Lie Down With Lions (3 page)

Ellis was puzzled for a moment, then realized. “She’s a linguist,” he said. “She knows accents.”

Pepe spoke for the first time. “While we’re waiting for this cunt to arrive, let’s see the money.”

“All right.” Boris went into the bedroom.

While he was out, Rahmi spoke to Ellis in a low hiss. “I didn’t know you were going to pull that trick!”

“Of course you didn’t,” said Ellis in a feigned tone of boredom. “If you had known what I was going to do, it wouldn’t have worked as a safeguard, would it?”

Boris came back in with a large brown envelope and handed it to Pepe. Pepe opened it and began counting one-hundred-franc notes.

Boris unwrapped the carton of Marlboros and lit a cigarette.

Ellis thought: I hope Jane doesn’t
wait
before making the call to “Mustafa.” I should have told her it was important to pass the message on immediately.

After a while Pepe said: “It’s all there.” He put the money back into the envelope, licked the flap, sealed it and put it on a side table.

The four men sat in silence for several minutes.

Boris asked Ellis: “How far away is your place?”

“Fifteen minutes on a motor scooter.”

There was a knock at the door. Ellis tensed.

“She drove fast,” Boris said. He opened the door. “Coffee,” he said disgustedly, and returned to his seat.

Two white-jacketed waiters wheeled a trolley into the room. They straightened up and turned around, each holding in his hand a Model “D” MAB pistol, standard issue for French detectives. One of them said: “Nobody move.”

Ellis felt Boris gather himself to spring. Why were there only two detectives? If Rahmi were to do something foolish, and get himself shot, it would create enough of a diversion for Pepe and Boris together to overpower the armed men—

The bedroom door flew open, and two more men in waiters’ uniforms stood there, armed like their colleagues.

Boris relaxed, and a look of resignation came over his face.

Ellis realized he had been holding his breath. He let it out in a long sigh.

It was all over.

A uniformed police officer walked into the room.

“A trap!” Rahmi burst out. “This
is
a trap!”

“Shut up,” said Boris, and once again his harsh voice silenced Rahmi. He addressed the police officer. “I object most strongly to this outrage,” he began. “Please take note that—”

The policeman punched him in the mouth with a leather-gloved fist.

Boris touched his lips, then looked at the smear of blood on his hand. His manner changed completely as he realized this was far too serious for him to bluff his way out. “Remember my face,” he told the police officer in a voice as cold as the grave. “You will see it again.”

“But who is the traitor?” cried Rahmi. “Who betrayed us?”

“Him,” said Boris, pointing at Ellis.

“Ellis?” Rahmi said incredulously.

“The phone call,” said Boris. “The address.”

Rahmi stared at Ellis. He looked wounded to the quick.

Several more uniformed policemen came in. The officer pointed at Pepe. “That’s Gozzi,” he said. Two policemen handcuffed Pepe and led him away. The officer looked at Boris. “Who are you?”

Boris looked bored. “My name is Jan Hocht,” he said. “I am a citizen of Argentina—”

“Don’t bother,” said the officer disgustedly. “Take him away.” He turned to Rahmi. “Well?”

“I have nothing to say!” Rahmi said, managing to make it sound heroic.

The officer gave a jerk of his head and Rahmi, too, was handcuffed. He glared at Ellis until he was led out.

The prisoners were taken down in the elevator one at a time. Pepe’s briefcase and the envelope full of hundred-franc notes were shrouded in polythene. A police photographer came in and set up his tripod.

The officer said to Ellis: “There is a black Citroën DS parked outside the hotel.” Hesitantly he added: “Sir.”

I’m back on the side of the law, Ellis thought. A pity Rahmi is so much more attractive a man than this cop.

He went down in the elevator. In the hotel lobby the manager, in black coat and striped trousers, stood with a pained expression frozen to his face as more policemen marched in.

Ellis went out into the sunshine. The black Citroën was on the other side of the street. There was a driver in the front and a passenger in the back. Ellis got into the back. The car pulled away fast.

The passenger turned to Ellis and said: “Hello, John.”

