The Long-Lost Jules

by Jane Elizabeth Hughes

  Surprising myself, I burst out laughing. Sometimes all you could do was laugh.

  Another message appeared on my screen, with the subject line Saudi connection. The sender was unfamiliar to me: Arturo@art.co.ca, a Canadian address. This one gave me an Atlantic Bank account number to look into.

  Huh?

  I read it again. Then I hit REPLY and typed in Who is this? But the message pinged back immediately: Undeliverable.

  Well, that was no surprise.

  I forwarded the email to my friend Rosie and waited impatiently for her response, before realizing that it wasn’t even 4:00 a.m. in Washington. Frustrated, I tapped my foot and stared at the message. Then I logged on to the Atlantic Bank server and typed in the account number from the email.

  Access denied, the computer retorted.

  I stared at the screen some more. As an officer of the bank, I had access to all account information. What in God’s name . . . ?

  I typed in the account number again.

  The computer emitted some kind of loud alarm that made my coworkers pick up their heads and stare at me. Access denied, it insisted.

  Another email appeared in my inbox, and I clicked on it eagerly. This time, the sender was an admin address from Atlantic Bank.

  You are trying to access restricted information. Internal Security officers will contact you shortly. You are blocked from the Atlantic Bank server until further notice.

  And then my screen went dead.

  Chapter 26

  I sat back in my chair and closed my eyes. Had someone set me up? Or were there accounts so dark and hidden that you got cut off for just trying to access them? Who was Arturo?

  And how the hell was I going to get any work done today without a computer?

  That last question was answered quickly enough. Yvette walked over to me with an air of great importance and said, a little smugly, “You are suspended from the computer system while a breach is being investigated. Audrey says you should go home. We’ll call you when the investigation is complete.”

  I gaped at her. “But . . .”

  “Audrey says you should go home,” Yvette repeated. “I don’t want to call security, but—”

  I stood up. “I’m going, I’m going.”

  “And you can’t take anything but your pocketbook,” Yvette added. “Leave your cell phone here.”

  That was okay. I had a second, private cell phone in my bag. I ran my fingers through my hair, picked up my purse, and walked out of the office, followed by the stares and intense whispers of my teammates. Nothing this interesting had happened at the office since Yvette’s false eyelashes had fallen into her coffee cup.

  Outside on the sidewalk, my legs suddenly felt weak, and I sank down onto the low wall in front of the building. What in the name of holy hell had just happened? Who in the name of God had sent that email, knowing I would be suspended or even fired as a result? My mind started to clear, and I listed the possible suspects in my mind.

  Leo? I couldn’t bring myself to believe it.

  One of my “teammates”? Possibly. They would love to see me get into trouble.

  Audrey? I didn’t think so. This wouldn’t look good for her either.

  The sheikh? Maybe. But he didn’t even know how to send an email.

  The sheikh’s sons? Hmmm.

  But why? Why!

  Maybe it wasn’t someone bent on getting me into trouble. Maybe it was someone who thought he was being helpful in directing me to that mysterious account. Again, who?

  Leo?

  One of my former IDC colleagues?

  One of my father’s old friends?

  I was out of ideas.

  I fished my personal cell phone from my bag and walked a block away, in case someone was watching me. I couldn’t even think of whom to call, but finally I dialed the US embassy in Berlin and waded through several layers of bureaucracy before Henry came on the line.

  “Is this line secure?” was his first question.

  I peered at my little Nokia cell phone. “I don’t know. I think so.”

  “What happened?”

  I told him.

  “It wasn’t me,” he said immediately. “A Canadian email address, you think?”

  “Yes, it was ‘dot CA.’”

  “Could be anyone, of course,” he said. “Probably routed through dozens of servers around the world.”

  I nodded. I had already thought of that.

  There was a silence. I could almost hear Henry thinking hard.

  Presently he said, “Fancy a trip to Avignon?”

  I stared at the phone again. “Avignon, France?”

