The Aquitaine Progression (9 page)

“A
Libya
connection?”

“There’s no doubt of it. A great many connections.”

“Halliday mentioned it and you said it a few moments ago. Laws broken—arms, equipment, technological information sent to people who shouldn’t have them. They break loose on cue and there’s disruption, terrorism—”

“Justifying military responses,” old Beale broke in. “That’s part of Delavane’s concept. Justifiable escalation of armed might, the commanders in charge, the civilians helpless, forced to listen to them, obey them.”

“But you just said questions were raised.”

“And answered with such worn-out phrases as ‘national security’ and ‘adversarial disinformation’ to stop or throw off the curious.”

“That’s obstruction. Can’t they be caught at it?”

“By whom? With what?”

“Damn it, the questions themselves!” replied Converse. “Those improper export licenses, the military transfers that got lost, merchandise that can’t be traced.”

“By people without the clearances to go around security classifications, or lacking the expertise to understand the complexities of export licensing.”

“That’s nonsense,” insisted Joel. “You said some of those questions were asked by diplomatic personnel, military colleagues, men who certainly had the clearances
and
the expertise.”

“And who suddenly, magically, didn’t ask them any longer. Of course, many may have been persuaded that the questions were, indeed, beyond their legitimate purviews; others may have been too frightened to penetrate for fear of involvement; others still, forced to back off—frankly threatened. Regardless, behind it all there are those who do the convincing, and they’re growing in numbers everywhere.”

“Christ, it’s a—a
network
,” said Converse softly.

The scholar looked hard at Joel, the night light on the
water reflecting across the old man’s pale, lined face. “Yes, Mr. Converse, a ‘network.’ That word was whispered to me by a man who thought I was one of them. ‘The network,’ he said. ‘The network will take care of you.’ He meant Delavane and his people.”

“Why did they think you were a part of them?”

The old man paused. He looked briefly away at the shimmering Aegean, then back at Converse. “Because
that
man thought it was logical. Thirty years ago I took off a uniform, trading it for the Harris tweeds and unkempt hair of a university professor. Few of my colleagues could understand, for, you see, I was one of the elite, perhaps a later, American version of Erich Leifhelm—a brigadier general at thirty-eight, and the Joint Chiefs were conceivably my next assignment. But where the collapse of Berlin and the
Götterdämmerung
in the bunker had one effect on Leifhelm, the evacuation of Korea and the disembowelment of Panmunjom had another effect on me. I saw only the waste, not the cause I once saw—only the futility where once there’d been sound reasons. I saw death, Mr. Converse, not heroic death against animalistic hordes, or on a Spanish afternoon with the crowds shouting ‘
Olé
,’ but just plain death. Ugly death, shattering death. And I knew I could no longer be a part of those strategies that called for it.… Had I been qualified in belief, I might have become a priest.”

“But your colleagues who couldn’t understand,” said Joel, mesmerized by Beale’s words, words that brought back so much of his own past. “They thought it was something else?”

“Of course they did. I’d been praised in evaluation reports by the holy MacArthur himself. I even had a label: the Red Fox of Inchon—my hair was red then. My commands were marked by decisive moves and countermoves, all reasonably well thought out and swiftly executed. And then one day, south of Chunchon, I was given an order to take three adjacent hills that comprised dead high ground—vantage points that served no strategic purpose—and I radioed back that it was useless real estate, that whatever casualties we sustained were not worth it I asked for clarification, a field officer’s way of saying ‘You’re crazy, why should I?’ The reply came in something less than fifteen minutes, ‘Because it’s there, General.’ That was all. ‘Because it’s there.’ A symbolic point was to be made for someone’s benefit or someone else’s macho news briefing in Seoul.… I took the hills, and I also
wasted the lives of over three hundred men—and for my efforts I was awarded another cluster of the Distinguished Service Cross.”

“Is that when you quit?”

“Oh, Lord no, I was too confused, but inside, my head was boiling. The end came, and I watched Panmunjom, and was finally sent home, all manner of extraordinary expectations to be considered my just rewards.… However, a minor advancement was denied me for a very good reason: I didn’t speak the language in a sensitive European post. By then my head had exploded; I used the rebuke and I took my cue. I resigned quietly and went my way.”

