The Traitor

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 being 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 Sacre Coeur in Mont-martre. 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 Gottingen, 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 out to the chateau?”

“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.

I thought he looked Middle Eastern. Perhaps North Africa? With the sunglasses it was difficult to say.

If the DGSE watcher noticed him, he gave no indication.

I went back to my novel.

The man in the sweater saw the American, Carmellini, sitting on the bench reading. He, too, was watching, but for what?

The Americans had a watch station in the plumbing van — he was sure of it. It sat there surrounded by cones, yet no plumbers came or went.

Americans were pouring into Paris. They were around the George V Hotel, where the U.S. president would stay, and now were present in squads around the American embassy on the Place de la Concorde, men in sports coats and suits, carrying handheld radios. They visited with the French police, strapping, fit men wearing submachine guns and kepis. The French police operated in squads from small buses, which they parked on street corners and sidewalks near the American embassy and up and down the Champs-Elysees. No doubt by the time of the G-8 conference, Paris would be full of police and military units, brought in from all over the country.

Germans, Japanese, Russians, British … he had already seen security men from all those countries. Not a lot, but a few.

The rustle of branches in the autumn breeze caught his attention. Then a small whirlwind played with some fallen leaves.

Ah, Paris. It was so different from the desert. Who was it that said, “God loved the Arabs — He gave them the Koran — but He loved the French more: He gave them Paris”?

Callie Grafton was one of those people who enjoyed learning new things and being around schools and colleges. Her father and mother had been academics, so universities had been part of the warp and woof of her life ever since she could remember.

Today as she walked through the buildings of the Sorbonne, looking for Professor Heger’s office, she remembered her parents. They would have enjoyed Paris, the Sorbonne, the faculty club. Ah, yes.

According to a student she questioned, the philosophy department was in an old building on a narrow street. She had no trouble finding it, or the sign just inside the door that listed the members of the faculty and the room numbers of their offices. A passing student confirmed the sign: Professor Heger’s office was on the top floor.

The elevator had obviously been installed just a few years ago, probably much to the relief of the gray-headed professors who had spent their adult years climbing the building’s narrow stairs. New or not, it creaked and groaned as it descended to the floor where she stood. She could hear it coming, protesting all the way. When the door opened she discovered that it was of modest dimensions — big enough for perhaps four average-sized Europeans or three porky Americans.

As she rode upward she went over her planned approach to Heger one more time. She needed confirmation of Qasim’s name, and she needed it now.

Undoubtedly someone had asked him not to talk, and that was the promise he was honoring. Since he made that promise the world had turned, she would explain. Times had changed. For Qasim’s sake she needed to know: All those years ago, had Qasim been a friend of Henri Rodet?

The elevator stopped with a bump, and the door protested as it opened. Somehow the French had accomplished the impossible— installed a brand-new old elevator in an old building.

She went along the hallway examining the numbers on the door. There it was. She knocked on the door.

No answer.

Well, he might not be here. He might be in class.

She rapped again. Heard a thump. Or was it her imagination? A noise from inside the room?

Callie tried the doorknob, and it opened.

“Professor Heger?”

She looked inside. The room was small, lined with books on shelves, two little windows, a desk, a computer … and behind the desk on the wooden floor, just visible, a shoe.

She stepped into the room. “Professor?”

He was lying behind the desk. “Professor Heger?”

She turned him over and saw the bullet wound in his head. It had bled some, and the blood had congealed on the floor and the side of his face. He also had a deep bruise where his face had hit the floor when he had fallen.

He was still alive, breathing erratically. His eyes were unfocused.

Callie reached into his mouth and cleared his airway. The man was obviously in a bad way, perhaps even dying. There was no time to lose.

“Professor Heger, I’m Callie Grafton. Yesterday you denied knowing Abu Qasim. It was twenty-five years ago, Professor.”

The old man obviously heard her. He made a noise, swallowed, tried to focus his eyes.

“I know you promised not to tell who he was,” Callie continued, “but the world has turned. Times have changed. It’s a matter of life and death. I need to know. Did you have a student named Abu Qasim?”

He was trying to talk. Callie bent down. She heard the whisper.

It was incoherent noise.

Then Professor Heger lost consciousness. Callie talked to Heger in the hope that he might hear, but within a minute he breathed his last.

At half past twelve the limo came slowly along the street and glided to a stop in front of Henri Rodet’s building.

I stowed the paperback in my pocket and walked toward the long Mercedes as the driver got out and opened the right-side rear door.

A very shapely leg appeared, then another, and out stepped Marisa Petrou. She was wearing some kind of frock that ended just above her knees, a pair of high heels that consisted of a sole, a heel, and straps to hold it all together, and a little designer jacket. She reached back into the car for her purse, which was a large one.

