Chapter 11
As a misdirection, Olivia and Marielle used the hotel’s car service to go to the fashion district in Saint-Germain-des-Prés. From there, they walked.
The famed bookshop was exactly as Marielle remembered.
A warren of rooms, some narrow, all lined with bookshelves crammed full of books from the stone floor to the wood-beamed ceiling.
Here and there, you’d find a reading spot with a comfortable chair and good lighting.
Everywhere, the smell of paper and binding glue hung in the air like perfume.
The rare books library was upstairs. Perfect for a private conversation. Terrible for a quick escape.
They climbed the narrow stairs and found Sabban examining a first edition of Jack Kerouac’s On the Road.
“Did you know he wrote the first draft on a one-hundred-twenty-foot scroll so he didn’t have to interrupt his flow to change his typewriter paper?” Olivia asked.
Anissa Sabban raised an eyebrow as she slid the book on the shelf. “Is that so?”
“True story,” Olivia chirped.
Sabban got down to business. “Your message concerned me. I thought you wanted to meet with Ms. Ayari.”
“We have reason to believe our communications are compromised,” Marielle said quietly. “Someone accessed my phone remotely and sent you a text telling you we couldn’t meet today after all. I didn’t write it.”
“And I never received it.”
“Someone knows we were going to talk to Hanna and tried to prevent the meeting,” Olivia said.
“But why write it and not send it?” Marielle shook her head.
“It could have been an oversight,” Olivia suggested. “Or whatever tech they used to control the phone is imperfect. Or they were interrupted. Or any one of a thousand reasons.”
“Whatever the reason, we still need to talk to Hanna,” Marielle said.
“Oui. But not here and not at any location that you searched from your device. There is a café in Montparnasse called Le Coeur. It’s tucked away, but the tables are not crowded together. And no mobile phones or laptops can be used. They have blocking technology.”
“It sounds perfect,” Olivia said.
Anissa checked her watch. “We will meet you there in twenty minutes. But if I see anything suspicious, anything at all, we abort.”
“Understood.” Marielle agreed.
They descended the stairs in single file and exited onto the street. Sabban went left, so Marielle and Olivia went right.
They walked in silence for several blocks, taking random turns, checking their reflections in shop windows, using every counter-surveillance technique they knew.
By the time they reached Le Coeur, Marielle was reasonably confident they’d arrived clean. Anissa Sabban and Hanna were already there, seated at a small four-top in the back corner of the room.
Hanna’s dark hair was pulled back in a simple ponytail. She wore jeans and a plain sweater instead of the designer clothes Idris had draped her in. She looked younger than she had on the yacht. And she looked terrified.
Marielle took the seat across from her. “Thank you for meeting with us.”
Hanna’s eyes were red-rimmed. “Officer Sabban said it was important. That people might die if I don’t help.”
“That’s true. But you don’t have to do this if you’re not ready,” Olivia told her.
“I’m not ready. But I’ll do it anyway.” She straightened her shoulders. “What do you need to know?”
Olivia leaned forward. “We need to know about your father’s company. Specifically, about export shipments in the last few months.”
“My father has dozens of shipments going out every day.”
“This one would have been unusual. Larger than normal. Perhaps a shipment to Canada,” Marielle said.
Hanna frowned, thinking, then her eyes widened. “Oh. Oh no.”
“What is it?” Marielle asked.
“There was a shipment. My father asked me to handle it personally. He said it was important. A private client in Calgary.” Hanna’s hands started to shake.
She shoved them under her thighs and went on.
“I thought it was strange because we don’t usually deal directly with private clients, we go through importers. But he insisted.”
“Do you remember the client’s name?” Sabban asked.
“No. But I remember the address. It was the last task I handled before he sent me to the yacht, and for some reason, I always remember the addresses.”
Marielle and Olivia exchanged a look. Had Samuel Ayari had sent his daughter onto The Fakhar to get her away from whatever he was planning? Or has he sent her as collateral to assure the Mahmouds that the attack would happen?
“Can you write down the address?” Olivia slid a napkin and pen across the table.
Hanna wrote quickly, her handwriting shaky. When she finished, she pushed the napkin back.
“Did your father say anything about what the shipment was for? Or when it would be used?” Marielle asked.
“He said it was for a big event. He seemed excited about it. It was a very large order of fireworks. So I thought he meant a party.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “But it wasn’t a party, was it?”
“No, not a party.” Marielle kept her tone gentle. “We believe it’s part of a plot to attack the Prime Minister’s gala next week. The President will be there.”
And a lot of innocent people, she thought but did not say.
Hanna closed her eyes. Tears spilled over and ran down her cheeks. “My father is going to kill people. And I helped him.”
“You didn’t know,” Marielle said.
“That doesn’t matter. Those people will still be dead.”
The words fell over the table like a shroud.
Finally, Olivia said, “We’re going to stop it. Your information is going to save lives.”
Hanna nodded, but she didn’t look convinced.
Anissa Sabban stood, looking queasy. “We need to go. We’ve been here too long already.”
As Sabban slid several bills under her water glass, Marielle stood and locked eyes with a woman sitting at the bar. She sipped an espresso. But her focus never left their table.
Marielle nudged Olivia and tilted her head toward the woman.
Olivia stiffened.
The woman at the bar raised her espresso cup in a small salute and smiled.
Then she stood and walked out of the café.
“Friend of yours?” Sabban asked.
“Never seen her before in my life,” Marielle said.
But something told her they’d be seeing her again.