Chapter 16
Sixteen
Marielle woke to pale morning light filtering through the curtains and the sound of Olivia’s breathing across the room. She slipped out of bed quietly and padded down the hall to Céline’s small bathroom.
She flipped on the light to reveal a vanity that was exactly as she remembered it: white porcelain, brass fixtures that needed polishing, and a small mirror with ornate scrollwork hanging above it.
The vanity mirror displayed a disaster. Dark circles under her eyes.
Hair tangled. And worst of all dull, dry skin.
She’d skipped her entire nighttime skin care routine, something she never did. A pang of guilt hit her. How could she? Especially here, in the very cottage where her grandmother had handed her a package of potions, lotions, and creams from her trusted Parisian pharmacy on her thirteen birthday.
She twisted her tangled hair into a knot with a sigh. The least she could do was complete a proper morning routine.
She opened the drawer built into the vanity and retrieved the set of travel toiletries she’d left on her last visit. She’d purchased them, of course, at her grand-mère’s beloved Pharmacie Saint-Honoré. As she pulled out the case, her fingers brushed against something at the back of the drawer.
Frowning, she pulled out a small box wrapped in pale blue tissue paper. Affixed to the top, was an ivory enveloped with her name written on it in Céline’s elegant script.
Her breath caught. How had she missed this when she’d settled the estate?
She sat on the edge of the bathtub and cradled the box in her lap. She removed the envelope and turned it over. It was sealed with wax, her grandmother’s monogram pressed into it.
“Elle! Do you plan to hog the bathroom all morning?” Olivia’s voice came through the door, with the familiar annoyance of anyone who’s ever shared a bathroom.
She looked down at the box, deciding. Not now. Not in the middle of this chaos. Not when she couldn’t afford to fall apart.
She placed the box to the side and called back, “Five minutes!”
She raced through her skincare routine—cold cream, cleanser, serum, moisturizer, sunscreen, ran a brush through her hair, and brushed her teeth.
She opened the door to find Olivia leaning against the wall with her arms crossed. “About time.”
“All yours, grumpy.” She gestured toward the open door and edged past Olivia, angling the tissue paper-wrapped box away from her to avoid questions.
Twenty minutes later, they were gathered in the kitchen. Hanna had woken on her own. She looked fresh and rested. Marielle made pour-over coffee while Olivia toasted the remnants of Omar’s bread. A tiny pot of homemade kumquat marmalade courtesy of Lucas impossibly French go bag sat on the counter.
Marielle was spreading marmalade on her second piece of toast when the knock sounded.
She froze. They all froze.
She set down the knife slowly and caught Olivia’s eye. Olivia’s hand moved toward the gun at her waist.
Another knock. Not urgent, not aggressive. But patient, as if the person outside was certain someone was home.
Marielle crossed to the window alongside the door and peered out.
A woman stood on the steps. She was in seventies, deeply tanned, wearing work clothes and heavy boots.
Her black hair was pulled back in a perfect bun with twin streaks of pure silver pulled loose to frame her weathered face. Relief washed Marielle.
She unlocked the door. “Bonjour, Madame Laugier.”
“Bonjour, Mademoiselle Moreau.”
Violette Laugier, a farmer who made honey and cheese and had known Céline for decades, owned the nearest property.
“I saw smoke from your chimney last night. So I brought you some honey.” She held up a jar. “And cheese.” Another package, wrapped in cloth.
“That’s so kind. Merci.”
Olivia appeared at Marielle’s shoulder. “Madame Laugier! You gave me a ride yesterday.”
The old woman’s eyes sharpened with recognition. “Ah, yes. The long-legged one. If you hadn’t been so secretive about your destination, I could have saved you a run.”
Olivia laughed, and Marielle gestured for the woman to come inside.
She shrugged off the offer to take her coat but accepted a mug of coffee.
She took a sip and her expression turned serious. “I need to tell you something. This morning I went to Lourmarin to drop off goods for the market. There were Americans at the café. Soldiers, I think. Drinking coffee.”
Marielle’s stomach dropped. “Americans?”
“They weren’t British. My English is ... rusty. But I heard them mention this cottage. And an assault.” She frowned. “I thought you should know.”
Behind Marielle, Hanna made a small sound.
Olivia was already moving. “How long ago?”
“An hour? Maybe less.”
“Elle,” Olivia said quietly. “We need to go. Now.”
They moved with controlled efficiency. Marielle grabbed the recorder, the rucksack and the tissue-wrapped box. Finally, her gun. Olivia tossed things into a duffle she’d found in the coat closet. Dry bags, weapons, food, anything they might need went flying into the bag.
But Hanna stood frozen in the middle kitchen.
Marielle gave her a light shake. “Hanna. Get your things. We’re leaving.”
“Where?”
“Lyon. Interpol. You’ll be safe there.”
“How?”
Madame Laugier drained her coffee and rested the mug on the counter beside the sink. “I’ll take you.”
Details and a plan snapped Hanna out of her trance. She nodded and moved.
Three minutes later, they were packed and outside. Marielle locked the door and returned the key to its place under the planter.
Madame Laugier waited beside her small pickup truck, the bed half-full of crates.
They climbed into the truck bed and lay down among the crates that smelled of earth and honey, and, goats. Madame Laugier threw a large rough wool blanket over the truck bed and secured it with two tie-down cords.
She patted the side of the truck. The cab door opened, then closed. The engine rumbled to a start, and the truck lurched forward.
They bumped along the dirt road, every pothole sending shocks through Marielle’s body. The blanket scratched her face. Hay dust tickled her nose, threatening to make her want to sneeze.
