A Hidden Affair

by Pam Jenoff

  He holds out the bottle and as the man reaches to take it, Ari grabs for me. But the man tightens his grip, drawing the knife closer to my neck, ready to finish this once and for all. I close my eyes, bracing for the pain.

  “Enough,” a familiar voice calls from the bridge. The man’s grip suddenly loosens, his arms going slack. Surprised, I open my eyes, look up in the direction of the voice.

  And suddenly I recall where I have heard the name Ella before.

  Above us stands Signor Conti.

  What is he doing here? “It’s all right, Kristof,” Signor Conti says, coming down to the deck. “There’s no need to be uncivilized. Let her go.” The man releases me and I scurry toward Ari, who stands motionless, too surprised to move.

  “Signor Conti?” Ari asks, his face a mask of confusion and disbelief. “I don’t understand.”

  Signor Conti must have been behind this all along, I realize, the pieces coming together. He was the one who had sent the men to destroy the wine. And he must have somehow fed Ari the bad information about Nicole’s whereabouts through a third party—he sent Ari to the Mafia stronghold in Zante town deliberately. But why? Because for some reason, he wanted the evidence of Mercier’s treason destroyed. And now that we had seen him here, he would want us gone as well.

  “Ari . . . ” I warn, trying to convey the urgency in my voice. But Ari still watches Signor Conti blankly, unable or unwilling to see the betrayal of his longtime friend unfold before his eyes.

  Signor Conti advances toward us and takes the bottle from Kristof, who does not protest. “And the knife, please,” he says, his voice cajoling. Kristof hands the knife obediently to Signor Conti, who turns it around.

  Then, in a single, smooth gesture, Signor Conti slits the other man’s throat.

  I stifle a scream as we are sprayed in blood. Kristof clutches his neck and falls to the deck, bright red gurgling from the wound through his fingers.

  Signor Conti releases the knife, which clatters to the deck. Then he steps over the dying man toward Ari. “It’s all right, my boy. I came to help and thank goodness I did. I wanted to save the wine from these men, the same as you.”

  Ari’s eyes flicker as if, in spite of everything, he still wants to believe the older man. “He’s lying,” I call out. Both men turn to me. “He sent the men who were trying to destroy the wine.”

  “Is that true?” Ari asks.

  I watch as Signor Conti wrestles with attempting a denial, then decides against it. “You are correct, my dear,” he says, as calmly as though we were sampling wines over breakfast at his home once more. “The woman is both smart and beautiful, Aaron. You should keep her.”

  “Enough.” Ari tries to sound commanding, but his voice wavers. “Tell us everything.”

  Signor Conti’s shoulders slump in resignation. “Ella. I did it for her.”

  Ari’s brow wrinkles. “I don’t understand.”

  “When I heard that the wine had resurfaced, I knew it was just a matter of time before it was connected to her family and the truth saw the light of day. I couldn’t bear to let my darling Ella go through the humiliation.”

  Ari and I exchange puzzled looks: Signora Conti’s family had perished because the wine disappeared. How could its reemergence possibly be harmful to her?

  “I only have a few months to live, you see.” He coughs, as if to illustrate his point. “I wanted to take care of this for her once and for all.”

  “But what about my grandfather?” Ari demands. “The debt?”

  “Your grandfather helped my family and for that I will always be grateful. But that was many years ago. He’s gone . . . and I have to put my Ella first. I never anticipated you becoming involved, though. You’re a good boy and I’m sorry it’s come to this.”

  A light dawns in Ari’s eyes as he finally understands the full extent of the older man’s betrayal. “It’s over, Signor Conti,” Ari says calmly, taking a step forward, respectful even now. “Give me the wine.” He moves slowly but swiftly, not wanting to startle the old man and provoke him into dropping the last piece of evidence.

  “Let it go, my son,” Signor Conti says, using his cajoling voice once more. “What good is there in stirring up the past? Just let this go. Then you and your lovely lady friend can walk away.”

