The Family Hitchcock

by Mark Levin

  “I wasn’t thinking. I just acted.”

  “Act again,” his sister said. “Take my hand. And don’t look down.”

  “Maddy,” Rebecca said. “I don’t like this.”

  Thwap! Thwap! Thwap!

  “You got a better idea?” Maddy asked. She turned to her brother. “OK, ready? One, two . . . three!”

  An excellent leaper, Maddy all but pulled her brother off the terrace onto the other roof. Benji landed awkwardly on his knees.

  “Nice, sport!” Roger said.

  Benji nodded. Maybe next year he’d hire a mad killer to chase him when he did the phys ed long jump. He turned to his mother.

  “Your turn!”

  Rebecca made the mistake of glancing down—all six floors. Suddenly dizzy, she felt like she was going to pitch forward.

  “Come on, Mom!” Maddy called.

  “I can’t!” she said.

  “If I did it, you can, too,” Benji said.

  “Stop looking down,” Roger said. “Just jump.”

  “We’ll catch you!” Maddy said.

  Then the family heard it: the loudest thwap of them all, followed by the sound of ripping wood. Rebecca wheeled around, trembling.

  “What was that?” she asked.

  “He’s splintered the door,” Roger said.

  Rebecca needed no more encouragement. Before anyone in her family could say another word, she flung herself into the air, arms and legs akimbo, then fell hard on the opposite roof. As Roger helped her to her feet, they heard the footsteps.

  “He’s inside!” Benji said. “Haul it.”

  “This way!” Roger said.

  Scrambling across the rooftop, Benji was dimly aware that it was a lovely night—the perfect evening to be in Paris—if only he wasn’t running faster than he had ever had to run in his life. At Camp Keys his biggest fear would have been performing a sonata at the talent show. Or maybe making sure not to get water up his nose in the shallow end of the pool. But now wasn’t the time to ruminate over what could have been. Running as hard as he could, he followed his dad around a chimney, splashed through a puddle of old rainwater, then circled around a water tower.

  Then there it was—a thin line in the darkness: the opposite edge.

  Benji gasped. “Oh, no! No way!”

  This time, the next building over was a good four feet away.

  “We can make it,” Maddy called. “It’s not far.”

  “For you, maybe,” Benji said.

  His sister wasn’t slowing down for anything. When Rebecca shouted, “Maddy, don’t!” she was already in the air, landing easily on the adjacent building.

  “Relax, Mom,” Maddy said, looking back. “Gymnastics, remember? Come on, Benji! You next!”

  Benji made the same mistake his mother had made on the terrace: He looked down, six floors to an alley of garbage cans.

  “Oh, cripes!” he said.

  “Pretend there’s a dog at your heels!”

  Benji gasped. A dog! Some days it seemed like every family in their neighborhood but them had a giant, vicious dog. Avoiding the yapping beasts on the short walk to school was a daily trial.

  “Benji!” his mother said. “Don’t!”

  “Relax, Mom! I’m on it!”

  Benji visualized a particularly large and excitable German shepherd that lived around the corner—a dog who had taken a piece out of his shirt more than once—and ran for the edge. Throwing himself into the air, he gathered just enough momentum to make it to the lip of the opposite building.

  “See?” Maddy said, hauling him in. “Easy!”

  A new sound followed them now—one more terrifying than a dog. The heavy footsteps of a human being.

  “Oh my God,” Rebecca said. She glanced over her shoulder. “It’s him!”

  Roger grabbed his wife’s hand. Together they jumped across, stumbling onto the adjacent roof.

  “Get up!” Benji called as they landed. “He’s coming!”

  The Algerian was moving so quickly he looked like a blur of yellow. Escape seemed impossible. But once again, the Hitchcocks got a helping hand: The Elevator Man leaped out of the darkness, this time landing on the Algerian’s back.

  “Yes!” Maddy said. “Run!”

  But Benji couldn’t resist. Ten feet along the other roof, he turned. To his dismay, a few short seconds was all it had taken for the Algerian to put the Elevator Man in a headlock. Then he pushed the Elevator Man off the edge. Benji screamed—but then, a miracle. The Elevator Man managed to grab hold of a balcony railing two floors down and swing himself onto the lower terrace.

