by Mark Pryor
“I’m sorry to hear that’s been your experience,” Hugo said, meaning it. “And, please, call me Hugo.”
“Thank you, I will. But, Hugo, I don’t plan on upsetting the hotel management, who’ve always been very good to me, by bringing in a bunch of uniformed police officers who will pat me on the head and tell me not to worry, that it’s all a mistake.”
“This is technically their jurisdiction, though,” Hugo said. “If what you say turns out to be true, then there’s nothing I can do about it alone.”
“I’d assumed as much, and I understand that. However, I am sure you know someone at police headquarters who can look into this. Maybe let you on board, so to speak. At the very least, I’m hoping you know someone who doesn’t have a bushy mustache and assume all women are hysterical every time they make a complaint like this.”
“As a matter of fact,” Hugo said, “I know someone who fits that description perfectly.”
“You do?”
“Yes. Not only will she be discreet, but she knows a lot about spy technology, so let me give her a call and I’ll get back to you.”
“A woman?” Hancock asked, surprise in her voice. “I guess I figured all the senior officers in the French police were men.”
“Funny you should say that,” Hugo said. “Mostly true, but not entirely.”
Hugo met Lieutenant Camille Lerens for lunch since it was a slow day for both, and they’d not caught up for a while. They sat outside in the shade of the café’s awning, the tables around them slowly filling, and they were close enough to the door to smell the garlic and grilling meat, odors that to Hugo were almost sustenance all by themselves.
The waiter appeared with a bottle of water and two glasses, and, as he poured, Hugo held out the bread basket for Lerens.
“Merci, non. Cutting down on carbs,” she said. “Help yourself.”
“You know, I’ve wondered,” Hugo said, “whether the hormones and surgery made a difference to your metabolism.”
They didn’t talk about it much. Lerens’s transition from Christophe Lerens to Camille was a fact from her past, like her first kiss or favorite present from Santa. She was open to talking about it, but Hugo knew she’d had a hard time in the Bordeaux force before they’d accepted her for who she was, and before she’d transferred to Paris and made a name for herself. But the details, they’d never really discussed those. Hugo suspected that it was his own reticence rather than any reluctance on her part that had kept it out of their many conversations.
“Well, sometimes you get what you ask for.” Lerens gave him a reassuring smile. It’s OK to talk about this. “As a man, all that testosterone helped me keep fit. Now I have to cut back on bread and wine; it’s very unfair.”
Hugo patted his own waistline. “Not just a gender issue,” he said. “I’m afraid that age will do that to you, too.”
“You’re not making me feel better, Hugo.” Lerens scowled, and then broke into a smile. “We should work out together.”
“Not a bad idea,” Hugo conceded. “As long as you take it easy on me. I have ten years on you, at least.”
“Think we could rope Tom into this?”
“Exercising? Not a chance. Though I’m sure he’d volunteer to eat our share of bread and drink all of our wine.”
“He does that already,” Lerens said. “How is he, anyway? It’s been weeks since I heard from him.”
“He was doing OK until recently. It’s a long story, but a guy he and I nailed a few years back just got paroled from prison. A bad deal all around, and Tom’s far from happy that the guy is out.”
“They all get out sooner or later,” Lerens said, with a typically Gallic shrug.
“Most of them. But when you rob a bunch of banks and kill people, you’re not supposed to.”
“So what makes this man so special that he’s released?”
“Like I said, a long story. And not one for today.” Hugo took a second piece of bread before realizing, but decided against putting it back. “A different tale for you today, one closer to home.”
“Sounds exciting.”
“It’s either very exciting or absolutely nothing. Other than someone’s paranoia taking over.”
“Go on.”
Hugo tapped the file he’d put on the table. “Do you know who Helen Hancock is?”
“The writer? Of course, she’s huge over here.”
“Have you read any of her books?”
“Most of them.” Lerens smiled. “Oh, don’t look so shocked. You and your literary aspirations; it’d be good for you to see what normal people read.”
