The Aquitaine Progression: A Novel

  “You?… You’ve been here all night! You were waiting for me, watching. It was you who crashed into that car!”

  “There is no time. I will send your driver back. I must make out my tedious report while scattering a few items in the man’s car, and you must leave. Now—before others learn.”

  “That name!” cried Val. “It was Tatiana?”

  “Yes.”

  “Thank you!”

  “Au revoir. Bonne chance.” The man from the Sûret4eA ducked away and ran back to the two Frenchmen shouting at each other behind the taxi.

  It was three-twenty in the afternoon when Converse saw the sign: SAINT-JULIEN EN GENEVOIS—15 KM. He had rounded the border of Switzerland, the autoroute to Chamonix directly ahead, east of Geneva, just south of Annemasse. He would reach Mont Blanc in something over an hour; he had done it! He had also driven as he had never before driven in his life, the powerful Citröen responding to his pilot’s touch, his pilot’s mind oblivious to everything but the sweep in front of him, the equipment around him—the feel of the hard road beneath as he took the Alpine curves. He had stopped to refuel once at Pontarlier, where he drank steaming hot tea from a vending machine. Since he had left the expressway for the shorter distance of the mountain roads, his speed depended on his every reaction being instantaneous and accurate. An hour now. Be there, Vol. Be there, my love!

  Valerie looked at her watch ready to scream—as she had wanted to scream since six-thirty in the morning at Orly Airport. It was four-ten in the afternoon, and the entire day had been filled with one crisis after another, from the crash in the Boulevard Raspail, and Prudhomme’s revelation that she was being followed, to her arrival at Annecy on the one o’clock flight from Paris—itself delayed by a malfunctioning luggage door. Her nerves were stretched to the outer limits, but she knew above all that she could not lose her control. Doing so would only rivet attention on her; it briefly had.

  There were no seats on the seven o’clock flight and the eleven o’clock plane had been overbooked. Only those with tickets in their hands were permitted through the gate. She had protested so angrily that people began staring at her. Then she had retreated to the soft-spoken bribe, which only served to irritate the clerk—not because he was morally offended but because he could not accommodate her and accept the money. Again passengers behind and on both sides, in both lines, had looked over as the clerk admonished her with true Gallic hauteur. It was no way to get to Chamonix alive, Val had thought, and had accepted a ticket on the one o’clock flight.

  The plane landed at Annecy over a half-hour late, several minutes after three, and the subsequent crush at the taxi platform caused her to behave in a way she generally tried to avoid. Being a relatively tall woman—tall in appearance, certainly—she knew the effect she provoked when she looked down disdainfully at those around her. A genetic preordination had made her privileged, didn’t they know? Foolishly, too many people accepted the posturing as proof of innate superiority; the women were intimidated, the men both intimidated and sexually aroused. The tactic had gained her a few forward places in the taxi line, but the line was still long. Then she had happened to glance to her right; at the far end of the platform were glistening limousines, with several chauffeurs leaning against them, smoking cigarettes, picking their teeth and chattering. What in heaven’s name was she doing? She had broken away from the line, opening her purse as she ran.

  Her final frustration now was the result of something she should have remembered. There was a point in the theatrical setting that was the wondrous “village” of Chamonix where automobiles could not pass and only small official vehicles and jitneys for tourists were allowed. She got out of the limousine and walked rapidly down the wide, crowded boulevard. She could see the large red cable-car terminal in the distance. Somewhere above, above the clouds, was Joel. Her Joel. She could not stop herself; she did not try to maintain the control she had imposed on herself all day. She began to run—faster, faster! Be up there, my darling! Be alive, my darling—my only darling!

  It was ten minutes to five when Converse screeched into the parking lot; he slammed on the brakes and leaped out of the car. There had been traffic on the Mont Blanc autoroute, a holdover at the new construction over the vast gorge bridge. Every muscle in his right leg had been cramped by the exertion of seizing every opportunity to swing around the lethargic traffic. He was here! He was in Chamonix, the majestic splendor of the Alps in front of him, the village below. He started running, taking swallows of breath from the clear air of the mountains, forgetting the pain—for she had to be there! Please, Val, make it! I love you so … goddamn it, I need. you so! Be there!

