Page 78 of Secrets Beneath the Waves (Beach Read Thrillers #2)

CHAPTER

EIGHT

As promised, it doesn’t take long for me to get dressed. I grab my crossbody bag and turn off the lights of my apartment, ready to go.

“What did Lizzie say?” I ask as I shut the front door, then head toward the stairs with Graham.

“Mariam is still asleep. I told Lizzie we’ll meet her back at the safe house when we’re done at Oumar’s apartment. She slept some and is searching for information again, but hasn’t found anything yet.”

“Did the extra security arrive?” I ask.

Graham nods. “One of our local hires.”

Silence settles between us as we head toward Oumar’s apartment in Graham’s car.

I glance at him as he drives, working to suppress my anxiety.

No one has to remind me how quickly everything can go sideways.

And then unwanted memories of William surface.

I fight to push them back down, knowing that any awkwardness with Graham I feel is all in my head.

He isn’t aware that he took the place of the man I was in love with, but that doesn’t make the awkwardness any easier to ignore.

I force my thoughts to shift away from William to the man sitting next to me.

I did a little digging into his past when he first came on board.

He was a US Marine force recon recruited by the CIA.

Everything I could find on him verified that he was the perfect recruit.

He’s been on numerous high-risk assignments, from the Middle East to North Africa to Eastern Europe, primarily conducting covert security operations and asset extractions.

Which makes me wonder why he’s here in Paris.

He seems to be something of an adrenaline junkie, and I can’t help but wonder if he requested the assignment because he wanted a quieter station, or if he was sent here by the higher-ups.

While I know some of his professional background, I know even less about him on a personal level. He’s friendly but quiet. Seems to be extremely loyal. His emotions are always kept in check; I’ve never seen a burst of anger. He seems to have a somewhat dry sense of humor.

But for the moment, just like the memories that keep slipping through the cracks, Graham’s character and background doesn’t matter. What matters is the job in front of me.

“Let’s walk the last couple blocks,” he says after making an impressive parallel parking maneuver into the small space between two cars. “Just to make sure we’re not followed.”

I nod. Maybe I need to stop questioning his abilities and simply trust him.

The city is just beginning to wake up as we head off on foot.

Except for a few early risers, the streets are mostly empty with the sun making its way toward the slate rooftops and limestone facades.

A metal shutter is rolled up across the street in preparation of a boulangerie opening, mixing the scent of fresh bread with earthy, damp stone.

But all I can think about is my mounting frustration. If Oumar had communicated with me, I might have been able to prevent all of this and given him the security he so clearly needed.

It’s sprinkling by the time we get to Oumar’s apartment building located on a narrow street and tucked between yet another boulangerie and an art supply store.

The overcast skies add to my irritable mood, but my anxiety is working to my advantage, ramping up my awareness of what’s going on around me.

The ground floor of Oumar’s building has tall, arched windows that have been refitted with modern glass and an intercom panel, a mixture of old and new.

Getting into the building isn’t difficult this time of day, as many of the tenants are headed to work or out for a walk or shopping.

Graham grabs the door for a mother with a stroller, then holds it for me, and we slip inside.

The more challenging part will be getting into Oumar’s apartment without a key.

We take the stairs, heading for the third floor, hoping no one questions our presence in the building.

There are two apartments off the third-floor landing. I stop in front of number 312 and keep an eye on the other door as Graham pulls a small pouch from his jacket pocket.

A moment later, the lock clicks and he nudges the door open.

I’ve never been to Oumar’s apartment before. Several windows overlook the street. Furnishings are sparse but adequate, and the kitchen is small enough to make me think he probably grabbed food out most of the time.

The first thing I notice about the apartment is that there are no obvious signs of a break-in.

No overturned furniture or any kind of damage to suggest there was an altercation.

Which means that more than likely his apartment was not the place where he was snatched.

Or it was possible he knew the perpetrator and let them in.

What is clear is that he hasn’t been here for several days. The trash hasn’t been taken out, and there are a few moldy banana peels in it. Dishes in the sink are crusted with dried food, and there’s little to nothing inside the fridge.

I’m not sure exactly what I’m looking for other than anything that helps explain Oumar’s disappearance. Signs of a threat, or a struggle, or fight. I start searching methodically in the kitchen by going through silverware drawers and cupboards, while Graham heads to the bedroom.

There’s also no sign of another person living here. If Mariam spent a lot of time here, it doesn’t show. I turn to the living room and glance at his organized desk. There’s a bookcase next to it, with a collection of books plus an assortment of office supplies.

