The Aquitaine Progression (12 page)

Converse rubbed his eyes and rang for a drink. While waiting for the Scotch he scanned the next few paragraphs, his memory of the man now jogged; the information was familiar history and not terribly relevant. Bertholdier’s name had been put forward by several ultraconservative factions, hoping to pull him out of the military into the political wars, but nothing had come of the attempts. The ultimate summons had passed him by; it never came. Currently, as a director of a large firm on the Paris stock exchange, he is basically a figurehead capable of impressing the wealthy and keeping the socialistically inclined at bay by the sheer weight of his own legend.

Joel smiled; the editor of the report was not without humor. Still, something was missing. His lawyer’s mind looked for the lapse that was not explained. What was the signal Bertholdier had not been given at Dienbienphu? What had the imperious De Gaulle said to the rebellious officer, and what had the rebel said to the great man? Why was he consistently accommodated—but only accommodated—never summoned to power? An Alexander had been primed, forgiven, elevated, then dropped? There was a message buried in these pages, but Joel could not find it.

Converse reached what the writer of the report considered relevant only in that it completed the portrait, adding little, however, to previous information.

On that compelling note the report was finished. It was a dossier that raised more questions than it answered. In broad strokes it described the whats and the hows but few of the whys; these were buried, and only imaginative speculation could unearth even the probabilities. But there were
enough concrete facts to operate on. Joel glanced at his watch; an hour had passed. He had two more to reread, think, and absorb as much as possible. He had already made up his mind about whom he would contact in Paris.

Not only was René Mattilon an astute lawyer frequently called upon by Talbot, Brooks and Simon when they needed representation in the French courts, but he was also a friend. Although he was older than Joel by a decade, their friendship was rooted in a common experience, common in the sense of global geography, futility and waste. Thirty years ago Mattilon was a young attorney in his twenties conscripted by his government and sent to French Indochina as a legal officer. He witnessed the inevitable and could never understand why it cost so much for his proud, intractable nation to perceive it. Too, he could be scathing in his comments about the subsequent American involvement.

“
Mon Dieu!
You thought you could do with arms what we could not do with arms
and
brains?
Déraisonnable!
”

It had become standard that whenever Mattilon flew to New York or Joel to Paris they found time for dinner and drinks. Also, the Frenchman was amazingly tolerant of Converse’s linguistic limitations; Joel simply could not learn another language. Even Val’s patient tutoring had fallen on deaf and dead ears and an unreceptive brain. For four years his ex-wife, whose father was French and whose mother was German, tried to teach him the simplest phrases but found him hopeless.

“How the hell can you call yourself an international lawyer when you can’t be understood beyond Sandy Hook?” she had asked.

“Hire interpreters trained by Swiss banks and put them on a point system,” he had replied. “They won’t miss a trick.”

Whenever he came to Paris, he stayed in a suite of two rooms at the opulent George V Hotel, an indulgence permitted by Talbot, Brooks and Simon, he had assumed, more to impress clients than to satisfy a balance sheet. The assumption was only half right, as Nathan Simon had made clear.

“You have a fancy sitting room,” Nate had told him in his sepulchral voice. “Use it for conferences and you can avoid those ridiculously expensive French lunches and—God forbid—the dinners.”

“Suppose they want to eat?”

“You have another appointment. Wink and say it’s personal; no one in Paris will argue.”

The impressive address could serve him now, mused Converse, as the taxi weaved maniacally through the midafternoon traffic on the Champs-Elysées toward the Avenue George V. If he made any progress—and he intended to make progress—with men around Bertholdier or Bertholdier himself, the expensive hotel would fit the image of an unknown client who had sent his personal attorney on a very confidential search. Of course, he had no reservation, an oversight to be blamed on a substituting secretary.

He was greeted warmly by the assistant manager, albeit with surprise and finally apologies. No telexed request for reservations had come from Talbot, Brooks and Simon in New York, but naturally, accommodations would be found for an old friend. They were; the standard two-room suite on the second floor, and before Joel could unpack, a steward brought a bottle of the Scotch whisky he preferred, substituting it for the existing brand on the dry bar. He had forgotten the accuracy of the copious notes such hotels kept on repeating guests. Second floor, the right whisky, and no doubt during the evening he would be reminded that he usually requested a wake-up call for seven o’clock in the morning. It would be the same.

But it was close to five o’clock in the afternoon now. If he was going to reach Mattilon before the lawyer left his office for the day, he had to do so quickly. If René could have drinks with him, it would be a start. Either Mattilon was his man or he was not, and the thought of losing even an hour of any kind of progress was disturbing. He reached for the Paris directory on a shelf beneath the phone on the bedside table; he looked up the firm’s number and dialed.

“Good Christ, Joel!” exclaimed the Frenchman. “I read about that terrible business in Geneva! It was in the morning papers and I tried to call you—Le Richemond, of course—but they said you’d checked out. Are you all right?”

“I’m fine. I was just there, that’s all.”

“He was American. Did you know him?”

“Only across a table. By the way, that crap about his having something to do with narcotics was just that. Crap. He was cornered, robbed, shot and set up for postmortem confusion.”

“And an overzealous official leaped at the obvious, trying to protect his city’s image. I know; it was made clear.… It’s all so horrible. Crime, killing, terrorism; it spreads everywhere. Less so here in Paris, thank God.”

