by Mark Pryor
Chapter Twenty-five
He called Tom from the street outside the Moulin Rouge but his friend didn’t pick up. Hugo left a message, telling him to call back and explaining that his CIA goons should look out for, and be careful with, the finest dancer at the world’s most famous cabaret when they stormed Al Zakiri’s apartment.
Hugo stood on the sidewalk and looked at the traffic. Until Tom called him back, the only place he could look for Amelia was her own apartment. Judging by the map, it would be a twenty-minute walk or just a few minutes by taxi. And she had a good ten-minute head start.
Boulevard de Clichy, the road outside the Moulin Rouge, was busy and he’d barely started walking when a taxi pulled up to the curb and deposited four Japanese tourists onto the sidewalk. Hugo slid into the back seat and gave the address to the driver.
He sat on the edge of his seat, peering out the window, looking for the elegant woman he’d seen so fleetingly in the dressing room, wondering if he’d recognize her. The taxi stopped five minutes later on Rue Marcadet, outside a Champion supermarket.
“Ici,” the driver said.
Hugo paid him and stepped out of the cab. He looked at the piece of paper in his hand and up at the modern apartments around him, stacked four and five stories high above the shops and bistros that fronted the tidy street.
He pushed against double glass doors that led into the building that housed Amelia Rousseau’s apartment. A concierge stepped out from behind his desk, a slight young man in a gray tunic.
Hugo pulled out his badge and made sure the young man saw his gun. “Police business. Did Ms. Rousseau just come in here?”
The young man—a metal tag said Arnaud—nodded, his dark eyes wide and unsure.
“Bien,” said Hugo. “Was she alone?”
Arnaud nodded again. “Oui,” he said.
“Good. I need you to take me to her apartment,” said Hugo. He started toward the stairs, not wanting to give the young man time to consider his options. Hugo softened his tone, an intentional shift designed to confuse Arnaud, give him the chance to come over to Hugo’s side. “It’s important, for her safety.”
“She’s not in trouble?” Arnaud said, starting forward, clearly relieved.
“Not with the law.”
They went up three flights of marble steps, the interior of the building more impressive than its exterior, telling Hugo that the Moulin Rouge paid its stars well. They moved silently down the carpeted hallway to a pair of double doors. Arnaud looked at Hugo. This is it.
“Knock,” Hugo said. “Tell her you have a package from the Moulin Rouge for tonight’s performance.”
The young man hesitated. “You sure you’re the police? I mean, that you don’t need some kind of—?”
Hugo leaned in close. “Look, someone’s trying to hurt her. I could go and get enough paperwork to fill up this hallway, but who’s going to protect her in the meantime?”
Arnaud’s eyes flicked toward the door and he raised his hand, knocking lightly with his knuckles. Hugo stood back from the peep hole as they heard footsteps.
“Oui?” A woman’s voice. “Arnaud?”
“A package from the Moulin Rouge, madam.”
The door unlocked and Hugo stepped forward, not giving her the chance to close it on them. A glimmer of fear crossed her eyes when she saw him, then recognition.
“You,” she said.
“I mean you no harm,” Hugo said. She stepped back, then he pushed the door wide open and stepped into a large, bright living room. He turned to the doorman. “Merci, Arnaud. You can go.”
The young man looked relieved, scurrying back down the hallway with a quiet, “Oui, monsieur.”
Hugo looked at Rousseau and tried to ignore her beauty, but her fine features and soft but intelligent eyes were distracting, somehow captivating, despite the circumstances. “Where is he?”
“Here.” The man’s voice was behind him, and Hugo froze as something solid pressed into his back. “Don’t move.”
Hugo stood still, his arms half raised as Al Zakiri’s hand snaked under his jacket, unclipped Hugo’s gun, and slipped it out. Hugo cursed himself for being so careless and turned to face Al Zakiri without waiting for instructions. The Pakistani now was ten feet away, and the only gun he had was Hugo’s. They stood there for a moment, staring at each other. Tall, slender, and dark, Al Zakiri looked different from the picture in Hugo’s pocket. He had the same large eyes and the prominent cheekbones that made him handsome, but he’d lost the beard and cut his hair. Hugo was surprised to see that the hand holding the gun was shaking.
