I put the cell phone back in my bag. Sarah’s skepticism at my quest echoes back at me. What am I doing here? I hopped on a plane at a moment’s notice, driven by impulse and an address where someone claimed to have seen Jared once in the near past. Hardly the solid lead or thorough investigating my training as a State Department intelligence officer had taught me to rely upon.
I reach for my bag once more and pull out the file Mo gave me to recheck the documents, to see if there is anything I missed. The envelope with the traveler’s checks slides out with it and as I start to return it to the bag, I feel something hard inside. I turn the envelope upside down and a ring tumbles onto the bed.
I pick it up hurriedly, recognizing it at first touch. It is an engagement ring, the one Jared had purchased but never given to me. I found it in the bank vault in Cambridge when I was searching for clues about his supposed death. At first, I thought it was just sentimental, evidence that his feelings for me had been deeper than a college romance, that we might have had a life together if given the chance. It was not until Sebastian confronted me that final night by the Thames and demanded I give the ring to him that I realized the truth—Jared had left it behind as a message, engraved inside with the bank account number that would lead me to the information he had hidden.
I study the ring now, puzzled. What is it doing here? I turned it over after the police came to apprehend Sebastian, knowing that it would be an important part of the investigation. I can’t imagine the strings Mo must have pulled to have it released from evidence and sent to me, further proof of her repentance for what she had done.
I turn the ring over in my palm. It is a simple white gold band, a single perfect stone. Exactly the style I would have picked, one that would feel more like a part of me than the jewelry I seldom wore. But beyond the physical beauty, it is all that the ring represents—the life that Jared and I might have shared, the promise unfulfilled—that takes my breath away.
I hold the ring a moment longer, contemplating what to do with it. I don’t feel right wearing it on my finger; after all, Jared never actually proposed. But I would like to keep it close and safe.
I tuck it away in my pocket, turning my attention to the file. I’ve been through it all a dozen times, of course, at Heathrow before my flight took off, on the plane, and again when I arrived here. There isn’t much to it, just a few intelligence reports as to Jared’s whereabouts over the years. Putting them in chronological order, I can trace a vague path of where he had been: in Buenos Aires about six months after his purported death in 1998, then Belize and Chile and Paraguay. There seems to be gap of a few years before he turned up again in 2003, this time in Zimbabwe. Was he just moving around to avoid being caught or was there something more? What had he done for work, for money?
There are a handful of photographs as well, grainy black-and-white images either affixed to the photocopied reports or freestanding. I fan them out across the bed, studying the images. Most are of a Jared I do not recognize, with longer hair and a thick beard, often wearing sunglasses or a cap pulled low at the brow. But there is a picture, the one I had shown to the blond woman, of Jared on a crowded street, where he is clean shaven, his face exposed. I run my hand over his cheeks, his haunted eyes. Is he as afraid now as he looks in this photograph?
Holding it closer, I notice for the first time that there is something on his shoulder, close to his neck. A hand. I scan the image of the crowd behind him. Though it is out of focus, I can make out a woman peering over his shoulder. My breath catches. Her hair was shorter and her eyes eclipsed by sunglasses, but the shape of her chin is unmistakable.
It’s the blond woman from the apartment. The one who said she had never seen Jared.
I sit up, my suspicions confirmed. The woman was lying. She was with him when this photograph was taken. Confronted with the image, she won’t be able to deny knowing him. Grabbing my bag, I jump up and race from the hotel room, the photo still clutched in my hand.
On the street, I retrace my steps hurriedly. The address Mo gave me is proving to be a good lead after all. Perhaps Jared is even here in Monaco. I stop, nearly thrown backward by the thought. Doubtful. If he had been at the apartment, he surely would not have remained hidden from me. Maybe he is close, though, somewhere in this very city.
I start walking again, fighting the urge to break into a run. When I reach the block where the apartment building is located, my eyes flick toward the café, then down the street in both directions, searching for the man I’d seen earlier, checking if he has returned. But he isn’t there.
