by Pam Jenoff
I step back, leaning against the railing to the stairway below. I need to find out where Nicole has gone and I can’t afford to wait until tomorrow to see if the housekeeper returns. Time is of the essence: with every minute that passes, Nicole is farther away, my chances of finding her diminished. And if the man from the café really is following me, then staying in Monaco much longer is surely a mistake. No, I must see if there are any clues to Nicole’s whereabouts and get out of this town one way or the other. If only I could look inside the apartment, search for information as to where she has gone. I reach down, twist the doorknob, but it does not turn.
Can I get in? The sudden thought catches me by surprise. I have broken into places twice, not counting Mo’s office at the embassy when I sneaked in to review my file last week: once to an apartment in Liberia, another time to an office building in San Salvador. Unlike this, both were for assignments, sanctioned at least by some part of our government. Do I dare try it now on my own?
I reach down, try the knob once more. But the lock is brass plated, the door solid oak. I cannot break in here.
A strange odor tickles my nose. Fresh paint. I turn toward the vacant apartment down the hall, remembering the workers I had seen there earlier. Perhaps if one of them has a master key, I can persuade him to let me into Nicole’s apartment. Cautiously, I make my way toward the open doorway. “Hello,” I call, my voice echoing in the emptiness. I push the door open slowly. Inside, it is the same layout as Nicole’s in a mirror image, the bedroom to the far right instead of left.
I step inside, my skin prickling as I wait to be confronted as to why I am here. But the paint trays have been cleaned and neatly stacked in the corner, the workers gone for the day. I walk gingerly around the ladders, across the tarps that cover the floor, aiming for the terrace.
I open the door and peer outside. The balcony is long and narrow, running several feet in either direction beyond the opening. To the left sits Nicole’s apartment, the wrought-iron fences of the two balconies separated by a few feet of space. A fountain bubbles in the courtyard below.
I could climb over, I think, try to get into Nicole’s apartment that way. But the gap is nearly three feet wide, with a four-story drop to the ground below. And even if I do make it, the other balcony door is probably locked. The French doors look old, though, with a lock that is probably not that hard to break into.
I stop, caught off guard by the callousness of the thought. Who am I? Once, not long ago, I had boundaries and principles, despite the dangers and ambiguities of my line of work. But that changed when Mo told me the truth about Jared and what they had done to me. It was as if the sky fell and everything I knew was turned upside down. Now, standing on the balcony of this strange apartment days later, the magnitude of the shift crashes down upon me. The person I became that night would do whatever she had to do in order to get what she wanted, without regard for the rules, because no one else played by them and doing so only put her at a needless disadvantage.
Of course, what I am contemplating is not some theoretical moral debate. The risks are real and deadly serious. If I can cross to the other balcony and get in, I will be breaking and entering in a foreign country, this time without the protection of diplomatic immunity. But I’ve come too far to turn back.
I look through the palm trees, scanning the apartment building across the courtyard to check if anyone is watching. Seeing no one, I go to the end of the balcony closest to Nicole’s and throw my bag across, wincing at the loud thumping sound it makes as it lands. I hoist one leg over the railing, climb carefully onto the ledge. Taking a deep breath, I reach out and jump, aiming for the far side of Nicole’s balcony. I fall short, smacking painfully against the outer edge, clinging to the top of the railing with both arms. Groaning, I hoist myself over, one leg at a time.
The housekeeper really needs to clean out here, I think, trying unsuccessfully to brush the large dirt streaks from my pants. I check the opposite building once more to make sure no one is watching, then turn toward the glass door, peering through the thin, filmy curtains into Nicole’s apartment. The housekeeper seems to have straightened up, and put the scattered clothing back into the armoire. But otherwise the room appears unchanged, empty.
There could be an alarm system, I realize. I’ve had a little training in disarming those, a quick tutorial by my colleague Lincoln, who is one of the best at it, but I’m by no means an expert. I cannot see any sensors or other signs that the door is alarmed, though.
