be mastered by most of the hostesses in New York,
London and Ceneva.
The talk veered away from the serious topics
explored in the sitting room. It was as if a recess had
been called, a diversion to ease the burdens of
statesmanship. If that was the aim, it was eminently
successful, and it was the Afrikaner, Van Headmer,
who led the way. In his soft-spoken, charming way
(the dossier had been accurate the “unfeeling killer”
was charming) he described a safari he had taken
Chaim Abrahms on in the veldt
“Do you realize, gentlemen that I bought this
poor Hebrew his first jacket at Safarics’ in
Johannesburg and there’s never been a day when I
haven’t regretted it. It’s become our great general’s
trademark! Of course, you know why he wears it. It
absorbs perspiration and requires very little washing
simply large applications of bay rum. This is a
different jacket, isn’t it, great general?”
“Bleach, bleach, I tell my wife!” replied the sabre,
grimacing. “It takes out the smell of the godless slave
traders!”
“Talking of slaves, let me tell you,” said the
Afrikaner warming to his story with a glass of wine,
changed with each new course.
The story of Chaim Abrahms’ first and only safari
was worthy of good vaudeville. Apparently the Israeli
had been stalking a male lion for hours with his gun
bearer, a Bantu he constantly abused, not realizing
the black understood and spoke English as well as
he. Abrahms had zeroed in each of his four rifles
prior to the hunt, but whenever he had the lion in
his sights, he missed. This supposedly superb
marksman, this celebrated general with the rifle-eye
of a hawk, could not hit eight feet of flesh a hundred
yards away. At the end of the day an exhausted
Chaim Abrahms, using broken English and a
multiplicity of hand gestures, bribed the gun bearer
not to tell the rest of the safari of his misses. The
hunter and the Bantu returned to camp, the hunter
lamenting the nonexis
290 ROBERT LUDLUM
fence of cats and the stupidity of gun bearers. The
native went to Van Headmer’s tent, and as the
Afrikaner told it in perfectly-mimicked Anglicized
Bantu, said the following: ‘I liked the lion more
than the Jew, sir. I altered his sights, sir, but appar-
ently I will be forgiven my indiscretion, sir. Among
other enticements, he has offered to have me
bar-mitzvahed.”
The diners collapsed in laughter Abrahms, to
his credit, loudest of all. Obviously, he had heard
the story before and relished the telling. It occurred
to Joel that only the most secure could listen to
such telling tales about themselves and respond with
genuine laughter. The Israeli was a rock in the
firmament of his convictions and could easily
tolerate a laugh on himself. That, too, was
frightening.
The British servant intruded, walking silently on
the hard wood floor and spoke into Erich
Leifhelm’s ear.
“Forgive me, please,” said the German, rising to
take the call. “A nervous broker in Munich who
consistently picks up rumors from Riyadh. A sheik
goes to the toilet and he hears thunder from the
east.”
The ebullient conversation went on without a
break in the flow, the three men of Aquitaine
behaving like old comrades sincerely trying to make
a stranger feel welcome. This, too, was frightening.
Where were the fanatics who wanted to destroy
governments, ruthlessly grabbir g control and shack-
ling whole societies, channeling the body politic into
their vision of the military state? These were men of
intellect. They spoke of Voltaire and Goethe, and
had compassion for suffering and pain and
unnecessary loss of life. They had humor and could
even laugh at themselves while speaking calmly of
sacrificing their own lives for the betterment of a
world gone mad. ButJoel understood their true
nature. These were interlopers assuming the mantels
of statesmen. What had Leifhelm said, quoting
Goethe? “The romance of politics was best used to
numb and quell the fears of the uninformed.”
Frightening.
LeifLelm returned, followed by the British
servant carrying two open bottles of wine. If the call
from Munich had brought unfavorable news, the
German gave no indication of it. His spirits were as
before, his waxen smile at the ready and his
enthusiasm for the next course unbridled. “And
now, my friends, the lamb d citron medallions of
ambrosia and, hyperbole aside, actually rather good.
