by Mark Pryor
“Correct. Austin, to be exact.”
“And everyone carries a gun in Texas, isn’t that right?”
“Well, not really.” Hugo laughed softly. “I know some people, maybe a lot of people, think that’s true, but no. It’s not nearly as common as you think.”
“But everyone is allowed to carry one, n’est-ce pas?”
“I mean, most people would be allowed to, yes.”
“Do you always carry your gun in Paris?”
Something in Gross’s voice caught Hugo’s attention, told him to tread carefully. He glanced toward where the ambassador had been standing, but the lights made it impossible to see if he was still there.
“I carry it for my job. And our embassy sought permission from local authorities to allow me to carry it when I’m outside of the emb—”
“But when you are off-duty? You have somewhere at work you could leave it, do you not?”
“Well, yes, of course.”
“Then why do you not do that?”
“I don’t know. Habit mainly. And I’m thinking it’s lucky I was carrying it last night.”
“I think most people in this city would be quite unhappy to know there is a gun-carrying American walking their streets.”
“I don’t know about that,” Hugo said, trying not to sound testy. “But after last night—”
“Ah, last night.” Gross held up an admonishing finger. Here we go, the performance for the cameras, Hugo thought. “Last night, there were two gun-toting Americans in Paris. And they had a shoot-out in one of the most beautiful, most historic places in our city.”
“A shoot-out? That’s not what happened.”
“Do you see yourself as a hero, Monsieur Marston?”
Hugo fought the urge to look for his boss again, or to get up and walk away, but he was new to this and had no clue how him abandoning the interview would look. Stay calm and polite, Hugo told himself.
“No, I was lucky that I was in the right place at the right time, and my training kicked in. So no, I don’t consider myself a hero, not at all.”
“What can you tell us about the man you shot?”
“Nothing, I’m afraid. The Paris police are conducting the investigation and because I was involved, I’m not a party to anything they’ve found.”
“He was an American, you’re not denying that.”
“I don’t know whether he was or not.”
Pascal Gross cocked his head, suspicion in his eyes. “Is the investigation trying to bury the fact that the gunman was an American? Is that why they had you do the interview, so you can deny all knowledge?”
“I thought you’d asked to interview me, that was my understand—”
“Are you aware of the reports that the gunman was seen two days earlier loitering outside this very embassy?”
“So you know who he is?”
“No, but my information is solid.”
“I know nothing about that. And if it’s that solid, you need to share it with the authorities.”
“Wouldn’t that seem odd, an American comes to the embassy, your place of work, and then two days later you just happen to interrupt his attempt to kill people in the Tuileries?”
“What are you suggesting?” Hugo bristled. “I don’t know who that man was. I’d never seen him before in my life, and if he came to the embassy at some point—”
“What I’m suggesting, Monsieur Marston, is—”
And then, with a loud click and the gentle whine of electronic equipment shutting down, the ambassador’s study went dark.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
“A false-flag operation”, Ambassador Taylor said. He was sitting in Hugo’s office with his feet on the desk. Hugo sat slumped in a chair opposite him. “That’s what he was suggesting.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“I know. But that’s what some of those idiotic so-called journalists are peddling.”
Hugo shook his head in disgust. “Anyone pushing that isn’t a journalist, they’re a conspiracy theorist.”
“For the few remaining newspapers and all the online news sources it’s about getting attention these days, getting people to click the link,” Taylor said. “Getting the story right, the truth, that’s merely a potential by-product of asking outrageous questions.”
“So who vetted this guy? Who the hell authorized him to do the interview? Couldn’t you find a real reporter?”
“It was his turn on the pool rotation, and believe it or not he used to be a real journalist. He told a couple of . . . exaggerations while out in the field and fell down in the pecking order of respected reporters. I gather he clawed his way back on to television but, apparently, he’s got a chip on his shoulder.”
“And now I have a target on my back. From hero to murderer in short shrift.”
“You’re still a hero in my book, big guy,” Ambassador Taylor said with a smile.
“And that’s what matters,” Hugo said. “But this pisses me off. Why the hell would we run a false-flag op?”
“We wouldn’t. It’s ridiculous.”
“But what’s their stupid theory?” Hugo asked.
“I don’t know. Maybe to improve US-Franco relations. We make you a hero and if everyone loves you, everyone loves America and Americans again.” He gave a wry smile. “It’s been a while.”
“Right, we shoot innocent people in the Tuileries and sacrifice some schmuck so that people will like Americans again. That makes no damned sense.”
“Hey, I’m not the one—”
“And the dead guy, was he in on the scheme according to the conspiracy nut jobs?”
“I imagine it depends on which message board you go to.”
“Are people actually buying into this crap? I mean, seriously.”
“Of course. Some people will always buy into a good conspiracy, especially if the big bad United States government is behind it. If people can believe a school full of dead children was faked, then you know they can believe we staged this.”
Hugo thought for a moment. “So who was the gunman? We have to know that by now, surely.”
“Hugo, you know I can’t tell you anyth—”
Hugo leaned forward. “They’re now saying I killed a man, a fellow American, to make myself a hero. I think we’re past the niceties of keeping me in the dark.”
