Mrs. John Doe

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.