by Tom Savage
When Vivian and Bill split up, there was no question of her leaving her own home. Bill had a flat in another part of the city now, not to mention his new country house in Sedgeford, and Vivian was still here, aided by her longtime housekeeper, the estimable Claudia Bellini, and Claudia’s husband, who tended the grounds. Nora had dined here many times over the years but always when the couple had been together, and Jeff had been with her. Coming here alone felt distinctly odd—and tonight, under the circumstances, it felt considerably more than odd.
It was the third house in from the corner, an attractive, two-story residence with a driveway beside the front garden leading to the garage. Nora stood at the corner, but she wasn’t looking at the house. She was studying the entire scene: the other houses, the sidewalks, and the parked cars that lined the street on both sides. All the cars she could see from here were empty, as far as she could tell, and there were no pedestrians in sight. It was nearly dark now, and the streetlamps had just come on. Everything was quiet, and no stranger lurked anywhere, watching Vivian’s house. When Nora was certain of this, she hurried down the street and up the walk to the front door. She rang the bell at exactly seven o’clock by her watch. The door opened almost immediately.
“Hello, darling! You’re right on time,” Vivian sang as they embraced. Tonight she was a vision in a red silk blouse and harem pants that could only be from Stella McCartney, and Nora felt comparatively dowdy in her black denim pantsuit and the cheap coat she’d bought in the French mall yesterday. Well, at least she wasn’t wearing that awful wig.
If Vivian noticed the coat, she was too well-bred to mention it. “Come in, come in! Claudia’s in the kitchen, cooking up a storm, and I just made a batch of martinis. Bill’s on his way; he should be here soon.”
She ushered Nora into the front hall. Straight ahead was the curved staircase to the second floor, with the kitchen beyond it. The living room—or drawing room, in Viv’s lingo—was through an archway on the right, and the dining room was behind it through another archway, next to the kitchen, looking out on the back garden. Upstairs were two bedroom suites and a den that Bill had used as an office. Nora liked this house—good-sized without being ostentatious, if a tad conservative. Vivian had decorated it to accommodate her husband’s professional standing, in sober creams and beiges and earth tones for their frequent entertaining of government VIPs.
When Nora followed her friend through the archway into the drawing room, she stopped short, staring. Then she smiled, gazing around. The oatmeal and taupe and burnt umber had vanished. The new drapes at the big front windows were a virtual garden of flowers, pink and orange and yellow, and the austere beige carpeting had been replaced by a beautiful shade of pale green. The couches and armchairs were new, lighter and more colorful than their predecessors, in similar floral prints. Huge bowls and vases of actual flowers stood on the coffee table and end tables. The standard-issue hunting scenes on the formerly cream, now pale green walls had been replaced by flower-themed watercolors.
“Wow!” Nora whispered.
Vivian laughed. “Wait till you see the rest of the place! I just decided, what the hell? I don’t have to live in a men’s club anymore, entertaining all those crotchety old MPs and blue-rinsed dames. For the first time in my life, my house can reflect me, you know, the woman who actually lives here. You should have seen Bill’s face the first time he saw all this! Priceless!”
“I love it!” Nora said. “I really do, Viv. It’s so you!”
“I knew you would, darling. It’s definitely dramatic, and you’re an actress. And it was you who inspired it—your living room with all those flowers, and that marvelous den you did up for Je—” Vivian stopped short, nearly choking back the word. “Oh, my dear, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have…”
Nora blinked, remembering. Of course. Vivian still thought Jeff was actually dead. Her soon-to-be ex-husband hadn’t let her in on the secret, and it wasn’t Nora’s place to do it. For now, Jeff was officially deceased, and no one could know otherwise—certainly not Viv, who didn’t always think before she spoke. She’d learn the truth soon enough.
“It’s quite all right, Viv,” Nora said now. “I’m—I’m glad you’re moving forward like this.”
“We’re both moving forward,” Vivian said. “Remember that.”
Nora smiled and nodded, but she was saved from having to reply by the arrival of Claudia Bellini from the kitchen.
“Hello, Mrs. Baron,” the housekeeper said. “I’m so sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you, Claudia.” Nora didn’t cringe this time; she didn’t even wince as she acknowledged the condolence. She was getting used to being a widow—and to lying as easily as she drew breath. All the world’s a stage. “How are Tony and Vittorio?” She secretly congratulated herself for remembering the names of Claudia’s husband and son, whom she’d met, briefly, years ago.
“They’re just fine, thank you. Vito is at Cambridge now, and he’s doing splendid—he’s planning to read law!”
“That’s marvelous,” Nora said, and she meant it. Vittorio was the first member of Claudia’s family to attend college, thanks mainly to her employers. Bill and Vivian had overseen Vito’s entire education, and they’d eventually secured a place for him at Bill’s alma mater. His mother couldn’t be more proud; she was beaming.
