The Traitor: A Tommy Carmellini Novel

by Stephen Coonts

  “What is the source for the Qasim name?”

  Jake smiled. His wife always asked the right questions. “Interrogation.”

  “Torture, you mean?”

  “I don’t know. But the name came up in an interesting way. The source claimed that Abu Qasim had a source inside French intelligence who passed him information.”

  “Do you believe that?”

  “No, but it would be the perfect cover to pass information the other way. And we do know, or think we know, that the head of the DGSE got some critical intel from someone in Al Queda.”

  “So what do you want me to do?”

  “Go over to the university this afternoon and ask questions. I would like to find at least one person who remembers Abu Qasim or al-Falih. I want a description, some fact or facts that will put flesh on this legend.”

  “Okay.”

  “If the DGSE has an agent, it’s someone that Rodet recruited or someone he once knew well,” Jake mused. He commented on how difficult it was to recruit agents, who were by definition traitors to the society in which they lived. The possibility of talking a religious fanatic on the inside into becoming a traitor struck Grafton as very remote, and to do it without endangering one’s self or the prospective recruit, probably impossible. On the other hand, a man who had never believed and infiltrated…he might have a chance. A slim one, true, but a plausible chance. If he could live in the belly of the beast and keep his nerve.

  “What if there is no record of him?” Callie asked.

  “That would be a factor in the equation.”

  “You mean someone could have removed his name from the records?”

  “Or he never existed. What we have is a tidbit spit out by the computer, a factoid someone once passed to an interrogator. It may be dross, pure fiction.”

  “Or a story woven around a germ of truth,” Callie said thoughtfully.

  Henri Rodet sat staring at a painting on the wall, an Algerian desert scene by a well-known young artist. “The old gang from Algeria…” He had used that phrase with Arnaud. The men he had known in Algeria all those years ago were either elderly or dead.

  Except for Abu Qasim.

  After he met Qasim, he checked on him the following week. Yes, he lived in a mud hut on the ragged edge of nowhere. There was the old man, Qasim’s mother, two younger brothers, and a sister or two. The family had owned just one camel, and Rodet had killed it. The dressing on the wound in Qasim’s arm had not been changed, and the wound was infected. If the boy didn’t get medical treatment soon, he would lose the arm. Or die.

  So there he sat, the Frenchman who caused it all.

  “Inshallah,” the old man muttered. As God wills it.

  Using French and a smattering of Arabic, Rodet explained about the infection, how the wound must be cleaned and disinfected. He explained about germs. The old man was having none of it. No one was touching his son. It would be as Allah willed it. Finally it dawned on Rodet that the old man didn’t know what germs were.

  Why didn’t he let the boy ride away on that mangy, half-starved camel? Why on earth had he shot the beast?

  He went to see the company doctor, a fat man who had lived most of his adult life in Algeria, and explained the problem.

  “Why did you return?” the doctor asked.

  “Because I shot the camel and the boy broke his arm.”

  “You cannot save these people from themselves. They live in squalor and filth, ignorant, illiterate, besotted with God, and there is nothing you can do to save them. You understand, Rodet? Nothing!”

  He had had it up to here with Algeria. He knew it was true. And yet…“I want bandages and disinfectant, sulfa powder, something to clean the wound.”

  The doctor threw up his hands. “They will not let you touch the boy. They will not thank you. They would rather watch him die. Whatever happens will be God’s will, and man must submit. Don’t you see, nothing can be done. It’s useless to fight against your fate. The boy was doomed when he was conceived.”

  “We all were. Give me those things.”

  On the way back to the hut he bought a goat, paying twice as much as it was worth, and put it in the bed of the truck. The animal leaped out and he had to run to catch it while the seller laughed uproariously. He stuffed it into the passenger seat, where it promptly emptied its bowels and bladder. He rolled down the window and drove on.

