Tommy Carmellini 02 - The Traitor (39 page)

Muhammed Nada ran into the bedroom in response to a call from the lookout as the two cars roared in. He got there just as the lookout fired his pistol out the window, then died under a hail of submachine-gun bullets.

Nada was tempted to rush to the window and return the infidels' fire, but he changed his mind: They couldn't get in through the window. He scrambled for the stairs.

Jake Grafton and Pink Maillard also charged for the stairs. Grafton was carrying a borrowed pistol and Pink had a submachine gun. They arrived behind the Secret Service officer from the lead car. The

three of them started up the narrow staircase just as Muhammed Nada opened the door at the top.

He looked over the men struggling at the top of the staircase, ignored the screaming of tortured souls, and fired his pistol at the men at the bottom of the stairwell.

I didn't really have a grip on the man on my left; I was banging him off the walls as I tried to rip the balls off the man on my right, who was down, kicking wildly, threatening to break my ribs. I was about all in, at the absolute limit of strength and endurance, when the gun went off right over my head.

I let go of the man on my left and fell on the man who was down.

A burst of submachine-gun fire followed, and the man beside me collapsed over me. I tried to shrug him off and couldn't.

I couldn't breathe under his weight. With all this wrestling around, I lost my radio headset and night vision goggles. Relieved of the obstruction, I found that my eyes still worked, even if I wasn't getting much air.

I let go of the scrotum I had been tearing at and transferred my attention to the guy's throat. That stopped his screams. As another burst of submachine-gun fire assaulted my ears, the guy under me struggled feebly, tugging at my wrists; I stopped squeezing when I felt his larynx go and he went limp.

I fought to free myself of the dead weight on me and get my feet under me, fought to fill my lungs. As I did, my hand hit something that I recognized. My ray gun. One of these guys had pocketed it. I pulled it loose and felt the switch to ensure it was charging.

Somehow I managed to fight loose of the corpses and crawl up the stairs. Nearing the top, I saw a body on the floor. I recognized him at a glance: oP Muhammed Nada, holy warrior, a little worse for wear now that he sported at least five bullet holes that I could see.

There were three other people in the room, all tied to chairs. I looked at Rodet, who was slumped in the chair with blood covering his left side. I raised Arnaud's head and saw the hole in his forehead.

I heard voices, turned, and saw the good guys coming into the room.

There was another figure slumped in a chair. No clothes. Covered with streaks of blood. Long hair.

Oh, my God\

I walked toward her. Lifted her head. They had sliced her terribly. I couldn't even tell for sure who she was. Then I saw her eyes flicker.

"She's still alive! Somebody—quick!"

Two people rushed by. One was a woman—Callie Grafton—and Willie Varner. They began tearing at the ropes that held the woman to the chair.

"Rodet's alive, too," Jake Grafton said. He and a man I didn't recognize were examining him.

The room was spinning by that time. Later they said I had a concussion from the bullet that ricocheted off the night vision goggles. Whatever, everything faded to black; that was the last I remember.

chapterTWENTY-FIVE

The first ambulance departed with Marisa Petrou aboard. Jake Grafton and Inspector Papin had a moment with Henri Rodet after the crew of the second got him into their vehicle. He had taken a bullet in his side at some point in the gun battle.

"It was the old man who led this rabble," Rodet hissed. "He wanted to know about Qasim. Wouldn't believe me when I said I didn't know who he was now. So he butchered Marisa."

And got away. The police quickly established that the old man wasn't on the grounds. The vehicles were all there, but Rodet's boat was missing from its dock on the river.

"Marisa has a chance," the American admiral told Rodet. "The ambulance attendants were giving her plasma. My wife went with her to the hospital."

"I've mishandled this whole mess," Rodet moaned. "I should have told everyone what I knew, as soon as I knew it." By everyone, he meant the Western intelligence services.

Jake understood. "Wouldn't have made any difference," he said. "The fanatics in Al Queda would not have believed, even if they heard it from your lips. That old man didn't believe."

"If there is a God, that old man will rot in hell." Rodet struggled to breathe, then began coughing.

Jake whispered, "Why Arnaud?"

When the coughing subsided, Rodet said, "He brought them here this morning, to the chateau, shortly after dawn. They paid Arnaud for information about Qasim. I think Arnaud wanted to ruin me." The pain drew a groan from him. "He always hated me."

"I'll come visit in the hospital," Grafton said. He and Papin got out of the ambulance and watched the crew close the door and roar off down the driveway.

Carmellini went next. Inspector Papin and Pink Maillard stood watching as the police loaded him in an ambulance while their radios squawked and tinny French echoed between the main house and the garage. Carmellini was still unconscious.

"So," Jake said to the French policeman, "who killed the DGSE officer, Claude Bruguiere?"

