Chapter 14
Fourteen
Marielle returned to the cottage as soon as Omar set out across the field. She couldn’t bear to watch him walk away. Besides, she had work to do.
She turned over the recorder she’d borrowed from Omar’s backpack, tested the battery, and rehearsed her approach. Gentle but direct. Professional but compassionate. She would make Hanna comfortable enough to finally unburden herself and tell her story.
But when she walked into the living room, Hanna was crashed out on the couch, her breathing deep and even, and a glass of Sancerre dangling precariously from her hand.
Marielle’s shoulders fell as her anticipation drained away.
She set the recorder on the side table, gently removed the glass from Hanna’s hand, and placed it beside a water-stained coaster.
Then she retrieved the soft throw blanket draped over the chair and covered Hanna, tucking it carefully around her shoulders.
The woman had earned her rest.
Tomorrow would have to do.
She stood watching Hanna sleep. Her face was soft and peaceful. She’d never seen Hanna relaxed. Not on the yacht while under Idris’s thumb, and certainly not in the whirlwind of danger since they’d pulled her off The Fakhar.
She turned off the lamp and left her there.
She found Olivia in the kitchen, pulling a third bottle from the wine cellar. A second Beaujolais Réserve.
“Hanna’s out,” Marielle said.
Olivia glanced up from wrestling with the corkscrew. “She should be. She killed half the bottle of white in twenty minutes.”
“Can’t blame her.”
“Not even a little bit.”
The cork came free with a soft pop. Olivia grabbed two glasses and tilted her head toward the fireplace tucked into the corner. “Fire?”
Marielle built a fire to ward off the spring chill trapped in the stonewalls. She crumpled newspaper, arranged kindling in a careful teepee, and stacked larger logs stacked on top. She struck a match and the flames caught quickly, crackling as they warmed the room.
They settled into the chairs beside the hearth. For a moment they sat in companionable silence, both thinking about the men they’d sent into danger.
Marielle spoke first. “He’ll be fine, right?”
Olivia took a slow sip before answering. “Jake and Trent are the best. Omar, too. They’ll get the team out.”
She sounded as unconvinced as Marielle felt.
Marielle stared into the fire. “I keep thinking about all the things that could go wrong.”
“Don’t.”
“I can’t help it.”
Olivia leaned back. “Think about all the things that could go right. They’re smart. They’re trained. They know what they’re doing.”
“So did Carla.”
The name of Trent’s old partner and lover hung between them. Olivia’s face went still.
“Sorry,” Marielle said quickly. “That was—”
“No, you’re right.” Olivia took another drink. “So did Carla. And every other operator who didn’t come home. But you can’t live like that, Elle. You can’t think about every mission like it’s the last one.”
She’d never had to think of any mission in life or death terms before. Her work involved data points, pixels, and computer coding. Bullets, fistfights, and subterfuge were a whole new language.
“How do you do it, then?”
“Badly.” Olivia smiled. “I do it badly. But I do it.”
They sat quietly a while, listening to the crackling fire, the occasional shift of settling logs, and Hanna’s soft breathing from the other room.
Marielle broke the silence. “Any thoughts on who compromised the safe house?”
Olivia had clearly been waiting for this opening. She leaned forward, elbows on her knees. “I have a theory. Someone high up. Maybe someone protecting Brad Hampton?”
“He was on that yacht, entangled with Idris, at least according to Poppy Jones. If Hanna talks, powerful people go down.”
“Maybe the Vice President himself.”
Marielle turned this over. “Or someone protecting Idris’s father. A Tunisian oligarch with international connections? Salim Ben Mahmoud has reach, too.”
“Could be.” Olivia swirled her wine. “Either way, it’s about protecting power.”
“It’s about protecting powerful men,” Marielle said quietly.
Olivia nodded. “Always.”
They’d both seen this pattern their entire careers.
The CIA protecting its own. Protecting connected men.
Throwing women under the bus when convenient.
The constant, grinding misogyny, harassment that got dismissed, competence never assumed, having to prove themselves over and over while men got promoted on potential rather than performance.
“Omar doesn’t see it this way,” Marielle said.
“None of them do.” Olivia’s voice was matter-of-fact. “Jake, Trent, Omar. Even Ryan. The system worked for them. They were rewarded for trusting the chain of command.”
Marielle took a long drink. “They think this is a rogue agent. Someone dirty. An outlier.”
“And it may be. But it’s also the system that’s rewarding the behavior. Someone might have gone rogue, but they’re not an outlier. They’re the system working as intended,” Olivia finished.
Disillusionment and disgust washed over Marielle. “Tant pis,” she murmured into her wineglass, giving the phrase a darker, more fatalistic flavor.
Olivia leaned forward suddenly, her expression sharpening. “We can’t trust the CIA with Hanna’s story. They want it, but they don’t want to protect her. Screw them.
“What about Interpol?” The suggestion was out of Marielle’s mouth while her brain was still forming the idea.
Olivia blinked at her, then grinned. “The General Secretariat is in Lyon.”
“That’s less than two hours from here.”
“International jurisdiction.” Olivia spoke faster, warming to the idea. “If Hanna gives her statement there, it’s on the record. Multiple countries have access. Neither the CIA nor Mahmoud can make her disappear.”
