Chapter 8
Omar left the room to start searching for the data as soon as he finished showering.
Once he was gone, Marielle showered quickly, washing the seawater from her hair and the salt from her skin.
Then she slipped into what Leilah had dubbed elevated athleisure—soft knit pants and a cashmere tee shirt.
She tied her hair up in a knot, settled her glasses on her face, and slid on a pair of sandals. Then she slipped out into the corridor.
The first door she tried opened into a linen closet. Stacks of pristine towels and sheets, all monogrammed with an ornate “F” for Fakhar. No data of any kind. She closed it and moved on.
The second door revealed a small office with nautical charts on the walls and a desk with a laptop.
Her pulse quickened. She stepped inside and eased the door shut behind her.
The laptop was password protected. She tried a few obvious combinations—Idris’s birthdate, variations of “Fakhar,” Hanna’s name.
No joy. She huffed out a breath. She could crack almost any password, but she didn’t have time to do it now.
So she turned her attention to the desk drawers. The top one held office supplies. The second—
The door swung open. “Looking for something?”
Marielle jumped and spun around. Stefan stood in the doorway, his pleasant expression not quite reaching his eyes.
“Oh!” She pressed a hand to her chest, letting out a nervous laugh. “You scared me. I was trying to find some stationery so I could write to my mother.”
“We have stationery in the library. I’ll bring some to your stateroom.”
“That’s so kind. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have been snooping around.”
“Not at all, Mrs. Irfan. Although Mr. Mahmoud does prefer that guests remain in the common areas and their assigned staterooms. For security purposes, you understand.”
“Of course. I completely understand.”
She followed him back to the main deck, her mind racing. That office might have been promising, but she’d been caught before she could find anything useful. And now he’d almost certainly mention it to Idris.
Stefan left her in the main salon. Once he disappeared, she headed toward the upper deck, taking a route that led past the crew quarters.
She bumped into a young crew member coming out of a storage room with an armful of linens—clean, but threadbare, and unmonogrammed.
These were clearly not intended for the guests.
“Oh, hello!” Marielle called out. “I’m sorry, I think I’m lost. I was looking for the fitness center.”
The woman smiled. “You’ve gone a bit off course, Mrs. Irfan. It’s two decks down, toward the stern.”
“Thank goodness you found me. I’d probably end up in the engine room at this rate.”
The woman laughed and offered to walk her back. As they walked, Marielle memorized the layout—another corridor branched off to the left, what looked like a locked door at the end marked ‘Private.’
But she was no closer to finding anything useful.
Omar had better luck—initially.
He systematically checked the lower decks, moving methodically from stern to bow.
Most of the doors were unlocked: storage rooms, mechanical spaces, the wine cellar.
Nothing screamed “classified intelligence hidden here.” But sometimes a dead drop hid in plain sight.
So he searched every crevice and cranny and came up empty.
Then, at the end of the hall near the stern, he found the door with the keypad lock.
Promising. He glanced down the corridor.
Nobody was coming, and, interestingly, there were no cameras in this particular stretch of hallway.
He bent and pretended to tie his shoe while studying the keypad.
Three numbers showed more wear than the others: 2, 5, and 8.
He tried several combinations. Nothing.
He was about to try another when he heard footsteps and voices. He walked away casually, as if he’d just been passing through.
He circled back twenty minutes later. The corridor was empty again. He approached the door and was reaching for the keypad when a hand clamped down on his shoulder.
Omar turned to find one of Idris’s bodyguards—the big, ugly one with the scar through his eyebrow—glaring at him.
“This area is off-limits,” the man said with a tinge of a British accent.
Omar raised his hands in an apologetic gesture. “Sorry, man. I got turned around. Just looking for the bathroom.”
“Guest facilities are on the main deck.”
“Right. Thanks.”
The guard released his grip and stood, watching, until Omar had no choice but to walk away. As he climbed the stairs, he felt the man’s eyes on his back and made a show of massaging his shoulder.
He tried one last time before lunch, approaching from a different direction. After this, he’d call it quits. There was another corridor he wanted to check—one that branched off near what he thought might be Idris’s private office.
He made it three steps down the corridor before another guard appeared. Not so big, but equally ugly and equally unfriendly.
“Mr. Irfan. Can I help you find something?” The phrasing was polite. The tone was not.
“Just exploring,” Omar said easily.
“The guest areas are all on the main and upper decks. Mr. Mahmoud asks that his guests respect his privacy.”
“Of course. My apologies.”
Omar retreated, hot frustration building in his chest. They were running out of time and options. The yacht would dock in Marseille tomorrow afternoon. If they didn’t find the intel before then, this mission would be a bust.
He turned a corner and nearly ran into one of the Secret Service agents. Not Robbie, but the Black one, who, he realized belatedly, still hadn’t introduced himself.
“Lost?” the agent asked, his eyes assessing.
“Just getting my steps in. Margaux and I have a friendly competition.” He smiled.
The agent didn’t smile back. “Might want to stick to the main deck. Fewer places to accidentally wander into.”
It wasn’t a suggestion.
Omar nodded and headed back toward the salon.
Once he heard the agent’s footsteps growing faint, he made a sharp turn down a narrow corridor that was clearly meant for crew access rather than guests.
He moved quickly, checking doors as he went. Storage. Mechanical room. Another storage room. Then a door that had a more substantial lock than the others. He tried the handle without any expectation of success.