  The old man accepted the goat, which was a fine one. Food was food. After much talking about the animal, the old man led it away. While he butchered it, Rodet worked on Qasim’s arm. The young man never whimpered, never made a sound as he scraped the wound, cleaned and disinfected it, and injected the boy with a massive dose of penicillin. After he dressed the wound, he rolled up his pant leg and showed the boy his scar, which he had collected in a motorcycle accident years before.

  He left a stack of bandages and instructions to change the bandage daily. He stayed and ate goat and had to stop alongside the road when the vomiting and diarrhea got him.

  Yet when he went back two weeks later the infection in Abu Qasim’s arm was gone, the wound had a healthy scab, and the boy smiled at him.

  Henri Rodet smiled back.

  Callie Grafton started at the Sorbonne’s main records office. It helped that she was herself a professor of languages at Georgetown University and that she spoke fluent French. The clerks were helpful, but after twenty minutes, they confessed defeat. They had no record of a student named Abu Qasim, nor one named Abdullah al-Falih.

  The library was cool and quiet. Two hours later, Callie admitted defeat herself. She could find not a single scrap of paper in the building with either name written on it. Some of the records were incomplete, with the records of entire years missing. It was suggestive, she thought, but proved nothing.

  She headed for the philosophy department, only to find the doors locked.

  Tired and frustrated, Callie asked directions to the faculty club. Yes, the university had one. Armed with her passport and Georgetown University ID, she had no trouble talking her way in.

  It was nearly six o’clock when Jake Grafton pulled the rental car over to the curb and watched his wife come out of the club. She was listening intently to the white-haired man beside her, who was talking a mile a minute. He held on to her arm to steady himself. As they approached the car, Jake realized the man was at least eighty.

  Jake got out and came around to the passenger side. Callie introduced him to the man, Professor Heger, as cars swerved by the illegally parked vehicle. The French flew thick and fast. Jake nodded and smiled as passing cars beeped. Callie kissed the professor on the cheek and got into the car. Jake shook hands with Heger and got back behind the wheel.

  When they were rolling along, he said, “You look as if you had a wonderful afternoon.”

  “Oh, I did. I met some delightful people. And Professor Heger is a gentleman, a ladies’ man, and, believe me, he loves to talk.”

  When she fell silent, thinking about the conversations of the afternoon, Jake prompted, “Well, what did you find out?”

  “Professor Heger taught philosophy until he retired, but he remembers no student named Abu Qasim.”

  “Huh,” Jake grunted.

  “He was lying,” Callie said. “Chattered away about Paris and teaching and Americans he had known, tried to recall Abdullah al-Falih and couldn’t. Then I mentioned Qasim’s name, and he gave me an abrupt denial. He was lying—I’m sure of it. He did know Qasim, and now he refuses to admit it.”

  “We need more than a denial,” her husband said gently.

  Callie smote the dashboard with her fist. “I know that,” she roared in frustration.

  CHAPTER TEN

  I could tell by the sound exactly what Elizabeth Conner was doing in her bathroom every morning, which was proof positive I was wasting my life…and probably should be locked up to protect the public. I listened on my floor bug while I performed my own ablutions. The thought occurred to me that audio voyeurism was like b
eing married without sharing the toothpaste.

  When I thought she was within a minute or two of completing her routine, I quickly stowed my stuff, shoved it under the bed, and let myself out. I slammed the door, rattled it to make sure it locked, then headed for the stairs.

  She was coming out of her door as I trooped downward.

  “Good morning,” I muttered.

  “Morning,” she chirped, and fell in behind me. “Going running?”

  “Getting cabin fever.”

  “I’ve been meaning to say hello,” she said as we trotted down the stairs.

  When we got to the street, I said, “Want to run together?” as I looked her over. She wore her hair in a modern, windblown style and was decked out this morning in blue Lycra pants, a sweatshirt, good running shoes and a headband. She wore a small fanny pack on her waist that probably contained her wallet, passport and door key.

