All three looked toward the window as the sound of sirens reached them. “Sooner than I thought,” he said.
Al Zakiri was already moving. He backed up and grabbed a wallet and keys from the table by the door, the gun still trained on Hugo, then walked back to Amelia Rousseau. “I know where to find you, ma chérie.” He kissed her forehead. “Stay safe. Je t’adore.”
“Wait.” Hugo moved toward him. “They’re already out there, let me go talk to them.”
“No!” With a last look at Rousseau, he turned and went out the door, closing it behind him. Hugo started forward, but she turned and locked the door, then stepped in front of it with the key in her hand. Holding Hugo’s eye, she dropped the key down the front of her shirt, adjusting it so that he knew it was nestled in her bra.
“You will have to fight me, and then sexually molest me to stop him.” She crossed her arms as if to emphasize Hugo’s predicament.
“You are not helping him,” Hugo said. “They will find him, and if he’s carrying my gun they won’t hesitate to kill him. They won’t even blink.”
“He’s not a terrorist,” she said. “He told me everything about his past, who he is, about Abida.”
“That’s very sweet, you can tell everyone nice stories at his funeral.”
“He’s clever, he has money, he knows where to—”
“Amelia, he’s not cleverer than a hundred CIA, MI6, and DGSE agents, all of whom know Paris better than him and have a damn sight more money.”
She hesitated, then shook her head and looked at the ground, her arms crossed over her chest as she blocked the door.
“I’m not going to fight you, Amelia.” He pulled out his phone. “But he has my gun, so I have no choice. Either I go after him, or they do.”
She looked up as he flipped it open. “Non!”
“Tell me where he’s headed.”
“Je ne sais pas.”
“Oh, you know,” Hugo said, “and you have three seconds to tell me.”
Her eyes pleaded with him for two of those seconds, then she said, “You won’t send them? You’ll go alone?”
“I promise.”
“The river. I know he rents a houseboat by the Pont Alexandre.”
“Describe it.”
“I can’t, I’ve never seen it, jamais.” She stepped forward reaching under her shirt for the key. “He told me it was being refurbished, that he’d show it to me when it’s finished. I don’t even know what it’s called.” She turned and went to the door. She slid the key into the lock and turned it, then opened the door. “I’ll come with you.”
“No,” Hugo said. “You won’t. You’ll stay here. If someone bangs on the door, open it and stand very still. Tell them exactly what’s happened.”
“D’accord. You will find him before they do?” It was a plea of desperation more than a question.
“I’ll try,” Hugo said. “We better hope so.”
He moved through the door, unhappy at the empty bump of the holster under his arm, unhappy about being sandwiched between a potential terrorist and an army of trigger-happy agents hot on his trail. He thought, for a split-second, about calling Tom, but his friend wouldn’t call off the chase — nor should he.
As he came to the top of the wide staircase he heard Amelia Rousseau’s voice behind him, calling to him.
“Vert,” she said. “His boat. He was having it painted green, to remind him of the flag of his country.”
Hugo waved a hand. Green like the Pakistani flag. Not a smart move for a terrorist, he thought. But an understandable gesture from a man forced to move a long way from home.
He reached the front doors of the building less than three minutes behind Al Zakiri, but as he looked out, Hugo saw just how close his quarry had come to being captured. The street was being blocked off at both ends, corked by the flashing blue and red lights atop police cars that were stacked three and four deep. He stood for a second, suddenly unsure about his own safety, and watched as the police cars to his left parted and an armored black Hummer rolled toward him. Slowly, he pulled out his phone and dialed Tom. His friend might not be able to call off the operation but he could smooth Hugo’s exit.
“What’s up?” Tom asked.
“Need some very fast help. Your little army and their tanks are moving into position outside Al Zakiri’s girlfriend’s place. I’m guessing they’ll hold anyone they find there for a while.”
“So?” Tom asked. “Oh, I get it. You’re there already, aren’t you?”
“Well done.”
“What did you find out?”
“Nothing.”
“Bullshit.”
“Tom, please. Just call whoever’s in charge and tell them to let me go.”
Tom’s tone was teasing. “If you didn’t find out anything, what’s the hurry?”
“You going to do it or do I have to make my own way out of here?”
“I wouldn’t do that,” said Tom mildly. “Those boys are expecting someone to run, and they’d just love to shoot him. Frogs don’t get to do that to people very often, this ain’t Texas.”
“So call them.”
Tom’s voice was still hoarse but his mind, apparently, worked just fine. “He’s not there, is he? But you know where he is, which is why you’re in such a rush.”
The armored car had come to a stop twenty feet from the front of the building and Hugo moved back so he wouldn’t be seen through the window.
“Tom, I have about ten seconds before I’m wearing handcuffs. Maybe bullet holes.”
“Oh, I was just having some fun. Hospitals are boring, you know. I’ll call you back in a few.”
Hugo breathed a sigh of relief as Tom rang off. He stood there for a slow count of sixty, and hoped it was long enough. He moved to the front door and pushed it open, slowly, making sure his hands were in full view of whoever was outside. He was less than halfway through the door when six figures in black combat fatigues fanned out from behind the vehicle, guns trained on him.
One of them yelled, “Get down on the ground!”
Hugo cursed. Sixty seconds clearly hadn’t been long enough. He knelt on the sidewalk, lowered himself slowly to the ground, face down, then stretched out his arms over his head. Seconds later two dark figures knelt on his back and pulled his arms behind his back. He felt the cold steel of handcuffs and winced as they pinched his wrists.
The two men put their hands under his armpits and pulled him to his feet, then propelled him into the street and around the Hummer. Hugo knew better than to resist, either physically or verbally. For now.
A tall black man, dressed like his officers except that he wore no helmet, stood behind the car. A cloth tag on his chest gave his name as Moreau. He held a clipboard and was giving directions to two other men. He looked up as Hugo was pushed in front of him.
“Who is he?” Moreau asked.
One of his guards snaked a hand into Hugo’s jacket pocket and pulled out his wallet. The men in black exchanged glances when they saw his embassy credentials.
“If he’s with Al Zakiri, those could be fake,” Moreau said.
“They’re not,” Hugo said. “Call the embassy and get a description.”
“Then what are you doing here?”
“Same thing as you. Trying to catch bad guys.”
“We’ll see about that.” Moreau turned to the men holding Hugo. “Take him to the prefecture, we’ll sort it out there.”
Chapter Twenty-seven
Hugo sat in the police car fuming, his guard and driver equally unhappy at having to leave the scene of a high-profile raid to play cabbie. Hugo was not angry at the police, they were right to be careful, but at Tom for not doing as he’d said.