“Hugo.” Claudia stood with her hands on her hips, her hazel eyes flashing. “I'm absolutely serious.”
“I know, but so am I. I meant it when I said it shouldn't be dangerous. And when I said I'd tell you about it tonight. But it's one of those times where if something does go bad, you don't want to be there.”
“No, you mean if it goes bad you don't want me to be there.”
“Either way.” Hugo shook his head. “Look, I'm sorry, I just can't take the risk. It's…”
“It's for my own good?”
Hugo winked. “You bought that last night.”
She rolled her eyes. “We're not talking about a spanking, Hugo.”
He glanced at the door and gave her a “keep it down” look. “My plans involve coming back here anyway, probably in an hour or so. You're in no shape to be running around and neither Tom nor I will be able to babysit you.”
“Hugo!” She refused his attempt at a peck on the cheek as he passed. He didn't stop to try again, but he felt her eyes boring into his back.
Outside the embassy, he called Tom. “Still in the Place de la Concorde?”
“No,” Tom said, his voice low. “The Crillon.”
“Jesus Tom,” Hugo groaned. “What are you doing there?”
The Hotel Crillon, just across the street from the Place de la Concorde and within a quarter-mile of the US Embassy, was one of the world's oldest luxury hotels. Hugo had worked the place numerous times, as it was usually the first choice for visiting dignitaries. Everyone from Charlie Chaplin to Jackie Onassis and Axl Rose had stayed there. One of its greatest moments, as far as Hugo was concerned, was the day after Lance Armstrong won the Tour de France for the seventh time: the hotel flew the Texas flag to honor the achievement of their guest.
“What am I doing here? Are you kidding me?” Tom whispered. “I've always wanted to see this place, it's fucking amazing. Did you know they have seven different types of marble in here?”
“‘In here?’ You're in the restaurant? Great.” The hotel's restaurant was called Les Ambassadeurs and had been serving fine and hugely expensive meals since the mid-nineteenth century. It was decorated in rococo style, with crystal chandeliers and marble abounding; his friend was right to be impressed. “And Tom, why are you whispering?”
“Why do you think? They don't allow cell phones in here.”
“Of course not.” Hugo chuckled. “So hang up and meet me out front.”
“Jesus, this place is a fucking palace, you should see this furniture.”
“It is and I have,” said Hugo. “Now get out of there before I call and have you thrown out.”
“You'd do it too, you bastard. I'll be right out.”
They met in front of the hotel and walked slowly along the Right Bank, past the Tuileries and the Louvre. They crossed the Seine on the Pont des Arts and Hugo pointed out Francoise Benoit's stall, now occupied by a short, squat, and very dark-skinned man smoking a cigar. Hugo declined Tom's suggestion that they dump him over the bridge and play Poohsticks with him, but he smiled at the image.
Their route was roundabout, their plan to slowly circle into the bar, taking turns to dip in and out of stores along the way to see if they were being followed. It didn't take long to find out that they were.
“Easy peasy,” Tom said, breathing hard as he caught up to Hugo. He'd slipped into a designer clothing store on the Boulevard Saint-Germain and had spotted the tail. “Want me to take her out?”
“Her?”
“This one's an amateur.” Tom winked. “But as far as tails go, very nice. Have a look.”
Hugo turned and saw, about a hundred yards behind them, a woman with short brown hair making her way toward them.
“Shit,” he said. “Claudia.”
They waited, and a few seconds later she spied them watching her. She stuck her chin out and kept going. “Shut up Hugo, don't say anything.” She was a little out of breath, but defiant. “And you can't be mad at me, my father just died.”
“Claudia, I'm not mad,” Hugo said. He wasn't. In fact, he was impressed. “But you have to understand, I wasn't kidding, this isn't safe for you.”
“Or for you.”
“How about we don't play games?”
“How about you don't patronize me?” Her eyes flashed again.
“Yeah,” said Hugo, “we've been over that. Just sit tight in a café and I'll call when it's over.”
“When what's over?”
“Nice try.”
Hugo frowned as his cell phone buzzed. He pulled it out of his pocket, planning to let it go to voicemail. But when he saw the incoming number, his stomach tightened.
“Tom, it's Chabot. Text message.” He flipped the phone open and read the message: 21 rue veon vite. He looked up at Tom. “Rue Veon, where is that?”
“How the fuck would I know?” Tom said. “This is your city.”
Hugo looked at Claudia. “Any idea?”
“It rings a bell,” she said. “Rue Veon…why is that familiar?”
“I'll call Emma.” Hugo dialed her number and waited. “Dammit. Voicemail.”
“Probably hunting for me in the bathroom,” Claudia said. “Sorry.”
“He didn't say anything else, Hugo?” Tom asked.
“No. The word ‘hurry’ isn't a good sign though.”
“Yeah. Makes it unlikely to be just a new rendezvous point.”
“Exactly.” Hugo knew they were thinking the same thing.
Gravois has him.
“Call the cops?” Tom suggested.
“One of them, anyway.” He dialed Capitaine Garcia's number and got him on the third ring. He explained the situation as fast as he could, listened for a moment, then hung up. “He'll be here in five minutes.”
Tom nodded at Claudia. “And her?”
“She's staying with us,” Hugo said. “If Gravois has Chabot he might know about us and have someone looking. My apartment doesn't seem to be the safest place in the world.”
“A café might be,” Tom said.
“Yeah, if she stays put, which I wouldn't count on.”
“Hey,” Claudia protested, “I'm right here, stop talking about me like I'm not. And tell me what the hell is going on.”
“We were supposed to meet with this guy Chabot,” Hugo said, “to take him into protective custody.”
“Just you?” Claudia said.
“Yes. It's complicated. Jurisdiction and politics getting in the way of law enforcement.”
“For once,” muttered Tom.
Hugo put a hand on her good shoulder. “I don't need you in harm's way again, Claudia.”
“I appreciate that,” she said. “But I have my own reasons for wanting to come. This is important to me.”
Hugo nodded. “I know. Look, you can come but you have to stay in the car, OK?”
“Fine,” said Claudia. She added, with a tight smile, “I'm right-handed, so I can shoot if you need me to.”
“No,” Hugo said. “We won't need you to. Look, I'm hoping we're just going to pick him up, but I don't know how this is going to play out. I just don't. If you're coming you have to do exactly what I say, do you understand?”
“Yes, sure.” Claudia nodded, serious now.
“And I mean exactly. None of this independent reporter crap, OK?”
“I said yes, Hugo, I understand.”
They stood at the curb and watched for Capitaine Garcia. He was there in four minutes, pulling up in a plain black Citroen, his window sliding down as he stopped. Hugo went around to the front passenger seat while Tom and Claudia moved toward the back seat. Hugo started to introduce her to the capitaine, but they both ignored him, and she stooped by the open window to swap rapid bisous.
“You know each other?” Hugo asked.
“Get in,” Claudia said. “And yes.”
“We've worked together,” Garcia said. “Alors, where are we going?”