I was tempted to tell her that I was a pro, but decided maybe the truth was best. “It’s an act.”
We hiked over the bridge to the island and presented ourselves to the guard at the gate. He waved us into the reception room. “We’d like to see Jean-Paul Arnaud,” I said to the uniformed gendarme. “We don’t have an appointment. My name is Terry Shannon.”
“Passport, please.” The man was portly, with a mustache that needed trimming. He had sad eyes. His younger colleague, who hadn’t been eating as well, looked bored.
I surrendered the document, and the portly man held out his hand for Sarah’s. I was watching his eyes, and they showed no surprise when she produced a diplomatic passport from her small purse. Traitors must call here on a daily basis.
“Have a seat,” he said, and glanced at a row of molded plastic chairs. We perched there.
“Maybe we oughta hold hands,” I suggested, and reached for one of hers. She slipped it into mine. It was cool and firm, very pleasant. Ah, yes. I remembered.
There is a theory about the power of the human touch, something about it being the most subtle form of sex. Certainly it is the most sensual. Not that I was getting some sort of perverted thrill out of holding Sarah Houston’s hand there in the public reception area of the Conciergerie as the man with the sad eyes ignored us, the bored fellow read a newspaper and a cleaning lady worked around us, but I was enjoying it. I even gave her hand a tiny squeeze and got one in return. When I met her eyes she glanced away; her hand stayed where it was.
The woman was one hell of an actress. If I didn’t know better, I would have thought she still liked me. Believe me, if the guards were paying attention, they would have been fooled. It is a pleasure working with a pro. And her hand felt really good.
Life is short — enjoy it.
Ten pleasant minutes after we arrived, a man in a suit and tie appeared and escorted us along a hallway. I had been here before with Jake Grafton, but this was different. If we screwed this up, we weren’t going to be strolling out of here — we were going to the basement to see the toys. For some reason I felt warm and my palms were sweating.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
When I awoke the next morning a fine cold rain spattered on my little window and gurgled in the gutter and downspout, which were right outside. I had the window open a couple of inches, so I went over and sat on the floor where I could feel the cool breeze coming through the gap.
This little room was a very pleasant place, and Paris was a great city. I wished I were really Terry G. Shannon, travel hack, with nothing on my agenda but visiting tourist sites and updating guidebook descriptions of hotels and restaurants. “Sorry, but the cassoulet isn’t up to your rating. Au revoir and better luck next time.”
I took the belt out of the trousers I wore yesterday and casually inspected it as I listened to the rain running off the roof and let the cool autumn wind play across my arms and face.
Grafton had said I could leave the agency after this assignment, and maybe I should. I was thoroughly sick of spooks and spies and vans with bodies.
I guess I was really sick of myself.
Sarah Houston was a nice woman; she had made her mistakes and paid for them, and so had I. Maybe—
There was a listening device in my belt. The French technicians had cut a small hole in the leather for it and woven the transmitter antenna wire into the stitching. The wire was tiny, about the diameter of a human hair, difficult to see unless one looked closely.
Should I wear this belt, or my other one?
This one, I decided. The game was up in the air, still to be decided.
Part of the problem was that the admiral wasn’t in the habit of sharing his ratiocinations with me, which was to be expected, I guess, since I had a part to play in his drama. I was sure he thought there was nothing to be gained by burdening me with superfluous information.
Such as, why did he change the plan? When we came to France, we were going to dangle the Intelink in front of Henri Rodet. After all, he was the dude with the Al Qaeda source. But now we were conning Jean-Paul Arnaud, the Number Two spook. Did Arnaud and Rodet talk? Was Arnaud the villain? Did Rodet really have a spy buried in Al Qaeda, or was that a fiction for foreign consumption? Why was the Mossad stooging around? Was Marisa Petrou a double agent? Who shot Claude Bruguiere? More to the point, who the heck shot Alberto Salazar and Rich Thurlow?
It could have been me in that van instead of Al and Rich. Me! Mrs. Carmellini’s son, Tommy.
I could have been sitting there thinking a twisted little thought when the door opened and pop, pop, life ended for me, just like that.
I was examining that reality when my cell phone rang, making me jump. I snatched it up and looked at the number. Willie Varner.
I reminded myself that the DGSE techs were listening to my side of the conversation, and perhaps Willie’s too.
“Hello.”
“I’m in a Seven Four Seven flyin’ over England, Carmellini. Adios, asshole.” The reception was perfect, his voice right in my ear. I figured he was lying. He continued. “I told you I was gettin’ outta frog-land when the shit hit the fan, and by God, I meant it.” Yeah, he was lying. “I’m still alive, no thanks to you.”
“You could have borrowed my Superman suit, you know, so those bullets would bounce right off.”
He sighed. “You don’t believe me, do you?”
“No.”
“The sailor has me doing important secret shit. I can’t tell you anythin’ about it. Don’t call me wantin’ somethin’. And stay outta trouble, dude.”
“Okay.”
He hung up.
I knew Willie Varner wouldn’t boogie, no matter what he said. Willie would stick like glue. If he wasn’t that kind of guy, he wouldn’t be worth knowing.
The sailor was, of course, Grafton. If they were monitoring the cell phone conversation, the French spooks would never figure that out. Right. But what did Grafton have Willie the Wire doing? I spent a couple of minutes speculating, then gave up.
I hoped Jake Grafton knew who the players were and who had the ball. I certainly didn’t.
I levered myself up and headed for the bathroom.
“There are the contents of Rodet’s hard drive,” Sarah Houston said to Jake Grafton. She pointed toward the computer screen. Grafton stood looking over her shoulder at a sea of computer symbols. They were in the SCIF in the basement of the embassy, in a tiny little room. On the walls were a calendar and a photo of the World Trade Center collapsing.
“The contents are encrypted,” Sarah explained. “The code breakers at NSA are going to have to sort this out.”
“Okay. Send it to them. Encrypted, of course.”
Sarah attacked the keyboard. A minute later she said, “It’s gone. Sorry I couldn’t crack it.”
“Well, it was a long shot.” Jake dropped into the only other chair.
She handed him a single sheet of paper. “You asked for the telephone numbers from Gator Zantz’s cell phone. Here they are.”
Grafton looked them over. “You’re sure about all of these.”
“Yep.”
Grafton folded the paper once, very neatly, then doubled it up, making all the edges touch. He inspected it to make sure it was perfectly square. Then he put it in his pocket. “Let’s talk about your visit with Arnaud,” he said. “Are you comfortable with the technology?”
She nodded. “It’ll let him into your fake files.”
