I thought about something and said, ‘You have an idea of who it might be?’
‘I do,’ he said.
‘Care to tell me?’
‘Why?’
‘Because I might be able to help you,’ I said.
Peter seemed to ponder that for a moment. Then he mentioned a name.
I felt a chill on the back of my neck, and my stomach lurched.
‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘I think I can help you.’
Peter said, ‘Good.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
I’d been back in my room for about a half-hour when there was a knock at the door.
When I opened it, I was nearly bowled over by a blonde-haired woman smelling of fresh soap and wearing a clean white blouse, tan skirt and a tasty lipstick. She pushed me back into the room and slammed the door behind her, saying, ‘Oh, Samuel, Samuel…’
I was intoxicated by the feel of Miriam in my arms, and also sickened by what was going to happen in the next few minutes. I kissed her back, again and again, and I looked at her bright face, at the tears in her eyes. ‘Oh, Samuel, I was so scared that you had been shot. I was so frightened that I wouldn’t see you again… Oh, your face, your poor face…’ She traced the scabs and scrapes along my skin and I touched her as well.
‘You… I thought you had died back there, too,’ I stammered out. ‘I found your nightgown, all torn up and bloody.’
Miriam pushed herself against my chest again and I hugged her. ‘We barely got out… Oh, God, it was so scary, all that shooting… One of the Land Cruisers got shot up and Sanjay and I, we wanted to get to you, but Charlie and Jean-Paul said no, no, we couldn’t risk it… I’m so sorry we left you behind.’
I stroked her fine blonde hair. ‘No apologies. None at all. You did what was right, what was the smart thing to do.’ Miriam moved her head so that she could look up at me. ‘It felt so very wrong, Samuel. And it was even worse when Sanjay thought he saw you. He got out of the Land Cruiser, thought you were running away from the woods…and that was when he got shot… Oh, God, I hope he didn’t suffer, I hope that—’
The door to the bathroom swung open, and there was Peter. Miriam turned her head and said, ‘I’m sorry, Peter. What are you doing here?’
Peter’s face was once more expressionless. ‘I’m afraid you’ll probably find out rather quickly.’
Miriam gently pulled herself away from me and said, ‘Samuel? What’s this?’
I couldn’t think of what I could say and then there was another knock at the door. Peter looked at me and went over to the door. When he opened it a very happy-looking Jean-Paul came in, bearing a dark bottle of cognac and two snifter glasses. He had on gray dress slacks, black polished shoes and a black turtleneck shirt. ‘Samuel!’ he said. ‘How good, finally, to see you! Ah, it’s been so long, and I’m so happy to see you here, smiling and happy as well.’
He was weaving slightly, as though he had been drinking, He looked around him and said, ‘My, this is quite the party. Miriam and Peter as well. It is too bad that Charlie and Karen are not here.’
‘And Sanjay,’ Peter said quietly.
Jean-Paul slowly nodded. ‘Ah, yes, poor Sanjay. We cannot forget him, eh? His service to us and the UN. What he did and—’
‘Actually, Jean-Paul,’ Peter said, stepping over to him. ‘I’d like to talk a bit about what you did.’
‘Excuse me?’ he asked. ‘I don’t understand—’
‘How much?’ I interrupted. Miriam made as if to say something and I talked over her: ‘How much were you paid? How much?’
Jean-Paul grinned. ‘How much? You want to know my salary? In Canadian dollars or euros — which are you asking?’
Peter said, ‘It’s not the currency you’re paid in that we’re concerned with, Jean-Paul. It’s what you were doing in exchange for the payment.’
Although Jean-Paul’s face was still wreathed in smiles, I could tell that there was something going on behind those merry eyes. ‘I’m sorry, my friends. Perhaps you have started drinking before me, because none of what you are saying is making the slightest sense. I think I will go now and bid you adieu, until tomorrow.’
Then, moving so fast and smoothly that it amazed me, Peter positioned himself in front of the door, muscular arms folded, his biceps pushing out the fabric of his sweater. ‘I’m afraid you’re here for a while, Jean-Paul. Like I said before, I don’t care what you were paid. I just want to know what you were getting in exchange for betraying your supposed friends.’
Miriam looked at me. ‘Samuel, what is this?’
‘What’s going on is a little follow-up from the work of those poor dead Aussies,’ I said. ‘They were doing a story, and part of the story was whether or not traitors were sprinkled throughout the UN investigative units, sabotaging their work. Units like our team. Right, Jean-Paul?’
He said nothing, still smiling. Miriam said, ‘Our team? What do you mean?’
Peter said, ‘What he means, missy, is that any idiot could see that we were compromised. Any fool could see that we were running around in circles, almost getting killed on a couple of occasions. And for what? Some dead cows—no offense, Samuel—and the dead Aussies, who practically fell into our laps. No Site A, not even a lead for Site A. Just us blundering around in the countryside while the clock ticked down for those war criminals at The Hague.’
Among other things, I thought. But I remembered my promise to Peter, to keep things secret.
Jean-Paul said, ‘It’s late at night. We’re all tired. And you’re not making sense.’
‘Oh?’ Peter demanded. ‘Who was the only one talking to regional headquarters? Who was supposedly talking to them and receiving leads about where to go next? Who was that person, Jean-Paul?’
Jean-Paul’s face was starting to redden. ‘All my work, I did in the open. You all heard me, every one of you.’
Peter shifted his weight from one foot to the other. ‘Correct. And all we heard was you talking. We never did hear what was coming in on the other side of your earpiece—never heard if, in fact, you were really talking to anyone at all. Maybe you were just talking to static. Who knows? All I know is that you were passing along awful directions to us, directions that didn’t help us find anything, except a chance to get killed. Like Sanjay was.’
Jean-Paul shook his head, looked at Miriam and then at me. But not at Peter. ‘My friends, surely you don’t believe this, do you? There’s no proof, is there?’
‘Sorry, Jean-Paul,’ I said. I went over to an open duffel bag on my bed and pulled out my little laptop. It had already been powered up and I punched up a file. Then I brought the laptop over to Jean-Paul and said, ‘See this?’
Miriam moved around so that she could see as well. Jean-Paul didn’t say anything, so it was up to Miriam. ‘It looks like a message log, or something.’
‘Sure does,’ I said. ‘Thing is, every time I sent along an information or photo packet to Geneva, there was a receipt mechanism to ensure that it got there and to the right person in time. Every photo packet I sent has a receipt listing, shown here with a time and date stamp. Every single one, except for the last set that was transmitted. The one that was transmitted over your laptop, Jean-Paul. The one showing those militiamen driving up to the farmhouse. I never got a receipt for that from Geneva, confirming that the photos had arrived,’
Now Jean-Paul’s bantering demeanor was gone. ‘Perhaps you erred, young one. Or perhaps the system didn’t send the receipt to you.’
‘Sure,’ I said. ‘Good excuses—and that’s just what they are, Jean-Paul. Excuses. I gave the photo packets and information to you because you said you could send them quicker to Geneva. But they never arrived. I made a phone call a while ago, got the night desk at the information sector. They never arrived, Jean-Paul. You took them and probably dumped them, right? What were you doing? Helping out the locals, making sure that photos of their faces didn’t end up in a UN computer?’