The Blood Promise: A Hugo Marston Novel

by Pryor, Mark

  “But why?”

  “In her apartment we also found buccal swabs, for taking DNA samples.”

  “That’s right.” Lerens thought for a moment. “Didn’t Lake say someone was leaning over him?”

  “He did, and she was. Taking his DNA.”

  “So you think . . . the hair in that chest, whose was it?”

  “Ah, now that’s where my theory really does become guesswork. If she was blackmailing him, and I think she was, it had to be someone both French and royal.”

  “But I thought you said everyone in America was descended—”

  “Yes, but imagine it from his point of view. He has French blood, royal blood in his veins. He’s descended from kings. The people that keep him in power, that would have financed his presidential run, even if they might have looked the other way, he couldn’t be sure of that. And think about his personality. Think about how he’d suddenly see himself and the paranoia we’ve all seen in him that would, surely, convince him his political coffers would soon be empty. You know Claudia Roux?”

  “Yes, I do. For a reporter, I like her very much.”

  “She covered a story recently. A man who tried to kill his wife because he believed she was having an affair, convinced himself of it. This reminds me of that, where someone’s reality doesn’t mesh with the truth.”

  “Yes, I read that.” Lerens nodded. “And similarly, it didn’t matter to Alexandra whether or not his donors would withdraw support. She’d be pretty safe betting on Lake’s paranoia, that he’d be convinced they would.”

  “Right. This is a man who’s suspicious and insecure enough to bug his phones, his own office. He wouldn’t think about this the way you or I would because he already assumes his political career is teetering on the brink. His reality isn’t yours or mine, and in his fragile world his all-American image brings him power. And, like I said, money. Without an image or money, it’s over.”

  “And so Alexandra decides to claim some of that political money, most likely, and maybe even a hold over the most powerful man in the world.”

  “If he became president.”

  “Right. And that’s the beauty of it. He might survive as a senator if all this came out, but no way he’d make it to the presidency. This anti-Europe thing is his shtick, it’s defined his political career and so this revelation would make that a joke. In Washington, and I’m sure it’s the same for you in Paris, there’s always someone waiting to pounce on stuff like this. He probably wouldn’t make it through the primaries. Even more than that, there’s his blue-collar image. He basically told me that if that was undermined his grass-roots following would not only disappear, but take the deep pockets with them. He called it a double-whammy.”

  “If you’re right about this . . .” Lerens shook her head. “Then Lake is the one who killed her.”

  Hugo nodded. “I’m afraid so.”

  They sat in silence for a full minute, then Lerens shifted in her seat and said, “One thing, though. Who exactly is it you think he’s descended from?”

  Hugo gave a sad smile. “That’s the other beautiful part of her scheme. If I’m right about this, he’s descended from the one French royal every American has heard of. The royal responsible for making one of the most callous and reviled statements toward the working people of France. The person who’s image, even today, is the polar opposite of his own.”

  The lieutenant’s eyes widened. “You think . . . you think he’s descended from Marie Antoinette?”

  They both jumped at a knock on the car window. Lerens opened the door, muttering under her breath at the uniformed officer.

  “Lieutenant, I found her phone but we’ll need the code to get in, if you have it. Otherwise the forensic people will have to work on it.”

  “Merci. Bag it, please, and make sure you note exactly where you found it.”

  “Oui, Madame.”

  When he’d gone, Lerens turned back to Hugo. “We’re missing something, aren’t we?”

  “Yes. There was something else in that chest, the answer to all of this. The proof that connects the Bassin family to French royalty.”

  “Good, because I’m not sure I understand the implication of the name-changing and sudden moving.”

  “I don’t think . . .” Hugo frowned. “Me neither, not completely. It’s like I’m seeing shadows moving through the fog and I can’t quite make sense of everything.” He looked at Lerens. “But I’m convinced there is more evidence, something that solidifies that connection.”

  “You think Lake has it?”

  “I do,” Hugo said. “I think Alexie Tourville confronted him with it and he killed her for it.”

