Read Online The Aquitaine Progression by Robert Ludlum - Free Book Online
Authors: Robert Ludlum
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great deal in cash. I bought one of those sensorized money belts in Geneva—the batteries are guaranteed for a year. If it’s ripped off me, a tiny siren goes off that splits your eardrums. I’d like American currency for myself and the rest transferred.”
“Those belts are effective, sir, but not if you are unconscious, or if there is no one around to hear them. Might I suggest traveler’s checks?”
“You could and you’d probably be right, but I don’t think so. I may not care to write out a signature.”
“As you wish. The denominations for yourself, please?” said Laskaris, pencil in hand, pad below. “And where would you like the remainder to be sent?”
“Is it possible,” asked Converse slowly, “to have accounts set up not in my name but accessible to me?”
“Of course, sir. Frankly, it is often standard in Mykonos—as well as in Crete, Rhodes, Athens, Istanbul, and also much of Europe. A description is wired, accompanied by words written out in your handwriting—another name, or numbers. One man I knew used nursery rhymes. And then they are matched. One must use a sophisticated bank, of course.”
“Of course. Name a few.”
“Where?”
“In London, Paris, Bonn—maybe Tel Aviv,” said Joel, trying to remember Halliday’s words.
“Bonn is not easy; they are so inflexible. A wrong apostrophe and they summon whomever they consider their authorities.… Tel Aviv is simple; money is as freewheeling and as serpentine as the Knesset. London and Paris are standard and, of course, their greed is overwhelming. You will be heavily taxed for the transfers because they know you will not make an issue over covert funds. Very proper, very mercenary, and very much thievery.”
“You know your banks, don’t you?”
“I’ve had experience, sir. Now, as to the disbursements?”
“I want a hundred thousand for myself—nothing larger than five-hundred-dollar bills. The rest you can split up and tell me how I can get it if I need it.”
“It is not a difficult assignment, sir. Shall we start writing names, or numbers—or nursery rhymes?”
“Numbers,” said Converse. “I’m a lawyer. Names and nursery rhymes are in dimensions I don’t want to think about right now.”
“As you wish,” said the Greek, reaching for a pad. “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.”
* * *
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 expected 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
“Those belts are effective, sir, but not if you are unconscious, or if there is no one around to hear them. Might I suggest traveler’s checks?”
“You could and you’d probably be right, but I don’t think so. I may not care to write out a signature.”
“As you wish. The denominations for yourself, please?” said Laskaris, pencil in hand, pad below. “And where would you like the remainder to be sent?”
“Is it possible,” asked Converse slowly, “to have accounts set up not in my name but accessible to me?”
“Of course, sir. Frankly, it is often standard in Mykonos—as well as in Crete, Rhodes, Athens, Istanbul, and also much of Europe. A description is wired, accompanied by words written out in your handwriting—another name, or numbers. One man I knew used nursery rhymes. And then they are matched. One must use a sophisticated bank, of course.”
“Of course. Name a few.”
“Where?”
“In London, Paris, Bonn—maybe Tel Aviv,” said Joel, trying to remember Halliday’s words.
“Bonn is not easy; they are so inflexible. A wrong apostrophe and they summon whomever they consider their authorities.… Tel Aviv is simple; money is as freewheeling and as serpentine as the Knesset. London and Paris are standard and, of course, their greed is overwhelming. You will be heavily taxed for the transfers because they know you will not make an issue over covert funds. Very proper, very mercenary, and very much thievery.”
“You know your banks, don’t you?”
“I’ve had experience, sir. Now, as to the disbursements?”
“I want a hundred thousand for myself—nothing larger than five-hundred-dollar bills. The rest you can split up and tell me how I can get it if I need it.”
“It is not a difficult assignment, sir. Shall we start writing names, or numbers—or nursery rhymes?”
“Numbers,” said Converse. “I’m a lawyer. Names and nursery rhymes are in dimensions I don’t want to think about right now.”
“As you wish,” said the Greek, reaching for a pad. “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.”
* * *
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 expected 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
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