The Traitor tc-2

by Stephen Coonts

  “Let’s go for a walk,” she whispered.

  “Sure.” They set off down the sidewalk hip to hip, with his arm draped over her shoulder.

  “Could we be under audio surveillance even here, walking along the sidewalk?” Callie asked.

  “It’s possible,” he said. “Not too probable unless someone wants to spend a lot of time and money.”

  “Can we talk?”

  “I’m sorry about sending you off with Willie Varner and two dead men. I wanted you out of there and knew Willie didn’t have a clue where the embassy was.”

  “I understood. And I’ve seen dead men before. Still, it’s hard to take. They didn’t deserve that.”

  “No,” he agreed. “They didn’t.”

  They went into a patisserie and got ice cream cones. When they came out, Callie asked, “What happened after I left?”

  Jake was not in the habit of sharing classified information with his wife, even though she was the personification of tact and discretion. Still, in this instance, a woman’s perspective might be helpful. So he told it, about going into Rodet’s apartment with Tommy Carmellini only to find it had been searched and trashed. “You might speculate that the people who searched the apartment knew Al and Rich were listening and killed them before they went in. Of course, even with our guys dead, the audio from the bugs was recorded. After you and Willie returned the van, the folks at the embassy listened to the recording. All they heard was sounds of people searching and garbled voices.”

  “So the searchers were pros?”

  “Perhaps. Or very careful.”

  “Did they find what they were looking for?”

  “No.” He continued with the narrative between licks on the ice cream cone, telling her about waiting for Henri Rodet and Marisa Petrou to come home, then following them into the apartment. “Of course, Rodet suspected me of searching the place, then waiting until he came back to let him show me what I had failed to find.” He shrugged. “I’m sneaky enough for a trick like that, but in this case I happened to be innocent.”

  A trace of a smile crossed Callie’s lips. She finished her ice cream and tossed the paper the cone came in into the first trash can she passed. Then she licked her sticky fingers. She walked along holding on to his arm as she listened to the rest of the story.

  He gave me the high-end telephone computer, a Palm, that he used to compose and encrypt the messages he sent to Qasim, and to decrypt the messages he got from him. I put the thing in a safe at the embassy.”

  “The searchers didn’t find it? Where did he keep it?”

  “His girlfriend, Marisa, had it in her purse.”

  “And she’s Mossad?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “Why didn’t she jet off to Israel with the computer?”

  Jake merely glanced at his wife, who answered her own question. “Oh. She’s in love with him.”

  “That’s my take on it.”

  “Or she thinks there is nothing on the computer’s memory to get,” Callie said.

  “I liked the love angle better.”

  “Men always do,” his wife said. “They’re hopelessly romantic.”

  He went on, telling her about his conversation with Rodet. “He gave me some names of people that Qasim says have been hired by Al Qaeda, and he gave me that computer, which may or may not have anything on it. And… he didn’t tell me anything about Qasim.”

  “Nothing?”

  “Said he loved him like a son. But he didn’t tell me where he is or what he’s doing — none of that.”

  “So if he gave you the computer he uses to communicate with Qasim, how is he going to do it now?”

  Jake Grafton stopped, turned and stared at Callie. “I didn’t think to ask him that,” he admitted, and started walking again.

  They walked along in silence for a few minutes. Finally Callie said, “It sounds as if Rodet is trying to protect him.”

  “The best thing he can do for that man is get him out of wherever he is.”

  “Maybe he’s trying to protect Qasim from himself.” When her husband eyed her, Callie added, “Perhaps Qasim doesn’t want to leave. Perhaps there is nothing more Rodet can say to him. Or… Qasim has nothing more to say to Henri Rodet.”

  Jake Grafton stared at Callie for several seconds. Then a big grin split his face and he kissed her. “You’re a genius,” he said, laughing. “Man, am I glad you married me!”

  “What did I say?”

  “I’ve been racking my brains, and you just explained everything — everything?” He snapped his fingers. “Just like that!”

  He walked along in silence, holding her hand. Finally he said, “Man, I would really like to know what’s on that little computer.”

