The Traitor (Tommy Carmellini, Book 2)
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The death of a French intelligence agent on an Air France flight to Amman, Jordan, is the trigger that launches Tommy Carmellini`s latest adventure.
Within the European Union, the national espionage agencies are fiercely competing for supremacy against each other -- and against the CIA. When the Americans discover that the director of the French spy agency has secret investments in the Bank of Palestine, alarm bells go off. To investigate, the Americans send Jake Grafton, who has been brought back from retirement to unravel a tangle of espionage, terrorism and murder. And of course, the man Grafton wants on the point is Tommy Carmellini.
Together they uncover an elaborate strategy to infiltrate the highest levels of Al Qaeda with a top-level plant -- but who is playing whom? As Carmellini delves deep undercover he finds he is running for his life. Grafton and Carmellini uncover a horrifying plan to shake the West as never before -- and a Catch-22: Can they stop the conspiracy without compromising the intelligence source that could bring down Al Qaeda once and for all?
innocent smile, while he maintained a professional diffidence. He made eye contact with Marisa as he opened the door to let us pass. I wondered if he and Marissa had ever…Oh, well. Better luck next time, buddy. Inside, surveillance cameras were mounted high in every corner. I suspected the floor had pressure-sensitive pads mounted under it, but I could see no evidence. Then I stepped on a place in the hallway that seemed to give just a fraction of an inch. Yep. Marisa led me along the hallway
layout. The building is an architectural masterpiece, a great enclosed space with a vaulted ceiling. From the entrance one walks through what was once the waiting area into a huge open space where at one time trains sat on their tracks, chuffing smoke and cinders. On the wall above the old waiting area was a huge clock on an opaque glass wall. I glanced at my watch and found the clock was off by two minutes. Most of the building had been converted to art galleries. Indeed, this museum was
hotel provided laundry bags, so I put all her stuff in one, including the shoes she had worn. I was inspecting my belt buckle when Sarah came out of the bathroom. She had a towel wrapped around her hair and one around her middle. She paused; I held out my arms. She settled into my lap. She smelled of soap and shampoo and her lips tasted delicious. After a while she whispered, “You should take a shower, too.” When I came out she was in bed waiting for me. We ate dinner in the hotel coffee
but the cassoulet isn’t up to your rating. Au revoir and better luck next time.” I took the belt out of the trousers I wore yesterday and casually inspected it as I listened to the rain running off the roof and let the cool autumn wind play across my arms and face. Grafton had said I could leave the agency after this assignment, and maybe I should. I was thoroughly sick of spooks and spies and vans with bodies. I guess I was really sick of myself. Sarah Houston was a nice woman; she had made
rolled as Callie and Willie chattered away like lifelong friends. When he was with me, Willie Varner didn’t show the slightest interest in Paris, France, Europe, the people, how they lived, any of that. As we rode out of the city he plied Callie with questions. By the time we had left the suburbs behind, they were talking art. As they visited I began worrying about Cliff Icahn, who was alone in the surveillance van near the Rodet estate. Oh, man, it would be a really bad scene if he were dead