A Hidden Affair

  He does not press further but slides the plate toward me, an offering. My stomach twists. Though I’ve been too nervous to be hungry since leaving London, I take an olive and a few nuts to be polite. Aaron helps himself to most of the remaining snacks, tearing into them as though eating a steak dinner. There is something about the abandon with which he eats that speaks to time spent in hardship, an unshakable sense of not taking food for granted, of eating what is offered when it is available for fear that there might be none later.

  Combat, I think suddenly. Though he hasn’t said what he did in the military, I sense immediately that he has seen conflict and that it changed him. In some ways, I can relate. I have not been to war, of course. But there’s something about having lived abroad, putting one’s life on the line in corners of the earth that most people never read or hear about, that changes a person.

  My mind reels back to my hospital stay in Washington last summer when I was recovering from the injuries I received in Liberia. There was a girl of seven or eight in the bed beside mine briefly who had been in a car accident, and I remember seeing her father use a latex hospital glove as a makeshift balloon, blowing air into it to form a chicken. It was a harmless gesture, designed to amuse the girl. But picturing the children in Africa who didn’t have clean water or bandages, much less surgical gloves, I found myself growing angry at the frivolous waste, at how easy it was for us to take the abundance in our lives for granted. I tried to explain my frustration to my visiting mother, who nodded sympathetically, but there was a blankness to her eyes. In that moment perhaps more so than any other I came to appreciate how much I had been affected by my experiences, how they had changed me in ways that those closest to me could never understand.

  Studying Aaron now, I suspect that he returned from war or some other military conflict as a misshapen peg, unable to refit into the life he left behind. Had there been someone waiting for him, trying to understand the changes?

  “I’m sorry I was late,” he says, interrupting my thoughts. I force myself to focus as he continues, speaking in between bites. “But I was busy confirming what I originally suspected: Nicole flew to Austria.”

  “Austria?” I repeat. I’ve assumed since leaving the airport that Nicole had fled to Jared, and when she said he was far away, I imagined Africa or South America, the remote locations that had given him anonymity for the past decade. Could he really be in Europe, somewhere so close? I fight the urge to leap from the chair and head to the airport immediately.

  “Yes. I’m not sure if that’s her final destination or just a transit point.” He has not, I notice, given me the city to which she has flown. Does he really not know, or is he being purposefully oblique?

  He continues, “She didn’t have a continuing plane ticket, at least when she left Nice. I’m going to head to Austria myself first thing in the morning.” He pauses, and I continue looking at him in a way that I hope will prompt further information. “You’re welcome to join me.”

  “Oh.” Surprised by his invitation, I push back from the table and stand. Why would he ask a complete stranger to travel with him? I take a step toward the edge of the veranda and gaze out across the water. Suddenly I am light-headed and warm. I lean forward, grasping the terrace wall.

  Aaron comes up beside me, moving with surprising agility. “Are you okay?”

  “Y-yes,” I manage, embarrassed, straightening as my head clears. “Just a bit tired is all.”

  He reaches toward my face abruptly and I pull back, startled. “Sorry,” he says, retreating. He gestures to his own head. “The lump—where you fell.”

  Where you pushed me, I want to say, but I do not. The earlier attack, and the ludicrousness of my being here with him, come rushing back. I take a step away. “It’s fine. It’ll be gone in a day or two.” I stare out across the water at the lights sparkling in the distance. The air is cooler now and a faint breeze blows across the terrace, carrying with it a whiff of something tropical and fragrant from the unseen gardens below.

  “To leave one’s job to find a friend,” he says softly, moving toward me again. “One must have a very good reason.”

  His voice is equal parts comforting and beguiling, beckoning me to speak. Yes, I think, as Jared’s face appears in my mind. He was the only man I ever loved. That is reason enough.

  My vision clears. I look up at Aaron, who is staring down at me intently, and for a moment I am seized with the impulse to tell him everything. But I cannot let my guard down. I swallow. “Speaking of reasons, you haven’t told me why you are searching for Nicole.”

