Our reports vary, but they’re all within the same time span. Within three to five weeks.”

“Oh, my
God
.” Joel suddenly remembered. “Avery—Halliday—whispered something to me just before he died. Words that were spoken by the men who shot him. Aquitaine … ‘They said it was for Aquitaine.’ Those were the words he whispered. What do they mean, Beale?”

The old scholar was silent, his eyes alive in the moonlight. He slowly turned his head and stared out at the water. “It’s
madness
,” he whispered.

“That doesn’t tell me anything.”

“No, of course not,” said Beale apologetically, turning back to Converse. “It’s simply the magnitude of it all. It’s so incredible.”

“I’m not reading you.”

“Aquitaine—Aquitania, as Julius Caesar called it—was the name given to a region in southwestern France that at one time in the first centuries after Christ was said to have extended from the Atlantic, across the Pyrenees to the Mediterranean, and as far north as the mouth of the Loire west of Paris on the coast—”

“I’m vaguely aware of that,” Joel broke in, too impatient for an academic dissertation.

“If you are, you’re to be commended. Most people are only aware of the later centuries—say, from the eighth on, when Charlemagne conquered the region, formed the kingdom of Aquitaine and bestowed it on his son Louis, and
his
sons Pepin One and Two. Actually, these and the following three hundred years are the most pertinent.”

“To what?”

“The
legend
of Aquitaine, Mr. Converse. like many ambitious generals, Delavane sees himself as a student of history—in the tradition of Caesar, Napoleon, Clausewitz … even Patton. I was rightly or wrongly considered a scholar, but he remains a student, and that’s as it should be. Scholars can’t take liberties without substantive evidence—or they shouldn’t—but students can and usually do.”

“What’s your point?”

“The legend of Aquitaine becomes convoluted, the what-if syndrome riding over the facts until theoretical assumptions are made that distort the evidence. You see, the story of Aquitaine is filled with sudden, massive expansions and abrupt contractions. To simplify, an imaginative student of history might say that had there not been political, marital and military miscalculations on the part of Charlemagne and his son, the two Pepins, and later Louis the Seventh of France and Henry the Second of England,
both
of whom were married to the extraordinary Eleanor, the kingdom of Aquitaine might have encompassed most if not all of Europe.” Beale paused. “Do you begin to understand?” he asked.

“Yes,” said Joel. “Christ,
yes
.”

“That’s not all,” continued the scholar. “Since Aquitaine was once considered a legitimate possession of England, it might in time have enveloped all of her foreign colonies, including the original thirteen across the Atlantic—later the United States of America.… Of course, miscalculations or not, it could never have happened because of a fundamental law of Western civilization, valid since the deposition of Romulus Augustulus and the collapse of the Roman empire. You cannot crush, then unite by force and rule disparate peoples and their cultures—not for any length of time.”

“Someone’s trying to now,” said Converse. “George Marcus Delavane.”

“Yes. In his mind he’s constructed the Aquitaine that never was, never could be. And it’s profoundly terrifying.”

“Why? You just said it couldn’t happen.”

“Not according to the old rules, not in any period since the fall of Rome. But you must remember, there’s never
been
a time in recorded history like this one. Never such weapons, such anxiety. Delavane and his people know that, and they
will play upon those weapons, those anxieties. They
are
playing upon them.” The old man pointed to the sheet of paper in Joel’s hand. “You have matches. Strike one and look at the names.”

Converse unfolded the sheet, reached into his pocket and took out his lighter. He snapped it, and as the flame illuminated the paper he studied the names. “
Jesus!
” he said, frowning. “They fit in with Delavane. It’s a gathering of warlords, if they’re the men I think they are.” Joel extinguished the flame.

“They are,” replied Beale, “starting with General Jacques-Louis Bertholdier in Paris, a remarkable man, quite extraordinary. A Resistance fighter in the war, given the rank of major before he was twenty, but later an unreconstructed member of Salan’s OAS. He was behind an assassination attempt on De Gaulle in August of ’62, seeing himself as the true leader of the republic. He nearly made it. He believed then as he believes now that the Algerian generals were the salvation of an enfeebled France. He has survived not only because he’s a legend, but because his voice isn’t alone—only, he’s more persuasive than most. Especially with the elite crowd of promising commanders produced by Saint-Cyr. Quite simply, he’s a fascist, a fanatic hiding behind a screen of eminent respectability.”

“And the one named Abrahms,” said Converse. “He’s the Israeli strong man who struts around in a safari jacket and boots, isn’t he? The screecher who holds rallies in front of the Knesset and in the stadiums, telling everyone there’ll be a bloodbath in Judea and Samaria if the children of Abraham are denied. Even the Israelis can’t shut him up.”

