The Traitor

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Henri Rodet had little to say to Jake Grafton as they waited for their wine, which Rodet had chosen. He watched the sommelier open the bottle, sipped experimentally and said, “Bon.”

The sounds of the street were strangely muffled, even though the window was open a trifle, admitting just a hint of cool autumn air.

Rodet savored his wine as he scrutinized the American’s face. Grafton didn’t seem to mind. He glanced at Rodet from time to time, looked about the room, studied the pictures, which were original oils by unknowns, and loosened his tie. His suit, Rodet noticed, was not well made, the fit only so-so. Still, Grafton looked, Rodet thought, like a man in perfect control of himself, supremely self-confident. Ah, yes, Rodet remembered: Grafton had been a combat aviator, one of those fools who bets his life on his flying skill, again and again and again.

So what, precisely, did the American know about Abu Qasim?

They were sitting in silence, each waiting for the other to begin the conversation, when there was a knocking on the door, then the waiter entered. Rodet raised his eyebrows at Jake, who made a gesture with his hand. Rodet ordered for both of them.

When the waiter departed, Rodet said, “You wished to talk, Admiral. This is your chance.”

Grafton nodded. “You have an agent in Al Qaeda,” he said. “I came to ask you to share the information he gives you.”

Rodet took his time answering. He had been thinking all morning, trying to decide the best way to handle this, and he hadn’t yet reached a decision. Finally he said, “Without admitting or denying that assertion, I wish to discuss with you the delicate position anyone would be in, if, indeed, he were privy to the information of such an agent. Needless to say, secret information begins to lose its exclusivity when the circle of people with access is expanded. In the world in which we live, inevitably, sooner or later, whispers that such information exists will begin to circulate.” Grafton said nothing, merely listened.

“Then there is the information itself. The greater the revelation, the greater the temptation to put newly acquired, valuable knowledge to use. Your use of knowledge reveals that you have it. If it was acquired by spying, those who have been spied upon will inevitably begin looking for the leak.”

Now Grafton spoke. “All this is true, of course, and true of every piece of secret intelligence.”

“Aah, not quite. The more possible sources there are for any given secret, the smaller the probability the owner will find the leak. In the hypothetical you describe, there could only be one source.”

“One?”

“Just one.”

“So you have arrived at a logical absurdity,” Grafton said softly. “Your spy sends you information that you cannot use for fear of endangering him. His sacrifice is for naught, his information of no practical value.”

Henri Rodet reached for the wine bottle and refilled his glass. When the bottle was again sitting on the table, he lifted his glass. Over its rim, he looked at Grafton and said, “I think you understand the problem.”

“I am not so sure that you do,” Grafton shot back. “When you revealed the Veghel conspiracy, you knew there were going to be arrests. And there were. So now the Al Qaeda leaders are looking for the leak they know must be there.”

From a pocket Grafton produced the cell phone that Tommy Carmellini had taken from Muhammed Nadal and slid it across the table. “On that phone are nine telephone numbers. Here is a list of the people they belong to.” From an inside pocket he produced a folded sheet of paper. This, too, he pushed across the table. “All these people are Muslims living in France. We think they are Al Qaeda soldiers.”

“Where did you get the telephone?” Rodet asked.

“My aide, Terry Shannon, and I were followed yesterday when we left the Conciergerie. Shannon recognized the man. Then Shannon was followed yesterday afternoon when he left the embassy. He took the telephone off one of the thugs and threw another through the clock at the Musee d’Orsay.”

“Oh, yes,” Rodet said. He had seen the photo of the clock in the newspapers earlier and read of the incident in his morning brief. “And the list?”

“You can find anything on the Internet.”

Rodet let that one go by. “A few obnoxious Muslim thugs do not prove your point. Nor do they prove your hypothesis, which was the assertion that I have an agent inside Al Qaeda.”

“I am not a lawyer and this is not a court,” Grafton said. “Contemplate the situation for a moment. Someone killed Claude Bruguiere, who, as it happens, had completed a transaction at the Bank of Palestine in your name a few months ago. One might theorize that he was killed because he knew too much about that transaction, that the man who sent him to Amman killed him to shut him up. That would be you or someone who wants to smear you. If the authorities suspect you of the murder or your connection to the Bank of Palestine becomes public knowledge, you will, at the very least, be forced out of the DGSE.”