  Ari glances at me out of the corner of his eye, as if weighing Signor Conti’s promise, debating whether even after this the old man might possibly be as good as his word. But he cannot leave us alive now that we know the truth about his wife’s family. He will have to kill us to keep her secret safe. “Don’t do it, Ari,” I say.

  Ari grabs the bottle of wine, trying to pull it from Signor Conti’s grasp. But the older man holds on with surprising strength, clutching the bottle close to his body. Then with his other hand, he reaches inside his jacket. “Gun!” I cry.

  But he draws out something small and round. A grenade, I realize as he pulls the pin. If he cannot escape with the wine, then he means to destroy it here—and take all of us with him.

  “No!” Ari shouts, lunging for the grenade. Signor Conti raises his hand, pulling it out of reach. As he does, the bottle of wine flies from beneath his arm, sails over the side of the boat. “Jordan . . . ” Ari cries, still struggling to get to the grenade.

  Suddenly it is as if everything is happening in slow motion. I look hesitantly from Ari to the wine, then back again. My first instinct is to keep him from going after Signor Conti, to pull him away from the grenade to safety. But even as I think this, I know that I will not be able to prevent him from trying to stop the old man, that he would want me to go after the wine instead.

  I run to the side, scanning the surface. The bottle is about ten feet from the boat, drifting out to sea, and in a few seconds this lone piece of evidence will be gone forever. I search the beach for Nicole, hoping that she might have come after us, despite Ari’s instructions, and can help me retrieve the bottle. But she is not there.

  I take a deep breath, then climb over the side of the boat and jump in, trying to ignore the icy water as it soaks through my clothes. I concentrate instead on not flailing, but moving my arms and legs smoothly in what I imagine to be a treading motion, struggling to keep my head above the rough surf. Fighting the urge to look back at Ari on the yacht, I try to swim in the direction of the wine.

  I reach the bottle, grasp at it, but it slides away, bobbing a few feet out of my reach. Panting, I start after it again, holding it firmly by the neck. Then, using only my free hand and swimming better than I thought I could, I start back toward the boat.

  A second later the world explodes.

  There is an enormous bang, followed by searing white heat as I am thrown backward by the force of the blast. Instinctively, I plunge beneath the surface, the water now a refuge from the shower of debris raining down upon me. Salt water floods my nose and mouth. I flail, all pretense of technique gone, desperately reaching for the daylight. Then I break through the surface and gasp, my lungs filling with thick black smoke. The yacht is gone, except for a skeletal shell and splintered wood across a wide swath of water.

  Ari, I think, panicking. I scan the debris but do not see him.

  “Jordan!” a voice calls. I turn to see Ari, swimming toward me with long, sure strokes. I manage to tread until he reaches me, then I collapse into his arms.

  “Signor Conti?” I ask.

  “Gone,” he replies with a shake of his head, gesturing over my right shoulder.

  “I had the wine,” I begin apologetically. “But then there was the explosion and it floated away. Maybe there’s another way. I mean, I could testify that I saw it . . . ”

  But he brings his lips fully to mine, silencing me. A second later, he breaks away, smiling.

  “What?” I demand.

  He points over my shoulder. Ten feet away, wedged between two pieces of floating debris, is the final bottle of wine.

  chapter TWENTY-ONE

  AN HOUR LATER we round the corner and the cottage comes
into view. Jared is standing on the front porch, hand shielding his eyes from the sun as he scans the horizon. He sees us, breaks into a run. But when he nears he rushes past, seemingly not seeing me, and I am reminded of my dream of him on the bike, riding through me like a ghost. He sweeps up Nicole and Noah in a single gesture, spinning them around and drawing them close, a family reunited.

  I turn away, an intruder in this private reunion. Ari comes up from behind and though he does not touch me, I can feel his breath warm atop my head.

  I look up at Ari and we stand facing each other awkwardly. So he really was working for the right side. I had been so scarred by the past that I was ready to leap to the conclusion that I was being betrayed again. This time, I was not.

  But I still have questions. “Why didn’t you tell me?” I ask.