“And I imagine France would have some feelings about U.S. commandos storming a little fishing village without coordinating with local officials.”
Olivia nodded. “I like it.”
Marielle turned to poking holes in the plan like a good agent. “We’d be going to an international law enforcement agency without clearance.”
“Yes.”
“Jake will lose his mind.”
“Probably.”
“We could get burned for this. Lose our security clearances. Maybe worse.”
“Maybe.” Olivia met her eyes. “Or we save Hanna’s life and expose whatever corruption is happening. Those are the options.”
Marielle thought about the compromised safe house. The commandos at Luc’s inn. The systematic way they’d been cut off from support. Olivia was right. Operating within the structure meant walking into a trap.
“It’s risky,” she said.
“Everything’s risky right now.”
“The men won’t like it. They’ll want to loop in Jake first. Get authorization.”
“The men aren’t here.” Olivia’s voice was gentle but firm. “And by the time we could reach them, it might be too late. This is the call we have to make.”
Marielle nodded slowly. “Tomorrow we get Hanna’s statement on the recorder. Then we find a way to get to Lyon. Ideally one that doesn’t include a light twenty kilometer jog. ”
Liv snorted. “Fair.”
“Let Interpol sort it out.”
They clinked glasses, sealing the decision.
Olivia refilled their glasses and gave Marielle a pointed look. “So. You’re in love with him.”
Marielle tried to deflect. “Who wants to know?”
“Elle.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You’re a terrible liar. You always have been.”
Marielle stared into her glass, watching the liquid catch the firelight. She tried to think of a joke, a subject change, anything to avoid this.
But Olivia wouldn’t let it go. “I’ve known you since we were twenty-two. I know what you look like when you’re in love.”
Her defenses crumbled. “Yes. Okay? Yes. I’m in love with Omar. Happy?”
“Are you?”
The question caught her off guard. “Am I what?”
“Happy.”
Marielle opened her mouth, then closed it. Was she happy? She was terrified. What if he didn’t come back from Marseille? What if this thing between them never got a chance to start? What if they did get together, she fell for him—really fell for him—and something happened to him?
“I’m scared,” she said finally.
“Of course you are.”
“What if something happens to him? What if—”
“Then you’ll have loved him anyway.” Olivia’s eyes were bright in the firelight. “That doesn’t go away, even if you lose him. And loving someone—really loving them—that’s worth the risk.”
It was clear she was talking about Trent as much as Omar.
Marielle drew her knees to her chest, wrapping her arms around them. “How do you do it? How do you live with the fear of losing Trent on every mission?”
Olivia was quiet, choosing her words carefully. “The job will always try to come between you. Always. You have to decide, every single day, that you’re partners first. Not leader and follower. Not senior and junior. Partners. Equals.”
“Even when you disagree?”
“Especially when you disagree.” Olivia stared into the fire. “It comes down to trust. Like today, I wanted to argue with him, convince him not to go to Marseille.”
“But you didn’t.”
“No. Because he had to make that choice himself. And I had to trust it.” She took a drink. “That’s the deal. I trust his judgment in the field, he trusts mine. We don’t second guess each other in front of other people. We save the arguments for when we’re alone.”
Marielle thought about Omar sneaking out with the car keys. About how she’d let him go even though every instinct screamed at her to stop him.
“And,” Olivia added with a wry smile, “you have to be smarter than the men. Which, let’s be honest, isn’t hard.”
They both laughed, the mood lightening. But Olivia’s message stayed with Marielle: loving Omar would mean living with constant fear. She’d have to learn to carry it.
They finished the wine and banked the fire. Marielle used the poker to push the logs apart, then shoveled ash over them until the flames died to glowing embers. She was exhausted, wrung out. A glance at Liv confirmed she was equally drained.
They double checked the locks, poured two glasses of water, and headed to the guest room where two twin beds waited, narrow and pushed against opposite walls like they were back in their dorm at the Farm.
The beds had belonged to Marielle’s great-aunts originally.
Mémé Céline had kept them exactly as they were.
Marielle changed into one of the oversized t-shirt and pairs of soft pants Luc had given her. Olivia borrowed a similar outfit. Although on her, the top was a belly shirt and the pants were capris, hitting not far below her knees. Marielle giggled at the sight.
Olivia climbed under the covers, still talking. “So what do you think Hanna actually knows? Just the shell company stuff Poppy mentioned or something bigger?”
“Has to be bigger.”
“She could know details. Specific transactions. Bank accounts. Wire transfers.”
“Or people. Names. Who’s connected to whom.”
Olivia yawned. “We’ll find out tomorrow. When we record her statement.”
“Yeah.”
Within minutes, Olivia’s breathing evened out. She was asleep.
Marielle pulled the blanket to her chin and closed her eyes, but sleep didn’t come immediately. She lay in the dark, listening to her friend breathe, missing Omar, praying he was safe, and hoping she was doing right by Hanna.
Tomorrow, she promised herself. Tomorrow, she and Liv would untangle this mess.
Eventually, exhaustion overtook her churning thoughts and her heavy eyelids closed.