The Terrorist, page 2
Louis watched the comings and goings. When the clerks had changed shifts he approached the desk again. “Good afternoon, sir,” said the clerk. “Checking in?”
“Yes,” said Louis.
“Your reservation is under what name, sir?” said the young clerk, his pen poised above the ledger.
“Coburn,” said Louis. “Louis Coburn.”
It was a large corner room with a view of the harbor and the Jetée du Nord. Louis hung his clothes in the closet and put his toiletries in the bathroom. He kept a small duffel with him and left the room.
The doorman summoned a cab and opened the door. “Have a nice afternoon, sir,” he said.
Louis got into the cab and gave the driver an address. The man looked at Louis in the rearview mirror. He made a doubtful face. “That’s right,” said Louis. “Let’s go.”
“Oui, monsieur,” said the driver. “If you say so.” They drove the boulevards along the waterfront—Baudin, Carnot—and then turned uphill. The streets narrowed. The buildings became shabbier. Glass was missing from windows. Trash littered the sidewalks and streets. Groups of men stood about watching who passed. The driver glanced in the mirror again. “Keep going,” said Louis.
The driver drove slowly up a street of ruined buildings and stopped in front of a two-story stucco house. The first floor had once been a shop. Stained and ragged bedsheets had been nailed up in place of curtains inside the shop windows. Two plastic pots containing the remains of plants sat in one window. A skinny cat with tattered ears slept in the other window among the tiny corpses of hundreds of flies. The cat opened one eye as Louis surveyed the building.
A group of young men across the street watched Louis get out of the cab. “Wait for me,” said Louis. “I won’t be long.” He knocked on the door. He waited a bit, then knocked again. The door was opened by a man of thirty or so in a Lakers T-shirt and blue jeans.
“I’m looking for Sabiha,” said Louis.
“Show me your money,” said the man.
“It’s not like that. I need to talk to her. About her son. Like last time.”
The man looked at Louis for a long moment, trying to remember. “Is five minutes enough?”
“I need to talk to her,” said Louis.
“Talk or fuck. It’s still twenty euros,” said the man, “or thirty dollars.”
Louis gave the man twenty euros. “Hey!” shouted the man into the darkness behind him. “You ready? … Okay,” he said to Louis. “Go on up.”
Louis climbed the grimy wooden stairs. They creaked with every step. The walls were caked with dirt. The stairwell stunk. In the dim light at the top of the stairs stood a woman with her dress unbuttoned so that her breasts showed. She had blond hair with dark roots showing, and a pretty face. She leaned against the wall with one hand on her hip. She rubbed her breasts with the other hand.
“No, Sabiha,” said Louis. “Not that. It’s me, Louis Morgon.”
“Oh, God,” said Sabiha. She pulled her dress closed. “I’m sorry, Monsieur Morgon. Oh, please, forgive me. Please. I’m sorry…” She took his hand and tried to kiss it, but Louis pulled it away.
“I’ve just seen Zaharia,” said Louis. “I wanted to tell you how well he is doing.”
“Praise be to Allah,” she said. “And thank you, Monsieur Louis Morgon, for everything you have done for him. You are sent by Allah. You have been Zaharia’s savior and his benefactor, all thanks and praise be to Allah…”
Louis let her talk. When she was finished he said, “Zaharia has received a scholarship to go to school in America—”
“Scholarship?”
“It means that someone will pay his way. He can go to a fine school for a year. Maybe longer than a year. He will get a good education. It is a wonderful opportunity for him.” Sabiha sang Louis’s praises all over again.
Louis interrupted her. “Tell me one thing. Have you had any American guests?”
“Americans?” She was momentarily confused by the sudden change of subject.
“It could be important,” said Louis. “Try to remember. Maybe two months ago.” He described Phillip Dimitrius as Moamar had described him. “A man of forty or so, balding, squinting eyes behind black-framed glasses, this tall”—Louis held his hand a head higher than his own—“heavy, with a belly and thick arms, legs, and hands.”
