The Aquitaine Progression: A Novel

  “I hope so,” said Joel. “We have a great deal to discuss.”

  “That is not my concern, sir. Shall we get to the disposition of the funds? How and where would you care to have them paid?”

  “A great deal in cash. I bought one of those sensorized money belts in Geneva—the batteries are guaranteed for a year. If it’s ripped off me, a tiny siren goes off that splits your eardrums. I’d like American currency for myself and the rest transferred.”

  “Those belts are effective, sir, but not if you are unconscious, or if there is no one around to hear them. Might I suggest traveler’s checks?”

  “You could and you’d probably be right, but I don’t think so. I may not care to write out a signature.”

  “As you wish. The denominations for yourself, please?” said Laskaris, pencil in hand, pad below. “And where would you like the remainder to be sent?”

  “Is it possible,” asked Converse slowly, “to have accounts set up not in my name but accessible to me?”

  “Of course, sir. Frankly, it is often standard in Mykonos—as well as in Crete, Rhodes, Athens, Istanbul, and also much of Europe. A description is wired, accompanied by words written out in your handwriting—another name, or numbers. One man I knew used nursery rhymes. And then they are matched. One must use a sophisticated bank, of course.”

  “Of course. Name a few.”

  “Where?”

  “In London, Paris, Bonn—maybe Tel Aviv,” said Joel, trying to remember Halliday’s words.

  “Bonn is not easy; they are so inflexible. A wrong apostrophe and they summon whomever they consider their authorities.… Tel Aviv is simple; money is as freewheeling and as serpentine as the Knesset. London and Paris are standard and, of course, their greed is overwhelming. You will be heavily taxed for the transfers because they know you will not make an issue over covert funds. Very proper, very mercenary, and very much thievery.”

  “You know your banks, don’t you?”

  “I’ve had experience, sir. Now, as to the disbursements?”

  “I want a hundred thousand for myself—nothing larger than five-hundred-dollar bills. The rest you can split up and tell me how I can get it if I need it.”

  “It is not a difficult assignment, sir. Shall we start writing names, or numbers—or nursery rhymes?”

  “Numbers,” said Converse. “I’m a lawyer. Names and nursery rhymes are in dimensions I don’t want to think about right now.”

  “As you wish,” said the Greek, reaching for a pad. “And here is Dr. Beale’s telephone number. When we have concluded our business, you may call him—or not, as you wish. It is not my concern.”

  Dr. Edward Beale, resident of Mykonos, spoke over the telephone in measured words and the slow, thoughtful cadence of a scholar. Nothing was rushed; everything was deliberate.

  “There is a beach—more rocks than beach, and not frequented at night—about seven kilometers from the waterfront. Walk to it. Take the west road along the coast until you see the lights of several buoys riding the waves. Come down to the water’s edge. I’ll find you.”

  * * *

  The night clouds sped by, propelled by high-altitude winds, letting the moonlight penetrate rapidly, sporadically, illuminating the desolate stretch of beach that was the meeting ground. Far out on the water, the red lamps of four buoys bobbed up and down. Joel climbed over the rocks and into the soft sand, making his way to the water’s edge; he could both see and hear the small waves lapping forward and receding. He lit a cigarette, assuming the flame would announce his presence. It did; in moments a voice came out of the darkness behind him, but the greeting was hardly what he expected from an elderly, retired scholar.

  “Stay where you are and don’t move” was the first command, spoken with quiet authority. “Put the cigarette in your mouth and inhale, then raise your arms and hold them straight out in front of you.… Good. Now smoke, I want to see the smoke.”

  “Christ, I’m choking!” shouted Joel, coughing, as the smoke, blown back by the ocean breeze, stung his eyes. Then suddenly he felt the sharp, quick movements of a hand stabbing about his clothes, reaching across his chest and up and down his legs. “What are you doing?” he cried, spitting the cigarette out of his mouth involuntarily.

  “You don’t have a weapon,” said the voice.

  “Of course not!”

  “I do. You may lower your arms and turn around now.”

  Converse spun, still coughing, and rubbed his watery eyes. “You crazy son of a bitch!”

