Mrs. John Doe (23 page)

This was the side wall of the house, the wall she'd seen from the forest. It was the way she'd have to go; the men in the driveway would see her if she tried the front one. Below this window was a drop of perhaps fifteen feet, past another window directly under it, to the side lawn with the obsolete corral. Beyond the corral was the field, and then the fence and the trees that concealed the car. Freedom. But she couldn't run to the forest now; that wasn't an option.

It was 1:15; she'd been out for more than an hour. She looked around the room, and her gaze settled on the bed: two sheets and a chenille bedspread. She knelt beside her Coach bag, picking it up and running her fingers around the inside until she found the tracer Mustapha had mentioned: a black metal disc the size of a quarter, pinned to the black satin lining at the bottom. She frowned in self-disgust, remembering the morgue in London her first day here, when she'd handed this bag to Bill to hold for her while she went in to identify her “husband's” body. Craig hadn't called the SDAT to locate her at the French guesthouse after she'd fled the cemetery. There was no need; he'd known exactly where she was all along.

She tore the tracking device from the lining and placed it on the desk. She rummaged on the carpet, tossing her shawl, the gun, her makeup, her P. D. James paperback, and everything else back into the bag. Then she stripped the bed and began tying the sheets together.

She had to get to her husband.

If she'd stopped to think about it, Nora would have talked herself out of climbing out the window. But there wasn't time for that; she tied her makeshift rope to the radiator, dropped her shoulder bag to the grass below, sat on the sill, and slipped her legs out into the void before the insanity of her actions could even register. Grasping the sheet firmly in her hands, she lowered her entire weight out through the opening until she was dangling twelve feet in the air, her boots kicking the white bricks just above the ground-floor window.

The strain on her arms was tremendous, but she ignored it, thankful that she at least attended her health club regularly. If she were in the same shape as of most of the women her age she knew, this stunt would've been impossible. Even so, her bones and muscles all but cried out in protest, and she knew she'd pay for it with ibuprofen and liniment—
if
she lived through this.

She lowered herself some more, hand over hand on the sheets, praying that there was no one in the room beyond the lower window. When she saw that it was indeed empty and dark, she was so relieved that she let go of the sheets, allowing herself to drop silently to the grass. She maneuvered the sheet rope to the side, hitching it over the side shutter of the lower window, but it still hung down in plain view of anyone who came around to this side of the house. No matter: By the time the sheet was discovered, they'd already know she was gone. She left it hanging there.

She shouldered her bag and leaned against the wall, catching her breath. She must stay close to the building, she reasoned. If she were to step six feet to her left, she'd be in plain sight of the men by the trucks around the corner. The throbbing in her head had receded somewhat, but she wondered if there was any serious damage. She couldn't afford it, not now; she had things to do and little time in which to do them. She would probably die anyway, but at least she would be with her husband. And there might be a chance for escape, but it all depended on Jeff's condition, what she found when she made her way to the barn.

The barn. Which way to the barn?

She concentrated, trying to picture the layout as she'd seen it from the hill up there, beyond the corral. The barn and stables were on the other side of the house, so she'd have to go around it. The front was out; the men were there, waiting for instructions from their employers. Bill and Craig and Nassim Gamal were inside somewhere, finalizing their deal, and the henchman, Mustapha, was standing guard outside the bedroom upstairs. She began to laugh at the thought of him, and her bizarre fit of exhilaration told her it was time to move, before full-fledged shock set in. She was a good actor; she recognized the signs in her own body, her instrument. She was about one inch away from a paralyzing meltdown, so she allowed the sudden giddiness to propel her forward.

On with the show
. To her right was the back of the building, and she'd have to pass two more windows to reach the corner. Crouching down, wincing at the fresh spasm in her head, she moved, giggling to herself, remembering all those dance classes from her student days. She was in a Bob Fosse musical, and this crouching run was choreography, part of the big number.
One, two, three, four—jazz hands!
She ran past the windows, not daring to rise and peek in, and around the corner to the backyard.
Five, six, seven, eight—pose!

She hugged the wall, gazing around. There was a flagstone patio back here, and a wrought iron table and chairs for outdoor dining. Neglected flower beds everywhere—Bill Howard hadn't been in residence long enough to see to the landscaping, and she now knew that remaining here had never been part of his master plan. This house, this private property surrounded by forest in the middle of nowhere, was merely a checkpoint, a perfect way station for his international trade.

