Chapter 5
Marielle was curled up in an overstuffed armchair in the royal suite’s sitting room, wrapped in one of the hotel’s plush robes. Across from her, Olivia sat cross-legged on the sofa, reading their book club’s choice for the month.
Poppy emerged from the bedroom, her copper curls piled on top of her head in a messy bun, wearing silk pajamas that probably cost more than Marielle’s monthly rent.
“Okay, ladies. I ordered room service. Champagne, oysters, the works.”
Olivia put down her book. “Sounds perfect.”
“Right?” Poppy beamed. Her phone chirped and she reached into the pocket of her pajama pants and pulled it out.
Her smile faltered, and she slipped the mobile back into her pocket.
“What happened?” Marielle asked softly.
Poppy sank into the chair next to hers. “Idris is off the grid. Idris and the three of his bodyguards who aren’t hospitalized, to be precise.”
Marielle adopted an innocent expression. “Define ‘off the grid.’”
“He’s not on his yacht. He’s not in Marseille. He’s not at your grandmother’s cottage.”
“You think he’s coming after Hanna,” Marielle surmised.
“Don’t you?”
“Probably,” she allowed.
Poppy popped to her feet and began pacing. “This complicates things.”
“You think?” Olivia’s voice was dry.
“I need to meet with Hanna tomorrow,” Poppy said. “That was the whole point of keeping you here.”
“About that,” Marielle said carefully. “Before we give you access to Hanna, we need to know more about your investigation.”
Poppy stopped pacing and studied them both. “What do you want to know?”
“Everything,” Olivia said. “Starting with why CSIS thinks there’s a threat on Canadian soil, and why you think Hanna has information about it.”
Poppy was quiet for a long moment. Then she crossed to the bar and poured herself two fingers of scotch.
“About three weeks ago, we intercepted communications between Salim Mahmoud and several known extremists. The chatter suggested something big was being planned. An attack during a high-profile event.”
“What event?” Marielle asked.
“The Canadian Prime Minister is hosting a gala to strengthen ties with other nations committed to international education and research partnerships aimed at lifting people out of poverty.”
“A swanky gala to help people living in poverty. What if, I don’t know, they just send the money to the people instead of spending it on a gala?” Olivia’s snark was on target, but they both looked at her, unamused.
“Focus, Liv.”
“I’m just saying.”
Poppy went on, “Your President is attending, along with several other world leaders, including representatives from Asia, Europe, and South America. It’s next week.”
“Tunisia isn’t participating?”
“My sources say no.”
“But not only is the U.S. President attending, he and the First Lady are staying at the Prime Minister’s residence during their visit.”
“A sleepover?” Marielle arched an eyebrow.
“FLOTUS and the prime minister’s spouse worked together on an early childhood nutrition program a few years back and became fast friends. It’s a bit of a girls’ weekend for them, I guess.”
Marielle felt her stomach drop. “You think Mahmoud is planning an assassination.”
“I think Samuel Ayari is planning something,” Poppy corrected.
“Hanna’s dad? Why?” Olivia asked.
“Mahmoud referenced ‘my daughter’s father’ as arranging the attack. He doesn’t have a daughter.”
“And in Tunisia, the family connection between in-laws is strong, just as strong as blood. So if Hanna’s dad promised her in marriage to Idris, Salim Mahmoud would consider her a daughter.”
“So ‘my daughter’s father would be Samuel Ayari. Got it.” Olivia nodded. “Any mention of what he’s planning?”
Poppy shook her head. “No. We’re fairly confident that the location will be the gala, based on the chatter. But the location for what? It could be anything. An assassination, a bombing, a bioweapon release, or something else entirely. But Hanna worked in her father’s import-export business.”
“And you think she might know about a shipment,” Olivia said.
“I’m hoping she does. Because right now, we’re running out of time and options.”
Marielle worked through the issue aloud. “Hanna’s already at risk. As far as the Mahmouds and her father know, she’s just a runaway bride. Without knowing that she planned to trade her knowledge for a new life, Idris still sent three of his men after her.”
“He’s furious because she embarrassed him in front of Brad. She made him look weak,” Poppy confirmed.
“But VP Hampton knows she was planning to talk to the CIA. If he hasn’t already, he’ll tell Mahmoud and Ayari,” Olivia added.
“And then they’ll really be looking for her. You know, in addition to the commandos Hampton has roaming the French countryside.” Marielle shook her head. “She’s safe where she is, I don’t like the idea of leading them to her.”