Rodet said nothing.

“And there is the murder of Professor Heger of the Sorbonne. I’m sure you have seen the police report. My wife discovered the body.”

“Your wife. What business did she have with Professor Heger?”

“She wanted to ask him the name of the Algerian student who was such good friends with you twenty-five years ago, one Abu Qasim, also known as Abdullah al-Falih. Our information is that he’s a big wheel in Al Qaeda.”

“That wasn’t in the police report.”

The fact that Rodet hadn’t denied his friendship with Qasim did not escape Grafton’s notice. “She didn’t think the police needed to know that fact,” he replied. “If you wish to pass it on to them, please do.”

Grafton stood and walked to the window. With his back to Rodet, he said, “The man who could link you to Qasim has been murdered. The man who invested in Bank of Palestine stock on your behalf has been murdered. You are in an uncomfortable position, Monsieur Rodet.”

He turned to face his host. “And on top of everything, you have become a target. You don’t live in a bank vault. You have an estranged wife and a mistress. The Palestinians know of your bank stock investment, as do the Israelis. The fact is probably known to every terrorist and radical thug in that corner of the world. All these people have probably heard about the arrest of the members of the Veghel conspiracy. You are in the crosshairs, Monsieur Rodet.”

“Is that a threat?”

Grafton opened a hand. “Not from us. But the folks in the Middle East don’t hesitate to assassinate their enemies. Sooner or later they’ll come at you. It is possible that they may come at you through your family.”

“I have four men guarding my wife around the clock. Marisa and I can take care of ourselves.”

Grafton came back to the table, where he stood looking down at Rodet. “You are the one who should be shouting at me. You have a sleeper buried deep and you’ve covered his trail so well that his identity has remained a secret for twenty-five years. Twenty-five years! Then he told you of a threat that forced your hand, and you passed it to the American CIA. And someone within the CIA is dirty. He told… someone, and the source of the information got out. Yet you have not complained to or berated any of us Americans. Not the American ambassador, not George Goldberg, not me, no one.”

Grafton put his hands on the table and leaned forward. “Who is the CIA leak? Give me his name.”

Henri Rodet opened his mouth, then closed it.

They were interrupted by the knocking of the waiter and the opening of the door. Behind the waiter came another man carrying a tray.

Grafton resumed his seat. When he and Rodet were served and the wineglasses recharged, the waiters disappeared. The two men ate in silence.

When they finished, Rodet pushed his chair back and sipped on the last of the wine.

“Your man has risked his life for many years,” Grafton said. “If he is not under suspicion, he soon will be. His days are numbered. Yet he knows a great deal. If we can get him alive, we can destroy these people.”

“If you cut off one head the monster will grow another,” Rodet muttered.

Jake Grafton pushed his chair back from the table. “I am telling you the unvarnished truth,” he said. “Your secret cannot be kept. If you leave your man in place, he will eventually be ferreted out and killed.”

Rodet felt a huge weight pressing on him. The risks were great, yet no worse than they had always been. What a tragedy it would be for Abu Qasim’s friend, Henri Rodet, to betray him. As for Heger, he was gone and nothing could bring him back.

“No,” Rodet said, so softly that he thought Grafton might not have heard it. He repeated it louder and more clearly. “No. The time is not yet arrived. I ask you to trust my judgment on this matter.”

“I would, except for the fact that you are wrong. The building is on fire, and we cannot wait.”

Henri Rodet shook his head from side to side. “No,” he repeated.

Grafton threw up his hands. “I will ask you one more question: Do you have any credible information, from any source, that Al Qaeda is planning an attack on the G-8 leaders at the summit?”

“We have heard rumors, yes, dozens of them. No doubt your agency has also heard them, or similar ones. But credible information, no.”

“Thanks for lunch,” Grafton said, and walked out. He closed the door behind him.

I took a cab back to my place and unlocked the Vespa. I needed to lower the frustration level. I had had it up to here with spies and ex-cons who couldn’t follow a beer truck to a bar.

I went buzzing off, still stewing. The day was clouding up, so maybe it would rain. That would be the perfect ending to this day, let me tell you.

