by Mark Pryor
He went to the long, low table and looked down at a photograph album, its heavy cover slapping the table when he flipped it open. An envelope had been glued to the inside front cover, the flap left open to him. He caressed the worn paper and carefully lifted the flap. His thick fingers, normally so clumsy, had done this a thousand times and it was easy for him to slide out the locket of her hair. She’d given it to him about two months before she disappeared, told him to keep it forever, but to hide it well.
He had, well enough that he had never found it. A lock of her dark hair, folded in half and tied with a red ribbon. He held it to his lips for just a moment, and smiled. Soon this precious lock would finally bind it all together.
But not yet, not for four more days.
He looked through the photos. Some were of him but most were of his mother, the most beautiful woman in the world, a dark-haired, dark-eyed beauty with olive skin and lips that she’d paint red, then kiss him with, then repaint as he knelt on the floor by her side. A beauty she shared as best she could with the world, for as long as she could, until the man who called himself a father destroyed her. Destroyed him, too, because without his mother the Scarab had lost the only person who’d ever loved him, cared for him, shared with him.
He wondered, looking at her, how it was they were of the same flesh and blood. With his squat, ugly face and her perfect skin and balanced features. He admired the photos of her, taken as she worked and used for promotional purposes, photos that showed the lithe body he’d not inherited, the body she had made more powerful and exciting with exquisite tattoos. His favorite was the king cobra that writhed across her stomach, rising up between her breasts so it could sink its fangs into the soft skin that made up the hollow beneath her throat.
He flipped the page until she caught his eye, his mother naked from the waist up and looking at him over her shoulder. He ran his finger over the leopard that stretched across her back, remembering how its spots would ripple when she moved, how its eyes, buried in the skin of her scapula, followed him as he moved about behind her. She had laughed with him about that, telling her little Scarab to be careful when he tried sneaking up on her, that she had someone watching her back, ready to pounce if he got too close.
Shame the leopard hadn’t seen him sneaking up from behind.
He didn’t know who’d done the tattoos but he’d spent a year finding ones like them, a task that had been easier than he’d imagined. Everyone had them nowadays and, oh, people just loved to show them off. A few hours prowling, watching from doorways and the grubbier cafés had shown him that. And then a few more hours on the Internet, scrolling through pages and pages of Paris call girls all too eager to display themselves to strangers. And he found what he needed; not perfection, not that, but women with tattoos that he could take with his knife. Take from them and give to the woman in the casket, place over the bones that hummed with energy to make them complete, and to begin the reunion that they, and he, so longed for.
Four more nights, three more targets. But he’d have to be more careful than he’d been, swifter and surer, because these targets would start out alive.
The next morning, when he’d dressed and eaten, he walked slowly downstairs and into the street, crossing the road to the tabac where he bought a newspaper, wondering whether the name of the man who’d chased him twice would appear in print. It was curiosity that drove him, not revenge or even self-preservation. That man didn’t know who he was or what he was doing. He was powerless to stop the Scarab’s reunion, which made him an inconvenience and a distraction, but one that warranted at least a look at the newspaper.
He bought coffee at a café on the corner, ignoring the glances of the well-dressed women at the table closest to him, flipping open the paper to hide himself from them. No doubt exactly what they wanted.
The story was by Claudia Roux, a name he recognized from reading previous stories about his escapades. He briefly wondered if maybe she had tattoos, how wonderful to strip them from her body while he explained what he was doing, how she was contributing to his fulfillment, and how sorry he was she wouldn’t be able to write about it.
And then the Scarab saw the man’s name and realized he’d been kidding himself. Revenge did bubble within him. Deep, yes, too deep for him to recognize at first, but reading the name brought it to the surface like a seismic tremor releasing magma from the ground.
Hugo Marston.
His name was surrounded by words like “liaison,” “senior official,” and “spokesman.” But it was the picture that drew the Scarab’s gaze. A stock photo, no doubt, issued by the embassy, but there was no doubt that this was the man in the cemeteries. Much more than a spokesman, and the Scarab smiled as he pictured it: a bureaucrat with a gun.
