by Mark Pryor
He walked on beside the river, eyes watering when the breeze whipped into him as he made his way toward Pont Neuf. His path was blocked momentarily as two old ladies, bundled against the chill, held onto each other's arms and kissed hello. Their red noses bobbed from side to side, but their little bodies were too cold or too stiff to complete the second bisou, so they abandoned it with nods and waddled away, arm-in-arm.
As he approached Max's stall, Hugo felt a sense of relief. The old man was folding his camping chair and stowing it beside one of the metal boxes. He looked over at Hugo. “I assumed you'd run off. Alors, I meant to ask before, when you mentioned her. What is happening with Christine?”
“Well, I'm not sure really,” Hugo said, glancing over Max's shoulder. The bouquiniste across the bridge had packed up her stall and gone. “Chrissy's in Texas, I'm here, and that was pretty much the end of it. I just called, though, and left a message about going over to see her, to talk about things.”
“That's something,” Max said.
“It's a long plane ride, is what it is.” But with two weeks of vacation to endure, a last-minute dash to Dallas actually seemed plausible. Or only slightly idiotic. “We'll see what happens,” he said. “Anyway, here's the rest of your money.”
“Merci.” Max's hand swallowed the roll of bills like that of a practiced pickpocket. “Need a receipt?”
“No, if I need one later, I know where to find you.” Hugo hesitated, then put a hand on his friend's shoulder. “Hey, you'd tell me if something were going on around here?”
“Going on?”
“With your neighbor. And I've never seen you drop anything, Max. A book, money, your glasses. Call it a feeling.”
“Ach.” Max turned away and shrugged. “You should have feelings for Christine, not me. Anyway, I'm thinking about retiring. Getting off the street. This job, I live around so many crazies I sometimes feel I might become one.”
“You, retire? Are you serious?”
“Why not?” Max picked up a small bag of key chains and grinned. “Get a nice place in the countryside and write a novel. How about that?”
“Sounds wonderful. But I'm not sure I believe you.”
Max looked past him, along the quai, then met his eyes. “Everyone must know when to quit, Hugo. An old man can't battle the forces of evil alone, you know, not for long anyway.”
“Forces of evil sounds a little dramatic. Are you serious?”
“Mais oui.” Max spat and then rubbed his chin. “The cold in winter, the heat in summer, the miserly tourists, the bums that harass me for my hard-earned cash every day.” He looked away. “There are many evil forces, you should know that.”
Hugo shook his head, unsure how serious Max was, and stood there for a moment watching his friend fuss in front of his stall. They both looked up as a seagull squawked low over the parapet, whirling down to the water. Hugo thought about Christine and being impetuous. Maybe he should go.
“It will be snowing within the hour,” Max said, a finger jabbing toward the sky. “I see it and I feel it.”
“Then you should pack up, old friend.” Hugo patted him on the back. “And maybe I'll go pack a suitcase.”
But Max was no longer listening. His eyes were fixed at something over Hugo's shoulder, his old face drawn tight. His hand opened of its own accord and the bag of key chains fell to the sidewalk.
Hugo turned sideways, alert, the back of his neck tingling as though the devil himself were breathing down his neck.
“Bonjour, Max.”
The man was tall and broad with an angular, chiseled face and deep-set, dark eyes. He wore a beige raincoat and a fedora much like Hugo's, but his was tilted low over his brow. He seemed to be ignoring Hugo on purpose, an artificial posture that heightened Hugo's image of the man as a comic-book bad guy.
Max licked his lips and stood as tall as he could, a conscious effort at bravery. “Nica, what do you want now?”
Nica stared at the bookseller for a moment, then appeared to notice Hugo, turning his head just slightly to meet Hugo's gaze. For five long seconds neither man looked away. Then Nica smiled and turned his eyes on Max. “Just to talk. Do you have a moment?”
“Say what you have to say,” Max said. “I am busy.”
Nica gestured to the stone steps ten yards from the stall, stairs that led down to the walkway beside the river.
“We should talk in private,” Nica said.
“I can't leave my stall.”
