Tommy Carmellini 02 - The Traitor (26 page)

If there was a third person, anyone really searching would find him or her. That fact alone suggested that the mysterious third person did not exist.

So what method did that leave?

The aerial photo of Rodet's chateau was pinned to the wall over Sarah's desk. Jake pulled the pins out, took the print down and studied the photo.

Henri Rodet told his secretary he was going to lunch and walked out of his office. In the courtyard he ignored the limo that was his to command and asked for an agency car. He got in and drove out the gate, turning right on the street.

He checked his rearview mirror at the first light, and the second. No one seemed to be following. Flowing with traffic, he drove to the large parking facilities that served the Pompidou Center and went in. There were four possible exits. He went straight though the building, ensuring that no cars were behind him, and exited.

He parked in a small lot near the Boulevard Richard Lenoir and walked. Ten minutes later he entered a modest restaurant. The staff were still cleaning and preparing for the luncheon crowd.

"Ah, Steuvels.
Bonjour,
Good to see you again."

"And you, Monsieur Rodet."

"Steuvels, I am expecting a friend, an American. He will be along in a little while, and I wondered if we might have one of your private rooms upstairs?"

"Pardon, monsieur, but they are not ready for lunch. You understand, we use them only in the evenings . .."

"It doesn't matter. This is a private meeting."

"But of course. Come, follow me, and we will make a few preparations. What is your friend's name?"

"Grafton."

In the small room, which was just big enough for a table, eight chairs and a sideboard, Rodet had an excellent view out the window. He moved back in the room so that someone outside could not see him.

The day was bright; a square of light fell upon the table.

A waiter knocked, then bustled in with bottled water and two glasses.

"A beer,
s''il vousplait,"
Rodet said.

When the waiter left Rodet loosened his tie and settled back to wait.

He and Qasim had had their last meal together in a brasserie in the Latin Quarter. The brasserie was gone now—the owner had a

heart attack ten, no, fifteen or so years ago. These days the business on that corner sold ice cream to tourists.

Qasim had fallen in love with Paris. Rodet tried to talk him out of going to Egypt. "You don't need to do this," he said. "This isn't your fight."

Qasim didn't argue. He took tiny sips of wine and ate slowly, savoring every bite.

Rodet found that it was difficult to argue with a man who refuses to speak, so he gave up. He drank wine and watched people come and go and listened to conversations swirling around them.

When he had finished eating, Qasim ordered the best bottle of wine in the house. The proprietor brought it out reverently and opened it before them. Qasim took an experimental sip, then nodded his approval.

As the conversational hubbub engulfed and surrounded them, he spoke softly, so Rodet had to lean in to hear. "It will be a long time before I write to you. I'll write to your grandmother. In the letter a place will be mentioned. That will be where I am. Eventually, when it is safe, we will meet somewhere. I will tell you the place and time."

"It would be best if all our communications are in code."

"I understand. That will come later, when I have something to tell you. We must wait. The longer we wait, the more they trust me. The more they trust me, the more damage we can do them."

Rodet nodded.

"It is important that you understand, Henri. I may not survive. The Egyptian police may beat me to death or the fundamentalists may kill me. What happens will be God's will. But if God wants me to survive, it will be because He wants me to destroy these people."

Rodet drank more wine and said nothing.

"You see, I am a holy warrior at heart. Islam is the religion for warriors. A man must accept God in his heart and submit to His will. The rest is only details."

Rodet did see. He did not understand, but he saw the iron in the man before him.

They talked and talked until the wine was gone. Mostly Qasim talked and Rodet listened. In his new life as a spy, Qasim could only survive if he said very little, and then nothing that revealed the inner man. So now he talked freely, as if saying good-bye to himself.

He left the next day for Egypt. Rodet waited for several days, then followed along behind. When the Frenchman reached Cairo, Qasim was already in jail. Rodet didn't ask about him, but he saw the lists and found his new name.

Yes, he had to have a new name. Too many people knew Abu Qasim, philosophy student.

Months later Rodet failed to find the name on the newest list. He didn't know if Qasim had died or been released. That was when the reaction to Qasim's choice hit him the hardest. Abu Qasim, he realized, was the greatest human being he had ever met. In an era when most people refused to get involved, Abu Qasim was willing to give his life for what he believed in.

The waiter knocked, breaking Rodet's chain of thought. Now the door opened and the waiter stuck his head in. "Monsieur Grafton."

"Show him in,
s'il vousplait."

"She's out and walking, Tommy."

I was sitting in a taxi near the Gare de l'Est. The meter was running and my driver was leaning against the front fender, smoking and chatting with a colleague who had driven the taxi parked behind us.

The
voice
on
the
phone
in
my
ear
was
tinny.
"She
crossed
the square and is walking toward the Boulevard Beaumarchais."

"Both of you are on her, right?"

"Yeah. I'm on one side of the street, Al's on the other."

"What's she wearing?"

"Nice blue and white dress, a white fur wrap of some kind— looks like a short jacket—a designer purse hanging on a strap over one shoulder, and shoes with modest heels."

