Chapter Twenty-five

He called Tom from the street outside the Moulin Rouge but his friend didn’t pick up. Hugo left a message, telling him to call back and explaining that his CIA goons should look out for, and be careful with, the finest dancer at the world’s most famous cabaret when they stormed Al Zakiri’s apartment.

Hugo stood on the sidewalk and looked at the traffic. Until Tom called him back, the only place he could look for Amelia was her own apartment. Judging by the map, it would be a twenty-minute walk or just a few minutes by taxi. And she had a good ten-minute head start.

Boulevard de Clichy, the road outside the Moulin Rouge, was busy and he’d barely started walking when a taxi pulled up to the curb and deposited four Japanese tourists onto the sidewalk. Hugo slid into the back seat and gave the address to the driver.

He sat on the edge of his seat, peering out the window, looking for the elegant woman he’d seen so fleetingly in the dressing room, wondering if he’d recognize her. The taxi stopped five minutes later on Rue Marcadet, outside a Champion supermarket.

“Ici,” the driver said.

Hugo paid him and stepped out of the cab. He looked at the piece of paper in his hand and up at the modern apartments around him, stacked four and five stories high above the shops and bistros that fronted the tidy street.

He pushed against double glass doors that led into the building that housed Amelia Rousseau’s apartment. A concierge stepped out from behind his desk, a slight young man in a gray tunic.

Hugo pulled out his badge and made sure the young man saw his gun. “Police business. Did Ms. Rousseau just come in here?”

The young man—a metal tag said Arnaud—nodded, his dark eyes wide and unsure.

“Bien,” said Hugo. “Was she alone?”

Arnaud nodded again. “Oui,” he said.

“Good. I need you to take me to her apartment,” said Hugo. He started toward the stairs, not wanting to give the young man time to consider his options. Hugo softened his tone, an intentional shift designed to confuse Arnaud, give him the chance to come over to Hugo’s side. “It’s important, for her safety.”

“She’s not in trouble?” Arnaud said, starting forward, clearly relieved.

“Not with the law.”

They went up three flights of marble steps, the interior of the building more impressive than its exterior, telling Hugo that the Moulin Rouge paid its stars well. They moved silently down the carpeted hallway to a pair of double doors. Arnaud looked at Hugo. This is it.

“Knock,” Hugo said. “Tell her you have a package from the Moulin Rouge for tonight’s performance.”

The young man hesitated. “You sure you’re the police? I mean, that you don’t need some kind of—?”

Hugo leaned in close. “Look, someone’s trying to hurt her. I could go and get enough paperwork to fill up this hallway, but who’s going to protect her in the meantime?”

Arnaud’s eyes flicked toward the door and he raised his hand, knocking lightly with his knuckles. Hugo stood back from the peep hole as they heard footsteps.

“Oui?” A woman’s voice. “Arnaud?”

“A package from the Moulin Rouge, madam.”

The door unlocked and Hugo stepped forward, not giving her the chance to close it on them. A glimmer of fear crossed her eyes when she saw him, then recognition.

“You,” she said.

“I mean you no harm,” Hugo said. She stepped back, then he pushed the door wide open and stepped into a large, bright living room. He turned to the doorman. “Merci, Arnaud. You can go.”

The young man looked relieved, scurrying back down the hallway with a quiet, “Oui, monsieur.”

Hugo looked at Rousseau and tried to ignore her beauty, but her fine features and soft but intelligent eyes were distracting, somehow captivating, despite the circumstances. “Where is he?”

“Here.” The man’s voice was behind him, and Hugo froze as something solid pressed into his back. “Don’t move.”

Hugo stood still, his arms half raised as Al Zakiri’s hand snaked under his jacket, unclipped Hugo’s gun, and slipped it out. Hugo cursed himself for being so careless and turned to face Al Zakiri without waiting for instructions. The Pakistani now was ten feet away, and the only gun he had was Hugo’s. They stood there for a moment, staring at each other. Tall, slender, and dark, Al Zakiri looked different from the picture in Hugo’s pocket. He had the same large eyes and the prominent cheekbones that made him handsome, but he’d lost the beard and cut his hair. Hugo was surprised to see that the hand holding the gun was shaking.

