The Aquitaine Progression (6 page)

Heads turned again, now in the opposite direction toward the figure by the window. There was no response. Converse continued to stare down at the lake.

“Monsieur
Converse?
”

“I beg your pardon?” Joel turned, a frown creasing his brow, his thoughts far away, nowhere near Geneva.

“It is so, monsieur?”

“What was the question?”

“You met earlier with Monsieur Halliday?”

Converse paused. “It is so,” he replied.

“
And?
”

“And—he agreed to the final disposition of the Class A stock.”

There was an audible expression of relief on the part of the Americans and a silent acceptance from the Bern contingent, their eyes noncommittal. Neither reaction was lost on Joel, and under different circumstances he might have tabled
the item for additional consideration. Halliday’s judgment of Bern’s advantage notwithstanding, the acceptance was too easily achieved; he would have postponed it anyway, at least for an hour’s worth of analysis. Somehow it did not matter.
Goddamn him!
thought Converse.

“Then let us proceed as Monsieur Halliday suggested,” said the
arbitre
, glancing at his watch.

An hour stretched into two, then three, the hum of voices mingling in counterpoint as pages were passed back and forth, points clarified, paragraphs initialed. And still Halliday did not appear. Lamps were turned on as darkness filled the midday sky outside the huge windows; there was talk of the approaching storm.

Then, suddenly, screams came from beyond the thick oak door of the conference room, swelling in volume until images of horror filled the minds of all who heard the prolonged terrible sounds. Some around the enormous table lunged under it, others got out of their chairs and stood in shock, and a few rushed to the door, among them Converse. The
arbitre
twisted the knob and yanked it back with such force that the door crashed into the wall. What they saw was a sight none of them would ever forget. Joel lashed out, gripping, pulling, pushing away those in front of him as he raced into the anteroom.

He saw Avery Fowler, his white shirt covered with blood, his chest a mass of tiny, bleeding holes. As the wounded man fell, his upturned collar separated to reveal more blood on his throat. The expulsions of breath were too well known to Joel; he had held the heads of children in the camps as they had wept in anger and the ultimate fear. He held Avery Fowler’s head now, lowering him to the floor.

“My God, what
happened?
” cried Converse, cradling the dying man in his arms.

“They’re … back,” coughed the classmate from long ago. “The elevator. They trapped me in the elevator!… They said it was for Aquitaine, that was the name they used … 
Aquitaine
. Oh, Christ! Meg … the
kids!
” Avery Fowler’s head twisted spastically into his right shoulder, then the final expulsion of air came from his bloodied throat.

Converse stood in the rain, his clothes drenched, staring at the unseen place on the water where only an hour ago the
fountain had shot up to the sky proclaiming
this
was Geneva. The lake was angry, an infinity of whitecaps had replaced the graceful white sails. There were no reflections anywhere. But there was distant thunder from the north. From the Alps.

And Joel’s mind was frozen.

He walked past the long marble counter of the hotel Richemond’s front desk and headed for the winding staircase on the left. It was habit; his suite was on the second floor and the brass-grilled elevators with their wine-colored velvet interiors were things of beauty, but not of swiftness. Too, he enjoyed passing the casement displays of outrageously priced, brilliantly lit jewels that lined the walls of the elegant staircase—shimmering diamonds, blood-red rubies, webbed necklaces of spun gold. Somehow they reminded him of change, of extraordinary change. For him. For a life he had thought would end violently, thousands of miles away in a dozen different yet always the same rat-infested cells, with muted gunfire and the screams of children in the dark distance. Diamonds, rubies, and spun gold were symbols of the unattainable and unrealistic, but they were there, and he passed them, observed them, smiling at their existence … and they seemed to acknowledge him, large shining eyes of infinite depth staring back, telling him they were there,
he
was there. Change.

But he did not see them now, nor did they acknowledge him. He saw nothing, felt nothing; every tentacle of his mind and body was numbed, suspended in airless space. A man he had known as a boy under one name had died in his arms years later under another, and the words he had whispered at the brutal moment of death were as incomprehensible as they were paralyzing.
Aquitaine. They said it was for Aquitaine
.… Where was sanity, where was reason? What did the words mean and why had he been drawn into that elusive meaning? He
had
been drawn in, he knew, and there was reason
in that terrible manipulation. The magnet was a name, a man. George Marcus Delavane, warlord of Saigon.