“That’s not fair,” Hugo said. “I read other things. Spy novels, for example.”
“Oui. Let me guess, ones written in the 1960s by Graham Greene and John le Carré.”
“And modern ones,” Hugo said defensively. “Alan Furst. Philip Kerr, even.”
“Congratulations, you’re a true man of the people. Anyway, what about Helen Hancock?”
“She’s here in Paris, doing research for her new novel and teaching a class. I met her at Isabelle Severin’s funeral.”
Lerens sat up straight. “You met her? What’s she like?”
“Very nice,” Hugo said. “But she thinks someone’s spying on her.”
“Are you serious? Who would be spying on her?”
“That’s what she wants us to find out.”
“Us?”
Hugo smiled. “She came to me because she’s an American, and because she thinks the Paris police will, as she put it, pat her on the head and tell her not to worry.”
Lerens nodded. “She’s probably right. What makes her think she’s being spied on?”
“She found a camera in her hotel room, or so she says.”
“How intriguing.”
“Like I said, that’s what she thinks,” Hugo said.
“What kind of hotel is she staying in?”
“The Sorbonne Hotel,” Hugo said.
“Then I’d be shocked if there was a camera in there. You don’t get much more reputable that that.”
“You don’t believe her?”
“I mean, it’s possible . . . but not very likely. A place like that, it’s like the Hôtel de Crillon or the Ritz. Reputation and service mean everything.”
“I know. But a rogue employee could install one,” Hugo said. “It wouldn’t be hard to do these days.”
“True enough. It should be easy to figure out, though. I mean, either it’s a camera or it’s not,” Lerens said. “Let’s have our lunch and then go take a look, shall we?”
CHAPTER FIVE
The lobby of the Sorbonne Hotel was a study in tranquility. The deep carpet muffled every footfall, and the over-sized portraits of French aristocracy from years gone by seemed to whisper “hush” at all who passed through. Many of the grand Paris hotels had been refurbished in recent years, adding modern touches, opening the lobbies up to more light, and installing bright stone and marble surfaces to replace the wood paneling that the Sorbonne Hotel maintained.
Hugo liked the sense of calm the place instilled in him, the way the staff in their formal wear moved quietly about their business, no fuss, no hurry. He could see why a writer like Helen Hancock would come here; it was somewhere you could sit in a plush leather couch and watch the world pass by and not be bothered by overly anxious employees making sure you were alright every fifteen minutes.
Hancock met them by the elevators, her eyes scanning the dimly lit lobby in case, Hugo assumed, they were themselves being watched by a member of the hotel’s staff. Hugo introduced her to Lieutenant Camille Lerens, discreet in civilian clothes, and as soon as the elevator doors closed on them, Lerens spoke.
“Hugo says you haven’t touched it, is that right?”
Hancock nodded. “Right.”
“How did you discover it?”
“Well, I have a niece who’s ten. Her name’s Nicola. She has this funny thing about hotel rooms, so whenever I travel I send her pictures of
the room I’m staying in. I use my phone so I can text them to her.”
“Makes sense,” Hugo said.
“Yes, well, I didn’t notice anything while I was taking the pictures a couple of days ago, but when I looked at them afterward, to choose which to send, I noticed a reflection.”
“What do you mean, ‘a reflection’?” Lerens asked.
“Of the flash. It was like a little burst of light coming from the corner of the framed picture in the wall above the desk. I thought that was odd, so I went and inspected the picture.” The elevator doors opened, and they stepped out into the hallway. Hancock lowered her voice, as if someone might be listening. “That’s when I found a little hole in the bottom corner of the picture itself. A hole with something in it, like a lens.”
They stopped in the hallway to talk. “But you’re sure that you didn’t touch it in any way?” Lerens asked. “Like, move the picture to look?”
