A Hidden Affair

by Pam Jenoff

  But Signor Conti stands as Ari does, cutting off his wife. “Of course. If you’ll come with me for just a moment.” Ari follows him into the kitchen and I see them with their heads together, talking in low voices. Signor Conti is too much of a gentleman to whisper in front of me, but there are things he wants to say to Ari alone.

  Signora Conti and I look at each other awkwardly. “Ari, he is a good boy,” she offers. I smile and nod, uncertain how to respond.

  When the men return, Signora Conti hands Ari two bottles of wine. “I insist.”

  “Thank you.” Ari takes them and puts them in his bag.

  “Promise me you’ll stop back when all of this is over and you have more time,” Signora Conti says as she accompanies us to the porch. Her husband raises his hand, bidding us farewell from a distance. She kisses Ari on both cheeks before coming to me and doing the same as though, having shared a meal, I am family now. Then she turns and walks swiftly back into the house, closing the door behind her.

  “Well, that was interesting,” I say as we walk away from the farmhouse. “Pointless, but interesting.”

  “Not at all. I got exactly what I was hoping for.”

  I stop and turn to look at him. “Really, and what was that?”

  But he shakes his head. “Not here.”

  Fighting the urge to run, I follow Ari to the car in silence, then climb in. His movements, as he closes the door behind him, seem deliberate, infuriatingly slow, as if savoring these last few seconds of having a piece of information that I do not.

  “What is it?” I demand, unable to hold back any longer. “What did he tell you?”

  “Everything.” Ari starts the engine. “He gave me the precise location where we can find Nicole.”

  chapter ELEVEN

  NICOLE LIVES IN Greece?” I repeat a few minutes later, as we turn onto the main road.

  “Yes. Have you heard of Zakynthos?” He does not wait for me to respond. “It’s one of the Ionian Islands, off of the western coast of Greece.”

  “I thought he said Cyprus.”

  “That wasn’t accurate. And he said he wasn’t sure, which was also untrue. I think he was just nervous talking in front of you.” He pauses to navigate past some geese that have wandered into the road. “Anyway, he didn’t know her exact whereabouts, but the island isn’t terribly large, and with the information he had, we should be able to find her.”

  So he didn’t give you the precise location, I want to point out. But I do not. “How could he possibly know where she lives?” I ask instead.

  Ari shrugs. “Signor Conti is a well-known winemaker and he has contacts all over the world. It’s likely that they have mutual acquaintances.”

  “Or have done business together?”

  “I can’t see that. He’s too well respected to get involved with her kind of trade.”

  “You think his information is accurate?”

  Ari nods as he starts the engine. “I have to confirm that with my sources. But he seemed pretty certain, and I’ve never known him to be unreliable.”

  I stare out the window as we turn onto the main road, digging my fingers into the fabric of the car seat. Jared may be in Greece. I remember how surprised I was when Mo had given me his last known whereabouts in Monaco—I’d expected to have to search in South America or one of the other distant, exotic places where he’d been on the run this past decade. But Greece is just hundreds of miles from here.

  “What about the men who came to see him, do you think he gave them the information as well?”

  “I tried to ask him that, delicately, of course,” Ari replies. “He said no.”

  “Do you believe him?”

  “I think so. Conti’s a tough old man.”

  “He and his wife seemed scared, though.”

  “They did. But even if he couldn’t refuse them outright, I’m guessing that he would have told them as little as possible, or perhaps even thrown them slightly off course. Though if they do know Nicole’s whereabouts, they have a day’s head start.”

  I turn to Ari. “The story Signora Conti told us, about the wine and the Nazis, was quite remarkable.”

  “Few people know how significant a role wine played during the war,” he replies. “The Resistance used the wine cellars to store weapons and ammunition. Some Jews hid there as well. In at least one case, people were smuggled out of Germany in empty wine barrels. And wine shipments could often be a source of intelligence—by detecting where the Nazis were directing large quantities of wine, say, on the eastern front or in North Africa, it was possible to surmise that troops were amassing and an offensive was planned.”