“Yes,” said Sabiha, suddenly remembering. “Yes, I remember. He wanted to talk. He gave me money to talk … about you. He said you and he were friends. I did not tell him much. I do not know much,” she said, and looked down at her feet. “He gave me fifty dollars,” she whispered. “Azar does not know.”
“Thank you, Sabiha,” said Louis. “I will see you when I’m in Algiers again.”
“Please, Monsieur Morgon, when does Zaharia go to his American school?”
“September,” said Louis. “He will leave in September.”
“Then I can still see him,” she said. “Only from across the street at school.”
“I know,” said Louis.
“Can you give me some money, like the American did? He gave me fifty dollars. Can you give me fifty dollars?”
“Let me see your arms.” Instead she clutched her arms to her chest. “You’ll just put it into your arms. Or Azar will take it.”
“Why not? The other American did. Hal did. Hal was his name. I remember now. Just fifty dollars for all the information. Please?”
Louis went downstairs and out of the building. The taxi was gone. He walked down the steep hill and down a narrow staircase. The men across the street followed him. Louis did not speed up when he saw them. He slid open the top zipper of his bag and withdrew something small and heavy and slid it into his pants pocket. He kept his hand on the object in his pocket. The group of young men stopped and went back uphill.
Louis found a taxi near the Djemaa el-Djedid Mosque. He took the glasses case out of his pocket and replaced it in the duffel. “To the Grand Alger,” he said.
Louis had dinner in the hotel dining room, which still, after all these years, served a decent bouillabaisse. He had a half bottle of a nice Bordeaux.
Louis had a good night’s sleep and took an early shuttle to the airport. He flew to Paris and took the fast train to Le Mans where the old Peugeot was waiting in the parking garage.
When the maid at the Grand Alger came to clean Mr. Coburn’s room, she was surprised to find that he had not left anything in the room. No wrappers, no newspapers, no bus tickets, no papers of any kind. Nothing. Even the wastebasket was empty.
II
Louis was at home working in his garden—the weeds had grown furiously in his absence—when he heard a car coming up the drive. He remained on his hands and knees between the beans and the tomatoes and watched the car, a large sedan, pass by on the driveway.
The car was traveling slowly, and the driver glanced right and left. He parked behind the Peugeot and took his time getting out. Using the window as a mirror, he adjusted his necktie and patted his jacket into place. He walked toward the front door, smoothed his jacket once more, and knocked.
Louis stood up slowly. As he did, the man turned and saw him. The man raised his hand in a friendly wave. Louis walked stiffly. His knees hurt. The man strode out to meet him. “I’m looking for Louis Morgon,” he said in American English. “I’m Peter Sanchez.” He put out his hand.
“I’m Louis Morgon.”
“I’m pleased to meet you,” said Peter.
“Are you?” said Louis.
Peter laughed. “They told me you wouldn’t be easy.”
“Did they?” said Louis. “And ‘they’ would be who? Langley?”
Peter laughed again. “They would. It was my idea to come see you. They were not encouraging.”
“You won’t be too surprised then,” said Louis, “if I don’t invite you to stay.”
“No,” said Peter. “In fact, I would be surprised if you did. But,” he continued, “I would also be surprised if you weren’t curious about why I’ve come.”
“Why have you come?”
“To ask for your help.”
Peter Sanchez was a head taller than Louis, at least ten years younger, and certainly stronger. But Louis took a step toward him and scowled up into his face. “To ask for my help?”
“I understand your hostility. Toward the Agency, toward government, toward everyone who—”
“My hostility? You don’t understand anything.”
“I think I do,” said Peter. “I’ve read the files. I know that you were criminally abused by some of our agents. You were framed for crimes you didn’t commit. You had a promising career stolen from you. Then you were set upon by … high officials.”
“Set upon. High officials is putting it nicely,” said Louis.
“You were made to seem a terrorist and persecuted for it.”
