“The man kidnapped was my friend, and I was there, I saw it. Whoever did it either paid off or threatened witnesses to say nothing happened. I'm just trying to find out what happened, that's all.”
“Have you been to his home?” the ambassador asked.
“Yes. He wasn't there and his neighbor hadn't seen him.”
“Well, maybe he was out buying books or groceries,” Roussillon said. “I don't see my neighbors for weeks at a time.”
“He lives in an apartment, not a mansion,” Hugo snapped. “And last I checked, he didn't have servants to run out and fetch supplies for him.”
“All right, that's enough Hugo,” Ambassador Taylor said. “Even if you're right and this man is a missing person, unless he's an American citizen we have no interest in the case. And you have no jurisdiction. It's a matter for the Préfecture de Police, and them alone.” The ambassador shifted in his seat, his tone softening. “Hugo, our job here, our mission at the embassy, is to foster and maintain good relations with our French allies. I don't need to tell you that. These bouquinistes, they are an icon for Americans coming here. We can't be stirring up trouble for them. We need to mind our own store and let them do the same.”
“I understand,” Hugo said, biting his tongue. This was not a conversation he wanted to have in front of Roussillon.
“OK, good.“ The ambassador turned to Roussillon. “Is there anything else, Gérard?”
“Non, merci beaucoup.” The Frenchman stood and offered a small bow to the ambassador, a nod to Hugo. “Thank you for your time.”
When he'd left the room Hugo stood, but the ambassador closed the door and said, “Hold on a second, we're not quite done.” Hugo lowered himself back onto the couch. “If I'd known it was you poking around,” the ambassador said, “I would have handled it differently. Roussillon is a powerful man, though, so the lecture was necessary. And true. I thought we'd talked about this. Can I assume you have been disobeying my instructions?”
“Yes, sir,” said Hugo.
“I figured. Then tell me what's really going on.”
Hugo hesitated. “His name is Max. Max Koche. I've known him for years, ambassador. He's a grouchy old guy but loves what he does. Last week I bought a book from him that turned out to be worth a lot of money. Minutes later he was kidnapped, in front of my eyes. But the police won't make a report because some people nearby, who they won't identify, said Max went with these guys of his own accord. It's insane and a bunch of crap. Anyway, I went back to his stall and talked to the new guy running it. When I started asking him about Max, he clammed up after claiming that he didn't know him. So I went to Max's apartment—”
“Yes, you mentioned that. No one home.”
“Right,” Hugo smiled, “but I went to his apartment.” He said the words slowly, making his meaning plain.
“Ah, I'm with you. And?”
“He'd not been there for days, but someone else had.”
“You're sure.”
Hugo nodded. “No one is that much of a slob, certainly not Max. I didn't see signs of a struggle or fight, but I did find his toothbrush. As well as empty suitcases and a closet full of clothes.”
“Fridge?” Hugo remembered that Taylor had been a spook himself, many years ago.
“Full of perished perishables.”
“Oh. That's not good. He have family close by? Or anywhere?”
“Not that I've found.”
“Any ideas?”
“Other than it's something to do with the book, not really. He was once a Nazi hunter, though, so I guess it's possible that caught up with him somehow.”
“Nazi hunter? Impressive.”
“I know. The thing is, this isn't adding up, and no one seems to give a damn.”
“So you say.” The ambassador sat back on the couch and pondered. “Here's my position. I meant what I said before, we really can't go stirring up a hornet's nest for a missing Frenchman. On the other hand, you're on vacation, so forget what I said before. What you do on your own time is your business as long as it doesn't reflect badly on the embassy.”
“Thank you, ambassador. I can be discreet.”
“Really?” the ambassador said dryly. “I've never seen that side of you.”
“It's not easy walking softly,” Hugo said, “when you're wearing cowboy boots.”
“I wouldn't know.” The ambassador stood, signaling an end to the meeting. “And Hugo? Being discreet means you don't flash your badge.”
“Understood.”
“And no gun.”
Hugo raised an eyebrow. “You want my pants, too?”
“No thanks,” said Taylor. “But if you piss off Roussillon and his buddies, I'll have your hide. How's that?”
Chapter Seventeen
It was dark by the time Hugo left the embassy, an afternoon killed off in his office doing some reading, some administration, and a lot of nothing. He'd wanted to spend a few hours with Tom at home or a café somewhere, but a short phone conversation with his friend had put paid to that idea.
“Sorry, got plans.”
“Writing me a memo on your homework?”
“Nope, seeing a man about a horse.”
“And I thought you'd come to Paris to see me.”
“Don't be such a baby. Where do you think I'm getting your info?”
“No idea, Tom, you haven't given me any answers.”
“Over dinner?”
“I'm seeing Claudia, but join us. I'd like you to meet her.”
“Shit, she doesn't have any answers.”
“True, but she has several things you don't. Can we talk later?”
“You mean if you don't get lucky and bring her home?”
“Funny. And I think we need to take a trip down to the Pyrénées tomorrow, see a woman about a horse. A horse's ass, to be precise.”
“Hmm.” There was a pause. “OK. Well, in that case I need to be done with this project tonight, which means I won't be home before bedtime. You kids have fun.”
Hugo paused briefly on Pont Neuf, staring into the black ribbon of the Seine, then continued through the narrow streets of the Sixth for his rendezvous with Claudia. Another cold walk, somehow made colder by the stark glare of the Christmas lights that hung like icicles from the city's buildings and trees.
He arrived at the intersection before she did and chose the emptier of the two cafés. He found an outside table warmed by one of the nearby heating lamps. He'd noticed that this and other Parisian cafés had started putting up plastic walls at the sides and front to keep their clientele warm in the evenings. He wasn't in the mood to wait for Claudia before ordering, and was halfway through a scotch when he spotted her walking down Rue Mazarine toward him. He stood and waved, and she waved back.
She slid behind the little table, sitting next to him rather than across, giving him a peck on each cheek. “I like to watch the evening unfold, too,” she said, nodding toward the street.
“I never met a journalist or a cop who liked having his, or her, back to the open,” Hugo said. He caught the eye of a waiter and Claudia ordered wine. “I had the pleasure of your father's company this afternoon.”
“Oh? How did that happen?” Her eyes twinkled with mischief for a second. “Was he the mysterious man following you?”
“No,” Hugo smiled, “I'm sure he doesn't do that sort of thing himself. I saw him at the embassy. I didn't realize he was in thick with the SBP.”
“The who?”
“Syndicat des Bouquinistes de Paris.”
“Oh,” she said, “I didn't know that either.”
“Really?” Hugo sipped his drink.
She looked askance at him. “Really,” she said. “So why was he at the embassy?”
“Apparently he doesn't like me poking around asking questions about Max. It upsets the bouquinistes, he says, and that's bad for business.”