Free The Aquitaine Progression by Robert Ludlum Page B

under
Pentagon
. There were perhaps twenty-five people in all. “Who are the Americans?” He released the lever; the flame died and he put the lighter back in his pocket. “The names don’t mean anything to me.”
    “Some should, but it doesn’t matter,” said Beale elliptically. “The point is that among those men are disciples of George Delavane. They carry out his orders. How many of them is difficult to say, but at least several from each grouping. You see, these are the men who make the decisions—or conversely, do not oppose decisions—without which Delavane and his followers would be stopped in their tracks.”
    “Spell that out.”
    “Those on the left are key figures in the State Department’s Office of Munitions Control. They determine what gets cleared for export, who under the blanket of ‘national interest’ can receive weapons and technology withheld from others. On the right are the senior officers at the Pentagon on whose word millions upon millions are spent for armament procurements. All are decision makers—and a number of those decisions have been questioned, a few openly, others quietly by diplomatic and military colleagues. We’ve learned that much—”
    “Questioned? Why?” interrupted Converse.
    “There were rumors—there always
are
rumors—of large shipments improperly licensed for export. Then there’s surplus military equipment—excess supplies—lost in transfersfrom temporary warehouses and out-of-the-way storage depots. Surplus equipment is easily unaccounted for; it’s an embarrassment in these days of enormous budgets and cost over-runs. Get rid of it and don’t be too particular. How fortunate in these instances—and coincidental—if a member of this Aquitaine shows up, willing to buy and with all his papers in order. Whole depots and warehouses are sent where they shouldn’t be sent.”
    “A
Libya
connection?”
    “There’s no doubt of it. A great many connections.”
    “Halliday mentioned it and you said it a few moments ago. Laws broken—arms, equipment, technological information sent to people who shouldn’t have them. They break loose on cue and there’s disruption, terrorism—”
    “Justifying military responses,” old Beale broke in. “That’s part of Delavane’s concept. Justifiable escalation of armed might, the commanders in charge, the civilians helpless, forced to listen to them, obey them.”
    “But you just said questions were raised.”
    “And answered with such worn-out phrases as ‘national security’ and ‘adversarial disinformation’ to stop or throw off the curious.”
    “That’s obstruction. Can’t they be caught at it?”
    “By whom? With what?”
    “Damn it, the questions themselves!” replied Converse. “Those improper export licenses, the military transfers that got lost, merchandise that can’t be traced.”
    “By people without the clearances to go around security classifications, or lacking the expertise to understand the complexities of export licensing.”
    “That’s nonsense,” insisted Joel. “You said some of those questions were asked by diplomatic personnel, military colleagues, men who certainly had the clearances
and
the expertise.”
    “And who suddenly, magically, didn’t ask them any longer. Of course, many may have been persuaded that the questions were, indeed, beyond their legitimate purviews; others may have been too frightened to penetrate for fear of involvement; others still, forced to back off—frankly threatened. Regardless, behind it all there are those who do the convincing, and they’re growing in numbers everywhere.”
    “Christ, it’s a—a
network
,” said Converse softly.
    The scholar looked hard at Joel, the night light on thewater reflecting across the old man’s pale, lined face. “Yes, Mr. Converse, a ‘network.’ That word was whispered to me by a man who thought I was one of them. ‘The network,’ he said. ‘The network will take care of you.’ He meant