The Aquitaine Progression: A Novel

  “Something bothering me?”

  “Listen to me, Joel. We all know what you went through, and we admire you, respect you. You’re the finest we’ve got in the international division—”

  “I’m the only one you’ve got,” Converse broke in, trying to think, trying to buy time as well as information. “What did René say? Why did he call you?”

  “You sound like your old self, fella.”

  “I am my old self, Larry. What did René call you about? Why were the police with him?” Joel could feel the slippage; he was entering another sphere and he knew it, accepted it. The lies would follow, guile joining deceit, because time and freedom of movement were paramount. He had to stay free; there was so much to do, so little time.

  “He called me back after the police left to fill me in—incidentally, they were from the Sûreté. As he understood it, the driver of a limousine was assaulted outside the George Cinq’s service entrance—”

  “The driver of a limousine?” interrupted Converse involuntarily. “They said he was a chauffeur?”

  “From one of those high-priced services that ferry around people who make odd stops at odd hours. Very posh and very confidential. Apparently the fellow was pretty well smashed up and they say you did it. No one knows why, but you were identified and they say the man may not live.”

  “Larry, this is preposterous!” objected Joel, his protestation accompanied by feigned outrage. “Yes, I was there—in the area—but it had nothing to do with me! Two hotheads got into a fight, and since I couldn’t stop them, I wasn’t going to get my head handed to me. I got out of there, and before I found a taxi I yelled at the doorman to call for help. The last thing I saw he was blowing his whistle and running toward the alley.”

  “You weren’t even involved, then,” said Talbot. The statement was a lawyer’s positive fact.

  “Of course not! Why would I be?”

  “That’s what we couldn’t understand. It didn’t make sense.”

  “It doesn’t make sense. I’ll call René and fly back to Paris, if I have to.”

  “Yes, do that,” agreed Talbot haltingly. “I should tell you I may have aggravated the situation.”

  “You? How?”

  “I told Mattilon that perhaps you were … well, not yourself. When I spoke with you in Geneva, you sounded awful, Joel. Just plain awful.”

  “Good God, how did you think I’d feel? A man I was negotiating with dies in front of me bleeding from a dozen bullet wounds. How would you feel?”

  “I understand,” said the lawyer in New York, “but then René thought he saw something in you—heard something—that disturbed him, too.”

  “Oh, come on, will you people get off it!” Converse’s thoughts raced; every word he spoke had to be credible, his now diminished “outrage” rooted in believability. “Mattilon saw me after I’d been flying in and out of airports for damn near fourteen hours. Christ, I was exhausted!”

  “Joel?” Talbot began, obviously not quite ready to get off it. “Why did you tell René you were in Paris for the firm?”

  Converse paused, not for lack of a response but for effect. He was ready for the question; he had been ready when he first approached Mattilon. “A white lie, Larry, and no harm to anyone. I wanted some information, and it seemed the best way to get it.”

  “About this Bertholdier? He’s the general, isn’t he?”

  “He turned out to be the wrong source. I told René as much, and he couldn’t agree with me more.” Joel lightened his tone of voice. “Also it would have appeared strange if I’d said I was in Paris for somebody else, wouldn’t it? I don’t think it would have done the firm any good. Rumors and speculation run rampant down our corridors; you told me that once.”

  “Yes, and it’s true. You did the right thing.… Damn it, Joel, why the hell did you leave the hotel the way you did? From the basement, or wherever it was.”

  It was the moment for expressing with total conviction a small inconsequential untruth that if not carried off would lead to the larger, far more dangerous lie. Connal Fitzpatrick could do it well, reflected Converse. The Navy lawyer had not learned to fear the small things; he did not know they were spoors that could lead one back to a rat cage in the Mekong River.

  “Bubba, my friend and sole support,” said Joel, as cavalierly as he could muster. “I owe you many things, but not the intimacies of my private life.”

  “The what of your what?”

  “I am approaching middle age—at least it’s not far off—and I have no matrimonial encumbrances or guilt about fidelity.”