  “Can’t Sarah Houston or the NSA cryptographers give you a plain English text?”

  “Oh, given enough time, I’m sure they can, but we’re running out. The G-8 meeting is next week.”

  “So you don’t have many options. Your only choice is to assume you know the contents and go on from there,” she said. “You’ll have to fake it.”

  He grinned. “Why not?”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  The next morning Jake Grafton found Sarah Houston in the SCIF. She had the photo that Tommy Carmellini took of Elizabeth Conner on the screen of her computer.

  “Her real name is Ruth Cohen,” Sarah said. “Her parents immigrated to Israel when she was five years old.” She hit a key, and a photo of Cohen in a school uniform appeared. “This was taken five years ago in Tel Aviv when she graduated from high school.” Another picture. “This one was taken last year in Iraq. She was with a group of Israeli scientists looking for evidence of weapons of mass destruction.”

  Another keystroke, and Carmellini’s photo of the man who followed him appeared. Sarah pronounced his name. “The computer matches this photo with one the French took for his internal ID card. He is an emigrant from Morocco.”

  Now the picture of Marisa Petrou appeared on the screen. Keystrokes followed, and photos appeared one after another. In each one she got younger. “School pictures, passport photos,” Sarah murmured. In the last one, Marisa looked to be about twelve years old.

  “This is the oldest one I can find. She was a student at a private school in Switzerland. Name was Marisa Lamoreux.”

  “How about a birth certificate?” Grafton asked.

  “Nothing yet.”

  “Keep looking when you have the time. Today is the day you and Tommy turn traitor.”

  Sarah and I walked from the embassy to the Metro, rode it for a few stops, then walked toward the river and the Conciergerie. It was a raw, windy day, with clouds of autumn leaves swirling around. Just keeping your hat on in the gusts took some doing. I kept my eyes peeled for Arabs on motorcycles or in junker cars and didn’t see any. Sarah was quiet, walking with her hands in her pockets.

  “I don’t think this is a good idea,” she told Jake Grafton before we left the embassy.

  “Objection noted,” Grafton said. He looked tired, as if he weren’t getting much sleep. I had no sympathy — I spent a miserable night on a basement bunk and was wearing the same clothes I wore all day yesterday. Someone produced a spare toothbrush and disposable razor, so I felt as if I were still a member of the human race. On the other hand, perhaps I should have had my visit with the Paris police, then retired to my cozy garret on the Rue Paradis, complete with hot water and bathtub, clean clothes and comfy bed. Say what you will, but the truth is, war is hell.

  “I don’t know if I can do this,” Sarah said to Jake Grafton when he sat us down to brief us.

  “It’s only for a few days,” Grafton replied. “Pretend that you’re in love. Hold hands, look soulfully into Tommy’s eyes, hang on his every word, even when they aren’t watching, because they might be.”

  “That’s the part I don’t like,” she said acidly. “I volunteered to serve my country and all that, but this is very close to prostitution.”

  “Perilously close,�
� I chirped. “What would your mother say?”

  “Objection duly noted,” Grafton said with finality. He went on to discuss codes and protocol and other technical stuff that Sarah understood and I didn’t. Finally he got around to it. “I want you to tell your tale to Jean-Paul Arnaud, the deputy director. Ask for him and refuse to talk to anyone else.”

  I got a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. This whole thing was going south, and quickly. “Why not Rodet?” I asked. “The way we planned it?”

  “There’s been a change of plans.”

  “Why do I have this feeling that you’re not telling us all of it?”

  “I don’t want to burden you with all of it. Unless I am seriously mistaken, you’re going to be strapped to a polygraph before the day is out.”

  “Oh, joy,” Sarah said bitterly.

  “The less you know the better.”

  “Oh, for the love of—,” I began, but Grafton cut me off with one of his looks. The admiral’s stare, with those cold gray eyes, could stopper Niagara. Needless to say, it always did a job on me. Those were the moments when I was glad I had never been in the Navy.

  Sarah cleared her throat and said, “And just how do you propose that we pass polygraph exams?”