“Persecuted is also putting it nicely. They tried to kill me,” said Louis.
“Yes,” said Peter. “They tried to kill you. I know. I know the entire catalog of horrors. It is a shameful chapter in the history of the Agency. If anything, your response seems restrained. As I say, I’ve read the files.”
“Have you? The files. Well, well.”
“It isn’t information that is widely shared. But it’s in our files, in the directorate’s files, yes.”
“Are you Phillip Dimitrius?”
“Who? No. Why are you asking me that? Should I know that name?”
“I was just in Algiers, and a man calling himself Phillip Dimitrius seemed to be on my trail. I was just wondering whether it was you, or someone you sent.”
“I have had people checking you out, but not in Algiers. And no one named Dimitrius. I wanted to know whether you could be helpful to us, and so, yes, I have been checking. Assets, liabilities. You know how it’s done.”
“Yes,” said Louis. “That’s how it’s done. That’s how the mischief always begins.”
“Not everything that begins that way is mischief, and not all mischief begins that way,” said Peter. “But you’re right. A lot of it does. I don’t know who this Dimitrius is, but I will certainly find out. And once I do, I’ll tell you. In fact, I’ll tell you everything my people find out about you if that is what it takes to persuade you to help.”
“You’re talking about a lot of top-secret business,” said Louis. “I’m not cleared for anything. And never could be.”
Peter waved his hand.
“So the help you want from me must be big help,” said Louis.
“It is. Big. And dangerous,” said Peter.
“I’m too old for danger,” said Louis.
“Not Hollywood dangerous. Real-life dangerous.”
“It involves?” said Louis.
“It involves making contact with some of your old assets in the Middle East, assets you brought in and managed many years ago, assets who were lost to us once you were gone.”
“Contact for what purpose?”
“To help us infiltrate certain organizations.”
“Like al Qaeda,” said Louis.
“Yes, for instance. But, as you must know, terrorism is more complicated than almost anyone admits. There are hundreds of groups. And since nine-eleven a lot of them call themselves al Qaeda. It’s like calling yourself Elvis. But Qaeda in England might have no connection with Qaeda in Iraq, which has no connection with bin Laden’s Qaeda, et cetera, et cetera. Al Qaeda is a word. And not a helpful one. That is, unless you’re a terrorist group looking for recruits.”
“Or a secret agency looking for ‘help,’” said Louis. “What if I refuse?”
“I wouldn’t blame you. You owe us nothing. You certainly owe me nothing. I would leave, and you would never hear from me again.”
Louis refused, and Peter Sanchez got in his car and drove down the driveway.
“And so that is that?” said Isabelle Renard. It was evening, and she and her husband—everyone called him just Renard—were sitting on Louis’s terrace looking out at the garden. Louis had brought out some little crackers spread with pork rillettes, a bottle of Chinon, and three glasses. Clouds had come up and a light rain started falling. They all leaned in under the umbrella.
“No, Isabelle,” said Louis. “In Sanchez’s line of work, that is never that. It’s never that easy.”
“Meaning?” said Renard.
“He let me know he’s at the Hôtel de France for the next two nights. He wrote his cell phone number on his card.” Louis slid the card to the center of the table. “He expects to hear from me, and if he doesn’t, I’ll hear from him. Or someone else.”
“Someone else?” said Isabelle.
“Upping the ante,” said Louis. “Someone less friendly. More demanding. Vague threats maybe.”
“What’s this other number?” said Renard. “His license number?”
“Do you mind checking?” said Louis.
Renard was the gendarme in Saint Leon. “It will be a rental car,” he said.
“From where? When was it rented? By whom? That sort of thing,” said Louis.
“One never really gives up that line of work, does one?” said Renard.
“Let’s go inside and eat,” said Louis.
