The Blood Promise: A Hugo Marston Novel (2 page)

That and his letter, Pichon knew, were about the only assurances he could offer his distant ally.

He rose and walked around his desk, taking the letter and sealed box with him, and knelt in front of a wooden chest, a small strongbox that he’d acquired from a dealer on the Ile de la Cité. “Barely used” had been the promise, which meant its owner had probably died of the plague or, more likely in this case, under the knife of a pirate. This chest was more ornate than the traditional sailor’s chest, made from walnut not oak, with strong brass hinges and ornamental inlay of the same metal, golden and polished bright by Laurence. And this chest had other attributes, too, secret compartments revealed by sliding wooden panels in the lid and sides, the front itself entirely a façade that folded down and allowed the secretion of larger items. The cleverness of the chest was that it let you think you’d found everything and even now, a year after buying it, Monsieur Pichon had a sneaking suspicion it contained a compartment or two he’d not discovered. Nor would he, not now.

The strongbox already held an assortment of clothes, folded small and tight along with a pair of new, if petite, leather boots. Pichon buried his hands into the box, shoving the clothes aside and pressing his finger into a raised knot of wood that doubled as release. A square of panel gave way, and with great care he slid the small wooden box into the space and let the cover fall back into place; the fit was perfect.

The old man’s fingers then moved to the front of the chest and fiddled with the hole where the latch would fall when the lid closed. Pichon poked around in the tiny space until he found the brass tip that slid left-to-right, letting the front fall open. He placed the letter in the space above the hinges and closed up the false front of the box, two treasures hidden away with a satisfying click.

A knock at the door.
Laurence with his guest?

“Come in,” Pichon said.

The man in front of him was barely thirty, and had a tired look to him exacerbated by his unshaven face and wild, dark hair. “Monsieur Pichon,
comment ça va
?”

“I’m well. You?”

The man didn’t answer, just looked around the room and then down at the chest.

“Is everything ready?” Pichon asked, suddenly wary. “How is . . .
he
?”

“He is still quite sick.”

The man’s eyes had flickered in a way Pichon did not care for. “Sick?
Il n’est pas mort?
”

“
Non,
monsieur, he is not dead. But sick.”

The man finally met his eye and Pichon chose to believe him. “The chest, it’s ready.”

“That’s it? Everything is in there?”

“Yes,” said Pichon. “You will send it ahead and follow as soon as you can?”

“
Oui
. As soon as I can.” He gave a weak smile. “I should take it, and go.”

The man made his way out into the street, the heavy wooden chest in his hands. He felt more than a little guilt as, behind him, Monsieur Pichon watched from his doorway. The young man was not a good liar and took no pleasure in it, and he suspected that old man Pichon had sensed something was wrong.

Wrong indeed
, the young man thought as he climbed into his carriage. Every man has his own agenda and sometimes circumstances change, requiring honest people to choose a different path.

He placed the chest on the leather seat beside him and left his hand on top, thinking about another box at his home, one not much bigger than this. A box more simple in design and more commonly used, a rectangle of oak that flared out at the sides and contained the lifeless remains of a child.

Hugo Marston walked into the embassy’s security offices with one hand behind his back. His secretary, Emma, a handsome woman who was never anything but perfectly attired and coiffed, looked up from her computer screen.

“Good morning and happy birthday,” he said, “to the most efficient and wonderful secretary an RSO could have.”

“Oh, Hugo, you remembered.” She took the bouquet and inhaled. “You are a sweet man.”

Hugo picked up a stack of mail from the corner of her desk. “I know.”

“Although as regional security officer, you seem to have forgotten some basic training.”

“Meaning?”

She nodded toward the closed door of his office. “You should lock it at night.”

“If it’s who I think it is, he has a key.”

“I suppose he would,” said Emma, “being the ambassador.”

“Did you make him coffee?”

“No, I made it for you, but I have no doubt he’s drinking it.”

“I better get in there, then.” He opened the door to his office and entered, smiling at the rotund, bald man who sat with his polished shoes on Hugo’s desk, sipping at a cup of coffee. “I suppose I should be grateful you’re not using
my
chair.”

“Wouldn’t want to,” Ambassador Taylor said. “It looks like something out of
Star Trek
.”

“It’s ergonomic, and it’s better for your posture than sitting with your feet on a desk.”

Taylor patted his stomach. “I’m way past anything a chair can do.”

“And I may have mentioned this before.” Hugo sat down. “But if you let me out in the field now and again, I wouldn’t need a space-age chair.”

“Every time you go out in the field, someone gets shot. And being the observant fellow that I am, I’ve noticed that the person getting shot is never you.”

“That’s because I duck.” Hugo reached for the coffee pot. “So, are you here for the beverages or do you have a new stack of papers for me to read, sign, or otherwise shuffle?”

“I have a special assignment for you, as it happens. In the field.”

Hugo perked up. “Oh yes?”

“We’re having a surprise visit from Charles Lake.”

“The senator?” Hugo asked.

“Yes, but more specifically the presidential candidate. Or about-to-be presidential candidate, I can’t keep up.”

“That season already, is it?”

“Seems like it’s always that season. Point is, and bearing in mind he’ll either fire me or be my next boss, I want my best man on it.”

“If he’s a presidential candidate, he should have Secret Service help.”

“He will. When you’re around they’ll defer to you; their presence is a courtesy rather than a necessity. But yes, they’ll be here with him.”

