The Sorbonne Affair: A Hugo Marston Novel

CHAPTER ONE

The funeral was held in a small sixteenth-century church, ninety minutes east of Paris. The chapel sat on a hill between two villages, Saint-Jean-de-Vieux and Etange, giving its few regular congregants a beautiful view of the surrounding vineyards. Its small cemetery bristled with headstones, some new but most tilted with age, a hundred years old or more, and while the lush, one-acre space was fuller than the priest and the grave-digger would have liked, both found it hard to say no to grieving families.

This had been Isabelle Severin’s church in her final years, and in his mind Father Henri Izner had on several occasions compared the lady with the church. Both were old and beautiful, small but robust, and both instilled in him a sense of awe and tranquility that were hard to explain. His Sunday talks with the aging movie star, sitting in the pews or slowly wandering the graveyard, were the highlight of his week.

The actress, a legend in America but a recluse in her later years, had met with Henri and his cousin, Marcella Harshbarger, the woman who ran the pricey but protective retirement home where Severin had lived out her life. In that meeting, Severin had been adamant that no fuss be made at her death. No media, no celebrities, no grand funeral. Her few friends at the home, Henri and Marcella, of course, and that was it.

Her remains were to be buried in Henri’s churchyard, an event that both Henri Izner and Madame Severin considered an honor. They’d smiled at that delightful congruence just two weeks ago before she’d really started to go downhill. Smiled and held hands for a moment.

I used to enjoy the attention, she’d told him, in her perfect, proper French. Now, I like to be left alone.

I understand, Henri told her. You have my utmost discretion.

Good, because if not, her eyes twinkled as she smiled, I shall come back and haunt you.

Unfortunately for Henri, and through no fault of his own, word of Madame Severin’s death escaped a day or so before the funeral, and the little church had been packed for the service, the heavy wooden doors staying open so the forty or so people who couldn’t find a seat could nevertheless feel as if they were a part of the ceremony.

Thank the Good Lord this news didn’t get out any earlier, he’d thought to himself numerous times that day. His phone just about rang itself off the hook all last night and all morning, but he’d had a good reason to ignore it: this was probably the most important funeral he would ever conduct.

He recognized maybe fifteen of the eighty or so people who’d shown up, and, now that the service and burial were over, most of the strangers avoided eye contact with him, as if he would chastise them for paying their respects to the lovely old woman. If, in fact, that was what they were doing; he’d seen more cell phones recording the event than he had tears.

A breeze picked up and rustled the branches of the young oak he stood beneath, a dozen yards from Severin’s grave. He watched as the gravedigger, Alexandre Dupuis, gently shoveled wet earth onto the coffin, the heavy thumps quieting as Alexandre slowly covered the old lady’s final resting place in a thickening blanket of soil.

Henri turned as a woman placed her hand on his arm. She was blond and in her early fifties, he guessed, slight and once pretty but now overly made-up.

"Bonjour," she said, in an accent that was clearly American and made him wish he spoke better English.

"Bonjour, madame," Henri said.

"Vous avez faîtes très bien avec le service de funéraille," she said, and Henri guessed she was thanking him for the funeral service. Guessed, too, that she’d had a liquid something or other to fortify her for the event.

"Merci, mon plaîsir," he said.

"Je cherche quelqu’un. She leaned in as if looking for someone was a secret, and his suspicion about her drinking was confirmed by the sweetness of her breath. Il s’appelle Hugo Marston."

Henri furrowed his brow. The name meant something, rang a bell. One of the few phone calls he’d answered last night, maybe? Or one of the forty or so people he’d met briefly earlier in the day? An American name . . . Ah yes!

Henri looked over the woman’s shoulder at the tall, handsome man who stood talking to an attractive woman, maybe his wife. Definitely close friends. Henri liked to do that, read people’s body language; it was a way to understand them. In his line of work, understanding humanity was a mission, but priests were like lawyers—people told them what they thought they needed to know, sometimes the truth but not necessarily the whole truth.

