must be someone he had known a long time. If it wasn’t Qasim, it was someone else he had known from Algeria or his school days.
Qasim’s name had never appeared in any of the DGSE’s official traffic, encrypted or unencrypted. Of course, spies are routinely given code names, but none of the code names that the DGSE used seemed to match an agent with an ear in Al Qaeda councils. None of the employees of the agency, some of whom had been on the CIA payroll for years, had ever mentioned such an agent, nor even said they suspected that such a person might exist.
If Rodet had an agent, when did Rodet hold his hand? Spying is the most solitary of the human occupations, and one of the most dangerous. A spy alone was a case of a paranoia waiting to happen; controllers needed to hold their spies’ hands occasionally, tell him or her that they were doing fine, that all was well, their work was valuable and the nation appreciated the sacrifice that the spy was making. When and where did Rodet hold hands with Qasim?
Grafton climbed the stairs to his flat and inserted the key in the door. As he was fumbling with it, he heard the telephone ringing, then Callie’s voice.
He opened the door and closed it behind him.
The telephone was in the kitchen. He walked toward her voice. Callie saw him, then said, “Here he is now.”
She listened for a few seconds, then held out the telephone to Jake. He raised his eyebrows.
“A man,” she said silently, moving her lips.
He took the telephone and held it to his ear.
“Jake Grafton.”
“We talked this morning at my office, Admiral. Perhaps it would be beneficial if you and I took time tomorrow for a personal chat.”
Rodet!
Dinner was the first meal Callie had fixed in her Paris apartment, so she tried to keep it simple — and elegant. The wine merchant in the next block selected a bottle of wine that he assured her was superb, at a reasonable price.
Jake was in a good mood, so dinner went well. He smiled and complimented her on her efforts and raved about the wine. It was all very pleasant, although she knew he didn’t know a mediocre wine from a good one. Jake Grafton was a beer man.
After dinner he wanted real, American coffee, though, as he always did. Machines capable of making American-style coffee were unavailable in Europe, so Callie had mailed herself a new Mr. Coffee still in its box before she left the States.
Jake took an experimental sip of the hot, black brew and sighed contentedly.
An hour later they were walking on the boulevards, enjoying the sights and sounds of Paris, when Callie asked, “Why did you bring Tommy Carmellini to France, anyway?”
“Don’t you like him?”
“Oh, he’s all right, in a dangerous sort of way. But he’s too flip, too cool.”
Jake nodded. “Remember that time in Hong Kong when you were kidnapped?”
“Oh, yes.”
“Carmellini volunteered to help rescue you. He didn’t have to come with me.”
“You never mentioned that before.” She walked along in silence. “I knew he was there, but I guess I never thought about how or why he came with you.”
“He’s a good man to have around.”
“Like Jake Grafton?”
Her husband laughed.
After the cruise boat tied up, Sarah and I had a devil of a time getting a taxi and ended up walking across the bridge and along the boulevards toward her hotel. No tail did I see. I was walking along with my hands in my pockets when she reached for my arm and held on to it. When I smiled at her, she smiled back.
I thought about kissing her in the lobby, thought I shouldn’t, then did it anyway. She didn’t slap me — just kissed me back, looked into my eyes and said good night.
Outside on the sidewalk I realized I was flat out of juice. Now the adventure at the museum came flooding back, and I looked around suspiciously for wild-eyed Semitic types. Didn’t see any then, either.
I gave the bellman ten euros and asked him to find me a taxi.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
When I awoke the next morning, I was so groggy it took me a long moment to get oriented. For some reason Sarah Houston was on my mind. Isn’t it crazy how a woman who has shoved you out of her life can pop back into your psyche at any old time?
I tried to forget about Sarah and concentrate on the here and now. Grafton hadn’t given me an assignment for today, other than checking on the guys monitoring the Rodet bugs, so I figured this might be a good time to tag along after my neighbor, Elizabeth Conner. It would be interesting, if nothing else, to learn what she did with her time when she wasn’t listening on her ceiling bug to me snore or bathe. A quick squint through the infrared goggles revealed that she wasn’t downstairs, so I figured she was out for her run.
I called Willie Varner. The phone at his room in the hotel rang and rang. He got it on the eleventh ring.
“Yeah.” I had awakened him from a sound sleep.
“Hey, got a job for you. I need some help tailing a woman today.”
“Oh, man, I ain’t a mornin’ person, and I got this jet lag disease, and I just got in bed an hour ago. Been tomcattin’ around, y’know? How about this afternoon?”
“How about now, Willie? I need some help, man.”
He consented with poor grace. I gave him the address and told him to step on it.
I scrubbed the molars and got dressed as quickly as I could. I actually put on three shirts, each atop the other, and finished off with a hooded sweatshirt. The sweatshirt had a pocket in front, so I stuffed a baseball cap in there. I was putting on my shoes when I heard her door slam. She was back.
She was in the shower when I loaded my goodies in my backpack, stuffed my digital camera in my pocket, put on my windbreaker and shades, and locked the door behind me. The day was terrific — clean, clear and crisp, with a pleasant breeze in the street. The red, shiny Vespa looked wanton and wicked. Man, with a toy like this and a great city to ride it in, what was I doing wasting my time on other stuff? I left it locked up. If Conner went into a subway and I had no immediate place to park the scooter, I was screwed. Nope, it looked like a walking day.
I zipped over to the parking garage and ditched my backpack in the trunk of the rental. I thought it might be safer there than in the apartment.
My first problem was picking a spot to await Conner’s pleasure. There were actually three Metro stations within easy walking distance — one to the left as you departed our building and two to the right, toward the Rue du Faubourg St. Denis. The most likely station that she might use, I thought, was the Gare de l’Est, a major station where three lines converged. Leaving our street, she would turn left on the Rue du Faubourg and walk two blocks to the Metro station, which was, of course, immediately in front of the railroad station. From the Gare de l’Est Metro station she could take the 4 train to the Left Bank, Sorbonne district. Or she could turn right on the Rue du Faubourg and go down a couple of blocks, then a block over to the Chateau d’Eau station on the Rue de Strasbourg, which was also on the 4 train line.
I was standing in a doorway, two doors down the street from my building in the opposite direction from those two stations, trying out my French on two hookers, when a taxi rolled up and stopped. Willie Varner got out. He paid the cabbie, then stood looking around. He saw me and came sauntering toward us. A big grin spread across his face when he got a good look at the girls.
“You didn’t tell me you were livin’ in a hot neighborhood, Carmellini.”
“I’m a man of mystery.”
“What you are is a guy who don’t tell his friends shit.”
He settled himself, sort of squaring his shoulders, grinning at the women. I got him by an elbow and led him
