The Aquitaine Progression (16 page)

“I’m on my way to Bonn,” said Converse. “Tell your friends I’m coming. Tell them to expect me. And please, General, tell them not to prejudge me. I mean that.”

“Your elliptical references are most annoying—Lieutenant. It
was
‘lieutenant,’ wasn’t it? Unless you also deceived poor Luboque as well.”

“Whatever deception I employed to meet you can only be for his benefit. I’ve offered to write a legal opinion for his case. He may not like it, but it’ll save him a lot of pain and money. And I have not deceived you.”

“A matter of judgment, I think.” Bertholdier turned and reached for the outsized brass knob.

“
Bonn
, Germany,” pressed Joel.

“I heard you. I haven’t the vaguest notion what you—”

“Leifhelm,” said Converse quietly. “Erich Leifhelm.”

The soldier’s head turned slowly; his eyes were banked fires, the coals glowing, about to erupt at the merest gust of wind. “A name known to me, but not the man.”

“Tell him I’m coming.”

“Good night, monsieur,” said Bertholdier, opening the door, his face ashen.

Joel raced into the bedroom, grabbed his suitcase and threw it on the luggage rack. He had to get out of Paris. Within hours, perhaps minutes, Bertholdier would have him watched, and if he was followed to an airport, his passport would expose the name Simon as a lie. He could not let that happen, not yet.

It was strange, unsettling. He had never had any reason to leave a hotel surreptitiously, and he was not sure he knew how to do it—only that it had to be done. The altering of the registration card had been done instinctively; there were occasions when legal negotiations had to be kept quiet for everyone’s benefit. But this was different—it was abnormal. He had said to Beale on Mykonos that he was going to become someone he was not. It was an easy thing to say, not at all easy to do.

His suitcase packed, he checked the battery charge on his electric razor and absently turned it on, moving it around his chin, as he walked to the bedside telephone. He shut the switch off as he dialed, unsure of what he would say to the night concierge but nevertheless instinctively orienting his mind to a business approach. After initial remarks, mutually flattering, the words came.

“There’s an extremely sensitive situation, and my firm is anxious that I leave for London just as soon as possible—and as discreetly as possible. Frankly, I would prefer not to be seen checking out.”

“Discretion, monsieur, is honored here, and haste is a
normal request. I shall come up and present your bill myself. Say, ten minutes?”

“I’ve only one piece of luggage. I’ll carry it, but I’ll need a cab. Not in front.”

“Not in front, of course. The freight elevator, monsieur. It connects below with our corridor for deliveries. Arrangements will be made.”

“I’ve made arrangements!” said Bertholdier harshly into the limousine’s mobile phone, the glass partition between him and the chauffeur tightly shut. “One man remains in the gallery in sight of the elevators, another in the cellars where the hotel supplies are brought in. If he attempts to leave during the night, it is the only other exit available to him. I’ve used it myself on several occasions.”

“This … is all
most
difficult to absorb.” The voice on the line spoke with a clipped British accent, the speaker obviously astonished, his breathing audible, a man suddenly afraid. “Are you
sure?
Could there be some other linkage?”

“Imbecile! I repeat. He knew about the munitions shipment from Beloit! He knew the routing, even the method of theft. He went so far as to identify Solidaire and my position as a board member! He made a
direct
reference to our business associate in
Bonn!
Then to Tel Aviv … 
Johannesburg!
What other linkage
could
there be?”

“Corporate entanglements, perhaps. One can’t rule them out. Multinational subsidiaries, munitions investments, our associate in West Germany also sits on several boards.… And the locations—money
pours
into them.”

“What in the name of God do you think I’m talking about? I can say no more now, but what I’ve told you, my English
flower
, take it to be the worst!”

There was a brief silence from London. “I understand,” said the voice of a subordinate rebuked.

“I hope you do. Get in touch with New York. His name is Simon, Henry Simon. He’s an attorney from Chicago. I have the address; it’s from the hotel’s registration file.” Bertholdier squinted under the glare of the reading lamp, haltingly deciphering the numbers and the numbered street written down by an assistant bell captain, well paid by one of the general’s men to go into the office and obtain information on the occupant of suite two-three-five. “Do you have that?”

“Yes.” The voice was now sharp, a subordinate about to
redress a grievance. “Was it wise to get it that way? A friend or a greedy employee might tell him someone was inquiring about him.”

