The Aquitaine Progression (17 page)

Those memories belonged to another time, to an uncivilized time, when men became what they were not—in order to survive. Converse never wanted to go back. Above all things, he had promised himself he never would, a promise he made when the terror and the violence were all around him, at their shattering worst. He remembered so vividly, with such pain, the final hours before his last escape—and the quiet, generous man without whom he would have died twenty feet down in the earth, a shaft in the ground designed for troublemakers
.

Colonel Sam Abbott, U.S. Air Force, would always be a part of his life no matter how many years might separate them. At the risk of torture and death, Sam had crawled out at night and had thrown a crudely fashioned metal wedge down the “punishment hole”; it was that primitive tool that allowed Joel to build a crude ladder out of earth and rock and finally to freedom. Abbott and he had spent the last twenty-seven months in the same camp, both officers trying to hold together what sanity there was. But Sam understood the burning inside Joel; the Colonel had stayed behind, and during those final hours before breakout, Joel was wracked by the thoughts of what might happen to his friend
.

“Don’t worry about me, sailor. Just keep your minimum wits about you and get rid of that wedge
.

Take care, Sam
.

You take care. This is the last shot you’ve got
.

I know
.

Joel moved over toward the door and rolled down the window several inches more to increase the rush of wind from the highway. Christ, he needed Sam Abbott’s quiet objectivity now! His lawyer’s mind told him to get hold of himself; he had
to think and his thoughts had to stimulate whatever imagination he had. First things first. Think! The radio—he had to get rid of the radio. But not at the airport—it might be found in the airport; it was evidence, and worse, a means of tracing him. He rolled the window further down and threw it out, his eyes on the rearview mirror above the windshield. The driver glanced up at him, saw the bloody face but showed no alarm; Joel took repeated deep breaths and then rolled the window back up. Think. He had to
think!
Bertholdier expected him to go from Paris to Bonn and when the general’s soldier was found—and he had undoubtedly been found by now—all flights to Bonn would be watched, whether the man was alive or dead.

He would buy a ticket for somewhere else, someplace where connections to Cologne-Bonn were accessible on a regular basis. As the stream of air cooled his face it occurred to him to remove the handkerchief from his breast pocket and wipe away the moist blood that covered his right cheek and lower chin.

“Scandinavian Air Lines,” he said, raising his voice to the driver. “
SAS
. Do you … 
comprends?
”

“Very clearly, monsieur,” said the bereted man behind the wheel in good English. “Do you have a reservation for Stockholm, Oslo, or Copenhagen? They are different gates.”

“I’m … I’m not sure.”

“We have time, monsieur. At least fifteen minutes.”

The voice over the telephone from London was frigid, the words and the delivery an impersonal rebuke. “There is no attorney by that name in Chicago, and certainly not at the address you gave me. In fact, the address does not exist. Do you have something else to offer, or do we put this down as one of your more paranoid fantasies,
mon général?
”

“You are a fool,
l’Anglais
, with no more comprehension than a frightened rabbit. I
heard
what I
heard!
”

“From whom? A nonexistent man?”

“A nonexistent man who has put my aide in a hospital! A fractured skull with a great loss of blood and severe brain damage. He may not live, and if he does, he will no doubt be a vegetable. Speak to me not of fantasies,
daffodil
. The man is real.”

“Are you serious?”

“Call the hospital! L’hôpital Saint-Jérôme. Let the doctors tell you.”

“All right, all right, compose yourself. We must think.”

“I am perfectly composed,” said Bertholdier, getting up from the desk in his study and carrying the phone to the window, the extension cord snaking across the floor. He looked out; it had begun to rain, the street lights diffused in the spattered glass. “He’s on his way to Bonn,” continued the general. “It was his next stop, he was very clear about it.”

“Intercept him. Call Bonn, reach Cologne, give them his description. How many flights can there be from Paris with a lone American on board? Take him at the airport.”

Bertholdier sighed audibly into the phone, his tone one of discouragement bordering on disgust. “It was never my intention to
take
him. It would serve no purpose and probably cut us off from what we have to learn. I want him followed. I want to know where he goes, whom he calls, whom he meets with; these are the things we must learn.”

