The Crypt Thief

by Mark Pryor

  “Who? Who’s ‘me’?” The old man moved toward the Scarab, holding the light high. The watchman stopped and the Scarab heard a sharp intake of breath. He recognizes me. It’s been years but the face he sees has grown older, not less repugnant.

  The watchman moved forward, just a step, and the Scarab could see the old man’s head haloed by the light of his lantern. “It’s really you? I thought . . . we all thought . . . Merde, it’s really you? You have come back?”

  “Oui,” said the Scarab. “It’s me, and I’m back.”

  “But . . .” the old man looked around, as if seeing for the first time that this was the middle of the night, and the man in front of him was digging. “What are you doing? I mean, out here. At this time?”

  “I wanted to clean up Papa’s grave, plant some flowers on it. But I can’t stay in Castet. I have to be back in Paris.”

  “Ah.” The old man looked around again. “But at night? Now?”

  “Yes. Now.”

  “Bien. But we can do that for you next time, no need to come all this way.”

  “Merci.” But there won’t be a next time. “Can you have a look at this?” The Scarab pointed to the turned earth at his feet. “I was wondering about something . . .”

  Duguey stepped forward, resting his light on a low crypt just a few yards from the gravesite. “What is it?”

  “This, what do you make of it?”

  “I don’t see what—”

  As Duguey stooped, the Scarab brought his shovel down hard on the back of the old man’s head, sending him face first into the moist soil. Duguey groaned and his body flopped in the dirt as if he were still falling.

  Blood, the Scarab thought. The less blood, the better.

  He went to his tool bag and felt inside, reassured by the fit of the .22 in his hand. He pulled it out, racked it once, and walked over to Duguey. The old man lifted his head, gasping for air and spitting mud from his mouth.

  The Scarab put one foot on either side of Duguey’s shoulders and leaned down. He placed the barrel of the gun against the back of the watchman’s head and both men held still for two long seconds, a moment of calm as each man considered this twist in his fate.

  The Scarab squeezed the trigger and a single shot rang out across the valley, marking the start of watchman Duguey’s permanent shift in the picturesque Castet graveyard, high on a hill and surrounded by the towering peaks of the Pyrénées, mountains that maintained their indifferent watch over the quick and the dead, day and night, year after year.

  Chapter Five

  Hugo was in the ambassador’s office at nine the next morning, Tuesday, and Norris Holmes was waiting. The two shook hands and Hugo recognized the willowy figure from television, famous for his bright smile, steel-blue eyes, and swathe of silver hair. The light in his eyes was dim today, though, and Hugo felt the shock and sadness that emanated from the man.

  Ambassador Taylor directed them to the comfortable chairs by the fireplace, then went to his desk and pressed the intercom button, connecting him to his secretary. “Coffee for everyone please, Claire. And if Tom Green shows up, send him right in.” He walked slowly to where Hugo and Holmes sat in silence, and lowered his bulk into a wing-backed leather chair.

  “Senator Holmes and I have talked some this morning,” Taylor began. “Hugo, if you could tell him what you told me last night.”

  “Sure. First of all, my condolences, Senator, I’m very sorry to meet you under these circumstances.”

  “Thank you, Hugo. I appreciate that.” The smile that accompanied his words was genuine but strained, and for the first time Hugo saw the dark circles under the man’s eyes.

  “As you may know,” Hugo said, “I went to see your son and Ms. Elserdi yesterday. I was interested in several things, but mainly in helping to resolve the issue of motive. In my experience, if you know why someone was killed, it makes it a lot easier to find out who did it.”

  “You mean, whether this was somehow related to the embassy.”

  “Right. And in all honesty, I don’t think so.”

  “Why?” Holmes asked.

  “Three things. First, the weapon used was small caliber, .22 or maybe a .25. A deadly enough weapon, obviously, but in my experience terrorists tend to overdo it when it comes to weaponry. A .22 isn’t overdoing it.”

  “Maybe,” Holmes said, “but terrorists are assassins, and the .22 is perfect for assassins.”

  “True. But that brings me to my second point. The shots aren’t from an assassin, they were fired by someone far less skilled. None were heart shots, let alone head shots. There was no kill shot at the end. Honestly, Senator, whoever was on the other end of that gun was no pro.”

