Mrs. John Doe (18 page)

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.

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.