The Book Artist

by Mark Pryor

  THE

  BOOK

  ARTIST

  ALSO BY MARK PRYOR

  The Bookseller

  The Crypt Thief

  The Blood Promise

  The Button Man

  The Reluctant Matador

  The Paris Librarian

  The Sorbonne Affair

  Hollow Man

  Dominic

  A Hugo Marston Novel

  THE

  BOOK

  ARTIST

  MARK PRYOR

  Published 2019 by Seventh Street Books®

  The Book Artist. Copyright © 2019 by Mark Pryor. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, digital, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, or conveyed via the internet or a website without prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  Cover photo © Alamy Stock Photo

  Cover design by Nicole Sommer-Lecht

  Cover design © Start Science Fiction

  Map by James W. Ziskin

  This is a work of fiction. Characters, organizations, products, locales, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously.

  Trademarked names appear throughout this book. Start Science Fiction recognizes all registered trademarks, trademarks, and service marks mentioned in the text.

  Inquiries should be addressed to

  Start Science Fiction

  101 Hudson Street, 37th Floor, Suite 3705

  Jersey City, New Jersey 07302

  PHONE: 212-620-5700

  WWW.SEVENTHSTREETBOOKS.COM

  23 22 21 20 19 5 4 3 2 1

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Pryor, Mark, 1967- author.

  Title: The book artist : a Hugo Marston novel / Mark Pryor.

  Description: Amherst, NY : Seventh Street Books, an imprint of Prometheus Books, 2019. | Identifiers: LCCN 2018037151 (print) | LCCN 2018039219 (ebook) | ISBN 9781633884892 (ebook) | ISBN 9781633884885 (paperback)

  Subjects: | BISAC: FICTION / Suspense. | GSAFD: Mystery fiction. | Suspense fiction.

  Classification: LCC PS3616.R976 (ebook) | LCC PS3616.R976 B65 2019 (print) | DDC 813/.6—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2018037151

  Printed in the United States of America

  To the booksellers and librarians who spend their days providing us with mystery and intrigue, with love and loathing, with delight, horror, hilarity, and learning. For all you do, for readers and writers, thank you.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Hugo Marston held the door open for the young woman as she came into the foyer of the apartment building, bundled up as she was against the rain and cold. A shopping bag dangled from one of her wrists, and she held a small, white dog in the crook of her other arm.

  “Bonsoir, Mademoiselle Errico,” he said, standing aside so she could get out of the cold and all the way into the lobby of their apartment building.

  “Oh, Monsieur Marston,” she blushed. “And good evening to you, too.”

  Hugo gave her a smile and ducked out onto Rue Jacob. He was normally the friendly sort, especially with people in his building, but Miss Errico was new there and had delayed Hugo with her chatter on too many occasions for him to misread the signals. As pretty as she was, chatty, dog-carrying twenty-five-year-olds were not on his radar.

  He pulled his coat around him as the chill seeped in, and his fedora kept the light rain out of his eyes as he made his way toward the River Seine. His path was illuminated by the glow from the store fronts, and occasional streetlamps overhead.

  Perfect weather for reading by the fire, he thought, as he turned onto Rue des Saints-Pères.

  No chance. Tonight was the US Embassy’s Christmas party, and senior staff were required to be on hand no matter what. Hugo had asked if the flu might exempt him from attending, and he’d been told by a frowning Ambassador J. Bradford Taylor, “Death might exempt you. Absolutely nothing short of that.”

  Truthfully, it was one of those events that Hugo loved to hate. For a people-watcher like him, a former FBI profiler no less, it was like a biologist watching a herd’s annual migration or, in quite a few instances, a yearly and elaborate mating ritual.

  At such events, Hugo played a game with himself, guessing who was who by how they behaved. Some were employees of the embassy; those he didn’t know personally, he identified by the way they sipped carefully at their drinks so as not to imbibe too much, by how attentive they were to their spouses, and how jovial they were with their colleagues. But mostly he recognized them by the way they kept one eye on outside guests. Hugo saw it in their expressions and knew that the diplomatic DNA in their blood mandated it.

