The Long-Lost Jules

by Jane Elizabeth Hughes

  She laughed again and picked up her beach bag. “Ciao,” she said, and was on her way.

  Deeply unsettled, I leaned back on my chaise lounge and opened my Kindle. I had to spend at least two days here to keep up the show of an overworked single woman on a much-needed luxury vacation. But I couldn’t help thinking about Lyudmila’s observation. It’s a man, she had said. You’re in love!

  What could she possibly have seen in my face?

  Determinedly, I turned my attention back to the Kindle and decided to reread another John le Carré novel. But no sooner had I swiped my way to the first page than I saw someone else approach and stretch out on Lyudmila’s old lounger.

  “Hey, Jules,” Leo said.

  Oh, shit.

  Chapter 47

  “Is Lyudmila your asset too?” he asked casually.

  “Oh, fuck. Did she set up a meet with you too?”

  “Of course. Did you pay her expenses?”

  “Yes,” I admitted. “Did you?”

  “Yes.”

  Our eyes met in mutual consternation, and even I had to smile. Imagine Lyudmila hitting both of us up for expense money. My estimation of her went up several notches.

  We studied each other. “What did she give you?” I asked.

  “Nothing too interesting,” he said. “How about you?”

  “Same.”

  Another pause.

  “And what did you give her?” he asked

  “Just a red herring. And you?”

  “Same. Nothing important.”

  I had to hand it to him; he was every bit as good at this as I was. I wondered if Lyudmila had given him the same info about Ossipsky, though I wasn’t sure why he would be a person of interest to Mossad. As far as I knew, Ossipsky’s operations were in Western Europe and the UK, not Israel. But still, this could be a complication I didn’t need. So I said, cautiously, “Are you tracking Russian Mafia now?”

  “What? No. Terrorists, always terrorists. How about you?”

  “Russians.”

  “Ah,” he said. “Relax, motek. I don’t think she gave us the same information.”

  He was very good at this.

  My cell phone chirped just then, and I saw that it was a coded message. I needed to get to a secure phone. I eyed Leo uneasily and stood up. “Well,” I said, “this has been lovely. But I need to go up to my room and pack. I’m leaving tonight.”

  “No, you’re not,” he shot back. “This is Friday, and you’re leaving Sunday.”

  I glared at him. “How did you find . . . ?”

  “Marina Ostrova? Come, now. It was child’s play.”

  “Listen,” I said uneasily. I had put a lot of time and effort into developing the Marina cover.

  He stopped me with a look. “Jules,” he said, “what’s between us—whatever is between us—it’s personal. Not business.”

  “Not for me,” I replied.

  He shrugged. “Dinner tonight?”

  “No.”

  “Eight o’clock, then. In the bar.”

  “Don’t wait too long,” I said, and ran upstairs.

  Once in the quiet of my room, I went into the bathroom and turned on the faucets—old-fashioned but effective. Then I went through the tedious process of unwrapping one of my burner phones, switching out the SIM card, crushing the old SIM card, and placing the call to the secure line. I would have to dispose of the phone and card as soon as this call was done—an annoying task when Leo might be watching me.

  “Ostrova,” I said briefly.

  “Ostrova, I’m transferring you. Please hold.”

  I waited, impatient and annoyed at this delay. An unfamiliar yet familiar voice said, “Jules? David Harris here.”

  David Harris! He was director of the CIA, a legendary and much respected director whose own history as an NOC was one of the most remarkable in the organization’s history. Talk about agency royalty! I had never had occasion to speak with him personally, and my stomach jumped with excitement. Either I was in a shitload of trouble or they wanted me to do something horrifically dangerous. Or both.

  “Mr. Harris,” I said. “Nice to meet you.”

  He laughed, a warm and deep laugh that put me a little bit more at ease. I remembered that Harris himself had been “outed” in a messy scandal that involved an ex-girlfriend, talk of a leak, and a massive Senate investigation. But he had come out smelling like roses—typical of David Harris, according to agency lore—and was a happily married man with several children.

  “I’m sorry to do this over the phone,” he said, “but it’s much safer this way.”