“Many are afraid to; he’s become electrifying, like lightning, a symbol. Chaim Abrahms and his followers make the Begin regime seem like reticent, self-effacing pacifists. He’s a sabra tolerated by the European Jews because he’s a brilliant soldier, proven in two wars, and has enjoyed the respect—if not the affection—of every Minister of Defense since the early years of Golda Meir. They never know when they might need him in the field.”

“And this one,” said Joel, again using his lighter. “Van Headmer. South African, isn’t he? The ‘hangman in uniform’ or something like that.”

“Jan van Headmer, the ‘slayer of Soweto,’ as the blacks call him. He executes ‘offenders’ with alarming frequency and
government tolerance. His family is old-line Afrikaner, all generals going back to the Boer War, and he sees no reason on earth to bring Pretoria into the twentieth century. Incidentally, he’s a close friend of Abrahms and makes frequent trips to Tel Aviv. He’s also one of the most erudite and charming general officers ever to attend a diplomatic conference. His presence denies his image and reputation.”

“And Leifhelm,” said Converse, coming to the last of the foreign names. “A mixed bag, if I’m accurate. Supposedly a great soldier who followed too many orders, but still respected. I’m weakest on him.”

“Entirely understandable,” said Beale, nodding. “In some ways his is the oddest story—the most monstrous, really, because the truth has been consistently covered up so as to use him and avoid embarrassment. Field Marshal Erich Leifhelm was the youngest general ever commissioned by Adolf Hitler. He foresaw Germany’s collapse and made a sudden about-face. From brutal killer and a fanatic super-Aryan to a contrite professional who abhorred the Nazis’ crimes as they were ‘revealed’ to him. He fooled everyone and was absolved of all guilt; he never saw a Nuremberg courtroom. During the cold war the Allies used his services extensively, granting him full security clearances, and later in the fifties when the new German divisions were mounted for the NATO forces, they made sure he was put in command.”

“Weren’t there a couple of newspaper stories about him a few years ago? He had several run-ins with Helmut Schmidt, didn’t he?”

“Exactly,” agreed the scholar. “But those stories were soft and carried only
half
the story. Leifhelm was quoted as saying merely that the German people could not be expected to carry the burden of past guilt into future generations. It had to stop. Pride should once more be established in the nation’s heritage. There was some saber rattling aimed at the Soviets, but nothing substantively beyond that.”

“What was the other half?” asked Converse.

“He wanted the Bundestag’s restrictions on the armed forces lifted completely, and fought for the expansion of the intelligence services, patterned after the Abwehr, including rehabilitation sentences for political troublemakers. He also sought extensive deletions in German textbooks throughout the school systems. ‘Pride has to be restored,’ he kept saying,
and everything he said was in the name of virulent anti-Communism.”

“The Third Reich’s first strategy in everything when Hitler took over.”

“You’re quite right. Schmidt saw through him and knew there’d be chaos if he had his way—and he
was
influential. Bonn could not afford the specter of painful memories. Schmidt forced Leifhelm to resign and literally removed his voice from all government affairs.”

“But he keeps speaking.”

“Not openly. However, he’s rich and retains his friends and contacts.”

“Among them Delavane and his people.”

“Foremost among them now.”

Joel once more snapped his lighter and scanned the lower part of the page. There were two lists of names, the row on the left under the heading
State Department
, the right under
Pentagon
. There were perhaps twenty-five people in all. “Who are the Americans?” He released the lever; the flame died and he put the lighter back in his pocket. “The names don’t mean anything to me.”

“Some should, but it doesn’t matter,” said Beale elliptically. “The point is that among those men are disciples of George Delavane. They carry out his orders. How many of them is difficult to say, but at least several from each grouping. You see, these are the men who make the decisions—or conversely, do not oppose decisions—without which Delavane and his followers would be stopped in their tracks.”

“Spell that out.”

“Those on the left are key figures in the State Department’s Office of Munitions Control. They determine what gets cleared for export, who under the blanket of ‘national interest’ can receive weapons and technology withheld from others. On the right are the senior officers at the Pentagon on whose word millions upon millions are spent for armament procurements. All are decision makers—and a number of those decisions have been questioned, a few openly, others quietly by diplomatic and military colleagues. We’ve learned that much—”

“Questioned? Why?” interrupted Converse.

“There were rumors—there always
are
rumors—of large shipments improperly licensed for export. Then there’s surplus military equipment—excess supplies—lost in transfers
from temporary warehouses and out-of-the-way storage depots. Surplus equipment is easily unaccounted for; it’s an embarrassment in these days of enormous budgets and cost over-runs. Get rid of it and don’t be too particular. How fortunate in these instances—and coincidental—if a member of this Aquitaine shows up, willing to buy and with all his papers in order. Whole depots and warehouses are sent where they shouldn’t be sent.”