Almost Home: A Novel

by Pam Jenoff

  “He may have been in London as recently as a few days ago. We think he might have been following you, checking if you were all right.” I remember the sense on the running path that I was being followed. Was that Jared? My heart aches at the thought of him being so close, of not having been able to touch him. Mo continues, “But after Duncan fled and things started heating up, we think he left again. He’s been everywhere these past ten years, Jordan: Morocco, Rio, Cape Town.”

  I hold out my hand. “What information do you have?”

  She hesitates, then reaches into her desk, pulling out another envelope. “That’s everything, Jordan. There’s an address in Monaco where he stayed briefly a few months ago. That’s his last known location.”

  I start to open the envelope, then close it again. I need to get out of here. “I’m leaving, Mo.”

  “That’s a good idea. Go see Sarah, get some rest. Tomorrow, when you feel better, we’ll talk again.”

  I shake my head. “You don’t understand. I mean, really leaving.” I scoop up the envelope, the photos, my personnel file.

  “What are you going to do?” she asks uneasily.

  “You mean, am I going to turn you in? I should, but right now I don’t have the time. I have more important things to do. But I’m taking this as an insurance policy. Raines will never be secretary and I wouldn’t buy anything with the ambassadorial seal on it just yet.”

  “You’re going after Jared, aren’t you?”

  I hesitate. Although I’d known it deep down, I did not realize until Mo said it aloud that it was exactly what I was going to do. “Yes.”

  “You’ll never find him, Jordan. He’s spent years on the run. If our best operatives couldn’t locate him, what makes you think you can?”

  It is a good question, but one that I do not have time to answer. “That’s my problem. But if anyone comes after me or tries to hurt Jared, I’m going to the newspapers with everything I’ve learned.”

  Mo nods and I can tell from her grave expression that she believes me. “There’s one more thing,” I add. “Sarah mentioned a clinic in Switzerland with a new trial protocol for ALS. I want you to pull whatever strings you have to in order to get her admitted. And I want her sent there by medevac right away, if she’ll go, and the costs to be covered.”

  “When will you be back?”

  “I won’t. I quit.”

  Mo’s jaw drops. “Quit?” I cannot work for her, or for any of them again after what they did. “But what will I tell the Director?”

  “That’s your problem. Good-bye, Mo.” I tuck the folder in my bag and walk out the door.

  chapter TWENTY-THREE

  HEATHROW’S TERMINAL ONE is nearly deserted except for a few backpackers sleeping across benches in the corner, a janitor mopping the floor by the entranceway. I walk to the British Airways desk, where a clerk is organizing papers, seeming to wind down for the night. “I’d like to purchase a plane ticket to Nice.”

  “Tonight?” The clerk blinks at my request. “Let me see.” Her fingers click against the keyboard. “Last direct flight has already gone for the evening. You’ll have to transfer in Paris, or Milan, unless you want to wait until morning.”

  “Milan,” I say quickly, knowing that I will not use the second half of the ticket but will take the train from Milan to Monaco to keep a lower profile. I don’t think Mo will have me followed or detained. She has too much to lose now. But I’m not taking any chances. And I’m eager to get going, get close to Jared’s last known sighting in hopes that it is not too late. “One way, please.”

  “One hundred eighty-three pounds.” The clerk’s eyes widen as I pass her four fifty-pound notes. “Any bags?”

  I shake my head. “None.” I smile inwardly, thinking of the two suitcases that lay among the charred rubble of my flat. Suddenly I am twenty-two again, backpacking through Europe on holiday, climbing aboard the train in Prague as the sun sets through the open end of the station, headed for points unknown. Free.

  The clerk wrinkles her nose and I know that but for the diplomatic passport there would be questions—a last-minute one-way ticket, my lack of luggage, would all scream security threat. I hold my breath, exhaling only after she hands me back my passport and a boarding pass. “Gate twenty-six at ten-fifteen.”

  I clear security. As I cross the concourse, I reach instinctively into my pocket for the cell phone, then remember I left it at the front desk of the embassy before departing. Instead, I walk to a bank of pay phones, dialing Sarah’s number. “Hello,” she answers.

  “It’s me,” I say quickly.

  “Jordie, are you all right?”

  “Fine, I—” I stop, hearing a male voice in the background. “Do you have company?”

  “Ryan, I mean, Officer Giles stopped by,” she replies, and I can hear the blush in her voice. She is not alone, I realize, flooded with relief. “So what happened?”

  Quickly I tell her about my confrontation with Mo, the information I learned. “Jared didn’t die that night, Sarah.”

  “What?” There is a moment of stunned silence. “How is that possible?”

  “It’s a long story. But he might be alive,” I repeat.

  “Might. Jordie.” I can hear the concern in her voice. “You’re going after him.” It is not a question.

