Chapter Twenty-seven

Hugo sat in the police car fuming, his guard and driver equally unhappy at having to leave the scene of a high-profile raid to play cabbie. Hugo was not angry at the police, they were right to be careful, but at Tom for not doing as he’d said.

They were at the end of the street, just outside the roadblock, and Hugo shifted in the back seat to ease the pressure on his wrists. “Vite, s’il vous plaît.”

The driver looked over his shoulder, surprised that a suspect would want to hurry to the prefecture. But as he shifted into reverse, the man’s radio crackled. He glanced again at Hugo, then spoke into the handset. “Vous etes sûr?” The driver picked up the plastic evidence bag from the passenger seat and climbed out. He went to Hugo’s door and opened it. “Monsieur, you are free to go. Our apologies for any inconvenience.”

Hugo climbed out, itching to get on his way. “No hard feelings, you guys were just doing your jobs.” He turned his back so the policeman could take off the handcuffs.

“Mais monsieur, my chief wants to talk to you about what you were doing inside.”

Marston rubbed his wrists. “You know where to find me,” he said. “Be gentle when you get inside the building, eh?”

He turned and strode away, ignoring the policeman’s half-hearted attempts to bring him back. As he turned the corner he pulled out his phone and dialed Tom.

“Hugo, there you are. All OK?”

“What the hell happened?” Hugo demanded.

“Not my fault, my nurse came in.”

“Your nurse?”

“Dude, you should see her. She’s not someone you mess with.”

“Nor am I, Tom, not right now.”

“Yeah, but you’re there and she’s here. Anyway, it was only five minutes.”

“Ten. Look, call your boys and tell them to go easy on the girl inside, OK?”

“Jesus, Hugo, you were inside her apartment?”

“Yes. And she’s the only one in there, I promise.”

“Oh, I believe you,” Tom said. “I should call the storm troopers off.”

“No, don’t,” Hugo said quickly. “I need some time.”

“I don’t understand why the fuck you won’t just tell me what you’re doing.”

“Plausible deniability,” Hugo said grimly. “Consider it a favor.”

“Gee, thanks.” Tom sighed. “Fine, we’ll leave them at it.”

“Thanks, I’ll call if I need you.”

“I’m sure you will.”

“And if the nurse says it’s OK, maybe you can lend a hand.”

“Fuck you.”

Hugo smiled and hung up. Then, remembering where he was headed, he switched off his phone completely. He didn’t want it ringing, alerting an armed and desperate Al Zakiri to his presence.

 

 

 

Again in the back of a car, but this time a taxi, Hugo sat forward, willing the driver on, spotting gaps in the traffic that weren’t there—or weren’t there for this cabbie.

But they made good time, an unusual lull in the Paris traffic, and Hugo felt a surge of relief when they turned off the Champs-Élysées and headed directly south toward what many considered the most ornate bridge in Paris, Pont Alexandre III.

A shade of caution made Hugo stop the driver before they got to the Voie Georges Pompidou, the boulevard running alongside the Seine. He wanted to approach the area on foot, using the traffic and pedestrians as cover. If the taxi let him out at the river’s edge, a watchful Al Zakiri might spot him and run, maybe disappear forever. Or until Tom’s men caught up with him.

The crowds thickened as Hugo got closer to the river and he noticed that many people were carrying towels, collapsible chairs, and even hampers. He smiled as he remembered the date, which put him at the start of the Paris Plages project. The annual project began in 2002 and had run for six weeks every July and August since, clearing the traffic from several stretches of the Seine’s bank and covering them in hundreds of tons of sand, palm trees, and happy Parisians. Good cover for me, thought Hugo, but for Al Zakiri, too.

As he approached Pont Alexandre, he remembered Tom’s ninjas. If Amelia Rousseau told them what she’d told him, they’d soon be on their way. And there were way too many people around for that to be a safe situation, especially after Al Zakiri’s promise to go down fighting.

He walked to his left and stood at the entrance to the bridge. He looked down over the water, facing east, trying to spot a green houseboat. There was one possibility, on the far bank, a low, battered barge that hadn’t seen a lick of paint in years. Hugo crossed the bridge, walking diagonally so he could look west over the river. A better prospect there, another old barge but with a freshly-painted cabin, in the dark green of Pakistan’s flag. It sat behind another houseboat and was halfway to the neighboring bridge, Pont des Invalides, thick ropes at bow and stern holding it to the iron mooring bollards on the stone walkway. It gave Hugo the impression of a predator temporarily restrained.

