The Aquitaine Progression (7 page)

“I could do that, but I won’t,” said the senior partner. “I know when I’ve got the best and I intend to hold him. We’ll bank it for you.” Talbot paused, then spoke quietly, urgently. “Joel, I have to ask you. Did this thing a few hours ago have anything to do with the Anstett business?”

Converse gripped the telephone with such force his wrist and fingers ached. “Nothing whatsoever, Larry,” he said. “There’s no connection.”

Mykonos, the sun-drenched, whitewashed island of the Cyclades, neighboring worshiper of Delos. Since Barbarossa’s conquest it had been host to successive brigands of the sea who sailed on the Meltemi winds—Turks, Russians, Cypriots, finally Creeks—placed and displaced over the centuries, a small landmass alternately honored and forgotten until the arrival of sleek yachts and shining aircraft, symbols of a different age. Low-slung automobiles—Porsches, Maseratis, Jaguars—now sped over the narrow roads past starch-white windmills and alabaster churches; a new type of inhabitant had joined the laconic, tradition-bound residents who made their livings from the sea and the shops. Free-spirited youths of all ages, with their open shirts and tight pants, their sun-burned skins serving as foil for adornments of heavy gold, had found a new playground. And ancient Mykonos, once a major port to the proud Phoenicians, had become the Saint-Tropez of the Aegean.

Converse had taken the first Swissair flight out of Geneva to Athens, and from there a smaller Olympic plane to the island. Although he had lost an hour in the time zones, it was barely four o’clock in the afternoon when the airport taxi
crawled through the streets of the hot, blinding-white harbor and pulled up in front of the smooth white entrance of the bank. It was on the waterfront, and the crowds of flowered shirts and wild print dresses, and the sight of launches chopping over the gentle waves toward the slips on the main pier, were proof that the giant cruise ships far out in the harbor were managed by knowledgeable men. Mykonos was a dazzling snare for tourists; money would be left on the white-washed island; the tavernas and the shops would be full from early sunrise to burning twilight. The ouzo would flow and Creek fishermen’s caps would disappear from the shelves and appear on the swaying heads of suburbanites from Grosse Point and Short Hills. And when night came and the last
efharisto
and
paracalo
had been awkwardly uttered by the visitors, other games would begin—the courtiers and courtesans, the beautiful, ageless, self-indulgent children of the blue Aegean, would start to play. Peals of laughter would be heard as drachmas were counted and spent in amounts that would stagger even those who had opulent suites on the highest decks of the most luxurious ships. Where Geneva was contrary, Mykonos was accommodating—in ways the long-ago Turks might have envied.

Joel had called the bank from the airport, not knowing its business hours, but knowing the name of the banker he was to contact. Kostas Laskaris greeted him cautiously over the phone, making it clear that he expected not only a passport that would clear a spectrograph but the original letter from A. Preston Halliday with his signature, said signature to be subjected to a scanner, matching the signature the bank had been provided by the deceased Mr. A. Preston Halliday.

“We hear he was killed in Geneva. It is most unfortunate,” Laskaris had said.

“I’ll tell his wife and children how your grief overwhelms me.”

Converse paid the taxi and climbed the short white steps of the entrance, carrying his suitcase and attaché case, grateful that the door was opened by a uniformed guard whose appearance brought to mind a long-forgotten photograph of a mad sultan who whipped his harem’s women in a courtyard when they failed to arouse him.

Kostas Laskaris was not at all what Joel had expected from the brief, disconcerting conversation over the phone. He was a balding, pleasant-faced man in his late fifties, with warm
dark eyes, and relatively fluent in English but certainly not comfortable with the language. His first words upon rising from his desk and indicating a chair in front of it for Converse contradicted Joel’s previous impression.

“I apologize for what might have appeared as a
callous
statement on my part regarding Mr. Halliday. However, it
was
most unfortunate, and I don’t know how else to phrase it. And it is difficult, sir, to grieve for a man one never knew.”

“I was out of line. Forget it, please.”

“You are most kind, but I am afraid I cannot forget the arrangements—mandated by Mr. Halliday and his associate here on Mykonos. I must have your passport and the letter, if you please?”

“Who is he?” asked Joel, reaching into his jacket pocket for his passport billfold; it contained the letter. “The associate, I mean.”

