The Traitor tc-2

by Stephen Coonts

  The door was standing open and Grafton walked right in. Marisa was surveying the mess when she saw us. She managed to keep a grip on her face, which impressed me. Coming home to find your place trashed, and then seeing the last guy in town you expected, had to be difficult.

  “Bonjour” she said automatically, without inflection.

  “We were in the neighborhood and thought we’d drop by,” Jake Grafton said in English.

  Rodet came out of the sitting room. He looked tired, stressed. His gaze went to Grafton. If he even saw me, he gave no sign.

  “You’ve had some messy visitors.”

  “Burglars,” Henri Rodet said curtly.

  “One would think they were searching for something,” the admiral said as he surveyed the wreckage.

  “You know anything about this?” Rodet asked, scrutinizing Grafton’s face.

  “Not a thing. Is the whole place like this?” Grafton walked past him and looked into the sitting room, then the kitchen. He whistled when he saw the mess on the floor. He turned back to Rodet, looked him in the eye and leaned slightly toward him. “Did they find it?” he asked.

  No one ever accused Jake Grafton of messing around. Rodet wasn’t used to the direct approach, and I could see that he wasn’t sure how to handle it.

  “Perhaps you and I should have a talk,” Rodet said to Grafton. “Marisa, will you entertain this gentleman for a moment while I visit with the admiral?”

  As Rodet led Grafton into the wreckage of the sitting room, I gave Marisa my best honest smile. When the two superspooks were out of earshot, I said earnestly, “We’re just here to sell you a good used car.”

  My pathetic attempt at humor went right over her head. She, too, had a lot on her mind. “What do you know about this?” she asked, searching my face.

  I looked around a bit before I answered. “Looks to me like they spent at least an hour at it. Two or three guys, I’d say. Where were you and Rodet this evening?”

  “At a party.”

  “The maids?”

  “This is their evening off.”

  “Convenient, you must admit. Did you tell your Mossad pals that the coast was clear?”

  She looked daggers at me.

  “Maybe you should make an executive decision,” I continued earnestly. “Decide that we’re on the same side and tell me what you know.”

  She half turned away from me.

  “Well,” I said, surveying the stuff on display like a suburbanite at a yard sale, “they didn’t find it. You’ve been living here and you haven’t found it, so I wonder why they would think they could in just an hour?”

  That stung her. “You talk too much,” she snarled.

  “Probably.” I decided a shot in the dark wouldn’t hurt. “Maybe Elizabeth Conner isn’t who she seems. Maybe she brought some friends over for an Easter egg hunt.”

  She acted as if she didn’t hear that comment.

  I went to the nearest chair, an antique by the looks of it, cleaned off the seat by dumping the contents on the floor, examined the slashed padding, then parked my fanny.

  Marisa seemed lost in thought.

  I prattled on anyway. “Remember that evening in Washington that you and I danced the night away? Who would have suspected that we were going to have a long-term relationship? I should probably write to Jack Zarb to thank him for starting something grand.”

  She ignored me. That didn’t bother me much; women have been ignoring me all my life.

  The forensic scientists were busy swabbing explosive residue off the floor and ceiling of the parking garage when Jean-Paul Arnaud arrived. Inspector Papin was conferring with another police official. Arnaud saw Papin glance at him, so he merely stood and watched until Papin finished his conversation and came over.

  “Ah, Arnaud. They have decided to call me on every police matter that might have any intelligence implications, so you and I are going to become closely acquainted.” The inspector gestured with his hand. “A car bomb.”

  “Victims?”

  “Apparently none. The car was a rental. It was rented to an American, a Terry Shannon.” He held out a slip of paper with the passport number and local address. “One of our clerks did a routine check and it came back a hit. So we called you.”

  Arnaud glanced at the paper. “Shannon… Wasn’t he the American attacked by thugs at the Musee d’Orsay?”

  “Yes.”