  “I couldn’t. At first, I didn’t know whether or not you could be trusted. And later . . . ” He bites his lip. “Well it seemed like I had waited too long, kept something from you that I should have already shared. Plus I knew you had issues with Nicole, because of Jared. I wasn’t sure how you would react to knowing that she and I were related—or to the fact that I was working for Mosaad.”

  I consider his response. Part of me is still hurt that he hid these things from me. It’s what we do, I remind myself. Working in intelligence, secrets are our medium, the currency in which we trade. I would have done the same thing. “It’s okay,” I reassure him.

  “Really? Because when you left, I thought . . . ” He does not finish the sentence.

  “I know.” He is trying to say that he thought it was over, that I was gone forever. “So did I.” I want to ask if he was planning to come after me, or whether he would have just let me go. “When I found out that you had lied to me—”

  “I didn’t,” he interrupts. “That is, I tried to tell you as much of the truth as possible—that I was working for someone who wanted to find Nicole, and that it had to do with the wine. I just couldn’t tell you all of it.”

  “Were you always Mosaad?” I ask.

  “No, I really was in the army. After the school bombing, they sequestered us for several weeks. First, they debriefed us, then later warned us to keep silent about what had happened. The story hadn’t leaked to the media and they said if anyone found out, we would be tried as criminals. The stress was too much for me to take. I was depressed and I wound up in a facility for several weeks.” I can tell from his expression that he is still ashamed of what he regards as a sign of weakness.

  “Shortly after I got out, two high-ranking officers came to me. They said that because of what had happened, the career I dreamed about in the military was out of the question. But I could be trained in intelligence. At first I said no; I wanted to go home to my family. Then the ordnance exploded, killed my wife and daughter. I had nothing. So I agreed.”

  My breath catches. “You don’t think that they . . . ”

  “That the government killed my family to isolate me, so I’d have no choice but to work for them? I suppose in the early days I wondered. But I’m not that much of a conspiracy theorist. I mean, it was so random . . . there’s no way they could have done that, right?”

  He’s asking the wrong person. There’s no limit to what I believe a government could or would do anymore. But of course I cannot say this to him. “So you stayed.”

  “Yes. They trained me in special operations. I’ve worked all over the world since, training paramilitary squads, undertaking assignments. The things I’ve done . . . ” He looks away. “I thought I had no choice.”

  There’s always a choice. But I understand what he means. When you’re alone, the mission becomes your purpose in life, covers up the pain.

  “What I told you about my leaving the government was true—I did retire from Mosaad last year,” he says, eyes haunted by the memories. “I couldn’t take it any more. The work was tearing me up and I could feel the depression coming back, breaking through the numbness. I knew if I kept going I would wind up sick or dead. So I left, spent some time on the water just sailing and trying to figure things out. Then a few months ago, when I was docked in Sicily, I was approached by the agency.”

  That sounds familiar, I think, recalling my own encounter with the CIA agent in Vienna. I should tell Ari about that, and I will, when the time is right. But I don’t want to interrupt him now.

  He continues, “They asked me to come back inside, to take on this one last assignment. It wouldn’t have normally been my area of expertise, but because of my connection to Nicole, I was a natural fit. They needed me because I was the only person who could get to her and persuade her to turn over the wine.

  “I didn’t want to do it, but I understood the importance of the mission. I said no, but they offered me a staggering sum to do this, many times more than what I normally got paid. I told myself that this was the last time. I thought I could bank the money and walk away forever.”

  Except you can never really walk away. The things we have done are so much a part of who we are. They change our shape, make us unable to fit in with the rest of the world.

  “And I was worried about Nicole,” he adds. “What might happen if they sent someone else to try to persuade her and she refused to cooperate.”

  I see how the pieces must have come together for him: a challenging mission, handsome compensation, and the chance to keep Nicole safe. “What about me?”

  He shifts uneasily. “The fact that we met in Monaco wasn’t exactly a coincidence. Our government had picked up some intelligence about your assignment in London, the fact that you left your job. We knew that Jared and Nicole were connected and thought that you might be able to lead us to them since I didn’t know their exact whereabouts. I never counted on this, though.” He waves his hand between us and I know that he is referring to the unexpectedness of our feelings for each other.

