The Long-Lost Jules

by Jane Elizabeth Hughes

  Sisterly! I glared at Kali, who glared back.

  “She’s not my sister.” I didn’t have any family.

  “Could have fooled me,” he shot back.

  Struck by the realization, I closed my mouth. Maybe Kali did feel like my sister, and maybe my father had been an asshole. The world tilted, ever so slightly, on its axis.

  Dessert was more of the little doughnuts, as well as bowls of sweet fruit and sherbet. I contemplated the fresh, luscious, out-of-season kiwis and strawberries, trying to total up the cost of this intimate family dinner. I was telling Leo about my Syrian teenager who had recently been admitted to university (to study English history, of all things!) when he leaned over and said to me, “Come outside for a minute.”

  I drew in my breath sharply, having resigned myself to the fact that the evening would pass without a single personal exchange with him. “Okay,” I said unsteadily. “Just let me get my coat.”

  His sisters watched owlishly as we got up from the table together. There was a sudden silence, followed by a burst of low-voiced chatter as we left the room. “At least we’ve given them something to talk about,” Leo said, smiling.

  The back garden was cold and dark. I shivered slightly, and Leo put his arm around me. “I knew you were a spy all along,” he said.

  “No, you didn’t.”

  “Well, I suspected.”

  I glared at him. “I’m very good at my job.”

  “Yes. You are. But I have four sisters; I know women.”

  I scowled even more fiercely, but my heart was pounding.

  “Also,” he went on, almost casually, “when I love someone, I really get to know her. I couldn’t fall in love with someone who’s a mystery to me.”

  My whole body felt suddenly alight with warmth. “You love me?” I breathed.

  “Well, of course I do. Why else do you think I followed you halfway around Europe?”

  “Because you thought I was Jules?”

  “Sacrebleu, I could have gotten your DNA from a used Diet Coke can that very first day at Covent Garden,” he said, “if that was all I wanted.”

  Remarkably, I had never even considered DNA. He had access to locks of Katherine Parr’s hair, which were beautifully preserved at Sudeley Castle. He could prove, beyond any doubt, that I was her descendant. I thought about that and about the fact that he had never threatened to expose me without my acquiescence.

  “I love you too,” I said, and lifted my head for his kiss.

  Chapter 40

  When we walked back into the dining room, we were holding hands, and my cheeks were flushed bright with beard burn and happiness. Arch glances were exchanged around the table, though I observed that only Élodie was grinning widely. They didn’t trust me with their precious brother, I realized. Well, that was all right; I had never trusted anyone either. Not Kali, not Leo, not anyone.

  Seeing his family together, though, made me wonder if there was another path for me. I had entrusted Leo with not only my heart but my deepest-held secret. Could I be a part of this close-knit, deeply loving family, with all its bickering and shared history and delicious children? A few months ago, it would have seemed absurd; now, I realized with a jolt, it seemed almost possible.

  And yet Leo and I had settled nothing. He hadn’t explained his silence of the past few weeks, I still couldn’t come forward and claim Sudeley, and he still couldn’t save it without me. My mood darkened, and I sank back into my chair, suddenly exhausted.

  Back at work on Monday, another shocker awaited. Audrey, unbelievably, had taken the day off, so the PYTs were running wild—perching on each other’s desks and chattering about the weekend. The boys tossed a football around and played desk-chair soccer while the girls braided each other’s hair in tight French plaits. I liked them much better like this, actually.

  Then all of our emails pinged at the same time. A thrill of curiosity and slight apprehension went through the room, and everyone hurried back to their desks to open up the message.

  Everyone,

  Executive Vice President Audrey Chiu has taken an indefinite leave of absence.

  Shocked gasps ran through the room.

  Ms. Chiu is under investigation by the FBI, Interpol, and the British Conduct Authority in connection with the accounts of Sheikh Mahmud bin Sultan bin Ali, who has been arrested for financing terrorists through his Atlantic Bank accounts.

  That was Audrey’s sheikh, I realized, her personal client for more than a decade. Commissions and fees on his accounts were so high that she had received Atlantic’s highest honor, the Banker of the Year award, three years in a row. I read on.

