The Bookseller (31 page)

“This is not a game.” Chabot leaned forward and his eyes narrowed. “If he suspects that you know, you won't get within a mile of him. Not alive, anyway.”

“Monsieur Chabot.” Hugo took off his hat and placed it on the table, then sat with his hands open. “It's a matter of time. If you won't help us, then I'll go talk to my friend at the prefecture, the man looking into these murders. You know what he'll do? He'll come and talk to you. And he won't pass you a note, he'll show up with half a dozen police cars, sirens blazing and lights flashing. Then he'll take you into custody and you'll spend a day or so in jail. Now, it doesn't really matter whether or not you tell him anything at that point, does it? Because when you get out, if you get out, Dobrescu will be waiting for you. Is he the kind of man who'll take your word that you didn't say anything? Or is he the kind of man to kill you just in case?”

They watched as the truth settled over Chabot, his shoulders sagging under the weight of it. When he looked up at Hugo his eyes were damp. “I want American custody.”

“Why?” Hugo said. “I'm not sure I can promise you that. We're not officially involved and the French would almost certainly object.”

“Gravois has people in the prefecture,” he implored. “If I go there I am no safer than staying on the street.”

“What do you mean?” Hugo said. “What people?”

“I don't know. But I heard that a cop-friendly reporter was shot on Monday.”

“What do you know about that?” Hugo leaned forward, his jaw tight.

“I know Gravois ordered it.”

“What else?”

“How do you think Gravois knew where the journalist would be? The guy checked in with the prefecture, and someone passed on that information to Gravois.”

“The journalist wasn't a ‘guy,'” he told Chabot. “Your boss is not just shooting cop-friendly journalists, he's shooting female ones.”

“Then you see why I don't want to cross him,” Chabot said.

“Too late for that,” Tom said. “Like it or not, you're on our side now.”

“Only if I get American custody,” Chabot said. “If not, I will take my chances.” He sat back and crossed his arms in front of his chest.

“OK, fine,” Hugo said. “But it'll take a while to arrange, a few hours. You should stick with us in the meantime.”

“
Non
,” Chabot shook his head. “If it will take a few hours, I will go back to my stall. You may think you are safe from him, but if he sees I am missing and we are together we'll make a big target for him.”

“He's right, Hugo,” Tom said.

“OK,” Hugo nodded. “Go back to your stall while we take care of this. Tom, were you followed here?”

“Fuck you,” Tom said. “You're the one who's out of practice, and I'm not a fucking idiot.”

“Yeah, sorry,” Hugo said. “OK, we'll leave one by one, Monsieur Chabot, you go first. Pick up a sandwich close to here, that'll explain your brief absence if Gravois comes by.” Hugo wrote his cell number on a napkin and handed it to the Frenchman. “And memorize this, OK? Don't keep it on you. Remember and then destroy it. If anything
spooks you, call or text me. A simple SOS will do. We don't want to let Gravois know we're on to him, but if I can't get to you quickly we'll send the police. Got it?”

“
Oui
,” Chabot nodded. He put the napkin into his coat pocket with trembling fingers. “
Merde
. This is crazy.”

“Do you have any family?” Hugo asked. Close family would also need protection of some sort, given Dobrescu's proclivities.

“
Oui
.” Chabot looked at the floor. “I have a little girl. She lives with her mother and I don't see her too often.” He sat up. “I have to tell her good-bye. Just in case, I have to.”

“That's not a good idea. You need to be at your stall when Gravois comes by.” Hugo remembered the public slap Gravois had given Chabot. “I'm guessing he's not used to people disobeying him.”

“
C'est vrai
,
monsieur
.” That's true. “But if I go into witness protection or if…I need my Nicole to know that I didn't leave without saying good-bye.” Chabot spread his hands. “What would you do?”

“OK.” Hugo frowned. “We'll need to change the plan, then. Don't go back to your stall at all. Do what you have to do, go see your daughter, and then come back here. And remember, call me if there's a problem.”