  “Yes, it’s lovely there this time of year. Very few tourists.”

  “I don’t know,” I said.

  “An old friend of your father’s is retired there. He can show you all around.”

  Oh. Okay.

  I said, “Where can I find him?”

  “No worries, he’ll contact you. Safe travels, now.” And he hung up.

  By the time I got off the Heathrow Express at the airport, I had decided the most likely suspects were my Saudi clients—the sheikh’s sons, in particular. They might be afraid I knew something about their father’s dealings that could hurt him, and thought they needed to get me out of the way. Maybe they had even been behind the attacks on Leo and me. At the time I had thought the notion preposterous, but now I wondered.

  On the other hand, if the sheikh really wanted me out of the way, his operatives had been pretty clumsy. The only wounds had been to Leo. I was untouched.

  Pondering that, I started searching the airport for a pay phone—few and far between in this age of terrorism. I hunted one down in the EasyJet baggage claim area and dialed Kali’s number. I wanted someone to know where I was.

  “I’m taking a little time off,” I told her.

  “Again?”

  It was a fair point.

  “I lost my computer access at work, so I can’t do anything there anyway until they fix it.”

  Kali sounded puzzled. “What do you mean, you lost your computer access?”

  “Something got messed up in the system.”

  Kali said slowly, “Are you all right?” I knew she was remembering the attack on us on the road from Sudeley, and cursed myself for rousing her fears.

  “Of course! I’m going to Avignon. The weather’s perfect this time of year, and there aren’t any tourists.”

  “Avignon? That’s not so far from us in Antibes. Maybe I’ll come and meet—”

  “No!” I interrupted. “Didn’t you tell me you were heading to Tel Aviv at the end of the week?”

  “Well, yes, but—”

  “You can’t desert Élodie,” I said firmly. “Didn’t you tell me one of the kids has an ear infection?”

  “That’s true,” she admitted. “It’s a madhouse around here. Benji’s trying to crawl, the twins are whining and fighting, and Amélie just discovered boys. Élodie’s pulling her hair out.”

  “Better you than me,” I said, with an inward shudder. “Anyway, keep up the good work, and I’ll call you from Avignon.”

  “Wait!” she said. “Do you have a new cell phone number?”

  “Sorry,” I said quickly. “I’m losing the connection.” And I hung up.

  Still, I was glad Kali knew where I was going. Just in case.

  Several hours later, I collected my bag at baggage claim—once again, I didn’t know how long I would be away, so I packed heavily—and headed wearily for the rental car counter. I was feeling prickly. I wanted a means of fast escape, if necessary.

  “No cars,” the clerk said blandly. He was very French. I suspected he enjoyed my discomfort.

  “I reserved one.”

  “We do not have the reservation.”

  “Oh, for . . .”

  “Madame, we have no cars.”

  I looked at him in despair.

  “Perhaps you try Econocar?” he suggested, with only a hint of a smirk.

  Whe
n I got to the front of the Econocar line, the perky girl seemed unaccountably cheerful. “Oh, yes, madame, we have the perfect car.”

  “I just need a compact. Manual transmission is fine.”

  “Oh, no, the Americans always want the bigger cars, with automatic transmission,” she said. She seemed to be smirking too. “We have the perfect car for you.”

  The car was a monster, as big as a Cadillac SUV, with huge wheels and a bumper as large as a barn door. As soon as I got into the driver’s seat, I realized I couldn’t see over the massive dashboard and hiked the seat to its highest position. Then I realized the windshield was so big that some clueless engineer had put two wide chrome bands in either side to support it, perfectly placed to maximize the blind spots.

  I got out of the car again and looked at it disbelievingly, trying to decide whether or not to get back into the long Econocar line inside. Then a voice behind me made me jump.

  “Why, it doth bestride the narrow world / Like a Colossus / and we petty men / Walk under its huge legs and peep about.”

  It was Leo, slightly misquoting Shakespeare.

