“Point taken,” he allowed.
Poppy burst into the room. “Leilah and Chelsea went to hit some boutiques. We can talk freely.”
“Poppy’s here,” Marielle said, just in case he hadn’t heard.”
“Ms. Jones, I’d be grateful if you kept what I’m about to say to yourself.”
“Depends what it is,” Poppy told him.
Ryan sighed loudly enough that they heard him through the phone. “Diane Marsh was listed as a State Department employee, but?—”
“But it was diplomatic cover. She was really CIA,” Poppy guessed.
That wasn’t groundbreaking news. About a third of the embassy employees were actually CIA operatives.
“She was,” he confirmed. “She’s also the person who hired us to infiltrate the yacht and get Hanna’s intel.”
“Wait. She burned Hanna?” Marielle asked.
“We may never know, but it sure seems that way.”
“Did you find out anything?” Olivia asked Poppy.
“I contacted our embassy. All the diplomatic missions are on high alert, of course. They leaned on the French police to scour the CCTV records in Lyon. Diana Marsh was last seen in the Parc de la Tête d’Or.”
Marielle stared at her. “Please tell me she wasn’t meeting with?—”
“She was meeting with Anissa Sabban, who is now in the wind.”
“Sabban’s dirty, too?” Marielle closed her eyes. Her chest squeezed.
Finally, she asked, “And Hanna?”
“Still stashed safely away. But Interpol wants to cut her loose and make her Tunisia’s problem. We need to get to her before Sabban does.”
“Hey, Ryan?” Marielle said.
“Yeah?”
“We’re gonna have to go get Leilah and Chelsea from their shopping spree. We need a fast driver, and nobody’s faster than Leilah.”
Ryan exhaled. “Tell Sparky to call me when it’s over.”
Olivia ended the call while Marielle threw on clothes and shoes and grabbed her gun.
Poppy stood in the doorway. “This is the part that sucks. I can’t come. There are eighty thousand people waiting to hear me sing.”
They exchanged brief, fierce hugs and Marielle and Olivia flew out the door.
17
Three weeks later
Marielle stood on the terrace of the Auberge Saint-Antoine in Quebec City, wrapped in Omar’s arms, watching the sun set over the St. Lawrence River.
The hotel was everything they’d hoped for—historic, intimate, impossibly romantic. Their room had exposed brick walls, a fireplace, and a soaking tub large enough for two.
They’d arrived that afternoon after what Jake had promised would be their last debrief for at least a month.