Hugo sat and watched Chabot scurry out of the bar. He turned to Tom. “I'm no good at this secrecy business. Are we handling this right?”

“You never know until it's over.” Tom sipped at his beer. “Hey, do you want me to stick with Chabot?”

“I don't know. He's going to piss off Gravois if he's not there for their meeting. That guy is pretty paranoid, so he may well set the dogs on Chabot. And if he does, you don't want to find yourself between them.”

 

 

It was three o'clock when Hugo walked into Ambassador Taylor's office. The ambassador already knew about Roussillon's death and he sat behind his desk, listening sympathetically and without interruption as Hugo articulated Chabot's request for US custody.

When Hugo had finished, he sat back. “Same question as always, Hugo. What is our interest in all this? Look, I may be the big boss around here but I have to answer to others, too. The secretary of state for one, and sometimes the president. If what you're saying is true, taking him into protective custody here is an admission that we think the French police are dirty.”

“Only one or two of them.”

“If we even suggest that, people will get upset. We spend a lot of time playing cop in the Third World, I'm not sure we want to be playing it in Old Europe, too. I need some genuine American interest to justify bringing him in here and keeping him from the French.”

Hugo nodded. It wasn't an unreasonable position. “How about the fact that a US Embassy worker was shot at?”

“Nice try.” Ambassador smiled. “The way I hear it you were the hero, not the target.”

“That seems to depend on who you ask.” Hugo stood and began pacing in front of the desk, his hands clasped behind his back as he thought. He stopped and snapped his fingers. “What if a member of the French police brought him here and asked for our help?”

“The French police…” The ambassador studied the floor for a moment. “Yes, I think that would do it. For a little while, anyway.”

“Good enough.” Hugo stood. “We're meeting this weasel at a bar across the river. I'll take a couple of my guys and bring him in.”

“Hang on.” The ambassador held up a hand. “If you do this, it's just you and the French cop. Otherwise it looks like we're running the show and that's the exact impression I have to avoid giving.”

“Point taken,” said Hugo. “I'll confirm the target has made the rendezvous and then call in my cop.”

“Good idea.” Ambassador Taylor walked to his door with Hugo. “So how is the wounded reporter doing?”

“Miraculous recovery. A little sore, of course, but physically pretty good, though shaken by her father's death.”

“I'm sure. He was a good man, I can hardly believe it myself. I trust the French have someone looking out for her,” Ambassador Taylor said. Hugo cleared his throat and looked at the floor, and the ambassador smiled. “Ah, I see. Then she's in safe hands.”

Hugo left the ambassador's office and made his way down to the security section where he found Claudia and Emma in his office. Emma was running her finger over a map pointing out where she'd been stationed over the years. Hugo went straight over and gently put his arms around Claudia.

“Are you OK?” he said.

“Yes, I think so.” Color had returned to her face and she looked more like the crime reporter he'd first met than a daughter who'd just stumbled over her murdered father. “I'm OK, Hugo, I just want to know what's going on, who did this.”

“Me too, we're working on it.” He looked at Emma and then Claudia. “Right now I need to ask a favor.”

“From whom?” Emma asked.

“Both, actually. We've got some fun and games brewing with the locals. Probably be best if you sit tight here for a couple of hours.”

“
Attends
,” said Claudia. Wait. “What exactly is ‘brewing'? Are you doing something dangerous?”

“It shouldn't be, no.”

“Will Tom be with you?”

“Yes.”

“Good, then you can take care of your nondangerous business while he looks after me.”

“I'll tell you all about it tonight, I promise. But you're not coming.”

“Why not?”

“Well, for one thing you just suffered a great shock. For another, you are still wounded.” His voice was calm but firm. “I think those are pretty good reasons.”

“And you think you're the one to decide that?” Sparks flew in Claudia's eyes, and Hugo saw he wasn't going to win easily.

He turned to his secretary. “Emma, tell her.”

“I'm staying out of this.” She turned and walked back out to her desk and closed the door on the way. Hugo thought he saw a smirk on her face.

“Hugo.” Claudia stood with her hands on her hips, her hazel eyes flashing. “I'm absolutely serious.”

