“Friend of yours?” Sabban asked.
“Never seen her before in my life,” Marielle said.
But something told her they’d be seeing her again.
12
The safe house in Annapolis smelled like old coffee and the tang of stress hormones. Omar was running on caffeine and adrenaline, and he could feel his body starting to rebel.
But there was no time to rest.
He’d gathered every scrap of available information about the President and was methodically working his way through the thousands of pages. He’d been tasked with developing a psychological profile to use to make the most of the few minutes they’d have to convince him.
Ryan had the dining room table covered with printouts, laptop screens, and satellite imagery. Jake paced behind him, phone pressed to his ear, arguing with someone at the CIA. Trent sat in the corner, methodically cleaning and reassembling his sidearm.
“Listen to me,” Jake said into the phone, his patience frayed dangerously thin. “I don’t care what protocol says. We have credible intelligence about an imminent attack on Canadian soil involving a U.S. government official. Information we got by the way because the Agency sent us in to do its dirty work.”
He listened for a moment, then slammed his phone down on the table. “Bureaucratic cowards. He had the nerve to tell me that since we didn’t actually get the information that sent us in to retrieve not to expect them to pay the invoice.”
“They’re posturing. I drafted the agreement, payment isn’t dependent on success.”
“That’s good, because I sure as heck am not telling them what Hanna gave Interpol. Who knows who we can trust over there anymore?”
“Right. And they’re scared,” Ryan said without looking up from the blueprint he was studying. “If they move on Hampton without ironclad evidence, it could trigger a constitutional crisis.”
“And if they don’t move, we could have a dead President and Canadian PM and a bombed convention center,” Trent said with a snarl.
“I’m aware of the stakes,” Ryan said mildly.
Then again, Ryan said everything mildly. He was unruffleable.
Omar rubbed his eyes and tried to focus. His vision was blurring at the edges from the hours of staring at documents. How did Ryan do this all day, every day?
“We have the evidence,” he said, standing and cracking his back. “Hanna’s testimony. The financial records. Cal’s confession about Hampton lobbying for the pardon.”
“All circumstantial,” Jake said. “A decent lawyer could shred it. Hanna’s a scorned ex-girlfriend. The financial records are complex enough to create reasonable doubt. And Cal’s testimony is tainted because he was cooperating under duress.”
“So we need something harder,” Trent said.
“We need a smoking gun,” Ryan agreed. “Something that directly ties Hampton to the coup plot.”
Omar thought about the problem from every angle. Hampton was careful. He wouldn’t communicate directly. Wouldn’t leave a paper trail.
“What about Brad?” Omar said. “Poppy said he talks. A lot. Especially after a few drinks.”
Ryan looked up. “You think Brad knows about his father’s plans?”
“I doubt the veep confides in young Brad. But he’s been crashing in the Vice President’s residence. Maybe he overheard something. He may know more than he realizes. If Poppy can get him talking again, really talking, maybe he’ll reveal something we can use.”
“That’s a lot of maybes,” Jake said.
“It’s better than nothing,” Omar told him.
Trent stood up. “I’ll call Olivia.”
The rest of them stared at him.
“Mann, are you feeling okay?” Jake asked. “We just went over this. The phones are compromised, remember?”