  Now it is his turn to pause. “I’m working for a client who needs to find Nicole for reasons related to his business interests. I’m really not at liberty to say anything else now, but I’ll tell you more tomorrow—if you decide to join me.”

  “I don’t . . . ” I begin, then stop again, studying his face, wondering how much of the little he has said is true, what he is not telling me. Could he be setting me up, using me to find Jared like the others tried to do? But he stares out over my shoulder at the skyline, his expression blank, seemingly disinterested in whether I choose to go with him or not.

  I consider his offer. Traveling to Austria with a man I’ve just met, whose purpose I do not know, a man who attacked me just a few hours ago, seems absurd. And I’ve always preferred to work alone, an instinct that is stronger now than ever since I’ve been betrayed by the very few people I should have been able to trust. But while I don’t like the idea of going with Aaron, I’m not sure what I will do otherwise. I don’t have any other leads. And though I hate to admit it, I’m curious about Aaron—his reasons for wanting to find Nicole, his sources of information.

  Take the risk, a voice inside me says. In my intelligence work, some of the best leads I’ve ever followed were those based on instinct, even when it seemed illogical to my rational mind and other, more conservative officers thought I was crazy. But it was that willingness to take the leap that had given me my edge. Of course, a few times it had nearly gotten me killed.

  “Aaron . . . ” I begin.

  “Ari,” he corrects, cutting me off, instructing me to use the name reserved for friends. I notice again that he is standing closer to me than is necessary, gazing deeply into my eyes.

  I look away, my suspicions bubbling up anew. Why is he offering help? “You don’t know me, or why I’m trying to find my friend.”

  He flicks his hand dismissively. “Irrelevant. You have your reasons and I have mine. Whether we can help each other is the only thing that matters.” The waiter returns to the table with the check and Aaron leans over to sign it. “I have to excuse myself,” he says, his tone so businesslike I wonder if I imagined the intimacy a minute earlier. “The flight leaves tomorrow morning at seven ten on Tyrolean Airlines, should you decide to join me. And if not, it was a pleasure speaking with you.” Then, not waiting for me to respond, he stands and walks across the restaurant, leaving me to swim in a tide of confusion and intrigue in his wake.

  chapter SIX

  IT IS NEARLY six thirty as I make my way across the main concourse of Côte d’Azur Airport. Though not as busy as it was yesterday afternoon, the terminal is brisk with early morning business travelers talking on their cell phones into unseen earpieces, juggling briefcases and cardboard cups of cappuccino.

  I scan the ticket kiosks. At the far end sits a lone counter for Tyrolean Airlines. I walk to it, tapping my foot as the clerk serves the man in front of me. I glance at the clock on the wall above the counter; now that I have decided to go with Aaron, I don’t want to miss the flight.

  When the man shuffles aside, I step forward. “Jordan Weiss,” I say, handing the woman my passport. “There should be a reservation in my name.”

  She types on the keyboard. “Right here, Ms. Weiss. Any bags?”

  “No.” I pull my credit card from my wallet and hold my breath, wondering how much a last minute flight will cost, but she waves it away. “The ticket has been paid in full.”
She hands me a boarding pass. “You’re departing from gate twelve after you pass through security. The flight will be called at six fifty.”

  I pause, studying the pass. Vienna, I note. Had Aaron purchased a refundable ticket, or simply presumed that I would show? Despite my relief at not having the additional expense, I don’t like feeling indebted to anyone, especially a strange man whose motives are still unclear. But there is no time to worry about that—the flight boards in less than twenty minutes. I proceed toward the security line.

  As I shuffle forward in the queue, winding through roped stanchions toward the metal detector, my doubts about traveling with Aaron grow. I almost hadn’t come at all. When I woke up a few hours earlier, I saw his blue eyes and muscular forearms as he leaned across the table, asking me to join him. What was his real motive? I am sure he knew, as I did, that having someone else along when you are on the move can only slow you down. And it wasn’t as though I had any information that could aid his search for Nicole.

