The Traitor

CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

On Saturday morning Agatha Hempstead led Grafton and Goldberg toward the ambassador’s office. She marched in front and both men found that they had to lengthen their stride to keep up. The receptionist had anticipated their arrival and was manning the door. He opened it for Hempstead and her entourage, then closed it behind them.

The ambassador was on the scrambled telephone. When he saw them, he punched the button to put the audio on the telephone speaker.

“Mr. President, they are here now.”

“Very well,” the president said in his distinctive voice. “Well, Owen, please repeat your request for their benefit.”

“I would like Grafton and Goldberg recalled,” Lancaster said. “Last night Grafton killed two men in the subway with some kind of electric weapon. The police released him after verifying his diplomatic immunity. I have talked to the foreign minister, who is of the opinion that the government will declare Admiral Grafton persona non grata unless we act first and recall him. They are very unhappy that he had a weapon.”

“I assume they would be less agitated if he were dead?”

If Lancaster understood the irony in that remark, he ignored it. “Then it would just be a tragedy, you see. The minister would issue an official apology, routine condolences, etc. Now the press is screaming about a weapons violation, accusing the government of bias toward the United States.”

“Can’t we make some noise about Middle Eastern thugs attacking diplomats in subway stations?”

“Not unless you’re willing to be called a racist on the eve of the summit.”

“Uh-huh,” the president said. “What’s their gripe about Goldberg?”

“He is the CIA station chief, a fact of which the French are well aware. I think he’s worn out his welcome, too.”

“I see. Grafton, are you there?”

“Yes, sir,” Jake said.

“I read your report of last night’s incident. How are you coming on that matter we discussed before you left?”

“Still working it, sir.”

“Any way you can get someone to put in a good word for you with the French government?”

“Are you referring to Rodet?”

“Yes.”

“I can call him.”

“I suggest you do that. And I want a complete brief from you when I get over there.”

“We should have most of the answers by then, sir.”

“Terrific. Goldberg?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Better behave yourself if you expect to complete your tour.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Owen, I hate to put you on the spot like this, but you’re going to have to kiss some more frog ass. Tell the minister you’ve been chatting with that I ripped Grafton and Goldberg a new one and respectfully request that they be allowed to remain in France, at least until after the G-8 conference is over.”

Owen Lancaster didn’t turn a hair. He’d been doing this for more years than the president had been in government.

“Yes, sir,” he said evenly. “See you Tuesday.”

” ‘Preciate it, Owen. Knew I could count on you.”

The connection broke, and the speaker began buzzing. Lancaster pushed buttons to silence the noise. “I don’t appreciate being put on the spot like this,” he said.

Grafton and Goldberg were still standing in front of his desk. He hadn’t asked them to sit.

“This weapon the French said you have — do you have it with you?”

Grafton nodded affirmatively.

“May I see it, please.” It wasn’t a question. Lancaster held out his hand.

Jake Grafton removed the weapon from his pocket and flipped on the power switch. He held it so Lancaster could see it but didn’t offer it to him.

“I’ll take that, Admiral,” the ambassador said curtly.

“I think not,” Jake responded. “I may need it again.”

Lancaster’s eyes narrowed. “I understand you killed two men with that thing. That makes it a deadly weapon. There is a centuries-old tradition that diplomatic personnel will be unarmed— it’s really a point of international law — and it’s a tradition that I personally support.”

“I’m not going to become a victim of street thugs just to make your life more comfortable,” Grafton said. He pointed the weapon at the television set in the corner and pulled the trigger.

The laser beam shot out; a long second later, the electrical charge vomited forth in a clap of thunder that was painfully loud in that enclosed room. As the lightning strobed, the television picture tube exploded, showering glass fragments in all directions. Fortunately everyone slammed his eyes shut or managed to cover them.

The silence that followed was broken only by the patter of tiny bits of glass raining down until Grafton said, “Come on, George,” and headed for the door.

I was in a foul mood when I got to the embassy. I’d only had a few hours’ sleep, and each time I dropped off I awoke with nightmares. The corpse on the floor of the apartment below weighed heavily on my mind. It wasn’t right that her body should be left to rot.

Gator Zantz was manning the guard desk outside the SCIF. Apparently security guard was the one job in the agency he was completely qualified for. I snarled at him, “Admiral Grafton in?”

“He’s up in the ambassador’s office getting chewed out.”