“There’s a suitcase in the closet.” Graham walks back into the living room/kitchen area. “Toothbrush is on the sink. Razor in the shower.”

I glance at him. “It seems he didn’t go of his own accord, but what are we missing?”

“I’ve always felt that a person’s private library tells a lot about them.” Graham steps up next to me, changing the subject.

“What’s on your bookshelf?” I ask.

“Mainly fiction, believe it or not, especially spy fiction.”

I glance up at him, thankful for the distraction. “I’ll admit that surprises me. I thought you would be more a non-fiction fan, like. . .biographies.”

“Nope. There’s just something about seeing if they get it right, and I love the gadgets and everything about them that’s unrealistic but fun. What about you?”

“I’m more of an escapist,” I say. “When I read, I want something totally different from my daily life. It might be because I get my love of reading from my father, who tended to stick with the classics.”

“Interesting. Examples?”

“Mainly French and Russian classics he passed down to me, like The Count of Monte Cristo and Crime and Punishment . My father took lots of notes, marked quotes, and even wrote in the margins. Most of his favorites he read over and over.”

It’s how I always think of him. Sitting in his worn leather chair, reading lamp above him, the table beside him stained with coffee cup rings. Always a book open. Usually more than one.

I stare at Oumar’s bookshelf and see exactly what I would have expected. Books on business, several written by North African authors. Some Arabic poetry, French classics, and business titles on leadership, finance, and marketing.

And a hardback novel.

I frown.

“What’s wrong?” Graham asks.

I pull the novel off the shelf and study the cover for a moment. It’s your typical spy novel cover from back in the fifties, maybe the sixties. A bit retro with bold colors, geometric shapes, and a stylized man with a gun.

“Oumar didn’t read fiction. At all. We had a conversation about it once.” I hold up the book. “ Echoes of the Fifth Man . Have you heard of it?”

“No,” Graham says as I turn it over.

“This seems a bit prophetic.” I say, after reading the back cover spiel. “‘When a deep-cover agent disappears on the eve of a critical intelligence exchange, four operatives are left scrambling to unravel his final message—a message encoded in silence and betrayal.’”

“Sounds interesting to me, even if it does seem a bit prophetic.” Graham clears his throat. “Or maybe it was meant to get your attention.”

There’s something about his words that sends a shiver down my spine. What hadn’t Oumar told me? Or, as Graham has just said, what is he trying to tell me now?

I open the front cover, and a small, white envelope falls out. I pick it up off the floor and hold it up, still wondering if I’m making something out of nothing. Inside the envelope is a pair of tickets.

“What is it?” Graham asks.

“Looks like tickets to a cocktail party at the Louvre. ‘Innovation and Security,’” I read.

“What exactly is that?” Graham asks.

“I don’t know.” I hand him the book, then pull out my phone and quickly drop the question into Google. I immediately have an answer. “It looks like it’s being hosted by an elite recruiting firm. A cocktail party blending—and I quote—‘security, art, and networking into an unforgettable evening.’”

“Those events are pretty exclusive.” Graham taps the book on the palm of his hand. “Did he ever talk about changing jobs or looking for something different?”

“I know that eventually he wanted to take Mariam and leave all this behind. Disappear where no one could ever find them.”

“Maybe he’s trying to do that now?”

I look up at Graham. “I keep thinking I missed something. What if he planted this, knowing I would find it, because he was afraid something was going to happen?”

“Why not just call you?”

“I don’t know.”

Graham sets the book on the desk. “What else does it say about the party?”

I scroll down on my phone. “Looks like the attendees are in the tech and cybersecurity industry. Top engineers, cybersecurity specialists, venture capitalists, and even government liaisons.”

“That seems a bit outside Oumar’s wheelhouse, from what I know.”

“Agreed.” I flip over the tickets and notice the name written on the back of one of them. “He wrote the name Elijah Rourke on one of these.”

“Who’s that? A person? A company?”

“Whatever it is, it seems to me he knew something was wrong.”

“Again, he could’ve just called you.”

“Maybe,” I say, searching for an answer. “What if he thought he was being followed or monitored somehow?”

That makes the most sense. If he believed he was being watched, he would’ve been worried that somebody might find out what he was doing and who he was working for. That could explain why he didn’t contact me.

He also might have assumed that if something happened to him, I would have come to check out his apartment. And knowing our conversations and how my brain works, this was his way of reaching out to me.

Or maybe I was simply overthinking things.

I hear a clicking sound at the door and shove the envelope into my back pocket. Someone is here.