  “Okay,” she said, and trotted right off. I fell in beside her.

  “Do you run every morning?” I asked.

  “Except when it’s raining. I hate getting soaked and cold. Don’t think the exercise does me any good when I’m in that condition, y’ know?”

  She ran at a good pace, so conversation became difficult. I concentrated on staying just behind her, out of traffic, and not running over pedestrians. The air was crisp and moist and there was a wind. It was very pleasant running through Paris, soaking up the sights and sounds and smells, running behind a woman who knew how to run.

  Just when I was getting in rhythm, she picked up the pace. I lengthened my stride and managed to stay with her, but my days off were telling. She knew Paris better than I did, because I was thoroughly lost when we came pounding up to Sacré Coeur in Montmartre. Now she headed back to the Rue Paradis. When we began slowing a few blocks from the apartment building, I glanced at my watch. We had done about four miles, I thought.

  “Whew,” I told her. “You always run this far?”

  “I’m addicted to it.”

  “So what are you studying?”

  “European history. On a self-study program.” She mentioned the university, one of the traditional women’s colleges in the northeastern United States. “And you said you are a writer?”

  “Travel writer.”

  “Have I read your stuff?”

  “Do you read bumper stickers? ‘Free the French: Whack Chirac,’ and ‘Make the world safe for war!’ Those were mine. My biggest was ‘Save Social Security: Free Cigarettes for Retirees.’”

  She laughed. “You’re kidding, right?”

  “I freelance a lot. Working on a book on Paris just now, updating an existing guidebook.”

  “Sounds interesting.” We were standing in front of our building.

  “I like it. Enjoy the change of scenery and exploring. Long as I can pay the bills, I’ll stay at it.” I looked her straight in the eyes and grinned. That’s a rule, you know—when you’re lying, look ’em in the eyes and show ’em your teeth. Of course, whether she believed a single word of my spiel was another question.

  She glanced at her watch. “I’d better get upstairs and get a shower.”

  “Thanks for the run,” I said as she disappeared into the building. I smiled at the streetwalkers, nodded at a few prospecting johns, and after a minute or so, followed her up the stairs.

  The limo slid to a stop near the curb; the driver got out and opened the door for his passenger, a well-dressed Middle Eastern businessman.

  The man went into the building, which was old. He wandered along until he came to a sign that listed university faculty and the numbers of their offices. He went down the list, found the one he wanted, and walked to the stairs.

  There were a few young people, men and women—students, no doubt—clad in jeans and sweaters and sweatshirts, talking to each other or striding purposefully along, on errands of great import. None of the young people paid any attention to him. Oh, a few glanced at him, then looked away. Wearing a suit and tie, he must have looked like a professor, one they didn’t recognize. They refused to make eye contact.

  He found the office he wanted and looked right and left along the hallway. It was empty. He rapped on the door with a knuckle.

  “Come in.”

  He turned the knob and pushed the door open with the joint of a forefinger.

  The professor was at his desk. He had white hair and wore a wool suit. He looked up and adjusted his glasses. “Come in, sir. Come in.”

  The visitor closed the door behind him.

  The professor leaned forward, his right hand on his glasses. “Mon Dieu! Is it you? Qasim?”

  “It’s been a long time,” the visitor said.

  “Indeed it has. Come in, man, come in.” The professor rose and held out both hands. The visitor grasped the right one and shook. The professor held his hand with both of his.

  “It must be twenty years or more since I’ve seen you, Qasim. Oh, my word, how the world has turned. Sit!” he commanded, releasing the hand and gesturing toward a chair. “Tell me of yourself, where you’ve been, what brings you to Paris. Tell me of your life.”

  The visitor seated himself on one of the two guest chairs. The room was very small, lined with books. He looked around, then focused on his host. “Professor Heger, I don’t know where to begin.”

  “You should have stayed in touch,” the old man said. “You were the best student I ever had. The very best. I got you that scholarship to Göttingen, but you didn’t go.”

