The Traitor: A Tommy Carmellini Novel by Stephen Coonts

Author:Stephen Coonts [Coonts, Stephen]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Amazon: B000R7PUV0
Publisher: St. Martin's Press
Published: 2007-03-06T06:00:00+00:00

Henri Rodet told his secretary he was going to lunch and walked out of his office. In the courtyard he ignored the limo that was his to command and asked for an agency car. He got in and drove out the gate, turning right on the street.

He checked his rearview mirror at the first light, and the second. No one seemed to be following. Flowing with traffic, he drove to the large parking facilities that served the Pompidou Center and went in. There were four possible exits. He went straight though the building, ensuring that no cars were behind him, and exited.

He parked in a small lot near the Boulevard Richard Lenoir and walked. Ten minutes later he entered a modest restaurant. The staff were still cleaning and preparing for the luncheon crowd.

“Ah, Steuvels. Bonjour. Good to see you again.”

“And you, Monsieur Rodet.”

“Steuvels, I am expecting a friend, an American. He will be along in a little while, and I wondered if we might have one of your private rooms upstairs?”

“Pardon, monsieur, but they are not ready for lunch. You understand, we use them only in the evenings…”

“It doesn’t matter. This is a private meeting.”

“But of course. Come, follow me, and we will make a few preparations. What is your friend’s name?”

“Grafton.”

In the small room, which was just big enough for a table, eight chairs and a sideboard, Rodet had an excellent view out the window. He moved back in the room so that someone outside could not see him.

The day was bright; a square of light fell upon the table.

A waiter knocked, then bustled in with bottled water and two glasses.

“A beer, s’il vous plait,” Rodet said.

When the waiter left Rodet loosened his tie and settled back to wait.

He and Qasim had had their last meal together in a brasserie in the Latin Quarter. The brasserie was gone now—the owner had a heart attack ten, no, fifteen or so years ago. These days the business on that corner sold ice cream to tourists.

Qasim had fallen in love with Paris. Rodet tried to talk him out of going to Egypt. “You don’t need to do this,” he said. “This isn’t your fight.”

Qasim didn’t argue. He took tiny sips of wine and ate slowly, savoring every bite.

Rodet found that it was difficult to argue with a man who refuses to speak, so he gave up. He drank wine and watched people come and go and listened to conversations swirling around them.

When he had finished eating, Qasim ordered the best bottle of wine in the house. The proprietor brought it out reverently and opened it before them. Qasim took an experimental sip, then nodded his approval.

As the conversational hubbub engulfed and surrounded them, he spoke softly, so Rodet had to lean in to hear. “It will be a long time before I write to you. I’ll write to your grandmother. In the letter a place will be mentioned. That will be where I am. Eventually, when it is safe, we will meet somewhere.

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