"Don't lose her and don't let her burn you." "Comments like that are not productive, Tommy." I tried to think of something snotty to say, couldn't and flipped the telephone shut. When I didn't move, the taxi driver lit another cigarette. He and the other driver were arguing politics, I think. I half turned so I didn't have to look at them, and checked the mirrors. There was a car parked about a hundred feet behind us containing three men. They were illegally parked too close to the corner. I couldn't make out their features, and I didn't want to turn around to look. It was a newer car, a dark sedan.

I tried to ignore them. On the seat beside me was a newspaper, probably left there by the cabbie's last passenger. The photo on the front cover caught my eye—a nice shot of the busted clock in the Musee d'Orsay. There was another shot of the guy who went through the clock, lying on the floor with a sheet over him. The reporter had used only two
ns
in Shannon. Since that wasn't my real name, I wasn't upset. Nor was I moved to save the article for my scrapbook.

There was also an article on the front page of the paper about the meeting next week of the G-8 leaders at the Chateau de Versailles, the Sun King's shack in the suburbs. Poverty in Africa and global warming were the issues of the day, not Islamic Nazis or terrorism. As you might expect, rock stars, tree huggers, anarchists, fundamental Christians and other socially committed, unhappy folks were planning huge demonstrations to protest almost everything. Already they were pouring into town; the hotels were filling up fast.

Last year French president Jacques Chirac caused a rumpus on the eve of the conference in Scotland by lambasting British cuisine. This year he was tut-tutting over hamburgers and hot dogs. I was deep into Chirac's explanation of the relationship between barbaric food and the Americans' bad attitude when the telephone rang again. As I opened it I glanced again in the mirrors. That car was still parked there.

"She's walking north on the Boulevard Beaumarchais, left side. There's a subway station a few blocks ahead, but she's dressed too

nice. I think she'll catch a taxi or go into a joint right around here. Al's crossed the street."

"Un-huh," I said, trying to keep him talking.

"Oh, she's stopped to look into a window. She's checking for tails. She's hot. Let me call Al." The connection broke.

I leaned out the window and motioned to my driver. He took his time climbing in, the cigarette still dangling from his mouth, then started the engine and pulled his chariot into gear.

So she was checking for tails! That made me feel better. Running Al and Rich all over Paris was going to be difficult to explain if Marisa dropped into some boutique, bought a nightie, then went home.

As we rounded the corner I looked back. The sedan was pulling away from the curb.

My taxi sped toward the Place de la Republique. From there I thought we could go south toward the Boulevard Beaumarchais, and if Marisa Petrou didn't jump a cab and boogie, we'd eventually arrive in her vicinity. Like all plans, this one was subject to instant revision.

We had just about reached the Place de la Republique, the sedan following faithfully, when the phone rang again.

"She's walking west on Rue St. Gilles. I told Al to go up a block and parallel us. That way he's out of her visual universe."

"What the hell is this? NASA? Where'd you learn phrases like that, anyway ?"

"I used to be somebody. 'Bye."

I looked at my map. "Boulevard du Temple," I told the driver. Like many European cities, the French renamed their avenues every few blocks. This one was soon to turn into the Boulevard des Filles du Calvare, then the Boulevard Beaumarchais. No doubt there was a logical reason for naming streets this way, once upon a time, but whatever it was, it has been lost to history. These days the system sells a lot of maps to tourists and foreign spies and fills up taxicabs with people trying to get from here to there.

Marisa was staying close to home base. She might even return home, although I was betting she wouldn't. She had a meet set up, and the person she was going to meet was Elizabeth Conner.

It's nice to be certain of something you have no proof for. I suppose that's a symptom of the human condition. Proof or not, I did have a suspicion. Conner used
The Sum of All Fears
as the basis for a code. Marisa's father had had a copy of the same book. Or did he? What if it was Marisa's book? What if Marisa was the spy and not her stuffy old man?

Well, it was a theory, anyway.

"Turn here," I told the cabdriver, and pointed. I might as well get ahead of Marisa so I'd be in the neighborhood if she went to ground or flagged a cab.

The phone vibrated again. I was holding it in my hand. "Yeah."

"She's crossed the Rue de Turenne. She dawdled twice to check for tails. Don't think she made me."

"If she does, drop off and let Al take her."

"I know how to do this, Tommy."

The connection went dead. I looked behind us. Yep, we still had a tail.

Who the hell were these guys?

The cabdriver was eyeing me in his rearview mirror. "It's alright," I said in English. "I'm working for Rumsfeld."

"Rums . . . ?"

"Forget it," I said in French. "Turn left."

But if Marisa and Elizabeth Conner were spies, who were they spying for?

The phone again. "She's marching up the Rue du Parc-Royal, headed straight for the Musee Picasso."

"Stay loose. There's bound to be cabs there."

"No joke." He hung up.

"Musee Picasso," I said to my chariot driver. He didn't seem flustered or excited, so I guess he knew where it was.

"She's inside," Rich Thurlow reported. "Went in the main entrance."

"Have Al go in and keep an eye on her. How many exits does that building have?"

"I dunno."

The taxi rolled sedately alongside the sidewalk outside the front entrance and drifted to a stop. Being a fiscally prudent government employee, I gave the driver a two-euro tip. I did, however, leave him the newspaper with the nifty photos.