Tom Savage

Mrs. John Doe

© 2015

In loving memory of Jennifer Jaffee,

from all of us in the Friday Night Club

LADY MACDUFF. Whither should I fly?

I have done no harm. But I remember now

I am in this earthly world, where to do harm

Is often laudable, to do good sometime

Accounted dangerous folly. Why then, alas,

Do I put up that womanly defence

To say I have done no harm?

[Enter murderers.]

What are these faces?

FIRST MURDERER. Where is your husband?

LADY MACDUFF. I hope, in no place so unsanctified

Where such as thou mayst find him.

– William Shakespeare, Macbeth (act IV, scene II)

Chapter 1

She was standing on the widow’s walk when the call came. It was an appropriate place to be, all things considered, but Nora Baron didn’t usually think in terms of irony. Only later would she see the awful humor in it.

She and Jeff used to spend a lot of time up here when they first moved in twenty-one years ago. Cocktails at sunset, gazing out at Long Island Sound as it slowly darkened, chatting about their day at work before going downstairs, hand in hand, to the dinner she’d proudly prepared for them. They had a party up here once, a spring afternoon, with two of her colleagues from Stony Brook University and one of his from the electronics business. Otherwise, it was always just family, enjoying their private sanctuary at the top of the house. Nude sunbathing! Well, only a couple of times, that first summer when they were still officially newlyweds, and never after Dana was born. More recently, Dana came up here with her friends from college. Nora hoped they kept their clothes on.

Thinking of her daughter brought a smile. Dana had turned twenty in February, and she’d just completed her sophomore year. She was at NYU, not Stony Brook; she’d chosen the theater department at Nora’s alma mater over the university where Nora was now an acting teacher. But she was following Nora to the footlights just the same, another actor in the family.

A breeze from the Sound ruffled her hair, and Nora grasped the wooden railing that ringed the platform and leaned into the sunset. She loved the fresh, salty tang of the open water, the perfume of her sunburned youth. She’d been for a swim earlier, while Mrs. Ramirez was cleaning, and there’d been quite a few neighbors about, lounging and jogging. Nora had plenty of time to swim these days, with Jeff working in England and Dana now living in Greenwich Village, and no classes to teach until September. It wasn’t even July yet.

The sky above the water was the deep, almost shocking shade of late afternoon blue that always filled her with a sense of contentment. There was no one on the beach beyond the grassy dunes at this hour, only two seagulls pecking in the sand near the water’s edge. Well, the smaller one was pecking, foraging for food, while the larger one circled it, hopping up and down and squawking. As she watched, a big wave crashed near the birds, startling them. They took off with angry cries and a flurry of wings, skittering away down the shore…

And the telephone rang.

It was the landline in the bedroom below her. Her cell was in her pocket; her daughter had programmed it to blare a rousing chorus of Ethel Merman shrieking “There’s No Business Like Show Business” whenever anyone called. The cellphone was pretty much family only, so this caller wouldn’t be Jeff or Dana. She went over to the roof door and down the narrow staircase to the upstairs hallway.

As she entered the master bedroom, she noted with approval that Mrs. Ramirez had changed the sheets and vacuumed. The mirror above her dresser gleamed from the Windex, reflecting a tall, slender woman of Irish descent with nice green eyes, good cheekbones, and shoulder-length chestnut hair. The color was professionally applied, hiding many gray strands; she wasn’t yet ready to admit that she was closing in on fifty. The slenderness was due to all the swimming, and to yoga and Pilates, not to mention overseeing armies of boisterous students. She sat on the bed and picked up the phone from the night table. “Hello?”

The mild static suggested an overseas call, even before she heard the plummy accent and cultured tones of her husband’s British business associate.

“Nora, it’s Bill Howard.”

“Hi, Bill! How nice to hear from you. How are you?”

A pause, then a breath. “I-I-Oh, Nora, I don’t know how to tell you this. I’m afraid I have some very bad news. Is-is anyone there with you?”

“No, I’m alone here. Why do you ask? What is it, Bill? What’s wrong?”

More ragged breathing. Then “I’m so sorry, Nora. It’s-it’s Jeff. He’s been in an accident. He’s dead.”

She heard the words, and they registered; she understood. Something happened inside her, a sudden feeling that she was on a stage and they were speaking lines that had been written by a playwright. She gripped the receiver carefully in her hand and spoke slowly, distinctly, so the audience could hear.

“How, Bill? How did it happen?”

“He was in one of my company’s cars in Kensington, on Holland Park Avenue. He seems to have swerved off the road and struck a wall. He-he was gone by the time the emergency people got to him. I’m so sorry. I’ve only just learned of it myself. It happened yesterday evening.”

“You’ve only just learned of it?” Nora was aware that she was still enunciating everything carefully. She didn’t sound like herself; she sounded like a character in the play she was performing. She wondered if this was a symptom of shock.

“Yes, that’s the odd thing about it. It seems he didn’t have anything on him, any identifying cards or papers. Nothing in his wallet but money, and pictures of you and your daughter. The police didn’t know who he was until they traced the car to us. I-I went to the morgue and, um, identified him. I’m just now back from there.”

The woman she was playing said, “Was anyone else hurt? Was he-”

“He was alone in the car, and no other cars were involved, so far as they know. None that stopped, at any rate…”

She weighed those last six words. “What are you saying, Bill? Do they have reason to believe it was anything other than an accident?”

Bill Howard gasped; that’s how it sounded, anyway, and his voice trembled with emotion. “Oh, Nora, I don’t really know anything at this point. I think you must-you must…” He was Jeff’s longtime friend and colleague, she reminded herself, and he was floundering, apparently searching for words in his own distress.

“I’ll come,” she heard herself say. “I’ll get a seat on the soonest flight.”

Now he seemed to pull himself together, and his voice took on a clipped, authoritative tone. “Let us do that for you, Nora. My assistant can handle all the business with the flights-”

“No,” she said. “No, thank you, Bill. I must-I’d rather be doing something. I’ll call you as soon as I know when I’m arriving.”

“We’ll book you in the Savoy-”

“No, nothing big. That little place in Gower Street where we usually stay.” We. She and Jeff…

“The Byron,” Bill said. “We’ll handle that, at least. Let me know your flight, and I’ll meet you at Heathrow. I’m so very sorry, Nora.”

She winced; she would have to get used to that sentiment. “Thank you, Bill, for-for being so kind.” She hung up before he could say anything more.

The bedroom was dark now. The receiver missed the cradle on the table and fell silently to the carpet. A car accident. She’d often wondered how it would be, what news she might hear. Jeff traveled so much with his business. But she’d never thought of a car accident. A plane, maybe…

A plane. The character she was playing took over once more. Nora Baron shut her eyes for a moment and listened to the silence in her house, in her body, in her mind. Then she opened her eyes, switched on the bedside lamp, picked up the receiver from the floor, and called the airline.

Chapter 2

The man across the aisle was looking at her again. Well, it seemed that way to Nora, but she couldn’t really be certain; perhaps she was merely being vain. She glanced briefly over at him and changed her mind. No, she thought, I’m imagining it; he’s watching a movie, something with Tom Cruise, and he’s wearing earbuds. He was Hispanic or Middle Eastern, or maybe Greek; she couldn’t always pinpoint nationalities. And he was half her age, but age considerations didn’t necessarily deter males from exercising a roving eye. Here came the pretty flight attendant with the drinks cart, and now he looked up and smiled. He had no interest in Nora, whereas with the girl, he was indulging in what Jeff had always called window-shopping.

Jeff.

She rested her head back against the enormous seat and closed her eyes. She hadn’t traveled much lately, but Jeff’s constant continent hopping had apparently caused their joint airline credit account to all but glow in the dark. When she’d called them yesterday to book the round-trip ticket-Coach, please, open return-she’d immediately and cheerfully been bumped up to first-class. So, here she was, closing in on Heathrow at just about two o’clock in the afternoon, London time, dreading the ordeal ahead in impressive luxury.

She’d slept a little, and she’d eaten some of the excellent meal she’d been served, but she’d declined the offered wine and Champagne. She remembered her late mother’s adage that nerves and alcohol were never a wise combination. At least she was mercifully alone: Dana had wanted to come with, as she’d expressed it, but Dana had been denied. Nora had gone into the city to see her daughter before her flight, and they’d had a long, emotional talk in the cramped, cluttered rooms Dana was sharing with two other girls, all ramen noodle soup and back issues of Cosmo and strewn underwear. She’d left her daughter weeping there and hurried to Kennedy for the midnight flight, which took off two hours late. Now, at nine in the morning, New York time, she merely felt numb. Emotions could come later, she decided. Today, she would get through this.

The sky above Heathrow was overcast when they landed, and the tarmac outside her window was glistening. There’d been rain this morning-on the last day of June. Welcome to London, she thought as she hitched her black Coach bag over her shoulder and disembarked. The black-haired, dark-eyed young man from across the aisle, the one she’d thought was watching her several times, paid no attention to her as they made their way through carpeted corridors to the international arrivals area. She was the first passenger through Immigration, and Bill Howard was waiting there for her, solemn, dressed in black. As usual, he’d somehow managed to get through the barriers into the restricted section. He folded her in his arms, and she nearly sagged against him before collecting herself. After a moment, he gently drew away from her and said, “Let’s go.”

The other passengers were forming lines for baggage claim and Customs, but Bill flashed a leather card case at the nearest uniformed officers and led her away to the exit. A limousine was stopped at the curb, and a big, muscular black man in chauffeur livery was already stowing her suitcase in the trunk. The boot, she reminded herself: This is England. Hood and trunk are now bonnet and boot, and steering wheels are on the right because they drive on the left. She wondered how they’d managed to get her bag here so swiftly, but she didn’t ask. She didn’t ask about Customs either. She knew from experience that Bill’s ID card was by way of being a magic wand.

As the driver opened the rear door for her, she noticed the young man from the plane getting into a taxi behind them.

The car moved into the stream of traffic heading for the city, and she finally took a good look at Bill Howard. She’d known Bill and his wife, Vivian, for about fifteen years now, ever since he’d begun working with Jeff. She’d last seen him three years ago, when she’d come over to join Jeff for four glorious weeks, during which she’d managed to see every new play and musical on offer in the West End. A working holiday.

Bill looked older than she remembered, thinner on top and thicker through the middle. His mustache had gone completely white under his aquiline nose and ice-blue eyes. He would be in his late fifties, she figured, perhaps five years older than Jeff, and his face and form were what she secretly classified as typically British: tallish, squarish, oddly formal, handsome and patrician in a David Niven sort of way. She’d never found him particularly appealing, though she could see how a lot of women would. Vivian, as chic and warmhearted as her husband was tweedy and correct, was much Nora’s favorite of the pair.

“How’s Viv?” she asked him now.

“Oh, fine, fine,” he mumbled with a little wave of his hand. “She’s looking you up at the hotel this evening, so you can see for yourself.” He glanced through the partition at the back of the driver’s head and then turned to face her in the backseat, cutting his gaze swiftly from her to the driver’s head and back again. Nora met his gaze and nodded, letting him know that his message had been received. The walls have ears.

“We’re dropping you at the Byron first,” he went on. “Do you want to rest up a bit before-”

“No,” she said. “I want to get this over with, and the airline has already made me two hours late.”

“Then I shall take you myself. We’ll check you into the hotel and go directly on from there. After that, Viv will meet you for dinner back at the Byron at eight o’clock, if you feel up to it. I’m afraid I can’t join you. I have an important meeting this evening that I couldn’t postpone-a minister I’ve been trying to have a word with for several months. It’s rotten timing, but there it is.”

“I’ll be all right,” Nora assured him. “And Viv will keep me company tonight. You do what you have to do. I’ll be fine, really.”

“Yes,” he mumbled. “Quite. Well, then…”

Nora reached over to cover his hand with her own. “Thank you for doing this.” She nearly smiled when she saw his bright red blush.

The Byron Hotel was in a row of small hotels in Gower Street, near the British Museum. Nora had learned of it from teacher acquaintances who worked at RADA, the Royal Academy of Dramatic Art, which was just up the street. She’d stayed here many times with Jeff, and she liked the intimate, old-world feel of the place. A tiny reception lobby, a charming little lounge beyond it, a dining room on one side, a staircase and ancient lift on the other that led to thirty comfortable bed-and-baths on the upper floors. A bust of the eponymous Romantic poet highlighted a shrine to him in the lobby. The proprietor was a marvelous old Cockney gent, and the staff consisted mainly of his wife, who was the chef, and a seemingly endless brood of children and grandchildren. Only two stars in the guidebooks, but a peculiarly British treat for those in the know.

Old Mr. Tindall himself was there to meet her, quietly offering his condolences, and his ample wife gave her a crushing bear hug. Nora smiled at the kindness of these near strangers, and she thanked them and followed a grandson-bellboy up to her second-floor front room. This was number 3, the very room where she’d always stayed with Jeff, and she wondered how Bill’s people had managed to snag it on such short notice, now of all times. It was the middle of the Wimbledon fortnight, and London was hosting tennis enthusiasts from all over the globe. Even the Byron must be booked solid.

She thanked the grandson and tipped him, then rinsed her face with cool water in the bathroom and took a brush to her hair. She didn’t bother changing out of her travel clothes, a black blouse and skirt and beige trench coat-what she called beige, anyway; the catalog had called it toffee. She returned to the lobby, where Bill was waiting. They got back into the car and rode in relative silence, due north, to their next destination.

When the car arrived at the hospital, Nora drew in a steadying breath. Then she allowed Bill to take her arm and lead her inside, to the morgue.

Chapter 3

Dr. Gupta was very kind. The small Indian man in the well-tailored blue suit had an apologetic manner that actually made Nora feel somewhat stronger, more assured, as though she should be comforting him instead of the other way around. They’d been shown into his third-floor office, and now he’d brought them to a bank of elevators, one of which would take them down to the basement of the hospital.

“A formality,” he explained in his mildly accented English as they descended. “Mr. Howard has already been here, but we require an immediate relative. Otherwise, I wouldn’t-”

“It’s okay,” Nora said. “It’s quite all right. I-I want to see him.”

The elevator opened into another corridor lined with offices, at the end of which was a large gray area with gray carpets, couches, and chairs. The waiting room, Nora thought with a shudder. An old woman and a middle-aged man sat together on a couch, probably a grieving wife and son, but otherwise the place was empty. Nora glanced at Bill Howard, who chose a seat across the room from the others and said, “I’ll be right here.” She nodded and handed him her shoulder bag, and Dr. Gupta led her over to another door. Nora braced herself when he opened it.

It wasn’t as bad as she’d imagined it would be. Industrial tubes concealed in a false ceiling brightly lighted the big, long chamber, and the temperature dropped some fifteen degrees the moment they entered. The walls were lined with shiny metal stacked drawers above the green linoleum floor. She’d half expected to find the cast of CSI hunched over stainless steel tables with frightening-looking drains, burrowing rubber-gloved hands into gaping chest cavities. But no such horror was in evidence, only two silent young men in hospital blues awaiting the doctor’s instructions. The autopsy surgeries would be elsewhere, of course, down the hall or in a subbasement. She’d been watching too much television; this place was merely for storage. Storage of human beings. Her step faltered, and the doctor reached out to grasp her arm.

“It’s okay,” she said again. “I’m okay. Let’s do this.”

At a nod from the coroner, one of the orderlies went to a low drawer and pulled it open, then stepped back, discreetly out of the way. Dr. Gupta gently peeled back the white sheet, revealing the head and naked shoulders. Nora came forward to stand beside the drawer, staring down.

She said, “Yes, this is my husband. This is Jeff.”

His face was slack, calm, almost smiling. He was pale, with a bluish tinge to his waxen skin. She studied the features in repose, the closed eyelids, and the faint bruise on his right cheek by his ear. She glanced down the length of the sheet that covered most of him, wondering what it concealed. Should she ask? Did she really want to know? In the end, Dr. Gupta made the decision for her.

“It was a heart attack,” he said quietly. “A sudden, massive myocardial infarction. It may comfort you to know that he was most likely, er, gone before the car struck the wall. That”-he pointed to the bruise-“was probably sustained when the air bag was deployed, but it didn’t develop, which indicates a postmor-er, well, otherwise, there is no visible damage.”

She nodded again. A single tear made its way down her face, and she reached up to brush it away. She wondered what she should say at this point, but the doctor saved her the trouble once more.

“I’ve called it an accident, officially. There won’t be any further legal activity, no inquest or anything like that. You’re free to take him home. One thing: He had heart and liver damage, and some of the scarring goes back years. Was he on medication for it?”

She shook her head and told the truth. “This is the first I’m hearing about it.” Then she said, “I’m going to have him cremated. Can-can that be done here?”

“Of course.”

“I mean, now?”

Dr. Gupta nodded. “Yes, we’ll see to it. If you’ll come back tomorrow afternoon, I’ll have everything ready.”

“An urn?” she asked.

“A box,” he said. “You may choose the final containment when you’re back in New York. That would be best.”

“And the-the transportation?”

“Your airline will be able to assist you. They’re used to these things.” More quietly, he added, “With security these days, I’m afraid it will have to be the cargo hold.”

She didn’t know what to say to that, so she simply nodded again. Another tear ran down her cheek.

“There are a few forms for you to sign,” he said. “My assistant is bringing them down from my office. Are you-are you ready now?”

“Yes,” she whispered. She reached out as though to touch the upturned face on the steel pallet, but her hand stopped before it reached its destination, slowly returning to her side. At a nod from the doctor, the orderly pulled up the sheet and rolled the big drawer shut. The harsh metallic clang seemed to reverberate in the frigid, sterile room.

A few other people had arrived in the waiting area by the time she and the doctor rejoined Bill Howard there, but she took no notice of them. She moved directly into the arms of her friend, her husband’s friend, and wept against his shoulder. Then they all sat in a corner of the waiting area. A young Asian woman in a white lab coat arrived with legal papers and a big, sealed manila envelope. Nora signed a Certificate of Death, a Certificate of Formal Identification, a Receipt of Personal Effects, and a Certificate of Waiver of All Pursuant Claims, whatever that was-probably so she couldn’t sue the car’s manufacturer or the City of London for having erected a stone wall on Holland Park Avenue. She signed it anyway, thinking all the while of the body in the drawer next door. How small he’d seemed, and how fragile. A heart and liver condition of long standing…

“The, er, personal effects are here,” Dr. Gupta said. The assistant handed her the manila envelope containing a plain brown wallet, a key ring with three keys, a disposable cardboard camera, and a small white box. Nora opened this last item, a jewelry case. She removed a layer of cotton and stared.

It was a simple gold chain with a heart-shaped locket. She snapped it open and found a tiny, recent photo of Jeff, smiling confidently into the camera. In the box under it, nestled in a second layer of cotton, was a miniature envelope with a card. Happy Birthday! Inside the card, in Jeff’s handwriting: Pal, always keep me close to your heart. Love, J.

Pal. His private name for her; only the two of them knew what it meant. Her forty-eighth birthday was in three weeks, July 21, and he’d already bought her a gift. The wallet held two hundred forty pounds and two photos, one of her and one of Dana. Jeff’s credit cards, insurance cards, gym membership, and all the other things that he normally carried were absent, even his driver’s license. She’d never seen this wallet before either. It certainly wasn’t Jeff’s usual wallet, the one she’d given him years ago. It wasn’t real leather but plastic, what she’d heard called pleather.

She turned to look at Bill. “What about his-”

“It’s okay,” her friend assured her. “His other wallet was at his place, and everything was there. All his belongings too. No need for you to worry about it now. We’ll pack it up and send it to you.”

“That’s all, really,” the doctor said. “We disposed of the clothes he was wearing. They were…” He trailed off, then quickly handed her an engraved business card. “If you need an official report of the accident for insurance purposes, refer your carrier to me. The police in Kensington didn’t make one. They have no record of him, only of the incident itself. They listed the driver as, er, John Doe. I’ll notify them of his identity.”

“My company will take care of all that, Doctor,” Bill told him, and Dr. Gupta nodded.

Nora looked around the crowded room, a mass of strange faces with eyes that all seemed to be watching her. She stood up slowly, fastened the gold chain around her neck, and placed everything else in her shoulder bag.

“Thank you for everything, Dr. Gupta,” she said. They shook hands, and she and Bill returned to the car, where his driver waited.

“John Doe,” Nora murmured as the car moved through the early evening traffic, back the way they’d come. “It’s as though he didn’t exist, as though he never existed.”

“No matter,” Bill said. “It’s just paperwork, and we’ll update the police. There wasn’t much for them to go on.”

“I guess. Still, I suppose that makes me Mrs. John Doe.” She felt a horrible urge to laugh. Instead, she stared out through the tinted window as the car traveled south, aware of the chilly air-conditioning and the cloying scent of vanilla air freshener. She couldn’t think in this lavish conveyance; she could barely breathe. When they were two blocks from the hotel, she glanced at her watch and said, “It’s nearly seven o’clock, and you have to meet that minister of the Crown or whatever. Could you drop me at the next corner? I’d like to walk, and the park is nearby. I want to be alone for a while. Would you mind?”

“Of course not,” he said. “I think some air would be good for you.” He instructed the driver, who immediately pulled over and got out of the car. The man opened the back door and handed her out. She bent down to thank Bill again, then stood up straight and smiled at the big man beside her. As he closed the back door, the driver suddenly leaned toward her, his gloved hand gripping her forearm, his lips inches from her ear, and whispered three words.

“Be careful, Pal.”

Nora turned to stare at the man, but he was already back inside the car, shutting his door and reaching for the steering wheel. She watched from the corner, breathless, as the limousine silently rolled away and vanished in the gathering darkness.

Chapter 4

Fog. Nora gradually became aware of it as she stood on the corner, half a block north of her hotel. A thin, cold vapor had arrived in the street, not yet a full-on particular but growing by the minute. No matter, she decided; she was still wearing the beige trench coat. She buttoned and belted it over her black blouse, skirt, and high-heeled boots, her informal version of widow’s weeds, grimly acknowledging the humor of the coat’s label: LONDON FOG.

Something had just happened, of course, something odd and possibly momentous, but Nora could see no point in standing here trying to figure it out. Better to move, and move quickly. London’s most famous meteorological peculiarity was never shy, and this light mist could soon become a swirling wall of condensation, freezing everything in its path. She wanted to walk before she had to go indoors.

She hurried down the sidewalk, past the Byron and on to the corner of Montague Place. She turned left and proceeded east, glancing over at the imposing British Museum as she passed by it. She came into Russell Square, crossed the street, and moved briskly through the wrought-iron gates at the southwest corner of her favorite spot in London. Only then, when she was inside, did she slacken her pace. She shifted her inner gears, slowing down to take in the beauty around her.

Russell Square Gardens was a lovely environment, wide green lawns dotted with tall chestnut trees, a lime grove, and lush flower borders teeming with many vivid colors. The diagonal sidewalks were lined with benches and iron lampposts, and they led from the four corners to the geographical center of the park, a round plaza ringed with more benches where a circular, ground-level fountain sent water gushing up into the air from the pavement itself. The square reminded her of Washington Square Park in New York City, so well remembered from her college days at NYU, and it was every bit as beautiful. That was one reason why she loved it here.

She moved forward along the path, clutching her collar in the growing mist as she arrived at the central plaza. She reached into her voluminous shoulder bag, where she kept her standbys: sunglasses, gloves, a foldaway umbrella, a black wool scarf, and a floppy, oversize black wool beret her daughter had given her years ago. The last two items would be useful now. She wound the thick scarf around her neck and tucked her damp hair up into the beret, setting it at a jaunty angle on the right side of her head.

There weren’t many people here at this hour, in this weather: a small elderly lady with a blue-rinsed permanent and a brown tweed suit that made her look like Miss Marple, walking an enormous brown dog; a teenage boy and girl wandering hand in hand over by the trees; a tall young man in jeans, sneakers, and a gray sweatshirt emblazoned with the crest of Manchester United, murmuring into a cellphone as he jogged in place a little way from her. Two tiny, identical red-haired girls in green coats ran around the burbling circle of the fountain, laughing, admonished not to get too close to the water by a heavyset, middle-aged black woman on a nearby bench. The little park café was closed for the night, and a few solitary figures ambled here and there in the hazy distance.

The children’s activity and the low conversation of the football fan were the only sounds here; even the traffic circling the square was muted by the trees and obscured by the strengthening fog. Soon, the edges of the park and the remote buildings would be invisible from where she stood. It was so peaceful here, almost as though she were standing in a country lane and not in the center of one of the world’s largest cities. Now, at last, she could be alone and think.

She’d only seen one dead body before today, and that had been her father. She had been twenty-two, an only child fresh from the NYU drama department and just beginning to get work in the theater, when Alec Hughes succumbed to pancreatic cancer. Her mother insisted on the full Irish Catholic send-off, complete with a viewing of the open casket at the inevitable wake. Nora stared down into the coffin in the living room of her family home in Port Jefferson, barely recognizing the shrunken, gray man inside it. She promised herself that she’d never do this to anyone, no matter their religious background, no matter their wishes. The Church frowned on cremation, but Nora had never been devout, much to her parents’ chagrin. She decided on cremation for herself and hers. Her mother, dead just four years after her husband, was the only exception. Nora’s two maternal aunts handled everything-another Irish blowout, with rambling speeches and drunken keening-but this time they mercifully kept the coffin shut.

With both parents gone, Nora threw herself into her work, winning a part in the national tour of a hit Broadway play. She was performing at the Kennedy Center in Washington, six months after her mother’s death, when she met Jeffrey Baron. He was part of a group, a charity function some senator’s wife had arranged that involved a performance of the play followed by a dinner party for four hundred at the Roof Terrace. The cast was invited, and she was seated next to the tall, handsome man from Connecticut who said he was in electronics. He also said he’d enjoyed her performance in this, the first professional play he’d ever seen. She liked his brown eyes and his hearty laugh. Before dinner was over, they discovered they had the Sound in common. He was from a little town near Bridgeport, directly across Long Island Sound from her hometown.

He drove her home that night, to the sublet in Georgetown where she was staying, and the next day he invited her out. He came to see the play again, twice. By the time they were married, she was already pregnant with Dana, and Jeff had told her the truth about himself; he wasn’t merely in electronics. They would live somewhere on the Sound, and they both loved travel and crossword puzzles and word games. He gave her a pet name, coined on their wedding day, when he first saw her married name written down. From that day on, he called her-

Pal.

That big man, Bill Howard’s chauffeur. Three whispered words: Be careful, Pal. How could a complete stranger possibly know about that? The car accident with no police record. The death of “John Doe.” The body lying in the morgue with a long history of health problems. A gold locket on a gold chain: Always keep me close to your heart…

Nora Baron stood before the fountain in Russell Square Gardens, Bloomsbury, Camden, London, England. She stared out at the dark lawn, not seeing it, possessed by a sudden panic. The fog had arrived in earnest now, swirling before her eyes, the icy tendrils clinging to everything. She could feel it, cold against her face. The trees, the lawns, the great Victorian hotel across that road, the great museum across that other one; she couldn’t see them now. She was aware only of a rhythmic pounding sound somewhere behind her, and it seemed to be coming closer.

She blinked and looked around her, peering through the mist. The sweet old lady with the big dog; the teenage lovers; the jogger with the phone; the nanny getting up from the bench, calling the little twin girls to her as she buttoned her coat. It was time to go. It was time to take these children home while they could still see their hands in front of their faces. It was time to be careful.

Careful…

Pal…

Be careful, Pal. Be careful, Pal. Be-

Nora heard the little girl scream a split second before she felt the hard impact in the center of her back. Then she was lurching forward, flying through the air, through the blinding fog, and crashing heavily down onto the wet pavement.

Chapter 5

The little girl was still screaming, and someone else was shouting, “Hey, you!” The nanny. Another scream from farther away, probably the teenage girl. A dog barking. Then she heard footsteps running toward her from several directions at once.

Nora was lying facedown on the paving stones by the fountain, dazed. Her arms were outflung, and her beret had flown off to land somewhere nearby. Her left knee and her forehead above her left temple were throbbing; they must have struck the pavement when she went down. She wasn’t sure, really; it had happened so fast. She was gasping for air when she felt a sharp tug at her left shoulder. Someone grabbed her Coach bag and tore it from her arm.

More shouting and barking. The spray from the cascading water pelted her as she reached out with her hands, scrabbling for purchase. She rolled over onto her back and looked up, but she could barely see anything. She started to rise, but a wave of dizziness sent her back down, flat against the sidewalk.

“Ouch,” she muttered.

Hands. Big, strong hands grasping her shoulders. She cried out and struck at the air in front her, trying to knock the hands. Her fist came into hard contact with soft skin.

“Oof! Careful, ma’am. Please calm down. I’m trying to help you.” A West Indian accent, melodious, beautiful. “Lena, stop dat noise! Stop it, child!”

The screaming abruptly ended, but other sounds continued, a scuffle not far away. Male shouting and the dog’s frenzied barks. Nora blinked, peering up into the mist. The nanny was looming above her, holding her, helping her up. Nora relaxed and allowed the big, surprisingly agile woman to raise her to her feet. She was standing now, leaning against the woman, damp and disoriented, trying to make out what was happening a few feet away through the dense fog. She heard the sound of a blow, a fist striking flesh, and a groan. Something large rushed by from behind her on her left, running toward the action. A male shout. Another female scream.

She tried to move closer, but the woman stopped her with a firm grip on her elbow. “You stay right here, ma’am. Don’t get involved in dat. De men will handle it.”

Nora blinked again, and now she could just make out three figures a few yards in front of her, near the benches on the far side of the fountain. As she and the governess watched, the tallest one-the jogger, she now saw-punched the face of one of the other figures, a dark-haired, dark-skinned man in a dark suit, sending him reeling. As he staggered, the man dropped something-her shoulder bag!-to the ground. The jogger reached down to snatch it up while the third figure, the teenage boy, closed in on the thief, fists raised. He and the jogger now had the other man cornered against a tree.

“Okay, ye feckin’ Paki wanker, now ye’re gonna get it!” the boy growled.

“No, Gary!” A desperate female cry from somewhere behind her: the teenage girl.

Click. A low, ominous sound, and now the dark-haired man against the tree thrust an arm out in front of him, toward the two men who closed in, waving it from side to side in a slashing motion. In that moment, through a gap in the mist, Nora saw two things with perfect clarity.

Her would-be robber was the young man from the plane this morning. And he was holding a knife. A switchblade.

“Hoy!” Gary cried, leaping directly toward the knife, but the tall jogger reached over with one arm to snatch the boy from midair and pull him away, out of reach of the glinting weapon’s deadly arc.

“No!” the jogger said. “Stay back, mate.”

The big dog was still barking its head off, and the old lady was shouting at it, trying to control the animal. Nora couldn’t see them, but she could hear everything. She heard the children crying as they arrived to clutch the nanny’s skirt. Nora reached down to place her hand on the shoulder of the nearest little girl, listening. She heard the ragged breathing of the three men in the mist before her, facing off. There was a moment of suspended animation: the man against the tree, Gary and the other man facing him, Gary’s screaming girlfriend, the sobbing children, the barking dog, the shouting old woman, the constant splash of falling water.

Then, with a final violent wave of the knife, the thief took off from under the tree at a dead run, sprinting away across the grass toward the entrance at the southern end of the park. He was swallowed by the fog, leaving only the brief sounds of his retreating steps, then silence. Gary started to go after him, but a firm command from the jogger stopped him. The big man had his cellphone at his ear again, speaking low, conveying some soft but urgent message. The police, Nora supposed.

Now, at last, the dog got into the act. With a shout from the unseen old lady in the fog behind her, the big brown animal burst through a wall of mist, streaking past Nora in the direction the running man had taken. Everyone watched as it too disappeared in the fog, its menacing, low growl fading. A moment of silence, then a sharp male cry, followed by an equally sharp whine from the dog. Nora winced, thinking of the ugly blade she’d glimpsed in the man’s hand. Oh God, not the dog! she thought. She broke free of the nanny’s grasp, ready to run blindly through the mist.

The hand that stopped her was more powerful than the nanny’s considerable grip. The big man in the sweatshirt was now standing beside her.

“Don’t,” he said, and Nora froze.

The elderly woman hurried over, one gloved hand on her tweed-covered heart, the other holding a dangling leash.

“Buster!” she cried.

Another whine from the fog. Then Buster came trotting into view, materializing from the swirling mass like the Hound of the Baskervilles, and Nora realized that he was indeed a hound of some kind. He was limping slightly, and he had something in his teeth. They all rushed over to him. His mistress reached him first, sinking to her knees on the pavement, and everyone else crowded around. Nora noticed that the pretty teenage girl had finally joined them as well, her hand clutching the hand of her hot-tempered boyfriend.

“Oh, Buster, are you all right?” the old lady whispered, reaching out with her gloved hands to inspect him for damage. A sharp bark from Buster, then he began to lick her face. She felt his right foreleg, and he yelped in obvious pain. “He kicked you!” she cried indignantly. She leaped to her feet, faced the wall of fog in the general direction the man had taken, drew herself up to her full four-foot-ten-inch height, and shouted at the top of her voice. “You’d better keep running, you son of a bitch! Arsehole!”

They all stared at her, even the dog. There was a moment of shocked silence. Then everyone but Nora started to laugh. The men began it, joined by the girlfriend and the nanny. Even the little girls were giggling. Miss Marple turned around to face her audience, blushing. Then she too burst into ladylike chuckles. She knelt down beside Buster and took him in her tiny arms, crushing him in a hug. She removed the object from his mouth and held it up in triumph for all to see: a strip of dark material, part of the fleeing man’s trouser leg. They all laughed harder, and some of them began to clap their hands, a round of applause for the fearless Buster.

Nora blinked around at the crowd. The big man beside her held up her shoulder bag, and she took it from him, staring blankly at his handsome, laughing face. Then she smiled, and the smile became a grin. The first titter of laughter escaped her lips, and she gave herself over to it. She sagged against the nanny and the two girls, laughing with the rest of this motley group of strangers in this cold, foggy park. Buster shook himself, barked, and began furiously wagging his tail, which set everyone off again.

Just as they were all about to collect themselves and go their various ways, a uniformed park security guard appeared from the mist. He was an older man, barrel chested, red faced, with a thick mustache and muttonchop whiskers. Arthur Treacher in the flesh, the perfect Central Casting bobby.

“Eh, wot’s all this, then?” he wanted to know.

Nora took one look at him and screamed with laughter, but the fresh explosion of mirth around her drowned it out. The guard stared at them all, his mustache twitching, utterly at a loss. Nora hitched her bag over her aching left shoulder as the jogger stepped forward and took charge.

“It’s okay, sir,” he said. “It’s all over now. A little excitement, that’s all. Some deadbeat tried to steal this lady’s purse, but we sent him on his way.” He jerked a thumb to include the beaming Gary in the rescue.

The guard turned to Nora. “Are you all right, ma’am?”

“Yes,” she said, “I’m fine. Thank you-all of you. I just want to go back to my hotel.”

“I’ll come with you,” the jogger said.

Nora was about to protest, but the look on the young man’s face stopped her. He was escorting her home, and that was that. The teen girl was tugging on Gary’s arm, and the nanny had taken the twins firmly by the hand. Miss Marple was putting Buster’s leash back on his collar.

“Please see these people safely out of here,” the jogger said to the guard. It was more a command than a request. The guard nodded and led the little group away down the sidewalk, not even questioning the young man’s authority. In moments, they were lost in the fog.

Nora stood beside the fountain with the young man, forming words to thank him for his help. He was watching the others go. As soon as they were out of earshot, he turned to her, pointing at her shoulder bag.

“Have you got a handkerchief in there?” he said quietly. “Or maybe some plasters?”

It took her a moment to translate from British to American English. Plasters: Band-Aids. She blinked and looked down. He was gingerly rolling up the right sleeve of his sweatshirt, and now she saw a dark spot next to a slit in the material. A thin red line ran up his forearm, six inches long, beaded with drops of blood.

“Oh God, you’re hurt!” she cried.

“Just a scratch,” he mumbled. “But I could use a sop.”

Nora pulled a travel pack of tissues from her bag, then felt around in the bottom of it and came up with two Band-Aids and an atomizer. She took his arm in one hand, dabbed the blood away from the scratch, and sprayed it. He winced.

“Ow! What the hell is that?”

“Chanel Number Five. Hold still.” She placed a wad of tissues against the cut and taped it in place with the bandages. “There, that’s the best I can do till we get to the hotel.”

He sniffed the dressing. “I smell like a tart.”

Nora laughed. “Well, a high-end tart, anyway. Here.” She found a tiny bottle and handed him two Advil gelcaps. He popped them into his mouth and swallowed.

“Cheers,” he said. “Come on, let’s get out of this soup. Um, where are you staying?”

“The Byron, in-”

“I know where it is.” He retrieved her soaked beret from the ground and handed it to her, and they began to walk toward the park’s southwest entrance. “Are you traveling with people? I mean, is there someone at the hotel…”

Nora stopped walking, and everything came back to her. She looked down at her left hand, at her wedding ring. “No, there’s no one. I just arrived from America this afternoon. My husband died here two nights ago, a car accident, and I’ve come to-to take him home. My name is Nora Baron.”

“I’m sorry,” the young man said. They were silent for a moment. Then he said, “I’m Craig Elder. Well, me da’s Craig Elder, so I guess I’m Craig Elder the younger.”

She smiled in spite of herself. “Irish?”

“Through and through,” he replied, and he smiled too.

“We’re from Donegal, originally,” she said, “but I’m a New Yorker. Pleased to meet you, Craig Elder.”

“Likewise, Mrs. Baron.”

“Nora,” she said, and they walked out of the misty garden together.

Chapter 6

“Who was that character?” Craig Elder asked her.

Nora looked over at him. They were at the corner of Gower Street, turning in the direction of the hotel, and this was the first time he’d spoken since they’d left the park. She thought of her acting training, arranging her features in what she hoped was blank surprise.

“I don’t know what you mean,” she said.

“Oh, come on.” He stopped walking, pressing his left hand against his damaged right sleeve, checking that the makeshift bandage was still in place under it. “I saw your face when you looked at him, and later, when he took off. You recognized him.”

Yes, I did, she thought, but she merely shrugged and said, “I thought I recognized him for a moment, but I was wrong. I never saw him before. I have no idea who he is.” At least that last sentence was true. She wasn’t going to go into it all here, now, with this stranger.

“Okay,” he said, and they began walking again, “but be careful with that purse.”

She smiled. “I will. What do you do, Mr. Elder? I mean, when you’re not saving ladies in distress.”

“Student,” he said. “In, um, Dublin. I’m here on summer hols, um, bunking with a mate who lives just off Russell Square. I run in that park every day, to stay in shape.”

“Lucky for me that you do,” she said. “Dublin-would that be City University, University College, or Blanchett College?”

He blinked. “Um, Blanchett. And you?”

“I’m an actor,” she said, “and now I teach acting at a university in the States.” She didn’t add that she was enough of an actor to know that he’d just lied to her. He was too old to be a student, for one thing. He was in his late twenties, possibly early thirties. He was stammering, and he clearly didn’t know Dublin. There was no Blanchett College-she’d made it up on the spot and named it after her favorite movie star. The other two schools were real, but liars always went for the final choice in multiple choices. Jeff had told her that.

She gave her champion a covert once-over. Six two, lanky but powerfully muscled, strong features dominated by intelligent gray eyes, full lips and good teeth, short brown hair that came close to being a buzz cut, and a two-day shadow on his tanned skin. He had one of those Irish grins, all encompassing and startlingly masculine, and his voice was a resonant baritone. Nora the drama teacher always noticed these things. Something about him reminded her of the military. Whatever he did, she didn’t think he spent a lot of time behind a desk. Definitely an outdoors type.

“Here we are,” she said as they arrived at the Byron Hotel. He held the door for her and followed her inside. She stopped next to the bust of Lord Byron on a table in the entryway and turned to face her new friend. He looked at the bust, then up at a portrait of the poet in a gilt frame behind it. On the wall beside the print were framed poems, “She Walks in Beauty” and “So We’ll Go No More A-Roving” among them. Nora pointed to her favorite, a framed line from the play Don Juan, which was probably Byron’s most famous quotation:

’Tis strange-but true; for truth is always strange;

Stranger than fiction.

“Words to live by,” she said. “If you want to wait here a moment, I’ll ask the manager for a first aid kit, and we can do something about that arm.”

“Don’t bother,” he said. “My, um, my mate has stuff back at-at his flat. He’s a med student.”

At Blanchett College? she thought, but she didn’t say it. She said, “I’m meeting a friend for dinner; she should be here any minute. Will you join us?”

He didn’t answer her immediately. He was staring past her, into the lobby. Nora turned around and looked. Wimbledon had apparently not been called for fog tonight, and there were only three people here. An elderly American couple in one corner argued over a map of England. In another corner sat a pretty young blond woman in a low-cut blouse and a short skirt, with beautiful legs crossed at the knee that ended in a pair of spiked heels. Craig was staring at the girl. Nora smiled.

“Oh, no thank you,” he murmured, tearing his gaze from the vision. “I really must be going now. Will you be all right here until your friend joins you?”

“Please don’t worry about me anymore,” Nora said. “You’ve done enough of that for one night. Thank you again, Mr. Elder the younger.” If that’s really your name, she thought.

“Well, good night, then,” he said. “And be careful.” With a smile and a last, swift glance at the fabulous legs in the armchair, he strode quickly out into the fog.

Be careful, Pal.

It was the second time in an hour that a strange man had instructed her to be careful. In the case of Craig Elder, that final warning hadn’t been the tip-off, not by a long shot. She’d begun to have her suspicions about him as far back as the park, when he appeared so conveniently to spring into action. He’d told the boy, Gary, and the security guard exactly what to do, and they’d automatically obeyed him. When the thief escaped, he’d spoken into his cellphone-but no police had arrived. Someone else, somewhere else, had been alerted. Craig Elder was not a student; Nora was certain of that. She wondered again about a possible military background. Still, all this evidence hadn’t decided it for her. It was something he’d said outside, on the way here just now: Be careful with that purse. That had been the dead giveaway.

What is it? she wondered. What on earth do I have in my purse?

“Nora, darling!”

Nora looked at the front door, and a genuine smile came to her lips. Vivian Howard was the only non-actress she’d ever met who could always make an entrance worthy of a star. She stood there in a tasteful black suit that complemented her glossy black cap of hair, an expression of concern on her handsome, immaculately painted face, holding out her arms.

“Hello, Viv,” Nora said, and the two women embraced.

Chapter 7

“What happened to your forehead?” Vivian asked her.

Nora waved a hand in vague dismissal. “Oh, it was nothing. I stumbled on something in the fog and fell down, but I’m all right. Does it look awful?”

“No, it’s just a little black-and-blue spot. You look fine-I mean, considering. I mean- Oh, damn it, Nora, I don’t know what to say!”

Nora reached across the white linen tablecloth and grasped her friend’s hand. “Don’t worry, Viv, I’m fine. I’m just getting used to it, that’s all. It’s going to take a while.”

“You didn’t eat anything,” Vivian said. “Mrs. Tindall knocked herself out with that lovely chicken, and you barely touched it. Or the wine. Have you eaten today?”

Nora shrugged as a Tindall son-in-law arrived to clear the dinner plates from the table. “I had something on the plane. To tell you the truth, I’m more tired than anything else. I could sleep for a hundred years.”

Vivian nodded. “Yes, that’s the delayed reaction. It’s all been a terrible shock, and I’ll leave you alone just as soon as I have some coffee and get you up to your room. Do you need anything from the outside world?”

“No, I’m okay, Viv.” Nora changed the subject. “I wish Bill could have joined us for dinner, but he must be very busy with that minister guy.”

A slow, grim smile came to her friend’s face. “Is that the excuse he made? Well, I suppose he would, wouldn’t he.”

“What do you mean?” Nora asked as the waiter reappeared with Viv’s coffee and her chamomile tea.

Vivian waited until he’d gone. “I wasn’t going to bring this up tonight, not with all you’ve been through, but you’ll hear about it soon enough, so…Darling, Bill and I aren’t together anymore. We’ve been separated for about a year now. We’re in the middle of divorce proceedings. I haven’t seen him in six months We discussed your arrival on the phone last night, and he opted to meet you at the airport, so I got dinner with you at the hotel. It’s just like him to arrange a business meeting so he could wriggle out of any unpleasant explanations. He’s obviously left all that to me.”

“Oh, Viv, I’m sorry,” Nora murmured.

Now it was Vivian’s turn to wave a dismissive, carefully manicured hand. “Don’t be. First of all, you have more to be sad about than anyone at the moment, so please waste no tears on me. Besides, it’s been coming on for a long time-years and years.”

“But I always thought you were the perfect couple,” Nora said. “What happened?”

Vivian uttered a low, bitter laugh. “No, dear, you and Jeff were the only perfect couple I ever knew. As for Bill, well, it’s what happens with so many men. He turned fifty, and so did I, and all of a sudden he wanted to trade me in for a new model. So, he started driving various models round the block, as it were, kicking the tires and so forth. There were two that I know of-one of them was twenty years old!-before he met his new soulmate. That’s what he calls her, anyway. Solange-how’s that for a name? She works for him, a secretary or whatever. I understand she’s very pretty. He’s bought a big house in the country for them to live in. They’re getting married as soon as-as soon as…”

Nora was surprised to see the tears in her friend’s eyes. She’d never seen Vivian unhappy, not once in all the years she’d known her. She was suddenly uncomfortable. She glanced around the room, grateful that it wasn’t very busy at the moment. The tourist couple was at the next table, still bickering over the map they’d had in the lobby, something about an excursion to Hadrian’s Wall. The blond girl with the great legs was at another table across the room, reading a book as she ate. Two men and a woman in one corner were laughing loudly and toasting with red wine. Otherwise, the place was empty, rows of unused plates and gleaming cutlery waiting for the late crowd to return from the tennis courts. And here was Vivian Howard, of all people, weeping on the tablecloth. Nora grasped her hand again.

“I’m so sorry, Viv. If I’d known, I would have slapped his face at the airport today!”

This made Vivian smile, and she dabbed at her eyes with her napkin. “Don’t bother, dear. It’ll take more than a slap to knock some sense into that man. And my solicitors have big plans for all our joint property. He may be Her Majesty’s faithful watchdog, but this time he won’t know what hit him! Oh well, you’re the one we should be concentrating on. I was so fond of Jeff; he was such a wonderful man. Shall I meet you here tomorrow afternoon? I can go to the hospital with you and take you to the airport-or is my soon-to-be ex doing the honors?”

“Actually, we didn’t make any plans about-”

“Well, think about it for a few minutes, dear, while I go do something about this face. Be right back.”

Vivian rose and swept out of the dining room. Nora sipped her tea, trying to arrange tomorrow’s itinerary in her mind. Did she want either Bill or Vivian with her when she went to collect the ashes at the hospital? Not really. Better to sleep late, book an evening flight, and stop at the hospital on the way to the airport. She’d rather do it alone…

“Mrs. Baron?”

Nora looked up, startled. The young blond woman was standing beside her chair, smiling politely down at her.

“Yes?” Nora said. She was aware of bright blue eyes, glossy pink lips, and Shalimar. The girl leaned down, placing her hand lightly on the table beside Nora’s saucer.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” she whispered.

Then she was moving away, through the door to the lobby. Nora watched her go, and the door swung shut. She scanned the dining room again; apparently, no one else had noticed the incident. The tourists argued; the trio in the corner laughed. She looked down at the table where the girl had briefly rested her hand. A slip of white paper lay there, folded in half. Nora stared at it a moment and then slowly picked it up and opened it. Five words were scrawled across it in black ink. She recognized the handwriting immediately.

Pal-He’s thinking-“Coop” demain

A cold stab of fear nearly paralyzed her as she stared down at the words. The quiet dining room seemed to tilt around her, shifting vertiginously to an impossible angle, and for a moment she couldn’t breathe. The panic she’d experienced in the park returned full force. What on earth? she thought. This isn’t part of the plan. Nobody told me about this-

The door swung open again, and Vivian Howard came back into the room. Nora collected herself and stood up from the table. She picked up her shoulder bag, dropping the slip of paper into it, and took Vivian by the arm to lead her back out into the lobby. A swift glance around the place let her know that the mysterious blond girl was no longer there.

“I’m really very tired,” she said now. “Thank you for keeping me company, but I just want to sleep. Tomorrow I’ll stop at the hospital on my way to Heathrow. There’s no need for you or Bill to interrupt any more plans for my sake.”

“Oh, darling, it’s no bother at all-”

“I know, Viv, and you’re wonderful, but I need to get this done and get home to Dana, and I can do it best alone. Please thank Bill for me-if you’re still speaking to him, that is.”

Vivian laughed. “Of course I am, but that’s subject to change.” Now her humor faded. “The last time I saw Dana was five or six years ago. She’s all grown up now. How is she taking it?”

“She’ll be fine,” Nora said, uneasy at the thought of her daughter. She hadn’t told Dana the truth, not yet. That would have to be faced soon enough, she supposed. But first, she had to get rid of her well-meaning friend. “If you let me sneak away this time, I’ll come back as soon as I can for a nice long stay. We’ll see all the shows and hit the sales at Harrod’s. How does that sound?”

“Terrific-as long as it’s a promise. I’m here if you need me, and so is Bill. He’s an absolute bastard, but he loves you as much as I do. You know that.”

“Yes, I do,” Nora said, taking her friend in her arms. “I’ll call you as soon as I’m home.”

“Goodbye, darling,” Vivian whispered. With a final wave, she made a dramatic exit.

As soon as she was gone, Nora went directly over to the front desk. Mr. Tindall’s youngest grandson was doing the honors this evening. He was about Dana’s age, the age of her students at Stony Brook, and she liked him. He was rail thin and freckled, and when she’d last encountered him three years ago his great passion was computers. She hoped that hadn’t changed.

“Lonny, I need an accomplice.”

A sly grin appeared among the freckles. “I’m your man, Mrs. B.”

“Thank you,” she said, “but it’s a secret.”

“Cool. ’Sup?”

“I’ll let you know. Are you here for a while?”

“Yeah, till midnight.”

“Okay. Back in a few.”

Chapter 8

In her room upstairs, Nora sat on the edge of the bed and took out the slip of paper. Pal-He’s thinking-“Coop” demain. She studied the cryptic message, translating it again, just to be sure.

Pal: her. Her married name, Nora Baron, was a palindrome, to Jeff’s great delight. She’d been Pal ever since.

He’s thinking: an old private joke. She and Jeff had taken a grand tour of Europe for their honeymoon, a three-month, circular sweep ending with two weeks in Paris and two in London. The private joke was from Paris. They’d spent a wonderful afternoon at the Rodin museum, and they’d gone out into the garden to see The Thinker. They stood before the big bronze sculpture, staring up at the face resting on the fist of the seated figure. Several minutes of worshipful silence went by before Nora could bring herself to speak.

“I wonder what he’s doing,” she whispered, gazing at the features frozen in deep concentration.

Her brand-new husband slowly turned to look at her in amused disbelief. He waited the perfect amount of time to deliver the punch line.

“He’s thinking,” he said.

When they finally stopped laughing, they went back inside and bought a small reproduction of the statue. They placed it on his desk in the den at home, and they laughed every time they looked at it. From that day on, the punch line was part of their private language, a substitute for Duh!

“Coop”: High Noon. It was Jeff’s all-time favorite film, and he often lapsed into a drawl and pulled an imaginary six-shooter from his belt when something annoyed him. She called him Coop on those occasions. He’d never had any particular use for Gary Cooper aside from that movie, so the nickname in quotation marks clearly referred to that movie’s title.

Demain was obvious-he’d used the French word as a way of deliberately underlining the message in case she thought she’d misunderstood the instructions. But she hadn’t misunderstood; the message was perfectly clear, in a code that only she could decipher.

Translation: Nora-Musée Rodin-high noon tomorrow.

She stood up from the bed and went over to the window. The fog had thinned, but Gower Street was still an indistinct, deep blue watercolor blur washed here and there with the spill of streetlamps. Hazy cars glided by below her, and phantom pedestrians hurried through the floating mist. She glanced at her watch: 10:15. She would have to make a quick decision.

Bill Howard, so highly placed in British security, was clearly doing what he could for her, but his wife had just informed Nora of his other interests, a new young woman and a country house. The muscle-bound chauffeur, the convenient Craig Elder, the blond girl in the lobby-they were all Bill’s people, or possibly Jeff’s. The purse snatcher from the plane-what had the boy, Gary, called him? Paki wanker. So, a South Asian purse snatcher…

Now an unexpected message. Instructions, slipped to her by a woman who was probably somewhere nearby, watching and waiting. She might even be a guest in the hotel. Whoever she was, whoever they all were, Nora was through with being watched and followed, assaulted and rescued. She wanted to do as her husband wished, but not in the company of others.

She thought about the note. He’d encoded it for her, and no one else could possibly know what he’d told her, including the woman who’d delivered it. He wanted Nora to go to Paris, to Musée Rodin, and he didn’t want anyone else to know about it, not even Bill Howard. Something was waiting for her there, something important.

She always taught her students to inhabit the characters they were playing; it was the first rule of acting. Okay, she reasoned, I’m Mrs. John Doe. If I’m going to be a secret agent, I’ll have to start thinking like one.

Her shoulder bag was on the bed. She turned from the view and went over to it. The manila envelope had something in it, something people wanted. The wallet, the keys, the disposable camera-she didn’t care which object was so vital, but she’d hang on to it until it could be delivered to the right people, whoever they turned out to be. She reached up to touch the gold locket on the chain around her neck. Always keep me close to your heart. I will, Jeff, she silently promised him. I will.