I push against the door, but it does not move. I reach into my bag for a credit card and slide it into the doorframe. Too hard, I realize, rummaging in my wallet for another card that will bend enough to get around the bolt yet still be firm enough to move it. I pull out an old VIP card from a rental car agency and try again, wondering as I maneuver it if it will work. Finally I hear a pop. Flinching at the loud noise, I tug hurriedly at the door, which opens with a squeal.
I pause, holding my breath, listening for voices or other signs of life on the other side of the door. Then I step inside, scanning the apartment. A hint of perfume that I recognize as Nicole’s mixes with the lemony scent of a freshly washed floor. My gaze stops on a desk that sits along the far wall and I start toward it. The top of the desk is bare, an unused planner in the upper right corner, a cup of pens to the left. I open the lone drawer, but it is empty except for some rubber bands and a box of staples. I picture Jared’s desk at college, piled high with books and notes. Clearly he has not spent much time here.
My eyes lower to the ground, fix on the wastebasket, which the housekeeper neglected to empty. Hurriedly, I drop to my knees. As I begin to rifle through the trash, there is a shuffling sound behind me, quick and light like a cat. I freeze. Someone is here.
Instinctively, I reach for my gun, then remember that I no longer have one. I start to straighten, but before I can fully stand, hands grab my throat, close around it.
A man, I can tell, from the size and strength of the grip. My mind reels back to the nighttime confrontation at Embankment in London a few weeks earlier, Sebastian’s hands pressing hard on my carotid artery as he tried to strangle me.
Desperately, I lurch backward, feeling for my attacker’s instep. Caught off guard by my movement, he loosens his grip. I pull away and he falls into me, his weight heavy on my back. We hurtle forward together, and as we crash toward the ground, I see the corner of the desk rising up to meet me. I try to raise my hand, but before I can shield myself, my head crashes into the hard wood, exploding with searing white pain.
For a second I am too stunned to move. Then I bring my hand to my throbbing temple and blink several times, willing the bright spots to clear from my eyes. The man lies heavy on top of me. Inhaling a mixture of aftershave and sweat, I remember his hands around my throat.
Panicked, I scramble to get out from beneath him. Weight lifts off me as he rolls away. I struggle to sit up, and as I do, a wave of recognition washes over me. Lying sprawled across my legs is the man from the café.
What is he doing here? I wonder whether he could possibly live in the apartment, too, if he perhaps attacked me thinking I was a burglar. I try to come up with a plausible explanation as to what I am doing, why I have broken in. But he does not seem to be angry or even interested. Instead, he stands up, eyes darting between me and the doorway, contemplating the best way to flee. No, he doesn’t belong here anymore than I do. He must have followed me.
“Wait,” I say as he starts for the door. Though my initial instinct is to get as far away from him as possible, my curiosity wins out. Why would he attack me one minute, then flee the next? He stops, turns back. “What are you doing here?”
“I could ask you the same thing,” he replies evenly, his English accented. “The balcony is a most interesting entranceway.”
We stare at each other awkwardly. “I saw you earlier at the café across the street,” I offer, rubbing the spot on my forehead where a lump has begun to form.
“I was read
ing the newspaper and having a coffee. People do that.”
“You were pretending to read the paper,” I correct. “But you were really watching this building. Now you’re in an apartment that isn’t yours, knocking strange women unconscious.”
“You don’t belong here, either. And you startled me coming in that way.” Despite the situation, his tone is challenging, a refusal to back down. But he still hasn’t explained what he is doing here, or why he tried to strangle me. “I didn’t mean for you to fall and hit your head,” he adds, a hint of remorse creeping into his voice. “I was just trying to put you out long enough for me to get away.” Put me out. Nice. “Are you all right?”
He takes a step toward me and I rear back. “Why are you following me?” I persist. He opens his mouth but before he can answer, I raise my hand. “Don’t deny it. Just tell me who you are working for and what it is that you want.”