  I lay in bed, resigned to stay in Monaco and do some more investigating on my own. Just then my cell phone began to buzz. Picking it up, I saw that there was an unread email from Lincoln. Inside, he wrote no message but simply forwarded an attachment containing the profile information he found on Nicole Martine. I scanned the information hurriedly: twenty-nine years old, born in Lebanon. I would not have expected that, given her blond hair. An art dealer by profession, she had lived in Johannesburg, Belize, and Buenos Aires. Jared had lived in Belize, too, I recall. Is that where they met? Pushing my jealousy down, I moved to the next entry, a note that she was seen in Namibia in May 2004. I tried to scroll down but there were no further entries. It was as if since then she simply dropped off the map.

  I hit reply and jotted a quick note thanking Lincoln. Then, after a moment’s consideration, I sent him a second message, asking if he could run a report on an Israeli-American citizen named Aaron Bruck.

  I remained in bed for several minutes, studying the report on Nicole. If she was an art dealer, then it was plausible Aaron’s client was seeking her out for that reason—which meant that he was telling the truth when he said his interest in her was unrelated to Jared. And Lincoln’s report did not provide any additional recent information that would help me continue my own search for Nicole. Since I had no other leads, I decided to go to the airport and join Aaron on the flight. There was nothing to lose; if the trip proved to be a bad idea, I could always bail out after we arrived. So I quickly showered, then checked out of the hotel and made my way to the airport.

  Approaching the gate now, I spot Aaron sitting behind an open newspaper. His eyes peer over the top edge of the paper, and he pretends to read, as he had done at the café, while scanning the terminal. Is he looking for me? Maybe, but it’s something more than that, I realize: his gaze is animal-like, as though he expects to be attacked at any moment, even as he himself is searching for his prey. Is this, too, a relic from his military days? Or does it have something to do with his present work, his search for Nicole?

  Aaron sees me then and his eyes meet mine. “Good morning,” he says as I near. He refolds the newspaper and when he looks up his face is relaxed, no trace of his intensity a moment earlier. He is even more attractive this morning, I think, taking in his freshly shaven jawline before I can stop myself.

  “Cappuccino?” He picks up one of two cups from the seat beside him. “I bought an extra, in case you decided to join me.”

  I try to decide if the gesture is considerate or presumptuous. Choosing the former, I take the warm cup from him and take a sip. “Thanks.” It is unsweetened, I notice, but there are two brown packets of sugar and one artificial sweetener beside the cup, planning for all contingencies. “You paid for my ticket,” I blurt out. “That wasn’t necessary. I’ll reimburse you as soon as we reach Vienna.”

  He waves his hand, as though swatting away a mosquito. “Did you check your bags?”

  I pat my tote. “This is it.” He raises one eyebrow and for a moment I expect him to ask about my lack of luggage. Instead, he picks up his own coffee to clear the seat beside him for me and puts it on the floor beside a khaki rucksack. But before I can sit, a female voice comes over the speaker, announcing that our flight will board.

  The plane is a turboprop, a single row of beige leather seats running eight deep down either side. A handful of other travelers, mostly men in suits, are scattered throughout the cabin. I follow Aaron midway down the aisle, taking the seat on the right he indicates. As he stows his bag overhead and occupies the seat across from mine, I am oddly grateful for the few feet of space between us.

  “So,” I say a few minutes later, as the flight attendant completes the predeparture checks and we begin to pull away from the gate, “any idea where to look for Nicole when we get to Vienna?”

  “I have a few leads.” He does not elaborate. He is willing to have me along for the ride, but that does not extend to trusting me with information that I might take and use on my own.

  Neither of us speaks further as the plane taxis to the end of the runway and noisily picks up speed. I gaze out the window as the wheels lift from the ground. A moment later we clear the tops of the buildings and trees, and the shoreline becomes visible on the horizon. As we climb above the coastal mountains, a sharp breeze sends the small plane wobbling.

  Glancing at Aaron out of the corner of my eye, I am surprised to see that he grasps the armrests tightly, his face uneasy. “What is it?” I ask, turning to him.

  “Nothing.” But I hear him exhale slowly, as though counting silently to himself.