  Do what over the phone? My palms were suddenly sweaty.

  “I understand that you filed a C and C with Leo Schlumberger, a Mossad officer.”

  I was so edgy that I had to think for a second to remember what a C and C was. Oh, the “close and continuing” form.

  “Well, yes,” I said. “But he’s not really full-time for Mossad, just does jobs for them once in a while.”

  “Is that what he told you?”

  I gulped and told myself to stop talking.

  “We don’t really know Schlumberger’s position in Mossad,” Harris said coolly, “but we know he’s up there.”

  This was bad news.

  “Normally, we would have a big problem with this C and C,” he went on. “A major, career-ending problem.”

  “I understand,” I said, gripping the phone tightly.

  “But in this case . . . well, all problems create opportunities, don’t they?”

  “I don’t know, sir,” I said cautiously.

  “In this case, you have developed a major potential asset. Schlumberger could be our eyes and ears on Mossad. In fact, you are to be commended for your fine work in this vein.”

  “But I didn’t . . . ,” I began, horrified. They wanted me to spy on Leo!

  “Your handler, Bob, will be in touch next week to discuss the mission,” he said. “In the meantime, just continue what you’ve been doing. Try to gain his confidence, and don’t do anything to make him suspicious.”

  “Mr. Harris,” I said desperately.

  “Yes?”

  “Leo is always suspicious. And he doesn’t let anyone into his confidence. This will never work.”

  “Oh,” he said, “we disagree. You’ve turned a number of assets, and we are quite certain of your abilities. Don’t worry, Jules. You can do it.”

  And he hung up.

  In a half daze, I went through the motions, yanking the SIM card out of the phone, destroying it, and then soaking the phone itself in the toilet for long enough to fatally damage its mechanism. Then I slipped out of my room and tossed the remains of the card into the chambermaid’s trash bag hanging off a cart in the hallway, and the dead phone in the plastic trash can in the hotel’s exercise room. That done, I went back upstairs and lay on my bed, staring at the ceiling.

  Then I got dressed and went down to meet Leo for dinner.

  He whistled under his breath as I walked toward him in my cool, blue-and-white-striped sundress. It was tight around the bodice and then flared out slightly before ending just above the knee. I knew its shape flattered mine, while the light colors complemented my budding tan. “Wow,” he said.

  In khaki pants and a simple white shirt, tucked in, sleeves rolled up to the elbows to reveal his muscled, hair-roughened forearms, Leo looked every inch the tall, dark, and handsome man whom women hope for and romance writers dream of. Then I remembered my “mission,” and my spirits plummeted.

  “What?” he asked instantly.

  “What what?”

  “What just happened? Why do you look like that?”

  “Look like what?”

  “Oh, for God’s sake,” he snapped. “Just answer the question, would you?”

  “Nothing happened.”

  “Merde alors,” he said.

  Both of us summoned up our best emotion-hiding skills, and we managed to chat about Kali and the children, Donald Trump’s lat
est absurdity, and Brexit through dinner, pleasantly enough. He had two drinks, while I was careful to sip abstemiously at my Prosecco. But even one glass loosened me up, and by the time he was drinking his coffee, I was aware of my body yearning toward his. My mind didn’t trust him, but my body and heart did. And now he had even more reason not to trust me. But still, his nearness, his slightly crooked smile, the athletic grace of his tall body . . . It was intoxicating.

  Sensing my vulnerability, he asked me again, “So, what were you so upset about before dinner?”

  God, he was persistent; I admired that. I would have to give him something. “It’s the C and C,” I admitted. Partial truth was better than no truth.

  “You filed a close and continuing on me? Even after everything?”

  He of all people knew what that meant, how serious—and risky—it was to declare a close and continuing relationship with an officer of a rival intelligence agency. “Well, yes, I . . .”

  He got up and walked around the table to me, then pulled me, unresisting, to my feet, and our lips met in a long, lingering kiss. “I’m touched,” he whispered, and then kissed me again.

  “Get a room, mate!” someone yelled. But this was a romantic little seaside restaurant in southern Europe on a soft, balmy spring evening, and most of the faces were approving.

