said Joel, maintaining the steady, professional burn
in his eyes, “but this is an occasion I never expected.
If I may say so, General, it’s an honor to meet you.”
“It is an honor to meet you,” rejoined
Bertholdier. “You gentlemen of the air did all you
could, and I know something about the
circumstances. So many missions’ I think it was eas-
ier on the ground!” The general laughed quietly.
“Gentlemen of the air” the man was unreal,
thought Converse. But the connection was firm; it
was real, he felt it, he knew it. The combination of
words and looks had brought it about. So simple: a
lawyer’s ruse, taming an adversary in this case an
enemy. The enemy.
“I ~onidn’t agree with that, General; it was a
lot~eaner in the air. But if there’d been more like
you on the ground in Indochina, there never would
have been a Dienbienphu.”
“A flattering statement, but I’m not sure it could
stand the test of reality.”
88 ROBERT LUDLUM
“I’m sure,” said Joel quietly, clearly. “I’m convinced
of
Luboque, who had been engaged in
conversation by Mattilon, interrupted. “Mon general,
voulez-vous vous joinder a nous?”
“Pardonnez-moi. ye suds occupy aver mes
visiteurs, ” answered Bertholdier, turning back to
Converse. “I must decline Rene’s invitation, I’m
expecting guests. He tells me you are an attorney,
a specialist in aircraft litigation.”
“It’s part of the broader field, yes. Air, ground,
oceangoing craft we try to represent the spectrum.
Actually, I’m fairly new at it not the expertise, I
hope but the represen
‘1 see, ‘said the general, obviously bewildered.
“Are you in Paris on business?”
This was it, thought Joel. Above all, he would
have to be subtle. The words but especially the
eyes must convey the unspoken. “No, I’m just here
to catch my breath. I flew from San Francisco to
New York and on to Paris. Tomorrow I’ll be in
Bonn for a day or so, then off to Tel Aviv.”
“How tiring for you.” Bertholdier was now
returning his stare.
“Not the worst, I’m afraid,” said Converse, a
half-smile on his lips. “After Tel Aviv, there’s a
night flight to Johannes
“Bonn, Tel Aviv, Johannesburg . . .” The soldier
spoke softly. “A most unusual itinerary.”
“Productive, we think. At least, we hope so.”
“We?”
“My client, General. My new client.”
“Deraisonnable!” cried Mattilon, laughing at
something Luboque had said, and, just as obviously,
telling Joel he could no longer keep his impatient
litigant in conversation.
Bertholdier, however, did not take his eyes off
Converse. ‘Where are you staying, my young
fighter-pilot friend?”
“Young and not so young, General.”
“Where?”
“The George Cinq. Suite two-three-five.”
“A fine establishment.”
“It’s habit. My previous firm always posted me
there.”
“Posted? As in ‘garrisoned’?” asked Bertholdier,
a half-smile now on his lips.
THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 89
“An unconscious slip,” said Joel. “But then again,
it says it, doesn’t it, sir?”
“It does, indeed…. Ah ha, my guests arrive!” The
soldier extended his hand. “It’s been a pleasure,
Monsieur Simon.”
Swift au revoir’s accompanied nods and rapid
handshakes as Bertholdier returned to his table to
greet his luncheon companions. Through Mathlon,
Joel thanked Luboque for the introduction; the
disabled pilot gestured with both hands, palms up,
and Converse had the distinct feeling that he had
been baptised. The insane three-sided dialogue then
resumed at high speed, and it was all Joel could do
to maintain even minimum concentration.
Progress had been made; it was in Bertholdier’s
eyes, and he could feel those eyes straying over to
him even while the conversation at both tables
became animated. The general was diagonally to
Converse’s left; with the slightest turning of either
face, the line of sight between them was direct.
Twice it happened. The first time, Joel felt the
forceful gaze resting on him as if magnified sunlight
were burning into his flesh. He shifted his head
barely an inch; their eyes locked, the soldier’s
penetrating, severe, questioning. The second time
was a half-hour later, when the eye contact was
initiated by Converse himself. Luboque and Mattilon
were discussing legal strategy, and as if drawn by a
magnet, Joel slowly turned to his left and watched
Bertholdier, who was quietly, emphatically making a
point with one of his guests. Suddenly, as a voice
replied across the adjacent table, the general
snapped his head in Converse’s direction, his eyes no
longer questioning, only cold and ice-like. Then just
as abruptly, there was warmth in them; the
celebrated soldier nodded, a half-smile on his face.