Money. She had six hundred pounds in cash, and she could convert most of that to euros. Three credit cards in her married name, but she wouldn’t use them. They were all probably flagged, or whatever the term was. So, the old Amex, only used now for buying secret gifts she didn’t want Jeff to know about before she gave them to him. This account was in her professional stage name, and now, more than ever, she was onstage. From now on, she would be Noreen Hughes.

She took off her wedding ring. She’d never done that before, and her left hand immediately felt odd, naked. She’d store the ring in a safe place until she could put it on again. Her trusty Rado watch would be her only adornment. That and the locket.

The Chunnel train. It would be fastest, and young Lonny Tindall downstairs could help. She had her cell-an iPhone that was essentially a computer-but she’d have to avoid using that too. She’d leave it here with her jewels. She’d ask Lonny to book the train on the hotel computer or-better still-his own computer. Round-trip, open return, in the name of Hughes.

Passport. That was a gamble. It was in her full name, Noreen Hughes Baron, and she’d need it for France, and to get back into England. Well, it couldn’t be helped, but she’d only use it when necessary and hope for the best. Would the purse snatcher’s people have any reason to look for her in France? Probably not. She certainly hoped not.

She went into the bathroom and splashed cold water on her face. Her reflection in the mirror showed her the faint bruise on her left temple. No matter, she thought; a little base would conceal it, and the similar bruise on her left knee would be hidden by clothes. The blue streaks under her eyes were another matter. She hadn’t slept much since yesterday, just an hour or so on the plane, and she wouldn’t sleep tonight. She’d book the earliest available train, go before she was missed.

Oh, Jeff, she thought, what is all this about?

It was her own fault, and she knew it. Jeff had told her everything twenty-two years ago, before they were married. Before she became pregnant. He’d told her as soon as he knew they were serious about each other that his electronics business was really just for show. A cover-he’d actually used that word. She’d made the decision then, and now she would stand by it. She’d knowingly and willingly married an intelligence operative. A spy. She thought of the widow’s walk at the top of her house: In a way, she’d been holding vigil there all this time. She’d kept the secret with him; even their daughter didn’t know.

Dana! She’d left her daughter in the crowded Village apartment last night, weeping. Dana had only been told that her mother was going to London to join her father, and she hadn’t asked any questions. Most of their time together had involved a weepy, angry denunciation of Mike Lasky, Dana’s boyfriend of one year, a prelaw student who was apparently stepping out with another girl. Nora would have to call Dana now, tell her-

Tell her what? To watch out for kidnappers? Not to talk to strange men or get into strange cars? Nora didn’t know what was going on here, but in just a few hours in England she’d been followed, assaulted, protected, contacted. Was Dana in danger? Probably not, but probably wasn’t good enough. Aunt Mary was the solution. Nora’s one remaining relative was seventy-six, and she loved visits from her great-niece, who adored her. Nora would call Aunt Mary, then Dana, and arrange for a three-day trip to Great Neck. No, a week. Go stay with Aunt Mary, and don’t tell anyone where you’re going…

More lies. She and Jeff had been lying to their daughter all her life. It was time to tell her the truth, as soon as Nora was back in New York. For now, Aunt Mary wasn’t feeling well and needed looking after. Aunt Mary would gladly play along with the ruse for a chance to spoil Dana for a whole week. If Nora knew her daughter was safe, she could do this. Whatever this was…

She showered and dressed in fresh clothes, her black pantsuit and a gray blouse-more widow’s weeds. The boots she’d been wearing would be fine; they were comfortable for walking, and the London Fog trench coat was suitable for any weather. She wouldn’t take anything else with her. She didn’t know how long she’d be in Paris, but if it would be a matter of days, she’d get things there. What better place to buy clothes?

A last look around the room. Two bracelets, a necklace, her pearl earrings, the iPhone, and, reluctantly, her wedding ring-these would all be handed to Lonny Tindall downstairs, to be stored in the hotel safe. Otherwise, everything could stay here, in the room. Two more sets of dark clothing, two pairs of shoes, an old clutch purse, and a wheeled suitcase were of no interest to thieves. Or spies.

All set. She picked up her shoulder bag and made her way downstairs. She’d be back here tomorrow night, with any luck, and she could fly home the next day. The plan had obviously changed, and she must adapt to the changes. She’d go to Paris without leaving a trail. She’d do whatever she had to do.

She would find her husband, wherever he was.

Chapter 9

Lonny Tindall turned out to be a treasure, and now Nora was speeding along beneath the English Channel at well over one hundred miles per hour. The view of the early morning British countryside outside her train window had been replaced by total black, with a steady stream of tunnel lights flashing by, but at this speed they were mere blurs. She was nearly in France now. Old Mr. Tindall’s clever grandson had seen to everything.

You have to spend money, Lonny had told her, and this is why: Immigration. What you want is a business premier class, flexible, round-trip ticket with chauffeur service at the other end. Nora had never been on the Eurostar before, but many of the Byron’s guests booked it through the hotel, and young Lonny had learned all the quirky rules and perks of the game. Bottom line: The rich are different.

If Nora was trying to be inconspicuous, he explained, she’d need a top-tier ticket. It was pricey but worth it. Business premier travelers were handled quickly in St. Pancras International Station, whereas the cheap-seaters might endure a longer process, usually involving lines. More questions, more scrutiny. Furthermore, she had to fill out an Immigration landing card because she was an American, and her passport would be checked by French Customs and Immigration people in the station before she boarded. One more step in the process, which wasn’t good for a Yank who needed to be off the grid, in Lonny’s considered opinion. Get it over with quickly, he advised, first-class all the way. She made a mental note to introduce Lonny to Bill Howard. The way the kid’s mind worked, he might very well have a future with those people…

The train was slowing down; the twenty-minute underground part of the journey was almost over. They’d left St. Pancras at eight, and there’d been two stops on the British side before the tunnel. Next was Calais, then Lille, then Paris. They’d be there before eleven, and Lonny had arranged for a car and driver to meet her.

Her seat was bigger than the one on the plane yesterday. She was in a line of singles along the left side of the sleek business premier carriage, and the right side was lined with double seats and groupings for conferences in motion. The staff came round regularly, offering snacks, tea, and coffee. The rest of the train was packed with tourists, many of them taking their hyperactive children to Disneyland-another reason to be grateful to Lonny for insisting on deluxe travel.

The pressure in her ears abated; they were back above ground. The train slowed, then stopped. Calais-well, actually Coquelles, four miles west of the city. She was in France now, as instructed. She was finally beginning to relax a little when the sudden announcement came over the speaker system.

“Attention, passagers à destination de Paris…”

Nora listened, instantly on the alert. The voice was saying something about producing passports and landing cards, which didn’t make sense. Hadn’t they already done that in London? Now the announcement was being repeated in English: a spot check by French authorities, to be completed as quickly as possible, with apologies for the slight delay.

Another inspection. Nora didn’t like the sound of this. It was another opportunity for people to enter her name in lists and ledgers-exactly what she’d been trying to avoid. The other passengers didn’t like it either; she heard groans and exasperated muttering from people nearby, and one disgruntled businessman type loudly opined that they must be looking for someone. This didn’t sound good to Nora, but there was nothing to be done about it now. She got her passport and Immigration card ready and hoped for the best.

The Immigration official who entered the carriage was a pretty young woman, and Nora took that as a good sign. There was a Customs man with her, checking passengers and carry-on bags. Nora watched them make their way along the aisle, asking for everyone’s papers, getting closer. Here they were.

“Bonjour, bienvenue en France,” the young woman said. “Votre passeport, s’il vous plait. Your passport, please.”

Nora smiled and handed her the Immigration card first.

“Une Américaine? Mademoiselle Hughes.”

Now came the passport.

“Ah, Madame Hughes-Baron.”

Nora smiled some more. “Je préfère Mademoiselle Hughes seulement, s’il vous plait. Je suis une actrice; c’est mon nom de théâtre.”

This produced the desired effect. The young woman’s eyes widened in delight, and Nora braced herself for the usual questions about Hollywood and which films had she been in and did she know Johnny Depp? As it turned out, the response was even better than she’d hoped.

“An actress!” the woman said, smiling. “I too will study to be an actress.”

“Oh? Where do you study?” Nora asked her, standing up so the man could run the wand over her. She’d been through this exact process back at St. Pancras ninety minutes ago, and she wondered again what this surprise inspection was about.

“For now I work pour l’Immigration, until I make the money for the Conservatoire.”

“Le Conservatoire d’Art Dramatique?” Nora asked, sitting down again. The man looked through her shoulder bag, peeking briefly in the manila envelope, then set it down on the seat beside her.

“Oui,” the young woman was saying. “I have been accepted there, but I am still…” She indicated her uniform with a smile and a Gallic shrug.

“You must be very talented to get into such a fine school,” Nora said.

“Merci, mademoiselle. Are you here for business or pleasure?”

“I’m on vacation in London; I’m just over to do some shopping.”

Nora surreptitiously watched the woman type the information on her little electronic device: Mlle. Hughes, Noreen, Actrice, Vacances. She also entered the passport number, but anyone looking for Nora probably wouldn’t go further than a name, and they’d be looking for Mme. Nora Baron, not Mlle. Noreen Hughes. She smiled some more as the young aspiring actress handed back her papers.

“Bonnes vacances!” the woman said as she and her colleague moved on to the next passenger. “How do you say in America? Break a leg!”

“Yes,” Nora said. “That’s what we say. You, um, break a leg too.”

As soon as they were gone, she fell back against the seat, relieved, silently thanking her late parents for giving her a name that could be abbreviated so easily. Everyone had called her the preferred Nora since she was a little girl, but her passport had the long version. She’d used Noreen in her acting career years ago, but she was Nora at the university and anywhere else that might have been checked recently. Now she hoped that Noreen would be just the cover she needed. Cover-Jeff’s word again.

The young Immigration woman had been polite, even friendly, but Nora the actress had studied her body language and that of her colleague the Customs man. The loud businessman had been right, Nora decided. They were looking for someone. More than one someone: They’d checked all the passengers, male and female. Well, at least they hadn’t been looking for her. And the delay had been brief, as promised, which must have mollified Eurostar.

The train was in motion once more, flying south through the French countryside, which looked remarkably like the British countryside they’d just left. Coquelles gave way to flat fields and woodlands dotted with houses and villages and the occasional ugly industrial complex. This fact of exotic foreign countries always managed to surprise her; the non-tourist areas often looked just like home. With the surprise ordeal at Calais behind her and no interesting scenery at the moment, she ordered coffee and thought back over the plan.

He’d never asked her to do anything for him before. He’d never even discussed his work with her. She wasn’t really sure what he did, exactly. A phone call in the night, a goodbye kiss, and he’d be off to Langley, Virginia, and from there to London. Or Zurich. Johannesburg. Buenos Aires. Once it was Mexico City, which bothered her more than the other places; the news was full of stories of drug cartel violence and murdered officials, some of them American. If he’d ever been sent to the Mideast or South Asia, he’d never mentioned it, which was probably a good thing; she worried enough as it was. But she’d insisted that he tell her where he was going whenever he could, just so she’d know where to start looking if he failed to come home. He’d smiled and indulged her, even though Nora had known it was silly of her to ask. If anything ever did happen to him, Langley would know exactly where he was.

In the last three years, it had mostly been London. No specifics, of course, but she knew his group was working with Bill Howard’s group and their equivalents in France, and once she’d overheard a phone conversation in which he’d mentioned Interpol and Europol. She wasn’t sure of the difference between those two entities, and she wouldn’t dream of asking Jeff. She raised their beautiful daughter, taught acting classes, and stayed out of his way.

Until now.

It should have been so simple. A quick in-and-out, as Jeff had described it. She would get a phone call, probably in late June or early July, from someone, probably Bill Howard, telling her that Jeff was dead. She was to go into grieving-widow mode on the live phone. That was Jeff’s phrase for it, meaning tapped. Then she would fly to London, claim the body at the morgue, have it cremated, and take it back to New York. A matter of two days, three at the most.

She and Bill had played their parts, but the plan had apparently been altered, and now she was proceeding without a script. The ultimate actor’s nightmare: She didn’t know her lines or even what play she was in. There was no way to ask anyone either; she didn’t have their contact information. All she could do now was wait for messages, like the note last night that had brought her here, to France.

She wondered who the man in the morgue was. She’d been told that no one would be harmed in this exercise, so he was probably a random body doing his bit for truth, justice, and the American/British/French way. A homeless man? Perhaps he’d volunteered for the job, when his heart and liver problems had brought on a death sentence. No, she wouldn’t think about him now. Later…

She wondered who the purse snatcher was. Young, dark, possibly South Asian. Paki wanker. Many refugees in England were Pakistani, so that boy’s rude epithet in the park was not unusual. But the man could just as easily have been Iranian, Iraqi, Afghan. Taliban? Hezbollah? Al Qaeda…

She had a vivid memory of where she’d been that Tuesday morning in September 2001. She’d just dropped little Dana off at preschool, kissed her forehead and ruffled her silken hair, and she drove into the parking lot at the university, all prepared for the early Theater Arts department faculty meeting to discuss the coming semester. The car radio was tuned to some AM station that played golden oldies between news reports. She pulled into her space, and she was reaching to turn off the engine when ABBA suddenly stopped singing “Chiquitita” mid note and a shocked male voice came on. She didn’t even get out of the car. When she could move, she drove back to the preschool, collected her daughter, and went home.

The rest of that day was spent in the study-Dana upstairs and safely away from it-watching the awful TV images and frantically trying to reach her husband, who was in Washington at the time. When she saw the footage of the Pentagon, she began to pray. Jeff finally called at four that afternoon, and she nearly fainted with relief, but he couldn’t talk for long. He was at a military airfield, on his way somewhere. He called her again that night, but he wouldn’t say where he was. He’d come home three months later, just in time for Christmas, and she’d never learned what he’d been doing all that time.

He’d disappeared again after Madrid, then after the London bombings, and she hadn’t asked questions. She’d never met any of his American colleagues, so she didn’t have a network of spouses to fall back on. She only knew Vivian Howard in London, but Viv was even more clueless than Nora. She wondered how all the other wives-and husbands-coped. Just as she did, probably: getting on with things and waiting by the phone a lot. What else could anyone do? She’d never gotten used to it, but she’d never told Jeff that. Even so, he knew.

She wondered if the purse snatcher was one of them.

She wondered why the plan had changed.

Most of all, more than anything else, she wondered about Jeff. She hadn’t seen him in nearly three months. He’d left home for London in early April, and he’d called several times, always postponing his return to America and apologizing for the delays, but he hadn’t explained. Then, in June, an old-fashioned handwritten letter had arrived in the mail, explaining the plan and her part in it. A quick in-and-out. She knew he was doing something important, but she had no idea what it was. Where was he now? Was he safe? She had to know, even if it meant breaking the precious rules of his employers. So, here she was.

Lille had come and gone, and now the announcements were being made for their arrival in Paris, first in French and then in English. She listened to the foreign language, translating it, remembering Sister Boniface (“Bony Face”) in high school. Two years of French, and the actress in her had picked up the words and the accent fairly well-not exactly fluent but not bad either. She could get by here as long as everyone spoke lentement. She had the charge card in her other name and plenty of euros, nearly a thousand dollars’ worth. And she had the manila envelope. She was as ready as she’d ever be.

The window went dark; they were in the station. She shut her eyes and relaxed back in the big seat, breathing deeply. She was hungry, and she was tired. Today was her third day in a row without sufficient rest. When this was over, she’d sleep for a long time.

But now she would be vigilant. She’d study the faces of every passenger getting off the train with her, and she’d scan the crowds in the busy station. She’d be on the lookout for a young, dark-haired, dark-skinned man in a dark suit, or anyone else who might be showing an interest in her. She was no longer Mrs. Nora Baron, the grieving widow, but Ms. Noreen Hughes, an unmarried, middle-aged actress on a lark in Paris. A day’s shopping, with a carefree side trip to a museum dedicated to her favorite artist. Nothing more.

It was now 10:47. She hoped the hired car would be waiting when she arrived. She had a little over one hour to get to the next stage, to make her next entrance.

Chapter 10

The old man in the terminal of Gare du Nord was holding up a sign that read HUGS. Nora passed by him twice before she realized that he was probably there for her. She stopped in front of him, pointed to herself, and said, “Hughes.” He grinned and nodded vigorously.

Now that she saw him up close, he wasn’t that old, probably in his mid-sixties. He was small and slight, his shaggy thatch of hair was a deep steel-gray color, and he had the weathered, lined face of a sailor or a farmer. His chauffeur’s uniform had definitely seen better days, and it had clearly been issued when he’d weighed thirty pounds more than he did now. His cap was in the hand that wasn’t holding the handwritten sign, and now he quickly slipped it on his head and bobbed a sketchy bow.

“Bonjour, Mademoiselle Hugs,” he said in a raspy voice. Two packs a day at least, Nora thought. “Je m’appelle Jacques Lanier. I talk good the English, so I do that now, yes? Welcome to Paris!”

“Thank you, Monsieur Lanier,” she said.

“Oh no, mademoiselle, you are to call me Jacques, oui? Oui! Forgive my old uniform, please; the new one is in the shop for the cleaning. Your reserving was very late last night, and I was not expecting to work today. But I am delighted to serve you. Do you have any of the luckages?”

“Um, no, no luggage,” she said. “I’m only here for the day. I must be at Musée National Auguste Rodin at noon. À midi. Comprenez-vous?”

“Yes, I understand. Noon. Come, we go.” With another huge grin and a twinkle of his deep brown eyes, the little man turned and forged through the crowded main concourse of the station, toward the exit. Nora clamped her arm firmly over her shoulder bag and followed close behind him.

No one seemed to be paying the slightest attention to her in this cavernous, busy place, certainly not the line of smartly dressed chauffeurs who waited near where Jacques had been standing, holding up placards that were similar to his. The other passengers from her train were just now arriving from the platform, and there were loud greetings and laughter and dramatic embraces all around her. Everyone else in the station seemed to be walking purposefully one way or another, many of them laden with bags and suitcases. Still, she continued to sweep her gaze around the bustling terminal, just to be sure.

It wasn’t exactly a limousine, more like the French version of a Lincoln Town Car, shiny and spanking clean. He’d stopped it just outside the station, in a row of similar black cars. He threw open the back door and bowed again. She smiled as she allowed him to hand her inside, and he jumped in front and started the engine.

“We have a beautiful day, yes?” he said over his shoulder. “Yesterday was la pluie, the rain, but today it is the sun. I have you at Musée Rodin in no flat time, and I wait there for you. You may possess me for the whole of the day if you wish; I am at your dispensal. When you have been to the musée, I take you anywhere in Paris-anywhere in France!-and then back to the trains, yes? Your wish is my commode.”

“Thank you, Jacques,” she said. She looked around at the well-remembered streets of the beautiful city as the car wended its way south through the press of traffic. He drove fast, but he was remarkably adept, moving effortlessly from lane to lane and always checking the activity in the rearview mirror and the little side mirror outside his door. He watched everything like a hawk. After just a few blocks, she decided that he was an excellent driver.

Down Rue La Fayette he drove, bobbing in and out of snarls, passing slower cars like the old pro he obviously was. When they arrived in the Place de la Concorde, Nora caught fleeting glimpses of Cleopatra’s Needle and the Champs-Élysées, then a snatch of the Louvre on her left and, after they crossed the Seine on the Pont de la Concorde, the Eiffel Tower in the far distance on her right, grimly acknowledging that this would probably be the full extent of her sightseeing today. The car flew along Rue de Bourgogne to Rue de Varenne, and here it was. Jacques pulled the car to a stop before the impressive former hotel that was now a museum, jumped out, and ran around to open her door.

“Et voilà!” he announced. “Le musée, avec quinze minutes-eh, fifteen? Yes, fifteen minutes in the spare!”

Nora smiled and glanced at her watch: 11:45. “Merci, Jacques. Vous attendez-moi ici?”

“Yes, mademoiselle, I put the car there.” He pointed toward Boulevard des Invalides a few yards away. “I park and wait, yes? You find me here.”

“I shouldn’t be long,” she said. “Trente minutes.”

“Oui, half an hour!” He grinned, delighted at his mastery of English. She laughed and went up the walk to the entrance.

Because it was a weekday morning, the line for tickets was fairly short, and she was soon inside. Her good spirits were immediately replaced by a sense of deep anxiety. Avoiding the crowds and roving groups of guided tours, she looked around the big downstairs rooms, then went upstairs to scan more galleries, barely glancing at the paintings, drawings, and sculptures. She was looking at the people, T-shirted tourists and well-dressed natives-she could easily tell who was and was not French around here-searching for anyone who might be showing an interest in her. The groups clustered around some of the works made her decide to take her husband’s instructions literally. He’s thinking. She went outside, to the gardens.

There was no need to ask where the biggest attraction in the collection was; all one had to do was follow the steady stream of pilgrims. Along with the David in Florence and the Winged Victory of Samothrace and Venus de Milo in the Louvre just over a mile from here, Le Penseur was one of the world’s most famous sculptures. And there it was, in front of a wall at the end of an avenue in the hedged, rose-bedecked grounds. The fan club at the moment was fairly modest, perhaps a dozen people in a semicircle before the massive figure.

Nora stopped on the path before she got too close to the crowd, studying the faces she could see and the backs of the others. No one looked familiar, and they were all focused on the statue. People came and went, passing by her on their way to or from the building behind her. A guard stood nearby, watching for idiots who tried to approach and touch or take forbidden photos with forbidden cellphones.

She closed her eyes and made a wish. Since the moment in the hotel dining room last night, when the blond girl had slipped her the note, Nora had been hoping against hope. She had no reason to expect her rosy conclusion, but she wished for it just the same. It couldn’t hurt to wish, could it?

She was an artist of the theater, the most superstitious of all professions. No whistling in dressing rooms, no peacock feathers onstage, no uttering aloud the title of Shakespeare’s Scottish play inside any playhouse, and absolutely never wish for good luck, anywhere. The Immigration agent on the train had been correct: The accepted phrase for actors was Break a leg, on the theory that asking for good fortune was an insult to Dionysus, patron god of the stage, and the muses of comedy and tragedy, Thalia and Melpomene. One had to fool them; if she said what she wanted aloud, they would give her the opposite, but if she said the opposite aloud…

Nora became aware that someone was standing on the path just behind her. There was a presence, breathing softly, and she had an acute sensation of being watched. More than watched: studied. She heard a crunching footstep and felt the warmth of a breath on her neck. Please, she thought. Please…

“Pardonnez-moi, madame, vos gants,” a thick male voice said.

“Quoi?” She turned around. A man stood there-big, heavyset, unshaven, about her age. He was almost comically unattractive, with thick, greasy black hair and bushy eyebrows, and he wore an ill-fitting brown jacket and a dull blue shirt, both of which were none too clean. He regarded her intently through small black eyes that all but vanished in the folds of his florid, veined face. As she watched, he bent slowly down to pick something up from the ground at her feet. He was holding out a pair of white cotton gloves.

Her French escaped her, but she was a New Yorker; she knew a street con when she saw it. It was an old hustle-he’d expect her to give him money for the pretty pair of stolen gloves. She wondered how he’d managed to get into the museum, but she had to get rid of him before her contact arrived. She glared down at the delicate items in the big, stained fingers and said, “No, those aren’t mine, someone else must have-”

“Ah, but they are,” the man insisted in English with a thick French accent. He was standing too close to her, his gravelly whisper bringing with it the mingled odors of garlic and cigarettes, and he was keeping his voice low. She had to strain to hear him. “You dropped them here. They are for you.” He said this slowly, with emphasis on each word. Now he leaned even closer and whispered, “Take them, Mrs. Baron.”

Nora blinked. Then she got it. “Oh! Oh yes, thank you! Merci, monsieur!” she sang in a loud stage voice. She smiled as he handed her the gloves. He grinned, revealing crooked brown teeth, gave a little nod, and walked quickly away from her, toward the crowd by the statue. He didn’t look back.

She watched him go, unable to move. She couldn’t even think for a moment, so great was her disappointment. She looked blankly down at the gloves in her hand and then dropped them into her shoulder bag. So, this was it, this was all that was going to happen here, now, today. A pair of gloves delivered to her by a strange courier, an ugly man who smelled of garlic. She shouldn’t have even thought her wish; she might as well have shouted the name of the Thane of Cawdor. The gods had denied her.

She wanted to linger in this beautiful setting, gazing at her favorite artworks, surrounded by art lovers. This museum was so peaceful, so civilized. She was all alone on a foreign continent, unable to contact the few people she knew here, not even sure how to call her daughter in New York without her cellphone. She felt detached, isolated, as though she were the only person in the world. The smiling faces around her were carefree; no one could possibly suspect that the woman there in the garden was as close to despair as she had ever been in her pleasant, sheltered life. She didn’t know what to do.

Then she thought, There’s no time for this. I have to keep going. I have to get out of here.

With a wistful glance at her favorite statue in the distance and a troubled glance at the big man who now stood with the tourists inspecting it, Nora turned around and retraced her steps. She moved quickly through the rooms to the entrance and down the walk to the street. The little driver, Jacques, was waiting for her, grinning and waving.

Chapter 11

The folded slip of paper was inside one of the gloves, in the space where the ring finger would go, which Nora thought was very clever. This message was written in neat block capitals instead of his familiar script, but as with the first one, it was encrypted specifically for her.

GOOT!-DIX ROSES POUR GRAND-TANTE J CE SOIR

Jacques had fetched the car and collected her in front of the museum, and she’d told him to just drive. He’d asked no questions; they’d sailed back the way they’d come, across the bridge, then turned right and proceeded along the Seine on the Quai des Tuileries, past the Louvre, heading east. He hummed a little tune under his breath as he drove.

She’d waited until they were well away from Musée Rodin before pulling the gloves from her bag and inspecting them. Now, in the backseat of the car, she smoothed the paper across her thigh, studying it, thinking how bizarre it was-coded messages and weird messengers. As much as all this might have appealed to the dramatic performer in her, it wasn’t nearly as romantic as she’d assumed it would be. She was too mature to be cast as an action figure, and violence held no allure. The idea of actual physical danger nauseated her. She wasn’t a hero; she was a wife, a mother, an actor who now taught her craft to bright young people. Well, the life she knew was obviously on hold for the time being. She forced herself to concentrate on the note.

GOOT! was easy, thanks to her daughter’s incessant texting: Get out of town! It was meant as a joke, for emphasis, the equivalent of I don’t believe you. Their daughter used it so much that even Jeff had taken to putting it in his emails. Occasionally, Dana would also burst out with a heartfelt Shut up! which meant roughly the same thing. But not this time; Nora was certain of it. This time, the slangy acronym obviously meant precisely what it stated. She was being told to leave Paris. She knew where to go, and when: Dix roses pour Grand-tante J ce soir. Very well, she thought. So be it.

“Jacques,” she said, “which train do I take to Besançon?”

The little man regarded her in the rearview mirror. “Besançon, mademoiselle? When would you wish to go?”

“Now. Immediately. I’ve-I’ve received a message from a friend asking me to go there. Well, not there, exactly, but nearby. A village in the Jura mountains, south of the city. I’ll need a train to Besançon, and then I suppose I can rent a car-”

“Un moment, mademoiselle.”

Nora stopped talking, aware of the urgency that had come into his voice. She watched him as he accelerated, glancing in the rearview mirror from time to time, though now he wasn’t looking at her but at something behind them. The car sped along the river, faster and faster, and Jacques suddenly turned the steering wheel, throwing the car sharply into the left lane, cutting off a taxi with only inches to spare. The cab driver blared his horn and shouted, but Jacques paid no attention. With another fierce twist of the wheel, he swerved into a full turn, across the lanes of oncoming traffic and into an avenue heading north, away from the waterfront.

The screech of brakes and the shrieks of a variety of horns let her know just how close they’d come to a collision with any number of cars heading west. She cringed at the sound, even as the car made yet another sharp turn, this time to the right, into the Rue de Rivoli. More horns and angry shouts. What on earth-

Nora slid over toward the door and grabbed the seatbelt, fastening it across her waist as Jacques drove even faster. Buildings and people flew by outside, and the Rue de Rivoli became Rue Saint-Antoine. A familiar blur on her right was the Place de l’Hôtel de Ville; she’d dined in a restaurant near it once with Jeff, years ago. Now she knew where they were, but it didn’t allay her sudden fear. This man had seemed so polite, so friendly. Was he abducting her? Was he part of this? Was that even possible?

Lonny had made her reservation on his own personal laptop, and early this morning he’d spirited her out a back door of the Byron Hotel and bundled her into a waiting taxi in the next street. No one had followed her to the train station; she was certain of it. How could Jacques-or anyone else-possibly have expected her arrival in France? No. Whatever was happening here, her driver couldn’t be involved. Or could he? He was definitely racing her away from-or toward-something.

She twisted around to look out the rear window, but she couldn’t see anything extraordinary, merely cars and crowds going about their business. She looked forward, through the windshield. The big intersection ahead of them was the Place de la Bastille, the site of the 1789 uprising, outside the long-gone prison for which the place was named. It was a virtual wagon wheel of streets with spokes that extended out in every direction.

“What?” she finally managed to say. “What is it, Jacques?”

“Je ne sais pas,” he muttered, still checking the mirrors. “Give me the moment, mademoiselle.”

At the roundabout, he turned the car sharply and shot up Boulevard Beaumarchais, into the arrondissement known as the Marais. This had always been a favorite part of the city for her, reminding her of Greenwich Village with its jazzy shops and restaurants. If they continued north through this sector, they would arrive at the Place de la République, not far from the famous Conservatoire where the Immigration girl from this morning would soon be studying.

Jacques apparently had no intention of going that far. He slowed the car to a crawl, and his head bobbed back and forth as he searched the crowded side streets. He turned abruptly into one of them, which was actually an alley, and drove swiftly down its length toward the next street. There was no one about and nothing here in this dark place but back doors of buildings and rows of garbage cans. He pulled over between two large trash receptacles and stopped the car.

In the abrupt silence and stillness that followed, Nora’s heart gave a sickening lurch. She was in a deserted alley, cut off from the main streets, with a man she didn’t know at all. What if he were to turn around now, and aim a gun at her? Or suddenly throw open the door and leap from the car, run away while his unseen confederates closed in to finish the job? The actress in her had a sudden vision of Faye Dunaway in the car in those final moments of Bonnie and Clyde, that slow-motion dance of death as she was riddled with a hundred bullets…

Jacques didn’t pull a weapon or make a sudden break for cover. He didn’t move at all. He stared into the rearview mirror for several breathless seconds before finally nodding to himself and turning around in his seat to face her. His happy grin was no longer in evidence; he looked worried.

“Pardon, mademoiselle, but I must ask you a thing. Is mademoiselle in some kind of trouble?”

She regarded him evenly. “Trouble? What do you mean?”

“I mean there is a car, une Citroën gris, I see before we arrive at the musée this morning and again when I am waiting outside for you, coming through the street where I am standing more times than one. I do not think about it until I see for sure it follows us from the musée. It is a man in the Citroën, with the dark skin. Not black, but brun. Un Arabe, peut-être? I have, how you say, gived him the slap.”

“The slip,” she whispered. “You gave him the slip.”

“Yes, I gave him the slip, but I don’t know how long for I do this. I lose him back on the Quai de Tuileries, but he may search for us. For you, mademoiselle.” Now he softened his voice, and the expression on his weathered face was one of concern. “Is there people here in Paris who look for you? Is there the husband, or the man who is not your husband? It is not the business of Jacques, but perhaps I can be of service if I am told-”

Nora raised a hand to silence him. This was too much; she had to think. She had to absorb this new information and fit it into the scenario. A dark-skinned man was trailing her, and she thought of the man in the plane and the park yesterday. How on earth could he possibly-

She shut her eyes and took in a long, deep breath. Calm down, she commanded herself. First things first. It was nearly one o’clock, and she needed food. Her last full meal had been lunch at home two days ago, before the phone call. Oddly, this sudden infusion of fear caused her to realize just how hungry she was.

“Jacques, I must leave Paris now,” she said in as steady a voice as she could manage, “and I don’t want anyone to know about it. Can you get me to the train to Besançon?”

He peered at her across the seat. “So, you are in the trouble…”

“Yes, I am, but I can’t discuss it now. I must go to the Franche-Comté. How do I do that?”

He thought a moment. “Tay-zhay-vay.”

“I don’t understand,” she said.

“Tay-zhay-vay-this is the train that leaves from Gare de Lyon to Dijon and Besançon.”

“Oh.” She suppressed a smile. TGV, France’s supersonic train system. “Gare de Lyon is not far from here, south of Place de la Bastille, where we just were-is that right?”

“Yes, but no. You do not go in the tay-zhay-vay. I take you there.”

“What, drive me to the Jura mountains? I couldn’t ask you to do that. You must have other things to-”

“I take you there,” he repeated. “I have no other things. You have already paid for me for the whole of the day, and that is what you shall get. This is my final foot down!”

Despite her misgivings, Nora couldn’t help but smile at the man’s dedication to his job. And it would certainly make things easier for her. She nodded, accepting his offer, and decided to add a generous bonus for him when this day was over.

“Thank you, Jacques,” she said.

“De rien, mademoiselle. It is, how you say, no bigness.”

Nora laughed. “No biggie.”

He nodded. “Oui, no biggie. Now, mademoiselle, if people look for you, they will look in the trains and the avions, yes? You wish to disappear? Jacques will help you disappear. I take you to the village in the Jura where you wish to go. It is four hours with some minutes, five hours in the tops. No biggie! But they have seen this car, so this car is not good. We go otherwise. Come, it is time for the déjeuner.”

Yes, she thought, it is. She said no more, merely followed him meekly when he got out of the car and opened the door for her. He led her only a few yards, toward the end of the alley, and in through a small doorway. They were in a hot, aromatic restaurant kitchen where an older woman and a young man were busy preparing dishes. The woman smiled at them.

“Jacques!” she cried, delighted. She ran over from the stove to greet him. There followed a conversation in French, from which Nora gathered that Jacques and the woman, Felicia, were old friends; he ate there all the time with his wife, Marianne; he lived just down the street; he must attend to some business; and would Felicia serve his client, Mlle. Hugs, an excellent lunch while she waited for him? Mais oui! Jacques slipped back through the side door into the alley, and the woman named Felicia proudly led the rich American touriste out into the tiny dining room, which fronted on the street.

There were six tables here, with red checked cloths and plain wooden chairs, all but one of them taken. Felicia seated her at the empty table in back, next to the kitchen-and shielded from the front windows, Nora noted. Groups of happy working-class Parisians were making serious work of their meals, joking between tables and calling for bread and wine. Everyone seemed to know everyone, and they all smiled and nodded at Nora. She smiled back. There was no need for a menu; Felicia simply brought things to the table. Thick vegetable soup was followed by a chicken breast sautéed in lemon butter over wild rice, with a basket of fresh bread and a glass of white wine.

In that simple room, which definitely was not listed in Frommer’s, Nora enjoyed the finest meal she’d ever been served in Paris. In a city that boasted the best food in the world, it was quite a discovery. It was called Chez Felicia, naturellement, and the fact that the woman herself was serving the American lady in the corner clearly impressed the locals, who were attended by the young man. Nora inhaled everything placed before her, blissfully refusing to think about her predicament.

Felicia would not sit at the table, but she hovered, chatting as Nora ate, and Nora was able to practice her rusty French. Felicia was a widow of six months. She’d been the chef here since they’d opened the restaurant thirty-eight years ago, and her late husband had handled the dining room. Now her son, André, did the honors, and his wife-pregnant with Felicia’s third grandchild-helped out on weekends. Nora admired everything and complimented the food, the décor, and the handsome son, but she didn’t go so far as to claim to be a fellow widow. That she simply could not do; it would be an insult to this woman, whose bereavement was genuine.

Felicia and her late husband had known Jacques Lanier and his family for many years, and Jacques was one of her favorite people, even though she’d never been quite sure what he did for a living. Nora told her that Jacques was a chauffeur who’d met her at the train station this morning, which caused the other woman to raise her eyebrows and shake her head.

“Vraiment?” she said. “Il est un chauffeur aujourd’hui? Quel étrange…”

So, Nora thought, my gallant little driver is a jack-of-all-trades. A Jacques-of-all-trades, ha-ha. Her conversation with Felicia had put her mind even more at ease about him. He was Felicia’s friend and neighbor of long standing, and that was enough of a recommendation for Nora.

She was sipping excellent espresso and politely refusing a shimmering array of pastries when Jacques arrived from the kitchen. He’d changed his clothes; he was now in an old leather jacket, jeans, and work boots, and he was grinning once more.

“Come, mademoiselle, it is time for to go.”

Nora paid for her meal, secretly shocked at the price: An equivalent amount in America would only have gotten her a Big Mac and fries. She smiled, thanked Felicia for the splendid lunch, and followed her guide back through the kitchen to the alley.

Chapter 12

The new transport Jacques had procured was a dark blue Renault Modus, and it belonged to his eldest son and his family, who were on vacation in America-New York City, as a matter of fact. Nora got in, and he opened the hatchback and produced a pillow and a blanket, which he handed to her. She settled herself in the comfortable backseat as he drove out of the alley and headed in the direction of the A6, the first leg of their journey.

“This village you wish to visit, mademoiselle-it is in the Franche-Comté, south of Besançon, yes?”

She nodded. “That’s right. Jeff- My husband used to joke that Franche-Comté means French completely, the only part of France that isn’t choked with foreign tourists. His people are from there-well, his mother’s people. La famille de sa mère. A village in the mountains, in the woods. I forget the name of it, but it means pine forest in French. Pinon? Pinelle?”

“Pinède,” Jacques said.

“Yes! You know it?”

“I have heard of it. My family is from Saint-Dié in Lorraine. It is north of the Franche-Comté, but close. My father was un routier, a driver of the big trucks, and he would take the wood pieces, le bois, from the Jura for the business. He would some of the time take me in the camion with him. I know this part of France.”

“I was there once,” Nora said, “but it was twenty years ago. So, your father hauled lumber? My husband’s grandfather cut down the trees.”

“Ah, it is the teensy world, yes? Rest, mademoiselle. I will take us to Pinède before the night is here.”

Nora turned her head to look out the rear window, studying the cars behind them for several minutes. No gray Citroën. Forcing herself to abandon the vigil, she lay down across the seat, her head on the pillow, and pulled the blanket over her, grateful for the tinted windows, which kept out the glare of the afternoon sun. It was dark and cool inside the car, and the steady vibration of the tires on the road was more effective than a lullaby. Her first full meal in three days, combined with three days of nervous insomnia, soon did the rest. Despite her nagging worries, she began to doze as Jacques eased the Renault into the stream of traffic heading away from the city.

Her rest was fitful. The weight of all she’d experienced since Bill Howard’s phone call, the gnawing anxiety at the dark young man who dogged her steps, and the occasional bumps and swerves and muffled traffic sounds combined to keep her half wakeful, even as exhaustion weighed her down. She sat up at one point, blinking around at the suburban landscape, and caught glimpses of hanging signs along the autoroute: aéroport orly, lyon, périphérique interieur. Jacques was silent, seemingly relaxed, moving the car swiftly toward the easternmost reaches of France. She lay back down on the pillow again. The next time she roused herself and looked out at the bright afternoon, she saw a signpost for CHILLY-MAZARIN, and the names made her smile. She tried to work out the pronunciation; it would be something like shee-lee and mah-zah-reen, no doubt. Such a beautiful language…

The roar of the Renault’s powerful horn startled her awake. She shot up to a sitting position, gasping. The car was barely moving on the autoroute surrounded by other nearly stationary vehicles. She saw the all-too-familiar problem immediately and relaxed.

“Pardon, mademoiselle,” Jacques said, waving an arm at the view beyond the windshield. “I lose my control at this. It is the tangle, the jelly.”

Nora laughed, overwhelmed with relief, and rubbed her eyes. “Jam.”

“Oui, the jam. It is these next sorties, for Dijon. It is always the way here, at this part of the road.”

“We call them exit ramps in America,” she said, still laughing. She glanced at her watch, amazed to see that three hours had passed since she’d last checked it. “Dijon? We’re nearly there. When we get out of this, could you find a rest stop? Une, um, petrol station?”

He understood immediately. “Certainement, mademoiselle.”

“Merci.”

He was silent for a moment, and then he said, “Exit ramp.” He repeated it twice and nodded to himself. Another phrase for his growing lexicon. Nora smiled; she was rather falling in love with her escort.

Soon after the traffic cleared, he pulled into a large service complex and parked. He walked her around the side of the bright glass structure and deposited her at the door of the ladies’ room. Only when she was inside did she hear him go into the door beside it.

There was one other person in the big white-tiled room, a young woman about Dana’s age who stood at the row of sinks, meticulously making up her face. She had tattooed arms and was wearing a denim jacket and a miniskirt, with silver loops in her ears, both eyebrows, and one nostril. Her hair was a symphony of deep brown and electric blue, piled high in a beehive. When Nora came back out into the room, the girl was painting her mouth. Nora washed her hands and smiled over at the girl, who grinned and held up the lip gloss for her inspection.

“Très Rose de Superbouche!” she proudly announced.

Nora nodded enthusiastically, as though she would now run screaming to the nearest makeup counter, and left the restroom, thinking, Somewhere under all that nonsense is a pretty girl. Dana had gone through a similar phase, mercifully brief, when she was sixteen, but Jeff had nixed the request for body ink.

Dana. She must call her daughter as soon as tonight’s adventure was over. With any luck, she’d have good news for Dana-and herself-by then. Break a leg…

Jacques was waiting for her outside the door. She smiled, charmed by his vigilance, and followed him back around the building. She went inside and bought paper cups of coffee for both of them while he filled the car’s gas tank. She remembered to pay cash for everything. They drank the coffee in the car while he called his wife and told her not to wait up for him, he’d be home tomorrow, and no, he hadn’t been smoking. So, that explained the raspy voice but no cigarettes. Thank you, Marianne, Nora thought. Only then did it occur to her that even if this mission concluded happily for her, Jacques would still be on the wrong side of France in the middle of the night.

“We can stop for food when we reach the city,” she told him as they resumed their journey. She consulted her watch: It was six o’clock, and they’d be there in an hour. “Then I must be in Pinède by ten o’clock, and it’s an hour’s drive, so we must leave Besançon by nine. But I won’t allow you to keep going all night, Jacques. There will be places to sleep on the way back to Paris, right? We’ll have to find one.”

He nodded, maneuvering the car over to the fast lane on the highway. “Yes, mademoiselle, there are many of the motels along the autoroute. Do not worry with this now.”

She didn’t; she was too busy worrying about this strange errand. Let it be over soon, she thought, tonight in Pinède. He’ll be there, and we’ll be safe, and there will be three of us going back to Paris, as long as-

She turned abruptly to look behind the car again, scanning the traffic that trailed them for the gray Citroën. The sun was setting, and in this light all the cars on the road seemed to be gray. She peered at windshields, trying to see beyond them, searching for dark skin and dark hair…

“He is not there, mademoiselle,” Jacques said quietly. “I keep the peeled eye, but there is no such car since Paris. From now, we will have the smooth sailboat.”

Just as he uttered these words, a low rumbling sound began in the distance and spread across the sky above them.

Jacques chuckled. “Too soon do I speak, yes? Tonight it will be the rain.”

Chapter 13

The ancient Gallic stronghold that would eventually become the city of Besançon was built on an oxbow in the Doubs river, a tributary of the Saône, close to what is now the border of France and Switzerland. The original town inside the curve is surrounded on three sides by water and was once protected on the south by the magnificent citadel on Mont Saint-Étienne. Six other hills ring it, some with their own smaller fortresses. The modern city sprang up in the valley across the river from the old quarter. Besançon is the capital of the Franche-Comté, the free county, France’s last incorporated province.

It was twilight when the Renault Modus crossed the bridge into the old town. Nora and Jeff had stayed there overnight on their honeymoon, in a little guesthouse near the foot of the mountain. Now she remembered two things about the neighborhood that she could use: a pleasant restaurant with sidewalk tables and a florist. She hoped they were still there. They were; while Jacques waited at a table outside the café, Nora walked around the corner to the little shop where Jeff had bought flowers. The woman there was just closing for the day, but she smiled and wrapped a dozen red roses for Nora.

The specialty of the restaurant was a savory beef stew with peas, leeks, and new potatoes, as delicious as she remembered. Jacques liked it too, and he suggested a burgundy to go with it, explaining that it was bottled “just down the road.” He ordered a glass for her, but he drank only water. She wasn’t a bit surprised to see that he had perfect manners, any more than she’d been when he readily agreed to join her for dinner. By now, very little about this charming man would surprise her.

Nora looked around, delighted. She’d enjoyed her day here twenty-one years ago. She and Jeff had spent the morning exploring the old town, including the cathedral and the birthplaces of Victor Hugo and the Lumière brothers, and then they’d stormed the sprawling citadel above the city in the afternoon. She recalled the spectacular views from the battlements overlooking the river valley, and she remembered the museum in the fort dedicated to the French Resistance fighters and deportees of World War II, when the Germans occupied the citadel until the Americans expelled them. It was a beautiful city in a dramatic setting of blue river and green hills, rolling away as far as she could see.

Still, as nice as it was, she and Jeff hadn’t made that long-ago trip from Paris just for the sights. It had been a personal journey for her husband. Late that afternoon, they’d driven their rental car out of town, to the south, on roads that climbed up into the hills, arriving at sunset in the tiny mountain village where his mother’s family had once lived. He’d shown Nora the little house in a row of similar houses at one end of the village’s only street, not far from the gray stone church. As a teen, Jeff had spent several summers there with his mother and his widowed great-aunt, Jeanette, while his father traveled for business back in the States.

His great-uncle, René, had been a woodsman like his brother, Henri, Jeff’s grandfather. The two brothers had chopped down pine trees in the wild woods beyond the village. All four of Jeff’s grandparents had died before he was born, and he’d never known his great-uncle, René, either. Grand-tante Jeanette had served as honorary grandparent for Jeff; she’d taught him to play the piano on her ancient spinet and sent him off with some of the men in the town to learn how to fell trees. He’d loved the village and working with the men in the forest and, most of all, his great-aunt’s baking. He hadn’t been able to get enough of her croissants and spice cookies and Black Forest cakes.

He and Nora had looked at his great-aunt’s house from the road because new people had lived there and he hadn’t wanted to impose on them. Then he’d taken Nora into the big wrought-iron-fenced cemetery behind the church and placed a dozen red roses on Grand-tante Jeanette’s grave. He’d told his bride that she had loved red roses and he made this pilgrimage whenever he was in Europe. He’d brought Nora there, he said, so he could share these memories with her. Nora had been moved by his revelation. She already loved him, of course-she had been carrying his child-but seeing that aspect of her groom’s character had deepened her affection for him.

Now she relaxed at the sidewalk table in Besançon, sipping coffee as she and her driver watched the locals strolling by. Somewhere, in a bar or nightclub down the street, a girl was singing a lively chanson to the accompaniment of an accordion, and after a while other voices joined in. The lights of the shops and houses were just coming on when another ominous peal of thunder told her it was time to go. As the raucous singing ended in laughter and applause, Nora asked for the check.

Just before they got up from the table, Jacques said, “Un moment, mademoiselle. This village, Pinède-Is mademoiselle meeting someone?”

She thought about how to answer this, finally deciding that there was no reason to be duplicitous with him.

“If all goes well,” she said, picking up the roses, “I’ll be meeting my husband there.”

He raised his eyebrows at this. “So, I should not be calling you mademoiselle. You are madame.”

“Mademoiselle will do,” she told him, and they walked back to the car. Nora took a nostalgic look around before she got in, remembering how happy she’d been the last time she was here, and why. She smiled at the quiet streets and squares, and up at the former military garrison on the ridge above them. This time she sat in the front seat beside him, and Jacques drove around Mont Saint-Étienne to the southbound autoroute.

Dix roses pour Grand-tante J ce soir: Ten roses for Great-aunt Jeanette tonight. Jeff had always placed a full dozen roses at her grave-it was part of his ritual-so the ten in the message was obviously the time Nora was to be there. He’d be waiting for her in the churchyard, he would explain everything, and he’d take that damned manila envelope from her. He’d tell her why she’d had to come to France, and then to this remote part of it, and he’d assure her that everything was all right now. He’d have his own rental car, so Jacques could follow them back to Paris. They’d stop somewhere on the way, a room for them and a room for Jacques. She’d sleep in her husband’s arms while the rain fell outside, washing over everything, making the world clean and clear once more.

As evening and the gathering rain clouds darkened the sky, she fought her urge to make another wish. This was no time to tempt fate. The car continued on its way toward the distant mountains.

Chapter 14

The little ribbon of road wound up around the hillside, curving and zigzagging as it unspooled before them. The beams of the headlights revealed an ever-changing view: now a press of tall fir trees on both sides of the car, now the sudden arrival of open sky, with a stone-and-metal guardrail protecting them from a plunge of several hundred feet. Even Jacques, the speed demon, knew better than to zip around these treacherous turns. He slowed the car from time to time, inspecting the signposts at every turnoff, looking for the right one.

“Prie Dieu…Caprice de Coeur-the names these villages have!” he exclaimed at one point. Nora thought they sounded lovely. She could see the occasional settlement as they passed, groups of lights winking from the forest or perched in a hanging valley overlooking the Doubs, which flowed through the plains far below. Some of the landscape looked familiar, and when the car abruptly veered away from the valley and crossed a stone bridge over a stream, she knew they were close.

“It’s up here somewhere,” she said. “A road on the right, I think, leading into the forest. There was a sign, as I recall-There it is!”

The wooden plaque hung from a beam extending out from a post, swinging slightly in the breeze. Black Gothic lettering was burned into the lacquered blond surface: Pinède. Jacques slowed and prepared for the turn.

“Wait,” Nora said. “Stop the car. Park right here.”

As usual, he asked no questions. He immediately pulled the car over onto the shoulder in front of the sign and switched off the ignition. The headlights died, leaving them in darkness. She sat a moment, thinking, listening to the rustling of the wind in the pines and the soft ticking sounds as the engine cooled. The village was invisible from here, so she peered down the little paved lane, trying to remember the layout.

The lane disappeared into the forest, emerging after a hundred yards in a large clearing beside the stream they’d just crossed. She recalled that the road continued past the church to a cluster of some fifty cottages, a general store, a pub, stables and barns, and a big structure at the far end of town for tractors and woodcutting equipment. The population when she’d been here last was just over two hundred, and she doubted it had grown much in twenty-one years. The opposite, if anything: The new generation probably preferred the electronic liveliness of the modern cities far from these mountains.

One of the larger towns down the hill had a supermarket and a drugstore, one had a Gendarmerie Départementale station and a firehouse, a third had an infirmary, and a fourth, the schools for all the children in the district. Each town up here had its specialty, and Pinède’s contribution to the community was the church, Notre Dame des Montaignes. The handsome stone building with its bell tower and stained glass windows was the gathering place for worshipers from miles around. The priest and his retainers lived in the rectory beside it, and the iron-fenced field behind the two buildings was the local cemetery. The church stood on the left side of the lane at the entrance to the town, separated from the nearest houses by parking lots on both sides of the road, which were discreetly screened from view by green hedgerows.

It was 9:50; she had ten minutes. The last evening bell-evensong or compline, or whatever it was called-was rung at eight, Jeff had told her, and by nine everyone was in bed. She was walking to a shuttered church in a sleeping village. It seemed secure enough, but she couldn’t help thinking of her husband’s secrecy with the coded messages. Nora had no idea what was going on, but she knew Jeff was going to great lengths to keep it hush-hush. Why else would she be here, at this end of France, at this hour? And why else would Jeff have created the elaborate hoax that he was dead, a car crash and a corpse with his name and a grieving widow? Better safe than sorry.

“I’ll walk from here,” she said.

Jacques didn’t like that idea. “No, mademoiselle, I take you inside. The village is around a curve, no? There are no lights here but those streetlamps along the road down there, and they are not very bright-”

“You don’t understand, Jacques. I don’t want anyone in town to-to know that I’m here. Those streetlamps are enough to get me around the bend, and I’m only going as far as the first building there. I’ll be fine. You wait right here, with the car. We-I should be back very soon.”

He still didn’t like it, but he didn’t argue with her. “Very well, mademoiselle, but take this.” He handed her a small plastic flashlight.

“Thanks.” With a quick smile for him, she grabbed the roses and got out of the car. The chilly, damp night air struck her, so she rested the flowers on the hood and buttoned the London Fog raincoat, tying the belt and thrusting the flashlight in a pocket. She picked up the wrapped bouquet and began to walk.

A dull streak of lightning tore through the clouds, nearly invisible, and the subsequent low rumble of thunder was barely audible through the loud sighing of the wind in the trees. Nora set off down the paved road, passing under the first blue light and heading for the next one. These lampposts weren’t placed here for maximum illumination, merely to keep the occasional late vehicle on the road until it was safely in or out of the town. The crunch of her boots on the loose gravel beside the blacktop was swallowed by the wind. There was no sidewalk here; this turnoff was far from the next area of civilization, and the roads were steep, so walking outside the village itself wasn’t a good idea. In these hills, you drove or rode a horse to your destination.

As she walked along, her earlier self-assurance began to desert her. What on earth was she doing here in the middle of the night? Why was Jeff here, in Pinède of all places? Was he hiding? If so, from whom? Well, it was too late to change her mind. Whatever this was, Nora was part of it now, but she hoped they could leave here as soon as possible.

She came around the curve, and there was the village, spread out in the clearing before her, barely visible in the darkness. The church was just ahead on her left, up a wide flight of steps. A porch light above the big oak doors and a faint glow from the stained glass windows at the near side of the building were the only illumination she could see there now. The windows of the rectory beyond it were dark; the priest and his servants were presumably asleep. Farther down the road, past the hedgerows, a few tiny glimmers shone in cottage windows here and there. Otherwise, nothing.