  Ms. Chiu is not suspected of direct complicity in any crime, but she is being investigated under the doctrine of willful blindness, which I urge you to study carefully. Please consult Atlantic Bank’s lawyers if you have any questions about this legal doctrine or your responsibilities with regard to it.

  During this interim period, I will personally oversee the office, and look forward to meeting with all of you tomorrow.

  Kind regards,

  Lord Alfred Featherstone

  Oh. My. God.

  “What the fuck is willful blindness?” a confused and nervous Jake M. asked.

  Kristen R., the smartest of the bunch, said, “The idea is that if a reasonable person should have suspected that something was wrong, then that person—Audrey—can be convicted of a crime for ignoring it. It’s when you choose to be blind, despite all the signs of trouble.”

  Both Jakes gulped audibly.

  I resolved to send Bob ten cases of the finest Scotch whiskey.

  As if my cup weren’t running over already, Leo called that night. “I’ve found something interesting about Lady Mary and her ancestors—your ancestors, that is,” he said. “Nothing material to our problem, but still interesting. Care to have dinner tomorrow?”

  “Sure,” I said. And maybe a nightcap afterward? At my flat? My senses tingled with anticipation.

  Lord Alfred Featherstone swept in the next morning to an unusually subdued office. Kristen R. was the first to stand up and offer her hand in greeting. “Alfred,” she said, “it’s so good to see you again. That was such a delightful weekend at Cliveden with you and your family.”

  “In the office,” he said coolly, “I am Lord Featherstone, if you please.”

  A chastened Kristen sat down, and I found myself cheering inwardly. The other vice presidents attended board meetings and the occasional social event with our directors, but Lord Featherstone was very much an unknown. He had worked with OSS and MI6 as a young man, though, and I strongly suspected he was Bob’s contact at Atlantic Bank.

  “Let us proceed to the conference room,” he said, and, without a glance to see if anyone was following, led the way.

  Tall, gray-haired, stoop-shouldered, octogenarian men had never been my thing, but I was falling in love.

  We sat around the conference table and introduced ourselves. After a while, Lord Featherstone snapped, “How many of you have the same name? Good lord, don’t your parents have any imagination?”

  I couldn’t help it; I giggled. He looked at me with no trace of recognition; he was good, I thought. “And you must be Amy,” he said. “A pleasure to meet you. I have heard excellent reports of you.”

  The room was utterly silent. “Now,” he said, “we will go around the table again, and each of you will speak for three minutes—no more, and no less—on your current accounts. Jake T., you may begin.” He set the timer on his Rolex watch and waited.

  Jake began, “I’ve been doing a deep dive into the Sultan bin Saud accounts and believe they need some right-sizing. So I’m planning to model the bottom-line kicks; then I’ll tease out the headlines and socialize some scenarios with the sheikh. I’ve been noodling on one—”

  Lord Featherstone interrupted, “Young man, are you incapable of speaking the Queen’s English? What on earth are you nattering on about? Amy, you appear to be a sensible person. Can you translat
e?”

  I almost giggled again but managed to stifle the impulse. “He’s analyzing different investments for the sultan’s accounts.”

  “Well, then why didn’t you say so?” Lord Featherstone demanded of Jake. Poor Jake’s mouth quite literally hung open. Silent shock reverberated around the table.

  Lord Featherstone harrumphed. “Cat got your tongue? Excellent. Kristen—any Kristen—it’s your turn.”

  I had never enjoyed a meeting so much in my entire life.

  So I was in a wonderful mood when Leo’s Audi purred up to the front of my building at six o’clock that night and I climbed in. Leo glanced at me. “Good day at the office?”

  “Fantastic. Epic. Lord Featherstone is the love of my life.”

  “I rather hoped I was,” Leo said.

  I gulped and felt my stomach quiver. I could not think of a thing to say. I was afraid that he was too.

  “At any rate,” Leo went on, clearing his throat, “I booked a table for us in West Ken, a quiet little pub where we’ll be able to hear each other talk.”

  Still incapable of speaking, I nodded dumbly.

