The Crypt Thief

by Mark Pryor

  “What’s up?” Tom asked.

  “Need some very fast help. Your little army and their tanks are moving into position outside Al Zakiri’s girlfriend’s place. I’m guessing they’ll hold anyone they find there for a while.”

  “So?” Tom asked. “Oh, I get it. You’re there already, aren’t you?”

  “Well done.”

  “What did you find out?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “Tom, please. Just call whoever’s in charge and tell them to let me go.”

  Tom’s tone was teasing. “If you didn’t find out anything, what’s the hurry?”

  “You going to do it or do I have to make my own way out of here?”

  “I wouldn’t do that,” said Tom mildly. “Those boys are expecting someone to run, and they’d just love to shoot him. Frogs don’t get to do that to people very often, this ain’t Texas.”

  “So call them.”

  Tom’s voice was still hoarse but his mind, apparently, worked just fine. “He’s not there, is he? But you know where he is, which is why you’re in such a rush.”

  The armored car had come to a stop twenty feet from the front of the building and Hugo moved back so he wouldn’t be seen through the window.

  “Tom, I have about ten seconds before I’m wearing handcuffs. Maybe bullet holes.”

  “Oh, I was just having some fun. Hospitals are boring, you know. I’ll call you back in a few.”

  Hugo breathed a sigh of relief as Tom rang off. He stood there for a slow count of sixty, and hoped it was long enough. He moved to the front door and pushed it open, slowly, making sure his hands were in full view of whoever was outside. He was less than halfway through the door when six figures in black combat fatigues fanned out from behind the vehicle, guns trained on him.

  One of them yelled, “Get down on the ground!”

  Hugo cursed. Sixty seconds clearly hadn’t been long enough. He knelt on the sidewalk, lowered himself slowly to the ground, face down, then stretched out his arms over his head. Seconds later two dark figures knelt on his back and pulled his arms behind his back. He felt the cold steel of handcuffs and winced as they pinched his wrists.

  The two men put their hands under his armpits and pulled him to his feet, then propelled him into the street and around the Hummer. Hugo knew better than to resist, either physically or verbally. For now.

  A tall black man, dressed like his officers except that he wore no helmet, stood behind the car. A cloth tag on his chest gave his name as Moreau. He held a clipboard and was giving directions to two other men. He looked up as Hugo was pushed in front of him.

  “Who is he?” Moreau asked.

  One of his guards snaked a hand into Hugo’s jacket pocket and pulled out his wallet. The men in black exchanged glances when they saw his embassy credentials.

  “If he’s with Al Zakiri, those could be fake,” Moreau said.

  “They’re not,” Hugo said. “Call the embassy and get a description.”

  “Then what are you doing here?”

  “Same thing as you. Trying to catch bad guys.”

  “We’ll see about that.” Moreau turned to the men holding Hugo. “Take him to the prefecture, we’ll sort it out there.”

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Hugo sat in the police car fuming, his guard and driver equally unhappy at having to leave the scene of a high-profile raid to play cabbie. Hugo was not angry at the police, they were right to be careful, but at Tom for not doing as he’d said.

  They were at the end of the street, just outside the roadblock, and Hugo shifted in the back seat to ease the pressure on his wrists. “Vite, s’il vous plaît.”

  The driver looked over his shoulder, surprised that a suspect would want to hurry to the prefecture. But as he shifted into reverse, the man’s radio crackled. He glanced again at Hugo, then spoke into the handset. “Vous etes sûr?” The driver picked up the plastic evidence bag from the passenger seat and climbed out. He went to Hugo’s door and opened it. “Monsieur, you are free to go. Our apologies for any inconvenience.”

  Hugo climbed out, itching to get on his way. “No hard feelings, you guys were just doing your jobs.” He turned his back so the policeman could take off the handcuffs.

  “Mais monsieur, my chief wants to talk to you about what you were doing inside.”

  Marston rubbed his wrists. “You know where to find me,” he said. “Be gentle when you get inside the building, eh?”