It turned.
He slipped inside. He appeared to have wondered into an armory. Racks of weapons lined one wall—rifles, handguns, even a crossbow. A large metal case sat against the far wall, secured with a heavy padlock.
This was either very good or very bad.
He moved to the case and examined the lock.
Commercial grade, nothing too sophisticated.
He could pick it, given time and the right tools.
Neither of which he had. So he pulled out his pen.
It looked like an ordinary fountain pen, but it housed a small spy camera.
He snapped a few quick photos, making sure to capture the serial numbers on several weapons.
He wouldn’t be able to upload them under they were back on land, but at some point, Potomac could run them to see if any been flagged.
He was returning his pen to his pocket when he heard voices in the corridor outside. Close. Coming closer.
He scanned the room. No other exit. No closet to hide in. Nothing.
The voices were right outside now. Arabic. Two men, maybe three.
The handle turned.
Omar pressed himself against the wall beside the door, hand moving to his waistband where he’d tucked the small knife from his toiletry kit. It wasn’t much of a weapon, but it was better than nothing.
The door swung open and two guards walked in, deep in conversation.
Omar didn’t wait. He moved fast, slipping through the open door behind them before they could react.
“Hey!”
He heard the shout but didn’t stop, didn’t look back. He walked quickly but didn’t run—running would draw attention, make him look guilty.
Behind him, heavy footsteps. The guards were coming after him.
He turned a corner and nearly collided with a crew member carrying a stack of towels. The collision bought him a few seconds as the guard had to dodge around them.
Omar made it to the main stairwell and climbed, taking the steps two at a time. He could still hear the guard behind him, closer now.
He emerged on the main deck just as Idris and Brad came out of the salon, drinks in hand. Omar slowed immediately, forcing his breathing to even out, and walked toward them as if nothing was wrong.
“Oscar!” Brad called out, already drunk despite it being barely noon. “Where’ve you been hiding?”
“Just working off breakfast,” Omar said, aware of the guard emerging from the stairwell behind him. The man stopped when he saw Idris, his expression dark.
Idris looked from Omar to the guard, his eyes narrowing slightly. “Everything all right, Bashir?”
The guard hesitated. Then, he nodded. “Yes, sir. Just making sure Mr. Irfan didn’t get lost.”
Irfan appraised Omar coolly. “The yacht can be confusing. Best to stay in the common areas. Fewer places to accidentally wander into.”
The phrasing was almost identical to what the Secret Service agent had said. A warning.
“Good advice,” Omar said easily. “I think I’ll go find my wife.”
He walked away, feeling multiple sets of eyes on his back. As he climbed to the upper deck, he heard a woman crying—loud, hiccuping sobs.
The sound was coming from the direction of Idris and Hanna’s stateroom. Almost certainly Hanna.
Bashir heard it too. His dilemma played out on his face: would his boss want him to following Omar or investigate the crying? Finally, he muttered something under his breath and headed toward the stateroom.
Omar kept walking until he found Marielle on the aft deck, sipping a glass of pomegranate juice. She took one look at his face and abandoned the glass on the bar.
“Walk with me?” she asked, loud enough for anyone nearby to hear.
They strolled to the rail, away from where Poppy was sunbathing, although she appeared to be oblivious to everything around her.
“That bad?” Marielle murmured.
“Found a room full of weapons. Got caught by the guards. I think we’re running out of time.”
“I didn’t have much luck either. Got intercepted by Stefan, then by another crew member.” She paused. “But I did hear something interesting from Poppy earlier.”
“What?”
“She said Idris has been locked in his office for hours every morning. Making calls, getting agitated. Something about a deal that’s not going the way he planned.”
Omar filed that information away. An office where Idris spent hours on sensitive calls would be exactly where they’d want to search.
“Where is this office?”
“She didn’t say. But I did see a door marked ‘Private.’”
“We need to search it if we can. And soon.”
Marielle nodded, then leaned into him as Bashir walked past, still looking suspicious.
“Maybe we should take a nap,” she said loudly enough to carry. “I’m exhausted from all this sun and the jet ski race.”
Back in their stateroom, with the bathroom faucets running, they huddled together near the tub.
“This isn’t working,” Marielle whispered. “We’re being watched too closely. And tomorrow evening we dock in Marseille.”
“I know.”
“We need to get to Hanna. She’s the only one who might know where the intel is. She has to know something, Omar. The way Idris watches her, controls her—she must know things he doesn’t want her to talk about.”
Omar thought about the crying he’d heard and the way Bashir had headed toward it like it was routine.
“But how?”
“The gym,” she said snapping her fingers. “I heard her telling Poppy she works out every morning before breakfast and then has a steam bath.”
He grinned.
“What?”
“Catch her in the sauna. It won’t have a camera. Too much steam would damage the equipment.”
“Are you sure?”
“I used to meet with an informant who was giving me tips about a fentanyl ring. We met in a Turkish bathhouse specifically because we couldn’t be recorded in the steam room.”
She smiled broadly. “Look at that DEA agent experience coming in clutch! That’s perfect. I’ll find a way to get her there alone.”
“Be careful. If Idris suspects—”
“I know. But we’re out of options.”
She was right. They were running out of time, and they still had nothing to show for it.
They had to take the risk. He just wished he was the one taking it, not her.