  “I am. I have to see this through to the end, you know?”

  “I know. Reminds me of someone else.” And I know she is talking about Jared, his dogged quest for the truth.

  For a moment, I consider telling her about the arrangements I’ve made with Mo for her to go to Switzerland. Then I decide against it, knowing she will argue. “I’m sorry I didn’t have time to say good-bye.”

  “It’s fine, Jordie,” she says quickly, and I know that with her, as always, it really is. “I love you. We’ll meet up in an airport, say, in three weeks.” Her tone is light but there is a weakness there that I have not heard before. I wonder then if the clinic will be able to help her or if I have seen her for the last time. But part of her will always be with me, traveling where I go, waiting to talk about it all over tea at the end of the day.

  “I love you, too. I’ll call you soon.”

  I hang up and start to walk away. Then I pick up the receiver once more and dial another number. The porter answers and when I make my request, he hesitates. I hold my breath, waiting for him to refuse because of the late hour, but there is a pause and then the phone rings again. “Hallo.” Lord Colbert’s voice comes on the line.

  “Sir, it’s Jordan Weiss. I’m sorry to disturb you at home. I know it’s late.”

  “Ms. Weiss.” If he is surprised by my call, he gives no indication.

  “I just wanted to say I know what you did for Jared. That is, I wanted to thank you.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he replies quickly, and I realize that he is still protecting Jared. I imagine then Jared going to him, scared and alone, the Master doing whatever he could do help. “He was one of my students,” he adds. For a minute I consider asking him where Jared went but even if he knew, even if Jared had not moved around dozens of times, he would not tell me. “Good-bye, Ms. Weiss,” he says. “And good luck.”

  As I set the receiver back on the hook, Jared’s face appears in my mind. I cannot believe that he might be out there somewhere, alive. Has he changed? I wonder where he is, if he is alone, scared, what he looks like now. A kind of hope, more terrifying than any of the pain or fear or returning to England, rises in me. He might be dead, I remind myself, or impossible to find. But the flame of possibility that began to burn when I saw the coroner’s photo in Mo’s office refuses to be dampened. There is only one way to find out.

  Adjusting the shoulder strap to my bag, I start down the concourse toward my gate, past the duty-free shops closing for the night. All around me are groups of people, flight crews in matching uniforms, couples and families going on holiday, small groups of business travelers. People together. And me, setting out on another
journey, once again on my own. An unfamiliar pang of loneliness shoots through me. Then I remember Jared’s words on the chapel roof, hear his voice, as clearly as though he is walking next to me:

  Sooner or later, we all go home alone.

  Sarah was right, though. Jared gave me something that I carry with me, a driven need to follow this through to the end, to find the answers, wherever they may lead me. I am running again, but for the first time in a decade, not running away. This time I am running toward something.

  Running toward the truth.

  Acknowledgments

  ALMOST HOME IS the magical fusion of new and old for me. It represents the first of a new kind of novel and the beginning of a partnership with a wonderful publishing team. To that end, I would like to thank my gifted editor, Emily Bestler; her assistant, Laura Stern; and the entire team at Atria for their remarkable work in bringing this book to life.

  At the same time, Almost Home is the culmination of a vision that I have been seeking to bring to life for more than a decade. So I must recognize those who have been supporting and encouraging this work for so many years: my friends Stephanie, Joanne, and Pugsley; my writing instructor Janet; the many writers who have reviewed pieces of the book in its various forms; and the other friends and coworkers who have encouraged me along the way. Special thanks to Alison, for her perspective on British life and culture.

  And, of course, my eternal gratitude to my friend and best-agent-in-the-world Scott Hoffman at Folio Literary Management, who believed in my work before anyone else in publishing and stayed with me longer than anyone in his right mind should have until that faith was validated. Your keen insight and tireless efforts made my career.

  My deepest appreciation must be reserved for my family: my husband, Phillip; brother Jay and parents; Marsha and Gene. Without you, none of this would be possible, or worthwhile.

  There are some people who will look at the parallels between Jordan’s life and my own (Cambridge and State Department) and wonder, “How much of the story is real?” To those readers, I say first and foremost—it’s all fiction, the characters, the story, everything. Let me say also that I believe that while real life makes for a terrible plot, it makes for a wonderful setting.

  So with that, I’d like to pay tribute to two groups of people who inspired the setting of this book: first, the many Foreign Service Officers and other government workers I’ve been privileged to know, whose heroism, skill, and sacrifice have continued to awe me long after our professional affiliation has ended.

  Second, I’d like to recognize my friends, with whom I experienced that brief illumination of Camelot known as Cambridge, a time and place that left its mark on all of us and created a common bond that lives on. Beyond all else, Almost Home is a tribute to that real-life fairy tale, and a love song to those who lived it.