He read Marston’s words slowly, pulling every meaning from each one, savoring the sound of them, the sight of them on the page, letting them sink deep into him as if they were morsels of food to be digested. Morsels made bitter with the disrespect this American was showing him. Before the Scarab was even halfway through the article, he was shaking. The newspaper rattled in his hand and over the top of the page he saw the two women look at him again, then signal to the waiter for their check.
A rat? Scuttling? A coward?
The Scarab knew that the words had been placed there on purpose to upset him, to anger him, to force a reaction and bring him out into the light, but he wouldn’t let that happen. This Marston knew nothing about what he was doing, the importance of his life’s work, and if he thought cheap insults were going to put an end to things, then the American was mistaken.
The Scarab sipped from his coffee, a new image working its way into his mind. Not just mistaken, but quite possibly stupid enough to fall into a trap of the Scarab’s making.
And the Scarab had the advantage: he knew what Marston looked like and exactly where to find him.
Chapter Twenty-four
Hugo’s phone woke him at seven.
“Tom? Is that you?”
“Wakey wakey.” Tom’s voice was scratched and croaky but unmistakable.
“Shouldn’t you be unconscious?”
“No idea, the doctor didn’t mention that.”
Hugo sat up in the bed. “How’re you feeling?”
“Sore. And high,” Tom said. “They’re mainlining morphine into my arm.”
“Just what an alcoholic needs,” Hugo said, trying to keep his voice light.
“Fuck you. From what the doctor said, booze saved my life.”
“Your hip flask? If it was filled with milk it would have saved you.”
“Because people carry hip flasks full of milk,” Tom said. “Now stop making me laugh, it fucking hurts. I’m calling for a reason.”
“Oh?”
“Yes, I’m still running this op and I wanted to give you a heads-up. While we were out chasing ghosts my people got a bead on Al Zakiri.”
“Oh, you mean the guy who’s definitely not the Scarab.”
“That’s the one, but we can’t very well ignore a terrorist now, can we? Anyway, we’ve found his apartment. Shitty place in the Nineteenth.”
“Like you said it would be,” said Hugo.
“I’m a genius, what can I say. Anyway, they’ll be there in about an hour. Find a place to stage nearby and then hit the place. I’m guessing in three hours or so. We’ve got eyes on it in the meantime, so we’ll know if anyone comes in or goes out.”
“You sending me as your rep?”
“Nope. Courtesy call. Without me to punch your ticket, those boys won’t let you near the place.”
“You could call and order them to.”
“That’s right, I could.”
“But you’re not going to.”
“Politics, sorry.” Tom paused and Hugo heard his labored breathing. “You have plans today?”
“Nothing settled. You need some grapes or flowers?”
“Fuck no. I need a favor, though.”
“Anything.”
“C
an you head over to the Moulin Rouge? Sucks that I don’t get to do it myself, but we need to cover that angle.”
“Sure,” said Hugo. “I’ve actually been wondering about Kiani, if our friend the Scarab targeted her.”
“You think?” Tom asked.
“Possibly. If so, someone there may have seen him. He’s pretty distinctive so if he’s been hanging around I’m betting someone will recognize him, maybe even know where he lives if he’s the kind to pay a little extra to get . . .”
“A little extra,” Tom finished for him. “Thanks man.”
“You sound tired, should you really be working?”
“Probably not. And you’re right, talking to you has wiped me out so I’m going to take a nap. I’ll call you when I know how the raid went.”
Hugo stepped out of his apartment building into a blustery Rue Jacob, the air warm but fierce, angry gray clouds scudding low above his head.
It was Saturday, but he’d put on a navy sport coat to hide his shoulder holster and a tie to make his visit more official. In his pocket he carried a photo of Al Zakiri.
He needn’t have worried about his welcome. Ushered into the manager’s office, Hugo quickly got the impression that someone with power had called to smooth his way. Probably Tom, but maybe Tom’s French counterpart—whoever that was.