“Monsieur!” The suppressed shout came from below; he turned on the stairs and saw the formally attired concierge rushing across the lobby and up the steps. The man’s name was Henri, and they had known each other for nearly five years. Their friendship went beyond that of hotel executive and hotel guest; they had gambled together frequently at Divonne-les-bains, across the French border.

“Hello, Henri.”

“
Mon Dieu
, are you all right, Joel? Your office in New York has been calling you repeatedly. I heard it on the radio, it is all over Geneva!
La drogue!
Drugs, crime, guns … 
murder!
It touches even us now!”

“Is that what they say?”

“They say small packages of cocaine were found under his shirt, a respected
avocat international
a suspected connection—”

“It’s a lie,” Converse broke in.

“It’s what they say, what can I tell you? Your name was mentioned; it was reported that he died as you reached him.… You were not implicated, of course; you were merely there with the others. I heard your name and I’ve been worried sick! Where have you
been?
”

“Answering a lot of unanswerable questions down at police headquarters.”
Questions that were answerable, but not by him, not to the authorities in Geneva. Avery Fowler—Preston Halliday—deserved better than that. A trust had been given, and been accepted in death
.

“Christ, you’re drenched!” cried Henri, intense concern in his eyes. “You’ve been walking in the rain, haven’t you? There were no taxis?”

“I didn’t look, I wanted to walk.”

“Of course, the shock, I understand. I’ll send up some brandy, some decent Armagnac. And dinner, perhaps I’ll release your table at the Gentilshommes.”

“Thanks. Give me thirty minutes and have your switchboard get New York for me, will you? I never seem to dial it right.”

“Joel?”

“What?”

“Can I help? Is there something you should tell me? We have won and lost together over too many
grand cru
bottles
for you to go alone when you don’t have to. I know Geneva, my friend.”

Converse looked into the wide brown eyes, at the lined face, rigid in its concern. “Why do you say that?”

“Because you so quickly denied the police reports of cocaine, what else? I watched you. There was more in what you said than what you said.”

Joel blinked, and for a moment shut his eyelids tight, the strain in the middle of his forehead acute. He took a deep breath and replied. “Do me a favor, Henri, and don’t speculate. Just get me an overseas line in a half-hour, okay?”

“
Entendu, monsieur
,” said the Frenchman. “
Le concierge du Richemond
is here only to serve her guests, special guests accorded special service, of course.… I’m here if you need me, my friend.”

“I know that. If I turn a wrong card, I’ll let you know.”

“If you have to turn
any
card in Switzerland, call me. The suits vary with the players.”

“I’ll remember that. Thirty minutes? A line?”

“
Certainement, monsieur
.”

The shower was as hot as his skin could tolerate, the steam filling his lungs, cutting short the breath in his throat. He then forced himself to endure an ice-cold spray until his head shivered. He reasoned that the shock of extremes might clear his mind, at least reduce the numbness. He had to think; he had to decide; he had to listen.

He came out of the bathroom, his white terrycloth robe blotting the residue of the shower, and shoved his feet into a pair of slippers on the floor beside the bed. He removed his cigarettes and lighter from the bureau top, and walked into the sitting room. The concerned Henri had been true to his word; on the coffee table a floor steward had placed a bottle of expensive Armagnac and two glasses for appearance, not function. He sat down on the soft, pillowed couch, poured himself a drink, and lighted a cigarette. Outside, the heavy August rain pounded the casement windows, the tattoo harsh and unrelenting. He looked at his watch; it was a few minutes past six—shortly past noon in New York. Joel wondered if Henri had been able to get a clear transatlantic line. The lawyer in Converse wanted to hear the words spoken from New York, words that would either confirm or deny a dead man’s revelation. It had been twenty-five minutes since Henri had
stopped him on the staircase; he would wait another five and call the switchboard.

