The French Widow

by Mark Pryor

  Hugo was thirty yards away when the man threw the jammed gun to the ground in frustration and swung the pack off his back, kneeling in front of it.

  At twenty yards, the young man looked up and saw Hugo.

  CHAPTER THREE

  The man’s faced registered no surprise, but he immediately started to raise his gun toward the running American.

  “Drop it!” Hugo yelled in French. “Drop your weapon, now!”

  The man either didn’t hear or didn’t care, and his gun was almost up when Hugo fired four shots in rapid succession. His first two rounds thudded into the dirt to the left of and behind the man, but the third hit the gun, ripping it from his hand and sending it spinning into the grass. The fourth shot slammed into the gunman’s torso a split-second later, knocking him backward onto the ground. Hugo slowed to a walk and closed the rest of the distance between them, his gun pointed at the man who lay sprawled on his back, not moving. Hugo’s heart pounded in his chest, and his ragged breathing made it hard to keep a precise aim.

  Hugo was still working to catch his breath as he circled the still figure, surely just a teenager, looking for any signs of movement and any other weapon. His ears picked up the sounds of yelling and screaming all around him, and further away sirens, but his attention was locked onto the man on the ground. Hugo stepped closer and saw the entry wound, a circle of red slightly left of the center of his chest. Hugo quickly spotted the two guns and kicked them further away from the man, and then stooped to throw the backpack out of reach. The young man still hadn’t moved, and from the placement of the hole in his chest was unlikely to, so Hugo holstered his gun and knelt beside him. He put his fingers to his neck, but felt nothing except his own hands shaking with adrenaline.

  “Hey, are you hurt?” The shout had come from a man with a crew cut, a fit young man who moved like an athlete and was running fast toward Hugo while holding a phone to his ear.

  “No, but this guy is,” Hugo called back.

  “I’ve called for an ambulance.” The man reached Hugo and stood over him, wariness on his face. “I saw you shoot him, monsieur, please tell me where your weapon is.”

  “In my shoulder holster,” Hugo said. “You’re police?”

  “Militaire,” the man replied.

  Hugo nodded and reached, slowly, for his embassy credentials, which the soldier scanned before handing back. “Merci.”

  Hugo put them away quickly and swung one leg over the gunman, and clasped his hands, left over right. He pressed them against the man’s chest and felt blood spill through his fingers, but nevertheless began compressions. The rising wail of sirens told him help was close, but not close enough.

  “Do you know if anyone else was hurt?” Hugo asked the soldier who was on his cell phone. “Go look for victims, I heard four or five shots but don’t know whether he hit anyone or not.”

  “Bien, I will.” The soldier jogged off, and Hugo focused on the steady beat of the compressions. More than a few people held their phones up, capturing the scene with cameras and on video for posterity. Or, more likely, their social media accounts. The grassy area all around him was littered with abandoned blankets, folding chairs, and picnic items, but people were starting to edge toward him, the uncertainty in their eyes mixed with curiosity. Hugo tried to ignore them and focus on the job at hand, but his arms were beginning to tire and his breathing was labored.

  After another minute, the soldier returned. “One is dead,” he said. “Two other people are wounded, but they are alive and on their way to hospital.”

  “Merci. You mind taking over for a moment?”

  “I don’t know.” The soldier frowned and made no move to relieve Hugo. “He killed someone and tried to kill more. He tried to kill you, n’est-ce pas’?”

  “Tried and failed.”

  “Then let him die. Or let God decide if he wants him to live.” The soldier glanced up, as if inviting advice from the heavens.

  “It’d help to know why he did this,” Hugo said, his teeth gritted with the effort and with annoyance. “And for that we need him to live.”

  The soldier looked at him for a moment, and then shrugged. “Merde. I suppose so.” He moved to Hugo’s side and knelt, strong arms extending over the gunman. When Hugo took his hands away they were covered in blood, and he wiped them as best he could in the dry grass a few feet away.