Ellis smiled. The use of his real name was strange after more than a year. He said: “How are you, Bill?”

“Relieved!” said Bill. “For thirteen months we hear nothing from you but demands for money. Then we get a peremptory phone call telling us we’ve got twenty-four hours to arrange a local arrest squad. Imagine what we had to do to persuade the French to do that without telling them why! The squad had to be ready in the vicinity of the Champs-Élysées, but to get the exact address we had to wait for a phone call from an unknown woman asking for Mustafa. And that’s all we know!”

“It was the only way,” Ellis said apologetically.

“Well, it took some doing—and I now owe some big favors in this town—but we did it. So tell me whether it was worth it. Who have we got in the bag?”

“The Russian is Boris,” said Ellis.

Bill’s face broke into a broad grin. “I’ll be a son of a bitch,” he said. “You brought in Boris. No kidding.”

“No kidding.”

“Jesus, I better get him back from the French before they figure out who he is.”

Ellis shrugged. “Nobody’s going to get much information out of him anyway. He’s the dedicated type. The important thing is that we’ve taken him out of circulation. It will take them a couple of years to break in a replacement and for the new Boris to build his contacts. Meanwhile we’ve really slowed their operation down.”

“You just bet we have. This is sensational.”

“The Corsican is Pepe Gozzi, a weapons dealer,” Ellis went on. “He supplied the hardware for just about every terrorist action in France in the last couple of years, and a lot more in other countries. He’s the one to interrogate. Send a French detective to talk to his father, Mémé Gozzi, in Marseilles. I predict you’ll find the old man never did like the idea of the family getting involved in political crimes. Offer him a deal: immunity for Pepe if Pepe will testify against all the political people he sold stuff to—none of the ordinary criminals. Mémé will go for that, because it won’t count as betrayal of friends. And if Mémé goes for it, Pepe will do it. The French can prosecute for years.”

“Incredible.” Bill looked dazed. “In one day you’ve nailed probably the two biggest instigators of terrorism in the world.”

“One day?” Ellis smiled. “It took a year.”

“It was worth it.”

“The young guy is Rahmi Coskun,” Ellis said. He was hurrying on because there was someone else to whom he wanted to tell all this. “Rahmi and his group did the Turkish Airlines firebombing a couple of months ago and killed an Embassy attaché before that. If you round up the whole group you’re sure to find some forensic evidence.”

“Or the French police will persuade them to confess.”

“Yes. Give me a pencil and I’ll write down the names and addresses.”

“Save it,” said Bill. “I’m going to debrief you completely back at the Embassy.”

“I’m not going back to the Embassy.”

“John, don’t fight the program.”

“I’ll give you these names. Then you’ll have all the really essential information, even if I get run down by a mad French cab driver this afternoon. If I survive, I’ll meet you tomorrow morning and give you the detail stuff.”

“Why wait?”

“I have a lunch date.”

Bill rolled his eyes up. “I suppose we owe you this,” he said reluctantly.

“That’s what I figured.”

“Who’s your date?”

“Jane Lambert. Hers was one of the names you gave me when you originally briefed me.”

“I remember. I told you that if you wormed your way into her affections she would introduce you to every mad leftist, Arab terrorist, Baader-Meinhof hanger-on and avant-garde poet in Paris.”

“That’s how it worked, except I fell in love with her.”

Bill looked like a Connecticut banker being told that his son is going to marry the daughter of a black millionaire: he did not know whether to be thrilled or appalled. “Uh, what’s she really like?”

“She’s not crazy although she has some crazy friends. What can I tell you? She’s as pretty as a picture, bright as a pin, and horny as a jackass. She’s wonderful. She’s the woman I’ve been looking for all my life.”

“Well, I can see why you’d rather celebrate with her than with me. What are you going to do?”

Ellis smiled. “I’m going to open a bottle of wine, fry a couple of steaks, tell her I catch terrorists for a living and ask her to marry me.”