“You said he made a direct reference to our associate. That he was going to reach him.”

“Not
our
people.
His
people.”

“I’ll say it again,” insisted the voice from London. “Call Cologne, reach Bonn. Listen to me, Jacques, he can be found, and once he is, he can be followed.”

“Yes, yes, I’ll do as you say, but it may not be as easy as you think. Three hours ago I would have thought otherwise, but that was before I knew what he was capable of. Someone who can take another man and rush that man’s head into a stone wall at full force is either an animal, a maniac, or a zealot who will stop at nothing. In my judgment, he is the last. He said he had a commitment—and it was in his eyes. And he’ll be clever; he’s already proven he can be clever.”

“You say
three
hours?”

“Yes.”

“Then he may already
be
in Bonn.”

“I know.”

“Have you called our associate?”

“Yes, he’s not at home and the maid could not give me another number. She doesn’t know where he is, or when he’s expected.”

“Probably in the morning.”

“No doubt.…
Attendez!
There was another man at the club this afternoon. With Luboque and this Simon, whose
name is not Simon. He
brought
him to Luboque! Good-bye,
l’Anglais
. I’ll keep you informed.”

René Mattilon opened his eyes. The streaks of light on the ceiling seemed to shimmer, myriad tiny clots bursting, breaking up the linear patterns. Then he heard the sound of the rain on the windows and understood. The shafts of light from the streetlamps had been intercepted by the glass, distorting the images he knew so well. It was the rain, he concluded; that was what had awakened him. That and perhaps the weight of his wife’s hand between his legs. She stirred and he smiled, trying to make up his mind—or find the energy—to reach for her. She had filled a void for him he had thought would always be there after his first wife died. He was grateful, and along with his feeling of gratitude came excitement, two emotions satisfyingly compatible. He was becoming aroused; he rolled over on his side and pulled down the covers, revealing the swell of her breasts encased in laced silk, the diffused light and the pounding on the windows heightening the sensuality. He reached for her.

Suddenly, there was another sound besides the rain, and though still wrapped in the mists of sleep he recognized it. Quickly he withdrew his hand and turned away from his wife. He had heard that noise only moments before;
it
was the sound that had awakened him, an insistent tone that had broken the steady rhythm of the downpour: the chimes of his apartment doorbell.

Mattilon climbed out of bed as carefully as he could, reaching for his bathrobe on a nearby chair and sliding his feet into his slippers. He walked out of the bedroom, closing the door quietly behind him, and found the wall switch that turned on the lamps in the living room. He glanced at the ornate clock on the fireplace mantel; it was nearly two-thirty in the morning. Who could possibly be calling on them at this hour? He tied the sash around his robe and walked to the door.

“Yes, who is it?”

“Sûreté, monsieur. Inspector Prudhomme. My state identification is zero-five-seven-two-zero.” The man’s accent was Gascon, not Parisian. It was often said that Gascons made the best police officials. “I shall wait while you call my station, monsieur. The telephone number is—”

“No need,” said Mattilon, alarmed, unlatching the door.
He knew the man was genuine not only from the information offered, but anyone from the Sûreté calling on him at this hour would know he was an attorney. The Sûreté was legally circumspect.

There were two men, both in raincoats spotted by the downpour, their hats drenched; one was older than the other and shorter. Each held out an open identification card for René’s inspection. He waved the cards aside and gestured for the two men to come in, adding, “It’s an odd time for visitors, gentlemen. You must have pressing business.”

“Very pressing, monsieur,” said the older man, entering first. He was the one who had spoken through the door, giving his name as Prudhomme, and was obviously the senior. “We apologize for the inconvenience, of course.” Both men removed their hats.

“Of course. May I take your coats?”

“It won’t be necessary, monsieur. With your cooperation we’ll only be a few minutes.”

“And I shall be most interested to know how I can cooperate with the Sûreté at this time of night.”

“A matter of identification, sir. Monsieur Serge Antoine Luboque is a client of yours, we are informed. Is this so?”