  He could see the police cars now, and two ambulances, cruising through the Tuileries toward them, slowing to make sure they didn’t hit anyone. They had shut off their sirens but from both ends of the park an army of flashing blue, red, and white lights streamed toward them. The police vehicles nosed in closest, forming a circle around Hugo, the soldier, and the posse of onlookers, who were quickly ushered back behind the flashing lights. Two medics jogged past the advancing police officers to where the soldier was starting to puff and sweat over his task, and he gladly moved out of the way to let them take over. When he stood, blood dripped from his hands, and he held them up, the frown back on his face.

  “If that bastard has any communicable diseases . . .” He shook his head and glared down at the gunman.

  “Agreed,” Hugo said, and turned his attention to the three uniformed officers who’d approached. They’d not drawn their guns, but they looked like they might, so Hugo tried to reassure them.

  “Messieurs, my name is Hugo Marston. I am the regional security officer at the United States embassy.”

  The largest of the three moved closer. “You have identification?”

  “In my inside pocket, yes. But . . .” Hugo held up his bloody hands. “You’re welcome to reach inside.”

  The officer barked an instruction to his colleague, who ran to the trunk of one of the police cars. He returned a moment later with a plastic container of hand wipes. The flic opened the lid and held the container out to Hugo and the soldier.

  “Take as many as you need. And you should go to the hospital, to make sure you didn’t catch anything.”

  “We will,” Hugo said. “And thank you.”

  The burly officer, clearly in charge, stepped forward. “I am Brigadier Raphael Caron, and I will be in charge here until I’m not. First of all, our information is that there was only one gunman, monsieur. I need to make sure that is the case.”

  Hugo nodded. “As far as I know, yes. I only saw him.”

  The flic looked at the soldier. “And you?”

  “Same, just him.”

  Hugo finished wiping his hands as best he could, and then he reached for his credentials, passing them to the senior officer, who spotted the holstered gun, but didn’t say anything. He looked over Hugo’s badge and identification card, and handed them back.

  “Merci,” Caron said. “And now I need your gun, please.”

  “My gun? I’m afraid that’s not possible.”

  “There will be an investigation, monsieur. That will include a look at this man’s life, but also an autopsy and ballistics. For that, we need your gun. It is standard procedure.”

  “I know it is,” Hugo said politely. “However, this gun is the property of the United States government, and I have diplomatic status such that I am not required to hand it over.”

  Caron bristled. “I don’t understand why your government wouldn’t want to assist us in this investigation as fully as possible.”

  “You misunderstand,” Hugo assured him. “I’d gladly let you have it, but since I don’t own it, and since some lawyer or bureaucrat in Washington will have a fit if I hand it over, I just ask that you let me call my boss and get clearance.”

  “Who is your boss?”

  “The US ambassador to France.” Hugo gave Caron a friendly smile. “It’s okay—I have him on speed dial.”

  Hugo called Ambassador J. Bradford Taylor and caught him enjoying an appetizer of olives and nuts, along with a tall Americano cocktail in the Hotel Crillon.

  “Hugo, what’s going on?”

  “Hey, boss. You seen the news yet?”

  “No
. Why?”

  “Are you drinking already?”

  “Working session with some folks from the State Department, as it happens,” Taylor said.

  “Right. Working.”

  “Don’t be impertinent,” Taylor said. “What can I do for you?”

  “About fifteen minutes ago, I shot a man in the Tuileries.”

  “Sounds painful.” Taylor chuckled.

  “I’m not kidding, boss.”

  There was a moment of silence. “Holy shit, Hugo. What the hell happened?”

  “He had a gun and was letting rounds off, shot three people. He was about to shoot at me so I shot him first.”

  “Good God. That’s insane—are you all right?”

  “I’m fine. Looks like he won’t make it, though.”

  “I don’t give a damn about him.”

  “Yeah, well. The thing is, the cops here want to take my gun.” Hugo looked over as the paramedics moved the gunman onto a gurney. Brigadier Caron was going through the man’s jacket pockets, while beside him another officer held several large plastic evidence bags.