It was Joel’s turn to pause and study the old man in the night light. “I’ve never heard of you,” he said finally. “Why haven’t I ever heard of you?”

“You didn’t recognize the names on the two lower lists, either, did you? ‘Who are the Americans?’ you said. ‘The names don’t mean anything to me.’ Those were your words, Mr. Converse.”

“They weren’t young decorated generals—heroes—in a war.”

“Oh, but several
were
,” interrupted Beale swiftly, “in several wars. They had their fleeting moments in the sun, and then they were forgotten, the moments only remembered by them, relived by them. Constantly.”

“That sounds like an apology for them.”

“Of course it is! You think I have no feelings for them? For men like Chaim Abrahms, Bertholdier, even Leifhelm? We call upon these men when the barricades are down, we extol them for acts beyond our abilities.…”

“
You
were capable. You performed those acts.”

“You’re right and that’s why I
understand
them. When the barricades are rebuilt, we consign them to oblivion. Worse, we force them to watch inept civilians strip the gears of reason and, through oblique vocabularies, plant the explosives that will blow those barricades apart again. Then when they’re down once more, we summon our commanders.”

“Jesus, whose side are you on?”

Beale closed his eyes tightly, reminding Joel of the way he used to shut his own when certain memories came back to him. “Yours, you idiot,” said the scholar quietly. “Because I know what they can do when we ask them to do it. I meant what I said before. There’s never been a time in history like
this one. Far better that inept, frightened civilians, still talking, still searching, than one of us—forgive me, one of them—”

A gust of wind blew off the sea; the sand spiraled about their feet. “That man,” said Converse, “the one who told you the network would take care of you. Why did he say it?”

“He thought they could use me. He was one of the field commanders I knew in Korea, a kindred spirit then. He came to my island—for what reason I don’t know, perhaps a vacation, perhaps to find me,
who
knows—and found me on the waterfront. I was taking my boat out of the Plati Harbor when suddenly he appeared, tall, erect and very military in the morning sun. ‘We have to talk,’ he said, with that same insistence we always used in the field. I asked him aboard and we slowly made our way out of the bay. Several miles out of the Plati he presented his case,
their
case.
Delavane’s
case.”

“What happened then?”

The scholar paused for precisely two seconds, then answered simply, “I killed him. With a scaling knife. Then I dropped his body over a cluster of sharks beyond the shoals of the Stephanos.”

Stunned, Joel stared at the old man—the iridescent light of the moon heightened the force of the macabre revelation. “Just like that?” he said in a monotone.

“It’s what I was trained to do, Mr. Converse. I was the Red Fox of Inchon. I never hesitated when the ground could be gained, or an adversarial advantage eliminated.”

“You
killed
him?”

“It was a necessary decision, not a wanton taking of life. He was a recruiter and my response was in my eyes, in my silent outrage. He saw it, and I understood. He could not permit me to live with what he’d told me. One of us had to die, and I simply reacted more swiftly than he did.”

“That’s pretty cold reasoning.”

“You’re a lawyer, you deal every day with options. Where was the alternative?”

Joel shook his head, not in reply but in astonishment. “How did Halliday find you?”

“We found each other. We’ve never met, never talked, but we have a mutual friend.”

“In San Francisco?”

“He’s frequently there.”

“Who is he?”

“It’s a subject we won’t discuss. I’m sorry.”

“Why not? Why the secrecy?”

“It’s the way he prefers it. Under the circumstances, I believe it’s a logical request.”

“Logic? Find me logic in any of this! Halliday reaches a man in San Francisco who just happens to know you, a former general thousands of miles away on a Greek island who just
happens
to have been approached by one of Delavane’s people. Now, that’s coincidence, but damned little logic!”

“Don’t dwell on it. Accept it.”

“Would you?”

“Under the circumstances, yes, I would. You see, there’s no alternative.”

“Sure there is. I could walk away five hundred thousand dollars richer, paid by an anonymous stranger who could only come after me by revealing himself.”

