The Traitor

CHAPTER ELEVEN

They were an unlikely pair, Henri Rodet and Abu Qasim. The Frenchman was eight years older than the Bedouin lad, they were from vastly different cultures and walks of life, and yet each found something in the other that made the friendship worthwhile.

Qasim was waiting one morning when Rodet drove by on a pipeline patrol. Rodet stopped, the boy climbed in the truck, and away they went. Qasim had nothing better to do, so they rode the pipeline twice a week. Rodet taught the boy French and Qasim taught him Arabic. They argued in both languages about God, religion, history, the world and man’s place in it. Rodet enjoyed puns, and Qasim had a wicked sense of humor. They became like brothers who enjoyed each other’s company.

The crisis came when the pipeline company laid off Rodet and hired a local man at half his salary. Two weeks after he went back to France, Rodet sent for Qasim. The boy didn’t bother his father with the news — he merely walked away from home. A week later he showed up on Rodet’s doorstep. Rodet’s parents, both teachers, welcomed him.

Rodet went into the French intelligence service and Qasim went to school. After two years, he won a scholarship to the Sorbonne. He was just finishing his education when Anwar Sadat was murdered.

That was the day the earth moved, Rodet thought as he stood looking out his window at Paris. That October day in 1981 was the dawn of the age of terror.

Islamic fundamentalists murdered Sadat, the president of Egypt, as he reviewed the army. The assassins were cut down by his security forces, but after all, they expected to die and were prepared for it. They were members of Egyptian Islamic Jihad, fighting to overthrow the old order and convert Egypt to an Islamic republic, a nation ruled by God. Why the God who created the universe and everything in it needed their help was never explained by the bearded holy men, but the warriors knew in their hearts that it was so. They wanted it to be so. And so they committed murder, paid immediately with their lives and were ushered into paradise.

Sadat’s murder didn’t just happen, of course. It was the culmination of months of civil strife between Muslims and Coptic Christians, which had resulted in bloody riots in some of Cairo’s worst slums. With a stagnant economy, isolated from the Arab world for making peace with Israel, Egypt under Sadat was a powder keg. Sadat jailed the fundamentalists and Copts without trial, laying an iron hand upon them. They struck back and he died.

His successors crushed the Islamic movement in Egypt. They jailed its adherents, tortured prisoners for information and confessions, and executed without trial those they thought the most dangerous. The survivors of the purge fled Egypt and declared war on civilization.

Rodet had been working out of the French embassy in Cairo the year that Sadat died. He had witnessed the riots firsthand. Heat, dirt, squalor, blood, body parts… and the stench — he had only to close his eyes and he could recall that odor of wanton death.

“Your visitors are here, mon directeur.”

The voice startled Rodet, bringing him back to the here and now.

I figured my trip with Jake Grafton to visit ol’ Henri Rodet in the lion’s den was my coming-out party. Every spook in town was now on notice that I was in the game, so I could expect an audience for everything I did and said. If I had been the kind of guy who liked to be the center of attention, a gig like this would have probably ruined me for polite society.

I met Grafton at his tiny cubbyhole office at the embassy. He was sitting there talking to Sarah Houston and George Goldberg when I arrived. I nodded at George and waited for Sarah to acknowledge my presence. She did. She was cool and professional, like a nurse ready to draw a pint or two of blood from one of your veins. Once she caught my eye when no one else was looking, so I winked at her. She quickly averted her eyes.

Grafton glanced at his watch, stood and motioned to me to follow him. I did.

“How’s Callie?” I asked as we headed for the main entrance and the waiting car.

“She’s talking about buying something in France, a little place that we can use summer or winter and commute from. I’ve got to get her home before she goes around the bend.”

“How long do we have?”

“I don’t know.”

The driver was holding the door of the limo, so Grafton and I hopped into the back seat. The admiral didn’t speak to the driver, who must have been told by someone else where we were going.

Grafton checked his reflection in the mirror and straightened his tie.

“Got any lines for me this afternoon?” I asked brightly.

“Just see and be seen. Don’t say anything unless you are answering a direct question, and then give only unclassified information.”

We didn’t have far to go. Across the Place de la Concorde and the bridge, turn left on the boulevard along the quay, past the Musee d’Orsay and National School of Fine Arts, then left and across the

Pont St. Michel onto the Hue de la Cite. On our left was the Palais de Justice, home of the criminal courts and judicial police. On the right was the Prefecture de Police, the site of a terrific street battle during the liberation of Paris. I was gawking at the tourists when the driver turned the car into the courtyard of the Conciergerie. The driver told the guard who we were; we were waved past and directed to a parking place. From there, a man in civilian clothes led Grafton and me up a flight of stairs, past the metal detector and along a corridor with a twelve-foot ceiling. Our footsteps echoed on the stone floors and walls.