CHAPTER TWO

J
ean-Pierre leaned forward across the canteen table and fixed the brunette with a compassionate gaze. “I think I know how you feel,” he said warmly. “I remember being very depressed toward the end of my first year in medical school. It seems as if you’ve been given more information than one brain can absorb and you just don’t know how you’re going to master it in time for the exams.”

“That’s
exactly
it,” she said, nodding vigorously. She was almost in tears.

“It’s a good sign,” he reassured her. “It means you’re on top of the course. The people who aren’t worried are the ones who will flunk.”

Her brown eyes were moist with gratitude. “Do you really think so?”

“I’m sure of it.”

She looked adoringly at him. You’d rather eat me than your lunch, wouldn’t you? he thought. She shifted slightly, and the neck of her sweater gaped open, showing the lacy trimming of her bra. Jean-Pierre was momentarily tempted. In the east wing of the hospital there was a linen closet that was never used after about nine thirty in the morning. Jean-Pierre had taken advantage of it more than once. You could lock the door from the inside and lie down on a soft pile of clean sheets. . . .

The brunette sighed and forked a piece of steak into her mouth, and as she began to chew, Jean-Pierre lost interest. He hated to watch people eat. Anyway, he had only been flexing his muscles, to prove he could still do it: he did not really want to seduce her. She was very pretty, with curly hair and warm Mediterranean coloring, and she had a lovely body, but lately Jean-Pierre had no enthusiasm for casual conquests. The only girl who could fascinate him for more than a few minutes was Jane Lambert—and she would not even kiss him.

He looked away from the brunette, and his gaze roamed restlessly around the hospital canteen. He saw no one he knew. The place was almost empty: he was having lunch early because he was working the early shift.

It was six months now since he had first seen Jane’s stunningly pretty face across a crowded room at a cocktail party to launch a new book on feminist gynecology. He had suggested to her that there was no such thing as feminist medicine: there was just good medicine and bad medicine. She had replied that there was no such thing as Christian mathematics, but still it took a heretic such as Galileo to prove that the earth goes around the sun. Jean-Pierre had exclaimed: “You are right!” in his most disarming manner and they had become friends.

Yet she was resistant to his charms, if not quite impervious. She liked him, but she seemed to be committed to the American, even though Ellis was a good deal older than she. Somehow that made her even more desirable to Jean-Pierre. If only Ellis would drop out of the picture—get run over by a bus, or something . . . Lately Jane’s resistance had seemed to be weakening—or was that wishful thinking?

The brunette said: “Is it true you’re going to Afghanistan for two years?”

“That’s right.”

“Why?”

“Because I believe in freedom, I suppose. And because I didn’t go through all this training just to do coronary bypasses for fat businessmen.” The lies came automatically to his lips.

“But why two years? People who do this usually go for three to six months, a year at the most. Two years seems like forever.”

“Does it?” Jean-Pierre gave a wry smile. “It’s difficult, you see, to achieve anything of real value in a shorter period. The idea of sending doctors there for a brief visit is highly inefficient. What the rebels need is some kind of permanent medical setup, a hospital that stays in the same place and has at least some of the same staff from one year to the next. As things are, half the people don’t know where to take their sick and wounded, they don’t follow the doctor’s orders because they never get to know him well enough to trust him, and nobody has any time for health education. And the cost of transporting the volunteers to the country and bringing them back makes their ‘free’ services rather expensive.” Jean-Pierre put so much effort into this speech that he almost believed it himself, and he had to remind himself of his true motive for going to Afghanistan, and of the real reason he had to stay for two years.

A voice behind him said: “Who’s going to give their services free?”

He turned around to see another couple carrying trays of food: Valérie, who was an intern like him; and her boyfriend, a radiologist. They sat down with Jean-Pierre and the brunette.

The brunette answered Valérie’s question. “Jean-Pierre is going to Afghanistan to work for the rebels.”

“Really?” Valérie was surprised. “I heard you had been offered a marvelous job in Houston.”

“I turned it down.”

She was impressed. “But why?”

“I consider it worthwhile to save the lives of freedom fighters; but a few Texan millionaires more or less won’t make any difference to anything.”

