He flipped the page until she caught his eye, his mother naked from the waist up and looking at him over her shoulder. He ran his finger over the leopard that stretched across her back, remembering how its spots would ripple when she moved, how its eyes, buried in the skin of her scapula, followed him as he moved about behind her. She had laughed with him about that, telling her little Scarab to be careful when he tried sneaking up on her, that she had someone watching her back, ready to pounce if he got too close.
Shame the leopard hadn’t seen him sneaking up from behind.
He didn’t know who’d done the tattoos but he’d spent a year finding ones like them, a task that had been easier than he’d imagined. Everyone had them nowadays and, oh, people just loved to show them off. A few hours prowling, watching from doorways and the grubbier cafés had shown him that. And then a few more hours on the Internet, scrolling through pages and pages of Paris call girls all too eager to display themselves to strangers. And he found what he needed; not perfection, not that, but women with tattoos that he could take with his knife. Take from them and give to the woman in the casket, place over the bones that hummed with energy to make them complete, and to begin the reunion that they, and he, so longed for.
Four more nights, three more targets. But he’d have to be more careful than he’d been, swifter and surer, because these targets would start out alive.
The next morning, when he’d dressed and eaten, he walked slowly downstairs and into the street, crossing the road to the tabac where he bought a newspaper, wondering whether the name of the man who’d chased him twice would appear in print. It was curiosity that drove him, not revenge or even self-preservation. That man didn’t know who he was or what he was doing. He was powerless to stop the Scarab’s reunion, which made him an inconvenience and a distraction, but one that warranted at least a look at the newspaper.
He bought coffee at a café on the corner, ignoring the glances of the well-dressed women at the table closest to him, flipping open the paper to hide himself from them. No doubt exactly what they wanted.
The story was by Claudia Roux, a name he recognized from reading previous stories about his escapades. He briefly wondered if maybe she had tattoos, how wonderful to strip them from her body while he explained what he was doing, how she was contributing to his fulfillment, and how sorry he was she wouldn’t be able to write about it.
And then the Scarab saw the man’s name and realized he’d been kidding himself. Revenge did bubble within him. Deep, yes, too deep for him to recognize at first, but reading the name brought it to the surface like a seismic tremor releasing magma from the ground.
Hugo Marston.
His name was surrounded by words like “liaison,” “senior official,” and “spokesman.” But it was the picture that drew the Scarab’s gaze. A stock photo, no doubt, issued by the embassy, but there was no doubt that this was the man in the cemeteries. Much more than a spokesman, and the Scarab smiled as he pictured it: a bureaucrat with a gun.
He read Marston’s words slowly, pulling every meaning from each one, savoring the sound of them, the sight of them on the page, letting them sink deep into him as if they were morsels of food to be digested. Morsels made bitter with the disrespect this American was showing him. Before the Scarab was even halfway through the article, he was shaking. The newspaper rattled in his hand and over the top of the page he saw the two women look at him again, then signal to the waiter for their check.
A rat? Scuttling? A coward?
The Scarab knew that the words had been placed there on purpose to upset him, to anger him, to force a reaction and bring him out into the light, but he wouldn’t let that happen. This Marston knew nothing about what he was doing, the importance of his life’s work, and if he thought cheap insults were going to put an end to things, then the American was mistaken.
The Scarab sipped from his coffee, a new image working its way into his mind. Not just mistaken, but quite possibly stupid enough to fall into a trap of the Scarab’s making.
And the Scarab had the advantage: he knew what Marston looked like and exactly where to find him.
Chapter Twenty-four
Hugo’s phone woke him at seven.
“Tom? Is that you?”
“Wakey wakey.” Tom’s voice was scratched and croaky but unmistakable.
“Shouldn’t you be unconscious?”
“No idea, the doctor didn’t mention that.”
Hugo sat up in the bed. “How’re you feeling?”
“Sore. And high,” Tom said. “They’re mainlining morphine into my arm.”
“Just what an alcoholic needs,” Hugo said, trying to keep his voice light.
“Fuck you. From what the doctor said, booze saved my life.”
“Your hip flask? If it was filled with milk it would have saved you.”
“Because people carry hip flasks full of milk,” Tom said. “Now stop making me laugh, it fucking hurts. I’m calling for a reason.”
“Oh?”
“Yes, I’m still running this op and I wanted to give you a heads-up. While we were out chasing ghosts my people got a bead on Al Zakiri.”
“Oh, you mean the guy who’s definitely not the Scarab.”
“That’s the one, but we can’t very well ignore a terrorist now, can we? Anyway, we’ve found his apartment. Shitty place in the Nineteenth.”
“Like you said it would be,” said Hugo.
“I’m a genius, what can I say. Anyway, they’ll be there in about an hour. Find a place to stage nearby and then hit the place. I’m guessing in three hours or so. We’ve got eyes on it in the meantime, so we’ll know if anyone comes in or goes out.”
“You sending me as your rep?”
“Nope. Courtesy call. Without me to punch your ticket, those boys won’t let you near the place.”
“You could call and order them to.”
“That’s right, I could.”
“But you’re not going to.”
“Politics, sorry.” Tom paused and Hugo heard his labored breathing. “You have plans today?”
“Nothing settled. You need some grapes or flowers?”
“Fuck no. I need a favor, though.”
“Anything.”
“Can you head over to the Moulin Rouge? Sucks that I don’t get to do it myself, but we need to cover that angle.”
“Sure,” said Hugo. “I’ve actually been wondering about Kiani, if our friend the Scarab targeted her.”
“You think?” Tom asked.
“Possibly. If so, someone there may have seen him. He’s pretty distinctive so if he’s been hanging around I’m betting someone will recognize him, maybe even know where he lives if he’s the kind to pay a little extra to get …”
“A little extra,” Tom finished for him. “Thanks man.”
“You sound tired, should you really be working?”
“Probably not. And you’re right, talking to you has wiped me out so I’m going to take a nap. I’ll call you when I know how the raid went.”
Hugo stepped out of his apartment building into a blustery Rue Jacob, the air warm but fierce, angry gray clouds scudding low above his head.
It was Saturday, but he’d put on a navy sport coat to hide his shoulder holster and a tie to make his visit more official. In his pocket he carried a photo of Al Zakiri.