by Mark Pryor
“Actually, there was more.” Roussillon wrote on a fresh sheet. “The most sinister part was this.” He handed it to Hugo: A l'air de suicide. A list of six names followed.
“Make it look like suicide,” Hugo read. “You'd think they would want to make an example of him.”
“Not someone so powerful, so connected. The Nazis would have wiped out dozens, maybe hundreds, of innocent people in revenge.”
“Yes, I'd forgotten that tactic. And this list of names, they are the people ordered to kill your father?”
“No,” Roussillon said, his voice almost a whisper. “No, those are the names of men who died because of my father. And as much as those names tortured me, imagine how they tormented him.”
Hugo nodded, then glanced up and found Roussillon looking at him. “I'm curious, would you have destroyed the book?” Hugo asked.
“No, I don't think so. It holds too much history, it is too valuable to disappear in flames. Do you know, neither my father nor I ever even saw the book, never laid eyes on the pages that contain secrets powerful enough to destroy us.”
“You are sure it even contains those secrets, those names?”
“My father was, and the information he passed on to me was very specific. I am sure it is true, as sure as he was. And so you see that quite apart from the monetary value of such an old book, the secret it holds is itself historically significant, of course.”
“True, but that secret only makes the book more valuable, historically speaking, if someone discovers it.”
“Of course,” said Roussillon. “And perhaps you misunderstand. I said before that the victorious get to rewrite history. That's never been my intention, and it's precisely what I would be doing if I buried this secret forever. No.” He shook his head and took another sip of his water. “In all honesty, I am not entirely sure what I would do with it. On the one hand I feel obliged to let Claudia know her family history, to tell her myself in case she first hears it from someone else and wastes time and effort in a futile defense of the Roussillon name.” He shrugged. “But on the other hand, I still want to protect her. Not only from the secret itself, but from having to carry it around for the rest of her life.”
“Your daughter is a strong, intelligent woman. She can cope with the truth,” Hugo said. “Look at her career—she hasn't relied on the Roussillon name to get where she is. Of course you should tell her.”
“Maybe. You know, I had thought that I might like to sit down with a writer and explain it all. It would make a fascinating story, don't you think? And sooner rather than later.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Several reasons. Like an alcoholic repenting his ways to those he sinned against, I must in my pursuit of spiritual and religious sobriety repent the sins of my father.”
“So you think that's what the Bible is saying?”
“I have no idea. But it doesn't matter because it's my sin, too. I have been hiding the truth from the world, from my own family even. And the Bible is clear about one thing: I may not continue to sin and also find salvation.”
“That's the why,” Hugo said. “Even if it's not a great one from the atheist's perspective. But why now?”
“It's not only cowardice I inherited from my father,” Roussillon said. “He also blessed me with the genes for early onset dementia. My daughter tells me I have blank moments, that you witnessed one at dinner. I don't notice those so much, but I do know,” he spread his hands, “that I have been forgetting things lately. Small and unimportant things, but my doctor tells me this is how it starts. I need to tell Claudia, and maybe the world, this story before I forget it.” He offered a weak smile. “And after that, well, you know we Europeans are embracing the idea of euthanasia. It does seem like a dignified option, don't you think?”
“I can't say I've thought about it much.”
“Well, I suppose you've had no reason to.”
Hugo let that part of the conversation trail away before asking, “And Max?”
“Ah, yes. I didn't realize that he was your friend. But yes, I spoke to a man called Max. I didn't get his last name and I didn't even know he was a bouquiniste. I don't know why, I thought he had a book store somewhere though, as I think about it now, he never said so explicitly.”
“He called you?”
“Yes. He said he knew I was looking for the book, On War. That was no great secret, collectors like me make it known when they want certain books. I myself have put word out for dozens over the years, On War was just one. The secret, of course, was why I was looking for it.”
“What did Max say?”
“We didn't talk for long. He said he had the book and wanted to meet with me.” Roussillon shrugged. “To try and sell it, negotiate a price I suppose.”