  “But . . . ” I falter, caught somewhere between anger that he had not been honest and surprise that he has acknowledged his feelings for me. “Okay,” I say finally.

  His face relaxes slightly. “So you understand?”

  “I don’t know if I understand everything. But I accept it.” I shift uneasily. “What happens now?”

  Before he can answer, Jared and Nicole break from their embrace, carrying Noah between them as they had in the photograph on their mantelpiece. “Jo,” Jared says. My mind reels back to the previous night at the cottage, our almost-kiss. I glance at Nicole, catching the expression of angst that flashes across her face, and I can feel her measuring me with her eyes, assessing what happened while she was away. Then the look is gone, so quickly that I am certain no one else noticed. She blinks dismissively, drawing Noah closer to her.

  “Are you okay?” Jared asks.

  I look down, remembering that Ari and I are covered in the blood of the man Signor Conti killed on the boat. “I’m fine,” I reply quickly. “It isn’t my blood.”

  “Jared,” Ari says, extending his hand, but Jared does not shake it. Instead, he stares at Ari, jaw clenched. He’s angry, I can tell. For a moment I wonder if it has to do with me, the history I share with both men. But it’s more than that: Jared holds Ari responsible for jeopardizing his family’s safety, still unwilling to see Nicole’s part in the affair.

  Noticing the exchange, Nicole puts her hand on Jared’s arm, communicating with him silently, soothing him as I cannot. Reluctantly, Jared shakes Ari’s still-outstretched hand.

  “Come to the house for a meal,” Nicole says.

  “We should get going,” Ari demurs.

  But Nicole persists. “Some coffee, at least.”

  “I don’t know . . . ” Ari looks at me, questioning. The idea of the four of us sitting down together seems unbelievably awkward, but it will buy more time before I have to say good-bye to Jared. I shrug. “All right,” Ari replies, too polite to refuse.

  We walk in silence back to the cottage. “I’ll join you in a second,” Ari says, pulling his phone from his pocket and stepping around t
he side. I know that he is checking in with his agency, reporting that he secured the wine.

  Inside, I retrieve my bag from the bedroom where I left it earlier, then go into the tiny bathroom, cleaning up the blood and dirt as well as I can. Back in the main room, Jared talks on the phone in a low voice. Nicole is preparing a plate of salted fish and meats, more artfully than Jared had done with the previous meal.

  A few seconds later Jared hangs up the phone. “That was Myron,” he says to Nicole. “He and Eleni are fine.” Then he turns to me. “Our friends who were watching Noah. They were found tied up in their cellar but unharmed.”

  “That’s great news.”

  Ari returns and we sit at the table as Nicole and Jared move around the small kitchen in the easy, familiar way of a couple used to sharing a space, speaking in low voices and laughing. Noah plays at his parents’ feet, seemingly unaffected by the earlier trauma. Ari drums his fingers on the table, watching. It must be such a painful reminder of his own daughter. I can think of the child I gave up, imagine what he or she would have been like. But for Ari there are memories of smiles, a warm body that he held.

  I reach down, taking his hand beneath the table. “I’m sorry if this is hard for you,” I whisper.

  His face clears as he realizes I am watching him. “Do you like children?” he asks.

  “Yes.” I bite my lip. “I don’t know, though, if I could ever have my own.”

  “Why not?”

  “I think that ship has sailed. No pun intended.”

  “You’re not too old,” he presses.

  “I know,” I say, hearing the sharpness in my voice. For a minute I consider telling him about the baby I gave up but now, with Jared just a few feet away, is not the time. “I’ve always lived such a solitary, selfish life,” I offer instead. “Moving from place to place, doing what suited me. The thought of having someone constantly dependent upon me is terrifying.”

  “You can’t picture yourself doing it, but once you have you can’t imagine life otherwise,” he replies. “My daughter was the most wonderful thing in the world. How she looked at me, the way she saw the world. But to lose that . . . ” He shudders, not finishing the sentence. I squeeze his fingers harder in my own.