“You are an attorney, sir, and surely you are aware that the information you desire cannot be given to you until the barriers—have been leaped, as it were. At least, I think that’s right.”

“It’ll do. I just thought I’d try.” He took out his passport and the letter, handing them to the banker.

Laskaris picked up his telephone and pressed a button. He spoke in Greek and apparently asked for someone. Within seconds the door opened and a stunning bronzed, dark-haired woman entered and walked gracefully over to the desk. She raised her downcast eyes and glanced at Joel, who knew the banker was watching him closely. A sign from Converse, another glance—from him directed at Laskaris—and introductions would be forthcoming, accommodation tacitly promised, and a conceivably significant piece of information would be entered in a banker’s file. Joel offered no such sign; he wanted no such entry. A man did not pick up half a million dollars for nodding his head, and then look for a bonus. It did not signify stability; it signified something else.

Inconsequential banter about flights, customs and the general deterioration of travel covered the next ten minutes, at which time his passport and the letter were returned—not by the striking, dark-haired woman but by a young, balletic blond Adonis. The pleasant-faced Laskaris was not missing a trick; he was perfectly willing to supply one, whichever route his wealthy visitor required.

Converse looked into the Greek’s warm eyes, then
smiled, the smile developing into quiet laughter. Laskaris smiled back and shrugged, dismissing the beachboy.

“I am chief manager of this branch, sir,” he said as the door closed, “but I do not set the policies for the entire bank. This is, after all, Mykonos.”

“And a great deal of money passes through here,” added Joel. “Which one did you bet on?”

“Neither,” replied Laskaris, shaking his head. “Only on exactly what you did. You’d be a fool otherwise, and I do not think you are a fool. In addition to being chief manager on the waterfront, I am also an excellent judge of character.”

“Is that why you were chosen as the intermediary?”

“No, that is not the reason. I am a friend of Mr. Halliday’s associate here on the island. His name is Beale, incidentally. Dr. Edward Beale.… You see, everything is in order.”

“A doctor?” asked Converse, leaning forward and accepting his passport and the letter. “He’s a doctor?”

“Not a medical man, however,” clarified Laskaris. “He’s a scholar, a retired professor of history from the United States. He has an adequate pension and he moved here from Rhodes several months ago. A most interesting man, most knowledgeable. I handle his financial affairs—in which he is not very knowledgeable, but still interesting.” The banker smiled again, shrugging.

“I hope so,” said Joel. “We have a great deal to discuss.”

“That is not my concern, sir. Shall we get to the disposition of the funds? How and where would you care to have them paid?”

“A great deal in cash. I bought one of those sensorized money belts in Geneva—the batteries are guaranteed for a year. If it’s ripped off me, a tiny siren goes off that splits your eardrums. I’d like American currency for myself and the rest transferred.”

“Those belts are effective, sir, but not if you are unconscious, or if there is no one around to hear them. Might I suggest traveler’s checks?”

“You could and you’d probably be right, but I don’t think so. I may not care to write out a signature.”

“As you wish. The denominations for yourself, please?” said Laskaris, pencil in hand, pad below. “And where would you like the remainder to be sent?”

“Is it possible,” asked Converse slowly, “to have accounts set up not in my name but accessible to me?”

“Of course, sir. Frankly, it is often standard in Mykonos—as well as in Crete, Rhodes, Athens, Istanbul, and also much of Europe. A description is wired, accompanied by words written out in your handwriting—another name, or numbers. One man I knew used nursery rhymes. And then they are matched. One must use a sophisticated bank, of course.”

“Of course. Name a few.”

“Where?”

“In London, Paris, Bonn—maybe Tel Aviv,” said Joel, trying to remember Halliday’s words.

“Bonn is not easy; they are so inflexible. A wrong apostrophe and they summon whomever they consider their authorities.… Tel Aviv is simple; money is as freewheeling and as serpentine as the Knesset. London and Paris are standard and, of course, their greed is overwhelming. You will be heavily taxed for the transfers because they know you will not make an issue over covert funds. Very proper, very mercenary, and very much thievery.”

“You know your banks, don’t you?”

“I’ve had experience, sir. Now, as to the disbursements?”

