Almost Home: A Novel

by Pam Jenoff

  chapter FOUR

  I OPEN MY EYES and lift my head from the bare pillow, squinting against the pale sunlight that leaks through the yellow curtains. My head aches, a dull throb in my left temple. I raise my arm and look at the watch I hadn’t bothered to take off last night. Six forty. For a moment I wonder if I am still at the apartment in Washington, if the events of the previous day were all a dream. Then I roll onto my side. Seeing the cream-colored envelope on the pillow beside me, the note card sticking halfway out, I know that they were not.

  I sit up in the bed, unmade except for the blanket and pillow I hastily pulled from the welcome kit. Across the room, my two suitcases lie on their sides next to a tall armoire, my black dress from the previous evening strewn across them. I swallow, my mouth sour with stale wine, and then everything comes rushing back: the party, my encounter with Sebastian, the note under the door. I carried the envelope inside the flat unopened, staring at it as I changed for bed. Finally, when I could avoid it no longer, I tore the flap and pulled out a thick card. A single sentence was written on it:

  The honour of your presence is requested for dinner, Thursday, the twenty-fourth of April, at seven thirty o’clock in the evening at The Malta, Number Seventy-Nine Pilgrim Street.

  Regards, Christopher Bannister

  I lift the envelope from the pillow now and pull out the card once more. Chris Bannister. My stomach jumps. It is not that I am not glad to hear from him. He was one of the Eight and Jared’s best friend. But why didn’t he approach me at the reception? It was him; now I am sure of it. And how did he even know that I am here, much less where I live?

  A horn blares on the street below. I blink, rereading the note once more. April 24. Today. My empty stomach flips, begins to burn.

  Enough. Setting down the note, I swing my legs to the side of the bed and pad barefoot across the hardwood floor, pulling a bottle of Tums from one of my suitcases and popping three of the chalky tablets into my mouth. Still chewing, I walk into the living room. Sunlight streams through two wide skylights on the high, sloping ceiling. The flat is cozier than I anticipated from the exterior: built-in bookshelves, a wall of exposed brick. The blue overstuffed couch and chair are a welcome relief from the stuffy floral pieces that the government seems to buy in bulk for almost every other residence worldwide. I’ve been assigned to bigger houses, of course; the one in San Salvador had servants’ quarters and a gardener’s cottage in the yard. But for a major city such as London, where the property values are exorbitant and diplomatic housing notoriously small and drab, the flat is, as Mo promised, gorgeous.

  I walk downstairs to the kitchen and pull a canister of coffee from the plastic bag of groceries that had been left on the counter, topped with a welcome card from the embassy sunshine club. Instant, I realize, replacing the canister and taking out a box of Earl Grey teabags instead. I fill the electric kettle, looking around as I wait for the water to boil. The appliances are white and smaller than in the States: a narrow stove and half-size refrigerator, compact washer and dryer stacked in the corner.

  A few minutes later, I carry the cup of tea back up to the living room, then walk to the wide glass doors that cover the far wall and push the curtains aside. Yesterday, when I came back from Sarah’s and first saw the panorama of the Thames, I gasped, amazed by the closeness of the water, overwhelmed by my memories. The river, then nearly at high tide, seemed ready to burst from its banks. Now the tide has waned, revealing a thin strip of muddy, debris-strewn bank on either side. Several dozen rowing shells dot the river, hugging the center, trying to find the deepest part of the current. I stare at one crew; transfixed, I appraise their strokes as they push for Hammersmith Bridge. Their blades aren’t squaring early enough, and the rower in the four seat is catching too early.

  Sipping my tea, I think of Chris once more. He found me, invited me to dinner. So what? He probably just wanted to welcome me back and catch up on old times. My stomach flips, unconvinced. His note gave no contact information, no means of reaching him to accept or decline. He simply assumed I would appear at the time and place given. Typical Chris. He had always, in his charismatic way, expected people to do what he wanted, and most of the time they did. Maybe I should not show up, just to prove a point, I think, toying with the idea. I wish that I could ask Sarah for advice. She would help me figure out what to do. Then I remember her wan, tired expression yesterday. I cannot burden her with this now.

