The Traitor: A Tommy Carmellini Novel

by Stephen Coonts

“How did you travel?”

  “A motor scooter.”

  “Were you involved in a chase?”

  “Several men on motorcycles tried to make me crash. A traffic incident. You know Paris traffic.”

  “Indeed. It can be harrowing. And where is your rental car?”

  I tried to look suspicious. “How’d you know I had a rental car?”

  He ignored my question. “Where is it?”

  “I assume it’s still parked in the garage where I left it.” I gave him the address.

  “How do you propose that we structure this deal?” He glanced at Sarah, and then his eyes came back to me. When I hesitated, he added, “One assumes that you have given the matter a great deal of thought.”

  He was trying to make me nervous, so I let it show. I wiped my hands on my trousers, glanced at Sarah, and launched into my spiel. The codes to Intelink-C were changed weekly, and we would provide them for a fee. If he liked what he saw, Sarah would arrange permanent access when she returned to the States. He would then pay us a onetime sum of two million dollars, and we would change our names and disappear.

  “Two million dollars is not a lot of money these days,” he remarked with another glance at Sarah. I had no worries there; she could wear a poker face with the best of them.

  “We’re not greedy,” I told him. “And enough is enough. Pay us out of the Christmas party fund.”

  “It is enough, however, if you sell the same thing to a variety of people and collect two million American dollars from each of them.”

  I glanced down at my lap and swallowed hard, then looked at him and smiled. “We wouldn’t do anything like that. If too many people see what’s on the Intelink, the fact that it’s been compromised will get out.”

  “One suspects so,” Arnaud said dryly. “Fortunately you are honest.”

  I could see that I was going to have to say something. “We have to charge enough to make the risk worthwhile, yet not so much that you say no and hang us out to dry. Sarah and I decided on two million. That’s our number.”

  “How do you know that I won’t call Admiral Grafton and report your attempted treason?”

  I didn’t reply to that comment.

  As the silence deepened he sat watching Sarah’s and my faces. Finally I said, “It’s ten grand American for a peek.”

  When he didn’t reply, I stood. “Why don’t you think about it? You know where to find me.” I turned to Sarah, who was already up.

  “We aren’t finished yet,” Arnaud said flatly. The words were barely out of his mouth when the door opened and three of the biggest, toughest Frenchmen I ever laid eyes on came into the room. They weren’t smiling.

  “Do you guys practice these entrances?” I asked the one in front.

  I had speculated on what the DGSE had in the dungeons of the Conciergerie; now, unfortunately, I found out. They had renovated the basement at some time in the last century or so, and they had little interrogation rooms down there. They put me in one and led Sarah off to another. I caught a glimpse of two women, matrons. I didn’t know if that was good or bad.

  I ended up with the friendly trio from Arnaud’s office. They didn’t do any rough stuff, just made me empty my pockets on a table and strip naked. As one of them began going through my stuff, the other two led me along a corridor to the cells, which looked like they dated from the Franco-Prussian War. They stuffed me in one, clanged the door shut and left me there. Still wearing my birthday suit, I discovered that the place was damp and chilly.

  Is there anything worse than a cold, slimy stone floor on your bare feet? I was going to get athlete’s foot, sure as hell.

  Grafton had told us to expect interrogation and isolation and reminded us that anywhere we were put would probably be equipped with listening devices. Sitting on the edge of my wooden bunk in my eight-by-eight Paris cell, I silently congratulated him on his foresight. I also wished he were here instead of me.

  The light wasn’t great in that hole. After inspecting the floor and the cotton mat on the wooden bed for mouse droppings, I amused myself by looking for bugs. Didn’t find any. I figured Sarah would be along shortly, and she was. She was wearing a new shiner on her right eye and that was about it. The matrons put her in the cell across the corridor. They didn’t even glance at me, to my relief.

  “Had an accident?” I asked Sarah when we were alone.

