The Crypt Thief Read online

  Hugo put a hand on the cold stone beside him and exhaled, then looked up as he heard feet running toward him. Garcia led the way, a uniformed officer, the dog’s handler, close behind.

  “Which way?” the uniform asked, panting.

  Hugo pointed. “Twenty yards, when I last saw him, he can’t be far.”

  “Stay where you are, please, messieurs,” the man said. “Makes it easier for the dog.”

  “We will.” Hugo turned Garcia. “Make sure every pair of eyes is on those cameras and get those other dogs over here, now.”

  Garcia was wheezing with the exertion, bent almost double. “Already did all that,” he said between breaths. “Tell me you at least clipped the bastard?”

  “Barely saw him,” Hugo said. Three more dogs rushed out of the blackness, flicking their back legs left and right as they bounded between the tombs, tails high in full pursuit, following the whistles of their masters, desperate to please them by finding the intruder and dragging him to the ground.

  They stood for five minutes as the dogs and the flashlights circled them in an ever-widening spiral, impatient to join the search but knowing this was the most they could do for now. The rhythmic wail of sirens reached them, growing louder as reinforcements raced to the cemetery, but Hugo knew that by the time they made it inside, the muscular little man with eyes like coal would be either captured or gone.

  Time ticked on and beside him Garcia lit another cigarette, forcing himself to stand still so the dogs could do their work without distraction. “Can you give a description?” he asked.

  “A vague one. Shit, no. Too dark and he moved too fast, but I can put something down on paper. For all the use it will be.”

  “Bien.” Garcia slapped the tomb of a headstone. “This is taking too long. They should have him by now.”

  “I know.” Hugo shook his head and felt the anger rising inside him. “He’s gone. They won’t find him.”

  Hugo turned and walked back toward the statue of Casimir-Perier, crossing the cobbled street to pause under the statesman’s gaze. Garcia joined him, standing quietly.

  “At times like this,” said Hugo. “I wish I smoked.”

  “Ah non, mon ami,” Garcia said quietly. “Smoking will put you in the cemetery. And right now I’d rather be at a bar. Coming?”

  Hugo followed the round figure as the capitaine led the way ­to­ward the cemetery exit. A drink did sound good, but it made him think of Tom, a man of action who could have been there to help, who might have made the difference if it weren’t for the poison he’d been pouring into his liver for the past year at least.

  “Capitaine,” Hugo said, catching up to him. “If you don’t mind, I’ll head home. Someone I need to check on.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  The Scarab sat in the darkness, his back against the rough stone wall, his bag of tools at his feet and his headlamp in his lap. His breathing was normal now and the drip of water from somewhere nearby had soothed the anger from him, but still he was confused. Who was that man? A policeman? He must have been waiting there to spring his trap, but shouldn’t he have been in uniform? Police uniform or combat fatigues? Not jeans and a jacket.

  The Scarab ran his hands through his hair and a sprinkle of dust fell onto the lamp on his lap. He needed to get back home, rethink things. Figure out what to do next. He had thought his camouflage of Avril’s grave would work. But he’d been too tired, too distracted to read the newspapers, and he cursed himself. Depending on when they’d found his work, it would have been reported and if he’d seen the news story he’d have known not to come back. Maybe he should have worked harder here, too, done a better job of covering her grave but time wasn’t on his side, had never been, and he’d needed just one more night to finish because a single journey wasn’t enough to collect and wrap all of her at once, nor had he the space in his bag to carry all of her safely. He’d been lazy and inattentive, perhaps, and he’d certainly underestimated them, but these were mistakes he wouldn’t make again.

  He pulled himself upright and immediately felt the weakness in his legs, from the running and the rocket-fuel adrenalin that had burned away, taking with it his strength.

  He put the lamp back on his head and adjusted the beam. He listened to make sure no one was around, then moved slowly through the tunnel, recognizing the change in the color of the brickwork, the occasional tumbles of stone, and the faded chalk marks he’d put there months ago to guide himself to and from Père Lachaise.