The high wrought-iron fence began on this side of the church, with an arched gate facing the road near the steps. She was moving up the steps toward the gate when she heard a sound from the road behind her, a crunch, a small displacement of gravel. She froze, feeling a thrill of terror rise in her, straining to listen. The wind continued strong in the branches above her, but now there was no other sound. She turned around and peered into the dark behind her, back the way she’d come. The nearest pool of blue lamplight was empty, and she couldn’t see any movement along the lane. A squirrel, she thought, or a village dog out late, nothing more. She uttered a small giggle of relief and turned back to the gate.

It wasn’t locked; there probably wasn’t much need for locks around here. She pulled up the drop latch and pushed the big gate open. It creaked slightly, and the metal was freezing against her fingers. Leaving the gate ajar, she moved slowly forward, allowing her eyes to adapt to the gloom. After a moment she made out the walkways, which ringed and crisscrossed the lawn, and the nearest rows of headstones. There were probably some four hundred townspeople buried here, with stones of every shape and size, and four-no, five small buildings here and there among them: family mausoleums.

Beyond the fence on both sides, rows of cypresses had been planted, forming a sort of outer fence, and behind the rear fence the pine forest had been cleared for some fifty feet to make room for a grove of fruit trees. Apples, pears, lemons-she’d inspected them on her previous visit, delighted by the way their rich scents mingled with the overriding aroma of the forest around them. On this breezy summer night, before the rain, she could smell it all from where she stood just inside the gate. She inhaled deeply and moved forward.

The faint spill of light from the stained glass windows on her right showed her more rows of graves, and she could even read the name above the door of one distant structure: Vanel. She remembered the name; a Mme. Vanel had been Jeff’s great-aunt’s closest friend in the town. That small building was her family’s crypt. Nora shut her eyes, trying to remember the placement of Grand-oncle René and Grand-tante Jeanette’s white marble headstone.

Another noise behind her, a soft creaking sound. She whirled around, straining to see. No, nothing. She hadn’t latched the gate; that was all.

She followed the path down the row to the middle, to another walkway leading straight back, toward the fruit trees. Now she headed that way, peering down at the stones as she passed by them: perrault, robin, masson,…devereaux. Here they were, in the center of the churchyard, right next to the Vanels’ crypt. devereaux, rené et jeanette. Below their names and dates, Jeff had added an epitaph for them: À DEUX AUX CIEUX.

Together in heaven. Nora smiled at the sentiment. She stood at the grave, the flowers in her hands, looking around the shadowy cemetery. The church just behind her on her right, the little Vanel tomb beside her on her left, the rows of graves, the fence and the trees beyond, the windblown branches of the firs and cypresses. It was ten o’clock-a bit after ten, actually. Where was…?

“Jeff?” she called softly into the darkness. “Jeffrey? C’est moi. Où es tu?”

She heard the wind in the trees, and somewhere, off in the village, a dog barked once, a single cry cut off by a sharp command from a sleepy master. The sound of her own subdued voice in this empty place chilled her. She was once again aware of the remoteness of this town. Since leaving the autoroute to climb into these hills, she and Jacques had encountered exactly three vehicles, four people in all: a young man and a laughing girl in a speeding sports car, an old man in an ancient sedan, and a dozing farmer on an excruciatingly slow horse-drawn cart.

As for Pinède, well, everyone here was asleep. There was one gendarme in the town, she remembered, connected by phone to the Gendarmerie Départementale station in the bigger town down the hill, but he-she?-would probably be in bed as well. This churchyard felt vacant, forlorn. In that moment Nora knew, as one could only know after twenty-one years in the same marriage bed, that her husband was not anywhere nearby.

Dix roses pour Grand-tante J ce soir. Had she misunderstood the message after all? Was he waiting for her at his great-aunt’s house down the road? Did the ten mean something else entirely? For whatever reason, however it had come about, Nora was alone here, alone with the dead.

She had to get out of here. The thought entered her mind, forcing her into action. She knelt to place the roses on the mound before the gravestone, feeling around for a big rock to weigh them down in the wind. As she did so, her hand came upon a depression, a drop of some kind near the marble slab. Then her palm hit a wall of cold, smooth, flat metal. Some implement was sticking up out of the ground beside the drop. She leaned over on her knees, squinting in the dark, feeling up from the ground with her fingers. The flat wedge of metal ended, topped by a wooden pole extending three feet straight up into the air. A shovel. She thought, What on earth…?

She reached into the pocket of her trench coat, pulled out the flashlight, and switched it on. In the powerful beam she saw the drop next to the shovel very clearly: six feet long, three feet wide, four feet deep. A gaping rectangle in the ground by the Devereaux headstone.

A fresh grave. Empty. Waiting.

Oh God, she thought. Jeff!

Nora rose slowly to her feet, fighting for breath, for balance. Her legs barely accommodated her to a standing position. She stood, riveted, calculating the distance to the gate behind her, the length of the road back to the car. To Jacques Lanier, small and slight and in his sixties but better than nothing. She would run, run all the way back, just as soon as she could will herself to move.

She switched off the flashlight. In the sudden, utter darkness that followed, spots danced before her dazzled eyes, a million bursting stars. A particularly bright spot appeared on her shoulder and flickered there for a moment before fluttering down to land on her raincoat in the center of her chest. She blinked, clearing her vision, but the spot was still there. She thought it must be some kind of insect, and she absently raised the hand with the flashlight to brush it away. She looked more closely down at her chest and froze, transfixed, mesmerized by the dancing dot of light.

The bright red, dancing dot of light.

Nora stared. The flashlight fell from her hand, landing with a thump at her feet. The infrared dot came to a stop on her left breast, just above her heart.

Then her shoulders were seized from behind in a powerful grip, and for the second time in two days-the second time in her life-she was flung violently to the ground.

Chapter 15

She landed on soft grass, inches from the Vanel mausoleum, her face colliding with black dirt. The strong hands from behind her were now pulling her along the ground toward the little building. She screamed, preparing to kick out with her boots, when one of the hands was clamped viciously over her mouth. In the same instant, she heard a spitting sound from the orchard and the ground near Grand-tante Jeanette’s headstone erupted, sending a spray of earth flying up into the air.

“Stay down, mademoiselle!” The whisper was in her ear, and the hands continued to pull her toward the crypt. Jacques was flat on the ground beside her, urging her onward. Nora crawled to the building and rolled over, leaning back against the marble, wiping dirt from her eyes and mouth. Her little driver was now crouched against the wall next to her, and he had been transformed. He wore a black plastic band around his head, with dark goggles covering his eyes, and he was gripping a large silver gun with a fat barrel in his right hand.

Another spitting sound from the direction of the orchard was followed by another explosion of dirt mere inches from where they lay. She drew in breath to scream again. Again, his hand over her mouth stopped her.

“Quiet! Stay here. Do not move from here,” he whispered, and he was gone. She was alone beside the crypt, her legs dangling in the space formed by three steps that led down to the little door below ground level. She looked at the metal door. Would it be unlocked? Could she slide down the steps and crawl into the subterranean room, to hide among the moldering caskets of dead Vanels? With worms that are thy chambermaids…

No. If someone was after her, and Jacques and his nasty-looking handgun failed to prevent their advance, then a small, enclosed space was the last place she’d want to be. She’d need to be free, in the open, in case she had to run. Better to do as Jacques commanded and stay right here, with the mausoleum between her and-

And whom? The Pakistani? The ugly man from the museum? Who the hell were these people? And who the hell was Jacques?

Whither should I fly? Shakespeare again, some part she’d played a hundred years ago. The silly line arrived in her fevered mind, a familiar sign of panic, but it was appropriate. Where should she go? The rectory? An elderly priest and his no doubt equally wizened servants. The car? She’d never make it, not with that infrared scope to find her in the dark and fix on her as she ran down that long stretch. Jacques would have the keys anyway, so the car was out. Her best bet would be the village; get out through the gate and run, screaming her head off, directly into the center of town. The gendarme was there, and sixty or seventy forestiers, big men with big arms for wielding axes. And guns-they’d certainly have guns…

There was a sudden, ominous silence in the graveyard behind her. No spitting sounds or shouts or breathing-nothing but the constant sighing of the wind in the trees. Where was Jacques? Was he all right? And what about the other man, the shooter? It must be a man; it couldn’t be a woman. Was it the Pakistani? He was in the orchard, but he might have moved. He could be creeping around the iron fence toward her even now, as she sat here, exposed. He would kill her to get what he wanted.

She didn’t have what he wanted, and she very nearly laughed at the absurdity of it. What he wanted was the manila envelope in her shoulder bag, but the bag was lying on the backseat of the car. She’d left it there and brought the flowers here. She must get to the car before he-

A scrape of metal against stone, very close to her. She braced herself and leaned to her right, past the edge of the mausoleum, peering over toward the sound. Jacques was hunched down behind Grand-tante Jeanette’s gravestone. As she watched, he inched his head up over the top to see the orchard. He raised his gun arm to rest on top of the stone, aiming.

The edge of the crypt above her head exploded. She threw herself back behind the wall, out of range, wincing as a tiny sliver of marble embedded itself in the side of her neck. An instant later came the crashing of glass as the bullet that had struck her hiding place ricocheted off to hit the nearest stained glass window thirty feet to her right. She hugged the wall, looking over at the church, watching as a section of colored glass fell away from the upper portion of the window, raining down inside the building with a loud clatter, leaving Our Lady headless.

Pfft. Pfft. The hissing came from beside her this time, followed immediately by a strangled cry and another hissing sound from the orchard. Then she distinctly heard Jacques utter one word.

“Merde.”

She risked leaning out again and peeking around the corner of the crypt to see what had happened. Jacques was on his feet now, standing beside the stone with his back to her, his gun arm still extended, looking off toward the grove. She followed his gaze just in time to see a bulky black shape drop from the branches of a tree and land with a heavy thump on the ground behind the fence. The shooter was down, and as far as she could see from here, he wasn’t moving. Silence.

She crawled out from the shelter of the building and stood, raising a hand to the wetness on her neck. She pulled out the tiny sliver and flicked it away as she moved over to join her driver, who was obviously much more than a driver. A Jacques-of-all-trades. As she arrived beside him, he turned to look over his shoulder at her. He’d removed the night-vision headset, and the expression in his eyes was her first indication.

“Bien,” he whispered, and then he slid down the gravestone to the ground and rolled over onto his back.

“Jacques!”

She was on her knees beside him, reaching out to take hold of him. His leather jacket had fallen open, and now she saw the spot of darkness on the front of his shirt, growing, spreading out even as she stared in the weak light from the broken church window. He moaned and pressed the gun against her hand.

“Take this,” he gasped. “Take it and go. Go now, mademoi-mademoiselle. Vite!”

“Don’t move,” she said. “I’ll get help. I’ll-”

“No! There is not the time. I will be well; it is not a bad one. Le sacristain will come; the noises will have waked him. Go to the car. Go back to Paris. La clé…la clé est dans l’allumage. Your husband…”

She was holding him up now, supporting him. The dark stain widened. “You know my husband? Where is he? Where’s Jeff?”

“I do not know, mademoiselle…You said he would be here…Paris will know, ess-day-ah-tay. Ess. Day. Ah. Tay. They will help you. Jacques will be fine. Go, mademoi-”

“Qu’est-ce qui se passe? Qui est là?”

The deep, angry masculine shout rang out from the direction of the rectory. At the same instant, the entire cemetery was flooded with light. Nora blinked in the sudden glare, looking up at the bright spotlights mounted at the corners of the church building. A flash of lightning, a crack of thunder. The shouting came nearer. Now she saw a flashlight beyond the far fence and a large black shape holding it.

“Qui est là?!”

Jacques had been right about the sexton, or maybe it was the priest. Whoever he was, he was coming this way, and he was furious. Others would be close behind him, and they would get Jacques to a hospital. But she would be detained, and that must not happen, not now. She had to find her husband.

She leaned down and kissed her new friend on the forehead, taking the gun from his hand.

“Go,” he whispered. “Vite, vite! Find your hus…” He shut his eyes and slumped against her. She lowered him gently to the ground.

“Thank you,” she said. It was all she could think to say. Then she was up and running, flying along the walkway toward the open gate. She paused by the back corner of the church, dazzled by the glare, bringing up the hand with the gun to shield her eyes. When she could see again, she ran. Through the opening, down the steps, and she was sprinting along the dark road, her boots crunching in the gravel, blinded by the tears that poured down her face. She became aware that she was making a moaning sound as she moved, and she forced herself to be silent. The car, the car, get to the car. La clé est dans l’allumage…

And there it was, at the end of the lane beside the hanging sign. As she threw herself at the driver’s door, the first warm drops of rain began to pelt her. She was in the car, slamming the door, tossing the gun in her Coach bag, thanking France for left-side steering and right-side driving, just like America. She could do this. She must do this.

The clé was in the allumage, just as Jacques had said. Oh God, a stick shift! She hadn’t driven one in twenty years. Depress the clutch pedal; turn the key. The engine roared to life. Headlights, windshield wipers, release emergency brake. Pull gearshift left; push it forward for first gear. Yes! The car lurched out into the road. She braked, remembering to hold down both pedals so it wouldn’t stall. Where the hell was reverse? There! She backed into the lane, swinging the wheel and yanking the gearshift forward, over, forward for first again, her mind racing faster than the engine. Move right foot from brake to accelerator; lift left foot from clutch. With another roar, the Renault turned, heading downhill, back the way they’d come.

Over the little stone bridge she drove, shifting gears easily now. She sped down the mountainside as fast as she dared, putting as much distance as possible between her and Pinède. She swiped at the tears in her eyes, squinting through the rain-pelted windshield. Jacques might be dead. The other man, whoever he was, was probably dead. Jacques had a wife in Paris, Marianne. This car belonged to their eldest son, who was on vacation with his family in New York City…

Where am I? she thought. Which way did we come? She glanced down at the dashboard, frowning. The navigation app would be in French, of course, but she’d figure it out. Ess-day-ah-tay. S-D-A-T. What on earth was that? He’d said the SDAT would help her find Jeff…

Another flash of lightning, followed by a loud crack of thunder. She could barely see through the windshield now, but she must keep going. Headlights loomed up on her left, and a car whipped by her. A cluster of lights ahead on her right: another village. More thunder, then-

Sirens. More than one, a high-pitched wail and a klaxon. Flashing lights down the road: blue, red, more blue, coming this way fast. She swung the wheel, turning off into the lane that led to the village. She drove a short way down it and stopped, switching off the lights. She watched in the rearview mirror as two police cars and an ambulance came flashing by, rushing up the main road toward Pinède.

When they were gone, she backed out of the lane and continued down the hill, away from the scene of the crime.

Chapter 16

Catherine Deneuve was telling her where to go. Well, not the actress, not really, but it sounded like her. The voice emanating from the dashboard was soft, cultivated, expertly trained, with that professional mix of warmth and assurance that makes a person believe anything it says. Nora envied very few other actors for their gifts, but Catherine Deneuve was one of them, and so was the voice in the Renault’s speakers.

“…sortie nombre quatre pour l’autoroute trente-six. Procédez à l’ouest, une distance de quatre-vingt-douze kilomètres à l’autoroute six…”

The beautiful voice had led her successfully through the near-blinding downpour to the appropriate autoroute, west from Besançon to Dijon. Eventually, this road would be exited for the long one, the A6, heading northwest toward Paris. After that, she’d have to look for the A10 to the A6B-or was it the other way around? The voice would tell her. She wished she’d paid more attention to Jacques’s navigation on the way here.

Jacques.

No, she couldn’t think about him. He wasn’t dead-he wasn’t-and even now, friendly hands would be ministering to him in l’infirmerie down the hill from Pinède, or in the nearest big hospital. As for the other man, the sniper-well, she couldn’t sympathize. She had more immediate things to occupy her, like negotiating this wet French highway as she raced toward Paris in the middle of the night, running from a dead assassin and a please-don’t-be-dead bodyguard.

Bodyguard? It certainly seemed that way. Jacques Lanier was another one of them, a French agent involved in whatever this was. This crisis. He worked for something called the SDAT-she must find out what that was. Nora hadn’t really understood all the obvious signs this morning at Gare du Nord: the ill-fitting chauffeur’s uniform; the limousine that was not a limousine; the deliberately misspelled placard, Hugs; the use of mademoiselle to further shield her identity. He’d been watching the rearview mirror from the moment they started, and he’d spotted the tail immediately. His orders were to stay with her, protect her, hence his insistence on driving her all the way to the Franche-Comté himself, in a fresh car.

Jeff. Jeff must have flagged her name, Baron, and also Hughes. Jeff had instructed her to go to Paris, but he hadn’t known how she’d do that, and he couldn’t communicate directly with her. Somewhere, in a room in London or Washington, a technician had gotten a hit on the Eurostar reservation Lonny Tindall had made for Noreen Hughes. Once Jeff knew her train, he had simply arranged for the chauffeur at the other end to be a French agent. He was taking no chances with his wife’s safety. But something had gone wrong. At some point between Paris and Pinède, her husband had evidently lost control of the plan.

GOOT! Dix roses pour Grand-tante J ce soir. Either Jeff had meant something else entirely or…

Or others had changed the game. That ugly man with the shabby clothes and garlic breath: Could he possibly work with Jeff? Nora doubted it. He’d looked-and smelled-like a homeless man, a vagrant. And the note that had led her to the cemetery was odd too. Not her husband’s handwriting, but block capitals. And something else: Pal. He hadn’t called her Pal. The first message had been addressed to her, but the second hadn’t been so specific. It could have been written by anyone. But if it hadn’t been Jeff, how on earth had the writer known about Pinède in the first place? Grand-tante Jeanette, the roses, the ritual…

Her head was throbbing, partly from squinting through the wet windshield at seemingly endless miles of wet highway, but mostly from the strain of trying to understand what was happening to her. She’d been summoned to Pinède, to her husband’s great-aunt’s grave, presumably to meet her husband. Instead, she’d been shot at by a professional assassin who had dug a grave. A grave for her, for her body when she was dead. One clean shot, then into the hole, and she wouldn’t be found for days. Weeks. Months. Ever.

Whoever they were, they hadn’t counted on her leaving the manila envelope in the car. And they definitely hadn’t counted on Jacques Lanier. The noises behind her when she entered the churchyard-now she knew: Jacques had followed her from the car with his silenced weapon and his night-vision equipment, ready for trouble. And trouble was what he’d found.

She was praying. Nora Baron, the lapsed Catholic, was actually asking God to watch over the wonderful little man who had saved her life tonight. Keep him alive for Marianne; for the son whose car she was driving; for the rest of his family and his friend Felicia; and for her. So she could thank him in person and teach him some more English words.

Had the priest or sexton seen her? She didn’t think so. The police arriving at Notre Dame des Montaignes would find the dead sniper and Jacques, and they’d be searching for the missing weapon, the one she’d thrown in her shoulder bag, but as far as she could tell, they didn’t know she existed. Of course they’d find the sniper’s car, probably in the church parking lot, and they’d wonder how Jacques had arrived there. If Jacques was conscious, he’d tell them he’d walked or thumbed a ride and the dead man was a personal enemy, his wife’s lover, something like that. They wouldn’t believe him, of course, but it might buy her precious time…

The road was a blur, and visibility decreased with every minute. The rain was falling harder, cascading down the windows and singing under the tires, punctuated by a celestial symphony of light and noise in the black sky above the autoroute. The rearview mirror showed only wet darkness with occasional lights. She monitored each successive pair of headlights behind the Renault until she was sure the distant car wasn’t deliberately following her.

How would she know? How could she possibly distinguish her pursuers from fifty million benign Frenchmen? They’d been on the transatlantic flight with her, followed her to the hotel and the hospital, to Russell Square, to Paris, and now to the wilds of rural France. Was the man in the cemetery the man from the plane and the park? The man in the gray Citroën? Could all this be the work of one obsessed loner? If he was dead, was she safe now? How many of them was she dealing with-and who the hell were they anyway?

She’d made a choice when she came down from the mountains and rejoined the autoroute, where signs soon appeared before her for the exits that would take her either east or west. She’d thought about it as she drove. To the east was the Jura pass; she could be in Switzerland in not much more than an hour. She could stop somewhere-Neuchâtel was on the Doubs, just across the border-and figure out what to do next. But she didn’t know anyone in Switzerland. No; better to take her chances back in Paris, even if it was probably easier for her mysterious enemies to track her in France.

Were they still tracking her right now, this minute? If so, how? Not this car, certainly-it belonged to Jacques’s son; they couldn’t possibly know about it. Or could they? She’d have to work that out, but she wasn’t sure how to go about it. She was Nora Baron, a drama teacher from Long Island, not a federal agent. Her husband was the federal agent in the family. Jeff would know what to do, how to deal with these situations. But where was he? Did he know what was happening to her? More questions. She was going mad from all the questions.

A red light appeared on the dashboard; she was low on gas. Not surprising, considering the miles they’d put in since the rest stop this afternoon. The last thing she needed now was car trouble, running out of gas in the middle of nowhere. She edged over into the extreme right lane, searching the road ahead. Yes! There, in the distance: lights.

The young man in the petrol station was very wet and very polite. As she paid in cash for a full tank and a small bottle of water, Nora tried to calm herself enough to remember some basic French. She was suddenly exhausted. She had to stop for the night; she couldn’t drive any farther now. The storm was getting worse, and shock was setting in. She downed some water and spoke.

“Un motel, um, ici?” was all she could manage, but it was enough. With a grin, he burst into rapid speech, with gestures. She could barely follow him, but she got the gist of it. His mother-in-law-or his wife’s aunt?-ran a lovely chambres d’hôte just down the way, at the next sortie, Chez Martine. Cheap, clean, and she loved les touristes Americains. Salles de bains privée, petit déjeuner inclus dans le prix fixe, et la Wee-Fee pour les portables! Down the ramp, à la gauche, deux îlots, l’édifice jaune à la gauche. He then pulled a cellphone from his pocket and spoke into it. Yes, a room would be ready, and Martine herself would be expecting Mademoiselle Hughes.

Nora smiled and thanked him, glancing at her watch. It was nearly midnight. She’d only been driving for ninety minutes or so, but between the weather and her nerves, not to mention the unfamiliar car with standard transmission, it seemed much longer. Still, her mind was working overtime. Just before the young man ran inside the station, she called him back over. She explained in halting French that she’d met a man today who said he worked for the SDAT. Did he know what that was?

His eyes widened. “Ess-day-ah-tay? Oui, mademoiselle, ils sont les flics! La Police Nationale! Vôtre ami est un homme très, très important! Ess-day-ah-tay, c’est la Sous-Direction Anti-Terroriste!”

Chapter 17

Nora sat up with a start. She was in a strange bed in a strange room, and for one wrenching moment she had no idea where she was. Then she remembered, and she fell back against the pillow, relieved.

Chez Martine. She’d arrived at midnight, carefully parking the car out of sight from the road, and the sleepy proprietress had signed her in and led her upstairs, apparently not noticing the smear of blood on the collar of Nora’s raincoat. Nora was the only guest, which didn’t surprise her. This stretch of the autoroute was between major towns, and most people probably kept going until they arrived in one. Martine was delighted to have the business, and very proud of her son-in-law at the gas station, who sent occasional weary travelers her way.

Nora had thrown off her clothes and fallen into bed, but not before washing the bloodstain out of her coat as best she could, putting a Band-Aid on her neck, and taking the gun from her bag to study it. The name, SIG Sauer, was on it, and the barrel was augmented with the fat, twist-on cylinder she knew was called a suppressor. Not a silencer-that was an invention of Hollywood and crime novels; it didn’t really exist. A suppressor was the best you could do for sound control on firearms, and it made that loud hissing noise. Pfft, pfft. She remembered the graveyard with a shudder.

She’d only handled one gun in her life, a semiautomatic, when she’d played a bank robber in an episode of a short-lived TV cop series long ago. The prop crew had explained everything to her, where the safety was and how to insert and remove the clip, which she’d had to do on camera. That gun had been a dummy, not particularly heavy.

This very real gun was bigger and heftier, but the safety and clip were in the same places, and she could see that the clip was nearly full, which made sense; Jacques had only fired two shots. Rounds-they were called rounds. She reinserted the clip and slid the safety catch until she heard the click as it locked. Leaving the suppressor in place, she put the weapon back in her bag. She didn’t think she could fire an actual gun at anyone, but it was reassuring to have it with her.

Now it was morning, nearly eight o’clock by her watch, and the thunderstorm of last night was gone. Bright sunshine beat against the closed lace curtains at the window, and she threw them open to let in the light. The world beyond the inn’s forecourt was going on as usual.

Why was she suddenly thinking of Mike Lasky? Her daughter had been distraught the other day in New York, devastated by her prelaw student boyfriend’s alleged infidelity. Dana was in Great Neck with Aunt Mary, safe for now, but Nora was not at her side, counseling her on the potential drawbacks of romantic relationships. No, Nora was here, four thousand miles away, searching for Dana’s father. Her maternal priorities had shifted, and not in a good way.

A hot shower, her first since London two nights ago, did wonders for her. Her neck stung where the chip from the edge of the mausoleum had pricked her skin, but it was healing; she wouldn’t need the Band-Aid anymore. Clean hair, a toothbrush, fresh makeup-the little daily things she’d always taken for granted brought on a sense of calm. Well, not really, not entirely. She didn’t know where her husband was or what he was doing. She didn’t know if Jacques Lanier was alive or if he’d given his life for her. Sous-Direction Anti-Terroriste: Thinking of that name, what it clearly meant, was sharply unsettling. The beneficial qualities of the shower were already fading.

There was no phone in the room, but they’d have one downstairs. Jeff was off the grid, as Lonny Tindall would undoubtedly say, but she could call Bill Howard. Well, she could call Vivian Howard and ask her how to get in touch with Bill. She didn’t know what agency he worked for. MI5? MI6? Or was it some other group, one of those outfits even the queen and the prime minister didn’t know about, whose name you wouldn’t learn from reading John le Carré or watching James Bond movies?

Langley. Jeff had an assistant there, a polite young man named…something or other. She’d spoken with him a couple of times. Ray? Roy? Roger? No, Jeff wouldn’t want her to call Langley, and Ray/Roy/Roger would need clearance to tell her anything, assuming he knew anything, which he probably didn’t. He was too far down the chain of command.

Clearance, chain of command, off the grid. Dear God, the phrases she was throwing around! It was unreal-no, it was surreal; that was the word. This whole thing was surreal. Coded messages, bodyguards, silenced-no, suppressed-gunshots in midnight graveyards. Washing blood from a raincoat. And a dead body, possibly two. Three, if she counted her “husband” in the London morgue. She had to count him because he mattered. He mattered to someone somewhere, whoever he was.

In that moment, in the clean but otherwise nondescript bedroom in a guesthouse in the French countryside, Nora Baron realized with a shock that she was angry. It wasn’t the emotion she’d expected, but it was probably a good thing. Otherwise, she might have waited there, crouching in a corner until someone came to save her, or to kill her. Her anger got her out of the room and down the stairs to the lobby.

The young woman at the desk looked so much like a younger version of Martine that Nora had no trouble identifying her. This would be her daughter, the wife of the nice young man at the filling station. With a smile, she ushered Nora into the empty dining room beside the lobby, seated her by the picture window looking out on the parking lot and the autoroute access road, and asked if mademoiselle preferred coffee or tea.

Mademoiselle preferred coffee, lots of it, and in minutes she had a pot of it and a basket of fresh bread. The daughter told her an omelet was on the way, and with a flourish of obvious pride, she switched on the big brand-new flat-screen television mounted on one wall before going back to the lobby. Nora gazed out the window at the parking lot, drying from last night’s torrent, and listened to the droning voice of a news reporter and the distant noises from the kitchen.

She had to make a plan. Paris. Get to Paris, leave the Renault in that alley next to Felicia’s restaurant, leave the gun in the glove compartment, give the keys to Felicia, and proceed to Gare du Nord. London: the Byron for her things, the hospital for her “husband’s” ashes, Heathrow. She could be home by midnight. Forget about the SDAT: Whatever her actual husband was doing, she was clearly more a liability than an asset as long as she remained in Europe-

“…une fusillade dans le cimetière de l’église Notre Dame des Montaignes…Pinède, un village en Jura de la Franche-Comté…deux hommes non identifiés, un mort et un blessé grave…”

A shootout in a cemetery. Two unidentified men, one dead and one seriously wounded. The words invaded her thoughts, and she looked over at the TV screen. The churchyard where she’d been last night was swarming with people: police, paramedics, and what looked to be half the population of Pinède. There was a shot of a covered stretcher being placed in an ambulance, followed by footage of Jacques Lanier, strapped to a stretcher carried by two men, awake and aware, blinking around at the crowd.

Jacques was alive! She felt a surge of relief, followed immediately by alarm. The live images switched to an artist’s sketch of the face of a young white man she’d never seen before: the dead assassin. This was followed by a grainy but distinct photo of a wild-eyed woman in a beige London Fog trench coat caught in the glare of floodlights, clutching a silver SIG Sauer in her hand. She was looking directly up at the camera, which was obviously a CCTV mounted on the corner of the church beside the emergency lights.

Nora had done a lot of television work and played small parts in several major films, so she was used to looking at herself on a screen, but nothing had prepared her for this. A still photo, taken from security camera footage, of her, Nora Baron, brandishing a gun. Brandishing-that was the only word to describe the image, and the expression on her face could only be called a snarl. She’d been dazzled by the sudden light in the cemetery, and she’d squinted directly up into the camera, raising her hand with the gun…

The newscaster, a pleasant-looking man, went on to report that the unidentified woman-Caucasian, fortyish, tall, slender, light brown hair-was wanted by the Gendarmerie Départementale. In the cemetery, a heavyset, balding older man with a walrus mustache and horn-rimmed glasses, identified as Maurice Dolin, directeur, SDAT, made an appeal for all citizens to be on the lookout for her. “Armée et dangereuse, approche avec prudence.” The still photo was shown again, and it was held on screen for a very long time, or so it seemed to its subject. Nora stared at the image of the desperate criminal, realizing that this unflattering picture was being broadcast from every network, on every television, computer, and electronic device in France.

She was on her feet, reaching for the now-famous raincoat, when Martine’s daughter bustled back into the room, ushering in a tall young man in jeans and a denim jacket, bearing a backpack. A hiker, no doubt, stopping for breakfast before hitting the trails. The hostess showed him to a table on the other side of the room. He dropped the heavy backpack on a chair and turned around.

Nora stared at him, sinking slowly back into her seat. The daughter was going through her litany of breakfast choices for the new arrival, but he interrupted her speech by coming directly over to Nora’s table.

“Pardonnez-moi, madame,” he said to Nora. “Anglaise?”

“American,” Nora replied.

“Great!” the young man said in booming, perfect English, and he grinned. “My rental car broke down a mile back, they can’t get me a replacement for hours, and I really have to be in Paris today. Are you driving that way, by any chance?”

The hostess arrived at the table now, frowning at the young man; she clearly had rules about one guest intruding on the privacy of another. Nora nipped the woman’s angry speech in the bud by smiling and waving to the empty chair across from her.

“Yes, I can take you to Paris,” she said, transforming herself into a friendly fellow traveler. “Won’t you join me?”

“Great!” he boomed again. “Thanks so much!” He turned his beautiful grin on the hostess. “Café, fruit, omelette, et-um, have you any corn flakes?”

Martine’s daughter blinked. “Corn…flakes? Oh, les Kellogg’s! Oui, nous avons les Kellogg’s!” She turned an inquiring look to Nora, who smiled and nodded. Translation: Yes, it’s okay for him to sit here.

The big screen across the room was now filled with the image of a lovely young woman in an evening gown, extolling the delights of her silky, manageable cheveux. Nora asked if la tay-vay could perhaps be turned off?

The daughter complied immediately. Then she produced a very French smile, winked at Nora, and hurried off to the kitchen. The young man went over to retrieve his backpack from the other table, threw his large, lanky frame down into the chair across from her, and grinned some more.

Nora glanced over at the door to the kitchen, then back at her new companion, instantly dropping her pretence.

“What on earth are you doing here?” she said.

Now, at last, the disarming grin vanished, and Craig Elder the younger leaned forward to whisper.

“I’m here to get you out of here.”

Chapter 18

Nora was instantly on her feet again. She peered through the door into the lobby, then out the picture window, scanning the terrain for signs of movement. The police, or worse: her pursuer from the gray Citroën. The sudden stab of panic sliced through her, cutting off her oxygen.

“Sit down,” Craig Elder said quietly, and there was a hint of humor in his voice. “You’re not in any immediate danger. There’s no one here but us. I simply meant that I have to get you out of France-but it’s okay to have breakfast first.”

Nora sank back down into her seat once more. She drew in a long breath, studying his face, waiting for the panic to subside before trying to speak. At last she said, “You’d better explain yourself, Mr. Elder. Who, exactly, are you? You obviously work with my husband. Where is he? Where’s Jeff?”

He looked around the otherwise empty room before replying, and now there was no trace of humor. “We don’t know.”

“We?” Nora stared at him. “Who the hell is we?”

He looked her straight in the eye. “His people. My people. Our people. Mr. Howard is my boss, and we’re working with Mr. Baron. But Mr. Baron has disappeared.”

Nora tried to assimilate this. “When?”

“Two nights ago, as near as anyone can make out, sometime after you and I met in Russell Square. Mr. Howard is frantic. Mr. Baron-”

“Stop,” she interjected. “Please stop calling him that. Call him Jeff, okay?”

He studied her a moment. Then he said, “Okay, Jeff has been in hiding ever since the car accident. Mr. Howard-Bill was the only one who knew how to get in touch with him. It turns out that Jeff was hiding in Bill’s new house in Norfolk. Bill called him just before nine that night, after I’d delivered you to the hotel, and he told Jeff all about Russell Square. Bill had just come back from dinner with the minister and his wife, who were in his living room expecting a nightcap, so he told Jeff he’d call back as soon as they went home. He called Jeff again at eleven, and this time Jeff didn’t answer. The people at the place in London where he usually lives-you do know where he stays in London, right?”

Nora nodded. “Yes, it’s an apartment in Soho. I know where it is, but I’ve never been there. When I join him in London, he always stays with me at the Byron. Go on-what about his apartment?”

“They say Jeff hasn’t shown up there; nobody knows where he might be. He left Bill’s house in Sedgeford at nine, right after they spoke on the phone. He drove one of Bill’s cars to King’s Lynn station and bought a ticket to London. The train was at nine-forty. The station’s security cameras showed a man approaching him on the platform just before the train arrived. They had a conversation, and instead of boarding the train, Jeff walked out of the station with him. They found Bill’s car, the one Jeff had borrowed, still parked in the station’s lot.”

Nora calculated. It was nine o’clock now, so Jeff had been missing for nearly thirty-six hours. “The man with him-did any of your people recognize him?”

“No.” He paused, clearly troubled about the next part. “But he was-we think he was-umm…”

“A Paki wanker?” Nora supplied, cringing at her own vulgarity, and the look on his face confirmed it. “But not the one from Russell Square, right?”

“No,” he said. “How did you know that?”

The hostess and an old man in an apron arrived from the kitchen with trays and proceeded to lay out a feast.

Nora said, “They told me to take a streetcar named Desire to one called Cemeteries, and get off at Elysian Fields. I’m visiting my sister and her husband. My brother-in-law is a rough and very crude man, positively prehistoric! Relations can be such a trial sometimes, don’t you agree, Mr.-?”

“Brando,” Craig supplied. “Joe Brando.”

“How do you do, Mr. Brando? I’m Miss Noreen Hughes from Belle Reve, my home in Mississippi. Do you know what Belle Reve means? It means beautiful dream. Isn’t that enchanting?!”

As soon as the servers were gone, Nora said, “I know it couldn’t be the man from the park because he was here the next morning, in Paris, following me. At least I think he was. I didn’t see him, but Jacques Lanier did.”

Craig frowned. “Jacques Lanier- Is that the Frenchman who drove you?”

Nora stared at him. This young man was an assistant, or so she’d gathered, an employee of Bill Howard and her husband, and she didn’t know his rank. He might be another Ray/Roy/Roger, in which case there was every chance that she knew more details than he did at this point.

“Eat,” she said. “We have to go, and who knows when we’ll have time for food again? I just saw the morning news; you’re dining with the most wanted woman in France.”

She managed to eat half her omelet and a slice of toast, despite the numbness in her brain and the queasiness in her stomach. She noted with something approaching humor that her companion wolfed down everything else on the table in the same amount of time. She was beginning to relax a little when the hostess came in with two women who were clearly locals. Nora looked at Craig, and she knew they were both thinking the same thing: These women might have seen the news reports. Nora kept her face averted from their table.

“When we leave here,” he whispered, “you drive and I’ll direct you. My car is not far from here; we’ll switch to that. Paris is our first stop; I have to check on a colleague who isn’t answering her phone. It’s very urgent, or I wouldn’t take time for it now. She’s been silent for two days, ever since she delivered that message to you in London and came to Paris on the late train, so we’re going to her place. Then we’ll decide how to get you out of France.”

Nora remembered the pretty blond girl from the hotel dining room, but she didn’t ask about her now. Instead, she settled the bill and thanked Martine’s daughter for everything. The daughter smiled, clearly assuming that the middle-aged American cougar had just picked up the sexy British backpacker. Nora let the woman believe whatever she chose and hoped she wouldn’t be watching TV in the next few hours.

“Do you have everything from your room?” Craig asked her.

She nearly laughed at that. Everything from her room: A Coach bag and a London Fog raincoat. The clothes on her back. One sinister manila envelope. And a huge, ugly gun. At the moment, they were all she had in the world.

“Yes,” she said, “I’m ready.”

As she and Craig went out into the parking lot, she put on her sunglasses and a scarf, taking in the details around her as she moved: the empty lot; the distant traffic on the autoroute, two small boys sailing by on bicycles, laughing in the sunshine; the strident morning song of an enthusiastic robin in an elm tree beside the building. Nothing else. When they arrived at Jacques’s car, she rolled up her trench coat and placed it on the backseat. Craig dropped his backpack on top of it, hiding it from view. She was opening the front door to get into the driver’s seat when Craig suddenly said, “Look.”

He was on the other side of the car, staring through the picture window into the dining room. Nora followed his gaze. The hostess was back in the room now, once more turning on the wall-mounted television, her pride and joy. On the screen, the earlier report from Pinède was being repeated, complete with film footage and photos.

Without another word, Nora and Craig Elder got into the car and drove away.

Chapter 19

He’d parked in a field beside the autoroute about half a mile west of Chez Martine. Nora followed his instructions, driving along the access road and straight out into the tall grass, stopping next to his car, a gray Volvo. She got out of the Renault and took her things from the backseat.

“Wait here,” Craig said. He maneuvered himself over into the driver’s seat of the Renault and drove it off into the woods that lined the farthest edge of the field from the road. It was mostly farmland around here, as far as Nora could tell, but that wood seemed to be fairly dense, practically a forest. Craig came out of the trees on foot. He unlocked his Volvo and threw his backpack and her bag and coat into the backseat. He drove this time. In minutes they were on the autoroute, heading northeast in the bright midmorning sunlight. Nora took in a deep breath and began.

“What’s going on?” she said. “Why are these people after me? What do they want with my husband?”

Craig thought a moment before replying. “I don’t know a lot of it myself, and it’s definitely classified, but under the circumstances, I think you deserve security clearance. Here’s what I’ve pieced together:

“Jeff has been working with Bill Howard and some people in France on intelligence he brought to them. It seems a tip was given to the Americans by one of their informants over here. Someone in England, or possibly France, has made a covert deal with a group in our purse snatcher’s part of the world. We think it involves, um, arms sales. WMDs.”

Nora stared over at him. “My God, what are we talking about here? Do you mean that someone in the West is selling those people nuclear weapons?”

He shrugged, eyes on the road. “Parts for them, anyway. I haven’t been briefed on the specifics, but they’ve formed a task force, operatives from several countries working together to find the dealer.”

“I see,” Nora said. “And this dealer is-”

“In England or-”

“-or possibly France,” she finished for him. She stared out through the windshield, imagining convoys of canvas-covered trucks transporting plutonium warheads through the bright French countryside. After a moment she said, “If Jeff’s agency shared all this with England and France, why would the South Asians be singling him out for payback, or whatever you call it?”

He glanced over at her. “Nora, I’m already breaching protocols here; I’ve told you more than I’m supposed-”

“Then you can damn well tell me the rest!” she said. “Why him? Why me?”

Now Craig Elder sighed. “I haven’t been told, but I have a guess. I think your husband faked his own death so he’d be free to move about under the radar and stop the deal. And I think the people on the other end of the deal-the South Asians, as you call them-found out he wasn’t really dead. They learned where he was hiding and, um, extracted him.”

Nora leaned back against the headrest and shut her eyes, thinking it through. Craig was switching lanes, aiming for the signs that indicated Paris, when she spoke again.

“I don’t know much about Jeff’s business,” she said, “but I know Jeff. I know how his mind works. He planned the car accident with the fake body- Who is that man in the morgue, by the way?”

Craig shrugged again. “I have no idea.”

“Okay, well-Jeff wanted everyone to think he was dead, and he wanted me to come over and take his ashes back to New York. He’d only get me involved if it was really vital. I don’t think he’s trying to find out who the arms dealer is. I think he must already know who it is. And I think…”

She turned in her seat to look at her Coach bag beside Craig’s backpack.

“What?” Craig asked. “What do you think?”

Instead of answering his question, she asked one. “Who is the girl in Paris, the one you’re so worried about? She gave me the first note from Jeff. Is she American or British?”

“She’s French,” Craig said, “but she works in London. I think Jeff contacted her a couple of days ago, gave her notes with instructions. Apparently, she was to deliver one to you at the Byron Hotel, then she was to go immediately to Paris, to deliver a second message to you the next day. She took the Chunnel train to Paris late that night, and she went to our apartment in the Latin Quarter, near the Sorbonne. No one in London has heard from her since. Who gave you the second message?”

Nora told him about the museum, the creepy Frenchman, the odd note all in capital letters, and the trip to Pinède.

He nodded. “I see. It’s pretty obvious that the message wasn’t the real one, the one from Jeff. I came to Paris last night to find our girl, but then I got a call from Mr. Howard telling me to get to you and bring you back to London.”

“How did you find me?” Nora asked.

“That took some doing,” he said. “Bill called the French people here, and they called the agent assigned to you. They got his wife, who told them he’d switched autos; he was now driving his son’s Renault. Once they knew which car they were looking for, they could track it, and they directed me to it. When I saw that it was parked at a guesthouse, I figured it out. We knew the French agent and the other man met up in Pinède, and I’d seen that photo of you fleeing the scene on the telly. So, I stashed my car down the road from Chez Martine and became a stranded hiker, and Bob’s your uncle.”

“Yes, but why?” Nora asked. “I mean, why didn’t the police simply go to Chez Martine and arrest me? They think I was involved in the shootings.”

Craig smiled indulgently. “Nora, the French police don’t know anything about this. The French people Mr. Howard called have nothing to do with the police; they’re on a whole different level-like Jeff is in America, like Mr. Howard is in England. The French police will be informed when the time is right, but not now. Now we have a national emergency-an international emergency. This deal is imminent, and we have to stop it. Two of our people are missing in action, and one of them is your husband. Those are our priorities.”

Nora stared out at the autoroute. They’d be in Paris soon; she recognized the suburbs. She drew in a steadying breath and asked the question foremost in her mind.

“Craig, is-is my husband dead?”

“No,” he said immediately. “I mean, I doubt it. Highly unlikely. We don’t know which group or groups we’re dealing with here, but they’re not official. They’re terrorists, and they don’t want to attract that particular kind of attention. They’d seriously think twice before killing a man like Jeffrey Baron.”

“But not his wife?” she asked. “They sent an assassin to kill me. Why would they do that?”

She could only see his profile, but the right side of his face reddened.

“I think you’ve already figured that out,” he said. “Haven’t you, Nora?”

A chill went through her. She turned around to look at her shoulder bag again.

“Yes,” she said. “I’ve figured it out. He knows who the dealer is; he found proof, some sort of concrete evidence. And he’s given it to me, to take back to America.”

“I think so too,” Craig said.

Nora thought about that. “But if that were the case, why Paris? Why change the plan and tell me to come here?”

Craig shook his head. “That I can’t tell you. I’m sure he thought it was a good idea. But now, in light of recent events, getting you out of here is an even better idea.”

“Can’t your people help with that?” Nora asked. “Why can’t we just go to these French agencies, the SDAT or whatever? The CIA has a station in Paris, right? Or the American consulate? If you take me there, they’d certainly be able to-”

“Mrs. Baron-Nora-you don’t understand the position we’re in.” She waited while he switched lanes, following the signs for the upcoming exits to Paris.

“What position are we in?” she asked.

Craig sighed and shook his head. “Your husband and Bill Howard and a French intelligence official, a man named Maurice Dolin, are pretty much the whole operation.”

“Maurice Dolin?” Nora said. “He’s with the SDAT. He was the man on the newscast, warning everyone that I was armed and dangerous.”

This was news to Craig. “Really? Hmm, I’d better tell Mr. Howard about that. Maurice Dolin should be brought up to speed about you as soon as possible. Anyway, they have me and the girl in Paris and two or three others in England and France, including your friend Jacques Lanier. Jeff’s the only American, unless we count you. Bill Howard reports to somebody in London, and Jeff reports to people in Washington, but those agencies’ main concern is keeping this under wraps and out of the news, avoiding a public panic. So, that’s it; that’s the whole show, maybe ten people in all. We don’t officially exist, and we are not officially tracking down a nonexistent dealer selling nonexistent weapons to nonexistent terrorists. That’s how it works. If we were to go to your consulate with this story, they’d cart us off to Bedlam. Nobody will help us. Nobody’s even going to acknowledge us. Besides, we can’t be sure how far this reaches; we don’t know who’s us and who’s them. We’re on our own here.”

Nora was silent, absorbing the information, staring out at the autoroute She was wondering why Maurice Dolin of the SDAT, who was apparently Jacques Lanier’s employer and one of the three principal figures in this operation, didn’t seem to know who she was. That didn’t make any sense to her-but then again, what did?

They passed a billboard for Disneyland Paris, and Nora almost had to laugh at the picture of the fairy-tale castle with a well-scrubbed young family of four grinning in the foreground. The ecstatic little girl clutched a balloon with Mickey Mouse ears on it while her brother and parents embraced her. She thought of Dana, their own trip to Disney World in Orlando years ago, but it was all so far away now. The family on the billboard seemed to be every bit as mythical as the princesses and dwarves and talking animals they’d meet in the theme park. It was a safe bet that these jolly parents didn’t work for the international intelligence community.

“Mission: Impossible,” she said at last. “That’s what you just described. I never knew it was so realistic. Now I see what Bill Howard’s driver meant.”

Craig glanced over at her. “His driver? You mean Andy Gilbert?”

Nora shrugged. “I guess. Big man, lots of muscles. When he helped me out of the car the other day, he said, ‘Be careful, Pal.’ He called me Pal, Jeff’s secret name for me, so Jeff obviously trusts him. Oh well, let’s just get to Paris and see what-”

At that moment, they heard the distant sound of a police siren, growing louder. Nora watched as a blue-and-white squad car sped toward them on the other side of the autoroute, heading east. The car flew by, its lights flashing, and Nora cringed, holding her breath, thinking of Martine’s daughter and the two women back at the guesthouse. She fully expected the cruiser to pull a sudden U-turn and come up behind them. But the siren abruptly died, and she watched in the rearview mirror as the police pulled over a speeding sports car. She didn’t exhale until the two cars actually stopped and the cop got out to issue a ticket.

So, the authorities hadn’t found them. Not yet, anyway…

Chapter 20

Later, if Nora were asked to return to the apartment house in Paris, she wouldn’t have been able to find it. They entered the city from the east at noon, and Craig drove down Boulevard Henry IV and across the Pont de Sully into the Latin Quarter. They passed the university and entered into an intricate grid of smaller streets crowded with summer-term students and lined with shops and cafés, all looking very much alike. Two or three turns down various streets and finally Craig pulled over and parked across from a medium-size limestone apartment house.

He took his cellphone from his pocket and punched the keypad. He held the instrument to his ear for a long moment, frowning. Then he broke the connection, looking over at the building across the street. He opened his door.

“She’s still not answering,” he said. “Wait here.”

“No,” Nora replied. “I’m coming with you.”

He turned to confront her. “Nora, if anyone recognizes you from that shot on the telly-”

“They won’t,” she said. “I’m wearing a scarf and sunglasses, and I’m not wearing the coat from the picture. Besides, there are two of us; everyone’s looking for a lone woman, not one half of a couple. Is there a doorman?”

“No.”

“Security cameras?”

“One in the lobby and one in the elevator, but our company apartment is on the first floor, so I always take the stairs.”

Nora began to question this before she remembered that he was European; he meant the second floor in American English. “Right-I’ll keep my head down in the lobby, but I’m coming with you. I’ll feel safer in there than here on the street.”

“She’s obviously not there,” Craig said, “but I’m hoping she’s left a message, some indication of where she is…”

“Let’s find out,” Nora said, and she got out of the car before he could change his mind and leave her there. They crossed the road and entered the main door to a tiny foyer lined with mailboxes and a row of buttons. He pressed the fourth one from the top and waited. Nora noted that the name beside the button was NOONE. “Is that her name? Noone?”

“No,” he said, pressing the buzzer again.

“So, who’s Noone?”

“No one,” he said.

Nora opened her mouth to ask another question and then shut it again. Noone: no one. The wonderful world of spies…

When it was clear there would be no response, he produced a key ring and opened the inner door to the lobby. This was a dingy space with brown walls and a brown tiled floor. A tiny lift was just ahead, and the staircase was on the right. She clung to Craig’s arm, keeping her head down, and allowed him to lead her up the stairs. The narrow, dimly lit hallway here had four doors, and they went to the second one on the right.

Before he unlocked the door, Craig turned to her and whispered, “Wait here. I’ll go in first.”

She nodded, noting the odd expression on his face. He was worried, and now she was worried too. It occurred to her that the girl had come here two nights ago, and she hadn’t answered her phone since then. The possible import of that fact finally got through to Nora. She waited while he unlocked the door and stepped inside, disabled the alarm, and switched on a light.

She could see from the hallway, so his sharp curse was superfluous. She took off her sunglasses and followed him inside, quickly shutting the door behind her. They stood in an attractive, carpeted living room, staring over at the figure that lay very still on the far side of it, beyond a couch and an armchair and an overturned coffee table, near the curtained windows. Nora saw a spill of blond hair, an outflung arm, a blouse and skirt, a beautiful leg in a high-heeled shoe. She smelled the faint stench of recent death. She smelled something else, also faint but unmistakable: Shalimar.

Dear God, she thought. That beautiful girl…

“Solange!” Craig said, and he hurried over to kneel beside the body.

Nora stared from the entryway. The shock of that word was almost greater than the shock of seeing death. She watched as he knelt there, looking down at the still form, remembering Vivian Howard’s words from the hotel two nights ago.

Solange-how’s that for a name? She works for him, a secretary or whatever. I understand she’s very pretty. He’s bought a big house in the country for them to live in. They’re getting married as soon as-as soon as…

“She was strangled,” Craig murmured. He stood up, looking around the room, his gaze locking on the closed curtains of the left window, which were moving slightly, billowing inward. He strode to that window and threw the curtains open. Bright sunlight poured into the apartment. Nora saw the perfectly round hole cut into the glass just above the window’s latch and the fire escape beyond it. She joined him at the window, looking down one story to the alley behind the building. Across the alley was a commercial structure of some kind with industrial windows; it would probably be empty at night. No one would see anyone on the fire escape. It would have been so easy.

“Why wasn’t there an alarm on the windows?” she asked.

Craig shook his head in disgust. “We requested it, but they haven’t complied yet. At least they installed the door alarm and the cameras- Wait a sec!” He ran into the bedroom, and Nora could hear him rummaging around in there. Then he returned to the main room, an angry scowl on his face.

“The video file is gone, the feed from those two cameras.” He pointed toward the front door, then to a bookcase in a corner. Nora squinted, but she couldn’t see a camera in either place. They must be very small, she thought, fiber-optic whatever. She knew nothing about cameras. Craig sank to his knees beside Solange’s body again.

“Damn it to hell!” he cried, staring down.

Nora looked at the ugly purple bruises that mottled the girl’s slender neck. Then she noticed something else. “What’s that, under her hand?”

Craig gently lifted the lifeless fingers and picked up a crumpled ball of white paper. He opened it, and Nora knew what it was even before she saw the handwriting. Craig read it before reaching up to give it to her. Nora stared.

Pal-

Sorry for cloak-and-dagger. Change of plan, had to get you out of GB ASAP. This is Solange; give her the envelope. Meet me CdeG, Air France, 3 p.m. Jacques will take you-he works for us. Trust no one else, and don’t use your phone. We’re going home. Always keep me close to your heart.

– Coop

“The real second message,” Craig muttered. He rose to his feet. “He was on his way to London to come here, to De Gaulle Airport. Solange was supposed to deliver this note to you at the museum. They took him, and they killed her. And if I ever get my hands on that Paki bastard, there won’t be enough left of him to bury!”

Nora looked down at the girl. “We have to call the police.”

“We can’t,” he said. “We were never here. Besides, they’d arrest us, and it could be days before Mr. Howard straightened it out. And De Gaulle is no good; they’ll be looking for you there. I’m getting you out of France and putting you on the next plane from Heathrow to New York, and then I’m-”

“No,” she said.

He stared at her. “What?”

