The Traitor: A Tommy Carmellini Novel

by Stephen Coonts

  The admiral raised the weapon and pointed it right at the man with the knife, who was about eight feet away, still immobile. “I wouldn’t, if I were you.”

  The man lunged—and Jake pulled the trigger through the first detent to the last stop, as far as it would go.

  Even he was surprised at what happened next. There was a flash as a finger of visible light shot out and illuminated the man’s chest. A second later a streak of lightning reached out with a loud, high-pitched cracking sound, the finger of God, and hit him right where the light had rested. The lightning strobed once, twice, and disappeared.

  Half-blinded by the intensity of the glare, Grafton watched as the man he had zapped dropped his knife and toppled to the concrete. Then he groaned.

  Jake looked at the weapon. He had the intensity set on the middle setting. “Best to keep it there,” Maillard had said, “halfway between kill and tickle.”

  Grafton swung the weapon, pointing it at the others, who had already retreated a few steps. “Anyone else want some?”

  The thugs turned their heads toward the figure sitting on a bench against the wall. For the first time, Grafton really looked at him. He was an older man, wearing a ratty coat and brimmed hat—and he had a pistol in his hand, an automatic of some type with a silencer on the end of the barrel. There was no mistake about the silencer, which was as big as a sausage.

  He raised the pistol, pointed it at Grafton.

  Jake didn’t wait. He leaped from the platform onto the track as the pistol popped and he heard a bullet zing past.

  As he ran he could hear bullets pinging off the concrete. Hitting a running man at fifty feet with a pistol without sights would be a challenge for an expert, which the shooter plainly wasn’t. He had a lot of bullets, though. They spanged around Grafton and stimulated his adrenaline mightily. He ran toward the dark tunnel ahead as hard as he could go, still carrying the thunderbolt weapon in his right hand.

  He had reached the dubious sanctuary of the darkness when he heard the oncoming train—heard the rumble, heard it decelerate, then heard the squeal of brakes. The train was entering the station from the other direction. In a few moments it would be coming this way.

  He glanced back and saw two men running toward him, both looking back.

  Grafton felt for the weapon’s intensity knob, cranking it as far as it would go. He aimed at one of the oncoming men and pulled the trigger.

  The light reached out and—crack! The strobing lightning…and the man he had aimed at fell to the tracks.

  The other one didn’t pause in his charge. Grafton pointed the weapon and pulled the trigger again. Nothing.

  Damn thing needs to recharge the capacitor.

  Grafton braced himself to receive the charge—then he saw the gleam of the knife blade!

  He turned and ran into the darkness. He stumbled on the ties, recovered, and ran hard.

  Slap, slap, slap. His feet pounded on the gravel. Behind him he could hear the panting of his pursuer.

  He was running into total darkness. Not a glimmer of light ahead…no, a faint glow. The track turned up there, and he now he could see the reflected glow from the next station.

  He would never make it. The man behind was getting closer.

  Grafton risked a look and saw only a blur, a few feet behind. He could hear the man’s rasping breath—he wasn’t in shape, but he was thirty or more years younger than the admiral.

  Grafton felt a touch on his shoulder. He spun with the weapon leveled in his hand and pulled the trigger as he turned.

  The knife went by his face. Then came the flash, the report—and a scream as the man fell onto Grafton, who was falling himself, going down on his back.

  The man went on screaming in agony as the lightning pulsed between them.

  When the darkness came again, the sound stopped. All sound.

  Jake’s attacker was lying across him. And he wasn’t breathing. The admiral felt for the pulse in the man’s neck. There wasn’t one.

  Jake Grafton pushed the corpse aside and rose shakily to his feet.

  He heard the train get under way, felt the rush of air. He scrambled over the hot rail, carefully avoiding it, and hunkered down against the tunnel wall.

