Shea said calmly, “Gentlemen, here are the papers authorizing the transfer of your funds from Atlantic Bank to Bank Caribbean International.”
“What?” I squeaked. “You’re transferring your funds? Oh, no. Please reconsider, Sheikh—I mean, sir! Audrey will—”
“Mrs. Chiu has not protected our money,” Kareem snapped. “BCI will take much better care of this.”
Shea nodded and handed him a sheaf of papers with a gold-tipped pen.
I whimpered, “Please don’t do this, sirs! What can I do to make you change your mind? Audrey will be so angry! What will I tell her? Oh, please, don’t sign. . . .”
I let my voice trail off into a miserable silence as Kareem snatched the papers and signed, with a great flourish. “And here,” Shea said, pointing to another page. “And here, and here . . .”
The pen scratched. Without even condescending to look at poor little me, Shea held the papers out to me and said, “Ms. Schumann, do you recognize this signature?”
“Yes,” I said in a tiny voice.
“Do you recognize the signer?”
“Yes,” I whispered.
“Then please sign here to authorize the withdrawal.”
With an audible gulp, I dashed at my (perfectly dry) eyes and signed the papers.
“Congratulations, sirs,” Shea said. “You have just joined the federal penal system and are headed for supermax.”
It took a moment for his words to land. In the same instant, the butler stood up and bumped into Nasir, splashing his once immaculate front with hot tea and a bowlful of cream. Shea leaped at Kareem, who grabbed me from the back and pressed his gun to my neck. I made myself go limp.
The butler backed off Nasir, but the doors flew open and the rest of Shea’s team spilled into the room. Seeing me in Kareem’s grasp, they lowered their guns and watched Shea, their faces hard and intent.
“Give me those papers!” Kareem shouted. “Give me those papers, or I’ll—”
“Oh, I don’t think so,” I said. With a deft twist, I swung around and kicked him so hard in the groin that he doubled up, sobbing, and the gun fell from his suddenly lifeless hand to the floor. Nasir turned on me, but Shea’s men were on him in less than an instant, and he too crashed to the floor in a moaning heap.
I turned back to Kareem. “Those papers prove that you and your brother are the proprietary owners of that account, and will send you to supermax for the rest of your lives,” I said coolly.
“My father . . . ,” Kareem moaned.
“Is already on his way to his prison cell,” Shea snapped.
“Let’s get them ready for transport,” the butler said, lifting the silver domes from the tray to reveal wire handcuffs and a long syringe. Sedatives for the journey, I supposed. Good idea.
“Well done,” Shea said to me briefly.
“Right back atcha,” I said, channeling the PYTs.
Shea almost grinned.
Now, that was teamwork.
I was back in my office by five and started cleaning up my desk immediately. At a few minutes before six, the summons came. “Amy! In my office at once!” Audrey roared. Audrey never spoke much above a murmur, forcing her listeners to stoop respectfully over her diminutive frame in an effort to hear everything. She never, never shouted.
This was it, I knew. Thank God.
All activity ceased. The PYTs had been planning an evening of hot yoga and trivia night at the pub, but now everyone settled back into their desk chairs, determined to learn the outcome of this epic occasion.
Steady as a rock, I strolled into her office. I didn’t sit down.
“The sheikh’s family have withdrawn all their money from our accounts!” she screamed at me. “Do you know how much money that is?”
“Seven hundred—”
“Seven hundred fifty-seven million dollars!” she shouted. “Three-quarters of a billion dollars! Gone! All gone in one afternoon!”
For form’s sake, I tried to look abashed.
“How could you have let this happen?”
“How did they get the money,” I countered, “without coming in here to do the signature cards?”
“They called Lord Featherstone at home and met him there! You mean to tell me you knew about this?”
“Of course I didn’t know,” I said quickly. “I just wondered—”
“How could you have let this happen?” she shrieked, so far gone as to repeat herself. “Do you know what this will do to our bottom line? Do you have any idea what you’ve done?”
