by Mark Pryor
Tom grinned enigmatically. “Business trip.”
Officially retired, the CIA made use of Tom’s experience on a part-time basis, paying him handsomely and letting him travel in comfort, as long as he wasn’t too specific with those around him about where he was going, or why. Hugo had long ago given up asking.
“As long as you got your fill of fish and chips while you were there.”
“And these glasses.” He took them off and looked at Hugo. “So what the hell happened out there? And why did you give an interview to that hack? Kind of dinged your hero status there.”
“None of it was my choice, I promise you that.”
“You really shoot the gun out of his hand?”
Hugo groaned. “Good lord.”
“Well?”
“The third shot happened to hit the gun, which he was holding center-mass.”
Tom nodded approvingly. “Nice. I have no idea why you’re fighting this, Hugo.”
“Fighting what?”
“The hero narrative. Man, play it right and you could retire and write your memoirs.”
“I’ll have plenty of time for that,” Hugo said. “I like my job. Plus, I couldn’t afford this place without it, and then where would you live?”
“Ever the altruist, thank you. You working on something? Need help?”
“You hear about the American girl strangled at Château Lambourd?”
“Who strangled where?”
“It’s the home of a noble French family. The girl was a servant, basically. Someone garroted her in the middle of the night, but didn’t kill her.”
“Was it Colonel Mustard in the library?”
“Funny. It was on the landing by the stairs, and if I knew who did it, I’d have said.”
“Got the great Hugo Marston stumped, has it?” Tom sounded a little too pleased. “Sounds like you do need my help.”
“Actually, I do. But not on that case.”
“On what, then?”
“The shooting. Ambassador Taylor has me in the dark, since I’m a subject of interest or some damn thing.”
Tom nodded, serious now. “Well, they have to investigate, make sure it was a good shooting.”
“Yeah, I know that. But it’s frustrating not knowing what’s going on, and in the meantime I’m being hounded by the media and some of them, as you saw, want to turn me into the bad guy.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“The dead guy was carrying a fake CIA badge.”
Tom snorted. “Because agents carry badges to identify themselves in case they get caught?”
“Exactly. Anyway, seems like that’d give you reason to ask a few questions, no? Kind of a jurisdictional entranceway.”
“It might,” Tom said. “Anything specific you want to know?”
“Yes. I want to know everything you can find out about the shooter. And as soon as you can.”
“You know me, Hugo. An absolute whirlwind of energy and activity.” Tom stood. “So I’m gonna take a nap before dinner, then have a good long sleep tonight. I’ll get to work first thing on Monday.”
“Sooner.”
“Fine.” Tom let out an exaggerated sigh. “I’ll make a few calls tomorrow.”
“Discreet ones, please.”
“You wanna do this yourself?”
“Fine, fine, I’m sorry,” Hugo said. “You do your thing, I’ll do mine.”
“Which is?”
Hugo looked at his watch. “I’m sorry to say, my thing tonight is attending a black-tie event.”
Tom started for the bedroom. “Well, you have fun with that. Don’t get back too late, and no girls in the apartment.”
Hugo smiled. It’s my apartment, Tom.
Claudia and her driver, Jean, picked Hugo up from outside his building, after he all but sprinted past the remaining three reporters, who weren’t expecting him at that moment and didn’t have time to get pictures or ask questions.
Hugo waved cheerily at them out of the back window, and settled in next to Claudia.
“You smell good,” he said, nuzzling her. She did, a sexy mix of jasmine, vanilla, and something he couldn’t identify. She laughed and playfully pushed him away, and then drew him back in close again, saying she didn’t mean it. Hugo was glad—it’d been too long since he’d seen her, in fact long enough that her hair had grown past her shoulders, further softening her already beautiful features.
When they got to Château Lambourd and climbed out of the car, Hugo noted that she looked even better than she smelled. She wore an off-the-shoulder light blue dress that hugged her figure down to the knee-length ruffled hem. A pair of silver heels made her taller than usual, and Hugo used her extra height to his advantage, planting kisses on her welcoming lips several times before they headed to the entrance.
The château was resplendent, too. Candles lined the path to the main doors, and two liveried footmen stood to attention either side of the open doorway. A string quartet was set up in the courtyard to welcome guests, and Hugo recognized Vivaldi’s spring concerti. There was no one checking invitations—Claudia said they were doing that remotely from one of the former stables, using hidden cameras and facial recognition software. She didn’t know how she knew that, so Hugo wasn’t convinced, but crashing this party required a black tie or evening gown, so even the uninvited would have looked good.
Inside, in the large and open reception area, white-jacketed waiters proffered silver trays carrying champagne and hors d’oeuvres, while newly arrived guests laughed and chatted in small groups and the sweet sounds of the violins drifted in and around them like a gentle breeze.
“Quite the party,” Claudia said. “I’m surprised I’ve never been here before.”
“Me too. How is that possible?”
“My father used to come, but they don’t allow children to this party, and as an adult I’ve always had other things to do. Travel, mostly.”
“I think you’ll be impressed with the place. Off this foyer, all downstairs, is the functional stuff, huge kitchen area, wine cellar, servant quarters.”