The man hesitates and his expression is so sincerely confused that for a moment I wonder if I am wrong. “I’m not following you.”
Middle Eastern, I decide, listening to the thickness of his vowels. “Then what are you doing here?”
“The woman,” he replies. “The one you were watching from the café. You followed her into the apartment building.”
He had noticed me also. My surveillance skills really must be getting rusty. I open my mouth to deny that I was following Nicole. Then, remembering where we are, the fact that I just broke in, I realize it is futile. “Yes,” I admit. “I’m looking for the woman who lives here. I spoke to her earlier but then she took off, and I don’t know where. I was searching for clues.”
“As was I.”
So he is following Nicole, too, or so he claims. But how did he get in here? And why? He could be trying to find Jared, I remind myself, and not for good reasons. “She’s gone,” I reply.
“I know. Any idea where?”
I shake my head. “I saw her for a second at the airport.” I feel foolish admitting that I got that close and let her slip away. “I don’t know where she was going, but she had a passport,” I offer.
He waves a hand. “This isn’t the States, where people show a driver’s license at security on their way to Disneyland. Everyone in Europe travels with a passport.” His tone is dismissive and condescending, causing me to instantly dislike him. At the same time, I am relieved that he thinks I am just another bumbling American. He does not seem to know who I am or the kind of work I have done. “Anyhow, it’s just a few kilometers to the border. She could have been traveling by bicycle and odds are she would have been going somewhere international.”
I decide to ignore his sarcasm. “Now why don’t you tell me . . . ” I begin. I stop again, noticing a folded paper in his right hand. “What’s that?”
He looks at me evenly. “And why, exactly, should I tell you?”
I falter, searching for an answer. He has a point. “Because we both seem to be searching for the same thing,” I reply, changing tactics, recalling the skills that I used to persuade foreign agents to work as assets for our government. The key was always to establish common purpose. “Maybe we can help each other.”
He purses his lips, causing dimples to appear in his right cheek and chin. “Maybe. I guess that depends on what we are looking for and why. Something, I think, that neither of us are prepared to discuss here. Why don’t we talk about it over dinner tonight?”
“No,” I blurt. “I mean, I don’t know you. You just attacked me, for God’s sake . . . ”
“How about drinks, then?” he persists.
I stare at him in disbelief. The nature of the social occasion is not really the issue here. Anyway, I don’t have time. I have to find Jared.
“Like you said, maybe we can help each other. You don’t have any idea where to find this woman,” he continues. “I am, as they say, your best lead.”
“No thanks,” I reply firmly. I have no intention of spending any more time with this man who just attacked me.
His shoulders lower slightly and he reaches into his pocket, pulls out a piece of paper, and scribbles something on it before handing it to me. “Call me if you change your mind.”
Then, before I can respond, he turns and walks from the apartment.
chapter FOUR
A HALF HOUR LATER I enter my hotel room and throw myself across the bed, still shaken from my encounter with the man in Nicole’s apartment. I lingered only for a minute after he left, rifling through the wastebasket but finding nothing. Then I left hurriedly, fearing that someone might have heard the commotion, and I took an indirect route back to the hotel in case the man decided to follow me. But I had seen no sign of him. Who was he, and what did he really want? Perhaps he was, as he said, just looking for Nicole.
My temple begins to throb. I need to take some aspirin before this thing turns into a full-blown migraine, and I know better than to do that on an empty stomach. Eyeing the room service menu that sits on the night table, I pick it up and flip quickly through, cringing at the higher-than-expected prices, the exchange rate that is so much worse than I remembered. I can feel my bank account back in Washington beginning to creak under the weight of my newfound independence.
Not that money has ever been a comfortable subject for me, I muse, as I set down the menu and rummage through my bag for the half-eaten package of crackers I stashed there yesterday. Growing up, I didn’t give much thought to whether we were rich or poor—we lived in a modest but comfortable subdivision outside town where one house was indiscernible from the next, and I wore the same sturdy, nondesigner clothes from discount stores as most of the other kids at my public school.