  I leaned trustingly against him, feeling his heartbeat under the thin white shirt, and he tightened his arms around me. He put his hand on my bare arm, and I felt the heat from his body in rolling waves like the sea, rushing to engulf me and overwhelm me. I could scarcely breathe.

  Leo cleared his throat and waved at the waiter. “La cuenta. Rapido, por favor.”

  By the time we were in the elevator, I was almost panting and my cheeks were flushed. Leo put his arm around me and looked down at me, his eyes keen with speculation and heat. We fell into his room, Leo kicking the door behind us, and tumbled onto the bed like in a scene from the movies. He unzipped my dress with deft fingers, and I dragged his shirt back over his shoulders. “Nom de bleu,” he said. “What did I do to deserve this?”

  “Shut up,” I said breathlessly.

  So he did.

  Afterward, I lay in mindless contentment in his arms, running my fingers through the black hairs on his chest.

  “That was,” Leo said, “lovely. Perfectly lovely.”

  Reluctantly, against every instinct in my body, I drew away.

  “Hey now,” he said lazily. “What’s all this?”

  But in the warm, intimate silence of the shadowy room, all I could think of was David Harris, his expectations of me, and the sheer awfulness of having to betray Leo, yet again.

  I almost felt like crying.

  But I never—well, rarely—cry. So I sat up, pulling the covers tightly against my body in the sudden chill. “Leo,” I said, “they want me to turn you.”

  “Turn me into what?” I heard the smile in his voice as he rolled toward me and traced the outline of my breast with his long, deft fingers.

  “An asset, you idiot.” I pulled away again. “They want you to pass on info to me about Mossad ops.”

  “Ah,” he said, drawing me back into his arms again. “Well, I suppose we should have expected that.”

  I supposed so too.

  “Rivka wants me to turn you too,” he said. “Just think: We could spend the rest of our lives spying on each other. Then we could write our memoirs and star in a blockbuster Hollywood film.”

  I said nothing, seized by a sudden paralysis at his casual mention of “the rest of our lives.”

  “Leo,” I said at last, “this isn’t funny. We work for intelligence agencies that are . . .” I hesitated, searching for the right word.

  “Frenemies?” he suggested

  It was as good a description as any.

  “Well,” he said lightly, “if you outed yourself as Jules Seymour—saving Sudeley in the process, by the way—then you would have to retire from fieldwork, and then the C and C wouldn’t matter. If you’re not an NOC anymore, nobody cares who you sleep with. We could be together.”

  This time, my withdrawal was sharp and appalled. “Is that what this is all about? The romance? The sex? It’s all about Sudeley? You son of a bitch. You bastard. You . . .” I couldn’t think of a word bad enough for him. The betrayal chilled me to my bones.

  I jumped out of the bed and started throwing on my clothes, fumbling and clumsy in my haste.

  “Hey,” he said, sitting up and taking notice of my rage, “Jules, it was just a suggestion. It could be our happy ending.”

  “Not for me, you bastard,” I hissed. “You of all people should understand that this is my life. I should give it all up to sit at a desk so that your precious Sudeley can be saved? Are you crazy?” I paused. “Would you do that for me?”

  We both knew the answer to that.

  I heard him swearing softly in the darkness. Then the bedclothes rustled and he stood up too, scrambling for his shorts. “Jules,” he said, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it that way.” And he came toward me, his arms outstretched to pull me back again.

  But it was too late. I was already out the door.

  Chapter 48

  It was always the same with Leo, I realized, as I sat in an uncomfortable middle seat on the flight back to London. Always the same. First I listened to the voice of reason and held him off, then I melted, and then something happened to make me see that he was, in the end, my betrayer. Not my lover.

  How many times could I fall for the same song and dance? How long before I kicked the habit?

  By the time the plane taxied to the Heathrow gate and people began stirring, collecting their bags and turning on cell phones, I was resolute. Back in London, back to work, back to my real life. I could be Amy, I could be Marina, I could be anyone—except Jules.