The telephone rang, the blaring, vibrating European bell unnerving him. He reached for the phone on the table next to the couch; his breath was short and his hand trembled. “Yes? Hello?”

“New York calling, monsieur,” said the hotel operator. “It’s your office. Should I cancel the call listed for six-fifteen?”

“Yes, please. And thank you.”

“Mr.
Converse?
” The intense, high-pitched voice belonged to Lawrence Talbot’s secretary.

“Hello, Jane.”

“Good God, we’ve been trying to reach you since ten o’clock! Are you all
right?
We heard the news then, around ten. It’s all so horrible!”

“I’m fine, Jane. Thanks for your concern.”

“Mr. Talbot’s beside himself. He can’t
believe
it!”

“Don’t believe what they’re saying about Halliday. It’s not true. May I speak with Larry, please?”

“If he knew you were on the phone talking to me, I’d be fired.”

“No, you wouldn’t. Who’d write his letters?”

The secretary paused briefly, her voice calmer when she spoke. “Oh, God, Joel, you’re the end. After what you’ve been through, you still find something funny to say.”

“It’s easier, Jane. Let me have Bubba, will you?”

“You
are
the limit!”

Lawrence Talbot, senior partner of Talbot, Brooks and Simon, was a perfectly competent attorney, but his rise in law was as much due to his having been one of the few all-American football players from Yale as from any prowess in the courtroom. He was also a very decent human being, more of a coordinating coach than the driving force of a conservative yet highly competitive law firm. He was also eminently fair and fair-minded; he kept his word. He was one of the reasons Joel had joined the firm; another was Nathan Simon, a giant both of a man and of an attorney. Converse had learned more about the law from Nate Simon than from any other lawyer or professor he had ever met. He felt closest to Nathan, yet Simon was the most difficult to get close to; one approached this uniquely private man with equal parts of fondness and reserve.

Lawrence Talbot burst over the phone. “Good
Lord
, I’m appalled! What can I
say
? What can I
do?
”

“To begin with, strike that horseshit about Halliday. He was no more a drug connection than Nate Simon.”

“You haven’t heard, then? They’ve backed off on that. The story now is violent robbery; he resisted and the packets were stuffed under his shirt after they shot him. I think Jack Halliday must have burned the wires from San Francisco, threatened to beat the crap out of the whole Swiss government.… He played for Stanford, you know.”

“You’re too much, Bubba.”

“I never thought I’d enjoy hearing that from you, young man. I do now.”

“Young man and not so young, Larry. Clear something up for me, will you?”

“Whatever I can.”

“Anstett. Lucas Anstett.”

“We talked. Nathan and I listened, and he was most persuasive. We understand.”

“
Do
you?”

“Not the particulars certainly; he wouldn’t elaborate. But we think you’re the best in the field, and granting his request wasn’t difficult. T., B. and S.
has
the best, and when a judge like Anstett confirms it through such a conversation, we have to congratulate ourselves, don’t we?”

“Are you doing it because of his bench?”

“Christ,
no
. He even told us he’d be harder on us in Appeals if we agreed. He’s one rough cookie when he wants something. He tells you you’d be worse off if you give it to him.”

“Did you believe him?”

“Well, Nathan said something about billy goats having certain identifiable markings that were not removed without a great deal of squealing, so we should go along. Nathan frequently obfuscates issues, but goddamnit, Joel, he’s usually right.”

“If you can take three hours to hear a five-minute summation,” said Converse.

“He’s always thinking, young man.”

“Young and not so young. Everything’s relative.”

“Your wife called.… Sorry, your ex-wife.”

“Oh?”

“Your name came up on the radio or television or something, and she wanted to know what happened.”

“What did you tell her?”

“That we were trying to reach you. We didn’t know any more than she did. She sounded very upset.”

“Call her and tell her I’m fine, will you, please? Do you have the number?”

“Jane does,”

“I’ll be leaving, then.”

“On full pay,” said Talbot from New York.

“That’s not necessary, Larry. I’m being given a great deal of money, so save the bookkeeping. I’ll be back in three or four weeks.”