"Il est là," Henri said. He’s right there.

"Merci," the woman said, turning on one high heel and making remarkably steady progress through the heavy grass toward the man who’d introduced himself to Henri before the funeral. He’d not seemed like the others, there for the occasion, to gawp and take pictures. His handshake had been firm and his condolences genuine. His French was good, too, which made for a nice change.

But none of that had stopped Monsignor Henri Izner from wondering why the head of security at the American Embassy was at Isabelle Severin’s funeral.

Hugo and Claudia had left Paris early, ducking into the car as the June rainstorm clattered against the hood and windshield. Hugo gripped the wheel against the wind that rocked the black SUV as they sped northeast along E50, toward the little Catholic church where Isabelle Severin was to be buried.

The storm blew itself out less than an hour after they’d left Paris, the sky clearing in a matter of minutes as a weak sun gathered its strength and dried the road ahead. The wind died, too, and for the last half hour Hugo turned off the motorway and they drove with the windows down, winding along the smaller roads, enjoying the breeze and the smell of fresh, wet earth and grass all around them.

Hugo had researched the name of the priest at the little church, not for any reason but because it was a habit, to know whom he was meeting beforehand. He didn’t find much about Monsignor Henri Izner, wasn’t looking to, but the couple of photos online showed a young but kind face. There was a small article in a local newspaper about Isabelle Severin converting to Catholicism in her last year, and attending the church. Izner’s photograph appeared in the article, and he was glad to read that the young man and the old woman had become friends. The countryside of eastern France was a far cry from the glamor of Hollywood in the 1950s, he’d thought, but she was in the Champagne region, so maybe not so far after all.

He was talking to Claudia after the service as the other funeral attendees wandered away to their cars, when a blond woman in her fifties approached. She looked familiar to him, but Hugo couldn’t quite place her.

Hugo Marston? she asked.

Yes, ma’am, Hugo nodded.

I’m Helen Hancock, the author.

Like there’s only one author in the world, Hugo thought, but didn’t say. Nice to meet you, he said, extending a hand.

We met before, about a year ago. Some event at the embassy, don’t you remember?

Yes, of course, he said. A vague memory of her laughing with his boss, Ambassador J. Bradford Taylor, floated through his mind. Sorry, it took me a second, I meet a lot of people in my job.

I’m sure. Head of security, right?

That’s right, he said. Did you know Madame Severin?

Just by reputation, which of course was stellar. In every sense of the word. Did you?

A little, Hugo said. Our paths crossed not long ago, only briefly, but she was a remarkable woman. He turned to Claudia. Please, forgive my manners. This is Claudia Roux, normally a journalist but here today as a friend of mine.

My pleasure, Claudia said warmly. I’ve read several of your books; count me as a fan.

Hancock’s face brightened immediately. Oh really? How wonderful to hear. Do you have a favorite?

Hugo glanced at Claudia, having assumed she was just being kind when she said she’d read Hancock’s books. Apparently not.

I know you’ve written many and I’ve just read a handful, Claudia said. "But I truly enjoyed Under the Loving Tree. I think it was the first time you moved toward suspense, maybe that’s why, but I devoured that book in one weekend."

Hancock smiled broadly, and her pink lipstick glistened in the sun. Well, aren’t you an angel. Thank you so much.

You’re very welcome. Do you have a new book coming out soon?

"Actually, yes. In about two months. It’s called The Palomino Painting. Romance, of course, but with some more of that suspense thrown in—I hope you’ll like it."

I’m sure I will, Claudia said. I may even get this guy to read it.

Hancock turned her gaze back to Hugo. Not a romance reader? I don’t know why men are so scared of showing their softer side.

Hugo smiled. I’m more one for the classics, with maybe a few spy thrillers thrown into the mix.

Typical man, Hancock said, rolling her eyes.

Maybe I’ll branch out, Hugo said. Your new one will be published here in France?

Hancock’s smile faded. Well, I sure hope so. The others have been, but my French publisher is being a little sticky with this one.