“Okay, fine.” Ambassador Taylor sighed. “The truth is, we don’t know yet.”
“What? How is that possible?”
Ambassador Taylor shrugged. “We don’t know who he is.”
“Was the passport real?”
“Yes and no. It’s a real passport but looks like it was obtained by using fraudulent documents. The name on the passport isn’t someone we can identify.”
“No prints or DNA on file?”
“Prints, no, and the DNA isn’t back yet. The lab is backlogged but they’re expediting it.” Taylor grimaced. “Never heard that before, eh?”
“What does expediting mean, exactly?”
“A week at best, I’m told.”
“What if his DNA isn’t on file?” Hugo asked.
“We’ll figure out who he is, Hugo. You know we will.”
“Step it up a little, eh?”
“Trust me—I have the secretary of state crawling up my ass on this one. I’m going as fast as I can.”
“Anything else of note?” Hugo asked.
“You could say that.” The ambassador held Hugo’s eye. “He was carrying a badge.”
“What kind of badge?”
“It said CIA, had a little wallet with it and an ID card.”
“Fake?”
“Very,” Taylor said. “Not made of plastic, but almost. It wouldn’t fool anyone who took so much as a second glance at it. Very odd.”
“It is.” Hugo nodded. “So who is working this?”
“Your buddy Marchand.”
Hugo had helped Adrien Marchand solve a murder that had taken place at the Dali museum in Montmartre. After initially
, and wrongly, suspecting one person Hugo had pointed him in the right direction . . . led him, others might say. But despite their initial personality clashes, Hugo thought Marchand was an intelligent and hardworking detective, open to looking at new evidence and changing his mind when that evidence warranted it. Plus, Hugo suspected Marchand had a point to prove to Hugo, which would work to Hugo’s advantage and, hopefully, ferret out the truth about the shooter’s identity.
“Okay, well, if you don’t mind slipping me a little reassuring information from time to time, I’d appreciate it. Leave a note under my pillow if you need to, I don’t much care.”
“Full-time ambassador, part-time tooth fairy. I can do that.”
“So, in the meantime I lay low and avoid the press, is that the plan?”
“Half of it.” A smile spread over the ambassador’s face.
“I don’t like that look, boss. Not one bit.”
“Avoid the press, for sure.”
“Great, I’ll go home and have Claudia bring me food and wine. Lots of wine.”
“Nope. Media will be camped outside your building, for sure. You can’t be enjoying fine wine and beautiful women at a time like this. Not there, anyway.”
“What do you mean, not there?”
“Hugo, this is the perfect time for you to go to the Lambourd’s party.”
“That’s tonight.”
“Precisely. No media allowed.”
“I’ll go, but I’m not staying late. I’m exhausted and, in case you’d forgotten, in the middle of an investigation there. I can’t exactly party and powwow with my suspects.”
“It’ll be fun, and with the champagne flowing, loosening tongues, what better way to catch a few people off-balance?”
“I prefer to record my interviews in a controlled environment, not squeeze information from drunk people over canapés.”
“So wear a wire.”
“I’m serious,” Hugo insisted.
“Jeez, Hugo, lighten up. You’re not interviewing suspects, you’re looking for clues. And hell, maybe you’ll have some fun while you’re at it.” Ambassador Taylor swung his legs off the desk and stood up. “Well, if I need to order you to go I will, for diplomatic purposes. Just seems like a smart detect—”
“Fine, I said I’d go.” Hugo held his hands up in surrender. “As long as Claudia comes with me.”
Taylor walked to the doorway. “Use that famous Marston charm—how could she resist? Come to think of it, I’m sure she’s invited in her own right.”
“You did say no media was allowed there,” Hugo reminded him. “So maybe not.”
“She’ll be invited as Claudia de Roussillon, French nobility, not Claudia Roux, pain-in-the-butt journalist. Ask her.” Taylor winked at Hugo, and then left the room, closing the door quietly behind him.
Hugo dialed Claudia. “Hey, it’s me,” he said when she answered.
“Busy man, nice to hear your voice.” Hers sounded bright, and instantly Hugo was glad he’d called.
“What are you doing this evening?” he asked.
“Trying to find a reason not to go to a party. You want to give me one?”
“The Lambourd party, by any chance?”
“Yes,” she said. “How did you know?”
“I’m an outstanding detective. I’m also a wonderful party companion.”
“Oh, I’d love to take you, Hugo, but you have to be invited.”
“Which I am.”
“Well, great. But you’d rather do that than have a quiet dinner?”
“No, but Ambassador Taylor isn’t giving me that option.”
“Ah, I see.” Claudia sighed. “Fine, I’ll go with you, but if you ignore me for work, there will be trouble.”
Hugo chuckled. “You are very sexy when you get strict with me.”
“I’m not joking, Hugo, there will be no investigating on our date. Or else.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
THE KILLER
There’s a slow rise of excitement at the house. There always is the afternoon before the party, but it’s more evident this time, even more so than previous years. Strangers in the black and white uniform of servants carry folding tables and chairs outside to the garden, while more of them bring boxes of food, plates, and cookware into the house. They remind me of ants, trooping in and out with their heads down, not stopping to look around or talk to anyone.
