Almost Home

by Pam Jenoff

  I turn to Sebastian, searching for an explanation. But he looks away, not meeting my eyes. I face Mo once more. “I don’t understand. What’s going on?”

  The man in the corner clears his throat. “Why don’t we all sit down?”

  I lower my voice. “Mo, I need to talk to you. Alone.”

  “Jordan, Mr. Newsome is fully cleared,” she replies, loudly enough for everyone to hear. “You can speak about the investigation in front of him.”

  I look at her, amazed. The confidences we’ve shared in the past have never been about security levels. Something has changed with Mo. Is it because I lied to her about being dead? But there is no time to wonder. “It’s not that, exactly. It’s about—”

  “Jared Short,” the man in the corner finishes for me.

  I turn to stare at him. “How do you—?”

  “Sit down,” Mo repeats. I drop into the chair she’s pulled out. “Jordan, Mr. Newsome is Sebastian’s boss. He’s in charge of the Albanian investigation for the British government.”

  “I don’t understand,” I say. “What does that have to do with Jared?”

  Mo blinks once. “Sebastian?”

  I look down the table at Sebastian, who shifts uncomfortably, still staring at his hands folded in front of him on the table. “Jordan, you and I talked about the possibility that there was a joint fund between the Grand Mufti and the Reich.”

  Yes, we discussed that in your bed, I think, though I can tell from his tone that he has not revealed what happened between us. He continues, “After we spoke, I did some digging. It appears that Jared discovered that, at some point toward the end of the war, the money in the fund disappeared.”

  “Who took it?” I ask, sitting down.

  Sebastian opens the file that sits in front of him on the table. “The Germans and al-Husseini didn’t trust each other that much, so the account that contained the Jerusalem Fund, as it was loosely called, was set up with certain safeguards in place, a dual lock system. Neither could touch the fund without the other. But look at this.” He hands me a newspaper clipping, written in Cyrillic.

  “My Russian is a little rusty.”

  He shakes his head. “Not Russian. Serbo-Croatian.”

  “Sorry, my bad. What does it say?”

  “This article talks about the death of SS-Brigadier Brunhuller. He was a senior officer, in charge of organizing military divisions in the Balkans during the war.” He looks up at me. “Including the Albanian nationalists in Serbia, especially Kosovo. He appealed to the group by promising a greater Albania, including Kosovo, after the war.

  “But what does that have to do with the fund?”

  “As part of his alliance with the Reich, the Grand Mufti sent Akbar al-Hakim, one of his most trusted deputies, to the Balkans during the war to help form regiments. But al-Hakim and Brunhuller became close and they formed a secret alliance of their own.” I struggle to keep up as he delivers the history lesson in rapid fire bursts. “As the Allies advanced, they realized that their bosses in Berlin would not be in power much longer. So they made a plan to steal the money, continue their anti-Jewish initiatives in exile. But al-Hakim, it seems, betrayed Brunhuller and killed him once they accessed the fund. Then he disappeared with the stolen money.”

  “And that’s what Jared discovered?”

  “Yes, at least in part. He took his research to Duncan, who was reading finance. He wanted to figure out where the money went. They were able to trace the funds to a man called Igor Dusinski.”

  “Dusinski is al-Hakim’s illegitimate son,” Newsome interjects. “Fathered during al-Hakim’s stay in Kosovo during the war. Dusinski,” he adds, “was one of the leaders of the KLA.”

  “Jared and Duncan discovered that the Nazi fund was being used to fund the KLA during the war in Kosovo,” Mo recaps.

  I look from Mo to Sebastian, then back again. Jared’s research is linked to the KLA. Now I understand why he was always so passionate, so engrossed. It was never about the past. “But how did you…?”

  “When you mentioned the connection between Duncan and Jared, I had one of my colleagues at MI6 run a search of their archives,” Sebastian says.

  I look down at the newspaper clipping. “And all of that is in here?”

  He shakes his head and pulls out another sheet of paper. “Unholy Alliance: The Utilization of Nazi War Funds by the Kosovo Liberation Army,” it reads. “Duncan Lauder and Jared Short. May 9, 1998.”

  “You found the conference paper,” I say. “This is what I was looking for in Cambridge.”