  It was a long journey for a man with so small a stride, but it was also safe for someone who liked to move in the shadows and wasn’t afraid of the dark. Perfect for a man whose small but compact body fit like a marble in the labyrinth that snaked below the streets of Paris, the so-many miles that were off-limits and abandoned by all who lived in the City of Light, desolate and unsafe stretches that opened and narrowed without warning, crumbled at the slightest touch, and filled a man’s shoes with stagnant water and the grime and refuse of a hundred years.

  It took him two hours to get home, the walk followed by a bus ride, a rattling coffin on wheels that was empty save for him, the driver, and an old woman talking to herself in reassuring tones. Then the slow climb up the piss-smelling stairs to the metal door that kept him safe from the world.

  Inside, the life-giving light was still on in his sanctuary, a streak of red melting into the carpet at the foot of the closed door. He didn’t go in, couldn’t when he had nothing to offer, nothing to add.

  And the moon. Soon it would be growing, an eye in the sky slowing opening to watch his misdeeds and, if others were nearby, letting them see him, too. A risk he couldn’t afford.

  He couldn’t go out again tonight, it was too late and he was too tired, but the feeble moon would last another night, for one more visit, giving him one more chance to complete the first phase of his project. When that was done, the real work would begin. The real risks would be taken.

  And the blood that would be shed this time wouldn’t be that of hippy-worshipping Americans. No, it would be the worthy who would die this time, those who carried the precious materials that he needed to complete his destiny and become the person he needed to be.

  He lay back on the couch, too tired to shower, his clothes chafing from the sweat and dust that clung to him.

  “J’arrive, maman,” he whispered. His eyes closed and a smile spread across his lips. “J’arrive.”

  He lay quietly for ten minutes, working his mind from the past to the future. As disappointed as he was with the interruption at Père Lachaise, his backup plan would ensure no great delay of the reunion. Jane Avril was perfect, but she wasn’t the only one who could help him.

  He sat up and allowed himself a smile. It was, he thought, a good backup plan, one that the man in the cemetery might guess, but not until it was too late.

  He took his scalpel from the drawer in the coffee table and admired the light that glinted off its blade. He hesitated, feeling the hum in his veins, wondering if tonight he could sleep without the blade. The night’s excitement had left him drained but also unexpectedly elated, a sensation he felt only with the scalpel in his hand or, recently, taking the lives of those who might have derailed his plans.

  Feeling had been the problem all his life. Physical sensations, those were familiar enough—the pain of his father’s belt, and when he was older the ache of the week-long bruises from his fists. The confines of the closet, dark and hard, too, making his muscles cramp and his knees burn.

  It was the emotions he’d missed out on, as numbness had taken over his soul. Even fear had given way to its embrace, like a sword sinking into stone, pain disappearing into an impenetrable block of nothingness.

  Lately though, like when he was trekking to Père Lachaise, the difficult journey itself made him feel a little something: the dust, dirt, and dark that swallowed him underground, the iron bars that jutted from ragged concrete like the knives of highway robbers, and the physically exhausting journey through passage
s that alternately squeezed him tight and then opened wide, like the mouth of Jonah’s whale, to swallow whole his insignificant, scuttling form.

  All of these things, together, after many a crippling mile and because he always did them alone, they had become his and they made him feel, just a little.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The phone on Hugo’s bedside table woke him the next morning. He sat up as he answered, disconcerted by the bright panel of light that was his window. He looked at his clock. Ten already.

  He was glad it was Claudia, though her tone was brusque. “Hugo, what happened last night?”

  “We guessed right about him returning to Père Lachaise.”

  “And then let him go?”

  He swung his legs off the bed. “That seems a little harsh. How about, ‘Poor Hugo, you were shot at, are you OK?’”

  “Later. Right now I have to get to work on converting a press release into a news story.”