"I have no evidence to give to the magistrate."

"Probably won't get any, either. Arnaud hated Rodet, thought he might be named director of the DGSE if only Rodet would leave. So he invested some Oil-for-Food money in the Bank of Palestine, knowing Rodet would be ruined if and when the press found out. Bruguiere completed the transaction for Arnaud after the original man had a heart attack on the plane. Since he knew who had really supplied the money, he, too, had to die. Had things sort of run their course, I am sure Jean-Paul would have tipped a friendly reporter about Rodet's big investment. That's one theory anyway."

Papin pounded his pipe on his hand, then slowly refilled it from a leather pouch. "As I say, I have no evidence. Not that I need any, with Monsieur Arnaud dead, the victim of Arab terrorists."

"Of course, another theory is that the old man up there killed Bruguiere," Grafton suggested. "The magistrate might like that theory better."

"Indeed," Papin said thoughtfully. "I think the old man will also

be an easier sell on the killings of your men, Thurlow and Salazar, than Jean-Paul Arnaud. Avoids messy diplomatic problems."

"Yes," Jake agreed, and eyed Inspector Papin askance. The policeman had the wireless Taser that Tommy had used in his hands. He inspected it carefully, one more time, then handed it to Grafton.

"What about Elizabeth Conner?" Inspector Papin asked. "The concierge of her building discovered her body this morning. She had been strangled. I immediately thought of your friend Shannon, or Carmellini, as the case might be."

"He didn't kill her. He found the body last night, after he got home from dinner. If you blame her murder on the old man upstairs, I will see that her killer gets justice."

"You know the real killer's name?"

"Yes."

Inspector Papin lit his pipe as he watched the police carry a body on a stretcher out of the garage apartment entrance. When he was puffing like a chimney, he said, "Perhaps you should share it with me, just in case, as they say in America."

Jake pronounced the name as Papin smoked. The two men stood silently watching as the morgue crew loaded Rodet's gardener and maid into the meat wagon.

"Why did he kill her?"

"He has a severe gambling habit and was selling her information. She passed it to her agency, the Mossad, because that was her job, and to Marisa Petrou because she was her friend. Of course, Marisa passed it to Henri Rodet. Apparently the killer panicked when he learned that her apartment was immediately below Shannon's. He thought we were getting too close. Frightened men do illogical things."

"You will try him in America? For treason?"

"The prosecutors there would probably say that we don't have enough evidence."

Papin smoked in silence. Finally he looked at Pinckney Maillard. "Do you wish to say anything?"

"No," Pink said. He nodded at Jake. "He's the man."

"Conner worked for the Mossad," Jake said to the French policeman. "We'll tell them who killed her and why."

Papin puffed furiously, then nodded.
"Bon,"
he said finally.
"Bon.
They will see that justice is done. They have that reputation."

"Yes," Jake Grafton said. He felt the ray gun in his pocket. "Indeed they do."

"Of course," Inspector Papin added hastily, "you might tell them that it would be better if justice were done somewhere else. Not in France."

"I'll pass that along, too."

Papin and Maillard left together, leaving only a few forensic men, who were busying themselves with cameras and measurements when a car rolled up and Sarah Houston got out. Gator Zantz was with her. Jake was sitting on the steps of the back entrance of the chateau.

They listened in silence as Jake related the events of the morning. Amazingly, the time was only a little past noon.

"Is Tommy going to be all right?" Sarah asked, the concern evident in her voice.

"He has a concussion." He told her the name of the hospital the French were taking him to. "You may go check on him, if you wish. Zantz can ride back with me in the van."

She didn't say good-bye, just climbed back in the car.

"Wear your seat belt," Jake called. She started the engine, turned the car, and drove off.

Grafton turned his attention to Gator, who was standing on the walkway watching two plainclothes forensic men taking photographs of the dogs, which had been shot. "Want to tell me about it?"

"About what?" Gator asked, apparently baffled.

"About Elizabeth Conner."

"What is there to tell?"

"Why you killed her."

Gator looked Grafton over. Then he looked at the policemen, busy with other things. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"You were selling her information that you had access to in the London office. Being a Mossad agent, she passed it to Tel Aviv. Since she was a friend of Marisa Petrou, she also gave it to her. Marisa passed it along to Henri Rodet."

"Got any proof of that?"

"You had Elizabeth's telephone number on your cell phone. We found it on your phone when you tossed it into the basket before you went into the SCIF"

"So I called her. That doesn't prove I killed her," he blustered.

"Marisa isn't dead. Neither is Henri Rodet. Do you seriously think Elizabeth didn't tell Marisa the name of her source in the CIA? My God, man, she was paying you. I'll bet you a thousand against a doughnut she told her 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."