Hugo checked his phone, surprised to see five messages from the ambassador, The most recent just fifteen minutes ago. He dialed his number.
“Ambassador, it’s Hugo.”
“Hugo, I’ve been trying to reach you, what the hell’s going on?” The ambassador spoke rapidly, his normally calm tone abandoned. “I couldn’t get Tom, either. I even thought about calling the police but I didn’t want to ruin your operation. Is everything OK?”
“I’m not sure yet. The Scarab was there—”
“The Scarab?”
“I thought I told you — he’s leaving little glass beetles, scarab beetles, at the crime scenes so that’s what I’m calling the bastard. Anyway, he showed up and got the jump on Tom.” Hugo took a breath. “I’ll be honest, I don’t know how he is, he took at least one bullet. They’re operating on him now.”
“Jesus, that son of a bitch. Are you at the hospital?”
“Yes. But don’t worry about coming down, there’s nothing to do.”
“There’s nothing to do here. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”
“I’d rather you stayed on top of the French police, pull strings at the levels I can’t get near, make sure they put men on finding the bastard.”
“As opposed to chasing Al Zakiri?”
“Something like that.”
“Be happy to. Promise to call me when he gets out of the OR, whatever time it is.”
“Of course. Were you calling Tom for a reason?”
“Yes. One of his guys had been trying to get him, pass on some information. Tom had set me up as the person to contact if he couldn’t be reached.”
That made sense, Hugo thought, as Taylor had been a CIA spook before embarking on his diplomatic career.
“Anyway,” Taylor went on. “Turns out this … Scarab has been busier than we thought.”
“How so?”
“The French have this neat law enforcement tool, don’t remember what it’s called, but it crawls through serious crime reports looking for similarities, either by type of crime or victim profile. Like the FBI’s ViCAP.”
“Which can work wonders or ruin your day, depending,” said Hugo. “What did it come up with?”
“The former. A murder in a tiny village in the foothills of the Pyrénées. A gravedigger shot in the middle of the night, same caliber bullet as killed the kids at Père Lachaise. Then the killer dug up someone’s grave and pulled out the skeleton.”
“Sure sounds like our man,” Hugo said. “Was the victim a dancer?”
Taylor laughed. “Not exactly. A truck driver.”
“Seriously? He stole the bones of a truck driver?”
“Looks like it. Hard to tell exactly, the crime scene people found bone shards spread all over the place, like he’d gone at the skeleton with a hammer. No way to know how many bones he took.”
“If any,” Hugo mused.
“Given his other history, I’m sure he took some. Anyway, with the.22 bullet and the grave robbing we got a notification of a possible connection.”
“How about a name?“
“No one famous,” Taylor said. “Local guy by the name of Villier.”
“Doesn’t mean anything to me. What about the timing, could our guy have gotten down there to do this?” Hugo asked.
“Yes. He’d have had to hurry but it definitely works.”
“And the glass scarab, they found one of those?”
“Actually, no.”
“Then it could be someone else.”
“Actually, no. Given the similarities, we had the ballistics people do a quick comparison of the slugs from the two crime scenes. Identical class characteristics, and more than a few matching individual characteristics. Same gun.”
“Therefore, same shooter.” Hugo ran a hand over his eyes, willing the tiredness out of his body. “But it’s a break from his pattern.”
“When you get a peaceful moment, I’m sure you’ll figure it out.”
“A peaceful moment. That’d be nice.” Hugo looked up as voices echoed down the corridor, a woman shouting and the stern voices of the two CIA guards replying. “Someone making a fuss, I better go. I’ll call when Tom gets out of surgery.”
Hugo hung up and started down the hallway, rounding the corner at the nurse’s station to see Claudia trying to get through to the waiting room by shoving the larger of the guards in the chest as the other stood behind his colleague in case she got past — which didn’t seem likely. Claudia spotted Hugo and pointed to him.
“Just ask him. Do it!” She put her hands on her hips. “Hugo, merde, tell them.”
“Claudia, they are doing their job. Be nice.” He turned to the men. “Guys, it’s OK. She can be a pest, but she’s not dangerous.”
They looked at him for a moment, then stood aside, no doubt glad to make her someone else’s problem. Claudia looped her arm through Hugo’s as they walked down the hall toward the waiting area.
“What the hell happened tonight, Hugo? Why didn’t you tell me you were doing something dangerous?”
“I wasn’t really sure what we were planning to do,” Hugo said truthfully. “And even if I had known it was dangerous, you would have either asked me not to go, insisted on going with me, or put it on the front page.”
“All three, probably,” she said. “Just so you know, I already filed something for tomorrow’s paper. The prefecture gave me some official stuff, a source gave me some other bits and pieces.”
“And now you want a comment from me?” Hugo stared at her but then realized how alike they were. Policemen never stopped chasing bad guys, and reporters never stopped chasing stories.
Claudia shrugged. “It’s up to you, Hugo. I’m not going to pretend I wouldn’t like something, but I won’t push it.”
Hugo thought for a moment. “Got your pen handy?”
“Always,” she smiled.
“We know how he moves about. We have a good description of him, too.”
“I got one from the prefecture,” she said. “Already in the story.”
“Good. OK.” Hugo stared at the ceiling. “He’s not so much a scarab as a rat, scuttling through the sewers, nibbling away at Paris’s great attractions, feeding on the already-dead.”
“Ooh, I like it,” Claudia said, scribbling into her pad. “Go on.”
“He’s also a coward, sneaking about at night and shooting people in the back. We’ll catch him before long, make no mistake. And when we do, he’ll spend the rest of his life in a cage.”
Claudia finished writing, read it back to him, and said, “Are you sure? It’s pretty strong.”
Hugo looked toward the operating room. “I’m sure.”
Claudia stood, then pulled out her phone and Hugo heard her relay his quotation, pictured the copyeditor typing it into the computer, adding it to the story.
“Let me ask,” Claudia said into the phone. She called over to Hugo. “Mind if we use your picture?”
“I’m not looking to make headlines myself, so—”
She interrupted, speaking into the phone. “He says it’s fine. Sure. The name of the guy who was shot?” Her eyes flicked at Hugo but she answered without waiting for his response. “No, they’re not releasing that still.”
“Thanks,” Hugo said when she’d hung up. “Certain people would be upset if Tom’s name appeared in print.”
“I figured,” she said. She lowered herself into the plastic seat beside Hugo and took his hand. When she spoke, her voice was a whisper. “Tell me he’s going to be OK.”
Hugo squeezed her hand, the only response that seemed truthful.
They sat for an hour, taking turns to pace the small room, talking very little, holding hands a lot. Without warning, the doors to the operating room swung open. A doctor moved toward them, untying the mask that covered her face, muscular forearms working the knot. Strands of hair stuck to her forehead and her large brown eyes were bloodshot. She had a paper bag in her hand.