The Aquitaine Progression: A Novel

  “I don’t think so, Commander—or whoever you are. But if you are who you say, nothing’s compromised. I’m not a damn fool. Nothing will be said to anyone on the embassy staff. Mr. Dowling insisted on that and I accepted the condition. You and I will be locked in a communications room with a phone on a scrambler and you’re going to place a call to Washington. I didn’t take this job at a loss of three-quarters of a million a year to find shoe clerks running an investigation of my own company without my knowing about it. If I want an outside audit, I’ll damn well order it myself!”

  “I wish I could comply, sir; it sounds like a reasonable request. But I’m afraid I can’t.”

  “I’m afraid you will!”

  “Sorry.”

  “Do as he says, Commander,” interjected Dowling. “As he told you, nothing’s been said to anyone, and nothing will be. But Converse needs protection; he’s a wanted man in a foreign country and he doesn’t even speak the language. Take Ambassador Peregrine’s offer. He’ll keep his word.”

  “With respect, sirs, the answer is negative.” Connal turned away and started up the wide path.

  “Major!” shouted the ambassador, his voice furious. “Stop him! Stop that man!”

  Fitzpatrick looked behind him; for reasons he could not explain to himself he saw what he never expected to see, and the instant he did, he knew he should have expected it. From out of the distant shadows of the immense, majestic building a man rushed forward, a man who was obviously a military aide to the ambassador—a member of the embassy staff! Connal froze, Joel’s words coming back to him. Those men you saw at the airport, the ones from the embassy … they’re on the other side.

  Under almost any other circumstances, Fitzpatrick would have remained where he was and weathered it out. He hadn’t actually done anything wrong; there was nothing illegal, no laws broken of which he was cognizant, and no one could force him to discuss personal matters where no law had been violated. Then he realized how wrong he was! The generals of George Marcus Delavane would force him, could force him! He spun around and ran.

  Suddenly gunfire erupted. Two earsplitting shots above him! He dove to the ground and rolled into the shadows of the bushes as a man’s voice roared over the stillness of the night and the sleeping gardens.

  “You goddamned son of a bitch! What do you think you’re doing!”

  There were further shouts, a further barrage of obscenities, and the sounds of struggle filled the quiet enclave of the university.

  “You don’t kill a man! Besides, you bastard, there could be other people! Don’t say a word, Mr. Ambassador!”

  Connal scrambled across the graveled path and spread apart the bordering foliage. In the clear moonlight of the distant bench, the actor Caleb Dowling—the former marine from Kwajalein—stood over the body of the major who had run out of the shadow, his boot on the supine man’s throat, his hand grasping the man’s extended arm to wrench the weapon free.

  “You are one dumb son of a bitch, Major! Or, goddamn you, maybe you’re something else!”

  Fitzpatrick got to his knees, then to his feet, and, crouching, raced into the receding darkness of the wide path toward the exit.

  13

  “I didn’t have any choice!” said Connal. He had dropped the attaché case on the couch and was sitting in an adjacent chair, leaning forward, still shaking.

  “Calm down; try to relax.” Converse walked to the elegant antique hunt table against the wall where there was a large silver tray with whisky, ice and glasses. Joel had learned to make use of room service in English. “You need a drink,” he said, pouring Fitzpatrick’s bourbon.

  “Do I ever! I’ve never been shot at. You have. Christ, is that what it’s like?”

  “That’s what it’s like. You can’t believe it. It’s unreal, just mind-blowing sounds that can’t really have anything to do with you, until—until you see the evidence for yourself. It’s real, it’s meant for you, and you’re sick. There’s no swelling music, no brass horns, just vomit.” Converse brought the naval officer his drink.

  “You’re omitting something,” said Connal, taking the glass and looking up at Joel.