  “It’s a dreadful habit, those cigarettes. I’d give them up if I were you. Outside of the terrible things they do to your body, now you see how they can be used against you in other ways.”

  Joel blinked and stared in front of him. The pontificator was a slender, white-haired old man of medium height, standing very erect in what looked like a white canvas jacket and trousers. His face—what could be seen of it in the intermittent moonlight—was deeply lined, and there was a partial smile on his lips. There was also a gun in his hand, held in a firm grip, leveled at Converse’s head. “You’re Beale?” asked Joel. “Dr. Edward Beale?”

  “Yes. Are you calmed down now?”

  “Considering the shock of your warm welcome, I guess so.”

  “Good. I’ll put this away, then.” The scholar lowered the gun and knelt down on the sand next to a canvas satchel. He shoved the weapon inside and stood up again. “I’m sorry, but I had to be certain.”

  “Of what? Whether or not I was a commando?”

  “Halliday’s dead. Could a substitute have been sent in your place? Someone to deal with an old man in Mykonos? If so, that person would most certainly have had a gun.”

  “Why?”

  “Because he would have had no idea that I was an old man. I might have been a commando.”

  “You know, it’s possible—just possible—that I could have had a gun. Would you have blown my goddamned head off?”

  “A respected attorney coming to the island for the first time, passing through Geneva’s airport security? Where would you get it? Whom would you know on Mykonos?”

  “Arrangements could have been made,” protested Converse with little conviction.

  “I’ve had you followed since you arrived. You went directly to the bank, then to the Kouneni hotel, where you sat in the garden and had a drink before going to your room. Outside of the taxi driver, my friend Kostas, the desk clerk, and the waiters in the garden, you spoke to no one. As long as you were Joel Converse I was safe.”

  “For a product of an ivory tower, you sound more like a hit man from Detroit.”

  “I wasn’t always in the academic world, but yes, I’ve been cautious. I think we must all be very cautious. With a George Marcus Delavane it’s the only sound strategy.”

  “Sound strategy?”

  “Approach, if you like.” Beale reached between the widely separated buttons of his jacket and withdrew a folded sheet of paper. “Here are the names,” he said, handing it to Joel. “There are five key figures in Delavane’s operation over here. One each from France, West Germany, Israel, South Africa, and England. We’ve identified four—the first four—but we can’t find the Englishman.”

  “How did you get these?”

  “Originally from notes found among Delavane’s papers by Halliday when the general was his client.”

  “That was the accident he mentioned, then? He said it was an accident that wouldn’t happen again.”

  “I don’t know what he told you, of course, but it certainly was an accident. A faulty memory on Delavane’s part, an affliction I can personally assure you touches the aging. The general simply forgot he had a meeting with Halliday, and when Preston arrived, his secretary let him into the office so he could prepare papers for Delavane, who was expected in a half hour or so. Preston saw a file folder on the general’s desk; he knew that folder, knew it contained material he could cross-check. Without thinking twice, he sat down and began working. He found the names, and kn
owing Delavane’s recent itinerary in Europe and Africa, everything suddenly began to fall into place—very ominously. For anyone politically aware, those four names are frightening—they dredge up frightening memories.”

  “Did Delavane ever learn that he’d found them?”

  “In my judgment, he could never be certain. Halliday wrote them down and left before the general returned. But then Geneva tells us something else, doesn’t it?”

  “That Delavane did find out,” said Converse grimly.

  “Or he wasn’t going to take any further chances, especially if there was a schedule, and we’re convinced there is one. We’re in the countdown now.”

  “To what?”

  “From the pattern of their operations—what we’ve pieced together—a prolonged series of massive, orchestrated conflagrations designed to spin governments out of control and destabilize them.”

  “That’s a tall order. In what way?”

  “Guesswork,” said the scholar, frowning. “Probably widespread, coordinated eruptions of violence led by terrorists everywhere—terrorists fueled by Delavane and his people. When the chaos becomes intolerable, it would be their excuse to march in with military units and assume the controls, initially with martial law.”

