The Aquitaine Progression (84 page)

The old women began to shout, their lined, contorted faces filled with hate. Converse got to his feet; he understood. Hermione Geyner and everyone else in that room were mad or senile or both. They were living in a violent time that was forty years in the past.

And then, as if on some demented cue, a door opened across the room and two men came out. One in a raincoat had his right hand in his pocket and was carrying some kind of package in his left. The second man held a topcoat over one arm, no doubt concealing a weapon. And then a third man appeared, and Joel closed his eyes, pressing them shut tight, the pain in his chest unbearable. The third man had a bandage across his forehead and one arm in a sling. Converse had caused those wounds; he had last seen the man in a freight car filled with frantic animals.

The first man came up to him and held out the package, a thick manila envelope with no stamps on the cover. It was the brief he had sent to Nathan Simon in New York.

“General Leifhelm sends you his regards, even his respects,” said the man, pronouncing the word “general” with the hard German
g
.

Peter Stone watched as the CIA-approved doctor put the third and final stitch into the corner of the Army officer’s mouth as the captain sat straining in the chair.

“The bridge will have to be repaired,” said the doctor. “I have a man in the laboratory who’ll do it in a few hours, and a dentist on Seventy-second Street, he’ll do the rest. “I’ll call you later when I’ve made the arrangements.”

“Son of a
bitch
!” roared the captain, as loud as he could with half his mouth Novocained. “He was a tank, a fucking black
tank
! He couldn’t have been working for her, he was just a goddamned cabdriver! Why the
hell
?”

“Maybe you triggered him,” said Stone, walking away as he looked at several pages of notes. “It happens.”

“
What
happens?” yelled the officer.

“Cut it out, Captain. You’ll break the stitches.” The doctor held up a hypodermic needle; it was a threat.

“Okay, okay.” The officer spoke in a softer voice. “What does ‘trigger’ mean in that esoteric language of yours?”

“It’s perfectly clear English.” Stone turned to the doctor. “You know I’m not employed any longer, so you’d better give me a bill.”

“When you’re in town a dinner will do. The lab and the dentist are different, though. I’d suggest cash. And get him out of uniform.”

“Will do.”

“What …?” The captain stopped, seeing Stone’s hand held unobtrusively in front of his chest, telling the officer to be quiet.

The doctor put his instruments in the black bag and went to the door. “By the way, Stone,” he said to the former CIA agent, “thanks for the Albanian. His wife is spending Moscow’s rubles like mad for every ache I can find a name for.”

“The ache is her husband. He has an apartment in D.C. she doesn’t know about and some very strange sex habits.”

“I’ll never tell.”

The doctor left, and Stone turned back to the captain. “When you’re with men like that, don’t say any more than you have to, and that includes questions. They don’t want to hear and they don’t want to know.”

“Sorry. What did you mean—
I
triggered that hulk?”

“Come on. An attractive woman being chased down the street by a beribboned Army officer. How many memories—black memories—do you think are out there with less than fondness for your ilk.”

“Ilk? I never thought of myself as an ilk, but I see what you mean.… You were on the phone when I got here, and
then there were two other calls. What is it? Any line on the Converse woman?”

“No.” Stone again looked down at his notes, shuffling the pages. “We can assume she came back to reach someone—someone she and her ex-husband trust.”

“He knows his way around Washington. Maybe someone on the Hill, or even in the administration, or State.”

“I don’t think so. If he knew anyone like that and thought his story would get out before his head was shot off, he would have surfaced days ago. Remember, he’s been tried, convicted, and condemned. Can you think of anyone in Washington who wouldn’t play it—play
him
—strictly by the rules? He’s contaminated. Too many ‘authoritative sources’ have confirmed it, even diagnosed the disease.”

“And by now he’s learned what we found out months ago. You don’t know where they are or who you’re talking to.”

“Or whom they’ve hired,” added Stone. “Or whom they’ve blackmailed into doing what they want without giving away any trade secrets.” He sat down opposite the Army officer. “But a couple of other things have fallen into place. We’re getting a pattern and a few additional names. If we could pull Converse out and combine what he’s learned with what we’ve got—it might just possibly be enough.”