  He shakes his head. “This is only the abstract that they submitted in advance of the conference. We haven’t been able to locate a copy of the actual paper.”

  “How did you get this?”

  “Jared and Duncan tried to go the British government, to share what they found,” Mo replies. “But no one took them seriously.”

  “It was the mid-nineties, and we were too preoccupied with trying to stop the killing to listen to the conspiracy theories of a couple of college students,” Newsome replies, a note of defensiveness in his voice.

  “No one listened, so they decided to try to publish their findings,” Mo adds. “They were set to share their work at a conference in Madrid but the presentation was canceled at the last minute. The official reason was a scheduling conflict, but a government investigation later revealed that there was a security threat. KLA operatives threatened to detonate a bomb if they were permitted to speak. So they returned to Britain having not shared their discovery.”

  And a month later Jared was dead. “You think the KLA killed him?” I ask.

  A strange look, one I cannot decipher, crosses Mo’s face. “Yes. It seems that after Madrid, Duncan was scared enough to give up. But Jared continued trying to publish his findings, talking to anyone who would listen. The KLA tried bribing him into silence, and when that didn’t work they resorted to threats. They weren’t just battling the Serbs; it was a public relations battle for the support of the West. They couldn’t afford to have the world see that their struggle for freedom was funded in part by the Nazis.”

  I swallow, trying to process it all. It is before me, the answer that I have been looking for: Jared was killed by the KLA for knowing too much, for not being willing to remain silent. I stand up. “I need some air.”

  But Mo presses her hand on my shoulder. “Jordan, please. I know this is a lot to process but there’s more.”

  I sit back down again. “I don’t understand. I mean, I’m glad to know the truth about Jared’s death.” I pause. “But why do you care? I mean, why all of this?” I wave my hand in the direction of Newsome.

  Sebastian clears his throat. “As we discussed the other day, the modern Albanian mob has its roots closely linked to the KLA. We believe that the KLA funds Jared discovered are now in the hands of the mob.”

  I look around the table, finally acknowledging the connection: Jared’s research, the cause of his death, is somehow linked to our investigation. Then I turn to Mo. “Is this true?” She nods. “How long have you known?”

  “Just today,” she replies quickly. “I mean, I thought it was a strange coincidence when you knew Duncan Lauder. But I had no idea that this connection existed.”

  “Jordan, we need your help,” Sebastian says. “Our mission objective is to find out who is laundering the money. But if we can get to the money itself…”

  “You think Jared had information about the location of the money?” I drop my head to my hands, trying to process it all. “But even if he had discovered the account, surely it would have been moved since then.”

  “If we can find the account, even where it existed a decade ago, there will be markers our financial experts can use to track it down,” Newsome replies.

  This is about so much more than the money, I think. My mind reels back to Anna B. Crippling the mob financially would hinder all of their operations, including the human trafficking that had caused Anna and the other girls so much pain.
Sebastian’s eyes meet mine and I know he is thinking the same thing.

  “It’s not a sure thing,” he says gently. “But it seems that whatever Jared discovered is close enough to the mob’s present-day operations to be valuable. They want to keep it from us very badly. Enough to kill Vance Ellis, to try to kill you…” His voice trails off and I know he is thinking of Sophie.

  “When Jared died, his research, all of his information, disappeared with him,” Mo says gently. “We need to find that now.”

  “I’ve been searching for the same thing,” I reply. “My friend Chris got a trunk of papers from Jared’s mother. That’s where I got the research notes about the Mufti’s agreement with the Nazis. We started going through it the other night.” I look down, avoiding Sebastian’s gaze. “But we still had more to look through.”

  “We need you to get to those papers, bring us anything of significance,” Newsome says. “Can you do that?”

  I nod. “Chris wants me to come back to go through the trunk tonight.” The room seems to grow warm. “I’ve got to get out of here. I’ll let you know what I find.”

  I stand. “Jordan wait!” Mo calls as I reach the door.