  At least Claudia would be there. Journalist, French nobility, beautiful, funny, and sexy. Also harder to pin down than a black belt in judo, at least when it came to dating. It was as if she were from another generation, one so much younger, where relationships were flexible and uncategorized. He was hoping to talk to her tonight in a quiet corner, to try and gauge a little bit better where they stood. He’d told her so over the phone that morning, and she’d laughed her gentle, sexy laugh, that was made all the more husky by the cold she was fighting.

  “Oh, Hugo, I love the old-fashioned man that lives inside you.”

  “It’s not old-fashioned,” he’d protested. “I just want to know where I stand.”

  “Six foot two and dashingly handsome,” she purred back. “And I can’t wait to see the most gorgeous man in my life tonight.”

  That was something at least, quite a compliment from a woman who’d been designated as one of Paris’s most eligible women for several years running.

  Hugo turned onto Quai Voltaire, where the wind was oddly calmer but the cold more biting, and he pictured his loyal colleagues looking out at the guests who enjoyed the party the most—the expat business community, which was always well-represented and never afraid to cut a little loose. That was one of the reasons Hugo was there. He was head of security and carried a gun everywhere he went, but sometimes his role was more hands-on, literally, like steering the grabby CEO away from the young diplomat’s wife, or leading the inebriated heiress to a comfy couch.

  He started across Pont du Carrousel but stopped halfway to look down at the waters of the Seine. She was his reason to pause in the middle of any walk, and no matter how many times he gazed at her, she came with a sense of uncertainty because the River Seine always changed. She ran through the heart of Paris, a looping, swirling artery that pulsed into and out of the city day and night, moody and unpredictable.

  Tonight she seemed angry, or maybe just impatient. Her waters were brown and churned between the concrete banks, small but furious swells chasing each other down, smothering those in front, hunting farther, dragging down braches and other debris and sweeping them under the bridge, out of view beneath his feet.

  Hugo straightened as his phone rang.

  “Hello? Tom? Where are you?” he asked.

  Tom Green. Former CIA spook, ex-FBI, current womanizer, sometime-drunk, foul-mouthed, but always, always disrespectful of authority. Also, Hugo’s best friend for the past couple of decades.

  “Amsterdam. This place is fucking nuts; you should come out here.”

  “Again? Why are you in Amsterdam, Tom?”

  “You know why.”

  “I thought we decided that was a false lead.”

  “No, you decided it was a false lead. I decided it might not be.”

  “So you went without me? Without even telling me?” Hugo was frustrated—partly with himself. Did he
really expect Tom to be keeping him informed? Yes, I do, that much at least, he thought.

  “Sure looks that way, doesn’t it?”

  “Not smart, my friend.”

  “I was on my way back from a job,” Tom said, explaining not apologizing. “I got a tip from a source, and it made sense to check it out while I was here.”

  “Like last time. When he wasn’t there and you wasted a week.”

  “I have all the time in the world for that asshole. Plus, like I said, Amsterdam is awesome—I’ll come here five times a year if I have to.”

  “Weren’t you in Senegal?”

  “Yep.” Tom had been gone almost a month, his room in Hugo’s apartment empty, and the fridge delightfully full. “But I flew back through Schiphol.”

  “Uh-huh, right. Because there are no flights from Senegal to Paris.”

  “Hugo, enough with the nagging. Do you want a progress report or not?”

  “I suppose I do.”

  “He’s here.”

  “He’s there.” Hugo took a deep breath. “Are you sure, Tom? Have you seen him with your own eyes?”

  “Yes and no.”

  “Then what makes you so sure?” Hugo pressed.

  “I went to the hotel where he’s staying, and checked it out. Thoroughly.”

