“Ah, Arnaud. They have decided to call me on every police matter that might have any intelligence implications, so you and I are going to become closely acquainted.” The inspector gestured with his hand. “A car bomb.”
“Victims?”
“Apparently none. The car was a rental. It was rented to an American, a Terry Shannon.” He held out a slip of paper with the passport number and local address. “One of our clerks did a routine check and it came back a hit. So we called you.”
Arnaud glanced at the paper. “Shannon… Wasn’t he the American attacked by thugs at the Musee d’Orsay?”
“Yes.”
Arnaud folded the paper once and pocketed it as Papin briefed him on the investigation so far of this bombing. “Initial indications are that the explosive was a military type. We’ll have more when the chemists finish their work. We have yet to determine how the bomb was triggered. We’ll be examining the wreckage, but that will take a while.”
“Suspects?”
“Not yet. Nor have we questioned Shannon. Do you have any objections?”
“Treat it as a routine police matter.”
“Very good. We’ll try to find him this evening.”
“Keep me advised, will you?”
“Of course.”
“And the Bruguiere killing? Anything new?”
“Nothing yet.” The inspector hesitated, as if trying to make up his mind.
Arnaud waited, perfectly willing to give the man his moment.
“This afternoon two French Muslims on motorcycles chased a motor scooter through Paris. They crashed. One is dead, the other is in the hospital. We will question the survivor as soon as he is fully awake, although, as you know, these people usually refuse to say anything. And, of course, none of the people we talked to noted or remembered the license number of the scooter. I did have the motor vehicle registration people run a check, and, as it happens, several days ago Terry Shannon bought a scooter.”
Rodet frowned.
“Shannon is having a memorable visit to Paris, by any measure. Islamic thugs attacked him yesterday in the Musee d’Orsay, this afternoon his car exploded, and this evening he may or may not have fled from two thugs on motorcycles.”
“Perhaps he should go home,” Arnaud muttered.
“One wishes he would,” the policeman said. “He has been extraordinarily lucky so far, but with luck there is always a limit. The examining magistrate may forward a request to the ministry that he be expelled from France.”
Arnaud scrutinized Papin’s face, then nodded curtly. “Keep me informed,” he said.
As the deputy director of the DGSE walked away, he thought about Papin’s comment: “With luck there is always a limit.”
“The people who searched your apartment are trying to discover the method that you use to talk to Qasim,” Jake Grafton said conversationally to Henri Rodet as they stood in the center of the disaster area.
Rodet could think only of his friend Qasim. Even looking at the trash strewn about the floor, the personal danger this mess implied seemed but an annoyance. Qasim laid his life on the line every single minute of every single day, and he had been doing it for twenty-five years. And yet…
Those bastards! Breaking in here!
From his pocket he pulled a pistol. He aimed it at a painting on the wall of the Algerian desert, one he acquired as a youth, and pulled the trigger over and over again.
The booming roars filled the room.
The action was so unexpected that Jake Grafton stood stock still, watching.
Only after Rodet had jerked savagely at the trigger several times and gotten no reports because the pistol was completely empty did the American breathe again.
Rodet pocketed his weapon and stalked into his bedroom. He rooted through the pillow feathers and underwear and clothes strewn over the floor until he found a box of cartridges. Then he returned to the sitting room.
When the pistol was reloaded and back in Rodet’s pocket, only then did Jake Grafton say, “You’ve been passing Qasim’s intelligence to the Israelis for years, and they haven’t used it in a manner that would betray him. Why don’t you trust the Americans?”
“I could write a book.”
Grafton took a deep breath, sighed, then stirred the trash with a toe. “They are getting very close,” he said softly. “Qasim’s life is hanging by a thread. So is yours.” He gestured angrily and roared, “These people mean business, and they don’t give a damn who knows it. If you don’t use some sense and get him out of there, they’ll kill you. If that doesn’t shut him up, they’ll purge their organization, kill everyone who might be the leak. Think Joe Stalin. Now, that outcome wouldn’t be a disaster, if your man was already out of there.” He paused and scrutinized Henri Rodet’s face. “Think about it,” he said softly.
“I have been thinking,” Rodet said, “and probably not too clearly. The truth is I’m in over my head, and so is my source.” He rubbed his face with both hands. “I love Abu Qasim like a younger brother … or the son I never had.” He took a few seconds to compose himself, then spoke again. “Did you ever have a son?”
“Thousands,” Jake Grafton shot back. Rodet looked surprised.
“Have you ever been to the American cemetery at Normandy?” Grafton asked. He didn’t wait for a reply. “Young Americans have been fighting for freedom, for liberty, since the American Revolution. They’ve fought kings, rebels, dictators, Communist oligarchies, and now religious fanatics. They’ve been maimed and killed on battlefields all over this planet. Black, white, yellow, brown, they come from the four corners of the earth and obey the orders of elected officials. Those officials have made many mistakes, sometimes grievous ones, but still young people step forward to wear an American uniform, to fight for the flag. They’re my sons and daughters; all of them — soldiers, sailors, Marines, airmen — every last one of ‘em.”
“But a son you have known and loved?” Rodet said, unwilling to drop the point.
Grafton gathered himself. “When the planes crashed into the World Trade Center and the buildings were on fire, Port Authority police and New York City police and firefighters rushed to the site and charged into those buildings to save as many people as they could. They died by the dozens when the buildings collapsed.” His voice was husky now. He leaned toward Rodet; their faces were only a few inches apart. “On that day three thousand innocent people were murdered by madmen. Those people were my flesh and blood— I claim them all.”
Rodet found a place to sit. He closed his eyes so he wouldn’t have to look at his ransacked apartment.
Finally he spoke. “So far we’ve been lucky — the Islamic fundamentalists have used true believers as soldiers. But they’re sitting beside the biggest river of money the world has ever known. It was inevitable that sooner or later they would use some of that money to pay infidels to go places they can’t, to supply expertise they don’t have, to fight the holy war as hired mercenaries. They’re doing all three now.”
Jake swept the trash from a chair and sat down as Henri Rodet continued to talk.
When I heard the shots, my heart about stopped. If that frog bastard shot Grafton—
I scrambled for the door to the sitting room and jerked it open. Saw Rodet put another one into a painting. He killed it dead as hell. When his gun was empty I closed the door and went back to Marisa. Her face was a study as she scrutinized mine.
When I didn’t say anything she moved toward the sitting room door. She stood about six inches from it and looked rapt. She might as well have glued her ear to the door. I thought she got most of it.
When she looked my way, I waggled my finger. She ignored me. It was amazing how good she was at that.
Time dragged. I got tired of looking at Marisa and sat thinking about Al and Rich out there in that van.
Finally, after an age and a half, Rodet appeared in the door. He motioned for Marisa, who by then was over by the sink noisily storing things in cabinets. She picked up her purse and went into the sitting room.
I sort of followed along to see what was happening. I was standing in the doorway when I saw her hand