  Arnaud folded the paper once and pocketed it as Papin briefed him on the investigation so far of this bombing. “Initial indications are that the explosive was a military type. We’ll have more when the chemists finish their work. We have yet to determine how the bomb was triggered. We’ll be examining the wreckage, but that will take a while.”

  “Suspects?”

  “Not yet. Nor have we questioned Shannon. Do you have any objections?”

  “Treat it as a routine police matter.”

  “Very good. We’ll try to find him this evening.”

  “Keep me advised, will you?”

  “Of course.”

  “And the Bruguiere killing? Anything new?”

  “Nothing yet.” The inspector hesitated, as if trying to make up his mind.

  Arnaud waited, perfectly willing to give the man his moment.

  “This afternoon two French Muslims on motorcycles chased a motor scooter through Paris. They crashed. One is dead, the other is in the hospital. We will question the survivor as soon as he is fully awake, although, as you know, these people usually refuse to say anything. And, of course, none of the people we talked to noted or remembered the license number of the scooter. I did have the motor vehicle registration people run a check, and, as it happens, several days ago Terry Shannon bought a scooter.”

  Rodet frowned.

  “Shannon is having a memorable visit to Paris, by any measure. Islamic thugs attacked him yesterday in the Musee d’Orsay, this afternoon his car exploded, and this evening he may or may not have fled from two thugs on motorcycles.”

  “Perhaps he should go home,” Arnaud muttered.

  “One wishes he would,” the policeman said. “He has been extraordinarily lucky so far, but with luck there is always a limit. The examining magistrate may forward a request to the ministry that he be expelled from France.”

  Arnaud scrutinized Papin’s face, then nodded curtly. “Keep me informed,” he said.

  As the deputy director of the DGSE walked away, he thought about Papin’s comment: “With luck there is always a limit.”

  “The people who searched your apartment are trying to discover the method that you use to talk to Qasim,” Jake Grafton said conversationally to Henri Rodet as they stood in the center of the disaster area.

  Rodet could think only of his friend Qasim. Even looking at the trash strewn about the floor, the personal danger this mess implied seemed but an annoyance. Qasim laid his life on the line every single minute of every single day, and he had been doing it for twenty-five years. And yet…

  Those bastards! Breaking in here!

  From his pocket he pulled a pistol. He aimed it at a painting on the wall of the Algerian desert, one he acquired as a youth, and pulled the trigger over and over again.

  The booming roars filled the room.

  The action was so unexpected that Jake Grafton stood stock still, watching.

  Only after Rodet had jerked savagely at the trigger several times and gotten no reports because the pistol was completely empty did the American breathe again.

  Rodet pocketed his weapon and stalked into his bedroom. He rooted through the pillow feathers and underwear and clothes strewn over the floor until he found a box of cartridges. Then he returned to the sitting room.

  When the pistol was reloaded and back in Rodet’s pocket, only then did Jake Grafton say, “You’ve been passing Qasim’s intelligence to the Israelis for years, and they haven’t used it in a manner that would betray him. Why don’t you trust the Americans?”

  “I could write a book.”

>   Grafton took a deep breath, sighed, then stirred the trash with a toe. “They are getting very close,” he said softly. “Qasim’s life is hanging by a thread. So is yours.” He gestured angrily and roared, “These people mean business, and they don’t give a damn who knows it. If you don’t use some sense and get him out of there, they’ll kill you. If that doesn’t shut him up, they’ll purge their organization, kill everyone who might be the leak. Think Joe Stalin. Now, that outcome wouldn’t be a disaster, if your man was already out of there.” He paused and scrutinized Henri Rodet’s face. “Think about it,” he said softly.

  “I have been thinking,” Rodet said, “and probably not too clearly. The truth is I’m in over my head, and so is my source.” He rubbed his face with both hands. “I love Abu Qasim like a younger brother … or the son I never had.” He took a few seconds to compose himself, then spoke again. “Did you ever have a son?”

  “Thousands,” Jake Grafton shot back. Rodet looked surprised.

