Tommy Carmellini 02 - The Traitor (46 page)

I knew Abu Qasim was the guy coming to press the button and send the G-8 leaders and their entourages to wherever it is that good suicidal terrorists don't go, someplace without virgins. Then I convinced myself that it wasn't him, that it would be someone else, anybody. A team maybe, anxious to share in the glory.

There was no guarantee that we had found all the bombs. For all I

knew, I had slept on one. Underestimating the terrorists was an error that would prove fatal for a lot of people, me included.

Hijack a plane and crash it into the chateau? It was certainly within the realm of possibility. As I walked, the scenes of the World Trade Center collapsing ran through my mind, over and over.

Well, we had Jake Grafton on our side. Maybe that leveled the playing field.

Fire and blood.

Damn, boy, you gotta get away from this.

I felt clammy and sweaty and started swallowing repeatedly. I should have known! Seconds later I ran for the bucket and heaved my breakfast. I felt a little better afterward, but not much.

I was about ready for the straitjacket and funny farm when Jake Grafton came up from the kitchen at 10:03 a.m. I knew because I'd been checking my watch twice a minute since he left my breakfast.

"Here's a key to the door Willie picked yesterday," he said, holding it out. "Want a break?"

I snatched the key, grabbed the bucket and started hiking for the stairs.

"Come back in an hour or so."

"You bet." I took the stairs down two at a time, dropped a
bonjour
on the five or six plainclothes security folks sitting around the kitchen table, and hopped into the restroom. When I was done there I went through the kitchen to the great outdoors.

I found myself on the back side of the chateau. I needed a walk, so I circled the building. That takes a while, but that's how long I had. I was stunned when I rounded the north wing and saw the courtyard, which looked like the parking lot at the Super Bowl. There must have been two dozen media trucks there with satellite dishes on the tops; miles of cable ran everywhere in a hopeless tangle; here and there stood a generator truck with its diesel engine snoring loudly; and there were even a couple of private buses.

Three reporters gripping microphones stood with their backs to

the chateau in front of cameramen. A couple appeared to be on the air, chattering into their mikes.

As I watched, a helicopter descended onto the paved area behind the main gate and a small knot of people got out. They walked past the statue of Louis XIV toward the chateau and the waiting television cameras. It looked like a Hollywood premiere—all they needed was a red carpet and a hot dolly or two draped for action.

Trailing along at a respectful distance, I had to run a gauntlet of security types, some in uniform wearing submachine guns, some in plainclothes with bulging armpits. Every one of them scrutinized my face and the pass dangling from the chain around my neck.

Inside the building was bedlam: television lights, cables strung willy-nilly to trip the unwary, cameras, and the technicians and on-air people to make the magic; needless to say, all these people were talking loudly to each other. Several interviews were in progress in front of large blue drapes, which allowed the producers at home to put in any background they wished any time they wished. I recognized none of the interviewers or interviewees, which is natural since I've led a sheltered life of quiet contemplation.

In one of the rooms, press secretaries were briefing the working press on agreements and statements that the ministers had issued after yesterday's meetings. More uniformed paras, police and plainclothes security guys.

Pink Maillard was huddled with a couple of women carrying Secret Service purses. The women were hardbodies who looked as if they would enjoy shooting me or breaking my neck just for practice. I gave Pink the Hi sign and he jerked his head at me in acknowledgment.

Of course I looked around for Arabs and North Africans and didn't see a one.

Then I did, a delegation in white robes and beards. They appeared to be Saudis, but who knows.

The newspeople were a polyglot lot: their stories and broadcasts

were going all over the globe. I leaned against a wall for a while and watched them interview government stooges and ministers and each other. They never tired of it.

As I watched, another knot of people came in, Japanese security types surrounding their leader. Just as I was glancing at my watch, noting that my hour was almost over, the president of Russia arrived. These heads of state were shuffled off to await their summit in the north wing, where they could visit with their own ministers or each other free from press scrutiny.

I stared at the people, scrutinizing them one by one. Which one was the guy with the radio transmitter? Which one had a gun?

That camera—that could be a gun! I walked over, looking at the camera. The guy had a ponytail and wore jeans.

I must have had a strange look on my face, because he said, "Who the hell are you?" in a Texas accent.

I realized I was making a fool of myself and turned away.

Qasim. It would be him. But which one was he?

The key that Grafton had given me opened the door behind the curtain that we had gone through yesterday. No siren went off and no one started shooting. I pulled it shut behind me until it latched, then rattled it.

Jake Grafton was sitting on the catwalk at the top of the ladder. I climbed up to join him. My head was thumping like a toothache and I was perspiring freely, so I held on to the rungs for dear life as I climbed.

"We've done everything that can be done," Grafton said when I was seated beside him, clinging to the rail with a death grip. "The French have searched this building from end to end, including both north and south wings. They've swept it for electronic devices of any sort and swept it with magnetic detectors looking for suspicious metal in the walls, and they've got people stationed everywhere. Antiaircraft missile launchers are on the grounds around the building, concrete barriers have been erected at every entrance to force vehicles to slow to a creep to get through, and tanks are stationed where they can take any vehicle out at can't-miss range. Oh, and troops are out in

town patrolling to minimize the chance that someone could shoot a shoulder-launched missile at the chateau."

"Food and drink have been inspected," I suggested.

"Yep. And no one is in the building except authorized staff, news-people, security folks, and the political delegations from all over. Absolutely no tourists."