It wasn’t until I got to college in Washington and found myself living among classmates with foreign cars and elaborate stereos in their dorm rooms that I first understood the different financial strata. I quickly became self-conscious about my own lack of means. In the end, the struggle was a good one: I worked at part-time jobs at law firms and think tanks that exposed me to the vibrant political side of the city instead of joining a sorority and drinking at parties. But there was always a sense of being chased, searching for the cash machine that would let you withdraw a ten dollar bill instead of a twenty, consulting the checkbook before agreeing to split a pizza. Only later at Cambridge, living on a generous graduate fellowship, was I able to blend in among the wealthy students and be free from those worries.
The State Department had proven to be a good deal financially, too—with my housing costs covered overseas, I paid no rent for most of the past ten years, which enabled me to sock away a small nest egg, even on my modest government salary. But the eight months I spent in Washington before being reassigned to London had been pricey, the steep cost of living eating into my savings.
And now I have no income at all. For the first time in years, the specter of financial trouble comes crashing down upon me. How long will my savings last, and what will I do when the money is gone?
I lift the engagement ring, which now hangs from a white gold chain around my neck. As always, my heart quickens. I could pawn it, live off the money for weeks or even months. I considered the idea on my way back to the hotel, going into a store that bought jewelry and antiques. But I’d lost my nerve, instead buying the chain to hold the ring.
Studying it now, my desire to find Jared is stronger than ever. But how? I reach into my bag and pull out the cell phone. I hold it in my palm, contemplating. I need another lead. There has to be something I can do, someone I can ask for help. For a minute I consider calling Mo, raising the stakes of our bargain, demanding more information from her in exchange for my continued silence. But I don’t want her to know that I have come up empty so soon after starting out on my search, and I doubt she has anything else to tell me, even if she wanted to help.
The Director, I think, seeing his thinning hair and Coke-bottle glasses. Paul Van Antwerpen was my other mentor at State, one of the most senior intelligence figures in government. An image pops into my mind of the last time we m
et, when I stormed into his office a few weeks earlier, demanding to be reassigned from Washington to London to be near Sarah. He seemed genuinely surprised, not at my desire to leave the prestigious assignment as his liaison to the National Security Council (he knew I belonged overseas), but at the request of a post I had always avoided.
What assignment had he planned for me next, I wonder, if I hadn’t insisted on the transfer to London? He would have known, of course. Van Antwerpen was like a great chess master, thinking a half dozen moves ahead, months or even years down the line, his strategy calculated but malleable in case contingencies changed the options or objectives. Though I fancied myself a key piece on his chessboard, I am certain that when I took myself out of the game to be with Sarah, he would have simply used another piece for his next move. Yet despite the cool, professional distance Van Antwerpen kept, I always knew I could count on him if I were in real trouble. But I had resigned, left the Department without so much as a phone call. No, contacting him is out of the question now.
I need help. There has to be someone else I can call.
Lincoln, I think suddenly. His smiling brown face pops into my mind. Lincoln Heller was in my A-100 class, the group of new officers with whom I’d entered the Foreign Service almost a decade ago. We spent nine weeks together in an orientation consisting of lectures on everything from surviving a motorcade ambush to working a room at a reception. Our group of thirty new recruits, ranging from young people just out of college to older folks pursuing second careers, had bonded well despite our diverse backgrounds, cooking meals at one another’s apartments, taking weekend excursions to sites like Gettysburg and Shenandoah. And most of us had stayed in touch over the years while scattered across the globe on various assignments.
Lincoln had been part of our A-100 class—except that he actually hadn’t. On the first day, during an icebreaker exercise where we had to interview the person seated beside us and introduce him or her to the group, he revealed to me that he was in fact CIA, the first of several operatives I’d meet using State Department as a cover. His identity was soon shared with the class, kept a trusted secret by all of us.