Nica looked at Hugo and smiled again. “Your friend can look after it. This won't take long.”
“I don't think he wants to go anywhere,” Hugo said.
“And I don't think this is any of your business.”
“Ach, Hugo, my busybody American. Ça va, it's no problem.” Max nodded to the stairs. “Come on then, let's talk.”
Hugo watched them disappear down the steps, Max's old shoes scuffing loudly on the stone as he descended, and Hugo fought the temptation to spy on them. He forced himself to unfold the old canvas stool and sat on it, a temporary bouquiniste in a cashmere coat and cowboy boots.
He sat for a full minute, his mind busy but his feet numbing as he worried about Max. Using the cold as an excuse, he got up and walked to the stone balustrade, and looked down to the walkway. At first it seemed empty, but then voices rolled out from under the Pont Neuf. He leaned over the parapet and saw them in the shadows of the arch. He listened for a moment, unable to hear the words but recognizing the harsh tone.
He hesitated. Nica had said that this was none of his business and Max had wanted him to butt out, but it wouldn't hurt to wander down there, just to be sure. After almost twenty years in law enforcement, inserting himself into other people's disputes was second nature, sometimes an urge he couldn't resist—especially if the dispute seemed one-sided. Whether that urge was to protect the innocent or catch the guilty didn't much matter anymore.
Hugo started down the stairs. At the bottom he heard them again, Max's voice plaintive now. His quickened his step and looked past the men as he heard a low grumble from further under the bridge where a motor launch bobbed in the river behind them. Its propellers churned the gray water into white as an invisible hand throttled it against the current, keeping it close to the bank.
He was barely a dozen paces away when Max raised both hands, his old voice cracking, “Nica, non.” But Nica ignored Max's pleas and grabbed the bookseller by his lapels, pulling him close until their noses brushed.
“Hey!” Hugo called out. He tried to control his anger, to keep his voice calm. Better to diffuse than inflame, he told himself. “What's going on?”
Nica released Max and turned. “I told you, this has nothing to do with you. Go away.”
“Fine,” said Hugo. “But if you're all done, I'll walk monsieur back to his stall.” He held the man's dark stare and when he got no reply, added, “I saw some postcards I want to buy.”
The movement was fast and unexpected, a blur that ended with Nica holding the ice pick high, as if he were proud of his flourish. He held the tip between Max's eyes, then pointed it at Hugo. “Go. Take all the postcards you want. They are free today.”
Hugo hesitated. He could take two steps back and pull out his gun but, for as long as he'd carried a weapon, he'd never started a fire fight, and he had no desire to start one now. And if he wasn't quick enough, Max could be hurt, perhaps killed. Even if he did win a shoot-out he'd pay dearly, justified or not: his job was to protect the ambassador and visiting dignitaries, not play Wyatt Earp with riverside hoodlums.
But he looked at his trembling friend and knew that he wouldn't just walk away.
“If this is a question of money,” Hugo began, “I owe monsieur a little and would be happy to—”
“Enough.” Nica spat the words and a sneer crossed his face as he turned his head to look at the boat behind him. Without warning, he shoved Max against the high stone wall and started toward Hugo, moving like a boxer with his shoulders hunched forward, his ste
ps small and quick, the ice pick circling. Hugo resisted the impulse to back away, instead turning sideways and taking one tiny step back as the man reached him, the point of the pick spiraling toward his chest. Hugo waited a split-second more, then stepped in close, blocking Nica's thrust with his forearm, bringing the palm of his hand up sharply into the soft flesh under his assailant's chin. Nica's head snapped back and his knees buckled, and Hugo swept his legs from under him to make sure he hit the stone walkway hard. Nica rolled on the ground, clutching his throat, the ice pick on the ground between them.
Hugo started forward, reaching for his gun, just as Nica propped himself on one elbow. His other hand flashed out toward Hugo, who stopped in his tracks, his eyes drawn to Nica's sharp features, smug behind the silver pistol in his fist.