  Chapter 27

  I swung around to look at him, my heart leaping. “Leo! What the hell—”

  “Kali told me something was wrong and said you were headed for Avignon.”

  “Leo, I’m not one of your sisters. You don’t have to rush to my rescue.”

  He looked at me with some surprise. “Bloody hell, I should hope you’re not one of my sisters! Otherwise, God would have to smite me for my thoughts.”

  For the first time in two days, I smiled.

  He said, “What is this thing? Is it a car or an ocean liner?”

  “It’s my rental car.”

  “But why?”

  “They lost my reservation and . . .”

  He laughed and pulled out his cell phone. “Don’t worry, ma chérie, I can get us a car.”

  But I didn’t want Leo to “rescue” me. I didn’t want to be another of his protectees.

  “This will be fine,” I said. I looked at him challengingly. “Do you want to drive?”

  “God, no!” he said, and I thought of his smart little Audi, still warehoused in the dingy London garage.

  I held out the keys to him. “But you know the way,” I said.

  He sighed deeply and climbed into the driver’s seat. “Damn and blast,” he said. “What are those two things in the windshield? They block half my view.”

  “I think the windshield was so big that they had to put those supports in,” I said.

  “Damn and blast,” he said again.

  His mouth set, Leo muscled the car out of the airport. It was so big that he had to back up and maneuver twice to get around the corner in the car park. Then he had to retract the side mirrors to inch his way through the tollbooth.

  “I think we used a quarter of a tank of petrol getting out of the car park,” he said to me.

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake, stop complaining about the car. I thought men were supposed to like big cars.”

  “Not this man,” he said. “I’m begging you, please let me trade this in for a foxy little Audi. Or at least a Saab.”

  “No,” I said firmly. I didn’t need his charity.

  He fetched up a great sigh.

  “Why are we in Avignon, anyway?” he asked me.

  “I know why I’m in Avignon,” I countered. “The question is, why are you in Avignon?”

  He glanced at me. “Because you’re here,” he said.

  My stomach fluttered again, but I tamped it down firmly. Remember the way he left you in London? I reminded myself. And the money-laundering connection.

  Somehow, though, I couldn’t believe he had made love to me in the line of duty. The magic of that night was real. I was sure of it. I watched him for a moment, his eyes hidden behind his dark sunglasses and his big, capable hands firmly in control of the massive steering wheel. I remembered those hands on my body and shivered.

  “Are you cold?” he asked.

  “No,” I said. “Not at all.”

  This time, his glance at me held mischief and speculation. “Me neither,” he said.

  I couldn’t stop watching him.

  “So, what are we doing in Avignon?” he asked again.

  Every nerve, every inch of my body was telling me to trust him. I took a deep breath and told him everything: the mysterious email message, my suspension, even my call to my father’s old friend.

  He listened in silence.

  “I think I may know who you’re meant to meet with,” he said at the end.

  Suspicion flared again. “Who? How would you know?”

  “There’s an ex-Sûreté man, Gilles Messur, who specialized in financial crime. He retired to Avignon a few years ago. My family consulted him a few times when they were unsure of provenance. He helped them authenticate some art that the Nazis had stolen. A good man,” Leo added.

  I remembered Kali remarking that she’d never heard of money laundering a month ago, and now it cropped up everywhere. It was a lot of coincidence to swallow. But then I looked at Leo again and felt a lifetime of distrust beginning to crack. Coincidences do happen, I told myself.

  “Speaking of which,” I said, trying to sound casual. “Kali tells me your family is being investigated for something?”

  “Hang on,” Leo said. He was trying to force the car through a narrow gap and onto an exit ramp. He leaned forward in concentration as he passed within a millimeter of the cars on either side of him. “Sorry,” he said. “What was that, again?”

  “What are you being investigated for?”

  “Oh, my sister Maya has a cretin for a husband. Jacob brokered a sale last year. He found a buyer for a dubious Matisse at some exorbitant price. Élodie’s husband, Gabriel, really didn’t think it was authentic, but Jacob found a buyer even dumber than he is. So the sale went through at seven point eight million euros.”