  “Yes, but did you—hang on.” Hugo checked his phone’s screen to see his boss’s name flash up. “Tom, I’m sorry, but I need to go. Can I call you right back?”

  “Hugo, this is important. Where the fuck do you have to go while I’m tell—”

  “Thanks, I appreciate the understanding.” Hugo hung up and clicked over to the man demanding his attention. “Ambassador, good evening.”

  “Are you avoiding my party?” Ambassador Taylor asked.

  “Boss, you have to be kidding,” Hugo said. “You know how I love these social events—all that small talk and trying to remember who’s who. I wouldn’t miss that for the world.”

  “Right, sure, that’s exactly what I thought.”

  Quite apart from socializing being one of his main roles as US ambassador to France, that sort of thing came naturally to J. Bradford Taylor. The man was as ordinary-looking as anyone you could meet, but he was a true extrovert, and with a steel trap for a memory. Hugo had seen him dredge up the name of someone he’d met just once, two years previously. This was possibly a function of Taylor’s previous life with the CIA’s clandestine operations, but also a natural gift.

  Hugo chuckled. “Never fear; I’ll be there. I’m just running a few minutes late. Oh, and then Tom phoned me to slow me down.”

  “That’s one of the reasons I’m calling, actually.”

  “Tom Green?”

  “Yes. But first things first. Can you head to Montmartre and pick up a guest?”

  “They have taxis up there, I think.”

  “Funny. She’s a special guest, and she needs a chaperone.”

  “Let me guess.” Hugo groaned. “Politician who can’t figure out how to use the metro. Let me send Ryan.” Ryan Pierce was Hugo’s second-in-command, as reliable as he was brilliant. And he actually liked Montmartre. Every time Hugo had been there, all three times, the narrow, winding streets of old arrondissement had been packed to a standstill with tourists.

  “I tried him first. He’s sick.”

  “He didn’t tell me that.”

  “He didn’t tell me, either, but I took one look at him and sent him home. Diligence and hard work is commendable, right up until you risk giving me the flu.”

  “Well, I was walking over to the embassy, but text me the address and I’ll take a cab up there.”

  “Thanks. . . . So, about Tom.”

  “Right,” Hugo said. “What’s up?”

  “You and I have had a don’t-ask-don’t-tell policy on our previous lives. At least as far as the details.”

  “A sound policy. You worked at the CIA; I was at the FBI.” Hugo scanned the traffic for a vacant taxi but saw none. He started across the bridge toward the Right Bank. “But if you want some war stories, buy me a drink and I’ll tell you a few.”

  “You know what I’m getting at.”

  “I’m not sure that I do.”

  The ambassador cleared his throat. “Would you like to explain what Tom is doing in Amsterdam?”

  “Drugs and hookers would be my guess.”

  “We have those here.”

  “Yeah, but that place is famous for them. And you know Tom—he likes variety.”

  “Hugo, he tore up some guy’s hotel room.”

  “Oh, he did?” Hugo said, surprised.

  “He did,” the ambassador said.

  “I just got off the phone with him, and he mentioned . . . finding someone and checking out his room. He didn’t describe it the way you did, though.”

  “Well, he wouldn’t, would he?” Taylor said, sounding frustrated.

  “How did you hear about this?” Hugo asked.

  “Let’s just say that when a former CIA operative goes off the reservation, other former CIA operatives are usually the first to find out.”

  “Then there’s probably little I can tell you that you don’t already know.”

  “I know what’s in the file. And we both know those things contain what their authors want them to contain.”

  Hugo paused for a moment. “You know, boss, there’s a reason we have this don’t-ask-don’t-tell policy. It’s good for both of us.”

  “It is until I start getting dragged into your mess,” Taylor said. Then his voice softened. “Look, I’m not just your boss; I’m also your friend. Just tell me what I need to know to help you, to help Tom. I don’t want something exploding in my backyard and have no idea what it is or what I’m supposed to do. No judgment, I promise, I just want to be able to help if that time comes.”