  She stood outside the cable lift looking at the clouds below on the mountains that formed a wall of mist hiding all earthly concerns. She shivered in the Alpine cold but she could not leave. She stood by the stone railing, by a thick mountain telescope through which tourists could observe the wonders of the Alpine world for a few francs. She was frightened to death that he would not come—could not come. Death.

  It was the last cable car, none were permitted after the sun descended over the western peaks—cables were suddenly frozen with shadows. Except for the bartender and several customers inside the glass doors of the bar, she was the only one there. Joel! I told you to stay alive! Please do what I said, my darling—my only darling! My only love!

  The cable car laboriously approached, then screechingly came to a stop. There was no one there. It was empty! Death.

  And then he walked into view, a tall man in a clerical collar, and the top of the world made sense again. He stepped out of the car and she ran to him as he ran to her. They embraced, holding each other as they had never held each other as man and wife.

  “I love you!” he whispered. “Oh, God, I love you.”

  She pulled back, holding his shoulders, tears filling her eyes. “You’re alive, you’re here! You did what I asked you to do.”

  “What I had to do,” he said. “Because it was you.”

  35

  They slept naked, their bodies together, their arms around each other, for a while pushing out the world as they knew it to be, a world they would face in the morning. But for a time there had to be something for themselves, for each other, giving and receiving, precious hours alone, speaking in whispers, trying to understand what they had lost and why, each telling the other it would never be lost again.

  When morning came, they wanted to deny its arrival, yet not completely. There was the world as they knew it, and there was another world as the generals of Aquitaine would have it.

  They ordered Continental breakfasts and an extra pot of coffee. While Val combed her hair Joel went to the window and looked down at the colorful, vibrant town of Chamonix. Hoses pouring out water were seemingly everywhere—the streets were being washed down. The storefronts were splashed until they glistened. Chamonix was preparing for the onslaught of summer tourists—thinking of which, mused Converse, they had been lucky to find rooms. They had gone to three hotels—the first was nearly a disaster before they reached the desk. “For God’s sake, get rid of that collar!” Valerie had whispered. None of the three had anything available, but the fourth, the Croix Blanche, had just received a cancellation.

  “I’ll go out and get you some clothes later,” said Val, coming up behind him, placing her head on his shoulder.

  “I’ve missed that,” he said, turning, putting his arms around her. “I’ve missed you. So much.”

  “We’ve found each other, darling. That’s all that matters.” There was a knock on the door, the polite knock of a waiter. “That’ll be the coffee. Go use my toothbrush.”

  They sat across from each other at the small marble table in front of the window. It was time, and they both knew it. Joel placed a sheet of hotel stationery beside his coffee and a hotel pen on top.

  “I still can’t get over my aunt!” said Val suddenly. “How could I have done it? How could I not have known?”

  “A couple of
times I asked myself the same question.” Converse smiled gently. “About you, I mean.”

  “I’m surprised you didn’t throw me out of the cable car.”

  “Only crossed my mind twice.”

  “God, I was stupid!”

  “No, you were desperate,” corrected Joel. “Just as she was desperate. You were grasping at possibilities, for help. She was desperately trying to go back to the only meaningful days of her life. A person can be terribly convincing feeling like that. She had the proper words, all those esoteric phrases you’d heard all your life. You believed her. I would have believed her too.”

  “You’re devastating when you’re kind, darling. Go easy, it’s morning.”

  “Tell me about Sam Abbott,” he said.

  “Yes, of course, but before I do, I want you to know we’re not alone. There’s a man in Paris, an inspector from the Sûreté, who knows you didn’t kill René and you couldn’t have killed the one they called a chauffeur at the George Cinq.”

  Startled, Joel leaned forward over his coffee. “But I did kill that man. God knows I didn’t mean to—I’ thought he was reaching for a gun, not a radio—but I fought him, I smashed his head into the wall; he died from a cranial some-thing-or-other.”