“You can put it down,” Hugo said. “I said I wasn’t here to cause harm, and I’m not.”
“Which explains the gun,” Al Zakiri said sarcastically, but his voice was as unsteady as his hand.
“My job,” Hugo said. “My name is Hugo Marston. I’m the RSO for the US Embassy. That means head of security, and I’m required to carry it.”
“Why are you here?”
“I’m investigating the death of your friend, Abida Kiani.”
Al Zakiri hesitated. “You know her real name.”
“And yours. So do a lot of other people, which you’d know if you read the news.”
“I don’t.”
“You should. There are a lot of people looking for you,” Hugo said. “And some of them are not very nice.”
“Why are they looking for me? Abida was my friend, I wouldn’t hurt her.”
“Oh, I don’t think you had anything to do with that. You might be able to help me find out who did, but that’s not why the authorities are looking for you. And I think you know that.”
“Tell me anyway.”
“Where you grew up. Who your father is. Where you’ve been for the past few years. I strongly suggest you come in with me so we can talk about it.”
“So now I’m a terrorist?”
“I don’t know what you are. But until that gets figured out, you’re not especially safe out on the street.”
Al Zakiri’s eyes flashed. “I’m safer in some CIA torture camp?”
Rousseau stepped forward and took her boyfriend’s hand. “He’s not a terrorist, that’s stupid.”
“Because he told you he wasn’t?” Hugo asked, keeping the sarcasm gentle. “Look, there’s a whole lot going on right now that you two don’t know about. And none of it is going to end well if he tries to disappear.”
“Like what?” Rousseau said. “What’s going on?”
“The man with Abida, the one killed in the cemetery. He was supposed to start work at our embassy. He was also the son of a US senator. When he was killed a lot of high-level people got very upset and very interested. They started looking at Abida and they found you. So the sooner I find her killer the sooner we can work out your situation.”
Al Zakiri’s hand lowered, just a couple of inches. “She was my friend,” he said, his voice softening. “I can’t believe what happened.”
“Why was she here on a false passport? What was she doing here?”
“The same thing as me. Trying to escape our lives. We knew each other in Karachi, our families were friends for many years. Our fathers became . . .” he waved his hands, looking for the right word, “. . . radicalized. When the United States invaded Afghanistan and Iraq they, along with a lot of people, saw this as an attack on our religion. They started by funding local activists and, as time went by, my father and Abida’s become personally involved.”
“Meaning?”
“They funded training camps, then they helped set them up, run them. My father took me with him but,” he shrugged, “I never wanted that. I am a Muslim but don’t believe as they do.”
“And Abida?”
“She felt the same way. She was so smart, so modern. She was being made to wear clothes she didn’t like; her family stopped her from dancing, which was her favorite thing in the world. She was elegant, wonderful. That’s why they took her on at the Moulin Rouge, she was amazing to watch.”
“She was good,” Rousseau said. “She was my understudy. That’s how I met Mohammed.”
“It’s true. The final straw for Abida was when she learned that her father had arranged her marriage to some goat herder in Afghanistan who thought himself a warlord.” Al Zakiri shook his head and Rousseau entwined an arm through his, leaning her body against him. “We had money,” he continued, “so I used it to get passports. We came as friends, to help each other start new lives.”
“OK. That’s all fine,” Hugo said. “But you need to come with me to tell that to the intelligence people who think you are a terrorist. They can check it out, and you can have your new life.”
Al Zakiri laughed, but there was no humor in his eyes. “Check it out? While I rot in some jail thousands of miles away? While they subject me to enhanced interrogation just to make sure I’m telling the truth? No. You said it yourself, they have made up their minds and nothing I can say will change that.”
Hugo started to speak when his phone buzzed. Al Zakiri raised the gun again. “Don’t answer it.”