  “And then?” I suspected I knew what was coming.

  “Well, it turned out that the seller and buyer were linked in a drug-trafficking ring, and it was just a way to get the money into the banking system. Money laundering, with my idiot brother-in-law as the mediator.”

  “Money laundering,” I repeated. It was the common denominator in everything that had happened to me recently. The sheikh, Atlantic Bank, now Leo and his family. “Did Jacob know he was assisting in a money-laundering scheme?”

  “Are you kidding? He practically broke his arms patting himself on the back for his wonderful deal. He wouldn’t recognize money laundering if it stood up and slapped him in the face. Cretin,” Leo said.

  I hesitated. “Should he have known?” That was the legal standard, I knew. If someone was “willfully blind” to a transaction that was obviously shady to a reasonable person, then that someone was legally culpable.

  Leo shrugged, concentrating on the road ahead. “Sacrebleu, these lanes are narrow! I don’t know. Should he have known? Probably no, from a strict legal perspective. Probably yes, from my perspective. But he can claim sheer stupidity; there’s plenty of evidence of that.”

  I wondered if I could claim “sheer stupidity” too if the sheikh turned out to have actually engaged in illegal activity. It was a tough choice: Either you were guilty of helping crooks hide their money or you were too stupid to know they were using you to hide their money.

  I supposed I preferred the stupidity defense.

  Leo turned off the highway and into a narrow lane, cursing under his breath as the car crept up a steep hill.

  “It’s like trying to steer a bus into a one-car garage,” he said to me, a little snappishly.

  “If you’re nervous,” I said sweetly, “I’d be happy to take over the driving.”

  He grunted and muscled the car around another tight corner.

  The hotel was lovely. Pots of flowers hung over the entrance, and flower-bedecked Juliet balconies adorned the mellow stone walls. Inside the lobby, Leo steered me over to a discreet antique desk. I
stood back, admiring the eighteenth-century furniture and cozy fireplace in the corner.

  I could never look at a fireplace the same again. I moved a little closer to Leo.

  The clerk greeted us in a pure Oxbridge accent, so Leo addressed him in English as well.

  “Hello, I’m Leo Schlumberger. I believe my family’s contact at Banque de Paris made a reservation?” he said, with a slightly embarrassed glance at me.

  So, Leo’s family also used their private banker for all the scut work! I glared at him, wondering if his family treated their bankers as dismissively as the sheikh treated me. But Banque de Paris had done its work. The manager of the hotel himself hurried into the lobby and bowed and scraped us all the way up to our room, a lovely double suite with a Jacuzzi bathtub and shimmering views of the city lights. “This will do very well,” Leo said. “Thank you.”

  The manager left, and Leo turned to me. “Shall I light the fire?” he suggested.

  Chapter 28

  Money laundering, I reminded myself. Remember money laundering and the chain of coincidences and Jules. But then Leo smiled at me and reached out a long arm to pull me against him. I went unresisting.

  “Actually,” he murmured, his voice husky, “I think the fire’s already been lit, motek.”

  I put my arms around his neck and kissed him.

  “I have an ulterior motive for this little jaunt,” Leo told me as I nestled in his arms under the divine duvet.

  “Oh?” I thought Leo probably had motives hidden under motives hidden under motives. The problem was that I didn’t know what they were. But I was too full of mindless pleasure at that moment to worry about it.

  “Beyond bringing you to this hotel, I mean,” he said, kissing my neck.

  “Mmm.”

  “After we meet with your friend in Avignon, I’d like to drive to Cadaqués, in Spain. It’s only a few hours.”

  Even I, who had European geography implanted in my brain, had never heard of Cadaqués.

  “Why?” I asked sleepily.

  “I found a reference to a Father Ramon Moscardo in some of Catherine Willoughby’s papers. He was her steward for the time that Baby Mary was with her, and moved back to Barcelona some years later.”