“I’ll give you one disk,” he told him. “And then you do something for me.”
“Like what?”
“You find my friend. Then you get both.”
“What happens if I find him and he doesn’t want to see you? Or if he’s dead?”
“He may be dead, yes,” said LaFoote. He felt his voice tremble slightly, but he knew it was probable, if not certain. “If he is dead, you will get the disks. No matter what he says, you will get the disks.”
“What about that bank statement?”
“I’ll get that, too.”
“Where is it?”
“With an acquaintance.”
The American was huge — he could grab the disks from LaFoote without much of a fuss — but LaFoote knew he wouldn’t attack him.
“All right. I trust you, even if you don’t trust me,” said Karr. “One disk tonight. The rest when?”
“When you find my friend.”
“Having all the disks might make that easier.”
“No. This is just about the explosive he was working on.”
“All right. One now. Two later.” The American smiled and put his hand out for the CD-ROM. “But I need that account number. Right?”
“That I will get. It can’t be done right away. The papers are not in my possession.”
“Let’s go where they are.”
“No. They’re safe. Don’t worry. I’ll retrieve them tomorrow.”
“I never worry,” said the American.
* * *
The Crow had set down in a field a half mile away. Karr had the Frenchman stop the car on the shoulder, then told him he’d be right back.
“Nature calls,” he said, reaching into the back for his knapsack.
As he walked toward the Crow — its landing site had been recorded by a Global Positioning System — he talked to Rockman about the CD-ROM and what to do next. The Deep Black safe house in Paris had a computer he could use to send the disk’s data back to the Art Room.
“Why didn’t you take the other two disks?” Rockman asked.
Karr chuckled. “Was I supposed to deck him?”
“Maybe.”
“I think he’s more useful to us if he’s friendly,” said Karr. “If I go back to Paris, can you get somebody to watch LaFoote?”
“One of the CIA agents from Paris is standing by at the train station,” said Rockman.
“Just one?”
“It’s the best we could do, Tommy.”
“All right. Remind him the old guy is sharper than he looks, OK?”
“He’s not that sharp.”
“He’s sharper than you think. He’s just been out of it for a while, so he’s not up on the technical stuff. But he’ll pick up a shadow if the guy gets sloppy.”
“We’ll use the bug you set. And we know where he lives.”
“While we were waiting for the police to leave he was telling me about his mother and some other relatives,” said Karr. “He was staying with someone in Paris.”
“Second cousin. We already checked it out. He used his apartment for the last two weeks, on and off. We have it under control, Tommy.”
“What about that DST guy in Paris, Ponclare? LaFoote thinks he was involved.”
“He’s just paranoid,” said Rockman. “Theory here is that Vefoures got paid a hunk of money from some terrorists to help them make explosives, then took off for parts unknown. Bought new ID, blah, blah, blah.”
“How do you explain the explosion at his house then?”
“Vefoures booby-trapped it before he left.”
“What, and left his money there?”
“You’re assuming it wasn’t counterfeit.”
“Well, sure. But the house wasn’t booby-trapped last week.”
“It’s possible LaFoote was in on it and Vefoures double-crossed him.”
“Ah, you’re overthinking it. I trust the old guy.”
“He was a French agent in Africa, Tommy. Those guys weren’t exactly the most ethical people in the world.”
“Well, who is?”
“He thinks Ponclare is dirty because he forced him to retire,” said Rockman. “We don’t know why he was forced out. It may have just been a budget cut.”
“What else do you have on Ponclare?”
“Career bureaucrat. Second generation. Decent record, blah, blah, blah. His father is more interesting. He was a legend in the French foreign service and the foreign legion. Dealt with the Algerian uprising and the mutiny by the French generals against the government in the early nineteen-sixties. If he was alive, I’d think he was behind the whole setup.”
“Like father, like son.”
“It’s a nice saying, but I’ve never seen it play out in real life,” countered the runner.
“Man, you’re in a bad mood today,” said Karr.
“Just skeptical. That’s my job.”
“I’ll upload the disk as soon as I get back to Paris with it,” said Karr. “Did you get plate numbers on those cars?”
“Looks like the plates were stolen, because the car types don’t match. The registrations are from the south of France, pretty far from where you are. We’re still sorting that out, but it doesn’t look like it’s going to lead anywhere. We had a lot of trouble with the Crow,” he added. “Satellite they were using to control it crapped out. Rubens is pretty furious about it.”
“As well he should be.
“He actually cursed.”
“Really? Well, there’s hope for him yet.”
“I think Marie almost had a heart attack. You’re about ten yards away from the Crow,” Rockman added.
“Ughhh,” said Karr, stepping in a mud hole that came halfway up to his knee. He had to back up and then circle to his left before he could get to the downed plane. The miniature aircraft had flipped over when it landed and broken one of its wings. He pried the busted stub off from the body, then got the other wing off and removed the tail, fitting everything neatly into his sack.
“Hey, your Frenchman’s got a cell phone,” said Rockman, who was monitoring a fly Tommy had left in the car. “I thought you said he was a technophobe.”
