Chapter 12
Twelve
After endless hands of cards and endless pots of tea, Hanna returned from the kitchen with a plate of cold roasted chicken and sliced saucisson that Luc had packed for them. They all picked at it, listlessly. The food was good, better than good, but none of them had much appetite.
Suddenly, Hanna squared her shoulders. “I’ll tell you what I was going to give your CIA.”
Marielle searched her face closely. “Are you sure?”
“I’m sure. I was going to trade it for my freedom, and it seems I have that.”
Omar, always fair, always honest, stopped her. “You were going to trade it for your freedom and your safety. We’ll do everything we can, Hanna. But we can’t guarantee your safety. We can’t even guarantee our own.”
She smiled a real smile, not the brittle, careful one she’d worn on the yacht. “I trust you. After everything that’s happened, of course I trust you.” She laughed, the sound wry and a little broken. “Do you know how long it’s been since I trusted someone?”
Marielle leaned in, ready to finally learn what Hanna knew. Then she had a thought. “Should we record this?”
The unspoken reason hung in the air: In case something happens to us.
Omar nodded. “Probably. I have a recorder in my bag. Hang on.”
He was halfway to the bedroom when someone began hammering at the door.
Marielle’s heart hammered in return. Beside her, Hanna whimpered softly.
Omar grabbed his gun from where he’d left it on the side table and used the barrel to push aside the curtain. He peered out, then looked back at Marielle and mouthed ‘No car.’
Whoever it was, they’d approached on foot.
Marielle found her pack and dug out her gun with shaking hands. She grumbled every time Jake reminded her to go to the firing range with Trent for her quarterly shooting practice. Now she made a mental note to kiss Jake if—no, when—she saw him again.
It could be a neighbor wanting to borrow sugar, she told herself lamely as the hammering continued, fist pounding against wood. As if anyone would walk several kilometers to ask a dead woman for sugar.
She crept toward the window near the fireplace and peeked through the curtains.
A tall, willowy blonde stood on the slate walk, beating her fist against the door. As Marielle watched, the woman stepped back, frustrated, and turned to scan the windows.
Marielle recognized her immediately.
She turned to Omar. “Stand down.”
Then she yanked open the door and dragged Olivia Santos across the threshold.
“What are you doing here?” she screeched.
“Hello to you, too,” Olivia said, drawing the curtains tight.
“Liv,” Omar said, as if it were perfectly normal for her to drop by.
“Hey, Omar.” She grinned at him before turning toward Hanna. “And you must be the asset.”
“Hanna Ayari,” Hanna squeaked.
“Nice to meet you. I’m Olivia Santos.”
She walked toward Hanna with her hand outstretched as if they were meeting at a cocktail party not a hideout. Wide-eyed, Hanna shook it on autopilot.
“How did you get here,” Marielle demanded.
Olivia pulled out a chair and sat. “I took the fast train from Paris to Aix-en-Provence, hitched a ride from a farmer to Lourmarin, then jogged the last twenty kilometers or so. I could use a drink.”
“I’ll get you some water.”
She was halfway to the sink when Liv asked, “Did you keep Céline’s wine cellar?”
Marielle was rarely at a loss for words, but she walked to the door leading down to the stone-walled cave in silence. Only after she drew back the bolt and flipped on the light, did she regain her power of speech.
She cleared her throat. “Red or white?”
Olivia looked around the room at their stricken faces. “Why not both?”
They were halfway through grand-mère’s favorite Beaujolais Réserve when Olivia finally satisfied their curiosity.
“Cal McCloud told me when the compact went offline. And I knew you’d be sure to get rid of the other covcom and the phones. It’s procedure when you’ve been made.”
“Okay, but how do you know we’d be here, and not headed to Marseille?” Omar wanted to know.
“Ha. That was easy. Trent and I had a fight about whether you should go to the safe house or not. I said absolutely not, and he said they’d have a team ready to whisk you out even if the house had been compromised—which, of course, it had.
I thought about everything I know about Elle and about you, and figured you’d probably have the same fight. ”
“We did,” Marielle admitted.
“But how did you know she’d win instead of me?” Omar asked.
At this, Hanna snorted. They all turned toward her.
She shrugged. “You’re obviously in love with her. You were always to going to defer to her on this.”
“I’m not … I didn’t … but how do you know about this place?” Flustered and red-faced, Omar soldiered on.
Marielle giggled, and he shot her a look.
“Sorry,” she said. ‘Not sorry,’ she mouthed to Hanna and Olivia.
Olivia looked at Marielle. “I was at the reading of Céline’s will with you, remember?”
Marielle nodded. Liv had been on assignment in Barcelona when Marielle got word that her grandmother was very ill. And after her assignment ended, she met Elle in Paris and stayed with her the entire time she made endless arrangements.
“I knew this place existed. I knew it was in the middle of nowhere. Heck, I even knew the key was under the planter. So, I took a gamble that you’d come here. And I was right. But if I’d been wrong, I’d have let myself in and regrouped.”
“And would have helped yourself to some wine, I bet.” Marielle grinned.
“Céline would have wanted me to,” she deadpanned.
“Still, that was a big chance. You could have been wrong,” Omar told her.
Olivia stared at him for a beat too long. “Not really. When you believe you know someone—truly know them—taking a chance isn’t so scary. You should try it sometime.”
Marielle gulped her wine.