  “So about your suitcase, or lack thereof . . . ” he says a moment later, when we have risen above the clouds and the turbulence has smoothed. Inwardly I groan. I had hoped he would have forgotten. But he is focused, with a certain tenacity I recognize from myself.

  “I lost it,” I say vaguely, looking away. It is not exactly untrue. “Before I came to Monaco. I just haven’t had time to replace it.”

  “In the explosion at your flat?”

  I look back at him, stunned. I had not told him about that. “How did you know?”

  He shrugs. “You didn’t think I would travel with you without checking into your background, do you?”

  No, of course not. I had done exactly the same thing, or tried to anyway. “And?”

  “Jordan Weiss. Thirty-two, American, never married. You served the State Department in Warsaw, San Salvador, Manila.” He raises one eyebrow. “A really brief, poorly timed stint in Monrovia.” I fight to keep my face neutral. I’d been on the ground in Liberia less than two weeks when the coup exploded. “How am I doing?”

  Now it is my turn to shrug. The revelation that he has information on my background was not an accidental slip, but a power play, designed to let me know he has the upper hand. I won’t validate that further with a reaction. He continues, “You worked in intelligence, but your exact role with the government was a little vague. I say ‘worked’ because you aren’t on holiday or sabbatical. You quit, Jordan.” His voice drops with recrimination, whether at my resignation or the fact that I hadn’t been forthright with him, I cannot tell. “You asked for an assignment in London, and a week later you resigned.”

  My mind reels. How had he learned all of this? I’m not naïve—I understand that with the vast quantities of information available electronically, it’s impossible to keep quiet all but the most highly classified material. Still, the notion that my supposedly confidential background is so readily available gives me pause—and makes me question whether Aaron is really just the private investigator he claims to be.

  He continues watching me expectantly, waiting for my reaction. He’s a stranger, I remind myself; I don’t owe him any explanations. Our conversation is interrupted by the flight attendant coming down the aisle with a beverage tray. “I’m sorry I didn’t mention my resignation,” I say when she has gone again, leaving us with glasses of orange juice.

  “I’m not saying we have to tell each ot
her everything,” he adds. “But let’s keep what we do say true, okay?”

  Truth, I think. I’ve spent the past few weeks learning that I couldn’t count on the truth from those closest to me, that the past decade of my life has been premised on a lie. And yet this man who I’ve known for a day expects candor. My stomach twists at the irony. Still, he isn’t asking for full disclosure, just the absence of deceit. I struggle to find the flaw in his proposal but cannot. “Sure.”

  “You had such a promising career. I tried to find out why you left, but there was nothing.”

  No, they don’t put those kinds of things in files, not when the very reason for my leaving implicates those keeping the records. I imagine the entry: resigned after being deceived by ambassador and deputy chief of mission. How would the out-processing folks back at State code that one?

  Aaron is still watching me, his expression probing. But I’m not ready to tell him about Mo’s betrayal, the revelation that set me on this path. “Like you said, we don’t have to talk about everything, right?” He nods, acquiescing to his own rules.

  “Well, that is quite a dossier you’ve built,” I remark. I wish that I had heard back from Lincoln already, that I had some information about Aaron to level the playing field. “Surely there’s something more you can tell me so I’m not at quite such a disadvantage.”

  He averts his eyes, and I can feel him weighing how much to say. Then he leans back, lacing his fingers behind his head. “I told you quite a bit last night. I’m an only child; parents deceased. A year older than you,” he adds with a half smile.

  I am surprised; with his smattering of gray hair and the crinkles at the corners of his eyes, I would have put him closer to forty. “Married?” I ask, squirming inwardly at my own question.

  A shadow passes over his face. “I was. Her name was Aviva. We met when we were eighteen, wed within the year, and later had a daughter.” He pulls a snapshot from his wallet of a stunning, raven-haired woman with olive skin and luminous, almond-shaped dark eyes. On her lap sits a young child of two or three, a replica of her mother but for Aaron’s strong chin and full lips. “That’s Yael.”