“No,” she said again. “I’m not going back to New York. Not now, not while Jeff is-wherever he is. Besides, what makes you think I’d be any safer there than I am here? You and I are going back to London, to Bill Howard, and we’re going to find my husband. That’s what’s going to happen now.”

The authority in her voice surprised both of them. More than that, more than her conviction, Nora was surprised by the anger she felt. As in the hotel room this morning, she was furious, and now she gave herself over to it.

“Who are these people, these terrorists?” she cried. “By what right do they invade our lives? And who in their right mind would help them do it? Look at this girl; she’s not much older than my daughter. Jeff is trying to keep the world safe, he’s working to protect everyone, he and Bill Howard. And you, Craig. I’m not going home until we find him!”

They stood in the silent apartment, regarding each other over the body of the pretty young woman. A shaft of brilliant afternoon sunshine slanted in through a gap in the curtains, spotlighting the lifeless form. It was horrible, obscene, yet oddly beautiful, almost as though this were not a real victim but a young actress in a play or film, and some award-winning auteur had carefully positioned her and lit her body for full cinematic effect. This eerily lovely tableau belonged in the work of Spielberg or Hitchcock, not here on this dusty floor.

The hot tears stung Nora’s eyes, but she didn’t even try to wipe them away. She tore her gaze from the sight and watched Craig Elder, waiting for his decision. After a moment, he nodded.

“Come on,” he said. “Let’s go.”

Chapter 21

“We have to tell Mr. Howard,” Craig said when they were back in the car.

Nora nodded, but she was thinking of something else as she buckled her seatbelt. “Where are we going?”

“North.” He pulled out of the parking space, and after several intricate turns, they were crossing the Seine. “We have to get back into England, and I’d say public transportation is out, wouldn’t you? I need to make some calls-Mr. Howard, then a contact in Boulogne. But let’s get out of Paris first. See if you can get any news on the radio.”

Nora fiddled with the controls on the dashboard. Snippets of various kinds of music and talk radio programs came and went while she searched.

“Whose car is this?” she asked.

“Ours,” he said. “It isn’t trackable, and it sure as hell isn’t bugged if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“That’s what I’m worried about. What about your phone?”

“Nope,” he said. “Prepaid disposables, always.”

She glanced down at the car phone between the seats.

“Inactive,” he told her.

A deep male voice came from the speakers, and Nora tried to keep up with his rapid French. It was the top of the hour, two o’clock, and the headlines were just coming on. The lead story was about a government scandal of some kind, graft and kickbacks among politicians, five arrested. Then a homicide in Brittany. A hiking accident in the Dordogne, three injured. The Estivade festival in Dijon was officially open for business. By the time he started on a charity ball attended by Marion Cotillard and Ludivine Sagnier, Nora was beginning to wonder.

“What happened to Pinède?” she said. “It was all over the news this morning-”

Craig gave a low whistle. “Cor, that was fast!”

Nora turned to look at him. “What was fast?”

“The intervention,” he said. “The word must have been spread to the media by certain, um, agencies. Total news blackout.”

Nora switched off the radio. “Does this mean they’re not looking for me anymore?”

“No, it just means they’re not announcing it. They’re probably looking even harder now.”

There was nothing to say to that, so Nora said nothing. She knew that her photo could still be online; even a deliberate blackout couldn’t get rid of all the images everywhere. She leaned back in her seat and closed her eyes. When she opened them again, they were passing through Montmartre on their way to the northern autoroute. She studied her companion as he drove. He handled the car with skill, and he kept his eyes on the road, with brief glances in the rearview mirror. She remembered Jacques doing the same thing yesterday, scanning the terrain to be sure they were not followed. After a while, curiosity got the better of her.

“Who are you?” she said. “And don’t give me that jazz about being a student in Dublin. You’ve never been to Dublin in your life, and you’re not a student. Where are you from, really? And how did you get into this-this line of work?”

At first, she didn’t think he was going to answer. He continued to drive in his silent, efficient way; he might not have even heard her. Then she realized that he was thinking, forming a reply. As the northern reaches of the city melted away into suburbs and small towns and the long road ahead he began to talk.

He was originally from Ireland, as he’d claimed, but not Dublin. He was born in Belfast. His father, Craig Elder the elder, owned a thriving auto business. This was in the seventies, the days of the rallies and the skirmishes and Bernadette Devlin. By the time Craig the younger was born, his father had had enough of IRA bombings and threats. He reluctantly sold the business for much less than it was worth and moved the family to London. A relative there helped him open a new auto shop, but it was never as successful as the one back home. For the first time in generations, the family was poor.

Craig grew up on a council estate, with a rough group of kids for neighbors, many of them refugees from the Middle East and South Asia. He saw poverty and crime and drugs and the beginnings of homegrown terrorism all around him, and he hated it. His mother died, and his father married a woman Craig couldn’t stand. When he finished school, he got out of the house by enlisting in the army. A year in Wiltshire, rising from private to lance corporal, then a tour in Afghanistan. Back in England, he reenlisted for want of anything better to do. He nearly married a girl he was dating, but it didn’t work out. She wanted children and stability; he wanted action. Then he met Bill Howard, who was searching the armed forces for recruits to his team.

Mr. Howard gave a speech at the base, making the jobs he proposed sound very thrilling indeed. His group wasn’t like the usual government agencies, he told them. It was smaller, and he was looking for people who wanted work that was hands-on and action-oriented. In other words, military-trained secret agents for queen and country. Craig was the first soldier to volunteer, and Mr. Howard became more of a father figure to him than Elder the elder had been.

“That was five years ago-I’m twenty-eight now-and here I am,” he concluded. “I have a mingy little room in Bayswater, I see me da once a year at Christmas, I have two birds who don’t know about each other, and I’m in debt for betting on football. I’ve got my eye on a condo in Notting Hill and a time-share in Barbados, but for those I’ll need a rise in salary.” He grinned over at Nora before returning his attention to the road.

Nora said nothing, but she was secretly amazed. Excepting the difference in countries, his story was remarkably similar to her husband’s early life. Jeff was from a relatively poor family in Connecticut, and he’d attended the state university on an ROTC scholarship before joining the marines. He’d been in Grenada in 1983, but then he’d gotten stuck in a desk job at the USMC recruiting center in Newport News. When his current employers approached him, he’d jumped at the chance. His reasons had been the same as Craig’s: He’d wanted action, and he’d wanted to make a difference. He also hadn’t had a place to call home. Nora had changed that…

“We’d better get off the motorway for a while,” Craig said, and she snapped to attention. “I have to make those phone calls, and I think we’re being followed.”

Nora didn’t dare turn around, but she looked into the rearview mirror, studying the lanes of traffic behind them. And there it was, a few cars back on their left.

A gray Citroën.

Chapter 22

“Hang on,” Craig said, and he swung the wheel. The car pitched sideways, sliding over into the right lane between a big white truck and a low-slung red Mercedes sports car, with mere inches to spare. The Mercedes’s horn blared in protest.

On the side of the truck was a picture of a loaf of bread sporting wings and topped by a halo. Nora dug her fingers into the dashboard, staring at the back of the truck, which was now directly in front of her. The whimsical painting of the bread loaf was repeated there, and beneath it the brand name, Celeste, and the legend, Le Pain des Anges! She focused on this, concentrating on it with all her might as the car edged ever closer to the guardrail, wondering what sort of bread the angels would eat, assuming they ate bread at all, which she doubted. At the rate the car was going, she could ask them herself, any minute now…

Another sickening lurch, and Craig hit the horn for three short blasts. The bread truck grudgingly sped up a little, but not much. Nora looked into the rearview mirror again, noting that the Citroën was changing lanes as well. As she watched, the car moved over into their lane several cars behind the red Mercedes. Craig looked over toward the right, nodded to himself, and gripped the steering wheel tightly with both hands.

Nora looked ahead, past the truck, and saw where he was aiming: a big full-service rest stop, replete with five or six gas islands, a chain restaurant, and France’s equivalent of a 7-Eleven. Craig abruptly swung the car into the exit lane and sped up. He swerved around the arced road to the station and sped straight past it and the restaurant to the far end of the lot. He turned on a dime, a full 180 degrees, the tires screeching on the asphalt, until they were facing the ramp with a fence behind them and a clear view of the buildings and all the exits. The car came to a stop with a jarring, teeth-rattling shudder.

Craig reached into his jacket and pulled out a small black revolver, holding it against his leg under the steering wheel. Nora stared and began to say something, but the look on his face changed her mind. He was very still in his seat, watching the ramp. They sat in silence, the engine idling, waiting.

The gray Citroën came down the ramp and into the station, and Nora watched as it pulled up to a vacant pump. A young man ran over to attend it, and the driver got out of the car to speak to him: a plump blond woman, perhaps forty years old. Nora squinted at the passenger window and saw a little girl with braids holding up what looked like a Barbie doll. Nora thought briefly of her own daughter and then turned to her companion.

“Where’s the Pakistani guy?” she said. “That woman is no spy. Even if she is, I doubt she’d bring along a child as deep cover, or whatever you call it. They’re not following us; they’re simply stopping for gas.”

Craig had been studying the ramp and the autoroute, but now he looked over at Nora, confused. “What are you talking about? What woman?”

“Over there, by the gray Citroën.”

He followed her gaze. “Oh. I hadn’t even noticed them. I was watching the gray SUV farther back, but it kept on going. If it is tailing us, it’ll have to stop and wait for us somewhere up ahead.”

Nora shook her head, clearing it. “I was watching the Citroën. Jacques saw one following us yesterday in Paris, and I assumed…Oh, skip it. I guess I’m never going to be cast as Mata Hari; I don’t have the right skills!”

Now Craig relaxed, and he smiled at her. “I think you’re doing marvelously. If I didn’t have my training, I don’t know if I’d be as cool as you about all this.”

“Thank you,” she said, and she managed to smile as well. “But speaking of ‘all this,’ what on earth would you have been able to do if the people in the gray SUV confronted us?”

His smile became a sly grin. He held up the revolver.

Now Nora actually laughed. “You’re going up against arms dealers with that-that peashooter?”

“It gets the job done,” he said.

She laughed again and turned in her seat, reaching back into her shoulder bag. “So does this,” she said, pulling out the SIG Sauer and handing it to him. “Compliments of your French colleague.”

Craig stared at the weapon in his hand. “Now we’re talking!”

“You keep it,” Nora said. “I wouldn’t know what to do with it anyway. In case the SUV shows up again. Are they all gray?”

He blinked. “Are what all gray?”

“Spy cars. This Volvo, the Citroën in Paris, the SUV. Let me guess; it’s the least obtrusive shade in the spectrum, right? Nobody notices gray cars. Something like that?”

Now he too was laughing. He put the SIG Sauer in the holster under his jacket and placed the revolver in the glove compartment. “Something like that. I don’t know about you, but I could use a cuppa. And I must make those calls.”

“Okay.” She laughed again, an inane sound, and she knew it was yet another symptom of shock. Bullets flying in a cemetery. That young woman dead on the floor of an apartment in Paris. The near collision just now, getting off the autoroute. Her cavalier attitude as she pulled a deadly weapon from her Coach bag and blithely handed it to a trained killer, knowing full well what he could do with it.

Focus, she told herself. Keep it together.

“I’d like some coffee,” she said. “It’s crowded in there, and somebody could recognize me from TV this morning. I’ll meet you back here.”

He nodded, and they got out of the car. Craig entered the restaurant, and Nora went in search of the gas station’s restrooms. The ladies’ room was busy, so she kept her face averted from the women there. Washing at the sink reminded her of the previous afternoon, the girl with the hot-pink Superbouche lip gloss. She’d recalled her daughter’s brief tenure as the Long Island North Shore’s very own Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, unrecognizable even to her parents.

Unrecognizable…

By the time she rejoined Craig at the gray Volvo, Nora was already making a mental list of items to be bought at the nearest mall. But that would have to wait, at least for a while. Craig was leaning against the hood of the car, speaking quietly into his cellphone, and the expression on his face told her that the conversation wasn’t an easy one.

“No, we didn’t touch anything except the note in her hand; we took that. Then we left the area. You should send someone in, tell them to wipe everything-she had a laptop and at least two phones that I know of. We’re heading north; I’ll let you know where as soon as I contact Reynard. I’m sorry, Mr. Howard, I really am. It’s a terrible thing, and I can’t imagine how you must be…um, yes, she’s here.” He extended the phone to Nora. “He wants to talk to you.”

Nora sighed and raised the phone to her ear. She’d been dreading this inevitable conversation.

“I’m so sorry about Solange, Bill,” she heard herself say. And she was, even if she also sympathized with Vivian. But at least his estranged wife was alive, and Solange was not. Nora settled for the conventional formalities.

“Thank you, Nora,” he said. “I don’t know what I’m going to do without her.” He didn’t sound well, and Nora was aware of the odd reversal in their roles: Three days ago, he had been the one consoling her on the telephone. But now he rallied. “Craig tells me he’s explained our situation to you, the illegal arms deal our countries are trying to stop, so you know how important this is. Jeff was obviously closing in on these people when they took him. We must get you back here, to England. I promise you, we’re doing everything in our power to find Jeff, but I’ll feel better if you’re here instead of-”

“I understand,” Nora said. Instead of flapping in the wind, he wanted her to come in from the cold, or whatever the phrase was, so she’d be one less nuisance in this difficult operation.

“You stay close to Craig Elder, Nora. He’s a good man, and he has a plan that should work. You do as he tells you, all right?”

“Of course, Bill. We didn’t call anyone-I mean, the police-about…about-”

“I’ll take care of the apartment in Paris,” he said, and she heard the strain in his voice again. “And we’ll find Jeff, don’t you worry. Just get back here to us as soon as you can. I’ll be waiting.”

Nora handed the phone back to Craig, and he quickly signed off with his employer. Then he punched in another number. Nora reached for the coffee and sweet rolls in the cardboard tray on the hood, listening as he spoke in French to someone named Louis, who must’ve been the Reynard he’d mentioned to Bill. She couldn’t follow it all, but she caught the words Boulogne and Calais, and something about a bateau and avoiding les flics, and night. Ce soir…

She didn’t ask any questions when he finished the call and got into the car. She strapped herself into the passenger seat and smiled over at him as he started the engine and drove back onto the autoroute. For the next few miles, she found herself studying the road ahead of them, looking for a gray SUV. She didn’t see one, but she wondered where it was now.

Chapter 23

Louis Reynard lived up to his name: There was something distinctly vulpine about him. He was about Craig’s age, as nearly as she could guess, and he also had brown hair, but there the similarity ended. He was short and slight, with the deep mahogany tan and sinewy muscularity of a sailor, and his long face, shaggy mane, pointy beard, and crafty brown eyes made his name perfect for him. The constant little smile on the thin lips beneath his mustache only added to the fox effect. The moment she met him on the dock in Calais, Nora instinctively disliked him, but she smiled as his long, thin fingers reached out to shake her hand. He was clearly being polite to the old lady, for that was what she now was.

Her original thought had been to dye her hair, but that had seemed somehow inadequate, considering the people who were looking for her. When she’d remembered the young woman in the service station restroom yesterday, the complete transformation from an ordinary girl to someone else entirely, Nora had decided that a more extreme plan was in order.

They’d pulled into a shopping mall just before they reached Calais, and she’d left Craig at the car while she went to find the items she needed, putting on the scarf and sunglasses and keeping her head down in the crowded building. She bought a shapeless gray cloth coat, a gray woolen shawl, gray gloves, pale lipstick, a brown pencil to emphasize the lines on her face, the palest face powder she could find, a brown wig, and a can of something the salesgirl assured her was the French equivalent of Streaks ’N Tips, a spray-on hair color popular with actors. A pair of wire-rimmed glasses with clear lenses completed the illusion.

In the mall’s empty ladies’ room, she applied the makeup and doused the wig with gray, remembering how many times she’d done this in dressing rooms all over America. This she could do; this she understood. She knew very little about spying and international intrigue, but she could become another person in a matter of minutes. Coat, shawl, gloves, and glasses followed, and she automatically developed a slight stoop and shuffle. The woman who tottered out of the restroom was twenty-five years older than the woman who’d entered it. A girl coming in as she was going out actually held the door for her and smiled in that way young people smile at their grandmothers. Nora thanked her and made her stately way back to the car. A tall man was standing there, leaning against the hood, and it took her a moment to realize that it was Craig.

“Wow!” they said in unison, staring at each other.

His buzz cut was gone: He now had longish brown hair and a mustache, sunglasses, an olive drab fatigue jacket, and a baseball cap. Nora eyed his wig and facial hair critically, admiring the effectiveness of his disguise. She wondered what else he carried in the backpack.

“Excellent,” she said. “So, what do we do now?”

“We wait.” He was studying the busy parking lot, looking for something. There was a franchise near the entrance to the lot, a fast food stand with a tall sign in the shape of a coffee cup, and Craig’s attention was soon drawn to it. Trucks and big rigs were constantly stopping there, and the drivers ran inside and emerged with oversize cardboard cups, got back into their vehicles, and headed for the port city.

Craig stuffed Nora’s trench coat and the revolver from the glove box into his backpack, slung it over his shoulders, and locked the Volvo. Then they walked over to the coffee place.

“Wait here,” he said, and he went inside. Nora watched through the glass wall as he approached a couple of burly men waiting for their orders at the counter. He spoke to them, pointing to her. One of the men shook his head and jerked a thumb toward Paris, but the other one nodded. Craig paid for that man’s coffee, and they came outside together.

“This is Gaston,” Craig told her. He turned to the big, bearded truck driver. “Ma mère.”

Gaston nodded and led them over to his eighteen-wheeler. Nora paused, staring at the massive truck, but Craig scooped her up and lifted her into the cab before she could protest. She sat between the two men for the twenty-minute ride, terrified by the high perspective of the road and the sheer size and noise of this strange mode of transportation. Gaston drove them all the way into town, and he refused the money Craig offered him. With a friendly wave, he turned around and backtracked down the autoroute toward the toll plaza for the Dover ferry.

Calais was as dismal a port city as Nora had ever seen, all dull gray buildings and dour-looking locals. She knew that most of the city had been destroyed in World War II, and it had never fully recovered from the damage. She stopped to admire the still-intact, ornate city hall and the famous sculpture by her favorite artist in front of it. Rodin’s The Burghers of Calais had withstood two world wars in this plaza, and it was gorgeous, much more impressive than the other version at the museum in Paris, but it was the city’s only highlight, as far as she could tell. Craig tore her away from the monument, and they walked some more.

The waterfront was every bit as sinister as the rest of the landscape around here: shadowy warehouses and hangars, rusting ferries and tankers. The docks for smaller craft were removed from the commercial section, along a crumbling esplanade past more warehouses and ugly convention hotels. By the time they had reached the marina, it had been nearly dusk. But here they were at last, and here was Louis Reynard. He stood, shaking her hand, in front of the berth where his ramshackle fishing trawler, the Bardot, had just arrived from Boulogne.

“Any friend of Craig is a friend of mine,” he intoned in heavily accented English. Even his manner was foxlike.

“Thank you, Monsieur Reynard,” she said, smiling her best old-lady smile.

“Louis,” he corrected her, and he made a show of helping her over the transom into the rusty old boat. The stench of fish was powerful, and Nora avoided the big grill in the center of the foredeck, which covered the open hold where the catch was stored. Two scruffy-looking young men in T-shirts and shorts were on the trawler with him, introduced as his nephews, and the family resemblance was clear; they both looked like foxes too. The boys nodded a greeting, but they never spoke, and Nora wondered if they were accustomed to having mysterious strangers aboard. Probably. Uncle Louis was obviously a smooth operator of some sort, and the sidelines that augmented his legitimate fishing trade were unlikely to be legal.

“There’s coffee down in the cabin,” Reynard told them, “and I think you should go there now, while we cast off. Something’s going on.” He nodded toward the docks.

Two gendarmes were making their way slowly along the wharf, checking out the craft and the people with more than a passing interest. Craig gripped her arm, and they hurried below. One of the nephews was there, setting out mugs for them. The engines underneath their feet roared to life as the young man poured coffee. With a nod to them, he went up on deck, leaving them alone in the cramped space.

“Do you suppose those men are looking for me?” Nora asked.

Craig shrugged. “Who knows? But let’s not chance it. Louis runs a smuggling trade out of Boulogne, and he’s all kinds of a villain, so he’s got an instinct for trouble. We should stay here.”

They watched through an open hatchway as the two policemen arrived at the Bardot and hailed Louis Reynard, who replied with a hearty laugh. The cops laughed too, and much rapid-fire French was exchanged, something about a tall, attractive, fortyish woman with light brown hair and a beige trench coat. Non, Louis assured them, he hadn’t seen such a person, but if he did, he’d invite her aboard. If she refused his invitation, he’d be sure to call the police immediately. More laughter.

“Don’t worry, Nora,” Craig told her. “We’ll be across the Channel soon.”

The gendarmes were still laughing as they moved away down the dock. Nora exhaled.

“Not soon enough for me,” she said.

Chapter 24

Nora stood at the prow of the Bardot, gazing out at the gray sea, the darkening sky, and the distant lights of England. They’d set off from Calais immediately after the gendarmes had walked away, but only when the trawler was surrounded by open water had her breathing returned to something close to normal. Now the chilly breeze struck her face and played with the silk scarf that covered her gray old-lady hair, but she didn’t mind it. The new coat and her jacket kept out the worst of it, and there was something distinctly soothing about the bracing wind. The cold tingled on her skin, assuring her that she was alive and alert.

She was thinking about all the people she knew. Not many, really. Her husband and daughter were the primary characters in her life, as they should be. She had Aunt Mary in Great Neck, her last living relative. Well, there were some cousins in the Midwest somewhere-Minneapolis?-but she’d only met them a few times over the years, at weddings and funerals. She’d worked with a lot of people back in her theater, film, and TV days, but show business was a nomadic profession, not conducive to long-term relationships. She would do a play or film for a few weeks or months, bonding with a motley assortment of actors and technicians who became her temporary best friends, and then she would move on to the next gig, the next makeshift family. Only a few of these people were still in touch.

The faculty at the university was the only semi-constant group around her these days. The students came and went; four years was the limit for knowing them. She had a couple of pals in the teachers’ lounge, and she’d had several favorite students over the years. When one of her grads appeared on a stage or a TV screen, or in a movie, she was duly informed beforehand and duly effusive afterward. Her former charges now claimed two Tony nominations with one win, one Oscar nomination, one Emmy award, and-at the moment-one Broadway musical, one off-Broadway play, several summer stock companies, and one TV series. An excellent record for one acting teacher, and the award winners always mentioned her in their acceptance speeches. But the kids weren’t close friends, not really-holiday cards and the occasional lunch in town.

She had two close girlfriends, Liz Ryan and Janelle Waller, her best friends since NYU. The three had met in the theater department there and ventured out into the world together, even sharing an apartment briefly. Liz was a fellow Irish descendant, now married with two children and a solid career as a character actress in New York theater and television. Janelle lived out in L.A. with her husband, Behrouz, who was also an actor. The two of them got a steady stream of work in film and television, mainly what Janelle only half jokingly called “the token black BFF and the token Islamic terrorist.” Janelle and Behrouz were the only Muslims Nora knew. She thought of the Pakistani-she didn’t know what else to call him-and wondered what zealous fervor inspired him. She rarely got together with her two friends these days, and then only when husbands and children could spare them all at the same time. Nowadays, it was mostly phone calls and emails.

So, Jeff and Dana. They were her life, her world, and now that world was threatened.

She looked over at the lights of a ship on her left, a barge or ferry moving steadily south toward Calais. Louis Reynard had cleverly-foxily-avoided the main shipping lanes between the two countries; the trawler was well to the east of the heavy traffic. The English Channel was the busiest body of water in the world, according to Craig Elder, with constant movement between England and France, and even more vessels coming down from the North Sea to the Atlantic. Reynard’s plan, Craig told her, was to avoid detection by slipping into a small cove somewhere to the east of Dover, between St. Margaret’s and Deal. Nora didn’t know the coast of England, and she didn’t recognize the names of these places, so she simply left the navigation to the navigators and hoped for the best.

The best. What would that be? She could just make out the forms looming ahead in the last light of day, the famous white cliffs. These vertical barriers seemed to run along most of this stretch of southeast England, with occasional bays and seaside towns nestled at their feet, as it were. She wondered if she and Craig were going to have to do some climbing…

“Beautiful, isn’t it?”

Nora started at the sudden voice. Craig had arrived at the rail beside her.

“From here, yes,” she said, “but I wouldn’t want to try my hand at scaling those things.”

He laughed. “Afraid you’ll break a fingernail?”

“I’m thinking more of my neck! Please tell me there’s an alternate route.”

Another laugh from Craig. “Don’t worry, Louis has thought of everything. Well, actually, Mr. Howard did, and we’re following his instructions to the letter. He came up with an interesting way to enter England without, um, going through the usual channels, if you’ll pardon the pun.”

“Interesting?” Nora didn’t like the sound of this.

“You’ll see,” he said.

Nora shivered and clutched the collar of her coat.

“Are you cold?”

“No, not really. I’m just worried about-”

She caught her breath as the very thing she was worried about arrived before them, looming up like a specter in the gathering dark. With three sharp blasts of a horn, a British Coastguard cutter crossed their bow, traveling west. The cutter was a safe distance ahead of the Bardot but close enough that Nora could see two uniformed men leaning at the port rail. One of the men doffed his cap and waved it at them, and Craig waved back as Louis Reynard, in the wheelhouse behind them, gave the answering hail. The patrol boat glided by and continued on her way along the coast toward the Atlantic.

“They’re watching the shores,” Nora said. “How on earth does Bill Howard think we’re going to slip past them? Don’t they have, I don’t know, radar and things? We can’t just sail right into England, can we?”

He grinned. “May I draw your attention to the flag?”

Nora turned around and peered up at the rigging above the wheelhouse. There, fluttering in the evening breeze, was a Union Jack.

“Oh, so now the Bardot is a British vessel?” she asked. “How does that work?”

“Louis Reynard is a man for all seasons,” Craig said, laughing. “And all nations. Believe it or not, this trawler is registered in four or five different countries.”

Thinking of the wily little man with the sly smile who even now grinned out at them from his place at the helm, Nora nodded. “I don’t doubt it for a minute. But we have to land somewhere, and won’t there be questions?”

“Not if we play our cards right,” he said.

“How do we do that?”

In answer, Craig pointed toward the coast they were fast approaching. Nora followed his gaze, taking in the sight of a cluster of lights on a beach in an inlet to their right, with a few lit buildings behind them: a seaside village. She could just make out people on the beach, tiny figures moving around a bonfire. A string of lights extended out into the water: a dock, possibly a marina, with several boats moored here and there in the bay. Then she heard faint music from the bonfire crowd, an amateur band of flutes and fiddles playing an old song. It took her a moment to place it: “The White Cliffs of Dover.” Of course.

“What’s going on over there?” she said.

Craig smiled and winked at her. “Put on your dancing shoes, Mother. We’re going to a party!”

Chapter 25

Nora climbed the ladder from the dinghy to the dock, with Craig right behind her. The silent Reynard nephew who’d ferried them here in the rickety launch handed up Nora’s Coach bag and Craig’s backpack, then turned the boat around and puttered back out to where the Bardot waited. With a last wave to Louis, who waved from the distant deck, they made their way down the length of the dock to the beach.

“Let me do the talking,” Craig whispered to her. “Wait here.”

She stood at the edge of the dock, looking around at the figures on the sand. It was a local event, perhaps fifty people in little groups, some sitting on blankets eating and drinking, some dancing near the fire to the scratchy tunes of the ragtag band, three men and a woman who made up for their lack of musical training with good-natured energy. At the moment, they were blissfully desecrating “The Lambeth Walk.” A boisterous group of children ran everywhere through the scene, shrieking and laughing, accompanied by two rowdy dogs. A young couple walked together farther down the beach, away from the others, their arms entwined, the girl’s head resting on the boy’s shoulder. The strings of lights she’d seen from the Bardot turned out to be paper lanterns, and a long table made of plywood and sawhorses was weighed down with platters of food and beer bottles. Nora smiled, remembering similar beach parties near her house on Long Island. As English as this was, it wasn’t all that different from home.

Of course her husband had usually been with her on those occasions. Gazing at the distant lovers, she thought of him. Jeff, tall and dark and almost ridiculously handsome, with that wonderful laugh, dancing with her, barefoot in the sand. Jeff, who always seemed to know what she was thinking, who could always cheer her up, who would never let anything bad happen to her. Jeff, who wasn’t here tonight.

Despite the chill of the evening, she felt a sudden warmth. She unbuttoned her coat, watching as Craig went up to two old men who sat together on folding chairs near the food table. The older one, a bearded gent in a peacoat puffing on a pipe, rose as Craig arrived in front of them, and he and Craig spoke together briefly. He used his pipe to point to the waterfront street beyond the beach, the weathered row of stone buildings that fronted the village. Craig nodded, thanked him, and came back to the dock.

“Okay,” he said. “The man we want to see is in the pub at the end of that street over there. We can get food there too-unless you’d rather join the festivities.” He jerked a thumb at the plywood table.

“Oh, let’s not crash their party,” Nora said, eyeing the piles of fried chicken and shrimp and homemade potato chips with longing. She was hungry again, but she didn’t know anyone here, and being out in the open made her feel vulnerable. Better to get inside, and quickly. She looked over at the row of buildings in the distance. The one at the farthest end had a hanging sign on a pole above the door: the lucky dolphin. The band swung into “Swinging on a Star” as they left the dock and headed for the street. This was a narrow cobblestone lane on top of a low seawall, so they climbed the steps from the sand and continued toward the sign. The music and laughter faded behind them.

The first thing Nora saw when she entered through the thick oak door Craig held open for her was the reason for the pub’s name, or so she supposed. A blue dolphin was mounted above the mirror behind the long bar at the back of the room, with a snub nose and a glassy eye, frozen in an arched leap. Despite the name of the establishment, this dolphin didn’t look very lucky to Nora-quite the opposite. She was relieved to see, on closer inspection, that it was made of plastic. The tall, stout, thickly bearded bartender who stood just under the faux trophy was very real, however, as were the three similarly bearded old salts he was serving. These customers probably had their names carved in those stools, she mused. They had swiveled to face the room at the sound of the little bell that had tinkled when Craig opened the door, foaming mugs in their fists. All four men eyed the newcomers with undisguised curiosity as they came up to the counter.

“Evening,” Craig said, and the big bartender nodded. The three regulars turned back to their original positions and resumed their conversation, but Nora got the impression that they were half listening. “My mother and I have just come over from Deal, and we could use some supper. Would that be possible?”

“Aye,” the big man grunted, “but only sandwiches tonight. Most of our trade is yonder.” He nodded toward the door they’d just entered and the beach beyond it.

“Sandwiches will be fine,” Craig said, and the man nodded again. Message understood. He turned his massive head and bellowed, “Betty!”

The door at the end of the wall behind him swung open, and a plump, pretty young woman bustled into the room. “Yes, Dad?”

“Customers,” her father said.

“Oh aye. Good evenin’, ma’am, sir. Welcome.”

Two dining booths stood back-to-back along one side wall, and there were two freestanding tables with chairs by the big front window, looking out on the beach. Craig took his “mother’s” arm and led her to the booth in the front corner, farthest from the little crowd at the counter. A candle glowed in a netted glass on the gleaming wood table, and Betty slapped down placemats, flatware, and napkins as soon as they were seated, Craig with his back to the wall, facing the bar, and Nora with a good view of the bonfire and the revelers. Betty offered pea soup and ham-and-cheese sandwiches, and Craig asked for two bowls and four sandwiches, with beer for him and white wine for “me mum.” With a grin, the girl bustled back to the kitchen.

Nora studied his face in the light of the candle between them. “We’ve just come over from Deal?” she said. “Was that some kind of password?”

Craig nodded. “The barman’s name is Palmer. He owns this place. He should have news for us.”

“What sort of news?”

“Wheels,” Craig said. “I hope.”

Nora shook her head in wonder. “Did Bill Howard arrange all this?”

“Yeah. Well, Louis Reynard was my idea-he’s helped us out before, you know, transporting people. Louis told Mr. Howard about Palmer over there, who’s a business associate of his. So, Mr. Howard called Palmer and told him to expect us.”

“And the password was Deal,” Nora said, glancing over her shoulder at the bar. “Louis Reynard and Mr. Palmer are obviously smugglers. Does the British government work with people like them on a regular basis?”

Craig laughed. “We use all sorts of people in our work, when and if we need them. So do the Americans and every other country. Your husband will tell you the same thing; just ask him sometime. Saving the world can make strange bedfellows. Think of all this as an acting lesson, Mother.”

“I don’t want to be in that play,” Nora said. “And stop calling me Mother!”

They were still laughing when Mr. Palmer brought over their drinks, but their smiles faded when he leaned down and spoke in a low voice.

“Have a care,” he said. “Our local constable, Sam Dawson, is all round this e’en, askin’ questions. Wants to know if anyone’s seen any strangers about. I got him in here and poured a couple o’ pints down him while ye landed. Very suspicious, our Sammy, but he dear loves his Watneys, so he didn’t see ye come ashore, and he went back to his station t’other end o’ the high street just afore ye came in here. He’s there now, and I’ve spread the word in case he comes round again-there’s none here’ll tip the Bill on ye.”

“Thank you,” Craig said. “Why is Constable Dawson asking questions? Who alerted him?”

Mr. Palmer grunted. “I asked him that very thing. He says he got an email from London-the Yard, no less. All puffed up about it, he is. Never gets word from them, not all the way out here, but they’re alerting all the coastal stations. Lookin’ for a woman from France, they are.” He glanced at Nora and winked. “A much younger woman than thee, beggin’ yer pardon.”

“Oh aye, an’ ye may say it,” Nora drawled in a perfect imitation of his accent. She scrunched up her wrinkled face and nodded her gray head. The two men laughed.

“My Betty’s young man, Adam, is waitin’ in the garage across the high street,” Palmer continued. He nodded toward an archway beside the bar. “He has a car for ye, an old Focus of his pa’s. Nothin’ like new, but it’ll get ye where ye’re goin’. I’d offer ye lodgin’ for the night, but our Sammy’s put the stopper in that. Ye’d best be off as soon as ye’ve et.”

Craig nodded and pulled out his wallet. Nora stared as he placed several large British notes on the table. Palmer’s meaty hand came down and swept them away in one swift, practiced move. With a nod and a muttered “Ta,” he went back behind the bar.

Nora was actually beginning to relax when two things happened simultaneously. Betty arrived from the kitchen and placed sandwiches and soup in front of them just as a big man in a blue jacket with brass buttons arrived in the room through the archway, from the direction of the high street. Betty gave Nora and Craig a brief, warning glance before turning around to face him.

“Evenin’, Constable,” she said.

Chapter 26

Nora froze, staring at the young man across the table from her.

“What do we do now?” she whispered.

Craig grinned and reached for his plate. “We eat, of course. Have a sandwich, Mother.”

Nora nodded and made herself busy with the food, watching the activity across the room out of the corner of her eye. The smiling Betty sashayed over to the bar and patted a stool. Now Nora had to turn her head to follow the action behind her.

“Sit yerself down here, Sammy,” Betty cooed, “and I’ll fetch ye a lovely ham-and-Stilton, just the way ye like it.” Her father was already setting a full mug down there. With a grunt, the big policeman ambled over and took the stool she indicated. When he turned to her, her bosom was practically in his face. He stared.

“Not tonight, love, thanks all the same,” he said to her cleavage. “I’m full on Margie’s chicken and chips.” He nodded toward the party beyond the window. “I’ll just have a sip, then another look round the beach. Can’t be too careful tonight. Ye heard about my email from the Yard?”

“Aye, ye told us before. They’re lookin’ out for some French woman. Well, good luck findin’ her. There’s quite a few strange people in town tonight-and of course we have these three!” She waved an arm at the regulars on the barstools beside him, and everyone laughed.

Nora ate her sandwich, fully aware that the constable at the bar behind her was now looking over at their booth. She could feel the eyes on her, a welcome sensation in a theater but unsettling in this beachfront pub. Across from her, Craig was spooning up soup with enviable nonchalance, paying no apparent attention to anything else, but she knew he was listening. The band outside launched into an old Beatles song, and the music made it difficult to follow the conversation on the other side of the room, but she heard enough.

Constable Dawson must have pointed to their booth, because Betty laughed and said, “Them? Hardly! How old is this French escaped convict or whatever she is?”

“The Yard said forties, with light brown hair.”

Nora didn’t risk turning to look, but she imagined the remarkable Betty once more thrusting her breasts in the man’s face. In a stage whisper that Nora could have taught her, she said, “Well, that let’s her out, don’t it? She’s off by thirty years! No, Sammy, I don’t think this is yer night for catchin’ wanted criminals-not here anyway.” Everyone laughed again.

“Try the Dover ferries,” one of the regulars said. “Check the boots of all the cars comin’ over from Calais. That’s how I’d do it.” More laughter.

Craig leaned across the table and whispered, “I actually considered that.” There was a twinkle in his eye. Nora stared at him, trying to imagine herself folded into the trunk of a car, in a boat, on open water. She shuddered.

“Well, I’d best be sure,” the constable said. He drained his mug and stood up, none too steadily. “I’ll have another look at the docks. Betty, have ye any o’ that apple tart left over from yesterday?”

“Aye,” she said, “and I’ve just made a fresh pot o’ tea. Go see if the French lady’s washed ashore out there and wants to surrender to ye. I’ll have it all here for ye when ye return from yer rounds.”

“Good girl,” he said, and he clomped across the room to the door, nodding over at their booth as he passed. “Evenin’.”

“Good evening,” Craig said, and Nora smiled her best old-lady smile. As soon as the door closed behind the constable, Craig leaned forward. “Okay, we should go soon. If the A2 is clear, I can have us in London before midnight.”

Nora nodded and picked up her soup spoon, looking out at the dock. Two small boats had just arrived, and people were climbing up to the dock and arriving on the beach to join the party, which was now in full swing. She wondered how Louis Reynard had known about the beach party, then-with a swift glance at the bartender behind her-she decided she’d rather not know. Louis Reynard and Mr. Palmer were in some dark business together, and it was probably very lucrative. So, Louis had told Bill Howard about this place, and Bill had told him to sail right in and drop his passengers at the dock. Small craft were constantly coming and going tonight, the perfect cover for their own arrival. Very clever.

She’d only eaten one sandwich, so she pushed her other one across the table. Craig, who had already devoured both of his sandwiches, immediately started in on it. She smiled, thinking, He eats like Jeff. These men were very busy, and they often forgot about things like meals and a good night’s sleep. When food was put in front of them, they ate heartily, and when they remembered to sleep, they were dead to the world. Nora watched the sandwich disappear, feeling a sudden rush of affection for this stranger.

She wondered if Jeff was eating, wherever he was. Had he been abducted, taken prisoner? It certainly seemed that way. An unknown South Asian man on a late-night train platform in East Anglia-what were the chances Jeff himself had arranged that meeting? None. He’d bought a ticket for London, fully expecting to go there, then from there on to Paris. Instead, he’d vanished. If he was being held somewhere, what were they doing to him? Was he being tortured? Did people still do those things? Yes, they did. There was that scandal a while back, and that was the American military. If the good guys were capable of it, what would terrorists do to an American if they wanted information from him?

No, she couldn’t think about that now. She had to get back to London. Bill Howard’s people were looking for her husband, and she needed to be there when they found him. Alive, please, God.

God? Nora was suddenly falling back on her Catholic upbringing, the religion of her parents that she’d shunned in her youthful decision to be agnostic. The nuns and priests in the parochial schools she’d attended would be so proud of her now! Their little rebel was calling on the Almighty in her time of need. Apparently, it was true that there were no atheists in foxholes. Or agnostics, for that matter.

They finished their meal and paid in cash, and Nora left a pile of notes under the candle for Betty to find. They used the pub’s restrooms-the doors were labeled PIRATES and WENCHES-and bid their host a grateful farewell. Then they went back through the archway and across the darkened dining room to the door that led out onto the high street.

This cobblestoned lane ran parallel to the one on the seawall at the other side of the pub, and it comprised the rest of the “downtown” area of the little village. It was lined with shops, and the residential cottages and two-story dwellings were spread out in smaller streets behind it, heading away from the beach. There was no one about; the entire population of the town was apparently down at the party or asleep. Nora shivered in the night air and put on her coat.

“There,” Craig said, pointing off to their right.

The garage where Betty’s young man worked was easy to find. It was the last building in the row along the street, closest to the road that led to the motorway, and next to it was a crowded parking lot. Two gas pumps stood on the narrow sidewalk beside the wide-open double doors, and light spilled out onto the street. They heard a blast of heavy metal music from inside as they crossed the cobblestones and entered.

The young man, Adam, was a rough-looking lout, all ear studs and spiked hair and leather wristbands, but he was surprisingly polite. He immediately turned off the music and ran over to the brown car that stood in the center of the room next to a pickup truck. He opened the passenger door for Nora, and Craig slipped him some money and got into the driver’s seat.

When the old Ford Focus pulled out of the garage and turned onto the high street, it briefly caught Constable Dawson in its headlight beams. The burly policeman stood in the lane beside the Lucky Dolphin, staring after them with bleary eyes as they drove toward the motorway.

Chapter 27

She woke in another strange environment, just like the previous morning in France, and once again she had to think a moment before she remembered where she was. London-she was back in Gower Street, at the Byron Hotel.

But not in her usual room. The second floor-or, in British terms, the first floor-of the Byron had a long corridor with five doors on each side. Her usual room, number 3, was in the center at the front of the building, facing Gower Street. Now, thanks to a call from Craig’s cellphone on the road last night, Mme. Blanche (as in DuBois) Williams (as in Tennessee) was ensconced in room 8, directly across the hall from room 3. Her favorite stage role in A Streetcar Named Desire had been on her mind ever since her impromptu dialogue in the French guesthouse yesterday. “Mme. Blanche Williams” was a seventy-four-year-old widow from Paris, in London to consult a specialist about her arthritis if anyone should ask. Always keep your lies simple: another bit of advice from her husband.

Craig hadn’t liked the idea of her returning to the Byron last night, but he’d really had no choice. Nora had pointed out that any other hotel or guesthouse in London would require authentic identification and payment, and that could set off an alarm bell somewhere. The Tindall family had allowed her to put the new room on account, to be paid for later, when it was safe to use her credit cards.

She’d briefly considered her husband’s apartment in Soho, but he’d always refused to let her so much as set eyes on it; he insisted on staying here with her when she was in London. Besides, how would she get in there without help from his colleagues? It was a grim fact that Nora was now dodging the good guys as well as the bad guys. Anyone outside Bill Howard’s little team was a potential threat to her remaining in England, and she had no intention of leaving.

So, the Byron it was. When she’d called the hotel last night from the car, the dependable Lonny Tindall had answered. He’d run upstairs to prepare the new room for Mme. Williams, and he’d sneaked Nora’s clothes over from room 3. The bundle of jewelry and the iPhone from the hotel safe were waiting at the front desk when she arrived at midnight. Lonny stared at her strange disguise, but then he grinned; he clearly found it-and her new, assumed name-more amusing than curious. Good.

She went to the new room and checked for messages on her iPhone. But first, she put on her wedding ring, and her spirits rose the moment she felt the familiar band of metal around her finger once more. It was a connection, a physical one. The man who wore its mate was out there somewhere, as worried about her as she was about him. And she would find him, if she had to march into hell itself to do it.

There were four messages: three texts from Dana (Hi, Mom, call me. Mom, r u there? Mom, whr r u???) and one voicemail from Vivian Howard (Hi, darling, it’s Viv. Bill says you’re still in London for a couple more days, so give me a buzz when you get this and we’ll do lunch or whatever. Ciao!). It was too late to call Viv, but it was seven o’clock in the evening in Great Neck, Long Island. She was careful not to call from the iPhone, remembering Jeff’s last written message, the one they’d found clutched in the hand of the dead Solange. Trust no one else, and don’t use your phone. She placed the long distance call from the hotel’s landline beside the bed. Aunt Mary answered; she and Dana were just sitting down to dinner.

“Noreen, dear, how lovely to hear from you! Your daughter has been frantic for the last two days, but I told her you were busy over there. She’s grabbing at the phone, so here she is. I’ll talk to you lat-”

“Mom! Oh, thank God! Where have you been? I was ready to call Scotland Yard! First Dad, now you-nobody over there is taking my calls! Have you two, like, disowned me or something? What gives?”

It took Nora several minutes to calm Dana down, lying about where Dad was (“Oh, you know, work, work, work!”), but she promised they’d be home soon, hoping she’d be able to honor that promise. She repeated her order that Dana must not use her devices-no calls, texts, tweets, or Facebook-or tell anyone where she was. Dana didn’t understand; for a twenty-year-old, one week without electronics was the equivalent of ten years in Sing Sing. But she agreed, with many pointed questions and martyred sighs, to do as instructed. When Nora had finally extricated herself from her daughter’s melodramatics, she’d fallen across the bed, exhausted. She’d slept for nine hours.

Now, in the bright morning sunlight streaming in through the windows, Nora felt a new surge of energy. She took a long hot shower and put on her black brushed-denim suit and her beloved boots, pinning up her hair before donning the gray wig. The elderly makeup was quickly done-the lines, the crow’s feet, the pale cheeks and lips. The wire-rimmed granny glasses and the crocheted gray shawl over the cloth coat completed the old-lady effect. She was reaching for her bag to go down to breakfast when the hotel phone by the bed rang.

Craig, she thought. He’d left her here last night and gone off to Bayswater for a good night’s sleep in his own bed. They were to meet up later today, after he’d reported in at Bill’s office. She reached for the phone. “Hello, Cr-”

“Mrs. B.? It’s me, Lonny Tindall.”

“Oh. Good morning, Lonny. Why are you whispering?”

“I’m at the front desk, and I don’t want the bloke to hear me. There’s a delivery for you from some florist. I told him you were away, just like you said to, and I offered to keep ’em here at the desk for you, but he wants to take ’em up to your room. I thought I should check with you. We don’t usually allow tradesmen above stairs-”

“Wait a sec, Lonny.” She lowered the phone, thinking. She hadn’t told Lonny Tindall anything about her dilemma, and she wasn’t going to tell him now, but she needed to see whom this was. She didn’t believe for one moment that anyone in England had actually sent her flowers-not Jeff, certainly. She thought a moment and then raised the receiver again. “Okay, here’s what I want you to do…”

Ten minutes later, she was standing at the door of room 8, peering out through the peephole at the door to the room directly across the hall. Lonny and the man with the flowers arrived there, and Lonny opened the door to room 3 with a key card. She couldn’t really see the florist, only the back of his head and the vase of pretty flowers he carried in front of his face. Lonny waited in the doorway while the man-tall, black haired, dark skinned, dark suit-disappeared inside room 3 for a few minutes. Then he came back out, facing the peephole, and Nora finally saw the face she was fully expecting to see.

Her nemesis, the purse snatcher.

Lonny Tindall would indeed make a good spy. He never even glanced over at the door of room 8-where she stood, holding her breath-as he escorted the “florist” back downstairs. She gave him five minutes and then ran to the phone.

“Is he gone?”

“Yes, ma’am. I stalled him as long as I could, and it was long enough.”

“Good. What did he do in the room?”

“Oh, he was slick, I’ll say that for him! He wiggled over to the table and made a big show of placing the bowl down and fussing with the blooms, but he did a total scope of the place. Eyes darting everywhere-the closet, the loo, even under the bed. I told him you’d be back in London tomorrow or the next day, and he handed me a card from Sunshine Flowers in Oxford Street and told me to contact him as soon as you were back. ‘I don’t want my mums to droop!’ he says. ‘I might have to bring fresh ones if she’s away too long!’ I said I’d call him the minute I clapped eyes on you, and he took off. It’s none of my business, Mrs. B., but I’m here to tell you that bloke isn’t any florist. Those blooms aren’t mums, they’re carnations, and there’s no Sunshine Flowers in Oxford Street that I ever heard of. I’ll throw away the flowers in the dustbin behind the hotel, just like you said. And you were right-there wasn’t an enclosure card. I don’t know what this is all about, but it’s fun. So, how did I do?”

“You were great, Lonny; you should open a detective agency. I’ll be down in a few minutes. Could I have eggs and sausage-what do you call it, a fry-up?”

“You got it, Mrs. B.”

She was getting used to her bizarre new appetite. It seemed the more nervous she was, the hungrier she became. She’d just seen the man who’d knocked her down in the park and tried to rob her, who’d probably followed her to Paris and back, whose employers or co-conspirators were even now holding her husband captive-and she was starving. Well, go with it, she decided. Eat when you can; you never know what’s coming next. Besides, Craig Elder the younger was now on the job, and he’d let her know where the man went.

She’d called him right after telling Lonny to bring the “florist” up to the room and to take his sweet time about it. Craig must have broken several traffic laws getting there from Bayswater, but he’d been outside the hotel in the Ford Focus by the time Lonny finally let the man leave. A bellboy-another Tindall grandson-had taken the car from Craig, who was now tailing the man on foot.

She bundled up her jewelry and the iPhone to put them back into the hotel safe, where she should have left them in the first place. Her husband had warned her not to use the phone, and she hadn’t, not exactly. But her shadow and his friends knew she was back at the Byron, and she had a fair guess how they’d learned that. Last night she’d switched on the iPhone just long enough to get her messages, which was apparently long enough for these people. She’d have to be more careful. At least she hadn’t waltzed back to the hotel as Nora Baron and gone into room 3. If she had…

The hotel phone rang. It was Craig with bad news.

“He vanished. Got me all the way down past the museum, and then he must have ducked into a shop doorway, or he slipped round a corner before I could see him do it. Damn it!”

Nora suppressed a sigh; that was the last thing he’d want to hear. “It’s all right, Craig. You’ll find him again.”

“That’s for sure, and when I do, I swear to God I’ll-”

“Yes, of course,” she said, amazed at how steady her voice was. She was staring at Mme. Blanche Williams in the mirror, the elderly lady clutching the phone receiver. “You just come back for the car and go on to your office, Craig. I’ll call Bill there soon, and we’ll decide what to do next.”

It was a lie, but the actress easily made it sound like the truth. She’d already decided what to do next. The “florist” had apparently been aware of Craig Elder following him, which meant that Craig was no longer viable as a tail.

But somebody else was.

She stared at her image in the mirror some more as she hung up the phone. Then Mme. Blanche Williams hobbled downstairs for breakfast.

Chapter 28

By the time her food arrived, Nora had it all figured out. No more secret messages with encrypted instructions; she was about to take the initiative. She would play an active role in locating Jeff.

She didn’t call Bill Howard or Craig with her plan. They’d only try to stop her, tell her not to interfere in official business. Well, she’d seen just how effective their official business was: two French intelligence agents, one dead and one wounded, and one missing CIA operative, namely her husband. Now Craig had been spotted and shaken off by the man he was tailing. These official people weren’t exactly batting a thousand, so it was her turn.

As she worked on the heaping plate of Mrs. Tindall’s fried eggs, sausage, potatoes, tomatoes, mushrooms, and toast, she thought that perhaps she should have kept Jacques Lanier’s gun instead of handing it over to Craig. Not that she could ever bring herself to actually fire the damned thing, but it might have come in handy today. A prop, if nothing else. It certainly looked scary, and that would have given her courage, reassured her. Oh well, she didn’t have the gun, and it was no use wishing she did. She’d proceed without it.

Phyllis Tindall-Lonny’s aunt, married to his uncle Bruce-was serving Mme. Williams in the rather crowded dining room this morning. Nora had met Phyllis on her last London visit, but the woman clearly didn’t know her now. Nora made it a game, an acting exercise, asking for more crème and complimenting the petit déjeuner in her best French accent, giving Phyllis several reasons to look directly at her, but there was no flicker of recognition. Good. If she could fool someone who actually knew her, she shouldn’t have trouble with people who didn’t.

That was the idea, anyway…

The flowers had been a calculated risk on her part. She’d reasoned that the people looking for her wouldn’t bring a bomb or poison into a busy London hotel; they simply wanted her, or barring that, they wanted access to her room to see if the manila envelope was there. And perishable flowers made it reasonable for them to ask the hotel to inform them when she returned. Brilliant. But she’d had Lonny toss the things, vase and all, outside the building, just to be safe.

She nearly smiled, wondering what Lonny Tindall was making of all this. She and Jeff had known him for most of his life, and he was a very bright young man. She knew he’d long ago intuited that her husband’s “electronics business” was really a cover for something else. But now he thought her husband was dead, and suddenly she was getting him to spirit her to Paris on the sly, ignore her elaborate old-lady disguise, change her room, and help her spy on the florist who wasn’t a florist. Poor Lonny must be full of questions, but he was blithely playing along with her charade as though it was the most natural thing in the world.

She thought of Dana and of her students at Stony Brook, and she remembered herself and her friends in college. Lonny’s behavior was indicative of his age, when the appearance of being cool was much more important than anything else, even satisfying one’s curiosity. It was a good thing too-she wouldn’t know where to begin trying to explain all this to him. She didn’t really understand it herself.

With a little luck and some acting skills, that was about to change. So, on with the show, as Ethel Merman reminded her every time her phone rang. She signed for the breakfast, picked up her bag, and went out to the front desk, where her eager accomplice was checking in a quiet young couple who seemed to be Scandinavian. Nora waited until they’d been taken off to their room, then handed Lonny the little bundle of jewelry and the iPhone from her bag. She debated a moment before deciding to keep her wedding ring; she couldn’t bear the thought of taking it off again. Besides, she was Mme. Williams now.