“Where did you meet?”
“We didn't. I didn't have time. I was on my way out of the country for a couple of days, literally on the way to the airport.”
“So what did you do?”
“I asked someone to handle the purchase for me. I authorized him to offer up to two hundred thousand Euros.”
“That's a lot of money,” Hugo said, an uneasy feeling rising. “Who did you ask to handle the purchase?”
“I wanted someone with natural authority, someone I knew would bargain hard. I wanted the book badly, of course, and would have paid a lot more, as I'm sure you can guess. But why pay more if you don't have to?”
“Gravois.” Hugo held Roussillon's eye. “You asked Bruno Gravois to get that book for you.”
They sat for a moment, watching each other. Then Roussillon nodded his head slowly, a frown forming.
“You are right, yes. But now I feel like you are hiding something from me.”
Hugo leaned forward. “What happened after you spoke to Gravois?”
“With the book?” Roussillon shrugged. “Nothing.”
“What do you mean, nothing?”
“Gravois said that he called the number your friend gave but that your friend didn't answer and never called back.”
Hugo processed this for a moment. “So you really don't have the book?”
“No. I never even saw it. And I didn't hear from Max again.”
“You wouldn't have,” Hugo said, watching de Roussillon closely. “Max was killed very soon after you spoke to him.”
The Frenchman's head snapped up and Hugo saw the color draining from his cheeks. “Killed? How do you mean?”
“I mean he was murdered.”
“What?” Roussillon's mouth hung open in shock and the hand holding his water began to shake. He put the glass on the table, spilling some in the process. His voice trembled. “What happened? Why would someone murder him?”
“I'm not entirely sure.” Hugo shook his head. “I've been trying to figure that out for a couple of weeks now.”
“You think it has something to do with the book, On War?” Roussillon shook his head. “Please, God no.” He lifted his eyes and looked directly at Hugo. “Hugo, this cannot be. Too many men, good men, patriots and heroes have died because of the cowardly blood that runs in my veins. Please, don't tell me that I, too, have killed an innocent man somehow. That would go against everything I have believed, everything I wanted to do.”
“I don't know, Gérard. But every time Gravois's name comes up, I'm seeing bodies.”
Roussillon started to rise but his legs shook and he sank back into his seat. “Tell me the truth,” he said. “What has Gravois done? What have I done?”
“To be blunt again, I think that by asking Gravois to negotiate your deal, you may have unintentionally sent Max to the bottom of the Seine.” Hugo immediately regretted his choice of words because Roussillon's body seemed to crumple with despair.
When Roussillon looked up, his eyes were wet but his voice was strong. “What can I do to help you? Whatever it is, I will do it.”
“I'm not sure. I am not even sure I'm right about Gravois. But tell me this: What's your connection to him?”
&n
bsp; Roussillon shook his head again. “I always thought him an atrocious man, really I did. He reminds me of a zombie, limping around like a corpse. Something about him has always frightened me.”
“So why did you intercede on his behalf ?”
“You mean to the ambassador?” Roussillon shrugged. “I owed Gravois a favor and I didn't think, honestly, that it would do anyone any harm.”
“What favor?”
“When he took over from Ceci Roget, I went to him. I told him that I was looking for a few prewar books. I didn't tell him why, but I figured that as the head of the SBP he was in the best position to help me keep an eye out for books moving though the stalls. He agreed to help, not just with the Clausewitz, but he helped me acquire a number of valuable books.”
“And so talking to Ambassador Taylor was just a favor.”
“Yes. And despite my personal feelings about the man, I had no reason to think that his motives were impure.”
“I believe you, Gérard. And it may be that he is entirely innocent.”
“The police will look into him, I assume.”
“There has been some hesitancy, to be honest. As you yourself pointed out, he has political clout.”
“He does.” Roussillon stared at him for a moment. “And you know the ways of law enforcement better than I do, but it seems like an investigation into the man would go a long way into answering some questions.”
