The Traitor

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

When I awoke the next morning a fine cold rain spattered on my little window and gurgled in the gutter and downspout, which were right outside. I had the window open a couple of inches, so I went over and sat on the floor where I could feel the cool breeze coming through the gap.

This little room was a very pleasant place, and Paris was a great city. I wished I were really Terry G. Shannon, travel hack, with nothing on my agenda but visiting tourist sites and updating guidebook descriptions of hotels and restaurants. “Sorry, but the cassoulet isn’t up to your rating. Au revoir and better luck next time.”

I took the belt out of the trousers I wore yesterday and casually inspected it as I listened to the rain running off the roof and let the cool autumn wind play across my arms and face.

Grafton had said I could leave the agency after this assignment, and maybe I should. I was thoroughly sick of spooks and spies and vans with bodies.

I guess I was really sick of myself.

Sarah Houston was a nice woman; she had made her mistakes and paid for them, and so had I. Maybe—

There was a listening device in my belt. The French technicians had cut a small hole in the leather for it and woven the transmitter antenna wire into the stitching. The wire was tiny, about the diameter of a human hair, difficult to see unless one looked closely.

Should I wear this belt, or my other one?

This one, I decided. The game was up in the air, still to be decided.

Part of the problem was that the admiral wasn’t in the habit of sharing his ratiocinations with me, which was to be expected, I guess, since I had a part to play in his drama. I was sure he thought there was nothing to be gained by burdening me with superfluous information.

Such as, why did he change the plan? When we came to France, we were going to dangle the Intelink in front of Henri Rodet. After all, he was the dude with the Al Qaeda source. But now we were conning Jean-Paul Arnaud, the Number Two spook. Did Arnaud and Rodet talk? Was Arnaud the villain? Did Rodet really have a spy buried in Al Qaeda, or was that a fiction for foreign consumption? Why was the Mossad stooging around? Was Marisa Petrou a double agent? Who shot Claude Bruguiere? More to the point, who the heck shot Alberto Salazar and Rich Thurlow?

It could have been me in that van instead of Al and Rich. Me! Mrs. Carmellini’s son, Tommy.

I could have been sitting there thinking a twisted little thought when the door opened and pop, pop, life ended for me, just like that.

I was examining that reality when my cell phone rang, making me jump. I snatched it up and looked at the number. Willie Varner.

I reminded myself that the DGSE techs were listening to my side of the conversation, and perhaps Willie’s too.

“Hello.”

“I’m in a Seven Four Seven flyin’ over England, Carmellini. Adios, asshole.” The reception was perfect, his voice right in my ear. I figured he was lying. He continued. “I told you I was gettin’ outta frog-land when the shit hit the fan, and by God, I meant it.” Yeah, he was lying. “I’m still alive, no thanks to you.”

“You could have borrowed my Superman suit, you know, so those bullets would bounce right off.”

He sighed. “You don’t believe me, do you?”

“No.”

“The sailor has me doing important secret shit. I can’t tell you anythin’ about it. Don’t call me wantin’ somethin’. And stay outta trouble, dude.”

“Okay.”

He hung up.

I knew Willie Varner wouldn’t boogie, no matter what he said. Willie would stick like glue. If he wasn’t that kind of guy, he wouldn’t be worth knowing.

The sailor was, of course, Grafton. If they were monitoring the cell phone conversation, the French spooks would never figure that out. Right. But what did Grafton have Willie the Wire doing? I spent a couple of minutes speculating, then gave up.

I hoped Jake Grafton knew who the players were and who had the ball. I certainly didn’t.

I levered myself up and headed for the bathroom.

“There are the contents of Rodet’s hard drive,” Sarah Houston said to Jake Grafton. She pointed toward the computer screen. Grafton stood looking over her shoulder at a sea of computer symbols. They were in the SCIF in the basement of the embassy, in a tiny little room. On the walls were a calendar and a photo of the World Trade Center collapsing.

“The contents are encrypted,” Sarah explained. “The code breakers at NSA are going to have to sort this out.”

“Okay. Send it to them. Encrypted, of course.”