Joel sat in the soft leather chair by the window in
the dimly lit sitting room; what light there was came
from a fringed lamp on the desk. Alternately he
stared at the telephone in front of the lamp and
looked out the window at the weaving night traffic of
Paris and the lights on the wide boulevard below.
Then he focused entirely on the phone as he so
frequently did when waiting for a call from a legal
adversary he expected would capitulate, knowing that
man or woman would capitulate. It was simply a
question of time.
What he expected now was communication, not
capitula
90 ROBERT LUDLUM
tion a connection, the connection. He had no idea
what form it would take, but it would come. It had
to come.
It was nearly seven-thirty, four hours since he
had left L’Etalon Blanc after a final, firm handshake
exchanged with Jacques-Louis Bertholdier. The look
in the soldier’s eyes was unmistakable: If nothing
else, Converse reasoned, Bertholdier would have to
satisfy his sheer curiosity.
Joel had covered himself with the hotel’s front
desk, distributing several well-placed 100-franc
notes. The tactic was not at all unusual in these
days of national and financial unrest had not been
for years, actually, even without the unrest. Visiting
businessmen frequently chose to use pseudonyms
for any number of reasons, ranging from
negotiations best kept quiet to amorous
engagements best left untraceable. In Converse’s
case, the use of the name Simon made it appear
logical, if not eminently respectable. If Talbot,
Brooks and Simon preferred that all
communications be made in the surname of one of
the senior partners, who could question the
decisions Joel, however, carried the ploy one step
further. After telephoning New York, he explained,
he was told that his own name was not to be used
at all; no one knew he was in Paris and that was the
way his firm wanted it. Obviously, the delayed
instructions accounted for the mix-up in the res-
ervation, which was void at any rate. There was to
be no billing; he would pay in cash, and since this
was Paris, no one raised the slightest objection.
Cash was infinitely preferable, delayed payment a
national anathema.
Whether anyone believed this nonsense or not
was irrelevant. The logic was sufficiently adequate
and the franc notes persuasive; the original
registration card was torn up and another placed in
the hotel file. H. Simon replaced J. Converse. The
permanent address of the former was a figment of
Joel’s imagination, a numbered house on a
numbered street in Chicago, Illinois, said house and
said street most likely nonexistent. Anyone asking
or calling for Mr. Converse which was highly
unlikely would be told no guest of that name was
currently at the George V. Even Rene Mattilon was
not a problem, for Joel had been specific. Since he
had no further business in Paris, he was taking the
six o’clock shuttle to London and staying with
friends for several days before flying back to New
York. He had thanked Rene profusely, telling the
Frenchman that his firm’s fears about Bertholdier
had been groundless. During their quiet
conversation he had brought
THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 91
up three key names with the general, and each had
been greeted with a blank look from Bertholdier,
who apologized for his faulty memory.
“He wasn’t Iying,” Joel had said.
“I can’t imagine why he would,” Mattilon had replied.
I can, Converse had thought to himself. They call
itAquitaine.
A crack! There was a sudden sound, a harsh
metallic snap, then another, and another the
tumblers of a lock falling out of place, a knob being
turned. It came from beyond the open door to the
bedroom. Joel bolted forward in his chair; then,
looking at his watch, just as rapidly he let out his
breath and relaxed. It was the hour when the floor
maid turned down the bed; the tension of the
expected call and what it represented had frayed his
nerves. Again he leaned back, his gaze resting on the
telephone. When would it ring? Would it ring?
“Pardon, monsieur, ” said a feminine voice,
accompanied by a light tapping on the open
doorframe. Joel could not see the speaker.
“Yes?” Converse turned away from the silent
phone, expecting to see the maid.
What he saw made him gasp. It was the figure of
Bertholdier, his posture erect, his angled head rigid,
his eyes a strange admixture of cold appraisal,