“My God, has something happened to Serge? I was with him only this afternoon!”

“Monsieur Luboque appears to be in excellent health. We left his country house barely an hour ago. And to the point, it is your meeting with him this afternoon—
yesterday
afternoon—that concerns the Sûreté.”

“In what way?”

“There was a third party at your table. Like yourself, an attorney, introduced to Monsieur Luboque—a man named Simon. Henry Simon, an American.”

“And a pilot,” said Mattilon warily. “With considerable expertise in aircraft litigation. I trust Luboque explained that; it was the reason he was there at my request. Monsieur Luboque is the plaintiff in just such a lawsuit. That, of course, is all I can say on the subject.”

“It is not the subject that interests the Sûreté.”

“What is, then?”

“There is no attorney by the name of Henry Simon in the city of Chicago, Illinois, in the United States.”

“I find that hard to believe.”

“The name is false. At least, it is not his. The address he gave the hotel does not exist.”

“The address he
gave
the hotel?” asked René, astonished. Joel did not have to give an address to the George V—it knew him well, knew the firm of Talbot, Brooks and Simon very well, indeed.

“In his own handwriting, monsieur,” added the younger man stiffly.

“Has the hotel management confirmed this?”

“Yes,” said Prudhomme. “The night concierge was very cooperative. He told us he escorted Monsieur Simon down the freight elevator to the hotel cellars.”

“The cellars?”

“Monsieur Simon wished to leave the hotel without being seen. He paid his bill in his room.”

“A minute, please,” said Mattilon, perplexed, his hands protesting, as he turned and walked aimlessly around an arm-chair. He stopped, his hands on the rim. “What
precisely
do you want from me?”

“We want you to help us,” answered Prudhomme. “We think you know who he is. You brought him to Monsieur Luboque.”

“On a confidential matter entailing a legal opinion. He agreed to listen and to evaluate on the condition that his identity be protected. It’s not unusual when seeking expertise if one is involved with, shall we say, an individual as wealthy and as temperamental as Monsieur Luboque. You’ve spoken with him; need I say more?”

“Not on that subject,” said the older man from the Sûreté, permitting himself a smile. “He thinks all government personnel work for Moscow. We were surrounded by dogs in his foyer, all salivating, I might add.”

“Then you can understand why my American colleague prefers to remain unnamed. I know him well, he’s a splendid man.”

“Who is he? And do you know where we can find him?”

“Why do you want him?”

“We wish to question him about an incident that took place at the hotel.”

“I’m sorry. As Luboque is a client, so by extension is Simon.”

“That is not acceptable to us under the circumstances, monsieur.”

“I’m afraid it will have to be, at least for a few hours. Tomorrow I shall try to reach him through his office in … in the United States, and I’m sure he’ll get in touch with you immediately.”

“We don’t think he will.”

“Why not?”

Prudhomme glanced at his starchly postured associate and shrugged. “He may have killed a man,” he said matter-of-factly.

Mattilon stared at the Sûreté officer in disbelief. “He … 
what?
”

“It was a particularly vicious assault, monsieur. A man’s head was rammed into a wall; there are extensive cranial injuries and the prognosis is not good. His condition as of midnight was critical, the chances of recovery less than half. He may be dead by now, which one doctor said could be a blessing.”

“No … 
no!
You are mistaken! You’re wrong!” The lawyer’s hands gripped the back of the chair. “A terrible error has been made!”

“No error. The identification was positive—that is, Monsieur
Simon
was identified as the last person seen with the man who was beaten. He forced the man out into an alley; there were sounds of scuffling and minutes later that man was found, his skull fractured, bleeding, near death.”

“Impossible! You don’t
know
him! What you suggest is inconceivable. He
couldn’t
.”

“Are you telling us he is disabled, physically incapable of assault?”

“No,” said Mattilon, shaking his head. Then suddenly he stopped all movement.
“Yes,”
he continued thoughtfully, his eyes pensive, now nodding, rushing ahead. “He’s incapable, yes, but not physically.
Mentally
. In that sense he is disabled. He could not do what you say he did.”