Page 182 of Secrets Beneath the Waves
“No, but something tells me that your gut is pretty accurate.”
While I appreciate the compliment, I’m not sure I have as much confidence as he does in my ability to untangle this situation. We’re missing something, and I have no idea what it is.
“I want to go to Oumar’s apartment,” I say, changing the subject. “See if we can discover something there about his kidnapping.”
“Agreed. I’ve been thinking the same thing.”
“Can you get me into his apartment?” I ask, standing up. “I’ve been told you can be. . .resourceful.”
“I can be. As long as you promise not to ask questions.”
I let out a soft laugh, noting the slight grin on his lips. “Sounds like you might end up being more useful than I thought.”
Graham echoes my laugh. “I do my best.”
“I just need a couple minutes to change.”
“Go ahead,” he says, pulling his phone out of his pocket. “While you get ready, I’ll see if I can get an update from Lizzie.”
I head to my bedroom and grab my go-to outfit—jeans, a white shirt, and tennis shoes, and a long, tan coat for the cold. I can’t help but question how I’ve handled things and if I’ve pushed Oumar to take risks that have led us to this situation. The stakes are high, and if we lose him now, it will be more than justlosing an asset. The information he holds is vital to combating arms trafficking. The loss of human life in connection to this illegal activity is profound and impacts thousands across the globe. And while we might be able to trace illegal weapons back to deals made, I’ve learned it’s impossible to trace the anguish they spread. Those statistics are never compiled.
In addition to the lives lost, communities are shattered and any hope of a future destroyed. Arms trafficking is a global atrocity that fuels everything from street crime to civil wars. Oumar’s involvement may be only a small piece of the larger picture, but he and I both believe that taking down these particular networks will make a substantial difference.
But now I can’t help but worry that someone wants payback for his actions. Or even worse. . .someone wants him dead.
CHAPTER
EIGHT
[Ransom Countdown: 29 Hours, 15 Minutes remaining]
As promised,it doesn’t take long for me to get dressed. I grab my crossbody bag and turn off the lights of my apartment, ready to go.
“What did Lizzie say?” I ask as I shut the front door, then head toward the stairs with Graham.
“Mariam is still asleep. I told Lizzie we’ll meet her back at the safe house when we’re done at Oumar’s apartment. She slept some and is searching for information again, but hasn’t found anything yet.”
“Did the extra security arrive?” I ask.
Graham nods. “One of our local hires.”
Silence settles between us as we head toward Oumar’s apartment in Graham’s car. I glance at him as he drives, working to suppress my anxiety. No one has to remind me how quickly everything can go sideways. And then unwanted memories of William surface. I fight to push them back down, knowing that any awkwardness with Graham I feel is all in my head. He isn’t aware that he took the place of the man I was in love with, but that doesn’t make the awkwardness any easier to ignore.
I force my thoughts to shift away from William to the man sitting next to me. I did a little digging into his past when he first came on board. He was a US Marine force recon recruited by the CIA. Everything I could find on him verified that he was the perfect recruit. He’s been on numerous high-risk assignments, from the Middle East to North Africa to Eastern Europe, primarily conducting covert security operations and asset extractions. Which makes me wonder why he’s here in Paris. He seems to be something of an adrenaline junkie, and I can’t help but wonder if he requested the assignment because he wanted a quieter station, or if he was sent here by the higher-ups.
While I know some of his professional background, I know even less about him on a personal level. He’s friendly but quiet. Seems to be extremely loyal. His emotions are always kept in check; I’ve never seen a burst of anger. He seems to have a somewhat dry sense of humor.
But for the moment, just like the memories that keep slipping through the cracks, Graham’s character and background doesn’t matter. What matters is the job in front of me.
“Let’s walk the last couple blocks,” he says after making an impressive parallel parking maneuver into the small space between two cars. “Just to make sure we’re not followed.”
I nod. Maybe I need to stop questioning his abilities and simply trust him.
The city is just beginning to wake up as we head off on foot. Except for a few early risers, the streets are mostly empty with the sun making its way toward the slate rooftops and limestone facades. A metal shutter is rolled up across the street in preparation of a boulangerie opening, mixing the scent of fresh bread with earthy, damp stone.
But all I can think about is my mounting frustration. If Oumar had communicated with me, I might have been able to prevent all of this and given him the security he so clearly needed.
It’s sprinkling by the time we get to Oumar’s apartment building located on a narrow street and tucked between yet another boulangerie and an art supply store. The overcast skies add to my irritable mood, but my anxiety is working to my advantage, ramping up my awareness of what’s going on around me.