“Why are you here this morning, Lonny,” she asked him as he came back from the safe. “You were on late last night, and I thought-”

He grinned and winked. “I figured you might need my help with something, so I took Uncle Bruce’s shift today. I haven’t told anyone about your, um, business, even the family.”

“Thank you,” she said, feeling a warm rush of gratitude. She wondered how she could ever repay him for all this. “And I do need you now. Where’s the card the man gave you, from Sunshine Flowers?”

He held it up. “Right here-and you can still smell the ink on it!”

That didn’t surprise her; the Pakistani, or whatever he was, had probably thought up the florist ruse this morning and hastily invented false credentials. She explained the plan, then watched as Lonny made the call from his desk phone.

“Hello, Sunshine Flowers?” he said. “I’m calling from the Byron Hotel. You asked me to let you know when Mrs. Baron returned…Yes, that’s right, just a while ago. She loved the flowers and…What’s that?…Oh no, she went out again…Well, I really couldn’t say when she’ll be back. She’s meeting a friend at eleven o’clock…Yes, she called her friend from my phone right here…Where? Um, she said the café in Russell Square Gardens, but…Oh, okay, bye.” He hung up, grinning at Nora. “He says he forgot to include the enclosure card with the flowers, and he’s just frantic about it, so he’ll try to deliver it to you at the café.” Now his grin disappeared. “Mrs. B., is everything all right? I mean, I can get Uncle Bruce to cover the desk, and I can go with you if…”

So, the mask of cool acceptance was slipping. Nora wasn’t surprised, and she was ready for it. She leaned forward and whispered, “Actually, it’s all to do with my husband’s work. He had some-how should I put this?-some unfinished business, and I’m taking care of it for him. But I must do it alone. I can’t really tell you more than that, Lonny, but you’ve been very helpful. Thank you.”

Lonny Tindall grinned again, nodding. Nora could see his obvious conclusion in his eyes: Jeffrey Baron/Jason Bourne. Fine. Whatever. At least he wouldn’t ask any more questions. Besides, Lonny didn’t really know who her husband was. Even the morgue had listed him as John Doe.

It was now 10:30, and Mrs. John Doe-or, rather, Mme. Blanche Williams-had to get to her next appointment. She was heading for the main entrance when Lonny called her back over. He was holding up the hotel phone. “For you. It’s Mrs. Howard. What should I tell her?”

Nora blinked. Vivian-she’d forgotten all about her. She took the receiver from him. “Hello, Viv.”

“There you are, darling! I’ve been trying to reach you, but your phone is off. Is it broken or something? Anyway, I just thought I’d leave a message with the hotel, and here you are! So, you didn’t go home after all?”

“No, Viv, I-”

“Never mind, darling, you can tell me all about it tonight. You are free tonight, aren’t you?”

“Well, I-”

“Oh, darling, you’re coming to the house, and that’s final. Bill just called me. He wants to talk to you about something, and he says this is the best place for him to meet you this evening. And do be prompt, won’t you? If I’m alone here with Bill, we’ll only start fighting again, and that’s such a bore!”

Nora laughed. “Of course I’ll come. Thank you.”

“Splendid! Seven o’clock. Claudia is making her famous spaghetti for dinner, so bring your appetite. I can’t wait to see you again. Oh goodness, I’m late for the salon! Ciao, darling!”

Nora handed the receiver back to Lonny and left the hotel. As she came out into the late morning sunlight, she removed the shawl from her shoulders and stuffed it into her shoulder bag, then unbuttoned her cloth coat. Otherwise, she’d be sweltering. There was only so far she could carry the elderly lady act. She did remember to stoop forward slightly and to move slowly, with careful steps. She walked down to the corner across from the British Museum and turned left, toward the park, retracing her journey of three days ago.

Three days? It seemed like weeks. But no. She’d only been in Europe for three days. Hard to believe…

She smiled, thinking of Vivian Howard. Viv was always so boisterous, so full of joie de vivre. Where on earth did she get all that energy? Then she thought, Seven o’clock. That’ll be fine, unless-

Unless I’m still busy at seven o’clock. What then?

She couldn’t think that far ahead. One thing at a time. Now she would get to the park and see what she would see. After that, she’d play it by ear. Improvise. She was an actor, after all; improvisation was her stock-in-trade.

And she had the perfect disguise for it. She glanced at the other pedestrians as they passed her, noting what she’d always noticed about people’s reactions to the elderly. Nobody looked at her; they simply walked right by her, as though she wasn’t there at all. Normally this would upset her, make her sad, but now it was a blessing.

She needed to be invisible today.

Chapter 29

She was back in Russell Square, where it had all started three days ago. She grimaced, thinking, Perhaps I should call it square one. It would be appropriate: I’m definitely back to that, no closer to finding Jeff than I was then.

No fog today, which was a good thing; she’d be able to see her quarry. The sun poured down from the clear sky above the park, burnishing the walkways and green grass and vivid flowers. There was a reasonable crowd this morning, a mix of locals and tourists. Smiling dog walkers; laughing children; anxious business types hurrying by with cellphones pressed to their ears; lazy teens wandering along the paths, texting as they went. And there were more than a few elderly people, mostly women, out in the fresh daylight. These women were overdressed, as she was, with coats and shawls to ward off any sudden chill. Good. She’d blend right in.

Or so she hoped. It was vital that she watch the café from a distance-stake it out, in the vernacular of her husband and his associates-and see just who arrived there looking for her. Would the purse snatcher take the chance of showing up again, knowing that he’d been followed from the hotel a mere two hours ago? Was he really that bold? Nora had no idea, but she wouldn’t be surprised. So far, he’d made it clear that he wanted what her husband had “willed” her, and he obviously wasn’t too particular about how he obtained it. These people were desperate, whoever they were.

She found an empty bench beside the path, exactly where she wanted to be. The nearby trees cast the seat in sun-dappled shade, a pocket of cool darkness. Good, she thought. The darker, the better. She sat down and pulled a paperback novel from her Coach bag, then covered the bag with a fold of her coat. She always carried a book with her, though she hadn’t had occasion to read in a while, but now it would be a suitable prop. This one was an old favorite, a mystery by P. D. James she’d been rereading, perfect for an elderly lady on a British park bench. She opened it at the bookmark and pretended to read, glancing covertly around her.

It was just going on eleven o’clock. The glass-fronted café was on her right in the northeast corner of the park, about sixty feet from where she sat, and she had an unobstructed view of the interior, the sidewalk tables in front of it, and-most important-the walkways nearby. Too early for the lunch crowd, but this was the country that had invented elevenses, and most of the tables, inside and outside, were occupied by people sipping hot drinks and eating pastries. Nora glanced down at her book and idly turned a page, thinking, It won’t be long now…

As if on cue, he appeared. It was indeed her nemesis, but it took her a moment to be sure. She almost didn’t recognize him from this distance, in his jeans and T-shirt and leather jacket. He looked younger without the suit and tie, practically a teenager, and there was something else she noticed as he approached from the other end of the park. He wasn’t nearly as dark-skinned as she remembered from the plane and their first encounter in this very place. Now, in broad daylight, he seemed to have an average olive complexion, enhanced by the tan anyone would get from being in the sun. On closer, longer inspection, she decided that he might not be South Asian at all. She remembered her original impressions in the airliner. Spanish? Greek? It was hard to tell.

But he must be South Asian, she reasoned. Why else would he be doing this? He was with a group of terrorists who were procuring bomb parts for their cause, whatever that cause was. It stood to reason that he’d be one of them.

Now she had something much more immediate to worry about: He was coming this way. He passed the fountain, ambling along the sidewalk as though he didn’t have a care in the world. He moved toward her bench, toward the café. He was going to pass right by, within three feet of her. Nora lowered her gaze to the book in her lap, hunching over, looking down at the fine print on the page through her wire-rimmed spectacles. She held her breath.

The sound of footsteps grew louder. A young woman was walking just in front of him, her high heels click-clacking on the pavement. The woman passed her bench, going on toward the café. Nora kept her head down, but she watched the patch of sidewalk right in front of her. He was wearing sneakers today, black Nikes; she’d know that logo anywhere. His feet were medium, maybe size 9 or 10, definitely not Jeff’s famous size 13. The feet passed by her bench without so much as a hitch in their gait.

And then they stopped.

Nora was suddenly, deeply, passionately interested in the P. D. James novel. She bent her head down until her nose was practically touching the paper, straining her eyes in their sockets as she peered sideways. He was standing about fifteen feet to her right, his back to her, looking over at the café. She couldn’t see his face, of course, but she imagined him scanning the outdoor tables and the crowded interior beyond them with his big dark eyes, looking for a tall, chestnut-haired woman. He raised his wrist, consulting his watch. Nora checked her own watch: 11:12. As she stole another glance at him, he looked to his left, studying the sidewalk at the northern edge of the park. He swiveled his head to the right, checking out the pedestrians on the east and south walkways.

He turned around.

Nora gripped the paperback tightly in her gloved hands, staring down at the words, concentrating on them. A student nurse was telling Inspector Dalgliesh exactly where she’d been standing in the room when the other student nurse was murdered, and the inspector wasn’t sure if he believed her…

The man stood very still, facing the center of the park, looking at the fountain where he’d attempted to rob her the other night. Without lifting her gaze from the book, she knew that he was studying each figure in the distant plaza, hoping to see one that looked like Nora Baron. She nearly smiled despite her terror, thinking, Nora Baron is not here today. If she thought that over and over to herself, like a mantra, maybe she could make it true by sheer force of will. Perhaps she would actually vanish from this bench, fade into the ether, teleported into another reality like those actors on Star Trek.

Or not. She was definitely still here, clutching the book in sweaty gloved hands, with more moisture trickling down her heavily powdered cheeks, while her enemy stood very still not fifteen feet away. He was gazing past her down the walkway, squinting to make out every detail. All he needed to do was shift that laser-beam gaze a few inches to the left and he would be looking directly at her, the overly made-up lady in the phony-looking spray-painted wig. What on earth had she been thinking? This was a bad idea. A very bad idea.

He never so much as glanced her way. With a last visual sweep of the entire park around him, he turned his back on her once more and walked toward the crowded building. He didn’t get too close to it, she noted. When he was still some twenty feet from the first tables on the patio, he veered off onto the grass, looking casually around him as though this lovely setting simply enchanted him. He pulled a cellphone from his pocket and snapped a couple of photos of a flower border in the center of the patch he was in. Then, ever so casually, he raised the instrument to his ear and began to speak.

Nora strained to listen, barely making out his low voice over the ambient din of the other people around her. He was about twenty-five feet from her now, and he was facing her way. He was speaking English, which surprised her. She didn’t hear all of it, but she was able to catch a few phrases.

“Not yet…I don’t know if she’s…the fellow at the hotel said…another few minutes, and if she doesn’t show up I’ll come to…Okay, wait there.”

She held her breath, wondering if he’d now do what she was fully expecting him to do. More than expecting: She was counting on it.

He did. He punched something else into the phone and raised it again. Now he spoke in a mincing lilt.

“Hello, Byron Hotel? This is…I was wondering if Mrs. Baron…Yes, you said she was going to be…Oh? When was that?…I see. Thank you. I’ll try her later.”

At this point, Lonny Tindall had Nora’s permission to marry her daughter. He’d obviously delivered the follow-up message perfectly. Mrs. Baron had called from somewhere and left word that she couldn’t meet her friend in the park after all. She couldn’t reach her friend by phone, so if the friend called the hotel, Lonny was to tell her that Mrs. Baron was visiting a sick colleague, but he didn’t know whom or where. This surfeit of information had just been breezily spilled to her enemy, the “florist.”

She was proud of herself, and she wondered if Jeff would be proud of her too. Probably. She’d managed to get her quarry here, to the park, and then denied him the very thing he’d come to find. But she had him in her sights, and now, all things being equal, he would presumably leave the park and head-

Head where? That’s what Nora had to find out. Even now, the man was pocketing the cellphone and striding away across the lawn in the direction of the eastern entrance. She closed her book and reached for her shoulder bag. In seconds, she was moving along the sidewalk, following him out of the park.

Chapter 30

The London Underground is the oldest subway system in the world. It is also one of the longest, with 250 miles of track serving 270 stations. An average year sees approximately one billion riders on the Tube, making it one of the busiest public transports in Europe. Eleven separate lines take passengers to a wide variety of destinations in the Greater London area.

He could be going anywhere.

Nora followed the young man into the Russell Square station, making sure to keep people between them. That wasn’t difficult; the place was crowded with travelers, even at this late morning hour. Still, she’d have to see which ticket he bought so she could get an identical one. This thought gave her a brief sense of panic. What if he had a Travelcard or one of those Oyster things? He might just swipe something and rush through to the elevators, leaving her here. How would she know what sort of ticket to buy?

She was in luck; he had to purchase a ticket. She crept up behind him as he used a machine, and she saw him touch the indicator for Leicester Square. She quickly bought the same zone 1 ticket, relieved that he wasn’t going far, and to a part of London that was familiar to her. The elevator was tricky, but she pressed herself against the wall on the opposite side of the car from him, safely shielded by packed bodies. When they reached the lower level, she let him walk down the platform and stop twenty feet from her. As they waited, she looked around the place, thinking about her husband. Near this station, on July 7, 2005, twenty-six of the people were killed in the London bombings. Jeff had come to London from Langley the next day, and he’d been here for several weeks.

Nora wondered if that young man down the platform, waiting so calmly for the train, had been involved in the massacre. Was he thinking about it now? Did he think about it at all? She looked over at him, studying his impassive face, clenching her hands into fists at her sides.

When the train arrived, Nora got into the car behind his and stayed by the door. She knew this route pretty well, thanks to all the theaters nearby; their destination was in the center of London’s West End. The train stopped at Holborn and Covent Garden, then Leicester Square. She followed him up to Charing Cross Road, where he paused just outside the station and pulled out his cellphone.

“Where are you?” he said. “Okay, I’m on my way.” He pocketed the phone and strode away toward the square.

Nora’s anxiety had been growing throughout the journey, and now her heart was pounding with a force that alarmed her. Who was the mystery person on the other end of the call? Where was he leading her? Calm down, she told herself. Just stay calm. You can do this.

She kept well behind him on the sidewalk, making sure not to lose sight of him entirely in the throng. They came into Leicester Square, and she glanced around, orienting herself. She’d been here many times in the past; it was the film center for London, where all the big premiere movie palaces were. She looked over at the huge Odeon theater on her left and the Empire on her right, at the north end of the square, and there was the TKTS booth on the south side, where she had frequently waited in line for half-price theater tickets. But the most interesting part of the scene was the little park in the center of the square, with its beautiful gates at each corner and its dramatic centerpiece, the round fountain topped by the famous statue of Shakespeare. She watched as the young man in front of her crossed the street and went directly into the park, and she hurried to catch up with him.

Another park, she thought as she arrived at the gate. What is it with secret agents and parks? Probably something like the gray cars-a neutral ground to meet where it was unlikely that your hush-hush conversation would be overheard. And yet that was precisely what she must now do. She would have to follow him into this place, see the person he was meeting, and somehow listen in on them. I can’t do it, she thought. I’ll never be able to do it.

Then she thought of her husband. Jeff was out there somewhere, tied up, locked in a room. He might be hurt; his captors may well have injured him. He was alone in some dark place, wondering if anyone was looking for him. He might even be dead-no, that wasn’t an option. She couldn’t even entertain that thought. Otherwise, she’d give in to despair, and she wouldn’t be of any use to him. He’s alive, she told herself; he must be alive.

And I can do this. For Jeff, I can do anything.

Her quarry, for his part, was apparently agitated too. He walked slowly to the center of the park, by the Shakespeare fountain, looking constantly to his right and left as he went. He even turned around once and scanned the crowds behind him. Nora kept bodies between them as she followed. Yes, he was turning to glance behind him yet again; he was definitely nervous.

This pocket park had a similar layout to Russell Square Gardens, only smaller: a square island with four walkways in an X pattern that met in a central plaza, where the Bard held court. The young man stood before the fountain, gazing around, then walked quickly over to the nearest of the benches that lined the walkways and sat. Nora moved closer, keeping the fountain between them. She looked up at the statue, temporarily arrested by the sight. She was an actor, after all, and in her world this man was the king of kings. She felt a whimsical urge to curtsey, but she was currently an elderly French lady with arthritis, so curtseying was out of the question. She lowered her gaze, peeking around the plinth at the man on the bench. He sat alone, watching all the people passing by him.

He wasn’t alone for long. He suddenly looked over at the fountain where she was standing, and for one wrenching moment she thought she’d been spotted. No, he wasn’t looking at her but past her. A large dark figure in a dark suit passed by her, moving by the fountain to the bench. The figure turned around and sat down beside her quarry, facing her. She gasped when she saw him, and a sharp electric shock rose up from her stomach to her brain. No, she thought. No!

It was Bill Howard’s chauffeur. What was his name? Gilbert-Andy Gilbert. Craig had told her that in the car yesterday. The big black man was wearing his chauffeur’s uniform, and he dwarfed the slim young man beside him on the bench. He was so muscular that his neck was the same diameter as his large head. A handsome face, nice features, but the effect was marred by the mean, almost malevolent expression she saw there now. He too scanned the crowds around them, just as the other man was doing. Then he turned to his companion and leaned forward to talk. Her quarry listened intently.

She’d only heard that deep voice utter three words: Be careful, Pal. But she had to hear what he was saying now. She glanced around the square, wondering how to get closer, praying to Shakespeare for inspiration.

As if the statue had heard her and answered her prayer, the opportunity arrived. A well-dressed elderly woman with a cane moved slowly along the sidewalk, looking around at the benches for a good place to sit. She chose the empty one beside the chauffeur, sitting a little way from him, at the other end of her bench. If Nora hobbled over there and sat next to her, engaged her in conversation, the two men probably wouldn’t even notice.

Probably.

It was her only chance. She drew in a deep breath, made herself as old and stooped as possible, and shuffled carefully out from behind the fountain. She wandered over to the bench and sat between the woman and Andy Gilbert. The two men were talking; they didn’t even glance over at her.

“Good morning,” she said to the other woman in her best French accent. “Eesn’t thees a lovely day? I’m so glad for thees sunshine.”

The woman smiled over at her and nodded. “Yes, it’s a fair morn, all right. No rain, for a change.”

“Een Paris eet ees always the rain too,” Nora said. “I have just come from there. I am here een your beautiful city to consult the-what ees the word?-the particular doctor?”

“I think you mean a specialist,” the woman said. “Nothing serious, I hope?”

Now Nora was in an awkward position. She was sitting on a bench, turned toward the woman beside her, while two men talked a few feet away. She would have to keep up her end of the chat while listening intently for anything she could hear of the conversation behind her. Okay, she decided, pretend we’re in a Feydeau farce, a bedroom comedy with lots of eavesdropping.

“Oh, eet ees the aching in the bones, how do you say?”

“She wasn’t there, I tell you. I waited, but she didn’t show up. The kid at the hotel said-”

“Arthritis? Is that what you mean?”

“Yes, that ees eet: arthritis.”

“Listen, Yussuf, we need to act fast. He’s planning to move it out tomorrow-”

“I know how you feel, my dear. My hands have been predicting the weather for years now! I’m Margaret Green, by the way, but everyone calls me Madge.”

“-Copperfield, a Cessna Cargomaster, at three p.m. I’m pretty sure they-”

“How do you do, Madge? My name ees Blanche, Blanche Weelliams.”

“Blanche-what a lovely name! I had a friend at school named Blanche, and she was the prettiest…”

Her new friend was off on a story from her long-ago youth, so Nora concentrated on the voices at her back. Her nemesis, Yussuf, spoke perfect English with a British accent in his light baritone voice. The chauffeur, Andy Gilbert, was a basso profundo with a strong Caribbean inflection.

Yussuf: “They both arrived three days ago. Heathrow. They’re going out to Laura’s tomorrow.”

Gilbert: “And where’s Naseem?”

Yussuf: “We don’t know.”

Gilbert: “Damn! Okay, we have to find her, that’s all there is to it. It’s clear Baron’s not going to spill anything, no matter what’s done to him. His wife’s got it, and we can’t let them get it. If they do, we’re screwed.”

Yussuf: “I had the damned purse in my hands. In my hands! I can’t believe-”

Gilbert: “Don’t tear yourself up about it now. You had no way of knowing they’d be sticking so close to her.”

Yussuf: “That goddamn Elder! I didn’t even see him in the fog until he was on top of me!”

Gilbert: “I know. He’s very good at what he does, damn him to hell! Look, I’ve been gone too long. I’ve got to-”

Yussuf: “Okay, you get back to work. I’ll keep looking for her. I’ve got someone watching the hotel, so we can grab her if she shows up there. She got away in the cemetery, but her luck can’t hold forever. She won’t get away from me again.”

Gilbert: “All right. I’ll meet you at Laura’s.”

Yussuf: “Okay, Laura’s, noon tomorrow. Bring any firepower you can lay your hands on. If they’re on to us, we’ll need it.”

Gilbert: “Right. Call me if you find her.”

“…but she didn’t marry him. She married the banker instead. So, she ended up rich, but she let her true love get away. Wasn’t that silly of her?”

“Yes, very seelly.” Nora blinked and smiled at Madge Green, acutely aware of the movements behind her. The two men were standing up from their bench and walking away in opposite directions. Her quarry, Yussuf, was returning the way he’d come, past the fountain and out at the northeast corner of the park, in the direction of the Tube station. He crossed the street and disappeared.

“Well, Blanche was always a silly creature, even when we were girls. Not a lot going on upstairs, if you know what I mean-”

Nora made a big show of looking at her watch. “Mon Dieu! Eet ees already une heure-how you say?-one of the clock! I must be een Harley Street for my veeseet avec le docteur!”

Madge Green smiled and pulled knitting needles and wool from her purse. “You’d best run along then, love. It was very nice to meet you. If you’re back in London soon, you’ll find me right here most afternoons. We can have another lovely chat.”

“Merci, Madge. Au revoir!” Nora shouldered her bag and stood up, then walked slowly away from the bench, tottering past the fountain and out of the park. She wasn’t overly concerned that her quarry had gotten away; she knew where he was going to be tomorrow, and when. But now she had to be alone and think about everything she’d just overheard.

Jeff was alive! That was the good news; the men had made that clear in their conversation. But she didn’t have time to exult, not now, because now she knew exactly how much longer they’d keep him alive. She was afraid, more afraid than she’d been since she arrived in Europe, even more than she’d been in the cemetery.

It was now one o’clock, and whatever was happening would occur at three o’clock tomorrow afternoon. She had twenty-six hours to find her husband and free him from these people. After that, he would be expendable.

Chapter 31

An average-looking, three-story, nineteenth-century house on a quiet side street in Soho, a short walk north of Leicester Square. From the sidewalk, there was nothing remarkable about the building, which made it the perfect place for her husband to stay in London. Nora stood on that sidewalk now, gazing up at the front door, hoping her guess about the manila envelope was correct. Otherwise, she wouldn’t be able to get inside.

She looked down at the three keys on the ring clutched in her hand. These keys had been found on the body in the wrecked car in Kensington, along with the wallet and the disposable camera. The camera was a mystery, but it was probably the item everyone wanted so badly. The wallet contained cash, in case she needed it, and she hoped the keys were for this place, Jeff’s secret London address. She’d dismissed the idea of coming here last night when she returned to London, but now she had no choice. Besides, she reasoned that her husband would only leave her his keys if he thought she’d be safe here.

She had to get inside undetected. Craig Elder had mentioned people-the people here had told Bill Howard that Jeff hadn’t shown up at his flat since his disappearance. Would these people be in the building? Inside the apartment itself? Or were they across the street, in that row of townhouses over there, watching her from one of the curtained windows? Nora glanced at those windows before hurrying up the steps to the entrance.

Now she faced the door. On her left, five houses down, was the corner where a much busier thoroughfare crossed this one. She could see cars and pedestrians down that way, milling among the kitschy new age shops and exotic restaurants-Indian, Chinese, Thai-that lined the streets in this part of town. The other end, on her right, was farther away; she couldn’t hear the traffic from here. This stretch of road was residential and very quiet at this early afternoon hour.

Two women with shopping bags passed by on the sidewalk behind her, and Nora could feel their curious gaze on her. She studied the four buzzers beside the doorframe as though she weren’t certain which apartment she wanted, but she knew immediately. The names were neatly printed beside each buzzer: B-RYDER; #1-PARKHURST; #2-JENNER; #3-NOONE. The women disappeared into a building two doors down, and she held up the three keys, studying them. Large, medium, small. The large one should open this door…

It did. In a flash, she was inside the building, shutting the door behind her. She was standing in a long, narrow, dimly lit foyer with a staircase against the wall on her right and a door on her left. This would be Parkhurst, the ground floor tenant, and someone named Ryder was in the basement flat. She needed to get to the top floor. NOONE-that name again. The same inside joke as in the apartment house in Paris where Solange had died. No one.

She climbed the stairs as swiftly and silently as she could, then waited a moment, listening, before moving lightly down the hall to the next staircase. In order to do this, she had to pass by the door of the resident of #2, Jenner. She didn’t hear anything from beyond the door as she passed, but just as she reached the next flight, it suddenly opened.

Nora pressed herself against the wall at the foot of the stairs, holding her breath, watching as a dark-haired young woman in a T-shirt and jeans came out into the hall and shut the door behind her. She turned around to lock the door, then headed for the other stairs, the ones Nora had just ascended. Nora moved quickly onto the steps to the next level, shielding herself from the woman’s view. She listened as the footsteps descended and crossed the foyer, and the street door opened and closed. Only then did she continue on her way.

The medium-size key opened the apartment on the top floor, and Nora was inside a dark, silent room. She shut the door and locked it before feeling along the wall for a light switch. Her hand came upon a cold metal panel, and she looked over to see a flashing red light. Of course: an alarm, triggered when she opened the door. She’d have fifteen, maybe twenty seconds before the earsplitting noise began.

Stifling the thrill of panic that rose up in her, she drew in a deep breath and squinted in the gloom at the keypad on the panel. Without hesitating, she stabbed it seven times with her index finger: D-A-N-A-L-E-E. The flashing red light stopped. It was their usual, all-purpose password, and she knew her husband as well as she knew herself. He’d left her these keys, knowing she might have to come here and face this alarm, so he’d only use a password she’d know. She turned off the device and reached for the light switch.

An overhead light came on, illuminating a big, carpeted living room lined with bookshelves, with a plain brown couch and armchair, a coffee table, and a television. Heavy drapes covered the windows, allowing no sunlight in. She explored the apartment: An archway led to the kitchen, and another arch began a hallway with three doors, two bedrooms and a bathroom. The curtains in these rooms were closed as well. Only one of the bedrooms was evidently in use, the larger one, and Nora recognized the clothes there. The faint scent of his aftershave hung in the still air. She actually smiled when she saw a copy of For Whom the Bell Tolls on the bedside table next to a framed photo of her. He was working his way through Hemingway again; he’d read the complete works at least twice already.

She went back out into the living room, brushing tears from her eyes. She knew without looking that there’d be fresh coffee beans and a grinder in the kitchen. The silence and darkness of the place closed in on her. Here, in his habitat, with familiar things all around her, she was overwhelmed by his absence.

His desk was in a corner of the main room, with a blotter, paper, pens, and pencils. His laptop wasn’t here, of course; he would have taken that with him when he went into hiding at Bill Howard’s country house.

Bill Howard.

In the bathroom, she removed her gray wig and washed the age makeup from her face. She found the coffee beans, grinder, and coffeemaker in the kitchen. While the pot brewed, she sat at the desk with a pen and a legal pad, writing down everything she remembered of the conversation in Leicester Square.

Andy Gilbert/Yussuf (sp?)

Copperfield

Cessna Cargomaster, 3 p.m. tomorrow

two people arrived Heathrow

Naseem (sp?)

Laura’s, noon tomorrow

She wondered who or what Copperfield was, and who Laura was, not to mention Naseem. The two men had spoken of this person with particular urgency; they didn’t know where he/she was, and that clearly worried them. Naseem, or possibly Nassim? Definitely an Eastern name, whichever way you spelled it.

But now she had a more pressing problem. The suspicion had been gnawing at her since she first saw the chauffeur join her quarry on the bench. She went into the kitchen and poured coffee in the oversize mug she found in the drainer. She smiled at the words on the cup: STOLEN FROM BUCKINGHAM PALACE. Back at the desk, she started a fresh page of the legal pad, a timeline of the actions as she understood them:

June 28: Car accident in Kensington. Jeff plants wallet, keys, camera on body; gives two notes to Solange with instructions; then goes to Bill Howard’s country house.

June 29: Phone call to me from Bill Howard.

June 30: I come to London. Yussuf already following me. Bill meets me. Morgue. Yussuf attempts robbery in Russell Square. Craig Elder in place, foils Yussuf. Craig calls Bill H., who calls Jeff. Jeff leaves house for train station, abducted by South Asian/Middle Eastern man. Solange gives me first note, leaves for Paris.

July 1: Solange killed in Paris. I go to Paris. Jacques Lanier in place. Museum, false second note from false courier. Yussuf (?) follows me from museum. Jacques loses tail. Pinède, sniper in place. Jacques kills sniper, injured. Chez Martine.

July 2: Craig arrives. Paris. Solange’s apt., real second note. Gray SUV follows us north. We lose tail, abandon car, assume disguises. Louis Reynard, Channel, Lucky Dolphin. New car to London.

July 3: Yussuf at hotel with flowers. Craig tails, loses Yussuf. Russell Square, Leicester Square. Andy Gilbert!!! Jeff being held somewhere. Plan to fly weapons (?) out of England tomorrow at 3 p.m.

Nora stared down at the page, reading and rereading the sequence of events, and one fact was clear to her. Someone was very much in charge of everything that was happening to her. It seemed almost staged, like a play. Someone was directing all the action, and she had a fair guess whom that someone must be. It was the only way to make sense of the whole scenario.

Now she remembered something else. The phony second note, the one the creepy man had given her in Musée Rodin: GOOT! Dix roses pour Grand-tante J ce soir. She recalled a night, a dinner in a beautiful London restaurant some ten or eleven years ago. She and Jeff had been the guests of Bill and Vivian Howard, and Jeff had told their hosts about his most recent trip to France. He’d explained about his regular pilgrimages to Pinède, placing a dozen roses on Grand-tante Jeanette’s grave. Vivian had said she thought that was the sweetest thing she’d ever heard, and her husband had agreed…

Something was wrong with Nora’s timeline, something that nagged at her. She looked back at the earliest notes at the top of the page. And there it was:

June 28: Car accident in Kensington. Jeff plants wallet, keys, camera on body; gives two notes to Solange with instructions; then goes to Bill Howard’s country house.

That wasn’t possible, was it? Jeff arranged the accident, yes, that much was true. But the notes from Solange were only necessary later, after Nora had been knocked down in Russell Square Gardens. That’s when Jeff decided to get Nora out of England to France, to Charles de Gaulle Airport. He wouldn’t have written the two notes until then, June 30, two days after the accident. If he had been already hiding out in the house in East Anglia-on the other side of England-on June 30, how had he managed to get two handwritten notes to Solange in London? And how on earth had Solange managed to get there so fast, waiting in the hotel lobby when Nora arrived, less than an hour after the attempted robbery in the park?

Unless…

Unless Solange had been a backup, plan B, a contingency plan in case Nora was in danger at any time after she was given the manila envelope. That’s the only way Jeff could have written the notes two days beforehand. He knew there might be trouble, so he had Craig Elder follow her, and he had Solange waiting to take over the babysitting duties in the hotel. Solange had the notes, if necessary; otherwise, she was simply supposed to guard Nora until Nora flew back to New York the next day.

But Nora had disrupted the schedule, getting out of the limousine and heading into the park instead of going straight back to the Byron as expected. Craig Elder had followed her there, and the terrorist, Yussuf, had been following her ever since she’d boarded the plane at Kennedy. When he showed himself and tried to steal her purse, plan B had immediately gone into play.

Now it all became clear. Except for one thing…

Solange had been Bill Howard’s new girlfriend. He was divorcing his wife of twenty-five years to marry her. He’d even bought the country house for her. If they had been so much in love, how could Bill Howard be the arms dealer?

That was what Nora now suspected. When the arms dealer had learned that Nora was being sent to France, he’d come up with a diversion, a phony but plausible way to get her to an isolated place, kill her, and bury her. The note instructing her to go to Pinède: Dix roses pour Grand-tante J ce soir. Aside from herself and Jeff, Bill Howard and his wife were the only people who knew about Pinède. And it was Bill Howard’s driver, Andy Gilbert, who’d met the terrorist in Leicester Square. He’s planning to move it out tomorrow. He was Bill Howard. Who else?

But Solange had been murdered, probably by the same assassin who’d waited for Nora in the cemetery. Could Bill Howard really be that cold-blooded? Could he have ordered the killing of his own lover, fiancée, future wife? No, it didn’t make any sense. Which left only one possibility.

Vivian.

Vivian Howard, Nora’s chic, funny, scatterbrained friend of fifteen years, a criminal mastermind? That was patently absurd. Vivian, bless her heart, could barely negotiate a white sale at Fortnum & Mason, let alone an illegal arms deal. She thought Red China was what you used with a black tablecloth, and she probably couldn’t find Iran or Iraq or Afghanistan on a map. If she ever met an Al Qaeda operative face-to-face, she’d ask him who designed his lovely kaffiyeh. No, Vivian was definitely not involved in this.

Nora had to assume that Bill was Mr. X. She had to assume that he’d had Solange killed. The people on the other end of the deal were presumably paying millions, much more than Bill Howard would ever see from Her Majesty’s government payroll, and that was a good motive. Untold wealth was always a good motive for just about anything.

She had to find Craig Elder.

There was no telephone in the apartment. Jeff had taken his cell with him, along with his computer. Craig had given her his phone number, so she decided to risk a trip outside, to find a pay phone in the neighborhood.

She was standing up from her husband’s desk, reaching for her coat, when she heard the sudden sound of a key in the lock of the apartment door. She froze, staring, as the door slowly swung open.

Chapter 32

It was the young woman Nora had seen emerging from the Jenner apartment downstairs and leaving the building. She bustled into the room, heavy plastic grocery bags dangling from each hand. She was turning toward the alarm panel when she saw Nora standing by the desk.

“Oh!” she cried. “Oh dear, I beg your pardon, ma’am. I didn’t know anyone was home.”

Nora inhaled, getting over the shock. Then she managed a smile. “My husband isn’t here. He’s-away.”

The young woman nodded. “Yes, I know. Mrs. Noone, isn’t it? I recognize you from the snap next to his bed.”

Nora frowned, wondering when this pretty woman had seen the photo next to her husband’s bed. “And you’re Ms. Jenner?”

“Missus. Mrs. Jenner. Polly.”

“Nora,” Nora said, relieved. “Nora-um-Nora Noone.” She winced at the sound of that and then masked it with another smile. “And what are you doing here, Polly?”

Polly Jenner held up the grocery bags. “I do for him, don’t I? Weekly shopping, cleaning, and laundering. I’m the char for everyone else in the building-they’re all men, you know-and today it’s Mr. Noone.”

“Oh, I see,” Nora said, and now she was very relieved. Looking at the bags, she said, “Let me guess: frozen fried chicken dinners, canned-I mean, tinned-soup, microwave popcorn, Diet Coke, oatmeal, and strawberry yogurt.”

Polly burst into a grin. “You forgot the chocky chip biscuits.”

Nora nodded. “Of course. He dips them in the yogurt.”

“That he does! There’s also fresh fruit and veg for salad, and salad dressing.”

Nora widened her eyes, impressed. “Those must be your idea, not his.”

“Yup! I told him to eat salad and fruit every day, and he minds me. My Danny is the same-what is it with men and fresh veg? You’d think we were trying to poison them! Danny works for Vauxhall, you know, autos. Well, let me put all this away, then I’ll see to the cleaning.” She headed for the kitchen.

Nora followed her. “I just made a pot of coffee. Have some. Let’s sit down for a bit before you start working.”

“Ta.” Polly quickly emptied the bags and stowed everything in the refrigerator and cabinets. Then she found a cup and poured. They sat at the kitchen table.

“So, when did you last see, um, my husband?” Nora asked. She wondered if he’d told this woman his first name or if he’d invented one. Better not to chance it, she thought; I’ll just call him Mr. Noone.

“Hmm, that would be three days ago-no, four. Four days ago. I met him on the stairs as he was going out, around teatime. He had a bag with him, you know, a big valise. He said he’d be away for a few days. A computer convention in Nottingham.”

Nora nodded. So, he’d given Polly Jenner the usual cover story. Mr. Noone was in electronics.

“Oh, and he came back that night,” Polly went on. “Very late it was too-midnight, by my bedside clock. Danny and me was wakened by a loud thump from the ceiling, and then we heard footsteps walkin’ round up here. A few minutes later the door opened and closed, and he came away down the stairs. I figured he must’ve forgot somethin’ he needed for his trip.”

Nora smiled at the girl and glanced around the kitchen, thinking of her timeline. That had been the day after the “accident” in Kensington, the day Bill had called her in New York. By midnight that night, Jeff had been in Bill Howard’s country house on the other side of England, and the next evening he’d vanished. She didn’t doubt that Polly and her husband had heard someone moving around up here, but she was certain it had not been Jeff. She suppressed a shudder.

“Funny, him going away-with you coming all the way over from America,” Polly mused.

“Oh, I knew about the convention,” Nora said quickly. “I’m-I’m joining him there tomorrow.”

Polly nodded. “How’s your daughter?”

Nora blinked. “Um, fine. Dana’s fine. She’s a college student-”

“I know,” Polly said. “She’s beautiful, and her middle name is Lee, and she’s studying to be an actress, just like you. He told me about her when he gave me the code for the alarm.” She jabbed a thumb toward the living room, where the panel was. D-A-N-A-L-E-E.

“Of course,” Nora said. “Where are those biscuits?” She stood up and went over to the cabinets. She found the pack of cookies and put several of them on a plate. “Here.”

“Ta.” Polly picked one up and dunked it in her coffee.

“You just go about your business when you want, Polly. I have to find a telephone. My cell-I mean, my mobile is, um, dead, and I must make some calls-”

“Here.” Polly pulled a cellphone from her pocket and handed it to her. “Help yourself.”

“Oh, thank you!” Nora said. “You’ve saved me a lot of bother.” To emphasize her gratitude, she added, “Has Mr. Noone paid you for this week? Because I can do that, and for the groceries.”

Polly’s eyes brightened. “That would be terrif! The receipt from the market is here, and he pays me thirty quid.”

Nora glanced at the receipt and went to get her purse. Polly cleaned, shopped, and laundered for three male neighbors, so that was ninety pounds a week without leaving home, added to her husband’s automotive paycheck. Clever girl. And she was so friendly, so personable, that she’d made Nora temporarily forget the gravity of her situation. But now she remembered.

The wig was lying on the desk beside the bag, and Nora was glad she’d decided to remove it and wash her face before Polly’s unexpected arrival. She’d never have been able to explain the old-lady drag to a neighbor who thought “Mr. Noone” was in “electronics.” She stuffed the wig into the bag, paid Polly, and took the phone into the living room.

She tried Craig’s number three times, but there was no answer and no recording for messages. She thought of texting him, but she stopped when she realized that he’d have no way of replying. She couldn’t give him Polly’s number, and her own iPhone was back in the hotel safe at the Byron. He hadn’t given her an email address. And what could she tell him at this point, anyway? I think your boss/friend/father figure might be the arms dealer, so please come rescue me tonight. He’d think she was insane. No, she needed to speak with him on a phone-or, preferably, face-to-face-so she could explain. She finally gave up.

Polly went downstairs and came back with a bucket of cleaning supplies and a vacuum cleaner. Nora sat in the living room, listening to the activity in the bathroom, bedrooms, and kitchen as the time passed. She went into Jeff’s bedroom and lay down while Polly worked in the living room. She dozed fitfully, but she couldn’t sleep. When Polly finally went home at six o’clock, Nora washed her face again, put on makeup, and fixed her hair. She was no longer an elderly lady from France; she was Nora Baron once more.

Mrs. Jeffrey Baron.

She was reaching for her coat when she stopped short, remembering. Her husband had left three keys on his key ring for her. The big one opened the main door downstairs, and the medium one opened this apartment. She fished in her pocket for the key ring and held it up, frowning at the tiny third key. That would open…what?

She stood in the center of the living room, gazing slowly around. A safe? If so, where? Behind a painting? No, all the walls in the apartment were bare. She remembered their hiding place back home, and she went into the bathroom. Jeff had provided her with a hollowed-out compartment behind the medicine cabinet in their master bathroom, a small space that could hold valuables. The cabinet was hinged on one side; it unlatched on the other side and swung outward. Perhaps he’d installed one here…No, this cabinet was firmly attached to the wall.

Back in the living room, she looked around again, and her attention quickly focused on his desk. It was the most logical place, after all, and now she noticed the desk drawer. There was a tiny keyhole at the top, just above the handle. The wood around the lock was damaged; someone had been here, and she had a fair guess who. She slid the drawer open.

A gun. Nora stared down at the small, sleek object. Then she looked at the red box beside it:.38 caliber bullets-no, rounds. She picked up the weapon and peered at the inscription: Smith & Wesson LadySmith. Stainless steel, with a black rubber coating on the tiny handle, a two-inch barrel with a sight near the tip, and a chamber for five rounds. She aimed across the room; it was very light in her hand. And that short barrel-was this what they called a snubnose? Whatever it was, it was fully loaded, and so small that she could conceal it anywhere. She wrapped it in the gray woolen shawl and placed it in the bottom of her bag, then piled the wig and everything else on top of it. She decided against taking the box of rounds. She shut the drawer and locked it.

What was the penalty for carrying a weapon in England? And what if she actually had to use it? She’d only imagined shooting someone when she’d played the murderous bank robber on television years ago, and the thought hadn’t been pleasant, even when she was in character. She’d shot and killed a policeman, then one of her own gang, and in the final scene she’d injured one of the stars of the series before she herself was killed. But the blood had been a mix of corn syrup and food coloring, and all those victims had stood up and walked away when the director yelled Cut!

Could she, Nora Baron, actually aim a weapon at someone and squeeze the trigger? She doubted it. She remembered holding Jacques Lanier’s heavy SIG Sauer, the feel of it in her hands, the panic and nausea induced by merely looking at it. But this morning, in the Byron dining room, she’d wished for it before going off to tail Yussuf. Now, for better or worse, she was glad to have the revolver. She wondered why Andy Gilbert and/or Bill Howard hadn’t taken it when they searched here the other night. They’d probably dismissed it as unimportant; they’d been looking for something else.

The sun was setting when Nora left the building. She stopped at a big red phone box and tried Craig’s number once more. Still no answer. Her only ally, the only person she trusted in this whole scenario, was out of reach for the time being. She didn’t have a clear theory of what was happening here, and she didn’t have a plan. She didn’t have anything at all except an illegal gun and an overwhelming need to find her husband.

She hailed a cab near Soho Square, gave the driver Vivian’s address, and rode northwest through the darkening streets, to face the enemy alone.

Chapter 33

Few neighborhoods in London have detached, stand-alone houses with front and back gardens and garages, mainly because few people can afford them. Bill Howard and his wife were among the exceptions. They weren’t part of what Americans would refer to as the one percent, but they were well-off by any standard. Bill was highly paid for his services to the Crown, and Vivian was the only child of Maxfield Gordon, a prominent real estate developer in the postwar years. He’d left his widow more than enough, and she’d left Vivian an impressive dowry and this house on a quiet, tree-lined street in the northwest sector of St. John’s Wood, well removed from the bustle and noise downtown. This area was so isolated and exclusive as to be practically a suburb, London’s equivalent of Larchmont, Chevy Chase, or Beverly Hills.

When Vivian and Bill split up, there was no question of her leaving her own home. Bill had a flat in another part of the city now, not to mention his new country house in Sedgeford, and Vivian was still here, aided by her longtime housekeeper, the estimable Claudia Bellini, and Claudia’s husband, who tended the grounds. Nora had dined here many times over the years but always when the couple had been together, and Jeff had been with her. Coming here alone felt distinctly odd-and tonight, under the circumstances, it felt considerably more than odd.

It was the third house in from the corner, an attractive, two-story residence with a driveway beside the front garden leading to the garage. Nora stood at the corner, but she wasn’t looking at the house. She was studying the entire scene: the other houses, the sidewalks, and the parked cars that lined the street on both sides. All the cars she could see from here were empty, as far as she could tell, and there were no pedestrians in sight. It was nearly dark now, and the streetlamps had just come on. Everything was quiet, and no stranger lurked anywhere, watching Vivian’s house. When Nora was certain of this, she hurried down the street and up the walk to the front door. She rang the bell at exactly seven o’clock by her watch. The door opened almost immediately.

“Hello, darling! You’re right on time,” Vivian sang as they embraced. Tonight she was a vision in a red silk blouse and harem pants that could only be from Stella McCartney, and Nora felt comparatively dowdy in her black denim pantsuit and the cheap coat she’d bought in the French mall yesterday. Well, at least she wasn’t wearing that awful wig.

If Vivian noticed the coat, she was too well-bred to mention it. “Come in, come in! Claudia’s in the kitchen, cooking up a storm, and I just made a batch of martinis. Bill’s on his way; he should be here soon.”

She ushered Nora into the front hall. Straight ahead was the curved staircase to the second floor, with the kitchen beyond it. The living room-or drawing room, in Viv’s lingo-was through an archway on the right, and the dining room was behind it through another archway, next to the kitchen, looking out on the back garden. Upstairs were two bedroom suites and a den that Bill had used as an office. Nora liked this house-good-sized without being ostentatious, if a tad conservative. Vivian had decorated it to accommodate her husband’s professional standing, in sober creams and beiges and earth tones for their frequent entertaining of government VIPs.

When Nora followed her friend through the archway into the drawing room, she stopped short, staring. Then she smiled, gazing around. The oatmeal and taupe and burnt umber had vanished. The new drapes at the big front windows were a virtual garden of flowers, pink and orange and yellow, and the austere beige carpeting had been replaced by a beautiful shade of pale green. The couches and armchairs were new, lighter and more colorful than their predecessors, in similar floral prints. Huge bowls and vases of actual flowers stood on the coffee table and end tables. The standard-issue hunting scenes on the formerly cream, now pale green walls had been replaced by flower-themed watercolors.

“Wow!” Nora whispered.

Vivian laughed. “Wait till you see the rest of the place! I just decided, what the hell? I don’t have to live in a men’s club anymore, entertaining all those crotchety old MPs and blue-rinsed dames. For the first time in my life, my house can reflect me, you know, the woman who actually lives here. You should have seen Bill’s face the first time he saw all this! Priceless!”

“I love it!” Nora said. “I really do, Viv. It’s so you!”

“I knew you would, darling. It’s definitely dramatic, and you’re an actress. And it was you who inspired it-your living room with all those flowers, and that marvelous den you did up for Je-” Vivian stopped short, nearly choking back the word. “Oh, my dear, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have…”

Nora blinked, remembering. Of course. Vivian still thought Jeff was actually dead. Her soon-to-be ex-husband hadn’t let her in on the secret, and it wasn’t Nora’s place to do it. For now, Jeff was officially deceased, and no one could know otherwise-certainly not Viv, who didn’t always think before she spoke. She’d learn the truth soon enough.

“It’s quite all right, Viv,” Nora said now. “I’m-I’m glad you’re moving forward like this.”

“We’re both moving forward,” Vivian said. “Remember that.”

Nora smiled and nodded, but she was saved from having to reply by the arrival of Claudia Bellini from the kitchen.

“Hello, Mrs. Baron,” the housekeeper said. “I’m so sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you, Claudia.” Nora didn’t cringe this time; she didn’t even wince as she acknowledged the condolence. She was getting used to being a widow-and to lying as easily as she drew breath. All the world’s a stage. “How are Tony and Vittorio?” She secretly congratulated herself for remembering the names of Claudia’s husband and son, whom she’d met, briefly, years ago.

“They’re just fine, thank you. Vito is at Cambridge now, and he’s doing splendid-he’s planning to read law!”

“That’s marvelous,” Nora said, and she meant it. Vittorio was the first member of Claudia’s family to attend college, thanks mainly to her employers. Bill and Vivian had overseen Vito’s entire education, and they’d eventually secured a place for him at Bill’s alma mater. His mother couldn’t be more proud; she was beaming.

“Let me take your coat,” she said now. She helped Nora remove it and carried it over to the closet in the entry hallway beside the door to the downstairs bathroom.

“Oh, the powder room isn’t ready yet,” Viv said. “They’re still remodeling, and there are no fixtures in it at the moment. You can use my loo tonight.”

Nora nodded, remembering the big master suite at the top of the stairs, with walk-in closets and a large bathroom. At the far end of the upstairs hall was a guest room that Jeff and Nora had stayed in once, years ago. Those rooms had been decorated in shades of beige and brown when Bill lived here, and she wondered what Viv had done with them. More flowers, probably.

“Supper will be served in one hour,” the housekeeper said to her employer. “Oh-and I’ve run out of cream, so I rang Bessie at Garson’s, and she’s sending her youngest boy over with it. Shane, his name is. I’ve left the money for it on the front hall table by the door. If I don’t hear the bell from the kitchen, would you-?”

“Of course,” Vivian said.

Vivian led Nora back into the living room, and Claudia returned to her cooking. The faint, tantalizing aroma of garlic and red sauce wafted briefly through the floral environment as the swinging door to the kitchen opened and closed. Nora sat on a couch, dropping her purse beside her, while her hostess sank into the matching couch at the other side of the coffee table. The big armchair between the couches-once a deep cocoa, now a riot of roses and violets-had always been Bill Howard’s designated place, and Nora assumed it was waiting for him.

Thinking of Bill Howard brought back the immediacy of her situation, and she felt a tightening, a clenching in her stomach, even as she smiled at her friend. The picture window was behind Vivian, and Nora gazed past her, out at the dark landscape beyond the glass, bracing herself for the inevitable flash of headlights as Bill’s car turned into the driveway. Her hand rested on the Coach bag, and she was acutely aware of the little silver object at the bottom of it, wrapped in her woolen shawl. What would she do when he arrived?

Viv’s bright red lips were moving, and Nora forced herself to follow the conversation. She tried to focus on her friend, smiling sympathetically, wondering if she would be forced to hold this woman’s husband at gunpoint-or worse-right here in her newly redecorated home…

“…very depressed at first, right after Bill moved out. I imagined him with this Solange, this lovely young creature, and I just couldn’t get out of bed in the morning. But I recovered. One day, I looked round this house and decided to change it. I simply went ahead and changed everything-Oh!”

Nora had been expecting headlights on the picture window, so when Bill Howard suddenly materialized in the archway, she was just as surprised as Vivian. He was impeccably dressed, as always, in a dark suit and tie. The moment she saw him standing there, smiling, Nora knew something was wrong. She recognized that particular facial expression; she’d produced it herself many times, onstage and on camera. His lips curved upward, but nothing else joined in. His eyes were watchful, wary. Her first, horrible thought was that she had been found out, that he knew she was onto him. But his first words and actions banished that thought from her mind, replacing it with fresh alarm.

“Hello, ladies,” he said. “Viv, I know I’m not the master here anymore, but please bear with me.”

He moved swiftly to the picture window, reaching for the cord and pulling the drapes shut. Then he switched off the standing lamp beside the window and came back across the room. He frowned at the garish armchair before sitting in it, pulling a phone from a jacket pocket and glancing at the screen, apparently checking a text or readout. Then he sat back in the chair, phone in hand, looking from one woman to the other.

“I’m not sure if I can stay for dinner,” he said. “I’ve been trying to reach Craig Elder, but he’s not answering his mobile at the moment. Nora, there’s no word on that matter we were discussing the other day, but I may have some news for you soon. We’ll have to let Viv in on our little secret too.”

“Secret?” Vivian said. “What secret? Bill, what are you talking about?”

Nora, who understood him immediately, was more confused than her friend. She’d been bracing herself to accuse this man of being Mr. X, the mastermind behind Jeff’s disappearance, of selling out his country-of selling out the entire Western world, no less-but now, looking at him, she wasn’t at all certain of it. Bill Howard had lost his usual composure; he was clearly agitated.

“I can’t stay long,” he said. “I have to get back to my office. I came here in an unmarked car, but I’m pretty sure I was followed. I think I shook them off near Hyde Park, and I parked two streets away from here and came through the back garden-poor Claudia had a turn when I tapped on the kitchen door-but you can never be too careful.”

Nora stared at him, wondering if he was making all this up on the spot, but Vivian was clearly puzzled.

“Why would someone be following you?” she asked her husband. “What is it, Bill? What’s happened?”

He glanced over at her before leaning toward Nora. His voice was barely more than a whisper.

“I think we may have found our arms dealer.”

Chapter 34

It took a moment for Bill Howard’s words to register in Nora’s mind. When they did, she was more confused than ever. This wasn’t the scene she’d expected, dreaded, braced herself to play. Before she could form any sensible reply, he turned his attention to his wife.

“Viv, could you please switch on the telly? The news channel.”

She obeyed him at once, snatching up the remote from the end table beside her and aiming it at the wall-mounted screen across the room, by the archway to the foyer. The first image they saw was a man and woman dancing an elaborate tango. Viv pressed buttons, and there was a young woman seated at an anchor desk.

“-for the stock prices to stabilize. The minister said this could be a matter of months, but-”

Vivian muted the sound and turned to her husband. “What’s going on, Bill? What’s all this about an arms dealer?”

He glanced briefly over at Nora, motioning with his hand before returning his gaze to the television screen. Nora took her cue and leaned forward.

“Viv, I’m afraid this is going to be a shock to you, but-Well, Jeff didn’t die in a car accident. He’s alive.”