I smiled slightly, envisioning all of the sheikh’s ill-gotten money snug and safe in a nice, untraceable CIA account. The smile was a mistake.
“You’re smiling? You think this is funny?”
Actually, I found tiny Audrey in a rage quite funny. I pressed my lips together to avoid laughing out loud.
“You’re fired!” she shouted. “Get your bag and go! Get out of this bank! Get out of my life! I’ll see to it that you never get another job in this industry again!”
God, please let it be true, I thought.
“With pleasure,” I said, and walked out the door.
Of course, it wasn’t that simple. Bob called me that night and told me I would get a call on Monday reinstating me at the bank. I almost burst into tears. “Why?” I pleaded. “You promised me, Bob. You promised me that if I nailed the sheikh, I could go back into the field again. I handed the bastard to you on a silver platter with enough documentation to put him away for three lifetimes, and this is what I get?”
“Sorry, old girl,” he said cheerfully. “Sheikh Abdullah and his sons will spend the rest of their lives as guests of the US penal system, but there’s a little old sheikh in Bahrain whose accounts you’re going to get. He was in the Paris train bombing up to his nasty little eyeballs, and you’re going to bring the bugger down.”
“I’m begging you, Bob. Please, please, please get me out of Atlantic Bank. I’ll go back to Chechnya. I’ll go to Yemen. I’ll even go to Afghanistan again if I have to, and wear a burka all the livelong day.”
“Atlantic Bank,” he said. “But don’t worry; I put you in for war zone pay this time.”
I paused, war zone pay being nothing to joke about. CIA officers got war zone pay for going solo into places like Fallujah and Tripoli, not London. It almost tripled my take-home pay.
“Really? War zone pay?”
“Yup.”
“Well, then . . . is the Bahraini sheikh a big fish?”
“Close your eyes and think of the money,” he suggested, and hung up.
So, on Monday morning, I didn’t close my eyes as I slipped quietly into my old desk. But I carefully averted them from Audrey, and she just as carefully avoided seeing me. I wondered which “friend” Bob had enlisted to talk her down. Lord Featherstone, probably. I suspected he was the one who had gotten me the job in the first place. Dorcas had once mentioned he was in OSS during the war. I really didn’t think that Bob would have outed me to Audrey; Lord Featherstone must be quite the great persuader.
The rest of the team eyed me cautiously, but no one spoke to me. I worried that the scene had called too much attention to me and that someone might start wondering just how I had gotten reinstated so quickly; my cover depended on being so spineless that no one in their wildest dreams could imagine me as a spy. I would have to be doubly Amy-ish to stem speculation.
And there was still no word from Leo.
But the week before Christmas, Kali texted me that she would be in London for the holidays with “the family” (Élodie’s, I interpreted, not ours) and that Élodie absolutely insisted I join the Schlumbergers for the first night of Hanukkah. I refused, of course, but first Kali, and then Élodie herself, called me. Embarrassed by all the importuning, I gave in.
Naturally, all I could think about was whether Leo would be there. I hadn’t seen or heard from him since his abrupt departure at the Barcelona airport, and I could only imagine how great his sense of betrayal still was. Eve
n while lying in his arms, I had lied to him, over and over. And then for him to have learned I had the power to save his beloved Sudeley Castle with one public statement but refused to do it . . . I couldn’t blame him for his silent fury.
So, very uncharacteristically for either Jules or Amy, I tried on a dozen outfits before settling on the first one I had set out: a black pencil skirt and dark blue blouse that complemented my blue eyes and fair skin. At least I hoped it did. I added the tiny diamond earrings my father had given me when I left for college—take that, Schlumbergers!—and skintight black boots that made my legs longer (hopefully), and set out for Holland Park.
As my Uber dropped me off and I walked up the brick path, I could hear children’s shrieks all the way out to the street. So much for the “quiet family evening” Élodie had promised me. I rang the doorbell and waited apprehensively, smoothing down my skirt and brushing flakes of snow off my jacket. The door swung open, and there stood Leo, impossibly tall and dark against the candlelit background.