Also, in honor of our guest we have a bonus this
evening. My astute English friend and
THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 291
companion was in Siegburg the other day and ran
across several bottles of Beerenauslese, ’71. What
could be a more fitting tribute?”
The men of Aquitaine glanced at one another,
then Bertholdier spoke. ‘Certainly a find, Erich. It’s
one of the more acceptable German varieties.”
‘ The ’82 Klausberg Riesling in Johannesburg
promises to be among the finest in years, ‘ said Van
Headmer.
‘I doubt it will rival the Richon-le-Zion Carmel,
‘ added the Israeli.
“You are all impossible!”
A behatted chef rolled in a silver service cart,
uncovered the saddle of lamb and, under
appreciative looks, proceeded to carve and serve.
The Englishman presented the various side dishes to
each diner, then poured the wine.
Erich Leifhelm raised his glass, the flickering
light of the candles reflecting off the carved crystal
and the edges of the silver-mirrored place mats. To
our guest and his unknown client, both of whom we
trust will soon be in our fold.”
Converse nodded his head and drank.
He took the glass from his lips, and was suddenly
aware that the four men of Aquitaine were staring at
him, their own glasses still on the table. None had
drunk the wine.
LeifLelm spoke again, his voice nasal, cold, a
fury held in check by an intellect in control. `4
General Delavane was the enemy, our enemy! Men
like that can’t be allowed anymore, can’t you
understand!’ Those were the words, were they not,
Mr. Converse?”
WhatP”Joel heard his voice but was not sure it
was his. The flames of the candles suddenly erupted,
fire filled his eyes and the burning in his throat
became an unbearable pain. He grabbed his neck as
he struggled out of the chair, hurling it back, he
heard the crash, but only as a succession of echoes.
He was falling. The pain surged into his stomach; it
was intolerable; he clutched his groin, frantically
trying to suppress the pain. Then he felt the chill of
a hard surface and somehow knew he was writhing
wildly on the floor while being held in check by
powerful arms.
`The gun. Step back. Hold him.” The voice, too,
was a series of echoes, though sharply enunciated in
a searing British accent. “Now. Fire!”
16
The telephone rang, jolting Connal Fitzpatrick
out of a deep sleep. He had fallen back on the
couch, the Van Headmer dossier in his hand, both
feet still planted on the floor. Shaking his head and
rapidly blinking and widening his eyes, he tried to
orient himself. Where was he? What time it? The
phone rang again, now a prolonged, shattering
sound. He lurched off the couch, his breathing
erratic, his exhaustion too complete to shake offin
a few seconds. He had not really slept since
California; his body and mind could barely function.
He grabbed the phone, nearly dropping it as he
momentarily lost his balance.
“Yes… hello!”
“Commander Fitzpatrick, if you please,” said a
male voice in a clipped British accent.
“This Is he.”
“Philip Dunstone here, Commander. I’m calling
for Mr Converse. He wanted me to tell you that the
conference is goings – well, far better than he
thought possible.”
“Dunstone. Major Philip Dunstone. I’m senior
aide to General Berkeley-Greene.”
“Berkeley-Greene?”
“Yes, Commander. Mr. Converse said to tell you
that along with the others he’s decided to accept
General Leifhelm’s hospitality for the night. He’ll
be in touch with you first thing in the morning.”
‘Let me talk to him. Now.”
“I’m afraid that’s not possible. They’ve all gone
out on the motor launch for a spin downriver.
Frankly, they’re a secretive lot, aren’t they?
Actually, I’m not permitted to attend their
discussions any more than you are.”
“I’m not settling for this, Major!”
“Really, Commander, I’m simply relaying a
message.
292
THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 293
. . . Oh yes, Mr. Converse did mention that if you
were concerned I should also tell you that if the
admiral called, you were to thank him and give him
his regards.”
Fitzpatrick stared at the wall. Converse would
not bring up the Hickman business unless he was
sending a message. The request made no sense to
anyone but the two of them. Everything was all right.
Also there could be several reasons why Joel did not
care to talk directly on the phone. Among them,
thought Connal resentfully, was probably the fact
that he didn’t trust his “aide” to say the proper words
in the event their conversation was being overheard.