  The headlight illuminated the bodies on the track, but the train continued to accelerate. The noise rose to a painful level. The wind became a gale; Jake braced himself against it. Then the train thundered by, its steel wheels singing on the rails. The sides of the cars passed inches from Jake’s shoulder.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  On Saturday morning Agatha Hempstead led Grafton and Goldberg toward the ambassador’s office. She marched in front and both men found that they had to lengthen their stride to keep up. The receptionist had anticipated their arrival and was manning the door. He opened it for Hempstead and her entourage, then closed it behind them.

  The ambassador was on the scrambled telephone. When he saw them, he punched the button to put the audio on the telephone speaker.

  “Mr. President, they are here now.”

  “Very well,” the president said in his distinctive voice. “Well, Owen, please repeat your request for their benefit.”

  “I would like Grafton and Goldberg recalled,” Lancaster said. “Last night Grafton killed two men in the subway with some kind of electric weapon. The police released him after verifying his diplomatic immunity. I have talked to the foreign minister, who is of the opinion that the government will declare Admiral Grafton persona non grata unless we act first and recall him. They are very unhappy that he had a weapon.”

  “I assume they would be less agitated if he were dead?”

  If Lancaster understood the irony in that remark, he ignored it. “Then it would just be a tragedy, you see. The minister would issue an official apology, routine condolences, etc. Now the press is screaming about a weapons violation, accusing the government of bias toward the United States.”

  “Can’t we make some noise about Middle Eastern thugs attacking diplomats in subway stations?”

  “Not unless you’re willing to be called a racist on the eve of the summit.”

  “Uh-huh,” the president said. “What’s their gripe about Goldberg?”

  “He is the CIA station chief, a fact of which the French are well aware. I think he’s worn out his welcome, too.”

  “I see. Grafton, are you there?”

  “Yes, sir,” Jake said.

  “I read your report of last night’s incident. How are you coming on that matter we discussed before you left?”

  “Still working it, sir.”

  “Any way you can get someone to put in a good word for you with the French government?”

  “Are you referring to Rodet?”

  “Yes.”

  “I can call him.”

  “I suggest you do that. And I want a complete brief from you when I get over there.”

  “We should have most of the answers by then, sir.”

  “Terrific. Goldberg?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Better behave yourself if you expect to complete your tour.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Owen, I hate to put you on the spot like this, but you’re going to have to kiss some more frog ass. Tell the minister you’ve been chatting with that I ripped Grafton and Goldberg a new one and respectfully request that they be allowed to remain in France, at least until after the G-8 conference is over.”

  Owen Lancaster didn’t turn a hair. He’d been doing this for more years than the president had been in government. “Yes, sir,” he said evenly. “See you Tuesday.”

  “’Preciate it, Owen. Knew I could count on you.”

  The connection broke, and the speaker began buzzing. Lancaster pushed buttons to silence the noise. “I don’t appreciate being put on the spot like this,” he said.

  Grafton and Goldberg were still standing in front of his desk. He hadn’t asked them to sit.

  “This weapon the French said you have—do you have i
t with you?”

  Grafton nodded affirmatively.

  “May I see it, please.” It wasn’t a question. Lancaster held out his hand.

  Jake Grafton removed the weapon from his pocket and flipped on the power switch. He held it so Lancaster could see it but didn’t offer it to him.

  “I’ll take that, Admiral,” the ambassador said curtly.

  “I think not,” Jake responded. “I may need it again.”

  Lancaster’s eyes narrowed. “I understand you killed two men with that thing. That makes it a deadly weapon. There is a centuries-old tradition that diplomatic personnel will be unarmed—it’s really a point of international law—and it’s a tradition that I personally support.”

  “I’m not going to become a victim of street thugs just to make your life more comfortable,” Grafton said. He pointed the weapon at the television set in the corner and pulled the trigger.

  The laser beam shot out; a long second later, the electrical charge vomited forth in a clap of thunder that was painfully loud in that enclosed room. As the lightning strobed, the television picture tube exploded, showering glass fragments in all directions. Fortunately everyone slammed his eyes shut or managed to cover them.