  “You were avoiding a woman?”

  “Fortunately for the firm, not a man.”

  “Jee-sus! I’m so well into middle age I don’t think about those things. Sorry, young fella.”

  “Young and not so young, Larry.”

  “We were all off base then. You’d better call René right away and get this thing cleared up. I can’t tell you how relieved I am.”

  “You can tell me about Anstett. That’s why I called you.”

  “Of course.” Talbot lowered his voice. “A terrible thing, a tragedy. What did the papers over there say?”

  Converse was caught; he had not anticipated the question. “Very little,” he replied, trying to remember what Fitzpatrick had told him. “Just that he was shot and apparently nothing was taken from his apartment.”

  “That’s right. Naturally, the first thing Nathan and I thought of was you, and whatever the hell you’re involved with, but that wasn’t the case. It was a Mafia vendetta, pure and simple. You know how rough Anstett was on appeals from those people; he’d throw them out as fast as he’d call their attorneys a disgrace to the profession.”

  “It was a confirmed Mafia killing?”

  “It will be, and that’s straight from O’Neil down at the commissioner’s office. They know their man; he’s an executioner for the Delvecchio family and last month Anstett threw the key away on Delvecchio’s oldest son. He’s in for twelve years with no appeals left; the Supreme Court won’t touch him.”

  “They know the man?”

  “It’s only a matter of picking him up.”

  “How come it’s so clear-cut?” asked Joe, confused.

  “The usual way,” said Talbot. “An informer who needs a favor. And since everything’s happened so fast and so quietly, it’s assumed that the ballistics will prove out.”

  “So fast? So quietly?”

  “The informer reached the police first thing this morning. A special unit was dispatched and only they know the man’s identity. They figure the gun will still be in his possession. He’ll be picked up anytime now; he lives in Syosset.”

  Something was wrong, thought Converse. There was an inconsistency, but he could not spot the flaw. Then it came to him. “Larry, if everything’s so quiet, how do you know about it?”

  “I was afraid you’d ask that,” said Talbot uneasily. “I might as well tell you; it’ll probably be in the newspaper follow-ups anyway. O’Neil’s keeping me posted; call it courtesy, and also because I’m nervous.”

  “Why?”

  “Except for the man who killed him, I was the last person to see Anstett alive.”

  “You?”

  “Yes. After René’s second call I decided to phone the judge, after conferring with Nathan, of course. When I finally reached Anstett, I said I had to see him. He wasn’t happy about it but I was adamant. I explained that it concerned you. All I knew was that you were in terrible trouble and something had to be done. I went over to his apartment on Central Park South and we talked. I told him what had happened and how frightened I was for you, frankly letting him know that I held him responsible. He didn’t say much, but I think he was frightened, too. He said he’d get in touch with me in the morning. I left, and according to the coroner’s report, he was killed approximately three hours later.”

  Joel’s breath was short, his head splitting. His concentration was absolute. “Let me get this straight, Larry
. You went over to Anstett’s apartment after René’s call—his second call. After he told the Sûreté who I was.”

  “That’s right.”

  “How long was it?”

  “How long was what?”

  “Before you left for Anstett’s. After you spoke with Mattilon.”

  “Well, let me see. Naturally, I wanted to talk to Nathan first, but he was out to dinner, so I waited. Incidentally, he concurred and offered to join me—”

  “How long, Larry?”

  “An hour and a half, two hours at the outside.”

  Two hours plus three hours totaled five hours. More than enough time for the killer puppets to be put in place. Converse did not know how it had been done, only that it had been done. Things had suddenly erupted in Paris, and in New York an agitated Lawrence Talbot had been followed to an apartment on Central Park South, where someone, somewhere, recognized a name and a man and the part he had played against Aquitaine. Were it otherwise, Talbot would be the corpse, not Lucas Anstett. All the rest was a smoke screen behind which the disciples of George Marcus Delavane manipulated the puppets.

  “—and the courts owed so much to him, the country owed so much.” Talbot was speaking, but Joel could no longer listen.

