Chapter Twenty-six

Hugo held up a hand, wanting Al Zakiri to remain calm, to listen. “He’s a friend, and you can trust him.”

“So you say,” Al Zakiri said. “Put him on speaker, and don’t tell him I’m here.”

Hugo nodded. “Fine.” He flipped open the phone and held it out before pressing the speaker button. “Tom, what’s up?”

“Got me on speaker?”

“Yes. What happened?”

“We went in but he wasn’t there.” Tom’s voice was tinny and remote, but clear. “He has a girlfriend, though, judging by the underwear on the bedroom floor.” They heard a chuckle. “Unless it’s his, of course. Never can tell with those repressed radicals.”

Hugo felt Al Zakiri shift, and shot him a glance. Stay cool.

“Know who she is?” Hugo asked.

“No, but we will. I’ve got people questioning the neighbors and going through his computer. Fuck knows what we’ll find on that but it won’t take long, the dumbass didn’t even have a password.”

“A terrorist without a password? What does that tell you?”

“You’re on his side now?”

“I always told you he wasn’t our killer. What if he’s not a terrorist, either?”

“You think he’s Santa Claus? Shit, maybe he is but we’ll worry about that once he’s in Gitmo.”

Hugo and Al Zakiri locked eyes. “What’s your plan?” Hugo said into the phone.

“Find his girlfriend’s place and take him there. Guns blazing if we’re lucky.”

“OK,” Hugo said. “Thanks for letting me know. You sound tired, I’ll let you get some rest.”

“Yeah, whatever. How did the Moulin Rouge visit go? Get some phone numbers?”

“A lead or two, nothing solid yet. I’ll let you know if anything pans out.”

“You sound weird. You’re not holding out on me are you?”

“Yes, Tom, I am. In fact, I’m standing here with Al Zakiri.”

“Yeah? Well, tell him that when men with masks come knocking, he needs to stand very, very still. Or, better still, duck.”

“Nice. How long until your boys come knocking?”

“No idea, I should get off the line so they can call me if they find something.”

“Or you could spring for that newfangled call-waiting feature.”

“It came with the phone, just can’t figure out how to use the fucking thing. Every time I try, I disconnect both people.”

“You’re a dinosaur,” Hugo said. “Give me a call when you know anything, OK? I’ll do the same. And in the meantime, get some rest.” Hugo closed the phone and looked at Al Zakiri, then Rousseau. “He’s in a hospital bed right now.”

“Why?” Al Zakiri asked.

“The man who killed Abida shot him last night.”

“So why are you all chasing me and not him?”

“It’s complicated. Partly because some people think you’re the one who killed her and partly because by chasing you I also get to chase the real killer.”

Al Zakiri looked down into Rousseau’s eyes. “I have to get out of here. Find somewhere safe.”

“The safest place for you is with me,” Hugo said.

“Bullshit. Your friend wants me dead. Men in masks with guns, remember?” Al Zakiri shook his head. “And he wasn’t kidding when he mentioned Gitmo.”

“Yes,” Hugo said firmly, “he was. I’m telling you right now that while you might be detained, you won’t be harmed. You have my word.”

“It’s not you I’m worried about.”

“I can’t let you leave,” Hugo said.

“No, my friend.” Al Zakiri waggled the gun. “You can’t stop me.”

“I don’t believe you’d shoot me. If you’re not a murderer or a terrorist then you won’t.”

Al Zakiri’s eyes flashed. “Why not? Why shouldn’t I? You came busting in here, I have every right. And if my only other option is an American prison cell, why shouldn’t I? I would rather die than be taken into custody by you people. Because that’s what would probably happen anyway.” He looked at Rousseau. “My sweet, it’s hard for you to understand. I lived so long with violent extremists, I’ve seen death and I’m not afraid of it. And I’m not going to submit to the other side of it.”

The shaking hand, the uncertainty in the Pakistani’s voice, both things told Hugo that he was probably telling the truth. But Hugo couldn’t fault the man’s logic, either; turning himself in was a huge risk for Al Zakiri, and if the man had money here he might be able to safely disappear in Paris. Might.

“They’ll find you,” Hugo said. “Sooner rather than later, and when they do—”

All three looked toward the window as the sound of sirens reached them. “Sooner than I thought,” he said.

Al Zakiri was already moving. He backed up and grabbed a wallet and keys from the table by the door, the gun still trained on Hugo, then walked back to Amelia Rousseau. “I know where to find you, ma chérie.” He kissed her forehead. “Stay safe. Je t’adore.”

“Wait.” Hugo moved toward him. “They’re already out there, let me go talk to them.”

“No!” With a last look at Rousseau, he turned and went out the door, closing it behind him. Hugo started forward, but she turned and locked the door, then stepped in front of it with the key in her hand. Holding Hugo’s eye, she dropped the key down the front of her shirt, adjusting it so that he knew it was nestled in her bra.

“You will have to fight me, and then sexually molest me to stop him.” She crossed her arms as if to emphasize Hugo’s predicament.

“You are not helping him,” Hugo said. “They will find him, and if he’s carrying my gun they won’t hesitate to kill him. They won’t even blink.”

“He’s not a terrorist,” she said. “He told me everything about his past, who he is, about Abida.”

“That’s very sweet, you can tell everyone nice stories at his funeral.”