“About what?”

“Couple of guys he killed in the subway last night.”

That took the juice out of me. “Oh,” I managed, and dug in my wallet for my pass. After Gator prayed over it, I tossed my cell phone into the basket and went in to find Sarah.

She was working on a computer in the bowels of the SCIF. Of course, the screen was arranged so that anyone coming into her cubicle couldn’t see it — security, you know. I dropped into the chair.

“The admiral told me about Elizabeth Conner,” she said, glancing at me.

I didn’t know what to say. “It must have happened while we were eating dinner, or maybe a little before,” I muttered.

“You look as if it hit you hard.”

That comment surprised me. In my profession you can’t let your emotions show. Man, I was slipping. Getting old, I guess. And real tired of this… this…

Sarah picked up a sheet of paper from the desk and handed it to me to read.

After two sentences my heart almost stopped.

Henri Rodet has passed to the CIA information from his undercover agent in Al Qaeda, which has been planning a major attempt on the lives of the G-8 leaders in Paris. The agent reports that Osama Bin Laden feels that even if the attempt is only partially successful, the mere fact the organization is strong enough to launch such an attack will have major political implications in the G-8 nations and the Islamic world.

I tried to whistle and nothing came out. “Wow,” I said. “I guess the admiral’s got it in spades, huh!”

“Ah, there you are!” Grafton’s voice, behind me in the doorway. I still had the page in my hand, so he said, “What do you think of my effort?”

“So the wizards at the NSA decrypted the stuff on Rodet’s telephone, eh? Jeez, when you were talking to me last night you didn’t say—

“Oh, that’s all bullshit. I wrote it yesterday evening, and Washington posted it on your private Intelink for Jean-Paul Arnaud to find.” Grafton waved a hand distractedly. “The NSA code breakers are still working on Rodet’s telephone, but we’ve run out of time. That’s what I think Arnaud thinks might be on that hard drive.”

“So you’re trying a finesse?”

“Call it whatever you like.”

I’d seen Grafton in action before. He wasn’t sweating or breathing hard yet. “What do you think is on that hard drive?” I asked.

He stepped into the cubicle. “If I were a betting man, I’d bet Qasim hasn’t sent Rodet anything of significance since he gave him the Veghel stuff.”

“But that’s crazy,” I protested. “Why was Rodet trying to protect the device if there’s nothing on it?”

“He’s trying to protect Qasim, not the hard drive of that pocket computer. There’s a large difference.”

“You’re implying Qasim gave Rodet the Veghel stuff to win his trust—“

“—Or win it back.”

“Sacrificing the Veghel conspirators? To checkmate the king?”

“To kill the kings, perhaps,” Grafton said, nodding. “It’s possible.” He looked at his watch. “My wife and your pal Willie are due to relieve Cliff Icahn in the listening van at Rodet’s country estate in about an hour. Why don’t you go pick them up and drive them out there. Stay with them. I’ll have my cell phone in my pocket — I want to know what you hear and if anyone comes by there.”

A little ride in the country! I stood up and shook down my trousers as I glanced again at Grafton’s composition. “If you got this figured right, after Arnaud reads this, he and his pals will zip right on over to have a piece of Rodet.”

“I’m sorta hoping they will,” Grafton said, and grinned. He pulled something that looked like a plastic water pistol from his pocket and handed it to me. “Better take this along.”

As I examined the device, Grafton explained how it worked.

“How noisy is this thing?”

“About as loud as a pistol shot.”

“Got any knives in the building?”

Grafton nodded. “Keep that,” he said, and disappeared through the door.

I dropped back into the chair. “When we get out of this, if we do,” I said to Sarah, “Grafton’s going to let me resign from the agency. Why don’t you talk to him about getting out of your job?”

She eyed me with interest. “That a proposal?”

“Aah, actually … no. Just a suggestion.”

“I’ll keep it in mind.”

We sat in silence, not looking at each other. I played with the ray gun, looking it over. “This thing really work?” I asked Sarah.

“Last night in the subway he injured one man and killed two others with it, or one like it,” she said dryly.

“Sounds like a recommendation,” I agreed.

Grafton returned several minutes later. “Goldberg said you can use this. It’s from his personal collection.” He produced a Fairbairn-Sykes fighting knife, complete with wrist scabbard, an artifact if ever there was one. I only knew what it was because I’d seen one in the Imperial War Museum. “Guy in MI-6 gave it to him,” Grafton added. “His grandfather used it in World War II.”