  “No way that elevator guy isn’t some sort of major-league spy,” Maddy said, coming to her brother’s side.

  Benji nodded. “Normal people just don’t do stuff like that.”

  “Come on!” Roger said. “We aren’t safe yet.”

  From across the divide between the two buildings, the Algerian’s voice pierced the night sky.

  “No use running, Monsieur Vadim. You’ll never get away.”

  Roger thought he had been frightened a year earlier when he had set their tent on fire at Yosemite, but this was a fear of an altogether different nature—a sharp terror mixed with confusion. Why couldn’t this Algerian get the point?

  “I’m not Vadim!” he cried desperately. “I know corn, not the MGF!”

  “You are lying!”

  The Algerian leaped across the chasm onto the second building.

  “Run!” Roger called to his family. “Run!”

  Benji didn’t need to be told twice. Scurrying madly ahead, he muttered wildly to himself, “I’m dead. So dead. Seriously dead. Mozart dead. Isaac Newton dead.”

  As for Rebecca, she was almost too scared to run. Maybe the Algerian would listen to logic? If they could just go back to the apartment and find their passports, they could prove that they weren’t the Vadims, right? She gave it one last try.

  “We are not the Vadims!” she shouted.

  Then she gasped. What was that glinting in the Algerian’s hand?

  “It’s a gun!” Roger said.

  The Algerian laughed. Roger and Rebecca were running across the roof, expecting to feel bullets rip into their bodies at any second, when they suddenly ran smack into Maddy. Rebecca fell to her knees. Roger blinked. His daughter had stopped on a skylight and was pointing down to a teenage boy—who was standing by an easel, holding a paintbrush.

  “Look!” she said. “It’s that kid, Stephan! From Veronique’s diary!”

  “Cool,” Benji said, doubling back. “But can we chat about it later?”

  With a startling crack, the glass beneath them shattered. The family fell en masse ten feet down directly onto the boy’s bed.

  “Bonjour,” Maddy said as the Hitchcocks untangled themselves. “You must be Stephan.”

  The boy looked as though he had just been visited by a family of spirits.

  “Sweetie,” Rebecca said. “This is no time for introductions, OK? We’re being hunted down by a crazed Algerian.”

  “Sorry to drop in like this,” Roger said. “But we’re outta here.”

  Up above, the family could hear rapidly approaching footsteps.

  “This way,” Benji said, heading to the door.

  Again, Maddy hesitated. Her eye had caught the boy’s painting. It was of a pretty girl with a shallow cleft on her chin and long red hair.

  “Is that Veronique?” Maddy asked.

  Too shocked to talk, Stephan managed a nod.

  “Good news,” Maddy said. “She’s way into you.”

  Stephan blinked. “Way into me? You know this?”

  “I read her diary!”

  Maddy felt her father yank her by the arm to the door.

  “You’re really an amazing artist,” she said before sprinting after her family down the stairs. From a floor below, she heard the Algerian jump from the roof to Stephan’s floor. But their assailant didn’t stop to admire the boy’s work.

  “Arrêtez, Monsie
ur Vadim!” he called from the boy’s door. “You’re just making it harder on yourself!”

  By that time, Rebecca was leading the family down a narrow circular staircase.

  “Hurry, Mom!” Benji cried.

  “I’m going as fast as I can!”

  “Go faster!” Roger said.

  “Monsieur Vadim!” came the voice from above.

  “I’m not Vadim!” Roger shouted.

  “Do not lie to me!”

  “Step on it!” Maddy called.

  Rebecca missed the next step completely, tripped, and tumbled down the flight of stairs.

  “Mom!” Benji called. “Are you okay?”

  “Fine,” Rebecca stammered. She tried to stand and instantly fell back over. “I think I sprained my ankle.”

  Roger raced down the stairs, hoisted his wife onto his back, fireman style—this time not for laughs— and continued down the stairs.

  “Hey, nice, Dad!” Benji said.

  “Come on!” Roger called. “Only one more flight!”

