“I thought you’d never get here,” she said and gave me a hint of a smile.
“You were waiting for me?”
“I was unsure of the best way to get in touch with you. While I was sitting in the bath, I wondered, should I just name a place and time and ask you to meet me? Or should I go somewhere and wait until you arrived? Which would you prefer in the future?”
“I called the newspapers before I came in. The photographers are gathering outside.”
The waitress brought her a bottle of white wine from the Rhone valley, and an extra glass for me. The waitress poured. The wine was dry and delicious.
“So,” Marisa said when the waitress trotted off, “are we going to sit here telling each other lies, or will you give me the real reason that you are following me?”
“The real reason. Honest injun, cross my heart and hope to die. My boss told me to.”
“Aah,” she said, as if that explained everything.
The waitress brought a menu for me, but I refused it. “Whatever she’s having,” I said, nodding at Marisa. “Bring me the same.”
The waitress smiled, sure she was in the presence of true love, and went away happy.
“If you don’t mind,” I said, “when the lunch comes we’ll trade dishes, just in case.”
She was sipping wine as if she had waited all week for this taste, yet she kept her eyes on me. Now I saw what I hadn’t seen in the photos — she looked stressed.
“Of course, if you brought your polonium with you, you can just sprinkle it all over my grub before I taste it. I’ve heard it gives you a thrill that Mexican hot sauce never will.”
She put her wineglass on the table, and I reached for her hands. Held them both — they were cold — then released one. Sure enough, she had a slight tremor. She withdrew the unattached appendage, but she held on with the other. Her hand felt solid, sensual. For a prime suspect, she felt mighty good.
“Or you can haul out your Walther and start blasting,” I said. “I’m sure everyone will understand. You do have a good lawyer, don’t you?”
She didn’t say a word. Didn’t turn a hair. I didn’t know if she ever played poker, but I wouldn’t bet ten cents with her holding cards.
“Did you poison your husband, was it your mother-in-law, or was it that swine Abu Qasim?”
Now she withdrew her hand and gave me a wan smile. “Mr. Carmellini. Tommy. I know you mean well, that you are a soldier for good and righteousness and those other American things.” With her French accent, the words really sounded cool. Corny, but cool. “I wish for you to deliver a message to Admiral Grafton.”
I sipped wine as I thought about things. “Okay,” I said. “Shoot.”
“He knows all the names, including yours, and he plans to kill all of you.
“My name?”
“Those are my words for Admiral Grafton.”
By “him” I figured she could only mean Abu Qasim. A cold chill slid down my spine. Four days ago Jake Grafton had predicted murder as Abu Qasim’s goal, and had named the targets.
After a moment’s thought, I asked the obvious question. “How did he learn the names?”
“My husband told him.”
“I’ll give Grafton the message,” I said.
She appeared sincere, the mask gone.
Or she was one hell of an actress.
I wondered which was the case.
“Thanks for the wine.” I rose, nodded at the startled waitress and walked out.
If you thought I was going to have a relaxing lunch with the prime suspect in a husband poisoning, and perhaps another, you’re nuts. I wouldn’t have even touched the wine if I had seen her hand near the bottle. Marisa could pay the lunch tab. I figured she could afford it.
Sheikh Mahmoud al-Taji met his visitor in a safe room in the basement of the mosque. His visitor had entered the mosque in full robe and headpiece, so no one had gotten a good look at his face. Even if they had, he was heavily made up, wearing a full beard.
This basement room was the safest place for private conversations. The room was completely suspended upon shock absorbers in the middle of a larger room and surrounded with insulation. Installed on the floors and walls of the basement were amplifiers that broadcast the sounds from within the mosque above.
“It is good to see you again, Abu Qasim.”
“I need to pray. Will you pray with me?”
The two knelt on the rugs and prayed to Allah, the all-merciful. When they had finished, they sat upon the rugs and conferred in low tones.
“It was as you said it would be,” al-Taji said. “The English courts did not convict me. Truly, we can use these people’s laws against them. They are tied up in their own contradictions.”
Al-Taji thought that the English were stupid, with their insistence on the rule of law. He took a moment now to expand upon that theme. It was Allah who ruled, and his words given through the Prophet were supreme. The English had lost their god somewhere along the way, and were the worse lor it.
Abu Qasim knew Western society was more complex, but he didn’t choose to discuss it with the sheikh. They had more important things to occupy them.
“The Americans killed Rameid,” Qasim said, “in his refuge at the base of the mountains. Killed him two days ago with a long-range rifle.”
Al-Taji was taken aback. “May he rest in peace,” he muttered.
“I, too, am a hunted man, as you know. One suspects that you also are a target.”
“But the English did not convict me!”
“They did not convict Rameid, either,” Abu Qasim pointed out, “or Abdul-Zahra Mohammed or the others. They use the law when it suits them and the bullet or the knife when that suits them. Underestimating the infidels is a grave mistake. They are in league with the Devil, as you know.”
“I have given my soul to jihad,” al-Taji said forcefully, “and Paradise awaits. I am at peace. Inshallah.”
They sat there the rest of the afternoon discussing the secret army that hunted them, and its leader, Jake Grafton. Discussed and planned and plotted revenge, which, as every man of the desert knew to the depths of his soul, is life’s sweetest experience.
As he contemplated the prospect, Sheikh Mahmoud al-Taji smiled.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
“She says he knows all the names, including yours, and he plans to kill all of you.”
I was talking on the encrypted satellite phone to Jake Grafton, who was somewhere in America, I thought; he flitted around like a moth on crack. He was silent after I gave him Marisa’s message. He was silent so long that I thought maybe we had lost the connection. “You still there?” I asked.
“Yeah. Gimme a moment to think.”
More silence.
Finally I said, “Looks like your crystal ball is giving you good dope.”
“I have to see some people here. I’ll call you tomorrow about noon your time. Okay?” Sure.
I was staying in a cheap hotel on the Left Bank — the bedroom was so small that I had to crawl over the bed to get to the bathroom — and eating in cheap restaurants. The steady decline of the dollar hadn’t been reflected in the per diem rates. If it got much worse, I was going to be living under an overpass and pushing my stuff around in a stolen shopping cart.
Since Per and another guy from the embassy had the night watch on the Petrou chateau if Marisa decided to sally forth — or if someone tried to get in to do the Petrou women — that evening I played tourist, strolling the sidewalks along the Seine and wishing the season were summer. It wasn’t. Still, Paris was full of lovers, bundled up and strolling arm in arm, looking at the lights.
I like Paris. You can have Chicago if you wish; Paris is my kind of town.
