“Where the hey do you get your nerve?” said
Converse angrily. “I haven’t agreed to anything! You
don’t make decisions for me, and neither does
Talbot or Simon, nor the holy Judge Anstett, nor
your goddamned client! What did you think you
were doing? Appraising me like a piece of horse-
flesh, making arrangements about me behind my
back! Who do you people think you are?”
“Concerned people who think we’ve found the
right man for the right job at the right time,” said
Halliday, dropping the envelope in front of Joel.
“Only there’s not that much time left. You’ve been
where they want to take us and you know what it’s
like.” Suddenly the Californian got up. “Think about
it. We’ll talk later. By the way, the Swiss know we
were meeting this morning. If anyone asks what we
talked about, tell them I agreed to the final
disposition of the Class A stock. It’s in our favor
even though you may think otherwise. Thanks
32 ROBERT LUDLUM
for the coffee. I’ll be across the table in an hour. It’s
good to see you again, Joel.”
The Californian walked swiftly into the aisle and
out through the brass gate of the Chat Botte into
the sunlight of the Quai du Mont Blanc.
The telephone console was built into the far end
of a long dark conference table. Its muted hum was
in keeping with the dignified surroundings. The
Swiss arbitre, the legal representative of the canton
of Geneva, picked it up and spoke softly, nodding
his head twice, then replaced the phone in its cradle.
He looked around the table; seven of the eight
attorneys were in their chairs talking quietly with
one another. The eighth, Joel Converse, stood in
front of an enormous window flanked by drapes and
overlooking the Quai Gustave Ador. The giant jet
d’eau erupted beyond, its pulsating spray cascading
to the left under the force of a north wind. The sky
was growing dark; a summer storm was on its way
from the Alps.
“Messieurs, ” said the arbiter Conversations trailed
off as faces were turned to the Swiss. “That was
Monsieur Halliday. He has been detained, but urges
you to proceed. His associate, Monsieur Rogeteau,
has his recommendations, and it is understood that
he met with Monsieur Converse earlier this morning
to resolve one of the last details. Is that not so,
Monsieur Converse?”
Heads turned again, now in the opposite
direction toward the figure by the window. There
was no response. Converse continued to stare down
at the lake.
“Monsieur Converse?”
“I beg your pardon?” Joel turned, a frown
creasing his brow, his thoughts far away, nowhere
near Geneva.
“It is so, monsieur?”
“What was the question?”
“You met earlier with Monsieur Halliday?”
Converse paused. “It is so,” he replied.
“And 9”
“And he agreed to the final disposition of the
Class A stock.”
There was an audible expression of relief on the
part of the Americans and a silent acceptance from
the Bern contingent, their eyes noncommittal.
Neither reaction was lost on Joel, and under
different circumstances he might have tabled
THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 33
the item for additional consideration. Halliday’s
judgment of Bern’s advantage notwithstanding, the
acceptance was too easily achieved; he would have
postponed it anyway, at least for an hour’s worth of
analysis. Somehow it did not matter. Goddamn him!
thought Converse.
“Then let us proceed as Monsieur Halliday
suggested,” said the arbitre, glancing at his watch.
An hour stretched into two, then three, the hum
of voices mingling in counterpoint as pages were
passed back and forth, points clarified, paragraphs
initiated. And still Halliday did not appear. Lamps
were turned on as darkness filled the midday sky
outside the huge windows; there was talk of the
approaching storm.
Then, suddenly, screams came from beyond the
thick oak door of the conference room, swelling in
volume until images of horror filled the minds of all
who heard the prolonged terrible sounds. Some
around the enormous table lunged under it, others
got out of their chairs and stood in shock, and a few
rushed to the door, among them Converse. The
arbiter twisted the knob and yanked it back with such
force that the door crashed into the wall. What they
saw was a sight none of them would ever forget. Joel
lashed out, gripping, pulling, pushing away those in
front of him as he raced into the anteroom.