“You could but you won’t. You were chosen very carefully.”

“Because I could be motivated? That’s what Halliday said.”

“Frankly, yes.”

“You’re off the wall, all of you!”

“One of us is dead. You were the last person he spoke with.”

Joel felt the rush of anger again, the sight of a dying man’s eyes burned into his memory. “Aquitaine,” he said softly. “
Delavane
.… All right, I was chosen carefully. Where do I begin?”

“Where do you think you should begin? You’re the attorney; everything must be done legally.”

“That’s just it. I’m an attorney, not the police, not a detective.”

“No police in any of the countries where those four men live could do what you can do, even if they agreed to try, which, frankly, I doubt. More to the point, they would alert the Delavane network.”

“All right, I’ll try,” said Converse, folding the sheet with the list of names and putting it in his inside jacket pocket. “I’ll start at the top. In Paris. With this Bertholdier.”

“Jacques-Louis Bertholdier,” added the old man, reaching down into his canvas bag and taking out a thick manila envelope. “This is the last thing we can give you. It’s everything we could learn about those four men; perhaps it can
help you. Their addresses, the cars they drive, business associates, cafes and restaurants they frequent, sexual preferences where they constitute vulnerability … anything that could give you an edge. Use it, use everything you can. Just bring us back briefs against men who have compromised themselves, broken laws—above all, evidence that shows they are not the solid, respectable citizens their life-styles would indicate. Embarrassment, Mr. Converse,
embarrassment
. It leads to ridicule, and Preston Halliday was profoundly right about that. Ridicule is the first step.”

Joel started to reply, to agree, then stopped, his eyes riveted on Beale. “I never told you Halliday said anything about ridicule.”

“Oh?” The scholar blinked several times in the dim light, momentarily unsure of himself, caught by surprise. “But, naturally, we discussed—”

“You never met, you never
talked!
” Converse broke in.

“—through our mutual friend the strategies we might employ,” said the old man, his eyes now steady. “The aspect of ridicule is a keystone. Of course we discussed it.”

“You just hesitated.”

“You startled me with a meaningless statement. My reactions are not what they once were.”

“They were pretty good in a boat beyond the Stephanos,” corrected Joel.

“An entirely different situation, Mr. Converse. Only one of us could leave that boat. Both of us will leave this beach tonight.”

“All right, I may be reaching. You would be, too, if you were me.” Converse withdrew a pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket, shook one up nervously to his lips and took out his lighter. “A man I knew as a kid under one name approaches me years later calling himself something else.” Joel snapped his lighter and held the flame under the cigarette, inhaling. “He tells a wild story that’s just credible enough so I can’t dismiss it. The believable aspect is a maniac named Delavane. He says I can help stop him—stop
them
—and there’s a great deal of money for nodding my head—provided by a man in San Francisco who won’t say who he is, expedited by a former general on a fashionably remote island in the Aegean. And for his efforts, this man I knew under two names is murdered in daylight, shot a dozen times in an elevator, dying in my arms whispering the name ‘Aquitaine.’ And then this
other man, this ex-soldier, this doctor, this
scholar
, tells me another story that ends with. a ‘recruiter’ from Delavane killed with a scaling knife, his body thrown overboard into a school of sharks beyond the Stephanos—whatever that is.”

“The Aghios Stephanos,” said the old man. “A lovely beach, far more popular than this one.”

“Goddamn it, I
am
reaching, Mr. Beale, or Professor Beale, or
General
Beale! It’s too much to absorb in two lousy days! Suddenly I don’t have much confidence. I feel way beyond my depth—let’s face it, overwhelmed and underqualified … and damned frightened.”

“Then don’t overcomplicate things,” said Beale. “I used to say that to students of mine more often than I can remember. I would suggest they not look at the totality that faced them, but rather at each thread of progression, following each until it met and entwined with another thread, and then another, and if a pattern did not become clear, it was not their failure but mine. One step at a time, Mr. Converse.”

“You’re one hell of a Mr. Chips. I would have dropped the course.”

“I’m not saying it well. I used to say it better. When you teach history, threads are terribly important.”