He lay back on the couch, too tired to shower, his clothes chafing from the sweat and dust that clung to him.
“J’arrive, maman,” he whispered. His eyes closed and a smile spread across his lips. “J’arrive.”
He lay quietly for ten minutes, working his mind from the past to the future. As disappointed as he was with the interruption at Père Lachaise, his backup plan would ensure no great delay of the reunion. Jane Avril was perfect, but she wasn’t the only one who could help him.
He sat up and allowed himself a smile. It was, he thought, a good backup plan, one that the man in the cemetery might guess, but not until it was too late.
He took his scalpel from the drawer in the coffee table and admired the light that glinted off its blade. He hesitated, feeling the hum in his veins, wondering if tonight he could sleep without the blade. The night’s excitement had left him drained but also unexpectedly elated, a sensation he felt only with the scalpel in his hand or, recently, taking the lives of those who might have derailed his plans.
Feeling had been the problem all his life. Physical sensations, those were familiar enough — the pain of his father’s belt, and when he was older the ache of the week-long bruises from his fists. The confines of the closet, dark and hard, too, making his muscles cramp and his knees burn.
It was the emotions he’d missed out on, as numbness had taken over his soul. Even fear had given way to its embrace, like a sword sinking into stone, pain disappearing into an impenetrable block of nothingness.
Lately though, like when he was trekking to Père Lachaise, the difficult journey itself made him feel a little something: the dust, dirt, and dark that swallowed him underground, the iron bars that jutted from ragged concrete like the knives of highway robbers, and the physically exhausting journey through passages that alternately squeezed him tight and then opened wide, like the mouth of Jonah’s whale, to swallow whole his insignificant, scuttling form.
All of these things, together, after many a crippling mile and because he always did them alone, they had become his and they made him feel, just a little.
Chapter Sixteen
The phone on Hugo’s bedside table woke him the next morning. He sat up as he answered, disconcerted by the bright panel of light that was his window. He looked at his clock. Ten already.
He was glad it was Claudia, though her tone was brusque. “Hugo, what happened last night?”
“We guessed right about him returning to Père Lachaise.”
“And then let him go?”
He swung his legs off the bed. “That seems a little harsh. How about, ‘Poor Hugo, you were shot at, are you OK?’”
“Later. Right now I have to get to work on converting a press release into a news story.”
“A press release. Tell me you’re kidding.”
“Nope.”
“Dammit. They gave me twenty-four hours. They said they wouldn’t release it until this evening.”
“Looks like you used up your twenty-four hours in just one night.”
Hugo walked into the kitchen, glancing toward Tom’s room. The door was shut and no sound came from within. “What does the press release say, can you read it to me?”
“Sure. ‘Following last night’s near capture of suspected terrorist and the chief suspect in the murders of American Maxwell Norris and a woman of Pakistani descent, French and US authorities are appealing for the public’s help in finding Mohammed Al Zakiri.’”
“They don’t even give Kiani’s name?”
“Maybe they couldn’t spell it.”
“Classy. Go on.”
“Bien. It gives his description and references his picture which is on the release, then says, ‘The joint task force believes Al Zakiri was prevented from committing an unknown act of terrorism last night and continues to pursue several leads. He is believed to be armed and dangerous. Under no circumstances should any member of the public try to apprehend him. Please call the authorities immediately.’” She cleared her throat. “You’ll like the last bit. ‘The head of the embassy’s security department, Hugo Marston, will coordinate and liaise with the task force.’”
“‘Coordinate and liaise’? That’s what I’m doing now?”
“Says so.” She sighed. “And somehow you’re much less sexy to me.”
“Not surprising. Any chance you won’t run that story yet?”
“None. Other news agencies have it. Probably online already.”
“If you don’t run it, you’ll be the only one reporting accurately, you know that, right?”
“So you’re going to give me the real scoop? And right now?”
He groaned. “I can’t. Not right now. They’re allowed to mess with me but not the other way around. If I step too far out of line, I’m screwed.”
“Sorry, Hugo. What are you going to do?”
“Head to the office, work on finding out how our friend the Scarab gets into Père Lachaise.”
“That’s what you’re calling him?”
“Seems appropriate, don’t you think?”
“I like it.”
“Good,” he said. “Now, if you don’t mind I have some liaising and coordinating to do.”
“Actually, I do mind.”
Hugo smiled. “I thought I wasn’t sexy anymore.”
“You are. Just less so.”
“Great. I like low expectations. What time?”
“Call me when you’re done for the day.”
Hugo hung up and decided to shower instead of making coffee. The smell might wake Tom, at least draw him into the open, and he didn’t feel like an argument or, worse, Tom’s mockery for letting the cemetery killer go.
An hour later he walked into his office, finding Ambassador Taylor sitting in front of Emma’s desk.
“Mad at me?” Taylor said, standing.
“Depends how hard you tried to stop him.”
“Not very. He went over my head, and the suits at the Pentagon just love the chance to run an op on someone else’s territory. Especially with permission. The liaison line was mine, though, figured it’d keep you in the loop.”
Hugo opened the door to his office and waved Taylor through. “Funny,” he said. “I didn’t think about it that way.”
“You’re welcome,” Taylor said.
“Do you gentlemen want coffee?” Emma called as Hugo shut the door.
He opened it up, winked at her, and said, sotto voce, “Once he leaves. Serve coffee now and he’ll never go.”
Hugo sank into the swivel chair behind his desk as Taylor sat opposite him, groaning with relief as he lifted his feet onto Hugo’s desk. “That’s better.” He watched Hugo for a moment. “Seriously, there was nothing I could do about that damn press release. But all hell’s broken loose since it went out.” He held up a hand. “I know, I know. You told me so.”
“More to the point, Al Zakiri isn’t the guy who killed those two kids.”
“The point, as far as Senator Holmes is concerned, is that two major Western governments are now making the investigation a priority.”
“Calling off the local yokels.”
“Something like that.”
“So I’m off the case, is that what you’re telling me?”
Taylor opened his eyes wide with surprise. “Oh, no. Not at all. I happen to think you’re right and Al Zakiri, terrorist or not, just happened to find his name in the wrong place at the wrong time. No, you’re still welcome to work on the case. But you won’t have Capitaine Garcia, he’s …”
“A local yokel?”
“Basically.”
“Actually, he’s not. A very smart guy. So if he’s out, who’s running the show now?”
“That’s the bit you’ll like,” Taylor said. “You’ll be working for Tom now, he’s calling the shots. You can thank me for that, too.” He stood and clapped his hands together. “Right, back to work. Do me a favor and keep me up to speed, will you? I want to be there when you and Tom pull a serial killer out of your hat, rather than a terrorist.”