“No joke.” He hung up.
“Musee Picasso,” I said to my chariot driver. He didn’t seem flustered or excited, so I guess he knew where it was.
“She’s inside,” Rich Thurlow reported. “Went in the main entrance.”
“Have Al go in and keep an eye on her. How many exits does that building have?”
“I dunno.”
The taxi rolled sedately alongside the sidewalk outside the front entrance and drifted to a stop. Being a fiscally prudent government employee, I gave the driver a two-euro tip. I did, however, leave him the newspaper with the nifty photos.
I called Rich as I walked across the courtyard. “Where is she?”
“The Blue Period Gallery.”
As I went in the door I saw the sedan stop and two guys get out. They might have been the same two I saw on the Rue Paradis, but I didn’t take the time to make sure.
The museum is a mansion from days gone by. Built in 1656, it now houses the paintings and sculptures the French government screwed out of the Picasso heirs in lieu of death taxes; a monument, if you will, to the fact that Pablo didn’t know any good lawyers.
I zipped across the courtyard and up the steps of the main entrance.
When I had gone through the short queue and passed the ticket lady, I took stock. It was nearly noon. The gift shop and cafe were on the ground floor. I headed in that direction.
I was in the gift shop hiding behind a rack of art books when I spotted Elizabeth Conner crossing the hall, heading for the cafe. I snapped a photo of her with the digital camera, then called Rich on the cell phone.
“We’re doing his Cubist stuff now.”
“Time to fade, fella. Leave her.”
“I’m gone.”
One of my tails came into the lobby and busied himself with a guidebook. I got four pictures of him. He didn’t seem to notice.
Six minutes later Marisa Petrou crossed the hall and went into the cafe. I got a three-quarter photo of her face with the zoom out as far as it would go as she went by.
With both the women in the cafe, I strolled toward the exit. My tail turned his back to me as I walked past.
The sedan was still at the curb with the driver inside. I made a mental note of the license number. I walked to the Metro stop and went down the stairs.
Sure enough, two of them joined me on the platform, the guy from the lobby of the museum and another one. I ignored them. When the train pulled in, I got aboard. At the very last second, as the door was closing, I got off.
They didn’t make it; the train pulled out with them aboard. They stood looking at me out the window, their faces expressionless, as the train went past, one of them with his cell phone to his ear. I wondered about the reception down here in this tunnel.
I climbed the stairs, crossed over to the other platform and caught the next train going the other way.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Henri Rodet had little to say to Jake Grafton as they waited for their wine, which Rodet had chosen. He watched the sommelier open the bottle, sipped experimentally and said, “Bon.”
The sounds of the street were strangely muffled, even though the window was open a trifle, admitting just a hint of cool autumn air.
Rodet savored his wine as he scrutinized the American’s face. Grafton didn’t seem to mind. He glanced at Rodet from time to time, looked about the room, studied the pictures, which were original oils by unknowns, and loosened his tie. His suit, Rodet noticed, was not well made, the fit only so-so. Still, Grafton looked, Rodet thought, like a man in perfect control of himself, supremely self-confident. Ah, yes, Rodet remembered: Grafton had been a combat aviator, one of those fools who bets his life on his flying skill, again and again and again.
So what, precisely, did the American know about Abu Qasim?
They were sitting in silence, each waiting for the other to begin the conversation, when there was a knocking on the door, then the waiter entered. Rodet raised his eyebrows at Jake, who made a gesture with his hand. Rodet ordered for both of them.
When the waiter departed, Rodet said, “You wished to talk, Admiral. This is your chance.”
Grafton nodded. “You have an agent in Al Qaeda,” he said. “I came to ask you to share the information he gives you.”
Rodet took his time answering. He had been thinking all morning, trying to decide the best way to handle this, and he hadn’t yet reached a decision. Finally he said, “Without admitting or denying that assertion, I wish to discuss with you the delicate position anyone would be in, if, indeed, he were privy to the information of such an agent. Needless to say, secret information begins to lose its exclusivity when the circle of people with access is expanded. In the world in which we live, inevitably, sooner or later, whispers that such information exists will begin to circulate.” Grafton said nothing, merely listened.
“Then there is the information itself. The greater the revelation, the greater the temptation to put newly acquired, valuable knowledge to use. Your use of knowledge reveals that you have it. If it was acquired by spying, those who have been spied upon will inevitably begin looking for the leak.”
Now Grafton spoke. “All this is true, of course, and true of every piece of secret intelligence.”
“Aah, not quite. The more possible sources there are for any given secret, the smaller the probability the owner will find the leak. In the hypothetical you describe, there could only be one source.”
“One?”
“Just one.”
“So you have arrived at a logical absurdity,” Grafton said softly. “Your spy sends you information that you cannot use for fear of endangering him. His sacrifice is for naught, his information of no practical value.”
Henri Rodet reached for the wine bottle and refilled his glass. When the bottle was again sitting on the table, he lifted his glass. Over its rim, he looked at Grafton and said, “I think you understand the problem.”
“I am not so sure that you do,” Grafton shot back. “When you revealed the Veghel conspiracy, you knew there were going to be arrests. And there were. So now the Al Qaeda leaders are looking for the leak they know must be there.”
From a pocket Grafton produced the cell phone that Tommy Carmellini had taken from Muhammed Nadal and slid it across the table. “On that phone are nine telephone numbers. Here is a list of the people they belong to.” From an inside pocket he produced a folded sheet of paper. This, too, he pushed across the table. “All these people are Muslims living in France. We think they are Al Qaeda soldiers.”
“Where did you get the telephone?” Rodet asked.
“My aide, Terry Shannon, and I were followed yesterday when we left the Conciergerie. Shannon recognized the man. Then Shannon was followed yesterday afternoon when he left the embassy. He took the telephone off one of the thugs and threw another through the clock at the Musee d’Orsay.”
“Oh, yes,” Rodet said. He had seen the photo of the clock in the newspapers earlier and read of the incident in his morning brief. “And the list?”
“You can find anything on the Internet.”
Rodet let that one go by. “A few obnoxious Muslim thugs do not prove your point. Nor do they prove your hypothesis, which was the assertion that I have an agent inside Al Qaeda.”
“I am not a lawyer and this is not a court,” Grafton said. “Contemplate the situation for a moment. Someone killed Claude Bruguiere, who, as it happens, had completed a transaction at the Bank of Palestine in your name a few months ago. One might theorize that he was killed because he knew too much about that transaction, that the man who sent him to Amman killed him to shut him up. That would be you or someone who wants to smear you. If the authorities suspect you of the murder or your connection to the Bank of Palestine becomes public knowledge,
