The Aquitaine Progression (46 page)

“Dunstone,” he said, then continued in German, “He’s a guest. Philip Dunstone. He’s the senior aide to—to a General Berkeley-Greene. They’re English.”

“English? There are no Englishmen here, sir. There’s no one here—that is to say, there are no guests.”

“He was there last night! They both were. I
spoke
with Major Dunstone.”

“The general had a small dinner party for a few friends, but no English people, sir.”

“Look, I’m trying to reach a man named Converse.”

“Oh, yes, Mr. Converse.
He
was here, sir.”

“Was?”

“I believe he left.”

“Where’s
Leifhelm
?” shouted Connal.

There was a pause before the German replied coldly, “Who should I say is calling
General
Leifhelm?”

“Fitzpatrick. Lieutenant Commander Fitzpatrick!”

“I believe he’s in the dining room. If you’ll stay on the telephone.” The line was put on hold; the suspended silence was unnerving.

Finally there was a click and Leifhelm’s voice reverberated over the phone. “Good morning, Commander. Bonn has provided a lovely day, no? The Seven Mountains are as clear as in a picture postcard. I believe you can see them—”

“Where’s Converse?” interrupted the Navy lawyer.

“I would assume at Das Rektorat.”

“He was supposed to be staying at your place.”

“No such arrangements were made. They were neither requested nor offered. He left rather late, but he did leave, Commander. My car drove him back.”

“That’s not what I was told! A Major Dunstone called me around two this morning—”

“I believe Mr. Converse left shortly before then.…
Who
did you say called?”

“Dunstone. A Major Philip Dunstone. He’s English. He said he was the senior aide to General Berkeley-Greene.”

“I don’t know this Major Dunstone; there was no such person here. However, I’m familiar with just about every general officer in the British Army and I’ve never heard of anyone named Berkeley-Greene.”

“Stow it, Leifhelm!”

“I beg your pardon.”

“I
spoke
to Dunstone! He—he said the right words. He said Converse was staying at your place—with the
others
!”

“I think you should have spoken directly with Herr Converse, because there was no Major Dunstone or General Berkeley-Greene at my home last night. Perhaps you should check with the British embassy; certainly they’d know if these people were in Bonn. Perhaps you heard the words incorrectly; perhaps they met later at a café.”

“I
couldn’t
speak to him! Dunstone said you were out on the river in a boat.” Fitzpatrick’s breath was now coming in short gasps.

“Now, that’s ridiculous, Commander. It’s true I keep a small launch for guests, but it’s a well-known fact that I am not partial to the water.” The general paused, adding with a short laugh. “The great field marshal gets seasick in a flatboat six feet from shore.”

“You’re
lying
!”

“I resent that, sir. Especially about the water. I never feared the Russian front, only the Black Sea. And if we had invaded England, I assure you I would have crossed the Channel in a plane.” The German was toying with him; he was enjoying himself.

“You know exactly what I mean!” Connal shouted again. “They said Converse checked out of here at three-thirty this morning! I say he never came
back
!”

“And I say this conversation is pointless. If you are truly alarmed, call me back when you can be civil. I have friends in the Staatspolizei.” Again a click; the German had hung up.

As Fitzpatrick replaced the phone another thought suddenly struck him. Frightened, he walked quickly into the bedroom, his eyes instantly zeroing in on the attaché case. It was partly under the pillow; oh
God
, he had been in such a sound sleep! He yanked the case out and examined it. Breathing again, he saw that it was the same case, the combination locks secure; no amount of pressure on the small brass buttons would release the plates. He lifted the case and shook it; the weight and the sounds were proof that the papers were inside and intact, proof also that Converse had not returned to the inn and checked out. All other considerations aside and regardless of whatever emergencies that might have arisen, he would never have left without the dossiers and the list of names.

