Page 212 of Secrets Beneath the Waves

Three days later,with the security tightened in my apartment, and a few long walks around the city, I’m ready to get back to work.

I spoke with Lizzie twice. Both times she promised to keep digging into William’s disappearance, because while I might have been told to stand down, she’s been given no such restrictions. If there is any possibility at all that William is still out there and in trouble, I can’t just walk away. Walking away from a situation has never been my way to deal with things. So for now, I’ll continue running an investigation on the side while making sure nothing I do can come back to me. I’m still not convinced there isn’t a target on me, but so far, I’m no closer to the truth than the day William disappeared.

The day is supposed to be cooler than normal, so I slip on some black jeans, black tennis shoes, and a gray top that matches the weather, pausing only for a moment at the envelope Graham had given me. I left them on top of my dresser, deciding that I wasn’t ready to deal with their contents. Somehow that seemed easier at the moment than facing the reality that I’d been living a lie.

I shake off the melancholy, about to head into the office, when I get a message from Hawke asking me to meet him. The request is as unexpected as the location he chooses for the meet. St. Martin’s Canal runs under several metal footbridges through quiet Parisian neighborhoods and is somewhat out of my usual boundaries.

Most people in intelligence knew Hawke by reputation. He is extremely private when it comes to his personal life, but his reputation is one of being both brilliant and unrelenting in getting the job done. What I know about him, how he dismantled smuggling rings in the Balkans, took down traffickers in North Africa and broke up covert networks of insurgence, seems straight out of a blockbuster. I’ve been told that Paris is his last post before retirement, so even though the location we’re meeting at is odd, I wouldn’t be surprised if he wants to tell me about his decision privately before the news gets out.

It’s raining as I make my way there, cold enough in the early morning for me to see my breath, and for a moment, I wish I was back in the Texas sunshine, eating my dad’s smoked brisket and my mom’s strawberry shortcake, and playing games around the dinner table. But right now, those memories feel like they belong to someone else.

I duck under some tree limbs with my umbrella, then shake off the excess water. As always, I’m being hyper-observant of my surroundings to make sure no one’s following me as I head to the metro. Just like I’m never on the phone when I’m walking, so I can stay alert and aware of what’s going on around me. I always have an exit strategy, whether I’m in a restaurant or in a busy public place. It’s become routine for me, and today is no different.

Twenty minutes later, I exit the metro and, once I’m sure I’m not being followed, I head directly for the canal. I hear the hum of traffic in the distance and smell the dampness from both theriver and the rain that lingers in the air. Tree-lined walkways run along both sides of the canal, leaving pedestrians with a sense that they are hiding in the shadows. Iron footbridges arching beneath the trees give a sense of semi-privacy. Below the bridge, there are benches under overhanging trees and a stone stairway that leads down to the water’s edge.

I feel my anxiety rise when I realize Hawke isn’t alone. Graham is with him. I slow my steps as I approach where they are standing, waiting for me. Maybe I shouldn’t be surprised, but I haven’t seen Graham since he came to my apartment with the information about William, and for some reason I’m uncomfortable seeing him again. Uncomfortable knowing he knows as much or more about my relationship with William than anyone else. But I also haven’t forgotten his promise to have my back and how he’s never done anything for me to believe otherwise.

Graham nods at me, looking as intrigued as I am.

“Thanks for coming, both of you,” Hawke says. “I’m sorry for the cloak and dagger, but I need to talk to you about something and ensure this doesn’t go beyond us.”

His tone is even, but it doesn’t take a spy to realize something is wrong. I’m not sure what he’s afraid of, and not sure I should ask. But the question looming in front of me is, who is he trying to hide this conversation from? Why aren’t we meeting at the office? Has someone infiltrated our team? Clearly this has nothing to do with an early retirement.

“What’s going on?” Graham asks, slipping his hands in his coat pockets.

“I’ll get right to the point. You heard some of this from Oumar, but back in the early 1990s, when the Soviet Union was collapsing, there were dozens of arms stockpiles that went missing. Hundreds of missiles and weapons, and even somebioweapon grade materials.” Hawke looks past me, down the canal, as if he’s still nervous that this location may not be secure.

“Yes,” I say.

“There was an internal log of illegal arms deal trades. Information that also includes bribes and off-the-books operatives who were involved in recovering or even redistributing the material. It was—is—in effect, insurance.”

“The ledger Oumar told us about.”

Hawke nods.

“What’s your connection to it?” I ask.

There is a long pause before he answers my question. “I knew Oumar’s father. He was my asset twenty years ago.”

“Wait. . . What?”

Hawke’s jaw tenses. “It was one of the reasons I made sure Oumar was sent to you, Samantha.”

“You knew who he was before we brought him in?” I ask.

“Yes.”

“And this ledger?” Graham presses.

“It’s also called the Violet Protocol,” Hawke continues. “It’s said to be full of data so classified that it was never mentioned in intelligence briefings. Rumors say that those who did have access to it or who looked for it vanished. Or probably more correct, they were silenced.”

“Sound more like a ghost story than intel,” I say, surprised that Hawke is perpetuating the story.

Graham nods. “After Oumar told us about it, all we could find were rumors. We couldn’t substantiate its existence.”

“It’s real,” Hawke insists, “but only a handful of people know of it. And those who do know about it would never admit it.”

“Why are you telling us this?” I ask.