  “The bitches did a body cavity search. I think they enjoyed it.”

  “Hard to get decent help.”

  “I think I broke one of those women’s nose.”

  “I certainly hope so.”

  “Stop staring at me, you pervert.”

  I turned my face to the wall. I glanced at my wrist from force of habit, and was mildly surprised to find my watch was missing.

  It’s hard to believe that I am so damn stupid that I do this for a living. That thought shot through my head, and I almost said it aloud—but stopped myself just in time.

  “Let me see if I have this right,” Ambassador Owen Lancaster said. He had Jake Grafton, Pinckney Maillard, and George Goldberg in his office, but he was talking directly to Grafton. “One of your men killed a French citizen in a museum, led another to his death after a merry chase through Paris traffic and had his car bombed in a parking garage.”

  Lancaster paused, but the admiral said nothing.

  “Then last night two of your men were murdered in a surveillance van. You didn’t notify the French police. Their bodies are in coffins in the basement. Have I got that correct?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Why didn’t you notify the French police?”

  “The murdered men were conducting an illegal clandestine surveillance of the residence of the director of the DGSE, Henri Rodet. I thought that fact would cause us more diplomatic problems than a police investigation would solve. If you think I was in error, we could notify the police now and let them take the bodies to the morgue and confiscate the van.”

  “Don’t be insubordinate, Admiral,” Lancaster snarled.

  “Pehaps, sir,” Agatha Hempstead interjected from her seat on the sidelines, “it might be productive if Admiral Grafton explains precisely why his business with Mr. Rodet—whatever it is—cannot wait until after the G-8 conference.”

  “Thank you, Agatha,” Lancaster said evenly, without taking his eyes off Grafton. One of Hempstead’s many functions, apparently, was to help the ambassador keep his temper under control. “I seem to recall that you mentioned cooperating with the French officials providing security for the summit, not harassing the official in charge. Really, surveillance of the director of French intelligence—in France—is more than a little too much.”

  “Unfortunately I am not at liberty to discuss ongoing intelligence operations with people who lack the proper clearances, sir, as you are well aware.”

  “Why didn’t you just say you were here on a classified matter?”

  “Everything I do is classified, sir.”

  Lancaster turned his head a millimeter and focused on Pinckney Maillard. “So, Mr. Maillard, you see how it is. My staff operates under the old adage, ‘Ask me no questions and I’ll tell you no lies.’ It’s a miracle that America has any friends. But I must ask you: Is France safe for the president of the United States?”

  “My job is to make reports to my superiors at the Treasury Department, sir. They make those judgments, not me.”

  Lancaster lowered his head and shook it. “Now let me tell you people the facts of life: The president will attend the G-8 conference, even if it takes the entire Secret Service and the armed forces of the United States to guarantee his safety. Our relationship with France is more important than anything the CIA could possibly be doing in Paris. Admiral Grafton?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I want no more incidents, no more bodies, no more interest at the French cabinet level in our conduct as guests of the French nation. And I am giving you a direct order: Stop spying upon and harassing the director of French in
telligence. Have I made myself clear?”

  “You have.”

  “It would be embarrassing for everyone if I have to call your superiors and demand that you gentlemen be recalled. It would be even more embarrassing if the French government throws your silly asses out of the county.”

  “Definitely not career-enhancing,” Maillard agreed. Suspecting insubordination, Lancaster glared. Grafton managed to keep a straight face.

  “President Chirac will not tolerate being humiliated by American diplomatic personnel,” the ambassador continued. “The secretary of state understands that, the president understands it and you had better. People, we are public servants and we must act in the public interest. The public interest just now is to ensure the G-8 summit happens as scheduled.”

  He dismissed them. Out in the corridor Maillard squared his shoulders and said, “The American public might be less than pleased if their president gets murdered in Paris.”

  “Probably would,” Goldberg agreed, nodding.

  “I suspect so,” Grafton murmured.