  “Fascinating . . . but the fact that the wine might have been found. Did you have any idea?”

  “I was as surprised as you.” He does not take his eyes off the road. “But if that’s true, it’s one of a kind and extremely valuable.”

  “Do you think Santini’s men know?”

  “I’m not sure. Let’s hope Signor Conti managed not to tell them and that they’re still only after Nicole for the money.”

  “He mentioned a debt,” I recall. “What was he talking about?”

  “During part of the war, my grandfather had an administrative job in one of the labor camps where Conti’s father was interred. My grandfather helped him obtain papers so he could get a permanent job in a factory so as not to be sent to the death camps. Signor Conti feels that he owes me for what my grandfather did.”

  The sun is high in the sky now, illuminating endless acres of vineyard and other crops, birds dancing among the early summer plants. The air has grown close and warm and I can see fine moisture on Ari’s upper lip. He drives with greater urgency, pushing the tiny car as quickly as possible along the narrow winding road, venturing into the opposing lane of traffic when he can in order to pass the slower vehicles.

  I notice him glance over his shoulder, so quickly that I think I might have imagined it. But then he does it again. “What is it?” I demand.

  “Nothing,” he answers, too quickly. “Just being . . . careful.”

  We’re nearing the city, I realize, as the signs for Trieste grow more frequent, the traffic more congested. The road curves around the side of the mountain here, white limestone cliffs rising sharply above us. The smell of salt air fills my lungs and a moment later bluish green water breaks wide into view. Ahead the city appears, a swarm of red-roofed buildings, set low around a wide arc of sea.

  We pass a palatial white structure set on a rocky outpost overlooking the water. “That’s the Castello di Miramare,” Ari says. “Trieste is a really interesting place. A little gritty, but off the tourist track, which I like. It was a huge port city for Austria-Hungary, then Italy.”

  “Tito’s army liberated it, right?”

  “Correct, and the Allies controlled it until they turned it back over to Italy in 1954. It’s still more Balkan than Italian in some ways.”

  At the mention of the Balkans, I am reminded of Jared and his research related to Kosovo. Where is he, I wonder? Has Nicole reached him yet and, if so, did she tell him about meeting me?

  We exit the main thoroughfare onto a smaller road that curves downward toward the city. Ari navigates the narrow streets, drawing closer to the water. I turn to him, puzzled. “Is this the way to the airport?”

  He shakes his head. “Trieste Harbor.”

  I recall then that we’ve passed at least a half dozen signs reading PORTO. “We’re going to Greece by boat?”

  “Yes. It will let us be more discreet, in case anyone is looking for us.”

  Gazing out at the broad expanse of sea, my stomach churns. Though I hadn’t minded coxing on the calm, narrow River Cam, and had even managed the Thames with a life-vest on occasion, I’ve never liked being on the open water, with its strong tides and waves. My earliest impressions came from our summerhouse in Cape Cod, where the ocean was often rough and inhospitable. And now the notion of a journey by sea . . . Surely there has to be another way.

/>   “If Nicole really is on the island, as Signor Conti said, the boat will enable us to get there more quickly,” Ari adds, before I can say anything.

  Resigned, I continue gazing out the window. We’re in downtown Trieste proper, I note as we pass a wide piazza on the left, flanked by neoclassical buildings on three sides. To our right sits the harbor. It is much larger than the one in Monaco, a sprawling tangle of pleasure and commercial fishing boats.

  Ari pulls into a private marina, parking in a lot by the entrance. I follow him out of the car and down the dock, watching in disbelief as he stops in front of a massive white yacht at least forty feet long. Is he planning to buy it or steal it?

  “Wait here,” he says, walking up to the boat.

  I see him talk to the crewman, hand him money. Then he waves me over. “Let’s go.”

  I stare at him, dumbfounded. I had imagined a charter or ferry, not a private yacht. “How did you . . . ”

  “Signor Conti arranged for it.”

  “He takes this debt thing seriously,” I mumble under my breath.

  “What?”

