Page 194 of Secrets Beneath the Waves
“You’ll do fine. Go over there, get his attention, and make him remember you. Don’t jump into the conversation with what you want—lead with something you know he needs.”
“I’m guessing you’ve done this before,” she says.
“Once or twice,” I say, suddenly flooded with memories of the CIA’s rigorous vetting process before I was even offered an interview.
“What about you? Are you targeting anyone in particular?”
“Actually, I am, and I just spotted him,” I say. “Good luck tonight.”
I start across the room, signaling to Graham, who’s coming toward me with our drinks. Elijah Rourke ends up being surprisingly easy to recognize. His steel-gray hair is shorter than the photo I have of him, but his eyes are a penetrating blue and, as I expected, his tailored suit is expensive.
“While I appreciate the gesture,” I say, taking the offered glass, “I just spotted our target.”
I take a couple sips of the lemonade, then set it on one of the server’s trays before hurrying to catch up with Rourke.
“Elijah Rourke,” I say, flashing my friendliest smile. “I was hoping to meet you tonight.”
His brow furrows, his expression unreadable. He glances behind him. “I’m sorry, but I need to go.”
“Mr. Rourke. . .” I start, but the man has already slipped away. I glance up at Graham, who’s standing next to me, surprised as I am. “We need to catch up with him, or we’ll lose him in this crowd.”
Graham takes my arm, and we weave our way through the pockets of conversation. Music is still playing in the background as my gaze locks on the man hurrying past a waiter holding a tray of champagne. Rourke’s the reason we’re here and a lead we can’t afford to lose.
“He just skated past the security barrier,” Graham says.
Security guards have cordoned off several key exits in order to confine guests to the space. They’re easy to spot because of their earpieces and silent surveillance along the edges of the room.
Why would Rourke try to avoid us?
It makes no sense. We’ve never met the man, and there’s no reason for him to run. Two of the guards are talking twenty feet from us, distracted at the moment. We edge past the rope barrier and follow Rourke outside the large room and down a flight of stairs.
“Where is he going?” I ask.
“I don’t know, but security is heading our way.”
“If they send us back to the party, we’ll lose him.”
Graham takes my hand. “Follow my lead.”
Before I can ask what he means, Graham pushes me gently against the stone wall, then leans down to whisper something in my ear.
“I can’t say I’ve ever wanted to go undercover at the Louvre, but this isn’t so bad,” he says.
I pull back as his warm breath tickles my cheek, taken off guard by his bold move. “This is your plan?”
“It’s working.” Graham glances behind us as a guard approaches, stops, then turns around. “This is the city of love, remember.”
Seconds later he steps away, still holding my hand. The guard is gone, but so is Rourke, who has disappeared through a sidedoor. We quickly follow, leaving behind the noise of the gala that is replaced by the uneasy stillness of rows of shadowed hedges.
It’s not my first time in these gardens, but tonight the air feels different, as if something bad is about to happen. The wide gravel path amplifies our steps as we hurry after Rourke. He’s moving fast, not quite running, but enough to make it clear he knows we’re behind him. His sudden retreat, though, doesn’t make sense. If he came to make connections, why disappear?
“I’m going to see if I can cut him off,” Graham says, taking the right side of the split path.
I keep moving. Long rows of ancient trees arch over my head, their twisted branches reaching toward the sky. The air smells of wet earth after the recent rains. Thorny rosebushes are bare, still a few months from their peak.
A minute later, I slow down as I catch sight of Graham, who has come around the other side, officially blocking Rourke off. And I’m not the only one who notices.
Rourke turns around and faces me.