“It may have something to do with you,” Hugo said. “They are at your apartment, right now. Let me see who it is, that’s all.”
“Slowly. And do not answer.”
Hugo pulled the phone from his pocket, looked at the display and then at Al Zakiri. “It’s him. This is the man in charge of catching you.”
Chapter Twenty-six
Hugo held up a hand, wanting Al Zakiri to remain calm, to listen. “He’s a friend, and you can trust him.”
“So you say,” Al Zakiri said. “Put him on speaker, and don’t tell him I’m here.”
Hugo nodded. “Fine.” He flipped open the phone and held it out before pressing the speaker button. “Tom, what’s up?”
“Got me on speaker?”
“Yes. What happened?”
“We went in but he wasn’t there.” Tom’s voice was tinny and remote, but clear. “He has a girlfriend, though, judging by the underwear on the bedroom floor.” They heard a chuckle. “Unless it’s his, of course. Never can tell with those repressed radicals.”
Hugo felt Al Zakiri shift, and shot him a glance. Stay cool.
“Know who she is?” Hugo asked.
“No, but we will. I’ve got people questioning the neighbors and going through his computer. Fuck knows what we’ll find on that but it won’t take long, the dumbass didn’t even have a password.”
“A terrorist without a password? What does that tell you?”
“You’re on his side now?”
“I always told you he wasn’t our killer. What if he’s not a terrorist, either?”
“You think he’s Santa Claus? Shit, maybe he is but we’ll worry about that once he’s in Gitmo.”
Hugo and Al Zakiri locked eyes. “What’s your plan?” Hugo said into the phone.
“Find his girlfriend’s place and take him there. Guns blazing if we’re lucky.”
“OK,” Hugo said. “Thanks for letting me know. You sound tired, I’ll let you get some rest.”
“Yeah, whatever. How did the Moulin Rouge visit go? Get some phone numbers?”
“A lead or two, nothing solid yet. I’ll let you know if anything pans out.”
“You sound weird. You’re not holding out on me are you?”
“Yes, Tom, I am. In fact, I’m standing here with Al Zakiri.”
“Yeah? Well, tell him that when men with masks come knocking, he needs to stand very, very still. Or, better still, duck.”
“Nice. How long until your boys come knocking?”
“No idea, I should get off the line so they can call me if they find something.”
“Or you could spring for that newfangled call-waiting feature.”
“It came with the phone, just can’t figure out how to use the fucking thing. Every time I try, I disconnect both people.”
“You’re a dinosaur,” Hugo said. “Give me a call when you know anything, OK? I’ll do the same. And in the meantime, get some rest.” Hugo closed the phone and looked at Al Zakiri, then Rousseau. “He’s in a hospital bed right now.”
“Why?” Al Zakiri asked.
“The man who killed Abida shot him last night.”
“So why are you all chasing me and not him?”
“It’s complicated. Partly because some people think you’re the one who killed her and partly because by chasing you I also get to chase the real killer.”
Al Zakiri looked down into Rousseau’s eyes. “I have to get out of here. Find somewhere safe.”
“The safest place for you is with me,” Hugo said.
“Bullshit. Your friend wants me dead. Men in masks with guns, remember?” Al Zakiri shook his head. “And he wasn’t kidding when he mentioned Gitmo.”
“Yes,” Hugo said firmly, “he was. I’m telling you right now that while you might be detained, you won’t be harmed. You have my word.”
“It’s not you I’m worried about.”
“I can’t let you leave,” Hugo said.
“No, my friend.” Al Zakiri waggled the gun. “You can’t stop me.”
“I don’t believe you’d shoot me. If you’re not a murderer or a terrorist then you won’t.”
Al Zakiri’s eyes flashed. “Why not? Why shouldn’t I? You came busting in here, I have every right. And if my only other option is an American prison cell, why shouldn’t I? I would rather die than be taken into custody by you people. Because that’s what would probably happen anyway.” He looked at Rousseau. “My sweet, it’s hard for you to understand. I lived so long with violent extremists, I’ve seen death and I’m not afraid of it. And I’m not going to submit to the other side of it.”