“I know, but so am I. I meant it when I said it shouldn't be dangerous. And when I said I'd tell you about it tonight. But it's one of those times where if something does go bad, you don't want to be there.”

“No, you mean if it goes bad
you
don't want me to be there.”

“Either way.” Hugo shook his head. “Look, I'm sorry, I just can't take the risk. It's…”

“It's for my own good?”

Hugo winked. “You bought that last night.”

She rolled her eyes. “We're not talking about a spanking, Hugo.”

He glanced at the door and gave her a “keep it down” look. “My plans involve coming back here anyway, probably in an hour or so. You're in no shape to be running around and neither Tom nor I will be able to babysit you.”

“Hugo!” She refused his attempt at a peck on the cheek as he passed. He didn't stop to try again, but he felt her eyes boring into his back.

Outside the embassy, he called Tom. “Still in the Place de la Concorde?”

“No,” Tom said, his voice low. “The Crillon.”

“Jesus Tom,” Hugo groaned. “What are you doing there?”

The Hotel Crillon, just across the street from the Place de la Concorde and within a quarter-mile of the US Embassy, was one of the world's oldest luxury hotels. Hugo had worked the place numerous times, as it was usually the first choice for visiting dignitaries. Everyone from Charlie Chaplin to Jackie Onassis and Axl Rose had stayed there. One of its greatest moments, as far as Hugo was concerned, was the day after Lance Armstrong won the Tour de France for the seventh time: the hotel flew the Texas flag to honor the achievement of their guest.

“What am I doing here? Are you kidding me?” Tom whispered. “I've always wanted to see this place, it's fucking amazing. Did you know they have seven different types of marble in here?”

“‘In here?' You're in the restaurant? Great.” The hotel's restaurant was called Les Ambassadeurs and had been serving fine and hugely expensive meals since the mid-nineteenth century. It was decorated in rococo style, with crystal chandeliers and marble abounding; his friend was right to be impressed. “And Tom, why are you whispering?”

“Why do you think? They don't allow cell phones in here.”

“Of course not.” Hugo chuckled. “So hang up and meet me out front.”

“Jesus, this place is a fucking palace, you should see this furniture.”

“It is and I have,” said Hugo. “Now get out of there before I call and have you thrown out.”

“You'd do it too, you bastard. I'll be right out.”

They met in front of the hotel and walked slowly along the Right Bank, past the Tuileries and the Louvre. They crossed the Seine on the Pont des Arts and Hugo pointed out Francoise Benoit's stall, now occupied by a short, squat, and very dark-skinned man smoking a cigar. Hugo declined Tom's suggestion that they dump him over the bridge and play Poohsticks with him, but he smiled at the image.

Their route was roundabout, their plan to slowly circle into the bar, taking turns to dip in and out of stores along the way to see if they were being followed. It didn't take long to find out that they were.

“Easy peasy,” Tom said, breathing hard as he caught up to Hugo. He'd slipped into a designer clothing store on the Boulevard Saint-Germain and had spotted the tail. “Want me to take her out?”

“Her?”

“This one's an amateur.” Tom winked. “But as far as tails go, very nice. Have a look.”

Hugo turned and saw, about a hundred yards behind them, a woman with short brown hair making her way toward them.

“Shit,” he said. “Claudia.”

They waited, and a few seconds later she spied them watching her. She stuck her chin out and kept going. “Shut up Hugo, don't say anything.” She was a little out of breath, but defiant. “And you can't be mad at me, my father just died.”

“Claudia, I'm not mad,” Hugo said. He wasn't. In fact, he was impressed. “But you have to understand, I wasn't kidding, this isn't safe for you.”

“Or for you.”

“How about we don't play games?”

“How about you don't patronize me?” Her eyes flashed again.

“Yeah,” said Hugo, “we've been over that. Just sit tight in a café and I'll call when it's over.”

“When what's over?”

“Nice try.”

Hugo frowned as his cell phone buzzed. He pulled it out of his pocket, planning to let it go to voicemail. But when he saw the incoming number, his stomach tightened.

