by Pam Jenoff
“I’m not sure I feel like going to the party,” Jared replies. “But it’s not as though we have a choice.”
I nod. We cannot get into the pub and neither of us has the key to the flat where the crew is staying.
We hail a taxi at the corner and I slide across the backseat. Jared climbs in behind me, giving the driver the address for the party. As I sit back, something brushes against my shoulder. I look up. It is Jared’s arm, draped above me I expect him to pull back but he stares out the window, not seeming to notice.
The party is in full swing when we arrive, music blaring from the second story of the boathouse. The large common room is crowded with male and female rowers, talking and drinking from plastic cups of beer. We pass the makeshift dance floor to the corner where people cluster around a keg. Jared emerges from the crowd a minute later, holding two plastic cups above his head to keep from being jostled. “Come on.”
We step through an open doorway onto the balcony. It is deserted, owing to a sharp breeze that gusts off the river. I pull my jacket closer around me. “Do you want to go back inside?” he asks.
I shake my head. “It feels good.” We move toward a corner of the balcony away from the doors. “Not as quiet as the chapel roof,” I add. “But considerably less scary.”
He looks away, not answering. He’s embarrassed about that night, I realize. I understand then why he has been so aloof. It is as though he regrets letting his guard down, as if the intimacy of our conversation somehow showed weakness.
“Are you upset about the race?” I ask finally, changing the subject.
“Not at all. A bad race can be just as useful as a good one, maybe more so. You know what I mean?”
I do. Learning how to handle disasters in a race, how to keep going no matter what, is as important a skill as any for the Eight to develop. “We’re still a long way from there, though,” he adds, before I can reply. “I mean, this was only a head race. But in the Bumps…” He does not need to finish the sentence. Today was simply a timed head race, just us against the clock. It did not have the distractions of a boat beside us, as would be the case in a side-by-side regatta, or worse yet, the panic of being chased by another crew in the Bumps.
I nod. “They’ve really come on, though, haven’t they?”
“We’re as cohesive as any crew I’ve seen,” he agrees. “You were right, you know, about what you told me that night on the roof. I needed to relax a little to let them bond.” His eyes meet mine now, locking in. “You’re much better, too, in case I haven’t told you, Jo. The way you handle them has really made a difference.”
Jo again. A lump forms in my throat, making it difficult to speak. “Th-thanks,” I manage at last. “I guess we each learned something from the other.”
He does not answer, but leans toward me. He is going to kiss me, I realize, and a split second later, before I have time to finish the thought, to decide whether or not I want him to, his lips are on mine, full and warm. I am paralyzed. Warmth surges through me and then I am kissing him back hard. His mouth opens, drawing me deeper. A second later we break apart. What just happened?
Jared looks away, breathing hard, not meeting my eyes. He stands and starts for the door and for a moment I think he means to leave me. “Come on,” he says abruptly, his voice gruff. Not turning around, he reaches back for my hand and leads me inside, through the crowds toward the exit.
Outside we stop, hesitating, unsure where to go. I hear laughter coming from the darkened road. I look desperately over my shoulder. I do not want to see anyone else, not now. “Here,” I whisper, pulling Jared around the side of the boathouse, opening the door to the bays where the shells are kept. Inside the air is damp, the scent of wood and turpentine familiar.
Jared reaches for me, his lips finding mine again in the darkness, feverish and more demanding as he guides me backward past the boat racks. He presses me up against the concrete wall, running his hands hungrily down my body, never breaking from our kiss. I wrap my arms around him, drawing him close, heedless of the dull ache at the site of my tattoo and the pain I might be causing as I grasp his shoulders. This is different, I think. Normally sex moves slowly at college, with making out the norm, intercourse the eventual exception. But I know from the way he lifts my shirt that there will be no courting in stages with us. It will be everything, here and now. I unbutton his pants, push them down.
“Are you sure?” he asks breathlessly between kisses. “It’s so cold here, so dirty.”
