The Spy Who Never Was

by Tom Savage

  Even so, she felt numb, drained, exhausted. The delayed shock of this afternoon’s confrontation in the alley, followed by the revelation that the man from the airport was most likely a notorious mercenary assassin, was making her drowsy, not to mention all the wine and Champagne and rich food. She glanced down at her snifter of Courvoisier on the table, deciding not to drink it. She’d go back to the hotel and sleep, and tomorrow she could—

  A sudden burst of loud laughter from the bar along one wall caused Nora to look over. A group of rowdy young Frenchmen who’d been at a nearby table in the dining room had moved their bachelor party up here to the lounge. Nora smiled at their high spirits, but then she stopped, staring, and her smile faded.

  An older man stood at the bar beside the groom and his buddies, but he wasn’t with their party. He had his back to them, and he was looking directly at Nora. Seventyish, tall, slender, gray-haired, distinguished, impeccably dressed in a black dinner jacket: He could have just wandered out of a play by Somerset Maugham. As she stared back at him, he raised a phone to his ear and spoke, never removing his gaze from her. He wasn’t smiling.

  Nora turned to her companion on the couch, who was checking her phone again. “I think it’s time to go, Amanda. Can you call Ben and tell him to get the car?”

  “Is something wrong?” Amanda asked. She looked over in the direction Nora had been staring.

  “I’m not sure,” Nora said, “but I’m suddenly feeling uncomfortable in this room. Call me paranoid, but I really want to get out of—”

  At that moment, a large hand grasped her right shoulder from behind, accompanied by a booming male voice.

  “Nora Baron, as I live and breathe! I thought that was you, and it is! Small world!”

  Chapter 13

  Nora leaped up from the couch and whirled around to confront the grinning man who stood directly behind where she’d been sitting. Curly brown hair, pleasant face, stocky build. She blinked, trying to place him. It took her a moment before his identity registered: Dwight Pershing, one of Jeff’s CIA colleagues from New York. She drew in a deep breath to recover from the shock and made a swift decision. Then she threw back her head and laughed.

  “Dwight, darling!” she cried. “What a lovely surprise! But you’re still mixing me up with Jeff Baron’s wife, aren’t you? I’m not Nora; I’m Julie. Julie Campbell, remember? I know I look a bit like Nora, but really, darling, you mustn’t confuse us like that!”

  She held out her arms, thinking, Please play along. You’re Company; figure it out.

  Please…

  To her immense relief, he did. Nora could see the rapid changes on his face, from surprise to confusion to realization to acute embarrassment, all in a matter of seconds. He actually blushed. In a flash, he was around the couch and stepping into her arms for a warm embrace.

  “Oh, damn, Julie, forgive me,” he boomed for the benefit of everyone in earshot. “I did that the last time we all met up in New York, didn’t I? I called her Julie and you Nora. Gosh, I’m going blind in my old age!” He kissed her cheek and whispered, “Sorry.”

  Nora continued her performance as Auntie Mame. “Everyone, this is Dwight, my nearsighted neighbor from New York!” Bob and Clifford stood as Nora made introductions all around. Everybody smiled, and the men shook hands with Dwight. “We’re getting ready to leave, darling, but you look like you could use a drink. Excuse us a moment, everyone.” She picked up her snifter, grasped Dwight’s arm, and fairly dragged him over to the bar.

  The man who’d been watching her from here had vanished. Nora looked around the crowded room, but he was nowhere in sight. She dropped into a bar chair and waved her husband’s friend into the one beside it.

  “I’m sorry, Nora,” Dwight muttered. “I put my foot in it, didn’t I? Jeff told me you were taking occasional assignments with us, but it never occurred to me that—”

  “It’s okay, Dwight; you covered yourself beautifully. Yes, I’m on the job here, and I’m Julie Campbell until further notice.” She knew the accepted protocols among CIA operatives, so she knew he wouldn’t ask her about her current mission. “How about you? Are you in Paris on, um, business? Or am I allowed to ask?”