  Before she can say anything else, I storm out the Bubble and up the stairs, out the front door of the embassy. Mindless of any danger, I run down the stairs and start across the square. My mind whirls, trying to process everything I have learned. Jared’s research is linked to my investigation. It is almost too much to believe. And if it is true, then the Albanians killed Jared, and Sophie and Vance, too. Which means that Duncan is in great danger. I’ve got to get a hold of him, but how? I pull out my cell phone, dial his number, tapping my foot impatiently as it rings a third, then fourth time. “Duncan, it’s Jordan Weiss,” I say after the voice mail recording and the beep. I debate whether to mention Vance, then decide against it. “I need to speak with you. It’s a matter of life and death. Please call me.” I hang up, then send him a shortened version of the same message by text.

  As I close the phone, I hear footsteps behind me. “Jordan, wait.” I turn to face Sebastian, who has run after me, jacketless. “You really do like to make me chase you across parks.”

  I smile weakly. “What is it?”

  “Nothing,” he says quickly, looking over my shoulder in the distance. “I’m sorry. That I didn’t come to you first with what I found. It’s just that, well, after Sophie, I was afraid—”

  “It’s okay,” I say quickly, cutting him off. “I understand.”

  “You do?” Relief floods his face as I nod. “I just feel so guilty,” he adds.

  “Don’t. I’m the one who sent her to my flat.”

  “You couldn’t have known.” He pauses. “I still wish we hadn’t gotten interrupted last night…”

  “Me too.” Impulsively I step closer to him and lean my forehead against his chest. He buries his fingers in my hair, his other hand finding mine. Desire rises in me as I breathe his scent, remembering last night. “I’d take you up on that rain check tonight, if I didn’t have to go to Chris’s.”

  He steps back, his expression turning serious once more. “I don’t like it. Like I said last night, I think the guy’s got ulterior motives.”

  “It’ll be fine.” I look up at his face, a mixture of protectiveness and jealousy. “But Sebastian, there’s something else I didn’t say in there. When I was in Cambridge, I went to Jared’s grave. Someone was digging.”

  His jaw drops. “Digging? The weather’s been really unsettled lately. Maybe the earth just shifted.”

  Inwardly I shake my head. I know that I am not imagining things. “It was real digging, with shovels and tools.”

  “Who do you think would do that?”

  “I don’t know.” Across the square, the clock chimes six. I want to go see Sarah, and visiting hours will end soon. “I have to go.” Fighting the urge to reach up and kiss him, I turn and walk quickly across the square.

  June 1998

  I hear the crowds before I can see them, a dull murmur of voices as we near Chesterton Footbridge that rises to a din as we turn onto the Long Reach. The crowds for May Bumps have grown with each day. Now, as we make our way to the lock for the start of the third day of races beneath an eggshell blue sky, they gather around picnic tables at the Pike and Eel, swelling the banks three or four deep the entire length of the towpath, basking in the sunshine. “Eyes in the boat,” I remind quietly into the microphone. I give the rudder string a small tug to the right, adjusting our course, aiming for the railway bridge.

  A minute later, an orange-vested race official in a small launch directs all of the ascending crews to pull aside in order to let the second division race by. We pull into the far bank and a cheer rises from crowds as the crews come into view at Ditton Corner, barreling down the Long Reach from the opposite direction.

  Watching the boats race past us, my skin tingles. Bumps are serious business. The notion of trying to hit the next boat in front makes it especially dangerous for the cox who sits at the rear of the boat being chased, closest to the point of impact. There have been accidents, injuries, even rumors of a cox being killed.

  I look at my watch anxiously now. Four-forty, twenty minutes until our division goes off. Our arrival at the start has to be timed just right. Too late and we will be rushed and harried turning and getting on station; too early and we will sit around, the boys’ now-warm muscles growing tight. I look down the boat at the crew. For once they match in black Lycra shorts and white zephyrs, short-sleeved shirts with a fine band of red and black around the neck and sleeves. Their faces are pale, their expressions grave. The fact that we have done exactly the same thing each of the past two days does not calm my nerves or theirs. If anything, we are more tense now. We rowed over the first two days of the races, completing the entire course, escaping being bumped by the Downing crew behind us but not managing to bump Trinity Hall ahead. We only have today and tomorrow left, and there is an unspoken sense that time is running out, the goal of the Headship slipping through our fingers.