“We are eager to help, Monsieur Marston.” Pierre Galvan smiled ingratiatingly, and Hugo wondered if the man was wearing mascara. Certainly, he looked like a character from the stage with his slicked-back hair, Errol Flynn mustache, and broad pinstripe pants held up by red suspenders. He moved like a dancer, too, flitting around Hugo with offers of water, coffee, and a tour of the place.
“Thank you. I need to know as much as possible about Abid—Hanan Elserdi.”
“We have our files computerized. I’ll print you what I have, it should contain her résumé, references, comments from the instructors about her dancing. And her address and contact information.”
“You verify references?”
“When we can, of course. She was from abroad, so sometimes it’s easier to have them perform, do an audition to see if they are good enough. It’s hard, and only the gifted make it. She was gifted.” Galvan sat in front of his computer and typed for a moment. The printer on his desk began to whir and Hugo watched as five sheets of paper spooled out. Galvan handed them to Hugo, who resisted the urge to study them there and then.
“Thanks,” Hugo said. “Now, that tour would be nice. I’ve never even been to one of your shows.”
“Non?” The little man covered his mouth in mock horror. “Jamais?”
“Never,” Hugo affirmed.
“Bien, we only have one show,” Galvan explained. “And we call them ‘revues.’ What we do is, we have the same revue for ten or twelve years, using a hundred or so performers and multiple acts. Acrobats, clowns, and of course the girls.”
“Of course,” Hugo said. “Though I had no idea you did the same revue for so long.”
“Most people don’t. But each one costs up to ten million euros to put together so . . .” He spread his hands. “November is the next one. Come with me, we’ll go back stage. You are OK with a little bare skin?”
Hugo raised an eyebrow.
“It’s just that you Americans are famous for being a little prudish.”
“I’ll survive,” Hugo said.
As they walked along an empty, carpeted hallway, Hugo pulled the photo from his pocket. “Have you seen this man?”
Galvan stopped to study the picture. “Non. But so many people come, he could be here every day and I wouldn’t know.”
“Of course.” They kept walking and Hugo tried again, this time describing the Scarab as best he could.
Again, Galvan shook his head and apologized for being unable to help. “Try the girls.”
“I gather they sometimes fraternize with the audience. After the show,” Hugo said.
“This place used to be a brothel,” Galvan said, pausing at a heavy oak door. “Now it’s a business. We don’t encourage, endorse, or even tolerate the girls moonlighting as whores.” He said the word the way he might have said “waitresses,” judgment-free. “But with so many of them, what can we do? Spy on them? Hardly.”
He opened the door and they turned right down another narrow hallway and Hugo could hear jazz coming from a room at the end of the corridor. A closed door sported an engraving of a half-naked woman and the words, “Performers only.” Galvan didn’t hesitate.
“I don’t suppose there will be many here right now,” he said. “Some come early to practice or adjust their costumes. Or because they don’t like their boyfriends.”
They entered a large room where a dozen lithe women milled around. Most were dressed in jeans or summer skirts, but a few stood in sequined costumes, holding still as dainty fingers worked on tightening, or loosening, straps and folds. The presence of the two men was noticed, Hugo saw, but did nothing to interrupt the flow of the morning.
Galvan beckoned to a tall, slim, woman with a ponytail sprouting from the top of her head. “Katerina, un moment, s’il te plaît.” He leaned over to Hugo, his voice low. “From Russia, and the gossip of the troupe. If I want to know anything, I ask her.”
The girl swayed over, large brown eyes on Hugo who managed not to look at the long legs clad in impossibly tight jeans. She put out her hand before Galvan made the introductions.
“Enchanté,” Hugo said, meaning it. “I am looking for a couple of men who may have hung around here, maybe trying to date the girls.”
“Happy to help,” she said. Galvan turned away as a redhead took his arm with, apparently, a complaint about her wardrobe.
“First,” Hugo said to Katerina, “did you know Hanan Elserdi?”
