The Traitor

CHAPTER NINETEEN

The next morning Jake Grafton found Sarah Houston in the SCIF. She had the photo that Tommy Carmellini took of Elizabeth Conner on the screen of her computer.

“Her real name is Ruth Cohen,” Sarah said. “Her parents immigrated to Israel when she was five years old.” She hit a key, and a photo of Cohen in a school uniform appeared. “This was taken five years ago in Tel Aviv when she graduated from high school.” Another picture. “This one was taken last year in Iraq. She was with a group of Israeli scientists looking for evidence of weapons of mass destruction.”

Another keystroke, and Carmellini’s photo of the man who followed him appeared. Sarah pronounced his name. “The computer matches this photo with one the French took for his internal ID card. He is an emigrant from Morocco.”

Now the picture of Marisa Petrou appeared on the screen. Keystrokes followed, and photos appeared one after another. In each one she got younger. “School pictures, passport photos,” Sarah murmured. In the last one, Marisa looked to be about twelve years old.

“This is the oldest one I can find. She was a student at a private school in Switzerland. Name was Marisa Lamoreux.”

“How about a birth certificate?” Grafton asked.

“Nothing yet.”

“Keep looking when you have the time. Today is the day you and Tommy turn traitor.”

Sarah and I walked from the embassy to the Metro, rode it for a few stops, then walked toward the river and the Conciergerie. It was a raw, windy day, with clouds of autumn leaves swirling around. Just keeping your hat on in the gusts took some doing. I kept my eyes peeled for Arabs on motorcycles or in junker cars and didn’t see any. Sarah was quiet, walking with her hands in her pockets.

“I don’t think this is a good idea,” she told Jake Grafton before we left the embassy.

“Objection noted,” Grafton said. He looked tired, as if he weren’t getting much sleep. I had no sympathy — I spent a miserable night on a basement bunk and was wearing the same clothes I wore all day yesterday. Someone produced a spare toothbrush and disposable razor, so I felt as if I were still a member of the human race. On the other hand, perhaps I should have had my visit with the Paris police, then retired to my cozy garret on the Rue Paradis, complete with hot water and bathtub, clean clothes and comfy bed. Say what you will, but the truth is, war is hell.

“I don’t know if I can do this,” Sarah said to Jake Grafton when he sat us down to brief us.

“It’s only for a few days,” Grafton replied. “Pretend that you’re in love. Hold hands, look soulfully into Tommy’s eyes, hang on his every word, even when they aren’t watching, because they might be.”

“That’s the part I don’t like,” she said acidly. “I volunteered to serve my country and all that, but this is very close to prostitution.”

“Perilously close,” I chirped. “What would your mother say?”

“Objection duly noted,” Grafton said with finality. He went on to discuss codes and protocol and other technical stuff that Sarah understood and I didn’t. Finally he got around to it. “I want you to tell your tale to Jean-Paul Arnaud, the deputy director. Ask for him and refuse to talk to anyone else.”

I got a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. This whole thing was going south, and quickly. “Why not Rodet?” I asked. “The way we planned it?”

“There’s been a change of plans.”

“Why do I have this feeling that you’re not telling us all of it?”

“I don’t want to burden you with all of it. Unless I am seriously mistaken, you’re going to be strapped to a polygraph before the day is out.”

“Oh, joy,” Sarah said bitterly.

“The less you know the better.”

“Oh, for the love of—,” I began, but Grafton cut me off with one of his looks. The admiral’s stare, with those cold gray eyes, could stopper Niagara. Needless to say, it always did a job on me. Those were the moments when I was glad I had never been in the Navy.

Sarah cleared her throat and said, “And just how do you propose that we pass polygraph exams?”

Grafton grinned. “I thought you’d never ask. Here’s how you’re going to do it.” And he told her. Me, I didn’t ask. When you’ve told as many lies as I have, you get pretty good at it.

As we walked along, the cold wind gave Sarah’s cheeks a nice rosy hue. Except for the fact that she had a seriously warped psyche, she was a nice person. I reminded myself that no one is perfect.

“How can you be so calm?” she asked.

I was tempted to tell her that I was a pro, but decided maybe the truth was best. “It’s an act.”

We hiked over the bridge to the island and presented ourselves to the guard at the gate. He waved us into the reception room. “We’d like to see Jean-Paul Arnaud,” I said to the uniformed gendarme. “We don’t have an appointment. My name is Terry Shannon.”

“Passport, please.” The man was portly, with a mustache that needed trimming. He had sad eyes. His younger colleague, who hadn’t been eating as well, looked bored.

I surrendered the document, and the portly man held out his hand for Sarah’s. I was watching his eyes, and they showed no surprise when she produced a diplomatic passport from her small purse. Traitors must call here on a daily basis.

“Have a seat,” he said, and glanced at a row of molded plastic chairs. We perched there.

“Maybe we oughta hold hands,” I suggested, and reached for one of hers. She slipped it into mine. It was cool and firm, very pleasant. Ah, yes. I remembered.

There is a theory about the power of the human touch, something about it being the most subtle form of sex. Certainly it is the most sensual. Not that I was getting some sort of perverted thrill out of holding Sarah Houston’s hand there in the public reception area of the Conciergerie as the man with the sad eyes ignored us, the bored fellow read a newspaper and a cleaning lady worked around us, but I was enjoying it. I even gave her hand a tiny squeeze and got one in return. When I met her eyes she glanced away; her hand stayed where it was.

The woman was one hell of an actress. If I didn’t know better, I would have thought she still liked me. Believe me, if the guards were paying attention, they would have been fooled. It is a pleasure working with a pro. And her hand felt really good.

Life is short — enjoy it.

Ten pleasant minutes after we arrived, a man in a suit and tie appeared and escorted us along a hallway. I had been here before with Jake Grafton, but this was different. If we screwed this up, we weren’t going to be strolling out of here — we were going to the basement to see the toys. For some reason I felt warm and my palms were sweating.