With a pair of wooden forks, Louis lifted the spaghetti out of the water and put it in a big bowl. He slid a mixture of tomatoes, basil, onions, and sardines over the pasta. He splashed on some olive oil, tossed it, and set it on the table. He opened another Chinon—last year’s Médard. He sliced a baguette. They sat down and ate.
“So are you going to do it?” said Renard finally.
“No!” said Isabelle. She was alarmed. “You can’t. Don’t do it. Why would you?”
“I don’t yet know what ‘it’ is. I want to know more about what they want. What they admit wanting, and what they really want.”
“But, Louis,” said Isabelle. She was near tears. “How can you even consider it after all that they did…”
Louis reached across the table and took her hand. “He said I could refuse,” he told her. “He said that he would leave, and I would never hear from him again. I refused, Isabelle, and he left. If I never hear from him, it would be wonderful. But these stories don’t usually end that way. The best thing for now is to find out as much as I can, in order to prepare myself for whatever happens next. If nothing happens, so much the better.”
“You don’t trust him,” said Isabelle.
“It’s not a question of trust,” said Louis. “I don’t think of him that way, as trustworthy or untrustworthy. He may be perfectly honest. Maybe everything is as he says it is. Maybe he kept nothing from me. Maybe he really is named Peter Sanchez. It doesn’t really matter. I believe he believes what he says. But his assurances and promises make no difference. And my refusal means nothing. It’s not him I worry about. I don’t trust the context. I don’t trust … events.”
“And what about Pauline?” said Isabelle. “What will you tell her?”
“She’s in Paris,” said Louis. He looked down at his hands.
“I know,” said Isabelle. “Will you at least talk to her about it?”
“I don’t know,” said Louis. “I don’t want to frighten her away.”
“She has a right to know about all this. About you.”
“It’s only been … weeks since we met. Eventually. Maybe.”
Early the following evening the telephone in Peter Sanchez’s room at the Hôtel de France rang, and Peter picked it up.
“Mr. Sanchez, it’s Louis Morgon. I would like to talk to you.”
“Shall I come to your house, Louis?”
“Please call me Mr. Morgon. Just come downstairs.”
“Downstairs? At the hotel?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Right now. I’m in the dining room.”
Peter Sanchez found Louis studying the menu. Louis did not stand up or offer his hand. “Please sit down,” he said. Peter Sanchez began to speak, but Louis raised his hand. “I want you to listen to me before you say anything. After you hear what I have to say, my conditions, so to speak, you may not want my help any longer.
“First let me say, over the years, I have come to despise your government—our government—and particularly the secretive, clandestine part, the dark corners where manipulation and dissembling are the common currency. And not just because of the betrayal and abuse of me and my family. I despise it for its betrayal of democracy and the rule of law. I despise it for its callous and slack code of behavior, its cynical ways, and its corrupt thinking.”
Peter Sanchez sat perfectly still. He held his hands folded on the crisp white tablecloth. He betrayed no surprise or discomfort. “And,” Louis continued, “I despise those who participate in this corruption.
“I have learned that you are who you say you are. (There are still a few people in Washington I can call.) I believe that your intentions are what you say they are. I also believe that, as terrible as American international policy and politics have become, terrorism is even worse, and maybe even more dangerous, although that is not at all certain.” Peter looked down at his hands and smiled slightly.
Louis continued. “Perhaps we can have a debate another time about what I’ve said. But for now, I am interested in hearing more specifically what you would like me to do. As long as it is under these conditions.” Louis took from his shirt pocket a piece of paper filled with handwriting. He slid it across the table and smiled. “I and a few friends worked these out last night.”
“A few friends?” Peter’s eyebrows lifted as he read down the list. “What is this word?”
“Unconditional,” said Louis.
Peter looked up at Louis. “Fine,” he said. “I agree. Do you want me to sign something?”
“You’re teasing me, aren’t you?” said Louis.
Peter laughed. “Let’s have dinner, and I’ll tell you everything.” Louis took out a pen and a small notebook. Peter hesitated on seeing the notebook, but only for a moment. Then he started talking.