“I would have guessed World War I,” I said, and rolled up my left sleeve. As I was strapping it on my forearm I asked, “What about the ten grand Arnaud owes us? Sarah and I were going by this morning to collect.”

“He’ll probably be too busy today to pay off. Let’s hope so, anyway.”

“Darn,” Sarah said with a sigh. “I had plans for some of that money.”

I wasn’t quite finished. “If you’ve got this hairball all figured out,” I said to Grafton, “who shot Rich Thurlow and Al Salazar and strangled Elizabeth Conner? I’d like to know who the players are.”

Sarah opened her mouth to say something, but Grafton silenced her with a glance. “Not yet,” he said.

“By chance, do you have any Snickers bars in that desk?” I asked Sarah. She shook her head. I looked at Grafton. “So what do we do if Arnaud shows up?”

“Call me. Pink Maillard and I will be close by with a couple of his men. We can be there in five minutes.”

“The cavalry! So we’re the bait for the lion, huh? Callie know that?”

Grafton snorted. “Know it? Hell, this was her idea. I didn’t have the guts to say no.” He pinned me with those gray eyes and said softly, “Be careful, okay?”

“Sure, Admiral.”

That’s what you always say to Jake Grafton. Sure. He’s that kind of guy.

After Carmellini left, Grafton dropped into the chair beside Sarah’s desk. “This older man I’ve been seeing — I think Tommy took his picture. Did the agency match it up with anything in the database?” “No,” Sarah said, and stroked the keys. The photo appeared.

Grafton got out of the chair and moved so he could see the screen. “That’s him, all right. He was in the subway last night with four young toughs.” The admiral examined the photo, then backed away and squinted at it. “What would he look like if he were younger?”

“I can manipulate that image and pass it back to Langley,” Sarah said. She attacked the keyboard. “Oh, by the way,” she said as she typed, “I can’t find any record of Marisa Petrou in Europe before she was ten years old.” She looked at Grafton. “Suggestive, don’t you think?”

“It raises questions,” he admitted.

I picked up Willie Varner at his hotel. I called ahead and got him on his cell, so he was waiting in front of the joint when I pulled up.

“Hey, man,” he said as he pulled the door shut.

“Hey.”

“Nice car. I thought yours blew up.”

“Yeah. Must’ve had a short in it or something. This is an embassy heap.”

“Well, I want to tell you, it’s been fun working with Mrs. Grafton. She’s quite a lady. Got better personal habits than you do and doesn’t cuss as much.”

“What you been up to?”

“Sittin’ in that van out at Rodet’s, lookin’ and listenin’. The sailor thought that ol’ Rodet and his girlfriend might get snatched by somebody. We were supposed to call him if anybody did that.” He kept talking, nattering on about Mrs. Grafton and how nice she was and all that.

I wasn’t paying much attention to Willie, I’m afraid. I was looking for my Muslim friends as I drove and wondering why Grafton thought that Qasim was a false agent or, even worse, a double agent.

Mrs. Grafton was also waiting on the sidewalk when I pulled up. Seeing her there, a target for anyone who wanted to get even with Grafton, brought me back to full alert. I was going to need all my brain cells to just keep myself, Mrs. Grafton and Willie alive. Grafton was going to have to do the thinking.

“Hello, Willie. Tommy.” She climbed in and shut the door. I muttered a good morning as I watched for a hole in traffic. I got one and rolled as Callie and Willie chattered away like lifelong friends.

When he was with me, Willie Varner didn’t show the slightest interest in Paris, France, Europe, the people, how they lived, any of that. As we rode out of the city he plied Callie with questions. By the time we had left the suburbs behind, they were talking art.

As they visited I began worrying about Cliff Icahn, who was alone in the surveillance van near the Rodet estate. Oh, man, it would be a really bad scene if he were dead when we got there. I dug my cell phone out of my pocket, and as Willie discussed the Impressionists’ use of light and color — please, I am not making this up — I dialed Cliff. He answered on the third ring.

“This is Cliff.”

I relaxed a little. “Tommy. What’s happening?”

“Slow morning. When are you going to get here?”

“Twenty minutes or so.”

“Gardener arrived a half hour or so ago, and a grocery delivery van came by. That’s it. For all I know the folks are still sound asleep.”