“Hey, Jules,” he said.
“Please,” I said. “Don’t call me that.”
He inclined his head slightly. “Of course. Won’t you come in?”
He held the door open just enough that I had to brush against him to walk inside, and every nerve ending in my body tightened at the feel of his body against mine. “May I take your jacket?” he asked politely, for all the world like a well-trained butler rather than an ex-lover.
Awkwardly, I slipped out of the jacket and handed it to him. He draped it over the banister and held out his hand to me. “Come,” he said. “Let’s introduce you to the clan.”
Chapter 39
“Amy!” Kali squealed, and raced over to give me a big hug. For a moment, I contrasted this meeting with our strained reunion when she first arrived in London just a few months ago, and I held her close. She looked wonderful, her fair skin tanned to a lovely glow from the Antibes sun, and she was wearing a designer dress that must have cost more than my entire wardrobe. I raised an eyebrow at it, and she said happily, “Élodie took me shopping for Hanukkah! Isn’t it beautiful?”
The sapphire-blue wrap dress clung to her slim young body in all the right places but ended discreetly just above her knees. “Will Élodie take me shopping too?” I asked, and she laughed.
Children ran over and surrounded Kali like a wave of rolling surf. They jabbered at her in French and Hebrew, and she jabbered back in English and some terribly accented French. Proudly, she said to me, “This is Amélie and Leah and Sara and Ari and Sasha . . .” She pronounced all the names the French way, with the emphasis on the last syllable, and I had to smile at her enthusiasm.
The children were trying to drag her away for a game, and she gestured at me helplessly. “Go,” I said, and they all ran off together.
I saw Leo across the room, and he started toward me. But a woman’s voice called, “Léo!” and he turned away. The large, lovely room was alight with candles and some dim lamps. By the window, I saw a beautifully carved menorah with two unlit candles. The menorah was surrounded by little gold-wrapped chocolate coins that the internet had told me were called gelt, traditional gifts for children at Hanukkah. In the corner, Kali and the children were playing dreidel, which the internet had also explained to me: a traditional toy for the holiday, which spun like an oddly balanced top amid shrieks of high-pitched laughter.
The rest of the room was like a scene from a Broadway play about perfectly dressed, perfectly groomed women and their escorts. The women were all tall and dark-haired, like Leo, and dark-eyed. Two of the men were blond, one brown-haired, and one so dark-skinned he almost looked African. All had sparkling glasses in their hands and, surprisingly, munched on little doughnuts still hot and steaming from the oven. My mouth watered.
One of the women came up to me and kissed me on both cheeks, Gallic-style. “It is such a pleasure to meet you at last,” she said, her English only slightly accented. “I am Élodie, and I must thank you for lending us your sister. She is delightful!”
Ah, Kali’s fairy godmother. I thanked her in turn, and we chatted for a while, her keen dark eyes examining me intently. I wondered if she knew anything about Leo and me. Other sisters came up and were introduced, and the conversation turned to art. “Neoexpressionism is passé,” one of them said.
“Not at all!” another objected, and they were off in what even I recognized as a sisterly quarrel. Polite and low-key, perhaps, but still the bickering of sisters. Élodie called out, “Léo! Come here and settle this. Your sisters are at it again.”
He strolled over and draped a brotherly arm across Élodie’s shoulders. “What’s all this, then?” he inquired.
“She said that—”
“She’s totally wrong about—”
“Enough!” he said firmly, with a glance at me. “We have company, remember?”
A little abashed, the women murmured apologies, and I assured them it was nothing. Then the youngest sister, Maya, said to Leo, “But still, Léo, we need you to decide about the Yad Vashem donation. Jacob thinks that—”
“Who cares what Jacob thinks?” Élodie interrupted.
“Leo, could you please tell her—”
“Leo, it’s really important that—”
“Dayenu!” he cut in sharply. “Dayenu! Enough. I will think about the Yad Vashem donation and let you know when I’ve made a decision. Now, it’s time to light the candles.”
