Tom Savage - Mrs. John Doe

She had to make a plan. Paris. Get to Paris, leave the Renault in that alley next to Felicia’s restaurant, leave the gun in the glove compartment, give the keys to Felicia, and proceed to Gare du Nord. London: the Byron for her things, the hospital for her “husband’s” ashes, Heathrow. She could be home by midnight. Forget about the SDAT: Whatever her actual husband was doing, she was clearly more a liability than an asset as long as she remained in Europe-

“…une fusillade dans le cimetière de l’église Notre Dame des Montaignes…Pinède, un village en Jura de la Franche-Comté…deux hommes non identifiés, un mort et un blessé grave…”

A shootout in a cemetery. Two unidentified men, one dead and one seriously wounded. The words invaded her thoughts, and she looked over at the TV screen. The churchyard where she’d been last night was swarming with people: police, paramedics, and what looked to be half the population of Pinède. There was a shot of a covered stretcher being placed in an ambulance, followed by footage of Jacques Lanier, strapped to a stretcher carried by two men, awake and aware, blinking around at the crowd.

Jacques was alive! She felt a surge of relief, followed immediately by alarm. The live images switched to an artist’s sketch of the face of a young white man she’d never seen before: the dead assassin. This was followed by a grainy but distinct photo of a wild-eyed woman in a beige London Fog trench coat caught in the glare of floodlights, clutching a silver SIG Sauer in her hand. She was looking directly up at the camera, which was obviously a CCTV mounted on the corner of the church beside the emergency lights.

Nora had done a lot of television work and played small parts in several major films, so she was used to looking at herself on a screen, but nothing had prepared her for this. A still photo, taken from security camera footage, of her, Nora Baron, brandishing a gun. Brandishing -that was the only word to describe the image, and the expression on her face could only be called a snarl . She’d been dazzled by the sudden light in the cemetery, and she’d squinted directly up into the camera, raising her hand with the gun…

The newscaster, a pleasant-looking man, went on to report that the unidentified woman-Caucasian, fortyish, tall, slender, light brown hair-was wanted by the Gendarmerie Départementale. In the cemetery, a heavyset, balding older man with a walrus mustache and horn-rimmed glasses, identified as Maurice Dolin, directeur, SDAT , made an appeal for all citizens to be on the lookout for her. “Armée et dangereuse, approche avec prudence.” The still photo was shown again, and it was held on screen for a very long time, or so it seemed to its subject. Nora stared at the image of the desperate criminal, realizing that this unflattering picture was being broadcast from every network, on every television, computer, and electronic device in France.

She was on her feet, reaching for the now-famous raincoat, when Martine’s daughter bustled back into the room, ushering in a tall young man in jeans and a denim jacket, bearing a backpack. A hiker, no doubt, stopping for breakfast before hitting the trails. The hostess showed him to a table on the other side of the room. He dropped the heavy backpack on a chair and turned around.

Nora stared at him, sinking slowly back into her seat. The daughter was going through her litany of breakfast choices for the new arrival, but he interrupted her speech by coming directly over to Nora’s table.

“Pardonnez-moi, madame,” he said to Nora. “Anglaise?”

“American,” Nora replied.

“Great!” the young man said in booming, perfect English, and he grinned. “My rental car broke down a mile back, they can’t get me a replacement for hours, and I really have to be in Paris today. Are you driving that way, by any chance?”

The hostess arrived at the table now, frowning at the young man; she clearly had rules about one guest intruding on the privacy of another. Nora nipped the woman’s angry speech in the bud by smiling and waving to the empty chair across from her.

“Yes, I can take you to Paris,” she said, transforming herself into a friendly fellow traveler. “Won’t you join me?”

“Great!” he boomed again. “Thanks so much!” He turned his beautiful grin on the hostess. “ Café, fruit, omelette, et -um, have you any corn flakes?”

Martine’s daughter blinked. “Corn…flakes? Oh, les Kellogg’s! Oui, nous avons les Kellogg’s! ” She turned an inquiring look to Nora, who smiled and nodded. Translation: Yes, it’s okay for him to sit here.

The big screen across the room was now filled with the image of a lovely young woman in an evening gown, extolling the delights of her silky, manageable cheveux . Nora asked if la tay-vay could perhaps be turned off?

The daughter complied immediately. Then she produced a very French smile, winked at Nora, and hurried off to the kitchen. The young man went over to retrieve his backpack from the other table, threw his large, lanky frame down into the chair across from her, and grinned some more.

Nora glanced over at the door to the kitchen, then back at her new companion, instantly dropping her pretence.

“What on earth are you doing here?” she said.

Now, at last, the disarming grin vanished, and Craig Elder the younger leaned forward to whisper.

“I’m here to get you out of here.”

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?”