CHAPTER THREE

Alia Alsaffar was staying at l’Hôtel Toby on Rue Joseph de Maistre, right beside the Montmartre Cemetery. Hugo asked the taxi driver to wait, then stepped out into the cold and through the sliding glass doors of the hotel into a modern, surprisingly spacious lobby. Most hotels in Paris were small, somewhat cramped, but this lobby area was bright and open, with couches and what looked like a small library to his right. He saw no obvious reception desk, just two well-dressed employees, a man and a woman, right ahead of him, perched atop stools on either side of a grand piano. They both looked up from their electronic notebooks.

“Bon soir, monsieur,” the young man said. “Are you checking in?”

“Non,” Hugo said, taking off his hat. “I’m here to pick someone up, a guest. Alia Alsaffar.”

The two clerks exchanged quick glances, then the young man spoke. “Mademoiselle Alsaffar just left. Two minutes ago.”

“She left?” Hugo was surprised—Taylor had told him she was expecting him.

“Oui, monsieur”

“Do you know where she went? I’m from the US Embassy, and I am supposed to be driving her there.”

The young woman pointed to the front doors. “She went left, along Rue Joseph de Maistre. Her . . . friend left, too.”

Friend? Hugo thought. Taylor never mentioned a friend. He read the clerk’s expressions, and made a deduction from the fact that not only had Alsaffar left, but she and . . . whoever it was, had gone in opposite directions.

“They were arguing?” he asked.

That glance again, wondering this time whether they were violating a guest’s privacy. The young woman looked down, and her colleague just shrugged.

“Can you tell me what she’s wearing?” Hugo pressed. “I’m responsible for her safety.”

“Black boots, jeans, and a red jacket. And a red hat,” the young man said, a little too quickly for his colleague’s liking, apparently.

That’s a yes, then, Hugo thought. “Merci,” was all he said, though. He put his hat back on and braced himself for the cold, then exited the automatic doors and hurried back to the cab. He directed the taxi driver to take him up the street Alsaffar had gone. They drove slowly, but after a hundred yards or so Rue Joseph de Maistre arrowed into Rue des Abbesses.

“It’s one-way, monsieur,” the cabbie said. “I have to turn left, but the restaurants, and probably your friend, are to the right.”

“Merci,” Hugo said, and he hurriedly paid the man. He climbed back out into the cold and looked along the street. This was one of the major arteries that kept the area of Montmartre alive and ticking. A narrow street, yes, but normally pulsing with activity, throbbing with tourists and vendors, all competing for each other’s attention, and money. It was one of the streets that took visitors toward the Sacré-Coeur Basilica at the summit of the butte Montmartre, the most prominent landmark in that part of Paris, and probably the best view of the city from anywhere except the top of the Eiffel Tower. Here, in spring, summer, and autumn, the three times Hugo had visited, he’d been irritated at the crush of people, and the garbage they bought as mementos.

But that was the wonderful thing about the cold, the rain, and the weeks before Christmas. With the tourists all but gone, Paris lapsed into her old habits, shrank into the assortment of villages she’d once been. This was especially true of Montmartre, because it was normally one of the busiest parts of the city. The crêpe vendors still plied their trade, but they looked unhurried, had time to nod bonjour to the locals and enjoy the rich aromas of their own delicacies as they sizzled on the hotplates in front of them. In this rain and cold, it struck Hugo as he walked, that Montmartre had had returned to its people, with the gleaming, cobbled streets uncrowded, more homely and welcoming.

And tonight Rue des Abbesses was quiet, almost empty. The sidewalks were wide and the road narrow, and on either side shops and restaurants snuggled cozily against each other. The small, tightly packed cobbles glistened with the rain, giving off a warm glow from the soft lights of the buildings overlooking the street.

He saw not a woman in red but just a few couples wandering along, arm-in-arm, and a handful of others who lingered at the glass storefronts. He set off, his breath steaming in front of him. He had no idea where she was going, but Ambassador Taylor had mentioned the Dalí museum, which was in the direction he was headed. He checked his phone to make sure of that, and his stomach growled as he passed the entrance to a bistro called Le Sancerre, where the rich aroma of garlic hovered like a siren tempting him inside. He settled for a glance at the menu as he passed by, and the words escargots and canard caught his well-trained eye—snails in garlic butter and duck, two of his favorites on the same menu.