  “A press release. Tell me you’re kidding.”

  “Nope.”

  “Dammit. They gave me twenty-four hours. They said they wouldn’t release it until this evening.”

  “Looks like you used up your twenty-four hours in just one night.”

  Hugo walked into the kitchen, glancing toward Tom’s room. The door was shut and no sound came from within. “What does the press release say, can you read it to me?”

  “Sure. ‘Following last night’s near capture of suspected terrorist and the chief suspect in the murders of American Maxwell Norris and a woman of Pakistani descent, French and US authorities are appealing for the public’s help in finding Mohammed Al Zakiri.’”

  “They don’t even give Kiani’s name?”

  “Maybe they couldn’t spell it.”

  “Classy. Go on.”

  “Bien. It gives his description and references his picture which is on the release, then says, ‘The joint task force believes Al Zakiri was prevented from committing an unknown act of terrorism last night and continues to pursue several leads. He is believed to be armed and dangerous. Under no circumstances should any member of the public try to apprehend him. Please call the authorities immediately.’” She cleared her throat. “You’ll like the last bit. ‘The head of the embassy’s security department, Hugo Marston, will coordinate and liaise with the task force.’”

  “‘Coordinate and liaise’? That’s what I’m doing now?”

  “Says so.” She sighed. “And somehow you’re much less sexy to me.”

  “Not surprising. Any chance you won’t run that story yet?”

  “None. Other news agencies have it. Probably online already.”

  “If you don’t run it, you’ll be the only one reporting accurately, you know that, right?”

  “So you’re going to give me the real scoop? And right now?”

  He groaned. “I can’t. Not right now. They’re allowed to mess with me but not the other way around. If I step too far out of line, I’m screwed.”

  “Sorry, Hugo. What are you going to do?”

  “Head to the office, work on finding out how our friend the Scarab gets into Père Lachaise.”

  “That’s what you’re calling him?”

  “Seems appropriate, don’t you think?”

  “I like it.”

  “Good,” he said. “Now, if you don’t mind I have some liaising and coordinating to do.”

  “Actually, I do mind.”

  Hugo smiled. “I thought I wasn’t sexy anymore.”

  “You are. Just less so.”

  “Great. I like low expectations. What time?”

  “Call me when you’re done for the day.”

  Hugo hung up and decided to shower instead of making coffee. The smell might wake Tom, at least draw him into the open, and he didn’t feel like an argument or, worse, Tom’s mockery for letting the cemetery killer go.

  An hour later he walked into his office, finding Ambassador Taylor sitting in front of Emma’s desk.

  “Mad at me?” Taylor said, standing.

  “Depends how hard you tried to stop him.”

  “Not very. He went over my head, and the suits at the Pentagon just love the chance to run an op on someone else’s territory. Especially with permission. The liaison line was mine, though, figured it’d keep you in the loop.”

  Hugo opened the door to his office and waved Taylor through. “Funny,” he said. “I didn’t think about it that way.”

  “You’re welcome,” Taylor said.

  “Do you gentlemen want coffee?” Emma called as Hugo shut the door.

  He opened it up, winked at her, and said, sotto voce, “Once he leaves. Serve coffee now and he’ll never go.”

  Hugo sank into the swivel chair behind his desk as Taylor sat opposite him, groaning with relief as he lifted his feet onto Hugo’s desk. “That’s better.” He watched Hugo for a moment. “Seriously, there was nothing I could do about that damn press release. But all hell’s broken loose since it went out.” He held up a hand. “I know, I know. You told me so.”

  “More to the point, Al Zakiri isn’t the guy who killed those two kids.”

  “The point, as far as Senator Holmes is concerned, is that two major Western governments are now making the investigation a priority.”

  “Calling off the local yokels.”

  “Something like that.”

  “So I’m off the case, is that what you’re telling me?”