“I don’t care,” I reply, drawing his mouth to mine once more. His questions silenced, he lifts me up and I wrap my legs around his waist, not caring who hears as I cry out in the darkness.
chapter TWELVE
I WALK INTO MY office, looking at my watch as I flip the switch to the laptop I was issued earlier today. It is after five o’clock and I still have not had the chance to call Duncan. I planned to reach out to him first thing this morning but I arrived this morning to find a junior officer from political named Bryce waiting to shepherd me through all of the embassy in-processing I’d managed to avoid until then. Not bothering to hide his lack of enthusiasm for the task, he led me from one bureaucratic office to another, where I was given forms to complete, enabling me to get my permanent identification badge, my laptop. Then I’d spent the rest of the day making the required courtesy calls on the heads of various sections of the embassy, a series of ten-minute meetings scheduled by Amelia that consisted of little more than where-have-you-served-oh-really-do-you-know-so-and-so. The political counselor, Bill Wright, an ambitious and prematurely bald man in his forties, was particularly icy, resentful of the fact that I’d been seated in his section for appearance’s sake when in fact I work directly for Mo.
I pick up the phone now and dial Duncan’s office number. But the phone rings three times, goes into his voice mail. He must be gone for the day. I could call his cell, I remember. But I don’t want to risk alarming him. Better to wait and try again tomorrow. I turn to the laptop that sits in the docking station. The scratched cover makes clear that it has been used before, but I can tell from the initial scans that are running down the screen that it has been updated to meet agency encryption security requirements. I log in, and when desktop comes up, click on the e-mail icon. I scroll through the junk mail, a welcome message from the commissary, a reminder from the regional security officer about keeping laptops secure. Halfway down the in-box, I spot a message from Sebastian. Easy, I think, as a jolt of excitement runs through me. He is just a colleague; you’ve made that clear. I click on the message. “Found this after we spoke. S.” it reads.
I open the attachment, a report from a United Nations human rights committee on the trafficking of women. I skim through the pro forma language about commitment to human rights, the statistics about trafficking. At the back there are several addenda, handwritten sheets in a language I do not recognize. Behind is a typed translation. “Statement of Anna B. from Pristina,” the heading reads. There is a photograph of a young woman, but her face has been blurred so it is not recognizable. The translation reads:
It was a morning in August 1996, I don’t remember the date. We were just preparing to leave for school when the men broke through our door. I was in the toilet and they did not see me but I could hear most of what they were saying. I thought they were soldiers at first but I did not recognize their uniforms. Five, maybe six men. They accused father of being a spy for the government and they did not believe him when he said he was only a librarian. They shot him in the kitchen and my brother too as he tried to flee. My mother ran to my brother screaming and I was certain they would shoot her too, but they pushed her down on the bloody floor between them and they each raped her. Then they cut her throat with a knife. They set our house on fire, but I was able to escape after they had gone….
I pause, bile rising in my throat. I had some idea of what happened in the Balkans, of course, even before Sebastian explained the details today. But the war coverage had focused on the p
olitics of ethnic separation, the bombings that destroyed ancient bridges and buildings. It was not until years later that we would hear about the genocide, the rapes, and by then I was halfway around the world, working for the government, fighting injustice in other places. But now, sitting here again, I cannot avoid the truth—the slaughter had taken place while I played at Cambridge, a few hours’ plane ride away. What was I doing when Anna’s family was destroyed?
Guilt rises up in me. Growing up Jewish, the lessons of the Holocaust were deeply imbedded in my consciousness. “Never again” was a familiar refrain. My parents, though not religious, saw this as their personal mandate. They had marched with the civil rights movement in the South in their younger years, protested on behalf of the Soviet Jews not permitted to emigrate during communism. Social justice, my father told me once at Passover, was our obligation as Jews, to free all people from the bonds of oppression as we had once been freed. But we are still failing.