Video monitors were mounted high in every corner, as well as infrared and motion detectors. Every door we passed had a lock on it. It wasn’t a people-friendly place, I can tell you. As I walked I could almost hear the wails of the damned as they were dragged from their cells to feed the guillotine. Yet today everyone looked normal — men in suits and sports coats, women in dresses or skirts. It could have been a scene from any large office building in any big Western city. Perhaps I was the only one hearing ghosts.

The receptionist showed us into Rodet’s office, which was a big corner room high in the building. His view was west, down the river. He was of average height, maybe a bit over, with thinning hair, carrying no excess weight. It was obvious he exercised regularly. He also looked as if he had just returned from the beach — a nice tan.

He said hello in English and shook hands with the admiral. “My aide, Terry Shannon,” Jake said, nodding at me. I shook, too. Rodet waved us to chairs, then dropped onto a nearby couch.

While Grafton and Rodet chatted, getting acquainted, I took a second or two to scope out his art. Looked old and expensive or trendily weird, which meant new and expensive. I was sort of glad I didn’t have to look at any of it on a regular basis.

Jake Grafton explained that he was the new CIA ops man for Europe and made some remarks about being out of his depth, commerits that didn’t fool me for a second. I doubted if the Frenchman bought any of it either. Rodet looked like a very sharp man, with quick eyes that didn’t seem to miss much.

Of course, I wondered about him and Marisa. She didn’t seem to want Rodet to know that she and I had met before, and I speculated about why that might be. Rodet didn’t strike me as the insanely jealous type.

And who, precisely, was Marisa Petrou? Was she a French tootsie scaling the social register, or something else?

About that time Jean-Paul Arnaud came in, and Rodet introduced him. We shook hands. He was smaller than Rodet, intense, and reminded me of a mongoose. He sat down in a vacant chair in the back of the room.

Before long Grafton and Rodet were discussing security arrangements for the upcoming G-8 summit conference. “The Secret Service has sent a professional, of course, but I have been assigned to assist him. I wonder if we might go over a point or two?” Grafton produced an agenda from a coat pocket and went over it with Rodet. At one point Rodet said, “We have beefed up our security at the border. We are stopping and checking every vehicle entering France, checking passports, and so on. As you know, normally travelers move freely back and forth across borders within Europe. Not now. Extra security at the airports, at train stations, every public place. The president has demanded that everything be done that can be done, and I assure you, it will be.”

They discussed specifics for a bit, then Grafton moved on to various international matters, asking for Rodet’s assessment of the current Middle East situation and inserting a pointed query on terrorist organizations in France, Spain and Germany. He listened carefully as Rodet talked, offering no opinions of his own.

It was interesting to watch Grafton work, in the same way that I suppose it is interesting to watch a snake charm a mouse. Not that Grafton was a snake or Rodet a mouse — far from it. Both men, I well knew, were competent, capable professionals. Still, I couldn’t help wondering if Rodet understood just how competent and capable Grafton really was, or how ruthless he could be if he felt the situation demanded it.

Then, out of the blue, Grafton asked, “Who killed Claude Bruguiere?” in the same tone he had used to ask about Romania’s prospects in the EU.

“The police are investigating,” Rodet said, showing not the least bit of surprise that Grafton knew about the death of a DGSE officer. “If they have a suspect, they have not shared his identity with us.”

“Have they questioned you about the death?” Grafton asked.

“Of course not,” Rodet said. “I have eight hundred employees in this agency. Why should they?”

“Bruguiere’s name rang a bell when I heard it. If my sources are correct, he was the DGSE officer who went to Amman to complete a stock transaction on your behalf in the latter part of August.”

“On my behalf?” The skepticism in Rodet’s voice was barely discernible, but it was there.

“A quarter million shares in the Bank of Palestine were purchased in your name.”

Rodet’s face was a mask. When he said nothing, Grafton continued, “Two million euros. A nice chunk of change.”

One would have thought that Grafton’s knowledge of Rodet’s Palestinian investments would at least raise an eyebrow, but it didn’t. Rodet’s and Arnaud’s faces were impossible for me to read.

“You are misinformed, Admiral,” Rodet said dryly, and stopped there without telling Grafton what he was misinformed about.

Grafton wouldn’t let it rest. “In what way am I misinformed?”

Rodet weighed his words before he spoke. “I own no shares in the Bank of Palestine.”