“If this had a silencer, you'd be dead,” Nica snarled. Still watching Hugo, Nica climbed to his feet and waved an arm at the boat, which had drifted a hundred feet or more from them. The engine barked and the bow lifted a fraction as it lurched forward, its windows black in the shadow of the bridge. Nica grabbed Max by the scruff of the neck and put the barrel of the gun against his temple, narrowing his eyes at Hugo. “Stay here until I can't see you anymore. You try to leave, he goes in the water.” Like crabs locked together, the two men edged backward toward the boat, sidling at the edge of the walkway. “Until I can't see you,” Nica called out. “And I will watch.”
Hugo looked at the face behind the gun and felt adrenaline course through his body, urging him to act. But he knew better than to challenge an armed man, he'd seen the results of that before, so he just clenched his jaw and nodded, committing Nica's features to memory before looking one more time at the terrified Max, whose eyes implored Hugo for help.
In less than a minute the men were on the launch, leaving Hugo helpless on the walkway, his hands twitching for his gun, or at least his phone. But he couldn't risk consigning the bouquiniste to the slick gray water, so he did as he'd been told and watched as the boat revved loud and swung away, heading east against the current, passing in the lea of Notre Dame.
He was a statue on the walkway, turned to stone by the figure at the stern of the boat, the sharp-featured man who stood watch over him and also over his victim, the huddled form of the old bouquiniste at his feet. Hugo glared back, his eyes fixed on the boat until it finally rounded the tip of the Ile de la Cité and disappeared from view.
Hugo stood by Max's stall and told his story to the first gendarme on the scene, a waif of a man who spoke no English and kept his pen and notepad busy as Hugo talked. A small crowd gathered behind the policeman, wide-eyed but wary, drawn like moths to the blue light that flashed atop his little white car.
“Wait here please, sir,” the policeman said. “There is a detective en route, he will take your statement.”
“Look, forget the statement. Right now I want your river police looking for that boat, maybe a helicopter, too. A man with a gun just kidnapped a friend of mine, in broad daylight and—”
“I heard you, sir,” the gendarme interrupted. He looked over his shoulder as an unmarked car pulled up behind his. “Voila, the detective. Talk to him about that, I don't have the authority.”
The detective was tall and lean, with the dark skin and hooked nose that spoke of Arab descent. He wore a green woolen sweater under an open overcoat and a matching ski hat that was pulled low over his ears. He slammed his car door, then looked up at the sky, sighed, and walked slowly over to the gendarme. He stood frowning as he listened to the hurried briefing, his hands deep in his pockets. When the gendarme had finished, the detective nodded and walked over to Hugo. He drew a hand out of his pocket and offered it to Hugo. It was ice cold.
“I'm told you are one of us, mon ami,” he said. He spoke in French, his voice low and worn as if he'd spent all day smoking the unfiltered cigarettes that Hugo could smell on him. “My name's David Durand.”
“Hugo Marston. What do you mean, ‘one of us’?” Hugo asked.
“Law enforcement.” He nodded toward the gendarme. “He says you work at the American embassy, speak French fluently, and carry a gun.”
“Former FBI, now security chief at the embassy,” Hugo said. “Look, I don't mean to be rude, but—”
“I have given the order for our river police to look for the boat you described. If a helicopter can be found, we'll send one up to help. But it will be dark soon and the pilots complain when we make them fly at night, especially so close to the center of the city. Not safe, they say.” He shivered and looked around. “Can you wait for a few moments? We have some witnesses I need to talk to.”
“Of course,” said Hugo, watching Durand approach a small group of onlookers. Hugo was comforted by the assurances of police boats, and maybe a chopper, but equally irritated by the man's languid attitude, his unhurried walk, as if this were a burglary with the intruders long gone.
Hugo turned and looked out over the water, picturing Max out there somewhere. He acted the gruff, tough guy, and maybe he once was, but Max was no longer young. Hugo had no idea what the thug Nica had wanted from his friend, but it wasn't some random shakedown. He wanted something specific and Hugo wondered what he would do to get it. His face flushed with anger as he imagined them hurting Max, beating a weak old man. Even if he had the mental toughness to resist, Hugo knew that violence to someone Max's age, even a minor assault, could prove too much for an old heart. Whoever had Max, whoever wanted something from him, could kill him without meaning to. Without even trying.