She regained her breath—the days of her ballet and modern dance classes seemed far away now—and moved slowly forward, crouching down again. Her fit of hilarity had passed; now she was thinking clearly. She was almost to the back door when she arrived below an open window and heard voices from inside. She froze, kneeling there, listening.

“…may take a few moments,” a man was saying. She didn't recognize the voice, a light baritone with a thick accent, but she guessed Nassim Gamal. “The instructions will be relayed to the bank in— Ah! There it is. Now, enter your account number, and the bank will transfer the funds.”

“Ah yes,” Bill Howard said. “It's coming through now. Wait a minute—what's this? That's ten million
more
than we agreed on!”

A light laugh from the baritone. “Consider it a bonus, Mr. Howard. I'm hoping we may do business together again in the future. The very
near
future.”

Now Bill laughed too. “Well, thank you very much, but I won't be anywhere nearby. I can't exactly go back to my job after this, you know. My country will be looking for me.”

“Oh, I have something else in mind,” Gamal said. “We don't need you in London, but we might need certain information from you—certain names, shall we say?—and you can supply that from anywhere. We'll make it worth your while, of course. Where are you planning to settle down, by the way?”

Bill laughed again. “I'm not sure yet—but I'm afraid I couldn't tell you, even if I knew. Nothing personal.”

“Of course not,” Gamal said. “How silly of me to ask!” This was followed by a chorus of laughter—the two men and Craig, and the man and woman from Libya, no doubt. Nora had heard enough. Keeping low, she moved silently along the back of the building, past the rear door, and around to the other side. She stopped again, studying the terrain ahead.

Tall grass. Very tall grass for grazing; there was a field of it here, on this side, and the big barn was directly ahead, at a right angle to the house, facing the circular driveway where the trucks were parked. The side barn wall closest to her had only the closed hayloft door ten feet above the ground, and she doubted there'd be any doors or windows at the back, where the forest began. She couldn't see the stables from here, but they were attached to the other side of the barn. If she could crawl through this grass to the back corner of the barn without being spotted, she could run the length of the barn and stables to the other end.

It was her only hope, so she moved swiftly along the side of the house to the front corner, then dropped to her belly, facedown in the sweet-smelling green. There was an open space, perhaps thirty feet, between the house and the barn, fully visible from the drive. She stared at the expanse of grass before her, thinking, It might as well be a mile.

The high blades pretty much covered her, but she'd have to be quick. She edged forward, slithering like a snake, and peered cautiously to her left, toward the circle. The fancy James Bond car was there, between her and the canvas-covered trucks. The men were beyond that, lounging; two standing by a vehicle and the others sprawled in the grass beside the drive. She could barely see them from here, so their view of her would be similarly blocked. The two standing men faced the others, their backs to her, and she noted the heavy rifles slung from their shoulders. Everyone was smoking cigarettes, and they were laughing and talking loudly in some Arabic language. She didn't recognize it, whatever it was.

Nora turned her attention to the barn in front of her and crawled forward, keeping as low in the grass as she possibly could. The trees along the drive were between her and the sun, casting streaks of deep shadow across the field, and she was grateful for that. Still, she had to be very careful. Ten feet…fifteen…twenty…twenty-five…thirty. Here she was. She slithered around the corner to the back of the barn and stood up, brushing dried blades from her black jacket and slacks, listening. The distant voices continued, laughing and joking; she hadn't been detected. So far, so good.

She ran down the narrow alley behind the building, the wall on her left and the trees on her right. The barn soon ended and the stables began. This structure was longer than she'd expected, but she moved swiftly, hoping there'd be an entrance somewhere at the far end.

She stopped at the corner and peered cautiously around it, toward the drive. There was a side door here, the only opening in this wall, and another split-rail fence was attached to the front corner. The fence continued away down the drive to the wrought-iron gates at the main road, some twenty yards away. Nora went around to the door, assessing the landscape over her shoulder as she moved.