The radiologist was not as fascinated by Jean-Pierre as his girlfriend was. He swallowed a mouthful of potatoes and said: “No sweat. After you come back, you’ll have no trouble getting that same job offer again—you’ll be a hero as well as a doctor.”

“Do you think so?” said Jean-Pierre coolly. He did not like the turn the conversation was taking.

“Two people from this hospital went to Afghanistan last year,” the radiologist went on. “They both got great jobs when they came back.”

Jean-Pierre gave a tolerant smile. “It’s nice to know that I’ll be employable if I survive.”

“I should hope so!” said the brunette indignantly. “After such a sacrifice!”

“What do your parents think of the idea?” wondered Valérie.

“My mother approves,” said Jean-Pierre. Of course she approved: she loved a hero. Jean-Pierre could imagine what his father would say about idealistic young doctors who went to work for the Afghan rebels.
Socialism doesn’t mean everyone can do what they want!
he would say, his voice hoarse and urgent, his face reddening a little.
What do you think those rebels are? They’re bandits, preying on the law-abiding peasants. Feudal institutions have to be wiped out before socialism can come in.
He would hammer the table with one great fist.
To make a soufflé, you have to break eggs—to make socialism, you have to break heads!
Don’t worry, Papa, I know all that. “My father is dead,” Jean-Pierre said. “But he was a freedom fighter himself. He fought in the Resistance during the war.”

“What did he do?” asked the skeptical radiologist, but Jean-Pierre never answered him because he had seen, coming across the canteen, Raoul Clermont, the editor of
La Révolte,
sweating in his Sunday suit. What the devil was the fat journalist doing in the hospital canteen?

“I need to have a word with you,” said Raoul without preamble. He was out of breath. Jean-Pierre gestured to a chair. “Raoul—”

“It’s urgent,” Raoul cut in, almost as if he did not want the others to hear his name.

“Why don’t you join us for lunch? Then we could talk at leisure.”

“I regret I cannot.”

Jean-Pierre heard a note of panic in the fat man’s voice. Looking into his eyes, he saw that they were pleading with him to stop fooling around. Surprised, Jean-Pierre stood up. “Okay,” he said. To cover the suddenness of it all he said playfully to the others: “Don’t eat my lunch—I’ll be back.” He took Raoul’s arm and they walked out of the canteen.

Jean-Pierre had intended to stop and talk outside the door, but Raoul kept on walking along the corridor. “Monsieur Leblond sent me,” he said.

“I was beginning to think he must be behind this,” said Jean-Pierre. It was a month ago that Raoul had taken him to meet Leblond, who had asked him to go to Afghanistan, ostensibly to help the rebels as many young French doctors did, but actually to spy for the Russians. Jean-Pierre had felt proud, apprehensive and most of all thrilled at the opportunity to do something really spectacular for the cause. His only fear had been that the organizations which sent doctors to Afghanistan would turn him down because he was a Communist. They had no way of knowing he was actually a Party member, and he certainly would not tell them—but they might know he was a Communist sympathizer. However, there were plenty of French Communists who were opposed to the invasion of Afghanistan. There was nevertheless a remote possibility that a cautious organization might suggest that Jean-Pierre would be happier working for some other group of freedom fighters—they also sent people to help the rebels in El Salvador, for example. In the end it had not happened: Jean-Pierre had been accepted immediately by
Médecins pour la Liberté
. He had told Raoul the good news, and Raoul had said there would be another meeting with Leblond. Perhaps this was to do with that. “But why the panic?”

“He wants to see you now.”

“Now?”
Jean-Pierre was annoyed. “I’m on duty. I have patients—”

“Surely someone else will take care of them.”

“But what is the urgency? I don’t leave for another two months.”

“It’s not about Afghanistan.”

“Well, what
is
it about?”

“I don’t know.”

Then what has frightened you? wondered Jean-Pierre. “Have you no idea at all?”

“I know that Rahmi Coskun has been arrested.”

“The Turkish student?”

“Yes.”

“What for?”

“I don’t know.”

“And what is it to do with me? I hardly know him.”

“Monsieur Leblond will explain.”