  “And Natalia Khlapina?”

  “You heard what Bruno Capron said when I interviewed him.”

  “I did. When he called Natalia, she was with Alexie, wasn’t she?”

  “Yeah, I think so. I’m betting Natalia really did steal that necklace and resell it on her own. She probably confessed it all to Alexie and maybe asked where the hell it came from.”

  “Which meant,” Lerens said, “Natalia made herself a new and very direct link from the Bassin robbery to Alexie Tourville.”

  “And for self-preservation, Alexie had to kill her.”

  Silence descended, as did the darkness of the evening. As the sun bled red on the horizon, the crime scene team arrived and set up their flood lights, painting the bizarre image in Hugo’s mind of an outdoor operating theater. Men and women in scrubs, faces covered and moving with deliberate speed, circular lights on wheels being adjusted as gloved fingers probed and tugged at the body, emptied the car. The starkest difference was the ceremonial five minutes devoted to the first of the professionals, the photographer, who leaned in close then wandered further away, angling and zooming as his soft shutter-clicks marked the start of the preservation of evidence, which was itself the formal acknowledgement of the demise of Alexandra Catherine de Beaumont Tourville.

  Tom provided little information, just a vague cover story relating to potential threats, a suspect passenger, and national security (British and American, to cover all angles). It was a story easily swallowed by Captain Youree McBride of the Queen Mary II, and made more palatable by Tom’s deliberate reference to the captain’s beloved US Navy, and his own dramatic arrival in a Bell UH-1 Iroquois helicopter, familiar to McBride from his navy days as a “Huey.”

  Tom’s descent onto Deck 13, the highest on the ship, was less than impressive, however. Despite being made of steel, the upper decks were not built to cope with the stress of helicopter landings and take-offs, something the pilot informed his passenger a little too late in the proceedings, as far as Tom was concerned. Fortunately, the ship’s flight deck officer was there to guide his visitor’s feet to the floor and unhook the cable that had dropped the twisting and cursing visitor from the Huey.

  “Keep your head down, sir,” the officer shouted, “and follow me.”

  Free from his tether, Tom ducked beneath the downdraft of the rotors, glancing up as he felt the pressure ease to see the winking lights on the belly of the chopper disappearing into the night sky. He stumbled and decided to pay attention to where he was going, looking for the line his host was taking. Just ahead, a crew member manned a heavy metal door and swung it open for them. Inside, the hulking officer turned and shook Tom’s hand.

  “Welcome to the Queen Mary II, sir, I’m Staff Captain Lawrence Nicoletti. People say I don’t look like a Lawrence, though, so just call me Nick.” An American, which surprised Tom.

  “Thanks, Nick. Tom Green.”

  “Yes, sir. I’ll take you to Captain McBride, he’s a little curious as to why you’re here.”

  “Don’t get too many late-night visitors coming in by helicopter?”

  “Not too many, sir. This way.”

  Captain McBride worked out. A lot. That was the first thing Tom thought when he saw the man, his white shirt crisp against a broad chest and tucked in around a waist Tom had owned in his teens. A f
irm handshake emphasized the man’s physique, and his buzz cut and square jaw screamed marine British Royal Marine, in this case. On the flight over, Tom had taken the time to read the man’s bio, learning that McBride was born in the small northern city of Shreveport and spent more than thirteen years in the navy’s Fleet Protection Group before leaving the military. Oddly, he’d tried his hand at acting, landing roles in London as Peter Pan before returning to the sea. He’d joined Cunard Cruise Line, working his way up the ranks in the organization. He was impressive in more ways than just physical, with intelligent, watchful eyes, and a calm demeanor that came from years of facing crises at sea and dealing with them. After the handshake and name-swap, McBride waited for Tom to explain his presence on the ship.

