you will, at the very least, be forced out of the DGSE.”
Rodet said nothing.
“And there is the murder of Professor Heger of the Sorbonne. I’m sure you have seen the police report. My wife discovered the body.”
“Your wife. What business did she have with Professor Heger?”
“She wanted to ask him the name of the Algerian student who was such good friends with you twenty-five years ago, one Abu Qasim, also known as Abdullah al-Falih. Our information is that he’s a big wheel in Al Qaeda.”
“That wasn’t in the police report.”
The fact that Rodet hadn’t denied his friendship with Qasim did not escape Grafton’s notice. “She didn’t think the police needed to know that fact,” he replied. “If you wish to pass it on to them, please do.”
Grafton stood and walked to the window. With his back to Rodet, he said, “The man who could link you to Qasim has been murdered. The man who invested in Bank of Palestine stock on your behalf has been murdered. You are in an uncomfortable position, Monsieur Rodet.”
He turned to face his host. “And on top of everything, you have become a target. You don’t live in a bank vault. You have an estranged wife and a mistress. The Palestinians know of your bank stock investment, as do the Israelis. The fact is probably known to every terrorist and radical thug in that corner of the world. All these people have probably heard about the arrest of the members of the Veghel conspiracy. You are in the crosshairs, Monsieur Rodet.”
“Is that a threat?”
Grafton opened a hand. “Not from us. But the folks in the Middle East don’t hesitate to assassinate their enemies. Sooner or later they’ll come at you. It is possible that they may come at you through your family.”
“I have four men guarding my wife around the clock. Marisa and I can take care of ourselves.”
Grafton came back to the table, where he stood looking down at Rodet. “You are the one who should be shouting at me. You have a sleeper buried deep and you’ve covered his trail so well that his identity has remained a secret for twenty-five years. Twenty-five years! Then he told you of a threat that forced your hand, and you passed it to the American CIA. And someone within the CIA is dirty. He told… someone, and the source of the information got out. Yet you have not complained to or berated any of us Americans. Not the American ambassador, not George Goldberg, not me, no one.”
Grafton put his hands on the table and leaned forward. “Who is the CIA leak? Give me his name.”
Henri Rodet opened his mouth, then closed it.
They were interrupted by the knocking of the waiter and the opening of the door. Behind the waiter came another man carrying a tray.
Grafton resumed his seat. When he and Rodet were served and the wineglasses recharged, the waiters disappeared. The two men ate in silence.
When they finished, Rodet pushed his chair back and sipped on the last of the wine.
“Your man has risked his life for many years,” Grafton said. “If he is not under suspicion, he soon will be. His days are numbered. Yet he knows a great deal. If we can get him alive, we can destroy these people.”
“If you cut off one head the monster will grow another,” Rodet muttered.
Jake Grafton pushed his chair back from the table. “I am telling you the unvarnished truth,” he said. “Your secret cannot be kept. If you leave your man in place, he will eventually be ferreted out and killed.”
Rodet felt a huge weight pressing on him. The risks were great, yet no worse than they had always been. What a tragedy it would be for Abu Qasim’s friend, Henri Rodet, to betray him. As for Heger, he was gone and nothing could bring him back.
“No,” Rodet said, so softly that he thought Grafton might not have heard it. He repeated it louder and more clearly. “No. The time is not yet arrived. I ask you to trust my judgment on this matter.”
“I would, except for the fact that you are wrong. The building is on fire, and we cannot wait.”
Henri Rodet shook his head from side to side. “No,” he repeated.
Grafton threw up his hands. “I will ask you one more question: Do you have any credible information, from any source, that Al Qaeda is planning an attack on the G-8 leaders at the summit?”
“We have heard rumors, yes, dozens of them. No doubt your agency has also heard them, or similar ones. But credible information, no.”
“Thanks for lunch,” Grafton said, and walked out. He closed the door behind him.
I took a cab back to my place and unlocked the Vespa. I needed to lower the frustration level. I had had it up to here with spies and ex-cons who couldn’t follow a beer truck to a bar.
I went buzzing off, still stewing. The day was clouding up, so maybe it would rain. That would be the perfect ending to this day, let me tell you.
I was sitting at a stoplight, the little Vespa mumbling under my butt, when I realized that there were two really tan black-haired guys sitting in an old pale blue sedan in the next lane, and they were looking me over. This was not the late-model, dark sedan that had followed me to the museum. The paint on the car was chipped and sun-bleached. The tires were bald, the muffler sounded as if it were shot and a faint cloud of noxious smoke was spewing from the tailpipe. The third world had arrived in Paris.
The light changed and I goosed my ride. I putted off, riding between cars, right down the lane stripe, just the way we used to do it back in California. This maneuver left the grungy blue car behind.
Two lights later I was sure I’d lost them. I turned left and headed over to the embassy.
Grafton was down in the SCIF in the basement, staring at the photo of Rodet’s country home, which he had taped to the side of a file cabinet. Beside it was a photo taken from a helicopter or airplane of Rodet’s apartment building in town.
He gave me his full attention when I told him about my morning and produced my camera. “I would like to see if the CIA can match the photos of these women and the guy who followed me with anyone in the database.”
Grafton palmed the camera and examined it. “Tell me about the men who followed you.”
I did. I also told him about the old blue sedan I saw at the light and gave him the plate number of that car, too. “I think they’re friends of that asshole I threw through the clock.”
“But you don’t know?”
“No.”
“The guys who followed you to the museum — they knew you made them?” Sure.
Grafton sat down and idly examined the camera.
“I think Marisa and Conner are Israeli agents,” I told him. “That code that NSA was interested in this spring might have been used by Marisa, not her father, Lamoreux. The Sum of All Fears could have been the key. And Conner has a copy.”
“It’s possible,” Grafton admitted.
“Maybe you should share this possibility with your buddy Rodet.”
“Not yet.”
“He might be surprised.”
“I doubt it.”
I guess I gaped. “You think he knows?”
Grafton’s eyebrows rose and fell, and he gave a minuscule shrug.
I lost it. “Jesus, Admiral, I’m trying to do you a good job and you don’t tell me where you are!”
“I’m sorry, Tommy. The truth is I’m trying to figure out the puzzle myself.”
That took the air out of my sails.
Grafton pointed at the photos on the wall. “Take a good look at those photos and tell me if there is anything unusual about them.”
I did as he requested. That helped me get my blood pressure and heart rate back under control. My voice was absolutely normal when I said, “Look pretty innocuous to me.”
“See the satellite television dishes. There’s one on the chateau and one on the apartment building.”
“Un-huh.”
“I want you to go into Rodet’s apartment and inspect that system.”
“Okay.”