  The silence that followed was broken only by the patter of tiny bits of glass raining down until Grafton said, “Come on, George,” and headed for the door.

  I was in a foul mood when I got to the embassy. I’d only had a few hours’ sleep, and each time I dropped off I awoke with nightmares. The corpse on the floor of the apartment below weighed heavily on my mind. It wasn’t right that her body should be left to rot.

  Gator Zantz was manning the guard desk outside the SCIF. Apparently security guard was the one job in the agency he was completely qualified for. I snarled at him, “Admiral Grafton in?”

  “He’s up in the ambassador’s office getting chewed out.”

  “About what?”

  “Couple of guys he killed in the subway last night.”

  That took the juice out of me. “Oh,” I managed, and dug in my wallet for my pass. After Gator prayed over it, I tossed my cell phone into the basket and went in to find Sarah.

  She was working on a computer in the bowels of the SCIF. Of course, the screen was arranged so that anyone coming into her cubicle couldn’t see it—security, you know. I dropped into the chair.

  “The admiral told me about Elizabeth Conner,” she said, glancing at me.

  I didn’t know what to say. “It must have happened while we were eating dinner, or maybe a little before,” I muttered.

  “You look as if it hit you hard.”

  That comment surprised me. In my profession you can’t let your emotions show. Man, I was slipping. Getting old, I guess. And real tired of this…this…

  Sarah picked up a sheet of paper from the desk and handed it to me to read.

  After two sentences my heart almost stopped.

  Henri Rodet has passed to the CIA information from his undercover agent in Al Queda, which has been planning a major attempt on the lives of the G-8 leaders in Paris. The agent reports that Osama Bin Laden feels that even if the attempt is only partially successful, the mere fact the organization is strong enough to launch such an attack will have major political implications in the G-8 nations and the Islamic world.

  I tried to whistle and nothing came out. “Wow,” I said. “I guess the admiral’s got it in spades, huh!”

  “Ah, there you are!” Grafton’s voice, behind me in the doorway. I still had the page in my hand, so he said, “What do you think of my effort?”

  “So the wizards at the NSA decrypted the stuff on Rodet’s telephone, eh? Jeez, when you were talking to me last night you didn’t say—”

  “Oh, that’s all bullshit. I wrote it yesterday evening, and Washington posted it on your private Intelink for Jean-Paul Arnaud to find.” Grafton waved a hand distractedly. “The NSA code breakers are still working on Rodet’s telephone, but we’ve run out of time. That’s what I think Arnaud thinks might be on that hard drive.”

  “So you’re trying a finesse?”

  “Call it whatever you like.”

  I’d seen Grafton in action before. He wasn’t sweating or breathing hard yet. “What do you think is on that hard drive?” I asked.

  He stepped into the cubicle. “If I were a betting man, I’d bet Qasim hasn’t sent Rodet anything of significance since he gave him the Veghel stuff.”

  “But that’s crazy,” I protested. “Why was Rodet trying to protect the device if there’s nothing on it?”

  “He’s trying to protect Qasim, not the hard drive of that pocket computer. There’s a large difference.”

  “You’re implying Qasim gave Rodet the Veghel stuff to win his trust—”

  “—Or win it back.”

  “Sacrificing the Veghel conspirators? To checkmate the king?”

  “To kill the kings, perhaps,” Grafton said, nodding. “It’s possible.” He looked at his watch. “My wife and your pal Willie are due to relieve Cliff Icahn in the listening van at Rodet’s country estate in about an hour. Why don’t you go pick them up and drive them out there. Stay with them. I’ll have my cell phone in my pocket—I want to know what you hear and if anyone comes by there.”

  A little ride in the country! I stood up and shook down my trousers as I glanced again at Grafton’s composition. “If you got this figured right, after Arnaud reads this, he and his pals will zip right on over to have a piece of Rodet.”

  “I’m sorta hoping they will,” Grafton said, and grinned. He pulled something that looked like a plastic water pistol from his pocket and handed it to me. “Better take this along.”

  As I examined the device, Grafton explained how it worked.