  But Benji and Maddy knew that their father could only hold on for so long. By the time the Hitchcocks reached the street, the Algerian was right behind and Roger was sucking wind.

  “Run!” Benji cried.

  “Dad!” Maddy said.

  But it was no use. Benji knew that any second now the Algerian would jump on their father’s back. Then it would all be over. But Benji hadn’t counted on the tenacity of the Elevator Man. Appearing from out of nowhere, the strange and persistent man with the pierced eyebrow jumped from a second-floor balcony and landed right on the Algerian’s back.

  “Run!” Benji said.

  Moments later the children were following their father into traffic on Boulevard St.-Germain. A taxi driver slammed on the brakes. A headlight shone right in Maddy’s eyes.

  “Do you even know where the embassy is?” Rebecca called.

  “Across the Seine,” Roger said. “Come on! Everyone in the cab!”

  After a short ride through the Paris night, the cab stopped in front of an elegant four-story building of white stone.

  “L’ambassade américaine,” the driver said.

  Roger looked out the window. The American flag waved above the main entrance. No Fourth of July parade or rendition of “The Star-Spangled Banner” had ever made him feel more patriotic.

  “Yes!” he shouted.

  “Oh my gosh!” Maddy gasped. “That is a sight!”

  “Chicago, here we come!” Benji said.

  Rebecca threw a handful of Euros at the driver, and the family poured out of the cab.

  “Look!” Rebecca said. “It’s Harry!”

  He was standing beside a black limo that was parked in front of the embassy. Even in the middle of the night, he looked immaculate in a suit and tie.

  “Get inside,” Huberman said. “Quickly!”

  A day earlier, Roger would have been jealous. Now he was thrilled. How fortunate to have met this helpful man at the Eiffel Tower. Who cared if he had an unspeakably beautiful chin? Seconds later, the family was safely in the back of a plush limousine. The driver was a heavyset Asian man with a bowl haircut. Huberman jumped in next to Roger.

  “The Algerian is chasing us,” Roger said. “He thinks I’m Vadim! We also found a diary. Show him, Maddy.”

  Maddy handed it to Huberman. “It says that Vadim stole some sort of a vial.”

  “It’s okay,” Harry Huberman said reassuringly. He tucked the diary into his jacket pocket. “You’ve done well. You’re safe now.”

  Maddy leaned back in her seat. Now that she was safe, she realized how scared she had been. Her heart was more lurching in her chest than pounding. As she tried to gain control of her breathing, Huberman leaned toward the driver and said something in rapid Chinese. Why would an American Embassy official have a Chinese driver? How many languages did Huberman speak, anyway? Maddy was about to ask when a fist hit the window. Standing outside was the Algerian—again!

  “Let’s move it, shall we?” Huberman said.

  The driver peeled away from the curb. Maddy looked out the rearview mirror just in time to see the Elevator Man rise once again out of nowhere to throw the Algerian to the pavement. This time he made it stick. After a short struggle, the tenacious man in the yellow suit was in handcuffs.

  “The Elevator Man had to be a cop,” Benji said. “Cool.”

  “Yeah,” Maddy said. “Whoever he is, thank God he’s on our side.”

  As she turned around to face forward, she caught her breath. Strangely, Harry Huberman was putting on a gas mask.

  “Say there, Huberman?” her father was asking. “What are you doing?”

  Maddy noticed that the driver had on a gas mask, too. Something wasn’t right. Though the mask covered most of his face, Maddy could see Harry Huberman allow himself a small grin. He looked directly at her father.

  “You called the wrong man, Mr. Hitchcock.”

  A light orange mist began to fill the back of the car. It smelled sickly sweet, almost as if someone were cooking an extra-rich dessert and had doubled the sugar.

  “What’s going on?” Maddy said.

  She reached for the door handle. Before her hand was halfway there, she slumped against the window, out cold.

  Chapter Twelve

  As the limo carrying the family Hitchcock sped into the dark night, their one true friend walked into Interpol Headquarters in Lyon, France. Instead of wearing the ragged clothes of the Elevator Man, Jules Camus—for that was his real name—was dressed in a well-pressed shirt and slacks. Around his waist was a holster that held a standard-issue revolver, the type of gun preferred by French Interpol agents.

