Hunt Through Napoleon's Web

Chapter 17

Darif drove Gabriel and Lucy the thirty miles to Menara International. It was a long drive, made longer by an overturned truck that snarled traffic in both directions on the N8 highway—but at least this time they got to ride in the cab rather than in the trailer. Gabriel even managed a brief catnap on the way.

Lucy accepted Darif’s profuse farewells and followed Gabriel to the airport’s courtesy desk, where a young woman nodded sympathetically while Gabriel explained the situation. She turned the heavy black-painted telephone on the counter around to face him and he lost no time in putting a collect call through to New York.

“Let’s get you a ride back home,” he said to Lucy while he waited for Michael to answer.

“Do you really think it’s safe for me to go back to Nice?”

“No, of course not,” Gabriel said. “I mean home home. New York.”

“New York? Gabriel, I’m not—”

Michael picked up at that moment. “Michael,” Gabriel said. “Guess who I found.”

“I’m not going to New York!”

Michael’s voice sounded shallow and tinny through the ancient phone equipment. “Gabriel?” he said. “Is that—”

But he got no further, since Lucy reached over and depressed the button in the handset cradle to disconnect the call.

“Now, is that any way to treat your brother?” Gabriel said. “Either of your brothers?”

“I am not going to New York,” she said.

“Well, you’re not staying here.”

“No, and I’m not going back to Nice,” Lucy said. “Aren’t we fortunate that there are more than three cities in the world?”

“What’s wrong with New York? You could stay at the Foundation. The security there is top-notch. Michael would love to take care of you, make sure nothing bad happens.”

“That,” Lucy said, “is what’s wrong with New York.” She shook her head. “I’m sorry, Gabriel. But I’m just not ready to see him again.”

“It’s been nine years,” Gabriel said. “When are you going to be ready?”

“Give me another nine,” Lucy said, “and we’ll talk.”

Gabriel threw his hands up. “So where do you want to go?”

“I’ll go to Paris. Or back to Arezzo. Or, hell, I can crash with Devrim in Istanbul—”

“I don’t know.”

“Look. Paris is a big place. They won’t find me there. I’ll disappear. I’ve done it before. I’ll send you e-mail and you can let me know when it’s safe to go back to Nice. Meanwhile maybe I can turn Sammi up, find out what’s happened to her.”

“In Paris?”

“It’s where she’d go if she couldn’t stay in Nice.”

Assuming she’s even alive, Gabriel thought.

“All right,” he said. “Paris—but you promise you’ll stay out of sight? You won’t contact anyone but me or Michael? Just till this thing is over.”

“Don’t worry about me,” Lucy said. “You just worry about yourself. You don’t need any more scars.”

“You’re telling me,” Gabriel said, and reached out a knuckle to brush her chin.

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 . . . ?”

“Khufu was very upset that you left without saying good-bye. I’m afraid he insists you return.”

“Who are you?” Lucy said. “Why are you working for them?”

“Why? Because they pay me,” the man said. “As for who I am . . .” He bowed slightly from the waist. “Reza Arif, at your service.”

Sammi double-parked the hotwired Citroen outside the baggage claim area and ran inside. She found Gabriel more or less in the same spot she’d met Arif. He swept her up in his arms and she found hers going around his neck. She hadn’t planned to kiss him; she got the sense it surprised them both when she did. But neither of them seemed in any hurry to end it.

“I was so worried about you,” she said when they finally separated. “Are you all right?”

“I’ve been worse,” he said. “You?”

She looked away. If anyone could understand—

“I killed two men,” she said.

“Did you,” Gabriel said, and stroked her hair gently. “Well. I’m sure they had it coming.”

“One did,” she said.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“It was terrible,” she said. “I did not know if you were alive or dead; I did not know if I would live or die, I just knew I had to—had to . . .”

He took her in his arms again. “It’s okay.” Then he whispered something into her ear. “When I say ‘duck’ . . .”

“What?”

“Duck!” he shouted, and pressed one palm down on the top of her head while drawing his Colt with the other. Sammi dropped and rolled toward the metal bench against the nearest wall, wedging herself beneath it. She saw Gabriel running toward a pair of open glass doors, where two men with guns were charging toward him. All three guns were roaring and spitting flame; airline staff and deplaning passengers were running, screaming, trying to get out of the way.

One of the men went down, sprawling as the impact of a bullet above his right knee swept his legs out from under him. The other one kept coming, squeezing off shot after shot in Gabriel’s direction. Gabriel hunched down and a glass light fixture just past his shoulder exploded into fragments.

He whipped up a suitcase in one hand, saying “Sorry” to the astonished tourist who’d been reaching down to pick it up, and hurled it at the remaining gunman. The heavy bag split open in midair, punctured by a pair of gunshots, scattering clothing and duty free souvenirs in all directions; but the bullets didn’t halt the bag’s momentum and it smashed into the shooter’s hand with an audible crack. The gun flew out of the man’s hand and he dropped to his knees, cursing and cradling his broken wrist.

Gabriel ran back to the bench and extended a hand. Sammi grabbed hold and pulled herself to her feet. “Come on,” he said and raced toward a door marked PRIVATE FLIGHTS. They shot through and Gabriel slammed the door shut behind them, twisting the lock.

“Can I help you?” a young woman asked. She was well trained—her voice exuded calm and professionalism in spite of the sounds of gunfire she must have heard coming through the door.

“Yes,” Gabriel said. “Hunt Foundation, Gabriel Hunt. Where’s our plane?”

They heard someone try the doorknob, then start hammering on the door.

“Do you have any ID?” the woman said.

Gabriel grinned ruefully. He waved his Colt at her. “Honey, this is all the ID I’ve got, and it’s going to have to be good enough.”

A huge blow rocked the door. It wouldn’t stand up to many more.

“I’m sorry, sir,” the woman said, “but I am going to have to confirm with the pilot . . .”

“Come on, we’ll go confirm together.” Gabriel pushed past her, past the counter, and kicked open the metal door behind her. Across a hundred feet of sun-baked tarmac, the Hunt Foundation jet sat with its cockpit door open and stairs extended. A man in short sleeves sat at the top of the stairs, reading an issue of Plane and Pilot.

“Charlie!” Gabriel yelled as he ran toward the plane. “Get off your ass and get the engine started!”

Behind them, Sammi heard the door lock splinter.

“Sir,” the woman called breathlessly. She was running behind them, as fast as she could. “This man claims he’s Gabriel Hunt. Can you confirm—”

“That’s Gabriel, all right,” Charlie called back, and he disappeared into the cockpit.

“Happy?” Gabriel said.

The woman stopped running; she stood bent over, her hands on her knees, panting. Sammi knew how she felt. But she kept pushing till they reached the foot of the stairs, then followed Gabriel up, taking the steps two at a time. The stairs began retracting the instant her feet cleared the last step.

Looking out the window, she saw three men—two in airport uniforms, one in plainclothes—race across the tarmac after them. But Charlie already had the plane taxiing. A few gunshots sounded dully and one bullet spanged off the side of the plane. Then their nose was up and the ground dropped away behind them.

“Where we going?” Charlie called from the cockpit.

“Corsica,” Gabriel called back.

Pressing his hand against Thabit’s leg wound, Naeem made another call to Amun.

“They got away,” he reported. “On a private jet.”

“Never mind,” Amun said. “He will go right where we want him to, and he won’t raise a finger against us. Not now that we have his sister again.”