Page 77 of Secrets Beneath the Waves (Beach Read Thrillers #2)
CHAPTER
SEVEN
It’s well after midnight when I get back to my apartment, but despite Graham’s advice, I know I won’t be able to sleep anytime soon.
I pull out my computer and click open Oumar’s file.
I have pages and pages of documents from interviews, as well as intel he’d passed on to the agency.
I can’t help but believe there’s something in his file that might help give me a clue about what happened to him.
Something he said that might explain what he was afraid of and what might have triggered the cascading events that got us to where we are now.
My notes are both detailed and concise, factual and without emotion, like Oumar. But the more I got to know him, the more vulnerable he allowed himself to be. And the more I began to understand the motivation behind the risks he took.
When Oumar was ten, his parents moved to Bamako, the capital of Mali, a country in North Africa that sits on the crossroads of multiple trade routes.
In the beginning, he told me, his family ran convoys across several bordering countries, primarily transporting textiles, salt, and livestock.
They’d done well and had quickly diversified the goods they transported.
They expanded their territory to Niger, Burkina Faso, and beyond, with the goal of enlarging their reach all the way to Europe.
I yawn, then move to the couch with my computer and notepad, trying to stay awake as I continue to read through my notes.
Life was hard, but his father managed to build a modest house on the outskirts of the city, and eventually Oumar was sent to a boarding school in South Africa.
It was essential, his father believed, for Oumar to receive an education so he could continue the family business.
Expectations were for him to return as soon as he graduated.
And Oumar had done just that.
Things began to change, though, as the Sahel grew more and more unstable.
Local insurgent groups rose up, followed by foreign mercenaries, all looking to make a profit.
But they weren’t the only ones willing to take risks for financial gains.
And so as smuggling routes expanded so did Oumar’s family business.
My father used to tell me to trade with everyone but trust no one.
Which was exactly what Oumar had done, and it had worked.
They managed to build a large network in one of the most volatile regions in the world, never asking what was in a transport.
They slowly expanded their routes into Europe, making enough money to buy a three-story house complete with maids, a chauffeur, and a ton of security.
Until everything changed.
The buzzer to my apartment goes off, and I jump, almost knocking my computer onto the floor. It takes a moment for me to realize that I’d fallen asleep. I yawn and check the camera. Graham is waiting at the front door with two coffees.
“Am I too early?” he asks through the intercom.
“No. Come on up.”
I spend the time it takes for him to get to my apartment to quickly pick up the mess in my living room and kitchen, just finishing when he knocks on my door.
“Morning,” he says once I let him in.
I try to shove away the blanket of fog covering my brain and force a smile. My mind is still wrapped up in a mixture of memories from going through Oumar’s paperwork and the disturbing dreams that followed.
“Morning,” I say.
He pauses inside the entryway before handing me one of the coffees he’s holding. “Did you sleep at all last night?”
I look down at my clothes and realize I never changed. “I ended up falling asleep on the couch. I stayed up and went through conversations I had with Oumar. Hoping to find a clue to who might have him.”
“Any luck?”
I take a sip of the coffee, hoping it will push back the fatigue. “Maybe.”
I nod at him to take a seat on the couch, then plop down across from him on a chair beneath the tall, living room window. Morning sunlight has just begun to stream into the room, making soft patterns on the top of the coffee table.
He sets a paper bag in front of me. “I wasn’t sure what you like, so I got both croissants and pain au chocolat .”
I smile. “To save you trouble in the future, if it has chocolate, I’m happy.”
“Noted.”
I pull out one of the chocolate pastries and feel my stomach rumble, but my mind is still on Oumar. “I’m not sure where to start.”
“Tell me what stood out to you. Maybe it will help if we go over it together.”
I glance at the man sitting across from me. Tall, solidly built, with plenty of charm. I don’t want to like him, but I do. Not only is he good at what he does, but there doesn’t seem to be the layer of arrogance I’ve seen too often in our business.
I pick up the notebook where I’d written down my thoughts before I fell asleep. There were names circled, lines drawn to connect facts. . .almost like a murder board except on paper. Visual descriptions always helps me connect the dots.
I hold it up and shoot him another smile. “Believe it or not, it makes sense in my head.”
He smiles back. “I believe you.”
“Building trust with an asset takes time and has to go both ways,” I start.
“It took a while for Oumar and me to find the place where I believed he was telling me everything, and he believed I had his back. That’s why I’m questioning why he didn’t come to me if he was in trouble.
If he’d been able, I think he would have.
If nothing else, he would want me to protect Mariam. ”
“Can we start at the beginning?” Graham asks, taking a sip of his coffee. “Why did he come to the CIA in the first place?”
“Hawke was his first point of contact before he was given to me as an asset. Interpol and the CIA have been trying to halt the supply routes off and on over the years, but for the most part North Africa isn’t a priority.”
“Except when it affects Europe or the States.”
“Exactly. The other issue has been finding the right person. Oumar ended up being the perfect asset, and up until this point he’d been feeding us detailed information that’s almost impossible to get.
Access and knowledge of the trade routes and insight as to how they work.
