That was the upside. If it went bad and started to stink, I would take the fall; they would tell Congress that they were trying to fight the good fight and I botched it.” He shrugged. “This terror war has got them twitchy. They must be seen to be fighting the good fight, giving it their all. Their mistake, they would explain, was trusting an incompetent — that Grafton fool. But, by God, they tried.”
“Why are you telling me all this? I kinda wish you hadn’t.” I silently promised myself that I would never, ever again complain about Grafton not telling me things.
“I need your help,” Grafton said, his eyes pinning me again. “If we can kill Abu Qasim, this whole mess will have been worth whatever it costs, including a prosecution and trip to the pen for me.”
“The terrorists have lots of soldiers,” I pointed out.
“And damn few really good generals. Qasim is unique. He speaks five or six languages, has a network all over Europe and the Middle East — maybe even in America — and he thinks big. Most of these guys think small. They are small. Qasim is a great white shark with brains.”
I watched his face, which mesmerized me. The years had left crow’s-feet around his eyes and weathered his skin. Still, behind those gray eyes I could see the fire. Jake Grafton was a warrior to the last drop of blood. Sitting there beside him, I could feel the heat of that flame.
Maybe I’m a fool, but I would have followed the man through the gates of hell to shoot it out with the Devil — and it looked to me as if that was precisely where he intended to go.
“The key is Marisa Petrou,” he said. “She knows this bastard better than anyone alive, and I’ve got a hunch she knows what he’s planning.”
His eyes were focused on infinity. I had seen him like that before when he was trying to see what other men could not.
The admiral was silent for a while. Then he said, “The Islamic jihadists want to destroy civilization. They reject religious freedom and the right of others to live as they choose. They want to deprive us of our right to think. In the name of a bloodthirsty, vengeful, merciless god, they are trying to drag the people of the earth back into a new dark age.”
He thought for a bit as he drove along. When he spoke again, Jake Grafton said, “Those people in Winchester’s living room are willing to make a stand. They’re willing to risk everything they have — their reputations, their fortunes, their freedom and their lives. So am I. I’m going to help them if it’s the very last thing I do. And, God willing, I’m going to lay hands on Abu Qasim.”
CHAPTER THREE
Even in late autumn Paris is full of tourists, most of whom speak some variant of English. With digital cameras dangling on straps around their necks and wearing backpacks stuffed with snacks and guidebooks, they lead their wives and children through the endless crowds and stand restlessly in the eternal queues. They are white, ubiquitous and unmistakable. From London, the Midlands, Boston, California and everyplace in between, they crowd the Metro platforms and mill around the maps of the system. They pack the cafes, restaurants, and hotels and bitch endlessly about the prices. They also congregate in the public restrooms, where they complain loudly about the coin-operated stalls.
Jean Petrou tried to ignore the foreigners as he strode purposefully along the sidewalk and joined the line leading to the stairs into the Metro station. Just before he went down into the station he looked around, trying to spot anyone he knew. He saw no familiar faces or figures. The swarm of sightseers was the perfect place to lose oneself, he thought, as he went through the turnstile and joined the throng on the platform.
The truth was that he didn’t blend into the casually dressed crowd. He was wearing a dark blue silk Armani suit, accented by a white shirt and light blue tie. Over this he wore a tailor-made black coat that reached to his knees. His shoes were rich black leather, highly polished. When he shot his cuffs, as he did while he waited for the train, his diamond-encrusted Rolex sparkled and gleamed under the lights.
The train roared in and ground to a halt. After another look around, Jean Petrou entered the nearest car and found a handle to hold. Tourists surrounded him, jostled against him, and the children eyed him without curiosity. He ignored them all.
Petrou changed trains at Les Halles station and rode the 4 train to the Cite station, where he got off and walked toward the stairs. He glanced back over his shoulder, checking the other people who were also getting off. No one he knew.
A short walk led to the narrow streets of the restored old town. The streets were packed. Tourists strolled and read the menus posted in front of the restaurants, snapped endless pictures and paused in family knots to refer to maps and guidebooks. Petrou angled through them and entered one of the restaurants. He paused in the doorway and looked around. Ah yes, in the far left corner. He waved off the maftre d’ and walked over to the table. He nodded at the man sitting there facing the door and, without removing his coat, seated himself.
His tablemate wore a goatee streaked with gray, long black hair, which was also graying, and horn-rim glasses. His dark suit was not as fashionable as Petrou’s, but it was cleaned and pressed. On the table before him sat a glass of water and a menu.
Petrou looked around, ensuring that he was seated among strangers. He was. Tourists filled every other table. A knot of students on holiday sat at the large table behind him. To his right a family from America, somewhere in the South judging from their accent, were oohing and aahing over the menu prices.
“Did you bring it?” Petrou asked softly in French.
His companion glanced down, under the table. Petrou leaned left and looked. He saw a brown leather attache case sitting on the floor by the wall.
Before he could speak, the waitress brought him a menu and a glass of water. He ordered a glass of white wine. The man with the goatee said water would be enough for him.
After the waitress departed, Petrou said, “I want to count it.”
The expression on the face of the man across the table didn’t change. “You earn it and you can count it in the men’s room,” he said.
Petrou looked around again. He was plainly nervous. “I don’t trust you,” he said.
“It is difficult to believe that you are actually in the diplomatic corps.”
Petrou glanced around again without moving his head. He hesitated, then apparently reached a decision. From an inside coat pocket he removed a folded piece of paper and passed it across the table.
His companion slowly unfolded the paper and held it in both hands as he read. “Your mother?” he said.
“Yes.”
The man folded the paper along its original lines and put it in an inside jacket pocket.
“It’s yours,” he said.
Petrou reached for the case, then saw the waitress bringing his wine. He withdrew his hand.
After thanking her, he took a sip. Cool, tart and delicious.
The man across the table consulted his menu. “I am thinking of having the fish,” he said pleasantly. “I hear it is acceptable here.”
Petrou didn’t pick up the menu. He took another drink of wine, a healthy swig. “I remind you that you promised nothing was going to happen to Mother.”
The man glanced up from the menu, met his eyes and said, “So I did.”
Petrou drained the wineglass, then reached for the case under the table. As he rose from his chair he caught the waitress’ eye. “He’ll pay,” he said, nodding at his companion. Then he walked out, carrying the attache case.
Abu Qasim took his time over his meal. Petrou had told him last week that a small group of wealthy Europeans and Americans was funding a private army to search for and kill key members of the Islamic Jihad movement with information mined from the records of some major international financial and shipping concerns. Now he had supplied him with a list of the people and institutions involved … in return for money, of course.
As he ate, Qasim weighed the information he had received. His networks were going to have to be more careful, avoid the companies on the list if possible. Sometimes it was not possible. Zetsche’s shipping concern was