Duly noted, he thought as he kept going.

A flash of red fifty yards ahead caught his eye, someone coming out of a store. He quickened his step and was soon close behind her.

“Excuse me, Ms. Alsaffar?”

She stopped and turned, her large, and very beautiful, eyes wide with surprise. The ambassador had not exaggerated. Alia Alsaffar was gorgeous, even wrapped up against the cold. Thick, wavy, black hair flowed out from the wool hat she wore, and in the low light her olive skin seemed to shimmer. And Hugo couldn’t tear his gaze away from those hazel eyes.

“My name is Hugo Marston. The ambassador sent me.”

“Sent you?”

“To bring you to the party. At the embassy.” He smiled. “Right now.”

A hand flew to her mouth. “That’s tonight? Oh, sh— . . . damn it. I totally forgot.”

“That’s OK, we can still make it.”

“I’m sorry, what was your name again?”

“Hugo Marston. I’m the RSO at the embassy.”

“What’s an RSO?”

“Regional Security Officer. In plain English, I’m head of security there.”

He offered his hand and when she slipped off a glove and took it, Hugo forgot what he was about to say, at a complete loss for words. It was a sensation he’d not experienced in years. Not since he’d met Claudia in a random encounter at a café near his apartment.

“Well, Mr. Marston, I’m not exactly dressed for an embassy Christmas party, now am I?”

“I can wait while you change, if you like. And, please, call me Hugo.”

“Hugo. I like that name.”

He was glad to be in the dark because he felt himself blushing, just a little. Also something he’d not experienced in years.

“Thanks, so did my parents. They were fans of Victor Hugo.”

“And you?”

“A big reader, yes.”

She snapped her fingers. “You’re the one who collects rare books.”

“That’s me.”

“The ambassador told me about you.”

“Why would he do that?”

She laughed. “I don’t recall, to be honest.”

“Probably for the best.” Hugo gestured back the way they’d come. “Shall we?”

“You know, Hugo,” she said slowly. “I’m not really in the mood for a party.”

“Is there something wrong?”

“A bit of a . . . disagreement with a friend.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“What can you do? It happens.” She sighed. “More and more, it seems.”

“Where were you headed, if you don’t mind me asking?”

She smiled. “You’re very formal, aren’t you?”

He returned the smile. “I’ve been called that before. And worse.”

“Well, originally I was going to just wander through Montmartre, but it’s cold and rainy, so now I’m less excited about that idea.” She looked around, then wiped a drop of rain off the end of her nose. “But it still sounds better than going to a stuffy Christmas party at the embassy. No offense.”

“None taken,” Hugo assured her.

“What about you?” she asked.

“What do you mean?”

“You’re missing the party because of me. Shouldn’t you head back?”

“If I miss it because of you, Ms. Alsaffar, I will be very grateful indeed. Not my kind of thing.”

She laughed. “OK, Mr. Polite, I know you’re on the clock, but call me Alia. And if you’re quite sure about missing the party, I don’t want to get you in trouble.”

“You won’t. The ambassador knows how much I want to be there.”

“Well, good.” She cocked her head and looked at him. “Are you hungry?”

“Actually, I am.”

“Then let me buy you dinner.” She waved her arms in both directions. “We have a plethora of choices, what do you fancy?”

“I did see one place that serves escargots, my particular favorite.”

She wrinkled her nose. “Eww. Snails, right?”

“Right. But it’s all about the fresh bread dipped in garlic butter.”

“I’ll take your word for it.”

“Fair enough. Right this way.” Hugo and Alsaffar started toward the bistro. “I should let my boss know we’re not coming,” he said. “Would you mind finding us a table? I’ll be right in.”

“Of course, take your time,” she said. Then she winked. “As long as they have a fully stocked bar, I’ll be just fine.”

Hugo watched her enter and be welcomed by a waiter, then he dialed Ambassador Taylor. “Everything all right?” the ambassador asked.

“Well, she’s not dressed, and not in the mood. Seems like she had an argument with a friend.”

“So, no special guest for my party?”

“I’m sure some CEO or celebrity will step up.”