  He turned and strode away, ignoring the policeman’s half-hearted attempts to bring him back. As he turned the corner he pulled out his phone and dialed Tom.

  “Hugo, there you are. All OK?”

  “What the hell happened?” Hugo demanded.

  “Not my fault, my nurse came in.”

  “Your nurse?”

  “Dude, you should see her. She’s not someone you mess with.”

  “Nor am I, Tom, not right now.”

  “Yeah, but you’re there and she’s here. Anyway, it was only five minutes.”

  “Ten. Look, call your boys and tell them to go easy on the girl inside, OK?”

  “Jesus, Hugo, you were inside her apartment?”

  “Yes. And she’s the only one in there, I promise.”

  “Oh, I believe you,” Tom said. “I should call the storm troopers off.”

  “No, don’t,” Hugo said quickly. “I need some time.”

  “I don’t understand why the fuck you won’t just tell me what you’re doing.”

  “Plausible deniability,” Hugo said grimly. “Consider it a favor.”

  “Gee, thanks.” Tom sighed. “Fine, we’ll leave them at it.”

  “Thanks, I’ll call if I need you.”

  “I’m sure you will.”

  “And if the nurse says it’s OK, maybe you can lend a hand.”

  “Fuck you.”

  Hugo smiled and hung up. Then, remembering where he was headed, he switched off his phone completely. He didn’t want it ringing, alerting an armed and desperate Al Zakiri to his presence.

  Again in the back of a car, but this time a taxi, Hugo sat forward, willing the driver on, spotting gaps in the traffic that weren’t there—or weren’t there for this cabbie.

  But they made good time, an unusual lull in the Paris traffic, and Hugo felt a surge of relief when they turned off the Champs-Élysées and headed directly south toward what many considered the most ornate bridge in Paris, Pont Alexandre III.

  A shade of caution made Hugo stop the driver before they got to the Voie Georges Pompidou, the boulevard running alongside the Seine. He wanted to approach the area on foot, using the traffic and pedestrians as cover. If the taxi let him out at the river’s edge, a watchful Al Zakiri might spot him and run, maybe disappear forever. Or until Tom’s men caught up with him.

  The crowds thickened as Hugo got closer to the river and he noticed that many people were carrying towels, collapsible chairs, and even hampers. He smiled as he remembered the date, which put him at the start of the Paris Plages project. The annual project began in 2002 and had run for six weeks every July and August since, clearing the traffic from several stretches of the Seine’s bank and covering them in hundreds of tons of sand, palm trees, and happy Parisians. Good cover for me, thought Hugo, but for Al Zakiri, too.

  As he approached Pont Alexandre, he remembered Tom’s ninjas. If Amelia Rousseau told them what she’d told him, they’d soon be on their way. And there were way too many people around for that to be a safe situation, especially after Al Zakiri’s promise to go down fighting.

  He walked to his left and stood at the entrance to the bridge. He looked down over the water, facing east, trying to spot a green houseboat. There was one possibility, on the far bank, a low, battered barge that hadn’t seen a lick of paint in years. Hugo crossed the bridge, walking diagonally so he could look west over the river. A better prospect there, another old barge but with a freshly-painted cabin, in the dark green of Pakistan’s flag.
It sat behind another houseboat and was halfway to the neighboring bridge, Pont des Invalides, thick ropes at bow and stern holding it to the iron mooring bollards on the stone walkway. It gave Hugo the impression of a predator temporarily restrained.

  At the center of the bridge, Hugo stepped back from the balustrade so he could watch the barge for a moment, protected from view below by one of the bridge’s most dramatic sculptures, the Nymphs of the Seine. A man already there, scruffy, maybe homeless with a buzz cut and a thick beard, moved away, limping slightly. The man clutched his grubby backpack and glanced at Hugo, as if he could tell the American was up to no good.

  Hugo stood there for ten minutes, the car and foot traffic humming around him, but he saw no movement from the boat. He wanted to know what Al Zakiri was doing before approaching him but time was a luxury, and a dangerous one right now.