Jean-Pierre threw up his hands. “I can’t just walk out of here.”

“What would happen if you were taken ill?” said Raoul.

“I would tell the Nursing Officer, and she would call in a replacement. But—”

“So call her.” They had reached the entrance of the hospital, and there was a bank of internal phones on the wall.

This may be a test, thought Jean-Pierre, a loyalty test, to see whether I am serious enough to be given this mission. He decided to risk the wrath of the hospital authorities. He picked up the phone.

“I have been called away by a sudden family emergency,” he said when he got through. “You must get in touch with Dr. Roche immediately.”

“Yes, Doctor,” the nurse replied calmly. “I hope you have not received sad news.”

“I’ll tell you later,” he said hastily. “Good-bye. Oh—just a minute.” He had a postoperative patient who had been hemorrhaging during the night. “How is Madame Ferier?”

“Fine. The bleeding has not recommenced.”

“Good. Keep a close watch on her.”

“Yes, Doctor.”

Jean-Pierre hung up. “All right,” he said to Raoul. “Let’s go.”

They walked to the car park and got into Raoul’s Renault 5. The inside of the car was hot from the midday sun. Raoul drove fast through back streets. Jean-Pierre felt nervous. He did not know exactly who Leblond was, but he assumed the man was something in the KGB. Jean-Pierre found himself wondering whether he had done anything to offend that much-feared organization; and, if so, what the punishment might be.

Surely they could not have found out about Jane.

His asking her to go to Afghanistan with him was no business of theirs. There were sure to be others in the Party anyway, perhaps a nurse to help Jean-Pierre at his destination, perhaps other doctors headed for various parts of the country: why shouldn’t Jane be among them? She was not a nurse, but she could take a crash course, and her great advantage was that she could speak some Farsi, the Persian language, a form of which was spoken in the area where Jean-Pierre was going.

He hoped she would go with him out of idealism and a sense of adventure. He hoped she would forget about Ellis while she was there, and would fall in love with the nearest European, who would of course be Jean-Pierre.

He had also hoped the Party would never know that he had encouraged her to go for his own reasons. There was no need for them to know, no way they would find out, normally—or so he had thought. Perhaps he had been wrong. Perhaps they were angry.

This is foolish, he told himself. I’ve done nothing wrong, really; and even if I had there would be no punishment. This is the real KGB, not the mythical institution that strikes fear into the hearts of subscribers to the
Reader’s Digest.

Raoul parked the car. They had stopped outside an expensive apartment building in the rue de l’Université. It was the place where Jean-Pierre had met Leblond the last time. They left the car and went inside. The lobby was gloomy. They climbed the curving staircase to the first floor and rang a bell. How much my life has changed, thought Jean-Pierre, since the last time I waited at this door!

Monsieur Leblond opened it. He was a short, slight, balding man with spectacles, and in his charcoal gray suit and silver tie he looked like a butler. He led them to the room at the back of the building where Jean-Pierre had been interviewed. The tall windows and the elaborate moldings indicated that it had once been an elegant drawing room, but now it had a nylon carpet, a cheap office desk and some molded-plastic chairs, orange in color.

“Wait here for a moment,” said Leblond. His voice was quiet, clipped and as dry as dust. A slight accent suggested that his real name was not Leblond. He went out through a different door.

Jean-Pierre sat on one of the plastic chairs. Raoul remained standing. In this room, thought Jean-Pierre, that dry voice said to me
You have been a quietly loyal member of the Party since childhood. Your character and your family background suggest that you would serve the Party well in a covert role.

I hope I haven’t ruined everything because of Jane, he thought.

Leblond came back in with another man. The two of them stood in the doorway, and Leblond pointed at Jean-Pierre. The second man looked hard at Jean-Pierre, as if committing his face to memory. Jean-Pierre returned his gaze. The man was very big, with broad shoulders like those of a football player. His hair was long at the sides but thinning on top, and he had a droopy mustache. He wore a green corduroy jacket with a rip in the sleeve. After a few seconds he nodded and went out.

Leblond closed the door behind him and sat at the desk. “There has been a disaster,” he said.