“Where that girl was staying when she was attacked?”
“Yes, but she was attacked at the top of those stairs, the second floor.” Hugo glanced in that direction to show Claudia.
“What was she doing up there?”
“She says she doesn’t remember, but I think that wasn’t true.”
“Then what?”
“I suspect she’d paid someone a visit, but doesn’t want to either get them in trouble with us, or get herself in trouble with the family.”
“A midnight tryst, how exciting,” Claudia said with a wink. “Who do you suspect?”
“I thought I wasn’t allowed to investigate tonight?”
“You’re not. We’re just talking.” She swiped two champagne flutes from a passing waiter and handed one to Hugo. “Santé.”
“Santé to you, too.” They clinked glasses.
“Well?”
“I have no idea who she was seeing, if anyone.”
“You asked her?”
“Gosh, no, didn’t think of that,” Hugo said sarcastically, earning himself a punch in the arm. “Let’s go up to the second floor and see the main living rooms.”
Claudia looped her arm through Hugo’s, and they walked up the stairs toward two more footmen, erect and unmoving.
“I wonder if they’re there to stop drunk people falling down the steps,” Claudia whispered.
“Let’s get drunk and find out,” Hugo whispered back. At the top of the staircase another open space held giant vases brimming with flowers. Sweet-scented lilies, bloodred roses, and cascades of wildflowers that filled the area with color and the soft smell of spring. Hugo cursed silently as his phone buzzed with a new text, and he took a discreet look at the screen.
Call me. It was from Tom.
Hugo hesitated, and Claudia noticed.
“What was my rule?” she said sternly.
“It’s Tom. Probably unhappy about the
empty fridge. Or something else domestic like that.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Really?”
“Yeah, probably not. You going to be mad if I call him back?”
“Yes.”
“He’ll hound me until I do, if I know Tom.” At that moment another text came in: Now! and Hugo showed it to her. “See?”
Claudia crossed her arms and pretended to be angry. “Well, make it snappy. And don’t be surprised if you come back and find me chatting with some other handsome hunk. Or hunkette.”
Hugo kissed her lips again and started for the staircase that led to the top floor, but one of the two footmen standing in front of the bottom step put out a hand to stop him.
“Oh, so you’re not just ornamental,” Hugo said in English. He switched to French when the man gave him a quizzical look. “I need to make a call, in private.” He dug out his credentials and showed them. The footmen glanced at each other, and one of them nodded. “Merci bien,” Hugo said and trotted up to the third floor.
The thick rugs and even thicker wood floors muted most of the hubbub below, and Hugo sank into a plush velvet armchair away from the top of the staircase to call Tom.
“This better be good, my friend, you made Claudia mad at me for calling you.”
“Well, now you can have makeup sex. So you’re welcome.”
“It’s not that kind of party. You have something for me?”
“Yeah, couple of things.”
“That was quick,” Hugo said.
“Nap didn’t work out so I made a phone call or two. Five actually. Anyway, first of all the dude you shot isn’t necessarily American.”
“I know. At least, I know the passport was a forgery.”
“You knew that already?”
“Yes. I didn’t mention it?”
“No, you fucking didn’t.”
“Sorry,” Hugo said. “Did you ID him then?”
“Not yet, no one has. But I did ID the gun.”
“And what does that tell us?”
“Not good things, Hugo. Not good at all.”
“Stop playing cute, Tom, Claudia is waiting for me. Impatiently.”
“Okay, well, here goes nothing. Like I said, the dude may or may not be American,” Tom said slowly. “But the gun definitely is.”
“I thought someone said it was a Glock. That’s Austrian—”
“No, you idiot. I don’t mean where it was made, I mean where it came from.”
“And that is?”
“US soil, I’m afraid. To be more precise, our fucking embassy. Hugo, it’s one of yours.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Hugo felt the blood drain from his face. “Tell me exactly what you mean by that,” he said. “And how you know.”
“A few weeks ago you replaced your section’s .40 calibers with nine millimeters, right?”
“Yes.”
“The ones you were replacing were supposed to be shipped back to the States.”
“That’s right. You’re saying they weren’t?”
“Most of them were, but two of them missed their flight. Actually, one was scheduled for destruction because it’d malfunctioned.”
Hugo pictured the scene in the Tuileries. “The one that jammed, that he put down.”
“I only got info on one of them, but that’s a pretty safe bet.”
“How the hell could that happen?” Hugo asked, more of himself than Tom.
“No idea, I’m still looking into it.”
Hugo’s mind was racing. “With all the paperwork that went into that swap, surely this means we can figure out who stole them.”
“Your bailiwick, not mine, but it seems like it’d narrow the field.”
“But how the hell did they end up in the hands of someone who, apparently, doesn’t exist?”
“No idea.”
“How did you find this out, Tom?”
“You know I can’t tell you that. For your sake.”
“Then just tell me if your source was someone at the embassy.”
“No. Police contact.”
“How would they know it was an embassy gun?”
“Paperwork, actually. All foreign weapons, including ours, have to be registered with the French police. They like to know what’s coming in and going out.”
