by Pam Jenoff
I scan the list. About halfway down the page, I stop. “Duncan Lauder,” I read aloud, a shiver of recognition running through me.
“Yes, he’s finance director at a company called Infodyne. It’s the British subsidiary of a large American company. And it has a significant portfolio of interests on the Balkan peninsula, which raised a red flag.”
I nod, seeing him in my mind. Duncan was a lanky rower at Downing, one of Lords’s rival rowing colleges. His relationship with Vance Ellis, a talented actor, was one of the worst-kept secrets in Cambridge. “I know Duncan from college. Do you think he’s involved in all this?”
“Not necessarily. He was just identified as a potential informant,” Maureen replies. “How well do you know him?”
“Well enough to reach out to him.”
“Okay, you can cover Duncan.” I look at the paper again, my skin prickles. Duncan Lauder. How odd. This is England, I remind myself. So much smaller than America. Sarah used to say, only half joking, that two British people meeting on the street of Bangkok could invariably trace mutual friends back to the same sixth-form college in Surrey.
There is a click at the entrance to the Bubble and Ambassador Raines appears in the doorway. As he surveys the room, I fight the urge to sink lower in my seat. “Ambassador,” Maureen says, clearly caught off guard by the interruption. “I was just briefing the team on the Albanian investigation.”
He does not answer. His eyes flick coldly in my direction and I brace myself, waiting to be rebuked for my behavior at the reception. But he looks away dismissively and turns toward Mo. “I need to see you as soon as you’re done here.”
“Right away, sir,” Mo replies nervously. She has spent her career dealing with senior officials. What is it about Raines, I wonder, that makes her so ill at ease?
After the Ambassador leaves, closing the door behind him, Mo clears her throat. “All right, let’s wrap this up.” Ten minutes later we have covered the rest of the people of interest, Sophie and Sebastian dividing the names among them. “Now I want you to listen to me,” Maureen says, her voice turning grave. “You need to be careful on this assignment.” She pushes a button on the laptop and the list disappears from the screen, replaced by a gritty black-and-white photograph. I squint, trying to make out the image. Across the table I hear Sophie gasp. It is a naked woman, lying on the ground, dark, gaping holes where her eyes, breasts, and genitals once were. “This was taken in Tirana two weeks ago. One of our local assets.” Maureen pauses, letting the image sink in. “Don’t be fooled by the fact that we are in England. This assignment is every bit as dangerous as Bogota or the Sudan. The Albanian mobsters are ruthless and they will kill anyone who gets in their way. The people who we are going after aren’t playing games, and they have everything to lose. I want you to be careful…and get the job done.”
I stare at her, surprised. We’re in London; it’s hard to believe things could get that dangerous here. But Mo is not one to be overly dramatic. I understand now why she made sure I had my gun. She presses another button and the screen goes dark. “Okay, we’ll meet back here same time next week.” She closes the computer and the screen retracts back into the ceiling. “Unless something comes up that one of you needs to discuss before then. If so, you can call my private line.” She hands us each a small card containing her number, as well as the cell phone numbers for Sebastian, Sophie, and me. “Don’t go through Amelia. She’s a nice woman, but she’s not cleared for this. Jordan, political is on three. If you check in there at some point, Bob Maxwell will show you to your desk.”
I nod. The desk is a formality; Mo knows that I almost always work from the field. “Thanks,” I reply as she starts for the door. For a minute, I consider following her, taking her up on her earlier offer of coffee. There is much that I want to ask her about the assignment out of the earshot of the rest of the team: What is it, exactly, I am meant to be learning from Duncan? How probable is the Infodyne connection relative to the other companies that are being investigated? Our meeting was brief, the information unusually thin. But she is already through the door of the Bubble. Sophie follows close on her heels, leaving Sebastian and me alone. I stand and pick up my bag and coat, not looking up at him.
“Nice seeing you again,” Sebastian says, coming to my side.
I look up, eyeing him coldly. “You knew last night, didn’t you? That we would be working together, I mean.” He does not answer. “Why didn’t you say anything?”
