by Pam Jenoff
“But…” My mind races. How could a company like Infodyne possibly be connected to the Albanian mob? And what made Duncan so terrified?
I open my mouth to finish the thought, but before I can speak my cell phone begins to vibrate against my leg. As I reach for it, Sebastian’s phone begins to ring, too.
“Shhh!” a docent scolds in a hushed whisper from the entrance to the knave. “No cell phones!”
Sebastian takes the phone from his belt, silencing it. “It’s Maureen,” he says as he flips it. Mine stops vibrating. “Hodges. Hi, Mo. Yes, she’s here with me now.” He smiles. Then, as he listens, his expression grows serious. “I see. I’ll tell her. Thanks.” He closes the phone. “We have to get to the embassy right away. Maureen’s called an emergency team meeting and she wants to see us immediately.”
chapter TEN
MAUREEN IS ALREADY in the Bubble when we arrive, pacing the front of the room. Sophie sits immediately to the left of the head of the table, hands folded. I cross the room to Mo. “What’s going on?”
“Sit down.” I drop into a chair opposite Sophie. “There’s been a slight change to the directives,” Mo says as Sebastian sits beside me. “We’ve been ordered to terminate our investigation of Infodyne immediately.”
“What?” I explode, unable to control myself. Beneath the table, Sebastian nudges me with his knee, urging me to stay calm. I swallow, regroup. “I just met with Duncan Lauder this morning. He seemed nervous. I’m certain he knows something.”
“Jordan, I’m sorry. The order was delivered by Ambassador Raines personally: Infodyne is off-limits. He assured me they’ve looked into it: the company’s clean.”
“Right.” I can hear the sarcasm in my own voice. “So we stop investigating one of our best leads, just like that?”
Maureen leans across the table, eyeing me levelly. “Just like that. You’ll receive a list shortly detailing the redirected targets.” She picks up her briefcase from the floor. “That’s all for now. Except for you, Weiss,” she adds. “Come with me.”
I stare after her, dumbfounded. The meeting lasted less than a minute, which was quick, even for Maureen. Why not tell us over the phone? Something doesn’t smell right.
I start after Mo, who is already out the door. Sebastian grabs my sleeve as I pass. “Call me,” he mouths silently. I nod, then race out of the Bubble, struggling to match Mo’s long, brisk stride.
I hop into the elevator car as the door is about to close. Expecting to go to her office, I am surprised when she presses the button for the ground level. Her mouth works silently as though chewing on a piece of gum. She has something on her mind, I can tell. Something she did not want to discuss in front of the others.
“Let’s take a walk,” she says at last as the doors open. I follow her through the lobby and down to the street. “Are you hungry?” she asks as we cross the square, not looking at me.
Not really, I think, remembering the hot dog I ate with Sebastian an hour earlier. “Sure.”
“I thought we’d go for tea.”
“Okay,” I reply, surprised again. Mo seldom breaks for meals when she is working. But I can tell this is not going to be just a social occasion.
She does not speak as she leads me through the well-appointed streets of Mayfair, past several of the smaller embassies, an art gallery that resembles a museum; she dodges the puddles that remain from the earlier rainstorm with surprising agility. A few minutes later, we stop in front of a five-story brick hotel, its grand entrance draped in flags. Claridge’s is one of the grandest hotels in London. Mo means to have Tea, not tea. “It’s the closest place,” she says by way of explanation as we walk up the steps and cross the black-and-white checkered lobby. The atmosphere, heavy with the hush of self-importance, seems too pretentious to be one of Mo’s usual haunts. “And I haven’t eaten yet today.”
The waiter ushers us into the Reading Room, an elegant salon with crème walls and dark wood columns. The furniture is done art deco style of the 1930s, chairs covered in a green and beige geometric pattern, square silver lamps on each linen-covered table. When we are seated by the fireplace, the waiter starts to hand us menus with a selection of teas longer than most wine lists, but Mo waves him away. “English breakfast is fine. I’m sorry about Infodyne,” she says when he has gone.
I hesitate, considering her words. Mo seldom apologizes for anything and I wonder for a moment if she is simply reiterating her order to stop investigating the company. But her voice sounds genuinely regretful. “Whose call was it?” I ask. “Ambassador Raines?”
“No,” she says a bit too forcefully, as though trying to convince herself. “I mean, he’s a good foot soldier for the administration, but the directive came from higher up, I’m sure.”
“Do you believe them?” I unfold my napkin. “That the company’s clean?”
“It doesn’t matter what I believe. You know how the game is played. We step on the wrong toes, we might get ordered to terminate the whole investigation. Or one of you could get PNG’d.” I raise an eyebrow. Persona non grata is the term used to describe a diplomat who has been ordered to leave the country by the host government under threat of having his or her diplomatic immunity revoked and being arrested. It usually arises when someone in the intelligence world is caught spying. People were PNG’d regularly during the Cold War in the Soviet Union and other Eastern Bloc countries. It is no laughing matter, but the notion of it happening today in England is hard to imagine. Something isn’t right about any of this.