I look at the screen again, scrolling to the second page and forcing myself to continue reading. Anna recounts how she was taken by the soldiers to a camp, locked up in a shed with a half-dozen other girls, and raped several times a day. She was luckier, she said, than some. The girls who became diseased were taken outside and shot.
After the war, when the soldiers had fled, men from the Liberation Army freed us from the camp. They told us that once the U.N. came we would be forced to go back to our villages. But we had nothing to go back to; our families were dead, our homes destroyed. The people who were left would be no help, the men said. They would blame us for sleeping with the enemy, collaborating willingly. They would let us starve in the street, if they did not kill us themselves. We had nowhere to go. The men said they would help us leave, get to the west. They got us passports and visas, arranged passage in a lorry. They said the trip cost five hundred dollars and that we could pay it back when we got there by working.
I thought they meant working in a restaurant or cleaning houses. But we were forced to go on dates with men, to have sex with them for money. I was one of the lucky ones—I was allowed to meet the men in a bar and sometimes they would buy me a drink or meal before taking me to a room or car to be alone. Others, like my friend Olga, had to work on the street corner all night, no matter how cold or rainy the weather. There were a lot of men, sometimes five or six each night. Some hurt us as much as the soldiers in the camp. We were only allowed a few hours’ rest before we had to work again, even if we were sick.
Anna’s statement ends abruptly. The report goes on to describe how, once they arrived, the women’s passports were taken and they were charged exorbitant fees for shelter and food so that their debts grew and they could not leave. When the police broke up the prostitution ring, they found Anna in a room in Manchester with a dozen other girls, sleeping on the floor, two and three to a mattress. The door was padlocked from the outside. Two of the five girls Anna traveled to England with were dead, Olga from illness and malnutrition, another girl strangled by a “client.”
I scroll back to the front page. The data at the top indicates that Anna was born June 8, 1981. She would almost twenty-seven now. Where is she? How did she manage to go on? I want to imagine that, liberated from prostitution, she was able to start a new life, find a job or maybe even go to school. But the government has limited resources for supporting the women they rescue, and Anna, on her own with little or no money or skills, with no resources, would likely be forced to return to the streets.
I close the screen, not wanting to read the reports of other girls that surely follow. Would Anna and the others have been better off staying in their homeland? The problem is larger than Bosnia, I know—it is the human desire to escape suffering, to strive for a better life, which creates the very conditions that the mob needs to exploit people. These are the people we are trying to stop. This is not the busywork I anticipated when I asked for London to be near Sarah. This is real. Then again, I hadn’t expected to be confronted by the cold reality of my college boyfriend’s murder, either. Overwhelmed, I turn off the computer and walk out of the office.
I take the elevator to the ground floor. As I start across the lobby, I see Maureen in the far right corner, engrossed in conversation with a man I do not recognize. She is holding an open file, pointing to something. I take a step toward her, trying to catch her eye, but she does not look up or notice me. I hang back, several feet, so as not to appear to be eavesdropping. A few minutes later, she shakes hands with the man, who starts for the front door.
“Hi, Mo,” I say, walking toward her.
She blinks, as though surprised to see me, then closes the file and tucks it under her arm. Is there something, I wonder, that she doesn’t want me to see? “Jordan, how’s it going?”
“Fine.” I hesitate, wanting to update her on my investigation into Jared’s death, all that Chris and I have learned, to show her that it isn’t a waste of time. But this is not the place. “Just heading out.”
“You’ve started on the redirected targets?”
“Yes,” I say, feeling instantly guilty at the lie.
“Good.” She smiles, but her expression is strained. Is it our investigation or something else that is stressing her? “Let’s catch up tomorrow.” Before I can speak further, she turns and heads for the elevators.
Outside, I make my way across Grosvenor Square. The air is warmer than it has been since I arrived, the setting sun peeking determinedly through a layer of clouds. A few minutes later I reach Oxford Street, weaving my way through the sidewalks packed thick with the tourists and shoppers who spill out of the department stores.