He hesitates. “I was going to at first. But then you ran out of the reception. And afterward in the park, you were so upset that, well, the timing just didn’t seem right.”
But it was right enough to kiss me, I want to say. Or at least not to stop me from kissing you. I am staring at his lips, I realize. I look away, feeling the heat creep up from my collar. “I don’t like to be played, Sebastian.” He opens his mouth but I raise my hand, silencing him. “This is bad. Mission teams are built on trust.”
“I’m sorry.” His eyes are wide, like a little boy reproached. “Let me buy you a drink after work to make it up to you.”
I hesitate, unprepared. Is he seriously asking me out? “I have plans,” I reply, remembering Chris’s note.
“Tomorrow then.” It is more a challenge than a question. My anger rises, eclipsing attraction. Is he so arrogant as to think his charm can erase the fact that he duped me?
“Sebastian, we’re colleagues. Let’s just leave it at that.” I turn and walk quickly from the Bubble, hoping that he didn’t see me blush.
chapter FIVE
IT IS NEARLY dark as I make my way past the closing shops of Fleet Street, buttoning the top of my coat against the chilled air. The pavement, still damp from the earlier rain, is sour with rush hour exhaust fumes. A group of barristers, gowns folded over their arms, walks ahead of me, discussing a case in self-important tones as they turn into a narrow cobblestone passageway.
I gaze up at office buildings that rise several stories on either side of the street. A yellow light burns behind a third-floor window. I imagine a reporter, clacking away at an old typewriter, working on a big story for tomorrow’s press. Most of the newspapers are no longer located on the famed thoroughfare, having relocated to Wapping and other more spacious and economic locations. But I cannot help but wonder if Chris’s office is nearby. Chris. I stop, seized by the urge to turn back toward the Tube station. Running is pointless, though. He will find me, whether I appear for dinner tonight or not.
Steeling myself, I continue walking. As I round the bend at Fetter Lane, Saint Paul’s comes into view, its massive dome bathed in light. Excitement rises in me. The cathedral was one of my most beloved childhood images of London as a child. When I climbed its steps for the first time, I half expected to see the old woman from Mary Poppins selling bags of birdseed for a tuppence. Chris once teased me about my sentimentality over what he called “a silly children’s film.” Still, perhaps he purposely chose our meeting place so close to the cathedral, since he knows how much I loved it.
Still staring at Saint Paul’s, I press forward and turn onto Pilgrim Street, stopping in front of the address on the invitation. The Malta is a wine bar, crowds of well-heeled young bankers filling the front window. My shoulders slacken slightly with relief; maybe Chris just intended a casual meeting after all. The people look so different than in America, I think, as I make my way through the clusters of patrons that spill out onto the sidewalk. The complexions are paler, the teeth more askew. People here always seemed less focused on physical appearance, more at ease with themselves. It is, I suspect, part of the reason that I used to feel so at home.
Inside the dimly lit bar, jazz music plays from an unseen piano. I scan the room, searching unsuccessfully for Chris’s blond head above the crowd. “Excuse me,” I say, squeezing past two young women, trying to reach the hostess stand that is wedged into a corner by the window.
A hand grabs my elbow. I jump and spin around. Chris towers above me in a gray sport coat. My
breath catches. I had planned a witty greeting: “Oh Captain, my Captain.” It was an old joke between us, a reference to our shared love of Walt Whitman, and Chris’s leadership of the boat club. But standing here, I am struck dumb. The memorial service, I think, remembering the last time I saw him. From my hiding place in the back of the college chapel, I watched him and the six other boys seated in the front row, heads bowed. There was an empty place beside him intended for me. But I fled before the service began, unable to bear hearing the hymns and platitudes that were so inadequate for my grief.
“Chris!” I gasp finally, more air than voice.