“Yes, I’m sure. I didn’t touch it. I called the US Embassy and asked for the ambassador, to ask him what to do.” Hugo and Lerens glanced at each other but didn’t say anything. Hancock smiled. “That may seem a little extreme, but I know him. He’s actually a fan of my books—that’s how we met. I did a reading and book signing at the American Library and he came, introduced himself. Gave me his card and said if I ever needed anything . . .” She shrugged. “So I thought I’d take him up on it.”
“He’s a fan?” Hugo asked, highly amused but trying not to show it.
“It’s not just sex-starved women who read my books, you know,” she said, patting his arm. “Maybe you should try one; you might like it.”
Lerens cleared her throat. “Back to the task at hand, maybe?”
“Right, sorry,” Hancock continued. “Anyway, he wasn’t in and when I explained the issue they put me through to the security division, or whatever you call it. They told me you’d be in on Monday, that you don’t work weekends, and even if you did you were going to a funeral out of the city. I guessed which one and . . . Voilà.”
“Bien,” Lerens said. “Now, when we go in your room, don’t say anything, in case it’s recording. If they haven’t realized by now that you have spotted it, it’d be good to keep them in the dark.”
“Who is they, I wonder,” Hugo mused.
“Can you trace who put the camera there?” Hancock asked. “I mean, if that’s what it is.”
“It’s complicated, but the basic answer is ‘possibly,’” Lerens said. “We’ll just have a look for now, surreptitiously if we can. You said it’s in the lower corner of the painting over the desk?”
“Yes,” Hancock said. “It looks like it would capture the desk but could also get more of the room, including part of the bed and the bathroom doorway.”
“Alors,” Lerens said. “We’ll just look for now, no talking and no touching.”
They walked in silence to Hancock’s room. When they got there, her keycard unlocked the door with a gentle clunk, and they filed in behind the writer.
The door opened onto a spacious one-room suite. In front of them was a sizeable white sofa, which was flanked by a pair of matching chintz armchairs, heavy and plush. These faced to their left, where a large, antique desk sat against the wall. Hugo’s eyes automatically went to the oversized landscape that was hung above the desk, a swirl of color and movement that would make perfect cover for a small hole and a spy camera. Hugo glanced to his right, taking in the rest of the suite. A king-size four-poster bed with a canopy dominated most of it but left enough space for an armoire and matching bedside tables. Mahogany or maybe teak, Hugo thought. An expensive, classy room that would probably cost most people a week’s salary for a single night.
They walked casually behind and around the far end of the sofa, then angled left toward the picture. To Hugo’s right, floor-to-ceiling windows filled the room with light, and he paused for a moment to look out over Rue des Écoles before joining Lerens and Hancock, who stood with their backs against the wall on which the picture was mounted. Lerens was closest to the painting, and she bent to inspect it, trying to keep her head out of any filming that may be happening. After a moment, she angled her cell phone toward the painting to inconspicuously take pictures of the tiny hole and maybe the camera itself. Although they remained in the camera’s blind spot while investigating, there was simply no way to know whether their entry had been captured or, if it had been, whether the person who’d installed it was watching.
Is it motion-activated? Hugo wondered. Monitored full-time? Surely not that . . . Eventually Lerens moved out of the way and Hugo took a turn.
The hole was unmistakable. It was about the size of a thumbtack and had been carefully cut into a darker part of the painting for disguise. Hugo wasn’t positive, but it did indeed look like something sat just beneath the cutout. He resisted the urge to lift the painting and check behind it, instead turning his head to look at the room from that angle, to see what a camera might see. Hancock was right: it would likely capture the desktop and most of the bed. Possibly the bathroom doorway, too.
He straightened and indicated with a nod that he’d seen enough. With Lerens in the lead, they retraced their path, walking quietly back behind the sofa and out the door. When they were in the long, quiet hallway, Hancock spoke up.
“Well?” she said. “I was right—it’s a camera, isn’t it?”
“I think it might be,” Lerens said. “Impressive disguise, though, I’ll give it that.”
“So what now?” Hugo asked.