  “No, he didn’t. He was killed in the hospital. He was suffocated; his lungs were collapsed by suffocation. It was unrelated to his injuries, that’s what Prudhomme said. As he put it, if you didn’t kill the driver and you didn’t kill René, how many others didn’t you kill? He thinks you’ve been set up; he doesn’t know why any more than he can understand why evidence has been suppressed, or suddenly found when it should have been found earlier if it existed—in this case your fingerprints in Mattilon’s office. He wants to help; he gave me a telephone number where we can reach him.”

  “Can we trust him?” asked Joel, writing a note on the stationery.

  “I think so. He did something remarkable this morning, but I’ll get to that.”

  “The man at the George Cinq,” said Converse softly. “Bertholdier’s aide. It’s where the running began. It’s as though the moment was suddenly seized upon, someone recognizing a possible strategy, not wanting to let the opportunity slip away. ‘Brand him a killer now, maybe we can use it, build on it. All it costs is a life.’ Jesus!” Joel struck a match and lit a cigarette. “Go on,” he continued. “Go back. What about Sam?”

  She told him everything, starting with the madness at the St. Regis in New York—the frightening telephone call that led to an intense young man racing up the steps and an Army officer running after her down the street.

  “The odd thing here,” interrupted Converse, “is that those men, that call, might have been legitimate.”

  “What? How? The first one looked like a Hitler youth, and the other was in uniform!”

  “Most people in uniform would be the first ones to want the generals of Aquitaine cut loose in a typhoon. Remember, Fitzpatrick said those four dossiers came from way down deep in official vaults, and judging from much of the material, Connal thought there was heavy military input. Maybe my silent partners in Washington are beginning to crawl out of their sewers. Sorry. Go on.”

  She told him of meeting Sam at the diner in Las Vegas—the married Sam, Sam the father of two young girls. Wincing, Joel listened, all his antennae revolving, catching every turn of phrase, every meaning that might have more than one meaning, trying desperately to find a clue, a way—something, anything they might use or act upon. And then he held up his hand, signaling Val to stop.

  “The three of you were going to Washington?”

  “Yes.”

  “You and Sam and this third person he was going to see, going to talk to—the one he said would know what to do.”

  “Yes. The man who had Sam killed. He was the only one Sam talked to.”

  “But Abbott said he trusted him. With ‘his life,’ I think you said.”

  “Sam said,” corrected Valerie. “He was wrong.”

  “Not necessarily. Sam was easygoing but not easily conned. He chose his friends carefully; he didn’t have too many because he knew his rank was vulnerable.”

  “But he didn’t talk with anyone else—”

  “I’m sure he didn’t, but this other man had to. I know something about crisis conferences in Washington—and that’s exactly what Sam meant when he said you were going there. Those meetings don’t just happen; some strong words are used to cut a path through the bureaucratic mess. Certainly Sam’s name would be put forward first—he had the status and the rank—and just possibly my name, or yours, or even Delavane’s, any of which would have been enough.” Converse picked up the pen. “What was his name?”

  “Oh, Lord,” said Val, closing her eyes, her fingers massaging her forehead. “Let me think.… Alan, the first name was Alan.… Alan Metzger? Metland …?”

  “Was there a rank, a title of some kind?”

  “No. Metcalf! Alan Metcalf, that was it.”

  Joel wrote down the name. “Okay, let’s get to Paris, the man from the Sûreté.”

  She began with the odd behavior of the immigration officials, which led to the strange meeting with the weary, rumpled Prudhomme. She reached the end of the Frenchman’s startling revelations, repeating herself but filling in all the details she had omitted previously. When she finished, Converse held up his palm for the second time, his mouth open in astonishment, his eyes wide and alive.

  “The Tatiana family?” he asked incredulously. “Are you certain?”

  “Completely. I asked him again this morning.”

  “This morning? Yes, you said he did something remarkable this morning. What happened?”

