She typed in a description that she knew would be read aloud, wishing she could have a moment of private communication with Omar.
Soon enough.
As she returned the phone to Liv, the car came to a stop. “Here were are. Stade de France. Viva les Pop Tarts!” the driver said with a grin.
Trent returned to the dining room and cleared his throat. They all looked up.
“I told Olivia and Marielle what we need Poppy to do. And they gave us two things. One piece of intel and one task.” He looked down at his phone. “Hanna remembers sending a very large fireworks shipment to an address in Calgary. It appears to be a warehouse.”
“The plumbing supplies wholesaler?” Jake guessed.
“Nope. Although it’s located in the same industrial park.”
As Trent rattled off the address, Ryan typed it into a search bar.
“Metro Logistics,” he announced. “Hey, it’s literally next door to the plumbing company warehouse. They share a parking lot.”
Jake muttered a string of profanity under his breath.
“You okay, Jake?” Omar asked.
“I knew Cal McCloud didn’t suddenly reevaluate his life. You think it’s a coincide that he holed up in the warehouse next door? He wasn’t going to take those explosives to the authorities. He was waiting for the delivery.”
He scraped his chair across the floor and stood up.
“Where are you going?” Trent asked.
“To tell CSIS to lean harder on McCloud. He’s holding out on them.”
Jake walked out of the room with enough force to rattle the dishes in the china cabinet.
After a moment, Trent said, “The second thing is the task. Marielle said someone was watching them during their meeting with Hanna and Interpol.”
“Watching them? Idris’s guys?” Omar asked, his pulse ticking up.
“No, a woman. Marielle wrote: ‘ Someone watched us at café. Unknown female. White, 40s, professional attire, expensive jewelry. Blonde hair in a pixie cut. Confident. Saluted us with her espresso cup before leaving. Knew we knew she was watching. Please run records search for known operatives. Ryan knows how.’”
Ryan laughed. “I do, in fact, know how. I’ll add it to the never-ending to-do list.”
Don’t ask, Omar ordered himself.
Then he asked, “Did she say anything else?”
Ryan shook his head.
Trent gave him a pitying look. “No, bro. Sorry.”
13
Stade de France held nearly eighty thousand people, and every seat was filled. Poppy had arranged for a private box with a perfect view of the stage, complete with catered food and an open bar.
Even better than the VIP treatment was seeing Chelsea and Leilah.
After a flurry of squealing, hugs, and shrieks, they uncorked a dry white wine and settled into the cushy seats to chat until showtime.
“This is unbelievable,” Chelsea said. “We’re in Paris. At the Poppy Jones concert. In her box. We’re spending the entire weekend with Poppy Jones!”
“She’s been like this since we left Dulles,” Leilah said with an indulgent smile.