“My guess is, there’s some equipment taped to the back of the painting, a transmitter that’s sending the images, and possibly sound too, to a receiver.” Lerens pursed her lips in thought. “Typically, these things have a fairly short range, maybe half an acre.”
“So whoever put it there is in the hotel,” Hugo said.
“Most likely,” Lerens agreed. “Another guest or an employee, but my money would be on the latter.”
“Why?” Hancock asked.
“Obviously I don’t know what specific equipment they’re using. But did you see any wires coming out of the painting to a socket?”
Hugo and Hancock shook their heads.
“Me neither,” Lerens continued. “Which means it’s battery operated. If my memory serves, the batteries on things like this last anywhere from fifteen to twenty-four hours, which means that if someone’s intent on capturing a lot of footage of Madame Hancock, they’d need to change out the battery pack.”
“Which an employee could do much easier than a guest could,” Hugo said.
“So what do we do now?” Hancock asked. “I can’t stay in that room anymore. I don’t even like being in there now.”
“I’ll need to get authorization to run a bug sweeper through the room,” Lerens said. “I’ll need permission from the hotel manager as well as my superiors.”
“Wait, does that mean an official investigation or report?” Hancock asked. Her eyes were wide with worry.
“Yes, I’d have to document everything,” Lerens said. “Is that a problem?”
“It might be.” Hancock frowned. “If it becomes official, you’ll need copies of any video as evidence. I don’t know what’s on there, my work, my notes. Maybe even . . . you know, me. Asleep or changing. I don’t want copies of that in anyone’s hands.”
“I can promise you,” Lerens said reassuringly, “that anything we kept would be held under lock and key.”
“You can’t promise me there’ll be no leaks, though, can you?” Hancock asked sharply.
“I suppose . . . not,” Lerens conceded. “Do you have any other ideas, though?”
“I do,” Hugo said, and they both turned to look at him. “We need the room swept, right? By someone who knows what he’s doing and can be discreet.”
Lerens smiled. “Not so sure about the discreet part, but yes, that’s a great idea.”
“What’s a great idea?” Hancock looked back and forth between them. “What are you talking about?”
“Not what,” Hugo said. “But who. His name is Tom Green, and he’s a former FBI agent, as well as my best friend. And snooping around a hotel room for hidden surveillance gear is his idea of heaven.”
“Especially if you don’t lock up the minibar,” Lerens added.
“And if you’re here when he does it,” Hugo added, “he may try to seduce you. Fair warning.”
“Well, now,” Hancock said, a small smile playing on her lips. “We writers have to do our research somehow. Don’t we?”
CHAPTER SIX
Hugo was stretched out on the sofa when Tom let himself into the apartment just after seven that evening. Hugo put his book down on the coffee table beside him and sat up. “I was wondering where you’d got to.”
“Your author friend had some good whisky; seemed rude to say no,” Tom said. “You reading again?”
“Can’t seem to help myself. Apart from the whisky, how was your little adventure?”
“Great fun. Never been in that hotel before, but it’s definitely my style.”
“Meaning?”
“Chock-full of rich women.”
“Helen Hancock included.”
“But of course,” Tom said, dropping into an armchair opposite Hugo. “Nice lady, quite apart from the whisky. So nice, in fact, that someone did indeed decide to bug her room.”
“So she was right. Was it just a camera?”
“Nope, sight and sound. Pinhole camera that also records. Or, to be more precise, transmits pictures and sound.”
“You didn’t remove it, right?”
“You told me to leave it,” Tom said. “You know I always do as you say.”
“As long as you did this time.”
“I did, so quit your fussing.”
“How do those cameras work, exactly?” Hugo asked. “No call for those in my current job, and I’m guessing the technology’s changed since we were at the bureau.”
“Just a little. It’s pretty simple, though. The camera can be left on or it can be remotely switched on and off, according to the operator’s preferences. It will transmit the images and sound to an SD card. For that kind of device, it’d probably be thirty-two gigs at the most.”
