by Pam Jenoff
Though our roles were different and our assignments continents apart, Lincoln and I had stayed close over the years. He had risen quickly through the agency since then, been successful on a number of key jobs in the field. A few years ago, he reluctantly accepted a desk job back in Washington because he couldn’t bear the lengthy separations from his wife, Arlene, and their two daughters that fieldwork necessitated. I had been to their house in Bethesda for dinner last year, a few months after I arrived in Washington.
I dial his number at Langley from memory, hesitating before entering the last digit. I don’t know if he can help me, but at least I can trust him not to tell anyone we’ve spoken. I hit the send key. “Heller,” he says a half ring later, his baritone rich but reserved.
At the familiar sound of his voice, I exhale quietly. “Lincoln, it’s Jordan.”
“Jordan!” His voice seems to expand, overflowing the cell phone and filling the hotel room. “How are you?”
I glance at my watch. It’s nearly noon back home and I imagine him sipping coffee at his desk, reading the daily reports. “Am I catching you at a bad time?”
“Not at all. But where are you? I heard you left unexpectedly.”
Alarm rises in me. How does he know? The Department is a small world; a requisition to terminate my housing or return my laptop could have set the rumor mill spinning. Still, I had not counted on word getting around so quickly. “We would have liked to have you over before you went,” he adds.
He’s talking about my departure from Washington for London, I realize with relief, not the more recent news that I subsequently resigned altogether. “I’m sorry I didn’t get to say good-bye in person; it was all very sudden. It’s a long story and I promise to fill you in sometime.” I pause, wondering how much more to share. I need to level with him to some extent in order to ask for his help. I take a deep breath. “There’s more to it, I’m afraid: now I’ve left London . . . and State, too.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I’ve resigned.”
There is no response. “We’ve got a bad connection,” he says several seconds later. “Call me back at 703-555-7976. Give me five minutes first, okay?”
“All right.” I push the disconnect button, staring at the phone, confused by his abrupt change in demeanor. Was it a mistake to call him? Perhaps Lincoln is too much of a company man to talk to me when I’m out on my own. And even if he is willing to help, I never should have put him in this position. For a second I consider not calling him back, but it’s too late for that.
Two minutes pass, then three. Finally, I dial the number he gave me, hold my breath as it rings several times. “Jordan?” His voice comes over the line, breathless. “Sorry, I wanted to get off my work phone.” I can tell by the background noise that he has stepped outside with his cell. “What happened? Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” I say. It’s mostly, if not entirely, true.
I hear him light one of the cigarettes he was supposed to have given up long ago. Arlene would kill him if she knew. “Then why on earth did you leave . . . ?” he asks, after taking a long drag. His tone suggests that he finds the notion of quitting inconceivable. There were people in our A-100 class that we knew wouldn’t stay long, dilettantes trying out diplomatic life for a tour or maybe two, who had the credentials but not the stamina for the transient lifestyle in the long run. But Lincoln and I had been different. We were lifers from the start; we had found our place in our strange, respective institutions, taken naturally to the work. We were willing to make the sacrifices that constantly moving around the globe entailed as the price for the excitement and high of the job, and we would ride the career as far as it took us. Or so we thought. Now he was working a Washington desk, living vicariously through the younger officers out in the field. I, on the other hand, had quit entirely. He knew it had to be something very big to get me to leave.
“Um, it’s kinda out there.” I bite my lip, trying to come up with a short version. “I asked for London to be with a sick friend from college. But it turns out that someone set me up.”
“Seriously? Who?”
I hesitate, wanting to say more than I am able. “Let’s just say it was people well above our pay grade.”
“Now why would anyone do that?” he asks patiently, as though talking to a young child, more than a trace of skepticism in his voice.
“It’s a long story, but it has to do with my college boyfriend, Jared Short.”
I can hear him light another cigarette. “Jared,” he says slowly. “Isn’t he the one who . . . ?”