He saw Avery Fowler, his white shirt covered
with blood, his chest a mass of tiny, bleeding holes.
As the wounded man fell, his upturned collar
separated to reveal more blood on his throat. The
expulsions of breath were too well known to Joel; he
had held the heads of children in the camps as they
had wept in anger and the ultimate fear. He held
Avery Fowler’s head now, lowering him to the floor.
“My God, what ha Opened ?” cried Converse,
cradling the dying man in his arms.
“They’re . . . back,” coughed the classmate from
long ago. “The elevator. They trapped me in the
elevator! . . . They said it was for Aquitaine, that was
the name they used . . . Aquitaine. Oh, Christ! Meg
. . . the kids!” Avery Fowler’s head twisted spastically
into his right shoulder, then the final expulsion of air
came from his bloodied throat.
Converse stood in the rain, his clothes drenched,
staring at the unseen place on the water where only
an hour ago the
34 ROBERT LUDLUM
fountain had shot up to the sky proclaiming this was
Geneva. The lake was angry, an infinity of whitecaps
had replaced the graceful white sails. There were no
reflections anywhere. But there was distant thunder
from the north. From the Alps.
And Joel’s mind was frozen.
He walked past the long marble counter of the
hotel Richemond’s front desk and headed for the
winding staircase on the left. It was habit; his suite
was on the second Hoor and the brass-grilled
elevators with their wine-colored velvet interiors
were things of beauty, but not of swiftness. Too, he
enjoyed passing the casement displays of
outrageously priced brilliantly lit jewels that lined
the walls of the elegant staircase shimmering
diamonds, blood-red rubies, webbed necklaces of
spun gold. Somehow they reminded him of change,
of extraordinary change. For him. For a life he had
thought would end violently, thousands of miles
away in a dozen different yet always the same
rat-infested cells, with muted gunfire and the
screams of children in the dark distance. Diamonds,
rubies, and spun gold were symbols of the
unattainable and unrealistic, but they were there,
and he passed them, observed them, smiling at their
existence . . . and they seemed to acknowledge him,
large shining eyes of infinite depth staring back,
telling him they were there, he was there. Change.
But he did not see them now, nor did they
acknowledge him. He saw nothing, felt nothing;
every tentacle of his mind and body was numbed,
suspended in airless space. A man he had known as
a boy under one name had died in his arms years
later under another, and the words he had
whispered at the brutal moment of death were as
incomprehensible as they were paralysing. Aquitaine.
They said it was for Aquitaine…. Where was sanity,
where was reason? What did the words mean and
why had he been drawn into that elusive meaning?
He had been drawn in, he knew, and there was
rea
THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 35
son in that terrible manipulation. The magnet was a
name, a man. George Marcus Delavane, warlord of
Saigon.
“Monsieur!” The suppressed shout came from
below; he turned on the stairs and saw the formally
attired concierge rushing across the lobby and up the
steps. The man’s name was Henri, and they had
known each other for nearly five years. Their
friendship went beyond that of hotel executive and
hotel guest; they had gambled together frequently at
Divonne-les-bains, across the French border.
“Hello, Henri.”
“Mon Dieu, are you all right, Joel? Your office in
New York has been calling you repeatedly. I heard
it on the radio, it is all over Geneval La drogue!
Drugs, crime, guns . . . murder! It touches even us
now!”
“Is that what they say?”
“They say small packages of cocaine were found
under his shirt, a respected avocat international a
suspected connection ”
“It’s a lie,” Converse broke in.
“It’s what they say, what can I tell you? Your
name was mentioned; it was reported that he died as
you reached him. . . . You were not implicated, of
course; you were merely there with the others. I
heard your name and I’ve been worried sickl Where
have you beenk”
“Answering a lot of unanswerable questions down
at police headquarters.” Questions that were
answerable, but not by him, not to the authorities in
Geneva. Avery Fowler Preston Halliday deserved
better than that. A trust had been given, and been