“It’s all right,” Julius said, “I’m not hungry. Just exhausted.”
Rigaud, as if deliberating, ran a hand carefully over his blond hair—Julius saw blood glittering on the ring that had cracked his tooth—then nodded to the young man behind the chair. A gag suddenly dropped over Julius’s head and cut into his mouth, stifling his scream, as the Turk in the necktie went into the bathroom to turn the taps back on.
Leaving Hamid behind to mop up and deal with Escher, Rigaud ordered Ali to drive him back to the Crillon. Although his quarry was staying there, too, that wasn’t the real reason he had checked in. The Crillon, to his mind, was simply the finest hotel in Paris. The Gestapo had thought so highly of it, in fact, that they had made it their French headquarters during the Second World War, and what better recommendation could you get than that?
Rigaud sat in the backseat of the Land Rover, looking out at the busy streets of the city, and thinking about what he’d tell Linz, and that impossible-to-please wife of his, when he got back to the Chateau Perdu. On the bright side, he could tell them that he had eliminated any further problems from Julius Jantzen, and, shortly, Ernst Escher. They had both gone off the rails and proved to be more trouble than they were worth. He made a mental note to call Joseph Schillinger in Chicago and give him some cock-and-bull story about what had happened to his faithful hound, Escher. He’d undoubtedly see right through it, but wasn’t that half the point? To scare him back into his usual compliance? And even if he wanted to protest, who would he do it to? Auguste Linz? Christ, the man was too scared even to say his name.
“Can I tell my cousins now?” Ali asked from the driver’s seat.
“Tell them what?”
Ali turned his face so that the scar on his throat was especially prominent. “That it’s done? That Ahmet and the others have been avenged?”
“Oh, yes, go right ahead,” Rigaud said. He’d forgotten for a moment that one of the reasons for this little expedition was to quell the rebellion among the worker bees. All things considered, the Turks were a useful crew, content to ask no questions and, when paid on time, willing to do anything required. It was Linz who had first suggested enlisting them. “They’re one step up from dogs,” he had observed, “and they can be trained the same way.” Rigaud might have differed in his assessment—he thought they were at least two steps up from dogs—but he never forgot that they were punctilious about their honor and their vendettas.
As for the librarian and his tour guide, there he was less certain of his estimation. So far, they seemed like a couple of industrious drones, who had managed, by some miracle, to hang on to their bundle of papers and whatnot. But were they a threat? Did they pose any real danger to Auguste Linz and his secrets?
Not for one second did Rigaud think that.
Nor did he think that their efforts would wind up revealing anything worthwhile to add to Linz’s inventory.
That Palliser fellow, for instance, the one who’d once worked for the International Art Recovery League, he had been more of a problem. There was a mercenary streak in him that made his actions more unpredictable. That was why Rigaud had decided to nip that one in the bud. Palliser, like a couple of the other investigators before him, had been a pro … and as soon as he had shown signs of getting close to the center of the web, Rigaud, on instructions from Linz, had plucked him up, flown him by helicopter to the chateau. After a bit of casual interrogation, they had dropped him down the ever-reliable oubliette. It was all like a game of chess, and if removing Palliser was like taking the queen, dispensing with David and Olivia would be like eliminating a couple of pawns. They were less trouble alive than dead.
At the hotel, Rigaud and Ali surveyed the lobby, just on the off chance that the two young sleuths were there, then went up to their own suite. As Ali called room service, Rigaud, getting undressed, called out to him to order his usual—a Campari and soda, with a twist of lemon. Then he stepped into the shower and turned the hot water on full blast.
He let his head hang down under the spray, his ropy, well-muscled arms leaning on the wall, and thinking, not for the first time, what an empty game it all was. Linz already had what he wanted; his position was unassailable. But he always kept his guard up, always kept his network of spies and loyalists, experts and assassins, working for him. He lived for intrigue—what else was there?—and the possibility, however remote, that someone, somewhere, might stumble upon some dark secret or device that he had so far overlooked. Sometimes, Rigaud suspected that he did it just to keep his mind alive and his spirits engaged.