The Traitor by Stephen Coonts

Author:Stephen Coonts [Coonts, Stephen]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Adventure, Thriller, Mystery, (¯`'•.¸//(*_*)\\¸.•'´¯)
ISBN: 9780312994471
Publisher: St. Martin's Paperbacks
Published: 2006-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

Rodet nodded.

"It is important that you understand, Henri. I may not survive. The Egyptian police may beat me to death or the fundamentalists may kill me. What happens will be God's will. But if God wants me to survive, it will be because He wants me to destroy these people."

Rodet drank more wine and said nothing.

"You see, I am a holy warrior at heart. Islam is the religion for warriors. A man must accept God in his heart and submit to His will. The rest is only details."

Rodet did see. He did not understand, but he saw the iron in the man before him.

They talked and talked until the wine was gone. Mostly Qasim talked and Rodet listened. In his new life as a spy, Qasim could only survive if he said very little, and then nothing that revealed the inner man. So now he talked freely, as if saying good-bye to himself.

He left the next day for Egypt. Rodet waited for several days, then followed along behind. When the Frenchman reached Cairo, Qasim was already in jail. Rodet didn't ask about him, but he saw the lists and found his new name.

Yes, he had to have a new name. Too many people knew Abu Qasim, philosophy student.

Months later Rodet failed to find the name on the newest list. He didn't know if Qasim had died or been released. That was when the reaction to Qasim's choice hit him the hardest. Abu Qasim, he realized, was the greatest human being he had ever met. In an era when most people refused to get involved, Abu Qasim was willing to give his life for what he believed in.

The waiter knocked, breaking Rodet's chain of thought. Now the door opened and the waiter stuck his head in. "Monsieur Grafton."

"Show him in,s'il vousplait."

"She's out and walking, Tommy."

I was sitting in a taxi near the Gare de l'Est. The meter was running and my driver was leaning against the front fender, smoking and chatting with a colleague who had driven the taxi parked behind us.

The voice on the phone in my ear was tinny. "She crossed the square and is walking toward the Boulevard Beaumarchais."

"Both of you are on her, right?"

"Yeah. I'm on one side of the street, Al's on the other."

"What's she wearing?"

"Nice blue and white dress, a white fur wrap of some kind— looks like a short jacket—a designer purse hanging on a strap over one shoulder, and shoes with modest heels."

"Don't lose her and don't let her burn you." "Comments like that are not productive, Tommy." I tried to think of something snotty to say, couldn't and flipped the telephone shut. When I didn't move, the taxi driver lit another cigarette. He and the other driver were arguing politics, I think. I half turned so I didn't have to look at them, and checked the mirrors. There was a car parked about a hundred feet behind us containing three men. They were illegally parked too close to the corner. I couldn't make out their features, and I didn't want to turn around to look.

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