  “I have to go, Larry,” he said, hanging up.

  The killing was obscene. That it was carried out so quickly, so efficiently and with such precise deception was as frightening as anything Converse could imagine.

  Joseph (Joey the Nice) Albanese drove his Pontiac down the quiet, tree-lined street in Syosset, Long Island, waving to a couple in a front yard. The husband was trimming a hedge under his wife’s guidance. They stopped what they were doing, smiled and waved back. Very nice. His neighbors liked him, thought Joey. They considered him a sweet guy and very generous, what with letting the kids use his pool and serving their parents only the best booze when they dropped over and the biggest steaks money could buy when he had weekend barbecues—which he did often, rotating the neighbors so no one should feel left out.

  He was a sweet guy, mused Joey. He was always pleasant and never raised his voice in anger to anyone, offering only a glad hand, a nice word and a happy smile to everybody, no matter how lousy he really felt. That was it, goddamn it! thought Joey. Irra—fuckin’—gardless of how upset he was, he never let it show! Joey the Nice was what they called him and they were right. Sometimes he figured he had to be some kind of saint—may Jesus Christ forgive him for having such thoughts. He had just waved to neighbors, but in truth he felt like smashing his fist through the windshield and shoving the glass down their throats.

  It wasn’t them, it was last night that did it! A crazy night, a crazy hit, everything crazy! And that gumba they brought in from the West Coast, the one they called Major, he was the nuttiest fruitcake of them all! And a sadist to boot, the way he beat the shit out of that old man and the crazy questions he asked, and shouting all the time. Tutti pazzi!

  One minute he’s playing cards in the Bronx, and the next the phone is ringing. Get down to Manhattan fast! A bad heat is needed attualmente! So he goes and what does he find? It’s that iron-balled judge, the one who closed the steel doors on Delvecchio’s boy! What craziness! They’ll trace it back to the old man for sure. He’ll know such afflizione from the cops and the courts he’ll be lucky to own a small whorehouse in Palermo—if he ever got back.

  Then maybe—just maybe—thought Joey at the time, there was a turning muscle in the organization. Old Delvecchio was losing his grip; just maybe it was being called for, this afflizione that surely would follow. And possibly—just possibly—Joey himself was being tested. Maybe he was too nice, too soave, to put the bad heat on someone like the old judge who gave them all such a hard time. Well, he wasn’t. No sirree, the nice stopped with the handle of a gun. It was his job, his profession. The Lord Jesus decided who should live and who should die, only He spoke through mortal men on earth who told people like Joey whom to hit. There was no moral dilemma for Joey the Nice. It was important, however, that the orders always come from a man with respect; that was necessary.

  They did last night; the order came from a man with great respect. Although Joey did not know him personally, he had heard for years about the powerful padrone in Washington, D.C. The name was whispered, never spoken out loud.

  Joey touched the brakes of his car, slowing down so as to swing into his driveway. His wife, Angie, would be pissed off at him, maybe shout a little because he didn’t come home last night. One more irritation on top of all the craziness, but what the hell was he going to say? Sorry, Angie, but I was gainfully employed throwing six bullets into an old guy who definitely discriminated against Italians. So, you see, Angie, I had to stay across the the bridge in Jersey where one of the paesans I played cards with and who’ll swear I was there all night happens to be the chief of police.

  But, of course, he would never go into such details with his wife. That was his own law. No matter how aggravated he was he never brought the job home. More husbands should be like him and there would be happier households in Syosset.

  Shit! One of the fucking kids had left a bicycle in front of the attached garage; he wouldn’t be able to open the automatic door and drive inside. He’d have to get out. Shit! One more aggravation. He couldn’t even park by the Millers’ curb next door; some creep’s car was there but it wasn’t the Millers’ Buick. Double shit!

  Joey brought the Pontiac to a stop halfway into the sloping driveway and got out. He went up to the bike and leaned down. The rotten kid didn’t even use the kickstand and Joey hated bending over, what with his heavy gut and all.