“I doubt that. We’ll see you soon.” I slapped the phone shut.

Willie knew more about art than I thought he did, but still, he couldn’t talk it for more than ten minutes. Mrs. Grafton deftly changed the subject, talked about Washington, the city where Willie Varner had spent his life, except when he was in prison. Between the two of them, they knew every nook and cranny of that town, let me tell you.

The van was parked about a mile from the entrance to Rodet’s estate in a little public pull-off about fifty yards up from the three-way intersection on Rodet’s side of the Marne bridge. We could see anyone crossing the bridge and turning east toward Rodet’s. Of course, we couldn’t see traffic coming in from the other direction to Rodet’s entrance, but there was nothing out that way but some camps and old farms. Everyone going to or coming from Paris came this way.

Cliff was sitting behind the wheel of the van wearing a headset when I drove up. He had the window down and was resting his elbow on it. He wriggled a finger at me. There were no other vehicles or people in sight. I parked the government sedan behind him, got my backpack from the back seat and walked over with my hand in my pocket holding the zapper. I had the battery switch on, so the capacitor was charging, just in case.

I faced the door. “Hey.”

Cliff yawned. I didn’t think he’d do that if there were someone behind him with a pistol in his neck, so I relaxed. Still… I leaned in just enough to look. Yep, the van was empty. I motioned to Willie and Callie Grafton, and they got out of the car.

“What’s going on in the house?”

“Not a damn thing,” he said, and opened the door to get out. “They’re listening to music. Classical. I dozed off a couple of times.” He yawned again, then said hi to Willie and nodded at Mrs. Grafton. I introduced him and they chatted a little bit. After I gave Cliff the key to the sedan, he flipped a hand and climbed into the thing, turned it around, crossed the bridge and turned left for Paris.

Willie and Callie got into the back of the van and played with the equipment. I tossed my backpack onto the passenger seat, yet I didn’t want to get in. That thing last night with Elizabeth Conner… nothing else that had happened in Paris had hit me like that. The guy I threw through the clock, the assholes on the motorcycles — they sallied forth to commit mayhem or murder and they got smacked instead. Al and Rich — I felt sorry for them, sure, but…

Conner, strangled … I couldn’t get her face out of my mind.

I walked around the van taking deep breaths and looking at everything. A car came along the road from the northwest and crossed the bridge, then hung a left for Paris.

Now isn’t the time to stress out, Tommy-boy. A few more days, then you can have your breakdown.

It turned out I wasn’t going to make it a few more days. I started retching. I went over in the weeds and put my hands on my knees and heaved my breakfast and kept heaving until there was nothing more in there to come up.

When I got myself more or less under control, I went back to the van. I heard Willie and Callie in there talking, their voices just murmurs.

Okay, Tommy, get it ratcheted up, guy.

Okay. I’m okay!

I took some more deep breaths and climbed behind the wheel. The headset that Cliff had been wearing was lying on the console, so I put it on. A symphony … I didn’t recognize the composer. Not that I know much about music. Truth is, there is a lot I don’t know about.

The stuff I do know about isn’t the kind of stuff that any sane man really wants to know.

Apparently the radio was automatically channel surfing, listening for five seconds or so on each set of bugs. Now it switched again; the symphony was faint. No voices.

At the count of five, it switched again. Nothing on this set. Nor the next. The next was music, faintly, still the symphony.

Then back to the symphony at full cry.

There was a bottle of water in the cup holder on the dash that Cliff had apparently been drinking out of. Hoping he didn’t have anything contagious, I finished it off and felt a little better.

Let’s see, I put those bugs in the office, the library, the two sitting rooms, and the dining room. If the music was in the library or one of the sitting rooms, where were the people?

I turned around. “Can you get the video from the office?” I asked Willie.

“Oh, yeah,” he said, and played with the controls. He reached up and turned the small monitor above his head so I could see it. The little camera was looking at the desk and computer. No one was in the picture.

“Got any more water back there?” I asked.

Callie passed me another bottle. It was warm. I drained it anyway.

Whew!

The leaves were blowing, the branches swaying. The overcast was up high, but it obscured the sun.

Two cars came across the bridge, but they went straight instead of turning toward Rodet’s. They passed the van and the people in the car ignored me; maybe they knew I was an American.