“Oh, I agree. But no police agency will just investigate someone unless they are pretty sure it'll lead somewhere, or if they simply have no choice but to do so. Searching someone's home or office, even digging into their background too obviously…” Hugo shrugged. “Policemen are busy people, sometimes when the bit is not yet between their teeth, someone needs to put it there.”
“So do you think I should talk to him, to Gravois? Confront him?”
“I don't think that would be a good idea, no.”
Roussillon grimaced. “I am not scared of him. Not now, not anymore.” He looked at Hugo. “Now I am just angry.”
“I know,” Hugo said. “I feel the same way. But if I'm right, then he's dangerous and you are not equipped to tangle with him. And if I'm wrong, you certainly don't want to be accusing him of murder.”
“Perhaps. Mon dieu, I don't understand all this. I couldn't bear it if I thought I'd caused your friend's death.”
“Even if I'm right, this isn't your fault. It isn't.”
“I hear what you say, but mark my words. If he is responsible for this, and I believe you when you say he is, I will see that he does not escape justice. Whatever it costs me.”
They both looked up as, from the other end of the library, someone knocked twice. The door opened and Jean stepped in.
“Monsieur, the ambulance is here. Your daughter is home.”
Hugo spent a few minutes with Claudia before leaving her in the care of her father. The Frenchman seemed suddenly old and frail, perhaps rattled by their discussion, or maybe distressed at seeing his daughter in bandages. As Hugo bade them farewell, Roussillon was fussing around her like an overprotective hen, fetching water and cushions, brushing her hair and forehead with his fingers as if to reassure himself she was really there. Every now and then he would turn sad eyes on Hugo, who felt like he'd said too much, burdening Roussillon more than he should have.
Jean drove him back to Rue Jacob, and Hugo spent the afternoon wandering around his apartment completing small but meaningless tasks. Tom was missing in action again but this time had left no note. Real sightseeing, Hugo hoped. He tried calling and bit back his impatience, wanting to share what he knew with his best friend, with the mind that was considerably sharper than its owner ever let on. But he got no answer. At five o'clock his phone rang and he snatched it up without checking to see who was calling. He smiled when he heard the voice on the other end.
“I'm downstairs,” Claudia said. “I need a drink and some company, but I'm not walking up four flights of steps. You busy?”
He found her sitting on the bottom step, her handbag resting beside her. As he helped her up Tom walked through the door, whistling softly and clapping his hands in delight when he saw them. Claudia put her good arm around Tom's shoulders and laughed, “So this must be Tom. Bien, now I have two men to buy me drinks.”
They headed to a café nearby where Tom shooed away the wine list and started ordering vodka. This pleased Claudia who, Hugo guessed, had some pain and a few bad memories to chase away. He didn't feel like keeping pace with them, but he was glad to have his old friend there to keep Claudia company amid the shot glasses.
For much of the evening, in fact, Hugo stared out of the café at the bundled up passersby and tried to pick through the confusing mass of coincidences and dead-end facts that he'd turned up in the hunt for Max's killer. The wraiths of cigarette smoke and rising aromas of alcohol and garlic filled the air around him, closing in and heightening the already strong sensation of being trapped in a maze. He knew full well there was a way out, an answer, and he was certain Gravois was it. But he had no idea which way to go, how to get to him. And, while he sat there scratching his head like a dumb cartoon detective, it seemed like someone was out there trying to kill him. Garcia had suggested that it was Claudia they were after, perhaps because of her growing connection to the police, or maybe because of unfinished business from her husband's death—and maybe that was right. Either way, Hugo was under no illusions that the shooter was finished.
As the laughter and chatter went on around him, Hugo sipped his watered-down scotch, aiming for the peaceful patch of consciousness that lay between relaxation and intoxication. If he made it there, he hoped, some of the loose ends would tie themselves together and give him a rope to hang Gravois.
