Page 83 of Secrets Beneath the Waves (Beach Read Thrillers #2)

CHAPTER

THIRTEEN

I catch Rourke’s frown in the dimly lit gardens.

He’s angry—his expression makes that clear—but I see something else reflected in his eyes.

Fear. I glance around the grounds, now emptied of visitors—a stark contrast to the glittering party inside.

The paths lie deserted, fountains are still, and moonlit shadows spill across dense hedges and frozen white statues.

Rourke takes a step backward. “I don’t know who you think I am, but like I said—you have the wrong person.”

He turns around, dismissing us, and walks away. I try to shake the uneasiness that has settled over me from events over the past twenty-four hours.

“Where do you want me to start?” I say, not even trying to keep the anger out of my voice as I follow him.

“Operation Night Fall? The stockpiled weapons you were supposed to find were never recovered. Or how about Moldova? There was an off-book meeting with Vadim Nistor, and then three days later a rather large chunk of untraceable funds showed up in your account.”

Rourke waves his hand dismissively and keeps walking, but I know that the information Hawke gave us—information used to keep Rourke in line—couldn’t simply be dismissed.

“I could go on. How about your interference in an international manhunt for an intelligence officer linked to three dead NATO assets?”

He stops walking, clenches his hands by his side for a long moment, then turns around. “You’re bold. Both of you. Coming to me with threats.”

“No threats,” I say. “Just an exchange of information. That’s what you’re used to bargaining with, isn’t it?”

I note the surprising calmness in Rourke’s stare, but Hawke was right. Rourke might have secrets that make him both dangerous and valuable, but I have enough leverage to remind him he doesn’t hold all the cards tonight.

“What do you want?” he asks.

“Why were you meeting with Oumar Khelif?” I ask, getting straight to the point.

“Who’s asking?”

“I am.”

Rourke’s jaw tenses. “Even if it were true, I fail to see why that would be any of your business. Or information worth bargaining for.”

“He’s been kidnapped and is being held for five million dollars,” Graham says.

“And so the CIA sent the two of you to me to try and find him?”

I glance at Graham. “We were told you have connections that reach further than official channels.”

“Did Chapel tell you that?” Rourke frowns, then shrugs. “Oumar needed my help. He was worried his cover was blown and that you wouldn’t be able to keep him safe. He wanted a backup plan.”

“What was his plan?”

“I don’t ask people why they’re running. The less I know the better. What I do know is that they’re all desperate. And Oumar was definitely desperate.”

“Was he planning to run with someone?” I press.

“He said he needed a passport for a woman as well.”

Mariam .

“I’m not sure what you expect me to do,” Rourke says.

I hold his gaze in the semi-darkness. “I told you we were here for an exchange of information, and I always keep my word.”

Rourke lets out a low laugh. “And you actually think you have something to bargain with?”

“Do you remember Mikhail Drovic?”

I pause, waiting for the expected reaction from Rourke.

It’s subtle, but there, in the slight twitch of his lip.

The theory we worked up with Hawke is simply that.

A theory. And one that in reality doesn’t matter if it’s true or not.

All we need is enough facts sprinkled with speculation to hook Rourke and get him to do what we need him to do.

A theory so plausible Rourke can’t walk away.

“Colonel Mikhail Drovic was a former Soviet military intelligence officer who defected years ago after the collapse of the USSR,” I begin.

“He never appeared in public after his defection, but there are rumors that he was trafficking weapons throughout several conflict zones in North Africa. Then the speculation is he got greedy. He started selling intelligence to multiple buyers, including enemies of the US, trying to play both sides. But I’m assuming you know all of this. ”

Rourke’s frown deepens. “What’s your point? That was years ago. Drovic is dead. He was killed in a plane crash in Siberia.”

I pause again for effect. “What if he’s not dead?”

This time, Rourke’s surprise is less subtle. “You have proof?”

“You aren’t the only one who wanted to stop Drovic back then,” I say, making my words slow and deliberate. “Who warned US intelligence he was playing both sides? Who never believed he died in that crash?”

Rourke frowns. “Chapel.”

I nod. “Drovic didn’t die in the plane crash.”

“That’s not possible.” Rourke’s fingers tap against his leg—an unconscious giveaway that we’re getting under his skin. “They found fragments of human remains and identified partial DNA matches.”

