by Pam Jenoff
“But Maureen just said…”
“Maureen said we had to terminate the official investigation. She didn’t say anything about looking around on our own.”
“That’s not a valid distinction and you know it.”
“I know that Maureen Martindale is a pit bull. And that, regardless of politics, she wants us to find the company that is laundering for the mob.”
“All right, show me,” I relent, my curiosity winning out.
He stands and gestures for me to come around the desk where a laptop is open. “Something doesn’t add up.”
I take the still warm seat, studying the spreadsheet displayed on the monitor. Sebastian leans over my shoulder, closer than is necessary, the inside of his bicep pressing against my shoulder. “Infodyne, as you know, is a huge conglomerate. We have to look at the various businesses, try to identify any suspicious patterns to see where there might be layering, or placing of cash that doesn’t belong.”
I shake my head, studying the endless columns of figures. It might as well be Latin. “I don’t understand,” I say, turning toward him. Our faces are just inches apart now, his breath warm on my cheek.
He smiles. “You really were a liberal arts major, weren’t you?”
Before I can answer, the door to the office flies inward and Sophie’s blond head pops around the corner. “Sebastian, I…” Then, seeing me, she hesitates. “Oh, hello.” She clearly expected to find him alone.
Sebastian straightens. “I was just showing Jordan the financials on Infodyne.” As he pulls away, I exhale. I’ve really got to get a grip on this. “It’s a little hard to scroll through, though.”
“Maybe this will help,” Sophie replies, passing a sheet of paper across the table. It is easier to comprehend than the data on the computer screen, neat columns of dated transactions, like a bank statement. “I ran the report through the anti-money-laundering program developed by Treasury, applying a number of different criteria, link analysis, time sequence matching.” I look up at her impressed. I’m not familiar with the technical aspects of money laundering, but I know from departmental cables I’ve read that the types of programs she’s describing are cutting-edge, among the most sophisticated tools our government has at its disposal for this kind of thing. She continues, “Most of the businesses check out. But there is a subsidiary based in Glasgow, which is supposedly an import-export company. On the surface, the books look legit. There are cash inflows and outflows, payments and accounts receivable.” She pauses to point across the desk to a row of numbers with manicured pink nails. “But when you run the analysis, there’s a series of irregular wire transfers, made from two banks, one in Geneva and one in Dubai, every other week for months.”
“What does that tell us?” I ask.
“On its own, not much.” Sebastian runs his hand through his hair. “It’s possible that those are legitimate transactions.”
“Possible but unlikely,” Sophie adds. “We need to verify the transactions, find out who the money is coming from, whether actual services were provided for the money paid or if it’s all fictitious.”
“How do we do that?”
“Infodyne is publicly traded and there’s lots of filings and shareholder information still to dig through,” Sebastian replies. “And I can circle back with some of my banking contacts too to see if they have anything else. Of course the quickest way would be to get a source on the inside at Infodyne. But I’m not sure that we can do that anymore without triggering attention.”
“And it would help to know the real reason the Infodyne investigation was terminated,” Sophie adds.
“Unfortunately, that’s an easy one,” I reply. Quickly I tell them about Jared and my trip to Cambridge. It is the second time in an hour I have recounted the story and the words roll off my tongue more easily now, though my voice still catches whenever I say his name. As I reach the part about his death not being an accident, Sophie’s eyes grow large. “It’s all my fault,” I finish. “I had no idea that Lord Colbert was linked to Infodyne. I don’t even know how he knew I was investigating the company.”
“It’s spilled milk, Jordan,” Sophie says.
“Nothing to be done about it now,” Sebastian agrees. “If anything, your conversation with Lord Colbert may have helped us.”
“Helped? I don’t understand.”
“The fact that Infodyne was such a hot button with Lord Colbert likely means we’re on to something.”
“Infodyne is our most promising possibility. So we…” Sophie hesitates, looking up at Sebastian. “We think that we should all concentrate on Infodyne.”