“
What?
” The captain shot forward in the chair.

“Take it easy. I said just possibly. I’ve been calling in some old debts, and if we could put it all together, there are one or two left I can trust.”

“That’s why we called you in,” said the officer quietly. “Because you know what to do, we don’t.… What have you got?”

“To begin with, have you ever heard of an actor named Caleb Dowling—actually, it’s Calvin, but that’s not important except for the computers.”

“I know who he is. He plays the father on a television show called
Santa Fe
. Don’t shout it from the rooftops, but my wife and I watch it now and then. What about him?”

Stone looked at his watch. “He’ll be here in a few minutes.”

“No kidding? I’m impressed.”

“You may be more impressed after we’ve talked to him.”

“Jesus, fill me in!”

“It’s one of those odd breaks we all look for that seem to come out of left field but are perfectly logical. It’s the timing
that’s not logical.… Dowling was in Bonn filming a picture and struck up a friendship with Peregrine. American celebrity,
et cetera
. He also met Converse on a plane and got him a hotel room when they were tough to find. Most significant, Dowling was the initial contact between Peregrine and Converse—which didn’t work out because Fitzpatrick stepped in.”

“So?”

“When Peregrine was killed, Dowling called the embassy a number of times trying to get an appointment with the acting ambassador, but he was put on hold. Finally he sent a note to Peregrine’s secretary saying he had to see her, that it was important. The secretary met with him, and this Dowling dropped a bomb on her lap. Apparently he and Peregrine had an agreement that if Converse called the embassy and contact was to be made, Dowling would go along. He didn’t think Peregrine would go back on his word. Secondly, Peregrine told Dowling that something was rotten in the embassy ranks, some very odd behavior. One incident Dowling witnessed himself. He said there were too many things that didn’t make sense—from Converse’s sane and lucid conversations to the fact that he, Dowling, hadn’t been officially questioned, as if people were avoiding one of the last people to see Converse. The bottom line was that he didn’t think Converse had anything to do with Peregrine’s murder. The secretary damn near fainted but told him he would be contacted. She knew the Agency’s station chief in Bonn and called him. So did I, two days ago, telling him I was brought in deep down by State.”

“He confirmed all of this?”

“Yes. He called Dowling in, listened to him, and has begun digging himself. He’s coming up with names, one of which we know, but there’ll be others. I was on the phone with him when you got here. Dowling flew in yesterday; he’s at the Pierre and will be here by eleven-thirty.”

“That’s movement,” said the captain, nodding. “Anything else?”

“Two other things. You know how stymied we were when Judge Anstett caught it and how strong the case was made for a mob killing. Hell, we weren’t even sure why Halliday used Anstett in the first place. Well, the computer boys at the Army data banks have come up with the answer. It goes back to October of 1944. Anstett was a legal officer in Bradley’s
First Army, where Delavane held a battalion command. Delavane railroaded a sergeant who’d cracked through a court-martial. The charge was desertion under fire, and Colonel Delavane wanted an example both for his own troops and for the Germans, to let the first know they were being led by a ramrod, and the second that they were fighting one. The verdict was guilty, the sentence execution.”

“Oh, my God,” exclaimed the Army officer. “Slovik all over again.”

“Exactly. Except that a lowly lieutenant named Anstett heard about it and came rolling in with all his legal barrels smoking. By using psychiatric evaluation reports he not only got the sergeant sent home for treatment but literally turned the proceedings around and put Delavane himself on trial. Using the same kind of psychological evaluations—stress, mainly—he called into question Delavane’s fitness for command. It damned near ruined an illustrious military career, and would have if it wasn’t for the colonel’s friends in the War Department. They buried the report so well it was under another Delavane’s name and wasn’t picked up until all the records were computerized in the sixties.”

“That’s one hell of an explanation, Stone.”

“It’s only part of it. It didn’t explain Anstett’s killing itself. And make no mistake, it was the Mafia down to the man with the gun.” Stone paused and turned a page. “So there had to be a connection somewhere, somehow a link, probably going back years. The boys with the disks looked further, and I think we’ve got it. Guess who was Colonel Delavane’s chief aide in the First Army. No, don’t bother, you couldn’t. He was a Captain Parelli, Mario Alberto Parelli.”

