The Aquitaine Progression: A Novel

  And Joel’s mind was frozen.

  2

  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 approach
ed 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.”

  “I could do that, but I won’t,” said the senior partner. “I know when I’ve got the best and I intend to hold him. We’ll bank it for you.” Talbot paused, then spoke quietly, urgently. “Joel, I have to ask you. Did this thing a few hours ago have anything to do with the Anstett business?”

  Converse gripped the telephone with such force his wrist and fingers ached. “Nothing whatsoever, Larry,” he said. “There’s no connection.”

  Mykonos, the sun-drenched, whitewashed island of the Cyclades, neighboring worshiper of Delos. Since Barbarossa’s conquest it had been host to successive brigands of the sea who sailed on the Meltemi winds—Turks, Russians, Cypriots, finally Creeks—placed and displaced over the centuries, a small landmass alternately honored and forgotten until the arrival of sleek yachts and shining aircraft, symbols of a different age. Low-slung automobiles—Porsches, Maseratis, Jaguars—now sped over the narrow roads past starch-white windmills and alabaster churches; a new type of inhabitant had joined the laconic, tradition-bound residents who made their livings from the sea and the shops. Free-spirited youths of all ages, with their open shirts and tight pants, their sun-burned skins serving as foil for adornments of heavy gold, had found a new playground. And ancient Mykonos, once a major port to the proud Phoenicians, had become the Saint-Tropez of the Aegean.

  Converse had taken the first Swissair flight out of Geneva to Athens, and from there a smaller Olympic plane to the island. Although he had lost an hour in the time zones, it was barely four o’clock in the afternoon when the airport taxi crawled through the streets of the hot, blinding-white harbor and pulled up in front of the smooth white entrance of the bank. It was on the waterfront, and the crowds of flowered shirts and wild print dresses, and the sight of launches chopping over the gentle waves toward the slips on the main pier, were proof that the giant cruise ships far out in the harbor were managed by knowledgeable men. Mykonos was a dazzling snare for tourists; money would be left on the white-washed island; the tavernas and the shops would be full from early sunrise to burning twilight. The ouzo would flow and Creek fishermen’s caps would disappear from the shelves and appear on the swaying heads of suburbanites from Grosse Point and Short Hills. And when night came and the last efharisto and paracalo had been awkwardly uttered by the visitors, other games would begin—the courtiers and courtesans, the beautiful, ageless, self-indulgent children of the blue Aegean, would start to play. Peals of laughter would be heard as drachmas were counted and spent in amounts that would stagger even those who had opulent suites on the highest decks of the most luxurious ships. Where Geneva was contrary, Mykonos was accommodating—in ways the long-ago Turks might have envied.

  Joel had called the bank from the airport, not knowing its business hours, but knowing the name of the banker he was to contact. Kostas Laskaris greeted him cautiously over the phone, making it clear that he expected not only a passport that would clear a spectrograph but the original letter from A. Preston Halliday with his signature, said signature to be subjected to a scanner, matching the signature the bank had been provided by the deceased Mr. A. Preston Halliday.

  “We hear he was killed in Geneva. It is most unfortunate,” Laskaris had said.

  “I’ll tell his wife and children how your grief overwhelms me.”

  Converse paid the taxi and climbed the short white steps of the entrance, carrying his suitcase and attaché case, grateful that the door was opened by a uniformed guard whose appearance brought to mind a long-forgotten photograph of a mad sultan who whipped his harem’s women in a courtyard when they failed to arouse him.

  Kostas Laskaris was not at all what Joel had expected from the brief, disconcerting conversation over the phone. He was a balding, pleasant-faced man in his late fifties, with warm dark eyes, and relatively fluent in English but certainly not comfortable with the language. His first words upon rising from his desk and indicating a chair in front of it for Converse contradicted Joel’s previous impression.

  “I apologize for what might have appeared as a callous statement on my part regarding Mr. Halliday. However, it was most unfortunate, and I don’t know how else to phrase it. And it is difficult, sir, to grieve for a man one never knew.”

  “I was out of line. Forget it, please.”

  “You are most kind, but I am afraid I cannot forget the arrangements—mandated by Mr. Halliday and his associate here on Mykonos. I must have your passport and the letter, if you please?”

  “Who is he?” asked Joel, reaching into his jacket pocket for his passport billfold; it contained the letter. “The associate, I mean.”

  “You are an attorney, sir, and surely you are aware that the information you desire cannot be given to you until the barriers—have been leaped, as it were. At least, I think that’s right.”

  “It’ll do. I just thought I’d try.” He took out his passport and the letter, handing them to the banker.

  Laskaris picked up his telephone and pressed a button. He spoke in Greek and apparently asked for someone. Within seconds the door opened and a stunning bronzed, dark-haired woman entered and walked gracefully over to the desk. She raised her downcast eyes and glanced at Joel, who knew the banker was watching him closely. A sign from Converse, another glance—from him direct
ed at Laskaris—and introductions would be forthcoming, accommodation tacitly promised, and a conceivably significant piece of information would be entered in a banker’s file. Joel offered no such sign; he wanted no such entry. A man did not pick up half a million dollars for nodding his head, and then look for a bonus. It did not signify stability; it signified something else.

  Inconsequential banter about flights, customs and the general deterioration of travel covered the next ten minutes, at which time his passport and the letter were returned—not by the striking, dark-haired woman but by a young, balletic blond Adonis. The pleasant-faced Laskaris was not missing a trick; he was perfectly willing to supply one, whichever route his wealthy visitor required.

  Converse looked into the Greek’s warm eyes, then smiled, the smile developing into quiet laughter. Laskaris smiled back and shrugged, dismissing the beachboy.

  “I am chief manager of this branch, sir,” he said as the door closed, “but I do not set the policies for the entire bank. This is, after all, Mykonos.”

  “And a great deal of money passes through here,” added Joel. “Which one did you bet on?”

  “Neither,” replied Laskaris, shaking his head. “Only on exactly what you did. You’d be a fool otherwise, and I do not think you are a fool. In addition to being chief manager on the waterfront, I am also an excellent judge of character.”

  “Is that why you were chosen as the intermediary?”

  “No, that is not the reason. I am a friend of Mr. Halliday’s associate here on the island. His name is Beale, incidentally. Dr. Edward Beale.… You see, everything is in order.”

  “A doctor?” asked Converse, leaning forward and accepting his passport and the letter. “He’s a doctor?”

  “Not a medical man, however,” clarified Laskaris. “He’s a scholar, a retired professor of history from the United States. He has an adequate pension and he moved here from Rhodes several months ago. A most interesting man, most knowledgeable. I handle his financial affairs—in which he is not very knowledgeable, but still interesting.” The banker smiled again, shrugging.