Then she saw me. She didn’t recognize me for a few seconds, then it hit her. She looked again at me and her mouth dropped open.

“Hello, Marisa.” I walked over, closing the gap. “Travis Crockett.”

“The man with the boots,” she said. “You’re a long way from Texas, cowboy.”

The chauffeur was standing there respectfully, still holding the door. Being an American working man, I grinned at him and winked as she said, “Out for a stroll this morning?”

“Yep. Imagine my surprise at seeing you. I guess it’s truly a small world, after all.”

She moved away from the car and the chauffeur closed the door. She nodded at him; he got back behind the wheel and drove away.

As he did so, I looked around at the building we were standing in front of and said, “You live here? Cool neighborhood.”

She was looking me over, apparently trying to figure out what I wanted.

“It’s nice seeing you again,” I said. “May I call you sometime? Perhaps take you out for a drink?”

“No.” She bit her lip and glanced toward the park. “What are you doing in Paris, Tommy Carmellini?”

“My name is—“

“You left fingerprints. You’re Tommy Carmellini, an officer in the CIA. What are you doing in Paris?”

“Standing on a Paris sidewalk in front of God and everybody chatting up a beautiful woman. And you?”

She grabbed my arm. “Come inside for a moment.”

I went willingly.

“What should I do?” Callie Grafton asked her husband. She was standing in Heger’s office talking to Jake on her cell phone. She had told him everything, including the fact that Heger died without saying a word.

“Does he have a telephone on his desk?” Yes.

“Call the police. Wait for them. You’ve left fingerprints, so we don’t want to send them off on a wild goose chase or get you in trouble. Don’t tell them about Qasim. Tell them you met the professor yesterday and wanted to talk with him again.”

“Okay.”

“Are you all right?” Jake asked, although he knew the answer.

“Yes,” she said.

“Call me later. I love you.”

“I love you, too, Jake,” she replied, and closed the telephone.

She and her husband made a point of saying “I love you” at the end of every telephone conversation. Life is short, random chance happens to us all — she glanced again at Professor Heger’s body— and there is evil.

Evil exists. Filthy, obscene, virulent, evil is out there, ready to sear us all.

I love you,]ake, she whispered again, and picked up the telephone on Heger’s desk.

Marisa Petrou unlocked the street door of her apartment building on the Place des Vosges. The door opened into a stairwell. There was no elevator, so we had to hike up two flights. She used a key on the only door on the third floor.

“Wow,” I said when I was inside. The rooms were spacious, with ten-foot ceilings. The joint certainly didn’t look like this in the Renaissance when the maids were emptying chamber pots out the windows. Someone, I assumed Henri Rodet, had spent serious euros remodeling and improving. Huge, original oil paintings hung on the walls, the ornate baseboards and moldings were gilded, thick drapes framed each window and antique chairs that looked as if they had welcomed Napoleon’s bottom were scattered here and there. Modern sculptures sat in corners, illuminated by tiny spotlights. The place reminded me of a museum. It was something to see, if you like that sort of thing. I didn’t particularly care for it, but I made polite noises.

Marisa marched through the place, checking every room, as I trailed along behind. She found the maid in the kitchen and asked her to run an errand, a trip to the market. She gave the maid money and sent her off.

Then we were alone.

She zeroed in on me. “What are you doing in Paris?” she asked again.

“Huh-uh. You first.”

“I live here.”

“In this place?” I looked around. “Nice work if you can get it.”

Her mouth formed a straight line. Just then the telephone rang. She reached for it. I headed for the living room. From the window I could see the guard in the park. He was on his cell phone — probably checking with Marisa.

I could just hear the murmur of her voice. I was staring at a modern painting, trying to figure out what it was, when she came into the room.

She sat on the couch. “Sit, Tommy Carmellini.” She patted the seat. I sat down beside her and left a few inches between us. “Let’s start with the easy questions first. Why did you make a play for me in Washington?”

My eyes widened. “I seem to recall that you picked me up, not vice versa.”

“So you knocked me out, had sex with me, then left me in a drugged stupor.”

“If that’s a question, I’m not going to dignify it with an answer.”

She looked around the room, thinking.

“You could answer a question for me, you know.”

“I’ll be as honest with you as you were with me,” she said.

“You had my fingerprints checked by someone, so you’re not just the socialite daughter of a diplomat. Do you work for French intelligence?”

She kept her gaze on my eyes and didn’t reply. The thought occurred to me that she was a knockout. Oh, well — that’s the way my luck goes.

“If I show up for a visit with Henri Rodet and tell him my name is Terry Shannon, are you going to rat me out?”