We, I think, watching Sophie’s cheeks grow pink. Does she have a crush on Sebastian? “So you intend to go after Infodyne? I mean, the financial analysis is one thing, but you’re planning a full investigation, despite a direct order to the contrary from Maureen not an hour ago?”
“Despite that,” Sebastian answers firmly. “Or maybe because of it. You know Maureen; she would be going after Infodyne herself if she wasn’t caught up in the high-level politics. And asking her to give us the go-ahead would only implicate her if anyone found out.”
Sophie leans forward. “What do you think?”
I look from Sophie to Sebastian, then back again. “I think it’s a bad idea. Crazy even. We’d be violating a direct order.”
“I’m wondering what it is you’re afraid of.” Sebastian’s words, a challenge, stop me cold. Am I becoming one of those spineless bureaucrats I have always despised, more concerned with procedure and protocol than the mission, too afraid to take risks? If so, it is time to hang it up. Fear is what gets you killed in this business.
“All right, I’m in,” I declare. “Let’s go after Infodyne.”
“I thought you might say that.” Smiling, Sebastian reaches into his desk drawer and pulls out a file. “I’ve run profiles on the board and senior officers and other key players at Infodyne. There’s nothing obvious on the surface, of course. But Sophie and I will split the list, find out where they came from, run the vulnerability profiles.”
I nod. Vulnerabilities are anything that could make a person an easy target for blackmail or manipulation, such as a drug problem, financial troubles, or secrets he or she did not want revealed. “And of course we’ll keep running down the other companies on the list, to be sure we aren’t missing anything,” he adds.
“What do you want me to do?” I ask.
“Get back in touch with Duncan Lauder. Ask him about the wire transfers, see if you can get anything more based on the new information we’ve obtained.”
I agree, though as I picture Duncan’s pale, pinched face, I am certain I will get no further. I need to figure out a way, too, that I can reestablish contact without the news getting back to either Maureen or Lord Colbert. But I do not want Sebastian to accuse me once more of being afraid. “I’ll try.”
“We can do this, you guys,” Sophie says. “I know we can.”
She sounds like a high school coach in a sports movie. But for a second, part of me almost believes her. I stand up. Then, reaching the door, I stop again, turning back. “Just be careful,” I caution. “We’re going out on a limb here, without departmental knowledge or approval. There’s no safety net if anything goes wrong.”
chapter ELEVEN
I SHIFT THE GROCERY bag to one hip and twist the doorknob to Sarah’s apartment with my free hand. “Hello?” Receiving no response, I slip inside and close the door behind me. “Wait ’til you see what I’ve…” I pause. The room is empty and nearly dark, except for the computer monitor left on at the desk in the far corner. The smell of unwashed breakfast dishes hangs heavy in the air. “Sarah, where are you?”
“Here,” comes a muffled voice from the hallway beyond the living room. Alarm rising in me, I drop the bag and race toward the sound. Sarah is lying facedown on the bathroom floor, her legs sprawled out into the hallway.
“Sarah!” My heart stops. Somewhere in the deepest recesses of my mind I
know that Sarah’s illness is terminal. And I am no stranger to death—I lost Jared, a few colleagues at State. But seeing Sarah like this now, realizing that someday I could find her like this, only gone for good, brings her condition home in a way I am not ready to comprehend.
“What happened?” I ask, moving around the wheelchair that blocks my path. I kneel down and gently grasp her by the shoulders, turning her over. Closer now, there is a sour smell, as though she has soiled herself. “Are you okay?”
She exhales, brushing her bangs aside with her good hand and gesturing with her head toward the shelf above the sink. “The nurse forgot to leave my medicine where I could reach it. And silly me, I thought I could manage.”
The nurse only came in the mornings. It is almost seven now. How long has she been lying here? The nagging guilt I’ve felt for not spending more time with her since arriving breaks wide open. I am, I decide, the worst friend in the world. I pull the wheelchair closer. “Are you hurt?”