  Grafton grinned. “I thought you’d never ask. Here’s how you’re going to do it.” And he told her. Me, I didn’t ask. When you’ve told as many lies as I have, you get pretty good at it.

  As we walked along, the cold wind gave Sarah’s cheeks a nice rosy hue. Except for the fact that she had a seriously warped psyche, she was a nice person. I reminded myself that no one is perfect.

  “How can you be so calm?” she asked.

  I was tempted to tell her that I was a pro, but decided maybe the truth was best. “It’s an act.”

  We hiked over the bridge to the island and presented ourselves to the guard at the gate. He waved us into the reception room. “We’d like to see Jean-Paul Arnaud,” I said to the uniformed gendarme. “We don’t have an appointment. My name is Terry Shannon.”

  “Passport, please.” The man was portly, with a mustache that needed trimming. He had sad eyes. His younger colleague, who hadn’t been eating as well, looked bored.

  I surrendered the document, and the portly man held out his hand for Sarah’s. I was watching his eyes, and they showed no surprise when she produced a diplomatic passport from her small purse. Traitors must call here on a daily basis.

  “Have a seat,” he said, and glanced at a row of molded plastic chairs. We perched there.

  “Maybe we oughta hold hands,” I suggested, and reached for one of hers. She slipped it into mine. It was cool and firm, very pleasant. Ah, yes. I remembered.

  There is a theory about the power of the human touch, something about it being the most subtle form of sex. Certainly it is the most sensual. Not that I was getting some sort of perverted thrill out of holding Sarah Houston’s hand there in the public reception area of the Conciergerie as the man with the sad eyes ignored us, the bored fellow read a newspaper and a cleaning lady worked around us, but I was enjoying it. I even gave her hand a tiny squeeze and got one in return. When I met her eyes she glanced away; her hand stayed where it was.

  The woman was one hell of an actress. If I didn’t know better, I would have thought she still liked me. Believe me, if the guards were paying attention, they would have been fooled. It is a pleasure working with a pro. And her hand felt really good.

  Life is short — enjoy it.

  Ten pleasant minutes after we arrived, a man in a suit and tie appeared and escorted us along a hallway. I had been here before with Jake Grafton, but this was different. If we screwed this up, we weren’t going to be strolling out of here — we were going to the basement to see the toys. For some reason I felt warm and my palms were sweating.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  When I awoke the next morning a fine cold rain spattered on my little window and gurgled in the gutter and downspout, which were right outside. I had the window open a couple of inches, so I went over and sat on the floor where I could feel the cool breeze coming through the gap.

  This little room was a very pleasant place, and Paris was a great city. I wished I were really Terry G. Shannon, travel hack, with nothing on my agenda but visiting tourist sites and updating guidebook descriptions of hotels and restaurants. “Sorry, but the cassoulet isn’t up to your rating. Au revoir and better luck next time.”

  I took the belt out of the trousers I wore yesterday and casually inspected it as I listened to the rain running off the roof and let the cool autumn wind play across my arms and face.

  Grafton had said I could leave the agency after this assignment, and maybe I should. I was thoroughly sick of spooks and spies and vans with bodies.

  I guess I was really sick of myself.

  Sarah Houston was a nice woman; she had made her mistakes and paid for them, and so had I. Maybe—

  There was a listening device in my belt. The French technicians had cut a small hole in the leather for it and woven the transmitter antenna wire into the stitching. The wire was tiny, about the diameter of a human hair, difficult to see unless one looked closely.

  Should I wear this belt, or my other one?

  This one, I decided. The game was up in the air, still to be decided.

  Part of the problem was that the admiral wasn’t in the habit of sharing his ratiocinations with me, which was to be expected, I guess, since I had a part to play in his drama. I was sure he thought there was nothing to be gained by burdening me with superfluous information.

