Poppy pretended to study Marielle for a moment. “I guess I see a resemblance,” she said uncertainly. “But not a strong one.”
He rubbed his eyes. “Man, I heard Hanna’s father is super pissed at Idris for letting her bolt.” He paused and snaked his hand across the table to grab the wine. “Maybe that’s what the meeting’s about. My dad could be playing peacemaker between Mr. Ayari and Mr. Mahmoud.”
“Could be,” Poppy said agreeably.
Brad was slurring a bit now. “Or it’s something to do with his staff. He said he was gonna ‘clean house’ after some gala. I don’t know.”
Marielle stiffened. Cleaning house sounded ominous.
Poppy swung her foot under the table and drove her spiked heel into Marielle’s bare leg.
She yipped quietly.
“Brad, isn’t that your Secret Service detail coming this way? They do not look happy,” Poppy said.
Marielle stood, her heart pounding. Unless the agents were also blitzed, there was no way she’d be able to convince them they’d never seen her before.
She threw Poppy a desperate look. “I’m not feeling well. I need to get some air.”
“There’s a patio out back,” Poppy said.
She dropped her napkin on her chair and rushed away from the table as fast as her mermaid hem allowed.
Just as she slipped through the door, she caught sight of the two agents from the yacht, one White, one Black marching toward the table.
“Robbie, Pete!” Poppy enthused. “Pull up some chairs.”
“Sorry, Ms. Jones. We just need to collect Mr. Hampton and get him back to his hotel safely.”
Marielle pressed herself against the wall and caught her breath, then she stepped out onto the patio and looked out at the city. Paris at night was magical. The Eiffel Tower lit up the sky in the distance. The Seine reflected the lights of the bridges. The breeze lifted her hair and carried the sound of laughter and music and the scent of lush flowers and savory herbs.
She thought about her grandmother’s apartment here in Paris and the cottage in the south of France. Christmas breaks spent admiring the holiday lights in the shops in the city and summers spent reading in the garden in the country, eating fresh bread with cheese, watching the lavender sway in the breeze.
Her world would never be that simple again, she knew. But it was still beautiful and still worth protecting from all enemies, foreign and domestic.
15
The Superintendent’s residence at the Naval Academy was stately, historic, and reeking of tradition and power. Commander Peterson met them at a side entrance, away from the crowds filtering in after the President’s address.
“Gentlemen,” Peterson said, shaking hands with Jake, Trent, and Omar. “I convinced the President’s chief of staff that you have critical intelligence about naval readiness that requires immediate attention. He said he’ll give you a few minutes. Talk fast.”
Naval readiness. Omar supposed that was one way to describe a dual coup and a terrorist attack. Not the most accurate way, but a way.
Peterson led them through the assembled guests mingling in the parlor. They made their way through clusters of naval officers in dress whites, politicians in expensive suits, middies who looked too young for their uniforms, and the President’s security detail positioned at strategic points.
He ushered them into a small study that smelled of old books and furniture polish. “He’ll come in through there,” Peterson said, pointing to a door that led outside to a portico on the side of the house. “And he’ll wait in here to be announced. I’m the one announcing him, so I’ll take my time. You’ll have his ear. Make it count.”
Then he left, pulling the door shut behind him.
Omar paced the small room, his headache building with each passing minute. Everything hinged on this conversation. If the President believed them, Hampton would be arrested and the coup would fail. If he didn’t?—
Well, they’d likely be arrested for sedition for trying to undermine the Vice President.
Either way, this was the endgame.
“You nervous?” Trent asked.
“Terrified,” Omar admitted.