“Good Christ! The senator?”

“The five-term senator, thirty years in that august body. Up-from-the-bootstraps Mario, with a slight push from the G.I. Bill, some early benefactors and a few lucrative legal retainers.”

“Wow …” said the captain softly, without enthusiasm, as he leaned back in the chair. “That’s heavy, isn’t it?”

“It’s there. It fits. And I don’t mind telling you that in ’62 and ’63, during the Let’s-get-Fidel days, Parelli was a frequent visitor at the White House, courtesy of both the Kennedy boys.”

“Even in the Senate. He’s one of the biggest cannons on the Hill.”

“While you’re staring, let me give you the last item. We’ve found Commander Fitzpatrick.”

“
What?
”

“At least we know where he is,” completed Stone. “As to whether we can bring him out, or even want to try, that’s another question.”

Valerie got in the cab at McCarran Airport in Las Vegas and gave the driver the address of a restaurant on Route 93, repeated twice by Sam Abbott over the phone. The driver, creasing his forehead, looked at her in his rearview mirror. Val was used to men scrutinizing her; she was neither flattered nor annoyed anymore. Frankly, she was just bored by the childishness of it all, by the fantasies of grown-up children abusing themselves with their eyes.

“Are you sure, miss?” asked the driver.

“I beg your pardon?”

“That isn’t a restaurant—like I mean a
restaurant
. It’s a diner, a pit stop for trucks.”

“It’s where I wish to go,” said Val coolly.

“Sure, okay, fine.” The taxi pulled out into the departing traffic.

The driver was right. A half-acre of asphalt surrounded the long, low, L-shaped diner; a dozen huge trucks dwarfed the cars, which were parked at respectful distances from the intimidating rigs. Val paid the driver and went inside; she looked around and walked past the cashier’s counter toward the L-shaped section. Sam had told her he would be in one of the booths in that area.

He was, at the rear of the second aisle. As Valerie approached she looked at the man she had not seen in nearly seven years. He had not changed much; the brown hair had a fringe of gray around the temples, but the strong, relaxed face was not very different—perhaps the eyes were a little deeper, a few more lines at the sides and the cheekbones a touch more pronounced. It was a better face for a portrait now, she thought; the character beneath was emerging. Their eyes met, and the brigadier general got out of the booth, his clothes denying his rank and profession. He was dressed in an open sport shirt, tan summer slacks and dark loafers. He was somewhat shorter than Joel, but not by much. His gray eyes said she was a welcome sight.

“
Vol
.” Abbott held her briefly, obviously not wanting to call attention to them.

“You look well, Sam,” she said, sitting down across from him, putting the carry-on beside her.

“You look merely outstanding, which is military for all those other adjectives.” Abbott smiled. “It’s funny, but I come out here a lot because no one pays any attention to me, so I thought, hell, it’s the perfect place. I should have remembered—you walk through that arcade of gorillas and eggs get put in ears with coffee spoons.”

“Thanks. I could use some confidence.”

“I could probably use a strong alibi. If someone does recognize me, word will go back that the brigadier’s pulling outside duty.”

“You’re
married
, Sam?”

“Five years ago. Late, but with all the fixings. A lovely bride and two beguiling daughters.”

“I’m so happy for you. I hope I get a chance to meet her, meet them—but not this trip. Definitely not this trip.”

Abbott paused, looking into her eyes, a touch of sadness in his. “Thank you for understanding,” he said.

“There’s nothing to understand, or rather, there’s everything to understand. The fact that you’re willing to meet me after all that’s happened is more than we had a right to expect. Both Joel and I know the risks you’re taking—legally, as a general, all of it—and if there was any other way, we wouldn’t involve you. But after you hear what I have to say, you’ll understand why we can’t wait any longer, why Joel agreed to let me try to find you.… You were my idea, Sam, but Joel wouldn’t have heard of it unless he felt he had to—not for himself; he doesn’t expect to live. That’s what he said and he believes it.”

A waitress brought coffee and Abbott thanked her. “We’ll order later,” he added, staring at Valerie. “You’ll have to trust my judgment, you understand that, don’t you?”