Chapter 18
Eighteen
The bar at the Plaza Athénée was exactly the kind of place where you went to be seen.
High ceilings. Crystal chandeliers. Plush velvet seating in shades of cream and gold.
Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Avenue Montaigne.
And everywhere, the beautiful people of Paris were sipping champagne, conducting business, having affairs, and pretending not to notice each other while absolutely noticing each other.
Omar sat at a corner table nursing an espresso and feeling deeply out of place.
They’d cleaned up as best they could, but they looked like what they were: operators fresh off a blown mission, running on fading adrenaline and very little sleep.
Squirrel had declined to join them. “I’ve got a business to run,” he’d said. “Besides, I can’t have the exes finding out I went to a place like that. Their attorneys will be circling in the water.”
He’d dropped them at the train station with a flask of whiskey and instructions to “try not to start a war.”
Too late for that, Omar thought.
They’d spent the three hours on the train from Marseille to Paris in tense silence, watching for tails, running contingencies. Every station stop was a potential ambush. Every passenger a potential threat.
But they’d made it. And now they were here, in the most public place they could think of, daring anyone to try something.
Trent checked his phone for the tenth time. “They should be here by now.”
“Are you sure Olivia understood your message?” Omar asked.
“The line’s from Casablanca. ‘We’ll always have Paris.’ She’ll get it.”
“But how will she know to come here?” Omar pressed.
“It’s where we spent our anniversary.”
“Then they’ll be here,” Jake said.
And then, as if summoned, Marielle and Olivia walked into the bar.
Marielle caught Omar’s eyes from across the room and his chest unclenched.
He stood.
She crossed the bar in quick strides and he caught her, pulled her close, breathed in the scent of her hair—honey and something floral. And goat?
“You’re okay,” she said into his shoulder.
“So are you.”
They held each other for a moment longer than was probably appropriate for a public bar in Paris. Then Marielle pulled back, her hands still on his arms, and looked him over. “You look terrible.”
“You look beautiful.”
She laughed. “Liar.”
But she did.
Olivia had launched herself at Trent with equal fervor. Jake stood awkwardly until both women were done with their respective greetings, then got brief, fierce hugs of his own.
“Where’s Hanna?” Omar asked.
“Safe,” Marielle said. “She’s under the protection of Interpol’s Financial Crime and Anti-Corruption Centre.”
Jake raised an eyebrow. “You went to Interpol?”
“Not now,” Olivia warned their boss.
He pressed his lips together.
They sat around a table in the middle of the room and ordered drinks. Then for a long moment, they just looked at each other.
“So,” Trent said finally. “The safe house was a setup.”
“The cottage was compromised too,” Olivia countered. “We had about ten minutes’ warning before US commandos showed up.”
They traded stories. Trent recounted the empty apartment, the ambush team in the park, and the roof extraction. Marielle used exaggerated hand gestures to describe Madame Laugier and her truck, the checkpoint, and the drive to Lyon.
“We got Hanna’s statement on record,” Olivia said. “Before we handed her over to Interpol. You need to hear it.”
“Here?” Omar asked.
“It’s short,” Marielle promised.
Jake looked around. “Nobody’s paying any attention to us. Do it.”
They bent their heads over the table as Marielle pulled out a small recorder and hit play.
Hanna’s voice, thin but clear: The business dealings are a cover. Tunisian oligarchs paying the Vice President to look the other way while they overthrow their government. In exchange, they’re setting him up financially and helping him plan to remove the President of the United States.
Marielle pressed the stop button. Omar looked around the table. Jake was silent, Trent pale.
Jake recovered first. “Sonofa—”
“Yeah,” Olivia said.
Olivia’s phone buzzed, and Omar saw Ryan’s name on the screen.
“Ryan has your burner number?” he said with a frown.
“New burner. I ditched the other one after Trent sent that message.”
She answered. “You’re on speaker. The gang’s all here. Tell us some good news.”
Ryan’s voice was tight. “I found the leak. It’s McCloud.”
The world tilted.
“Cal?” Omar couldn’t process it. “Are you sure?”
“Positive. I traced the communications. He had access to everything—your covcom, the compact, the safe house location. He’s been feeding information to someone. I don’t know who yet, but I will.”
“Where is he?”
“In the wind. He disappeared about six hours ago.”
Omar looked at Marielle. She’d gone pale.
“The compact,” she said quietly. “He would have known the moment it went offline. He would have known we were at the cottage.”
“And he would have known about the Marseille extraction,” Trent added.
“What about the team in the apartment. They’re in on it, too?” Jake demanded.
“They never went. Got a call when they were at Dulles that the mission was scrapped and were told you authorized forty-eight hours of R&R for their trouble.”
“Let me guess,” Jake said tightly. “McCloud called them.”
“Bingo. When will you be back?”
“We can’t take a commercial flight,” Jake explained. “Can you arrange a charter?”
“On it,” Ryan said. “And Jake? Chelsea said next time, maybe listen the Marielle and Liv.” He hung up laughing.
“Evergreen advice,” Marielle smirked.
They sat in the beautiful bar, surrounded by beautiful people, and contemplated the magnitude of the betrayal.
Finally Jake said, “I’m gonna stretch my legs. Let’s meet out front in thirty. Ryan works fast.”
“Then what? Once we get back home?” Marielle asked. “After I figure out who Cal was working for. Because I will.”
“I know you will. After that? We burn it all down.”
Jake walked away.
Marielle stood on the terrace of the Plaza Athénée next to Omar, shoulders touching, looking down at the city.
Jake was still on his walkabout. Trent and Olivia had slipped away, no doubt to catch up in private. She and Omar agreed they could use some fresh air.
The terrace was quiet, just a few other guests scattered at tables, and the sounds of Paris drifting up—traffic, voices, the distant chime of church bells.
“We have a date to keep,” Omar said quietly.
She looked up at him. “I believe you promised to take me on a real one.”
“The Plaza Athénée isn’t a real date?” He swept his arms wide.
She bristled. “Under the circumstance? Mais non.”
He laughed. “Easy, Elle. I’m joking.”
She felt her cheeks grow warm. “Oh.”
He turned her gently to face him. “We will have a proper date. Once this is over.”
Her heart thumped as she stared up at him. “Once this is over, we’re going to have to figure out how to do this. Us. The job. All of it.”
“I know.”
“It’s going to be complicated.”
“I know that, too.”
She pressed her face against his neck and whispered, “I love you, Omar. I’m terrified of it, but I do.”
His pulled back and his eyes went wide. Then soft. “Elle—”
“You don’t have to say it back. Not yet. I just needed you to know.”
He pulled her close again, kissed her forehead, her temple, finally her mouth. Soft and sweet and full of promise.
Then her murmured inches away from her lips, “I love you, too. Have for a while, actually.”
She laughed. “Why didn’t you say something?”
“Because I’m an idiot.”
“C’est vrai. You are. You’re my little turkey.”
“Little turkey?”
“I said what I said.”
He wrapped an arm around her and snugged her into his side. They stood there a moment longer, the City of Lights and their future spread out before them.
Then, from the street below, a shout, “Time to go, lovebirds.”
Omar leaned over the railing to give Trent the bird. Then Marielle grabbed his hand and they headed for the stairs, together.