“No, it’s fine, I don’t need one. Are you at the hotel?”

“At a restaurant. Why?”

“I don’t know. Do me a favor . . . stay with her until she’s back at her room, will you?”

Something in Taylor’s voice struck Hugo. “Sounds like there’s something you’re not telling me.”

“Yes and no. There was an incident before she left the States. Close call with a car in Washington, DC, that might have been an accident, and probably was. Call it a feeling, but I’d be happier if she wasn’t wandering the streets of Paris by herself. She’s on my turf, and I’ll go the extra mile to make sure she stays safe.”

“If she’s in danger, and I’m with her, I’d kinda like to know, boss.”

“Do this, buy her dinner. Expense it, then escort her back to the hotel. And, hey, you don’t have to come back to the party.”

“Sounds like a good deal for me,” Hugo said.

“Good man.”

Hugo kept the phone in his hand after they’d disconnected; he had another call to make. He took a deep breath and dialed Claudia.

“So, don’t be mad,” he said.

“Hugo, are you serious? You’re not coming.”

“I need to babysit his guest, an artist, I’m sorry. She doesn’t want to come to the party, and I need to stay with her until she’s back at her hotel.”

“What does need to mean?”

“The ambassador asked me to. And you know me, a good soldier who always follows orders.”

“So she’s pretty, huh?”

“That’s your assumption?” Hugo asked, amused.

“Either you or Taylor is playing the protective card pretty hard.” He heard the humor in her voice. “Maybe both of you.”

“He did say she was, and I quote, ‘indescribably beautiful,’” Hugo said.

“And do you agree?”

“She is pretty, yes, and seems very nice. Young, maybe early thirties, but nice.”

“Is that too young or just-right young?”

“Honestly, this is probably a bad time for that discussion,” Hugo said, serious for a moment.

“I know, Hugo. We were supposed to have it here. Tonight.”

“Yes. I’m sorry.” He felt deflated, and now he regretted accepting the dinner invitation. “Really, I’m sorry.”

“And I dragged myself here despite being sick.” He rarely heard annoyance in her voice, but it was there now.

“Go home. To bed. I’ll bring you soup later, if you like.”

“I know how to heat soup, Hugo.”

“Right, of course. Look, it’s not entirely my fault; Taylor told me to keep an eye on her.”

There was a moment of silence between them. Then she said: “Look, it’s all right. Really.” And there she was, his Claudia, full of compassion and understanding. And logic. “And let me just say this. I know you’ve been chasing harder than I have, that I have no claim to you and no right to . . . you know. Go and have fun tonight. Dinner with a pretty woman . . . it’s fine.”

“Dinner,” he said. “How did you know?”

“Please, my love. I can almost smell the escargots from here.”

“Oh, you’re good,” he said.

“You’re not the only one who can profile people.”

“Me and garlic,” Hugo said, laughing. “That’s a little obvious, a little too easy.”

“Maybe, but I’m right, aren’t I?”

“You are.”

“Well, have fun and let’s talk tomorrow.”

“Thanks, and that’s a deal,” Hugo said. “You should go home and get some rest.”

“I will. And I meant what I said, you have fun tonight, Hugo, OK? Please don’t worry about me or chivalry, or doing the right thing. Have some fun.”

They hung up, but immediately Hugo’s phone buzzed, and he considered throwing it in the nearest trash can so people would leave him alone for the rest of the night. He felt even more that way when he checked the screen.

“Tom, hey, sorry—”

“Fuckface, you were supposed to call me back.”

“Yeah, I know. Something came up. Look, is there anything happening right this moment that I need to know about?”

“This moment I’m standing in front of a window and underneath a red light.”

“I’ll take that as a no. Let me call you in the morning.”

“The morning? Why?”

“Because I’m busy tonight.”

There was silence for a second, then Tom laughed. “A glass of pinot noir and a book do not constitute busy, Hugo.”

“Very funny. I mean actually busy.”

“That so?” Tom sounded skeptical. “Do tell.”

“I have to go. I’ll fill you in tomorrow.” Hugo looked through the bistro’s front window and saw Alia Alsaffar at a table for two, looking at a menu in her hands. “But I think I might be on a date.”