Page 69 of Secrets Beneath the Waves (Beach Read Thrillers #2)
CHAPTER
ONE
Paris, France
The art of counterintelligence is, at its very core, a psychological game of chess.
Every move is strategically calculated to outmaneuver the opponent.
It’s a strategy of taking pieces of a puzzle and reorganizing them until they make sense, while at the same time discerning what is irrelevant and needs to be discarded.
A spy’s secret edge, though, lies in the ability to be forgettable—because in my world, invisibility is power.
Today, I’m crossing the River Seine on the Pont Neuf bridge dressed in dark jeans, a simple white blouse, and a hooded black coat.
The bridge is full of tourists looking for the perfect selfie spot and a few locals going about their daily business.
For many people, Paris is the perfect travel destination.
Museums filled with world-famous art, and iconic landmarks like the Eiffel Tower, the Louvre, and Notre-Dame Cathedral.
It’s that magical je ne sais quoi that blends beauty, history, fashion, and food into the perfect moments.
But while I learned to appreciate culture and travel as a young girl growing up with my Russian-born mom and French father, I’m not here to enjoy the scenery.
Summer is typically the busiest time of year, but there are several winter festivals going on nearby, and tourists have flooded the area.
They carry backpacks and pose for photos on the historical stone bridge with stunning views of the river.
Couples take selfies with the iconic Eiffel tower in the distance.
None of them have any idea that two CIA officers are about to meet one of their assets on the historic bridge.
“What exactly did Polina say?” William asks.
I glance at my partner. He’s six foot three, blond with Scandinavian features, and extremely intelligent.
Like me, he grew up in an expat family, thanks to his diplomatic parents.
After graduating from university with a degree in cyber security, he shifted course and applied for the CIA.
We first met a year ago during a covert op in Istanbul.
I’ve always been strongly opposed to mixing my job with my personal life, but from the very beginning, William made me want to change my mind.
“She didn’t want to talk over the phone,” I tell him. “I don’t have details, but something spooked her.”
He’s handsome, funny, and intelligent, and while he has a serious side, he can also be extroverted when the situation calls for it.
Like me, he loves to travel, is always up to trying anything new, and knows how to blend in when needed.
I’m more focused and detail-oriented than he is, with a strong aptitude for languages, but we’ve discovered that together, our skill set is the perfect combination.
Most of my family back home think I’m a translator living the good life abroad, and would be thrilled to see me settle down. What they don’t know is that not only does William also work for the CIA, he’s a security officer. His job is literally to keep me—and the rest of my team—safe.
Today, I’m counting on him to keep my asset safe as well.
I start searching the crowd for Polina, concerned that something has gone wrong.
She’s what we call a walk-in, a potential asset who literally walked into the US Embassy, offered information, and then had been handed to me.
Over the past few months, she’s proven herself loyal time and time again, feeding us intel she’s gleaned as a political speechwriter for a number of high-ranking Russian politicians.
She’s in a position to acquire sensitive information from sources in the Kremlin that only someone in her position would have access to.
Her motivation, though, is extremely personal.
Six months ago, her husband, a political activist, was assassinated.
Now she works with the CIA, seeking justice for her husband’s murder.
She’s waiting for us on the bridge on the side closest to the Right Bank, exactly where she’d told me she’d be, dressed in a down coat and a scarf around her neck to combat the dropping temperatures.
This January has been colder than normal, and even in my jacket and boots, I can feel the wind seeping through my clothes.
“What’s going on, Polina?” I ask, stepping up next to her with William. A river cruise boat glides beneath us, its passengers snapping photos.
“I think I might have been compromised,” she answers in her heavy Russian accent, not looking at me.
“Were you followed?” I ask.
“I don’t think so.”
I hope she’s right, but I’ve never seen her on edge like this.
If someone has found out that she’s passing us information, we’re looking at a serious situation.
There are those who would do anything to shut off that flow of information and wouldn’t hesitate to take down anyone involved in the process.
“I’m leaving Paris,” she says, scanning the bustling bridge and tracking each person who walks by.