  “Nothing.”

  “We could have the crewman ferry us over, but I’d rather do it myself.” He climbs expertly up the ladder at the rear of the boat, then holds out a hand to me.

  “Do you know how?” I ask, following.

  “Yes. I grew up on the water.”

  I climb onto the deck. “Mind if I look around?”

  He shrugs. “Make yourself at home.”

  I adjust my gait to the gentle rocking of the boat as I make my way inside. There is a small but elegantly designed cabin, comprised of a sitting area and granite galley kitchen. Opening the miniature refrigerator, I discover that it has been well stocked with fresh fruit and vegetables, meats and cheeses. A few narrow stairs lead downward to the stateroom and toilet.

  From above comes a scraping sound and the boat rocks more forcefully as we push from the dock. I set my bag on the bed, then return to the deck. Shielding my eyes, I look up to the bridge where Ari stands behind the wheel, navigating us out of the port. I am suddenly aware of the absurdity of the situation. I’m on a private yacht, chasing after my ex-boyfriend and his wife with . . . I pause, unable to come up with a label for Ari. Lover, friend, accomplice . . . ? None of these descriptions quite fit. Who is he anyway?

  I drop to one of the deck chairs and pull my phone from my bag, checking to find an unread message from Lincoln: No record for Bruck, it reads. Strange. I had hoped with Ari’s military past there might be some intelligence on him.

  Gazing up at Ari once more, I feel a twinge of guilt at checking up on him. We promised to trust each other. But my intelligence background will not let me leave it alone. If there is something about him to be learned, I want to know, and if nothing, then better to know that, too.

  Several minutes later, when the coast has receded to a thin strip in the distance, Ari climbs down to the deck. “Everything all right?” he asks, gesturing to the phone still clutched in my hand.

  “Fine,” I say, fumbling for an excuse. “Just sending a quick text to my family.” I look up at the empty bridge. “Shouldn’t you be steering the boat or something?”

  He laughs. “This yacht has a state-of-the-art navigation system, which can guide us now that we’re in the open waters and alert me if anything is in our path. I’ve set the GPS, so we should be fine for a while.” Ahead the horizon is empty except for a few gulls, calling to one another as they dip low to the water’s surface.

  “You’re going to want this,” he says, tossing a tube of sunscreen my way. I catch it, suddenly aware of the heat on my forehead and nose. “Hungry?” he asks, as I remove the cap from the tube. Before I can respond, he starts down to the galley and I can hear him opening drawers, pulling out groceries.

  I debate whether to follow him, then decide against it. Instead, I squeeze some sunscreen onto my palm and apply the warm lotion to my face and arms, the familiar smell taking me back to sticky childhood days at the beach.

  Ari returns carrying a plate and two glasses, a bottle of wine under his arm. “The crewman keeps the boat stocked for its owners, so there’s plenty here, even on short notice.” He spreads a towel across a box that rises from the center of the deck, setting the plate and glasses down upon it. “Come eat.”

  I sit down, hungry again after the few mouthfuls of breakfast I swallowed earlier this morning. Ari offers the plate he arranged, heaped with cheese and crackers, grapes, figs, and nuts. Then he pours the wine. “Courtesy of the Contis.” He hands me a glass. “Cheers.” Though his tone is light, I notice him glancing over his shoulder as he had in the car, scanning the horizon.

  He takes off his shirt and leans back. I roll up my sleeves, wishing I had a bathing suit, or at least a pair of shorts. As he reaches for something from his bag, I notice two dark, round scars on his torso.

  “You’ve been shot,” I remark, leaning forward. Closer, I can tell by their well-defined shape that the bullets had not grazed him but had actually gone through.

  “Yes. It was touch and go until they could get me back to a hospital. But they were clean shots, so I only lost the . . . what is the word, appendix?”

  “You were lucky,” I remark. A strange look flickers across his face, as if that is not a term he has ever associated with himself, at least not in the years since losing his wife and daughter. It’s not exactly self-pity, I realize, so much as a resignation of acceptance to the hand he’s been dealt, somewhere far short of happiness or luck.

