Page 81 of Secrets Beneath the Waves (Beach Read Thrillers #2)

CHAPTER

ELEVEN

I spend the next few hours doing a deep dive on Elijah Rourke, the name scribbled on the back of the gala tickets, while Graham works with Hawke to investigate what happened at the safe house.

I shift in my seat, trying to stretch out the knots that have built up across my lower back and shoulders.

This detailed assessment is a process I’ve done a thousand times in order to access potential assets, comb for information, or simply do background checks on people.

The importance of getting things right is essential.

If I were to authorize a terrorist, for example, or someone who held some kind of deadly secret, the outcome could be devastating.

It’s not a scenario I’m willing to gamble with.

Initially, I don’t find much information on Rourke beyond his LinkedIn account and a sleek private security firm website.

According to his brief bio, he spent time in the military then worked for several years for a government contractor overseas.

After that he went private. The website is simple, up to date, with a description of offers for everything from private security for businesses and individuals, including discrete surveillance, consultations, risk assessments, and asset transportation.

And while I’m sure he gets some of his clients off his website, I’m sure most of them are from referrals.

If he’s as good as he says he is, military buddies and other former clients will get his name out there.

Open-source intelligence, though, is just the starting place.

Government law enforcement databases are the next place I look, searching for any criminal history.

I look through DMV records, military records, and employment history, until finally, I head to the CIA’s classified internal system.

What I find there both surprises and confuses me.

While on the surface Elijah Rourke appears to simply be a businessman with wide connections, I quickly realize that the classified data shows a different picture.

I find a CIA file on him, one that is heavily redacted.

Which, once again, leaves me with more questions than answers.

It looks like someone is protecting him. I just can’t figure out who or why.

I glance at the countdown I set on my watch. With less than twenty-four hours left before something potentially happens to Oumar, I’m frustrated at how fast time is going by and how little information I have at this point.

A knock on the open door shifts my attention. Hawke and Graham step into the small conference room where I’ve been working, carrying a takeaway bag and three coffees.

“Thank you,” I say, happy when Graham hands me a croque-monsieur. “This smells amazing. I didn’t even realize how hungry I was.”

“I figured you’d probably skipped lunch.”

Graham sets a drink for me on the edge of my desk, then pulls up a chair and sits down across from me. Hawke stands, coffee in hand. The tension clear in his jaw.

I take a bite of the sandwich. “This is perfect.”

“How are you?” Graham asks.

“Tired, but fine,” I say, reaching for my coffee. “Any updates?”

“Lizzie will be okay, but they’re keeping her overnight for observation,” Hawke says.

“And the guards?” I ask.

“Both guards should make it,” Graham continues, “but so far we haven’t been able to get any information out of them. Same for the apartment building residents. No one saw anything, and on top of that, security for the entire building was down as well.”

“Which implies Mariam—if she was involved—had outside help,” I say.

“Agreed.” Hawke takes a sip of his coffee, hesitating as if he doesn’t want to tell me something.

“We did receive an update on the man who attacked you. Ibrahim Diallo. Witnesses say that a man matching his description climbed out of the river on the opposite bank about twenty minutes after the standoff.”

My stomach clenches. “So he’s alive.”

Hawke nods. “French police have an alert out on him. We’ll find him.”

I glance at Graham. “He said something to me I didn’t understand.”

Hawke waits for me to continue.

“He said, ‘Tell Langley to stay out of this. This might not be Kidal, but we will still win.’”

Hawke’s brow furrows.

“What do you know?” I ask.

“Nothing significant.”

“Why don’t you let me be the judge of that?” I say, needing answers.

Hawke looks away. I don’t like pressing a superior, but there’s too much at stake right now to simply let it go.

“We were working with the joint team of French special forces and half a dozen Malian commandos,” he finally says.

“Our objective was to intercept a high-value target who possessed information we needed. The plan was to meet in Kidal at night, but instead of meeting our target, we were ambushed. We’ve always assumed there was a leak, but we never found out who turned us in.

“So it’s a threat,” I say.

“I’ll do some digging.”

I nod, unsure what to believe at this point. If the message is for Hawke, he’s played this game too long to give away what he’s thinking.

“What about you?” he asks. “Did you find anything?”

“Info on tonight’s gala for starters,” I say, happy to change the subject.

“There will be plenty of high-profile executives and industry leaders, making it primarily a prime networking opportunity. In the invitation it says that the event is to ‘connect elite professionals with prestigious global security companies.’”

“Sounds exclusive.”

“It is. I’m just not sure why Oumar had tickets to the event, or who Elijah Rourke really is.”

“What have you found out about him?” Hawke asks.