  For a minute I consider making a joke, lightening the mood. Then I decide against it. I want them this nervous. “All right boys,” I say at last, when the race has passed and the official has given us the all-clear. “Let’s take it on.”

  We continue forward in small fits, moving slowly in the queue of boats making their way to the start. There is no stretch of clear water, as I had hoped, to do another warm-up exercise. As we round the corner, a cheer goes up from Ditton Paddock, where a contingent from Lords is assembled, groups of students in red and black, well-dressed parents and alumni picnicking and drinking Pimm’s with lemonade.

  Finally we near the lock, and as we turn around I scan the bank, looking for our station. Then, spotting Tony, I guide us into the bank at the second of the seventeen starting posts lined up along the course. Behind Tony on the towpath, Lord Colbert appears on his bike. “Good row, Lords,” he calls, Churchill addressing the troops.

  “Five minutes,” Tony announces, not looking up from his stopwatch. A chill runs up my spine as the boys begin checking their shoelaces, tightening the gates that hold their oars in place. Tony hands me the chain that I am required to hold until the start to keep us on position, and whispers instructions about the current and wind that I cannot hear over the buzzing in my ears.

  There is a loud explosion, cannon fire signaling the one-minute mark. My stomach drops and I fight the urge to jump out of the boat, desperate to be anywhere but here. But it is too late. Tony has picked up a long wooden pole and is pushing the boat out into the middle of the river, positioning us parallel to the bank for the start. “Thirty, twenty-nine,” he counts, pulling back the pole. I cannot bear to look at the boys in front of me, to see the terror and hope in their eyes. “Bow pair, take a small stroke,” I instruct instead, concentrating on getting the boat as far forward as possible. My arm stretches behind me and I struggle to hold onto the now-taut chain that keeps us in place. “Now just bow.” The front o
f the boat straightens. “All eight, come forward.” The boys slide to the ready position, knees compressed, oars poised.

  There is another boom. “Wind it up!” I cry as I drop the chain, but there is no need. They are already off the start, using the twenty short hard strokes we agreed upon to get momentum going. Fifteen, sixteen, I count inwardly, leaning forward in my seat, trying to control the adrenaline that surges through me. “Lengthen in three, in two, stride now!” The boat settles into a rhythm as the boys begin the longer strokes that will set the pace for the rest of the course.

  Behind us I hear the chopping of oars against water, the terse voice of Downing’s cox, commanding her crew to catch us. My nervousness rises: Are we about to be bumped? I fight the urge to look behind me, forcing myself to concentrate instead on the race ahead, on steering smooth and tight around Grassy Corner so as not to disturb the crew, on getting closer to Trinity Hall. We’ve gained on them, I realize, as we enter the Long Reach. I consider calling a bumping ten. But I cannot do that unless I am sure we will get them—crying wolf will damage the boys’ spirits. “Legs for ten,” I call instead.

  Suddenly everything comes together. All eight oars catch in perfect unison, buried to exactly even heights. Legs lock and drive back against the water and the boat sails, seeming to soar really, and fly forward. I hold my breath as the boys recover, willing them to do it again. The boat leaps once more, even stronger and more smoothly, perfectly synchronized strokes falling into a rhythm now. My heart lifts as the distance between our bow and Trinity Hall’s stern closes. We are doing it. But we came close the previous two days also, only to fall away. Can we actually do it this time?

  My eyes meet Chris’s then and he nods, ever so slightly. “This is it, boys,” I say, lowering my voice to convey my seriousness. “Bumping ten. In three, two, one, now!” There is a palpable surge on the next stroke, an acceleration through the water as legs push, arms pull harder than they ever have.

  We lurch forward and there comes a scraping sound from the bow. A hand shoots up in the air from beyond the front of our boat. It is the Trinity Hall cox, signaling that they have been bumped, acknowledging defeat. “We did it!” I cry into the microphone, my voice cracking. “I mean, take it down to light pressure.” It is my job to stay calm, to get us out of the way of the fourteen boats still barreling toward the finish line. Disbelief, then joy floods the boys’ faces and a giant whoop erupts from somewhere in the bows as I guide us into the bank. We have done it. We have claimed the Headship.