I was sitting at a stoplight, the little Vespa mumbling under my butt, when I realized that there were two really tan black-haired guys sitting in an old pale blue sedan in the next lane, and they were looking me over. This was not the late-model, dark sedan that had followed me to the museum. The paint on the car was chipped and sun-bleached. The tires were bald, the muffler sounded as if it were shot and a faint cloud of noxious smoke was spewing from the tailpipe. The third world had arrived in Paris.

The light changed and I goosed my ride. I putted off, riding between cars, right down the lane stripe, just the way we used to do it back in California. This maneuver left the grungy blue car behind.

Two lights later I was sure I’d lost them. I turned left and headed over to the embassy.

Grafton was down in the SCIF in the basement, staring at the photo of Rodet’s country home, which he had taped to the side of a file cabinet. Beside it was a photo taken from a helicopter or airplane of Rodet’s apartment building in town.

He gave me his full attention when I told him about my morning and produced my camera. “I would like to see if the CIA can match the photos of these women and the guy who followed me with anyone in the database.”

Grafton palmed the camera and examined it. “Tell me about the men who followed you.”

I did. I also told him about the old blue sedan I saw at the light and gave him the plate number of that car, too. “I think they’re friends of that asshole I threw through the clock.”

“But you don’t know?”

“No.”

“The guys who followed you to the museum — they knew you made them?” Sure.

Grafton sat down and idly examined the camera.

“I think Marisa and Conner are Israeli agents,” I told him. “That code that NSA was interested in this spring might have been used by Marisa, not her father, Lamoreux. The Sum of All Fears could have been the key. And Conner has a copy.”

“It’s possible,” Grafton admitted.

“Maybe you should share this possibility with your buddy Rodet.”

“Not yet.”

“He might be surprised.”

“I doubt it.”

I guess I gaped. “You think he knows?”

Grafton’s eyebrows rose and fell, and he gave a minuscule shrug.

I lost it. “Jesus, Admiral, I’m trying to do you a good job and you don’t tell me where you are!”

“I’m sorry, Tommy. The truth is I’m trying to figure out the puzzle myself.”

That took the air out of my sails.

Grafton pointed at the photos on the wall. “Take a good look at those photos and tell me if there is anything unusual about them.”

I did as he requested. That helped me get my blood pressure and heart rate back under control. My voice was absolutely normal when I said, “Look pretty innocuous to me.”

“See the satellite television dishes. There’s one on the chateau and one on the apartment building.”

“Un-huh.”

“I want you to go into Rodet’s apartment and inspect that system.”

“Okay.”

“As soon as possible,” he added.

“Want to tell me what I’m looking for?”

“I want to know how Rodet talks to his agent. The guys at NSA say it’s technically possible to transmit encoded transmissions via the dish to the satellite, which will rebroadcast them. Anyone with another dish can pick the transmissions up. They will appear as a burst of static on the video or audio channels. With the right equipment, the static can be separated out into the coded message. The spooks like this method of broadcasting encoded traffic because it uses a low-powered ultrawide band signal. They say it’s a good LPI signal — that’s a low probability of intercept. Each party needs only a computer, one small transceiver, some plug-in cables, and a satellite dish.” Grafton pointed at the photos. “Rodet’s got the dishes, anyway. You see if you can find the other stuff.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Be careful, Tommy.”

“I’ll get Willie to back me up. If I find the stuff, what do you want me to do with it?”

“If you can lay hands on the computer, I want the hard drive. If you can’t find it, I want to know if the transceiver is there. They tell me the transceiver can be pretty small, about the size of a cell phone. Just get me some kind of confirmation or tell me I’m barking up the wrong tree.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Thanks, Tommy,” he said.

I got up to leave. “By the way, Sarah around?”

“Next door.”

“I thought I’d just stop in for a minute and say hi,” I explained.

“Oh, sure.”

The uniformed policeman in his kepi strolled along checking every vehicle parked around the Place des Vosges. He took his time, checked the license plate, made a note and moved on to the next. It wasn’t long before he arrived at the plumbing van parked against the inner square. He looked at the plate, then went around the front to inspect the parking authorization that was taped to the windshield. That’s when Alberto Salazar saw him.