Everyone quieted immediately and gathered the children to stand around the menorah while Élodie, the oldest sister, chanted the prayers. Even the littlest children were still and solemn. The twins lisped the ancient words along with their parents, and Baby Benji’s eyes were wide with wonder as the flames sprang up.
I watched Leo closely, thinking about his sisters and their complete reliance on him. No wonder he had such an air of command. He had probably been commanding since he was fifteen, when his father became so sick.
Three nannies took the children to the playroom for their own dinner, and we adults sat together at an endless table in the Versailles-size dining room. There were several cousins as well, so we made sixteen at table. The women’s jewels sparkled in the flickering candlelight, and the discreet hum of conversation was warm and intimate.
Embarrassingly, I was placed between Kali and Leo at the table, and I was agonizingly conscious of his nearness as I took a nervous sip of champagne. Kali said, “Amy! Leo! I have great news. I’ve decided to spend a year as Élodie’s au pair and then take it from there. Isn’t that wonderful?”
“Great,” I said, exchanging glances with Leo.
“Élodie’s delighted,” he said. “The children love Kali.”
“But do you need a work permit?” I asked. “I don’t want you to be working illegally.”
Kali explained, “There’s some kind of special permit for non-EU au pairs. Élodie’s lawyers are working on it.”
Leo said, “It’ll be fine.” Translation: Attila the Hun could become an au pair in Europe if he had enough influence and well-paid lawyers.
I asked, “How do the children go to school when they’re bouncing from country to country?”
Leo stirred, uncomfortable as always when the topic of his family’s wealth came up. “They have private tutors who travel with them.”
“Ah,” I said.
“But they’re going to settle down in Tel Aviv next year and send the kids to the American school there,” Kali put in.
I studied Leo for a moment. He wore his wealth and privilege so lightly. Sometimes it seemed to embarrass him, and sometimes he took full advantage of it (e.g., the Audi). Not for the first time, I wondered what it would be like to grow up knowing that anything was possible to you, that all paths were open. Was it liberating or pressurizing? From the moment my father died, only one path had been open to me—the CIA—and I had embraced it. But still . . .
Kali interrupted my thoughts. “Isn’t that great, Amy?”
“Well,” I said, only ha
lf-jokingly, “I guess my little girl is all grown up.”
“You’re not actually related—is that right?” Maya asked, glancing between us and failing to discern any resemblance.
“No, Kali’s father is my mother’s second husband. So we’re stepsisters.”
“Ah.”
I wondered how they felt about divorce; was there a slight tinge of disapproval in Maya’s tone?
“Amy’s parents got divorced, and then her dad died later,” Kali explained.
“I’m so sorry,” Élodie said to me.
“My father was pretty amazing,” I replied, lulled by her obvious sympathy. “I still miss him.”
Kali sniffed.
“What does that mean?” I demanded.
“I just don’t understand how you can hero-worship him like that. Don’t you know why your mother left him?”
“Because she hated moving all the time. She had no sense of fun or adventure!” And she left me too, I thought.
I was dimly aware that Élodie had turned to her sisters and engaged them in conversation so that our little family spat could go unnoticed. Kali hissed at me, “No, she left because he slept with half the embassy!”
“That’s her side of the story,” I snapped, instantly defensive.
“No, Jules, that’s fact.”
I shot her a furious look at the “Jules,” and she subsided, glancing around guiltily to make sure no one had overheard.
I quieted for a moment too, uncomfortably aware that my father probably had slept with half the embassy, and half of the other embassies as well. He had always had women dangling after him and rarely bothered to break up with one before moving on to another.
“So what?” I demanded.
“So what? He was an asshole—that’s so what.”
Leo, on my other side, leaned over. “Charming as I find these sisterly exchanges,” he drawled, “if I want to hear siblings bickering, I can listen to my own sisters.”
The Long-Lost Jules Page 22