  Fortunately, the following weekend I had already agreed to attend a party with the “IDC” gang to celebrate Dorcas and Will’s short R and R break from Kabul. I was determined to seize the occasion for a face-to-face with Bob.

  Dorcas took one look at me and hurried me over to the bar. “You look terrible,” she said. “What have you been doing to yourself? Here—have a drink. Have two.”

  I knew it was true. Dorcas had a healthy tan, her eyes bright and clear, while I felt dull and pallid all over.

  “How was Kabul?” I asked.

  “Hell. You know.”

  I knew, and I envied her with every ounce of my soul.

  “How did you get that?” I asked, pointing to the cast on her forearm.

  “The spice-market bombing. I was meeting with an asset.”

  Insanely, I was jealous for a moment. I must be losing my mind, I thought.

  “These days,” I said bitterly, “my only scars are from Audrey.”

  “Oh, really? I thought the new bosses had her tamed.” Dorcas always knew everything, often before I did.

  “Well, now she’s gone undercover. When her German handler couldn’t hear her, Audrey whispered in my ear that Brunnhilde was a perfect example of why she never eats. She kindly warned me to watch my waistline.”

  Dorcas shuddered. “Dire.” We each took a deep swig of our drink.

  “But honestly, Jules, what is wrong with you? You look like death warmed over. No offense,” she added.

  I looked away, and my eyes caught Bob’s. “Later,” I said, downing my cocktail in one gulp and setting the glass down on the table. I was on a mission.

  Hurrying across the room, I took Bob’s arm and steered him away into the narrow hallway between the tiny living room and even smaller bedroom.

  “Sorry about Audrey,” he said. “We prolonged the investigation as long as we could, but there just wasn’t enough there.”

  I shrugged; that wasn’t my mission today. “Bob,” I said, “haven’t I been punished long enough? I’m begging you—begging you!—to let me go back to the field. I’d take Yemen, Afghanistan, Chechnya, even Iraq. Anywhere. I need to get out of here!”

 
He wasn’t Bob the Friendly Bear anymore; he was my CIA handler. His eyes, as he looked down at me from his great height, were cool and assessing. “Maybe,” he said. “I’ll tell you this, Jules: Your friend Leo can be a powerful asset to us, and to you. I don’t think we’ve ever had anyone so highly placed in that organization.”

  “Bob,” I began.

  He ignored me. “They protect his cover very carefully, you know. After I met him, at that party in the fall, you remember”—I nodded; I remembered—“I was curious. So I had Rosie dig into it, but she couldn’t find anything. So I dropped it. Jules, they haven’t IDed him to anyone—not us, not the Jords, not the Brits.”

  I felt a small pang that my poor judgment on the yacht had forced Leo to identify himself. I hoped that I hadn’t endangered him or any of his assets.

  “Don’t worry,” Bob said, reading my mind. “He’s as valuable to us now as he is to Mossad. This op is eyes-only clearance.”

  “This op”—my betrayal of Leo. It felt like a slap in the face.

  “Bob,” I said again, “as I told Mr. Harris, I don’t think this will work. He doesn’t trust anyone, and certainly not me. I’m never going to get anything out of him.”

  Bob smiled at me, the smile not quite reaching his eyes. “You get us some actionable intel from him on Mossad’s thinking or ops, and it would probably go a long way toward getting you back out to the field. Where would you like to go? Yemen? Chechnya? Moscow? You can go to whatever hellhole you want if you give us Mossad.”

  “I can’t,” I said desperately, willing Bob to understand.

  “I think you can. Remember, Langley would give you the moon if you developed him as an asset. Eyes and ears on Mossad! Jesus, it’s the director’s dream come true.”

  I was silent.

  “And remember, you develop him as an asset, and you get out to the field again. No more Audrey and no more Pretty Young Things.”

  I had forgotten how good Bob was at this.

  Dorcas spotted me as soon as Bob shambled back to the party, once again the big, friendly bear. “Jules,” she hissed. “Talk to me. What were you and Bob huddling about over there? Why do you look like he just slapped you? What did he say to you? I’ll kill him if—”