For the first time, Nora witnessed the way in which the wife of a high-level national security officer receives such news. Vivian’s eyes widened in surprise, but only for a moment. Then her expression became perfectly calm. “If he’s alive, where is he?”

Bill answered that one. “We don’t know, Viv. He’s been taken. We’re looking for him.”

“I see,” she said. “Okay, I think you’d better tell me the rest.”

Nora was forming words, deciding just where to begin, when Bill interrupted by pointing at the television. On the screen was a photo of a jowly, unassuming-looking, middle-aged man with a walrus mustache and thick, horn-rimmed glasses. Nora recognized him immediately. Viv aimed the remote, and the newscaster’s voice could be heard once more.

“-the disappearance of Maurice Dolin, a director of France’s National Police department. Dolin left his home in Paris yesterday morning and took the Eurostar to St. Pancras International Station. He told his wife that he was planning to remain overnight in London, where he would be meeting with British officials, and return to France this morning. When he failed to arrive home, Madame Dolin called his office, and a search was begun. An eyewitness outside St. Pancras Station saw a man answering Dolin’s description enter a gray sports car waiting at the curb and drive away. The search has now been extended to cover all of southern England, as it isn’t clear where-”

“That will do, Viv,” Bill said, and she clicked off the set. “There’s something fishy about his sudden arrival in England. I was one of the ‘officials’ he mentioned to his wife; there definitely wasn’t any meeting. And he wasn’t taken from his home-he came here freely, of his own accord. He was alone in the train, and then he walked out of the station, got into a car, and vanished. That doesn’t sound like kidnapping.”

As Claudia arrived in the dining room behind Nora and began setting the table for dinner, Bill brought his wife up to date. He told her about the rumor of an illegal arms deal and about Jeff’s plan. The car “accident,” the arrival of the “grieving widow,” Jeff’s retreat to Bill’s house in Sedgeford, and his apparent abduction from the train platform. Bill explained about the small team from three countries and that the missing Frenchman, Maurice Dolin, was the French third of the operation, working with Bill and Jeff. Now, he said, it seemed that Monsieur Dolin was involved in the illegal deal, that he was most likely the man behind it.

“We have reason to believe that the deal will take place sometime in the next few days,” Bill said, “and it will probably be here, in England. Three days ago, two people arrived at Heathrow from Libya, a man and a woman, and we know they’re connected to one of the nastier militant groups out there. By the time we were informed of their arrival, they’d vanished. Our people and the French have been searching all trains, boats, and planes for them ever since. Also, one of our contacts in Tripoli has reported the disappearance of the group’s leader.” He picked up his cellphone, punched some buttons, and held it out for Nora to see. “This is the fellow.”

Nora looked at the photo on his screen. A dark-haired, thin-faced, bearded man with huge dark eyes stared malevolently out at her. Beneath the picture was the caption: NASSIM GAMAL. She remembered the surprise inspection on the Eurostar at Calais the day before yesterday. Now she knew: They’d been looking for the man and woman from Libya.

Bill put down the phone and continued. “We think this man Gamal may be in England too. It now appears that they’re all here to convene with Maurice.” He frowned. “Maurice Dolin! It’s hard to take in-I’ve known him for twenty years, and I never would have suspected him of something like this.”

“How much money is involved?” Vivian asked him.

He shrugged. “A great deal, I should imagine. These extremists have some very rich friends, oil people and what have you. For what they’re probably getting, I don’t think a hundred million pounds would be out of the question. I guess Maurice couldn’t resist it.”

“Poor Thérèse,” Viv said. Nora assumed that Thérèse was Mme. Dolin, the anxious wife who’d reported him missing, a woman with no idea that her husband was about to disappear from the face of the earth with a huge fortune. Poor Thérèse indeed. She wondered, suddenly, if Bill had told Viv about Solange…

“I’m afraid there’s something a bit more pressing than Thérèse to worry about at the moment,” Bill said. “Right now we have to figure out where Maurice is and exactly what he’s doing. We’re not sure what he’s selling these people, but Jeff’s informant thought it involved nuclear capability. I just wish we had some idea where they’re going to meet.”

“I think I might know,” Nora said. “But first I must ask you something, Bill. Do you know where your driver is?”

Bill stared. “Andy? I have no idea. He’s off today and tomorrow. He asked for some family time-” He broke off, then leaned forward. “Why do you ask? What is it, Nora?”

Nora shook her head. “I’m not sure.” She looked down at her hands in her lap, surprised to see that they were visibly trembling. She clasped them together.

Bill Howard studied her face for a moment and then reached for the tray on the coffee table. He poured out martinis, took one over to his wife, then came back around the table and handed a glass to Nora. She raised it to her lips and drained it, the gin searing her throat before slowly warming her. She didn’t normally drink gin; she would have preferred a vodka martini, but this was England, where gin was a way of life.

Bill took her glass and refilled it. “Here, but go slowly with this one. Now, why did you ask about Andy Gilbert?”

Nora sipped her fresh drink before replying. She still hadn’t worked through everything, and she wasn’t yet sure how to explain her adventures of the last few hours. Also, deep down, she hadn’t completely dismissed Bill as a suspect. In light of this new information, this French intelligence official, it now seemed unlikely that Bill was Mr. X, even ludicrous. She’d known Bill for so long. More to the point, Jeff had known him even longer, and Jeff clearly trusted him. Still…

Jeff. Where was he right now, this minute? Would Bill Howard be able to decipher the odd conversation she’d overheard in Leicester Square today? She leaned back against the couch, gulping down more of the chilly, warming martini. She wanted all of this to be over. She wanted nothing more than to be back on Long Island, in her home with her family, her students, the health club, and the hair salon, and shopping for groceries at Whole Foods. For once in her life, the actress was tired of outlandish drama; she craved the real world.

“Nora?”

She blinked and focused on Bill Howard. He and Vivian were watching her expectantly. Nora hadn’t answered his question, and now a pang of nausea pierced her stomach. What had her mother always said about stress and alcohol?

“Andy Gilbert,” she said, choosing her words. “Bill, I think your driver may be involved with this arms deal. He met another man in Leicester Square today, a man named Yussuf. I overheard their conversation. Never mind how-I’ll tell you that part later. This Yussuf character is the one who was on the plane from New York with me, and he’s been following me ever since.”

Bill was nodding. “The pocketbook thief.”

“Yes.” Nora winced as another wave of nausea began. She looked over at Vivian, who seemed perfectly composed on the opposite couch. Her flighty friend was Caesar’s wife, after all-she certainly knew how to take all this surprising news in stride. But now the room seemed to be spinning around Nora. Choking down a sudden urge to gag, she continued. “They met in the square, and they mentioned that man you just showed me, Nassim, and two other people who just arrived in England. There was something about a Cessna cargo plane at three o’clock, and someone named Copperfield. They’re all going to meet up at Laura’s at noon. Do you know who Laura is?”

Bill Howard watched her, frowning. “Laura? I have no idea. I don’t know anyone by that name.”

“Of course you do,” Vivian said. “Laura Grantham.”

Bill smiled indulgently at his wife as he fiddled with his cellphone again. “Viv, Laura Grantham is ninety-six years old. She’s a life peer, the widow of one of our most distinguished members. She was an agent in the war, for heaven’s sake; she shot and killed three high-ranking Nazis. I hardly think these two-a-penny terrorists will be warmly received at her mansion in Belgrave Square.”

Vivian shrugged. “No, perhaps not.”

Nora nearly laughed at all this, an exchange straight out of a Noël Coward play, but another wave of nausea assailed her stomach. She clamped a hand over her mouth as a bitter taste flooded her throat. She felt warm, clammy, but her hands were cold. She grabbed her Coach bag and rose unsteadily from the couch.

“Please excuse me for a moment,” she murmured. “I’m not feeling very well.”

“Oh, my dear, of course you’re not!” Vivian was immediately at her side, grasping her arm, leading her toward the stairs by the archway. “I can’t imagine the stress of these last few days. But don’t you worry. If anyone can find Jeff, it’s Bill. Let’s get you up to my room.”

“Please don’t bother, Viv,” Nora said. “It’s just my nervous stomach. I frequently have trouble with it. I’ll be all right. I have some medicine in my bag, and I-”

They were at the bottom of the stairs when the doorbell rang. Bill Howard leaped to his feet.

“Don’t answer that, Viv!”

His wife let go of Nora’s arm and turned to him, smiling. “Calm down, darling. If those people were following you, I hardly think they’d ring the bell, do you? It’s just Shane Garson from the grocer’s with Claudia’s cream.” She turned back to Nora. “Are you sure you’ll be-?”

“I’m fine,” Nora said, smiling despite a fresh wave of nausea. “You go ahead, I’ll just be a few minutes.” She hurried up the stairs before her friend could insist. If she was going to be sick, she didn’t want Viv fussing over her. She wanted to be alone to collect herself, and to think.

The upstairs hallway yawned before her. She looked down the stairs to see Bill resuming his seat in the armchair and Vivian disappearing into the foyer to answer the doorbell. Then she staggered down the hall to the first door, the master suite. She went inside and shut the door behind her, leaning back against it for support. She switched on the light, a bright chandelier that illuminated a landscape of pink and gold, more flowers everywhere. The glare and the décor stabbed at her eyes, so she switched the light off again.

The door to the bathroom on the far side of the room was open, and the lights were on in there, so she moved toward the light, bumping against the edge of the bed as she went. It seemed to take forever to get from one side of the bedroom to the other, her boots wobbling on the soft carpet. Her sense of balance had deserted her, and her stomach was getting worse. She rarely drank, and she’d just augmented her overwhelming anxiety with two extra-large gin martinis. Her mother’s long-ago advice echoed in her swirling brain.

The hot acid flooded her throat again. She lurched into the bathroom and moved quickly over to the commode, where she sank to her knees and vomited.

Chapter 35

On Nora’s birthday last year, her daughter had taken her to see a Broadway show. It had been a limited engagement with two big stars in the leads, so tickets had been scarce, but Dana had managed it. They’d gone into town on the train for a matinée performance, just the two of them. The play had been excellent, a revival of one of Nora’s favorites, and Dana had loved it too. Afterward, they’d returned to Long Island and driven home from the station to find Jeff waiting there with everyone she knew. Aunt Mary, her friends, her colleagues, and many of her students had crowded into her darkened living room. Dana had switched on the lights as they entered the house, and in the sudden, blinding glare, fifty laughing people in party hats had leaped out before her, tossing streamers and shouting, “Surprise!”

The light was unbearable. Vivian had redone her bathroom in shades of white and gold, and the illumination bounced back at her from every surface. She was slumped on the tiled floor, her hot cheek pressed against the freezing wall tiles, wincing at the assault on her eyes. She flushed the toilet and pressed her hands against the walls, pulling herself to her feet. Then she switched off the light and made her way over to the sink, grateful for the soothing darkness. The faint glow from the back garden shining through the pebbled-glass window above the commode was enough for her. She made out the fixtures on the sink, but she couldn’t see her reflection in the mirror above it, which was probably a mercy. She figured she must look like absolute hell.

She didn’t know how long she knelt there, being sick, but it couldn’t have been more than a few minutes. As the nausea and disorientation subsided, her mind swam with images of Jeff and Dana. The birthday party-why had she been thinking of that? Oh yes: the glare. She turned on the cold water and rinsed the perspiration from her clammy face. She wouldn’t have been surprised if the water had hissed as it touched her hot skin.

Better, much better. Her stomach had settled and the room had stopped spinning around her. She found her bag on the floor and felt inside for her traveling toothbrush kit. The minty toothpaste soon scrubbed away the foul taste in her mouth, and a gargle from the tiny bottle of mouthwash did the rest. She swallowed a Zantac and turned off the tap.

She was returning everything to her bag when she heard the bedroom door open. A spill of light from the upstairs hallway lit the dark space beyond the half-open bathroom door. Viv, of course, coming to check on her. She held her breath and clutched the cool porcelain sink, waiting. If she was very quiet, her well-meaning hostess would assume the darkened rooms were empty and Nora had gone downstairs, perhaps to the kitchen. The sliver of light behind her disappeared as the bedroom door closed. After a moment, Nora heard another door opening and closing farther down the hall.

Vivian was searching for her, and she couldn’t stay in here all night. Besides, now that she was feeling better, she was actually looking forward to Claudia’s Italian meal. Bill had to get back to his office, and she would ask Vivian if she could stay the night here. After Yussuf’s words in Leicester Square this afternoon about staking out the Byron Hotel, she didn’t want to chance showing up there, even as Mme. Blanche Williams, and someone had rifled her husband’s safe house the night he’d left for Norfolk. Yussuf and his associates couldn’t be fooled forever, and she wasn’t about to tempt fate again. She’d probably used up her quota of good luck.

But now she must rejoin her friends. She shut her eyes and switched on the bathroom light, then opened them and peered at herself in the mirror. Not as bad as she’d expected-not bad at all, in fact. She was pale, perhaps, and a bit disheveled, but a comb through her hair and lipstick would make her look good as new. She did these things quickly and professionally, imagining that she was in a theater dressing room at intermission and the stage manager had just ordered everyone to their places for act two. When something resembling the usual Nora Baron finally gazed back at her from the glass, she shouldered her bag and went back through the dark bedroom to the hallway.

Bill Howard had dozed off in her absence. She glanced over as she came down the stairs and saw him slumped against an arm of the flowery chair, his head resting on it, one hand dangling down, clearly asleep. He’d been working around the clock for four days now, ever since Jeff’s disappearance, and Nora wondered if he’d had any sleep at all. She smiled at the sight of him, feeling foolish for ever suspecting this dedicated man of criminal behavior. Then she moved farther down the staircase and stopped short, three steps from the bottom, staring.

Through the archway on her right, she saw a long, slender arm stretched out across the pale green carpet of the foyer. The red silk sleeve matched the bright lacquer on the perfectly sculpted fingernails of the smooth white hand. The hand lay palm up, the shiny nails bunched together in a loose fist. When she could move, Nora rushed down the stairs and through the archway, and now she saw the rest.

Vivian lay very still on her back, one arm outflung on the carpet, the other resting on her heart. Her lips were parted and her eyes were wide open, staring up at the ceiling in apparent surprise. Because of the deep scarlet color of the blouse, Nora didn’t see the blood at first. But there it was, saturating the material under the pale hand, slowly spreading outward. Even in death, she had landed gracefully, dramatically.

Nora stood above the body, staring down at the staring eyes, filling her lungs to cry out, to call to Bill in the next room. But no, there was no need for that, and she knew it. She tore her gaze from her friend and went back to the archway, just to be sure.

Yes. She’d thought he was asleep, slumped over the arm of the chair, but it wasn’t sleep at all. His right arm dangled to the carpet, and beside it lay a small black gun. Judging from the blood she now saw on his shirt, the round that had killed him had struck him in the exact same spot as his wife. The gun on the floor was a revolver with no noise-reducing capability. If he’d been able to fire it, Nora would have heard the report from the upstairs bathroom. He obviously hadn’t had time to do more than draw it from the shoulder holster under his jacket; the silenced weapon had been too quick.

Yussuf? Andy Gilbert? Vivian wasn’t facing the front door; she was lying the other way. She’d answered the bell and let the person in, allowed him to walk past her into the hall, shut the door, and turned around to see the gun. Pfft. Perhaps from the living room Bill had heard the muffled sounds of the suppressed shot and his wife falling to the carpet, reached for his weapon, but the intruder had been too fast for him. He hadn’t even risen from the chair…

Nora stood in the archway, looking from one body to the other and back again, aware of the awful silence. She was also aware that her mind was working quickly and clearly. The snub-nosed LadySmith from her purse was already in her hand, raised to waist level, and her gaze now moved swiftly from the front door behind Vivian’s body (shut) to the front hall closet door (open and empty) to the powder room door (open and empty) to the dining room (empty) to the top of the staircase she’d just descended (empty) and at last to the main hallway behind her. She turned, bringing the gun up in front of her, and walked slowly toward the swinging door to the kitchen. She pressed her ear against the door, listening. Silence. She drew in a deep breath, pushed the door open, and crouched down, aiming directly into the room.

The bright ceiling lights of the sparkling white kitchen cast everything in harsh relief. Nora lowered the gun and slumped against the open door, staring. Claudia Bellini lay on her back in the center of the wet floor, her hands encased in bright yellow oven mitts, and she no longer had a face. She’d been in the act of lifting the big cast-iron pot of boiling spaghetti from the stove when this door had flown open behind her and a single shot had slammed through the back of her head. The pot lay on its side near the body, and steam was still rising from the pools of red-tinged water and the slithering clumps of pasta everywhere on the floor. On the white wall above the stove was a dripping red starburst, as bright red as the tomato sauce that still simmered there, filling the steamy kitchen with its rich aroma. Beyond the body, at the far end of the room, the door to the back garden stood wide open.

They’d left in a hurry, whoever they were; they hadn’t even bothered to shut the kitchen door behind them as they fled. Still, Nora wasn’t taking any chances. She reached up and switched off the kitchen light before getting up from the floor. Gun in hand, she moved swiftly to the open door and peered outside. The little patch of lawn and flower bushes surrounding the back patio was still, illuminated by soft blue area lights, enclosed in a spiked, six-foot, iron fence that separated the space from the adjacent properties and the service road that ran behind the houses. The iron gate back there stood open as well. Out this door, across the patio and lawn, and through that gate to the service road, then away in either direction.

She lowered the gun to her side, glancing to her left and right. The air outside was cold, and drops of rain were beginning to land on the patio. Lights shone from the windows of the nearest houses, but the proximity of other, living people was no comfort to her-quite the opposite. She shut the back door and crossed the darkened kitchen, careful to avoid the body and the water, stopping only to turn off the burner under the saucepot. Then she went back through the swinging door to the front hallway and the other bodies. Vivian and Bill, so still and silent. And Claudia, so proud of her collegiate son, her Vito. Minutes ago, they were three vital people, and now they were gone, just like that.

She probably wouldn’t be sick again-her trip upstairs had put paid to that-but she was aware of the possibility of shock. She must think, and she must move while she was still able to do so, before grief or numbness or hysteria set in. She was an actor, onstage in mid performance, a thousand paying customers watching and the cast and crew depending on her, and the show must go on. Her friends were dead; nothing could be done for them now. The police weren’t an option, any more than they’d been at Solange’s apartment in Paris, and for the same reason. They would detain her; they might even suspect her, accuse her, charge her. There wasn’t time for that; the clock was ticking. At three o’clock tomorrow afternoon her husband would die…

She thought, I was never here.

Nobody knew she’d come here tonight-nobody alive, at any rate. Even the killer, moving silently through the house while she stood at Vivian’s bathroom sink, had not detected her presence. He’d made a cursory check of the darkened bedrooms, gone back downstairs, and left through the kitchen. If she hadn’t switched off that glaring bathroom light mere moments before he’d opened the bedroom door, she’d be dead now.

She moved to the hall closet and put on her gray coat. Then she steeled herself and went back into the living room. She picked up her martini glass from the coffee table and dropped it in her bag. She winced at the sight of Bill Howard and then focused on the cellphone he’d left lying on the table. She was debating whether to risk using it to make a call when it began to vibrate. It moved slightly on the tabletop, the low sound almost inaudible. Nora stared, fascinated, then abruptly snatched it up and checked the readout: Elder.

Craig Elder was finally returning Bill’s calls. A wave of pure relief was immediately replaced by trepidation. Did she dare answer it? They might be listening, whoever they were: Maurice Dolin and his creatures? Think! she commanded herself. I must give him a message without actually saying anything…

Another vibration. He wouldn’t wait much longer, and then he’d be gone. She snapped the phone on, raised it to her ear, and instantly became Dame Maggie Smith. She spoke in a low, cultured British accent.

“Mr. Howard’s office. Ms. Hughes speaking. May I help you?”

There was a slight pause, an intake of breath. She heard clattering and muffled conversations and soft, atonal Eastern music in the background, samisens and woodblocks. A Japanese restaurant? Then she heard, “Um, hello, Ms. Hughes. This is Craig Elder, returning Mr. Howard’s call. Is he available?”

Good. He was playing along. “Hello, Mr. Elder. I’m afraid Mr. Howard is OC at the moment, but he said to tell you he’ll send the package to you as soon as he’s free. Are you at home now?”

Another sharp intake of breath from the other end of the line. She’d often heard Jeff use that term, OC, meaning out of commission, and Craig would certainly know what it implied in their profession. He recovered quickly and said, “No, I’m not home now, I’m getting takeaway, but I’m on my way there as soon as my order is ready. Please ask him to send the package there. Do you understand, Ms. Hughes? My address is in his phone, if he’s forgotten it. I’ll be waiting.”

“I understand. I’ll give him the message, and he’ll deliver it to you directly, Mr. Elder. Goodbye.”

She broke the connection, then peered down at the phone, looking for the correct buttons. A bit of trial and error finally produced Bill’s electronic address list. It was the fifth entry, after Vivian, Solange, the main office of MI6, and the current prime minister. A flat on the first floor-second floor, Nora the American reminded herself-of an apartment house on Queensway in Bayswater.

She memorized the address, wiped the phone clean with a tissue from her bag, and dropped it back on the coffee table. She stared at Bill Howard in the chair, his forehead pressed into the bright fabric, his arm dangling to the carpet. The silence of the house closed in on her, a palpable presence. She must go, she must get away from all this death, she must breathe fresh air. She wanted to run and run until she couldn’t run anymore. She moved swiftly back through the archway to the front hall.

The doorbell rang, a sudden, shrill noise in the quiet house. Nora froze, staring over at the front door ten feet away, beyond Vivian’s body. They couldn’t have come back, not so soon. Why would they? As far as they knew, they’d killed everyone in the-

The bell rang again, followed by a soft knocking. Then came a tiny voice through the wood. “Missus? Missus Bellini? ’Ello? It’s Shine Gahs’n f’m t’mahkit. ’Ello?”

Shane Garson from the market. With the cream. Dear God! She couldn’t open the door, couldn’t let him see her, couldn’t let him see Vivian lying there in plain sight. But the lights were on, and he’d wonder. More to the point, his mother would wonder a few minutes from now, when the boy returned to the grocery store with the undelivered package. An anxious phone call to Claudia’s number, then Vivian’s number, and then the woman-Bessie?-would come here herself. When she saw the lights and received no answer at the door…

The ringing and knocking continued for a few more moments, then abruptly stopped. He was going away now, back to the shop. Nora figured that she had ten, maybe fifteen minutes before this house, this street, this entire neighborhood would be swarming with police.

A last glance at her friend, dear Vivian, and she was off down the hall, through the swinging door, past the faceless body in the dark, wet kitchen, and out into the rainy night. She bundled the gun back into the shawl and dropped it into her bag, then fished around for the foldaway umbrella and popped it open, but it did little to shield her from the downpour. The patio, the lawn, the back gate. She was weeping now, the hot tears mingling with the icy drops that lashed at her face, blinding her. The martini glass was discarded in a trash can a few doors down, shattered beyond recognition. She hurried away down the long, dark service road, soaking wet and freezing, half running, half staggering, lurching toward the distant lights, biting back sobs as she listened for the imminent shriek of approaching sirens.

Chapter 36

Nora didn’t know where she was anymore. She’d never been familiar with this part of London, and the rain and her advancing shock only added to her awful sense of disorientation. She was running east, in the direction from which she’d arrived earlier in the taxi, but the immaculate streets and well-appointed houses that rushed by her might as well have been on some alien planet, all abstract shadows and wet streaks of light. Now a large main thoroughfare appeared up ahead, and she remembered it from the cab ride. Was it called Park Road? Something like that.

She emerged from a side street into St. John’s Wood Road, and there was a junction on her left. Yes, that was Park Road, over there. And here, miraculously, was a big black cab, pulling over at an awning and discharging an elderly couple into the capable hands of their doorman, waiting at the curb with an oversize umbrella. Nora hurried over and threw herself into the vacated backseat. The doorman shut the door for her and led his tenants away. Nora leaned back against the seat and shut her eyes, thinking furiously.

“Whiteleys,” she finally managed to say, and the cab glided forward into the storm. Some deep instinct-and a hundred old spy movies-told her not to give the cab driver the exact address where she was going. He looked like a classic London cabbie-Caucasian, sixtyish, florid, and graying, in a navy coat and tweed cap-and his medallion displayed his photo and the name CARSTAIRS, PATRICK S., but she wasn’t taking chances. Whiteleys shopping center was in the vicinity of Craig’s building on Queensway, and she could find her way from there. She’d shopped at Whiteleys a few times with Vivian.

Vivian. Oh God, Vivian was dead! Sweet, silly Vivian, who’d never harmed anyone in her life. Vivian had been her friend, a good friend. Bill had always been nice to her too, but Bill had worked in a dangerous profession-Jeff’s profession-and he’d known the constant risks. Now, for the first time, those risks were also Nora’s.

The world outside the taxi windows rushed by in a rainy blur, just like the streets she’d run through in her escape from the murder house. Murder house-God, what a melodramatic phrase! And yet, that was precisely what it was. Bill Howard slumped in the chair, Vivian in the foyer, and Claudia on the kitchen floor, the tendrils of spaghetti mingling with the tendrils of gray hair around her ruined face…

Before Nora was aware of it, a low, keening moan had escaped her. The cabbie glanced at her in the rearview mirror. She shook the image from her mind and smiled weakly at the eyes in the mirror, then looked out at the lights and the hurrying umbrellas on the sidewalks. She felt damp, and not merely from the rain. The cold clamminess on her face and hands had nothing to do with precipitation. It was fear, plain and simple.

This French traitor, Maurice Dolin, was playing for very high stakes. What had Bill said? I don’t think a hundred million pounds would be out of the question. For that sort of payoff, Dolin clearly had no qualms about eliminating the families of his perceived enemies-or anyone else who happened to be nearby. His henchmen, Yussuf and Andy Gilbert, were scouring London, looking for her, and she had no illusions about what they’d do to her when they found her. She’d just seen their handiwork.

She tried to remember Maurice Dolin’s face from the television, but it was difficult. He’d looked so bland, so perfectly ordinary: a heavyset, balding, middle-aged businessman with a thick mustache and thick glasses. Nora passed a hundred such people on the street every day, graying men in gray suits. But the actor in her knew that the most outrageous personalities could lurk behind the most unassuming façades. That paunchy, jowly Frenchman had just murdered his British equivalent, and he was holding Nora’s husband.

The car slowed as it turned into the bustling thoroughfare in Bayswater, and the enormous indoor shopping mall gleamed cheerfully in the rain before them.

“Right here is fine,” Nora said to the driver, and he pulled over to the curb. She fumbled with the British money in her wallet, adding a tip that was nearly as much as the fare, which garnered her a heartfelt “Cheers!” from the front seat. By the time she emerged from the cab, three laughing young women in sparkling minidresses under their raincoats were politely pushing past her and tumbling into it.

Nora smiled perfunctorily at the women, thinking, Normal life. The real world. They’d just had a girls-only dinner, no doubt, and now they were off to a party or a dance club, whereas she must make contact with a secret agent, tell him about the stiffs in St. John’s Wood, then figure out how to find someone named Laura so the fuzz could close in for the collar. If it weren’t so macabre, it would be funny.

She checked the addresses on the nearest buildings to see which way the numbers ran, then walked along the busy sidewalk, bent forward under her umbrella, acutely aware of the wet, huddled bodies barging past her. Everyone was hurrying to get out of the downpour, everyone but her; she was hurrying for another reason. His building wouldn’t be much farther now-

She halted at the corner near the entrance to the Queensway Underground station, peering through the rain at the scene before her, halfway down the next block: flashing blue lights and a gathering crowd in front of a seven-story apartment building. She stared, waiting impatiently for the light at the crosswalk, feeling the first thrill of anxiety. Was that Craig’s building? It might be. The light changed, and she ran across the street, wincing as a loud siren wail approached from behind her.

An ambulance sped past her and skidded to a stop near the clutch of police cars. A lone bobby stood in the intersection she’d just crossed, stopping all vehicular traffic with sharp blasts of his whistle and rerouting it away down a side street. As Nora neared the building, three blue-clad paramedics burst out of the ambulance and ran inside, wheeling a gurney between them. She arrived at the back edge of the crowd that stood, gaping and chattering excitedly, on the sidewalk.

Two women were beside her in the throng, huddled together under their umbrellas, staring with the others. One of them pointed at the activity and turned to her companion.

“I asked the officer why we couldn’t go inside, and he said they had to remove the body first. Body! Dear Lord, Tim and I have lived here eight years now and never anything like this in the building! They say it’s flat three on the first floor-you know him, Beryl, that nice young man, Mr. Elder, the dishy chap what’s always pleasant and saying ‘Good day.’ Oh dear, what a shame if it’s him!”

“Calm yourself, Flo,” her companion said. “We don’t know what’s happened yet. They’ll let us in directly, and then we can find out what’s really-”

Nora took a step back from the clutch of people. She stared at the entrance to the building another moment, then turned and retraced her steps to the intersection. So, they’d found Craig Elder, and in the thirty minutes or so since she’d spoken to him on the phone. They’d lain in wait for him, caught him at home as he returned with his takeout dinner. Craig Elder, that kind young man, her last hope.

Her first, overwhelming instinct was to get out of here, and the Underground entrance across the street was her best bet. But where could she go? Not her husband’s place, and not the Byron Hotel. Yussuf had people watching it.

She paused at the corner, thinking. The Byron Hotel. Lonny Tindall. If she could get in touch with him, perhaps he could help her. Yes, Lonny would think of something, somewhere for her to go; he was so clever and resourceful. She crossed the street and hurried toward the subway entrance.

She didn’t make it. She was a few yards from the doorway when her arm was seized from behind in a powerful grip. She gasped and whirled around. When she saw who had grabbed her, she nearly fainted, first in surprise and then in relief.

It was Craig Elder, back from the dead. And he didn’t look happy about it.

Chapter 37

“Craig!” Nora cried. She dropped her umbrella on the sidewalk and threw her arms around his neck. “I thought you were-”

“No,” he said, gently extricating himself from her embrace and bending down to pick up her umbrella. “It wasn’t me. Come on, we have to get out of here. Someone could see us.”

He grasped her hand and pulled her away from the bright lights at the Underground entrance, around the corner, and down a side street. She hurried along beside him, straining to keep up, the rain stinging her skin as they moved. He was wearing a dark raincoat with the collar up and a black watchman’s cap pulled low over his brow. She could barely see his face, only his stricken eyes and scowling lips.

“In here,” he said, stopping abruptly on the sidewalk. “We can talk here.” He led her through a doorway into a pub.

Nora looked around the room, checking for enemies. It was quiet and warm with dim lighting, a long bar, and several tables and booths crowded into the snug space. Not many people here on this rainy evening: a lone drinker at the bar, a young couple necking at one table, and two middle-aged men with pints at another. An older woman with bleached blond hair and too much makeup lounged behind the counter, staring up at the flat-screen television on the wall above her. An announcer’s face filled the screen above the legend: WIMBLEDON RAIN DELAY.

Craig led her over to a booth in the farthest, darkest corner and then went up to the bar. Nora took off her coat and slid into the booth, facing the room, shaking the rain from her hair. She fished for her compact and inspected her face, unsurprised to see the dazed expression in her eyes. The house, the bodies, running through the night, the taxi, the police cars, the ambulance, the stretcher-and then Craig, dead but not dead, materializing from nowhere and grabbing her arm. She took in several breaths and exhaled slowly, willing herself to relax. By the time Craig returned with two brandy snifters, her heartbeat had slowed to something like normal.

“Drink this,” he said. “You look like you could use it. She’s bringing us tea.” He removed the coat and hat and slid in across from her. “I’ve never been in here before, and I don’t see anyone from my building. We should be okay for a while.”

Nora sipped, then coughed as the strong liquor seared her throat. Craig downed his in one gulp and fell back against the banquette. She was surprised to see tears in his eyes.

“They killed Wendy,” he said. “They killed my girl. I went out to get some food, Japanese takeaway, just down the road. I was only gone for-” He broke off, slamming a fist down on the scarred wood table.

Nora reached over to cover his fist with her hand. “Who? Who did this, do you know?”

He shook his head. “I only copped bits and pieces from the crowd in the street. They said a neighbor-old Mrs. Selby, in the flat across from mine-heard a commotion, a man shouting, and Wendy screamed. Mrs. Selby is in her eighties; she doesn’t move very fast. She finally got to her door and peeked out into the hall. The door to my flat was wide open, and she saw-she saw Wendy lying there on the floor, and she called the police. I was in the restaurant-I talked to you while they made up my order-and when I got back onto the street, I saw the crowds and the police cars. The people were saying- The word was going round that it must be the boyfriend, the man who lives in the flat. Me! I-I got the hell out of there before one of my neighbors saw me.” Another shake of his head, then a shrug. “Someone’s going to find a bag of sushi there on the walk-I must have dropped it when I took off…”

“Oh, Craig!” Nora said. “Why did you run? Why didn’t you tell the police what you were-”

“Tell them what?” he cried. He glanced around the pub and lowered his voice. “Don’t you see, Nora? I can’t tell them anything. My girl was killed by terrorists? I work in national security? Who’s going to believe me? Everything we’re doing, everything we’ve been doing-none of it is official. The only person on earth who can vouch for me is Bill Howard, and unless I mistook your message on the phone, Bill Howard is dead. Is that right, Nora? Did they kill him too?”

Nora couldn’t bear the look in his eyes. She turned away, gazing off across the dark room. The lovers were still at it, but everyone else in the pub was clearly impatient for the matches to begin again on the television. The rain delay banner was still on the screen; they were showing highlights of earlier games to fill the void in the interim.

“Yes,” she whispered at last, and she began to weep again. “Bill is dead, and Vivian, and Claudia. They killed all of them. The blood was-it was horrible.”

Craig leaned forward, studying her face. “Where were you, Nora? I mean, why are you-” He broke off there, apparently unwilling to say it aloud: Why are you still alive?

She told him everything as quickly and succinctly as she could, using a napkin to wipe her tears away as she spoke. She began with the events of the afternoon, the conversation she’d overheard in Leicester Square and her trip to her husband’s flat. Then she took him through the entire incident at Vivian’s house. He already knew about Maurice Dolin’s disappearance and what it probably meant, and he wasn’t surprised by it. He’d had his suspicions about Dolin for a while, he said, but he’d been unwilling to share them with Bill Howard because the two men were such old friends. When she got to the part where the doorbell rang as she was about to leave the house, he raised a hand to stop her.

“Okay,” he said. “Does anyone else know about all this?”

“No,” Nora assured him. “But it’s just a matter of time now. That little boy, Shane Garson, must have told his mother that no one answered his ring. She’s a friend of Claudia’s. She’ll certainly be suspicious and-”

He held up his hand again. “We can’t worry about that now, because we can’t do anything about it. If she calls the police, then they’ll know. We have bigger worries now. Whoever killed Wendy was there looking for me, and judging from the timing, it could be the same person who was at the Howards’ house. They came to me from there, which means they’re still after me. And they’re definitely after you too. We have to get somewhere safe, now, someplace where we can rest awhile. Then we can try to figure out what to do about-”

“ ’Ere you are, luv!” A heavy tray was suddenly plunked down on the table between them, bearing a teapot, cups, and a plate of shortbread cookies. The barmaid stood above them, grinning down. They both looked up at her, and Nora forced a smile to her lips.

“Thank you,” she said.

“C’n I get you anythin’ else?” The woman seemed eager to please, taking special care with her few customers on this wet night.

“No, thank you, this is fine,” Nora said. With a smile and a nod, the woman bustled away. Nora poured tea for both of them, and Craig drained his cup and asked for more. She was pouring it for him when she glanced over at the room. At the television. The teapot clattered down on the table.

“Look!” she whispered.

Now, above the Wimbledon rain delay banner, the screen was filled with the legend, BREAKING NEWS: MURDER IN BAYSWATER. The legend was replaced by footage of the activity in front of the apartment building. The woman who’d just served them was watching it too.

“Cor, that’s just round the corner f’m ’ere!” she cried, and everyone in the bar turned to see. The woman picked up a remote from the counter and aimed. The newscaster’s voice filled the room.

“-haven’t yet disclosed the identity of the victim of the strangling, a young woman, but they are interested in speaking with the resident of the flat, a man named Craig Elder.”

The photo that appeared on the screen was an old one, perhaps from his high school days. Craig had long hair, nearly to his shoulders, and a thick mustache. He was grinning self-consciously into the camera. Nora looked from the image on the screen to the man across from her, assessing him. He looked quite different now, with his buzz cut and clean-shaven face. Older, of course, and much more self-assured than the callow young man in the picture. No, she definitely wouldn’t connect the two faces in her mind. She held her breath, hoping that the barmaid wasn’t preternaturally observant.

Apparently not. As the breaking story ended and the tennis footage returned, the woman shook her head, crossed herself, switched off the sound of the TV, and began pouring fresh pints for the two older men. Even so, Nora thought as she gulped down her tea, it was best not to stick around here.

Craig clearly agreed. He was already out of his seat, reaching for his coat. She stood and did the same.

“I need you to fetch the car,” he said. “The brown Focus. It’s parked in the street, a few doors past my building.” He pulled a key ring from his pocket and handed it to her. “This key is for the Focus, the other is for my car, but that’s in a garage and they might be watching it. And we’d best not chance taxis or buses or the Underground; the drivers will all have my snap by now. I’ll wait here till you pull round.”

“Right,” Nora said. She shouldered her bag and headed for the door while Craig paid the hostess. The news report had shaken her, and not merely for the obvious reasons. It had reminded her of the television in the dining room at the French guesthouse yesterday morning, with the security camera photo of her in the cemetery in Pinède. It also reminded her of the scene earlier this evening, at Vivian’s house, watching the newscast about Maurice Dolin with her friends. Minutes later, her friends had been shot at point-blank range while she was upstairs, mere yards away from the assassin. Three times in two days, now, bad news had arrived by television, as if it were some modern, electronic version of the running messengers in those Greek plays she’d studied in drama school. My lords, the king is dead, and Thebes is fallen…

Outside the pub, the rain was coming down harder than before, and she couldn’t control the trembling in her hands. She’d have to drive the car back here in a near-blinding downpour. She was under the awning, tying a scarf over her hair and fumbling with her umbrella, when it occurred to her that she’d never driven in England before. The steering wheel was on the right, and she’d have to stay on the left side of the street. Everything would be backward. Dear God…

Bracing herself, she set off toward the main road. She rounded the corner onto Queensway and walked toward Craig’s building, peering through the rain at the spot where the crowds had been. The ambulance was gone, but two police cars were still there, double-parked, blue lights flashing. The officers and detectives would be in Craig’s flat upstairs, gathering evidence at what was now a crime scene. Only three or four curious onlookers remained in a cluster near the doorway, huddled under umbrellas, watching the comings and goings of the officials. She was walking past them, directly in front of the building, when she saw one face she recognized. He stood apart from the others, no more than eight feet away from her, and he wasn’t looking into the lobby like everyone else. He was glancing up and down the street as though he was waiting for someone, and Nora had no doubt whom that someone was.

Andy Gilbert, all six and a half feet and two hundred fifty pounds of him, was waiting for Craig Elder to come home so he could finish the job he’d been sent here to do.

Nora turned her face away from him, looking out into the street, grateful that she’d stopped long enough to cover her head with the scarf. She moved more quickly as she escaped down the sidewalk, searching for the brown Ford Focus. Get to the car, she told herself; get to the car and drive away before he notices me. There’s the Focus, just ahead in the row of vehicles parked at the curb. Get to the car and-

She aimed the key ring and clicked it, then opened the door and got inside. She pulled off the scarf and dropped it in her bag. The steering column was at the other end of the dashboard, of course, so she clambered across into the driver’s seat. As she turned the key in the ignition, she looked out through the rainy windshield to see Andy Gilbert looking in her direction, and she saw his eyes widen in recognition as he spotted her.

Then he was running toward her.

Chapter 38

Key. Ignition. Lights. Windshield wipers. The car was an automatic, thank God, but she reached down with her right hand for the gearshift. The big man was pounding this way, his huge arms working like pistons. Left hand, she commanded herself. Her left hand fumbled awkwardly down to the lever and she pushed it from P to D and slammed her right foot-right, not left!-down on the accelerator. The car lunged forward, directly into the back end of the SUV parked in front of her. A dull crunch. Reverse, reverse, push backward for reverse…

Another quick glance at Andy Gilbert through the row of parked cars ahead. He was three cars away now, closing in, his right hand touching his ear, his lips moving. He was speaking into a headset. Reverse-the car jerked back, away from the dented fender of the SUV, and smashed into the front bumper of the car behind her. She was thrown forward, grasping the steering wheel to avoid colliding with it. She twisted the wheel to the right and hit the accelerator again, and the Focus shot out of the space into the street. A blaring horn, the sudden shriek of brakes on wet asphalt just behind her, and the blinding glare of headlights from the bright red car she’d just cut off. More honking. She saw in the rearview mirror that a line of cars had come to a sudden stop, thanks to her. Ignoring the horns and the angry shouts, she straightened the front end of the car and pressed the accelerator again.

He’d seen what she was doing, so he was clearly planning on heading her off. He pivoted on the sidewalk and shot out between two parked cars just ahead of her, directly into her path, raising his arms in front of him.

“Stop!” he bellowed.

Her headlights caught the look on his face, the widening of his eyes and the opening of his mouth as he realized that she was not going to obey him. She pressed down harder on the pedal, shutting her eyes and bracing for the inevitable impact. He must have tried to leap out of the way, because the thump, when it came, was on the left side of the car, not the center. Against her will, her eyes opened, and she saw. Andy Gilbert fell forward across the left side of the hood, then bounced and flew off to the side, the back of his head smashing into a window of the parked car behind him, shattering it. The Focus slid past and headed for the intersection. A red light.

Nora stomped her left foot down on the brake and skidded to a stop on the wet road just as a young woman with an umbrella stepped out in front of her. Turn signal, turn signal…there. Turn left, she instructed herself, into the left lane, not the right lane. The blinker blinked, the wipers swept rhythmically back and forth across the windshield, and the red car she’d nearly sideswiped came to a stop behind her. The driver, a middle-aged man, was leaning his head out his window, shouting and gesticulating at her, pointing back the way they’d come. He’d seen the collision, and he was berating her for leaving the scene of an accident.

She peered into the rearview mirror, straining to see through the rain. A large, dark figure was crumpled in the street beside the parked car some thirty yards behind her, and other pedestrians were arriving there. A gaggle of umbrellas closed in on the spot, and she heard more shouting. It had seemed so artificial to her, so choreographed, the impact and the body bouncing gracefully back into the other car, smashing the breakaway window like a stuntman in a Bruce Willis movie. It couldn’t have been real, could it? She couldn’t possibly have just killed a man.

The man in the red car was opening his door, preparing to get out and give her a piece of his mind. He’d make a citizen’s arrest, no doubt, and she would be taken to a precinct station and charged with vehicular manslaughter, held without bail, her passport confiscated, and tomorrow afternoon Jeff would die. Her husband was alone and afraid and probably injured in some remote place, and she was his only hope of survival. No, she thought. No! This clown in the red car will not detain me. If I killed Andy Gilbert, so be it. I must find my husband. That’s what matters. That’s all that matters. The man was out of the car now, moving toward her driver’s door, an angry scowl on his face, and now he would-

Nora didn’t even think; she merely acted. She spun the wheel to the left and mashed her boot down on the accelerator. The Focus slued sideways, the tires sliding in the rain as she made the turn before the light had changed. The whine of the engine and the screech of the tires filled her ears, but they weren’t as deafening to her as the pounding in her chest. She struggled to draw breath. Go, go, go, go. Her mind repeated the word over and over as the car shot forward and flew off down the quiet side street.

And there was Craig, caught in the headlights, standing on the sidewalk in front of the pub, staring as she bore down on him. She shuddered to a stop beside him, stalling the engine in the process. She managed to slide the gearshift into neutral before throwing herself over into the passenger seat, sobbing, feeling blindly for the seatbelt. By the time she’d strapped herself in, he was in the driver’s seat and maneuvering the car forward toward the next intersection.

“What is it?” he asked, glancing over at her. “What’s wrong?”

It took her a few moments of hyperventilated gasping before she could draw enough breath to speak. “I-I think I killed him.”

“What?” he cried. “Who?”

Another gasp, another hiccup. She fought for control, but panic was setting in. “Gil-Gilbert. Andy Gilbert. I hit him with-with the car.”

Now it was Craig’s turn to gasp, and he muttered a word she’d once berated Dana for using. Then he said, “Where was Andy Gilbert when you first saw him?”

“In front of your building,” she said, breathing more deeply now. “He was waiting there for you. He must have killed Bill and Viv, and your friend Wendy. He saw me when I got in the car, and he-he ran right out in front of me. I knocked him down, and the man in the car behind me started to-”

As if on cue, a loud honking began behind them. Nora turned in her seat and peered through the rain at two bright headlights. Her eyes adjusted to the glare, and she saw a red car, just like…

“Oh God, that’s him!” she cried. “That’s the man who was behind me! He’s following us!”

Craig glanced briefly in the rearview mirror. Very briefly.

“Hang on,” he said, and they sped through an intersection just as the lights changed. A late pedestrian, a tall young man, cried out and leaped for the curb as they flew past him. The squeal of tires behind them told her that the red car had been caught by the light, and the civic-minded busybody-unlike Craig-was obeying the traffic laws.

Craig turned the car into another wide street, then another. She had no idea where they were; they might be heading north now, but she wasn’t sure. No, there was Hyde Park again. East-they were traveling east. She fell back against the seat and shut her eyes, content to let him steer them out of this, and concentrated on breathing evenly once more. Bright lights in the rain: Piccadilly? Oxford? One of the circuses flew by, then more side streets. She knew the East End of London even less than the western sections they’d just fled. She had vague memories of docks and Whitechapel and long lines of seedy rowhouses and very little else.

“Where are we going?” she finally ventured.

Craig didn’t remove his gaze from the rainy road ahead. “Somewhere safe,” he said and left it at that.

She nodded, saying nothing, and leaned back again. The night was catching up with her: the shocks, the heartbreak, the near-constant running. And now she’d killed a man-a murderer, perhaps, but nevertheless, another human being. The enormity of it pressed in on her, shutting down her senses. Despite her best efforts to remain alert, she drifted away, out of the rain and the death and the horror into soothing oblivion.

Chapter 39

She woke in darkness, and her first instinct was to panic. She sat up in the car seat, blinking around, aware that they were stopped and the driver’s seat beside her was empty. She was alone in the car. Beyond the windshield and side windows, she could see nothing: It was pitch black, everywhere.

A thrill of terror rose up in her, only to be quelled a moment later. She heard a rhythmic scraping sound from behind the car, and she felt a slight vibration. She twisted around in the seat to see a small light bobbing up and down just behind the rear window, and she could just make out the dim glow of Craig’s face. He was holding a penlight in his mouth while he did something with his hands.

Nora yanked off her seatbelt and got out of the car, nearly colliding with the side of another vehicle parked beside it, a low-slung sports car. She blinked in the gloom, taking in the dark shapes of other cars in a line beyond the one in front of her. They were parked in a garage, the sort she’d seen on plenty of London side streets: long, low buildings that accommodated anywhere from three to ten cars in a row, each with its own door. Perhaps they were in a mews or a gated, private street. Wherever they were, it was very quiet. She couldn’t hear a sound of traffic or people, any life at all, beyond the walls and doors that surrounded them.

Craig took the penlight out of his mouth. “Sorry if I woke you,” he said, rising from his kneeling position behind the car. He switched the light off, plunging them into total darkness.

Nora blinked. “Where are we?”

“Just a stop,” he said, joining her at the side of the car. “A necessary pit stop. This Nissan”-he gestured at the sports car-“belongs to someone I know. I’m borrowing her number plates for a bit. She’s in Australia at the moment; she won’t miss them. But that man back there probably wrote down our number, so…”

Nora’s eyes were adjusting to the dark, and now she saw the flat metal objects in his hands. He’d switched the Focus’s license plates for the ones from the Nissan.

“She,” Nora said. “Let me guess: You mentioned two girlfriends, and this is the other one, right?”

He went over and crouched down, grasping the handle to raise the garage door behind the Focus. “Aye, Sandra. She’s a flight attendant, and she’s off in Sydney today. I sometimes use this parking space next to hers when I’m, um, visiting her. I wish we could stay here-her place is just nearby-but her flatmate is home, far as I know, and she’s probably heard the news by now. It wouldn’t do. We’d best get out of town.”

He slid the door up and headed for the car. Nora waited while he backed out onto the lane and then followed him outside, pulling down the door before rejoining him in the car. She brushed the raindrops from her hair and face as they drove out of the lane onto a tree-lined city street.

The clock on the dash read 11:03. She’d only slept for a few minutes, and now she realized how weary she was. Her anxiety, her constant need to find Jeff as the hours ticked down, had totally worn her out, and she hadn’t eaten since-when? She couldn’t remember. Oh yes, breakfast at the Byron Hotel. Coffee and a cookie at Jeff’s place. Then she’d had those gin martinis at Vivian’s and thrown up everything in her stomach. A glass of brandy and half a cup of tea at the pub; the shortbread had gone untouched with the jarring news on the television and their quick getaway. She was tired and hungry, and she’d killed a man, and she was sick with worry. Three o’clock tomorrow afternoon. Sixteen hours…

As though reading her thoughts, Craig said, “We can’t do anything for Mr. Baron at the moment, and we won’t be able to do anything, period, if we don’t eat something and sleep for a while. I know a place, an inn off the motorway not far from London. It’s what you Americans would call a ‘no-tell motel,’ and thanks for not asking how I’m acquainted with it. But they take cash and ask no questions, and there’s a lay-by just down the way. We’ll get food there and take it to the room. Then you can sleep and I can make some calls.”

“Calls?”

“A colleague of Mr. Howard’s, someone he trusts. Trusted. God, I can’t believe what’s happened; I can’t seem to get my mind around it. I can’t believe Mr. Howard is- Well, anyway, I placed a call while you were dozing, and they might have some answers for me by the time we get where we’re going. They’re handling things at the house in St. John’s Wood.”

Nora was about to ask what that meant, what exactly was being handled, but another wave of weariness washed over her. Her head fell back against the seat, and she drifted off again, the steady hum of the tires on the wet road lulling her back into somnolence.

The sound of the car door closing woke her this time, and she sat up and blinked around. The clock on the dash now read 12:11. The rain had let up, at least momentarily. They were stopped in a large parking lot, and Craig was disappearing inside a brightly lit building ahead of her. She looked around the lot until she found the big sign near the motorway behind her: ROAD CHEF.

While she waited, she found the compact in her bag and studied her face, expecting what Jeff always called the cat’s breakfast. Instead, she marveled again at the fact that the bizarre events of the past few days didn’t seem to be taking a particular toll on her looks. The woman in the compact mirror appeared to be as she always was: composed, sedate, almost serene. Tired, definitely, but not haggard. The actress was still onstage, apparently, concealing her inner torment beneath a placid exterior. She smiled grimly to herself, thinking, Once a trouper, always a trouper.

Craig came back with two bags and placed them on the backseat before getting in and driving back out onto the motorway. The scent of fresh coffee filled the car, making her mouth water in anticipation. Minutes later, they left the road again, this time into the lot of a long, shabby-looking, one-story block of a building with pink walls and green doors. The sign by the road had the name OASIS, spelled out in pink letters beside a green palm tree. A dozen rooms but only two cars in the lot-three, now that the Focus had arrived. Craig had chosen well; they were guaranteed privacy here.

She waited outside while Craig went into the glass-fronted office at one end. The old man at the desk was asleep, she noticed, but he stirred himself and handed over a key for cash without even looking up at his guest. Then he went back to sleep.

Room 4 was surprisingly clean and tidy, with a big bed, an armchair, a table with two chairs, and a tiny bathroom with a shower. They sat at the table, and Craig proceeded to lay out roast beef and chicken sandwiches, potato chips, bottled water, a huge can of Foster’s lager, two coffees, and two Cadbury fruit-and-nut bars. They fell on the meal without a word, she taking the water and he the beer. All the food disappeared, and they were on the coffee and chocolate bars when he finally spoke.

“Okay, let me call London, and then I want you to tell me everything you heard in the park again.”

She nodded, picked up her bag, and went into the bathroom. The facilities here were as clean as the room, she was glad to note. She brushed her teeth and washed her face, frowning at her reflection as she recalled her similar actions in Vivian’s upstairs bathroom four hours ago. When she came back out into the room, Craig was just ending his call. He pocketed the phone and reached for his coffee.

“The house is secure,” he said. “The agency sent people there, and the police have been kept out of it. The woman from the grocer’s was told that the dinner was canceled and the cream wasn’t needed. Mr. and Mrs. Howard and Mrs. Bellini have been taken to the morgue. There’s still a call out for me, but I’m not a suspect; the police just want to question me. They know I was in the takeaway at the crucial time, and someone has come forward who saw a large black man running from my building-that would be our friend Andy Gilbert, who’s in the hospital with a head concussion and broken ribs. They’re at his bedside, waiting to arrest him. He’s unconscious but expected to make a full recovery. He’ll probably wake up in Dartmoor, but that’s his lookout.”

“Oh, thank God!” Nora cried. “But can’t they force him to wake up? Drugs or electrodes or whatever? It may be illegal, but I don’t care! That man knows where Jeff is!”

Craig didn’t seem to be at all disturbed by her sudden violent outburst, but he was definitely more realistic about their predicament. “No, Nora. In his condition, any of those things could kill him sooner than he could tell us anything. As little use as he is at the moment, he’d be a lot less useful if he were to die.”

She didn’t like admitting defeat, but what was left of her common sense told her that he was right, and it was galling.