  “And your third reason?” Holmes asked.

  “The mutilation to Elserdi’s shoulder. Maybe even the fact that she was killed, too.”

  “What do you mean?” Taylor said.

  “If she was related to a terrorist group and was planning to use Maxwell to infiltrate the embassy somehow, I don’t see why the pair of them would end up dead before that plan had been realized.”

  “Fair point,” Taylor nodded.

  “And the mutilation. That’s the work of someone with a personal interest in the girl, or what she stands for. Not a ruthless terrorist executing infidels.”

  “What kind of personal interest?” Taylor asked, waving in his secretary.

  Hugo paused as she placed a tray bearing a silver coffeepot and cups on the table between the men. When she’d closed the door behind her, he went on. “My guess is she had some sort of tattoo there. Somehow he took offense to it and slashed it up. What I don’t know is how the killer knew about the tattoo. That’s what makes me wonder about a personal connection between her and the killer.”

  “Like a colleague in a terrorist cell,” Holmes said.

  Hugo shrugged. “Maybe, but I don’t think so. Perhaps when we get the autopsy report and can look at the crime scene photos, we’ll know more.” He turned to Taylor. “Do you know if those are coming our way?”

  “I’ve asked,” Taylor said. “We’ll have to see how cooperative they are.”

  “I have to say,” Holmes said, frowning, “and with all due respect, I disagree. It seems too far-fetched that this woman from a Muslim country would happen to hook up with my son, my son who was about to start work at the embassy. And then they wind up at a famous cemetery, near the grave of a famous American, and are shot dead. I just can’t believe that’s all chance.”

  The three men looked up as the door opened and Tom appeared. He’d been gone from the apartment when Hugo woke that morning, and apparently he’d been busy because he looked pale and tired.

  “Sit down, Tom,” Ambassador Taylor said. Hugo noticed that Tom and Norris Holmes barely nodded at each other.

  “I chauffeured him from the airport,” Tom said to Hugo, as if reading his mind. “OK, folks, some news. Our little Egyptian turns out to be from a little farther east than she claimed.”

  “Saudi?” Taylor asked.

  “Keep going,” Tom said. “Her real name is Abida Kiani, and she hails from the fair city of Karachi.”

  “Pakistan?” Hugo said. “So her passport was a fake.”

  “And not a very good one,” Tom said, nodding. “Although it was good enough to get her past a French customs officer. She must have guessed he’d not look at an Egyptian passport held by a pretty girl as hard as he would a Pakistani passport in the hands of, well, pretty much anyone.”

  “There you are,” Holmes said, sitting forward. “Surely that changes things. If she’s not a terrorist, why does she have a false passport?”

  “No idea,” said Hugo.

  “So you agree this could be terrorism-related?” Taylor asked, looking directly at Hugo.

  “Not really,” Hugo said, his voice low. “And I know you don’t want to hear this, Senator, but I really don’t. I think there will be another explanation for the fake passport, and I think the embassy connection is just a coinc
idence. I’m sorry, but in my opinion your son’s death was a tragic and senseless act of violence. One that was, essentially, random.”

  Tom held up a hand. “Not random, actually.”

  All three men turned to look at him, and Hugo spoke. “What do you have?”

  “The man she traveled here with. Well, we don’t have him, but we know his name. Mohammed Al Zakiri.”

  “Means nothing to me,” said Hugo.

  “I know what it sounds like to me,” Senator Holmes said.

  “Your xenophobic inclinations would be right,” Tom said. “He’s on several terrorist watch lists. He’s the son of a fairly prominent mullah in Pakistan but has been out of circulation for a year.”

  “Out of circulation?” Holmes leaned forward. “What does that mean?”

  “Terrorist training camps, is that what you’re thinking?” Hugo asked.

  “Not just me, but the good people I work for,” Tom said. “They’re pretty sure. He’s graduated from being a religious nut to a fanatical terrorist.”

  “Al-Qaeda?” Taylor asked.