“Uh-oh. A cop,” he said to Rich Thurlow. “Checking the front.”

“Think he’ll figure out that authorization is a forgery?”

“He might.”

“What are we going to do if he pounds on the door?”

“We sit tight, he’ll call a tow truck to haul this damn thing off.”

As they debated the issue, the policeman came to the side door and rapped sharply upon it. It was locked.

“Okay, Rich,” Al said. “You speak French. Get out there and schmooze him or jump in the driver’s seat.”

“I figure he’ll jaw a while, and then we can leave,” Rich said. “We’ll want to park here later. We’ll do another sticker. I’d better talk to him.”

“A command decision,” Al said sourly. “Go to it.” The policeman rapped sharply on the van while he and Rich rigged blankets over the gear and computers so they couldn’t be seen. The job took about thirty seconds, no more.

“Okay, open it,” Al said.

Rich did so.

The policeman looked startled when the door slid back. He stepped right to the opening and looked past Rich to Al and the blankets.

Rich was trying to get out of the van, but the policeman stood in the way. As Rich launched into his monologue, the cop looked to his right and left, then pulled his pistol and shot Rich in the head.

There wasn’t much noise. The pistol had a silencer attached to the barrel, so the report was just a pop. The impact of the bullet on Rich’s head catapulted him backward into the van.

Before Al Salazar could react to what he was seeing, the cop had turned the pistol is his direction. A bullet hit him in the forehead before his brain recognized the muzzle flash for what it was. He died instantly.

The policeman shot each man in the head one more time, then holstered his weapon and pulled the van door shut. He walked on along the street, inspecting vehicles, until he got to the corner, then he walked out of the square.

When I left the embassy I had some of the stuff I would need for tonight, but I needed some of the gear that was in my backpack, which I had stashed in the trunk of the rental. I putted over to the Rue Paradis, parked the Vespa and walked three blocks, keeping my eyes open for watchers. Didn’t see anyone.

The car was on the second floor of the parking garage. I looked around carefully as I walked up to it.

I was about to push the button on the key fob that would unlock the trunk when a little voice whispered in my ear. Something just walked on my grave.

I didn’t push the button. I stood looking at the rental, wondering.

There was a greasy fingerprint on the driver’s side window. I stood looking at it, trying to recall if I had had greasy or oily hands when I drove this thing.

Little cold chills ran up and down my spine, tiny fingers of fear.

I walked as far away as I could get and still see the car. This was about fifty feet.

Hunkered down behind another vehicle, I raised the key fob over the fender, pointed it at my ride, and pushed the button.

Nothing happened.

Okay, I’m getting paranoid. Losing my courage as I get older. Another year or two of this crap and I won’t be worth a nickel to anyone.

I stood up, started toward the car.

Of course, the lights didn’t flash when I pushed the button— maybe I was too far away.

What the hey. I hunkered down behind a car about fifteen feet away, raised the key fob and pushed the button again.

This time the lights flashed and the horn gave a tiny beep. Bon-jour, buddy. Let’s go for a ride.

I felt like a fool. I stood up, scratched my head and looked around to see if anyone had watched my shenanigans. No one had.

Well, you can’t be too careful in this business. There are old spies and bold spies, but there ain’t no old, bold spies.

I had taken two steps toward the car when it blew up.

The heat and concussion bowled me over backward. That probably saved my life. The air was filled with flying pieces, which were bouncing off the roof and other vehicles and ricocheting around. Not to mention the fire and heat. I didn’t wait for things to settle down — I crawled away as fast as I could go.

Once the heat and fire seemed to dissipate, I scrambled to my feet and ran. When I got to the end of the bay, I looked back.

The smoke was so thick I had to wait to be able to see. After a few seconds the visibility improved somewhat. The bomb had been under the driver’s compartment. The engine and front wheels were still there, blackened and twisted, but the rest of the car was rubble, and some of it was on fire. The roof of the parking garage was scorched black and the adjacent cars looked like they had been smashed by a runaway semi. The fuel in the tank had apparently helped feed the explosion, which had been a dilly.

An inventory of my own sensitive parts showed that all was still intact.

Talk about luck!

The next thought that occurred to me was that I didn’t want to spend the evening visiting with the local police. I boogied.