control whom she was paying, what your job was… name, rank and serial number. Do you honestly think the Mossad doesn’t know?”
Gator Zantz looked hastily around, right, left. He had his hands free and he was shifting his weight from foot to foot. When he looked back at Grafton the admiral was still sitting comfortably, but he had the wireless Taser in his hand — wasn’t pointing it anywhere, just holding it. Zantz stared at it, mesmerized.
“So the question remains, Why did you kill her?”
Zantz swallowed. Cleared his throat. Finally he said, “You don’t have enough evidence to convince a jury of anything. Speculation won’t cut it in court.”
“I feel responsible, in a way,” the admiral mused. “I knew you had her telephone number and that was enough to initiate an internal investigation. I should have done that. If I had, Elizabeth Conner might still be alive. I thought we could investigate when things settled down. And, truthfully, I didn’t think you were so damned stupid that you’d kill somebody.”
“My God,” Zantz declared, “she was an Israeli spy!”
“And you’re an American traitor. If I just kill you where you stand, it’ll be no big deal, right?”
“You wouldn’t kill me.”
“You like to gamble. How much you want to bet?”
Zantz just stood there looking at the admiral, breathing in and out, not saying anything.
“Give me your diplomatic passport and embassy pass.”
“Does this mean I’m fired?”
“Take it any way you like.”
Zantz thought about it for a moment, then removed both documents from his pocket. He tossed them on the ground. “How am I going to get out of France without a passport?”
“Your problem.”
“Now, listen here, goddamn it! I’m an American citizen, an agency employee. I’m innocent until proven guilty. You can’t treat me like dog shit.”
Grafton shrugged. “If you like, we’ll waive your immunity. The French will probably be willing to arrest you and see if they can put together a case. You don’t have the right to remain silent in a French court — you talk or go to prison. Or we can take you back to the States and prosecute you for espionage. Who knows, maybe the Mossad will cooperate, Rodet and Marisa Petrou might be persuaded to talk, you might get a cell beside Jonathan Pollard. Or you might beat the rap.”
“Fuck you.”
“You really are stupid. I’ve wasted enough air on you. Scram.”
“What?”
“I’m giving you a running start, Zantz. Make the most of it. The Mossad will be looking for you.”
“Are you nuts? I might defect, sell secrets to the highest bidder. Then you’ll look like a fool!”
“What country is going to want you? Israel? France? You don’t know anything the Russians want to know and you’d be an embarrassment. You’re a problem no one needs. On the other hand, perhaps Iran—“
“You bastard! I’ll see you in hell.”
“No more badmouth. Beat it.” Jake pointed the weapon and squeezed the trigger. The laser beam shot out and touched Zantz on the chest. Jake released the trigger before the capacitor discharged. “Now!” he said.
Gator Zantz turned and walked along the driveway until he disappeared around the house.
Callie Grafton insisted on staying with Marisa Petrou in the emergency room as the nurses prepped her for surgery. One of the nurses was washing her, cleaning her up the best she could.
One of the doctors tried to explain in poor English, and Callie asked him to switch to French.
“Cleaning and suturing her wounds should be done in the operating room. I don’t think she is in immediate danger unless she goes into shock. She has lost a lot of blood. Still, she is young, with a strong heart.”
“What about her face?” Being a woman, Callie had to ask.
“I have sent for the plastic surgeon. We will see what he says.”
“I must see Monsieur Rodet before he goes into surgery. It is urgent.”
The doctor nodded at one of the nurses, who led Callie through the hallways to the X-ray department. Rodet was on a gurney. The bullet had ripped a gash in his side and apparently broken a rib. The staff was going to X-ray him to ensure no fragment of the bullet was in his chest. He was conscious.
She leaned over so he could see her. The nurses were installing IVs on both arms. His face was pasty, covered with sweat. “I am Callie Grafton, Admiral Grafton’s wife. Marisa is going into surgery. The doctor was hopeful. He says she has a strong heart.”
“Her heart…,” he whispered.
“They are going to sedate you momentarily and operate. Before they do, you must tell me what you know of Abu Qasim.”
“I know nothing. Those fools …”
“When you saw him twenty-five years ago, what did he look like?”
“Medium height, strong features, an expressive mouth, the Arab nose.”
That was almost useless. Callie tried to maintain her composure. “How did you pass him the telephone computer?”
“A dead drop in Riyadh. Two years ago when the telephone first came out.”
“And the code?”
“Onetime pads.”
“S’il vousplait, madame,” a nurse said. “We must X-ray him now.”
“A moment more,” she pleaded. She touched Henri Rodet on the hand. “Where is your pad?”
It took him a second to process it. “It’s a memo pad on my desk,” he whispered. “You must apply heat.” She had to lean over and place her ear near his mouth to hear the rest of it. “Place des Vosges… ” That was all he managed, then the sedative put him under.
Callie watched the nurses move him from the gurney to the X-ray table, then left.
As she passed the waiting room, she glanced in and saw Sarah Houston there in earnest conversation with the attendant. She had never met her, but she knew who she was. She went in.
“I’m Callie Grafton,” she said. “May I help?”
“I can’t make this man understand,” Sarah explained. “He doesn’t speak English. I want to see Tommy.”
She stood there watching as Callie and the attendant shot French back and forth at each other. The attendant made a telephone call, then shook his head.
“Monsieur Shannon is conscious,” Callie related. “They’re moving him to a room. It’ll be a few minutes.”
The women moved to a window. “Thanks,” Sarah said. “Bonjour is about all I can manage.”
The two women talked desultorily, unwilling to say anything that might be overheard about the events at Rodet’s chateau, or even why they were in Paris.
Soon they were on their way to see Carmellini, who was in a private room.
I had been awake awhile and talking to the one nurse who spoke a little English when Sarah Houston and Callie Grafton walked into the room. They both looked pretty damn good, let me tell you, although they were a little fuzzy. I was having some trouble focusing my eyes. Hey.
“Hey there yourself, cowboy,” Sarah said. “What have you been into this time?”
“Got a hole in my leg. They stitched it up in the emergency room, they said. Took eight stitches. Barbed wire. They gave me another tetanus shot. I get one every year, seems like.”
“You should get into another line of work,” Callie said, reaching for my left hand. Sarah had already latched on to my right, and her hand felt terrific.
“No joke.”
“Nothing else wrong?”
“Little concussion and some bruises. I’ll be out of here in a little while.”
“They said we couldn’t stay long. I’ll let you and Sarah chat. I’ll be in the waiting room, Sarah.”
“Okay.”
Callie bent over, gave me a peck on the cheek, and left.
“Cool lady,” I told Sarah.
“Are you really leaving the company when you get home?”