Maureen continues, “Kosovo is just such a sensitive topic right now since the province declared independence last month.” I nod, familiar with how the game is played. Balkan experts in Washington and capital cities across the globe scrambling to explain why peace efforts failed, trying to find a justification for why the millions of dollars in aid pumped into the region these past ten years were not in vain. “Sometimes you have to make choices, Jordan. Punt the ball now so maybe you have time to get it back again and score.” I smile inwardly. For some women, sports analogies are just a way to sound tough and fit in with the guys. But anyone who has ever served with Mo knows she’s a diehard Dallas Cowboys fan, talking stats with anyone who will listen. Her annual Super Bowl party is a favorite at every post, as much for the buffalo wings and submarine sandwiches as for the game.
“Anyway, it’s out of my hands. Infodyne is off the list.” Maureen stops speaking as the waiter returns, depositing a tiered plate heaped with scones and other pastries. He prepares the tea, pouring hot water over a tiny strainer holding tea leaves, steeping it directly into each cup. I look around for a paper napkin to get rid of my gum. Then, finding none, I dig an old receipt out of my pocket and deposit the gum in it while Mo watches the waiter.
“I hope this all isn’t a result of my conversation with Duncan Lauder,” I say after the waiter has gone.
“How did that go?”
“Not well. I mean it was clear that my questions were making him nervous about something. But he clammed up and left before I could learn anything.” I reach for a scone, break it in half, and spread the inside with clotted cream. “I tried to handle him delicately but I think I may have botched it.”
“I’m sure you did fine,” Mo reassures. “Actually, Lauder was not the problem.”
“Then what was?”
“Your conversation with Lord Colbert.”
My hand freezes in midair. “I-I don’t understand.”
“You went to Cambridge yesterday, correct?”
Remembering the GPS in my cell phone, I know I cannot lie. “Yes. If this is about my being out of the office…”
“And you had a conversation with Colbert.” She is not asking a question.
My mind reels. How does she know? And more important, why does she care? I set down the scone and, willing my hand not to shake, pick up my teacup. I take a sip, stalling for time as I try to figure out what is going on, how to best position my answer. “Yes. Lord Colbert is the head of th
e college I attended at Cambridge. I saw him at a dinner I attended there.”
“What did you discuss?”
“Just old times,” I reply carefully.
Maureen slams her hand down on the table, sending the dishes rattling. A few of the other patrons glance in our direction, then look away politely once more. The waiter starts to approach. “Is everything…?”
“We’re fine.” Mo raises a hand and he retreats once more. “Jordan, let’s cut the bullshit. Why did you talk about the investigation with Colbert?”
I start to protest, but she interrupts me, her voice low and terse. “Lord Colbert is a very powerful man. One call from him to the Foreign Office and our investigation gets tanked.”
“Maureen, I’m sorry, but I don’t understand. I never mentioned the investigation to Colbert. What does he have to do with any of this?”
“He’s on the board of directors of Infodyne.”
“What?” The news slams into my stomach like a rock. “That’s impossible!” But even as I say this, I know that it is not. To the students at college, Lord Colbert was a wizened academic, plodding through the courtyards, attending conferences on linguistics. But beyond that he comes from a wealthy family and holds a seat in the upper house of Parliament. It is entirely possible that he sits on the boards of any number of corporations, including Infodyne, which, as Duncan pointed out earlier this morning, is one of Britain’s largest.
“Does that mean you weren’t pressing him as part of the investigation?”
I lean forward, rubbing my hands against my temples, which have begun to throb. “Like I said, I never even mentioned Infodyne.”
“Then why were you talking to him? And what spooked him?” I open my mouth but before I can speak Maureen raises her hand. “And don’t tell me it was just a social call, or I’ll take you off this investigation and bust you down to the visa line for a month.” I look away, uncertain where to begin, how much to tell her. She reaches over and puts her hand on my forearm. “Jordan, we’re friends. We’ve always trusted each other, sometimes when lives were on the line. I know you and I know something is going on. And I want to help, but I can’t do that if you won’t level with me.” Looking into her eyes, I feel my insides begin to crumble.
I take a deep breath. “My conversation with Lord Colbert really had nothing to do with the Infodyne investigation. You know I went to grad school at Cambridge, right?”
Maureen nods, cutting a scone and taking a bite, settling in for a story. “Ten years ago. That’s where you met your friend Sarah, the one who’s sick.”
“Yes. And I had a boyfriend there.” The word sounds so inadequate to describe what Jared was to me. “His name was Jared Short. He died two weeks before graduation.”
She presses her napkin to her lips, leaving a pink stain. “I’m so sorry. How?”
“Drowned, or so we thought.” There is no point in holding back now. Quickly I tell Maureen about Chris contacting me the night of the Ambassador’s reception, our visit to Dr. Peng. “Jared was dead before he hit the water. Somebody put him there.” It is the first time I have spoken the words to anyone other than Chris—in fact the first time I fully believe them myself—and as they tumble out, I am almost relieved.
“That must have come as quite a shock. And now you want to know who did it.”
“Yes. And why.”
Mo exhales sharply. “Well, that’s quite something. Jordan, this must be incredibly painful for you. It’s hard not knowing. But you’re trying to solve a murder that happened ten years ago. We’re diplomats, not detectives.” I fight the urge to remind her that the lines have never been that clear. “And you’re working on a dangerous, urgent investigation for us. I need your full attention here.”