  “How noisy is this thing?”

  “About as loud as a pistol shot.”

  “Got any knives in the building?”

  Grafton nodded. “Keep that,” he said, and disappeared through the door.

  I dropped back into the chair. “When we get out of this, if we do,” I said to Sarah, “Grafton’s going to let me resign from the agency. Why don’t you talk to him about getting out of your job?”

  She eyed me with interest. “That a proposal?”

  “Aah, actually…no. Just a suggestion.”

  “I’ll keep it in mind.”

  We sat in silence, not looking at each other. I played with the ray gun, looking it over. “This thing really work?” I asked Sarah.

  “Last night in the subway he injured one man and killed two others with it, or one like it,” she said dryly.

  “Sounds like a recommendation,” I agreed.

  Grafton returned several minutes later. “Goldberg said you can use this. It’s from his personal collection.” He produced a Fairbairn-Sykes fighting knife, complete with wrist scabbard, an artifact if ever there was one. I only knew what it was because I’d seen one in the Imperial War Museum. “Guy in MI-6 gave it to him,” Grafton added. “His grandfather used it in World War II.”

  “I would have guessed World War I,” I said, and rolled up my left sleeve. As I was strapping it on my forearm I asked, “What about the ten grand Arnaud owes us? Sarah and I were going by this morning to collect.”

  “He’ll probably be too busy today to pay off. Let’s hope so, anyway.”

  “Darn,” Sarah said with a sigh. “I had plans for some of that money.”

  I wasn’t quite finished. “If you’ve got this hairball all figured out,” I said to Grafton, “who shot Rich Thurlow and Al Salazar and strangled Elizabeth Conner? I’d like to know who the players are.”

  Sarah opened her mouth to say something, but Grafton silenced her with a glance. “Not yet,” he said.

  “By chance, do you have any Snickers bars in that desk?” I asked Sarah. She shook her head. I looked at Grafton. “So what do we do if Arnaud shows up?”

  “Call me. Pink Maillard and I will be close by with a couple of his men. We can be there in five minutes.”

&nb
sp; “The cavalry! So we’re the bait for the lion, huh? Callie know that?”

  Grafton snorted. “Know it? Hell, this was her idea. I didn’t have the guts to say no.” He pinned me with those gray eyes and said softly, “Be careful, okay?”

  “Sure, Admiral.”

  That’s what you always say to Jake Grafton. Sure. He’s that kind of guy.

  After Carmellini left, Grafton dropped into the chair beside Sarah’s desk. “This older man I’ve been seeing—I think Tommy took his picture. Did the agency match it up with anything in the database?”

  “No,” Sarah said, and stroked the keys. The photo appeared.

  Grafton got out of the chair and moved so he could see the screen. “That’s him, all right. He was in the subway last night with four young toughs.” The admiral examined the photo, then backed away and squinted at it. “What would he look like if he were younger?”

  “I can manipulate that image and pass it back to Langley,” Sarah said. She attacked the keyboard. “Oh, by the way,” she said as she typed, “I can’t find any record of Marisa Petrou in Europe before she was ten years old.” She looked at Grafton. “Suggestive, don’t you think?”

  “It raises questions,” he admitted.

  I picked up Willie Varner at his hotel. I called ahead and got him on his cell, so he was waiting in front of the joint when I pulled up.

  “Hey, man,” he said as he pulled the door shut.

  “Hey.”

  “Nice car. I thought yours blew up.”

  “Yeah. Must’ve had a short in it or something. This is an embassy heap.”

  “Well, I want to tell you, it’s been fun working with Mrs. Grafton. She’s quite a lady. Got better personal habits than you do and doesn’t cuss as much.”

  “What you been up to?”

  “Sittin’ in that van out at Rodet’s, lookin’ and listenin’. The sailor thought that ol’ Rodet and his girlfriend might get snatched by somebody. We were supposed to call him if anybody did that.” He kept talking, nattering on about Mrs. Grafton and how nice she was and all that.