  “It’s been done before,” said Joel. “Feed and arm a presumed enemy, then send out provocateurs—”

  “With massive sums of money and material.”

  “And when they rise up,” continued Converse, “pull out the rug, crush them, and take over. The citizens give thanks and call the heroes saviors, as they start marching to their drums. But how could they do it?”

  “That’s the all-consuming question. What are the targets? Where are they, who are they? We have no idea. If we had an inkling, we might approach from that end, but we don’t, and we can’t waste time hunting for unknowns. We must go after what we do know.”

  “Again, time,” Joel broke in. “Why are you so sure we’re in a countdown?”

  “Increased activity everywhere—in many cases frantic. Shipments originating in the States are funneled out of warehouses in England, Ireland, France, and Germany to groups of insurgents in all the troubled areas. There are rumors out of Munich, the Mediterranean and the Arab states. The talk is in terms of final preparations, but no one seems to know what exactly for—except that all of them must be ready. It’s as though such groups as Baader-Meinhof, the Brigate Rosse, the PLO, and the red legions of Paris and Madrid were all in a race with none knowing the course, only the moment when it begins.”

  “When is that?”

  “Our reports vary, but they’re all within the same time span. Within three to five weeks.”

  “Oh, my God.” Joel suddenly remembered. “Avery—Halliday—whispered something to me just before he died. Words that were spoken by the men who shot him. Aquitaine … ‘They said it was for Aquitaine.’ Those were the words he whispered. What do they mean, Beale?”

  The old scholar was silent, his eyes alive in the moonlight. He slowly turned his head and stared out at the water. “It’s madness,” he whispered.

  “That doesn’t tell me anything.”

  “No, of course not,” said Beale apologetically, turning back to Converse. “It’s simply the magnitude of it all. It’s so incredible.”

  “I’m not reading you.”

  “Aquitaine—Aquitania, as Julius Caesar called it—was the name given to a region in southwestern France that at one time in the first centuries after Christ was said to have extended from the Atlantic, across the Pyrenees to the Mediterranean, and as far north as the mouth of the Loire west of Paris on the coast—”

  “I’m vaguely aware of that,” Joel broke in, too impatient for an academic dissertation.

  “If you are, you’re to be commended. Most people are only aware of the later centuries—say, from the eighth on, when Charlemagne conquered the region, formed the kingdom of Aquitaine and bestowed it on his son Louis, and his sons Pepin One and Two. Actually, these and the following three hundred years are the most pertinent.”

  “To what?”

  “The legend of Aquitaine, Mr. Converse. like many ambitious generals, Delavane sees himself as a student of history—in the tradition of Caesar, Napoleon, Clausewitz … even Patton. I was rightly or wrongly considered a scholar, but he remains a student, and that’s as it should be. Scholars can’t take liberties without substantive evidence—or they shouldn’t—but students can and usually do.”

  “What’s your point?”

  “The legend of Aquitaine becomes convoluted, the what-if syndrome riding over the facts until theoretical assumptions are made that distort the evidence. You see, the story of Aquitaine is filled with sudden, massive expansions and abrupt contractions. To simplify, an imaginative student of history might say that had there not been political, marital and military miscalculations on the part of Charlemagne and his son, the two Pepins, and later Louis the Seventh of France and Henry the Second of England, both of whom were married to the extraordinary Eleanor, the kingdom of Aquitaine might have encompassed most if not all of Europe.” Beale paused. “Do you begin to understand?” he asked.

  “Yes,” said Joel. “Christ, yes.”

  “That’s not all,” continued the scholar. “Since Aquitaine was once considered a legitimate possession of England, it might in time have enveloped all of her foreign colonies, including the original thirteen across the Atlantic—later the United States of America.… Of course, miscalculations or not, it could never have happened because of a fundamental law of Western civilization, valid since the deposition of Romulus Augustulus and the collapse of the Roman empire. You cannot crush, then unite by force and rule disparate peoples and their cultures—not for any length of time.”

  “Someone’s trying to now,” said Converse. “George Marcus Delavane.”

  “Yes. In his mind he’s constructed the Aquitaine that never was, never could be. And it’s profoundly terrifying.”

