The woman laughed and offered to walk her back.As they walked, Marielle memorized the layout—another corridor branched off to the left, what looked like a locked door at the end marked ‘Private.’
But she was no closer to finding anything useful.
Omar had better luck—initially.
He systematically checked the lower decks, moving methodically from stern to bow.Most of the doors were unlocked: storage rooms, mechanical spaces, the wine cellar.Nothing screamed “classified intelligence hidden here.”But sometimes a dead drop hid in plain sight.So he searched every crevice and cranny and came up empty.
Then, at the end of the hall near the stern, he found the door with the keypad lock.Promising.He glanced down the corridor.Nobody was coming, and, interestingly, there were no cameras in this particular stretch of hallway.He bent and pretended to tie his shoe while studying the keypad.Three numbers showed more wear than the others: 2, 5, and 8.
He tried several combinations.Nothing.
He was about to try another when he heard footsteps and voices.He walked away casually, as if he’d just been passing through.
He circled back twenty minutes later.The corridor was empty again.He approached the door and was reaching for the keypad when a hand clamped down on his shoulder.
Omar turned to find one of Idris’s bodyguards—the big, ugly one with the scar through his eyebrow—glaring at him.
“This area is off-limits,” the man said with a tinge of a British accent.
Omar raised his hands in an apologetic gesture.“Sorry, man.I got turned around.Just looking for the bathroom.”
“Guest facilities are on the main deck.”
“Right.Thanks.”
The guard released his grip and stood, watching, until Omar had no choice but to walk away.As he climbed the stairs, he felt the man’s eyes on his back and made a show of massaging his shoulder.
He tried one last time before lunch, approaching from a different direction.After this, he’d call it quits.There was another corridor he wanted to check—one that branched off near what he thought might be Idris’s private office.
He made it three steps down the corridor before another guard appeared.Not so big, but equally ugly and equally unfriendly.
“Mr.Irfan.Can I help you find something?”The phrasing was polite.The tone was not.
“Just exploring,” Omar said easily.
“The guest areas are all on the main and upper decks.Mr.Mahmoud asks that his guests respect his privacy.”
“Of course.My apologies.”
Omar retreated, hot frustration building in his chest.They were running out of time and options.The yacht would dock in Marseille tomorrow afternoon.If they didn’t find the intel before then, this mission would be a bust.
He turned a corner and nearly ran into one of the Secret Service agents.Not Robbie, but the Black one, who, he realized belatedly, still hadn’t introduced himself.
“Lost?”the agent asked, his eyes assessing.
“Just getting my steps in.Margaux and I have a friendly competition.”He smiled.
The agent didn’t smile back.“Might want to stick to the main deck.Fewer places to accidentally wander into.”
It wasn’t a suggestion.
Omar nodded and headed back toward the salon.
Once he heard the agent’s footsteps growing faint, he made a sharp turn down a narrow corridor that was clearly meant for crew access rather than guests.
He moved quickly, checking doors as he went.Storage.Mechanical room.Another storage room.Then a door that had a more substantial lock than the others.He tried the handle without any expectation of success.
It turned.