  “He stayed up all night outside the hotel in his car, and when I left in a taxi shortly after the sun was up he crashed—and I mean crashed—into the car behind us. I was being followed. He told me to hurry up and get out of there. That’s when I asked him to repeat the name. It was Tatiana.”

  “That was the name René told me to use with Cort Thorbecke in Amsterdam. ‘Say you’re a member of the Tatiana family.’ Those were his instructions.”

  “What does it mean?”

  “René didn’t go into it too deeply, but I got the drift. Apparently it means some kind of trust, a litmus test that clears someone for a level of information that would be withheld from ninety-nine percent of the people wanting it.”

  “Why?”

  “It sounds crazy, but Mattilon said it was because whoever was part of Tatiana was trusted by the most suspicious people on earth—men who couldn’t afford to make a mistake.”

  “My God, who?”

  “Russians. Commissars in the Kremlin who float money out to brokers in the West who invest it.”

  “You’re right,” said Val. “It’s crazy.”

  “But it works, don’t you see? Decent men who for one reason or another found themselves in a world they probably hated, never knowing whom they could trust, figured out a code among themselves. To be a member of the Tatianas is some kind of clearance. It’s not only a signal of emergency, it’s more than that. It means that whoever sends that signal is all right—in spite of what he may have to do. I’ll bet it’s one hell of a small circle. René, this Prudhomme, they’d fit into it. And for us it’s a key; we can trust it.”

  “You’re in court, aren’t you?” said the now and former Mrs. Converse, reaching across the table for his free hand.

  “I don’t know any other way to do it. Facts, names, tactics; somewhere there’s a crack, a road we can take—we have to take. Quickly.”

  “I’d start with Prudhomme,” said Val.

  “We’ll call in his hand but maybe not first. Let’s take things in sequence. Are there two phones in here? A certain—ex-wife had me too preoccupied to notice last night.”

  “She’s probably pregnant.”

  “Wouldn’t that be wonderful?”

  “Down, boy. Yes, there’s another phone. It’s in the bathroom.”

  “I want you to call th
is Metcalf, Alan Metcalf, in Las Vegas. We’ll get the number from information. I’ll listen.”

  “What do I say?”

  “What name did you and Sam use?”

  “The one I told you. Parquette.”

  “Say that’s who’s calling, nothing else. Let him make the first move. If it’s wrong, I’ll know—we’ll both know—and I’ll hang up. You’ll hear me and you hang up, too.”

  “Suppose he’s not there? Suppose I get a wife or a girl friend or a child?”

  “Leave your name quickly and say you’ll call back in an hour.”

  Peter Stone sat on the sofa, his feet up on the coffee table. Across, in two armchairs, were the Army captain—out of uniform—and the young Navy lieutenant, also in street clothes.

  “We agree, then,” said Stone. “We try this Metcalf and hope for the best. If we’re wrong—if I’m wrong—we could be traced, and don’t fool yourselves, you’ve been seen here, you could be identified. But as I told you before, there comes a time when you have to take a risk you’d rather not take. You’re out of safe territory and you hope to Christ you get through it fast. I can’t promise that you will. This phone is tapped into another number, a hotel across town, so any trace would be delayed, but only delayed while everyone registered is checked, every room checked. Once that’s over with, any experienced telephone repairman could go down in the cellars and find the intercept.”

  “How much time would that give us?” asked the Army officer.

  “It’s one of the largest hotels in New York,” replied the civilian. “With luck, twenty-four to thirty-six hours.”

  “Go for it!” ordered the Navy man.

  “Oh, for God’s sake,” said the captain, running his hand through his hair. “Yes, of course, try it, try him. But I’m still not sure why.”

  “Scat patterns. It was routine information and easy to get. Abbott wrote out his schedules every day and he was precise about them. There was a preponderance of lunches alone with Metcalf, and dinners with both families at either the Abbott or the Metcalf home. I think he trusted the man, and as a longtime intelligence officer Metcalf was the logical one to go to. Also, there’s something else. Along with Converse, all three were prisoners of war in Vietnam.”