Gabriel Hunt - Hunt Through Napoleon's Web

He picked up the phone again, waited for the operator to come on the line. “Collect call,” he said. “Same number as before.”

“I think we got disconnected,” Gabriel said. “The phones in this part of the world—”

“You knew,” Michael said. “That she was Cifer.”

Gabriel started to say something and then stopped, the words dying in his throat. Lucy was watching him. He wondered if she could hear what Michael was saying.

“Yes, I knew,” Gabriel said.

“Why did you lie to me? You told me Cifer was a six-foot-tall man with tattoos.”

“That was true, about the tattoos.”

“I suppose that’s something,” Michael said. He didn’t sound angry—just hurt.

“She didn’t want you to know, Michael. She was entitled to her privacy.”

“Why does she hate me?”

Gabriel saw Lucy wince. He covered the mouthpiece of the phone. “Why don’t you give us a moment,” he said. “Maybe get some food.”

“No money, remember?” But she headed off in the direction of the airport’s restaurant anyway. Before she reached it she turned aside and pushed open the door of the bathroom.

Gabriel got back on the phone. “She doesn’t hate you, Michael. She just doesn’t want to see you.”

“Why?”

“Says she’s not ready yet,” Gabriel said.

“She was ready to see you, apparently,” Michael said.

“Three times in nine years,” Gabriel said. “For maybe an hour apiece.”

“That’s three hours more than she gave me.”

“I’m sorry, Michael. I know how you feel.”

“Do you?”

“I never heard from her at all until last year, in Istanbul. You at least got e-mails.”

“Under a fake name!”

“Yeah, well. I guess we’ve both got something to complain about. Right now, though, what matters is that she’s alive, and out of the hands of the Alliance. And if we want to keep her that way, we need to get her to Paris.”

“To Paris,” Michael said.

“That’s right. And me to Corsica.”

“Corsica!” Michael said.

“Yes, Corsica. And Paris.”

“She’s not willing to come to New York,” Michael said.

“You heard her,” Gabriel said.

“I certainly did,” Michael said. “Right before she hung up on me. She did hang up, right?” Gabriel said nothing. “Fine. I’ll book her on a commercial flight; you can take the jet to Corsica.”

“How long will it take Charlie to get to Marrakesh?” Gabriel said.

“Hardly any time at all, given that he’s already there.”

“He is?”

“Sure,” Michael said. “I got a call from your friend Samantha saying you were in trouble and she needed to follow you to Marrakesh. How do you think I found out about ‘Cifer’?”

A call from your friend Samantha —

“She’s alive?”

“She was a few hours ago.”

“So where is she?”

“Looking for you. I put her in touch with Reza Arif.”

“Arif!” Gabriel said. “Why him?”

“She needed someone to help her,” Michael said. “I admit he may not be the most trustworthy person we’ve ever—”

“The most trustworthy? No, I wouldn’t say you could describe him as the most trustworthy. Just like you couldn’t describe Taft as the skinniest president.”

“I did warn her about him,” Michael said.

At the other end of the terminal, the bathroom door opened and Lucy stepped out. “Listen, I’ve got to go. Just get Lucy on the next flight to Paris. We’ll talk about the rest later.” He hung up on Michael’s protests and joggled the button in the cradle to bring the operator back on the line. He gave her Sammi’s cell phone number, waited while it rang twice.

Lucy, Gabriel saw, was slowly making her way back to the counter.

“ Allo ?”

“Sammi?” he said, keeping his voice low. “It’s Gabriel.”

“Gabriel! My god, where are you?”

“At the Marrakesh airport. Where are you?”

“In the city, at the Djemaa el Fna.”

“Is Reza with you?”

“No—we split up to cover more ground.”

“Good. How quickly can you meet me here?”

“Without him? I can’t. He’s got the car keys.”

“Keys?” Gabriel said. “I’ve seen the way you drive. Don’t tell me you don’t know how to hotwire a car.”

“Of course I know how to hotwire a car. But I shouldn’t just leave him—”

“Do it,” Gabriel said—and hung up just as Lucy reached the counter.

“Who was that,” she said, “that you were telling to hotwire a car?”

If she knew Sammi was here . . .

If she knew, she’d never take the plane to Paris. She’d insist on staying, and she’d remain in danger.

“A man Michael put me in touch with,” Gabriel said. “Someone he thought might be able to help out. You feeling better?”

“I peed, if that’s what you mean,” Lucy said. “So what’s the verdict? Michael willing to fly me to Paris, or does he insist on a detour through New York first?”

“He doesn’t like it,” Gabriel said, “but he’s willing.” He turned the phone around and pushed it back toward the woman behind the counter. “Come on.”

Naeem placed a call to Amun after he and Thabit had followed Sammi and her stolen car onto the expressway.

“She’s in a blue Citroen,” Naeem said. “On her way to the airport.”

“Then that is where Hunt is,” Amun answered. “And his sister. I will alert our men at the airport. Meanwhile—do not let the French woman out of your sight.”

“Of course,” Naeem said.

Lucy looked at the bank of clocks high up on the terminal wall. “I should go. They’ll be boarding soon.”

Gabriel nodded. Just as well—Sammi would arrive in a few minutes, and he wanted Lucy safely out of the way before she did. “All right.”

Gabriel pulled her into his arms and hugged her hard.

“I’ll e-mail you,” she said.

“The person you really should e-mail is Michael,” Gabriel said. “Or better yet, call him. Let him know you’re safe.”

She pulled herself out of his grip and walked down the corridor toward the security checkpoint. She got in line and called back to him. “Gabriel?”

“Yes?”

“I’ll think about it.”

He nodded, turned, and left.

The line had barely moved at all when an airport official wearing a customs uniform approached Lucy.

“Could you please come with me, miss?”

“What?”

“Please come with me.”

“Why? I’m waiting to go through security. My flight is in twenty minutes. They’re probably boarding already.”

“I’m sorry, you must come with me to customs.”

“But why?”

“Are you resisting arrest, madam?”

“ Arrest? For what?”

The man lowered his voice and took her arm. “Come with me. Now.” She felt a gun poke into her side. He held it close to his body, unseen by anyone else. “Come quietly,” the man said, “or you die right here.”

She looked around, gauged her chances if she made a break for it, or if she fought. She saw the man’s head shake minutely from side to side and felt the gun’s barrel press more deeply into her flesh. She swallowed. “All right.”

The agent led her away and through a door marked AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY in English, Arabic, and French. Waiting for them in a small office was a stranger, a swarthy man in a neatly tailored suit.

“Miss Hunt,” he said as the customs agent roughly twisted her arms behind her back and handcuffed her. “I regret that we meet under these unfortunate circumstances. I know your brothers and have all the respect in the world for them. True gentlemen, both of them.”

“But then—why . . . ?”