“
Really
, my British daffodil? An innocuous bellboy checking the registry so as to post a lost garment to a recent guest?”

Again the brief silence. “Yes, I see. You know, Jacques, we work for a great cause—a
business
cause, of course—more important than either of us, as we did once years ago. I must constantly remind myself of that, or I don’t think I could tolerate your insults.”

“And what would be your recourse,
l’Anglais?
”

“To cut your arrogant Frog balls off in Trafalgar Square and stuff them in a lion’s mouth. The repository wouldn’t have to be large; an ancient crack would do. I’ll ring you up in an hour or so.” There was a click and the line went dead.

The soldier lowered the mobile phone in his hand, and a smile slowly emerged on his lips. They were the best,
all
of them! They were the hope, the only hope of a very sick world.

Then the smile faded, the blood again draining from his face, arrogance turning into fear. What did this Henry Simon want, really want? Who was the unknown man with access to extraordinary sources—planes, vehicles,
munitions?
What in God’s name did they know?

The padded elevator descended slowly, its interior designed for moving furniture and luggage, its speed adjusted for room-service deliveries. The night concierge stood beside Joel, his face pleasantly impassive; in his right hand was the leather
bourse
containing a copy of Converse’s bill and the franc notes covering it—as well as a substantial gratuity for the Frenchman’s courtesy.

A slight whirring sound preceded the stop; the panel light shone behind the letters
SOU-SOL
, and the heavy doors parted. Beyond in the wide hallway was a platoon of white-jacketed waiters, maids, porters and a few maintenance personnel commandeering tables, racks of linens, luggage and assorted cleaning materials. Loud, rapid chatter, heightened by bursts of laughter and guttural expletives, accompanied the bustling activity. At the sight of the concierge there was a perceptible lessening of volume and an increase of concentrated movement,
along with nods and fawning smiles directed at the man who, with the flick of a pen, could eliminate their jobs.

“If you’ll just point me in the right direction, I’ll be on my way,” said Joel, not wishing to call further attention to himself in the company of the concierge. “I’ve taken up too much of your time.”

“
Merci
. If you will follow that corridor, it will lead to the service exit,” replied the Frenchman, pointing to a hallway on the left, beyond the bank of elevators. “The guard is at his desk and is aware of your departure. Outside in the alley, turn right and walk to the street; your taxi is waiting for you.”

“I appreciate—my
firm
appreciates—your cooperation. As I mentioned upstairs, there’s nothing really that secretive, or unusual—just sensitive.”

The hotel man’s impassive countenance did not change, except for a slightly sharper focus in his eyes. “It is of no matter, monsieur, an explanation is not required. I did not request it, and if you’ll forgive me, you should not feel an obligation to offer one.
Au revoir
, Monsieur Simon.”

“Yes, of course,” said Converse, maintaining his composure though he felt like a schoolboy admonished for speaking out of turn, for offering an answer when he had not been called upon. “See you next time I’m in Paris.”

“We await the day, monsieur.
Bonsoir
.”

Joel turned quickly, making his way through the uniformed crowd toward the hallway, apologizing whenever his suitcase made contact with a body. He had just been taught a lesson, one he should not have had to learn. He knew it in a courtroom and in conference: Never explain what you don’t have to. Shut up. But this was not a court or a conference. It was, it suddenly dawned on him, an escape, and the realization was a little frightening, certainly very strange. Or was it? Escape was in his vocabulary, in his experience. He had tried it three times before in his life—years ago. And death had been everywhere. He put the thought out of his mind and walked down the corridor toward the large metal door in the distance.

He slowed down; something was wrong. Ahead, standing in front of the security desk talking to the guard was a man in a light-colored topcoat. Joel had seen him before but he did not know where; then the man moved and Converse began to remember—an image came back to him. Another man had moved the same way—taking several steps backward before
turning—to disappear from an archway, and now he moved the same way to cross the corridor to lean against the wall. Was it the same man? Yes! It was the one who had accompanied Bertholdier to the dining-room entrance of L’Etalon Blanc. The subordinate who had taken leave of a superior then was here now under orders from that same superior.