“Which means the whole world will know pretty soon.”
“Yep,” Tom said. “I imagine so. On that note, you want me to go out and talk to those reporters, say some nice things about you?”
“No, I most certainly do not.”
“Well, tough shit. Dimitrios just texted that my pizza is down there. Seems like a shame to waste a trip down those stairs.”
“Tom, don’t you da—” But he was speaking to a void. Tom had hung up.
Hugo took a deep breath and slowly stood. An embassy gun. From my own security section! How is that possible? He didn’t know the answer to that question, but he certainly knew how it’d play out in some parts of the media. The ones alleging a false-flag operation would go gleefully bananas, and even those who didn’t normally buy into conspiracy theories might have second thoughts. And Hugo couldn’t blame them. An embassy gun used to shoot French citizens by a man carrying an American passport, then an embassy employee coming to the rescue? Pretty far-fetched coincidences.
Suddenly Hugo didn’t feel like being at a party, didn’t want to smile and meet new people, make small talk. He thought he heard voices at the foot of the staircase and moved away, wanting some more time to think. He studied a painting ten yards along the hallway, depicting a pheasant hunt and snowy trees. Seconds later his attention was drawn to the sound of voices again, this time coming from behind a closed door to his right. They were muffled, yet urgent, and as they were speaking French Hugo struggled to identify them.
“—you call those people friends?” a woman was saying.
“I’ve never met them, but I trust him.”
The woman laughed. “And that’s the problem, right there. You can’t see what everyone else can.”
“Everyone made up their minds years ago. He’s a child, for God’s sake, he’s maturing.”
“Is that what you call it? He’s a menace, and he’s either gotten himself into trouble or his friends have put him in it. Neck deep.”
“He’ll be fine. He’ll be back here before the end of tonight—he loves this party.”
The woman sounded more resigned now. “If I loved him like you did, I’d be more worried. Not just about tonight, but the direction he’s headed in, generally.”
Given the context, Hugo was certain the man was Marc Lambourd. The woman had to be one of his sisters, but he couldn’t tell which one.
“Thanks for the advice. Although your total lack of interest in the family makes it somewhat ironic.”
There was a pause, then. “And what does that mean?”
“It means the only thing you like about this family is its home. This place.”
“We all do. That’s a ridiculous thing to say.”
The man said something in a low voice that Hugo didn’t catch, and the female replied, “I contribute to this family as much as anyone.”
“Oh, so then what did you do to help for the party?”
“I wasn’t asked to do anything. Maman always arranges everything.”
“As far as you know. For God’s sake, she had to take a break because you had a damned computer delivered and she didn’t want it littering the hallway until you deigned to move it. She had to climb two flights of stairs to have the delivery person put it outside your bedroom door.”
“She didn’t have to do that.”
“You know she hates having tradesmen unattended in the house.”
“Well, I’ve said for years she should put in an elevator. Or one of those chairs that slides up the bannister. Anyway, it was a printer, not a computer.”
“That’s not the point. The point is that you’re busy taking care of you, while everyone else is focusing on . . . the family, the party.”<
br />
“Except Fabien, who’s chasing tail and stealing cars. Apparently.”
As fascinating as family dynamics were, especially those of a family like the Lambourds, Hugo felt that he’d eavesdropped enough, and walked quietly to the top of the stairs. He still had that sinking feeling in his stomach from finding out where the gunman’s weapon had originated, but he dragged his mind back to the present, and was curious to see who Marc had been talking to. When he reached the reception area on the second floor, he stopped. Over several gray heads, he could see Claudia in the main living room talking to an older couple.
He texted her: Look to your left, and join me. Bring champers.
A moment later, she looked over at him and winked, and then turned back to her companions with a smile. Hugo watched as she disengaged from them, swiped two fresh glasses of champagne, and headed toward him.
“You on a stakeout?” she asked.
“Something like that.” He nodded toward the staircase. “Just overheard a family squabble up there, and now I’m curious to see who’ll come down those stairs.”
“You couldn’t tell who it was?”
“Marc Lambourd was one.”
Claudia nudged him gently. “And here comes the other.”
Hugo looked over and watched as Marc Lambourd descended the stairs still deep in conversation with his sister, Erika Sipiora, who looked very different from when she’d met with Hugo previously. The austere look was gone—now her lush auburn hair flowed down and onto her bare shoulders, and the split in the side of her silk green dress made it all the way to her right hip. Hugo felt a hand on his backside, and then a sharp pinch.
“You’re staring, my lover,” she said playfully.
“I bet you are, too.” Hugo looked back at Claudia to confirm his suspicion and, once he had he reached behind her and returned the pinch.
“Ouch! You monster.” She laughed and leaned into him. “Do that again and we’ll have to find a vacant room.”
Hugo stood by the large window overlooking the back garden of the house, watching as a team of men set up the annual fireworks display. Claudia, who’d excused herself to find a ladies’ room, had mentioned that once it was all set up, partygoers would drift out of the château and mingle on the expansive lawn until fireworks time. His phone rang, but he didn’t recognize the number. He normally wouldn’t answer without knowing who was calling, but this would give him cover not to talk to anyone.