  I set my empty teacup down on the low coffee table then make my way into the bathroom, the white tile floor cold beneath the soles of my feet. As I brush my teeth at the pedestal sink, I eye the large claw-foot bathtub that occupies the far wall. Baths are one of the things I remember most fondly about Britain. Our house at college did not have a shower, and I had grown to love the ritual of a long, hot soak in the mornings and often at night, too. The tub here is deep and inviting, with a new, single faucet, not the separate hot-and-cold taps that vexed me as a student. The best of both worlds. But there is no time; Mo called the meeting for eight-thirty. I turn on the shower and climb in without waiting for the water to warm. I still see Chris’s face in my mind.

  Nearly an hour later, I reach the edge of Grosvenor Square. Across the park, the embassy runs the entire length of one side, a massive gold eagle and American flag adorning the top. The hulking, bland building was designed in the bureaucratic style of the late 1950s, a Washington architectural eyesore plunked down in the middle of scenic London. It had not changed at all since I was last here more than ten years ago, lining up on a freezing Saturday morning in December along with dozens of other applicants to take the Foreign Service exam. I almost didn’t come; there was a party at college the night before and I awoke nearly too hungover to stand. But Sarah dragged me from the warmth of Jared’s bed, drove me to London, and waited as I hurriedly filled in the endless ovals with a number two pencil, answering questions on politics, economics, and current events. Green with nausea, I turned in the exam an hour early, certain that I would never hear from the State Department again.

  A raindrop pelts my head, then another. “Damn,” I swear, looking vainly toward the thin trees that line the park as it begins to shower in earnest. The light gray clouds I eyed when leaving the flat gave no hint of a downpour. I forgot how quickly the weather here can change, the constant need to have an umbrella close at hand. I run toward a red telephone booth halfway down the block, large raindrops splashing against the back of my white blouse. Pushing open the door of the booth, I duck inside, struggling to catch my breath from the unexpected sprint. I can feel the dampness soaking through my stockings, my hair turning from curly to frizzy. I’m going to look like a drowned rat at the meeting. If only Maureen would have let me start tomorrow. I imagine holing up in the cozy flat, drinking cups of tea and napping off my jet lag.

  A clock in the distance begins to chime. I glance at my watch. Eight-fifteen. I dash across the rain-soaked street and up the steps of the embassy. Inside the lobby, I pause to catch my breath. “Good morning, Ms. Weiss.” A white-haired woman in a prim gray suit seems to appear from nowhere. I take in her pressed jacket and flawless bun and feel like a wet poodle. “I’m Amelia Hastings, Ms. Martindale’s secretary. The DCM has been delayed at a meeting, but she’s expecting you. She asked me to bring you to her office.” Her English accent is clipped, precise. She leads me to the security desk, manned by two Marines. “New diplomat,” she says, gesturing toward me. “Can she go around?”

  One of the Marines shakes his head, all post-9/11 seriousness. “Not until she has her pass.” He points to the metal detector. “Bag on the conveyor belt, please.” I empty my pockets into my purse, glad I decided to leave my gun at the flat. As the Marine scrutinizes the contents of my tote bag on the monitor, I study his baby face. When I started in the department, the Marines, who provide security at most of the major posts, seemed so attractive. In some countries, they were the only datable men. When, I wonder, as I set my bag down and step through the metal detector, d
id they get so young?

  Amelia leads me across the lobby, past a large marble staircase. “The consulate is through those doors,” she says, pointing to the right. Through the glass, I see a line of visa applicants waiting for the office to open. “The Ambassador’s office, as well as the DCM’s, is located on the fifth floor,” she explains as we step into an elevator. I cringe as the car rises, praying I will not see the Ambassador. Facing Maureen after what happened at the reception is going to be hard enough. “Economic is on four and political, where you’ll be sitting, is on three. The library is on two and the commissary is in the basement. I can give you a tour later if there’s time.”

  The doors open and I follow Amelia down a wide corridor, lined with portraits of white-haired men, former ambassadors. We reach a large oak door bearing Maureen’s name. “You’re soaked,” Amelia says as she ushers me through the reception area and into Maureen’s office. Her tone is observant, noncritical. “I’ll bring you tea.”