Suddenly, the truck slowed and then stopped. Marielle frowned to herself. They couldn’t have reached Lyon already.
Footsteps sounded, then a man spoke in halting French with an American accent. “Madame, we need to check your vehicle.”
“Check? For what?” Madame Laurier sounded confused. Annoyed. Very French.
“Routine security. We’re looking for—”
“I have honey. And cheese. Would you like to buy some?”
“Ma’am, we just need to—”
“Fifteen euros for the honey. Very good honey. My bees—”
“We don’t want honey. We need to see in the back of your truck.”
Under the blanket, Marielle held her breath. She found Olivia’s hand and squeezed. Liv squeezed back tightly.
The footsteps grew louder, closer.
“Madame, what’s under the blanket?”
“I told you, my honey and my cheese. For the market in Lyon. They love my chèvre there. It’s a creamy dessert cheese. Perfect with honey and figs, fifteen euros also. For you, twenty euros for the honey and the cheese, oui?”
Marielle stifled a laugh.
“We’re not buying anything,” the man said impatiently.
“Tant pis. You want I should unpack everything? It will take time. Maybe you could help?”
A long pause.
Then a different voice, dismissive, “Let her through. She’s just an old lady.”
The truck lurched forward again.
They drove for what felt like hours before the truck stopped again and the cab door opened and closed.
Madame Laugier untied the blanket and pulled it loose.
They sat up and blinked at the brightness of the sunlight. The old pickup truck was parked directly in front of the visitors’ entrance to an imposing steel and glass building. They were at Interpol Headquarters.
Madame Laugier helped them down from the truck bed and handed them their bags. Then she took Marielle’s face in her rough hands and kissed both cheeks. She did the same to Olivia. And then to Hanna.
“Ce que femme veut, Diet le veut,” she said firmly. Then she climbed back into her truck and drove away.
“What did she say?” Olivia asked.
“What woman wants, God wants,” Hanna answered.
Marielle smiled. “It means when a woman is determined, she’ll find a way. As if God Himself has willed it.”
Olivia cackled. “Right on.”
They stood on the sidewalk for a moment, pulling the last bits of hay from their hair. Marielle could smell earth and honey on her clothes.
“Well,” Olivia said. “We look like we’ve been hiding in a truck bed.”
“Smell like it too, I think,” Marielle said.
Hanna laughed in disbelief. “We’re really doing this?”
“We’re really doing this.”
“Wait,” Olivia said. “We have to stash our bags somewhere. We can’t walk into Interpol with a bag full of guns and marmalade.”
Marielle thought. “If we had a phone we could book lockers online at the one of the nearby hotels.”
Olivia grinned, reached into her bag, and pulled out a mobile phone. “Don’t worry, it’s a burner.”
They secured lockers at a chain hotel that was just a three-minute walk away, then strolled along the Rh?ne riverwalk from the headquarters to the hotel.
Hanna stopped at the stone wall outside the hotel. “I want to tell you what I know first. Before I tell them.”
Marielle and Olivia scanned the riverwalk. Olivia nodded, so Marielle pulled out the recorder and hit play.
Hanna took a breath, then the story poured out.
“The business dealings—the shell companies, the financial transfers Poppy mentioned—it’s all a payoff.
Idris’s father and his associates are Tunisian oligarchs.
They’re paying the Vice President to look the other way while they overthrow our government.
In exchange, they’re setting VP Hampton up with lucrative financial deals and … ”
“And?” Olivia prompted quietly.
Hanna lowered her voice. “And they’re helping him plan to remove the President of the United States.”
Silence.
Olivia recovered first. “Remove him how?”
“However they have to.”
“’Mon dieu,” Marielle breathed. “That’s ... that’s treason. That’s—”
“That’s why they want me dead,” Hanna said quietly. “I heard too much. Saw too much. I knew I was in trouble. That’s why I offered do give the CIA intelligence if they got me out alive.”
Marielle stopped the recording with a shaking finger and took a moment to collect herself. Then, with renewed urgency, she gathered the bags and ran into the hotel to deliver them to the locker service, leaving Olivia to steady Hanna.
Moments later, the three of them stood outside Interpol again.
They raised their chins and walked into the security pavilion.
Without their contraband, they easily cleared the medal detector and x-ray scanner and continued on to the glassed in reception desk, where they would trade their passports for visitor badges.
A guard looked up from his desk, took in their disheveled appearance, and raised an eyebrow.
Marielle took charge. “We have sensitive cross-border information and need to speak privately to an officer.”
“There are seconded law enforcement officers from one hundred and ninety-six member countries working here. Which borders?”
Marielle hesitated, trying to decide whether to say the U.S., Tunisia, or Spain.
The guard clocked her dilemma. “I understand it’s international. Pick a country.”
Not the U.S.
“Tunisia,” she said firmly.
He nodded, picked up his phone, and had a quiet conversation.
“Officer Sabban will be along shortly. Have a seat.”
They crossed the gleaming granite floor and sat on a long bench under a row of international flags. They waited in silence, staring out at the river through the glass walls until they heard the sharp click of high heels striking the glossy floor.
They swiveled their heads like a trio of owls to track a dark-skinned woman coming through the glass turnstiles that separated the lobby from the secure building. She wore an impeccable white pantsuit, a sheer black blouse, and black pointed-toe pumps.
When she reached them, she surveyed their disheveled appearance without blinking. Then she offered a smile.
“I’m Criminal Intelligence Officer Sabban. Are you reporting a crime or requesting protection?”
“Both. But not in the lobby,” Olivia responded with a glance at Hanna.
“Come with me.”
Marielle and Olivia exchanged a look. They had a fighting chance of being believed.
Ce que femme veut, Dieu le veut.