the first trash can she passed. Then she licked her sticky fingers. She walked along holding on to his arm as she listened to the rest of the story.
He gave me the high-end telephone computer, a Palm, that he used to compose and encrypt the messages he sent to Qasim, and to decrypt the messages he got from him. I put the thing in a safe at the embassy.”
“The searchers didn’t find it? Where did he keep it?”
“His girlfriend, Marisa, had it in her purse.”
“And she’s Mossad?”
“Perhaps.”
“Why didn’t she jet off to Israel with the computer?”
Jake merely glanced at his wife, who answered her own question. “Oh. She’s in love with him.”
“That’s my take on it.”
“Or she thinks there is nothing on the computer’s memory to get,” Callie said.
“I liked the love angle better.”
“Men always do,” his wife said. “They’re hopelessly romantic.”
He went on, telling her about his conversation with Rodet. “He gave me some names of people that Qasim says have been hired by Al Qaeda, and he gave me that computer, which may or may not have anything on it. And… he didn’t tell me anything about Qasim.”
“Nothing?”
“Said he loved him like a son. But he didn’t tell me where he is or what he’s doing — none of that.”
“So if he gave you the computer he uses to communicate with Qasim, how is he going to do it now?”
Jake Grafton stopped, turned and stared at Callie. “I didn’t think to ask him that,” he admitted, and started walking again.
They walked along in silence for a few minutes. Finally Callie said, “It sounds as if Rodet is trying to protect him.”
“The best thing he can do for that man is get him out of wherever he is.”
“Maybe he’s trying to protect Qasim from himself.” When her husband eyed her, Callie added, “Perhaps Qasim doesn’t want to leave. Perhaps there is nothing more Rodet can say to him. Or… Qasim has nothing more to say to Henri Rodet.”
Jake Grafton stared at Callie for several seconds. Then a big grin split his face and he kissed her. “You’re a genius,” he said, laughing. “Man, am I glad you married me!”
“What did I say?”
“I’ve been racking my brains, and you just explained everything — everything?” He snapped his fingers. “Just like that!”
He walked along in silence, holding her hand. Finally he said, “Man, I would really like to know what’s on that little computer.”
“Can’t Sarah Houston or the NSA cryptographers give you a plain English text?”
“Oh, given enough time, I’m sure they can, but we’re running out. The G-8 meeting is next week.”
“So you don’t have many options. Your only choice is to assume you know the contents and go on from there,” she said. “You’ll have to fake it.”
He grinned. “Why not?”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
The next morning Jake Grafton found Sarah Houston in the SCIF. She had the photo that Tommy Carmellini took of Elizabeth Conner on the screen of her computer.
“Her real name is Ruth Cohen,” Sarah said. “Her parents immigrated to Israel when she was five years old.” She hit a key, and a photo of Cohen in a school uniform appeared. “This was taken five years ago in Tel Aviv when she graduated from high school.” Another picture. “This one was taken last year in Iraq. She was with a group of Israeli scientists looking for evidence of weapons of mass destruction.”
Another keystroke, and Carmellini’s photo of the man who followed him appeared. Sarah pronounced his name. “The computer matches this photo with one the French took for his internal ID card. He is an emigrant from Morocco.”
Now the picture of Marisa Petrou appeared on the screen. Keystrokes followed, and photos appeared one after another. In each one she got younger. “School pictures, passport photos,” Sarah murmured. In the last one, Marisa looked to be about twelve years old.
“This is the oldest one I can find. She was a student at a private school in Switzerland. Name was Marisa Lamoreux.”
“How about a birth certificate?” Grafton asked.
“Nothing yet.”
“Keep looking when you have the time. Today is the day you and Tommy turn traitor.”
Sarah and I walked from the embassy to the Metro, rode it for a few stops, then walked toward the river and the Conciergerie. It was a raw, windy day, with clouds of autumn leaves swirling around. Just keeping your hat on in the gusts took some doing. I kept my eyes peeled for Arabs on motorcycles or in junker cars and didn’t see any. Sarah was quiet, walking with her hands in her pockets.
“I don’t think this is a good idea,” she told Jake Grafton before we left the embassy.
“Objection noted,” Grafton said. He looked tired, as if he weren’t getting much sleep. I had no sympathy — I spent a miserable night on a basement bunk and was wearing the same clothes I wore all day yesterday. Someone produced a spare toothbrush and disposable razor, so I felt as if I were still a member of the human race. On the other hand, perhaps I should have had my visit with the Paris police, then retired to my cozy garret on the Rue Paradis, complete with hot water and bathtub, clean clothes and comfy bed. Say what you will, but the truth is, war is hell.
“I don’t know if I can do this,” Sarah said to Jake Grafton when he sat us down to brief us.
“It’s only for a few days,” Grafton replied. “Pretend that you’re in love. Hold hands, look soulfully into Tommy’s eyes, hang on his every word, even when they aren’t watching, because they might be.”
“That’s the part I don’t like,” she said acidly. “I volunteered to serve my country and all that, but this is very close to prostitution.”
“Perilously close,” I chirped. “What would your mother say?”
“Objection duly noted,” Grafton said with finality. He went on to discuss codes and protocol and other technical stuff that Sarah understood and I didn’t. Finally he got around to it. “I want you to tell your tale to Jean- Paul Arnaud, the deputy director. Ask for him and refuse to talk to anyone else.”
I got a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. This whole thing was going south, and quickly. “Why not Rodet?” I asked. “The way we planned it?”
“There’s been a change of plans.”
“Why do I have this feeling that you’re not telling us all of it?”
“I don’t want to burden you with all of it. Unless I am seriously mistaken, you’re going to be strapped to a polygraph before the day is out.”
“Oh, joy,” Sarah said bitterly.
“The less you know the better.”
“Oh, for the love of—,” I began, but Grafton cut me off with one of his looks. The admiral’s stare, with those cold gray eyes, could stopper Niagara. Needless to say, it always did a job on me. Those were the moments when I was glad I had never been in the Navy.
Sarah cleared her throat and said, “And just how do you propose that we pass polygraph exams?”
Grafton grinned. “I thought you’d never ask. Here’s how you’re going to do it.” And he told her. Me, I didn’t ask. When you’ve told as many lies as I have, you get pretty good at it.
As we walked along, the cold wind gave Sarah’s cheeks a nice rosy hue. Except for the fact that she had a seriously warped psyche, she was a nice person. I reminded myself that no one is perfect.
“How can you be so calm?” she asked.