“Something’s not right,” I said as Callie flipped through the audio channels another time. “We should hear some voices unless everyone’s asleep.”

She looked at me, and I saw the guts and intelligence in that face as she asked, “Do you want to call Jake?” Not “Are you sure?” or any of that.

I wasn’t sure, though. Maybe I should have been, but I wasn’t. I listened through another round of the channels and wondered if I was going to heave again. Apparently not.

“Not yet,” I told Callie.

But something was wrong. I had that feeling. Or I was breaking out in paranoia again. Is there a pill for that?

Darn, I’ll bet those bastards swept for bugs and found them.

“I’m going in there,” I announced. “Going to see what’s what.” I reached for my backpack, got out of the van and put it on. Willie handed me a radio headset. I turned on the batteries and put the thing on. “Testing, one, two, three.”

“Works fine,” Willie said in my ear.

“I have any trouble, I’ll scream,” I said.

“You want one of those electromagnetic bangers to cut the power?” Willie asked.

“We do that in the daytime, they’ll know I’m coming.”

“Watch yourself, Tommy,” Callie Grafton said as I closed the door and latched it.

Walking along the road felt good. I was wearing a light jacket, which was enough coat if I didn’t do any serious sitting. The truth was, I didn’t have any more sitting in me. I wanted to be up, moving, doing something. I was being nervous and silly, I knew, but there was nothing I could do about it. I was out of patience. Didn’t have a drop left.

I suppose I wasn’t thinking logically. For some reason Marisa Petrou was on my mind, and Henri Rodet. Jake Grafton didn’t want them dead, and I sure as hell didn’t want to find them in that condition.

I took some deep breaths as I walked along, trying to think.

There were three of them; they had Jean-Paul Arnaud tied to a chair in the room over the garage. They said nothing to him, merely tied him up with a rope they had with them and waited. They were armed. One of them was always at the window, looking out.

He heard steps on the stairs. A head appeared, that of a grizzled old man. Yet he came up the stairs lightly, without much effort. The old man wore a threadbare coat and baggy trousers with visible stains. He spoke to the three in Arabic.

While they were talking Arnaud heard someone else ascending the stairs. Henri Rodet!

“You bastard,” Jean-Paul hissed. “You’re in with this scum.”

The old man removed the pistol from one coat pocket and the silencer from another. In no hurry, he screwed the silencer into the barrel while Arnaud struggled against the ropes.

When the silencer was tight against the barrel, the old man pulled the slide of the Beretta back until he saw the gleam of brass, then let it go forward. Rodet watched impassively.

“This used to belong to a Mossad Kidon man. He used it to kill my son. Then I killed him. Now I use it to kill infidels.”

“Killing infidels — will that bring my brother back from the dead?”

The old man turned. Marisa was standing at the head of the stairs looking at him. He hadn’t heard her footsteps.

“Bah, woman, what do you know?” the old man hissed. He drew himself erect.

“You ask me to sell my soul — and I have obeyed because you are my father. I have a soul also, and you have never once thought of me. You think only of yourself, and vengeance. God sees! He knows.”

“You think it was easy in that Egyptian prison?” the old man asked. “They tortured us, made us scream for mercy, and they showed no mercy. Still, I believed in civilization. With all my heart I knew that the world of the French — the world of ideas, grace, beauty — all of that was superior to the mud and dirt and squalor of the Arabs. God didn’t love the Arabs more — he loved the French. I, Abu Qasim, knew the truth. So I betrayed them. Betrayed their jihad. Gave their secrets to their deadly enemies, who used them to thwart and murder the men of the faith.

“Yes, woman, I did that. I, your father. Covered my hands with the blood of the faithful, covered myself with sin that will never wash off. And God sent me a sign. He sent a Mossad killer who murdered your brother … my son. My only son, whom your mother died giving birth to. God spoke to me, and the message was blood. Evil for evil, wickedness for wickedness, betrayal for betrayal, drop by drop and dram by dram I was to suffer until the whole foul debt was paid in full!

“At long last, I listened to God. Listened and thought again, for the thousandth time, of the men I had betrayed. And I saw God’s will. I, Abu Qasim, was to take up the sword and slay the infidels. And I have. I will. I swear it on the beard of the Prophet.”

With that, he extended the pistol to arm’s length and pointed it at Jean-Paul Arnaud’s forehead.

“Allah akbar” he said, and pulled the trigger.