Yes, the trees were thick on this side of the fence, and they continued all the way to the front edge of the property, beside the gates. A red brick wall extended out from the gates in both directions, but it was only about six feet high. If Jeff was able to move or be moved, they could come out this door, through those trees, over the wall, and be standing in the main road in a matter of minutes. Then a quick run along the road to the forest at the other side of the property and into the trees where the Ford Focus was parked. Craig Elder had pocketed the keys, but Jeffrey Baron could start any engine on earth, keys or no keys. Even now, at this desperate juncture, Nora smiled at the thought of her husband in the “electronics business.”

Please, God, she thought. Please let him be alive…

She looked through the trees at the brick wall a mere twenty yards away. The world was beyond that wall, and it was going on as usual, unaware of the activities here, activities that would seriously threaten its well-being. Cars came along that road frequently, and there were other farms nearby. Should she run for it now, flag down a car or find a farmhouse, call the police? They could be here in—how much time? This wasn't London; it was a sleepy village in Norfolk. The town constable, or whatever, wouldn't be enough to stop these people, and the regional police would be farther away. King's Lynn, probably. It was too far, and there wasn't time. No, she had no options; there was only one course of action.

She tore her gaze from the view, noting the sudden pall. Deep shadows had arrived on the sunny grounds of the farm, and there was a new chill in the air. She looked up to see that the sky was now filled with black clouds. More rain was on the way. She wasn't exactly surprised; this was England, after all.

Then she noticed the stable door. She hadn't seen it clearly from the corner of the building, but now she was mere inches in front of it, and she could see that something was wrong. It was standing slightly ajar, and there was an empty, round hole in the wood where the handle had been. Looking down, she saw the brass doorknob glinting in the grass by the fence. Someone had forced this door, and very recently.

Bracing herself for whatever was on the other side of it, Nora cautiously pushed the door open and stepped inside.

It was dark in the stable, but there were windows, a row of square openings flanking the big double doors in the wall to her right, facing the drive. To her left were the stalls, six of them, with enough room in each for two animals. There were no horses now, of course, but the faint, sweet scent of them lingered. She moved slowly, silently forward down the corridor in front of the stalls until she reached the far end, where two open areas had served as a smithy and a tack room. She saw a black iron anvil mounted on a table beside a potbelly stove, and rows of empty pegs along one wall that had once held reins and bridles. Discarded burlap feed bags were piled in one corner. There was a walled-off space at the end of the stall side, and its shut door had the words
T
HE
G
ROOM
R
OOM
crudely scrawled across it in white paint.

The archway before her led directly into the barn. She stood under the arch, peering into the enormous space. It was two stories high, with a hayloft suspended ten feet above the floor on the opposite side from her. Big bales of straw were stacked in the loft, and the rustling sound she heard from there informed her that rats or mice had made this place their home. Otherwise, the barn was empty.

Almost empty. Several large wooden crates were stacked near the front doors, which were closed and padlocked. She counted the boxes: eight. Four for each truck, she decided, because it was obvious to her that these crates held the goods that had just been sold. She wondered, briefly, what was inside them. Then she swept every inch of the cavernous place with her gaze. She thought, Where the hell is he…?

She turned around and studied the only enclosed space in the entire complex:
T
HE
G
ROOM
R
OOM.
Her husband must be in there, beyond that door, but she didn't rush forward to fling it open. Instead, she reached into her purse and pulled out the LadySmith revolver. It was empty, useless, but the person or people guarding him wouldn't know that. And they would definitely be armed.

Holding the gun out in front of her, she went over to the door and gently pushed it open. Nothing—no sudden shout or swift movement. It was very dark in here, and she had to pause a moment to allow her eyes to adjust to the gloom. When she could see, she held back a cry.

There were two cots in the room, one against each wall, and both of them were occupied. Jeff lay on the one to her left, covered with a plain brown blanket, his eyes shut as though in sleep. She took a step forward, just to be sure: Yes, it was definitely her husband, and she fought down a nearly overwhelming urge to rush to him. Tearing her gaze from his ashen face, she walked directly over to the other cot and pressed the tip of her revolver against the temple of the bearded young man lying there.

Nothing. No reaction whatsoever. Nora leaned down, peering closer, slowly lowering her weapon and dropping it into her bag. This man was dead, eyes wide open, his head lying at an impossible angle on the pillow. Someone had broken his neck, placed him on the cot, and covered him with a blanket. She touched his cheek: warm. He'd died recently,
very
recently.