  “No, I’m not. Let’s think about tonight. If you heard Dowling right, the ambassador won’t say anything around the embassy—”

  “I remember,” interrupted Fitzpatrick, taking several swallows of the bourbon, his eyes still on Converse. “It was in one of the other flags. During your second escape a man got killed; it was sundown. You reached him when it happened, and the flag said you went crazy for a couple of minutes. Somehow, according to this guy—a sergeant, I think—you circled around in the jungle, caught the North Vietnamese, killed him with his own knife and got his repeating rifle. Then you blew away three other Viets in the area.”

  Joel held his place in front of the Navy lawyer. He answered the younger man, his voice quiet, his look angry. “I hate descriptions like that,” he said flatly. “It raises all the images I loathe.… Let me tell you the way it was—like it was, counselor. A kid, no more than nineteen, had to relieve himself, and although we stuck together he had the dignity to go ten or fifteen feet away to take care of his private functions, using leaves because squeezable toilet paper wasn’t available. The maniac—I won’t use the word ‘soldier’—who killed him waited for the precise moment, then fired off a burst that cut that kid’s face apart. When I reached him, half of that face in my hands, I heard the cackle, the obscene laughter of an obscene man who personified for me everything I found despicable—whether North Vietnamese or American. If you want to know the truth, whatever I did I did against both—because both were guilty, all of us turned into animals, myself included. Those other three men, those enemies, those uniformed robots, probably with wives and children back in villages somewhere up north, had no idea I got behind them. I shot them in the back, counselor. What would Johnny Ringo say about that? Or John Wayne?”

  Connal was silent as Joel walked over to the hunt table to pour himself a whisky. The Navy lawyer drank, then spoke. “A few hours ago you said you knew where I was coming from because you’d been there. Well, I haven’t been where you were, but I’m beginning to see where you’re coming from. You really hate everything that Aquitaine stands for, don’t you? Especially those running it.”

  Converse turned. “With everything that’s in me,” he said. “That’s why we’ve got to talk about tonight.”

  “I told you, I had no choice. You said the embassy people I saw at the airport were with Delavane. I couldn’t take the chance.”

  “I know. Now we’re both running, hunted by our own people and protected by the men we want to trap. We’ve got to think, Commander.”

  The telephone rang twice abrasively. Fitzpatrick leaped from the chair, his initial reaction one of shock. Joel watched him, calming him with his look. “Sorry,” said Connal. “I’m still edgy. I’ll get it; I’ll be all right.” The Navy lawyer crossed to the phone and picked it up. “Ja?” He listened for several seconds, covered the mouthpiece and looked at Converse. “It’s the overseas operator. San Francisco. It’s Meagen.”

  “Which means Remington,” said Joel, his throat suddenly dry, his pulse accelerating.

  “Meagen? Yes, I’m here. What is it?” Fitzpatrick stared straight ahead as his sister talked; he nodded frequently, the muscles of his jaw working as he concentrated. “Oh, Christ!… No, it’s all right. I mean it, everything’s okay. Do you have the number?” Connal looked down at the small telephone table; there was a message pad but no pencil. He glanced over at Joel, who had already started for the desk and a hotel pen. Fitzpatrick held out his hand, took the pen and wrote out a series of numbers. Converse stood aside, conscious that he was barely breathing, his fingers gripping the glass. “Thanks, Meagen. I know it’s a hell of a time for you; you don’t need this, but if you have to call again, make it station-to-station, okay?… I will, Meg, I give you my word. Good-bye.” The Navy lawyer hung up, his hand for a moment remaining on the telephone. r />
  “Remington called, didn’t he?” said Joel.

  “Yes.”

  “What happened?”

  “Someone tried to get the flag on your service record released,” said Fitzpatrick, turning, looking at Converse. “It’s okay. Remington stopped it.”

  “Who was it?”

  “I don’t know, I’ll have to reach David. Meagen doesn’t have any idea what a flag is, much less who you are. The message was only that ‘a release was sought for the flag,’ but he stopped it.”

  “Then everything’s all right.”

  “That’s what I said, but it’s not.”

  “Clarification, goddamn it!”

  “There’s a time limit on how long my order stands. It’s only a day or two after the vetting process—”

  “Which is forty-eight hours,” interrupted Joel.