I cross the busy intersection and pass Selfridges, turn onto a smaller street that continues north. The crowds begin to thin, the commercial stores giving way to trendy boutiques and sidewalk cafés, high-end restaurants and wine bars. The atmosphere, almost festive, is a jarring contrast to the dire report of Anna B. I’ve just read. This is a London she and the other girls have likely never known.
Soon I reach Marylebone High Street, spot the Spade & Bucket not far up on the left. It is more restaurant than pub, the walls painted a pleasant shade of cream, large potted plants in subtly lit corners of the room. Chalkboards over the bar boast an extensive wine list and a menu of fresh, healthy dishes. Gastro pubs, I read in the airplane magazine, are very much the fashion, replacing many of the old fish-and-chips establishments in the upscale neighborhoods. Here the trend seems a popular one; patrons overflow the bar, cluster around standing tables. Through a window at the back of the pub, I can make out a small garden, equally as crowded.
A moment later, Chris bursts through the double doors of the pub. “There you are!” he exclaims, sounding as if I, and not he, had just arrived. He would not, I decide, make a good undercover operative. He hugs me hard, as though it has been years, not days, since our last meeting. Then he turns abruptly, crossing the room in two strides and claiming a table as its occupants stand to leave. “Come on.” He waves me over.
As we sit, I notice him taking in my black V-necked sweater and slim khaki pants. I study his face, my conversation with Sarah fresh in my mind. Am I attracted to Chris? He’s certainly handsome in that broad-shouldered, athletic/military way that I’ve been drawn to in recent years, perhaps because it is the furthest thing from Jared’s dark, brooding style…
A waitress approaches, jarring me from my thoughts. “Wine?” Chris asks.
“Sure,” I blurt, hoping he has not noticed me looking at him.
“I’ve got a lot to tell you,” Chris begins after the waitress has brought our drinks, a pint of Guinness for him and a glass of pinot noir for me.
“Me too. I’ve been trying to reach you.” His brow furrows as I tell him about the coroner’s report being stolen. “I know you gave it to me for safekeeping. I’m sorry.”
He cocks his head. “That’s strange. At least it was just a copy. Dr. Peng said she would get the original from the archives, anyway. The one that has the photos. I’m just sorry
I put you in danger.”
“Danger? What do you mean?”
“Someone came after you to steal the report. I worry what might have happened if you’d woken up.”
“That’s a little dramatic, don’t you think?”
“Did they take anything else?” I hesitate. He is right, of course. A thief would have taken my wallet, my gun. “Someone didn’t want us to have proof that Jared’s death wasn’t an accident,” he adds.
I shake my head. “Nothing we can do about it now. So what did you find out?”
Chris swallows a large mouthful of beer. “I went back to the Porter’s Lodge and spoke with Peter Mason.”
I smile, remembering the elderly head porter who seemed to have been there as long as the college. “I’m surprised he would talk to you. I would have thought the Master would have warned him not to.”
“Peter’s an old mate of mine. I used to bring him whiskey and we would watch telly together sometimes when he was on the late shift.” I look at him, surprised. I had not imagined Chris, posh and self-important, spending time with the college staff. Then again, he was always very social and would have done anything to delay going home alone at the end of the night. He continues, “Anyway, I got to him after our dinner at the Hall, before the Master had a chance to speak with him.”
“So what did he say?”
“I asked him if he remembered anything unusual about the time around when Jared died. He had to think about it for a while. I guess ten years is a long time, even for something like that. The only thing he recalled was that a package was delivered to the Porter’s Lodge for Jared shortly before he died.”
“So? That could have been a lot of things, even a care package from his mother.”
Chris shakes his head. “A week before the end of term? Not likely. Anyway, Peter remembered this package in particular because it didn’t come in the post. It was hand-delivered by a man in a suit.”