  “Have you ever been to the American cemetery at Normandy?” Grafton asked. He didn’t wait for a reply. “Young Americans have been fighting for freedom, for liberty, since the American Revolution. They’ve fought kings, rebels, dictators, Communist oligarchies, and now religious fanatics. They’ve been maimed and killed on battlefields all over this planet. Black, white, yellow, brown, they come from the four corners of the earth and obey the orders of elected officials. Those officials have made many mistakes, sometimes grievous ones, but still young people step forward to wear an American uniform, to fight for the flag. They’re my sons and daughters; all of them — soldiers, sailors, Marines, airmen — every last one of ‘em.”

  “But a son you have known and loved?” Rodet said, unwilling to drop the point.

  Grafton gathered himself. “When the planes crashed into the World Trade Center and the buildings were on fire, Port Authority police and New York City police and firefighters rushed to the site and charged into those buildings to save as many people as they could. They died by the dozens when the buildings collapsed.” His voice was husky now. He leaned toward Rodet; their faces were only a few inches apart. “On that day three thousand innocent people were murdered by madmen. Those people were my flesh and blood— I claim them all.”

  Rodet found a place to sit. He closed his eyes so he wouldn’t have to look at his ransacked apartment.

  Finally he spoke. “So far we’ve been lucky — the Islamic fundamentalists have used true believers as soldiers. But they’re sitting beside the biggest river of money the world has ever known. It was inevitable that sooner or later they would use some of that money to pay infidels to go places they can’t, to supply expertise they don’t have, to fight the holy war as hired mercenaries. They’re doing all three now.”

  Jake swept the trash from a chair and sat down as Henri Rodet continued to talk.

  When I heard the shots, my heart about stopped. If that frog bastard shot Grafton—

  I scrambled for the door to the sitting room and jerked it open. Saw Rodet put another one into a painting. He killed it dead as hell. When his gun was empty I closed the door and went back to Marisa. Her face was a study as she scrutinized mine.

  When I didn’t say anything she moved toward the sitting room door. She stood about six inches from it and looked rapt. She might as well have glued her ear to the door. I thought she got most of it.

  When she looked my way, I waggled my finger. She ignored me. It was amazing how good she was at that.

  Time dragged. I got tired of looking at Marisa and sat thinking about Al and Rich out there in that van.

  Finally, after an age and a half, Rodet appeared in the door. He motioned for Marisa, who by then was over by the sink noisily storing things in cabinets. She picked up her purse and went into the sitting room.

  I sort of followed along to see what was happening. I was standing in the doorway when I saw her hand something to Grafton, who glanced at it and put it in his pocket. Then she turned and came out, sweeping by me as if I weren’t even there.

  Grafton shooed me away with a head nod.

  It would sure be nice if for once I were a party to whatever was going down!

  I snarled at Marisa, who was standing at the sink looking about distractedly. She paid no attention. Ah, me!

  Five minutes later Grafton came out of the sitting room. Marisa met his eyes but didn’t say a word. He jerked his head at me and marched for the door. They probably don’t do a lot of marching in the Navy, but Grafton learned to cover ground somewhere. I was halfway to the sidewalk, following Grafton, when I realized I hadn’t even grunted au revoir to the Israeli agent.

  Grafton got to the sidewalk and set off at a good clip. I fell in beside him. “What’d you get?” I asked hopefully.

  When he didn’t answer, I thought maybe he didn’t hear me, so I tried again. “What’d you learn?”

  He ignored me. It was that kind of day.

  As we walked the streets, he made a few telephone calls on his encrypted phone. After the second one he said, “The police are looking tor you. They know about your car.”

  I groaned. I wasn’t up for a night at a police station answering questions. Truthfully, I was whipped.

  Grafton walked along the Paris sidewalks with his hands in his pockets, his head down. If he knew where he was going, he wasn’t sharing that, either. The wind was downright chilly, and I was so tired I shivered. Grafton didn’t seem to notice. Finally he said, “I suggest you crash at the embassy. I think they have a cot or two over there for the staff when they pull all-nighters. Tomorrow I want you and Sarah Houston to betray your country.”