  “Or Taliban. Sometimes hard to tell the difference,” Tom grimaced. “But as best we can tell, individuals are being recruited and trained and then come over here, and by ‘here’ I mean the West, in ones and twos, for nefarious purposes. Either to gather intelligence or to commit acts of terror, depending on the individual’s background. Given Al Zakiri’s educated upbringing, I’m guessing he’s in the intelligence field.”

  “How come the French missed him at the airport?”

  “The same way they missed the girl,” Tom said. “False passport.” Tom looked at the faces around him. “And just so you know, we’re now looking for an Egyptian-born Frenchman by the name of Pierre Labord.”

  Chapter Six

  The four men sat in silence for a moment. The only sound came from the far corner of the room, an antique clock whose old heart ticked with a steady, hollow beat, a gift from Hugo to the ambassador last Christmas.

  Senator Holmes was the first to speak, but his voice was a whisper. “My boy. He got in their way. Those goddamn terrorists killed my boy.”

  “Ambassador,” Hugo started. He kept his tone formal, knowing that Holmes would not like what he had to say. “I’d like us to remain open to the possibility that this is a terrible coincidence. I know how it looks, with this Al Zakiri connection, but I just want to point out that the murders themselves, they look unplanned and personal. All I’m asking is that we keep an open mind.”

  Taylor nodded but beside him Holmes stood, his face reddening. “Bullshit. My son was killed because somehow a terrorist found out who he was. I don’t know if he lured him to that place, using the girl, but it sure as shit makes sense. The son of a high-profile American murdered near a famous American’s grave, in one of Paris’s busiest tourist destinations. How does that add up, Mr. Ambassador?”

  Holmes stood for a moment longer, panting and looking hard at each man, then sank back into his seat, spent.

  Hugo watched Tom, waiting for him to react, knowing that Senator Holmes was right, on the face of it, but curious to see Tom’s take. While Ambassador Taylor would have to mollify Holmes, the ambassador would know that Hugo and Tom’s friendship wouldn’t influence the CIA man one whit. Eventually, Tom spoke.

  “Right now it doesn’t matter who’s right and who’s wrong. The simple truth is, if we treat this as a terrorist act we get more resources from our people and more cooperation from the French. We need both of those things to catch this fuckhead Al Zakiri and, if he didn’t kill your son, we can use those resources to get whoever did.”

  Tom held Hugo’s eye. They were thinking the same thing, but neither wanted to say it, not here and now: We’ll also get a whole heap of pressure and interference from politicians, and maybe jobs as traffic cops, if we don’t find Al Zakiri.

  “Fine,” said Hugo. “Sounds very sensible.”

  Ambassador Taylor looked at him and nodded imperceptibly, a sign between friends. Hugo rose, passing the unspoken message to Tom who also stood, and the two men left the room.

  They took the stairs down to the security offices, walking in silence, the scuff of their feet on the steps the only sound. They passed through the front office, not seeing Emma who was away from her desk, and went straight into Hugo’s office.

  About half the size of the ambassador’s, it still had plenty of room for a large oak desk on the right, a round table in the center of the room, and a sofa and two armchairs on the left. Hugo ran an eye over his phone, saw no blinking lights, and gestured Tom to the armchairs.

  “Can’t blame him,” Hugo said, following his friend and taking a seat. “Bad enough to lose your only son. To lose him to random murder makes it . . . meaningless.”

  “But make it an act of international terrorism, somehow it’s not as bad,” Tom nodded. “Not to mention the practical side. I meant what I said, if we call it terrorism, we get a blank check and the help of every security agency in the Western world. But if it’s just plain old murder, Senator Holmes gets the French police and that’s it.”

  “They’re pretty damn good, you know.”

  “I don’t doubt it.” Tom grinned. “Just not as good as us.”

  Chapter Seven

  The Père Lachaise cemetery had opened for business again, the Paris police having been informed that its value as a tourist attraction was greater than its value as a crime scene. A brief afternoon conversation between Hugo, Taylor, and Tom had resolved to keep the matter as low-key as possible, temporarily, despite the terrorist connection. Tom’s theory, which both men agreed with, was that publicly treating Maxwell’s death as an ordinary homicide might keep Al Zakiri’s defenses down. As a result, Ambassador Taylor had called Hugo early Wednesday morning and asked him to meet a detective at the cemetery, a public relations and political gesture as much as it was a matter of criminal investigation.