  “It’s US government property,” Taylor said. “And you have diplomatic immunity, so . . .”

  “Yeah, I know all that, boss, but they need it for the investigation. I shot the gunman with it. Of course they need it.”

  “Great.” Taylor groaned. “That’s going to mean paperwork for you, me, and them.”

  “I know it. I just wanted to get your blessing before I hand it over.”

  “Get a receipt, whatever you do.”

  “Will do.” Hugo looked up as Brigadier Caron approached and held something out for him to look at. “I gotta run, boss. Some of the guy’s blood got on me, so I’m going to get checked out at the hospital. And while I’m there, I’ll keep an eye on him and give you an update on his condition.”

  “Sounds good. Make sure you get yourself taken care of. And I already told you, I don’t give a damn about the gunman. I’ll find out whether he’s alive or dead from the news.”

  Hugo paused, his eyes locked onto one piece of evidence in particular. “Well, I can give you one pretty important update right now, I’m afraid.”

  “What’re you talking about?”

  “Here’s the thing.” Hugo watched as Caron dropped the blue, rectangular booklet into its own evidence bag. “The shooter appears to be one of us.”

  “Meaning?”

  “He was carrying a US passport. Which, if I’m not mistaken, means you better hurry up and finish your important, high-level State Department cocktail, because as of right now you do care what happens to the shooter. Not to mention the obvious issue, on top of that.”

  “Shit, an American?” Hugo could hear the lightness leave the ambassador. “Go ahead, Hugo, mention the obvious issue.”

  “Okay. I think it’s fair to say that you also now have an international incident on your hands.”

  “Just what I need. Look, I’ll finish up here—go get yourself checked out at the hospital.” The ambassador sighed. “A goddamn American, eh? Why can’t they ever be Canadian?”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Three hours later, Hugo walked out of the hospital to an awaiting black Cadillac. The driver, a young woman with big eyes and dreadlocks, smiled.

  “Mr. Marston, glad to hear you’re okay. I’m Cecilee Walker. I don’t know if you remember me.”

  “Of course I do.” Hugo nodded. “You drove me to the airport once, and on that ride I asked you to call me Hugo, not Mr. Marston.”

  “Yes, sir, that’s right.” Her smile widened. “I guess I’m the one who forgot.”

  “No problem.” He climbed into the front passenger seat. “There was no need for a car. I could’ve taken a cab.”

  “Not really, Sir . . . I mean Hugo.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Walker put the car into gear and eased away from the curb. “If you’d taken a cab, you would’ve gone home.”

  “Which is where you’re taking me now. Right?”

  “Not really, no.”

  Hugo turned to look at her. “Then where are we going?”

  She was still smiling. “You don’t like surprises, huh?”

  “Not after a day like today, I most certainly do not.”

  “We’re going back to the embassy.”

  “Why?”

  She glanced at him, and then looked back at the road. “It hasn’t occurred to you, has it?”

  Hugo sat back and closed his eyes. “Any more guessing games and I’ll fire you.”

  “No, you won’t.”

  “Then I’ll shoot you.”

  Walker laughed. “Hugo, think about what you just did.”

  “Got into a car?”

  “You’re a hero, Hugo. You stopped a mass shooting.”

  “If I stopped it, it wasn’t a mass shooting.”

  “You prevented—” She sighed, the way a disappointed parent might. “Don’t play word games with me. You’re a hero.”

  “A very tired one, who would like nothing more than to go home right now.”

  “Weren’t you just lying around in a bed at the hospital?”

  “Getting poked with needles, thank you very much.”

  “Welcome.” She shot him a worried look. “So is everything okay?”

  “A few results to come back, but I don’t have rabies, tetanus, or leprosy. At least I think that’s what they said.”

  “A good start, then.”

  “As good as it gets. Now then, you were taking me home.”

