Hugo rolled his eyes. “Later maybe. I have something more interesting to talk about first.”
“The guy sounds like a control freak.” Tom had drained his whisky, half his beer, and was onto his coffee. “His office, the way he looked and talked, everything by the sounds of it. Jeez, the only person I know of who slaps people in public is you.”
“Funny.”
“Look, Hugo, it's also possible he was just fucking with you. He may not know anything at all, just hates nosey American reporters. And there ain't no sin in that.”
“Maybe. But he's definitely a control freak, I'd say actively paranoid. I just got the sense that he was hiding something. Correction: he was clearly hiding something.”
“That's the definition of paranoid, Hugo. They hide shit when they don't have to, they hide shit they don't even know about.”
“Yeah, I know.” Hugo sipped at his own coffee, now almost cold.
“So what the fuck can I do to help?”
“Do you think you can find out who bought the book? Get it back?”
“Dude, I can find the buyer. I can have him disappear in a car accident somewhere in Monaco if you like.”
Hugo looked at his friend and knew that he was only half-joking. Maybe not even half. “Let's keep it legit. He can have his money back and if the book turns out to have nothing to do with this, I'll give him first option to buy at a discount.”
“You sweet man. And if he doesn't want to give it up?”
“I rely on your discretion and powers of persuasion,” Hugo said.
“You got it.”
“You remember I said legit, right?”
“Yeah, you did say that. Anything else?”
“Yes, one thing. Think you can dig up anything on this Bruno Gravois?”
“Honestly Hugo, if there's anything on him then it's probably on the DCRI or DGSE databases. I'll look, but all these agencies now, CIA, FBI, and Interpol,” he snorted derisively, “they're all touchy feely, into sharing information and open access. Which means that we gather it, they use it. It's bullshit if you ask me, but of course no one does.”
“Of course.” Hugo drained his coffee. “Now, if the lecture's over, let's head out. I have work to do in the morning.”
“Work?” Tom raised his beer glass. “Fuck work.”
“Ah yes, you had something else in mind.”
“Meaning?”
“You're hoping I'll go to the Moulin Rouge with you tonight.”
Tom slapped the table with delight. “Now we're talking! Go on, do your thing.”
“For old time's sake, but I'm a little rusty so this is an easy one. We'll start with the fact that you are tech savvy, which means you get your news online. And yet you come here carrying a newspaper. It's crumpled, so you've finished with it, but you didn't read it here, obviously, so you probably got it from the airport or train station.”
“Airport. Free in the business class lounge.”
“And yet you still have it, so I have to presume that you saw something that caught your eye and made you want to hang on to it. Otherwise, obviously, you would have disposed of the paper long before you got here.”
“So far so good.”
“So, knowing you, the something that caught your eye will either be drinkable or have long, sleek legs. Rule out booze because I can't think of anything drink-related that would cause you to hang on to a newspaper for hours. Which leaves us with the legs. Now, regular strip joints don't advertize in major newspapers, so I'm guessing it's something higher class and aimed at tourists, which brings me to the Moulin Rouge.”
“Impressive.”
“I'm not done, because you can go there any time you like, so why the newspaper today? That's made easier because I also know that you're a cheap bastard, which makes me suspect there's a coupon or discount advertized for tonight. Maybe tomorrow night.”
“Fuck, I've missed you.” Tom was grinning broadly, unfolding the paper to the full-page ad. At least half of the page was taken up by the long, bare legs of a dancer. “Her name is Mimi and she's a goddamn marvel, a star as good as any from the past. For her show tonight it's buy one ticket, a friend gets in for free. Shall we?”
“She is beautiful. But you know that buying a ticket doesn't entitle you to sleep with her?”
“My dear friend,” Tom wagged a finger. “I think that's for her to decide, not you. Well?”
Hugo stood and patted his friend's head. “Good to see you, too, Tom. No dancing girls, but I do have booze at home. You coming?”
Chapter Thirteen
It was early afternoon the next day when Hugo fixed himself a sandwich and flipped on the coffee maker for his third cup, and Tom's first. More whisky, several pints of water, and a host of war stories had kept them up well past midnight and neither man's body had seen fit to stir before the noon bells clanged.
As the coffee brewed and Tom took a shower, Hugo turned on the computer in his study, now Tom's bedroom, and was logging in when the doorbell rang. Hugo checked his security monitor, wondering if Claudia had decided to stop by rather than return the message he'd left with her. Instead, he saw a young man with the beginnings of a Mohawk fidgeting on the doorstep. He wore a blue parka with an insignia on the breast and blue nylon pants with a black stripe down the sides. Delivery boy, and apparently Dimitrios wasn't at his station to let him in. Hugo picked up his phone and unlocked the door remotely. A minute later he opened his apartment door and took an envelope from the young man, thanked him with some coins, and retreated back inside.
The envelope, unmarked, was between white and cream in color and so expensive it was almost cloth. Thin, too, so no more than a letter inside. The thinner the safer, Hugo knew. He went to his desk and searched for his letter opener, an ornate wooden knife given him by the head of a Namibian delegation who'd been impressed by the size and efficiency of the security detail Hugo had provided. He slipped it into the corner of the envelope and scythed it open. Inside, as he'd suspected, a single piece of paper. He pulled the letter out and sat down to read.
It was written in English, in an elegant, sloping hand. From the broadness of the letters and the lack of indentation on the back, Hugo could see it was written with a fountain pen. No doubt an expensive one. The paper was embossed with raised, silver lettering and, of all things, a coat of arms belonging to one Gérard de Roussillon, le Comte d'Auvergne. On the page was written:
Monsieur Marston:
Please forgive the short notice, I am not in the habit of imposing without a fair degree of warning. However, if you find yourself available I would be very grateful if you could spare me and a few of my friends an hour or two of your time. In a poor attempt to make amends for my late invitation, I will send a car for you at seven o'clock. Please dress for dinner.
I look forward to meeting you.
It was not, Hugo knew, as much an invitation as a summons. And he had no idea why it had come to him. He tried but failed to remember an official function at the embassy involving a count. But he'd come across a lot of people whose names and backgrounds he didn't know, people who often wanted to curry favor with Americans. This guy could be one of them.
Hugo turned back to his computer and typed his host's name into a search engine, but other than a few links to books on French nobility, there was nothing of note on the first page of results. Hugo clicked onto the second page and saw a reference to “G. de Roussillon.” The description indicated that, assuming it was the same man, le Comte d'Auvergne was a client. Hugo clicked on the link and the image of worn, leather-bound books appeared. It was the website for the bookshop belonging to Pierre Vasson, perhaps the most expensive and connected of the country's sellers of “livres anciens et d'occasion.” Hugo had been there several times, more to browse than buy, such were the prices. The image of the Rimbaud sprang into his mind, the connection too obvious not to rear its head. Not another coincidence, surely.