Hugo leaned forward, the last hope of official cooperation evaporating before his eyes. “Ambassador, a friend was kidnapped in front of me. A man with a gun took him from his book stall by Pont Neuf.”
“You saw this?”
“I was right there, I couldn't do a damn thing except call the police afterwards. The detective made all the right moves but never really…I don't know.” Hugo sat back. “It's hard to explain. He went through the motions, but since a couple of people told a different story, he's just thrown up his hands and stopped looking.”
Taylor stroked his chin. “That's very odd. Why would he do that?”
“I have no idea, but I was hoping you might be able to find out.”
“I'm sorry Hugo, but this is one of those jurisdictional things.” He held up a hand as Hugo started to protest. “Yes, I know, we both hate that kind of talk, but the fact remains. If they don't want to investigate, there's nothing you or I can do about it. And I know what you're thinking, but don't. We have a sensitive conference coming up, our friends from Zimbabwe, and this isn't the time to be ruffling French feathers.”
“Honestly, ambassador, right now I don't care about French feathers.”
“Well I do,” Taylor said, standing. “And you better start because that's your job. I'm sorry about your friend, Hugo, I mean that. But if the locals are satisfied there was no crime, then what can I do? Between nothing and very little. Which,” he added, holding up a warning finger, “is what I want you to be doing.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning you stand down, vacation or not.”
Chapter Seven
When Emma walked into his office with a cup of coffee, Hugo was staring into space.
“Hugo, you look pale. Are you OK?”
“Yes, fine. Just thinking, that's all. I just had some…news.”
“Oh dear. Bad news, from the look on your face. And the look on the ambassador's when he walked out.”
Hugo looked up. “Oh, I'm not worried about him. He has a job to do. No, this is something else, something good but mysterious, you might say.”
“Care to share? We could use some excitement around here.”
“Lions and Martians not enough for you?” He thanked her for the coffee and, when she left, he turned back to his computer.
What had that bouquiniste said his name was? Ah yes, Jean Chabot.
One of the things Hugo had done as embassy security chief was to negotiate access for himself and senior members of his staff to the databases of France's foreign intelligence agency, the Direction Générale de la Sécurité Extérieure, or DGSE, and the databases of the French version of the FBI, the Direction Centrale du Renseignement Intérieur, or DCRI. If he'd wanted to, he could also tap into Interpol's global communications system, known as I-24/7. He'd try that next, if nothing came up.
He first logged into the DCRI's system. The latest generation of crime-fighting software, it could search for crimes or criminals using the barest of details. A name, a place, a date, or even a modus operandi would bring back results. Not always fast, it was nonetheless thorough, and his first thought was to have it track down that bastard Nica. But his fingers hovered over the keyboard. Presumably the man's first name, but short for Nicolas? Nicholas? Nikolas? Too many possibilities. Instead, he filled two search boxes with the names “Jean” and “Chabot.”
Then he sat back, lifted his boots onto his desk, and took a careful sip of Emma's hot coffee. Perfect, as always. Why he couldn't make it this good at home, he'd no clue. Even using her written instructions, and the exact same beans and coffee-concocting equipment, he ended up producing either a witch-thin potion or a bitter, burnt-tasting brew.
He took another sip and watched as a thick bar on his computer screen filled up from left to right. It paused at ninety-nine percent and then flashed up twelve hits on Frenchmen named “Jean Chabot.” Only three were in Paris, so he started with those. The first was a bust: a black male killed in prison two years ago. The second and third Jean Chabots were also not his man, a quick glance at the pictures showed that much. He ventured further afield, choosing a Chabot from Toulouse. Not him. The next one was from Pau, a town Hugo knew from following the Tour de France religiously every year. Down near the Pyrénées, one of the mountain stages of that race usually began or ended there.
This Jean Chabot was his man, the too-close eyes and thin mouth unmistakable. He had six convictions, all for theft-related offenses, the most petty was a shoplifting charge when he was twenty and the most serious an armed robbery, for which he spent four years behind bars. What struck Hugo was that each of Chabot's crimes was in southwestern France, three in the city of Pau itself, two more in Biarritz, and the other one in Lourdes. Nothing at all in Paris.
Which meant that Hugo now had two questions that he couldn't answer.
First, why would a humble bouquiniste get kidnapped? Second, how did a not-so-petty criminal from the Pyrénées-Atlantiques Department end up in possession of one of the most coveted bookstalls in Paris? He didn't believe that Chabot didn't know Max, or at least know of him. But if Chabot wasn't talking, there wasn't a lot he could do about it. Yet.
The next step, he knew, was to try harder to find Max himself. His fingers hovered above the keyboard, the cursor blinking in the empty search box in front of him. Max was a friend and looking up his criminal history seemed like an invasion of privacy, a step too far. He didn't know why, but he felt sure that any wrongdoings would be ancient history, from a youth that Max had left behind long ago. Hugo was still not sure he wanted to know, but he couldn't think of any other way to find the old man.
All he had was his first and last name, and even the latter he wasn't sure how to spell. He tried multiple variations on the spelling of “Cloche” and then, when he got nothing back, he tried variations on the name. After more than a dozen tries, running every name he could think of that began with “Cl-,” he sat back and ran his hands through his hair. He thought for a moment, then checked his watch and smiled at the realization that time didn't mean the same thing to Tom as it did to everyone else. He dialed his friend's number.
Tom's voice came on the line after four rings. “I spy a French number, so Dr. Marston, I presume.”
“Well done, Sherlock.”
“Silence ‘lo these many years, then you can't get enough of me. What's up?”
“You remember I said I had a little thing going on here?”
“And here's where I make a joke about your little thing.”
“Wouldn't be the first time. Anyway, you near your CIA gadgetry?”
“Happens I am. It's the only way I can access global porn. The classy Malaysian stuff.”
“Naturally,” said Hugo. “I need some information about someone, but I don't have much to go on.”
“Hang on.” Hugo heard the clink of glasses, or perhaps bottles, being moved. “You've tried your local databases I assume?”
“Yes, Tom, I managed to think of that.”
“Good man. So what can you tell me?”
“Max is the first name; I'd thought his last name was Cloche but I ran it, and every other name beginning with those first two letters, and came up empty.”
“What else?”
“No date of birth, I'd guess he's in his late sixties. He's a bouquiniste.”
“OK. Anything else?”
Hugo searched his mind for more clues, for some deeply buried memory that might point to Max's identity. “If I think of something I'll let you know.”
“OK,” Tom said. Hugo could hear his friend's fingers working a keyboard, then Tom's voice, talking himself softly through the process. “Max and all its variations, in Paris, bookseller. Probably a union member, being a frog.”