  He leans back, tilting his face upward to the bright sunlight. It is the most relaxed I’ve seen him since we met. “Let me take your picture,” I say impulsively, pulling out my phone and clicking on the camera function.

  A look of hesitation flashes across his face. “I don’t . . . ”

  “Why not?” I chide, trying to sound playful. But uneasiness tugs at my stomach: Is there something he’s trying to hide? “We can take it together if you prefer.”

  “All right,” he relents. He moves across to sit next to me, his arm warm against mine as he holds the phone out in front of us and snaps the picture. He does not, I notice, remove his sunglasses. Then he hands me the phone before stretching out on the deck.

  “You like being on the water,” I observe.

  He smiles. “I love it. I was raised by the sea. When I was fourteen I had to spend a summer at a camp in Iowa and it nearly drove me crazy being so far from the ocean. And then when I was in the army, I was stuck in the desert for months. I swore after that I’d never be far from the water if I could help it, never let another summer pass without seeing the ocean. Aviva and I used to take all of our holidays on the water, even if it was nothing more than a simple rowboat.”

  I think of my own childhood summers. The beach was not my natural habitat—I’d sit on the blanket and cling to my mother as the other children played, carefree in the surf, detesting the scratchiness of the sand against my skin. Once I’d been coaxed into the water by my father, only to be taken under by a wave. I flailed in the blackness beneath the waters, unable to find ground for what seemed like an eternity until he grabbed me by the shoulders and yanked me to the surface. For years after, I’d been haunted by nightmares of a giant wave, rising from the sea like a hand and swallowing me where I stood. I’d always shied away from the ocean since then. The nightmares still came occasionally, though, the waters rising up and taking me under.

  I’ve never told anyone about my dislike of the ocean, not Jared, not even Sarah. For a second I consider sharing this with Ari, then decide against it. “Tell me more about your wife,” I say instead.

  He hesitates. “We met in the army. Aviva was a military police officer out patrolling a remote border area in the desert. She came upon me during a training exercise, but she didn’t believe my explanation as to why I was out there. She thought she had caught someone doing something illegal.” He smiles, lost in the memory. “She was so stubborn. She insisted on bringing me in to
check out my story. I could have said no, tried to get away. But she was very beautiful. I found myself wanting to follow her, even if it meant getting in trouble with my superiors. Then her jeep got stuck in a ditch and we had to wait there until morning. We spent all night talking and before the sun rose, I knew I would marry her.”

  “That’s a wonderful story. Very romantic.”

  “It was more than just her beauty, of course,” he adds quickly. “She was the strongest person I ever met, independent. She didn’t play by anyone else’s rules. I remember after Yael was born, I tried to persuade her to resign her commission and stay home. But she wouldn’t give up her military career, it was too much a part of who she was. And when I came back from the fighting, told her the awful things I had . . . ” His voice trails off. “Let’s just say I didn’t come back the same man as I had left. I was broken. She was the glue that held me together, tried to make me whole again.”

  Tried. There is nothing whole about Ari. How far had his wife been able to heal him before she died? I imagine a recovering Ari, stronger, more hopeful. But the second blow, the loss of his family, had simply been too much to take.

  He clears his throat. “Anyway, when she and our daughter were gone, I had no one.”

  “What about your family?” I ask. “Parents, siblings?”

  He refills our wineglasses, takes a sip. “None. I’m an only child and my parents were already dead. My mother died of a heart attack when I was fifteen. After that my father just seemed to give up. He passed about a year later.”

  I imagine Ari alone at such a young age. “What did you do?”

  “Stayed with relatives until I finished school, then joined the army. I was on my own until I met Aviva. And then it was just us, before Yael came along.”

  “Your wife didn’t have family, either?”

  “She did. A huge one, actually, seven brothers and sisters. But her parents disowned her when she told them she was marrying me. All of her siblings stopped talking to her, except for one sister, the youngest, who would occasionally sneak out to see us around the holidays.”