“On the surface, Elijah Rourke is a high-end risk consultancy specialist who works with multinational corporations, NGOs, and a few government clients and individuals. His specialty seems to be intelligence analysis and high-value asset protection and security. His bio is actually extremely impressive and includes working with NATO and various unnamed high-profile clients.”

“That explains why he would be at a function like the Louvre gala tonight,” Graham says, before taking a sip of his coffee.

I hand him the notes I’ve downloaded and printed out.

“All I know is that he’s somehow involved in high-risk relocations.

I’ve highlighted what I can on the file.

Multiple unauthorized border crossings, shell companies operating out of.

. .somewhere. . .and then at the bottom it’s highlighted. ‘Do not pursue.’”

“Hold on.” Hawke sets his coffee on the table, moves the stack of papers aside, and pulls out a photo of Rourke. “Is this him?”

I nod. “Do you know him?”

Hawke’s shoulder’s slump. “Yes, but I know him as Patrick Kerr.”

“Patrick Kerr?” I scoot back my chair. “Then maybe you can tell me what’s going on? Everything I find on the man in the CIA database is heavily redacted or marked high-level clearance, and the stakes are too high for us to go to that gala without knowing what we’re walking into.”

Hawke shuts then door, then pulls out a chair and sits down. “It is essential that everything I’m about to say stays between the three of us. Do you understand?”

Graham and I both nod.

“Kerr or Rourke—whatever alias he’s going by—is an unofficial asset for the CIA,” Hawke says.

I try to take in the information he’s just given me. “I can’t say I was expecting that. How do you know him?”

“Rourke has always had a knack for facilitating asset relocations and high-level extractions. He’s the perfect asset to expedite unofficial assignments when we need them dealt with.”

“So he’s paid to do the jobs the CIA can’t or won’t do?”

“You’re catching on,” Hawke says.

I might be catching on, but I’m not happy with what I’m hearing.

I’m not na?ve enough to believe these ‘unofficial’ divisions don’t exist, but for me they’ve only been rumors up to this point.

Field sources Hawke is talking about are used for things like moving burned assets when the agency can’t protect them, buying intelligence through gray-market intermediaries, and running back-channel ops.

“If you’ve met him,” I say, “maybe you need to be the one attending tonight. Seems like you’d have a much better chance at actually getting information out of him.”

“If I walk into that party, Rourke will shut down, and I end up in a closed-door meeting with half the Intelligence Committee. But you—you’ve got enough cover to get close, and enough plausible deniability if it goes sideways.”

I frown. Now I really don’t like this.

“You both need to be warned,” Hawke says.

“Kerr—Rourke—once saved my life, but that doesn’t mean I trust him.

Not completely. There’s always a secondary reason for what he does, and that reason is never solely motivated by money.

He’s willing to play the long game, especially if it’s connected to classified intel or even an intelligence scandal.

Basically, he’s never as interested in the asset as he is in what the asset knows.

To Rourke, information is invaluable. It’s leverage, and what has protected him for the past twenty years. ”

“We can deal with him,” Graham says.

“I know you can, but there’s something else you need to know. If Rourke is involved, I believe we’re looking at something bigger than just a ransom for Oumar.”

“What exactly are you trying to say?” I ask.

“Oumar has given us a lot of solid intel over the past few months, but it’s sounding more and more like he had to have discovered something he didn’t know how to handle,” Hawke says.

I nod. “Agreed.”

“I don’t know if this is connected.” Hawke says, “but we’ve been seeing a number of ghost accounts, along with some old Soviet channels that have started lighting up recently. There are even rumors of a large covert arms transaction that’s being played out under the radar.”

“Where?” I ask.

“I don’t have specifics, but more than likely either the Red Sea shipping corridor, or possibly by land across the Sahel.”

“That has to be connected,” I say. “Oumar’s been working to expose what’s going on. It makes sense he could be involved. And that someone wants to stop him.”

Graham shakes his head. “I’m just playing the devil’s advocate here, but what if we’re reading too much into this? What if it’s simply what we already know? Someone took Oumar because they want ransom money.”

“It’s possible, but with what just happened at the safe house and with Rourke involved,” Hawke says, “I can’t help but believe that the stakes are far greater.”

“So basically,” Graham says, “you believe Oumar stumbled into something well above his pay grade and decided his only option was to find someone like Rourke who has a knack for facilitating disappearances.”

“But someone got to him before he could run.” My stomach twists. “What if Rourke won’t talk to us?”

Hawke grabs his coffee then stands up. “If Rourke wants to keep his past buried, he’ll talk.”

“And if he doesn’t?” I ask.

“Tell him Chapel sent you.”