Hugo started down the stairs. At the bottom he heard them again, Max's voice plaintive now. His quickened his step and looked past the men as he heard a low grumble from further under the bridge where a motor launch bobbed in the river behind them. Its propellers churned the gray water into white as an invisible hand throttled it against the current, keeping it close to the bank.
He was barely a dozen paces away when Max raised both hands, his old voice cracking, “Nica, non.” But Nica ignored Max's pleas and grabbed the bookseller by his lapels, pulling him close until their noses brushed.
“Hey!” Hugo called out. He tried to control his anger, to keep his voice calm. Better to diffuse than inflame, he told himself. “What's going on?”
Nica released Max and turned. “I told you, this has nothing to do with you. Go away.”
“Fine,” said Hugo. “But if you're all done, I'll walk monsieur back to his stall.” He held the man's dark stare and when he got no reply, added, “I saw some postcards I want to buy.”
The movement was fast and unexpected, a blur that ended with Nica holding the ice pick high, as if he were proud of his flourish. He held the tip between Max's eyes, then pointed it at Hugo. “Go. Take all the postcards you want. They are free today.”
Hugo hesitated. He could take two steps back and pull out his gun but, for as long as he'd carried a weapon, he'd never started a fire fight, and he had no desire to start one now. And if he wasn't quick enough, Max could be hurt, perhaps killed. Even if he did win a shoot-out he'd pay dearly, justified or not: his job was to protect the ambassador and visiting dignitaries, not play Wyatt Earp with riverside hoodlums.
But he looked at his trembling friend and knew that he wouldn't just walk away.
“If this is a question of money,” Hugo began, “I owe monsieur a little and would be happy to—”
“Enough.” Nica spat the words and a sneer crossed his face as he turned his head to look at the boat behind him. Without warning, he shoved Max against the high stone wall and started toward Hugo, moving like a boxer with his shoulders hunched forward, his steps small and quick, the ice pick circling. Hugo resisted the impulse to back away, instead turning sideways and taking one tiny step back as the man reached him, the point of the pick spiraling toward his chest. Hugo waited a split-second more, then stepped in close, blocking Nica's thrust with his forearm, bringing the palm of his hand up sharply into the soft flesh under his assailant's chin. Nica's head snapped back and his knees buckled, and Hugo swept his legs from under him to make sure he hit the stone walkway hard. Nica rolled on the ground, clutching his throat, the ice pick on the ground between them.
Hugo started forward, reaching for his gun, just as Nica propped himself on one elbow. His other hand flashed out toward Hugo, who stopped in his tracks, his eyes drawn to Nica's sharp features, smug behind the silver pistol in his fist.
“If this had a silencer, you'd be dead,” Nica snarled. Still watching Hugo, Nica climbed to his feet and waved an arm at the boat, which had drifted a hundred feet or more from them. The engine barked and the bow lifted a fraction as it lurched forward, its windows black in the shadow of the bridge. Nica grabbed Max by the scruff of the neck and put the barrel of the gun against his temple, narrowing his eyes at Hugo. “Stay here until I can't see you anymore. You try to leave, he goes in the water.” Like crabs locked together, the two men edged backward toward the boat, sidling at the edge of the walkway. “Until I can't see you,” Nica called out. “And I will watch.”
Hugo looked at the face behind the gun and felt adrenaline course through his body, urging him to act. But he knew better than to challenge an armed man, he'd seen the results of that before, so he just clenched his jaw and nodded, committing Nica's features to memory before looking one more time at the terrified Max, whose eyes implored Hugo for help.
In less than a minute the men were on the launch, leaving Hugo helpless on the walkway, his hands twitching for his gun, or at least his phone. But he couldn't risk consigning the bouquiniste to the slick gray water, so he did as he'd been told and watched as the boat revved loud and swung away, heading east against the current, passing in the lea of Notre Dame.
He was a statue on the walkway, turned to stone by the figure at the stern of the boat, the sharp-featured man who stood watch over him and also over his victim, the huddled form of the old bouquiniste at his feet. Hugo glared back, his eyes fixed on the boat until it finally rounded the tip of the Ile de la Cité and disappeared from view.
Chapter Three
Hugo stood by Max's stall and told his story to the first gendarme on the scene, a waif of a man who spoke no English and kept his pen and notepad busy as Hugo talked. A small crowd gathered behind the policeman, wide-eyed but wary, drawn like moths to the blue light that flashed atop his little white car.
“Wait here please, sir,” the policeman said. “There is a detective en route, he will take your statement.”
“Look, forget the statement. Right now I want your river police looking for that boat, maybe a helicopter, too. A man with a gun just kidnapped a friend of mine, in broad daylight and—”
“I heard you, sir,” the gendarme interrupted. He looked over his shoulder as an unmarked car pulled up behind his. “Voila, the detective. Talk to him about that, I don't have the authority.”
The detective was tall and lean, with the dark skin and hooked nose that spoke of Arab descent. He wore a green woolen sweater under an open overcoat and a matching ski hat that was pulled low over his ears. He slammed his car door, then looked up at the sky, sighed, and walked slowly over to the gendarme. He stood frowning as he listened to the hurried briefing, his hands deep in his pockets. When the gendarme had finished, the detective nodded and walked over to Hugo. He drew a hand out of his pocket and offered it to Hugo. It was ice cold.
“I'm told you are one of us, mon ami,” he said. He spoke in French, his voice low and worn as if he'd spent all day smoking the unfiltered cigarettes that Hugo could smell on him. “My name's David Durand.”
“Hugo Marston. What do you mean, ‘one of us’?” Hugo asked.
“Law enforcement.” He nodded toward the gendarme. “He says you work at the American embassy, speak French fluently, and carry a gun.”
“Former FBI, now security chief at the embassy,” Hugo said. “Look, I don't mean to be rude, but—”
“I have given the order for our river police to look for the boat you described. If a helicopter can be found, we'll send one up to help. But it will be dark soon and the pilots complain when we make them fly at night, especially so close to the center of the city. Not safe, they say.” He shivered and looked around. “Can you wait for a few moments? We have some witnesses I need to talk to.”
“Of course,” said Hugo, watching Durand approach a small group of onlookers. Hugo was comforted by the assurances of police boats, and maybe a chopper, but equally irritated by the man's languid attitude, his unhurried walk, as if this were a burglary with the intruders long gone.
Hugo turned and looked out over the water, picturing Max out there somewhere. He acted the gruff, tough guy, and maybe he once was, but Max was no longer young. Hugo had no idea what the thug Nica had wanted from his friend, but it wasn't some random shakedown. He wanted something specific and Hugo wondered what he would do to get it. His face flushed with anger as he imagined them hurting Max, beating a weak old man. Even if he had the mental toughness to resist, Hugo knew that violence to someone Max's age, even a minor assault, could prove too much for an old heart. Whoever had Max, whoever wanted something from him, could kill him without meaning to. Without even trying.