Hugo spun around when he heard the detective behind him. Durand had a frown on his face and dark green eyes watched Hugo intently. “Monsieur, un problème. I have spoken to two people who say that your friend got onto the boat of his own free will.”
Hugo stared at the detective, wondering if he'd misheard or if his mind had somehow mistranslated. “What did you say?”
“Two witnesses, monsieur. They say your friend left of his own free will.”
“Non, that's not possible, it's not…Who are the witnesses?”
“Why? Do you plan to make them change their stories?” It was said lightly, but the watchfulness in Durand's eyes remained.
“Of course not.” Hugo bit back his anger. “Look, the man had a gun, I can give you a description, I can pick him out of a line up. And I can assure you, Max did not go with him voluntarily.”
The detective looked out across the water, a black ribbon in the gathering dusk. “Bien.” He turned to the gendarme. “Make sure you have a full statement, every possible detail. I will go supervise the search. If they are still out there, we will find them.”
“Oui, monsieur,” said the officer, flipping open his notepad.
Durand took a last look at Hugo, then turned and walked to his car, the word “if” hanging between them.
Max had been right—the snow began to fall twenty minutes later as Hugo was walking home. He crossed the street into Rue Jacob and paused for a moment, bemused and angry by what had just happened, somehow unwilling to enjoy, perhaps undeserving of, the warmth and comfort of his apartment.
He took off his hat so the flakes could tickle his face and opened his mouth like a child, letting them fizz on his tongue. He walked on, the sense of unreality that had settled around him magnified as the falling snow muffled the sound of his footsteps on the sidewalk. He paused again, once, and thought he could hear a hiss as the snow hit the ground and melted. The flakes were large, though, and stuck to his coat and hair, so he knew they'd stick to the ground soon enough.
At the door to his apartment building he stopped and looked up and down the street. A hush had descended, the quiet that comes with the start of a heavy snowfall. He turned, wiped his boots on the large mat, and went into the foyer, nodding at the Cretian concierge who sat at the reception desk with a novel in his hand.
“Salut, Dimitrios.” Hugo took off his hat and batted the snow from it.
“Bonsoir, monsieur.” Dimitrios sprang to his feet. A wiry old man with a b
rush moustache, he looked after his tenants as though his life depended on it. “How are you? Friday night plans?”
“No, I've had my excitement for this week.” Hugo shook his head and kept moving. “Have a good night, Dimitrios.”
“Merci. Vous aussi, monsieur.”
Hugo trotted up the stairs to his apartment, passing straight through the living room and into his bedroom. He dropped the Rimbaud and the Agatha Christie on the bed and unholstered his gun, a Glock 19, and laid it next to the books. Then he knelt in front of a safe that he'd had specially built. Disguised as his bedside table, it was essentially a steel box with an elegant mahogany facing, and it was bolted to the wall beside his bed. He opened the safe and put his gun on the narrow shelf next to a larger, wooden-handled Smith & Wesson.
Hugo checked the time, six o'clock, so midday in America. A good time to call Christine again, but he had some things to do first. He wanted to call Max's home, go there in person just to prove to himself that what he'd witnessed really happened, that Max hadn't been a party to his own kidnap. But he realized that he didn't even know Max's last name, let alone his address or phone number. A vague recollection that they'd swapped last names, sure, probably over coffee or beer at their favorite dive, Chez Maman, but it wasn't close to the tip of his tongue, and he felt a little ashamed about that. Instead, he dialed the police prefecture and asked for Detective Durand. Three dead-ends later, a man's voice came on the line.
“Monsieur, you are looking for David Durand?”
“Oui.”
“Alors, he is not available. Can someone else help you?”
“Is he on duty and not available, or gone-home-for-the-day not available?”
The voice hesitated. “I'm not sure. Unavailable is all I know. Would you like to leave your name and number?”
“That depends,” Hugo said tautly. “When will he get the message?”