At the center of the bridge, Hugo stepped back from the balustrade so he could watch the barge for a moment, protected from view below by one of the bridge’s most dramatic sculptures, the Nymphs of the Seine. A man already there, scruffy, maybe homeless with a buzz cut and a thick beard, moved away, limping slightly. The man clutched his grubby backpack and glanced at Hugo, as if he could tell the American was up to no good.

Hugo stood there for ten minutes, the car and foot traffic humming around him, but he saw no movement from the boat. He wanted to know what Al Zakiri was doing before approaching him but time was a luxury, and a dangerous one right now.

He continued over the bridge, turning right and descending the stone steps that took him down to the narrow roadway and sidewalk that ran along the water’s edge. A breeze came off the river to meet him, a welcome coolness that brought with it a metallic, salty odor and Hugo looked down at the gray-green water rolling westward, leisurely, timeless.

There was less traffic down here, the beaches drawing people away from the stone stretches of the riverside like magnets, so Hugo moved faster, knowing that a vigilant Al Zakiri would be able to spot him, pick him out of the dozen or so pedestrians.

The boat in front was similar in design, low to the water, but this one cream-colored with its windows trimmed with blue. A man was negotiating a gangplank, pushing a bicycle over the boards, an unlit pipe dangling from his lips. When he’d made it safely, Hugo spoke. “Bonjour,” he said.

The man looked up and nodded, then took the pipe from his mouth. “Bonjour.”

“Monsieur, do you know the gentleman who lives in the green boat there?”

The man looked over his shoulder. “I’ve seen him. I don’t know him. You are police?”

“Sort of. Is he there now?”

“I haven’t seen him for days. Off with his pretty girlfriend, I expect.” The man grinned. “I know I would be.”

Hugo smiled. “Merci bien.”

The man swung his leg over his bicycle and nodded to Hugo before setting off, pedaling west past Al Zakiri’s boat, toward the Pont des Invalides. When the man had disappeared under the bridge, Hugo moved forward, keeping his eyes on the green houseboat for any signs of movement.

He boarded the boat at its bow, the end closest to him, taking a short run up and leaping over three feet of water. His boots thumped on the wooden deck and he stayed low, in a crouch, looking and listening to see if his arrival had attracted notice from inside. He didn’t dare stay long, though: a young couple sporting backpacks had already looked his way twice. While he wasn’t dressed like a burglar, he didn’t need the interference of inquisitive passers-by, especially if they might be inclined to call the police.

Ahead of him, three steps led down to the cabin’s door. Hugo went down and rapped on it. “It’s Hugo Marston,” he called, but got no response. He knocked again and waited, but still nothing. He backed up the stairs, just far enough to make sure there were no pedestrians nearby, and far enough that he could get a good swing at the door. He used his heel and aimed at the lock. The door rattled on the first kick, gave way on the second, swinging open to reveal a dark interior.

The cabin was cramped, kept dim by curtains that had been drawn over the large, square windows. To his left a semicircular and padded bench wrapped itself around a table bolted to the floor. The table bore a vase of fresh flowers but was otherwise clear, the area around him tidy. The smell inside was musty, though, as if any cleaning had been superficial. To his right, the galley stretched half the length of the boat: a sink, an oven, a fridge, and some counter space. He could see two closed doors in front of him, to the left looked like the head, while the one directly opposite him was likely the bedroom.

He began to search, though he wasn’t entirely sure what he was looking for. It occurred to him that he wanted to prove himself right, to find some exculpatory evidence showing that Al Zakiri was not, in fact, a terrorist. What that might be, he had no idea.

He was kneeling in the galley, looking through the storage units, finding nothing of interest, when he heard footsteps on the deck.

He moved to the window and inched the curtain open to look outside. But the feet had moved past and were at the steps to the cabin door.

Then they stopped.

Hugo thought quickly, knowing he had two options. He could let Al Zakiri know he was there and try to reason with him, or jump the Pakistani as he came through the door. The decision was easy: he’d tried logic already, now it was time for something a little more persuasive.

He wedged himself by the door on the galley side, knowing Al Zakiri would come into the cabin with his head down, ducking under the lintel.

The feet started down the stairs, hesitant, slowly, as if Hugo’s presence had already been detected.

The lock. Dammit.

If Al Zakiri had seen the lock, he’d already have Hugo’s gun in his hand, making an ambush potentially lethal.

As the door slowly opened, Hugo stepped away from the door and stood in the middle of the cabin. He held his hands out to his sides, the universal gesture that said I’m harmless.

The door swung all the way open, and a figure stepped into the cabin. When he saw who it was, Hugo let his arms fall to his sides and shook his head, confused. “What are you doing here?”

“I could ask you the same question,” Claudia said.