  As they walked, Maillard asked Grafton, “Sounds as if your man Shannon is having a rough time. Does he need a weapon?”

  “Not right now. He might, though.”

  “You and your wife? Any concerns for your safety?”

  “We’re possible targets, yes, but the French would freak if they caught any of us with guns.”

  “Maybe I can help. The CIA has loaned us some experimental weapons, wireless Tasers if you will, made by an outfit in Arizona called Ionatron. The ones they gave us are about the size of a small automatic. They fire a laser, which ionizes a path through the air, then an electrical charge zips across the path.”

  Jake Grafton chuckled. “It’s a ray gun,” he said.

  “The agency!” George Goldberg grumped. “First I’ve heard about this.”

  “They’re developing these things to zap cars carrying bombs,” Maillard said. “Ruins the driver’s day, let me tell you. I’ve got a couple I can loan you.”

  Sarah Houston and I spent the noon hour in our windowless cells. We got more miserable with every passing minute. Sarah began to shiver, and after a while, so did I. We wrapped the mats from the beds around ourselves for warmth. There was a hole in the floor that I put to its intended use. I think Sarah used hers, too, but gentleman that I am, I didn’t look to make sure.

  She didn’t say anything to me and I said nothing to her. I figured if the place was bugged, after a while they’d get tired of waiting for us to talk to each other. The less we said, the sooner we’d be out. Sarah must have thought so, too. Once I almost said that we’d laugh about this experience someday, but thought better of it.

  My guess is that about three hours had passed when they came for Sarah—the same two matrons, and they brought one of the burly fellows along for a backup. No handcuffs. Sarah went right along.

  After they left I was really alone. A fellow could disappear into one of these holes and never come out, and who would know?

  In my case, who would care?

  I amused myself by counting the stones in the walls, and by counting my pulse. At least my heart was still beating.

  One thing for sure, institutional life was not my thing.

  I was dozing, sitting on the bed with my head against one wall, when they came for me. The same three dudes.

  I was really ready and trotted along in the middle.

  Two flights up, they led me into a room similar to the one where they made me strip. There was a chair, which I was told to sit in, and a desk. A little guy wearing glasses and a white shirt sat behind it. In front of him was a polygraph machine. The big guys got me strapped up, then left the room.

  The exam took about an hour. The operator talked and marked his tape, and I answered in monosyllables.

  When it was over one of the studs brought me my clothes. I dressed; then he led me back to the cell in the dungeon. Sarah was back in hers, dressed.

  She looked at me. I looked at her, shrugged, and lay down on the bed.

  The polygraph operator took his tapes with him when he had his interview with Jean-Paul Arnaud.

  “The woman, Houston, refused to cooperate. I didn’t get any readings on her.”

  Arnaud looked puzzled. “Did she answer the questions?”

  “Randomly. Said yes to three questions, then no to three, yes to four, no to four, and so on. After a while she began sobbing and refused to say anything. It was hopeless.”

  “I understand.”

  “I am sorry, Monsieur Arnaud, but there was nothing I could do.”

  Arnaud waved it away. “And Carmellini?”

  “Results inconclusive.”

  Arnaud waited.

  “The polygraph detects the body’s involuntary responses, respiration, heart rate, blood pressure and perspiration. The theory is—”

  “I know the theory. You are the most experienced operator at the agency. Give me your professional opinion.”

  “His answers didn’t vary from the baseline, which I established by asking him his name, employment, and various questions about Paris.”

  “His body responses indicated that he was telling the truth?”

  “His body responses seem to indicate that Carmellini has himself under perfect control. I got the impression that if he wanted me to think he was lying, the needles twitched. If he wanted me to think he was telling the truth, they didn’t.”

  “Yet he may have been telling the truth?” Arnaud insisted.

  “That’s one possibility. Another is that he is a sociopathic personality, one of those individuals who lacks any sense of remorse or anxiety when he lies. Or it may be that he is a very skillful liar.”