The shaking hand, the uncertainty in the Pakistani’s voice, both things told Hugo that he was probably telling the truth. But Hugo couldn’t fault the man’s logic, either; turning himself in was a huge risk for Al Zakiri, and if the man had money here he might be able to safely disappear in Paris. Might.
“They’ll find you,” Hugo said. “Sooner rather than later, and when they do—”
All three looked toward the window as the sound of sirens reached them. “Sooner than I thought,” he said.
Al Zakiri was already moving. He backed up and grabbed a wallet and keys from the table by the door, the gun still trained on Hugo, then walked back to Amelia Rousseau. “I know where to find you, ma chérie.” He kissed her forehead. “Stay safe. Je t’adore.”
“Wait.” Hugo moved toward him. “They’re already out there, let me go talk to them.”
“No!” With a last look at Rousseau, he turned and went out the door, closing it behind him. Hugo started forward, but she turned and locked the door, then stepped in front of it with the key in her hand. Holding Hugo’s eye, she dropped the key down the front of her shirt, adjusting it so that he knew it was nestled in her bra.
“You will have to fight me, and then sexually molest me to stop him.” She crossed her arms as if to emphasize Hugo’s predicament.
“You are not helping him,” Hugo said. “They will find him, and if he’s carrying my gun they won’t hesitate to kill him. They won’t even blink.”
“He’s not a terrorist,” she said. “He told me everything about his past, who he is, about Abida.”
“That’s very sweet, you can tell everyone nice stories at his funeral.”
“He’s clever, he has money, he knows where to—”
“Amelia, he’s not cleverer than a hundred CIA, MI6, and DGSE agents, all of whom know Paris better than him and have a damn sight more money.”
She hesitated, then shook her head and looked at the ground, her arms crossed over her chest as she blocked the door.
“I’m not going to fight you, Amelia.” He pulled out his phone. “But he has my gun, so I have no choice. Either I go after him, or they do.”
She looked up as he flipped it open. “Non!”
“Tell me where he’s headed.”
“Je ne sais pas.”
“Oh,
you know,” Hugo said, “and you have three seconds to tell me.”
Her eyes pleaded with him for two of those seconds, then she said, “You won’t send them? You’ll go alone?”
“I promise.”
“The river. I know he rents a houseboat by the Pont Alexandre.”
“Describe it.”
“I can’t, I’ve never seen it, jamais.” She stepped forward reaching under her shirt for the key. “He told me it was being refurbished, that he’d show it to me when it’s finished. I don’t even know what it’s called.” She turned and went to the door. She slid the key into the lock and turned it, then opened the door. “I’ll come with you.”
“No,” Hugo said. “You won’t. You’ll stay here. If someone bangs on the door, open it and stand very still. Tell them exactly what’s happened.”
“D’accord. You will find him before they do?” It was a plea of desperation more than a question.
“I’ll try,” Hugo said. “We better hope so.”
He moved through the door, unhappy at the empty bump of the holster under his arm, unhappy about being sandwiched between a potential terrorist and an army of trigger-happy agents hot on his trail. He thought, for a split-second, about calling Tom, but his friend wouldn’t call off the chase—nor should he.
As he came to the top of the wide staircase he heard Amelia Rousseau’s voice behind him, calling to him.
“Vert,” she said. “His boat. He was having it painted green, to remind him of the flag of his country.”
Hugo waved a hand. Green like the Pakistani flag. Not a smart move for a terrorist, he thought. But an understandable gesture from a man forced to move a long way from home.
He reached the front doors of the building less than three minutes behind Al Zakiri, but as he looked out, Hugo saw just how close his quarry had come to being captured. The street was being blocked off at both ends, corked by the flashing blue and red lights atop police cars that were stacked three and four deep. He stood for a second, suddenly unsure about his own safety, and watched as the police cars to his left parted and an armored black Hummer rolled toward him. Slowly, he pulled out his phone and dialed Tom. His friend might not be able to call off the operation but he could smooth Hugo’s exit.