I have mixed feelings about having strangers in my house. Our house, I’m sorry. My house in the future, is the plan. One of the plans. Anyway, I don’t like the feeling of not knowing who all these ants are, not being able to control them, know what they’re doing every moment. But it occurs to me that the more people, known and unknown, who come through this house tonight, the harder it will be for the police to point fingers at any one suspect. Maybe I should be worried about all the extra pairs of eyes that will be on the property today and tonight, but I’m not. In my experience, people are blind. They see things, yes, but it’s a mix of what they want to see and what they expect to see, which means they miss a lot. And that’s good for me.
And so my own excitement is mounting, too, only for different reasons. Obviously.
But I’m also a little annoyed.
I was sloppy with the American girl, and am lucky she didn’t see me. Well, doesn’t remember seeing me, because she actually did. I looked into her eyes as they went blank, a moment I’ve recently discovered. I’ve never believed in God or the existence of a soul, mostly because I’m damned sure I, myself, don’t have one. But about a year ago I came close to changing my mind when I slid a scalpel between the ribs of a drunk man on a Metro platform. I almost missed the moment because his fetid alcohol breath gasped out at me, making me pull away and close my eyes in disgust. But I opened them again just as he sagged back against the tile wall, and caught him staring at me with surprise on his face. He probably didn’t feel any pain—the drunken slob was too liquored up to feel a shark bite his leg off—but he knew what was happening to him and his eyes were wide with the shock of it.
It took three seconds, maybe four, but the life went out of those eyes just like that. It was quite remarkable, and if you think about it, there’s no reason that one’s eyes should change that way. But they did. The soul leaving the body? I still don’t believe that, but I don’t need to for it to be an interesting, and enjoyable, phenomenon.
But that’s no excuse for being careless.
My plan is progressing well, and the disappearing act has got everyone worked up, including those investigators. Although the two lead cops are pretty cool characters. The woman, someone told me she used to be a man, is actually quite attractive. Has a confidence about her, like she doesn’t care if you know her past, or what you think about her. I like confident women.
I’m not happy about the American, though, especially the way he watches people, like he can see into their minds. And he uses that technique where he stays quiet and makes the other person fill the space by talking. Clever, unless you’re expecting it.
I’m a little surprised they’re going ahead with the party. I can see ignoring the fact that some drifter of an American girl got hurt—after all, she’ll be fine. But add to that a member of the family disappearing? Well, that’s the matriarch for you. She’s like a grizzled actress who insists on taking the stage no matter what, looking past the real world and its tragedies, and just repeating over and over, The show must go on! until it does.
Which is perfect for me, because I like a good show, and I’m orchestrating a four-act play. The first two are complete, the third comes tonight, and, unless those cops are a lot smarter than I think, the final act will go unnoticed by everyone but me.
It will be a sight, unseen.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Hugo was finally allowed to go home, escorted into his building by two gendarmes, who pushed through the half-dozen reporters camped out on Rue Jacob wanting a quote or two from the sharp-shooting American. Safely inside, the flics waited in the lobb
y under the watchful eye of Dimitrios, the concierge, as Hugo climbed the stairs to his apartment, grateful for a few moments of peace and quiet before he had to change for the party.
Those hopes were dashed the minute he walked in the door. “Tom, I thought you were in England.”
“Delightful to see you, too,” Tom said. He was stretched out on the couch, shoes still on, with a book on his lap. Hugo saw it was one of his, The Unrepentant, by Ed Aymar. A pair of glasses perched on the end of his nose, and he looked over them at Hugo. “You gonna shoot me right between the eyes, Wyatt Earp?”
“I would love to. And if you don’t get your feet off my couch I will.” He sank into a chair opposite his friend. “Reading glasses?”
“Technically it’s a disability, so you can’t make fun of me.”
“They come with hearing aids, some kind of package deal?”
“Funny. Didn’t you hear what I just said?”
“Yes, my hearing is like my eyesight: just fine. Yours on the other hand . . .”
“Fuck off, Hugo.” Tom swung his legs off the sofa and put the book on the coffee table between them. “They’re from a high-end store in London. Cost a fortune so I know they look good.”
Hugo smiled. They’d come a long way together, he and Tom. Roommates at Quantico, they helped each other through training, and over their years with the FBI they’d shared the same postings several times. Hugo had gone on to train and work in the Behavioral Analysis Unit, whereas Tom had honed different skills, ones that eventually got noticed by the CIA. They lured him away and even Hugo didn’t know the full extent of everywhere he’d been and everything he’d done. Didn’t know the half of it, most likely.
And now here was Tom, the secret agent extraordinaire, the man who’d killed for his country and turned himself into a functional alcoholic in an attempt to drown his demons, here he was pushing his glasses up to the bridge of his nose like a disappointed driving instructor.
“They look great, Tom. How was England?”
“Surprisingly sunny. For the three days I was there.”
“You’ve been gone two weeks.”