  Dwight ordered a beer from the bartender. Turning back to her, he said, “I’m just here tonight. Tomorrow I’m off to other places. I’m relaxing here this evening before I go to work, hanging out with a couple of pals from the Paris station.” He waved a hand toward a table across the room where two men in business suits were deep in conversation. The empty armchair there was presumably Dwight’s.

  “Oh, they’re Company people?” Nora asked. “Then they must know Amanda. She’s from the Paris station.”

  Dwight blinked. “The blonde in the blue dress? Or was she the giggling one?”

  “No, the giggler is Kiki; Amanda’s the blonde.”

  Dwight looked over at Nora’s table. “Amanda what?”

  “Morris,” Nora said.

  He frowned. “I thought I’d met everyone here, but I don’t know her. She looks familiar, though…” He pulled a phone from his jacket and thumbed a number. “Cy? I’m over at the bar with an old friend. Can you see that group at the table on your ten o’clock, the pretty blonde and the pretty brunette and the older couple and the dark-haired guy? Yeah, them. Look at the blonde. Do you know her? No? Hmmm. Ask Warren.”

  Nora watched the pantomime across the room. Now both of Dwight’s friends were peering over at her group. The man without a phone—Warren—said something to Cy, who spoke into the phone.

  “Thanks,” Dwight said. He put away his phone. “Warren knows the couple from the embassy, and he says the young man is at the consulate. They both recognize the giggler as someone’s secretary there, but they don’t know the other woman. Whoever she is, she ain’t from around here.”

  Nora looked over at Amanda Morris, then picked up her snifter and took a long sip. The cognac soothed her throat and began to spread its warmth through her. She remembered that she’d decided not to have this drink, and normally she wouldn’t drink it. But tonight wasn’t normal—it was three towns over from Normal, as her husband would say. She placed the glass on the bar, staring down into its bright amber depths, thinking.

  “Is everything all right, Nora?” Dwight was leaning forward, all but whispering in her ear.

  She snapped out of her trance, smiling over at him, Auntie Mame once more. “Yes, everything’s fine. It’s been lovely seeing you, Dwight, and we must get together in New York soon. But now I have to desert you; I hope you don’t mind.”

  “Not at all.” He was already on his feet. She rose and embraced him, then quickly returned to her table. She knew Dwight was curious about their peculiar exchange, but he wasn’t asking questions, which was a good thing. She wouldn’t know where to begin to explain any of this to him. She didn’t understand it herself.

  Amanda had just settled the check, and the group was breaking up. Kiki and Clifford went off to the dance club downstairs, and everyone else took the elevator to the lobby. Bob and Sheila were packed off in a cab, and Ben Dysart pulled up in the limousine. As Nora got in the backseat with Amanda, she concentrated on keeping up her fun, carefree act.

  “That was a lovely evening,” she told her host as the car glided toward the river. “Thank you. I haven’t been in a place like that in years—it made me feel young again.”

  Amanda smiled. “Yes, I like Rêve, and thank you for providing a legitimate excuse to go there! I don’t often get the opportunity. But I must say, I was surprised when your friend from New York shouted out your name like that.”

  Nora managed to produce a light laugh. “Ugh! The bane of every secret op—the random neighbor from back home! But no harm done. I barely know him, and he was rather drunk, so now I have him convinced I’m someone else.”

  “That’s never happened to me,” Amanda said, “but the threat of my exposure is why you’re here, isn’t it? It’s a constant possibility in our line of work; we’re all so visib
le here.”

  “I guess the Paris office keeps you busy,” Nora observed, hoping her line delivery sounded authentic.

  “Oh yes!” Amanda said. Then she leaned forward and spoke through the open partition. “Take the next bridge, Ben, and try to avoid getting stuck in traffic—Julie and I are tired, and I don’t want to fall asleep in the car.”

  “Right,” Ben replied. Nora studied his face in the rearview mirror. She’d noticed a change in him this evening, ever since the limousine had arrived for her at the hotel. Usually gung ho and grinning, Ben was uncharacteristically quiet, almost sullen. He was frowning, his lips pursed, and he glanced at Nora in the mirror several times. He looked preoccupied, downright—she searched for the right word—worried. Yes, that was it; he was worried about something.