  He continued over the bridge, turning right and descending the stone steps that took him down to the narrow roadway and sidewalk that ran along the water’s edge. A breeze came off the river to meet him, a welcome coolness that brought with it a metallic, salty odor and Hugo looked down at the gray-green water rolling westward, leisurely, timeless.

  There was less traffic down here, the beaches drawing people away from the stone stretches of the riverside like magnets, so Hugo moved faster, knowing that a vigilant Al Zakiri would be able to spot him, pick him out of the dozen or so pedestrians.

  The boat in front was similar in design, low to the water, but this one cream-colored with its windows trimmed with blue. A man was negotiating a gangplank, pushing a bicycle over the boards, an unlit pipe dangling from his lips. When he’d made it safely, Hugo spoke. “Bonjour,” he said.

  The man looked up and nodded, then took the pipe from his mouth. “Bonjour.”

  “Monsieur, do you know the gentleman who lives in the green boat there?”

  The man looked over his shoulder. “I’ve seen him. I don’t know him. You are police?”

  “Sort of. Is he there now?”

  “I haven’t seen him for days. Off with his pretty girlfriend, I expect.” The man grinned. “I know I would be.”

  Hugo smiled. “Merci bien.”

  The man swung his leg over his bicycle and nodded to Hugo before setting off, pedaling west past Al Zakiri’s boat, toward the Pont des Invalides. When the man had disappeared under the bridge, Hugo moved forward, keeping his eyes on the green houseboat for any signs of movement.

  He boarded the boat at its bow, the end closest to him, taking a short run up and leaping over three feet of water. His boots thumped on the wooden deck and he stayed low, in a crouch, looking and listening to see if his arrival had attracted notice from inside. He didn’t dare stay long, though: a young couple sporting backpacks had already looked his way twice. While he wasn’t dressed like a burglar, he didn’t need the interference of inquisitive passers-by, especially if they might be inclined to call the police.

  Ahead of him, three steps led down to the cabin’s door. Hugo went down and rapped on it. “It’s Hugo Marston,” he called, but got no response. He knocked again and waited, but still nothing. He backed up the stairs, just far enough to make sure there were no pedestrians nearby, and far enough that he could get a good swing at the door. He used his heel and aimed at the lock. The door rattled on the first kick, gave way on the second, swinging open to reveal a dark interior.

  The cabin was cramped, kept dim by curtains that had been drawn over the large, square windows. To his left a semicircular and padded bench wrapped itself around a table bolted to the floor. The table bore a vase of fresh flowers but was otherwise clear, the area around him tidy. The smell inside was musty, though, as if any cleaning had been superficial. To his right, the galley stretched half the length of the boat: a sink, an oven, a fridge, and some counter space. He could see two closed doors in front of him, to the left looked like the head, while the one directly opposite him was likely the bedroom.

  He began to search, though he wasn’t entirely sure what he was looking for. It occurred to him that he wanted to prove himself right, to find some exculpatory evidence showing that Al Zakiri was not, in fact, a terrorist. What that might be, he had no idea.

  He was kneeling in the galley, looking through the storage units, finding nothing of interest, when he heard footsteps on the deck.

  He moved to the window and inched the curtain open to look outside. But the feet had moved past and were at the steps to the cabin door.

  Then they stopped.

  Hugo thought quickly, knowing he had two options. He could let Al Zakiri know he was there and try to reason with him, or jump the Pakistani as he came through the door. The decision was easy: he’d tried logic already, now it was time for something a little more persuasive.

  He wedged himself by the door on the galley side, knowing Al Zakiri would come into the cabin with his head down, ducking under the lintel.

  The feet started down the stairs, hesitant, slowly, as if Hugo’s presence had already been detected.

  The lock. Dammit.

  If Al Zakiri had seen the lock, he’d already have Hugo’s gun in his hand, making an ambush potentially lethal.

  As the door slowly opened, Hugo stepped away from the door and stood in the middle of the cabin. He held his hands out to his sides, the universal gesture that said I’m harmless.