Sarah attacked the keyboard. A minute later she said, “It’s gone. Sorry I couldn’t crack it.”

“Well, it was a long shot.” Jake dropped into the only other chair.

She handed him a single sheet of paper. “You asked for the telephone numbers from Gator Zantz’s cell phone. Here they are.”

Grafton looked them over. “You’re sure about all of these.”

“Yep.”

Grafton folded the paper once, very neatly, then doubled it up, making all the edges touch. He inspected it to make sure it was perfectly square. Then he put it in his pocket. “Let’s talk about your visit with Arnaud,” he said. “Are you comfortable with the technology?”

She nodded. “It’ll let him into your fake files.”

“This won’t work unless you sell him. He has to believe that you’re madly in love with Tommy and want to run away with him.”

“Why Arnaud?”

“If Rodet is telling the truth, it can’t be anybody else.”

“You couldn’t convict a man of a parking violation with that kind of logic.”

Grafton frowned. “That’s true, but this isn’t a trial.”

“Is Rodet telling the truth?”

Grafton leaned back in his chair and took a deep breath while he considered. “That’s a fair question and it deserves an honest answer. Let me put it this way — he’s telling me part of the truth.” He paused, considering. “Perhaps a better way to say that would be, he’s telling me what he thinks is part of the truth.”

“What kind of truth are you looking for?”

“The kind that leads to a living man, one who knows things that can help us catch the masterminds of Al Qaeda.”

“They’re leaders in the terrorist movement,” Sarah admitted, “but if they are arrested or eliminated, others will take their place.”

“What is the alternative?”

“I don’t know.”

“We’re in a war against religious fanatics, madmen, who are trying to crack the foundations of Western civilization by murdering the innocent,” Jake Grafton said. “The conflict between the demands of secular government and religion has shaped civilization, but Islam has been fossilized, frozen in time. The good news is that history is on our side — in the long run, religious zealots always lose. The Europeans fought true believers of every stripe for centuries and finally won. Look around you at this city, this nation. France is secular civilization in full flower, and it’s worth fighting for.”

“Win or lose, the fanatics will murder a lot of people,” Sarah Houston said thoughtfully.

“Our job is to see that they don’t,” Jake Grafton said grimly. “Let’s get on with it.”

Elizabeth Conner’s door slammed in the room under mine, so I was at the window watching when she went jogging away along the sidewalk, past two bored old hookers smoking cigarettes. At least the rain had stopped, although the sky was low and slate gray.

Conner was another puzzle I hadn’t figured out. Was she really an American? Or an Israeli pretending to be an American? Did it matter?

I wondered if another search of her flat would turn up anything useful. Was there another way to learn her story?

Of course, anything she told me would be just that, a story. Still, it would be a place to start. We could check every fact she let loose of, to learn… what?

DGSE officer Claude Bruguiere could have been hit by the Mossad. In fact, Lizzie Conner might have done the shooting. For that matter, dear, sweet, innocent Marisa might have pulled the trigger.

Around noon I met Sarah Houston in the dining room of her hotel. I stood as she approached the table, and she kissed me. Her tongue grazed my lower lip in a contact lasting several heartbeats. It was a darn nice kiss, the kind that speeds up your heart ten or fifteen whacks a minute. She broke it off as my blood pressure soared, then backed away a few inches and gave me a tiny smile.

I helped her with her chair and almost tripped getting back into mine. That’s when I handed her a note that said my belt had a bug in it. She read the note, nodded and handed it back. I wadded it up and stuck it in my pocket, to be discarded into a toilet.

“I’m not looking forward to seeing that man,” she muttered as she glanced at the menu.

“We’ll get through this,” I assured her warmly, laying my hand atop one of hers. “Ibiza will be worth it. You’ll see. Just the two of us, lazy mornings, walks in the afternoon, life slow and easy.”

“You make it sound so tempting.” She turned her hand so her fingers touched my wrist.

We chatted on, about how great it would be to be modestly rich and have each other. I hoped to hell the frogs who were listening were getting all this. Actually, it was an easy conversation to do. Sarah was lovely, smart and the kind of gal a guy like me could spend his life with.

