Mrs. John Doe

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.