recall that odor of wanton death.
“Your visitors are here, mon directeur.”
The voice startled Rodet, bringing him back to the here and now.
I figured my trip with Jake Grafton to visit ol’ Henri Rodet in the lion’s den was my coming-out party. Every spook in town was now on notice that I was in the game, so I could expect an audience for everything I did and said. If I had been the kind of guy who liked to be the center of attention, a gig like this would have probably ruined me for polite society.
I met Grafton at his tiny cubbyhole office at the embassy. He was sitting there talking to Sarah Houston and George Goldberg when I arrived. I nodded at George and waited for Sarah to acknowledge my presence. She did. She was cool and professional, like a nurse ready to draw a pint or two of blood from one of your veins. Once she caught my eye when no one else was looking, so I winked at her. She quickly averted her eyes.
Grafton glanced at his watch, stood and motioned to me to follow him. I did.
“How’s Callie?” I asked as we headed for the main entrance and the waiting car.
“She’s talking about buying something in France, a little place that we can use summer or winter and commute from. I’ve got to get her home before she goes around the bend.”
“How long do we have?”
“I don’t know.”
The driver was holding the door of the limo, so Grafton and I hopped into the back seat. The admiral didn’t speak to the driver, who must have been told by someone else where we were going.
Grafton checked his reflection in the mirror and straightened his tie.
“Got any lines for me this afternoon?” I asked brightly.
“Just see and be seen. Don’t say anything unless you are answering a direct question, and then give only unclassified information.”
We didn’t have far to go. Across the Place de la Concorde and the bridge, turn left on the boulevard along the quay, past the Musee d’Orsay and National School of Fine Arts, then left and across the
Pont St. Michel onto the Hue de la Cite. On our left was the Palais de Justice, home of the criminal courts and judicial police. On the right was the Prefecture de Police, the site of a terrific street battle during the liberation of Paris. I was gawking at the tourists when the driver turned the car into the courtyard of the Conciergerie. The driver told the guard who we were; we were waved past and directed to a parking place. From there, a man in civilian clothes led Grafton and me up a flight of stairs, past the metal detector and along a corridor with a twelve-foot ceiling. Our footsteps echoed on the stone floors and walls.
Video monitors were mounted high in every corner, as well as infrared and motion detectors. Every door we passed had a lock on it. It wasn’t a people-friendly place, I can tell you. As I walked I could almost hear the wails of the damned as they were dragged from their cells to feed the guillotine. Yet today everyone looked normal — men in suits and sports coats, women in dresses or skirts. It could have been a scene from any large office building in any big Western city. Perhaps I was the only one hearing ghosts.
The receptionist showed us into Rodet’s office, which was a big corner room high in the building. His view was west, down the river. He was of average height, maybe a bit over, with thinning hair, carrying no excess weight. It was obvious he exercised regularly. He also looked as if he had just returned from the beach — a nice tan.
He said hello in English and shook hands with the admiral. “My aide, Terry Shannon,” Jake said, nodding at me. I shook, too. Rodet waved us to chairs, then dropped onto a nearby couch.
While Grafton and Rodet chatted, getting acquainted, I took a second or two to scope out his art. Looked old and expensive or trendily weird, which meant new and expensive. I was sort of glad I didn’t have to look at any of it on a regular basis.
Jake Grafton explained that he was the new CIA ops man for Europe and made some remarks about being out of his depth, commerits that didn’t fool me for a second. I doubted if the Frenchman bought any of it either. Rodet looked like a very sharp man, with quick eyes that didn’t seem to miss much.
Of course, I wondered about him and Marisa. She didn’t seem to want Rodet to know that she and I had met before, and I speculated about why that might be. Rodet didn’t strike me as the insanely jealous type.
And who, precisely, was Marisa Petrou? Was she a French tootsie scaling the social register, or something else?
About that time Jean-Paul Arnaud came in, and Rodet introduced him. We shook hands. He was smaller than Rodet, intense, and reminded me of a mongoose. He sat down in a vacant chair in the back of the room.
Before long Grafton and Rodet were discussing security arrangements for the upcoming G-8 summit conference. “The Secret Service has sent a professional, of course, but I have been assigned to assist him. I wonder if we might go over a point or two?” Grafton produced an agenda from a coat pocket and went over it with Rodet. At one point Rodet said, “We have beefed up our security at the border. We are stopping and checking every vehicle entering France, checking passports, and so on. As you know, normally travelers move freely back and forth across borders within Europe. Not now. Extra security at the airports, at train stations, every public place. The president has demanded that everything be done that can be done, and I assure you, it will be.”
They discussed specifics for a bit, then Grafton moved on to various international matters, asking for Rodet’s assessment of the current Middle East situation and inserting a pointed query on terrorist organizations in France, Spain and Germany. He listened carefully as Rodet talked, offering no opinions of his own.
It was interesting to watch Grafton work, in the same way that I suppose it is interesting to watch a snake charm a mouse. Not that Grafton was a snake or Rodet a mouse — far from it. Both men, I well knew, were competent, capable professionals. Still, I couldn’t help wondering if Rodet understood just how competent and capable Grafton really was, or how ruthless he could be if he felt the situation demanded it.
Then, out of the blue, Grafton asked, “Who killed Claude Bruguiere?” in the same tone he had used to ask about Romania’s prospects in the EU.
“The police are investigating,” Rodet said, showing not the least bit of surprise that Grafton knew about the death of a DGSE officer. “If they have a suspect, they have not shared his identity with us.”
“Have they questioned you about the death?” Grafton asked.
“Of course not,” Rodet said. “I have eight hundred employees in this agency. Why should they?”
“Bruguiere’s name rang a bell when I heard it. If my sources are correct, he was the DGSE officer who went to Amman to complete a stock transaction on your behalf in the latter part of August.”
“On my behalf?” The skepticism in Rodet’s voice was barely discernible, but it was there.
“A quarter million shares in the Bank of Palestine were purchased in your name.”
Rodet’s face was a mask. When he said nothing, Grafton continued, “Two million euros. A nice chunk of change.”
One would have thought that Grafton’s knowledge of Rodet’s Palestinian investments would at least raise an eyebrow, but it didn’t. Rodet’s and Arnaud’s faces were impossible for me to read.
“You are misinformed, Admiral,” Rodet said dryly, and stopped there without telling Grafton what he was misinformed about.
Grafton wouldn’t let it rest. “In what way am I misinformed?”
Rodet weighed his words before he spoke. “I own no shares in the Bank of Palestine.”
“I suppose a man should know what he owns,” Grafton replied carelessly. “Obviously my informant was in error.” I saw his shoulders rise and fall a quarter of an inch. He rose to his feet, so I popped out of my chair. I ventured a grin at Arnaud, who ignored me. His eyes were on Grafton.
“We’ll not take up any more of your valuable time, Monsieur Rodet,” the admiral said. “Thank you for the opportunity to touch base, so to speak, get acquainted and all that.”
“Any time, Admiral, any time.” Rodet rose to show us out. He looked as cool as he did when we came in. I instantly resolved to never play poker with him, not even for matchsticks.
“Oh,” Grafton said as we left. “There’s one more matter I would like to discuss, at a place and time of your choosing, but not in this building.” He passed Rodet a slip of folded paper. “You can reach me at the embassy.”
Rodet put the scrap of white paper in his pocket without looking at it. “I’ll keep your request in mind,” he said, and opened the office door. The escort who would accompany us to our car was waiting in one of the soft chairs.