  The door swung all the way open, and a figure stepped into the cabin. When he saw who it was, Hugo let his arms fall to his sides and shook his head, confused. “What are you doing here?”

  “I could ask you the same question,” Claudia said.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  She moved toward him, her face serious, as if intentionally drawing out the moment of surprise.

  “Explain,” Hugo said. “This isn’t a safe place for you.”

  “Nor you,” she said. Finally, a small smile. “That’s why I’m here.”

  He cocked his head, waiting for a fuller explanation.

  “You turned your phone off,” she said. “Tom’s been trying to reach you. He wanted you to know that the girl told his men about the boat, and that they’re on the way. He knows I work close-by so he asked me to pick you up. He doesn’t want you to get hurt.”

  “But how did he know where I was?”

  “He said you’d be mad,” Claudia said. “But he put a track on your phone. He figured you were on Al Zakiri’s trail and he wanted to make sure you were safe.”

  “That’s what he told you? He was worried about my safety?”

  “Yes, but I didn’t believe it either.” Again the smile. “We should go.”

  “Help me search the place first.”

  “Hugo—”

  “We don’t have much time.”

  “Fine, but what are we looking for?”

  “No idea. But if he’s a terrorist and this is his hideout, it should be easy to find.”

  They searched quickly in silence, heads popping up every time they heard sirens, Hugo moving to the windows to look for signs of Tom’s men in black. They were done in under five minutes, having found nothing out of the ordinary.

  “Did you see his passport?” Hugo asked. “Money?”

  “Nothing in his bedroom.”

  “Nor out here.” Hugo looked around the small cabin. “OK, either he has them on him or they’re somewhere else. Either way, we’re pushing our luck by staying here, let’s go.”

  As Hugo followed her up the stairs to the deck, Claudia turned. “I thought you were trying to find the Scarab. You’re chasing Al Zakiri now, instead?”

  “No,” said Hugo. He smiled. “One thing led to another, and here I am. I think I’m going to have to let Tom do his thing while I go back to chasing our friend the Scarab.” At the top of the stairs, Hugo looked out across the river. “I just don’t think he’s a terrorist.”

  “An innocent man?”

  “A persecuted one, certainly.”

  “And Hugo the superhero wants to save him.”

  They t
urned as a figure rose from behind the cabin. “Was that performance for my sake?”

  “No, Mohammed, I meant it.” Hugo eyed the gun, his gun, that was pointed at his chest. “You’re not going to need that, so please point it somewhere else. Or put it away.”

  “Why are you following me? I told you, I’m not going with you.” He looked at Claudia. “Who is she?”

  “She’s a friend,” Hugo began.

  “I’m a newspaper reporter,” Claudia said. “And if Hugo says you’re not a terrorist that’s good enough for me.”

  Al Zakiri smiled wearily. “And what good does that do me?”

  “It means that I’m prepared to write your story, not the one the police or the government gives us. It means that if you talk to me it won’t be possible for you to disappear into the system, to be mistreated.”

  “The power of the press,” Al Zakiri said.

  Hugo nodded, then something caught his eyes, three identical speed boats coming at them from under the Pont des Invalides, moving faster than the other boat traffic but not so fast as to draw attention.

  “They’re here,” Hugo said. “For Chrissakes, put that gun down.”

  “Who?” Al Zakiri looked over his shoulder and saw the boats. “Shit, the police.” He rounded the end of the cabin, moving swiftly toward Claudia and Hugo. “If you want to tell my story you better be able to run.” He thrust the gun at Hugo and kept going, leaping like a cat from the prow to the stone quay.

  Hugo started after him. He’d taken two steps when the air suddenly disintegrated, giving him no time to process what was happening before the hard crack of gunfire made it all too clear. Instinctively he dropped to the deck, falling to his right so he could take Claudia down with him. They hit the wooden planking hard and she winced as the breath went out of her.

  “You OK?” Hugo shifted his body to cover hers as a second burst of gunfire raked the boat.

  “Yes. How come I get shot at every time I’m with you?”