I hurry to the door of the apartment building and scan the buzzers, too impatient to wait for someone to open the door this time. Boucheau, the name beside the bottom button reads. Is that the blond woman? I press the button twice quickly, holding my breath as several seconds pass. Hearing no response, I push the button second from the bottom, marked with the name Martine.
The speaker beside the buttons crackles. “Oui?” The voice is female, but deeper and too old to be the same woman I met earlier.
I hesitate, disappointed. Perhaps it is the bell for another apartment. But it doesn’t matter; I just need to get into the building. “Delivery,” I say, crossing my fingers. There is a pause and then a click as the door unlocks.
Breathless, I climb the stairs to the top floor and knock at the apartment door for the second time today. There is a heavy shuffling sound on the other side, growing louder. My heart pounds. Those could be a man’s footsteps . . . perhaps even Jared’s.
But the door opens and a stout, white-haired woman in a housekeeper’s work dress appears. “Oui?” she says again. She wipes her hands on her apron, then holds them out expectantly for the delivery.
I take a deep breath, hoping she understands English. “The woman who lives here . . . ” I raise my hand to my own dark locks. “Blond?”
The housekeeper’s forehead wrinkles and she shakes her head, not understanding. Then I remember the photograph I am holding. “Her.” I hold out the picture and point. The woman’s eyes flicker with recognition. “Is she here?”
She chews on her lip and for a minute I wonder if she will try to lie as well. “Nicole?”
Now the blond woman has a name. “Oui, Nicole.” She looks over her shoulder and I hold my breath, waiting for her to step aside and summon Nicole to the door.
But she shakes her head again and raises her arms, flapping them as though flying. Then she points to the sky, managing a single word in English: “Gone.”
chapter THREE
GONE?” MY VOICE rises with disbelief.
The housekeeper’s eyes narrow, her face suspicious. “Excuse me,” I say, forcing a smile and trying again. “I’m a friend of Nicole’s and she mentioned she would be home today.” Her expression remains unchanged. “May I use the toilet?” Before she can answer, I slip past her, my gaze locking on the bedroom that occupies the left end of the flat. The bed is impeccably made but the rest of the area is a mess, doors of a wood armoire flung wide open, clothes hanging out of the drawers. I try to recall the flat as I’d seen it over Nicole’s shoulder earlier. It had been neat, no indication of such disarray. No, wherever Nicole went, she packed and left in a hurry.
I start toward the bed, ignoring the protestations of the maid behind me in French, presumably informing me that the toilet is at the other end of the flat. Studying the mess, my mind races: Where had Nicole gone? But the strewn clothing, arbitrarily scattered, offers no clues.
I step back, exasperated. Something dark catches my eye, sticking out from beneath the bed. I kneel down. It is the toe of a man’s brown oxford.
“Oh, grandmother,” I mutter, pulling out the shoe and holding it up. “What big feet you have.” The shoe is a size eleven—Jared’s size.
Easy, I think. There’s no telling if it is Jared’s shoe, or how long it has been lying there. I set it down and stand up, then turn back to face the maid. “Where?” I ask, mimicking her flying gesture. But she stares back
mutely, either not knowing or refusing to say where Nicole has gone.
I walk to the bathroom at the other end of the flat and close the door. Inside, the sink has been swept clean of all toiletries, but the hand towel is damp and freshly used. Continuing my charade, I flush the toilet before stepping out of the bathroom, scanning the room once more for clues. Nicole could not have gotten too far. Without speaking further, I walk quickly from the apartment.
Outside, I turn right and race toward the taxi stand at the corner where the street intersects with a larger thoroughfare. I climb into the backseat of the first awaiting cab, which is clean but smells faintly of stale cigar smoke. “Côte d’Azur Airport, please.” It is a calculated risk, assuming that Nicole really was planning to fly somewhere, as the housekeeper said.
