Tommy Carmellini 02 - The Traitor (19 page)

"Sounds interesting." We were standing in front of our building.

"I like it. Enjoy the change of scenery and exploring. Long as I can pay the bills, I'll stay at it." I looked her straight in the eyes and grinned. That's a rule, you know—when you're lying, look 'em in the eyes and show 'em your teeth. Of course, whether she believed a single word of my spiel was another question.

She glanced at her watch. "I'd better get upstairs and get a shower." "Thanks for the run," I said as she disappeared into the building. I smiled at the streetwalkers, nodded at a few prospecting Johns, and after a minute or so, followed her up the stairs.

The limo slid to a stop near the curb; the driver got out and opened the door for his passenger, a well-dressed Middle Eastern businessman.

The man went into the building, which was old. He wandered along until he came to a sign that listed university faculty and the numbers of their offices. He went down the list, found the one he wanted, and walked to the stairs.

There were a few young people, men and women—students, no doubt—clad in jeans and sweaters and sweatshirts, talking to each other or striding purposefully along, on errands of great import. None of the young people paid any attention to him. Oh, a few glanced at him, then looked away. Wearing a suit and tie, he must have looked like a professor, one they didn't recognize. They refused to make eye contact.

He found the office he wanted and looked right and left along the hallway. It was empty. He rapped on the door with a knuckle.

"Come in."

He turned the knob and pushed the door open with the joint of a forefinger.

The professor was at his desk. He had white hair and wore a wool suit. He looked up and adjusted his glasses. "Come in, sir. Come in."

The visitor closed the door behind him.

The professor leaned forward, his right hand on his glasses.
"Mon Dieu!
Is it you? Qasim?"

"It's been a long time," the visitor said.

"Indeed it has. Come in, man, come in." The professor rose and held out both hands. The visitor grasped the right one and shook. The professor held his hand with both of his.

"It must be twenty years or more since I've seen you, Qasim. Oh, my word, how the world has turned. Sit!" he commanded, releasing the hand and gesturing toward a chair. "Tell me of yourself, where you've been, what brings you to Paris. Tell me of your life."

The visitor seated himself on one of the two guest chairs. The room was very small, lined with books. He looked around, then focused on his host. "Professor Heger, I don't know where to begin."

"You should have stayed in touch," the old man said. "You were the best student I ever had. The very best. I got you that scholarship to Gottingen, but you didn't go."

"No. I didn't."

"I know, the Germans. What can one say? Still, it was a great opportunity, a great opportunity."

"Yes, it was. Life would have certainly been different if I had gone to Germany to study. For that opportunity, I owe you a great debt, one I can never repay."

"But you look healthy, prosperous," the professor said, adjusting his glasses again. "Life has treated you well. I trust you have made your mark, wherever you went." He paused, then said, "Oh, I had a visitor yesterday, a Madame Grafton, an American, asking about you." He lowered his voice. "Of course I denied knowing you, or knowing about you, as your good friend Rodet asked. Oh, it was so many years ago that he came to me. I am surprised that I remembered. But when she mentioned your name, I remembered that I was to say nothing."

His guest took something from a pocket and worked on it with both hands in his lap. The professor didn't seem to notice. He went on. "And then you appeared. What a coincidence! I confess, I hadn't thought about you in years, Qasim, until she mentioned your name. And I have thought of you fifty times since then. Wondered where

you were, what you did with your life. It is so wonderful that you have dropped by for a visit. Tell me, please, about yourself."

The visitor looked up. "I wish I could, Professor. I wish life had worked out differently. I wish I could repay your kindness, your love of learning, your friendship and thoughtful humanity, but I cannot."

With that he raised a pistol; there was a silencer attached to the barrel. He pointed it at the old man's head and, as a startled look registered on the professor's face, pulled the trigger.

I stopped by the parked van on the Place des Vosges to check with the technician on duty. Rich Thurlow was there.

"Wow, nifty duds, Carmellini. I don't think I've ever seen you all duded up. What's the occasion?" I was wearing the best clothes I owned, all of which fitted perfectly. The sports coat I had had tailored so it didn't look as if it were hanging on a garden scarecrow.

"I'm working this morning," I told him. "What's happening, anyway?"

"One of the maids is in there, no one else."

"Marisa Petrou?"

"No."

"The guard who sits in the park ?"

"Yeah." Rich pointed him out.

"Good. He's here for a reason." I checked my watch. Ten o'clock. Well, there was a chance. That's all you get in life, anyway—a chance.

"So did Al and Cliff Icahn get out to the chateau?"

"Yeah. All that stuff you planted there works the way it's supposed to."

That was a relief. I certainly didn't want to be told to do it again.

I patted my pockets, made sure I had everything, then asked Rich, "Do you have your cell phone?"

"Yes."

"Here's a number." I handed him a slip of paper. "If I get inside, wait exactly ten minutes, then call it."

"What do you want me to say ?"

"Ask if they are the folks who ordered the furniture. You need to verify the address. Use French."

"Okay. Luck."

"Yeah."

I got out of the van, locked the door, and strolled across the square. The guard looked me over without interest—and, I hoped, without recognition. I took a seat on the bench nearest the entrance of Rodet's building. Thank heavens it was in the sun, because the air had a ch ill to it. I was wearing a sweater under the sports coat in case I had to sit here a while; if I got too chilled, I could always walk around. I pulled an Eve Adams paperback novel from my coat pocket, opened it and settled in.

Moms or nannies pushed strollers past; an old man with a small bag of grain fed the squirrels, which were greedy and fearless. Pigeons darted in to pick up the squirrels' leavings. An hour passed, then another.