“I suppose a man should know what he owns,” Grafton replied carelessly. “Obviously my informant was in error.” I saw his shoulders rise and fall a quarter of an inch. He rose to his feet, so I popped out of my chair. I ventured a grin at Arnaud, who ignored me. His eyes were on Grafton.

“We’ll not take up any more of your valuable time, Monsieur Rodet,” the admiral said. “Thank you for the opportunity to touch base, so to speak, get acquainted and all that.”

“Any time, Admiral, any time.” Rodet rose to show us out. He looked as cool as he did when we came in. I instantly resolved to never play poker with him, not even for matchsticks.

“Oh,” Grafton said as we left. “There’s one more matter I would like to discuss, at a place and time of your choosing, but not in this building.” He passed Rodet a slip of folded paper. “You can reach me at the embassy.”

Rodet put the scrap of white paper in his pocket without looking at it. “I’ll keep your request in mind,” he said, and opened the office door. The escort who would accompany us to our car was waiting in one of the soft chairs.

The receptionist looked mighty nice. I managed to flash her a smile and collect one in return before I had to march off after the boss. She obviously didn’t know I was a lackey.

The limo driver dropped us three blocks from the embassy due to traffic, and we walked. As we strolled along I asked the admiral, “What was in your note?”

He glanced at me, acknowledging the question, and didn’t answer.

“So ol’ Bruguiere was a bagman for Rodet?”

“He bought stock in the Bank of Palestine for Rodet.”

“In Rodet’s name?”

“Yes.”

“Rodet doesn’t strike me as the type that would be dumb enough to do that.”

“That bothered me, too,” Grafton murmured.

“Someone setting him up, you think?”

“More like taking him down,” Grafton said sourly.

We were crossing the street when I glanced back and saw him. About thirty yards behind us was the man from the Place des Vosges. Not the DGSE agent, the other guy. Dark complexion, medium size, grizzled hair, wearing cleaner clothes than he had when I saw him last.

“We’re being followed,” I told the admiral.

“Anyone you recognize?”

“Yes.”

After we gained the sidewalk on the other side of the street, I kept my eyes moving. That’s when I saw the car, a dark four-door sedan, perhaps a Fiat. I couldn’t tell how many people were in it. I saw it, or one just like it, in front of the Conciergerie when we came out. The walker behind us might have gotten out of that car when we abandoned the limo.

“Enjoying Paris?” Jake Grafton asked.

“No,” I said, and meant it.

When the door closed behind Grafton and his aide, Jean-Paul Arnaud stayed for a moment. “The Bank of Palestine?”

“Check on that, please, and get back to me.”

Arnaud left immediately and closed the door behind him. Henri Rodet returned to his chair behind his desk. The question about the stock in the Bank of Palestine from the American CIA officer had been unexpected.

As he thought about it, he fingered the objects on his desk, one by one, without seeing them, as he considered the matter. Anyone owning stock in the Bank of Palestine would appear to have a financial interest in the success of the Palestinian state and conversely, the demise of its blood enemy, Israel. Diplomatic protests would be lodged; his position would become untenable. So what could he do? Begin an investigation now? When the news broke in the newspapers, it could be made to look as if he were trying to cover up the facts.

Perhaps he should wait. When the news broke, someone’s fingerprints would be all over it. That was perhaps the best course open to him, he decided.

In the interim, he should make sure that no one had gotten into his bank accounts and transferred money without his knowledge. He picked up his unsecure outside line and called his banker.

When they were finally connected and had exchanged pleasantries, Rodet said, “A situation has arisen, monsieur, that has caused me some concern. I wish you to verify the balances of my accounts and check to ensure that there have been no unauthorized transactions.”

“Of course. It will take a few minutes. May I call you back?”

“At this number,” Rodet said, and read it off.

The silence that followed after he replaced the instrument in its cradle was oppressive. Rodet rose from his chair and paced.

He could name two or three dozen people who would like to see him dismissed from the agency, including his wife and her father. And three former ministers and a half dozen sitting deputies. Not to mention his opposite numbers at some of the other European intelligence agencies. Running an intelligence agency wasn’t a job for the squeamish. He had played rough and tough and made his enemies, which was inevitable.

A million and a half euros! A lot of money! All Rodet had to prove it was a few sentences from Grafton. Does the American CIA officer really know, is he lying for reasons of his own, or did he hear a rumor and conclude that he might gain my trust by repeating it to me?

What does he want, anyway?

Rodet remembered the paper in his jacket pocket. He fished it out and unfolded it. It was the corner of a sheet of plain white copy paper. On it were written two words in ink: Abu Qasim.