Where did that thought come from?

Come on, Tommy! This is just an act. Remember?

We didn’t have any trouble getting into the Conciergerie this time. The guard took one look at my Terry Shannon passport and motioned us on through. One of the security men accompanied us to the elevator, watched our faces as we rose two flights, then ushered us along to Arnaud’s corner suite. The receptionist took one look, then buzzed the great one, and we were shown in. The security man stood beside the closed office door.

“Hello,” Arnaud grunted unenthusiastically.

I have played my share of poker through the years and learned a thing or two about reading faces. Right then I would have bet my stack that Arnaud was on the fence: He wasn’t sure we were genuine and he wasn’t sure we weren’t. The truth be told, this was a better position than Grafton and I thought we might be in. We figured he would be pretty close to dead certain that we were conning him, so we were ahead of the game.

I attacked. “I didn’t appreciate you siccing the police on me last night,” I said aggressively. “I had to get a diplomat involved and do a lot of explaining to my boss.”

Arnaud regarded me icily from under bushy eyebrows. Now his face was expressionless, which I thought was probably his usual professional demeanor. “Two men on motorcycles tried to run you down. Why?”

“My guess would be that they were trying to get even with me for throwing their pal though the clock at the museum, but I certainly don’t know. They very nearly made me a traffic statistic. If the police in this town were any damn good they’d be trying to find out if the motorcycle dudes knew the clock diver.”

“Who blew up your car?”

“Maybe those guys, or some friends of theirs. You obviously have a lot of assholes running around this town.”

“Why didn’t you call the police?”

We weren’t getting anywhere with this, and we both knew it. I was in no hurry, however. If Arnaud wanted to spend the afternoon beating around the bush, that was fine with me. Cons only work when the mark sells himself. While he was barking questions, his natural greed was percolating. I also knew a thing or two about greed.

After two or three more questions, his eyes strayed to Sarah. That’s when I knew we had him hooked.

“Don’t look at me like that, creep,” Sarah snapped.

For a hundredth of a second, he looked startled. Then the mask dropped.

This was too easy. Maybe he was conning us.

“C’mon, Sarah,” I said, rising from my chair. “Let’s get the hell outta here.”

“Sit!” Arnaud ordered coldly.

I obeyed.

“I want to see it,” he said.

“First the money.”

“First I see it.”

“No,” Sarah said firmly.

I leaned across and got hold of a hand. “Hey, babe. This is our chance. Let’s do the deal.”

“Don’t ‘babe’ me, Terry. I don’t trust this slimy bastard. I want the money first. Ten grand.”

I got in front of her, lifted her from the chair and led her to the corner of the room farthest from Arnaud. I held her in my arms and we whispered. I told her I loved her and a bunch of other stuff, strictly part of the con. She let tears leak and swabbed at them with a fist.

Man, she was good! Looking at her red eyes, watching that lip tremble, I’d have given her my life savings to help a Nigerian prince get money into the States.

She capitulated.

Arnaud gave her his chair. She turned to his computer, which was on. She began talking, telling him about the walls around the Intelink to keep out riffraff. Talking slowly, showing him every keystroke, she led him to her rathole. At one point he got too close to her, and she recoiled like a scared cat. He backed off.

She looked up at him. “You’re recording all this, right?”

He didn’t say anything.

“Because I’m not doing it again unless you pay me a lot of money.”

“I will try to remember your words, Miss Houston.”

She got back to it. Five minutes later the opening page of Intelink C came onto the screen.

Sarah rose. “You owe us ten thousand dollars.”

Arnaud sat playing with the scroll buttons as he read. After a moment he turned, nodded at the security man, who was still standing over by the door, and said to us, “Tomorrow morning. Ten o’clock.”

He was still staring at the screen when I went through the door and glanced back.

Sarah Houston stayed in character when we were out on the street. “Do you think the bastard will buy the whole package?” she asked.

I grinned at her. It’s a pleasure to work with a pro, and she certainly was one. “Hard to say,” I replied. To give the unseen watchers material for their report, I put my arm around her shoulder as we walked. She felt mighty good as we strolled across the bridge over the Seine and the wind whipped at us.