  “Okay by me,” I said with a sigh. “You American bastards deserve it.”

  In the basement of the American embassy, Secret Service personnel and young Marines placed the bodies of Alberto Salazar and Richard Thurlow in coffins and packed dry ice around them. The technician, Cliff Icahn, sat in the van playing with the equipment while Jake Grafton and Pink Maillard watched from the open door.

  “They had the interior tape running, which is standard procedure,” Cliff said. “It’s a four-hour continuous loop. Here is the sixty seconds before the shots.” He played it. Jake stood with closed eyes concentrating as he listened to the words, the sound of the door opening, the fast two pops, a pause, then two more, then the door closing.

  “That’s basically it,” Cliff said. “Want to listen again?”

  Jake and Pink looked at each other and both shook their heads. “No,” the admiral said.

  “A cop,” Pink mused.

  “More precisely, someone dressed as a policeman,” Jake said.

  They walked away from the van. Pinckney Maillard had his hands in his pockets. “The ambassador isn’t going to like this,” he muttered, more to himself than Jake. “How are we going to get the bodies back to the States? We don’t have death certificates for the immigration people.”

  “We can take them to Germany and put them aboard an Air Force transport,” Jake said. “No one checks vehicles crossing the French-German border.”

  “That’s illegal, a violation of God only knows how many international treaties and laws,” Maillard protested. Sneaking bodies around… Jesus! Stunts like that weren’t the way to get ahead in the Secret Service.

  “Someone around here could gin up some fake death certificates,” Jake suggested, “if that will make you feel better.”

  “That isn’t very damn funny.”

  “Maybe the best course is to pass the buck to Washington, let someone there figure it out.”

  “Yeah,” Maillard agreed. That was the only safe approach. Then he added, “Of course, Lancaster is gonna blow a gasket.” An outraged U.S. ambassador shouting his name wouldn’t do him any good at the Treasury Department, either.

  Grafton paused for one more look at the coffins, then headed for the elevator. Maillard followed along.

  The Graftons’ apartment overlooked a tree-lined boulevard. Callie referred to it in her letter
to her daughter, Amy, as “the perfect apartment,” and that was how she thought of it. It was a third-floor walk-up in an older building, the plumbing was antique, the pipes groaned, the kitchen was tiny and the refrigerator was barely large enough to hold a six-pack. There was a small balcony, just large enough for two chairs and two flowerpots, where she and her husband, when he was home, could sit and watch the endless traffic and, in the evening, Parisians stroll by on the sidewalks. It was Paris the way she had always dreamed it would be.

  Of course, the place had a few drawbacks. The major one was that Jake said it was probably infested with electronic bugs, so no discussion could take place about anything remotely connected with what Jake was doing. When they had moved in Callie thought the possible presence of bugs no big deal, and she had forgotten about them. After the murders of the CIA technicians, she felt strangled. She wanted to discuss the situation with her husband, but she couldn’t do it here.

  Tonight she stood on the balcony watching the sidewalk, waiting for Jake. The tops of the trees on the sidewalk were just below the balcony. Birds liked to light on the now bare branches, there to ride the swaying limbs as the fall winds blew through the canyon of the boulevard, quite unconcerned about her presence or the precarious-ness of their resting place.

  Then she saw him, still almost a block away, walking this way, looking at the people, glancing into store windows occasionally. Jake Grafton. He was still the warrior she married, but he was no longer the young stud with the aroma of jet exhaust embedded in his clothing and hair. Yet at times she fancied that she could still smell it on him.

  She went into the apartment and closed the doors to the balcony. She turned off the lights and locked the apartment behind her. The stairwell was dark, lit only by twenty-five-watt bulbs that dangled from sockets on each landing.

  Callie stepped out onto the sidewalk just as Jake arrived. He reached for her hand but she hugged him instead. He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her tight against him. With her head on his chest she could hear his heart beating.