fun to be around for the next few weeks.
Jake Grafton had an interview with Sarah Houston at the American embassy.
“So how are you and Carmellini getting along?”
“Fine,” she snapped. She had no intention of discussing her relationship with Tommy Carmellini with anybody alive.
“Do you have any objection to working with him?”
“I have absolutely no desire to go back to Alderson.’ She had served some time in the federal women’s prison in Alderson, West Virginia. “To stay out of the can I’ll work with the devil.”
“I don’t think we have to dig that deep for recruits just yet,” Grafton said with a straight face. “I merely wished to confirm that you had no objection to working with Mr. Carmellini.”
She shook her head. Although her lips were compressed in a thin line, Grafton noticed, she seemed relaxed.
“Or me,” he added.
“I don’t like where this conversation is going. Just what do you have in mind?”
“Fair question,” Grafton admitted. “I was thinking of having you turn traitor.”
Sarah Houston’s mouth fell open and she gawked.
“I was thinking you and Tommy might sell access to Intelink to our French friends.”
She closed her mouth and kept her eyes glued on his.
Grafton kept talking. “Terry Shannon is a CIA traitor who wants to make a big score and live happily ever after. You are his girlfriend, the NSA analyst with the access to Intelink. You were on the software team and Shannon has convinced you to install a trapdoor. You hate your job, your bosses don’t appreciate you, and you’re madly in love with Shannon.”
“They’ll never believe that!”
“We’ll have to make them believe it.”
“Do you really intend to give them Intelink?”
“I’ll give them a peek at a fake Intelink. That’ll be enough.”
She snorted. “You have got to be kidding!”
“I’m not. She pursed her lips and gave a low whistle. Then she rubbed her forehead. “The French will never buy it.”
Grafton waved that away. “Will you give it a try?”
“No. Hell no! I’m supposed to be rotting in a federal prison right this very minute. You ought to know — you put me there. They’re going to check me every way from Sunday and find out I’m hot. And by hot I don’t mean sexy.”
“The last thing in the world they will want is for any information about you or Intelink to get out,” Grafton pointed out.
“Rodet won’t be the only one at the DGSE who knows. One photo in the papers and I’m toast. One nosy reporter bastard and I’ll be in a cell until the day I die. I’m not complaining — I deserve it for what I did — but I am not going to do anything that increases the odds that I’ll go back to that shithole. Nothing. I will do nothing!” Her voice rose until it cracked. Whispering, she added, “Goddamn hell no, Admiral. Get another sucker.”
“Unfortunately, you’re the only one I have,” Jake Grafton said, and sighed.
CHAPTER SIX
Henri Rodet’s chateau on the bank of the Marne, twenty-some miles upriver from Paris, was the kind of place I am going to buy if Warren Buffet ever adopts me. Salazar parked the car beside an inn across the river from Rodet’s little piece of paradise. Through the trees I could see the main building — which looked as if it contained twenty or more rooms.
“A real shack,” Rich Thurlow said. “The Department of Defense sent us some satellite photos of the place.” He opened a briefcase and handed me the file.
There were seven photos, all marked SECRET NOFORN in caps, and the detail was amazing. One of the things looked as if it had been taken in infrared. I studied the hot spots.
There were actually eight buildings on the grounds. The main house and two smaller ones looked as if they were occupied; perhaps one of the smaller buildings was for servants, guards or in-laws. One structure appeared to be a barn, one a garage, and the others might have been used for storage of some type. There was a pool and a tennis court. And a dog pen.
I couldn’t help myself — I whistled in amazement. “This guy is worth serious bucks,” I said.
“The end result of prayer and clean living, I suspect,” Salazar muttered.
I handed the photos back to Thurlow and got out of the car. Below us was a dock with some rowboats tied to it. Upriver two men were fishing from a boat that looked as if it had come from the collection below. They were fly- fishing as they drifted.
Across the river, on Rodet’s side, there was no fence. I suspected he didn’t need one. Salazar saw where I was looking and handed me a set of binoculars. The view was fair even though most of the trees still had some of their leaves. Sure enough, I could see several — at least three — surveillance cameras mounted in the trees. No doubt there were also infrared sensors and motion detectors. I suspected that an uninvited guest wouldn’t be there long before he became personally acquainted with the dogs.
“Well, heck,” I said. “We’re here, so let’s do the tourist thing, go in and sample the local chow.”
“Cuisine,” Thurlow said, correcting me. “This is France, remember.”
“You say that like Bob Roll does. It’s France, my man, through your nose. France.”
“I’ll work on that. You and Al get something to eat. I’m not hungry.” Thurlow popped open the trunk of the car and reached for his rod case. “I’m going to dip a hook and see if anything wants to bite it.”
The inn looked old, although I didn’t think it was. It was decorator old, and the toilets really flushed. After I visited the facilities, Al and I were led to a table overlooking the river. This being a weekday, the place wasn’t crowded. In the summer and on weekends, a fisherman should probably pack a sandwich.
Al had little to say. Nor was he interested in the view of Rodet’s estate. Everyone around me these days seemed to be adrift.
As I looked over the menu, I thought about Sarah Houston.
Aaugh!
Marisa Petrou glanced right and left along the sidewalk before she entered the restaurant. It was a small place, very discreet, in which each party had its own private nook, free from the observation of other diners. The exquisite food and unique physical layout made the establishment a favorite rendezvous for married men and their mistresses, and for married women and their lovers. Part of the charm of the place was the fact that the diners never knew who was in the other nooks, be they politicians, celebrities, neighbors, or, perhaps, spouses.
Marisa was quickly escorted to a nook in the back of the restaurant. The man waiting there stood and embraced her. Behind her, the maitre d’ closed the drapes.
“It is good to see you again,” the man said.
He helped her with her chair and, when he was again seated, poured her a glass of wine. He raised his glass to her. After they each had a sip, he said, “So what message have you today?”
“All preparations are complete. The security teams from the various nations are arriving within the next few days. The city will be covered with heavily armed security personnel.”
“As we planned.”
“Yes.” Marisa had another sip of wine. “Oh, the American CIA has sent a new director of European Operations, a retired American admiral named Grafton. One of the men with him is a man named Tommy Carmellini, who is using the name Terry Shannon. Carmellini knows me, by the way. We met in Washington last spring.”
“How did you meet?”
“A party.” She brushed it away. “Grafton arrived now, Henri believes, to assist the American Secret Service with security. The Secret Service team will arrive next week. No doubt he will make an appointment to see Henri in