“Just my pride.” She’s light as air, I realize, as I lift her back into her chair. I pull the medicine bottle from the shelf above the sink and hand it to her. She gestures toward the toilet with her head. “If you can give me a minute…and maybe some fresh clothes.”
I walk farther down the hall to where it ends at a small bedroom, just big enough for the twin bed and white dresser. I open the top drawer and pull out fresh underwear, then move down, finding a fresh t-shirt and blue sweatpants in the lower drawers. As I straighten, I notice a small framed photograph amid the clutter of pill bottles and crumpled tissues. Sarah and me in long, flowery dresses. A garden party, I realize, picking it up; one of the rare social occasions when Sarah joined us. We traipsed through town from one college fete to another, drinking Pimm’s with lemonade and champagne, basking in the sunlight. I study our bronzed, smiling faces. Could those smiling, healthy girls possibly be us?
Setting the photograph down, I carry the clothes back to the bathroom and hand them to her. “Can you manage?” She nods and I notice for the first time the thick metal bars fitted at waist height along the walls. She must not have been able to reach them from the floor to pull herself up. For a minute I consider staying with her while she changes but I do not want to insult her pride. “I’ll be just outside.”
“Wait in the living room,” she instructs firmly. I close the door behind me and reluctantly walk away, listening as I retrieve the grocery bag in case she needs help.
“So what did you bring?” Sarah asks brightly, wheeling herself back into the living room a few minutes later. Her face is freshly washed, hair brushed. As if she had not spent the day on the bathroom floor, I think, my heart breaking once more. I walk to the grocery bag, which I’d set on the kitchen counter. “Well, we can go old school.” Forcing myself to sound cheerful, I hold up a DVD of The Princess Bride. “Or really old school.” I pull out Casablanca. “We have not one but two bottles of wine. And”—I shake the box of pasta—“I’m cooking!”
“Pesto?” I nod. “Ugh!” Sarah groans, then laughs. Pasta with stirred-in pesto was my staple meal at college, and my culinary skills have not improved since. “Then I definitely need some of that wine before we eat.”
Thirty minutes later I carry two steaming plates of green-colored penne to the living room, the smell of basil and pine nuts tickling my nose. “So how’s the job?” Sarah asks as I set a plate before her, arranging the condiments on the low table so they are within her reach. I refill our wine glasses, then put Casablanca in the DVD player and press play. The movie will be nothing more than a backdrop for our conversation, I know. We’ve both seen it so many times that neither of us will mind.
“Job’s fine.” I take a sip of wine, debating how much to say. My instinct has always been to tell Sarah everything, but my assignment is classified and she is still a foreign national. “Mo’s great as ever, though she seems to have a lot on her mind these days. But my team…” Sarah cocks her head as I pause to take a bite of pasta. “I’m working with a junior officer who looks and acts exactly like Lucy McFadden.” The comparison is probably an unfair one, given what Mo told me earlier about Sophie’s credentials, but I know that my reference to the posh, vacuous student whose father sat in Parliament will give Sarah an immediate image. “Except that it turns out she’s annoyingly smart. And a Scottish liaison who thinks he is God’s gift. He walks into a room…”
“Looking as though he already shagged everyone in it?” she finishes, taking a bite of pasta.
“Exactly!” It is an old joke between us. My shoulders slacken as I take another sip of wine. It feels good to laugh with Sarah like we did years ago, as if nothing is wrong. But everything is different now. I know then that I have to tell her. “There’s something else.”
Noticing the change in my tone, Sarah’s face blanches. It is the look of a woman who has gotten used to bad news, who is bracing herself for the worst. “What is it?” Her fork hovers midway between her mouth and the plate, trembling.
“Everything’s okay,” I reply quickly. “It’s just that I learned some new information about Jared.”
Sarah’s brow furrows. “I don’t understand.”
“How he died.” I begin telling her what has happened, more slowly and in greater detail than I had with Mo or the others at work, starting with Chris’s note. At the mention of the reporter’s name, her mouth puckers slightly. Sarah never liked Chris. She found his brash, energetic style overwhelming—putting them in the same room was like letting a Great Dane puppy run amok in a china shop. “So I met him for dinner and he told me that he didn’t think Jared’s death was an accident.”