"Sounds like you have it covered."

"I'm just praying there was only the one bomb."

He departed for the security command center, which was a trailer outfitted with three different global communications systems that sat by the door in the courtyard, right outside the main entrance. It had been obscured by the news trucks, so I hadn't noticed it. Grafton assured me it was there, and I believed him.

It did figure that there was only the one banger. Two doubled the chances that one would be found; then the building would be searched like a Columbian nanny. But since I saw it that way, maybe there were indeed two. Or three.

The problem was that I was a little dizzy. I climbed down from the catwalk gingerly, making sure my feet were properly placed on the rungs. The irony of the moment made me want to cry. I'm a rock climber, for Christ's sake, a cat burglar. I can free-climb a brick wall, and here I was, holding on to a ladder like a kid climbing an apple tree for the very first time.

Safely on the floor, I propped my head on the pillow and lay down on the blanket I had slept under the previous night. Closed my eyes and tried to ignore the pounding in my head. Tried to shut out the noise that seeped through the walls from all sides. Tried to sleep, but it didn't happen. The person on my mind was Abu Qasim.

Grafton found Willie Varner in the basement kitchen watching the ceremonies on television. He was alone. "Carmellini still upstairs in the hallway?"

"He hasn't come down."

"The door is locked, right?"

"Yep. I checked a little while ago."

"Don't let anyone through that door to the servants' hall. Anyone."

"Got one of those radios for me?" Grafton was wearing a radio earpiece in his left ear and a lapel mike. The wires ran to a radio transceiver hooked to his belt.

"No. I got the last one they had." He pulled out a cell phone, made sure it had a signal, and passed it to Willie. "This is Callie's. Call me if anyone wants to go up. Just open the phone, push the green button, then the number 1."

"Okay, boss." Willie put the cell phone on the table.

"I don't have a weapon for you, either. Think you can do this?"

Willie opened several drawers, searching. Finally he pulled out a large knife. "Yeah," he said.

"Good man," Jake said. He patted Willie on the shoulder, and went up the staircase that would take him to the main hall.

Willie Varner pushed the knife up his left sleeve. He opened the refrigerator, which held nothing of interest, then filled a glass of water from the tap. He eyed the television as he sipped it.

The helicopter settled onto the pavement in the vast square in front of the chateau, but no one got out. The rotors slowed and eventually stopped.

Jake Grafton was standing near the command center, adjusting his radio earpiece, when Pink Maillard's voice sounded in his ear. "He wants to see us, in the bird."

Jake clicked the transmitter button on his belt transceiver twice and began walking toward the helicopter. Maillard caught up with him and matched him stride for stride.

They walked past the media trucks, the paras and the waiting diplomats. A crewman wearing a helmet was standing beside the open door as they approached the helicopter. They climbed aboard and found the president of the United States and the U.S. ambassa-

dor to France, Owen Lancaster, seated side by side. The president pointed to the facing seats; Grafton and Maillard sat down.

"You found a bomb."

"Yes, sir." Jake described the cylinders and igniters and explained how they would work.

"So who has the radio control unit that would have set these things off?"

"Someone who is already here," Pink Maillard said tightly. "The French have sealed this place off. No one gets in without a pass."

"But our bomber probably already has a pass," the president said.

"That's right."

"And it could be anyone," the president mused. "Any politician, staffer, cook, policeman, soldier, reporter, cameraman ..."

"Anybody," Jake agreed.

"Have the terrorists got a Plan B?"

No one answered that question.

When the silence had gone on too long, Owen Lancaster said, "The French have given me assurances. They know the risks as well as we do."

"Right."

"Anybody," Grafton repeated.

"Sweet Jesus," the president muttered. He rose from his seat and climbed out the door of the helicopter.

Pink motioned to one of the Secret Service men who was getting off to follow the president. "Give me your pistol."

The man produced it and passed it to Pink, who handed it to Jake Grafton.

Outside, the president walked toward the row of television cameras and waiting dignitaries.

The British prime minister was the last to arrive. He made his way into a foyer where he was greeted by the president of France. The two of them walked shoulder to shoulder toward the Hall of

Mirrors as the other G-8 leaders came in from the north wing of the building.

Grafton was already in the hall with his shoulders pressed against the back wall. He was amazed at the crush of newspeople, cameramen and bodyguards. The room filled quickly as the heads of government shook hands and seated themselves around the large conference table in the middle of the room.

Grafton watched the crowd and listened to the radio chatter among the security men. He didn't have a good vantage point—he had three men with large videocams on their shoulders directly in front of him—and there was no way he could easily and unobtrusively move to a better one. That's when he glimpsed a face he thought he knew on the other side of the room. Then it disappeared.

Henri Rodet pushed the button on the transmitter in his jacket pocket repeatedly. He glanced up, waiting .. . and saw nothing out of the ordinary. Well, the gas might be colorless.

He counted silently to ten, took a deep breath, and pushed the button on the other transmitter.

Nothing.

Mon Dieu!
Perhaps he had accidentally switched transmitters. If so, the gas was coming out now. He kept counting . . . seven, eight, nine, ten! And pushed the button on the first unit again.

Nothing.

Had they found the bomb and disabled it? Or were the batteries dead ?

"Jake, this is Pink. The French just got several hits on their radio receiver. Someone is transmitting on the bomb activation frequency. They didn't get a location."

"Pink, Grafton. I thought I just saw Rodet."