  Taylor opened his eyes wide with surprise. “Oh, no. Not at all. I happen to think you’re right and Al Zakiri, terrorist or not, just happened to find his name in the wrong place at the wrong time. No, you’re still welcome to work on the case. But you won’t have Capitaine Garcia, he’s . . .”

  “A local yokel?”

  “Basically.”

  “Actually, he’s not. A very smart guy. So if he’s out, who’s running the show now?”

  “That’s the bit you’ll like,” Taylor said. “You’ll be working for Tom now, he’s calling the shots. You can thank me for that, too.” He stood and clapped his hands together. “Right, back to work. Do me a favor and keep me up to speed, will you? I want to be there when you and Tom pull a serial killer out of your hat, rather than a terrorist.”

  “Not a serial killer yet,” Hugo said. “That we know of, anyway. But yes, will do.” He watched Taylor leave, then pressed the intercom button that connected him to Emma. “I’ll take that coffee now. Extra strong, s’il te plaît.”

  He thought about adding a dash of something stronger to it but the idea brought him back to Tom, his new boss, and he felt his stomach turn.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Hugo’s main objection to the terrorism angle was the redirection of resources. Lines of inquiry that led away from Al Zakiri were likely to be cut, and manpower and equipment would all head in, as far as Hugo was concerned, the wrong direction. And he suspected that Senator Holmes, having started this ball rolling to solve the murder of his son, would wind up sorely disappointed with the result. No one at the national level would care much about a young man and his Pakistani girlfriend killed at a Paris tourist site, not when the specter of terrorism lurked behind the parapets.

  But Hugo cared. Not just because two people had been killed, but because the man who’d killed them had tried to kill him, too. Shot at him, and then disappeared into thin air, evading dogs, uniformed cops, and even two helicopters that hung over the cemetery, scouring its narrow lanes and empty boulevards with powerful spotlights for hours after Hugo had left.

  Hugo cleared his desk, a physical act with intended symbolic meaning. That done, he sat back with a cup of coffee in his hand and thought about where to start. It should be with Tom, checking in to see where the investigation was headed, seeing what his role was. He hesitated, though, knowing that even if Tom was in good enough shape to pick a direction, Hugo might not like it. After all, Tom had bosses to please, too.

  So, he thought, start backward from last night. From the disappearing act.

  He lo
gged onto his computer and started reading about Père Lachaise cemetery. Some of the information, like the number of grave sites and bodies, he knew from Garcia. But he’d not known much about its history.

  Originally a field, and one considered somewhat distant from Paris’s bustling city center, the cemetery had been established by Napoleon I. Because it was so far out, after being open for three years it only had sixty graves in it. The cemetery only became popular when city officials started reinterring the bodies of famous French men and women there, starting with the playwright Molière and the remains of Abelard and Heloise, whose tragic love affair from the twelfth century was legendary among Parisians.

  Hugo was interrupted when Emma buzzed through. “I have Capitaine Garcia for you.”

  “Put him through, thanks.” A click. “Capitaine?”

  “Salut. Are you off the case, too, mon ami?”

  “No, but I gather I’m going to have to make do without your help.”

  “Fine with me, if you’re going to start chasing terrorists. Not my thing.”

  “You prefer gun-toting grave robbers?”

  “By far. Interesting time we had. Talking of which, I meant to ask you last night. How come every time I go on a field trip with you I get shot at?”

  Hugo laughed. “Things are looking up. Last time you ended up with a bullet in you, this time he missed.”

  “I should be grateful, you are right.” He paused. “What are you working on?”

  “How he disappeared.”

  “Want to do that over lunch?”

  “I feel like I just had breakfast. Hang on a second.” He looked as Emma put her head into his office.

  “Tom Green on the phone. Wants to meet you for a working lunch. What shall I tell him?”

  Hugo thought for a moment. Some things couldn’t be avoided forever. “Ask him where and when.” Emma left and he spoke into his phone. “Sorry, Capitaine, I’m back.”

  “Now that we’re not working together, you can call me Raul.”