“What an awful thing to say to you,” she replies quickly, and I can hear the protectiveness in her voice.
“But the thing is.” I pause, setting down my fork. “I think he could be right.”
“Jordie…” Sarah is using her gentle, patient tone, the one she saves for when she thinks I am being foolish.
“No, really. We went to see the coroner at Addenbrooke’s and she told us—”
“You went to Cambridge?” she interrupts. “When?”
“Friday. I meant to tell you when I was here at the weekend.” I stare hard at my plate, feeling strangely defensive. “Why?”
“No reason.” But her answer comes too quickly, her words pinched. Is she angry? She’s jealous, I realize. She never thought I’d go there, but if I did she wanted to be there with me, by my side like she used to be.
“Anyway, the coroner told us…” I swallow, still having trouble saying the words. “She told us that Jared didn’t drown.”
“Didn’t drown,” Sarah repeats slowly. “How is that possible?”
“He was already dead when he hit the water. Chris is convinced that Jared was murdered.”
She takes a small sip of wine. “And you?”
I hesitate. “There doesn’t seem to be any other explanation. I want there to be, but nothing seems plausible. I’m having a hard time accepting it, though. I mean, I’m not naive, I’ve seen plenty of death in my line of work. But Jared? Who would want to kill him? That something evil could have happened there, of all places. It’s just unbelievable.”
“It wouldn’t surprise me,” she replies. I cock my head. “I’m not talking about Jared, of course,” she adds quickly. “But at college generally.”
“Really? Foul play at Cambridge?”
“Makes perfect sense. Look, the place has been turning out world leaders, captains of science and industry, for five hundred years. With all that money and power, there’s bound to be a few dark secrets.”
“Oh, come on! Maybe some duke put arsenic in some prince’s port a million years ago, but murder? In our time?”
“All I’m saying is that I wouldn’t be shocked.” she insists.
I take another bit of pasta. “The Master, it seems, would disagree.”
“Lord Colbert? Is that old bufty still kicking around?”
I nod. “We went to Formal Hall with him and Lady
Anne.”
“Formal Hall? Good God, Jordie, next you’re going to tell me you took a spin down the river and played table footie in the bar just for old times sake. You really have jumped back in with both feet, haven’t you?”
“No…” I start to protest, then stop, considering. For years I avoided even the slightest thought or mention of Cambridge. Now, back only a few days, I am completely immersed. “Anyway the Master went apoplectic when we started asking questions about Jared’s death.”
“I’m sure he doesn’t want you stirring all of that up, tarnishing the college image again. Plus he’s probably afraid of what else you might find.”
I open my mouth to tell Sarah the real reason that Lord Colbert was jumpy, then close it again quickly. Infodyne is part of my investigation, off-limits. “I think my two coworkers have the hots for each other,” I offer instead, changing the subject abruptly.
“The princess and God’s gift?”
I nod. “She was making eyes at him the whole time during our meeting this afternoon. And he didn’t seem to mind.”
“Did you?” Sarah asks. “Mind, I mean?”
“Not at all!” I reply quickly. “I mean as long as it doesn’t interfere with our work…” She shoots me a knowing look. “No, I’m not jealous of Sophie. Sebastian’s attractive and he did kind of hit on me the other night, before I knew we were working together. But he’s arrogant and we’re on assignment and…” Hearing myself babbling, I stop. “She can have him. Really. It’s just that, I don’t know…For the past ten years, being on my own has been normal. Now, being back here…”
“Reminds you of how alone you are?” I do not answer. She continues, “It’s understandable. You deserve someone wonderful.” So do you, I want to add. Sarah has been on her own for as long as I’ve known her. Once, years ago, she wrote to me about a brief affair with a man in Paris who I suspected was married. But other than that she has always been alone. And now with her illness, her chances of ever having a relationship seem nonexistent. “What about Chris?” she asks.