“I suppose,” she muttered at last. “I guess we’ll just have to concentrate on the good news.”

He nodded. “Yes, the good news is, you didn’t kill anyone and I’m not a murder suspect. But the bad news is, we can’t question Andy Gilbert, and we still haven’t found the Frenchman and his henchmen. Hey, that’s pretty good-the Frenchman and his henchmen! I wish I felt like laughing. So, what do you remember from the park? What, exactly, did Andy and this Yussuf character say?”

Nora was still recovering, torn between her relief that Andy Gilbert was alive and her frustration that he was unable to communicate, and it took a few moments for her to organize her thoughts. She repeated the conversation on the park bench as best she could, and he listened intently.

“Okay,” he said when she was finished. “I agree with you; it sounds like Mr. Baron-Jeff-is alive. They were talking about him in the present tense. That’s good, but I’m damned if I know what the rest of it could mean, Copperfield and Laura. The only Copperfield I ever heard of is in the Dickens story, and I don’t know anyone named Laura.”

“That’s what Bill said,” Nora told him, wincing at the memory of the house in St. John’s Wood. She was suddenly overwhelmed by a sense of futility. She slumped over the table, shutting her tired eyes. “What can we do? We’re no closer to a solution than-”

“You get some sleep, Nora,” he said. “Just for a while. I’ll think of something, don’t you worry.”

She nodded and went over to the bed. She sat on it, removing her boots.

“Craig,” she said, “where do we go from here? Back to London? If the police aren’t looking for you anymore-”

“No,” he said, “we’re going to continue heading east. Mr. Baron was taken from King’s Lynn train station, and I don’t think they’d chance taking him too far. He’s probably being held somewhere near there. The Frenchman must be holed up there too. Where else in England would he have gone? And Nassim Gamal and the man and woman who arrived from wherever-”

Nora had to think a moment. “Libya.”

“-Libya. All these people are meeting up someplace, and that place is most likely where they’re holding Mr. Baron. In the morning, you and I are going to Norfolk. My people in London are calling me back with the address of Mr. Howard’s house there, and I figure it’s the best place to start looking.”

Nora took off her jacket and lay down on the bed. Staring up at the ceiling, she said, “We only have a few hours. Three o’clock tomorrow afternoon…”

“Yes, but now we have something we didn’t have before. We have Mr. Howard’s entire agency. They’re all looking for Maurice Dolin, and Mr. Howard’s death has convinced them that Dolin is involved in the arms deal. Our work is finally being acknowledged by the brass. More than acknowledged: They’ve joined us in it. By noon tomorrow, Norfolk will be swarming with field agents. All roads and airports will be monitored, and all big cars and lorries will be stopped and inspected. Dolin and his friends won’t be able to go anywhere. Rest now, Nora. I have a good feeling about this.”

Nora nodded and shut her eyes. The pillow was soft beneath her head. Her last thought before sleep overcame her was that finding Dolin and the weapons was all well and good, but it wouldn’t necessarily save her husband…

She was awakened a moment later, or so she thought. Craig was gently shaking her and calling her name. She sat up on the bed, instantly alert, surprised to see sunlight streaming in through the curtains at the window.

“What?” she gasped. “What time is it?”

“Get up, Nora. It’s 9:15, time to hit the road.”

She looked up at him, at his beaming face, and felt a glimmer of hope. “What’s happened?”

In answer, he reached for her hand and pulled her up from the bed. She stood in her stockinged feet, blinking at him as he held up a notepad before her face. Three words were written there in block letters. The first two words were COWPER FIELD.

“What’s this?” she asked.

Craig was grinning in triumph. “The head office in London called me back just now, and I wrote down what they told me. They were looking for a Copperfield in the Norfolk area, and they found it. A small private airfield near Titchwell Marsh, you know, the bird reserve. Not Copperfield-Cowper Field!”

Nora nodded, then lowered her gaze to the third word: LAURELS. She stared. “Laurels? What’s Laurels?”

Craig Elder’s grin grew even wider. “That’s where we’re going. Not Laura’s-Laurels! It’s the name of Mr. Howard’s country house!”

Nora didn’t even bother to put on her boots. Snatching them up from the floor, she grabbed her coat and bag and marched to the door, with Craig right behind her.

Chapter 40

On the road to Norfolk, Nora got the lay of the land. They’d stopped at a petrol station to fill up, and Nora had asked the attendant for a local map. What he’d sold her turned out to be a guidebook to the region with a big foldout map attached. As Craig drove them north from Cambridge along the motorway, she studied the map and read the brief descriptions of the countryside.

The village where they were going, Sedgeford, was a tiny farming community, notable for its round-towered church and for the Magazine Cottage, once an actual arsenal for storing gunpowder and weapons hundreds of years ago. The cottage and Magazine Farm were highlights along Peddars Way, the ancient Roman road that ran through the northern edge of the village. The easternmost royal residence, Sandringham House, was nearby, but the queen was rarely there, according to the book.

Sedgeford was a few dozen kilometers northeast of King’s Lynn, where Jeff had last been seen. The Wash, the big estuary carved into the northern side of the Norfolk peninsula, was just to the west, and the North Sea was seven kilometers to the north. The North Sea was where the bird sanctuary Craig had mentioned was located, and-much more important to Nora-the locale of Cowper Field, a private airstrip for cargo planes bringing goods to the local towns and villages. She followed the line of the road north from the village to the airfield on the map, calculating. Seven kilometers: about four miles. Carrying parts for weapons of mass destruction from Laurels to Cowper Field would be a matter of a few minutes’ drive, then a cargo plane to an unknown destination, definitely not in England. The Middle East, eventually. She glanced at her watch: 11:07.

She didn’t need the guidebook to tell her how flat Norfolk was; she could see that through the windshield. As they neared the easternmost coast of England, mountains and hills vanished completely, replaced by flatlands filled with crops: barley and beets, according to the pamphlet, but also fields of glistening golden wheat, as far as she could see. At one point they passed a lavender farm, and the rich scent filled the car.

What the guidebook did not indicate was the exact location of Laurels, or of any of the larger homes in the area. There was apparently a downtown, or high street or whatever, in the village, but the meager population-just over six hundred at the last census-was spread out over a six-mile area. They’d have to ask someone for directions.

Craig was clearly thinking the same thing. He left the motorway at the proper exit and drove along a small country road, heading north. As they passed the first signpost to mention the village by name-SEDGEFORD: 2 KM-he slowed the car. A tall, thin, elderly man in well-worn tweeds was walking along the verge of the road with a beautiful red setter. The car came abreast of him, and Craig leaned out to speak.

“Morning, sir. We’re looking for a place called Laurels. Would you-”

It was as far as he got. With a hearty grin and a bellowed, “G’day to ye, lad!” the old man launched into a monologue, with much pointing and gesticulating, but Nora-for all her dramatic training in speech and regional dialects-couldn’t understand a single word. Fortunately, Craig was much more attuned to the heavy accents of rural England.

“Of course,” he said to the man, and he leaped from the car and opened the rear door. The big dog jumped up onto the backseat, followed by its master, who huffed and puffed a great deal as he settled himself. Craig got back in and continued along the road.

Nora smiled at their new passengers and reached out to stroke the dog’s soft head, getting a friendly lick of her hand in return. The old man laughed and spoke some more gibberish, and Craig responded to this with a few brisk nods. They came into the village, such as it was, a lovely church and a few other buildings, and Craig pulled over near one of them and stopped. The old man and dog got out, and with a hearty handshake for Craig and a winking smile for Nora, they disappeared inside the door beside a swinging sign. A pub, of course.

“What was that all about?” she asked as they drove on.

Craig laughed. “That was Mr. Wycliff and Rex, out for a morning constitutional before repairing to their favorite haunt for an early lunch, which I suspect will be mostly liquid. But he told me where we’re going, anyway. We turn here. Now we look for Peddars Way, the oldest road in Great Britain. We pass Magazine Cottage, and go on until we reach the forest beyond the fields, then we turn left, and it’s a mile down that road to the country estates. That’s what Mr. Wycliff called them, anyway. Apparently, Laurels was once a horse farm, but now the ooties have arrived.”

“The ooties?”

“Outies, in our language. Outsiders. Worse: Londoners! The locals are still getting used to the recent influx of tourism and all the new bed-and-breakfast hotels in the area, but actual city dwellers moving here to live has caused no end of a scandal. He knew the previous owner of Laurels, and he met Mr. Howard once, in the pub, with-with Solange. But he hasn’t seen them in a while, and now, in the last few days, there are some real ooties about the place. Blackies, to use his word. Foreign nationals, I should think.”

Nora thought about this. Nassim Gamal and the man and woman from Libya. And others, perhaps, British citizens from that part of the world, converging at Laurels for the exchange or the sale or whatever it was. And in the middle of all this activity, her husband. She shut her eyes, willing herself to remain calm, reminding herself that the cavalry-the local police and MI5-were on the way.

The pretty stone Magazine Cottage came and went, then more fields, and finally the trees. Craig slowed the car and turned left, driving along a bumpy lane beside the outer edge of what appeared to be a substantial forest. It was then, gazing out at the trees, that Nora remembered her remarkably similar journey three days before, in France. Pinède had been high in the mountains, and Sedgeford was on level ground, but her paths to them had been the same. Both times, she’d left the capital city and traveled to the easternmost boundary of the country, to a tiny forest village. Remembering what had happened to her in the first one, she glanced over her shoulder at her bag on the backseat, grateful for the little revolver wrapped in her shawl at the bottom of it.

She wondered if she’d need it.

They passed a big stone house set well back from the road, with iron gates blocking the entrance to a long driveway, and Craig slowed the car again, studying the view ahead of them. A few more yards, and he suddenly turned right, into the trees. Nora stared as two huge evergreens appeared before them, then relaxed when she saw that they were actually driving on an unpaved track between the trunks, heading directly into the dark woods. She glanced over at Craig, deciding not to question him as he navigated the car along the incredibly narrow path.

The scents of pine and green grass drifted through her window, and she breathed deeply. She assumed this was the way to Laurels and at any moment they would emerge from the trees to find a farmhouse and stables surrounded by fields like the ones they’d been passing all morning. She was bracing herself for her first sight of her husband’s prison when Craig suddenly stopped the car and cut the engine.

“Okay,” he said before she could speak. “The rest of the way is on foot.”

“Where are we?” she asked.

“Well, if I caught everything Mr. Wycliff was saying a mile a minute, Laurels is the next farm that way.” He waved an arm to his left. “But we can’t just roll right in and say howdy. We don’t know what we’re facing, but we will before we do anything. Let’s spy on them for a while, see what we can see, then I can call my friends. I think we’ll need them.”

Nora nodded, remembering Leicester Square yesterday afternoon. “Yes, Andy Gilbert and Yussuf were planning to arrive at noon. I guess Andy won’t be showing up after all, but the other one might. That’s one more for their side.” She checked her watch again: 11:42.

Craig grunted, frowning. “Yes, it is.” Nora got her bag from the backseat, and Craig reached into the glove compartment in front of her and took out a pair of field glasses. “Okay, come on.”

They got out of the car, and Craig locked it and dropped the keys into the pocket of his jacket before marching off through the trees to their left. Nora followed, instantly regretting that she’d left the cheap gray coat in the car. It was chilly in this thick forest, even with the late-morning sunlight bearing down through the leaves above them. They crunched their way through dried leaves, moving at an uphill slant. Nora glanced around, wondering what animals lived here. If there were any, they weren’t making any noise; even the birds were silent. Aside from the crackling of the leaves, there wasn’t a sound in the world.

The sunlight through the branches brightened, and they emerged from the forest into open space. A split-rail fence was here, and Craig immediately dropped to one knee, pulling Nora down beside him. They knelt behind the fence, looking out at the wide vista before them.

There it was: Laurels. It was slightly below them; the forest was apparently on a hill of some height, rare for this region of fens and fields. The main house was an impressive, long, two-story manse of white brick and stone, with a sloping slate roof and a porch at the entrance. The drive leading to it curved into a circle in front of it, and there were other buildings beyond it, a big barn and attached stables. The fields she’d been expecting were modest, perhaps fifty yards of grass at the back and on this side, closest to where they crouched. The far buildings, the barn and stables, were at the edge of the woods, with trees around and behind them. There was a big circular area in the nearer field beside the house, enclosed by split-rail fencing, and Nora realized that it was a disused corral.

Craig raised the field glasses to his face, and Nora tried to see where he was looking. A low-slung, jazzy-looking gold sports car was parked between two laurel trees near the barn.

“Mr. Howard’s pride and joy,” Craig said. “That’s an Aston Martin from the sixties, exactly like the one in the James Bond movies. He bought it after-um-after he separated from Mrs. Howard. It’s the car your husband drove to King’s Lynn. Now it’s back here. I think that tells us something.”

Nora leaned forward to peer at the rows of windows on the big house below them. She wondered which window was the room where Jeff was being held. She was lowering her hand into her shoulder bag, feeling for the shawl that was wrapped around the revolver, when Craig pointed down the front drive in the direction of the main road.

“Look,” he whispered.

Nora looked. As they watched from their hiding place, a big canvas-covered military-style truck turned in at the gates and rumbled slowly up the drive toward the house. It came around the curve and stopped at the porch steps. Two men got out of the cab, and the canvas at the back suddenly lifted. Two other men jumped down from the tailgate and joined them. All four men were wearing dark jackets and jeans and work boots, and all four had brown skin and black hair. South Asian, Nora thought, or Middle Eastern.

The front door of the house opened, and two men came out to join the four in the driveway. The first man was big and as dark as the others, and Nora didn’t recognize him. But she immediately recognized the man who stood behind him in the doorway.

When she saw his face, she froze, clutching the fence rail in front of her. She blinked and looked again, peering more closely at the figure on the porch down the hill. No, she hadn’t been mistaken. Everything inside her went numb.

In that moment, kneeling at the fence above the distant house, Nora Baron realized that she’d been conned. From her arrival in England four days ago-no, before that. From the phone call at her home, when she’d been standing on the widow’s walk. That’s when it had begun, and now the game was complete. The dizzying, wrenching shock overwhelmed her, blurring the scene before her eyes.

The man who now stood in the doorway of Laurels was its owner, Bill Howard. He wasn’t dead; he was far from dead. He was smiling as he greeted the other men. It couldn’t possibly be happening, and yet it was. Then, of course, the second, even bigger shock arrived, as inevitable as it was unexpected. Beside her, Craig Elder the younger turned his head to face her, and he began to laugh softly in her ear.

Bill Howard. Craig Elder. Not Maurice Dolin of the SDAT, not an international plot, not a nefarious, extended gang of fanatics and traitors and mercenaries. Merely two men-that man on the porch down there and this one, his apprentice, his young recruit, his partner in crime, laughing at her. Everything else had been pure theater. Smoke and mirrors. And she-the trained, professional actor-had fallen for it.

She willed herself to move. Automatically, as if of its own accord, her hand in her purse closed around the wool-wrapped LadySmith and yanked it out, and then she was frantically tearing the shawl away, fumbling with the small silver weapon. She fitted it into her right hand, closing her fingers around it, her index finger finding the trigger. She swung it to her left, aimed it directly between the eyes of the laughing man beside her, and fired.

A hollow click, nothing more. Again. Click. Nothing-and now the space beside her was empty. He had risen to his feet, and he was somewhere just behind her. She glanced down at the gun, realizing. He’d removed the bullets back at the Oasis, while she slept. Every action he’d taken-Russell Square Gardens, the French getaway, Louis Reynard, the Lucky Dolphin, last night in London and at the motel, all the way here, now, today-he’d done it all for one reason: to get her here. Now they had her, and they had the envelope, and they would torture her in front of her husband until he finally broke and told them what they wanted to know. Then her friend Bill Howard and his laughing acolyte would kill them and hide their bodies.

She’d been stupid, and now she and her husband would die. Well, she wouldn’t die quietly; she’d make it as difficult as possible. She opened her mouth wide, filling her lungs to shout, to cry out in sheer, impotent rage.

Something huge and heavy smashed into the back of her head. The scream on her lips became a grunt of sharp, exquisite pain as she slammed into the fence post, bounced from the impact, and sagged over sideways into the grass. Then everything faded to black.

Chapter 41

It was the actor’s nightmare all over again. She was standing on a stage in a theater, and she wasn’t wearing any clothes. The silent, faceless audience gaped at her as she looked around, trying to get her bearings. If she could only recognize something, she might figure out what play she was in, what role she was supposed to be playing. She might even remember her next line. But there wasn’t any scenery, the playing area was as bare as she was, and there were no other actors here with her. She was alone, in an unknown production in this unfamiliar playhouse, under a harsh spotlight, naked. She strained to remember…

Pal-He’s thinking-“Coop” demain.

What was that? A note slipped to her by a supporting player, a beautiful blond girl. A note from her husband: Go to Musée Rodin in Paris. He was getting her out of the country, rescuing her after the foiled robbery in Russell Square Gardens. It hadn’t been a real robbery after all. It had been an elaborate hoax, a performance, a pantomime, with the young man from the plane-her friend, not her enemy-trying to wrest the famous envelope from her, so the bad guys would follow him and leave her, Nora, alone. But it hadn’t worked out as planned. One of the bad guys had already been there; he’d followed her from the Byron Hotel, where he’d been waiting for her to return from the morgue. She hadn’t gone inside; she’d passed by the hotel and led Craig Elder to the park, and he’d thwarted the “robbery.”

Then Craig had escorted her back to the hotel, only to find another of Jeff’s agents-Solange, the brave young Frenchwoman who’d been under deep cover, romancing the notoriously randy Bill Howard in an attempt to find out if he was the arms dealer Jeff was seeking. Craig had spotted the girl in the hotel lobby and immediately bolted before she’d spotted him.

Nora was still naked, still bathed in the harsh white light, but now the scenario was coming back to her. The silent audience continued to stare as she worked her way through the script.

Craig had followed the girl to Paris, to the apartment in the Latin Quarter, and strangled her, breaking a window to make it look good. The note she was to deliver to Nora the next day in the museum was left in her dead hand, replaced by an alternate: GOOT! Dix roses pour Grand-tante J ce soir.

Bill Howard had thought that one up, of course, borrowing the GOOT from Jeff’s emails and the details of the cemetery ritual he’d known about for years, ever since Jeff had told him and Viv over that long-ago dinner. Craig had placed that note in the glove and had it delivered to Nora by a homeless man he’d probably bribed with a few euros for the purpose.

That false note had done its job: It had gotten Nora Baron to a remote graveyard in the middle of the night where they could shoot her, bury her, retrieve the envelope. But that had gone wrong too, thanks to Jeff’s other secret agent, the redoubtable Jacques Lanier. The assassin-a local French mercenary, no doubt-had been killed instead, Jacques had been wounded, and Nora had gone on the run.

Then the script had changed yet again, and Nora was fairly sure she knew why. Jeff had staged the car accident and gone to Norfolk, to Bill’s country house, Laurels. He had been all set to smoke out his enemy-by that time he knew it was Bill Howard-when he’d been captured. He hadn’t gone to the King’s Lynn train station; he’d never left this house. He’d already been in Bill’s custody when Nora arrived from New York, and Bill had known he had incriminating evidence. Bill had ransacked Jeff’s apartment the night before, to no avail. Then Dr. Gupta had handed her the envelope, which clearly had the vital data inside that would’ve scuttled Bill’s scheme before it was completed, and…Yes, it was all falling into place.

They’d interrogated Jeff, tortured him, but he hadn’t talked. And by the time the graveyard assassination had failed, Bill Howard had come up with a better plan for Nora. She suddenly had become more useful alive than dead. The new order had been issued to Craig Elder: Get her out of France, back to London, then out here, to Laurels. The tough CIA agent wouldn’t crack under torture, so let’s bring his wife here and torture her in front of him. That will make him talk. But by then, Bill must have known Nora was also suspecting him. She might not come along quietly; she might run to her husband’s outfit or MI6 or the London police, so…

Another pantomime. The house in St. John’s Wood. He’d handed her the martinis after carefully doctoring them with something that would get her safely away upstairs, in the bathroom, while he shot his inconvenient, rich wife and her housekeeper. Then he’d played dead as well, slumped in the armchair, waiting for his assistant to call her and get her to the next stage of her journey to this house.

Bill Howard’s arrogance was boundless. He’d predicted Nora’s actions and reactions every step of the way, and he’d been right every time. He’d known she’d be too squeamish to look more closely at him when she found him “dead” in the chair-but what if she had? He would have picked up the revolver from the floor by his hand and held it on her, forced her into a car and straight out here last night. But that hadn’t been his plan. Moving a prisoner across a good stretch of England would’ve been awkward, and it might’ve been noticed at any point. Besides, he’d wanted to be free to move around, to call the woman at the grocery store and allay her suspicions, to tie up any business he had in London. So, he’d handed Nora off to his accomplice, Craig, and she’d come dashing out here this morning, as planned. Above all else, Nora was disgusted with herself for being so predictable. These men had played her like a fiddle.

On the run, always on the run, with the police in hot pursuit. The French police had thought she’d caused the mayhem in the cemetery, but they’d been told to stop broadcasting it and to stand down-told by Bill Howard. It wouldn’t have suited his plan to have her arrested by French authorities before Craig had delivered her here. She’d never actually seen a gray SUV following them from Paris; now she knew Craig had made it up. The gendarmes in Calais and the constable in the Lucky Dolphin had been put on the alert-again by Bill Howard-and they had spurred her on, back to London in the dead of night. And there’d even been a bonus for the scenario, a further bit of good luck for them: Nora had run down Andy Gilbert, the very man they’d been seeking to silence ever since she, Nora, had told Craig that Gilbert was working for her husband. In her frenzy to escape, Nora had hit him with the car, so now she was a legitimate fugitive.

Be careful, Pal. It was all so simple, now that she thought of it. Her husband had learned of the arms deal, and he hadn’t told anyone about it-not his own employers, not MI6, and not the French SDAT. Nora still didn’t know Maurice Dolin’s part in all this, but she’d work that out later. As far as she could tell, Jeff had four assistants: Jacques and Solange, two French agents he knew he could trust; Bill Howard’s British chauffeur, Andy Gilbert; and the young man from the plane, Yussuf, whose nationality and motives were unknown to her.

The park bench yesterday-Andy Gilbert and Yussuf. The conversation she’d overheard, now that she recalled it, could’ve been interpreted two ways: bad guys conniving to kill her or good guys desperately trying to locate her and protect her. Now she knew the truth. Andy Gilbert had been trying to save her.

Andy Gilbert. Dear God, had that liar Craig at least told her the truth about Andy Gilbert’s injuries? She hoped so. She hoped the man was in a hospital, alive. If she’d killed him, she’d never be able to forgive herself.

Killing Craig Elder, on the other hand, would be easy. Nora had been wondering about her capacity for violence. Well, now she knew. She could shoot him, stab him, set him on fire, and she wouldn’t even blink.

But now the play continued. She was conscious and aware of her surroundings. She wasn’t naked; there wasn’t any spotlight. She was lying on her back on something soft, and there were voices nearby. A horrible, sharp pain was pulsating in the back of her skull. Oh yes-Craig Elder had struck her with the SIG Sauer, smashing it into her cranium. And that laugh, that awful sound in her ears just before it: Craig Elder, her friend, her only ally, had been laughing at her. He’d knocked her out, she’d dreamed the actor’s dream, and now she was awake, lying on a soft surface with a pillow under her aching head.

She regulated her breathing, careful not to make any sound or movement, and she kept her eyes closed. Now she remembered exactly what play she was performing. She was Mrs. John Doe, the worried wife, the reluctant spy, and she was in the lair of her enemies. They were here in the room with her; their low voices emanated from the space just above the…bed? Yes, she was on a bed, probably in an upstairs room of the farmhouse, in her black denim suit and boots, her widow’s weeds. Don’t move, she directed herself; you’re unconscious. Keeping her respiration slow and steady, she listened.

“…took your sweet time,” Bill Howard was saying.

“I had to make it look good; I even asked a local for directions,” Craig Elder replied, his voice light with the humor she’d seen on his face mere seconds before he’d struck her. “That old sot who’s always in the pub, Wycliff, the one with the dog. Then you had to ruin it all! I was about to sneak in here with her, charging in to rescue her husband, and deliver her straight into your arms. But then she saw you in the doorway, and that was the end of that idea. She nearly screamed, and we couldn’t have that, could we? If those fellows outside had seen the ruckus, they’d have known something was amiss, and they’d be out of here, and there’d go all our plans up in smoke. They don’t know about Baron, do they?”

“Of course not!” Bill said. “They think everything’s fine. He’s tucked away in the barn, and he’s not going anywhere.”

“Well, she’s not going anywhere either,” Craig said, and he laughed again. “So, where’s Gamal?”

“On his way-he just called from the road. He’s in the second truck, and those men on the lawn are waiting for him. As soon as he’s here, they’ll load up the two trucks, and-”

“What about the Barons?” Craig asked.

Bill Howard didn’t respond. Now Nora became aware of rustling sounds from elsewhere in the room, farther away from the bed. There was a third person here. Bill suddenly said, “Have you found anything, Mustapha?”

“No,” said a new voice: male, low, guttural, accented. The big man from the doorway? “There’s nothing else here, just the tracer and the gun and a lot of women’s things-”

“Never mind,” Bill said, and she could hear the impatience in his voice. “Leave it. We have the envelope, and we can grill them just as soon as-”

He was cut off by sounds from outside. There was a window on her left, she reasoned. Footsteps went over that way; Bill and Craig were looking out. She heard the distant sound of an engine. The second truck was coming up the drive from the main road. Nassim Gamal had arrived.

A sharp curse from Bill Howard. “Okay, let’s get down there. They’ll load up and leave for the airfield, and then we can see to our guests. I don’t know what he has on me, I don’t know what he gave her, but I’m going to find out before we leave here today.”

“And how are we leaving?” Craig asked.

“Same way as they are,” Bill said. “Their plane is at three, ours is at five. By eight tonight, we’ll be in Geneva.”

“I wasn’t planning on-”

“I know, I know,” Bill said, cutting off the complaint. “You were going to stay here, the innocent bystander, and be as perplexed as everyone else when it all came out in the wash. But then you had to go and kill that girl!”

“Solange? You told me to-”

“Not Solange, idiot! The other one, your girl, the one in London last night.”

“I had no choice!” Craig protested. “She overheard me on the phone with you, when you called to say that you and Mustapha had done your wife and the maid, and I was to call your cell in ten minutes, after Nora had come back downstairs and found you all dead. I was repeating your instructions back to you as you gave them, and Wendy heard me, and she freaked. I had to shut her up, and even so, she made enough noise to get that old woman across the hall involved, and she called the police. I ran out to the takeaway down the road, and-”

“Never mind, you can tell me the rest in the plane. Now we have to entertain Nassim and his friends. Mustapha, stay up here but out in the hallway. I may need your help downstairs if anything goes wrong with the exchange. We’ll lock her in here-she won’t be a problem-and you just wait in the hall outside this door. If you hear me call for you, get down there with your weapon drawn, understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Okay, come on,” Bill Howard said. More footsteps, then she heard the door open. “God damn that meddling Jeff Baron! I always hated him, such a nosey parker! I can’t wait for the pleasure of snuffing him-and her too. It will be almost as much fun as snuffing that bitch I was married to! But first-”

The door closed, cutting off the rest of his comments.

Silence. Nora lay still another thirty seconds, then opened her eyes and slid her legs over to the edge of the bed. She put her feet down on the carpeted floor and tried to sit up. A numbing stab of pain in her head nearly sent her down again, but she waited a moment until it passed. She rose slowly to her feet, peering around her in the darkened room. Yes, it was a bedroom. Aside from the bed, there was a dresser and chair by the front window. Her shoulder bag lay on the carpet, its contents strewn everywhere around it. The only other window was in the wall next to the head of the bed. She moved over to it and looked out.

This was the side wall of the house, the wall she’d seen from the forest. It was the way she’d have to go; the men in the driveway would see her if she tried the front one. Below this window was a drop of perhaps fifteen feet, past another window directly under it, to the side lawn with the obsolete corral. Beyond the corral was the field, and then the fence and the trees that concealed the car. Freedom. But she couldn’t run to the forest now; that wasn’t an option.

It was 1:15; she’d been out for more than an hour. She looked around the room, and her gaze settled on the bed: two sheets and a chenille bedspread. She knelt beside her Coach bag, picking it up and running her fingers around the inside until she found the tracer Mustapha had mentioned: a black metal disc the size of a quarter, pinned to the black satin lining at the bottom. She frowned in self-disgust, remembering the morgue in London her first day here, when she’d handed this bag to Bill to hold for her while she went in to identify her “husband’s” body. Craig hadn’t called the SDAT to locate her at the French guesthouse after she’d fled the cemetery. There was no need; he’d known exactly where she was all along.

She tore the tracking device from the lining and placed it on the desk. She rummaged on the carpet, tossing her shawl, the gun, her makeup, her P. D. James paperback, and everything else back into the bag. Then she stripped the bed and began tying the sheets together.

She had to get to her husband.

Chapter 42

If she’d stopped to think about it, Nora would have talked herself out of climbing out the window. But there wasn’t time for that; she tied her makeshift rope to the radiator, dropped her shoulder bag to the grass below, sat on the sill, and slipped her legs out into the void before the insanity of her actions could even register. Grasping the sheet firmly in her hands, she lowered her entire weight out through the opening until she was dangling twelve feet in the air, her boots kicking the white bricks just above the ground-floor window.

The strain on her arms was tremendous, but she ignored it, thankful that she at least attended her health club regularly. If she were in the same shape as of most of the women her age she knew, this stunt would’ve been impossible. Even so, her bones and muscles all but cried out in protest, and she knew she’d pay for it with ibuprofen and liniment-if she lived through this.

She lowered herself some more, hand over hand on the sheets, praying that there was no one in the room beyond the lower window. When she saw that it was indeed empty and dark, she was so relieved that she let go of the sheets, allowing herself to drop silently to the grass. She maneuvered the sheet rope to the side, hitching it over the side shutter of the lower window, but it still hung down in plain view of anyone who came around to this side of the house. No matter: By the time the sheet was discovered, they’d already know she was gone. She left it hanging there.

She shouldered her bag and leaned against the wall, catching her breath. She must stay close to the building, she reasoned. If she were to step six feet to her left, she’d be in plain sight of the men by the trucks around the corner. The throbbing in her head had receded somewhat, but she wondered if there was any serious damage. She couldn’t afford it, not now; she had things to do and little time in which to do them. She would probably die anyway, but at least she would be with her husband. And there might be a chance for escape, but it all depended on Jeff’s condition, what she found when she made her way to the barn.

The barn. Which way to the barn?

She concentrated, trying to picture the layout as she’d seen it from the hill up there, beyond the corral. The barn and stables were on the other side of the house, so she’d have to go around it. The front was out; the men were there, waiting for instructions from their employers. Bill and Craig and Nassim Gamal were inside somewhere, finalizing their deal, and the henchman, Mustapha, was standing guard outside the bedroom upstairs. She began to laugh at the thought of him, and her bizarre fit of exhilaration told her it was time to move, before full-fledged shock set in. She was a good actor; she recognized the signs in her own body, her instrument. She was about one inch away from a paralyzing meltdown, so she allowed the sudden giddiness to propel her forward.

On with the show. To her right was the back of the building, and she’d have to pass two more windows to reach the corner. Crouching down, wincing at the fresh spasm in her head, she moved, giggling to herself, remembering all those dance classes from her student days. She was in a Bob Fosse musical, and this crouching run was choreography, part of the big number. One, two, three, four-jazz hands! She ran past the windows, not daring to rise and peek in, and around the corner to the backyard. Five, six, seven, eight-pose!

She hugged the wall, gazing around. There was a flagstone patio back here, and a wrought iron table and chairs for outdoor dining. Neglected flower beds everywhere-Bill Howard hadn’t been in residence long enough to see to the landscaping, and she now knew that remaining here had never been part of his master plan. This house, this private property surrounded by forest in the middle of nowhere, was merely a checkpoint, a perfect way station for his international trade.

She regained her breath-the days of her ballet and modern dance classes seemed far away now-and moved slowly forward, crouching down again. Her fit of hilarity had passed; now she was thinking clearly. She was almost to the back door when she arrived below an open window and heard voices from inside. She froze, kneeling there, listening.

“…may take a few moments,” a man was saying. She didn’t recognize the voice, a light baritone with a thick accent, but she guessed Nassim Gamal. “The instructions will be relayed to the bank in- Ah! There it is. Now, enter your account number, and the bank will transfer the funds.”

“Ah yes,” Bill Howard said. “It’s coming through now. Wait a minute-what’s this? That’s ten million more than we agreed on!”

A light laugh from the baritone. “Consider it a bonus, Mr. Howard. I’m hoping we may do business together again in the future. The very near future.”

Now Bill laughed too. “Well, thank you very much, but I won’t be anywhere nearby. I can’t exactly go back to my job after this, you know. My country will be looking for me.”

“Oh, I have something else in mind,” Gamal said. “We don’t need you in London, but we might need certain information from you-certain names, shall we say?-and you can supply that from anywhere. We’ll make it worth your while, of course. Where are you planning to settle down, by the way?”

Bill laughed again. “I’m not sure yet-but I’m afraid I couldn’t tell you, even if I knew. Nothing personal.”

“Of course not,” Gamal said. “How silly of me to ask!” This was followed by a chorus of laughter-the two men and Craig, and the man and woman from Libya, no doubt. Nora had heard enough. Keeping low, she moved silently along the back of the building, past the rear door, and around to the other side. She stopped again, studying the terrain ahead.

Tall grass. Very tall grass for grazing; there was a field of it here, on this side, and the big barn was directly ahead, at a right angle to the house, facing the circular driveway where the trucks were parked. The side barn wall closest to her had only the closed hayloft door ten feet above the ground, and she doubted there’d be any doors or windows at the back, where the forest began. She couldn’t see the stables from here, but they were attached to the other side of the barn. If she could crawl through this grass to the back corner of the barn without being spotted, she could run the length of the barn and stables to the other end.

It was her only hope, so she moved swiftly along the side of the house to the front corner, then dropped to her belly, facedown in the sweet-smelling green. There was an open space, perhaps thirty feet, between the house and the barn, fully visible from the drive. She stared at the expanse of grass before her, thinking, It might as well be a mile.

The high blades pretty much covered her, but she’d have to be quick. She edged forward, slithering like a snake, and peered cautiously to her left, toward the circle. The fancy James Bond car was there, between her and the canvas-covered trucks. The men were beyond that, lounging; two standing by a vehicle and the others sprawled in the grass beside the drive. She could barely see them from here, so their view of her would be similarly blocked. The two standing men faced the others, their backs to her, and she noted the heavy rifles slung from their shoulders. Everyone was smoking cigarettes, and they were laughing and talking loudly in some Arabic language. She didn’t recognize it, whatever it was.

Nora turned her attention to the barn in front of her and crawled forward, keeping as low in the grass as she possibly could. The trees along the drive were between her and the sun, casting streaks of deep shadow across the field, and she was grateful for that. Still, she had to be very careful. Ten feet…fifteen…twenty…twenty-five…thirty. Here she was. She slithered around the corner to the back of the barn and stood up, brushing dried blades from her black jacket and slacks, listening. The distant voices continued, laughing and joking; she hadn’t been detected. So far, so good.

She ran down the narrow alley behind the building, the wall on her left and the trees on her right. The barn soon ended and the stables began. This structure was longer than she’d expected, but she moved swiftly, hoping there’d be an entrance somewhere at the far end.

She stopped at the corner and peered cautiously around it, toward the drive. There was a side door here, the only opening in this wall, and another split-rail fence was attached to the front corner. The fence continued away down the drive to the wrought-iron gates at the main road, some twenty yards away. Nora went around to the door, assessing the landscape over her shoulder as she moved.

Yes, the trees were thick on this side of the fence, and they continued all the way to the front edge of the property, beside the gates. A red brick wall extended out from the gates in both directions, but it was only about six feet high. If Jeff was able to move or be moved, they could come out this door, through those trees, over the wall, and be standing in the main road in a matter of minutes. Then a quick run along the road to the forest at the other side of the property and into the trees where the Ford Focus was parked. Craig Elder had pocketed the keys, but Jeffrey Baron could start any engine on earth, keys or no keys. Even now, at this desperate juncture, Nora smiled at the thought of her husband in the “electronics business.”

Please, God, she thought. Please let him be alive…

She looked through the trees at the brick wall a mere twenty yards away. The world was beyond that wall, and it was going on as usual, unaware of the activities here, activities that would seriously threaten its well-being. Cars came along that road frequently, and there were other farms nearby. Should she run for it now, flag down a car or find a farmhouse, call the police? They could be here in-how much time? This wasn’t London; it was a sleepy village in Norfolk. The town constable, or whatever, wouldn’t be enough to stop these people, and the regional police would be farther away. King’s Lynn, probably. It was too far, and there wasn’t time. No, she had no options; there was only one course of action.

She tore her gaze from the view, noting the sudden pall. Deep shadows had arrived on the sunny grounds of the farm, and there was a new chill in the air. She looked up to see that the sky was now filled with black clouds. More rain was on the way. She wasn’t exactly surprised; this was England, after all.

Then she noticed the stable door. She hadn’t seen it clearly from the corner of the building, but now she was mere inches in front of it, and she could see that something was wrong. It was standing slightly ajar, and there was an empty, round hole in the wood where the handle had been. Looking down, she saw the brass doorknob glinting in the grass by the fence. Someone had forced this door, and very recently.

Bracing herself for whatever was on the other side of it, Nora cautiously pushed the door open and stepped inside.

Chapter 43

It was dark in the stable, but there were windows, a row of square openings flanking the big double doors in the wall to her right, facing the drive. To her left were the stalls, six of them, with enough room in each for two animals. There were no horses now, of course, but the faint, sweet scent of them lingered. She moved slowly, silently forward down the corridor in front of the stalls until she reached the far end, where two open areas had served as a smithy and a tack room. She saw a black iron anvil mounted on a table beside a potbelly stove, and rows of empty pegs along one wall that had once held reins and bridles. Discarded burlap feed bags were piled in one corner. There was a walled-off space at the end of the stall side, and its shut door had the words THE GROOM ROOM crudely scrawled across it in white paint.

The archway before her led directly into the barn. She stood under the arch, peering into the enormous space. It was two stories high, with a hayloft suspended ten feet above the floor on the opposite side from her. Big bales of straw were stacked in the loft, and the rustling sound she heard from there informed her that rats or mice had made this place their home. Otherwise, the barn was empty.

Almost empty. Several large wooden crates were stacked near the front doors, which were closed and padlocked. She counted the boxes: eight. Four for each truck, she decided, because it was obvious to her that these crates held the goods that had just been sold. She wondered, briefly, what was inside them. Then she swept every inch of the cavernous place with her gaze. She thought, Where the hell is he…?

She turned around and studied the only enclosed space in the entire complex: THE GROOM ROOM. Her husband must be in there, beyond that door, but she didn’t rush forward to fling it open. Instead, she reached into her purse and pulled out the LadySmith revolver. It was empty, useless, but the person or people guarding him wouldn’t know that. And they would definitely be armed.

Holding the gun out in front of her, she went over to the door and gently pushed it open. Nothing-no sudden shout or swift movement. It was very dark in here, and she had to pause a moment to allow her eyes to adjust to the gloom. When she could see, she held back a cry.

There were two cots in the room, one against each wall, and both of them were occupied. Jeff lay on the one to her left, covered with a plain brown blanket, his eyes shut as though in sleep. She took a step forward, just to be sure: Yes, it was definitely her husband, and she fought down a nearly overwhelming urge to rush to him. Tearing her gaze from his ashen face, she walked directly over to the other cot and pressed the tip of her revolver against the temple of the bearded young man lying there.

Nothing. No reaction whatsoever. Nora leaned down, peering closer, slowly lowering her weapon and dropping it into her bag. This man was dead, eyes wide open, his head lying at an impossible angle on the pillow. Someone had broken his neck, placed him on the cot, and covered him with a blanket. She touched his cheek: warm. He’d died recently, very recently.

Now she turned to the other cot. She sank to her knees, staring at her husband, sheer dread rising up in her chest. His face was a mass of dark bruises and dried cuts under a five-day growth of beard. She gently touched his pale cheek, noting the warmth. The intense warmth-a fever. He was alive.

Uttering a soft moan, she threw herself across his chest, weeping. His eyes opened, and he weakly raised one hand to grasp her shoulder, pulling her head toward his face. She kissed his lips, and he groaned. His lips moved with no sound, so she carefully pressed her ear against them.

“I’m okay,” he whispered. “Hide. Loft.” He winced, drew in a breath, and added, “Now. They’re coming!”

Nora straightened up and looked down at him. His head fell back against the pillow, but he continued to watch her, the urgency clear in his dark eyes. She didn’t want to go, didn’t want to leave him here.

“They have the manila envelope,” she said. “Bill and that son of a bitch Craig Elder. I swear, I’d like to-”

“Hush,” he croaked. “Don’t worry. They don’t have anything. It’s all right, Pal.”

She stared at him, wincing at the sight of the wounds on his nose and cheeks. “But the envelope-I mean, if that wasn’t it, where-?”

He reached up to touch the gold locket on the chain at her breast and whispered, “Always-keep me close-to your-heart. Now get in the hayloft, Pal. Quickly!”

Close to her heart. Of course, she thought, feeling a sense of relief mixed with sheer triumph. Of course! Whatever they were looking for was in the locket.

She stood and went over to the door, brushing the tears from her eyes before turning to face him again. She fought another urge to bundle him out of the bed and carry him, drag him from this place. If only there were still horses here! Perhaps there was a handcart or a wheelbarrow…

“What about you?” she asked. “I can’t just leave you here like this. What will you do when they come in here and find him?” She jabbed a thumb toward the other cot.

Despite his obvious pain, a little smile crept across his face. He withdrew his other arm from under the blanket and held up his hand. It clutched a gleaming silver gun, a snub-nosed revolver that looked almost exactly like her LadySmith.

“He won’t be needing this anymore,” he whispered. “Go!”

With a last quick smile for him, she slipped out of the room, closing the door behind her. She moved swiftly through the archway into the cavernous barn, searching the loft platform for a ladder. There it was, at the back of the barn, five slats nailed between two support posts. She made her way over to it and grasped the rungs, pulling herself upward as the first sounds reached her from beyond the padlocked barn door. Voices, a foreign language. She arrived on the platform and dived forward into a pile of ancient, rancid hay. She heard rattling at the door now, a key working into a lock, as she landed on something solid, something concealed beneath a layer of straw. She brushed the straw away with her hands and reared back, rising quickly to her knees, staring down.

A man’s face stared blankly up at her, white and waxy. The dark eyes were clouded over behind the thick glasses above the generous mustache. Small gray insects swarmed across the pallid cheeks, in and out of the open mouth. The odor of decay rose up from him, mingling with the overripe scent of the hay. Even in this condition, he was immediately recognizable. She had found the missing Maurice Dolin.

She gasped, scrambling back from the corpse. She fell backward, directly into another solid object: another body, only this one was alive. An arm reached out from behind her, circling her chest, and a hand came around to clamp itself firmly across her mouth. She was pulled roughly back behind a pile of hay bales just as the lock clicked and the barn doors swung open, flooding the room with overcast light.

Nora leaned back against the warm body sitting behind her, relaxing in strong arms, feeling his heartbeat against her left shoulder blade. His legs extended out at either side of hers. She wasn’t surprised that he was here; she’d half expected it. The broken door, the dead guard, the weapon in her husband’s hands. Jeff was seriously injured; he hadn’t overpowered the guard. This man had stolen over the wall, dismantled the door, killed the guard, armed Jeff, and climbed up here mere minutes before Nora’s arrival. His presence was fine with her.

She nodded to let him know she wasn’t going to scream, then reached up and removed his hand from her mouth. His other hand, she noticed, clutched a big black pistol with a gas suppressor attached, extended straight out beside her right arm, aimed at the top of the ladder in front of them. Anyone climbing up here would be blown away. That was fine with her too.

Not moving, not daring to breathe, Nora and the young man she knew only as Yussuf sat in the hayloft, listening as the room below them filled with their enemies.

Chapter 44

The men were quick and efficient. Nora couldn’t see anything from behind the hay bales, but she imagined there were eight of them, two men to a crate, two trips each. In a matter of minutes, their business here was done. She and her newest ally waited until they’d all left the barn, but she didn’t hear the final sounds she was expecting, the sounds of the barn doors being closed and locked. Their voices came from far away, out in the drive, as they loaded the crates into the two trucks, but they’d definitely left the doors wide open. The archway to the stables was on the opposite wall from the hayloft; she and Yussuf would have to cross this room in plain sight of the people in the drive.

And they’d have to do it now. Nora knew there wasn’t time to linger here, waiting for these men and their trucks to go away. Even now, Bill Howard and Nassim Gamal would be concluding their business in the farmhouse, and then Gamal would come out here to join his men and leave for the airfield. She glanced at her watch: 1:47. The Cessna was due to take off at three o’clock. Meanwhile, Bill and Craig Elder would be heading up to the bedroom, to fetch her and bring her here, to the stables. To cut her or burn her or tear out her fingernails while her husband was forced to watch, until he told them what they wanted to know. But they’d find the bedroom empty, the sheet ladder waving in the breeze…

Time to move, she decided.

The young man behind her obviously concurred. He leaned forward, pressed his lips to her ear, and whispered, “Follow me.”

Nora nodded, watching as he slid out from behind her and crawled over to the ladder. She felt a shock on seeing his face, the man who’d been her nemesis all this time, but she wasn’t surprised to see that he was all in black, as she was-jacket, T-shirt, jeans, boots. He swung down, grasping the top rung with his left hand while his right one still clutched the pistol. He dropped silently to the barn floor.

She was right behind him. She climbed down the ladder to arrive beside him, and they crouched behind it at the back of the barn, studying the strip of driveway they could see through the open doors. The men had finished loading the crates, and they were waiting by the trucks for their leader to emerge from the house. No one was looking this way.

The young man touched her arm, bent forward at the waist, and sprinted across the back of the barn to the opposite wall. Nora copied his movements exactly, flattening herself against the wall beside him. They waited a moment before edging slowly forward, their backs scraping the wall, until they arrived at the archway to the stables. He ducked and ran; she followed. They didn’t stop until they were at the door marked THE GROOM ROOM. He opened the door and called softly, “Mr. Baron, it’s us. Don’t fire.” Then he turned and motioned her into the room. They both knelt beside her husband’s cot.

Jeff opened his eyes and smiled. “Hey, Joe.”

“Hey, yourself,” the young man replied. “Are you up for a bit of exercise?”

“You bet-but I’m afraid I’m going to need some help.”

“No problem,” the young man said, reaching out a hand. Jeff took it, threw off the blanket, and began slowly, painfully sitting up on the cot. He was wearing a filthy white undershirt and boxers, nothing more, and he still clutched the revolver.

Nora was staring at the young man beside her. “Did he just call you Joe? I thought your name was Yussuf.”

Her husband grinned. “Oh, you’ll like Joe, Nora. He’s an actor like you. That’s why he’s so good at going undercover with terrorists.”

The young man gently swung Jeff’s legs over the edge of the cot and placed his bare feet on the floor. “Actually, it’s Josef-J-O-S-E-F. In Israel, we pronounce it ‘Yosef.’ Josef Abrams.” He jerked his head at the dead man on the other cot. “Strip him, please, Mrs. Baron. Shirt, trousers, socks, shoes. Check his pockets for a phone; we could use one.”

She blinked, glanced over at the dead man, then back at her nearly naked husband, and nodded. “I’m Nora. Pleased to meet you, Josef Abrams. Where’s your phone?”

He blushed. “Dead. I used up all the time on it, and I didn’t have a chance to get a new one.”

“You spies and your disposable phones!” Nora said. She went to work on the clothes, determined not to be squeamish, but the corpse was the lesser of her problems. She’d just seen her husband’s arms and legs, which were scored with cuts, long trails of a blade. There were other things, small black marks on his palms and the soles of his feet that could only be cigarette burns. The ribbons of red on the back of his undershirt told her that he’d been lashed, and the bruising inside his left elbow meant they’d even tried drugs on him. And there was something wrong with his right knee. The kneecap was purple, swollen to twice its usual size, the flesh around it an angry red. He’s alive, she kept reminding herself. We’ll patch him up; we’ll fix him. But first, we have to get him the hell out of here.

She handed Josef the articles as she removed them from the guard. She checked the pockets and found a wallet and a handful of coins but no cellphone. Between them, she and Josef quickly dressed Jeff. The shoes were too small, but he forced his size thirteen feet into them. She found her Advil and gave him several of them, gazing nervously at his wounds.

“Don’t panic,” he said. “It’s not as bad as it looks.”

When he tried to stand, Nora realized the extent of their problem. His right leg was useless. Josef went around to his right side, virtually holding him up. He’d have to hop on his left leg, with Josef standing in for the right leg.

“Here,” Josef said to her, and he handed her the pistol. She took the weapon, amazed at its sheer weight, and went ahead, holding the door open for them. She hurried down the length of the dark stable, the two men shambling along behind her. When they reached the side door, she held up a hand to stop them, pulled the door open, and peered outside. The woods were empty, as was the drive on her left.

She stepped outside, immediately aware of the light rain that had begun, and crept to her left, to the fence at the edge of the building. She stuck her head out, looking up the drive toward the house. The men were climbing into the trucks. Bill Howard came out onto the porch, followed by a tall, bearded man who could only be Gamal. Craig was behind them, along with a man and woman she assumed were the people from Libya. The man and woman joined the others in the trucks, and Bill and Craig bid farewell to the ringleader, with much smiling and shaking of hands. Nora ran back to the door.

“Hurry!” she said, and she set off toward the wall, the two men behind her.

Chapter 45

The rain was growing in intensity, which was both good and bad-it helped to conceal them, but it impeded their progress with her husband. It was bearable here, under the thick leaves, but once over the wall they’d be out in the open. Jeff slipped on the wet grass, and Nora rushed to his left side, propping him up, just before he and Josef would have fallen. She clutched her husband’s arm with one hand and the pistol with the other, and the three of them continued through the trees.

The sounds of the approaching trucks grew louder behind them, and she and Josef managed to flatten themselves against a large trunk, Jeff held up between them. They waited there, the rain from the tree sluicing down on them, as the iron gates automatically swung open and the two trucks went through. The trucks turned left and disappeared down the main road as the gates closed after them.

Now, Nora realized, they definitely had to hurry. Any minute Bill and Craig would make their way upstairs to the bedroom and find that she was gone. When they arrived at the wall, Josef grasped the top and pulled himself up in one fluid move, landing astride it, his legs hanging down. He reached for Jeff’s arms and pulled him up. Nora helped with his legs until he was atop the wall, lying on his stomach. Josef jumped down on the road side. Nora clambered up onto the top beside her husband and helped him lower himself down the other side into Josef’s waiting arms. She jumped down to land beside them.

Nora looked up and down the road. No cars, no houses, no people anywhere. A flash of lightning was followed by a low boom of thunder. The rain was really falling now, and they were soaked.

“How did you get out here?” she asked the young man.

“Motor scooter,” he said, pointing off toward the forest on their right. “A Vespa. It’s in the woods over there. I borrowed it at the train station in King’s Lynn.”

“Well, that’s out,” Nora muttered. A scooter wasn’t going to get three people anywhere. She took charge of the situation. “Okay, the car we came in is this way. Let’s go.” She and Josef each held one of Jeff’s arms, and they moved toward the iron gates. When they arrived there, they stopped while Nora crept forward to peek around the brick column at the side of the entrance and up the drive toward the house.

Her escape had been discovered. The front door of the house burst open, and Craig and the man named Mustapha took off at a dead run toward the barn. Bill Howard came out onto the porch, squinting out through the downpour at the drive and the field, looking for any signs of activity. She ducked back behind the column as his gaze swept across the gates. The sky had darkened considerably with the rain, but she wasn’t taking any bets on Bill Howard’s eyesight, not now. If they tried to move now, he’d see them. She held up a hand to Jeff and Josef, telling them to wait, and peered around the column again.

The two men ran out of the barn toward the house, and Craig was shouting something. Bill threw up his hands and began yelling at them. Then he disappeared into the house, but only for a moment. He emerged immediately with a suitcase and headed for the Aston Martin, calling instructions to the others. Nora couldn’t hear his words through the rain and at this distance, but she got the gist of it: Bill was clearing out, Mustapha was to come with him, and Craig was to remain behind, searching for the Barons. Bill and Mustapha got into the car, and Craig headed back into the farmhouse.

“Now,” she said, and the three of them hurried across the open expanse of the iron gates to the opposite wall. With Jeff between them, she and Josef moved as swiftly as they could, but it wasn’t easy. They were all crouching down as they ran, and the weight of the big man was constantly throwing one or the other of them off balance, threatening to send all three of them down into the mud at the side of the road.

They staggered the length of the red brick wall toward the far end, listening as the roar of the sports car grew in volume behind them. Any minute now, the car would reach the end of the drive and turn into the main road, and they would be in plain sight. She and Josef ran faster, dragging Jeff along. When they got to the end of the wall, they turned and plunged into the trees, dropping to the soggy ground. They lay there, a tangle of wet arms and legs, waiting.

Moments later, the gold Aston Martin sped by, following the route the two trucks had taken a few minutes ago. Josef craned his head out from their hiding place to study the retreating car, then turned back to Nora.

“That leaves only Elder at the farm,” he said. “The guard in the stable was the only other regular here, as far as I could see earlier, when I looked around. I saw Elder carry you out of the woods to the back of the farmhouse-he was making sure the men outside didn’t see you. I told Mr. Baron you were here when I found him, and I was planning on coming to find you in the house as soon as the trucks were gone, but you made that unnecessary. Good show!”