“Died? Yeah, that’s what I thought.” I can hear the coldness in my own voice. “Only it turns out that was a lie, too.” But that was Jared’s lie, I think, suddenly angry at him for the first time.
There is silence on the other end and I imagine Lincoln struggling with my explanation, wanting to tell me it cannot possibly be true. But he’s been in this business long enough to know that it is entirely plausible—each of us is expendable for the right price in someone else’s game.
“So I quit the Department and now I’m going to find him,” I say finally.
“Wouldn’t a leave of absence . . . ?” he begins, then stops again. Lincoln will not, I realize gratefully, try to talk me out of it, even if he thinks I am crazy. Like Sarah, he’s one of the few people I could count on that way. “What do you need me to do?” he asks, knowing without my having to say so that I am calling for help.
“I need you to run a profile for me—if you can do it. I don’t want to get you into trouble.”
“No problem; who is it?”
“Nicole Martine,” I say, going with the surname on the door buzzer, the only one I have. “I think she’s French. She was staying at apartment number 12 rue des Lilas in Monaco. She knows Jared, though how I’m not yet sure. I’m interested in information on her activities, whereabouts, known addresses, everything.”
There is a pause and I know he is wondering who she is, her connection to Jared. “Do you want me to run a search on Jared, too?”
I quickly measure the risk. Jared’s research clearly put him on intelligence radar years ago, and there might be more out there than what Mo had to give me, but I don’t want to draw attention to him. “If you can do it without raising any red flags. Mo said she gave me everything she had, but it can’t hurt to check.”
“I’ll be discreet,” he promises. I give him Jared’s aliases from the file as well. “Okay, I need to get back inside for a meeting, but I’ll run the profiles as soon as I can. Shall I call you?”
“Sure. And if there’s anything you want to send, here’s my email.” I recite the address of my Hotmail account, the one I created last year in Washington so I could keep the jokes my parents liked to send separate from my official business. “Thanks so much. My love to Arlene and the girls.”
I hang up, then roll over to stare at the ceiling, curious what he will find. Maybe nothing, and then what? The man from the apartment appears in my mind and I wonder for the hundredth time who he is, what he wants with Nicole.
On impulse, I pull out the scrap of paper he handed me, then hesitate, remembering his invitation to meet. The last thing I want to do is see him again, but I’m not likely to get anything else done tonight and it’s probably worth an hour of my time in a public place to see what he knows.
I dial the number. I don’t even know his name, I panic. But before I can hang up, there is a click and the man’s now-familiar, accented voice comes over the line. “Oui?”
“This is Jordan,” I say, consciously giving my first name only, and struggling to keep the tremor from my voice. “We met earlier today . . . ”
“Ah, yes,” he says, not sounding at all surprised by my call.
He’s not going to make it easy for me, I realize, as several seconds of silence pass between us. “You mentioned possibly meeting up. To share information,” I add quickly, cursing my own awkwardness.
“Le Grill at eight o’clock.�
�� He does not wait for a response. “See you then.” There is a click and then the line goes dead.
chapter FIVE
I HURRY ACROSS THE Place du Casino, past the Casino de Monte-Carlo, a behemoth rococo palace framed by manicured gardens that occupies an entire side of the square. I had seen the Casino during my student visit to Monaco, but only from a distance as the friend who let us camp on her floor drove us breezily by before taking us up the coast to the smaller towns of Antibes and Cannes. We had not gone inside—the frayed jeans and flannel shirts that filled our worn rucksacks did not come close to passable attire. Now, taking in the elegantly dressed patrons streaming up the palm tree–flanked entranceway, I feel as out of place as the disheveled student I once was.
Fortunately, I don’t have to try to enter the Casino—Le Grill, according to the guidebook in my room, is located on the top floor of the neighboring Hotel de Paris. I walk through the opulent hotel lobby, making my way to the elevator. The doors open to reveal a dining room of royal blue and white leading to an open-air terrace. I enter the lounge and scan the patrons, a young, stylish crowd, sipping cocktails as they wait for tables. But I do not see the stranger.