  “Yes, I’m sure of that; it’s after that. You see, you thought this would happen, but frankly I didn’t. Whoever’s asking for that flag isn’t small potatoes. You could walk out of that meeting and a few hours later your new associates could have that stuff in their hands. Converse the Delavane-hater. Is he now the Delavane-hunter?”

  “Call Remington.” Joel went to the French doors, opened them, and walked out on the small balcony. Drifting wisps of clouds filtered the moonlight, and far to the east there were flashes of heat lightning reminding Converse of the silent artillery fire he and the other escaping prisoners would see in the hills, knowing it was sanctuary but unreachable. He could hear Fitzpatrick inside; from the sound of his voice he was getting a line through to San Diego. Joel reached into a pocket for his cigarettes; he lighted one. Whether it was the bright glow of the flame that illuminated the movement he did not know, but he looked in the direction of that movement. Two balconies away, about thirty feet to his right, a man stood watching him. The figure was a silhouette in the dim light; he nodded and went back inside. Was the man simply another guest who had coincidentally gone outside for a breath of air? Or had Aquitaine posted a guard? Converse could hear the Navy lawyer talking conversationally; he turned and walked back into the room.

  Connal was seated in the chair on the other side of the table. He held the phone to his ear with his left hand; his right held the pen above the message pad. He made a note, then said quickly, “Wait a minute. You say Hickman told you to let it ride but he wouldn’t tell you who specifically made the request?… I see. All right, David, thanks very much. Are you going out tonight?… So if I need you I can reach you at this number.… Yes, I know, it’s these damn phones up in Sonoma. One heavy rain in the hills and you’re lucky to get a line, forget a clear one. Thanks again, David. Good-bye.” Fitzpatrick hung up the phone and looked strangely, almost guiltily, at Joel. Instead of speaking, he shook his head, breathing out and frowning.

  “What is it? What’s the matter?”

  “You’d better get everything you can at that meeting tomorrow. Or is it today?”

  “It’s past midnight. It’s today. Why?”

  “Because twenty-four hours later that flag will be released to a section in the Fifth Naval District—that’s Norfolk, and it’s powerful. They’ll know everything you don’t want them to know about you. The time limit is seventy-two hours.”

  “Get an extension!”

  Connal stood up, helplessness in his expression. “On what basis?”

  “What else? National security.”

  “I’d have to spell out the reasons, you know that.”

  “I don’t know that. Extensions are granted for all sorts of contingencies. You need more time to prepare. A source or a witness has been postponed—illness or an injury. Or personal matters—goddamn it, your brother-in-law’s funeral, your sister’s grief—they’ve delayed your progress!”

  “Forget it, Joel. If I tried that, they’d tie you in with Press and good-bye Charlie. They killed him, remember?”

  “No,” said Converse firmly. “It’s the other way around. It separates us further.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I’ve thought about this, tried to put myself in Avery’s shoes. He knew his every move was being watched, his telephone probably tapped. He said the geography, the Comm Tech-Bern merger, the breakfast, Geneva itself, everything had to be logical; it couldn’t be any other way. At the end of that breakfast he said if I agreed we’d talk later.”

  “So?”

  “He knew we’d be seen together—it was unavoidable—and I think he was going to give me the words to say if someone in Aquitaine asked me about him. He was going to turn everything around and give me the push I needed to reach these men.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “Avery was going to stamp me with the label I had to wear to get inside Delavane’s network. We’ll never know, but I have an idea he was going to tell me to say that he, A. Preston Halliday, suspected me of being one of them, that he had inserted himself in the Comm Tech-Bern merger to threaten me with exposure, to stop me.”

  “Wait a minute.” Connal shook his head. “Press didn’t know what you were going to do or how you were going to do it.”

  “There was only one way to do it, he knew that! He also knew I’d reach the same conclusion once I understood the particulars. The only way to stop Delavane and his field marshals is to infiltrate Aquitaine. Why do you think all that money was put up front? I don’t need it and he knew he couldn’t buy me. But he knew it could be used—would have to be used to get inside and start talking, start gathering evidence.… Call Remington again. Tell him to prepare an extension.”