Nora smiled, pleased by the remark. This Israeli agent didn’t seem to be the type to dispense compliments lightly, so it clearly meant something. He also didn’t seem to mind letting her lead this operation, civilian that she was, and that was an even bigger compliment. But there was no time to bask in her glory, not now. She rose and helped Josef to get Jeff on his feet. “There’s a dirt road over that way, through the trees. The car is there, an old Ford Focus. Can you hot-wire an engine?”

She was speaking to Josef, but it was Jeff who answered her. “We both can, Pal. Just get us to it, and we’ll start it.” She noticed the pride in his voice and the gleam in his eye, despite his injuries and what must be a raging fever, judging from the heat of his skin. She thought, This hero is my husband.

They moved through the forest, brushing away the rain that dripped down from the dense carpet of leaves above them. The lightning and thunder continued, and the sky she could see through the branches was nearly black. It’s just going on two in the afternoon, she thought, but it might as well be twilight. Jeff stumbled once, but her hand was there to steady him and guide him along. The dirt road appeared before them, a sudden clear space among the trunks and tangled undergrowth. They hurried down the road, skidding in the mud with every step, deeper into the woods and around a bend. And there was the Focus parked at the side, exactly as she’d last seen it.

Nora was about to rush toward the car when Josef’s hand on her arm stopped her.

“Wait,” he said. He took his pistol from her hand, indicating that she should replace him on Jeff’s right side. As Nora grasped her husband’s right arm, the young man moved slowly forward, closing the twenty feet between them and the car, scanning the trees at both sides of the road for any signs of movement. Nora squinted through the downpour, watching as he cautiously approached the vehicle.

Josef shifted the pistol to his left hand and bent down to pick up a big rock from the side of the road near the rear right tire. He straightened up and raised the rock, preparing to smash the driver’s side window. As Nora and her husband watched, the rock suddenly fell from his hand, and he was flying forward to collide with the side of the car. He bounced off the door and toppled over backward, landing flat on his back in the muddy tract. The pistol had fallen from his other hand. His head fell to the side, facing them, and Nora saw that his dark eyes were wide open, watching her. As she stared, he slowly, deliberately winked at her. Then he shut his eyes and lay still.

She hadn’t heard a sound through the falling rain, but she immediately knew what had happened. Josef had been shot with a round from a silenced weapon. She couldn’t see him very well, so she didn’t know the nature of his injury, but he was alive and alert. The shock of seeing the young man fall down was momentary; when she saw him wink, something else took over inside her. Without even thinking, she reached over and removed the snub-nosed revolver from Jeff’s hand. She continued to grasp his arm with her left hand, but she turned toward him and raised her right hand across her stomach, concealing the gun between their bodies.

“What are you doing?” Jeff whispered.

“My job,” she murmured. “Trust me.” She didn’t look at him; her face was turned toward the car, her gaze riveted to the edge of the forest directly behind where Josef had fallen. After a moment, Craig Elder stepped out from the trees. He kicked Josef’s pistol away to the side of the road, then he walked slowly toward them. In his right hand he held Jacques Lanier’s silver SIG Sauer, the weapon she had given him, and it was aimed directly at her husband.

“Hello again, Nora,” Craig said, and he grinned.

Chapter 46

She was onstage. This muddy road in the forest was her platform, and these three men were her costars. One was down, shot and presumed dead, and one was beside her, injured and ill and barely able to stand. The third, the villain of the piece, was walking toward her, smiling, closing the gap between them. Ten feet. Eight feet. Seven. Nora stood very still, clutching her husband’s arm and her most important prop-the loaded revolver that looked so much like her own empty one-waiting for her cue.

Craig Elder came to a stop five feet in front of them, the weapon still aimed at Jeff’s chest. That maddening little smile was still there, on his lips. In his eyes.

And in his voice. “Did you really think you could outwit me, Nora? After all we’ve been through? You insult me. I knew where you’d go from the moment we found that you weren’t in your room anymore. I knew you’d bring your husband here, and thanks to you, I was even expecting him.” He jerked his left thumb over his shoulder, indicating Josef, who lay sprawled in the mud behind him, pelted by the steady rain.

Nora kept her gaze locked with Craig’s, but she used her peripheral vision. She strained to be aware of any movement in the space just beside Craig’s left arm, the blurry form of the man lying in the road. He was an actor, Jeff had said, and she assumed he’d meant it literally. Now he was pretending to be dead, and she knew that her cue, when it came, would be from him. Until then, she had one motivation in this scene: to keep Craig’s attention, to prevent him from turning around.

“You’re out of time,” Craig said, “and I’m out of patience. Whatever he gave you isn’t in the envelope. Tell me what you did with it.”

Nora contemplated spitting in his face, then thought better of it; that only worked in Victorian melodramas or Joan Crawford movies. She drew in a breath and said, “Or what? You’ll shoot us? You’re going to do that anyway, so why should I tell you where it is?”

The little smile on his handsome face vanished. He lowered the SIG Sauer until it was aimed directly at Jeff’s uninjured left knee. “Because I’m the one with the gun. I can do this quickly, or I can do it very, very slowly. And please don’t bother attempting to scare me with that useless revolver you’re trying to conceal. Remember, I’m the one who emptied the chamber.”

Nora pulled the gun out from between her body and Jeff’s, and turned around to face Craig. She dropped her right hand carelessly to her side, her finger never leaving the trigger.

“Oh well, it was worth a try,” she said with a shrug.

Behind Craig, the figure in the road stirred. Josef slowly sat up and rose to his knees. It was obvious, even from this distance, that he was in great pain, but it didn’t deter him. He reached down with his right hand and pulled something from the pocket of his jeans. As if sensing the movement behind him, Craig started to turn his head.

“Okay, I’ll tell you,” Nora said quickly, regaining his attention. He looked at her expectantly.

“No, Nora!” Jeff said. “Don’t tell him where it is!” He too had seen the activity behind Craig, and he was playing along. Good.

She shrugged again. “Darling, he already has it-he just doesn’t know it.”

“Hush!” her husband cried. “If you tell him, he’ll succeed, and we can’t let him do that!” He was overdoing his part, but then again, he wasn’t a professional actor.

Now Craig was watching them, fascinated. “I already have it? What the hell does that mean?” Behind him, Josef raised his right arm. Through the rain, Nora saw the glint from the object in his hand, and she remembered the moment in Russell Square Gardens when she had first seen it.

Nora smiled at Craig, timing her next line perfectly to synchronize with the action behind him. “It means, Craig Elder the younger”-Josef’s arm snapped down-“you can go to hell!”

With her left hand, she shoved her husband as hard as she could, sending him sprawling to the side, and she brought up her right hand with the gun. Startled, Craig raised the SIG Sauer, now aimed directly at her. Josef’s switchblade entered his back at that precise moment, and his arm jerked upward as he fired. Pfft. The silenced shot flew off into the trees. At the same moment, Nora fired. The report from the dead guard’s revolver was deafening. The round slammed into the center of Craig’s chest, and the gun fell from his hand. He stood there, staring at her, his mouth falling open in surprise. He sank to his knees, reaching down to pick up the fallen weapon, but Nora fired again. And again. And once more, the final bullet aimed directly between his eyes. His head erupted, and he toppled over backward. He crashed down into the mud, driving the knife more firmly into his back, and lay still.

Silence. The downpour continued, pelting the leaves above and the road below, pounding down on the car, a continuous wall of noise, but she barely heard it. She was only vaguely aware of Jeff’s groans as he struggled to his feet and the softer moans of Josef Abrams as he sank back down onto the road. The explosions of the revolver in her hand had taken all other sound away, leaving a void in her ears. She thought, I just killed a man. I took a human life, but I’m not horrified. I saved my husband, and Josef, and myself. So, why don’t I feel triumphant? Why do I feel only this emptiness, this lack of any feeling at all? She shut her eyes and listened to the quiet.

When Jeff reached over and removed the gun from her hand, the world came back to her. The icy rain soaked her, dripping from her hair, running down her face in rivulets. She was wet and freezing and alive. Alive.

She looked down at the dead man lying at her feet. She knelt beside him and fished the car keys from his jacket pocket, where she also found his cellphone. She strained to roll him over onto his stomach, his face buried in the mud. She pulled Josef’s knife from his back, carefully wiped it clean on his jacket, picked up the SIG Sauer, and stood up. She didn’t look at Craig Elder again. She left him lying there and turned to her husband.

“Are you all right?” she asked. “I had to push you out of the line of fire-”

“I know,” he said. “I’m okay. My leg hurts like hell-but when I consider the alternative, I can’t complain. We’d better see how Joe is.”

She shouldered her bag and took his right arm. They made their crablike, hopping way over to the car. She noticed that Jeff hadn’t mentioned what she’d just done. In his line of work, he must know there wasn’t much that could be said about it after the fact. As they said in the Scottish play, What’s done cannot be undone. Jeff had presumably killed people, perhaps many people, but they’d never talked about it. Now she knew they never would. She’d been initiated; she’d killed a man, and that was that.

Josef Abrams was not her husband. The first thing he said when they reached him was “That was excellent, Mrs. Baron! Thank you.”

“Nora,” she said, handing him his switchblade. “How are you doing?”

“I’ve been better,” he muttered, wincing, “but I’ll live.”

Nora helped him to his feet, and she unlocked the car doors while he retrieved his pistol. She helped Jeff get into the back, where he could sit sideways with his injured leg stretched out across the seat; he wasn’t able to bend his knee. Josef got into the front passenger seat, and she helped him remove his jacket and T-shirt.

The bullet had passed through him, back to front, on his extreme right side just below his lowest rib-too low for the lung and too high for the kidney, or so she fervently hoped. Too far right for his stomach, but she wasn’t sure about the large intestine. She wished she could recall more of her high school biology. The two tiny holes were about four inches apart, and they were bleeding.

Nora used the scarf and shawl from her bag, covering the holes with the silk before wrapping the shawl around his middle as tightly as she could. She found safety pins to secure the temporary dressing, helped him get back into the shirt and jacket, and rummaged for her bottle of Advil. She poured several gelcaps into his hand and caught rain in the cap of the bottle for him to wash them down. She also took a couple for good measure before getting into the driver’s seat.

Craig Elder’s prepaid phone was dead, as dead as Josef’s phone. As dead as Craig, Nora thought. So much for calling the police-they wouldn’t be able to arrive in time anyway. She remembered what Craig had said about his burner phones being untraceable, and about never storing information in them. She dropped the useless object and started the engine, bracing herself. She wanted to drive to the nearest hospital, but there was work to do first.

No police, no British agents, no French agents, no CIA-only the three of them. They had to get to Cowper Field before that plane took off.

Chapter 47

“I’m the one who started all this,” Josef Abrams said.

Nora looked over at him for a moment, then back at the road. She was still getting used to driving on the wrong side of the street with a steering wheel that was on the wrong side of the car, and the torrential rain and windshield wipers didn’t help matters. A larger, northbound road was coming up on the left, the one where Josef had seen the Aston Martin turn. She swung the steering wheel, then glanced at her watch: 2:36. They might already be too late.

Josef turned to Jeff in the backseat and said, “They killed Maurice Dolin. He’s in the hayloft. He came out here yesterday, and they must have done it as soon as he arrived. I’m sorry-I know he was a friend of yours.”

“I was afraid of that,” Jeff said, “but I’m not surprised. I heard them talking about him; they knew I’d been in touch with him. I guess they figured he knew what I knew, so he was a liability to them. It would have been easy for them to get him here, to Laurels. Bill probably had Craig Elder call Maurice, posing as one of my people, and tell him that I was about to nab Bill and his gang. Poor Maurice didn’t even know about Bill, but he would have jumped at the chance to join me for the bust. He probably ran all the way here.”

“That sounds about right,” Nora said. “They said on the news last night that he dropped everything and came rushing to England. He was also at the cemetery in Pinède right after I was there the other night. You don’t know about that, darling, but I’ll tell you later.”

“Actually, I heard most of it from them,” Jeff said. “Bill came out here the morning you went to France, and he enjoyed giving me blow-by-blow descriptions of your journey. I guess he thought it would make me talk. I would have, too, if I’d thought it would keep you safe. I’d already told Maurice that you’d be coming over to claim my remains, so he knew what you were doing. He must have gone to Pinède when he heard about the shootout, hoping to protect you, and he figured the best way he could do that was to take you into custody.”

Nora nodded, watching the road, remembering. Armed and dangerous, approach with caution. No wonder Bill and Craig had told her Maurice Dolin was the bad guy. If she’d known his true motives, their cover would have been blown.

Now she asked Josef, “What do you mean, you started all this?”

The young man beside her shrugged. “I’m the one who found out about the arms deal in the first place. I’m with, shall we say, a certain agency in Israel; I guess you figured that out. I’m an actor, and I can pass for several nationalities. Last year I went undercover in Tripoli, and I joined Nassim Gamal’s group. When I learned of the upcoming deal, I got out of Libya and came to London. My employers don’t know I’m here; they think I’m still in Tripoli. My father-my late father worked with Mr. Baron a few times, so I knew his name. Papa once said Jeffrey Baron was the only man in the community he completely trusted. I decided to find him.”

“Which he did,” Jeff added from the backseat.

Josef nodded. “So, we started looking for the Western side of the deal. I couldn’t get that information from Gamal or his people, but I overheard enough to know that it was someone in England. And I heard that my country is the main target of the weapons they’re planning to make-Tel Aviv and Haifa.”

“Dear God!” Nora said. “How did you zero in on Bill?”

Now Jeff took up the story. “That was a case of really, really bad timing, Pal.”

Nora had to slow down as they passed through a village. They weren’t on the motorway, after all, but a country road, and there wasn’t time to go looking for alternate routes. She tried her best to avoid bumps in the road, thinking of her two wounded passengers. They’d just passed a signpost for Cowper Field, so she kept driving in that direction. It was 2:40 now-twenty minutes to takeoff. She accelerated again, listening to her husband’s voice from the backseat.

Jeff had suspected Bill Howard right from the start. Bill had left Vivian, bought a fancy sports car, and started running around with a lot of young women. Jeff knew Bill would need money for this new lifestyle, money he wouldn’t get from his rich wife after the divorce. He also knew that Bill was amoral, not particularly loyal to Britain or anything else, and one of the few people in England with the connections to locate and obtain nuclear parts. Jeff didn’t let Maurice Dolin in on his suspicions, but he got one of Maurice’s colleagues involved, a young woman named Solange Braure.

Solange went to work for Bill in London and vamped him into her bed, even promising to marry him, and she confirmed to Jeff that Bill was making a lot of calls to unidentified people in Tripoli from his new house in Norfolk. Jeff secretly recruited Bill’s driver, Andy Gilbert, asking him to keep an eye on his employer, and to keep quiet about it. Then all Jeff needed was concrete proof of Bill Howard’s treason.

That proof arrived in early June. Solange was at Laurels with Bill when the crates arrived and were placed in the barn. Bill told her it was computer equipment for a new regional station of his outfit, and she pretended to believe him. She slipped out there one night and saw what was in the boxes: steel and plastic casings for various interior parts of nuclear weapons. She took photos, and she found written correspondence between Bill and Gamal in Bill’s office, which she also photographed. She gave everything to Jeff, who put it all on a microchip. He needed to get it to Langley. He didn’t trust anyone in MI6 or the SDAT in France or even his American colleagues in England, because he didn’t know how far Bill’s influence reached. And he didn’t trust communications systems in the wake of the WikiLeaks scandal. He was on his own.

Jeff decided that the one person who might be able to get the proof out of England without raising suspicion was his wife. That’s when he came up with the idea of “dying” in an accident, and he let Bill Howard and Maurice Dolin in on the plan. This way, he told them, he’d be able to move around freely and find the bad guy. He also knew that Bill Howard would assume from this that his scheme hadn’t been detected. Of course Jeff didn’t tell them about the chip, which he concealed behind a photo of him in a gold locket.

As expected, Bill was delighted with the plan-he must have thought it was a perfect waste of Jeff’s time and energy while he, Bill, went on with the sale. It was Bill who’d suggested a dying former MI6 operative, a man whose weak heart and lifelong alcoholism had finally caught up with him. The former agent was in a nursing home in Weston-Super-Mare, and Jeff went there and told him the truth about Bill Howard and what he was planning. When the man realized that his body could help catch a traitor, he gladly signed on.

The man died on June 28-the day before the phone call to Nora-and Jeff collected his body from the nursing home and drove to Holland Park Avenue. Jeff planted the camera, keys, and gold locket on him, and he put photos of Nora and Dana in the man’s wallet while removing everything that might identify him. Jeff waited for a lull in the traffic and drove the car into the wall, activating the air bag. He moved the dead man from the backseat to the front, punched him in the face-Nora remembered the postmortem bruise there-and vanished.

That night, Jeff went to Laurels, at Bill’s suggestion. He’d given his two notes to Solange Braure for delivery to Nora if anything went wrong, and Solange had gotten him in touch with one of Maurice Dolin’s best men, Jacques Lanier. Jacques was to escort and protect Nora if she arrived in France. But Jeff had made it clear that none of Nora’s watchdogs-Jacques, Solange, and Andy Gilbert-could reveal their true agenda to her.

“I wanted you involved as little as possible,” Jeff explained. “I’d made up that locket with the microchip, and I was hoping you’d just take the personal effects and fly back to New York. But then came the bad timing…”

Nora saw a new signpost for the airfield. “What happened?”

Her husband sighed. She knew that sound; she didn’t have to look in the rearview mirror to know what it meant.

“I did something really stupid,” he said. “I arrived at Laurels two nights before you arrived at Heathrow, the night of the phony accident, and I decided to have a look around. I wanted to see those crates for myself; I thought maybe I could damage the parts and make the whole thing a moot point. There was no one else there with me except that guy Mustapha, who I thought was some kind of butler, and a daily maid from the village. After the woman had gone home and I thought Mustapha was asleep, I went out to the barn and started to open one of the crates. Next thing I knew, I was struck on the head from behind. I woke up in that groom room, bound and gagged.”

“I see,” Nora said. “So, Bill actually found out you were onto him before he called me in New York. He searched your apartment in Soho that night. Polly Jenner and her husband heard noises, but they thought it was you. I should have guessed it was Bill immediately-who but a top agent would know how to override your alarm system? And you”-she looked over at Josef beside her-“were already on your way to New York to escort me to England, because Jeff didn’t want me unguarded for one minute, from the moment I left home, right?”

Josef nodded.

“Mustapha started with Pentothal,” Jeff continued, “and I must have said something about the photos, but I didn’t say where they were hidden, and I didn’t name Solange. She was already at the hotel when you first arrived there. She had the notes ready, in case we decided you should leave England in a hurry. I was supposed to call her every hour, from the moment you touched down at Heathrow. Well, by then I was in no position to call, so she knew I’d been taken or killed. You and Bill went to the morgue, and you were given the envelope, and by then Bill knew there was something in it that would compromise him. Enter his secret weapon.”

“Craig Elder,” Nora supplied. “Bill must have called him from the car the minute I got out, so he placed himself in Russell Square and waited for me. I guess he was going to steal my purse.”

Josef Abrams said, “Solange called me; she was worried when there weren’t any phone calls from Mr. Baron. I was in the hotel when you passed by it, and I followed you to the park. Solange and I decided I should steal the envelope and get everyone off your tail. I never saw that damned Elder, not until he caught me with the purse. As soon as I got away, I phoned Solange and told her to give you the notes. When you arrived back in the hotel with Elder, he saw Solange in the lobby and took off, but he obviously realized she was the leak. She passed the first note to you before they could do anything, but Elder followed her to Paris and killed her.”

“Yes,” Nora said. “And by the time I got to Paris, he had a fake note ready, sending me to that cemetery where they could kill me and dump my body, and get the envelope.”

Everyone in the car was quiet for a while, imagining that scenario-the scenario that hadn’t succeeded, thanks to Jacques Lanier. Solange had been able to activate him before she’d met her fate in the apartment in the Latin Quarter, and Bill and his people hadn’t known about him. They’d thought he was simply what he appeared to be, an elderly Eurostar chauffeur.

“Who was the man in the car,” Nora asked, “the gray Citroën outside the museum, the one Jacques managed to lose? From the description Jacques gave, I assumed it was you, Josef.”

The young man shook his head. “It was probably Elder, with a very dark tan and a black wig. He must have figured that if you or your driver spotted him there, you’d assume the thief from the park was still after you, which would send you running to Pinède.”

“It did,” Nora admitted. “Who was the man in the cemetery, the one Jacques killed?”

“A local French assassin for hire,” Josef said, “a fellow named Aristide, with a long history. No loss there, believe me.”

Nora believed him. She glanced over at the young man and said, “I was in the hotel yesterday morning, when you came with the flowers. I watched you from the room across the hall. I didn’t know you were a friend, or I wouldn’t have hidden from you. I wouldn’t have followed you all over London either.”

Josef was surprised at this news. “You followed me?”

She nodded. “Russell Square, the Underground, Leicester Square. I was sitting on the bench next to you when you met Andy Gilbert. I heard every word-well, almost every word.”

He stared at her, but she didn’t pause to gloat. She had one more question, her most important question. She asked it now. “What was his name?”

“Whose name?” Jeff asked from the backseat.

“The former agent. My ‘husband.’ The man in the morgue.”

“Oh. His name was Trevor Markham.”

“Trevor Markham,” Nora said slowly. “Trevor Markham, Vivian, Claudia, Solange, a young woman named Wendy, and Maurice Dolin.” She didn’t add Jacques Lanier and Andy Gilbert to the list, not yet; she hoped they were still alive. “Let’s do this for them.”

“Zichronam livracha,” Josef whispered. “Honor their names.”

They were all silent after that. The car passed through another village, then the road arced to the right; they were now moving east along the northern coast of Norfolk. She caught occasional glimpses of water on her left, the North Sea. There was a wood on the right side of the road, tall trees, and an entrance up ahead that led off through the forest. A standing sign at the turnoff announced COWPER FIELD. No traffic-they hadn’t passed many cars since leaving the farm. Nora crossed the oncoming lane, pulled the Focus over onto the shoulder near the sign, and stopped.

Josef had his wallet out, open in his hand. He was gazing down at a photo inside, a pretty girl about his age with dark hair, dark eyes, and a wonderful smile. Nora didn’t have to ask; this girl, whoever she was, was waiting for him in Israel, perhaps in one of the cities Nassim Gamal planned to obliterate.

Her head didn’t hurt anymore; she was the only relatively uninjured person in this car. The rain drummed on the roof, punctuated by distant thunder. It was 2:49. Eleven minutes…

“Okay,” she said, “what’s the plan?”

Chapter 48

They moved through the forest as quickly as they could, but it was difficult. The rain fell in rivers from the leaves and branches above their heads, and Josef’s injury slowed him down considerably. Nora forged ahead, then stopped and waited for him to catch up. She clutched Jacques Lanier’s heavy SIG Sauer, grateful that she and Josef had finally been able to talk her husband into remaining behind.

Jeff was in the backseat of the Focus, his injured leg stretched out, armed with the little revolver she’d used to kill Craig Elder. Only one round left in it, but he’d said he’d be fine. He knew that his incapacity would only get in the way of the mission, but it was maddening for him to be immobile while others were on the job. His job, as he saw it. The car was now concealed from view; Nora had driven it straight into the trees, some twenty feet in from the main road.

The paved drive into the airfield was on their left; she could see it now and then through the trees. After about three minutes of negotiating her body forward in the soaked tangle of bushes and tree trunks, she became aware of open space ahead of them, and she began to make out shapes, an enormous structure of some kind and a vehicle parked near it. As she arrived at the edge of the forest and dropped to her knees, she saw that the huge building was a hangar of corrugated tin spotted with rust, and the car parked on the near side of it was the gold Aston Martin. The big, bearded man named Mustapha stood next to the car, his back to her, holding up an umbrella to shield himself from the torrent. Nora saw the back of the hangar, a long metal wall with one metal door in the center; the front of the building, on the other side, faced the runway. On the farthest side of the hangar from here were a big, round metal tank beside two gas pumps, a blue pickup truck, and three small planes in a neat row, lined up in the grass at the edge of the tarmac.

In the distance beyond Mustapha, she could just make out a squat, fat airplane on the runway, perhaps fifty yards in front of her, its rear cargo door open. The two trucks were there, the rain bouncing off their canvas roofs. The men were just finishing with the last of the load. As Josef arrived to kneel beside her, the final two crates disappeared inside the plane. Moments later, the men who’d carried them reappeared and jumped down onto the tarmac. At a sharp command from their leader, the eight laborers climbed into the trucks and the drivers got into the cabs.

“Good,” Josef said. “They’ve finished their work here, so now they’ll go. That’s a lot fewer people to worry about. But where are Howard and the others? I should think-”

His question was answered before he could finish uttering it. As the trucks began to move away from the aircraft in the direction of the drive that led to the main road, a burly man in a blue poncho and a captain’s cap appeared from the hangar, bent forward under an umbrella. He strode off past Mustapha toward the plane, but he suddenly stopped and turned around, apparently responding to a call from the building behind him. He shouted something to the unseen caller inside the building, then turned and continued on his way.

“Okay, I have to get over there,” Josef said, pointing toward the little back door of the hangar. “Howard and the others are still in there, but not for long. He’s probably hitching a ride with Gamal and the crates-he won’t wait for Elder, and he won’t take a chance on the police arriving here before he’s safely out of England. Gamal and his people are keeping to their timetable, so we don’t have much time. I’ll see what they’re doing in there and try to figure out a way to stop them, or at least slow them down until we can get help.”

Nora looked out at the cargo plane. “Could you shoot out the tires?”

He shook his head. “There will be other tires in the hangar. No point in taking out the pilot either-the people who run this place will be licensed pilots. Mr. Howard would simply bribe them or force them to take his place. I can’t shoot them all-they’d stop me first.”

“So, what are we going to do?” Nora asked.

Josef shrugged. “I’ll have to think of something as soon as I’m in the hangar. You stay here until I-”

“No way,” Nora said. “I’m coming with you. There are at least four people in there, not to mention Mr. Cowper, or whoever, and his employees. You can’t take them all alone, but two of us may be able to cause some sort of a distraction.”

She looked over at the wet face of the young man beside her, into his eyes. He clearly didn’t like the idea of her getting that close to the action, and he knew her husband would have a fit, but he must have seen the wisdom in her words. After a brief moment of doubt, he nodded. “All right, but stay close.”

The two trucks had cleared the runway, heading toward the drive. As they passed Mustapha at the car beside the hangar, one of the drivers tooted his horn and waved to him. Mustapha waved back. The trucks rolled by the woods where she and Josef knelt, the sound of the engines fading as they reached the main road, turned, and drove away.

Josef rose to his feet and crouched down, leaning forward. Wincing in pain, he ran swiftly, smoothly out of the trees, heading straight toward the back wall of the hangar, the rain pelting him as he moved. Nora was behind him, gun in hand, imitating his crouch and his smooth running motion. It was tricky enough to sprint in this low position through a virtual curtain of water, but her progress was even trickier because she kept her gaze riveted on the man standing beside the car twenty yards to her left. His back was to her, but all he had to do was turn his head a few degrees and he would see them.

Josef had reached the building, and Nora was nearly there when a blinding flash of lightning washed over the landscape, immediately followed by a deafening crack of thunder. Mustapha moved his umbrella, looking upward for a moment, but he didn’t turn around. Nora almost crashed into her companion, but he held out a hand to steady her. They sank to their knees and huddled against the wall, brushing the rain from their eyes and hair with their free hands as they gasped for breath.

The metal door was right beside them. Josef handed her his pistol, leaned toward her, and whispered, “Keep a lookout.” She nodded, and he rose to his feet, studying the door and the frame around it. Nora looked down the length of the wall, noting with relief that Mustapha and the car were now out of sight around the corner. Still, she watched that corner, just in case, as her companion went to work.

“No wires,” he muttered, pulling a set of keys from his pocket. “But get ready to run, in any case.” He selected something long and thin, clearly not a key, and inserted it into the lock on the doorknob. Mere seconds later, he carefully pushed the door open a few inches. They waited, but no alarm sounded. Nora shifted her attention from the far corner of the building to the door, where Josef already had his upper body through the opening. He pulled back and turned to her.

“Okay, five men and one woman, in a group, near the office in the front left wall. Howard, Gamal, the man and woman from Tripoli, and two locals. Two planes, some barrels and crates, a workspace with tools, not much else. The nearest barrels are on our immediate left. Follow me.”

He took his pistol back from her, pushed the door open a few more inches, and crawled inside. Nora followed, moving awkwardly on her knees. The wet SIG Sauer was freezing in her hand, but she didn’t relax her grip. She crawled forward in darkness, blinking as her eyes adjusted. Josef’s hand came out of the dark to touch her shoulder, and she stopped. They were kneeling behind a big cardboard barrel, the kind people packed with housewares for shipping. It was at the end of a row of barrels lined up along the back wall of the hangar. Josef reached past her and carefully pushed the door shut.

Now she became aware of the overwhelming noise. It seemed to be coming from everywhere in the dark around her, vibrating in the corrugated walls, and it took her a moment to locate its source some forty feet above her head. If every cymbalist from every symphony orchestra in the British Isles were here in this hangar, practicing their art in unison, they couldn’t have produced a din as loud as this: hard, steady rain on the vast tin roof of a huge, hollow metal structure. She peered around the barrel at the room in front of her.

The two small planes stood in the center of the space, the closer one a twin-engine with the name Cowper Aeronautics on the side. The farther craft was a sleek red biplane with silver propellers and intricate wire riggings between the wings. She’d only seen planes like this in newsclips of aerial stunt shows or old movies about World War I.

The front wall beyond the planes wasn’t really a wall; it was two huge, roll-up metal portals for the aircraft. Both doors were down now, with only wet darkness visible beyond their wide windows. Nora leaned around the barrel and craned her neck to see the far left side of the building. The six people were there, in a pool of light from a hanging fixture. As she watched, Bill Howard handed a credit card to one of the two men she’d never seen before. Both men were tall and thickly built in matching dark jumpsuits, and they looked nearly identical except that the one who took the card into the glass-enclosed office had white hair and a droopy white mustache, whereas his twin had brown hair and a droopy brown mustache. The Cowpers, she decided, father and son.

She could feel the man beside her tensing, and she glanced over at him. He was studying the dark space along the back wall near where they crouched. She squinted, barely making out a long plywood worktable covered with objects: an electric saw, a power drill, hammers, smaller tools, a crowbar. He was formulating a plan, but Nora had no idea what it might be. She was about to lean over and ask him what he wanted to do when the older Cowper came back with a receipt.

The incessant rain above drowned out the sound, but Nora followed the pantomime. Everyone smiled and shook hands. Then Bill Howard led Nassim Gamal and his assistants over to a door facing the runway beside the rolling metal portals. They went out into the rain, and the Cowpers headed into the glass booth. The father sat down at a desk, and the son got busy with mugs and a pot of tea or coffee.

Josef’s actions were swift and economical. As Nora watched, he crawled over to the worktable and reached up, grasping the crowbar. Then he ran silently forward in his crouching position, directly toward the office. Staying under the sight lines of the windows, he scurried over to the office doorway at the side of the structure. It was open, the door resting back against the hangar wall.

The two men inside became aware of the presence in the doorway and turned. Nora heard a shouted “Hey!” as Josef swung the door shut, slammed the hasp into place, and thrust the crowbar down into the hole for a padlock. She hadn’t even noticed the office door or the hardware attached to it, but Josef was trained to take in every detail of his surroundings before he moved, and that was precisely what he’d done.

The Cowpers were now locked inside the office. They both began to shout, the younger man throwing himself against the door as the older one banged on the glass. From her position, their unholy racket was drowned out by the rain on the roof, but she remembered that Mustapha was just on the other side of that wall. If he heard the sudden noises…

Josef turned toward her. “Come on!” He pulled his pistol from under his jacket and headed for the front door. Nora was just about to rise and follow him when the door suddenly flew open. She watched as Josef stopped short, confronted by the huge, bearded man who now stood framed in the doorway, the umbrella in one hand and a gun in the other. The umbrella clattered to the floor. The two men faced each other ten feet apart, weapons aimed, and they fired simultaneously.

Josef’s shot was silenced, but Mustapha’s made a loud bang. Nora was on her feet, aiming the SIG Sauer at Mustapha, aware that he hadn’t reacted at all to the shot Josef had fired, but Josef sank to his knees. She shouted and ran forward across the room, closing the distance between her and the men. She was too far away, she knew; she’d never be able to hit Mustapha from here. She fired anyway, grateful that it barely made a sound. Had the people out on the runway heard Mustapha’s gunshot?

The big man looked over in her direction, peering into the darkness, swinging his gun around. Nora kept approaching, and she fired again. The second round struck him full in the chest, but he got off a loud shot before he fell backward, half in and half out of the doorway. She was still running, still firing. She arrived above him to deliver one final round into his forehead. He lay there staring up, the rain pelting his startled face. Only then, as she gazed down at him, did she notice the sharp stinging in her left arm.

She was aware of the pain, and of the two men who now stared from beyond the glass wall of the office. She glanced outside at the plane, aware that everyone was inside it now and the door was closing. She was aware that Josef was moaning, attempting to rise. Most of all, she was aware of the eyes staring up at her from the man she had just killed.

She dropped the weapon and bent down, grabbing Mustapha’s nearest leg with her good right arm and dragging his heavy corpse inside the hangar. She slammed the door and leaned back against it, looking over at Josef. He was smiling at her as he struggled to get up, but then his eyes closed and he fell.

Nora knelt beside him. He was alive but unconscious. Outside on the tarmac, the engines of the plane came to life with a powerful roar that managed to override the deafening patter of rain on the roof. In mere minutes it would be taking off, rising up into the wet sky, bearing its dreadful cargo away to be utilized for horrors beyond her comprehension. Those people were on their way to destroy the world.

And she, alone, was left to stop them.

Chapter 49

Jeff would know what to do, but he was too far away, in the car in the forest. Josef had been struck on the right side of his chest near his shoulder. The bullet must still be in there, and his fall had reactivated the bleeding in the wound below it. Nora had no idea how much blood he’d lost, but the small pool on the concrete floor beside him didn’t bode well. A swift glance at the two men in the office told her that they would only try to detain her, and they’d succeed. She ignored them.

A phone? In the office with the Cowpers. Did Mustapha have a cellphone? She quickly searched the body, rummaging through his pockets. She found a wallet and coins and a ring of keys-one of them must be for the Aston Martin-but nothing else. No matter; again, any call to the authorities would be too late. She didn’t know whom to call anyway.

The roar of the engines outside grew in volume, then subsided. The plane was moving away on the tarmac. She stood up and threw the door open, peering out through the rain. It was three o’clock in the afternoon, but from the condition of the sky, it might as well have been midnight. She saw the lights on the wings of the aircraft moving slowly, steadily off down the runway on her left, inland, which would be west. Nora looked the other way. Yes, that was the North Sea; she could just make out the gray water in the distance beyond the runway. They would take off in that direction.

She pictured it in her mind. The plane would taxi down to the far end of the runway and turn around. Then it would glide forward, accelerating as it moved. The runway wasn’t that long, not even a mile, so the pilot would need most of its length to get up to speed for the takeoff. Which meant the plane would still be racing along the ground when it reached this spot, the halfway point directly in front of her, where it had been sitting moments ago.

She looked around the hangar. A Cessna twin-engine and a Sopwith Camel, or whatever the hell it was; she had no idea how to operate them. There was a pickup truck outside, next to the gas tank, but that would belong to the two men in the office, who were still shouting and banging on the glass. They weren’t about to give her the keys, and she didn’t have her husband’s talent for hot-wiring. Which left only…

She looked down at the key ring in her hand. Oh God! she thought. Nora, what the hell are you doing?

On the floor beside her, Josef Abrams stirred. He moaned, rolling onto his side. “Mrs. Baron?”

Nora knelt beside him. “I’m here, Josef, but I have to leave you for a while. Don’t move. I’ll take you to a doctor as soon as I get back.” If I get back, she thought.

“You have to-you have to stop them,” he whispered.

“Yes,” Nora said. “I know. Hush now. Be still. I’ll be right back.” She looked down at his pained face, remembering the photo of the pretty young woman in Israel. She touched his hot cheek briefly with her hand, and then she was up and running.

Mustapha’s bullet had grazed her left arm above the elbow, and she could feel the throbbing pain of it as blood trickled down her forearm under her jacket. Oh well, she was alive and mobile, and there wasn’t any time to examine it now. She ran out into the rain, around the side of the hangar toward the low-slung gold car. James Bond’s car, she thought. Bill Howard’s car, his status symbol, his reward to himself for selling out his own country, and hers. She nearly ran to the left side of the car, then pivoted and headed for the right-side door. This was an English car, and everything was the other way around. Oh God, oh God, oh God…

She was in the car, fumbling with the keys. She found the correct one and felt around for the ignition. There! The engine came alive. She felt for the gearshift, wincing as the pain shot down her left arm. Another stick shift, of course. Left and forward for first gear.

The plane reached the end of the runway and turned around. She couldn’t hear it from this distance, but she knew its engines were racing, building power. In order to be effective, her next moves would have to be perfectly timed. It’s just like the theater, she thought. I’m starring in a new play called Mrs. John Doe, and this is opening night. Closing night too. One performance only.

Nora sat in the car, holding her breath, thinking about her family. She recalled the face of her daughter as a baby, a toddler, a teenager, and as she was today, age twenty. Dana was a strong young woman, a remarkable human being with all of life ahead of her. Then Nora thought of Jeff, her husband, her lover, her soulmate, the only man in the world. I don’t know if I’ll ever see either of you again, she silently told them, but please know that I loved you. Always remember that.

She waited until she saw the lights on the wings slowly begin moving forward. She couldn’t see the aircraft itself from this distance in the rainy darkness, only those tiny lights, and this was a good thing: If she couldn’t see them, they couldn’t see her.

The pounding in her chest caused a wrenching pain with each heartbeat, and she had to force her paralyzed hands to function. She gripped the steering wheel tightly as she eased her left foot up from the clutch and her right foot down on the accelerator, gliding smoothly forward. The wingtip lights approached on her left, gaining speed as they came at her. She pushed the door beside her open as she rolled slowly, carefully out into the center of the runway. She stopped the car, cut the engine, and swung her legs out onto the tarmac. She launched herself up and out of the low-slung vehicle, but she didn’t find her balance; she lurched clumsily forward, throwing out her hands to break her fall, sprawling facedown on the wet asphalt. A numbing jolt of agony shot up her injured arm, so intense that she almost lost consciousness. She drew in a great gulp of air, clearing her mind.

The roar of the plane grew louder, louder. Adrenaline suffused her, galvanizing her as the automatic actions of sheer necessity took over. With a sharp cry of pain, Nora pushed down with her hands, forcing her body up from the ground. She regained her feet and took off at a dead run, sprinting toward the hangar. She’d never run this fast in her life, and yet it seemed to take forever; the open doorway before her appeared to be moving away from her even as her pumping legs closed the distance. She was nearly to the door when the awful sounds reached her. There was a sudden screech as the pilot finally saw the car in his path and hit his brakes, but the plane was traveling much too fast by now. She heard a second shriek of tires on the slick asphalt as the aircraft veered, attempting to avoid the obstruction. She arrived at the hangar doorway and whirled around just in time to see the heavy plane slide sideways into the car and topple over onto it.

The two vehicles skittered down the runway together, and the plane’s right wing snapped off, flying away toward the far end of the hangar. The Aston Martin disappeared, crushed under the mighty weight, and sparks flew up all around it as metal was wrenched against metal. The boom of the impact would be heard for miles in this flat landscape. Farther off, near the big round fuel storage tank, the wing smashed to the ground and its engine burst into flames. The crumpled wreck of the plane and the car exploded in a sudden, blinding flash of light.

Nora felt the blast of intense heat an instant before she heard the accompanying sound. She was thrown backward through the open door, into the hangar, and she landed hard on top of the dead man inside the doorway. The first explosion sent a ball of fire straight up into the sky, and chunks of burning metal shot out in all directions. Nora rolled off the body and away from the open door, crawling toward Josef, as the windows of the roll-up doors behind her imploded and sheets of glass flew across the room. One, two, three huge crashes sounded as parts of the plane smashed into the tin walls of the hangar, denting the corrugated metal inward. A second explosion from the wreckage brought more flames shooting in through the open door.

Nora was on her feet. She ran over to the office door, wresting the crowbar out of the padlock socket. The two men tumbled out, shouting curses. The younger one was raising his fist to strike her when the biggest explosion occurred, knocking all three of them back against the office wall.

The farthest wall from where they were standing crumpled inward, bringing flames and black smoke into the room, and the entire building began to sag sideways. That must have been the big, round fuel storage tank at that end, Nora thought, remembering the burning wing of the plane that had landed beside it. She stared at the gaping hole, and then she moved.

“Help me!” she shouted at the two men as she ran over to Josef. “Please, help me with him!”

The Cowpers were not sticking around to assist her. They pushed past her and scurried out the back door of the hangar as fast as they could. Nora was relieved to see that Josef’s eyes were open; he was already struggling to rise. She took his hand firmly in her own and heaved him to his feet. The smoke and flames increased, and the stench of burning fuel filled the room, what remained of it. The ancient biplane was on fire, and the twin-engine would soon join it. She staggered toward the back door, dragging Josef along. He leaned heavily against her, but at least his legs were moving. Two more explosions in the distance, beyond the wall of flames that had just been the wall of the hangar: The truck and the planes outside were going the way of the fuel tank.

Nora stumbled out through the rear door, pulling Josef with her, and not a moment too soon. The rain poured down on them as the tearing, screeching sounds began behind them, followed by an unearthly clatter as the roof collapsed and tons of steel beams and corrugated tin smashed down to the floor. She circled Josef’s waist with her good arm, half dragging him out across the field, toward the trees. If I can just get him into the woods, she thought, I can find the car.

No need. She felt another thrill of relief when she saw the bright headlights zigzagging through the forest ahead of them, and she heard the car’s engine. Two more explosions behind them-the planes in the hangar, she guessed-and the remaining metal walls toppled to the ground. She could feel the blast of heat on her back, even at this distance. The headlights bobbed some more, then the brown Focus burst through the trees, bearing down on them. She blinked in the dazzle of the lights as the car came to a lurching stop. Jeff opened the driver’s door and started to get out.

“Move over!” Nora cried. She opened the rear door and helped Josef in, then threw herself into the front seat beside her husband. He was now in the passenger seat, pulling his injured right leg after him with both hands. Nora grasped the steering wheel with her right hand, reaching down with her left hand for the shifting lever, grateful that the Focus was an automatic, and swung the car around toward the driveway.

The hangar was gone now, engulfed by the flames that shot up into the rainy sky. Beyond it, on the runway, the other fire still burned, the remains of the plane and the Aston Martin. Not to mention the remains of Nassim Gamal, his two lackeys, the pilot, and Bill Howard. She glanced back at the conflagration, not at all disturbed by the uncharitable thought that arrived in her mind: Good riddance.

They passed the Cowpers, father and son, running madly along the road toward the motorway. Jeff glanced out at them and turned to Nora. “Who the hell are these guys? Should we pick them up?”

“Not a chance!” she cried. “Let them run for it, the cowards!” She made the turn onto the motorway and floored it, putting distance between them and the fire. “I don’t think I’ve ever been as happy to see you as I was just now.”

Despite his pain, Jeff managed to laugh. “I saw your fireworks and thought I’d join the party. What the hell happened back there?”

She shrugged. “Oh, you know me. I can never turn down a good part. Sigourney Weaver was busy, so I filled in for her.” Then she said, “Mustapha shot Josef, and I shot him.” She told him the rest: the Aston Martin, the plane, the burning hangar. “Bill’s dead-they’re all dead. I never even killed a cockroach before today, but I’ve killed seven people in the last two hours. I don’t know how I feel about that, but now we have to find a hospital. Josef’s lost a lot of blood, and your leg needs looking at, and I’m not feeling so hot either.”

He looked over at her, staring at her left sleeve, which was now red with blood.

“Don’t panic,” she said, repeating his words to her two hours ago. “It’s not as bad as it looks.”

He grinned at her in his usual way, but his voice was filled with wonder and new respect. “You’re quite the action hero, Pal!”

Nora smiled weakly over at him, then stared out at the landscape beyond the windshield wipers, blinking away tears of relief. She was here, in this car with her husband, and she would see her daughter again after all. Now she knew that there really were things worth dying for. She’d heard that cliché many times, but as with so many clichés, it was astonishingly true. She glanced in the rearview mirror to check on Josef Abrams, who was stretched out across the backseat, asleep or unconscious, she didn’t know which. She silently prayed for him.

Jeff said, “There’s a town up ahead.”

Nora nodded, but she didn’t say anything. She concentrated on driving and ignored the throbbing pain from the torn flesh above her left elbow. The lights of the village grew brighter in the wet windshield. They were nearly there when the first responders passed them, police cars and fire engines screaming by in the opposite direction. She watched in the rearview mirror as they flew off toward the massive column of smoke and flame that billowed up into the angry sky.

Six days, she thought. Six days since that phone call on June 29. It had all happened in a mere six-

Something occurred to her at that moment, and she actually began to laugh.

“Oh my God,” she said. “Today is the Fourth of July!”

Chapter 50

Nora had never been in an official plane before, and she admitted to herself that she could definitely get used to it. She’d slept most of the way, on a plush couch along one sleek wall. Jeff had stayed awake in his seat, reading his precious Hemingway, but she’d stretched out somewhere over the Brittany coast and was soon dreaming.

She dreamed of hospital rooms, several of them. First, there were the ones in the village in Norfolk, where Jeff and Josef had recuperated for a week after surgery while she stayed in a charming room above a local pub called the Three Crowns. She’d spent every day at their bedsides when they weren’t being debriefed by an international phalanx of officials: MI6, SDAT, Mossad, CIA. Nora had been questioned as well; she’d told her story several times. The Cowpers were to be given a new airfield in exchange for their silence.

The agencies had decided that Bill Howard’s deal with the terrorists should be kept top secret. As far as the world was concerned, the whole affair had never happened. The Howards, Maurice Dolin, Claudia Bellini, Solange Braure, and Craig Elder had been killed in an unfortunate accident in Norfolk while taking off for a pleasure trip to Monte Carlo. That was the official story, and Mme. Dolin suddenly announced to the French press that she’d found a note from her missing husband, confirming it. Trevor Markham had died in his nursing home of natural causes.

The stitches along the three-inch slice on Nora’s left arm just above her elbow didn’t itch as much as she’d expected. She decided she was going to like having the scar, a memento of her great adventure. She’d Skyped with Dana every day, promising to be home soon. Dana had been full of news about a new young man, someone named Phil, and Nora hoped he turned out to be a better prospect than the last one. Privately, she was simply grateful that she once again had something so routine and maternal to occupy her thoughts.

At the end of their week of recovery, Josef had been bundled into a car to London, to a waiting EL AL jetliner. Jeff had shaken his hand and Nora had kissed him, smiling at the thought of the delighted girl who’d greet him at the end of his journey. He’d sustained no permanent damage; he’d be in good shape in time for his wedding in December. He’d invited them to attend it in Tel Aviv, and they’d promised to make every effort to be there.

Then there had been the hospital room in London, where Andy Gilbert was a less-than-gracious patient. His ribs were mending and the concussion was gone. He was too big for his bed, too big for the room, and he just wanted to go home. He had a wife, Nora had been grateful to discover, a fellow Jamaican named Hope who had been surprisingly polite to the woman who’d struck and nearly killed her husband. Nora had taken Hope out to lunch while Jeff stayed at Andy’s bedside, where he soon learned never to play poker with the man.

Jeff had seen a famous specialist in London, who’d arranged for an equally famous colleague in New York to perform a second surgery on Jeff’s right knee. There would be some pins and a plastic part, but with practice, he’d be walking normally in a matter of months. He was told he’d have to take things more slowly, and he’d accepted this with grace. He’d made arrangements to transfer to a desk job at the CIA’s field office in New York City. Nora was secretly delighted.

They’d stayed at the Byron, in their usual room, and Lonny Tindall and his family had made a fuss over them. Nora had presented Lonny with a new laptop that his brothers had told her he’d been coveting, and he’d been endlessly grateful. He never asked for any more details of their shared exploits, and Nora never offered them.

One day in London, Nora had taken a cab to a house in the East End. She met a woman named Helen Belmont, the daughter of Trevor Markham, the dead man who’d posed as John Doe, and presented her with his ashes in a silver urn. Mrs. Belmont thanked her, admitting that she’d never known her father, the MI6 agent, very well-her late mother had thrown him out many years earlier, when his drinking had become too much. She promised to keep the urn in a place of pride on her mantel, and she was moved by the news of her estranged father’s final act for his country and the world. Nora told this woman every classified detail; it was the least she could do for the man.

After leaving Mrs. Belmont’s house, Nora had gone to a cemetery in another part of London and placed flowers on the grave of her friend, Vivian Howard. Her husband hadn’t been buried here, nor would he be; they hadn’t found enough of him to fill a coffin. Nora didn’t know where Craig Elder was buried, and she didn’t care. She’d sent flowers to Claudia Bellini’s husband and son.

The final hospital room had been in Paris, after she and Jeff had taken their leave of Andy and Hope Gilbert and the boisterous Tindall clan. They’d gone to France and spent the morning with Jacques Lanier before being flown home by the American military. Nora had met the wonderful Marianne and the son whose Renault had been retrieved from the woods by the autoroute. And she’d met grandsons, three of them, who’d fallen in love with Jeff and wanted to know all about his life as a spy.

Jacques’s chest wound had been serious, nearly fatal; his days as a field operative were over. He and Jeff had commiserated about that and swapped war stories while the grandsons had eagerly listened. His future would be at home, with his family, which he thought was fine. Marianne thought it was fine too-a sentiment Nora fully understood. As Jacques had confided to Nora, “At my age, one should break it easy.”

“Take it easy,” Nora had corrected before kissing his cheek and handing over the gift she’d brought him, a dictionary of American slang.

Now, at last, the federal government plane touched down at an airfield on Long Island. Nora wasn’t surprised to find her car waiting on the tarmac at the foot of the stairway, a marine standing beside it with her keys. Two other marines helped Jeff descend the stairs with his crutches, and they got him into the passenger seat. Nora thanked them, smiling at their crisp salutes, and headed for the expressway.

They didn’t speak on the drive home; they merely sat together in comfortable silence, the silence that only comes from twenty-one years of unconditional love. She reached up to touch the gold locket: Always keep me close to your heart.

She thought about her strange journey, the lies and secrets, the disguises and the urgency and the violence. She thought of the people she’d killed, knowing that she’d grow used to the fact. This was what her husband did, and Jacques and Josef and all the others. They did what was necessary, then they moved on. Nora was determined to do that as well. She was a wife, a mother, an actor, and a teacher, but now she was also an honorary secret agent.

They’d spend a quiet August together, then he’d be off to the city for his new desk job and Nora would be back in her classroom. She was looking forward to it, a new group of bright young people who wanted to learn how to lie for a living. Well, she thought, they’re coming to the right place. I can teach them that.

She smiled over at her husband and broke the silence. “Welcome home, Mr. Doe.”

The July sun bore down on the car, and the scent of salt air from the Sound arrived as she left the highway for the beach road. In minutes, she was turning into their driveway. She grinned at the sight of the lone figure waving dramatically from the widow’s walk at the top of the house. While Nora parked and went around to help Jeff out of the car, their beautiful daughter raced down the stairs and threw open the front door to greet them.

Acknowledgments

This is a work of fiction, and I have used actual places and organizations fictitiously. I’ve also invented places, including the village of Pinède with its busy churchyard, the unnamed seaside village with the Lucky Dolphin pub, the airfield on the North Sea, and the country house in Norfolk. I never name Bill Howard’s organization or that of my terrorists, but they’re fictitious too. London, Paris, Besançon, and Sedgeford are real, however, and I hope I’ve done them justice. I would like to thank Gary Stronge, the parks engagement officer for the London Borough of Camden, for answering questions and helping me with details about the beautiful Russell Square Gardens where two crucial scenes take place.

I’m truly indebted to my wonderful editor, Dana Isaacson, and everyone at Penguin Random House/Alibi who whipped this novel into shape and sent it out into the world. I particularly thank my copyeditor, Dianna Stirpe, for correcting a multitude of sins and suggesting a multitude of improvements.

My agent, Robin Rue, and her colleague at Writers House, Beth Miller, continue to amaze me with their support. I’m grateful for the folks in the Writers House eBook department, especially Julie Trelstad and Bakara Wintner.

My webmaster, Beth Tindall of Cincinnati Media, continues to keep me up and running on the Interwebs.

My love to my sister, Marcia McDevitt, and the rest of my family. My thanks to my writing group, Betsy Harding and S. J. Rozan. And, as always, the Friday Night Club: Sharon Bogart, Tina (“T”) Meyerhoff, Kathy Pontillo, Larry Pontillo, S. J. Rozan (again!), and the “floating” Friday Nighters-John Douglas, Andrea Knutson, Skip Richards, and Ann Romeo.

The Friday Night Club will never be the same without our dear friend and host, the late Jennifer Jaffee, and this novel is dedicated to her memory. We miss you, Jen.

About the Author

TOM SAVAGE is the author of seven previous novels and numerous short stories. His books have been published in fifteen countries, and his bestselling novel Valentine was made into a Warner Bros. film. Raised in St. Thomas, Virgin Islands, he now lives in New York City, where he worked for many years at Murder Ink®, the world’s first mystery bookstore.

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Content

Tom Savage
Mrs. John Doe

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Acknowledgments

About the Author