  “No. I didn’t.”

  “I know, the Germans. What can one say? Still, it was a great opportunity, a great opportunity.”

  “Yes, it was. Life would have certainly been different if I had gone to Germany to study. For that opportunity, I owe you a great debt, one I can never repay.”

  “But you look healthy, prosperous,” the professor said, adjusting his glasses again. “Life has treated you well. I trust you have made your mark, wherever you went.” He paused, then said, “Oh, I had a visitor yesterday, a Madame Grafton, an American, asking about you.” He lowered his voice. “Of course I denied knowing you, or knowing about you, as your good friend Rodet asked. Oh, it was so many years ago that he came to me. I am surprised that I remembered. But when she mentioned your name, I remembered that I was to say nothing.”

  His guest took something from a pocket and worked on it with both hands in his lap. The professor didn’t seem to notice. He went on. “And then you appeared. What a coincidence! I confess, I hadn’t thought about you in years, Qasim, until she mentioned your name. And I have thought of you fifty times since then. Wondered where you were, what you did with your life. It is so wonderful that you have dropped by for a visit. Tell me, please, about yourself.”

  The visitor looked up. “I wish I could, Professor. I wish life had worked out differently. I wish I could repay your kindness, your love of learning, your friendship and thoughtful humanity, but I cannot.”

  With that he raised a pistol; there was a silencer attached to the barrel. He pointed it at the old man’s head and, as a startled look registered on the professor’s face, pulled the trigger.

  I stopped by the parked van on the Place des Vosges to check with the technician on duty. Rich Thurlow was there.

  “Wow, nifty duds, Carmellini. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you all duded up. What’s the occasion?” I was wearing the best clothes I owned, all of which fitted perfectly. The sports coat I had had tailored so it didn’t look as if it were hanging on a garden scarecrow.

  “I’m working this morning,” I told him. “What’s happening, anyway?”

  “One of the maids is in there, no one else.”

  “Marisa Petrou?”

  “No.”

  “The guard who sits in the park?”

  “Yeah.” Rich pointed him out.

  “Good. He’s here for a reason.” I checked my watch. Ten o’clock. Well, there was a chance. That’s all you get in life, anyway—a chance.

  “So did Al and Cliff Icahn get o
ut to the château?”

  “Yeah. All that stuff you planted there works the way it’s supposed to.”

  That was a relief. I certainly didn’t want to be told to do it again.

  I patted my pockets, made sure I had everything, then asked Rich, “Do you have your cell phone?”

  “Yes.”

  “Here’s a number.” I handed him a slip of paper. “If I get inside, wait exactly ten minutes, then call it.”

  “What do you want me to say?”

  “Ask if they are the folks who ordered the furniture. You need to verify the address. Use French.”

  “Okay. Luck.”

  “Yeah.”

  I got out of the van, locked the door, and strolled across the square. The guard looked me over without interest—and, I hoped, without recognition. I took a seat on the bench nearest the entrance of Rodet’s building. Thank heavens it was in the sun, because the air had a chill to it. I was wearing a sweater under the sports coat in case I had to sit here a while; if I got too chilled, I could always walk around. I pulled an Eve Adams paperback novel from my coat pocket, opened it and settled in.

  Moms or nannies pushed strollers past; an old man with a small bag of grain fed the squirrels, which were greedy and fearless. Pigeons darted in to pick up the squirrels’ leavings. An hour passed, then another.

  I got up twice to stroll around, then resumed my seat. The second time I strolled the park I realized we had acquired another watcher, one who had just arrived in the square. He was an older man with a dark complexion and short gray hair, wearing a threadbare sweater, a pair of worn-out leather shoes and a nice pair of wraparound sunglasses. He was seated now, apparently watching the pigeons come and go and enjoying the sunshine, but I didn’t think so. He was aware of who was in the square. Once I saw his head move a minute amount; he must have been scanning the people to his left, checking them out.