  They crossed the Seine and headed northeast toward Hotel Lisette. The streets and sidewalks were busy on this fine spring evening. Nora tried to keep the conversation going.

  “I hope Chuck will be all right,” she ventured. “How long does he have to stay in the hospital?”

  “Oh, not long,” Amanda said. “Just overnight, probably. He’ll be fine, I’m sure, but we’ll have to get a replacement for him while you’re here. I don’t like the thought of that man getting a second chance at you, whoever he is.”

  Nora said, “Perhaps Ben could help out with that.” She was aware that Ben was watching her in the rearview mirror again.

  “We’ll see,” Amanda said, and she looked through the tinted side window at the lights of the city.

  Nora could feel the odd dynamic inside the limousine. She was getting a distinct sense of tension between the other two people here with her, the Paris station agent who apparently wasn’t with the Paris station and the new recruit from America who didn’t seem to know who anyone was. Their relationship was strained, to say the least, and it was clear to Nora that they disliked each other.

  She made a decision and reached into her shoulder bag for her notepad, then felt around for a pen. She quickly scrawled a message, tore it from the pad, and palmed it. She grabbed her hotel room key card and pulled her hand from the purse just as the car arrived in front of the hotel. Amanda turned from the view and looked over at her.

  “I’ll call you in the morning,” Amanda said. “You have your choice of activities tomorrow—a museum, perhaps, or a boat ride on the Seine, or do you want to go shopping? Anything you like, plus lunch wherever you like. And I have a surprise for you—we’re going to the Palais-Royal tomorrow evening. The Comédie-Française is doing Molière, Le Bourgeois Gentilhomme, and I’m sure you’d like to see it.”

  “I’d love that!” Nora said. It was the truth; she’d heard about this new production, and she’d been hoping to fit it in while she was here. Even so, Nora was leery of spending any more time with this woman until she’d figured out exactly what Amanda and her assistants—and Edgar Cole—were doing.

  Ben got out and opened the back door for Nora. As soon as he shut the door, cutting off Amanda’s view of them, Nora quickly reached over to shake his hand, slipping the folded sheet of notepaper into it. He dropped it into his jacket pocket, then looked up at her, obviously confused.

  “Thank you, Ben!” she announced in her best stage voice before leaning forward to whisper, “Read it when you’re alone. I’ll be up for a while.” She turned and went into the hotel, feeling his intense gaze on her back every step of the way.

  Chapter 14

  It was nearly midnight when Nora arrived in her room. She turned the electric kettle on, took off her party clothes, and had a quick shower. She made a cup of tea, fumbling with the blister packets of honey. Then she took the notepad, pen, and two cellphones out of her bag and got in bed, arranging the pillows behind her so she could sit up comfortably while she worked.

  Her new phone went on the night table beside the CIA-issue one where she could reach it when it buzzed, and she had no doubt that it would. Jacques had given it to her today in Felicia’s café, and only six people had the number: Jacques, his two sons, Cecile, Michel Brisson, and Nora herself. Now she’d given it to a seventh person, Ben Dysart.

  In light of tonight’s discovery at Rêve, she was especially grateful to have this ultraprivate means of communication. Nora had voluntarily walked into the middle of something here, and she wasn’t sure what it was. Until she knew considerably more than she knew now, she was going to be uneasy about it. She was okay with that: If recklessness was a spy’s worst enemy, paranoia was a spy’s best friend. For now, she would embrace her paranoia.

  Whenever she was in doubt about anything, Nora wrote things down. Making lists was an old habit instilled in her by the nuns in the parochial schools she’d attended, and it often proved to be remarkably effective. Of course, the nuns had intended for Nora to count her blessings and name them one by one, as the old hymn would have it, but she’d found another use for her list-making. Now she stared down at the blank page, wondering where to begin.

  Begin at the beginning, she told herself: Edgar Cole. He’d started this long-range plan nine years ago, inventing a person named Chris Waverly. Three real people had used the cover successfully until this past January, when one of them had nearly been caught. Now, someone—TSB—had learned of it and decided to blackmail the CIA. Enter Nora, who was to report to a Paris agent who apparently wasn’t a Paris agent. Two actual Paris agents had just failed to recognize Amanda Morris.