But for what? Being creepy? Hugo was sure the SBP leader was at, or close to, the center of the mystery, but the man had insulated himself from questions, from answers.
Hugo looked at Tom, red-eyed and laughing so hard his belly shook. A washed-up CIA spook and an out-of-practice FBI agent. Even they should be able to do better than this.
In the end, Hugo decided that the one decision he'd got right was spending the evening at a neighborhood café. By the end of the night, Tom was too drunk to walk by himself and Claudia, who'd sensibly swapped her vodka for Perrier an hour before they headed home, was too tipsy, talkative, and wounded to be of any help dragging Tom home. After Hugo had hauled them both to the top of the stairs and into the study, he propped Tom in a corner. Hugo opened up the sofa bed and then put an arm around his friend's shoulders, making sure he fell in the right direction.
“Should you undress him?” Claudia said. “Cover him up?”
“Probably,” Hugo said, heading for the door.
They went to the bedroom, and the light from his bedside lamp guided them as they undressed each other—she insisted on doing her share. Hugo was tender, afraid to hurt her, but saw fire in her eyes and gave in to an urge to run his hands through her hair.
“Pull it and see what happens,” she whispered.
He tightened his grip and tugged her head back, exposing her pale throat to his kiss. Claudia gasped and her breath quickened. She cupped the back of Hugo's head with her good hand, then trailed her fingers to his chest and tore off the last of his shirt buttons.
They awoke just before nine, the room stuffy and tainted with the sweet smell of sex, stale alcohol, and sweat. Hugo slipped out of bed, promising coffee to a mumbling and bedraggled Claudia. He pulled on pants and a T-shirt and walked into the living room. Even from there he could hear Tom snoring. He set about the coffee maker, erring on the side of stronger rather than weaker, for Claudia's sake and his own.
He walked through the living room, straightening and picking up as he made his way to the window overlooking Rue Jacob. The blast of fresh air made him shiver, but he left the window wide open as he went back to the kitchen. He heard the shuffle of feet behind him and Claudia appeared, her healthy arm held high, covering her eyes, shielding them fro
m the morning light. He looked at her other arm and was relieved not to see any red stains on the bandages. She wore a blue T-shirt of his and, he saw when she leaned on the counter, nothing else except a few goose bumps on her bottom. Her whole body suddenly shivered.
“I was going to bring it to you in bed,” Hugo said.
“I needed to pee.” Her voice was hoarse and cracked. “If I go back to bed I won't get up for a week. Mmm, bed for a week sounds good.”
Hugo put a cup of coffee under her nose. “Milk and sugar?”
“Just sugar. Lots.”
He dropped in three teaspoonfuls and stirred for her. “Food?”
“Later. Maybe.” She looked at him and rubbed a hand across her forehead. “God, I haven't done that in a while.”
“Which?” Hugo asked with a wink.
“Funny.” She sipped at the coffee then licked her lips. “Mind if I finish this in the bathtub? The shower's out for a while.”
“Help yourself.”
She reappeared thirty minutes later in the jeans and blue cashmere sweater she'd worn the previous night. She was still pale, but she'd brushed her hair and put on some makeup. She went straight to the coffee pot and refilled her cup. Stirring in sugar, she lowered herself gingerly onto the couch beside him then nodded to the window. Hugo had closed it in anticipation of more nakedness. “Looks like a pretty day. Can I see you later?”
“Are you going somewhere now?”
“I should check in with my father. He told me about the conversation you had with him yesterday.”
“He did?”
“Yes. And it's funny, I've always known something was up, something kept hidden from me. But I'm glad he told me, he seemed to need that, to talk about it after discussing it with you like that. He seemed very sad about the whole thing. I've never seen him like that.”
“Understandable,” Hugo said. He squeezed her hand. “It's been quite a week for you. Are you OK with everything?”
“Still processing, I think. I keep telling myself that nothing changes who I am, and that nothing should change how I see my father. But this, it's not something I could ever have imagined.”