Galvan hesitated. “I don’t know, I’m supposed to protect the girls not give out their—”
“Believe me,” Hugo said. “You’ll be protecting her.” He steered Galvan to the side of the room. “This is important.”
“Bien, I have it in the office. If she hasn’t left, maybe we’ll see her on the way.”
After seeing a stranger flashing around her boyfriend’s picture, Hugo guessed, she would have left. And gone straight to “Pierre.” He didn’t wait to follow Galvan, leading the way to the door and then striding down the hallway to his office. He waited as patiently as he could while the Frenchman looked up her address on his computer.
“Would you print out a map to her place?” Hugo asked.
“Bien sûr, here it is. Her real name is Amelia Rousseau.” Galvan hit a button and the printer went back into action.
“Merci,” Hugo said, taking the paper.
“Of course,” Galvan said. “And Monsieur Marston. Please make sure nothing happens to her. She’s a good girl and very important to us here. Professionally and personally.”
Hugo nodded. He wouldn’t promise that because he couldn’t. Amelia Rousseau was dating a suspected terrorist and, if she’d left the Moulin Rouge to find him, might be walking straight into the middle of an armed, probably lethal, CIA-led assault.
Chapter Twenty-five
He called Tom from the street outside the Moulin Rouge but his friend didn’t pick up. Hugo left a message, telling him to call back and explaining that his CIA goons should look out for, and be careful with, the finest dancer at the world’s most famous cabaret when they stormed Al Zakiri’s apartment.
Hugo stood on the sidewalk and looked at the traffic. Until Tom called him back, the only place he could look for Amelia was her own apartment. Judging by the map, it would be a twenty-minute walk or just a few minutes by taxi. And she had a good ten-minute head start.
Boulevard de Clichy, the road outside the Moulin Rouge, was busy and he’d barely started walking when a taxi pulled up to the curb and deposited four Japanese tourists onto the sidewalk. Hugo slid into the back seat and gave the address to the driver.
He sat on the edge of his seat, peering out the window, looking for the elegant woman he’d seen so fleetingly in the dressing room, wondering if he’d recognize her. The taxi stopped five minutes later on Rue Marcadet, outside a Champion supermarket.
“Ici,” the driver said.
Hugo paid him and stepped out of the cab. He looked at the piece of paper in his hand and up at the modern apartments around him, stacked four and five stories high above the shops and bistros that fronted the tidy street.
He pushed against double glass doors that led into the building that housed Amelia Rousseau’s apartment. A concierge stepped out from behind his desk, a slight young man in a gray tunic.
Hugo pulled out his badge and made sure the young man saw his gun. “Police business. Did Ms. Rousseau just come in here?”
The young man — a metal tag said Arnaud—nodded, his dark eyes wide and unsure.
“Bien,” said Hugo. “Was she alone?”
Arnaud nodded again. “Oui,” he said.
“Good. I need you to take me to her apartment,” said Hugo. He started toward the stairs, not wanting to give the young man time to consider his options. Hugo softened his tone, an intentional shift designed to confuse Arnaud, give him the chance to come over to Hugo’s side. “It’s important, for her safety.”
“She’s not in trouble?” Arnaud said, starting forward, clearly relieved.
“Not with the law.”
They went up three flights of marble steps, the interior of the building more impressive than its exterior, telling Hugo that the Moulin Rouge paid its stars well. They moved silently down the carpeted hallway to a pair of double doors. Arnaud looked at Hugo. This is it.
“Knock,” Hugo said. “Tell her you have a package from the Moulin Rouge for tonight’s performance.”
The young man hesitated. “You sure you’re the police? I mean, that you don’t need some kind of—?”
Hugo leaned in close. “Look, someone’s trying to hurt her. I could go and get enough paperwork to fill up this hallway, but who’s going to protect her in the meantime?”
Arnaud’s eyes flicked toward the door and he raised his hand, knocking lightly with his knuckles. Hugo stood back from the peep hole as they heard footsteps.
“Oui?” A woman’s voice. “Arnaud?”
“A package from the Moulin Rouge, madam.”
The door unlocked and Hugo stepped forward, not giving her the chance to close it on them. A glimmer of fear crossed her eyes when she saw him, then recognition.
“You,” she said.
“I mean you no harm,” Hugo said. She stepped back, then he pushed the door wide open and stepped into a large, bright living room. He turned to the doorman. “Merci, Arnaud. You can go.”
The young man looked relieved, scurrying back down the hallway with a quiet, “Oui, monsieur.”
Hugo looked at Rousseau and tried to ignore her beauty, but her fine features and soft but intelligent eyes were distracting, somehow captivating, despite the circumstances. “Where is he?”
“Here.” The man’s voice was behind him, and Hugo froze as something solid pressed into his back. “Don’t move.”
Hugo stood still, his arms half raised as Al Zakiri’s hand snaked under his jacket, unclipped Hugo’s gun, and slipped it out. Hugo cursed himself for being so careless and turned to face Al Zakiri without waiting for instructions. The Pakistani now was ten feet away, and the only gun he had was Hugo’s. They stood there for a moment, staring at each other. Tall, slender, and dark, Al Zakiri looked different from the picture in Hugo’s pocket. He had the same large eyes and the prominent cheekbones that made him handsome, but he’d lost the beard and cut his hair. Hugo was surprised to see that the hand holding the gun was shaking.
“You can put it down,” Hugo said. “I said I wasn’t here to cause harm, and I’m not.”
“Which explains the gun,” Al Zakiri said sarcastically, but his voice was as unsteady as his hand.
“My job,” Hugo said. “My name is Hugo Marston. I’m the RSO for the US Embassy. That means head of security, and I’m required to carry it.”
“Why are you here?”
“I’m investigating the death of your friend, Abida Kiani.”
Al Zakiri hesitated. “You know her real name.”
“And yours. So do a lot of other people, which you’d know if you read the news.”
“I don’t.”
“You should. There are a lot of people looking for you,” Hugo said. “And some of them are not very nice.”
“Why are they looking for me? Abida was my friend, I wouldn’t hurt her.”
“Oh, I don’t think you had anything to do with that. You might be able to help me find out who did, but that’s not why the authorities are looking for you. And I think you know that.”
“Tell me anyway.”
“Where you grew up. Who your father is. Where you’ve been for the past few years. I strongly suggest you come in with me so we can talk about it.”
“So now I’m a terrorist?”
“I don’t know what you are. But until that gets figured out, you’re not especially safe out on the street.”
Al Zakiri’s eyes flashed. “I’m safer in some CIA torture camp?”
Rousseau stepped forward and took her boyfriend’s hand. “He’s not a terrorist, that’s stupid.”