  I consider asking for coffee instead, then decide against it. “Thank you.” After Amelia disappears, I stand in the middle of the office, not wanting to sit on the chairs while wet. No wonder Maureen and Van Antwerpen hate each other, I think, looking around. The two are like night and day. Van Antwerpen’s office had been bare and austere. Maureen’s, on the other hand, is a mess. Her enormous mahogany desk looks as though a paper truck has capsized on it. The walls are covered with presidential commendations and photos of Katie and Kyle, the now college-age twins she adopted from Vietnam as infants, as well as her aging Doberman, Teeny. Even the furniture is explosive: overstuffed rose colored cushions and matching drapes, as brash as Maureen herself.

  A few minutes later, the doorknob turns and Amelia reappears, carrying a steaming cup. “Do you want—” she begins, but she is interrupted by a clattering noise at the far end of the room.

  “No time for tea!” Maureen cries, barreling through a second, private entrance to the office. “Meeting in five. We’ll grab coffee afterward. Thanks, Amelia.” The secretary retreats from the room, still holding the cup. “What the hell happened to you last night?” Maureen demands as soon as the door closes. I cringe, bracing myself for the inevitable tirade. She walks to her desk, pulls something off the chair. My coat, I recognize, as she throws it at me. “Are you okay?”

  I fold the coat over my arm, shifting uncomfortably. “Fine, sorry. I just…” I falter, looking for a good excuse for my abrupt exit and finding none. “I didn’t feel well and I had to get some air,” I finish lamely.

  Maureen frowns, biting her lip as though there is more she wants to say. “Let’s go.” I follow her through the door at the back of the office into a narrow hallway to an elevator that seems to predate both world wars. We descend in silence. At the bottom, the doors open, revealing a cavernous basement. The Bubble, a large, trailer-like structure, stands in the middle.

  I follow Maureen to the door of the Bubble, then stand aside while she punches several numbers into a keypad by the door. The lock snaps open. She leads me into the room and the vacuum-sealed door closes behind us with a sucking sound. Outside, I can hear the low humming noise of fans, designed to ensure our conversation cannot be overheard or recorded.

  A young woman with a blond bob is already seated at the conference table that runs the length of the room. “Good morning,” she chirps, rising to her feet.

  “Good morning, Sophie,” Maureen replies. “I’d like you to meet Jordan Weiss, Senior Intelligence Officer. Jordan, this is Sophie Dawson.” I shake Sophie’s outstretched hand reluctantly. She has a tiny upturned nose that seems to pull her mouth into a bow, a tailored suit, and well-coiffed hair that gives no indication of the rain outside. It is as though she has stepped out of the recruiting brochure for the Georgetown School of Foreign Service. She hardly looks old enough to drink.

  “I must say, Ms. Wei—I mean Jordan, it’s a great honor to meet you,” Sophie babbles, sounding nervous.

  Over Sophie’s head, Maureen winks. “We need to get started,” she says, walking to the head of the table. “Any sign of—” She is interrupted by a clicking sound at the door to the Bubble, fingers punching in numbers on the keypad. I turn toward the door and as it opens, a rock slams into my chest.

  There, standing at the entrance to the Bubble, is Sebastian.

  “There was a service interruption on the Central Line,” he says, his Scottish accent more pronounced than I remember from the reception the previous evening. His hair gives no pretense of behaving today, but flares wildly in all directions, as though he has just gotten out of bed. What is he doing here? “Sorry I’m late.” Dimples I didn’t notice the previous night appear in both cheeks as he smiles at Mo.

  Maureen shoots him a withering look. “Par for the course with you.” But there is no anger in her voice. “You already know Sophie. And I believe you met Jordan last night.”

  “Indeed.” A look of amusement, almost imperceptible, flickers across his face. He is not, I realize angrily, surprised to see me in the least. He knew exactly who I was at the reception last night, but said nothing. Did he seek me out purposely?

