Hugo didn't let the Romanian's impressive cunning slow him down. He put his hand inside his coat and cursed. Delacroix had his gun, and he hadn't picked up another from the embassy's armory because this was supposed to be over.
He looked up and down the broad Quai de Conti for signs of the police but saw no flashing lights and heard no sirens. Nica was moving with more purpose now, and Hugo knew it was up to him to stop the bastard from escaping. He began to run, trying to close down the space between them as fast as possible, but he only got halfway before the man looked up. The flat face stared blankly for a second, then the mouth opened in surprise, eyes sparkling as he stood frozen over his box.
But Nica didn't hesitate for long. He leapt to the open stall and scrabbled under a pile of magazines. Hugo was ten feet away when he saw the gun swing toward him, a silver flash under the street lamp, and he launched himself, arms outstretched. His fist connected with the man's forearm, knocking the gun away. A split second later they were on the sidewalk, Hugo's shoulder pressing into Nica's chest. Hugo fought for a solid grip, but Nica bucked and kicked under him, cursing as wildly as he struggled. With a howl of desperation, Nica won himself enough freedom to roll out from under Hugo and clamber to his knees.
Hugo looked around desperately for the gun and saw it near his foot. Nica dove for it, and Hugo swung his leg as hard as he could. His toe connected with the barrel and the gun skittered along the sidewalk and disappeared over the stone steps leading down to the walkway beside the river.
Hugo scrambled to his feet, ten yards behind Nica, who lurched toward the top step, winded. When he reached it he glanced back at Hugo and started down, two at a time. As Hugo crested the steps behind him, the Romanian was halfway down and stooped over the gun, the fingers of his right hand closing around the butt. Hugo leapt toward him, and just as Nica began to raise the weapon, Hugo lashed out with his right leg and connected with his wrist. Nica lost his grip on the pistol and his arms windmilled for a second before he lost his balance and crashed down the remaining dozen steps. The gun clattered down after him and Hugo charged down, three and four steps at a time. He dropped on top of the Romanian, planting his left knee on Nica's wrist, pinning it to the ground, and drove his fist into his chest, knocking the wind out of him again.
From the street above, Hugo heard sirens approaching. He reached out and picked up the gun, then looked down at his captive. The dark eyes spewed hate, and his mouth twisted with pain and rage. “You had better kill me,” Nica hissed. “If you think you will live past tomorrow, you are wrong.”
“I'd love to.” Hugo leaned in and they locked eyes. “Or maybe I'll arrange for you to share a cell with some Africans from the Seventeenth Arrondissement. That way you can slip out of jail piece by piece.”
Nica let out a roar and bucked hard. Hugo steadied himself and drove the heel of his hand into the writhing man's throat. He stopped struggling and his face turned blue as he gasped for air.
“Now lie still like a good boy,” Hugo growled.
The sirens grew louder and Hugo turned to look toward the main road, hoping to see the blue lights of the police. Instead, a light from the river flashed over them. Hugo looked back toward the water and tightened his grip on the gun. The light came from the barge, now less than thirty yards from the bank. Two men, silhouettes to Hugo, stood on the prow, one operating the spotlight. The other stood a few inches taller, the light gleaming on his hairless skull, his body propped up by a cane. Hugo raised the gun so the men would see it, then put the barrel right between his captive's eyes.
Five long seconds later, the silhouette with the cane shifted, Gravois moving away from the light. The sounds of a shouted order drifted over the water to Hugo and the barge's engine growled louder, its bow slowly swinging away, aiming back into the Seine. Still gasping for air, the man on the ground twisted to see what was happening.
“There goes your ride,” Hugo said, and Nica cursed again.
Behind them, up on the quai, the blue lights finally arrived. Within seconds, Hugo heard a clatter of feet and shouts to drop the weapon. Four policemen, two in uniform and two in plain clothes, hurtled down the steps, guns drawn. Slowly, deliberately, Hugo put the pistol down beside him and slid it toward the foot of the steps, then raised his arms high. The uniformed officers ran up and grabbed his arms, pulling him to his feet. As his prisoner sat up, Hugo gave in to an impulse and landed the heel of his cowboy boot on the Romanian's nose, hard.
“That's for Max,” he said.
Hugo didn't resist as the two cops wrestled him away, twisting his arms behind his back to snap on handcuffs. They deposited him on the bottom step, one standing over him while the other radioed for back up. He smiled as their plainclothes colleagues cuffed the bleeding and mumbling Nica. A uniformed policeman leaned over and put a hand inside Hugo's jacket, pulling out his embassy credentials. When he saw the crest and metal badge, the cop's face clouded with uncertainty and he took the wallet to one of the detectives, who turned his back on them both and opened his phone. A minute later Hugo was out of handcuffs and pointing to the barge that chugged against the westbound current, fighting its way alongside the Ile de la Cité.
“Call Commissaire Delacroix, right now. Tell him you're watching Gravois escape.”
“Comment?” The detective hesitated.
“Delacroix. Call him now.”
He watched as the officer connected to the prefecture and was put through to Delacroix. The detective talked hurriedly, his eyes flicking from Hugo to the barge, then he went silent, nodding as he listened. The policeman hung up and looked away to their left. Hugo and the three other officers did the same, and a moment later they heard the snarl of engines and the slap-slap of two police launches that raced out of the dark and skimmed past them. Within seconds they had reached the barge, their engines throttling back as they circled it, a dark figure on the prow of one launch shouting orders through a loud hailer for the barge's pilot to make land.
Watching intently from the walkway, a sudden roar from behind made Hugo and the policemen crouch. They covered their ears as a helicopter swept overhead, its rotors buffeting them. The spotlight on its nose blanched the water below as it searched for its prey, then locked on to the barge and pinned its occupants with a beam that drenched the deck with light. A chorus of sirens grew louder and Hugo looked up as a line of flashing blue lights strung out across the Pont Ste. Michelle, the bridge in front of the barge. Dozens of black silhouettes swarmed down to the walkway to await the surrendering vessel while dozens more stayed on the bridge, leaning over the parapet to watch the spectacle, their flashlights dancing in the dark like candles on a cake.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Hugo trotted up the steps to his apartment, tired but exhilarated. Commissaire Delacroix had led the contingent of officers to the walkway, greeting Gravois and his men with an effective show of firepower and several sets of shackles. With the Romanians locked in separate police cars, Delacroix had told his men to hold Hugo until he got there. Without a word, the Frenchman had clasped Hugo's shoulders and given him a bear hug, apparently already aware of the American's tussle with the Romanian Nica. Delacroix released him and thanked him again before excusing himself. “I have a long interrogation ahead of me,” he said. “If you'd like to observe, you are welcome.”