“Rat…?”

“Spill the beans. Tell him I’m not Terry Shannon.”

“I don’t know you.”

“That’s the spirit. I saw character in your face the first time I laid eyes on you.”

Now it was her turn. “Are you going to tell Monsieur Rodet that we’ve met before?”

“A grand jury couldn’t drag it out of me.”

“Grand jury…?”

“That’s a political joke. I won’t tell if you won’t.”

The phone rang again. Marisa made a face and went to answer it in the kitchen.

I was standing, closely inspecting a two-foot-high sculpture of a voluptuous, armless nude, when she returned.

“I am curious,” I said. “There is a man sitting in the park that I would like to point out to you. I wonder if you know him.”

She followed me reluctantly. “There’s a DGSE man in the park. He saw you come in. I told him we had a mutual acquaintance.”

“Who?”

“I didn’t name her.”

“Okay.”

The older man wearing sunglasses was still sitting in the same place. I pointed him out to Marisa. “Do you know him?”

She took a good look, perhaps fifteen seconds’ worth. That pause convinced me she was a professional; if she ever saw him again, she would remember. “No,” she said.

She led me to the door and opened it. “Good-bye, Tommy.”

“Terry.” I didn’t want to leave. “So how is your father?” I asked.

A look of surprise crossed her face, then disappeared. “He died,” she said.

“Oh. Sorry to hear it. He looked pretty healthy when I saw him.”

“An automobile accident, in the Alps. Two months ago. A truck on the wrong side of the road.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Yes. Good-bye, Terry.” She gently touched my elbow.

Hell, I can take a hint. I motored off and she closed the door behind me.

I had a lot to think about as I descended the stairs. I ignored the men in the park. Didn’t look for or at them. I walked down the block and went through the arch under the buildings, which took me out of the square.

I called Rich on my cell as I walked. “Hey, it’s me.”

“Hey.”

“Where is the watcher who was in the park?”

“He’s still there.”

“How many telephone calls did he make?” One.

“There’s another one, an older guy in sunglasses, ratty pants and a sweater, Semitic features. Get a shot of him and ask Washington to come up with some ID, if they can.”

“I see him,” Rich said.

“I’m going home. Turn on the equipment, see what you can get out of those bugs. Make sure they work, then turn them off.”

“What rooms did you put them in?”

“Living room, hallway and kitchen.”

“Nice job,” he said, and hung up.

I stretched my legs and marched.

I really didn’t care if Marisa told her guy Henri that I was Tommy Carmellini — I just threw that in to see what she would say. Was she DGSE? If she already knew that the DGSE knew one CIA type named Carmellini was in town, she hid it well. She had seemed genuinely surprised to see me — and not pleasantly surprised.

If she wasn’t a DGSE officer, then whom was she working for?

Jake Grafton leaned over Sarah Houston’s shoulder so that he could see her computer screen and asked, “What do you have?”

“They used the computer at the chateau this morning after the power came back on.”

“And …”

“I’m still sorting through what I have.”

Grafton dropped into the folding chair beside Houston’s small desk. “I want everything you can get off that hard drive, and the hard drive at his apartment in town.”

Sarah Houston eyed him without warmth. “I know you don’t believe in telling anyone anything, but until you tell me what I’m looking for, you can classify my efforts as recreational digging.”

Grafton seemed to accept that with good grace. With him you never knew, Houston thought. The truth was he intimidated her a little, although she would never admit it.

“I’ve told you what I’m after. I want to know how Rodet and his spy communicate. And, obviously, what they say to each other.”

Houston played with her keys a bit before she answered. “If you don’t know how they communicate or what they say to one another, how do you know there really is a spy?”

“I don’t,” Grafton said with a smile. “All I have is a theory. Prove me wrong, if you can.” He picked up Carmellini’s file on Rodet’s chateau and opened it.

“They may not use e-mail. Or if they do, they may use a public computer, such as one in a library or Starbucks, something like that.”

“The agent might, but I can’t see the director of the DGSE pounding a keyboard at a library.”

“Why shouldn’t the agent use a dead drop?”

“Too risky. This person is in a murderous conspiracy, surrounded by religious fanatics who are convinced that they are warriors of God, fighting God’s battles. The least suspicion would cost him his life. So he doesn’t go for walks alone, doesn’t visit post offices, doesn’t mail letters to foreign cities… none of that.”

“A mailman?” This was a person who carried messages between the spy and his controller.

“Same objection.”

“You have me searching for a needle in a haystack,” Sarah Houston groused, “one that might not even be there.”

“That kind is the hardest to find,” Grafton admitted.