  “That’s a useful asset in any era,” Arnaud said thoughtfully.

  The polygraph expert thought it wise not to reply to that observation.

  When we finally got back to Arnaud’s office, I was hungry, tired, thirsty and dirty, and I knew Sarah felt the same way—we were channeling each other by then.

  “I am sorry for the inconvenience this afternoon,” Arnaud said smoothly. “We must take precautions against liars and provocateurs.”

  “In which category did you put us?” I asked politely, trying to show interest.

  “We have decided to accept your offer. We will give you ten thousand American dollars for a look at Intelink-C.”

  “Tomorrow,” Sarah said loudly, which was the first word she had spoken in my presence since she called me a pervert, down in the nether regions. “I am hungry and filthy and I need a hot bath.”

  “Tomorrow, then. Shall we say two o’clock?” He rose and came around the desk.

  “Two o’clock is fine,” Sarah agreed. As he reached for her hand she slapped him hard, a real stinger that sent his glasses skittering across the carpet. Then she headed for the door.

  “She’s a tough broad,” I told Arnaud. “She’ll get over it.”

  I followed her into the reception area, where our escort was waiting.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  It was a gloomy afternoon, misting rain, when Sarah and I reached the sidewalk. “That bastard,” she said darkly. “I have never been so humiliated in my life.”

  I reached for her hand, and she let me take it. I pulled her up short and she looked me in the face. “Bugs,” I mouthed silently, and pointed to her earrings, her purse and my belt buckle. I certainly didn’t know if the French spooks had planted bugs, but they could have. It was a trick I wouldn’t have missed if I had been running their show, and they were probably smarter and sneakier than I was.

  Sarah was quick on the uptake. She nodded. Hand in hand, we set off for the Metro stop with the fine mist cooling our faces. After a few paces she latched on to my upper arm and walked with her hip against mine.

  “Do you think he’ll do the deal?” she asked.

  “I hope so, babe. I hope so.”

  We rode the Metro to the stop nearest her hotel and walked from there. Up in her room she stripped and
got into the shower.

  As the water ran I examined her watch, a small self-winding Swiss one. The case didn’t look as if it would have any room for extra machinery, so I laid it aside. Her earrings, dangly, shiny things, were another matter. Sure enough, a close inspection revealed that one had been cut in half, then put back together, with superglue, probably. It seemed heavier than the other one, but perhaps that was only my imagination. One of the buttons on her coat had a similar minute slice along its length, as did one of the buttons on her jacket.

  The hotel provided laundry bags, so I put all her stuff in one, including the shoes she had worn.

  I was inspecting my belt buckle when Sarah came out of the bathroom. She had a towel wrapped around her hair and one around her middle.

  She paused; I held out my arms. She settled into my lap.

  She smelled of soap and shampoo and her lips tasted delicious.

  After a while she whispered, “You should take a shower, too.”

  When I came out she was in bed waiting for me.

  We ate dinner in the hotel coffee shop, then headed for the Metro. I was carrying the bag. We got off the Metro at the Concorde Metro stop, the one nearest the embassy. As we came up the steps out of the ground, a squad of uniformed police was waiting.

  “Terry Shannon?”

  “Yes.”

  “Passport, please.”

  I produced it; one policeman examined it as two other cops looked me over. There was usually a squad or two of police in this area, the huge square in front of the American embassy, but this evening there must have been fifty. Many of them were carrying submachine guns on straps over their shoulders.

  “Come with us, please.” The cop kept my passport. I handed Sarah her bag of clothes, but one of the policemen took it from her hands.

  “This is mine,” she protested.

  “Passport, please.”

  She whipped out the diplomatic passport for examination as one of the cops pawed through the clothes and shoes and ladies’ underwear.

  One of them talked into a lapel radio, but apparently they had no pickup order on Sarah. They returned her passport, gave her the laundry bag and said, “You may go.”