“Let me take your coat,” she said now. She helped Nora remove it and carried it over to the closet in the entry hallway beside the door to the downstairs bathroom.
“Oh, the powder room isn’t ready yet,” Viv said. “They’re still remodeling, and there are no fixtures in it at the moment. You can use my loo tonight.”
Nora nodded, remembering the big master suite at the top of the stairs, with walk-in closets and a large bathroom. At the far end of the upstairs hall was a guest room that Jeff and Nora had stayed in once, years ago. Those rooms had been decorated in shades of beige and brown when Bill lived here, and she wondered what Viv had done with them. More flowers, probably.
“Supper will be served in one hour,” the housekeeper said to her employer. “Oh—and I’ve run out of cream, so I rang Bessie at Garson’s, and she’s sending her youngest boy over with it. Shane, his name is. I’ve left the money for it on the front hall table by the door. If I don’t hear the bell from the kitchen, would you—?”
“Of course,” Vivian said.
Vivian led Nora back into the living room, and Claudia returned to her cooking. The faint, tantalizing aroma of garlic and red sauce wafted briefly through the floral environment as the swinging door to the kitchen opened and closed. Nora sat on a couch, dropping her purse beside her, while her hostess sank into the matching couch at the other side of the coffee table. The big armchair between the couches—once a deep cocoa, now a riot of roses and violets—had always been Bill Howard’s designated place, and Nora assumed it was waiting for him.
Thinking of Bill Howard brought back the immediacy of her situation, and she felt a tightening, a clenching in her stomach, even as she smiled at her friend. The picture window was behind Vivian, and Nora gazed past her, out at the dark landscape beyond the glass, bracing herself for the inevitable flash of headlights as Bill’s car turned into the driveway. Her hand rested on the Coach bag, and she was acutely aware of the little silver object at the bottom of it, wrapped in her woolen shawl. What would she do when he arrived?
Viv’s bright red lips were moving, and Nora forced herself to follow the conversation. She tried to focus on her friend, smiling sympathetically, wondering if she would be forced to hold this woman’s husband at gunpoint—or worse—right here in her newly redecorated home…
“…very depressed at first, right after Bill moved out. I imagined him with this Solange, this lovely young creature, and I just couldn’t get out of bed in the morning. But I recovered. One day, I looked round this house and decided to change it. I simply went ahead and changed everything—Oh!”
Nora had been expecting headlights on the picture window, so w
hen Bill Howard suddenly materialized in the archway, she was just as surprised as Vivian. He was impeccably dressed, as always, in a dark suit and tie. The moment she saw him standing there, smiling, Nora knew something was wrong. She recognized that particular facial expression; she’d produced it herself many times, onstage and on camera. His lips curved upward, but nothing else joined in. His eyes were watchful, wary. Her first, horrible thought was that she had been found out, that he knew she was onto him. But his first words and actions banished that thought from her mind, replacing it with fresh alarm.
“Hello, ladies,” he said. “Viv, I know I’m not the master here anymore, but please bear with me.”
He moved swiftly to the picture window, reaching for the cord and pulling the drapes shut. Then he switched off the standing lamp beside the window and came back across the room. He frowned at the garish armchair before sitting in it, pulling a phone from a jacket pocket and glancing at the screen, apparently checking a text or readout. Then he sat back in the chair, phone in hand, looking from one woman to the other.
“I’m not sure if I can stay for dinner,” he said. “I’ve been trying to reach Craig Elder, but he’s not answering his mobile at the moment. Nora, there’s no word on that matter we were discussing the other day, but I may have some news for you soon. We’ll have to let Viv in on our little secret too.”
“Secret?” Vivian said. “What secret? Bill, what are you talking about?”
Nora, who understood him immediately, was more confused than her friend. She’d been bracing herself to accuse this man of being Mr. X, the mastermind behind Jeff’s disappearance, of selling out his country—of selling out the entire Western world, no less—but now, looking at him, she wasn’t at all certain of it. Bill Howard had lost his usual composure; he was clearly agitated.
“I can’t stay long,” he said. “I have to get back to my office. I came here in an unmarked car, but I’m pretty sure I was followed. I think I shook them off near Hyde Park, and I parked two streets away from here and came through the back garden—poor Claudia had a turn when I tapped on the kitchen door—but you can never be too careful.”
Nora stared at him, wondering if he was making all this up on the spot, but Vivian was clearly puzzled.
“Why would someone be following you?” she asked her husband. “What is it, Bill? What’s happened?”
He glanced over at her before leaning toward Nora. His voice was barely more than a whisper.
“I think we may have found our arms dealer.”
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 mor
e 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.