I got up twice to stroll around, then resumed my seat. The second time I strolled the park I realized we had acquired another watcher, one who had just arrived in the square. He was an older man with a dark complexion and short gray hair, wearing a threadbare sweater, a pair of worn-out leather shoes and a nice pair of wraparound sunglasses. He was seated now, apparently watching the pigeons come and go and enjoying the sunshine, but I didn't think so. He was aware of who was in the square. Once I saw his head move a minute amount; he must have been scanning the people to his left, checking them out.

I thought he looked Middle Eastern. Perhaps North Africa? With the sunglasses it was difficult to say.

If the DGSE watcher noticed him, he gave no indication.

I went back to my novel.

The man in the sweater saw the American, Carmellini, sitting on the bench reading. He, too, was watching, but for what?

The Americans had a watch station in the plumbing van—he was sure of it. It sat there surrounded by cones, yet no plumbers came or went.

Americans were pouring into Paris. They were around the George V Hotel, where the U.S. president would stay, and now were present in squads around the American embassy on the Place de la Concorde, men in sports coats and suits, carrying handheld radios. They visited with the French police, strapping, fit men wearing submachine guns and kepis. The French police operated in squads from small buses, which they parked on street corners and sidewalks near the American embassy and up and down the Champs-Elysees. No doubt by the time of the G-8 conference, Paris would be full of police and military units, brought in from all over the country.

Germans, Japanese, Russians, British ... he had already seen security men from all those countries. Not a lot, but a few.

The rustle of branches in the autumn breeze caught his attention. Then a small whirlwind played with some fallen leaves.

Ah, Paris. It was so different from the desert. Who was it that said, "God loved the Arabs—He gave them the Koran—but He loved the French more: He gave them Paris"?

Callie Grafton was one of those people who enjoyed learning new things and being around schools and colleges. Her father and mother had been academics, so universities had been part of the warp and woof of her life ever since she could remember.

Today as she walked through the buildings of the Sorbonne, looking for Professor Heger's office, she remembered her parents. They would have enjoyed Paris, the Sorbonne, the faculty club. Ah, yes.

According to a student she questioned, the philosophy department was in an old building on a narrow street. She had no trouble finding

it, or the sign just inside the door that listed the members of the faculty and the room numbers of their offices. A passing student confirmed the sign: Professor Heger's office was on the top floor.

The elevator had obviously been installed just a few years ago, probably much to the relief of the gray-headed professors who had spent their adult years climbing the building's narrow stairs. New or not, it creaked and groaned as it descended to the floor where she stood. She could hear it coming, protesting all the way. When the door opened she discovered that it was of modest dimensions—big enough for perhaps four average-sized Europeans or three porky Americans.

As she rode upward she went over her planned approach to Heger one more time. She needed confirmation of Qasim's name, and she needed it now.

Undoubtedly someone had asked him not to talk, and that was the promise he was honoring. Since he made that promise the world had turned, she would explain. Times had changed. For Qasim's sake she needed to know: All those years ago, had Qasim been a friend of Henri Rodet?

The elevator stopped with a bump, and the door protested as it opened. Somehow the French had accomplished the impossible— installed a brand-new old elevator in an old building.

She went along the hallway examining the numbers on the door. There it was. She knocked on the door.

No answer.

Well, he might not be here. He might be in class.

She rapped again. Heard a thump. Or was it her imagination? A noise from inside the room?

Callie tried the doorknob, and it opened.

"Professor Heger?"

She looked inside. The room was small, lined with books on shelves, two little windows, a desk, a computer ... and behind the desk on the wooden floor, just visible, a shoe.

She stepped into the room. "Professor?"

He was lying behind the desk. "Professor Heger?"

She turned him over and saw the bullet wound in his head. It had bled some, and the blood had congealed on the floor and the side of his face. He also had a deep bruise where his face had hit the floor when he had fallen.

He was still alive, breathing erratically. His eyes were unfocused.

Callie reached into his mouth and cleared his airway. The man was obviously in a bad way, perhaps even dying. There was no time to lose.

"Professor Heger, I'm Callie Grafton. Yesterday you denied knowing Abu Qasim. It was twenty-five years ago, Professor."

The old man obviously heard her. He made a noise, swallowed, tried to focus his eyes.

"I know you promised not to tell who he was," Callie continued, "but the world has turned. Times have changed. It's a matter of life and death. I need to know. Did you have a student named Abu Qasim?"

He was trying to talk. Callie bent down. She heard the whisper.

It was incoherent noise.

Then Professor Heger lost consciousness. Callie talked to Heger in the hope that he might hear, but within a minute he breathed his last.

At half past twelve the limo came slowly along the street and glided to a stop in front of Henri Rodet's building.

I stowed the paperback in my pocket and walked toward the long Mercedes as the driver got out and opened the right-side rear door.

A very shapely leg appeared, then another, and out stepped Marisa Petrou. She was wearing some kind of frock that ended just above her knees, a pair of high heels that consisted of a sole, a heel, and straps to hold it all together, and a little designer jacket. She reached back into the car for her purse, which was a large one.

Then she saw me. She didn't recognize me for a few seconds, then it hit her. She looked again at me and her mouth dropped open.

"Hello, Marisa." I walked over, closing the gap. "Travis Crockett."

"The man with the boots," she said. "You're a long way from Texas, cowboy."

The chauffeur was standing there respectfully, still holding the door. Being an American working man, I grinned at him and winked as she said, "Out for a stroll this morning?"