It is already ten past eight, I note, looking at the clock over the bar; perhaps he is not going to show. My shoulders sag with fatigue. I should be plotting my next move to find Jared and getting on a plane. But I don’t know where Nicole has gone, and I have no more leads, no one else to turn to for help. Talking to this man is my best chance—assuming he doesn’t stand me up.
A familiar figure appears behind me in the mirror. Startled, I spin around. The stranger is more striking than I remembered from earlier in the day, tan set off against a light linen sports coat. His frame seems less brawny now, streamlined.
“Good evening,” he says. I wait for him to apologize for keeping me waiting, but he does not. Faint annoyance rises in me as I recall his dismissive, condescending tone at Nicole’s apartment. I don’t have to like his company, I remind myself; once I find out what he knows, I can leave.
The maitre’d approaches. “Monsieur Bruck,” she says, using the name with a familiarity that tells me he has been here a number of times before. “Your table is ready.”
I look at the stranger, puzzled. I only agreed to drinks, not dinner. Surely he cannot be that presumptuous. But the maitre’d leads us through the restaurant to the veranda and seats us at a round cocktail table with a breathtaking view of the sea, the molten orange sun dipping low to the horizon.
“I thought it would be easier to talk out here,” he says, when the maitre’d has left.
My annoyance subsides. “I would have asked for the reservation, but I didn’t know your name,” I say pointedly.
“Of course. We haven’t been properly introduced. I’m Aaron Bruck.” He extends his hand across the table. I cannot help but notice how the pale blue of his open-collared shirt accentuates his azure eyes. “Friends call me Ari.”
“Jordan Weiss.” His expression as we shake hands makes me wonder if he already knew my surname.
I decide to get right to the point. “So why are you looking for Nicole?” A guarded expression flickers in his eyes and I instantly regret being so abrupt. Moving slowly in order to get more information is a basic rule of intelligence work, though unfortunately not indigenous to my personality.
“I . . . ” he begins, but before he can speak further a waiter appears and looks at us expectantly. “What would you like?” Aaron asks.
A good stiff martini, I think, after the events of the past few days. Maybe two. But with the exception of a scotch on the rocks during my short flight from London, I’ve avoided the temptation to numb myself in drink, and I need to keep my wits about me. “White wine,” I say.
“Do you like champagne?” he asks. “They’ve got an excellent selection.”
“That sounds good.” I watch as he expertly orders a bottle, not bothering to consult the wine list. Closer now, I notice that his brown hair is flecked with gray.
“Have you been to the Casino?” he asks a moment later, forgetting or choosing to ignore my earlier question about Nicole.
I decide to let it go for the moment. “Yes. I mean no, not inside,” I correct myself, feeling instantly unsophisticated.
“You should have a walk through,” he says. “The gaming salons are quite remarkable, though, as you probably know, only for the tourists.”
“High-end tourists.”
He fidgets with his watchband. “Yes, of course. Not the sort of crowd you would usually see in Las Vegas. I just mean that by law the Monegasques, the local citizens, aren’t allowed to enter.”
“I see.” I lean back, allowing my gaze to wander to lights that twinkle in the distance.
The waiter returns with a bottle, pops the cork. “Where are you from?” I ask, my curiosity getting the better of me as Aaron samples the champagne.
He nods his approval, and the waiter pours two glasses, setting the bottle in a silver bucket before disappearing. “That’s complicated,” he replies when we are alone again.
I tilt my head. “Seems like a pretty straightforward question to me.”