Connal carried the case back into the sitting room trying
to collect his thoughts, putting them in alphabetical sequence so as to impose some kind of order.
A:
He had to assume that the flag on Joel’s service record had been lifted or the damaging information unearthed in some other way and that Converse was now being held by Leifhelm and the contingent from Aquitaine that had flown in from Paris, Tel Aviv and Johannesburg.
B:
They would not kill him until they had used every means possible to find out what he knew—which was far less than they imagined and could take several days.
C:
The Leifhelm estate, according to his dossier, was a fortress; thus the chances of going in and bringing Converse out were nil.
D:
Fitzpatrick knew he could not appeal to the American embassy. To begin with, Walter Peregrine would place him under territory arrest and those doing the arresting might put a bullet in his head. One had tried.
E:
He could not risk seeking help from Hickman in San Diego, which under different circumstances might be a logical course of action. Everything in the admiral’s makeup ruled out any connection with Aquitaine; he was a fiercely independent officer whose conversations were laced with barbed remarks about the Pentagon’s policies and mentality. But if that flag had been officially released—whether with his consent or over his objections—Hickman would have no choice but to call him back to the base for a full inquiry. Any contact at all could result in the immediate cancellation of his leave, but if there was no contact and no way to reach him, the order, obviously, could not be given.

Connal sat down on the couch, the attaché case at his feet, and picked up a pencil; he wrote out two words on the telephone message pad:
Call Meagen
. He would tell his sister to say that after Press’s funeral he had left for parts unknown without explanation. It was consistent with what he had said to the admiral, that he was taking his information to “the authorities” investigating Preston Halliday’s death.

F:
He could go to the Bonn police and tell them the truth. He had every reason to believe that an American colleague was being held against his will inside the gates of General Erich Leifhelm’s estate. Then, of course, the inevitable question would arise: Why didn’t the Lieutenant Commander contact the American embassy? The unspoken would be just below the surface: General Leifhelm was a prominent figure, and such a serious charge should have diplomatic support. The embassy again. Strike out. Then again, if Leifhelm said
he had “friends” in the Staatspolizei, he probably owned key men in the Bonn Police. If he was alarmed, Converse could be moved. Or killed.
G:
… was insane, thought the Navy lawyer as a legal phrase crept slowly into his consciousness, suddenly taking on a blurred viability.
Trade-off
. It was a daily occurrence in pretrial examinations, both civilian and military.
We’ll drop this if you accept that. We’ll stay out of this area if you stay out of that one
. Standard practice. Trade-off. Was it possible? Could it even be considered? It was crazy and it was desperate, but then nothing was sane, nothing held much hope. Since force was out of the question, could an exchange be made? Leifhelm for Converse. A general for a lieutenant.

Connal did not dare analyze; there were too many negatives. He had to act on instinct because there was nothing else left, nowhere he could turn that did not lead to a blank wall or a bullet. He got up from the couch, went to the table with the telephone and and reached for the directory on the floor. What he had in mind was insane, but he could not think about that. He found the name.
Fishbein, Ilse
. The illegitimate daughter of Hermann Göring.

The rendezvous was set: a back table at the Hansa-Keller café on the Kaiserplatz, the reservation in the name of Parnell. Fitzpatrick had had the presence of mind in California to pack a conservative civilian suit; he wore it now as the American attorney, Mr. Parnell, who was fluent in German and sent by his firm in Milwaukee, Wisconsin, to make contact with one Ilse Fishbein in Bonn, West Germany. He also had the presence of mind in Bonn, West Germany, to have managed a single room at the Schlosspark on the Venusbergweg and placed Converse’s attaché case where it would be safe for a considerable length of time, a trail left for Converse should everything blow apart. A trail he would recognize—if Joel was alive and able to hunt.

Connal arrived ten minutes early, not merely to secure the table but to familiarize himself with the surroundings and silently practice his approach. He had done the same thing many times before, walking into military courtrooms before a trial, testing the chairs, the height of the tables, the scan of vision of the tribunal on the dais. It all helped.

He knew it was she when the woman arrived and spoke to the maître d’ at his lectern. She was tall and heavy, not
obese but fleshy in a statuesque way, conscious of her mature sensuality but smart enough not to parade it. She was dressed in a light-gray summer suit, the jacket buttoned above her generous breasts, a wide white collar demurely angled over the fabric. Her face, too, was full but not soft, the high cheekbones lending an appearance of character that might not otherwise have been there; her hair was dark and shoulder-length, with slight streaks of premature gray. She was escorted to the table by the dining room’s captain. Fitzpatrick rose as she approached.