At the embassy I went into the men’s room. Sitting in a stall, I used a penknife to pry the transmitter out of my belt. I twisted it loose from the antenna and dropped it into the trash when I left.

Pink Maillard and Grafton were huddled in the admiral’s office. I looked in, gave Grafton the Hi sign, and stepped back outside. Pink looked worried. I didn’t blame him; I’d be on tranquilizers if I were responsible for keeping the president alive in this day and age.

Gator Zantz was there, too. He looked properly humble, having been summoned from his London sinecure to help fill the hole created by Al and Rich’s sudden departure.

“Hey, Tommy,” he said when he saw me sitting beside Sarah, holding her hand. He merely nodded at her; I wondered if he remembered her name. “What in hell have you guys got going around here?”

“G-8 meeting, spies all over, assassins… another day in the CIA. That’s going to be the title of my memoirs.”

“Always the clown.”

“How’s every little thing in merry ol’ England?”

“Still there. Wanna make a little bet on the Monday night game?”

“Man, I don’t know who’s playing, and I don’t want to take your money. Don’t you have a car payment or rent or something like that?”

“Very funny,” he said, and went away. Which was fine. Personally, I never liked the guy, but then, there are a lot of guys I don’t like. Dozens, scattered all over the world.

Grafton wanted to see me before I left, someone said. I winked at Sarah and went to see if he was alone. He was.

The admiral wanted to know every word and detail of our performance at the Conciergerie. After fifty questions, he asked my opinion. I rubbed my chin while I considered. “I think he bought it, but maybe not.”

Grafton grunted. His parting comment didn’t give me much comfort. “Be careful, Tommy. Watch yourself out there.”

“Yeah.” That’s what I told him. Yeah. Sure. Always. I’m going to live forever.

Sarah and I had dinner, just to keep up appearances, at an intimate little place George Goldberg recommended. He certainly knew his restaurants.

Sarah was — but I don’t need to bore you with that.

I dropped her at her hotel and took a cab to the Rue Paradis. Riding through the streets I remembered Rich and Al, and how I felt when my car blew up. Now wasn’t the time to start coasting. I sensed that matters were coming to a head; this thing was going to be over pretty soon, one way or the other, and I was going to be a free man. What was I going to do without the CIA — and the green paycheck?

I thought about that as I checked the traffic and scanned the pedestrians. Where were the local sons of Islam? I’d thrown one through a clock, and two had crashed. Maybe they bombed the car, maybe they didn’t, but I was blaming them for it until a better candidate showed up. Then there was Al and Rich — somebody iced them.

I had the cabbie drop me two blocks from my place. I stood there on the sidewalk watching the cab drive away, breathing deeply and soaking up some Paris. No other cars whipped up and let people out. It was nearly eleven o’clock. At that hour on the sidewalk in that neighborhood, it was just me and a few stray Johns dying to meet some of the neighborhood cuties.

I paused at the top of my street and looked over the scene. I couldn’t find anything out of the ordinary.

Man, I’ve been doing this too long.

So where am I going to go and what am I going to do when I get back to the States?

The stairwell was narrow and dark, as usual. I paused by Elizabeth Conner’s door and listened — could faintly hear television audio. I kept going, unlocked the door to my palace, stepped inside and took off my shoes.

After I got out of my clothes and brushed the fangs, I pulled out my infrared goggles and put them on. I looked downward and fiddled with the gain and contrast controls.

It took me several seconds to realize what I was looking at. Elizabeth Conner was lying motionless on the floor, and she was difficult to see. I changed positions while I adjusted the gain control. No help there. Contrast didn’t seem to make any difference. The battery?

I looked at the hot-water pipes. About as usual. Back at Conner, her legs akimbo…

I tore off the goggles. Grabbed my lock picks. Left my door standing open, charged down the stairs three at a time. Pounded on her door. No answer, of course.

The television ran a series of ads for something or other as I worked with the pick and torsion wrench. I was all thumbs. God damn it all to hell!

The lock gave and I threw open the door.

She hadn’t moved. Her eyes were open and she was staring at nothing at all.