Hugo groaned. “So I’m the babysitter, not security.”

“Correct.”

“I did that in London not too long ago. A movie star, that time. Did you hear about that?”

“I did. A gruesome business, if I recall correctly.”

“Precisely. With that in mind, you want to rethink the assignment?”

“Quite the opposite. No doubt you learned from that experience and will be even better at it this time around.”

“No doubt.” Hugo poured himself coffee from the pot. “So when and why is he coming? And why aren’t you babysitting your own future boss?”

“I plan to meet him and feed him when he gets here, but you get to have him when there’s actual work to do.”

“And what work is that, exactly?”

“You’ve been reading up on the whole Guadeloupe Archipelago thing.”

“That fuss?” Hugo sat back. “It’s a pile of rocks in the Atlantic, I don’t get why anyone cares.”

“People care, don’t you worry.”

“How much? Are the French planning to invade or something? Are we?”

“Invade?” Taylor sipped his coffee. “Can’t imagine anyone’s that upset about the place.”

“I know, but the whole thing reminds me of the Falkland Islands debacle. You know, a few sheep-strewn rocks nearer to Argentina than England, but somehow English territory. The Argentineans invaded and the Brits invaded back. Same here, Guadeloupe is closer to the United States than to France, and yet is somehow French, so I wondered if the troops were massing.”

“Guadeloupe has pineapples, not sheep.”

“We wouldn’t fight over pineapples?”

“We only fight over oil,” Taylor said. “Nevertheless, the fact that Guadeloupe’s inhabitants have petitioned to become part of the United States has strained relations with our French friends.”

“I expect it has, but I don’t see how that’s our fault.”

“We’re Americans, everything’s our fault, especially where the French are concerned. Actually, I agree with you but as far as I can tell fault doesn’t matter in politics, it’s the
appearance
of fault that carries weight. Either way, I’ll worry about Guadeloupe, you worry about Lake.”

“What is there to worry about?”

“Well, for one thing, he wasn’t supposed to be coming. Head of the Foreign Relations Committee Jonty Railton was the original choice.”

“Oh, yes, I remember reading something about his tires getting slashed.”

“Yeah, and not known to the public were some fairly specific messages he was getting. Threats, to be precise, telling him to stay out of France.”

“From?”

“No one knows. Anyway, he’s one of our more spineless politicians, which is saying something, and he has decided to do as those anonymous notes told him.”

“So he chickened out and we get Lake instead.”

“I don’t like the guy, but he has a decent ‘fuck-you’ attitude, and he’s not likely to be bullied.”

“Yeah, I gather he’s a handful. If the newspapers are to be believed.”

“Twenty years ago the guy was probably wearing a white hood and burning crosses. His current incarnation is as our nation’s leading isolationist. He’s free-market, anti-government, and anti-foreigner.”

“A lot of people are. You think he has a real chance to be president?”

“Yes, otherwise I wouldn’t be so upset.” The ambassador leaned forward. “He’s very smart and comes across like a nice, all-American guy. I think he’s done a good job burying his true feelings and beliefs, although,” Taylor smiled wryly, “there’s an outside chance I’m making him sound worse than he is. Maybe he just rubs me the wrong way.”

“Politicians can do that.”

“Damn right. But for crying out loud, the guy has even made fun of the British. The
British
. Who doesn’t like them? They’ve been our allies in every war, economic crisis, and trouble spot since we gave them the boot three hundred years ago.”

“What’s his problem with them?”

“Again, trying to be fair, I think it comes down to the monarchy, the idea that someone can be born into royalty and have all those trappings for life, no matter what.”

Hugo shrugged. “He has a point.”

“Maybe he does, and he’s also been very critical of the class structure back home, the sons and nephews of our nation’s leaders stepping into their fathers’ and uncles’ shoes, and not making it through their own merit.”

“The more you talk, the more I like him. And he can’t be such an outlier to have gotten this far.”

“Maybe he’s not such an outlier, is all I can think. And he has this, ‘I am who I am’ shtick going. Doesn’t try to please everyone all of the time and seems to relish finding his foot in his mouth, just says that people need to take him at face value as a man who doesn’t play the Washington games other politicians play.”

“If he means it, I’ll give him credit for that, too.”

Taylor narrowed his eyes. “You a secret Lake supporter or something?”

“Don’t know the man,” Hugo said. “We can discuss after I’ve met him. I just know that sometimes you get a bee in your bonnet about things and people—”

“He’s a hypocrite, too,” Taylor interrupted, sounding a little like a pouty child.

Hugo tried not to smile but said, “Fine, I’ll indulge you. Why is he a hypocrite, Mr. Ambassador?”

“Because he’s just like any other politician. He has his cadre of rich backers, a half-dozen or so, who’ve latched onto his isolationist claptrap for their own purposes and he’s happy as can be to take their money while acting like he’s his own man.”

“You know, it is possible to take someone’s money and not be at their beck and call, to have a mind of your own.”

“Not in Washington it’s not.”

“Maybe. But to get this far, he must have some redeeming qualities. He grow roses for old people or play with kittens a lot?”

Ambassador Taylor grimaced. “He does have a certain . . . charm, I suppose.” He waved a hand. “Ah, you’ll see for yourself, you can make up your own mind.”

“Why thank you.” Hugo frowned. “I guess my main question is, if he’s such a—”