Sticky? Hugo asked.

It’s complicated, to do with the contract terms. They like to stay with what we had in the past, but in every other market a successful author is able to negotiate better terms. Hancock grimaced. My publisher isn’t quite so accommodating.

Ah, well, Hugo said, sensing some discomfort in their conversation, I’m sure you’ll figure it out.

Yes. Hancock’s voice tailed off, and then she looked up at Hugo. Can I talk to you for a moment? In private.

Hugo glanced at Claudia, who smiled and said, I’ll wait by the car. Maybe find us a place to eat, so take your time.

Helen Hancock watched her leave, then she turned back to Hugo. I think someone’s . . . stalking me.

Stalking? What makes you say that?

I’m in France to teach a class and do some research for my next book; part of it is set in Paris. And ever since I got here, I feel like someone’s been watching me.

Someone in particular?

No, not really. She spoke slowly as if trying to picture someone. It probably sounds silly, but it’s more of a feeling.

I’m a big believer in trusting your senses, Hugo said. So don’t feel bad about that, at all. Are you traveling alone?

Yes, staying at the Sorbonne Hotel on Rue des Écoles. Do you know it?

Hugo did. It was one of those large and expensive hotels that pretended it wasn’t part of a chain, along the lines of the Ritz or the Four Seasons, and pretended quite convincingly. I’ve never stayed there, but I do know it. A great reputation.

I stay there every time I come; they know me now so it’s very welcoming. Almost a coming home.

Any problems there?

Her eyes slid away, as if she was thinking about lying. That’s why I’ve hesitated to say anything to anyone. They’ve always been so good to me. I don’t want to complain or get anyone in trouble, especially when I can’t really say that anything’s happened.

Fair enough, Hugo said.

She sighed. I feel kind of stupid telling you. But I also feel better, getting it off my chest.

Good. And if anything specific happens, be sure to tell the police. At the very least, the hotel manager if it happens there. He dug into his coat pocket and handed her a business card. And since you’re an American citizen, I get to keep an eye on you, too.

Her eyes widened, then she smiled and her voice was flirtatious. "Well, now, don’t say it like that or I’ll start to hope something does happen."

She held up the card and tucked it into her blouse pocket, then took his hand for a little longer than was necessary before thanking him and turning toward the path leading out of the churchyard. Hugo watched her go, unsure if the wiggle in her hips was for him, or a result of those high heels and the whisky on her breath.

CHAPTER TWO

Hugo and Claudia found a small roadside restaurant just outside Meaux, fifty kilometers east of Paris. They took the minor roads, in no hurry to return to the hustle and bustle of the city, enjoying the wide, open skies and the clean, fresh air.

The restaurant itself was almost empty; they were the last ones to arrive for lunch, and they sat at a sturdy wooden table, seated by a rosy-cheeked hostess who also turned out to be their waitress and sommelier.

Just a half bottle of the Bordeaux, Claudia said in French.

"Oui, madame. Et pour monsieur?"

Hugo and Claudia laughed. "Non, she said, we’ll share the half bottle, we’re driving."

Their hostess tutted as if they’d actually ordered two bottles each before driving, and barreled off toward the kitchen.

The dining area was small, it might once have been someone’s living room, Hugo thought. The low ceiling was crisscrossed by thick beams, and the furniture was old and solid, but comfortable too, and the food turned out to be what Claudia called, good, country cooking. His stew was a little heavy for a warm June day, and she could have eaten her French onion soup with a fork, but garlic and butter made everything delicious, and they lingered.

So can you tell me what Madame Hancock wanted? Claudia asked.

Have you really read her books?

Of course. Ten years ago, she was huge over here. Bigger here than in America, I’d say.

Bestselling author, eh?

Most definitely.

Romance?

You have something against a good romance novel?

Hugo shrugged. I’ve never read a good one.

I’d guess you’ve never read one at all.

"Does Romeo and Juliet count?"

