Moreau looked toward the quay. “We got him,” he confirmed.
“I see that,” Hugo said. “Dead or alive?”
“You surprise me, Monsieur Marston. We are good at what we do.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning, a man who is in France to murder civilians, who points a gun at an American security officer in the middle of Paris,” Moreau paused and looked at Hugo. “That man doesn’t get a second chance.”
“My God, you killed him.”
“Mais oui. You aren’t the only ones who shoot to kill.”
On the bridge above them, the man with the buzz cut and the limp had watched everything, having moved back to his hiding spot behind the sculpture of the nymphs as soon as the American vacated it.
Now the man walked away, he’d seen all he needed to see. By the looks of things Marston would be busy with the French police for a while. His girlfriend, too.
As he walked, the man peeled off his fake beard, enjoying the sharp sting as the glue tore from his skin. He was used to it now, the idea that pain was the greatest physical sensation. As if he’d been striving to get this far, to eliminate the irritations of noise, ugliness, and sour taste, leaving him with the only sense that mattered, the one whose sole purpose was to alert the body to injury. Injury and death.
But he wanted to get these shoes off, he’d had them a long time but never worn them. This was discomfort, not pain, and so not welcome. At the end of the bridge, he slipped the backpack off his shoulders and leaned against the balustrade as he kicked the thick-soled shoes off, replacing them with the tired black sneakers that had carried him through the tunnels of Paris, into and out of its finest cemeteries.
The Scarab headed due north toward the Champs-Élysées, toward the nearest metro stop. As he walked, he congratulated himself. He’d seen Al Zakiri by chance, a by-product of his plan, and after seeing the US Embassy’s press release he’d made the easy connection to Marston. Following Al Zakiri today, for fun as much as anything, had brought him within touching distance of the American. And the stupid man hadn’t had any idea who he was.
The Scarab had been hesitant to shave his head at first, not wanting to acknowledge to himself that on at least one occasion he’d been close to being captured. But he could take no risks, not when he was so close to finishing. And that was why today he’d not confronted Marston, just watched him. There wasn’t much time, but there would be enough to deal with him.
He found a public phone and pulled the piece of paper with the number out of his pocket.
“Oui?” A woman answered, her throat torn up by cigarettes.
“Bonjour,” he said. “I’d like one of your girls. One in particular.”
“Bien sûr. Which one, and when?”
“This afternoon, and her name is Rose. She has a snake tattoo.”
“Rose? Ah, non, she doesn’t work here any longer.”
His stomach lurched. “What?”
“Last week. She went home to her family, somewhere near Bordeaux.” The woman coughed. “We have others, as good.”
“With the same tattoo?”
“I don’t know. Probably not the same but—”
He slammed the phone down, glaring at the passer-by who’d frowned at his moment of anger. The Scarab took a breath and pressed his forehead to the cold metal above the phone.
Calm, stay calm and think.
He continued walking, scruffy and invisible on the streets, but at the metro station he had to ignore the looks from the other commuters, from the uniformed flics who no doubt expected him to try and board the train for free. But he didn’t mind too much, their eyes didn’t see the real man, they had no idea who he was. And the metro itself was cool, a cavern that took him away from the heat of the city, a refuge with its own smells, its grimy tiles, and its graffiti-spattered tunnels. He liked it because down here the rest of the world felt slightly uncomfortable, he could see how they tried not to breathe in the oily air or touch the walls and benches.
The girl boarded the train two stops before his, throwing him off completely. He’d intended to stalk through the Pigalle region, where women showed off the art on their bodies during the day and tried selling themselves in the back alleys by night. But this girl, she was so perfect he found it difficult to breathe, almost impossible to take his eyes off her.
She was petite, wearing a plain white summer dress and sandals that wrapped themselves around her ankles with the help of brown straps. Her hair was yellow, like corn, and stood up from her head in two sprouts, and she carried a small red bag, slung easily over her shoulder. She held a book in one hand as she leaned against the side of the carriage. Those things, the purity of her dress, the dedication to the book, those things were not what held the Scarab’s throat. What sealed her fate was the snake whose tail peeked out from under the cotton to tickle her knee, and whose head he glimpsed every few seconds, when the sway of the train pushed the girl off-balance and toward him, revealing a smear of green and a flicker of red lurking under her neckline. A snake, he knew, that ran the length of her little body, across the flatness of her stomach and between the swell of her breasts. A snake he needed.
His heart soared when she closed the book and tucked it into the bag. Saint-Augustin. This was his stop, too.
He followed her out of the train, through the station, and out onto Boulevard Haussmann. He kept his distance, hoping she didn’t live here, hoping she wouldn’t disappear into an apartment and be gone forever. She walked slowly, stopping to look in store windows and read the menus of the cafés along the way. It was warm and a breeze rippled her dress when she paused, laying the thin cotton against her body in a way that made the Scarab’s heart beat faster. Other men noticed her too, and that realization made him want to act sooner. Now.
But where? The farther she went, the more hope drained from him. How could he get her alone? Alone with him where he could take what he needed.
He felt better when she turned off the main road into a side street. She was moving faster now, as if in a hurry. The Scarab realized that she was on the phone. He sped up, hoping that she wouldn’t notice him if she was talking to someone else, distracted. He saw her fish into the bag for keys and he knew it was time to decide.
She let the front door close on him, she didn’t even know he was there. He let it swing most of the way, stopping it from clicking shut with one hand, the other holding the butt of his gun.
He counted to ten and then stepped into the dark foyer. Mailboxes surrounded him, and a glass door led from there into the building proper. All he could do was act like he lived there, though his heart was racing. He pushed against the door and it opened.
The girl was halfway down the carpeted corridor, still talking on the phone. The Scarab quickened his step, knowing she was close to home. A few seconds later, she stopped in front of a door on the left side of the hallway, missing the keyhole as the voice on the phone distracted her. He stayed to the right, knowing the phone would stop her seeing him, jogging now as he closed the space between them. She opened the door, pushing it inward, and the Scarab saw her hesitate as she moved into the apartment.
She’d seen him, but it was too late.
Her mouth opened as she turned to face him, her eyes widening in disbelief. The Scarab reached out and took the phone and snapped it shut, his eyes locked on hers. He glanced over his shoulder as he shoved her into the apartment, but the corridor was deserted. Now he had to make sure her apartment was.
The place was small. Two bedrooms, a bathroom, and a tiny lounge, a small galley kitchen at the back. Small enough that he knew it was empty within a minute. They stood in the lounge, and the Scarab kicked a cheap wooden coffee table to one side, opening up a space on the floor. His grip on her upper arm, and the.22 in his other hand, had dissuaded her from resisting.