Mrs. John Doe (15 page)

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.

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.