  “Sebastian is from SOCA, the Serious Organised Crime Agency, and he’s detailed to us for this investigation,” Mo adds. “Let’s get started.” I pull out the chair across from Sophie’s, not looking at Sebastian as he sits down next to me. As I lay my coat over the arm of the chair, I feel his gaze, making me conscious of my still-damp blouse clinging too snugly across my chest. “Jordan, I haven’t had a chance to debrief you, but the short version is that we’ve recently been assigned to tackle an issue related to Albanian organized crime.”

  I blink, surprised. It is not what I expected to work on in London. Then I try to recall what I know about Albania. Not much—I’ve never been there. It’s in southeastern Europe, on the Adriatic, I think, and it’s struggled like the other postcommunist nations toward democracy and a free market.

  Mo continues speaking to me: “We put this team together a few weeks ago, and when your transfer came up, you seemed like a natural fit. Sebastian, why don’t you outline the problem for us?”

  “Thanks, Maureen.” Sebastian places his rumpled navy suit jacket on the back of the chair. As he walks past me to the front of the room, a hint of aftershave tickles my nose. I see his face in the moonlight, feel his lips on mine once more. If only I had known. “Over the past few years, the Albanian mob has grown to be a major player in underground criminal activity throughout Europe. In Britain, they’re edging out other groups, including the Turks and the Russians. They now dominate all areas of the black market: drugs, weapons, prostitution.

  “Until recently, infighting among the major families that control Albanian organized crime made it difficult for us to pinpoint targets. But in the past year the Radaj family has emerged as the dominant clan with respect to the British market. Two weeks ago, police in Leeds were able to intercede at a major drug operation and arrest Bakim Vasti, a highly placed member of that syndicate.”

  “Have they been able to learn anything from him?” Sophie pipes up, trying to sound knowledgeable. Why is Sophie on the team? I wonder. She cannot be more than a first or second tour officer. Is she CIA? It is, I know, a question that people often ask about me. CIA operatives are often placed under Foreign Service cover, their true identities only revealed on a need-to-know basis. “Spot the spook”—guessing who is really a spy—is a popular, if officially frowned-upon, diplomatic pastime. It hardly seems possible that the vacuous blonde has passed the Foreign Service exam, though, much less that she is a spy.

  Sebastian shakes his head. “Vasti killed himself in prison two days after his arrest.”

  Now it is my turn to interject. “How did he manage that?”

  “Cyanide. He must have hid it on his person, somewhere that the guards missed during the body search.” Unless someone gave it to him, I think. It is not inconceivable that one or more of the underpaid prison guards is on the mob’s payroll. But the question is moot.
Vasti is dead, and even if he was not, the Eastern European gangs are notoriously tight-lipped. He would not likely have broken, told us what we wanted to know, even under the most extreme questioning.

  Sebastian drops into the chair beside me before continuing. “When the police searched Vasti’s car they found documents confirming what some of us have long suspected: that the mob has someone, corporate or maybe even institutional, laundering money for it in Britain. We need to identify the source in order to stop them.”

  “And that is where you all come in,” Maureen adds. She pauses, noticing the expression on my face. “What is it?”

  I hesitate. “Why us? I mean, shouldn’t the British government be handling it?”

  “They are. It’s their investigation, in fact. SOCA has a team working on this as well and the Brits will take the lead in acting on any information we acquire,” Mo replies. “Sebastian is here to coordinate our efforts. He’s got full U.S. clearances and reciprocity, by the way, so the usual foreign national restrictions don’t apply. But they’ve asked for our assistance, and this is our business too; the Albanians have major criminal enterprises in the U.S. and many of their exports to us pass through Britain en route.”

  “And some of the targets we will be investigating are actually subsidiaries of American corporations,” Sebastian adds.

  “Our task is to find the person or persons who are funding and laundering for the Albanians,” Mo adds. “Fast.” She walks to the front of the room and presses a button on the wall. A large screen descends from the ceiling. Then she opens a laptop that sits on a podium at the front of the room and a typed list of a half dozen names appears on the screen. CLASSIFIED-NOFORN (“No Foreign Nationals”) is typed across the top in bright red. “This is a list of possible contacts that have been preliminary identified by SOCA, individuals who might shed light on the suspect companies or organizations. They aren’t current intelligence assets, but potential sources of information.”