“Were you?”
He shot her a look.
“Sorry,” she said. “About the book. If it has something to do with his disappearance, you might want to think about getting it back. Can you?”
“The book, shit. Yes, I hope so.” He slapped the table, annoyed at himself for not thinking of it. “If someone has Max and all they want is the book, then it's an easy swap.”
“And if someone comes after you and you can give it to them, it's better than having a gun under your armpit.”
“No reason I can't have both, is there?” Hugo stood and kissed her forehead. He felt better now that they had a plan. “I'm pretty sure I saw you sneak a mille-feuille into the fridge,” he said. “Are you ready for some dessert?”
“Always. I'll get it while you call the bookseller.”
She left in the night again, this time whispering into and kissing his ear, apparently not caring if she woke him. It was two in the morning when the door closed behind her and Hugo lay on his back, something tugging at his mind, something he was supposed to do.
The book. He'd not been able to reach Kendall, the business card having just the shop's number. He'd left a message and tried to put it out of his mind. He couldn't see how the book could really be behind Max's kidnapping, but he'd follow up in the morning and call off the sale anyway, just to be sure.
He tossed and turned until five, then gave up and rolled out of bed. He started a pot of coffee and then padded into his study. Hugo dialed the number for Kendall's store again, hoping that the Englishman was also an early bird. On the sixth ring, the store's voicemail kicked in. Hugo left another message telling Kendall to pull the book from auction and hang on to it for him. Then he looked up numbers for Christie's and left it on the screen as he went to the kitchen and poured the coffee. He'd have to wait for the auction house to open; he didn't trust voicemail to get the job done there.
He called Christie's at eight and, after explaining his needs to the receptionist, was put through to a junior auctioneer who specialized in French literature.
“Paul Goodson, how may I be of service?”
“My name is Hugo Marston, and your receptionist tells me that a book I own is being auctioned there this morning.”
“I see. And what can we do for you?”
“I need you to pull it from auction.”
“Pull it—”
“Yes,” Hugo said. “Immediately.”
“Very well, sir. I can try.” The man sighed, clearly intending to let Hugo know how busy he was. Too busy for book owners who couldn't make their minds up about selling. “The auction starts in an hour, so I'll need you to send in a written authorization, signed and notarized, describing the item and your relationship to it.”
“Jesus, man. The item is a book, and we aren't having a relationship. I own the damn thing.” Hugo took a deep breath. “Look, I'm the head of security at the US Embassy and I need you to pull that book from auction.”
“This is State Department business?” The little ass was less sure of himself now.
“As far as you know, it is. I'll wait on the line, you go do your thing.”
“Tell me your name again, I'll check.”
Hugo gave him his name and the name of the book, and waited. It was a good five minutes before he heard the phone being picked up.
“Sir, I'm back.”
“Did you find it?”
“Yes and no.”
“Meaning?” Hugo said through clenched teeth.
“Well, the book is up for auction here.” Hugo could hear the tension in the young man's voice. “Thing is, Mr. Marston, you are not listed as the seller.”
Of course not, he'd authorized Kendall to handle it.
“Look, Peter Kendall is the man who put it up for sale for me. He's a bookseller here in Paris, you should know that. Just ask him. In fact, if he's there, bring him to the phone.”
“Sir, no one is here yet. And I do know Mr. Kendall, which is why I can't pull the book without his permission. We do a lot of business with him.”
“When does the auction start?”
“In less than an hour. And you should hurry if you're trying to contact him because we do the expensive pieces early. Our wealthy clients don't like to be made to wait.”
Of course they don't. “I'll get back to you.” Hugo hung up and tried Kendall again, leaving another message and then sending an e-mail. Too much to hope the guy carried a Blackberry.
He spent the next hour and a half hovering by his computer and the telephone, drinking coffee and crunching on a toasted, stale baguette made palatable by globs of black cherry jam. Every time he walked into his study he willed the phone to ring, and it did just before ten. He gave Kendall no reasons, just asked him to call and take the book off the auction block. Kendall apologized for not getting back to him before, he'd called Hugo's office by mistake. Kendall rang off with a promise to call back as soon as he'd canceled the sale.
It took another fifteen minutes, and when the bookseller called his voice was apologetic.
“I'm really sorry, Mr. Marston. The book sold already.”
“Shit.” Hugo's teeth clenched tighter. “Who bought it?”
“I asked but they wouldn't tell me. The buyer wanted to remain anonymous, and they have that right. Especially when they paid so much for it.”
Dammit. Hugo thought quickly. “Look, is the buyer still there, do you know? If they'd just let me talk to him…”
“Oh no,” said Kendall, “sorry, I should have said. He attended the auction by telephone. The wealthier clients tend to do that.”
“And I don't suppose they'd give me his phone number, would they?”
“No, I don't think so.” Kendall sighed. “I'm sorry Mr. Marston, I really am. Maybe if there is some compelling reason, I could ask someone there to make contact?”
Hugo didn't see his reasoning being too persuasive, and he didn't like going through intermediaries. He asked Kendall to fax a letter to Christies explaining that he'd put the book up for auction on Hugo's behalf. Kendall apologized again and said he'd send the letter immediately.
Hugo waited fifteen minutes before he called and asked for Paul Goodson.
“Hugo Marston again,” he said. “You got the letter from Peter Kendall?”
“Yes, I have it in front of me.”
“Good. He explained to me about the anonymous buyer.”
“Yes, sir. As I'm sure Mr. Kendall explained, we can't give out any information about the buyer.”
“So I gather,” Hugo said. “So assuming that's your position, if you'd be kind enough to put me through to your boss. No offense, it's just that I need that privacy policy bent a little out of shape, and I'm guessing he's the one to do it.”
“I can get him,” Goodson said. “The thing is, it's not a policy. Assuring this buyer's privacy is the only way we can get him to bid, so it's always in our contract of sale. Which, as you know, is signed already. I'm sorry Mr. Marston, but God himself couldn't persuade us to give up this client. Could you get a court order, maybe? We would have to release the name then.”
Hugo thought of the paperwork required to get an order from a judge. An American asking to make an international corporation give up confidential information and, possibly, make a wealthy French citizen give up an item he'd bought legally. And all for a crime that, even if it existed, had nothing to do with Hugo Marston or the American Embassy. No chance. “I'll look into that,” he said. “Do me a favor in the meantime, would you?”
“I'll try, Mr. Marston.”
“Get a message to your esteemed client. Tell him that if I don't get that book back, a man may die.”
“Are you serious, sir? I don't—”
“Yes, I'm serious. And truthfully, I'm not sure how or why. That's why I need the book. Tell him he'll get his money back, every penny.”