Now she turned to the other cot. She sank to her knees, staring at her husband, sheer dread rising up in her chest. His face was a mass of dark bruises and dried cuts under a five-day growth of beard. She gently touched his pale cheek, noting the warmth. The intense warmth—a fever. He was alive.

Uttering a soft moan, she threw herself across his chest, weeping. His eyes opened, and he weakly raised one hand to grasp her shoulder, pulling her head toward his face. She kissed his lips, and he groaned. His lips moved with no sound, so she carefully pressed her ear against them.

“I'm okay,” he whispered. “Hide. Loft.” He winced, drew in a breath, and added, “
Now
. They're coming!”

Nora straightened up and looked down at him. His head fell back against the pillow, but he continued to watch her, the urgency clear in his dark eyes. She didn't want to go, didn't want to leave him here.

“They have the manila envelope,” she said. “Bill and that son of a bitch Craig Elder. I swear, I'd like to—”

“Hush,” he croaked. “Don't worry. They don't have anything. It's all right, Pal.”

She stared at him, wincing at the sight of the wounds on his nose and cheeks. “But the envelope—I mean, if that wasn't it, where—?”

He reached up to touch the gold locket on the chain at her breast and whispered, “Always—keep me close—to your—
heart
. Now get in the hayloft, Pal. Quickly!”

Close to her heart. Of course, she thought, feeling a sense of relief mixed with sheer triumph. Of course! Whatever they were looking for was in the locket.

She stood and went over to the door, brushing the tears from her eyes before turning to face him again. She fought another urge to bundle him out of the bed and carry him,
drag
him from this place. If only there were still horses here! Perhaps there was a handcart or a wheelbarrow…

“What about you?” she asked. “I can't just leave you here like this. What will you do when they come in here and find
him
?” She jabbed a thumb toward the other cot.

Despite his obvious pain, a little smile crept across his face. He withdrew his other arm from under the blanket and held up his hand. It clutched a gleaming silver gun, a snub-nosed revolver that looked almost exactly like her LadySmith.

“He won't be needing this anymore,” he whispered.
“Go!”

With a last quick smile for him, she slipped out of the room, closing the door behind her. She moved swiftly through the archway into the cavernous barn, searching the loft platform for a ladder. There it was, at the back of the barn, five slats nailed between two support posts. She made her way over to it and grasped the rungs, pulling herself upward as the first sounds reached her from beyond the padlocked barn door. Voices, a foreign language. She arrived on the platform and dived forward into a pile of ancient, rancid hay. She heard rattling at the door now, a key working into a lock, as she landed on something solid, something concealed beneath a layer of straw. She brushed the straw away with her hands and reared back, rising quickly to her knees, staring down.

A man's face stared blankly up at her, white and waxy. The dark eyes were clouded over behind the thick glasses above the generous mustache. Small gray insects swarmed across the pallid cheeks, in and out of the open mouth. The odor of decay rose up from him, mingling with the overripe scent of the hay. Even in this condition, he was immediately recognizable. She had found the missing Maurice Dolin.

She gasped, scrambling back from the corpse. She fell backward, directly into another solid object: another body, only this one was alive. An arm reached out from behind her, circling her chest, and a hand came around to clamp itself firmly across her mouth. She was pulled roughly back behind a pile of hay bales just as the lock clicked and the barn doors swung open, flooding the room with overcast light.

Nora leaned back against the warm body sitting behind her, relaxing in strong arms, feeling his heartbeat against her left shoulder blade. His legs extended out at either side of hers. She wasn't surprised that he was here; she'd half expected it. The broken door, the dead guard, the weapon in her husband's hands. Jeff was seriously injured; he hadn't overpowered the guard. This man had stolen over the wall, dismantled the door, killed the guard, armed Jeff, and climbed up here mere minutes before Nora's arrival. His presence was fine with her.

She nodded to let him know she wasn't going to scream, then reached up and removed his hand from her mouth. His other hand, she noticed, clutched a big black pistol with a gas suppressor attached, extended straight out beside her right arm, aimed at the top of the ladder in front of them. Anyone climbing up here would be blown away. That was fine with her too.

Not moving, not daring to breathe, Nora and the young man she knew only as Yussuf sat in the hayloft, listening as the room below them filled with their enemies.