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Hugo isn’t about to say a word—his earlier client has odd tastes but is indeed wealthy and pays much more than required for Hugo’s discretion—but the man displays a leather wallet with a photo ID identifying him as an officer with the Direction Générale de la Sécurité Intérieure, and Hugo just nods.
“Yes, he did,” Hugo says. “Is something wrong?”
The man with the DGSI—France’s internal security and counterterrorism agency—slides the ID back into his coat pocket and gestures to the back room. “Is there someplace private we may talk, m’sieur?”
Hugo leads him into a rear area cluttered with cardboard boxes and overflowing file cabinets, and in the next three minutes explains exactly what his client purchased.
The man nods, seemingly just remembering everything Hugo says without taking notes, which Hugo finds impressive.
Then the agent says, “Is there anything else he said that struck you? Something odd? Unusual?”
Hugo pauses, then nods enthusiastically. “Yes, yes. He said something about railways.”
The man seems to come to attention. “What did he say about railways?”
Despite his earlier promise to his customer, Hugo feels pleased that he’s helping this brave young man and aiding his France. “Railways…he said something about railways once ending an empire, and how they will once again do the same.”
The agent carefully nods. “Are you sure that’s what he said? About empires ending because of railways?”
“Yes, yes, I’m positive,” Hugo says. “That’s what he said. Tell me…is that important information?”
The man nods. “Important, yes. But for you…most unfortunate.”
And Hugo stares in disbelief as a small black pistol appears in the man’s right hand and the cold muzzle is pressed against Hugo’s forehead.
Chapter33
AT LE CINQrestaurant in the Four Seasons Hotel George V at 31 Avenue George in Paris, Rashad is finishing a delightful lunch of grilled pigeon and giblets with his most trusted associate, Marcel Koussa. Young Marcel’s skin is so light he could pass for someone who traces his family back to the days when Paris was just a muddy village here, under siege by Vikings from Norway, but he’s actually from Libya, the offspring of a female British oil engineer and a Libyan tribal leader who had been schooled in the ways of the AK-47 and international contract negotiations among oil cartels.
Both of his parents died in the violence following the Western overthrow of Gaddafi, and those nations’ failure to take responsibility for the chaos they stirred up. His rage and sorrow over that event brought Marcel to Rashad’s inner circle.
Marcel has changed from before and is wearing a dark blue blazer and a pressed white shirt with an open collar, and his short brown hair is trimmed flawlessly. As he finishes his lamb semolina, he softly says, “I have heard from our contact in Astana. The flight departed yesterday, and all is on schedule for tonight.”
“Very good,” Rashad says.
“If I can say, sir, having you there tonight…it’s a risky move.”
“I know.”
“There are too many variables. I would think…hope…that you would remain behind.”
Rashad gently wipes his fingers on a perfectly folded white napkin. “All of our great warriors, from Saladin to Sultan Mehmed II, have led from the field. It’s only been in the last decades that the cowards have remained hiding in their caves or their cement homes, bravely sending out warriors in their name to do their business. No, I will not let that happen.”
“Sir, but earlier today…I…”
Rashad gently nods to his Marcel. He knows quite well that Marcel seethes inside, hating his life and world because of his nature and upbringing, being both North African and British, neither society quite willing to take him in and call him their own. There are tens of thousands of such young men in this part of the world, and Rashad is relying on many of them to help him in his mission.
This particular young man is brave and dedicated, and Rashad feels he owes him an explanation, even though Marcel has disappointed him on occasion.
“Yes,” he says. “I asked you to take care of my old friend, Hugo Fournier. And yes, Hugo disappointed me by revealing what he knew about me. I could not let that stand.”
“But sir…”
Rashad puts his napkin down. “But I know what you’re thinking. Why ask you? Why didn’t I do it myself?”
Marcel says, “Yes, that’s exactly what I’m thinking.”
Rashad takes his wallet from his coat pocket, removes a sheaf of hundred-euro notes, deposits them on the pure white tablecloth.