She frowned at her boss. He didn’t seem to notice. He dug into the file, held up each satellite photo and examined it closely.

Jake Grafton looked amused as he listened to me tell of my success in getting bugs into Rodet’s Paris flat. When I ran out of air he sat in silence looking around with unfocused eyes, lost in thought. There in the SCIF the only sounds were the hum of the air-conditioning and faintly, almost too faint to discern, the sound of background music. The speakers for the Musak were inside the walls, floors and ceilings, to foil listening devices.

Finally he looked at me and blinked, almost as if seeing me for the first time. “That was a bold stroke,” he said, “and regardless of what she does or whom she tells — in the French government — I can’t see how we’re compromised.”

“In the French government?”

“She could be MI-6, BND, Russian, Polish, Italian, Israeli — even an agent of a terrorist cell.”

“Okay, okay. Maybe I should have talked it over with you first.”

Grafton sighed. “Perhaps. Perhaps not. You used your best judgment and acted on the information you had, which is the only way we’re going to get through this.” He smiled at me. “I spent my adult life in an outfit that operates that way and it’s probably too late for me to change now. However it works out is how it works out.”

“How do we know that she’s anyone’s agent? I thought that her father was the spy who—“

Grafton made a face. “Really, Tommy!”

I tried to explain. “Rodet thinks she’s just a hot French tootsie. Maybe he’s right.”

Grafton rolled his eyes. “She’s a beautiful, young, wealthy daughter of the establishment who is driven wild by the prospect of jumping in bed with a rich, powerful man old enough to be her father? Do you believe that?”

“No, but I know a few men who—“

“I doubt if Rodet believes it either,” Grafton said. He picked up the photos we had taken of Rodet’s apartment and began looking at them, one by one.

After a bit he put his feet up on the desk, leaned back and looked at each photo again. He must have looked at each of them three times when he handed the stack to me. “What kind of television does Rodet have?” he asked. He picked up the cell phone lying on the desk and fingered it.

“You mean what brand?”

“Brand, size?”

“I don’t remember the brand. The one I saw at the apartment wasn’t large. It was just a normal television. Floor thing, in a cabinet, kind of old-fashioned. Why?”

Grafton passed me a photo. “He has a satellite dish on the roof of the house. I would have thought he’d have a big Japanese flat screen, maybe a home movie studio, something like that.”

I looked at the photo. Sure enough, there was the dish, sitting like a plate next to a chimney. “If he has a setup like that, I didn’t see it,” I said. “All I saw was an older television.”

Grafton opened his phone and fingered it. Of course, it didn’t work here in the SCIF, and he knew that. “Okay,” he said, rising from the chair. “Now if you will excuse me, I’ve got to go upstairs to make a call.”

I picked up the aerial photos and studied the dish antenna. They were sprouting all over Paris, it was true, yet Marisa hadn’t struck me as a big fan of television, and I doubted that Rodet had the time.

Jake and Callie Grafton ate dinner at a hole-in-the-wall restaurant three blocks from their apartment. Night had fallen in Paris and the cool wind had picked up.

“The police accepted my explanation, had me go through it twice, and let me go. They said they would call me if they had more questions.”

A few minutes later she said, “Poor Professor Heger. To die like that…”

“But he tried to answer your question?”

“He made a noise, Jake. I couldn’t understand it.”

“Could he have been trying to tell you the name of his killer?”

“I don’t know. He was semiconscious, at best. I don’t know how much he heard or understood of what I said. At the time I thought he was trying to answer my question. I asked about Abu Qasim. He made a noise. But do you think … Abu Qasim, here, in Paris?”

Jake Grafton shrugged and toyed with his wine glass. “It’s a possibility to keep in mind.”

“It’s more than that. I ask him about Abu Qasim, and the next day he’s murdered. It may be a coincidence, but—“

“Yesterday fifty people spoke to Professor Heger, about fifty different things. They couldn’t all be cause and effect.”

Callie wasn’t going to take a brush-off that easily. “If Qasim is a killer, why would Rodet protect him?”

When her husband didn’t reply, Callie said, “That was a stupid question. Twenty-five years is a long time.”

“He’d have to be somewhere between forty-five and fifty,” Jake said, musing aloud. “Maybe a year or two older.” Their food came and they ate in silence. When they finished and were sipping on tiny glasses of apple brandy, Callie murmured, “Professor Heger was a nice man.”

“So it’s possible that Heger recognized him,” Jake mused. “Rodet might recognize him, too, if he saw him.”

“Now you are assuming that Rodet’s Al Qaeda spy is a killer. If he is, why did he tell Rodet about the Veghel conspiracy?”

Jake threw up his hands. “I wish I knew,” he said.