As we pull out into traffic, I sink back against the seat, my mind racing. Nicole disappeared, not an hour after I confronted her. Maybe her trip was planned. But the woman I saw, carrying groceries into the apartment, gave no indication of an imminent journey. No, her hurried departure was almost certainly a result of my conversation with her. I wonder where she is going, whether Jared will be waiting there for her when she arrives.
Forty-five minutes later, we near the airport. Traffic slows as we approach the terminal, a line of cars and vans snaking their way beneath the DEPARTURES sign. Hurry, I think, digging my nails into my palms, willing the queue to move more quickly. The air is warm and thick with exhaust fumes.
The driver glances in his rearview mirror, asks me something in French. I shake my head. “Terminal One?” He points to the building closest to us. There are two terminals, and I have no idea from which Nicole might fly.
“Oui,” I say, resigned. I have a fifty-fifty shot at being right.
Finally, we reach the curb and I pay the driver and leap out, weaving through a group of Japanese tourists clustered around a guide. Inside, the terminal is modern, walls of large paned glass, a ceiling of exposed steel beams. Business travelers toting laptop cases and compact rolling suitcases scurry in all directions, passing the young backpackers who lounge on benches and on the floor against the walls. Over the loudspeaker a woman’s voice announces flight information in French, then English, last call for a plane to Amsterdam.
I search the terminal. Where is Nicole? With her head start, she could already be boarding a plane, or even gone by now.
Across the concourse, my eyes lock on a blond head bobbing through the crowd, a woman moving toward the security checkpoint. I begin pushing my way toward her but as I draw closer, the woman half turns and I can see that, although well preserved, she is about three decades too old to be Nicole.
Pausing, I contemplate my next move. I need to get past security to the gates and that will require buying a ticket to somewhere in order to get a boarding pass. I scan the ticket kiosks, starting toward the far end, where the lines appear to be shortest.
I approach the Air France counter. The woman looks up. “Oui?”
“A ticket . . . to Paris,” I say, trying to come up with the least expensive destination. “One way.”
The woman clacks at her keyboard for several seconds. “Seven hundred twelve euros,” she says finally.
My eyes widen. I had not anticipated spending so much money on a plane ticket I wasn’t even going to use. But I have no choice. As I reach for my wallet, I remember the photograph of Nicole, still clutched in my hand. I smooth it and hold it up to the woman behind the desk. “Have you seen her?”
Her eyes flick to the photo, then back to the computer screen, and she shakes her head. “Or perhaps you can look her up for me,” I say, seizing the idea. “Her name is Nicole . . . ” I stop, realizing I do not know Nicole’s surname, then decide to take a chance on the name I saw on the door buzzer. “Martine. I need to know her destination.”
The woman looks up, visibly annoyed. “I can’t do that. A passenger’s information is private.”
“But . . . ” I notice then a young baggage handler behind the counter, watching us out of the corner of his eye.
“Do you want to purchase the ticket or not?” the clerk asks impatiently.
There’s no point in buying a ticket, I decide, without knowing Nicole’s destination or even which terminal she is departing. “N-no, thank you.” I step aside, looking once again at the baggage handler, who has moved several feet to the right but is still watching me out of the corner of his eye. I inch my way through the crowd to the end of the row of kiosks, my gaze locked with his. A minute later he sidles toward me, holding out a bag. “That’s not mine . . . ” I start to say, then realize he is pretending to help me.
His eyes dart in both directions. “You are looking for someone?” he asks in accented English.
I nod, holding up the photo. “Have you seen this woman?”
“Two hundred euros.”
I hesitate. I’m loath to spend more of my quickly disappearing cash, but if this man can really tell me where she’s going, it will be worth it. I open my mouth to protest, then close it again and reach in my bag, hand him one hundred. “The other half after you help me. The name is Nicole Martine.” He starts to type on the keyboard, then stops, looking up again. “If you could please hurry . . . ”
The man does not respond, but stares over my shoulder. My frustration grows. “Look, if you can’t—”
“There.” He nods and I follow his gaze. “Is her, no?”
At the far end of the concourse, smoothing her hair as she emerges from the ladies’ room, is Nicole.