A growing list of intel on who runs them. And on top of that, he had motivation.”
“So his involvement with the CIA was personal.”
“Very.” I hesitate, still unsure if I’m actually on to something or wasting our time.
The bottom line is, if we’re going to find Oumar, we don’t have time to chase a bunch of rabbit trails, but we also have to start somewhere. Which leads me back to the one thing Oumar told me that I haven’t been able to shake.
“Oumar shared with me some things about his past recently,” I say. “I knew he’d grown up in a difficult place, and that he’d lost his family due to the violence, but there were details he never told me before. Details I think might matter now.”
“Okay,” Graham says, leaning forward.
“Back while he was still living in Mali and helping his father run the business, he quickly made a name for himself,” I begin.
“They called him ‘the Broker.’ Thanks to his education, hard work, and the negotiation skills he learned from his father, he came to know the routes of the Sahel better than most. He knew how to navigate within the system to get what he wanted, like running trucks past checkpoints and making deals with opposing militia syndicates. They paid him for his silence as much as for his skill, and he told me he’d once been fine selling both. Until everything changed for him.”
Graham nods then leans forward, completely focused on my story.
“Oumar had a sister who got married during that time. Like most families, they planned a huge celebration that ended with a dinner at his family’s large compound.
” I clear my throat before continuing. “Near the end of the dinner, while surrounded by dozens of friends and family members, a bomb went off. Oumar survived, but his sister and her new husband died along with half of his family who were there for the wedding.”
“Wow.” Graham is quiet for a long moment. “I can’t even imagine.”
“It gets worse. Oumar found out that he was the one who arranged transport of the bomb parts that were smuggled into the country. He could no longer be complicit with what was going on.”
“No wonder this is all so personal.”
“Not long after that he ended up contacting the CIA. The deal was that he feeds us locations and names and dirty money trails in an attempt to shut down the routes, and we keep him safe.”
And now, apparently, we’d failed to hold up our end of the deal.
“Did they ever find out who was behind the bombing?” Graham asks.
“No one took credit, and either the police never found out who was behind it, or they were paid off.”
Graham takes a moment to digest the information I’m giving him. “So if one of them found out Oumar was trying to disrupt their supply routes, or even worse, that he was handing over information to the CIA, they would have motivation to stop him.”
“Exactly. The intel Oumar was gathering was extensive. He was compiling detailed maps and GPS coordinates of trafficking routes as well as a list of law enforcement, military, and customs agents who were on the cartel’s payroll.
On top of that were names of cartel leaders and facilitators who were operating under legitimate businesses. Basically, he was playing with fire.”
I rub the back of my neck. “I was starting to sense that he needed to get out, but he was convinced that there was still more information he could retrieve. He was working on a list of shell companies that are laundering profits through crypto wallets and luxury real estate. He kept promising me that once he got that information he would walk away.”
And now it might be too late.
“Okay. . .” Graham clasps his hands together, his coffee and breakfast forgotten. “If they missed an opportunity at the wedding, why not just get rid of him now? Why kidnap him, if that’s really what happened?”
“The CIA aren’t the only ones who want the information he’s been compiling,” I say. “It’s possible someone is after the information he has. It would give a competing syndicate a huge advantage.”
“You’re the intelligence officer,” Graham says. “What does your gut say?”
“I can’t rely on my gut.”
“No, but something tells me that your gut is pretty accurate.”
While I appreciate the compliment, I’m not sure I have as much confidence as he does in my ability to untangle this situation. We’re missing something, and I have no idea what it is.
“I want to go to Oumar’s apartment,” I say, changing the subject. “See if we can discover something there about his kidnapping.”
“Agreed. I’ve been thinking the same thing.”
“Can you get me into his apartment?” I ask, standing up. “I’ve been told you can be. . .resourceful.”
“I can be. As long as you promise not to ask questions.”
I let out a soft laugh, noting the slight grin on his lips. “Sounds like you might end up being more useful than I thought.”
Graham echoes my laugh. “I do my best.”
“I just need a couple minutes to change.”
“Go ahead,” he says, pulling his phone out of his pocket. “While you get ready, I’ll see if I can get an update from Lizzie.”
I head to my bedroom and grab my go-to outfit—jeans, a white shirt, and tennis shoes, and a long, tan coat for the cold.
I can’t help but question how I’ve handled things and if I’ve pushed Oumar to take risks that have led us to this situation.
The stakes are high, and if we lose him now, it will be more than just losing an asset.
The information he holds is vital to combating arms trafficking.
The loss of human life in connection to this illegal activity is profound and impacts thousands across the globe.
And while we might be able to trace illegal weapons back to deals made, I’ve learned it’s impossible to trace the anguish they spread. Those statistics are never compiled.
In addition to the lives lost, communities are shattered and any hope of a future destroyed.
Arms trafficking is a global atrocity that fuels everything from street crime to civil wars.
Oumar’s involvement may be only a small piece of the larger picture, but he and I both believe that taking down these particular networks will make a substantial difference.
But now I can’t help but worry that someone wants payback for his actions. Or even worse. . .someone wants him dead.