  “It’s not Remington, it’s the commander of SAND PAC, an admiral named Hickman. David said I could expect a call from him tomorrow. I’ll have to figure that one out and phone Meagen back. Hickman’s uptight; he wants to know who you are and why all the interest.”

  “How well do you know this Hickman?”

  “Fairly well. I was with him in New London and Galveston. He requested me as his CLO in San Diego; that’s what gave me the stripe.”

  Converse studied Fitzpatrick’s face, then without saying anything he turned and walked to the open balcony doors. Connal did not interrupt; he understood. He had seen too many attorneys, himself included, struck by a thought they had to define for themselves, an idea upon which a case might hinge. Joel turned around slowly, haltingly, the dim, abstract shadows of a possibility coming into focus.

  “Do it,” he began. “Do what I think your brother-in-law might have done. Finish what he might have said but never got a chance to say it. Assume he and I had that meeting after the merger conference. Give me the springboard I need.”

  “As you would say, clarification, please, counselor.”

  “Present Hickman with a scenario as it might have been written by A. Preston Halliday. Tell him that flag’s got to remain in place because you have reason to believe I was connected with your brother-in-law’s murder. Explain that before Halliday flew to Geneva he came to see you—as he did—and told you he was meeting me, an opposing attorney he suspected of being involved with corrupt export licensing, a legal front for some boardroom profiteers. Say he said he was going to confront me. Preston Halliday had a history of causes.”

  “Not for the past ten or twelve years, he didn’t,” corrected Fitzpatrick. “He joined the establishment with a vengeance and with a healthy respect for the dollar.”

  “It’s the history that counts. He knew that; it was one of the reasons he came to me. Say you’re convinced he did confront me, and since millions are made out of that business, you think I methodically had him removed, covering myself by being there when he died. I have a certain reputation for being methodical.”

  Connal lowered his head and ran his hand through his hair, then walked in thought toward the hunt table. He stopped, raised his gaze to one of the racehorse prints and turned back to Converse. “Do you know what you’re asking me to do?”

  “Yes. Give me the springboard that’ll catapult me right in the middl
e of those would-be Genghis Khans. To do it you’ll have to go further with Hickman. Because you’re so personally involved and so goddamned angry—which again is the truth—tell him to explain your position to whoever wants the flag released. It’s a nonmilitary matter, so you’re taking what you know to the civilian authorities.”

  “I understand all that,” said Fitzpatrick. “Everything I say is the truth, as I saw it when I flew over here to find you. Except that I reverse the targets. Instead of being the one who can help me, you’re now the one I want nailed.”

  “Right on, counselor. And I’m met by a welcoming committee at Leifhelm’s estate.”

  “Then I guess you don’t see.”

  “What?”

  “You’re asking me to go on record implicating you in first-degree murder. I’ll be branding you as a killer. Once I say it, I can’t take the words back.”

  “I know that. Do it.”

  George Marcus Delavane twisted his torso in his chair behind the desk in front of the strangely colored fragmented map on the wall. It was not a controlled movement; it was an action in search of control. Delavane did not care for obstructions and one was being explained to him now by an admiral in the Fifth Naval District.

  “The status of the flag is Four Zero,” said Scanlon. “To get it released we’d have to go through Pentagon procedures, and I don’t have to tell you what that means. Two senior officers, one from naval intelligence, plus a supporting signature from the National Security Agency; all would have to appear on the request sheet, the level of the inquiry stated, thus escalating the request to a sector demand. Now, General, we can do all this, but we run the risk—”

  “I know the risk,” interrupted Delavane. “The signatures are the risk, the identities a risk. Why the Four Zero? Who placed it and why?”

  “The chief legal officer of SAND PAC. I checked him out. He’s a lieutenant commander named Fitzpatrick, and there’s nothing in his record to give us any indication as to why he did it.”