He stares down at me, as though making sure I am really there, then bends and kisses my cheek stiffly, his scent a mixture of damp wool and Burberry. “Come on then,” he says, his posh accent thicker than I remembered. Still holding my arm, he guides me expertly through the bar, his broad shoulders seeming to part the dense crowds by will alone. At the rear of the room, he opens a door and gestures for me to go up the narrow marble staircase on the other side. Uneasiness rises in me as I climb, the noise of the crowd below fading. At the top of the stairs there is another bar, empty except for a handful of men puffing cigars around a snooker table.
I steal a hurried glance in the mirror above the bar. There was not time to go home and change after work, but I hoped to at least be able to freshen up before seeing Chris. I turn to ask him if he knows where the ladies’ room is but before I can speak, a hostess appears. “Mr. Bannister, your usual table is ready if you would like to be seated.” She turns to me. “Take your coat?”
I hesitate, not ready to give up this layer of armor. “I’m still a bit chilly, thanks.”
A private club, I realize, as the hostess leads us across the bar to an elegant dining room. I remember hearing of such places when we were at college, though I have never been in one. They were the province of the students from wealthier families, the ones who spent winter breaks in Nevis, Easter holidays in Gstadt. I imagined such places to be formal and stuffy. But the furniture here is sleek, the décor modern. A Coldplay song I cannot name plays in the background.
The hostess leads us to a secluded corner table by the window. Chris pulls out my chair and I sit down awkwardly, conscious of his presence, the way he hovers a second too long behind me as though afraid I will flee. Forcing myself to breathe normally, I look out across the restaurant, concentrating on the other patrons. They are almost all young and impeccably dressed. As we sit, I recall reading not long ago in The Economist about the new generation of rich twenty-something Londoners who made their fortunes in investment banking and private equity. I feel out of place, a civil servant who does not belong here. I look across the table at Chris. Surely journalism does not pay this well. His family, I recall vaguely. Chris always liked to play the rebel, but his father was chairman of some large company. The stories of his family home in Kent, with its horse stables and indoor pool, were legend.
A waiter appears, filling our water glasses with Pellegrino. “What are you drinking, red or white?” Chris asks.
I shrug, taking off my coat and putting it on the back of my chair. “I don’t mind.”
“Why not one of each?” I wince inwardly. I can no longer drink as we did in college; even the small amount of wine at the reception the previous night left me rough around the edges. Chris orders two bottles by name without looking at the wine list, an Australian sauvignon blanc and a Chilean pinot noir. I study him out of the corner of my eye, taking in his strong jawline, the fullness of his lips. He was always striking; more handsome, many would say, than Jared, at least in a conventional sense. He does not, I think now, look English at all. His blond hair and bronzed skin are more Los Angeles than London, his broad, muscular build better suited to American football.
He turns back to me and I shift my eyes quickly, gazing just over his shoulder. “You’ll love the food. Ever since the new chef arrived, it’s been top-notch.” The words tumble out on top of one another. He’s nervous, too, I realize with surprise. I try to remember seeing him anxious before but cannot. My insides soften. Chris was always a great guy, the loyal friend I could call in the middle of the night if I was locked out of the flat or the computer crashed. Almost a male version of Sarah, at least in that respect. It is silly to be afraid of him now.
He is staring at me. “You look lovely, Jordie.” I hesitate, caught off guard by his abruptness. My mind races. Is that what this is all about? Has Chris contacted me simply for a date? That would be a little direct, even for him. There was always a kind of base physical attraction between us, but he could not possibly imagine, after all that happened…“I didn’t mean,” he continues. “That is…” He clears his throat.
“It’s fine,” I say quickly, looking away.
The waiter returns with the wine bottles, holding them out for Chris’s inspection. He pours a small amount of the red into Chris’s glass and the white into mine. I sample the wine and nod. “Excellent,” I say, pretending.
“I’ve ordered the chef’s tasting menu,” Chris says as the waiter finishes pouring. His voice is normal, as though the previous moment had not transpired. “You have to request it when you book because all of the ingredients are flown in fresh. It’s bloody fabulous, the best meal in town.”
And the priciest, I am certain. “Sounds great,” I reply, my hopes of a quick getaway fading. I notice then how the azure blue of his shirt matches his eyes perfectly.
“So…” Chris says, when the waiter has left us alone once more.