  “One of your passengers may need a friend,” Tom started. He handed the captain his credentials, the ones for today anyway, that put him in military intelligence. It was an in-joke in the Company that the only time you used CIA credentials was to get into one of their buildings for a staff meeting. In the field, you either acted like a civilian or had some fake identification related to your mission. Tom had a box full to choose from, and this had fit perfectly.

  “Yes, sir,” McBride said. He took his time looking at the name, photograph, and seal on the ID card. “Mind if I ask a couple of questions, sir? I have a boat full of passengers I’m responsible for.”

  “Ask away, and I’ll answer if I can.”

  “Very good, sir. Can you tell me who this person is?”

  “His name is Lake.”

  “Who is he?” McBride asked. “Is there someone out to hurt him?”

  Tom ignored the first question. “Ah, you want to know if there’s a maniac or terrorist on the ship who might be here to hurt other people, am I right?”

  “Correct.”

  “Not that I’m aware of.” Tom held up a hand as Captain McBride furrowed his brow. “Look, I’m acting on pieces of information, I don’t have the full picture myself.” Thanks to fucking Hugo, Tom thought. “My understanding is, there’s only one person at risk. You have the passenger manifest?”

  “Yes, sir, I pulled it up on my computer.”

  Tom stood behind the captain who perched on a high seat and adjusted the screen of his laptop. The truth was, Tom didn’t know what to tell this man. Going into a life-and-death situation was not unusual for Tom, and going into it with minimal information was common enough. What chapped his hide, though he’d not admit it, was that Hugo almost certainly knew exactly what was going on and declined to share. There was, quite simply, no more irritating man on the planet than Hugo Marston, particularly when the shit was starting to fly and you only had seconds to decide which way to dive for cover. Where Tom would inevitably dive head-first into a pile of deeper shit, Hugo always managed to find safety and come out smelling like roses. And the most irritating thing of all was that it wasn’t luck, it was the cool head Hugo kept no matter what, and the big fucking brain that kept ticking away inside that cool head every moment the man was awake.

  Tom knew that his own brain was pretty efficient in a crunch, and the truth was that Hugo had been one of the first guys he’d known to keep up with him on that score. And Tom was fine with having an intellectual equal. What he wasn’t fine with was the fact that this particular equal looked like Cary Grant and acted like James Bond, but didn’t know how to be anything but modest. Very fucking annoying, and a complete waste of chick magnetism, as far as Tom was concerned.

  And here he was, the chubby wingman swooping onto the deck of the fanciest ship in the world on the say-so of a dude who wouldn’t tell him the whole story. Here, in the dark and dangerous sea with fake credentials in his pocket and making shit up to save a man’s life. Maybe.

  “Last name, Lake,” Tom said, “first name, Charles.”

  McBride directed the cursor to a search box in the top right corner of the screen and began to type. “Charles. Lake.” He twisted in his seat. “Wait, this isn’t the Charles Lake? The politician?”

  “I was hoping you wouldn’t notice.”

  “I’m smart like that, it’s why they made me the captain.” He smiled and looked back at the computer. “Balcony stateroom, number 4081. Last-minute reservation.”

  “Rooms like that are available last-minute?” Tom asked.

  “Sometimes, but usually not. I imagine he just got lucky. He certainly didn’t tell anyone who he was when he called, even though that can sometimes help.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Trust me, if a Yank senator was on board several people would have taken the trouble to tell me. And cruise liner captains, me included, get a list of, shall we say, notable people on board. Writers, actors, politicians, sports stars. He’d definitely qualify and would be receiving an invitation to dine at the captain’s table, at least one night and probably two.”

  “Makes sense.”

  “Which makes me wonder why he’s playing it so low-key.”

  “I’ll ask him and let you know.”

  “I’d prefer to escort you down there. I’ve seen your credentials and don’t doubt your intentions, but he’s my passenger and I could probably hold you up for hours arguing about jurisdiction.” The captain’s tone was friendly, but Tom knew he meant every word.

  “I probably don’t have any,” Tom said. “I rarely do. I also don’t have very much time so if you insist, then come with me. But just you. I don’t want a cavalcade of civilians thumping down the hallway letting everyone and their granny know we’re coming.”