  Such as, why did he change the plan? When we came to France, we were going to dangle the Intelink in front of Henri Rodet. After all, he was the dude with the Al Qaeda source. But now we were conning Jean-Paul Arnaud, the Number Two spook. Did Arnaud and Rodet talk? Was Arnaud the villain? Did Rodet really have a spy buried in Al Qaeda, or was that a fiction for foreign consumption? Why was the Mossad stooging around? Was Marisa Petrou a double agent? Who shot Claude Bruguiere? More to the point, who the heck shot Alberto Salazar and Rich Thurlow?

  It could have been me in that van instead of Al and Rich. Me! Mrs. Carmellini’s son, Tommy.

  I could have been sitting there thinking a twisted little thought when the door opened and pop, pop, life ended for me, just like that.

  I was examining that reality when my cell phone rang, making me jump. I snatched it up and looked at the number. Willie Varner.

  I reminded myself that the DGSE techs were listening to my side of the conversation, and perhaps Willie’s too.

  “Hello.”

  “I’m in a Seven Four Seven flyin’ over England, Carmellini. Adios, asshole.” The reception was perfect, his voice right in my ear. I figured he was lying. He continued. “I told you I was gettin’ outta frog-land when the shit hit the fan, and by God, I meant it.” Yeah, he was lying. “I’m still alive, no thanks to you.”

  “You could have borrowed my Superman suit, you know, so those bullets would bounce right off.”

  He sighed. “You don’t believe me, do you?”

  “No.”

  “The sailor has me doing important secret shit. I can’t tell you anythin’ about it. Don’t call me wantin’ somethin’. And stay outta trouble, dude.”

  “Okay.”

  He hung up.

  I knew Willie Varner wouldn’t boogie, no matter what he said. Willie would stick like glue. If he wasn’t that kind of guy, he wouldn’t be worth knowing.

  The sailor was, of course, Grafton. If they were monitoring the cell phone conversation, the French spooks would never figure that out. Right. But what did Grafton have Willie the Wire doing? I spent a couple of minutes speculating, then gave up.

  I hoped Jake Grafton knew who the players were and who had the ball. I certainly didn’t.

  I levered myself up and headed for the bathroom.

  “There are the contents of Rodet’s hard drive,” Sarah Houston said to Jake Grafton. She pointed toward the computer screen. Graf
ton stood looking over her shoulder at a sea of computer symbols. They were in the SCIF in the basement of the embassy, in a tiny little room. On the walls were a calendar and a photo of the World Trade Center collapsing.

  “The contents are encrypted,” Sarah explained. “The code breakers at NSA are going to have to sort this out.”

  “Okay. Send it to them. Encrypted, of course.”

  Sarah attacked the keyboard. A minute later she said, “It’s gone. Sorry I couldn’t crack it.”

  “Well, it was a long shot.” Jake dropped into the only other chair.

  She handed him a single sheet of paper. “You asked for the telephone numbers from Gator Zantz’s cell phone. Here they are.”

  Grafton looked them over. “You’re sure about all of these.”

  “Yep.”

  Grafton folded the paper once, very neatly, then doubled it up, making all the edges touch. He inspected it to make sure it was perfectly square. Then he put it in his pocket. “Let’s talk about your visit with Arnaud,” he said. “Are you comfortable with the technology?”

  She nodded. “It’ll let him into your fake files.”

  “This won’t work unless you sell him. He has to believe that you’re madly in love with Tommy and want to run away with him.”

  “Why Arnaud?”

  “If Rodet is telling the truth, it can’t be anybody else.”

  “You couldn’t convict a man of a parking violation with that kind of logic.”

  Grafton frowned. “That’s true, but this isn’t a trial.”

  “Is Rodet telling the truth?”

  Grafton leaned back in his chair and took a deep breath while he considered. “That’s a fair question and it deserves an honest answer. Let me put it this way — he’s telling me part of the truth.” He paused, considering. “Perhaps a better way to say that would be, he’s telling me what he thinks is part of the truth.”

  “What kind of truth are you looking for?”

  “The kind that leads to a living man, one who knows things that can help us catch the masterminds of Al Qaeda.”

  “They’re leaders in the terrorist movement,” Sarah admitted, “but if they are arrested or eliminated, others will take their place.”