  “One other thing,” the ambassador had told Hugo. “We’re playing this terrorism very close to our chests.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning we’ve only shared what information we have with some very senior people in the French government. The rank and file doesn’t know and doesn’t need to know just yet. So be your usual polite and friendly self because, in theory, if this is plain old murder, we’re on the outside looking in.”

  The ambassador was right on that point, Hugo knew. The Holmes boy wasn’t an embassy employee and, other than professional courtesy, nothing required the French to even communicate with his department, let alone give them a role in a murder investigation.

  Hugo took the metro to the cemetery, the eight o’clock rush forcing him to stand. He held onto a metal rail with one hand and looked around the car at his fellow commuters, playing the old game, looking for clues or oddities.

  Facing him, two young men sat quietly, their faces grimy, their bodies slumped in the plastic seats as if exhausted from a long night’s work. Yet despite their body language, their expressions were not those of overworked minions; rather, there was contentment in their tiredness, in the way their elbows and shoulders brushed and their bodies rocked languidly to the rhythm of the train. He drew a story around them, even more curious when he realized that, under the dust and dirt, these faces belonged to boys, not men, and were surely too young to have jobs that would keep them up all night in dirty conditions. So where had they been that left them looking so tired but happy? And where were they going?

  He was starting to ponder this conundrum when he felt a hand on his arm. He turned and saw a familiar round face looking up at him, eyes twinkling and white teeth visible under a perfectly manicured mustache. Hugo smiled.

  “Capitaine Garcia, what a coincidence. Comment ça va?”

  “Bien, mon ami. And not such a coincidence.”

  “No?” Hugo thought for a moment. “Don’t tell me that you’re the policeman meeting me at Père Lachaise?”

  “Exactement. When I heard the US Embassy was involved, I
asked to be assigned the case.” Garcia winked. “I hoped to work with my friend Hugo again.”

  “Merci,” Hugo smiled. “That’s good news. And you are too kind.” Hugo patted the smaller man’s shoulder and held him steady as the train slowed at their stop.

  It was good news, he wasn’t merely being polite. They’d worked a case together recently, one that had put a bullet in Raul Garcia’s shoulder and seen the disappearance of Hugo’s good friend, Max, a bookseller who’d plied his trade beside the Seine. The relationship between Hugo and Garcia had been prickly at first, the Frenchman jealously guarding his territory and skeptical of Hugo’s profiling techniques and experience. But he’d looked at the evidence as Hugo had explained it, opened his mind, and together they’d captured one of Paris’s most cold-blooded killers.

  When they walked out of the metro onto Boulevard de Ménil­montant, Hugo was surprised at the warmth of the air, the July heat already rousing itself from a short night, warming up to bake the city’s streets and buildings for another day. They walked slowly together, as if it were the height of noon already, and Garcia filled a brief silence with the question Hugo knew had been coming.

  “And Claudia, how is she? I trust you two are still . . .”

  “A long story, mon ami. But we are still good friends and do see each other when time allows.” It was an accurate, if superficial, answer. He’d met Claudia while looking for his friend Max, and they’d bonded quickly. Claudia, the hard-nosed investigative reporter, at once helped Hugo and pushed him for the story of Max’s disappearance. For whatever reason—her green eyes, her willing body, her honest smile—he’d let her get too close to the action and she’d nearly been killed. She’d never blamed him, she was too independent to even think it was his fault, but the incident had scared them both and a distance had crept between them, one they’d not bridged in the months since.

  “Ah, that is good. She is a special lady,” Garcia said, and left it at that.

  They entered the cemetery on the west side, Garcia leading the way. They walked side by side, slowly, both men eyeing the names on the monuments lining the wide cobbled walkway. It was not as Hugo had imagined, nothing like the sprawling grassy cemeteries of home or the higgledy-piggledy graveyards he’d seen in England. Neat rows of tombs lined sweeping pathways, some simple slabs of marble, others like narrow stone houses with their own front doors. Angels and the faces of those who lay in repose sat atop many of the grave sites, and the cemetery had the feel of a small city, carefully platted and maintained, neat, tidy, and clean.