“If you believe your life is in danger and you need extra security, we can help you,” I say.
“I need to do this myself. In fact, I probably shouldn’t even be here now. I think they know what I’ve been doing.”
“Who’s they ?” William asks.
“Whoever killed my husband.” She pulls something out of her pocket. “I received a threat.”
“You’ve gotten threats before, because of your job,” I say, not particularly surprised.
“This is different. I don’t think it’s connected to what I do. This. . .this is personal.” She hands me what she’s pulled out of her pocket. “Someone sent me David’s watch.”
“You’re sure this is his?” I ask.
“I had it engraved when I gave it to him. I thought it was lost. I was never able to find it after his death.”
“Maybe someone found it, and it’s just being returned.”
She shakes her head, then hands me a crumpled note. “No. It came with this.”
The handwriting is messy, but still legible.
Time ran out for him. Now it’s running out for you.
I hand the note to William, not sure what it means, but its implications are clear.
“They have to know the truth about what I’ve been doing,” she continues. “I need to disappear for a while. Put distance between us and focus on finding who killed David.”
“The local authorities are still working on his case?—”
“It’s been nine months,” she says, interrupting me. “It’s not a priority to them anymore. And I’m afraid that until those who murdered him are apprehended, I won’t be able to stop running.”
“Samantha…” William says, lightly squeezing my arm. “We have a problem.”
I turn to where William is now focused. Four young men, dressed primarily in black, are walking quickly toward us, weaving their way between tourists and locals. I want to convince myself that this is nothing more than coincidence, but my gut knows that’s not true.
A few seconds later, the men have gained ground and are beginning to fan out. If we don’t move now, we’ll be surrounded.
“Get her out of here,” William says, stepping between me and the men. “Now.”
“There are four of them, William?—”
“I’ll deal with them. Go.”
My training kicks in. I grab Polina’s arm and start walking toward the end of the bridge, weaving in and out of the heavy throng of tourists.
“Stay close to me,” I tell her.
William and I have both have spent hours training to react instinctively in a crisis, but as much as Hollywood likes to push the lone wolf CIA officer taking down the enemy and saving the world, that’s rarely how it happens.
I can handle a firearm with precision, but the meat of my training has been focused on the psychological side of counterintelligence.
Which is why we work as a team. Ensuring we stay in control of a situation is essential.
I glance back as we near the end of the bridge.
William must have caused some kind of commotion, because I can hear shouting and see a crowd gathering where we were standing a few moments ago.
Whatever he’s just stirred up is working.
The men are distracted, giving us time to slip away, but I realize that my options are still limited.
I can alert the police to the situation, but we can’t afford the questions that will follow.
Which means I need to get Polina out of here and to safety on my own.
Thankfully, I’ve lived here long enough that I know this area well.
Pont Neuf is a centuries-old historic piece of architecture that not only spans the Seine, it’s also a major thoroughfare connecting the right and left banks as well as the point of the ?le de la Cité.
Certain areas of the city are a labyrinth of narrow alleyways and passageways through buildings and courtyards, but I need to make an immediate decision about where to take her.
I quickly decide that the best way to get Polina to safety is via the metro, where we can get lost in the crowds, and then go directly to a pickup that will transfer us to a safe house.
“One of the men. . .” Polina starts. “He’s following us, and I think he’s armed.”
Again, I hear the panic in her voice. She saw her husband killed and, more than anyone, knows what these men will do to her if they catch her.
“That was a gunshot,” she says, quickening her steps.
“It was probably just a car backfiring.”
We’re only a few yards from the entrance to the metro, and my only concern at the moment is getting there without being noticed.
“Give me your scarf,” I say, shoving it into my purse and taking out a scrunchy as we descend the steep steps toward the underground. “Put your hair into a ponytail, then swap your jacket for this fleece poncho.”
The poncho is light and compact, perfect for a quick transformation.
I hand it to her, then quickly pull off my own jacket, turn it inside out, from black to the tan, and add a flowered boho beanie from the bag my mother gave me for Christmas.
Hopefully our change in wardrobe will be enough to throw them off, and we can lose them.