These days they all have happy endings, Claudia said. So no.

That right? I’ll pick one of them up.

Nice deflection, by the way. You going to tell me what she wanted?

She thought someone might be . . . What? She’d said stalking, but . . . Watching her.

How?

She wasn’t sure. It was more of a feeling than anything she could really explain.

Huh. Paranoia?

Maybe. If she lives in an imaginary world, I’m sure she occasionally sees things that don’t exist. Writers are supposed to be a little off-kilter, aren’t they?

I’m a writer, Claudia reminded him.

I meant novelists. But shouldn’t she be seeing comely maidens and muscle-bound millionaires?

That doesn’t sound very threatening. Claudia smiled at him. Maybe she just wanted your number.

Well, you can’t blame her for that. Hugo signaled for the check. What else do you know about her?

Not a lot. Bestselling novelist, used to be quite the socialite but has dropped off the radar a little.

Of her own volition?

No idea. Probably.

Hugo’s phone buzzed in his pocket, but he ignored it until it stopped. But five seconds later, it started up again, and Hugo knew it was either his best friend, Tom Green, or Ambassador Taylor. He shot Claudia an apologetic look and checked the display before answering.

Tom, what’s up?

Tom and Hugo had been roommates at Quantico, fast friends from the day they met, even getting postings together when possible. They were like magnets, opposites that attracted each other. Tom’s exit from the FBI had led him into the CIA, where his brashness and risk taking were more appreciated. He claimed to be retired but still took off from time to time on business he wouldn’t even tell Hugo about, coming back days or weeks later to crash at Hugo’s Paris apartment, where he’d made the second bedroom his own.

You alone?

No, with Claudia. Late lunch.

Yeah, well, I’m about to ruin your appetite.

Hugo straightened and Claudia gave him in inquiring look: What? He shrugged and listened as Tom continued.

I want to talk about Rick Cofer.

He got paroled, I know. We talked about this.

I think he’ll come for us, Tom said. In fact, I’d bet on it.

You’d bet on two squirrels fighting. We have no reason to think he’d come all the way out here and do something stupid.

No reason? Tom said, incredulous. He has every reason in the world. And all the time in the world.

Even if that’s true, he’s on parole. There’s nothing he can do. He won’t be allowed to leave the county without permission, let alone the state or country.

Right, Tom said. Because if there’s one thing Mr. Cofer does, it’s follow the law.

And who’s going to give him a passport?

He’ll get one. You know he can.

Alright, Tom, I get that you’re upset by this—I am, too. But there’s nothing we can do about it, and there’s nothing he can do either.

Tom said nothing for a moment, and Hugo knew his friend was deciding whether to blow up or hang up. Fine, Tom said eventually. "Bon appétit."

Hugo put away his phone and answered the quizzical look on Claudia’s face. You’ve asked me a few times about why I left the FBI. More specifically, how come Tom and I left at about the same time.

Claudia nodded and gave him a gentle smile. Should I get out my tape recorder?

Hugo grimaced. No. For this story I need a blood oath of secrecy and silence until the day you die.

That bad, eh?

Not really. Just trying to be dramatic.

Right now it seems like you’re trying to delay telling me a story.

Yeah, Hugo conceded. Kind of does, doesn’t it?

CHAPTER THREE

Fifteen years previously.

1600 hours, Houston, Texas.

Rick Cofer lay face down, mouth turned away from the weeds and dirt as his nostrils flared, dragging in air. His lips were drawn thin, but it was his eyes that Hugo concentrated on, black holes of hate and anger that bored into him and then swiveled and fixed on his partner, Tom Green, with even more intensity.

Every few seconds, Cofer’s hands twitched, fingers opening and closing, pinned behind his back in Hugo’s cuffs. The prisoner was six three and round in the belly, and Hugo would normally have considered using two pairs attached to each other to save the man some pain, to make breathing easier for him. But not with Cofer, not with what just happened. That sonofabitch was more than welcome to suffer the fate he’d brought on himself, be it the indignity of a face full of dirt or a cramping discomfort in his shoulders and arms.