“I just said he wasn’t up on spy gadgets. Everybody in Europe has a cell phone. Who’s he calling?”
“Hold on.”
Karr zipped his pack back up and looked upward at the stars. For a fall night, it was fairly warm, and in the clear sky he could see dozens of constellations. When he was a boy he’d thought about becoming a scientist and astronaut, maybe going to Mars. He might do that yet.
“Girlfriend — no, no, wait — it’s a sister of Vefoures. They know each other pretty well.”
“Old flame?” Karr asked.
“Hold on, huh?”
Karr folded his arms, still gazing at the stars.
“He told her he’s still looking for her brother, and not to worry. She was concerned, blah, blah, blah. He’s off the phone. I’ll get into the account and check it out.”
“Have fun,” said Karr.
“You need anything else?”
“Train tickets back to Paris would be handy. I’m a little short on cash.”
“We’ll see what we can set up. You may have to hit an automatic teller at the station.”
“Make sure Dad’s got some cash in the bank then,” said Karr. “I don’t feel like walking.”
* * *
LaFoote looked at his fingers as he waited for the American agent to return. They were old fingers. Even in the dim light he could see the age spots and the gnarled knuckles, swelled with mild but chronic arthritis.
He’d been ready to shoot the man in the house. The American’s restraint had stopped him — the right move. He was wise beyond his years, the American: a jolly bear but a smart one.
A jolly bear. In LaFoote’s day, that would have been the American’s nickname.
This was still his day, for a few weeks anyway.
The American opened the door. The car lurched on its shocks as he
got in.
“So what do you say?” Karr asked LaFoote.
“I don’t say anything.”
“That’s just an expression.” Karr rocked around in the seat. “I have to go back to Paris and send the information on the disk back, see if it’s of any use.” He scratched the side of his head, as if he were trying to get an idea out. “If you gave me the other disks, they might help.”
“Non.”
“Your call.”
“Yes, it is my call.”
“So what do you want me to do next?” Karr asked.
“You trace his bank accounts and phone records.”
“Which you’ve already tried to do, but couldn’t.”
LaFoote knew it was a guess, but the American said it very smoothly.
“Yes, of course. You have more resources than I have.”
“What about your friend Ponclare? Should I ask him to help?”
“Monsieur Ponclare is not my friend.”
“Figure of speech,” said Karr. “Why do you think he was involved?”
“His organization contacted Vefoures.”
“You’re sure?”
“No,” said LaFoote. “It may have been a trick to get Vefoures to cooperate. But my friend thought it was the DST.”
“And it wouldn’t make sense just to ask Ponclare?”
“If you ask him, he will know you suspect him,” said LaFoote. “And you won’t be able to trust whether he’s telling the truth.”
The American nodded. “If this was something the government wasn’t involved in, who would it be? Terrorists?”
“Vefoures would never work with terrorists. Never.”
“Assuming he knew they were involved.”
“Yes. That is true.”
“Maybe he didn’t.”
“Perhaps not.”
“Maybe the Russians then, or the Chinese. Or even the Americans. Would he work with any of them?”
LaFoote wanted to say no; he felt he had to defend his friend. But the honest answer was that he might, and so LaFoote admitted it. “More them than terrorists.”
“Well, maybe we’ll figure it out from the information on the disk,” said Karr. “Take me to the train station.”
LaFoote put his car in gear and got back on the highway. “When will we meet again?”
“Whenever you want,” said Karr. “Come with me to Paris.”
“No, I have other things to do. Including retrieving the paper with the account.”
“Maybe I should come with you.”
“Non,” said LaFoote. “That is not necessary.”
“I didn’t say it was necessary. It’d be convenient.”
“I have personal things to do,” insisted LaFoote. “I am quite capable of taking care of myself.”
“Sure. But do you think you’re going to go on being lucky?”
“I don’t understand.”
“Somebody gunned for you in England, and your friend’s house blew up. You just missed getting fried two times. That to me is lucky.”
“The house was booby-trapped,” LaFoote said. “Not for anyone specific. You heard them; they thought the cat blew it up. And whoever tried to kill me in London thinks I’m dead.”
“For now.”
LaFoote considered what the American was saying. He knew that the man had his own agenda; that went without saying. But there was no benefit to the American that LaFoote could think of if he came to Paris.
And what if he were to die? It was a legitimate concern.
“I can’t go with you, because I have things to do,” said LaFoote. “But if anything happens, go to the church.”
“To church?”
“In every town, there is one man who can be trusted to keep his word. In my town, it happens to be the priest.”
Karr laughed. “‘That’s not true of all priests?”
“Non,” said LaFoote. “Especially in France. I will meet you in Paris tomorrow evening, at Gare du Nord — the train station. Nine p.m.”
“I’ll be there.”
