Tommy Carmellini 02 - The Traitor (23 page)

"This game will be brief," Rodet admitted. "Still, the intelligence could be valuable."

The workmen at the bar had long gone and they were nursing snifters of cognac when Rodet asked Abu Qasim, "Why do you want to do this?"

"I learned one thing at the Sorbonne," Qasim said, weighing his words. "Civilization is worth fighting for."

"That's not an explanation."

"Maybe I don't have one."

Henri Rodet thought about that for a while. The truth was that he didn't give a damn why Qasim was willing to risk his life. Qasim was a friend—well, more like a younger brother, really—and he didn't want him hurt.

"All right," he said after a while. "All right! We'll give it a try. But only if you promise to cut and run if they began closing in, or when you've had enough."

"I am not a martyr," Abu Qasim shot back. "Dead men win no battles."

That conversation occurred twenty-five years ago, and still Henri Rodet could remember every word as if it had happened yesterday evening. He was thinking about Qasim, about the life he must lead, when the telephone rang. The receptionist told him the man's name. His banker.

"I have your balance, Monsieur Rodet." He gave him the number. It sounded within a thousand or so euros of the sum Rodet estimated should be there. "Is there anything else I can do for you?"

"No, thank you,' Rodet said. He murmured a pleasantry and said good-bye.

The watchers in the Fiat followed me when I left the American embassy late that afternoon. I walked, so they put one man on the sidewalk behind me, and the others—there were at least two more in the car—drove back and forth on cross streets or sat behind me in no-parking zones, always remaining within a block of me.

Grafton and I were pretty sure this bunch weren't French. Of course, everyone was into diversity these days, so they could be working for any agency on the planet. Yet if they weren't French, they were fair game. "See if you can find out who they are, Tommy," Grafton said just before I left the embassy. "Be careful. Don't let them hurt you and don't hurt them so badly that you get arrested."

"I understand," I said.

The weather was excellent, with the temperature in the sixties, mostly sunny skies, and a whiff of a breeze. I took off my suit coat and folded it over my arm.

Strolling the boulevards of Paris, I considered my options. I needed to get one of these guys alone for a few minutes. The watcher in the Place des Vosges had been alone, but would he be in the future? If he came back at all.

I walked through the gardens of the Tuileries, heading for the

Seine. I walked briskly, purposely, looking neither right nor left, taking no precautions against the tail that I knew was back there. The car couldn't follow us and, with a little luck, would be struggling to get through late afternoon traffic on the Place de la Concorde.

My tail would have a cell phone with him, of course; he was probably on it right now. I didn't turn to see.

I crossed the Seine on the Passerelle Soloferino, a walking bridge, and walked directly for the Musee d'Orsay, an old railroad station that had been converted to a museum. There was a line waiting to buy tickets, of course.

I joined the queue, ending up immediately behind a trio of young women from the States. From the comments they made, I learned that they were American students doing a semester abroad. One of them had met the love of her life a couple of weeks ago, so we heard all about him. As the girls chattered—they glanced at me when I got in line and then, due to my greatly advanced age and general decrepitude, ignored me—I glanced around.

My tail was in line, too, about fifteen persons back. He was from the Middle East, I thought, or perhaps a French Muslim. Clad in slacks and wearing a zippered jacket that hung open, he was studying a guide book. In my quick scan I noticed that he was holding his cell phone in his hand. That phone would be a little gold mine of telephone numbers, both called and received, that would provide a nice picture of the owner and the people in his organization, or cell.

I turned back toward the girls. My tail was in his mid-twenties, I suppose, of slightly above medium height, all muscle and sinew, weighing about 130 or 140. I hadn't seen any bulges under his armpits, so if he was packing, which I doubted, it was in the small of his back or an ankle holster. On the other hand, it would not surprise me to learn that he had a knife on him and could get to it quickly.

I shuffled forward, listening to the girls giggle and gush, paid for my ticket, took it to the guard at the turnstile and passed through.

I had spent an afternoon in this building six months or so ago, so I

knew the general layout. The building is an architectural masterpiece, a great enclosed space with a vaulted ceiling.

From the entrance one walks through what was once the waiting area into a huge open space where at one time trains sat on their tracks, chuffing smoke and cinders. On the wall above the old waiting area was a huge clock on an opaque glass wall. I glanced at my watch and found the clock was off by two minutes.

Most of the building had been converted to art galleries. Indeed, this museum was probably the best Impressionist museum in Paris. It was also full of really cool sculpture, some of it huge, by such folks as Rodin and Carpeaux. The biggest and heaviest pieces sat on the main floor. I went about halfway along the main gallery and arranged myself in front of a huge lion in such a way that I could see back toward the entrance.

Here he came, wandering along, looking at this and that. But where were his pals?

I didn't see them.

I proceeded to the far end of the building and joined the crowd waiting for the elevator. I watched for my tail's reflection in the marble wall . . . and saw him come around the corner looking for me.

I left the elevator crowd and took the stairs. I was the only person going up; everyone else was coming down.