  Hugo spotted a break in the traffic, and he trotted across the street. A breath of chilly wind wrapped itself around his throat, then slipped off and away like an icy scarf.

  “OK,” he said. “We could probably use a little help with this one. Let me find a taxi and I’ll get back to you.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Hugo climbed into the back of a Mercedes taxi and read out the address that Ambassador Taylor had texted him. He buckled up and dialed the one person who was more important to him at that moment than the ambassador.

  “Claudia, it’s me.”

  “I know. I actually have you as a contact in my phone.”

  “Right.” He smiled. “So, I’m going to be late tonight. I wanted to let you know.”

  “But I’m almost there,” she protested.

  “You’ll see plenty of people you know. . . . Just load up on champagne, and I’ll be there as soon as possible.”

  “What’s the holdup? Your hair? Makeup?”

  “Both. Plus the ambassador wants me to go to Montmartre to pick up a special guest.”

  “A special guest with no legs?”

  “I know, it seems a little unnecessary. But I gather she doesn’t know her way around Paris.”

  “Taxi drivers do,” she suggested mildly. “Does Taylor have the hots for her or something? He can be very protective when he falls for a woman.” That laugh again. “Like someone else I know.”

  “I’ll take that as a compliment. And you may be right, but I have no idea.”

  “Well, hurry back. I’m getting sick and halved my run today so I could be on your arm.”

  “Oh, right. How’s the marathon training going?” This was something new for her, but she’d embraced it with total enthusiasm, and Hugo admired her for it.

  “I like the gym work better than the running, but it’s growing on me.

  “Good. Well, find Taylor and hide out until I get there. But don’t give him the flu.”

  She blew a kiss at him down the phone and hung up. He looked out of the window for a moment, at Paris passing him by. He loved this time of year, when the flow of tourists was reduced to a trickle, and the shops and restaurants sparkled with Christ
mas lights. With a start, he remembered his boss, his promise to call him right back, and dialed his cell. Taylor answered quickly.

  “Hey, Hugo. Thanks for calling back just as three American CEOs show up drunk. They’re drooling over Emma.”

  “Do you need to launch a rescue mission? We can talk about this another time.”

  “Rescue Emma?” The surprise in his voice was real.

  “Good heavens, no.” Hugo laughed. Emma had been his secretary for as long as he’d been at the embassy and, with the possible exception of Claudia, a stronger and more capable woman Hugo had never met. “I meant rescue those poor bastards.”

  “They deserve what they get,” Taylor said. “But just in case, give me the short version.”

  “My pleasure.” Hugo took a deep breath and started his story. “So, back when Tom and I were still with the bureau there were a string of bank robberies in Houston. Things were quiet in the BAU, and someone figured a profiler could help find the guys responsible. I didn’t mind, since Tom was assigned to the Houston office and, if we were successful, I was close enough to swing through Austin and see my folks.”

  “An innocuous start to an impending disaster?” Taylor said.

  “Yep. And I’ll cut to the chase. Literally. I figured out which bank they were likely to hit next, and Tom and I staked it out. Sure enough, they hit it right on schedule.”

  “Nice work.”

  “You’d think,” Hugo said. “Except this time, and for the first time, they shot people. I didn’t see that coming.”

  “People were killed?”

  “Not just people,” Hugo said, his heart heavy with the memory. “The bank was in the neighborhood where Tom lived. Where he lived with his sister.”

  There was a brief silence. “Shit, one of the people killed . . .”

  “Was Tom’s sister.” Hugo could picture it like it was yesterday. Her bright-yellow dress stained with blood, and the devastation written on Tom’s face as he knelt beside her fallen figure, rage and anger soon over-powering his shock.

  Silence sat between them for a moment. Then Taylor asked, “So what happened?”

  “We chased them. Followed them to an abandoned house a few miles away. They had no idea we were on their tail. I posted up out front and Tom went round the back. I radioed for backup, for a SWAT team to come get them.”