42
The words judge’s chambers inspired a certain awe in most laymen, and Rubens was no exception. But when he showed up at the courthouse a few minutes late for the meeting, he was shown to an office that was, to be charitable, plain. The walls were in need of a good coat of paint, the curtains on the lone window seemed as if they had been bought at Wal-Mart, and even the American flag in the corner looked a bit worse for wear. At the center of the room sat a long Formica-topped table in front of a plain metal desk. A man in a pin-striped shirt sat at the desk, sleeves rolled to the elbows, tie loosened, salt-and-pepper hair gently mussed. This was Judge Croner.
“Mr. Rubens. Please, sit down. I’m glad you could come,” said the judge. “We’ve only just been introducing ourselves.”
Rubens nodded at the others and sat next to his lawyer, which happened to put him across from Rebecca. He was surprised to see that she had a frightened expression on her face.
It made her look younger. Not prettier — she was pretty to begin with — but definitely younger.
Her husband sat next to her: a chubby, pasty-faced accountant.
The judge began speaking about the mechanics of the legal proceedings in general terms, repeating things McGovern had told Rubens the other day and when they had first met. He was speaking in generalities, and Rubens got the feeling that Croner was watching their reactions, sizing them up so he could see how to proceed.
Rebecca’s attorney interrupted as the judge began talking about what the medical examination would most likely entail. The case was straightforward, said the lawyer. Everyone would agree that the General was incompetent and that someone had to be appointed to see to his needs. This should have been done ages ago. The daughter was the natural candidate.
Rubens wanted McGovern to object—he was the natural candidate, the one the General had asked for. But she said nothing as the other lawyer continued. Rubens felt his anger rise as Rebecca’s counsel declared that—“with all due respect ”—other interested parties had their own agendas. As important as those interests might be in their proper sphere, they were of no relevance here.
The comments were, of course, directed at Rubens, though he was not named. Rubens finally found it impossible to not speak out.
“That’s simply not true,” he said. “My interests are the General’s and the General’s alone. He is my friend.”
Ellen put her hand gently on his. Her touch caught him by surprise and he stopped speaking, even though everyone was looking at him.
“I don’t mean to insult you, Mr. Rubens,” said Rebecca’s lawyer. “But you can’t deny that your employer has sent you here.”
Ellen squeezed his hand, speaking before he could. “Mr. Rubens does work for an important government agency, as did the General. We’re all aware of that. But of course that’s no more relevant here than the fact that Mr. Paulson and I are attorneys.”
It wasn’t the strongest argument, Rubens thought, but at least she was saying something.
The other lawyer began talking about “special employment requirements of the government agency involved” and how these would skew Rubens’ judgment even if he hadn’t been ordered to come. Under other circumstances, Rubens might have been amused by the way everyone at the hearing was avoiding naming the agency or talking about what it did. But he wasn’t amused now at all. He wanted to shout at them that it was the General who was important — that brave and intelligent man whose world had been reduced to a white room twelve by fifteen feet, whose brilliant mind was now a trampoline for delusions.
“Mr. Paulson is an eloquent lawyer,” said McGovern finally, once more squeezing Rubens’ hand. “I think the General would be well served if he were his counsel.”
Why the concession? wondered Rubens. She should be attacking, not retreating.
“I quite agree,” said the judge, who’d been silent all this time. “But of course he’s not. An attorney will have to be appointed
to represent Mr. Rosenberg’s interests — should I call him General? He is a general, yes? Is that how he likes to be addressed?”
“He’s actually a very humble man,” said Rubens, though the judge was looking at Rebecca. “He introduces himself as ‘Mr.,’ but those of us who’ve known him for a long time, usually we call him General. I suppose other people would use that as well.”
The judge nodded, but it was Rebecca who had the last word: “That would be fine, I think. I always just call him Daddy.”
Where he’d taken his time before, now the judge spoke quickly, laying out the steps that he would take. The first and most important was to appoint a lawyer to represent the General. A medical assessment would follow, probably fairly quickly, but of course the General’s lawyer would have an important say on the timetable. Everything from here on out would hinge on the General’s court-appointed legal representative. Interested parties would always be welcome to add relevant information, but the law directed the judge to work in a certain way and ultimately he would be the one to make the decision.
That was the opening for Rebecca’s lawyer. Rubens remained calm as the attorney suggested that a jury trial might be appropriate.
“An interesting point,” said Judge Croner. “Of course, the General’s attorney is going to be the one speaking for him, so from this point onward that would be a matter for him to propose.”
As a courtesy to the interested parties, added the judge, he would of course keep them abreast of the timetable for the proceedings. He would certainly work with the General’s counsel, whom he intended to name by the end of the day.
“Who would that be?” asked Rebecca’s lawyer.
“Naturally someone with experience and the high recommendation of the Bar,” said the judge, parrying the question gently yet firmly. He was not to be interfered with, despite his easygoing manner. “As I said earlier, a medical examination would proceed promptly thereafter. I would hope that the General’s counsel would be prepared for a formal hearing by the end of the week. Ladies and gentlemen, thank you,” said the judge, tapping his hands on the table and rising to dismiss them.
“So, what did you think?” McGovern asked as they descended in the elevator.
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