“You don’t need muggers, the taxi drivers more than fill the bill. Except nastier, maybe.”

“You are, as always,
impossible
, my friend! When can we get together?”

Converse paused. “I was hoping tonight. After you left the office.”

“It’s very short notice,
mon ami
. I wish you had called before.”

“I just got in ten minutes ago.”

“But you left Geneva—”

“I had business in Athens,” interrupted Joel.

“Ah, yes, the money flees from the Greeks these days. Precipitously, I think. Just as it was here.”

“How about drinks, René. It’s important.”

It was Mattilon’s turn to pause; it was obvious he had caught the trace of urgency in Converse’s brevity, in his voice. “Of course,” said the Frenchman. “You’re at the George Cinq, I assume?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll be there as soon as I can. Say, forty-five minutes.”

“Thanks very much. I’ll get a couple of chairs in the gallery.”

“I’ll find you.”

That area of the immense marble-arched lobby outside the tinted glass doors of the George V bar is known informally as the “gallery” by habitués, its name derived from the fact that there is an art gallery narrowly enclosed within a corridor of clear glass on the left. However, just as reasonably, the name fits the luxurious room itself. The deeply cushioned cut-velvet chairs, settees, and polished low, dark tables that line the marble walls are beneath works of art—mammoth tapestries from long-forgotten châteaux and huge heroic canvases by artists, both old and new. And the smooth stone of the floor is covered with giant Oriental rugs, while affixed to the high ceiling are a series of intricate chandeliers, throwing soft light through filigrees of lacelike gold.

Quiet conversations take place between men and women of wealth and power at these upholstered enclaves, in calculated
shadows under spotlit paintings and woven cloth from centuries ago. Frequently they are opening dialogues, testing questions that as often as not are resolved in boardrooms peopled by chairmen and presidents, treasurers, and prides of lawyers. The movers and the shakers feel comfortable with the initial informality—the uncommitted explorations—of first meetings in this very formal room. The ceremonial environs somehow lend an air of ritualized disbelief; denials are not hard to come by later. The gallery also lives up to the implications of its name: within the fraternity of those who have achieved success on the international scene, it is said that if any of its members spend a certain length of time there, sooner or later he will run into almost everyone he knows. Therefore, if one does not care to be seen, he should go somewhere else.

The room was filling up, and waiters moved away from the raucous bar to take orders at the tables, knowing where the real money was. Converse found two chairs at the far end, where the dim light was even more subdued. He looked at his watch and was barely able to read it. Forty minutes had passed since his call to René, a shower taking up the time as it washed away the sweat-stained dirt of his all-day journey from Mykonos. Placing his cigarettes and lighter on the table, he ordered a drink from an alert waiter, his eyes on the marble entrance to the room.

Twelve minutes later he saw him. Mattilon walked energetically out of the harsh glare of the street lobby into the soft light of the gallery. He stopped for a moment, squinting, then nodded. He started down the center of the carpeted floor, his eyes leveled at Joel from a distance, a broad, genuine smile on his face. René Mattilon was in his mid to late fifties, but his stride, like his outlook, was that of a younger man. There was about him that aura peculiar to successful trial lawyers; his confidence was apparent because it was the essence of his success, yet it was born of diligence, not merely ego and performance. He was the secure actor comfortable in his role, his graying hair and blunt, masculine features all part of a calculated effect. Beyond that appearance, however, there was also something else, thought Joel, as he rose from his chair. René was a thoroughly decent man; it was a disarming conclusion. God knew they both had their flaws, but they were both decent men; perhaps that was why they enjoyed each other’s company.

A firm handshake preceded a brief embrace. The Frenchman sat down across from Converse as Joel signaled an attentive waiter. “Order in French,” Joel said. “I’d end up getting you a hot fudge sundae.”

“This man speaks better English than either of us. Campari and ice, please.”

“
Merci, monsieur
.” The waiter left.

“Thanks again for coming over,” said Converse. “I mean it.”

“I’m sure you do.… You look well, Joel, tired but well. That shocking business in Geneva must give you nightmares.”

“Not really. I told you, I was simply there.”

“Still, it might have been
you
. The newspapers said he died while you held his head.”

“I was the first one to reach him.”

“How horrible.”

“I’ve seen it happen before, René,” said Converse quietly, no comment in his voice.

“Yes, of course. You were better prepared than most, I imagine.”

“I don’t think anyone’s ever prepared.… But it’s over. How about you? How are things?”

Mattilon shook his head, pinching his rugged, weather-beaten features into a sudden look of exasperation. “France is madness, of course, but we survive. For months and months now, there are more plans than are stored in an architect’s library, but the planners keep colliding with each other in government hallways. The courts are full, business thrives.”

“I’m glad to hear it.” The waiter returned with the Campari; both men nodded to him, and then Mattilon fixed his eyes on Joel. “No, I really am,” Converse continued as the waiter walked away. “You hear so many stories.”

“Is that why you’re in Paris?” The Frenchman studied Joel. “Because of the stories of our so-called upheavals? They’re not so earthshaking, you know, not so different from before. Not
yet
. Most private industry here was publicly financed through the government. But, naturally, not managed by government incompetents, and for that we pay. Is that what’s bothering you, or more to the point, your clients?”

Converse drank. “No, that’s not why I’m here. It’s something else.”