“Were? Thanks a lot.”
He smiled at her mock outrage and looked down at the two books beside him. “Hey, this may sound weird but I bought you a couple of presents. OK if I mail them to you?”
“Oh. No, I really don't think—”
“A couple of books for your collection. One's a Hercule Poirot mystery, first edition, and the other is…kind of like an Oscar Wilde, but more personal.”
“You're very thoughtful. But you're right, it would be weird. Please don't send them.” Her voice caught and he knew she was about to cry. “Please, I thought I'd got past all this, you're making it difficult again.”
“OK, don't worry about it. I'll keep the books.”
“I'm sorry. I really am.”
“Me too. Take care of yourself.”
He hung up and dropped the phone on the bed. He picked up the Rimbaud and looked at the cover, then set it back down. He didn't feel much like homosexual love poetry, either.
But what had he expected from Christine, really? They'd been matched up by socialite friends after their first marriages had ended, and they'd talked about being in love because of the fun they had, and the sex. But had they ever gotten around to falling in love? Marriage had seemed easier the second time around, especially without the pressure of new careers to distract them. And the gloss had been thick. His job as security chief in Washington, DC, had been prestigious and was followed by an exciting two years as head of security at the London embassy, with parties and meetings with heads of state and celebrities from all over the world.
And, of course, his stories from the FBI. All this had entertained Christine, kept her starry-eyed and impressed. She had been, too, an intelligent and attractive companion, someone he could discuss international politics with until their third or fourth martinis drowned all semblance of coherent thought.
It took a while for him to discover that everything she knew came from books or television. Not until the last year had he realized that, despite all her wonderful traits, a sense of adventure was absent. And adventure, the curiosity to explore a place or thing in person, to lay hands on it and see it with his own eyes rather than just read about it, that was what drove Hugo Marston. They had traveled, sure, but with her family wealth they had done so in comfort, even when in Mumbai or Windhoek. Perhaps especially then. Hugo, from a modest background, had been seduced by this comfort and had slipped into his wife's travel habits. He hadn't noticed until too late that he'd not inhaled the scents of the Cairo markets, or haggled poorly with a vendor in downtown Delhi, but instead had watched from the car as their driver did it for him. But even knowing all this, he'd still believed they had a chance because knowing someone was more important than what the movies and novels described as love.
He picked up both books and put them on the bedside table. As he did so, the Agatha Christie fell open and a business card fell to the floor. He picked it up: it was the card of a Paris bookseller, one Hugo had visited once, maybe twice, over the years. It bore the seller's name, address, and hours of operation. Hugo looked down at the books. He would have liked to add them to his meager collection, but the damn things had just become keepsakes of a marriage ended, and they were unhappy reminders of what had just happened to Max, too. As he imagined selling them, his mind searched for reasons not to, and came up blank. One thought, a vague one, was that they might be connected with Max's kidnap, but it was a possibility easily dismissed: bouquinistes weren't kidnapped for books worth a few hundred dollars — if they were, a seller would go missing every day. And if the man called Nica had been after one of the books, Max would simply have told Hugo to hand it over.
Hugo ran a hand over his face, frustrated and tired, and thought about running a hot bath. That's what he needed now. Tomorrow morning he'd try again to find answers about what had happened to Max. He lay the card on top of the books and headed into the bathroom.
Chapter Four
It was still dark when Hugo called the prefecture the next morning, Saturday, hoping that a shift change might also mean a change in attitude. After five minutes on hold he was told, politely this time, that Durand had gone off duty.
“There is no one in charge of that investigation, monsieur. It has been flagged in the system as a hoax or mistake.”
Hugo slammed the phone down and sat staring at it for a long minute before sinking back onto the bed. Hoax or mistake? They hadn't even looked for Max, let alone found him, and fear for the old man rose inside Hugo. The first twenty-four hours of an investigation were the most crucial, and too many hours had already been squandered. He knew that, in reality, Max's captors would be the ones to determine whether he turned up safe.
The phone rang beside him and he grabbed it, hoping desperately that it was a return call from the prefecture, or Durand himself, an apology for the confusion and an update on the search. It took him a moment to recognize the voice on the other end, but the words were familiar enough.
“Hugo. Fuck me, is that really you?”
“Yes. Is this…Tom?”
Tom Green had been his friend ever since they shared a room at the FBI Academy in Quantico, almost twenty years ago. A wisp of a man, Tom was a law school graduate with three pairs of spectacles, more books than clothes, and an unexpectedly foul mouth. At first his language shocked the well-mannered Texan, but they shared a dry sense of humor and a certain skepticism of the more gung-ho recruits. Tom sailed through the academic portions of the training, but probably wouldn't have made it on the firing range and the physical training course without Hugo's help.
“Damn right. What time is it over there?”
Hugo glanced at the clock. “Six in the morning.”
“So it's midnight here. Couldn't be bothered to look at my watch. Thought I'd call you instead.”
“Where are you, Tom? Is everything OK?”
They had both been assigned to the LA field office straight out of the academy and they stayed in touch even when Hugo left the bureau for the State Department twelve years later, recruited to run security at the US Embassy in Pakistan. Hugo had turned down several such offers before, but when his first wife, Ellie, died in a car accident, he jumped at the chance to put himself in harm's way. Tom was the only one to recognize that his friend was looking for an excuse to get blown up, but he drove him to the airport anyway. A month later Tom left to work for the CIA, unable to tell Hugo where he was going or what he was doing. They'd not spoken for over a year, and Hugo regretted that every time he thought about Tom.
“Stateside, don't worry. Half asleep on the couch, if you want details.”
“You can't afford a bed these days?”
“I'm in America, Hugo. An old, fat guy asleep on the couch is nothing new.”
Fat? He didn't used to be, and there was more than sleep in the voice. Slurring. “Are you drunk, Tom?”
“Not yet. I was waiting for you.”
“Funny you should say that. I just spoke to Christine, I'd been hoping to come over, maybe try and patch things up.”
“Hookers getting too pricey for you?”
“We're talking about me here, Tom,” Hugo grinned. “Anyway, she doesn't want me coming back.”
“That sucks. She found someone else already?”
“She hooked up with her shrink.”
“Shit, Hugo, I'm sorry.”
“Thanks. It can't be helped.”
“Living in the same fucking country might have helped.”
“Yeah, Christine already mentioned that.”
“She's right. You want to come over anyway? I got plenty of time and plenty to drink.”
“I'll think about it. Something odd happened yesterday I have to deal with. If everything works out OK, then maybe.” Hugo hoped so, very much. “Wait, how come you have so much free time? Get fired?”