“A little,” Katerina said. “She was pretty quiet. Good dancer, for sure. Great dancer, even. But I always felt like she was more interested in finding a husband than performing.”
“Did you know the young man she was seeing?”
“I saw him a few times.” She batted her eyelids playfully. “Another handsome American, I’m told.”
Hugo smiled. “That right? How long had they been seeing each other?”
“I don’t know,” Katarina said. “Not long, maybe.”
He unfolded the picture of Al Zakiri, tilting it slightly so another dancer walking past could see, but the girl barely paused, glancing over his shoulder before sweeping out the door, apparently wanting nothing to do with a man asking questions. “How about this one?”
“Ah oui,” Katerina said, rolling her eyes and then looking to the door. “He’s all our precious Mimi can talk about.”
“Mimi?” Hugo felt his pulse quicken. “Not the Mimi.”
“Ask him,” Katerina said. An elegant leg swung up and her foot tapped Galvan on his rear end. The man swung around wagging a finger at Katerina.
“Where is she?” Hugo asked.
“Mimi?” Galvan smiled. “Everyone wants to know that. Mimi is our star. Beautiful, elegant, and she has fun every night when she performs, it shines through. And the crowd picks up on that, they love her. It doesn’t hurt that she’s French, of course, a country girl from the north who’s made good here. You know she’s the face of the revue right now.”
“I’ve seen the posters,” Hugo said.
“The posters don’t do her justice. How could they?”
“She looks pretty good to me,” Hugo said.
“Ah yes, I suppose. But she’s so much more in person, which is why we trot her out when we do publicity shots and interviews, that kind of thing.” He fired a devilish smile at Katerina. “Some of the other girls get jealous, eh, my sweet?”
The Russian put her hands on her hips and stuck her tongue out. Playful, Hugo thought, but letting Galvan know that she could be a star, too.
“Is Mimi here?” Hugo asked.
“Oui,” Katerina said. “Didn’t you notice the pretty doll looking over your shoulder at the picture?”
/> Hugo swung around, looking toward the door, the direction she’d been walking. “That was her?”
“Even prettier without makeup, non?” Galvan said.
“Actually yes, I didn’t really . . . realize.” Hugo chided himself for being so unobservant. “Any idea where she might have gone?” he asked, trying to keep the desperation out of his voice.
“She usually comes in, practices a little, then has lunch with Pierre,” Katerina said.
“Pierre?” Hugo asked.
Katerina nodded toward the picture in his hand.
“Does Pierre have a last name?” he asked, knowing the answer already.
Katerina shrugged. “Probably. I’m guessing he’ll be offering it to Mimi before long. At least, she hopes so.”
“Merci,” Hugo said to Katerina. “You have been very kind.” He turned to Galvan. “I have to find her, and quickly. Can you give me her address?”
Galvan hesitated. “I don’t know, I’m supposed to protect the girls not give out their—”
“Believe me,” Hugo said. “You’ll be protecting her.” He steered Galvan to the side of the room. “This is important.”
“Bien, I have it in the office. If she hasn’t left, maybe we’ll see her on the way.”
After seeing a stranger flashing around her boyfriend’s picture, Hugo guessed, she would have left. And gone straight to “Pierre.” He didn’t wait to follow Galvan, leading the way to the door and then striding down the hallway to his office. He waited as patiently as he could while the Frenchman looked up her address on his computer.
“Would you print out a map to her place?” Hugo asked.
“Bien sûr, here it is. Her real name is Amelia Rousseau.” Galvan hit a button and the printer went back into action.
“Merci,” Hugo said, taking the paper.
“Of course,” Galvan said. “And Monsieur Marston. Please make sure nothing happens to her. She’s a good girl and very important to us here. Professionally and personally.”
Hugo nodded. He wouldn’t promise that because he couldn’t. Amelia Rousseau was dating a suspected terrorist and, if she’d left the Moulin Rouge to find him, might be walking straight into the middle of an armed, probably lethal, CIA-led assault.
