Chapter Six

The four men sat in silence for a moment. The only sound came from the far corner of the room, an antique clock whose old heart ticked with a steady, hollow beat, a gift from Hugo to the ambassador last Christmas.

Senator Holmes was the first to speak, but his voice was a whisper. “My boy. He got in their way. Those goddamn terrorists killed my boy.”

“Ambassador,” Hugo started. He kept his tone formal, knowing that Holmes would not like what he had to say. “I’d like us to remain open to the possibility that this is a terrible coincidence. I know how it looks, with this Al Zakiri connection, but I just want to point out that the murders themselves, they look unplanned and personal. All I’m asking is that we keep an open mind.”

Taylor nodded but beside him Holmes stood, his face reddening. “Bullshit. My son was killed because somehow a terrorist found out who he was. I don’t know if he lured him to that place, using the girl, but it sure as shit makes sense. The son of a high-profile American murdered near a famous American’s grave, in one of Paris’s busiest tourist destinations. How does that add up, Mr. Ambassador?”

Holmes stood for a moment longer, panting and looking hard at each man, then sank back into his seat, spent.

Hugo watched Tom, waiting for him to react, knowing that Senator Holmes was right, on the face of it, but curious to see Tom’s take. While Ambassador Taylor would have to mollify Holmes, the ambassador would know that Hugo and Tom’s friendship wouldn’t influence the CIA man one whit. Eventually, Tom spoke.

“Right now it doesn’t matter who’s right and who’s wrong. The simple truth is, if we treat this as a terrorist act we get more resources from our people and more cooperation from the French. We need both of those things to catch this fuckhead Al Zakiri and, if he didn’t kill your son, we can use those resources to get whoever did.”

Tom held Hugo’s eye. They were thinking the same thing, but neither wanted to say it, not here and now: We’ll also get a whole heap of pressure and interference from politicians, and maybe jobs as traffic cops, if we don’t find Al Zakiri.

“Fine,” said Hugo. “Sounds very sensible.”

Ambassador Taylor looked at him and nodded imperceptibly, a sign between friends. Hugo rose, passing the unspoken message to Tom who also stood, and the two men left the room.

They took the stairs down to the security offices, walking in silence, the scuff of their feet on the steps the only sound. They passed through the front office, not seeing Emma who was away from her desk, and went straight into Hugo’s office.

About half the size of the ambassador’s, it still had plenty of room for a large oak desk on the right, a round table in the center of the room, and a sofa and two armchairs on the left. Hugo ran an eye over his phone, saw no blinking lights, and gestured Tom to the armchairs.

“Can’t blame him,” Hugo said, following his friend and taking a seat. “Bad enough to lose your only son. To lose him to random murder makes it . . . meaningless.”

“But make it an act of international terrorism, somehow it’s not as bad,” Tom nodded. “Not to mention the practical side. I meant what I said, if we call it terrorism, we get a blank check and the help of every security agency in the Western world. But if it’s just plain old murder, Senator Holmes gets the French police and that’s it.”

“They’re pretty damn good, you know.”

“I don’t doubt it.” Tom grinned. “Just not as good as us.”