Mrs. John Doe (10 page)

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.

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…