  “Joseph Albanese!”

  Joey the Nice spun around, crouching, reaching under his jacket. That tone of voice was used by only one type of slime! He pulled out his .38 and dove toward the grille of his car.

  The explosions reverberated throughout the neighborhood. Birds fluttered out of trees and there were screams along the block in the bright afternoon sunlight. Joseph Albanese was sprawled against the grille of the Pontiac, rivulets of blood slowly rolling down the shiny chrome. Joey the Nice had been caught in the fire, and gripped in his hand was the gun he had used so effectively the night before. Ballistics would prove out. The killer of Lucas Anstett was dead. The judge had been the victim of a gangland assassination, and as far as the world was concerned, it had nothing to do with events taking place six thousand miles away in Bonn, Germany.

  Converse stood on the small balcony, his hands on the railing, looking down at the majestic river beyond the forest of trees that formed the banks of the Rhine. It was past seven o’clock; the sun was going below the mountains in the west, its orange rays shooting up, creating blocks of shadows over the earth—moving shadows that floated across the waters in the descending distance. The vibrant colors were hypnotic, the breezes cooling, but nothing could stop the pounding echo in his chest. Where was Fitzpatrick? Where was his attaché case? The dossiers? He tried to stop thinking, to stop his imagination from catapulting into frightening possibilities.…

  There was a sudden harsh echo, not from his chest but from inside the room. He turned quickly as the door opened and Connal Fitzpatrick stood there, removing his key from the lock. He stepped aside, letting a uniformed porter enter with two suitcases, instructing the man to leave them on the floor while he reached into his pocket for a tip. The porter left and the Navy lawyer stared at Joel. There was no attaché case in his hand.

  “Where is it?” said Converse, afraid to breathe, afraid to move.

  “I didn’t pick it up.”

  “Why not?” cried Joel, rushing forward.

  “I couldn’t be sure … maybe it was just a feeling, I don’t know.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I was at the airport for seven hours yesterday, going from counter to counter asking about you,” said Connal softly. “This afternoon I passed the Lufthansa desk and the same clerk was there. When I said hello, he didn’t seem to want to acknowledge me
; he looked nervous, and I couldn’t understand. I came back out of the baggage claim with my suitcase and watched him. I remembered how he had glanced at me last night, and as I passed him I swore his eyes kept shooting to the center of the terminal, but there were so many people, so much confusion, I couldn’t be certain.”

  “You think you were picked up? Followed?”

  “That’s just it, I don’t know. When I was shopping in Bonn, I went from store to store and every now and then I’d turn around, or shift my head, to see if I could spot anyone. A couple of times I thought I saw the same people twice, but then again, it was always crowded, and—again—I couldn’t be sure. But I kept thinking about that Lufthansa clerk; something was wrong.”

  “What about when you were in the taxi? Did you—”

  “Naturally. I kept looking out the rear window. Even during the drive out here. Several cars made the same turns we did, but I told the driver to slow down and they passed us.”

  “Did you watch where they went after they passed you?”

  “What was the point?”

  “There is one,” said Joel, recalling a clever driver who followed a deep-red Mercedes limousine.

  “All I knew was that you’re pretty uptight about that attaché case. I don’t know what’s in it and I figure you don’t want anyone else to know, either.”

  “Bingo, counselor.”

  There was a knocking at the door, and although it was soft, it had the effect of a staccato burst of thunder. Both men stood motionless, their eyes riveted on the door.

  “Ask who it is,” whispered Converse.

  “Wer ist da, bitte?” said Fitzpatrick, loud enough to be heard. There was a brief reply in German and Connal breathed again. “It’s okay. It’s a message for me from the manager. He probably wants to sell us a conference room.” The Navy lawyer went to the door and opened it.

  However, it was not the manager, or a bellboy, or a porter bringing a message from the manager. Instead, standing there, was a slender, elderly man in a dark suit with erect posture and very broad shoulders. He glanced first at Fitzpatrick, then looked beyond at Converse.