  “Why? You just said it couldn’t happen.”

  “Not according to the old rules, not in any period since the fall of Rome. But you must remember, there’s never been a time in recorded history like this one. Never such weapons, such anxiety. Delavane and his people know that, and they will play upon those weapons, those anxieties. They are playing upon them.” The old man pointed to the sheet of paper in Joel’s hand. “You have matches. Strike one and look at the names.”

  Converse unfolded the sheet, reached into his pocket and took out his lighter. He snapped it, and as the flame illuminated the paper he studied the names. “Jesus!” he said, frowning. “They fit in with Delavane. It’s a gathering of warlords, if they’re the men I think they are.” Joel extinguished the flame.

  “They are,” replied Beale, “starting with General Jacques-Louis Bertholdier in Paris, a remarkable man, quite extraordinary. A Resistance fighter in the war, given the rank of major before he was twenty, but later an unreconstructed member of Salan’s OAS. He was behind an assassination attempt on De Gaulle in August of ’62, seeing himself as the true leader of the republic. He nearly made it. He believed then as he believes now that the Algerian generals were the salvation of an enfeebled France. He has survived not only because he’s a legend, but because his voice isn’t alone—only, he’s more persuasive than most. Especially with the elite crowd of promising commanders produced by Saint-Cyr. Quite simply, he’s a fascist, a fanatic hiding behind a screen of eminent respectability.”

  “And the one named Abrahms,” said Converse. “He’s the Israeli strong man who struts around in a safari jacket and boots, isn’t he? The screecher who holds rallies in front of the Knesset and in the stadiums, telling everyone there’ll be a bloodbath in Judea and Samaria if the children of Abraham are denied. Even the Israelis can’t shut him up.”

  “Many are afraid to; he’s become electrifying, like lightning, a symbol. Chaim Abrahms and his followers make the Begin regime seem like reticent, self-effacing pacifists. He’s a sabra tolerated b
y the European Jews because he’s a brilliant soldier, proven in two wars, and has enjoyed the respect—if not the affection—of every Minister of Defense since the early years of Golda Meir. They never know when they might need him in the field.”

  “And this one,” said Joel, again using his lighter. “Van Headmer. South African, isn’t he? The ‘hangman in uniform’ or something like that.”

  “Jan van Headmer, the ‘slayer of Soweto,’ as the blacks call him. He executes ‘offenders’ with alarming frequency and government tolerance. His family is old-line Afrikaner, all generals going back to the Boer War, and he sees no reason on earth to bring Pretoria into the twentieth century. Incidentally, he’s a close friend of Abrahms and makes frequent trips to Tel Aviv. He’s also one of the most erudite and charming general officers ever to attend a diplomatic conference. His presence denies his image and reputation.”

  “And Leifhelm,” said Converse, coming to the last of the foreign names. “A mixed bag, if I’m accurate. Supposedly a great soldier who followed too many orders, but still respected. I’m weakest on him.”

  “Entirely understandable,” said Beale, nodding. “In some ways his is the oddest story—the most monstrous, really, because the truth has been consistently covered up so as to use him and avoid embarrassment. Field Marshal Erich Leifhelm was the youngest general ever commissioned by Adolf Hitler. He foresaw Germany’s collapse and made a sudden about-face. From brutal killer and a fanatic super-Aryan to a contrite professional who abhorred the Nazis’ crimes as they were ‘revealed’ to him. He fooled everyone and was absolved of all guilt; he never saw a Nuremberg courtroom. During the cold war the Allies used his services extensively, granting him full security clearances, and later in the fifties when the new German divisions were mounted for the NATO forces, they made sure he was put in command.”

  “Weren’t there a couple of newspaper stories about him a few years ago? He had several run-ins with Helmut Schmidt, didn’t he?”

  “Exactly,” agreed the scholar. “But those stories were soft and carried only half the story. Leifhelm was quoted as saying merely that the German people could not be expected to carry the burden of past guilt into future generations. It had to stop. Pride should once more be established in the nation’s heritage. There was some saber rattling aimed at the Soviets, but nothing substantively beyond that.”