“Enough to satisfy authorities who were under pressure to close the case,” I say. “From what I’ve seen, the only record of his death was a line in a partially redacted file. No body. Nothing truly verified.”

A cool night breeze rustles through the garden, and I can hear the muted strains of music from the party, but my focus is on Rourke, who’s clearly trying to process the information.

“Where is Chapel?”

“Unavailable at the moment,” I say.

“You have proof?” he asks.

“I’m sure you’ve heard of the Russian arms syndicate run by Ivan Kozlov and his rising coalition of West African warlords. The interesting thing is, we’ve discovered he’s using the same channels. Same tactics. Old Soviet routes are lighting up like they did back in the nineties.”

Rourke doesn’t even try to mask his concern. “If he really is alive, then this is bigger than you realize.”

“Which is why we’re here, talking to you.” I smile inwardly, knowing I’m winning this round. But it’s still far from over. “You know his playbook better than anyone else. You used to run part of it.”

“And Oumar’s connection?” Rourke asks. “Why take him for ransom?”

“I don’t know other than I believe Oumar found out he was still alive and tried to shut him down.”

“Or, more than likely, they’re trying to draw you out.

What’s five million to the CIA? It’s something Drovic would have done, and explains why Oumar needed my services.

” Rourke lets out a sharp breath. “I can make a few phone calls. See what I can come up with, but remember this— If Drovic does have your asset, there will be no negotiation. Only a slow, brutal extraction of whatever it is he wants.”

I hand him a card with a number on it, then a moment later, I watch Rourke disappear down the path and into the darkness.

“It worked,” Graham says, turning to me, “though I’m not sure I feel much better.”

“Me either.” I glance behind me toward the party. “We could go back in. The food looked pretty good, and we didn’t get our gift bags.”

Graham laughs at my attempt to lighten the mood. “How much sleep did you get last night?”

I frown. “Not much, but I’m sure you didn’t either.”

“How about we get you home. You’ll feel better after a good night’s sleep.”

I shrug. “I don’t think I’ll be sleeping tonight. I don’t trust Rourke to come through, which means I’m going to need to keep digging up every angle I can.”

“I’m happy to help,” Graham says as we head toward the darkened exit instead of going back to the party. “But what about a walk first? I know I need to clear my head.”

Graham is right. The night air does me good and takes off a layer of stress from the evening.

Farther out from the Louvre, the streets are livelier.

Small groups of tourists linger outside cafes, snapping selfies while sharing late-night drinks.

A biker flies down the narrow lane that’s lit by the soft glow of streetlamps.

“Are you hungry?” he asks.

I laugh. “Starving, actually.”

He stops in front of a small crêperie stand that’s still open, its neon sign flickering above us. A minute later, he hands me a wrapped crepe filled with Nutella.

“You’re really starting to spoil me.”

“I’ll make a note not to make it a habit,” he says as we start walking again. “Do you like to cook?”

“Absolutely not. My mom gave up teaching me years ago.”

“What makes me believe that statement is tied to a specific event?”

I take a bite of the crepe and let it melt in my mouth.

“I decided to make homemade mac and cheese when I was about fifteen. I even followed a recipe. Everything went fine—or so I thought—until it was discovered I used condensed milk instead of evaporated milk. Needless to say, it tasted awful, and to this day, Mom’s never let me use her kitchen again. ”

“Ouch.”

“What about you?”

“I confess, I mainly eat takeout, though I can make a pretty mean pasta dish.”

“You’re really good at what you do,” I say, changing the subject before taking another bite.

“You sound surprised.”

“Working with new people and building trust is challenging, especially in our job.”

“So you’re saying you trust me?” he asks.

I hesitate at the question, but the answer somehow comes easily. “You kept me safe today.”

“And I see why they trust you with the heavy stuff.” He pulls out his phone. “I’ll have our driver pick us up now.”

Back at the office, we split up. Graham starts pulling surveillance from the streets near Oumar’s apartment along with the closest Metro lines, while I push away my fatigue and dig into encrypted channels and chatter tied to arms movement.

Two hours later, Hawke joins us, and we manage to keep working by keeping the coffeepot full and working our way through a bag of French sugar puffs someone left behind in the break room.

The call from Rourke comes sooner than I thought. I answer my phone and put it on speaker so Graham can hear the conversation.

“You were right,” Rourke says. “We have a problem.”