“I want a hundred thousand for myself—nothing larger than five-hundred-dollar bills. The rest you can split up and tell me how I can get it if I need it.”

“It is not a difficult assignment, sir. Shall we start writing names, or numbers—or nursery rhymes?”

“Numbers,” said Converse. “I’m a lawyer. Names and nursery rhymes are in dimensions I don’t want to think about right now.”

“As you wish,” said the Greek, reaching for a pad. “And here is Dr. Beale’s telephone number. When we have concluded our business, you may call him—or not, as you wish. It is not my concern.”

Dr. Edward Beale, resident of Mykonos, spoke over the telephone in measured words and the slow, thoughtful cadence of a scholar. Nothing was rushed; everything was deliberate.

“There is a beach—more rocks than beach, and not frequented at night—about seven kilometers from the waterfront. Walk to it. Take the west road along the coast until you see the lights of several buoys riding the waves. Come down to the water’s edge. I’ll find you.”

*  *  *

The night clouds sped by, propelled by high-altitude winds, letting the moonlight penetrate rapidly, sporadically, illuminating the desolate stretch of beach that was the meeting ground. Far out on the water, the red lamps of four buoys bobbed up and down. Joel climbed over the rocks and into the soft sand, making his way to the water’s edge; he could both see and hear the small waves lapping forward and receding. He lit a cigarette, assuming the flame would announce his presence. It did; in moments a voice came out of the darkness behind him, but the greeting was hardly what he expected from an elderly, retired scholar.

“Stay where you are and don’t move” was the first command, spoken with quiet authority. “Put the cigarette in your mouth and inhale, then raise your arms and hold them straight out in front of you.… Good. Now smoke, I want to see the
smoke
.”

“Christ, I’m choking!” shouted Joel, coughing, as the smoke, blown back by the ocean breeze, stung his eyes. Then suddenly he felt the sharp, quick movements of a hand stabbing about his clothes, reaching across his chest and up and down his legs. “What are you
doing?
” he cried, spitting the cigarette out of his mouth involuntarily.

“You don’t have a weapon,” said the voice.

“Of
course
not!”

“I do. You may lower your arms and turn around now.”

Converse spun, still coughing, and rubbed his watery eyes. “You crazy son of a bitch!”

“It’s a dreadful habit, those cigarettes. I’d give them up if I were you. Outside of the terrible things they do to your body, now you see how they can be used against you in other ways.”

Joel blinked and stared in front of him. The pontificator was a slender, white-haired old man of medium height, standing very erect in what looked like a white canvas jacket and trousers. His face—what could be seen of it in the intermittent moonlight—was deeply lined, and there was a partial smile on his lips. There was also a gun in his hand, held in a firm grip, leveled at Converse’s head. “You’re
Beale?
” asked Joel. “Dr.
Edward
Beale?”

“Yes. Are you calmed down now?”

“Considering the shock of your warm welcome, I guess so.”

“Good. I’ll put this away, then.” The scholar lowered the
gun and knelt down on the sand next to a canvas satchel. He shoved the weapon inside and stood up again. “I’m sorry, but I had to be certain.”

“Of what? Whether or not I was a commando?”

“Halliday’s dead. Could a substitute have been sent in your place? Someone to deal with an old man in Mykonos? If so, that person would most certainly have had a gun.”

“Why?”

“Because he would have had no idea that I
was
an old man.
I
might have been a commando.”

“You know, it’s possible—just
possible
—that I could have had a gun. Would you have blown my goddamned head off?”

“A respected attorney coming to the island for the first time, passing through Geneva’s airport security? Where would you get it? Whom would you know on Mykonos?”

“Arrangements could have been made,” protested Converse with little conviction.

“I’ve had you followed since you arrived. You went directly to the bank, then to the Kouneni hotel, where you sat in the garden and had a drink before going to your room. Outside of the taxi driver, my friend Kostas, the desk clerk, and the waiters in the garden, you spoke to no one. As long as you were Joel Converse I was safe.”

“For a product of an ivory tower, you sound more like a hit man from Detroit.”

“I wasn’t always in the academic world, but yes, I’ve been cautious. I think we must all be very cautious. With a George Marcus Delavane it’s the only sound strategy.”