Hugo looked up as the SWAT team surrounded the house, piling out of their armored vehicle like automatons, a fast-moving line of anonymous helmets, guns, and aggression. Twelve highly trained men looking for trouble but finding only Hugo and Tom standing over two bad guys; one dead, one alive and cursing, making threats and accusations with his mouth in the dust, telling a tale that no one cared to listen to, let alone believe.

The SWAT commander approached, wary but gun lowered. Special Agents Marston and Green?

Yes. Hugo said. He and Tom showed their credentials, and the commander nodded.

You’re both Houston field office?

I’m with the BAU based up in DC, sent down to help with your robbery spree, Hugo nodded toward Tom. But he is, yeah.

I’m Sergeant Mo Siddiqui. You guys OK?

Yep, we’re fine, Hugo said.

Siddiqui looked around. So, this a planned op? We didn’t know about it.

Not planned, exactly, Hugo admitted. He shot Tom a look. We had to wing this one.

Happens, Siddiqui said. We need to clear the house?

Yes, of course, said Hugo. With the amount of noise we made, I’m pretty certain it’s empty, but you should make sure.

Ten-four. Siddiqui spoke into a microphone on his chest. Make entry, sweep for suspects and victims. He looked at Hugo. You want us to take this guy for you?

Hugo glanced at Tom. His friend’s jaw was set and he radiated anger, almost quivering with it. Yeah, Hugo said. Probably a good idea; we don’t have a secure vehicle for him.

Not a problem. He eyed the house. Let me keep an eye on things here until the house is clear. He glanced at Cofer. I’m sure he won’t mind chewing the grass a little longer.

Fuck you, pig, Cofer snarled.

I’m not the one wallowing in mud, shit-head, Siddiqui said mildly. He moved closer to the house, a hand pressing his earpiece. Ten-four. He turned to Hugo. House is empty. Apart from his dead buddy, of course.

Good, thanks, Hugo said. Although technically that’s not his buddy in there.

What do you mean?

It’s his brother, Hugo said. His fraternal twin brother, to be precise.

Hugo turned and walked toward the black sedan that had just pulled up to the curb. His mouth was dry, but he tried to remain calm, and he ran the events of the day through his mind, getting everything straight.

A tall, thin black man in a dark-blue suit and sunglasses climbed out of the driver’s side and walked toward Hugo. Special Agent Marston.

Yes, sir.

You got them?

One in custody, one dead.

How did that happen? Ronald Fenwick was the new Special Agent in Charge, SAC, at the Houston field office. Three weeks and, according to pretty much everyone Hugo had spoken to, already making his mark—in some ways good and in some ways bad. One thing was certain: he was a man who stuck to the rule book and, as such, expected his agents to abide by policy and procedure to the letter, no exceptions. Not much of a problem for Hugo on this brief assignment, but less than ideal for his partner, Tom Green, who did his best to abide by the spirit of the bureau’s policies but thought less of the specific rules and procedures.

They’re really just guidelines, Tom had once told Hugo, General rules of warfare not designed to limit the field discretion of the agents.

Which pretty quickly put him squarely in Fenwick’s bad graces, and soon after into the SAC’s gunsights.

Well, sir. Hugo cleared his throat and began. We were set up outside the Bank of America on Bissonnet.

Why that one?

I’d looked at the pattern. There were three banks I thought they might hit next, based on date, time, and location. We just got lucky.

Fine, Fenwick said. But I thought we hadn’t identified any specific suspects.

We hadn’t. I had no idea it was them, which is why we had to wait. We watched twenty or so people go in and out of the bank before the twins arrived. They fit the profile, but I couldn’t be sure it was them.

Which is why you didn’t call in backup?

Right, too soon. So, anyway, we were sitting there, watching. They arrived and went in. Hugo paused, choosing his next words carefully—some things Fenwick didn’t need to know. Couldn’t know, not yet at least. "We were about to