“I’ve handled multiple cases before, Maureen. I promise this won’t interfere with my work.”
“It already has. Your bothering Lord Colbert drew attention to us, just when we can least afford it.”
But how had Lord Colbert even made the connection between me and Infodyne? I think back to our conversation. I told him that I was a diplomat, nothing more, nothing that should have aroused suspicion. Unless…could Duncan have somehow spoken to Lord Colbert, warned him about my questions? It seems impossible that there is a connection between the two men, other than their mutual affiliation with Infodyne, or that Colbert could have gotten the investigation stopped so soon after my conversation with Duncan. But it is the only explanation I can come up with.
I turn to Mo, who is watching me expectantly. “I’m sorry, Mo. We never planned to see Lord Colbert, but when his wife invited us to dine at the Hall, I guess it just seemed like a good opportunity to ask some questions about Jared.” I look down at my teacup. “But like I said, I never mentioned the company. I don’t know how he made the connection.”
“Everything’s connected, Jordan, in ways we cannot possibly imagine.” There is a strange undertone to her voice. “You know I could order you to stop looking into Jared’s death.” She raises her hand again before I can speak. “And I’d be tempted, if I thought it would do any good. But I know you: you’re going to do what you want, what you think is right, no matter what.” She smiles. “Reminds me of me when I was younger. And I would want answers, too, if I were in your shoes.” Her expression turns serious again. “But I am going to insist that you keep me informed of what you find out. And that you be careful.”
“I will,” I promise. “Thanks, Maureen.”
“I guess that’s it for now.”
I take a last sip of my tea. “Are you heading back?”
She shakes her head. “I’m going to have another cup of tea and catch up on some paperwork. I’ve got a meeting at Whitehall in an hour.” She pulls a file from her briefcase and sets it on the table.
I can tell from her tone that I have been dismissed. Pushing back from the table, I hesitate. “Mo, I have a question.”
She looks up from her papers. “Yes?”
“What’s the deal with Sophie?”
Maureen’s brow wrinkles. “The deal?”
I shift uncomfortably. “I mean, why do we have a rookie agent on such an important case?”
“Sophie’s smarter than she looks, Jordan. She has a double Ph.D. in international studies and finance and she is fluent in Arabic.”
Impressive, I think, if not particularly relevant here. “And her father was Albert Morrell,” Mo adds.
“Oh.” Albert Morrell was one of the most distinguished Arabists in the history of the department. He served as ambassador to several Middle Eastern countries, then resigned a few years ago after marrying his second wife, a descendant of the Saudi royal family. “I didn’t make the connection.”
“There was no way you could have. Sophie uses her mother’s maiden name.” I understand then Sophie’s competitiveness, her overeager demeanor. She’s trying to show that she’s not just her father’s daughter, that she can make it on her own. Perhaps I should try to be nicer to her. Maureen continues, “You can see where her finance background might be useful when we get deeper into the money laundering piece of this investigation.”
“Sure,” I reply, picturing the girlish blonde. Looks certainly could be deceiving.
Outside the hotel, I retrace the route to the embassy, my mind racing. Colbert is connected to Infodyne. But how did he make the connection between me and the company? He knows that I am a diplomat. Nervous from our questions at dinner, he could have called a contact at the Foreign Office for information. But our investigation is classified; it would not have been easy to learn about my assignment, even for a man of his stature. No, something more has to be going on here.
A few minutes later, I step off the elevator onto the third floor of the embassy. The political section is a sea of cubicles, junior officers and secretaries typing away in front of monitors, phones cradled between shoulder and ear. A row of offices, occupied by more senior diplomats, lines the far wall. Mine is a narrow office to the far right, a concession to the
privacy my work requires, but small enough not to raise eyebrows among the other officers. The furniture, an old metal desk and cracked vinyl chair, are vintage government issue. A yellow Post-it note is stuck to the bulky computer monitor that predates flat screens. “In Sophie’s office. Come see me when you get back.—S.H.”
I thumb through my office directory and discover that Sophie’s office is in the economic section one floor above. When I knock on Sophie’s half-open door, Sebastian is sitting alone at her desk, facing away, feet propped on the window ledge. “You rang?”
“No,” he deadpans. “I wrote.” He motions with his head for me to close the door. I drop into one of two chairs that sit in front of the desk, looking around. The tiny office is neat, the desktop nearly as bare as my own. But there are the little touches I never remember to bother with: a vase of daisies on the corner of the desk, a framed Matisse print on the wall. “How was tea?”
I shrug. “Okay. Another warning to leave Infodyne alone. Not much else. So what’s up?”
He holds up a piece of paper and passes it to me. “We’ve received the revised list of targets.”
“And…”
“And it’s nonsense. There’s nothing new that’s been added, just the removal of Infodyne. I was able to download some financial data on the company the other day, wire transaction records for the past year.” I cock my head. “Called in a favor with an old classmate of mine who’s in banking and owed me a big favor. Sophie has been running an analysis of the data, looking for patterns.”