The man looked up, the flash of recognition instantly in his eyes. Stretching, he raised himself to his full height and turned away, his hand slowly moving toward the fold in his coat. Converse was stunned. Was the man actually reaching for a
gun?
With an armed guard barely ten feet away? It was insane! Joel stopped; he considered racing back into the crowd by the elevators but knew it was pointless. If Bertholdier had posted a watchdog in the basement, others would be upstairs, in the corridors, in the lobby. He could not turn and run; there was no place to go, nowhere to hide. So he kept walking, now faster, directly toward the man in the light-brown topcoat, his mind confused, his throat tight.

“
There
you are!” he cried out loud, not sure the words were his. “The general told me where to find you!”

The man stood motionless, in shock, speechless.
“Le général?”
he said, barely above a whisper. “He … tell you?”

The man’s English was not good, and that was very good. He could understand, but not well. Rapidly spoken words, persuasively delivered, might get them both out the door. Joel turned to the guard while angling his attaché case into his companion’s back. “My name’s Simon. I believe the concierge spoke to you about me.”

The juxtaposition of the name and the title was sufficient for the bewildered guard. He glanced at his papers, nodding.
“Oui, monsieur. Le concierge
 …”

“Come
on!
” Converse shoved the attaché case into the man in the topcoat, propelling him toward the door. “The general’s waiting for us outside. Let’s go! Hurry
up!
”

“Le général …?”
The man’s hands instinctively shot out at the crash bar of the exit door; in less than five seconds he and Joel were alone in the alley.
“Que se passe-t-il? Où est le général?
… Where?”

“Here! He said to wait here.
You
. You’re to wait here!
Ici!
”

“
Arrêtez!
” The man was recovering. He stood his ground. Thrusting his left hand out, he pushed Converse back against the wall. With his right hand he reached into his overcoat.

“Don’t!” Joel dropped his attaché case, gripping his suitcase and pulling it up in front of him, about to rush forward. He stopped. The man did not pull out a gun; instead, what he had was a thin rectangular object bound in black leather, from which a long metallic needle rose from the narrow flat top. An antenna … a radio!

All thought was blurred for Converse, but he knew he had to act instantly—only motion counted. He could not permit the man to use that radio, alerting those with other radios elsewhere in the hotel. With a sudden surge of strength he rammed his suitcase into the man’s knees, tearing the radio away with his left hand, whipping his right arm out and over the man’s shoulder. He crooked his elbow around the Frenchman’s neck as he spun on the pavement. Then without thinking, he yanked Bertholdier’s soldier forward, so that both of them hurtled toward the wall, and crashed the man’s head into the stone. Blood spread throughout the Frenchman’s skull, matting his hair and streaking down his face in deep-red rivulets. Joel could not think, he could not
allow
himself to think. If he did, he would be sick and he knew it. Motion,
motion!

The man went limp. Converse angled the unconscious body by the shoulders, propelling it against the wall, shoving it away from the metal door and letting it drop in the farther shadows. He leaned down and picked up the radio; he snapped off the antenna and shoved the case into his pocket. He stood up, confused, frightened, trying to orient himself. Then, grabbing his attaché case and suitcase, he raced breathlessly out of the alley, conscious of the blood that had somehow erupted over part of his face. The taxi was at the curb, the driver smoking a cigarette in the darkness, oblivious to the violence that had taken place only thirty yards away.

“De Gaulle Airport!” shouted Joel, opening the door and throwing his luggage inside. “Please, I’m in a hurry!” He lurched into the seat, gasping, his neck stretched above the cushioned rim, swallowing the air that would not fill his lungs.

The rushing lights and shadows that bombarded the interior of the cab served to keep his thoughts suspended, allowing his racing pulse to decelerate and the air to reach him, slowly drying the perspiration at his temples and his neck. He leaned forward, wanting a cigarette but afraid he would vomit from the smoke trapped in his throat. He shut his eyes so tightly a thousand specks of white light assaulted the dark
screen of his mind. He felt ill, and he knew it was not simply fear alone that had brought on the nausea. It was something else, something that was in and of itself as paralyzing as fear. He had committed an act of utter brutality, and it both shocked and appalled him. He had actually
physically
attacked a man, wanting to cripple him, perhaps kill him—which he may very well have done. No matter why, he may have killed another human being! Did the presence of a hand-held radio justify a shattered skull? Did it constitute self-defense?
Goddamn it
, he was a man of words, of logic, not blood!
Never
blood, that was in the past, so long ago and so painful.