“So did Carla.”
The name of Trent’s old partner and lover hung between them. Olivia’s face went still.
“Sorry,” Marielle said quickly. “That was?—”
“No, you’re right.” Olivia took another drink. “So did Carla. And every other operator who didn’t come home. But you can’t live like that, Elle. You can’t think about every mission like it’s the last one.”
She’d never had to think of any mission in life or death terms before. Her work involved data points, pixels, and computer coding. Bullets, fistfights, and subterfuge were a whole new language.
“How do you do it, then?”
“Badly.” Olivia smiled. “I do it badly. But I do it.”
They sat quietly a while, listening to the crackling fire, the occasional shift of settling logs, and Hanna’s soft breathing from the other room.
Marielle broke the silence. “Any thoughts on who compromised the safe house?”
Olivia had clearly been waiting for this opening. She leaned forward, elbows on her knees. “I have a theory. Someone high up. Maybe someone protecting Brad Hampton?”
“He was on that yacht, entangled with Idris, at least according to Poppy Jones. If Hanna talks, powerful people go down.”
“Maybe the Vice President himself.”
Marielle turned this over. “Or someone protecting Idris’s father. A Tunisian oligarch with international connections? Salim Ben Mahmoud has reach, too.”
“Could be.” Olivia swirled her wine. “Either way, it’s about protecting power.”
“It’s about protecting powerful men,” Marielle said quietly.
Olivia nodded. “Always.”
They’d both seen this pattern their entire careers. The CIA protecting its own. Protecting connected men. Throwing women under the bus when convenient. The constant, grinding misogyny, harassment that got dismissed, competence never assumed, having to prove themselves over and over while men got promoted on potential rather than performance.
“Omar doesn’t see it this way,” Marielle said.
“None of them do.” Olivia’s voice was matter-of-fact. “Jake, Trent, Omar. Even Ryan. The system worked for them. They were rewarded for trusting the chain of command.”
Marielle took a long drink. “They think this is a rogue agent. Someone dirty. An outlier.”
“And it may be. But it’s also the system that’s rewarding the behavior. Someone might have gone rogue, but they’re not an outlier. They’re the system working as intended,” Olivia finished.
Disillusionment and disgust washed over Marielle. “Tant pis,” she murmured into her wineglass, giving the phrase a darker, more fatalistic flavor.
Olivia leaned forward suddenly, her expression sharpening. “We can’t trust the CIA with Hanna’s story. They want it, but they don’t want to protect her. Screw them.
“What about Interpol?” The suggestion was out of Marielle’s mouth while her brain was still forming the idea.
Olivia blinked at her, then grinned. “The General Secretariat is in Lyon.”
“That’s less than two hours from here.”
“International jurisdiction.” Olivia spoke faster, warming to the idea. “If Hanna gives her statement there, it’s on the record. Multiple countries have access. Neither the CIA nor Mahmoud can make her disappear.”
“And I imagine France would have some feelings about U.S. commandos storming a little fishing village without coordinating with local officials.”
Olivia nodded. “I like it.”
Marielle turned to poking holes in the plan like a good agent. “We’d be going to an international law enforcement agency without clearance.”