‘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.”
* * *
44 ROBERT LUDLUM
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 ex-
pected 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, levered 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
“Good. I’ll put this away, then.” The scholar lowered
the
THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 45
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 Af-
rica, 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 af
46 RORERT LUDIUM
flictionI 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
knowing 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,
THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 47
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 rurnors 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.”