“There’s no other option,” Poppy said firmly. “We’ll do it quietly. One meeting.”
“I truly think she would have told us if she knew about an attack,” Olivia protested.
Marielle nodded, then said slowly, “She would have. But she might know something that she doesn’t know she knows. You know?”
Olivia and Poppy stared at her quizzically for a moment before dissolving into laughter.
“I mean, yes, I know what you mean,” Olivia said, wiping her eyes. “But, dang, Elle, that was convoluted.”
“It probably sounds better in French,” Poppy gasped between giggles.
Marielle picked up the nearest flocked velvet pillow and lobbed it at Poppy.
A knock at the door interrupted their laughter. “Room service.”
“Let me check it out first,” Olivia whispered, already moving toward the door.
She peered through the peephole, then opened the door just wide enough to see the server. After a brief exchange, she stepped back and allowed a young man in a crisp white jacket to wheel in a cart laden with silver domes and an ice bucket.
He set up the spread on the dining room table with practiced efficiency, uncorked the champagne, and left with a dignified bow and a generous tip.
They loaded their plates with delicacies and carried them back to the seating area along with the bottle of bubbly and three fluted glasses.
“To girls’ weekends,” Poppy proposed a toast.
“And successful missions and safe returns,” Olivia added.
“And the truth coming out,” Marielle chimed in.
They clinked glasses and turned their attention to the food.
Marielle spread brie on a pear slice and popped it into her mouth.
“Do you have to rehearse or anything?” Olivia asked. “For your show?”
“Mmm, of course.” Poppy slurped down an oyster before answering. “Three hours tomorrow afternoon.”
Good, Marielle thought. She trusted Poppy, but only so far.
“Olivia and I will meet with Hanna while you’re rehearsing and find out if she knows anything,” she offered.
Poppy frowned. “I want to talk to her myself.”
“I’m sure you do. But for now, this is what we’re comfortable with.” Marielle gave Olivia a sideways look to make sure they were on the same page.
Liv nodded and took a swallow of champagne. “Get us whatever chatter you want us to ask her about.”
Poppy opened her mouth to object, then seemed to think better of it. “Fair enough. You can take the first crack at her. But I want you to record it. And if you don’t get me anything I can use, I meet with her myself.”
“We can work with that,” Marielle said.
“If you agree to implement tighter security measures,” Olivia added. “Starting now.”
“What kind of measures?” Poppy bristled.
“The kind where you don’t post anything that anyone could use to pinpoint our location. The kind where we vary our routes and timing. The kind where we assume we’re being watched at all times.”
“I am being watched at all times,” Poppy pointed out. “And I’m on tour. I have to post content. My fans expect—”
“Your fans will understand a little mystery,” Marielle interrupted.
“Post throwback photos. Behind-the-scenes footage from rehearsals after the fact. Take a shot of the Eiffel Tower tonight, and post it tomorrow. Just don’t go live on social media and don’t post anything with real-time location data. ”
Poppy threw up her hands. “Fine. Radio silence on the current location. But everyone knows I stay in this suite when I’m in town. That’s unavoidable.”
“We understand you’re a celebrity,” Marielle told her. “You can keep your Pop Tarts happy without painting a target on us.”
“Wait,” Olivia said. “Chelsea and Leilah are flying in tomorrow afternoon, right?”
“Yes. They land at Charles de Gaulle at three,” Marielle confirmed.
“That won’t work.” Olivia frowned.
Poppy waved a hand. “I’ll send the limo to pick them up and bring them to my rehearsal. They’ll like that, right?”
“Are you kidding? They’ll be over the moon,” Olivia said.
“And then, you two can join them at the stadium for the first night of the concert. Plan to arrive by six. After the concert, we’ll have a midnight dinner to celebrate.”
“We’ll have to make sure they know not to post anything that compromises our location,” Marielle mused.
“Relax, Elle. Even in the middle of a mission, it’s okay to take a breath. I promise,” Olivia told her.
“She’s right,” Poppy said. “Drink your champagne.”
Marielle shrugged. She might as well enjoy herself, there was nothing to be done until tomorrow.
She raised her glass and sipped her champagne.
As the bubbles fizzed on her tongue, she lowered her tense shoulders and allowed herself to soak in the luxury of the suite and the beauty of Paris lit up at night.
Worry about tomorrow, tomorrow.