I start after her, hearing the protestations of the baggage clerk, demanding the rest of his money, behind me. “Nicole!”
Seeing me, she stops, her hand suspended in midair. She glances over my shoulder, calculating whether there is an escape route, how quickly she can get away. Her face falls. “Jordan . . . ” There is a familiarity to her voice that tells me earlier today was not the first time she heard my name.
“You said you didn’t know him,” I say, blocking her path and holding up the photograph, now nearly a crumpled ball in my sweaty fist. “You lied.”
Several expressions seem to cross her face at once, surprise, denial, then finally resignation. “You would have done the same.”
I know then that Jared has told Nicole who I am, what we were to one another. Who is she to have his confidence and trust?
But there is no time for jealousy. Nicole is looking over my shoulder again toward the security checkpoint, clutching her passport with white knuckles. “Is Jared all right?” I demand. “Where is he? Can I see him?”
She glances in both directions and exhales sharply. “Jared’s fine,” she says in a low voice.
My heart leaps. Jared is fine. Alive. “Where is he?” I repeat.
“I can’t tell you that. But he’s nowhere near here. And if you care about him, if you ever cared about him, you’ll leave him alone.”
I watch in disbelief as she starts toward the gates, handing her passport to the security official and placing her bag on the conveyor belt. “Wait,” I call as she starts through the metal detector. She turns back. “Will you tell him, at least, that you saw me? I mean, that I’m trying to find him?”
A look I cannot decipher crosses Nicole’s face. Without answering, she spins and steps through the metal detector.
“Wait!” I cry, louder this time. But she is already on the other side, too far away to hear me even if she were willing to listen. I take a step forward, then stop again as she vanishes into the crowd. I’ll never get through security without a ticket and by the time I buy one, she’ll be gone.
I look up at the DEPARTURES board, scanning the flights bound for various points in Europe and North Africa. But there is no way to guess which one might be Nicole’s. I turn back toward the Air France counter, but the baggage handler has disappeared.
I hesitate, then start toward the door; leaving the airport means acknowledging that Nicole has gotten away, but there’s nothing more to be learned here. Resigned, I climb
into a cab and give the driver the address to the hotel.
As the taxi pulls from the airport, I gaze up at the sky, watching a plane ascend through a lone cloud. I imagine Nicole disembarking at some nameless destination to find Jared waiting for her, see her enveloped in Jared’s welcoming arms. My jealousy grows. Being reunited with Jared is my dream; the woman in the vision is supposed to be me, not her. Easy, I think. I do not know the nature of their relationship, whether they are involved.
I bring my hands to my temples, pressing against the pinch of a headache. My chase was not a failure in one respect: Jared is okay; Nicole had confirmed that much. But her acknowldgment that he is out there somewhere makes not being able to find him even more painful. The dull ache that has been gnawing at my stomach since leaving Mo’s office the other night seems to swell and burst open.
What now? My only hope is to go back to Nicole’s apartment, see if I can learn anything more from the maid.
When we pull up in front of the apartment building, I pay the driver and step out onto the street. The sun has dipped behind the tall buildings, and the palm trees silhouette coolly against the pavement. Across the street, the café is bustling now, filled with afternoon patrons. I scan the crowd, half-expecting to see the man sitting at the table behind his newspaper once more. But he is not there.
At the entrance to the building, I press the buzzer for Nicole’s apartment, hold my breath. A second later, I push it again, but there is no answer.
The housekeeper must have gone for the day. I lean wearily against the doorframe as the pinch in my temples swells to a throb. There is a slight creaking sound. Looking down, I see that the front door to the building is slightly ajar. Whoever left last (it could have been me, rushing to the airport) had not pulled the latch securely. This one break, the first I have had today, fills me with renewed energy.
I enter the building, take the stairs two at a time to the fourth floor, and knock on the door to Nicole’s apartment, listening for the housekeeper’s heavy gait. I rap my fist against the door, harder this time. My own knock echoes back at me, followed by silence.