Page 163 of Secrets Beneath the Waves
“I had it engraved when I gave it to him. I thought it was lost. I was never able to find it after his death.”
“Maybe someone found it, and it’s just being returned.”
She shakes her head, then hands me a crumpled note. “No. It came with this.”
The handwriting is messy, but still legible.
Time ran out for him. Now it’s running out for you.
I hand the note to William, not sure what it means, but its implications are clear.
“They have to know the truth about what I’ve been doing,” she continues. “I need to disappear for a while. Put distance between us and focus on finding who killed David.”
“The local authorities are still working on his case?—”
“It’s been nine months,” she says, interrupting me. “It’s not a priority to them anymore. And I’m afraid that until those who murdered him are apprehended, I won’t be able to stop running.”
“Samantha…” William says, lightly squeezing my arm. “We have a problem.”
I turn to where William is now focused. Four young men, dressed primarily in black, are walking quickly toward us, weaving their way between tourists and locals. I want to convince myself that this is nothing more than coincidence, but my gut knows that’s not true.
A few seconds later, the men have gained ground and are beginning to fan out. If we don’t move now, we’ll be surrounded.
“Get her out of here,” William says, stepping between me and the men. “Now.”
“There are four of them, William?—”
“I’ll deal with them. Go.”
My training kicks in. I grab Polina’s arm and start walking toward the end of the bridge, weaving in and out of the heavy throng of tourists.
“Stay close to me,” I tell her.
William and I have both have spent hours training to react instinctively in a crisis, but as much as Hollywood likes to push the lone wolf CIA officer taking down the enemy and saving the world, that’s rarely how it happens. I can handle a firearm with precision, but the meat of my training has been focused on the psychological side of counterintelligence. Which is why we work as a team. Ensuring we stay in control of a situation is essential.
I glance back as we near the end of the bridge. William must have caused some kind of commotion, because I can hear shouting and see a crowd gathering where we were standing a few moments ago. Whatever he’s just stirred up is working. The men are distracted, giving us time to slip away, but I realize that my options are still limited. I can alert the police to the situation, but we can’t afford the questions that will follow. Which means I need to get Polina out of here and to safety on my own.
Thankfully, I’ve lived here long enough that I know this area well. Pont Neuf is a centuries-old historic piece of architecture that not only spans the Seine, it’s also a major thoroughfare connecting the right and left banks as well as the point of the Île de la Cité. Certain areas of the city are a labyrinth of narrow alleyways and passageways through buildings and courtyards, but I need to make an immediate decision about where to take her. I quickly decide that the best way to get Polina to safety is via the metro, where we can get lost in the crowds, and then go directly to a pickup that will transfer us to a safe house.
“One of the men. . .” Polina starts. “He’s following us, and I think he’s armed.”
Again, I hear the panic in her voice. She saw her husband killed and, more than anyone, knows what these men will do to her if they catch her.
“That was a gunshot,” she says, quickening her steps.
“It was probably just a car backfiring.”
We’re only a few yards from the entrance to the metro, and my only concern at the moment is getting there without being noticed.
“Give me your scarf,” I say, shoving it into my purse and taking out a scrunchy as we descend the steep steps toward the underground. “Put your hair into a ponytail, then swap your jacket for this fleece poncho.”
The poncho is light and compact, perfect for a quick transformation. I hand it to her, then quickly pull off my own jacket, turn it inside out, from black to the tan, and add a flowered boho beanie from the bag my mother gave me for Christmas. Hopefully our change in wardrobe will be enough to throw them off, and we can lose them.
“Wait. . .” Poliana says. “You’re bleeding.”
I look down at the dark stain on my side and catch my breath.
“Thatwasa gunshot,” she says.