“My mother was a sabra, native-born Israeli.” His English is fluent, but there is a slight hesitation, an effort to the way he constructs his sentences before speaking that, coupled with his accent, belies the fact that he is not a native speaker. “My father’s family came from Poland. My grandfather survived Belzec, but his first wife died there. After the war, he stayed in Poland and opened a store in Warsaw. That’s where he met my grandmother and where my father was born. They moved to the States when things got bad again during the communist purges of the sixties. My mother happened to be an exchange student at Johns Hopkins and that’s where she met my father.” His delivery of his family history is perfunctory, as if reading from a report.
“So you were born in America?”
“Yes. I’m a dual citizen, Israeli and American. I was raised in Haifa, but I spent most summers with my grandparents in Baltimore.”
“That must have been interesting,” I remark, holding back the many other questions I want to ask. Why hasn’t he asked anything of me? He must wonder why I am chasing Nicole as well—unless, of course, he already knows.
From inside the restaurant, a piano begins to play. “I’m Jewish, too,” I say, as if offering my bona fides. He does not seem surprised. Perhaps it is because my surname sounds Jewish. But is it something more? I appraise myself anew, considering my dark curls, the slight arc to my nose.
He hands me a glass, then raises his. “To shared interests,” he proposes.
I lift the champagne beneath my nose, inhaling the aroma before touching my glass to his. The toast is an invitation to begin talking about Nicole. It is followed by a moment of awkward silence, neither of us ready to go first.
The bubbles tickle my nose as I sip the champagne. “Where do you live now?” I ask, shifting to an easier subject.
A strange look flashes across his face and he pauses, as if perplexed by the question. It is a reaction I recognize in myself, one that comes from a life lived out of a suitcase, a lack of a place that truly feels like home. “Tel Aviv,” he replies at last, but there is no ownership behind his words. “I settled there after coming out of the army several years ago.”
What does he do now, I wonder? Though the short hair could be a relic from his military days, his predatory gaze and the efficiency of his movements suggest something else. Perhaps he still works for the government. Could the Israelis be searching for Jared, too? It’s a stretch, but nothing seems impossible to me anymore.
I clear my throat, raising my guard. “Are you staying nearby?”
“Sort of. I’m actually not in a hotel but on a friend’s boat down at the marina. What brings you to the south of France?” He refills my glass.
I falter. I would rather ask questions than talk about myself, but information gathering is a dance of sorts, and I am expected to give something in exchang
e for what I have learned before he will say more. “I work for the American government as a diplomat,” I begin, choosing my words carefully. “I mean, I used to. Now I’m on a leave, trying to figure out what to do next.” It is not, I decide, exactly a lie.
“Chasing Nicole Martine through the streets of Monaco doesn’t seem like much of a holiday,” he observes evenly, challenging me.
I nod, recognizing the implausibility of my story. “I’m looking for a friend of mine. That’s the reason I’m taking a break from work, at least in part. And I think Nicole might have some sort of connection to my friend, or know where he is.”
“What is your friend’s name?”
I hesitate. I almost led the wrong people to Jared once; I will not do it again. “Jared.” I offer only his first name, then watch Aaron’s face for any hint of recognition but see none. “And you?”
“It’s Nicole herself with whom I’m trying to speak.”
Before I can ask why, the waiter reappears with a plate of nuts, cheese, and olives to accompany the champagne. As he sets the food in front of us, I consider Aaron’s response. So far I have regarded Nicole only as an appendage to Jared, a lead to help me find him. I remember Sophie, my colleague in London, how I underestimated her as just a beautiful, vacuous blonde before learning that she had a doctorate in finance and was proficient in Arabic. I should not make the same mistake with Nicole. Who is she really, and what does she do that could possibly be of interest to Aaron?
“Nice,” he remarks abruptly, gesturing toward the top of my dress.
“Excuse me?” I say, taken aback by his bluntness.
“The ring.”
I glance down. I had not realized that it was visible above the lower neckline of the black sheath dress I purchased from a boutique by the hotel in order to have something suitable to wear this evening. “Thanks. It’s a memento from a friend.”