  We wound up at a quiet corner table; I wondered if Leo’s private bankers had made the reservation for him.

  “So,” Leo said, after we had been supplied with frothy margaritas and bowls of pungent, fresh olives, “have you ever heard of Sir Francis Walsingham?”

  I searched my memory and came up empty. “No.”

  “I’ll give you a hint: He’s been dead for more than four hundred years.”

  Oh, another one of Leo’s historical obsessions. “No . . . oh, maybe,” I said. “Didn’t he have something to do with Queen Elizabeth?”

  Leo beamed at me. “Gold star for the young lady. Yes, he was Elizabeth’s spymaster. His staff included a cryptographer, a massive group of informants, and an expert at breaking and repairing seals without detection so he could intercept correspondence.”

  “Really,” I said. I loved a good spy story.

  “Yes. He uncovered numerous plots against Elizabeth and received regular dispatches about the Spanish military’s plans so that England was able to defeat the Spanish armada in 1588. Quite a brilliant spy,” Leo said, a little wistfully.

  “That’s cool,” I said. “But what does it have to do with Lady Mary?”

  “Oh, yes! Brace yourself, my little spy. It turns out that Lady Amanda Seymour was one of his informants. She regularly reported to him on the doings of Mary, Queen of Scots, who was aiming to overthrow Elizabeth and take the throne for herself.”

  “How on earth?” I asked.

  “Lady Amanda’s needlewoman had a sister who worked in Mary’s household, so they helped to intercept Mary’s letters and pass them on to Lady Amanda, who made copies and sent them on to Walsingham.”

  I was delighted. “And this was my ancestress?”

  “Yes, indeed. Furthermore, it seems that you come from a long line of spies. Lady Amanda’s grandson—the one whose trail led me to you—spied for King James, and his grandson was an agent for King Charles II in the Civil War. Another Seymour worked for Wellington to uncover intelligence against Napoleon. You have spying in your genes, my girl.”

  Thoughtfully, I remarked, “I’m agency royalty, you know.” I took a huge bite of the hamburger the waitress had placed in front of me. It felt wonderful not to have to pretend anymore with Leo. There were so very few people in the world with whom I could truly be myself, Jules Seymour, with the big appetite and the thirst for adventure.

  “What does that mean?” Suddenly alert, he asked, “Is this to do with your father? Even I couldn’t find anything on him.”

  I shrugged and ate three french fries at once. There was no more need to hide things from Leo. He knew the most important secret. “My father, Ned Seymour, was under nonofficial cover—an NOC, like I am—for his entire career, and my grandfather was Wild Bill Donovan’s right-hand man in the OSS. Supposedly, he led more missions into occupied France than any other American agent.” I took another big bite of hamburger, and ketchup dribbled down my chin. Unconcernedly, I swiped at it with a napkin.

  “So, ‘agency royalty’ means you come from an agency family?”

  “Not just any agency family, but an agency family with a whole display case in the CIA Museum at Langley. Of course, the name is disguised in the museum, but everyone knows it’s us.”

  Leo grinned at me. “So, you come from a famous and powerful family too. We have something in common.”

  I realized he was right. “Children of CIA people are called princes and princesses at the agency. Everyone else resents us and thinks we swagger around, knowing everything and everyone.”

  “And did you swagger?” Leo asked.

  “Well, maybe a little.” I laughed, thinking of a new recruit in my training program who had called me an ‘agency princess’ for the very first time, and how much I had enjoyed my superior status.

  “Jules Seymour, CIA royalty,” Leo mused, and suddenly, for the first time, I realized that I didn’t want to be an agency princess anymore. I had fallen into the CIA after the shock of my father’s death and the revelations that had followed it, but now it was my place, not his. It was my mission, my life’s work, and I was doing it for myself, not for him, and certainly not in his shadow.

  I wanted to be me, Jules Seymour—not the heir to my father’s legacy.

  “What are you thinking about?” Leo asked.

  I shrugged, shaking the thoughts away.

  “Why didn’t you ever call me Amy?” I asked. “Don’t tell me you knew from the very beginning. I’ll never believe it.”