I went up to the third floor, the top one, and perused the river-side galleries. There were some magnificent Impressionist paintings here, including several of the Rouen Cathedral by my favorite artist, Monet. Paying no attention to my tail, I wandered along with my hands in my pockets, absorbed in the art.

I passed the cafeteria—which was doing a land-office business— and turned the corner toward the men's room instead of going left into the galley that led behind the huge clock.

For the first time since I entered the building, I was completely out of sight of every other person alive. I ducked into a janitor's closet and pulled the door almost shut. Looking through the crack, I could see anyone going into or coming out of the men's room.

This setup wasn't perfect, but it would have to do.

A man came out of the men's, then another. One man went in. None of the three noticed me inside the closet door, which was only open about an inch.

Three minutes passed, then four.

I was betting that my tail wasn't a pro. He had followed right along since I left the embassy without once trying to blend into the crowd. It was almost as if he wanted to be seen. Now, there was a scary thought. What if he
did
want to be seen?

What if—?

I ran out of time to contemplate the nuances. There he was! Standing at the door of the men's, trying to decide if he should go in or not.

His rabbit might not be in there. He was weighing that possibility, as I knew he must. I could have gone left instead of right.

He couldn't afford to wait to find out. Even now his rabbit might be walking out of the building. He opened the door a crack and peered in.

That was the moment I had been waiting for. His back was to me, he was concentrating on looking through the partially open door, and if he heard anyone behind him he would assume it was someone who wanted to use the restroom.

I stepped out, glanced back to ensure no one was watching, then hit him with a solid right in the side of the neck. He went down as if he had been shot.

I dragged him toward the closet and pulled him inside.

I patted him down for weapons. He had none. I snagged his cell phone and pocketed it. He had a French identity card in his shirt pocket that said he was Muhammed Nada, a resident of Marseille. I compared his face to the photo—it was him, all right.

Nada groaned. His eyes were unfocused, his muscles slack. He was going to have the sorest neck in town for a week or so, which was his tough luck. I stuck his ID card back in his shirt pocket and left him there. We had been in the closet about fifteen seconds.

As I came out of the closet there were two of them striding toward me, young dark men, black eyes and unruly hair, no extra weight. They were sizing me up as they came—I could see it in their eyes. They made no attempt to avoid me or get out of my way. They separated just enough to get around me, and I heard one of them jerk open the closet door.

I bolted.

A couple topped the stairs and blocked the way, a portly man and white-haired woman. I spun around in time to set myself as the two Arabs raced toward me, digging hard. I went left and nailed the one on the left with a right to the jaw.

I ran back toward the cafeteria.

Now, I am a reasonably fast runner for a man of my size, and the guy who had come at me on my right side had had to reverse his momentum while his colleague went sliding face-first along the floor. Yet in two mighty bounds he was on my back, dragging me down.

I smacked my head against the floor, and that about did it for me right there. I saw stars from the impact and probably went about half out for a couple of seconds. I struggled to rise and actually got my feet under me.

Ahab the Arab was all over me. He slugged me in the face and gut, repeatedly. Through my haze I could hear a woman screaming.

I managed to latch on to one of Ahab's arms. Got him above the wrist and used his momentum to slam him into the wall. He went to the floor, temporarily stunned.

I tried to move and couldn't. With my head ringing like a bell, it was all I could do to stand there.

The woman sucked in a deep breath and screamed again.

I swayed, almost fell, and caught myself.

Ahab got it together and rose from the floor. Still sucking air and too stunned to run, I watched him produce a knife from a sheath in his pants and come at me holding it blade up. The fucker was going to gut me like a fish.

Maybe his bell was ringing, too, because he came charging as if he

expected me to hold still while he ripped me from crotch to brisket. I didn't. I grabbed at the wrist that held the knife and threw him with a rolling hip lock. He went over the railing and through the opaque glass wall.

As the glass flew in every direction, he fell the long two stories to the main floor of the museum, screaming all the way. The scream ended abruptly with a serious thud.

I lost my balance and sat down hard.

The guy I had nailed with my fist, Ahab's pal, got up slowly. He took a long look at me, the hole in the glass wall, and the portly guy and out-of-air woman, then bolted down the stairs.

chapter THIRTEEN

The police got my name, Terry G. Shannon, from my passport and took a statement. Fortunately for me, I had witnesses for most of it. The tourists were German, and they described the attack.

Five minutes after the police arrived, Muhammed Nada came staggering out of the janitor's closet. His neck was so stiff he couldn't turn his head. If he knew I had stolen his phone, he didn't mention it. The cops took him away for questioning.

I lied a little about
oV
Muhammed. I told the detective that all three of them jumped me, and I slugged Nada first, and I didn't know where he went after that. Then I shifted to the truth: I was trying to flee but the other two persisted.

"At first I thought they intended to mug me," I said earnestly. "But now ... I don't know. They may have been terrorists, looking for a tourist to beat up and rob for political reasons."

It was a lot of bullshit, of course, but my witnesses backed every word. They also latched on to the terror thing and ran with it.

The cops wanted to take me to a hospital; I refused. My head

cleared and I was left with only a headache. I figured that with a night's sleep, I'd be good as new. An hour after the incident, they turned me loose.