“Guten Tag, Frau Fishbein
,” he śaid, extending his hand.
“Bitte, setzen Sie sich
.”

“It’s not necessary for you to speak German, Herr Parnell,” said the woman, releasing his hand and sliding into the chair under the guidance of the captain, who bowed and left. “I make my living as a translator.”

“Whatever you feel most comfortable with,” said Connal.

“I think under the circumstances I should prefer English, and spoken softly, if you please. Now, what is this incredible thing you alluded to over the telephone, Mr. Parnell?”

“Quite simply an inheritance, Mrs. Fishbein,” replied Fitzpatrick, his expression sincere, his eyes steady. “If a few technical questions can be settled, and I’m sure they can be, as a rightful legatee you will receive a substantial sum of money.”

“From someone in America I never knew?”

“He—knew your father.”

“I did not,” said Ilse Fishbein quickly, her eyes darting about at the adjacent tables. “Who is this man?”

“He was a member of your father’s staff during the war,” answered Connal, lowering his voice still further. “With your father’s help—certain contacts in Holland—he got out of Germany before the Nuremberg trials with a great deal of money. He came to the United States by way of London, his funds intact, and started a business in the Midwest. It became enormously successful. He died recently, leaving sealed instructions with my firm, his attorneys.”

“But why me?”

“A debt. Without your father’s influence and assistance our client would probably have withered for years in jail instead of flourishing as he did in America. As far as anyone was concerned, he was a Dutch immigrant from the Netherlands whose family business was destroyed in the war and who
sought his future in America. That future included considerable real estate holdings and a very successful meat-packing plant—all in the process of being sold. Your inheritance is in excess of two million American dollars. Would you care for an aperitif, Mrs. Fishbein?”

The woman could not at first reply. Her eyes had grown wide, her full jaw slackened, her stare was trancelike. “I believe I will, Herr Parnell,” she said in a monotone, finding her voice. “A large whisky, if you please.”

Fitzpatrick signaled the waiter, ordered drinks and tried several times to make idle conversation, commenting on the beautiful weather and asking what sites he should see while in Bonn. It was no use. Ilse Fishbein was as close to being in a catatonic state as Connal could imagine. She had gripped his wrist, clutching it in silence with extremely strong fingers, her lips parted, her eyes two blank glass orbs. The drinks came, the waiter left, and still she would not let go of him. Instead, she drank somewhat awkwardly, lifting the glass with her left hand.

“What are these questions to be settled? Ask anything,
demand
anything. Do you have a place to stay? Things are so crowded in Bonn.”

“You’re very kind; yes, I do. Try to understand, Mrs. Fishbein, this is an extremely sensitive matter for my firm. As you can well imagine, it’s not the sort of legal work American attorneys are too happy with, and, frankly, had our client not made certain provisos connecting the successful completion of this aspect of his last will and testament to the full execution of other aspects, we might have—”

“The questions! What are the
questions
?”

Fitzpatrick paused before answering, the thoughtful lawyer permitting the interruption but still intent on making his point. “Everything will be handled confidentially, the probate court operating
in camera
—”

“With
photographs
?”

“In private, Mrs. Fishbein. For the good of the community, in exchange for specific state and local taxes that might not be paid in the event of confiscation. You see, the higher courts might decide the entire estate is open to question.”

“Yes, the questions! What
are
they?”

“Really quite simple. I’ve prepared certain statements, which you will sign and to which I can swear to your signature. They establish your bloodline. Then there is a short deposition
required substantiating the claim. We need only one, but it must be given by a former high-ranking member of the German forces, preferably a man whose name is recognizable, whom the recent history books or war accounts establish as a working colleague of your natural father. Of course, it would be advantageous to have someone known to the American military in the event the judge decides to call the Pentagon and ask ‘Who is this fellow?’ ”