  “No,” he acknowledged. “I thought you knew something about Jules, but after the first couple of conversations, I wasn’t sure if you were Jules.”

  “So why . . . ?”

  “You told me a lot about your dad,” Leo said simply. “Not his real job, of course, but I just couldn’t imagine him giving his daughter a mousy little name like Amy. You’re Jules.”

  “It took me two years to create Amy’s identity,” I said indignantly. “That’s why I couldn’t tell you. What would be the point of being covert if I’m going to identify myself to every man who comes along?”

  “I’m hardly ‘any man,’ am I?” Leo countered. “You sure know how to dent a guy’s ego.”

  His ego seemed pretty healthy to me.

  “I have to do such a bang-up job on the Atlantic Bank assignment that they’ll send me out into the field again,” I explained.

  Leo reached across the table for a fistful of my french fries, and I slapped his hand. “No sharing,” I said.

  “Ah, yes,” Leo said. “Isn’t that your motto?”

  We ate in silence for a few minutes.

  I asked, “If you’re just Leo, not Mossad, then why the gunmen?”

  “I swear to you,” Leo said, “on my nieces’ souls. I do not know.”

  I believed him.

  But then what was this all about? Sheikh Abdullah hadn’t suspected me for a minute, according to his CIA interrogators, so that didn’t explain it. Leo appeared to be clean, so that left, however unlikely, the last possibility: the Sudeley development. Did this all come back to Sudeley after all?

  I simply couldn’t imagine how.

  But I could see that Leo, despite his admission of love for me, was still prickly. He couldn’t quite forgive me for lying to him, and he definitely couldn’t forgive me for refusing to help him save Sudeley. He might understand—in fact, I thought he did—but that didn’t mean he could overlook it enough to be with me.

  And sure enough, when he took me home after dinner, he simply leaned across me to open the door on my side. “Good night,” he said. There was absolutely no inflection in his voice, and his face, in the hazy lighting of the dim streetlamp, was unreadable.

  I hesitated. “Don’t you want to . . .”

  He sighed. “Good night, Jules,” he said, and drove away.

  Chapter 41

  Alone again,
I stumbled up to my flat in a haze of uncertainty and longing. Where was this going? Where could this go?

  The answer was all too clear: nowhere. I turned on the radio for some noise in the too-silent room, and of course the familiar strains of “Hey Jude” filled the air. Our song.

  That’s me, I thought dully as John Lennon sang to me about a fool. Sadly, I turned off the music and climbed into my empty bed.

  The next few weeks were uneventful as a slushy, gray London winter began to give way to a tenuous early spring. A new group of Syrian refugees arrived, doubling my band of teenagers, and I busied myself with them on the long, otherwise empty weekends. To my great pleasure, Lord Featherstone continued to ride roughshod over my terrified and chastened workmates. His insistence on “real English” flummoxed the PYTs. He outlawed virtually every phrase on my Stupid Jargon list and some others besides. On day three, he gave up on trying to tell one Kristen from another, so he began to call everyone in the office by their last name. “Rivers!” he would boom out, and Kristen R. would jump up as if shot from a cannon.

  On day five, he got tired of the girls’ attempts to charm him. They were accustomed to adoring old men swooning at the flirtations and flattery of pretty young women, and Lord Featherstone’s stony reaction was impossible to comprehend. “Stop trying to flirt with me!” he snapped at Kristen the Younger, who froze mid-dimple. “I have three granddaughters, and if any of them tried to sweet-talk her boss like that, I’d have her thrown into a nunnery!” I was the only one he called by first name and the only one allowed to call him Alfred, which I did at every opportunity.

  I met with my new Bahraini “clients” (i.e., targets) and gained access to all of their account information, so Bob was pleased with me as well.

  But Leo had lapsed, once again, into radio silence.

  And I dithered over whether it was time to file the dreaded “close and continuing” report on him with the agency. I could report our relationship now that I knew he wasn’t working for a foreign government, but what was the point if our relationship—or whatever it was—was over? Maybe it had ended before it had really begun. My appetite plummeted, and I found it hard to get up in the morning. It felt almost like grief, and I tried to throw myself ever more passionately into my work.