“No, thanks.” Hugo wanted to walk to clear his mind and figure out his next step. Place Pigalle was a couple of blocks away, he could get the metro from there. “Claudia, do you want to walk with me or go with the police?”
“Go where?” she smiled thinly. “I'm fine, Hugo. Plus, if any more bad guys appear I may need to save your ass next.”
“Oh, one more thing,” Delacroix said. “I'll need your weapon.”
Hugo hesitated. “May I ask why?”
“It's evidence for our investigation. Our ballistics people will need to make sure it matches with any bullets fired at the house. A formality, I'll have it back to you as soon as possible.”
Reluctantly, Hugo handed it over. The joys of international cooperation, he thought. Ambassador Taylor would be proud.
Chapter Thirty-Three
It was a downhill walk from Rue Véron toward Pigalle, and Hugo felt the adrenaline slowly drain from his limbs, his body loosening and his mind clearing as they got further away from the house.
Claudia was quiet, her hands dug deep into her pockets and her head down. He knew she was processing what she'd seen and done, trying to equate the violence and fear of the afternoon with all the previous experiences of her life. And he knew that no one, reporter, policeman, or even soldier, escaped their first armed and bloody confrontation intact, especially after what she'd been through just hours before. She was tougher than he'd imagined, so he'd let her deal with it on her own, for now.
She shivered as they turned into Rue Cousteau, a cobbled and narrow one-way street. Hugo put his arm around her, and she leaned into him as they walked. As they reached the end of the street, the sound of the traffic from Boulevard Clichy grew louder and seemed to disturb Claudia. On the corner was a small café, Le Chat Blanc, and he took her inside. Hugo nodded to the bartender and chose a table near the back of the café. He helped Claudia to sit, then went to the bar and ordered.
“Deux cafés, et deux whiskies, s'il vous plait.” As he waited, he pulled out his cell phone and dialed Tom. On the fifth ring, his friend answered. “Where are you?” Hugo asked.
The phone clicked dead and Hugo felt a hand on his shoulder.
“Right behind you, buddy,” Tom grinned.
“Jesus, what are you doing here?”
“Same as you.” Tom held up a whisky glass. “Except you're two behind.”
Claudia heard their voices and looked up, surprise at seeing Tom turning to pleasure. Drinks in hand, the men went to the table. Claudia took the whisky glass with a grateful smile and left Hugo to put the coffee on the table in front of her.
“Hot chick with a gun, it's like the movies, eh?” Tom said, a little too gleefully for Hugo's liking.
“Leave her alone.”
“OK, OK.” Tom's tone became serious. “I feel like an ass for letting Chabot get killed.”
“Not our fault,” said Hugo. “But me too.”
“That fucking Gravois or Dominguez—”
“Dobrescu—”
“Whatever the fuck his name is. He's some psycho.”
Claudia roused herself, suddenly alive again. “Wait, are you saying Gravois is Anton Dobrescu? Are you serious?”
“Yes,” said Hugo. “Long story, but the bottom line is that he knows we're on to him.”
“You think?” Tom said. “He may still rely on the fact we think he's dead. Or, he thinks we think he's dead.” He waved a hand. “Fuck it, I'm confusing myself now.”
Hugo smiled. “I know what you mean, but that's a risky assumption for him. He knows we're on to Gravois, and no disguise is perfect. First time he's fingerprinted, it's all over.”
“So you think he'll disappear?” Claudia asked.
“Wouldn't you?” Hugo replied.
“Fucking right,” Tom said. “Once those North Africans find out he's here, he'll be wishing he was burned alive.” He emptied his glass. “So what do we do?”
“Nothing.” Hugo shrugged and told Tom about his talk with Commissaire Delacroix.
“You want to leave it to them, then? Yeah, right.” Tom looked around for a waiter, then saw Hugo's face. “Holy shit, you're serious.”
“What can we do? The police are looking for him, they're watching the airports, train stations, and borders—”
“This is new Europe, dummy, they don't have borders anymore.”
“Even so, what can we do that they can't?”
Tom muttered into his glass, but Hugo knew he had no answer.
Hugo looked at Claudia. She was sitting back in her chair, oblivious to them, her eyes half closed and her lips slightly apart. Hugo had an urge to kiss them but knew this wasn't the time or place. At least she looks relaxed, he thought. He put his hand on hers and said, “Quick question.”
She opened her eyes and smiled. “Sure.”
“David Durand. He's the dirty cop, and you were helping Garcia keep an eye on him, as he put it to me.”
“That wasn't a question,” she said.
“Am I right?”
“Aren't you always?”
“Sometimes. But always slow to get there.”
“Then you know they were on to him,” she said. “This little incident will be another nail in his coffin.”
“How did you get mixed up in that?”
“A favor, really. The detectives I was interviewing had noticed his name come up every time a bad guy got away with something, or when evidence went missing. They had nothing hard and fast but figured if I spent time with him, flattering him, maybe he'd give me a different story than he was telling his bosses. Sometimes people like to brag when they talk to reporters.” She shrugged. “Turned out he's not a bragger, but he gave me a couple of pieces of information he shouldn't have known.”
“About?”
“Drug shipments. Les Pieds-Noirs. The deal was that I help the cops and they'd give me the first, and inside, scoop when Durand and his drug buddies went down.” She looked up and grinned. “And they said they'd teach me to shoot.”
“Seems they kept that promise.” Hugo squeezed her hand again.
“They looked at you, too, for a couple of minutes, did you know that?”
“What do you mean?”
“When you started showing interest in a nonexistent investigation of Durand's, people started wondering.”
“They made that assumption before figuring out it was a real investigation that he'd shut down.”
“Right.” She smiled. “Cops and their hunches.”
Hugo nodded. “Let's head back to my place. Get a taxi, go home, light a fire, and open a bottle of wine.”
“Am I included in this romantic evening?” Tom asked.
“Sure.” Hugo frowned. “In fact, can you drop me at the embassy and take her home?”
“You reporting in to the boss?”
“Exactly. It'll sound better coming from me than the French police or, God forbid, the French news. I'll walk home afterward; it shouldn't take long.”
After a five minute stroll along the busy Boulevard Clichy, they flagged down a taxi. They rode in silence, shuffling along in the rush-hour traffic as dusk began to close in around them. A few of the earliest Christmas lights flicked on in store windows as they passed. Hugo had forgotten that this was the festive season, when Paris was a place of enchantment, her boulevards and parks festooned with white lights and oversized red and green bows and ribbons, her store windows shimmering with baubles and tinsel. How festive would it be for him? Endless nights drinking with Tom? Polite embassy parties and then home to an empty apartment, most likely. He wondered if maybe Claudia would be around to share it, be willing to.
He hopped out of the cab by the Hotel Crillon and walked up to the main embassy entrance. He checked his watch: five thirty. Ambassador Taylor should still be there.