I stare at the tablecloth, fighting the urge to play with the silverware. “So.”
“What brings you back to London after all these years? Work, is it?”
I look back up at him. “I thought you would know.” I can hear the bite in my voice. “I mean, you knew I was back, practically before I got here. You knew where I was living.”
“I have my sources,” he jokes. Then his expression turns serious. “I’ll admit, it was all a bit cloak-and-dagger.”
“Especially the part where you appeared at the Ambassador’s reception,” I reply tersely. “Then vanished again.”
“You saw me,” he says, a note of surprise in his voice. I nod. He looks away, not speaking for several seconds. “I’m sorry about that,” he says at last. “I wanted to talk to you, but I lost my nerve. I didn’t know how you would, that is, if you would…” Now it is his turn to look away. “I’m glad you’re back, though.” The waiter returns with a basket of warm bread and sets down two starter plates in front of us. “Cheers,” he says to the waiter, then turns to me. “Toro tartare.”
I look down at the molded pink lump of tuna, ringed with seaweed salad. I’m wary from past experience of eating raw fish in foreign countries. But Chris is watching me expectantly so I fork a small amount, dip it in the wasabi sauce. It is surprisingly fresh, with a faint ginger flavor. English food has come a long way in ten years. “So, how’s life been treating you?” I ask, eager to change the subject.
Chris shrugs. “As well as can be expected. I’m still with The Times. They forced me to come home to a bureau position a few years back. It’s a desk job, but at least they allow me to do the stories I want.”
I nod, understanding his restlessness, the need to keep moving to stay two steps ahead of the ghosts. Then I hesitate. “And Caren?” I picture the tall, brown-haired girl who tried so hard to win Chris’s affections, to be there for him after everything that happened. “I mean, now that you’re settled back here, I thought maybe…”
Chris shakes his head. “All over long ago. Remarried to an insurance broker. Has a little girl.” He delivers the news in short staccato bursts. “I ran into them once in the West End. Seems like a nice enough bloke. I’m happy for her. Caren is great. It was me who couldn’t adapt.”
She didn’t have a chance, I think. I notice the faint lines in his brow, the puffiness beneath his eyes. An aged movie star. “Maybe you’ll meet someone else.”
His laugh has an edge of bit
terness, his expression a cynical one I’ve never seen him wear. “Not likely. As a friend of mine once said, I think marriage is a great institution; everyone should try it once.” His eyes dart to my left hand. “And you?”
“Never married. I’m still pushing papers at State.”
“Hardly!” Chris exclaims, his tone light once more as he attacks his plate. “I’ve caught glimpses of your exploits on the wire. You were in Liberia, weren’t you?” I nod. “I saw a photo that one of our guys took there and recognized you in the background,” he adds, sounding as though he needs to explain. “He confirmed it was you.”
“I was there.” I choose my words carefully. Chris is still a foreign national, and a journalist at that. “When all hell broke loose, it turned into a rescue mission.” My collarbone begins to throb, as it always does when Liberia comes up.
Chris whistles. “That couldn’t have been easy.”
“It wasn’t. I lost a friend.” In my mind I see Eric’s unmoving back on the ground, growing smaller as the helicopter rose. We did not receive official word for almost two days, but in that moment I knew he was gone. First Jared, then Eric. Are all of the men I get close to doomed to die young?
“I didn’t know. I’m sorry.” Me too, I think. For Eric, and all of the people there we weren’t able to help.
We finish our appetizers in silence. Chris pours more white wine into my glass before I can protest. A server clears the plates and a minute later the waiter returns with two covered dishes. He removes the lids simultaneously to reveal the main course, shrimp in a light batter, surrounded by a thin, raw-looking meat. “Rock shrimp tempura with Kobe beef carpaccio,” he announces.
“The new surf and turf,” Chris jokes after the waiter walks away. “Absolutely brilliant.”
I smile, then reach for a piece of bread to quiet my stomach, still gurgling in protest from the tartare. “So who do you still keep in touch with from college?” I ask, suddenly hungry for news.