  Slowly, he made his way up the stairs to the second floor. Down a long corridor, he stopped at an office with a glass window that read commissioner bernard fromique.

  With a sigh, the Elevator Man paused for a moment. It didn’t matter that he was one of the best agents in the service or that he had finally captured the irritating Algerian. He had let the Hitchcocks get away. Worse, he still hadn’t tracked down the exact location of the MGF. Commissioner Fromique was known to remove agents from cases for less.

  “This could get ugly,” Jules warned himself.

  Still, there was nothing to be gained from more delay. With a deep breath, he rapped twice on the door. A voice from inside answered immediately.

  “Yes, come!”

  Jules pushed open the door. The commissioner was looking out the window, back turned. Jules could only imagine the unsatisfied scowl on his face. The famous jowls would be drooping even more than usual.

  “You wanted to see me, sir?”

  The commissioner turned around. Indeed, he was frowning heavily. Of course, Commissioner Fromique rarely looked happy. But today he looked downright miserable.

  “It was such a simple task, Jules.”

  The Elevator Man knew what was required of him: Make no effort to defend himself. Simply nod and take the blame.

  “I understand, sir.”

  “Watch the Hitchcocks. That’s all I wanted.” Fromique rubbed a hand through his thick, graying hair. “I hate failure, Jules.”

  The Elevator Man nodded gravely. He knew he deserved it, but that didn’t make it any more pleasant. And the commissioner had a way of drawing things out, almost taking twisted enjoyment in reprimanding an agent.

  “Not more than me, I promise you,” Jules said.

  With that, Fromique took another long look out the window, as if contemplating whether to throw Jules out of it. Finally, the commissioner turned back around.

  “All right, sit,” he said.

  Jules did as he was told. The commissioner took his own seat and leaned back in the chair.

  “In any case,” he went on, “the Hitchcocks aren’t our first concern, are they? Our first concern is . . . ”

  The commissioner’s voice rose at the end of the thought, telling Jules that he was expected to fill in the blank.

  “To find the MGF, sir.
”

  The commissioner’s eyes narrowed. From up close, his jowls seemed to droop almost all the way down to his shoulders. For a moment, Jules imagined that he was chatting with a giant St. Bernard.

  “Don’t finish my sentences, Jules.”

  “Of course not, sir.”

  “Just show me what you have.”

  Jules was ready. He pulled a folder out of his briefcase and revealed a collection of photos. The first was of the Hitchcocks at the Eiffel Tower. The second was of a small blue vial.

  “One hundred milliliters of MGF went missing from a secured lab at La Polytechnique Française on June twenty-third.”

  The commissioner rubbed his chin. “And this Algerian? He was chasing the MGF?”

  The Elevator Man flipped to the third picture, a mug shot of the Algerian.

  “His name is Aljan Aljani and he isn’t talking. We believe that he’s employed by Hazan Oil, the largest petroleum concern in Dubai, and that he was attempting to secure the MGF from Xavier Vadim on their behalf.”

  The commissioner moved his right hand over his shoulder in a futile attempt to scratch an impossible-to-reach itch on the small of his back.

  “What is this MGF?” he said, thinking out loud. “Venezuela, the Chinese, the Arab republics. Everybody’s chasing it.” He finally gave up on getting the itch with his hand and rubbed his back against the seat. “Do we believe the vial may be in Chicago?”

  Jules nodded. “I am liaising with the FBI as we speak.”

  The commissioner allowed himself a small smile, the first since Jules had entered.

  “But you are not liaising with the FBI as we speak. You are liaising with me as we speak.”

  The Elevator Man swallowed hard. “That is correct, sir. I misspoke.”

  The commissioner leaned forward in the chair. His face was grave. “Just find that vial.”

  Jules exhaled, greatly relieved. He had worried that the commissioner was going to pull him from the case.

  “Thank you, sir. I will, sir.”

  “Good. Now, how about the Hitchcocks?”

  “What about them, sir?”

  “They don’t have the MGF, do they?”

  Jules paused. The Hitchcocks seemed too naive to be involved in an international conspiracy. Then again, anything was possible.