  “Eventually, yes.” This time the look she gave him was more sympathetic. “I’m afraid the ambassador wants to get to work on this shooter, figure out who is he is and why he wanted to gun people down in the Tuileries.”

  Hugo looked at her with suspicion. “But he knows I can’t do that. I’m a witness and, technically I suppose, a potential suspect,” he said. “Plus, the entire Paris police force will be doing that, and we have good people in the office who can help out. Like Mari—what’s she doing right now?”

  Mari Harada was Hugo’s number two. Months after the death of Ryan Pierce, his long-time second-in-command, Hugo had called to see if she’d be interested in coming to Paris. It was a promotion for her within the State Department, so she said yes, and Hugo immediately requested her transfer from the Berlin office. They’d first met at a conference in Italy, where she’d impressed him with her lecture on the rise of nationalism in Western Europe. Afterward, he bought her coffee and found out she’d also worked for the FBI. She’d been a forensic anthropologist and their paths hadn’t crossed, but it was a professional coincidence, and a bond between them. She’d had to leave the Bureau after contracting multiple sclerosis, and was now using an electric wheelchair and state-of-the-art voice-to-text software, so she didn’t have to type.

  Ambassador Taylor had been on Hugo to get someone in to ease the RSO’s workload, and had assured Hugo he wasn’t “replacing” Ryan at all—he was filling a position. And when Taylor saw her résumé he was all aboard. In the couple of months she’d been working at the embassy, Taylor had been more than impressed with her enthusiasm and intelligence, especially in matters technological, which had become her forte since she was less able to get to anthropological sites. Taylor had even pointed to her tastefully appointed office as an example to Hugo, and a counterpoint to his sparsely furnished one. She had decorated it with calligraphy from Bodhidharma and a pair of replica Jomon vases to reflect her father’s Japanese heritage, and on the wall behind her desk she’d hung a print of the 1917 self-portrait by Christian Khrog, who was her favorite Norwegian painter and, like her mother, from Oslo.

  As she steered the car onto Rue de Rivoli, Cecilee Walker threw Hugo another look. “Oh, Mari will be there, don’t you worry.”

  “Right. And everyone knows she’s ten times more competent than I am, so take me home and let her handle it.”

  “No can do.”

  “What if I give you a direct order?”

 
; “Someone higher than you in the food chain already gave me one.”

  “I know, I know. But he’s used to me disobeying his orders, so you wouldn’t get in trouble for not doing his bidding.”

  Walker laughed quietly. “It’s not his bidding that I’m doing.”

  “I don’t understand.” Hugo turned to look out of the window to his left, where the Tuileries lay in darkness. He’d seen on the news that police had closed it early, ushering an already nervous public out and leaving a dozen men and women to patrol inside, more to restore a sense of security than anything else. Hugo looked back at Walker. “If you’re not doing his bidding, then . . .”

  “Well, he wants you there, don’t get me wrong.”

  “Walker, I’m warning you . . .”

  “You’re right—Mari can do all the background stuff with the Brigade Criminelle. That’s not why he wants you at the embassy.”

  “Then why?”

  “To meet someone.”

  “Is it Oprah? I’ve always wanted to meet Oprah.”

  “You probably can now, but no, it’s not. I’m taking you to meet the president of France.”

  Hugo turned in his seat to stare at her. “You’re kidding me.”

  “Nope.” She gave him a wink. “I told you. You’re a hero now. And presidents love to meet heroes, you know that.” She pointed to the glove compartment. “I put a hairbrush in there for you.”

  “A hairbrush?”

  “Yeah. Come on, Hugo, you know how it works. One president plus one hero equals . . .”

  “Oh, good God. You’re right.” Hugo groaned again. “That equation equals cameras.”

  He looked out of the window at the traffic ahead of them, toward the embassy, which sat overlooking Place de la Concorde. He’d spent his career with the FBI avoiding the limelight. He always let others handle that side of things, but Cecilee Walker was right. This time, it was all on him. He reached for the glove compartment, and a hairbrush he most definitely needed to use.