“You can put it down,” Hugo said. “I said I wasn’t here to cause harm, and I’m not.”

“Which explains the gun,” Al Zakiri said sarcastically, but his voice was as unsteady as his hand.

“My job,” Hugo said. “My name is Hugo Marston. I’m the RSO for the US Embassy. That means head of security, and I’m required to carry it.”

“Why are you here?”

“I’m investigating the death of your friend, Abida Kiani.”

Al Zakiri hesitated. “You know her real name.”

“And yours. So do a lot of other people, which you’d know if you read the news.”

“I don’t.”

“You should. There are a lot of people looking for you,” Hugo said. “And some of them are not very nice.”

“Why are they looking for me? Abida was my friend, I wouldn’t hurt her.”

“Oh, I don’t think you had anything to do with that. You might be able to help me find out who did, but that’s not why the authorities are looking for you. And I think you know that.”

“Tell me anyway.”

“Where you grew up. Who your father is. Where you’ve been for the past few years. I strongly suggest you come in with me so we can talk about it.”

“So now I’m a terrorist?”

“I don’t know what you are. But until that gets figured out, you’re not especially safe out on the street.”

Al Zakiri’s eyes flashed. “I’m safer in some CIA torture camp?”

Rousseau stepped forward and took her boyfriend’s hand. “He’s not a terrorist, that’s stupid.”

“Because he told you he wasn’t?” Hugo asked, keeping the sarcasm gentle. “Look, there’s a whole lot going on right now that you two don’t know about. And none of it is going to end well if he tries to disappear.”

“Like what?” Rousseau said. “What’s going on?”

“The man with Abida, the one killed in the cemetery. He was supposed to start work at our embassy. He was also the son of a US senator. When he was killed a lot of high-level people got very upset and very interested. They started looking at Abida and they found you. So the sooner I find her killer the sooner we can work out your situation.”

Al Zakiri’s hand lowered, just a couple of inches. “She was my friend,” he said, his voice softening. “I can’t believe what happened.”

“Why was she here on a false passport? What was she doing here?”

“The same thing as me. Trying to escape our lives. We knew each other in Karachi, our families were friends for many years. Our fathers became . . .” he waved his hands, looking for the right word, “. . . radicalized. When the United States invaded Afghanistan and Iraq they, along with a lot of people, saw this as an attack on our religion. They started by funding local activists and, as time went by, my father and Abida’s become personally involved.”

“Meaning?”

“They funded training camps, then they helped set them up, run them. My father took me with him but,” he shrugged, “I never wanted that. I am a Muslim but don’t believe as they do.”

“And Abida?”

“She felt the same way. She was so smart, so modern. She was being made to wear clothes she didn’t like; her family stopped her from dancing, which was her favorite thing in the world. She was elegant, wonderful. That’s why they took her on at the Moulin Rouge, she was amazing to watch.”

“She was good,” Rousseau said. “She was my understudy. That’s how I met Mohammed.”

“It’s true. The final straw for Abida was when she learned that her father had arranged her marriage to some goat herder in Afghanistan who thought himself a warlord.” Al Zakiri shook his head and Rousseau entwined an arm through his, leaning her body against him. “We had money,” he continued, “so I used it to get passports. We came as friends, to help each other start new lives.”

“OK. That’s all fine,” Hugo said. “But you need to come with me to tell that to the intelligence people who think you are a terrorist. They can check it out, and you can have your new life.”

Al Zakiri laughed, but there was no humor in his eyes. “Check it out? While I rot in some jail thousands of miles away? While they subject me to enhanced interrogation just to make sure I’m telling the truth? No. You said it yourself, they have made up their minds and nothing I can say will change that.”

Hugo started to speak when his phone buzzed. Al Zakiri raised the gun again. “Don’t answer it.”

“It may have something to do with you,” Hugo said. “They are at your apartment, right now. Let me see who it is, that’s all.”

“Slowly. And do not answer.”

Hugo pulled the phone from his pocket, looked at the display and then at Al Zakiri. “It’s him. This is the man in charge of catching you.”