“He’s clever, he has money, he knows where to—”

“Amelia, he’s not cleverer than a hundred CIA, MI6, and DGSE agents, all of whom know Paris better than him and have a damn sight more money.”

She hesitated, then shook her head and looked at the ground, her arms crossed over her chest as she blocked the door.

“I’m not going to fight you, Amelia.” He pulled out his phone. “But he has my gun, so I have no choice. Either I go after him, or they do.”

She looked up as he flipped it open. “Non!”

“Tell me where he’s headed.”

“Je ne sais pas.”

“Oh, you know,” Hugo said, “and you have three seconds to tell me.”

Her eyes pleaded with him for two of those seconds, then she said, “You won’t send them? You’ll go alone?”

“I promise.”

“The river. I know he rents a houseboat by the Pont Alexandre.”

“Describe it.”

“I can’t, I’ve never seen it, jamais.” She stepped forward reaching under her shirt for the key. “He told me it was being refurbished, that he’d show it to me when it’s finished. I don’t even know what it’s called.” She turned and went to the door. She slid the key into the lock and turned it, then opened the door. “I’ll come with you.”

“No,” Hugo said. “You won’t. You’ll stay here. If someone bangs on the door, open it and stand very still. Tell them exactly what’s happened.”

“D’accord. You will find him before they do?” It was a plea of desperation more than a question.

“I’ll try,” Hugo said. “We better hope so.”

He moved through the door, unhappy at the empty bump of the holster under his arm, unhappy about being sandwiched between a potential terrorist and an army of trigger-happy agents hot on his trail. He thought, for a split-second, about calling Tom, but his friend wouldn’t call off the chase—nor should he.

As he came to the top of the wide staircase he heard Amelia Rousseau’s voice behind him, calling to him.

“Vert,” she said. “His boat. He was having it painted green, to remind him of the flag of his country.”

Hugo waved a hand. Green like the Pakistani flag. Not a smart move for a terrorist, he thought. But an understandable gesture from a man forced to move a long way from home.

He reached the front doors of the building less than three minutes behind Al Zakiri, but as he looked out, Hugo saw just how close his quarry had come to being captured. The street was being blocked off at both ends, corked by the flashing blue and red lights atop police cars that were stacked three and four deep. He stood for a second, suddenly unsure about his own safety, and watched as the police cars to his left parted and an armored black Hummer rolled toward him. Slowly, he pulled out his phone and dialed Tom. His friend might not be able to call off the operation but he could smooth Hugo’s exit.

“What’s up?” Tom asked.

“Need some very fast help. Your little army and their tanks are moving into position outside Al Zakiri’s girlfriend’s place. I’m guessing they’ll hold anyone they find there for a while.”

“So?” Tom asked. “Oh, I get it. You’re there already, aren’t you?”

“Well done.”

“What did you find out?”

“Nothing.”

“Bullshit.”

“Tom, please. Just call whoever’s in charge and tell them to let me go.”

Tom’s tone was teasing. “If you didn’t find out anything, what’s the hurry?”

“You going to do it or do I have to make my own way out of here?”

“I wouldn’t do that,” said Tom mildly. “Those boys are expecting someone to run, and they’d just love to shoot him. Frogs don’t get to do that to people very often, this ain’t Texas.”

“So call them.”

Tom’s voice was still hoarse but his mind, apparently, worked just fine. “He’s not there, is he? But you know where he is, which is why you’re in such a rush.”

The armored car had come to a stop twenty feet from the front of the building and Hugo moved back so he wouldn’t be seen through the window.

“Tom, I have about ten seconds before I’m wearing handcuffs. Maybe bullet holes.”

“Oh, I was just having some fun. Hospitals are boring, you know. I’ll call you back in a few.”

Hugo breathed a sigh of relief as Tom rang off. He stood there for a slow count of sixty, and hoped it was long enough. He moved to the front door and pushed it open, slowly, making sure his hands were in full view of whoever was outside. He was less than halfway through the door when six figures in black combat fatigues fanned out from behind the vehicle, guns trained on him.

One of them yelled, “Get down on the ground!”

Hugo cursed. Sixty seconds clearly hadn’t been long enough. He knelt on the sidewalk, lowered himself slowly to the ground, face down, then stretched out his arms over his head. Seconds later two dark figures knelt on his back and pulled his arms behind his back. He felt the cold steel of handcuffs and winced as they pinched his wrists.

The two men put their hands under his armpits and pulled him to his feet, then propelled him into the street and around the Hummer. Hugo knew better than to resist, either physically or verbally. For now.

A tall black man, dressed like his officers except that he wore no helmet, stood behind the car. A cloth tag on his chest gave his name as Moreau. He held a clipboard and was giving directions to two other men. He looked up as Hugo was pushed in front of him.

“Who is he?” Moreau asked.

One of his guards snaked a hand into Hugo’s jacket pocket and pulled out his wallet. The men in black exchanged glances when they saw his embassy credentials.

“If he’s with Al Zakiri, those could be fake,” Moreau said.

“They’re not,” Hugo said. “Call the embassy and get a description.”

“Then what are you doing here?”

“Same thing as you. Trying to catch bad guys.”

“We’ll see about that.” Moreau turned to the men holding Hugo. “Take him to the prefecture, we’ll sort it out there.”