“Tom, it's Chabot. Text message.” He flipped the phone open and read the message:
21 rue veon vite
. He looked up at Tom. “Rue Veon, where is that?”

“How the fuck would I know?” Tom said. “This is your city.”

Hugo looked at Claudia. “Any idea?”

“It rings a bell,” she said. “Rue Veon…why is that familiar?”

“I'll call Emma.” Hugo dialed her number and waited. “Dammit. Voicemail.”

“Probably hunting for me in the bathroom,” Claudia said. “Sorry.”

“He didn't say anything else, Hugo?” Tom asked.

“No. The word ‘hurry' isn't a good sign though.”

“Yeah. Makes it unlikely to be just a new rendezvous point.”

“Exactly.” Hugo knew they were thinking the same thing.

Gravois has him.

“Call the cops?” Tom suggested.

“One of them, anyway.” He dialed Capitaine Garcia's number and got him on the third ring. He explained the situation as fast as he could, listened for a moment, then hung up. “He'll be here in five minutes.”

Tom nodded at Claudia. “And her?”

“She's staying with us,” Hugo said. “If Gravois has Chabot he might know about us and have someone looking. My apartment doesn't seem to be the safest place in the world.”

“A café might be,” Tom said.

“Yeah, if she stays put, which I wouldn't count on.”

“Hey,” Claudia protested, “I'm right here, stop talking about me like I'm not. And tell me what the hell is going on.”

“We were supposed to meet with this guy Chabot,” Hugo said, “to take him into protective custody.”

“Just you?” Claudia said.

“Yes. It's complicated. Jurisdiction and politics getting in the way of law enforcement.”

“For once,” muttered Tom.

Hugo put a hand on her good shoulder. “I don't need you in harm's way again, Claudia.”

“I appreciate that,” she said. “But I have my own reasons for wanting to come. This is important to me.”

Hugo nodded. “I know. Look, you can come but you have to stay in the car, OK?”

“Fine,” said Claudia. She added, with a tight smile, “I'm right-handed, so I can shoot if you need me to.”

“No,” Hugo said. “We won't need you to. Look, I'm hoping we're just going to pick him up, but I don't know how this is going to play out.
I just don't. If you're coming you have to do exactly what I say, do you understand?”

“Yes, sure.” Claudia nodded, serious now.

“And I mean exactly. None of this independent reporter crap, OK?”

“I said yes, Hugo, I understand.”

They stood at the curb and watched for Capitaine Garcia. He was there in four minutes, pulling up in a plain black Citroen, his window sliding down as he stopped. Hugo went around to the front passenger seat while Tom and Claudia moved toward the back seat. Hugo started to introduce her to the capitaine, but they both ignored him, and she stooped by the open window to swap rapid
bisous
.

“You know each other?” Hugo asked.

“Get in,” Claudia said. “And yes.”

“We've worked together,” Garcia said. “
Alors
, where are we going?”

“His message said Rue Veon, do you know it?” Hugo said.

“
Non
. I'll call my office.” He dialed and, Hugo guessed from his tone, spoke to a subordinate. “
Oui
, Veon. V-E-O-N. What do you mean it doesn't exist? Look again.”

“Wait,” Claudia said, sitting forward. “Maybe he meant Rue Véron. With an
r.
He was texting, right? And in a hurry. Maybe he dropped the
r
.”

“Where is Rue Véron?” Hugo asked.

“Montmartre,” she said. “I had a friend who lives up there.”

“What kind of street is it?”

“Small, narrow. Residential only. You know, the typical Paris street with five- or six-story buildings. All apartments, I'd guess.”

“On my way,” Garcia said. He revved the car and peeled away from the curb before she'd finished giving directions. He handled the car well, sliding past slower traffic without using his siren, using the accelerator to get him out of trouble more often than the brake. In minutes they were at Pont de le Concorde and speeding past the US Embassy. The thought flashed through Hugo's mind to drop Claudia there. But Chabot had said “vite,” so time was against them.