  Nora wrote all this down and looked at it. There was one solution to the mystery: Mr. Cole’s team was as top secret as the bogus Chris Waverly. Amanda and her helpers were off the books, as it were, working under deep cover. Now that Nora recalled today’s events, she became convinced of it.

  What, exactly, had she experienced in the building on the Champs-Élysées this afternoon? She’d been told to wait in the lobby, and Amanda had arrived from an elevator and all but hustled her outside. Nora had expected to be taken up to the CIA offices, but there’d been a vague excuse, something about a decision not to issue her a gun, so Amanda had said there was no need for Nora to go upstairs.

  Nora remembered Amanda’s words when she’d asked if they’d identified the man from the airport: I got a couple of shots of him with my phone, and they’re running them through the system, but nothing so far. But Jacques Lanier—an elderly, retired operative of a French agency—had found the information almost immediately. Were the SDAT’s computers so much more powerful than the CIA’s? Nora didn’t think so. Mr. Cole probably knew who the man was, and had been expecting him to show up.

  Chuck had been waiting in the lobby of the building when Nora had arrived there today. Had he come down from the CIA offices upstairs? Probably not. Later, he’d been surprised from behind and coshed on the head by a man who’d then assaulted Nora. Amanda said she didn’t know who that man was, either.

  And what about Ben Dysart? This new Company recruit had completed his training at Warrenton and gone to Langley, only to be sent to Paris three months ago. If the blackmail threat had arrived mere days ago, why had this group been here for so long? The CIA agent in Moscow had run into trouble in January, three months ago, and it seemed to Nora that Mr. Cole’s little army had been activated at about that time. Conclusion: There was another threat to Mr. Cole’s secret operation, one that had been in place months before TSB began to blackmail him.

  Nora leafed through the notes she’d made on several pages of the pad, noticing that she’d written as many questions as facts. Amanda Morris was apparently dedicated to this secret mission and loyal to Mr. Cole, so she probably wouldn’t tell Nora any more than Mr. Cole wanted Nora to know. The injured Chuck was out of it now, and he seemed to be hired help, not a major player. She wouldn’t know how to get in touch with him, anyway. Nora was counting on Ben Dysart to enlighten her.

  As an actor and acting teacher, Nora automatically observed her fellow human beings, memorizing and analyzing their actions and reactions for possible future use. All actors did this; it helped them to take on
and reproduce a wide range of personality types. It was also helping Nora in her work for the CIA.

  Nora had noticed Ben Dysart’s enthusiasm and his desire to do well in the Company. She’d also noticed that he was being kept out of the loop by his employers. Tonight’s trips to the club and back were the first times she’d seen Ben and Amanda together, and they didn’t like each other. Furthermore, Ben’s ebullience of last night was gone, and he’d constantly stolen worried glances at Nora in the mirror. Conclusion, based on her thirty years as a professional actor: Ben wanted to talk.

  As if on cue, the phone buzzed. Nora answered, forming her first question for Ben Dysart in her mind.

  It wasn’t Ben Dysart.

  “Bonsoir, mademoiselle,” Jacques said. “You have just arrived back in the hotel for the evening, so I call to say the good night to you.”

  “How did you know I—” Nora began, but the question died on her lips. Michel Brisson, of course; he was Jacques’s eyes and ears in Hotel Lisette. Good to know. Comforting, too. Nora relaxed. “Good night, Jacques. Thank you for—for everything you’re doing. I promise, when this mission is over, I’ll tell you as much as I can about it.”

  “There is not the reason, Nora,” he said, surprising her with a rare use of her name. “I have been all my life in these missions, and we do not tell about them. What you do is not in my beeswax, yes? I wish to tell you that there is no American man named Chuck or Charles admitted to any Paris hospital today; the only Americans today are two women and one child. And there is no police report of him. Let me know what else you need, and we will have it for you. Say hello to Jeff when you are talking with him. À demain, mademoiselle. Bonne nuit.”