  “Just me is fine. And maybe on the way down you can explain a little more about what’s going on.”

  They walked, Tom on the shoulder of the big captain who led him out of the bridge and along a succession of short hallways to an elevator. “I appreciate the cooperation, captain. Are you armed?”

  “Do I need to be?” Captain McBride pressed the down button.

  “Nope.” Tom smiled innocently. “I am, so we’re golden.”

  “Yeah, had a row with my superiors over that. They told me you would be and I’m not wild about the idea of an American whatever-you-are carrying a gun on my ship.”

  “I’m not planning to use it, don’t worry. My mouth is bigger than my gun, and usually better at getting people to surrender.”

  “Wait, are you here to protect Lake or arrest him?”

  “Precisely,” Tom said. He checked his phone but saw no message. Fucking Hugo.

  “Cell phones don’t usually work out here, if you’re getting your instructions that way. Intermittent at best.”

  “Great. Then we’ll keep making it up as we go along.”

  They entered the elevator and stood in silence, and when the doors reopened Captain McBride led the way. The hallway that serviced Lake’s room was as long as any that Tom had seen, stretching out for what seems like a hundred meters either side of him.

  “We’re close,” Tom said, eying the door numbers.

  “Very.”

  “Describe the room to me.”

  “Narrow. The premium balcony staterooms, which this is, have a panoramic hull balcony with chairs and tables, a king-size bed, and a compact bathroom. That’ll be on the right as we go in.”

  “As I go in,” Tom corrected. “If you don’t mind, captain, hang here a moment. You’ll have a good view of any fun and games.”

  “He may not be in there.” McBride handed Tom the card key.

  “I know, but I don’t want your people hunting high and low, letting him know we’re looking for him. Not yet.”

  Tom paused in front of the door to cabin 4081 and knocked. He stood to one side so Lake couldn’t spot him through the peephole. He knocked a second time, louder, and waited another ten seconds before slipping the key card into the door slot and letting himself in.

  A quick glance told Tom that Lake wasn’t in the room itself, and he cleared the bathroom in three seconds. But the sliding door to the small balcony was closed, as was its curtain. Tom put his hand inside his jacket an
d hesitated. He considered applying Hugo’s scruples to the situation but rejected the idea and pulled his gun. A quick glance over his shoulder to make sure no one was in the corridor, then Tom moved slowly forward. He passed along the foot of the bed, and his stomach tightened as movement from the balcony caught his eye. He took four quick steps to the sliding door and pulled it open, stepping out onto the metal deck with both hands training the gun at the flash of white he’d seen from inside.

  The balcony was empty, except for the furniture and a white towel that lay over the back of a chair, its corners flipping up at him as the sea breeze ran over the balustrade and swirled in the little space. Tom reached over and touched the cotton, damp from the wind and spray, but otherwise clean. He looked out toward the ocean, but saw nothing but blackness. The sea and sky had joined at some invisible horizon and the dark of the night seemed to seep over the metal guardrail toward him, surround the steel hull of the ship, and make its bulk brittle and weak. He shivered and took one more look at the two empty chairs and the lone table, small, round, and white, and as bare as the rest of the balcony. Or as Hugo would say in this context, “Silent.”

  He walked back through the cabin and put his head out of the door. “Captain. You can have your crew look for him now, if you don’t mind.”

  “Will do. And if they find him?”

  “Have someone chat him up until I get there. Don’t get handsy with him though, no need for that.”

  “Got it.” Captain McBride lifted his radio to his lips and gave specific instructions, then turned back to Tom. “That was the control room, our communications center. Most crew members will have a radio, and depending on their job it’ll be tuned to a certain channel. The control room will make sure the message is put out to each channel so that every employee on my ship will know to keep an eye out for the senator.”

  “Thanks. I’m going to poke around in here for a bit, if you don’t mind hanging out with me in case he comes back.”