Page 192 of Secrets Beneath the Waves
“You both need to be warned,” Hawke says. “Kerr—Rourke—once saved my life, but that doesn’t mean I trust him. Not completely. There’s always a secondary reason for what he does, and that reason is never solely motivated by money. He’s willing to play the long game, especially if it’s connected to classified intel or even an intelligence scandal. Basically, he’s never as interested in the asset as he is in what the asset knows. To Rourke, information is invaluable. It’s leverage, and what has protected him for the past twenty years.”
“We can deal with him,” Graham says.
“I know you can, but there’s something else you need to know. If Rourke is involved, I believe we’re looking at something bigger than just a ransom for Oumar.”
“What exactly are you trying to say?” I ask.
“Oumar has given us a lot of solid intel over the past few months, but it’s sounding more and more like he had to have discovered something he didn’t know how to handle,” Hawke says.
I nod. “Agreed.”
“I don’t know if this is connected.” Hawke says, “but we’ve been seeing a number of ghost accounts, along with some old Soviet channels that have started lighting up recently. There are even rumors of a large covert arms transaction that’s being played out under the radar.”
“Where?” I ask.
“I don’t have specifics, but more than likely either the Red Sea shipping corridor, or possibly by land across the Sahel.”
“That has to be connected,” I say. “Oumar’s been working to expose what’s going on. It makes sense he could be involved. And that someone wants to stop him.”
Graham shakes his head. “I’m just playing the devil’s advocate here, but what if we’re reading too much into this? What if it’s simply what we already know? Someone took Oumar because they want ransom money.”
“It’s possible, but with what just happened at the safe houseandwith Rourke involved,” Hawke says, “I can’t help but believe that the stakes are far greater.”
“So basically,” Graham says, “you believe Oumar stumbled into something well above his pay grade and decided his only option was to find someone like Rourke who has a knack for facilitating disappearances.”
“But someone got to him before he could run.” My stomach twists. “What if Rourke won’t talk to us?”
Hawke grabs his coffee then stands up. “If Rourke wants to keep his past buried, he’ll talk.”
“And if he doesn’t?” I ask.
“Tell him Chapel sent you.”
CHAPTER
TWELVE
[Ransom Countdown: 15 Hours, 57 Minutes remaining]
One of theembassy secretaries helped me dig through the so-called “costume closet” on the third floor, which in reality is nothing more than a glorified broom closet stuffed with forgotten outfits from past undercover ops and embassy functions. Most are dated, but buried in the back is a dress that surprises me. It’s not what I would have picked if I had time to go shopping, but once I slip it on, I have to admit—it works. A sleek maroon cocktail dress, understated yet still elegant, paired with classic heels. I give the hem a soft twirl. Just enough movement to feel as if I belong in the role I’m about to play. Elegant, composed, and. . .forgettable. And suddenly, I don’t just look the part, I am the part.
Any lingering fear from having a knife to my throat is gone. I’m back in control, focused and ready to do what I was trained to do. While there is a small part of me that wishes I could simply enjoy the stunning historical beauty of the Louvre, I’m focused one hundred percent on searching for the man Oumar was planning to meet.
I step out into the hallway just as Graham shows up, dressed in a black tux and bowtie.
I stop in the middle of the hallway. “You clean up nice.”
“I was about to say the same thing.” He frowns, but his eyes are still smiling. “Actually, I was going to say you look beautiful.”
I note his mustache and can’t help but smile. Altering our appearance is something we’re used to. Most of the time for me it means only subtle changes like changing jackets, putting up my hair, or throwing on a scarf in order to confuse someone who might be trying to follow me. I can’t help but grin at the added facial hair.
Graham touches his mustache. “You like it?”
“It might take a little getting used to.” I smile. “I’m certain no one will suspect that you’re really an undercover CIA officer involved in stopping arms dealers.”
Forty-five minutes later, our driver stops near the entrance of the Louvre and its infamous glass pyramid. I step out of the car, pausing for a moment to let myself feel the significance of where I am—surrounded by art and stories centuries in the making. The Louvre glows in the warm yellows and pinks of the sunset, but tonight I’m not here to admire the view. I’m walking into a game where every move matters.
Inside, the city noise disappears, replaced by the soft hum of voices and soft classical music played by a live string quartet. Waiters wearing crisp black and white uniforms serve champagne and hors d’oeuvres in the private section of the museum. Most of the women are wearing black cocktail dresses or pantsuits with high heels. The men are in suits, with a few wearing bold splashes of color, all focused on the chance to meet the high-profile executives and industry leaders who make the evening a prime networking opportunity. Whoever’s footing the bill clearly isn’t just looking for an exclusive event—they want unforgettable.
