by Tom Savage
“Please don’t be alarmed. My name is Daniel Fenwick. We must talk about Rose. It’s a matter of life and—”
“Pal, I think somebody’s been pulling your leg!”
Somebody was pulling her leg, all right, but who? Not Daniel Fenwick, certainly. Something about his eyes, his urgency, his words…
“Please don’t be alarmed. My name is Daniel Fenwick. We must talk about Rose. It’s a matter of life and—”
Death, Nora thought. A matter of life and death was the phrase that had been cut off when Luc jabbed the gun into Fenwick’s back. But that wasn’t what was bothering her. No, it was something about his words, his exact—
“We must talk about—
Nora froze, staring up at the ceiling.
—Rose.”
She sat up in the bed, gasping. That was it, right there. She hadn’t noticed at the time, two hours ago in front of the theater, but now the discrepancy leaped out at her. How could Daniel Fenwick possibly be so sure that she wasn’t a legitimate CIA agent using the “Rose” cover?
A chill coursed through her as she considered this. She was Julie Campbell, alias Chris Waverly, aka Rose. With the exception of Amanda, even her own people believed that. Amanda certainly hadn’t told him the truth. But he knew…
The wrenching shock diminished, leaving only confusion and a creeping numbness in her brain. She’d been exhausted earlier, and now her exhaustion was doubled. She lay her head back on the pillow and shut her eyes, giving in to the sensation of being dragged down, down, down into a dark abyss. She wouldn’t think about it now; she’d think about it tomorrow, like Scarlett O’Hara, and tomorrow she’d be home. In moments she was fast asleep.
Nora was in the deepest phase of slumber when a leather-gloved hand was clamped firmly down over her mouth and nose, cutting off her breathing. She was startled awake, opening her eyes in a panic and blinking in the gloom. Her head was pinned to the pillow by the brutal pressure of the powerful hand. She peered up at the dark shape leaning down over the bed, paralyzed with fear. She was staring into the cold, intense gaze of The Falcon.
Chapter 21
“Do not scream,” the assassin hissed in clear but thickly accented English. “Do not make a sound. One sound, and I will hurt you. Do you understand me?”
Nora couldn’t move. She blinked up at Yuri Kerensky, trying to will herself to make some sign of assent, but there was a long, silent moment before she could do so. Her neck didn’t seem to be able to obey her brain’s command to respond. Finally, wincing at the pressure against her nose and lips, she opened her eyes wide and bobbed her head as much as she could while restrained by his iron grasp.
Her reward was a slight lessening of the pressure against her face. Her lower teeth were actually biting into the inside of her bottom lip, but his relaxed grip freed them from the soft flesh. She could taste blood on her tongue, but she couldn’t swallow; her mouth had gone completely dry. She drew in a breath through her nose and waited.
“Okay,” he said at last.
Nora thought he might let go of her and move away from the bed, but no such luck. He sat on the edge of the bed beside her, switched on the bedside lamp, and leaned down over her, planting his gloved hands in the mattress on either side of her, virtually pinning her to the bed. But he’d moved his hand away from her face, and she could breathe. She blinked in the sudden light and took in another breath, thinking furiously, ticking off her husband’s instructions for survival in just this situation.
First rule: Cover. Too late for that.
Second rule: Weapon. Weapon, weapon…
Kerensky was staring down at her, making a study of her face. As an actor she had no problem with this, but as a woman alone in her hotel room bed with a violent killer at three in the morning, his interest in her was disconcerting. She didn’t fear for her virtue, as her grandmother might have said; he wasn’t here for that. Now that she could see him clearly and up close, she noted that he was handsome. She hadn’t noticed that at the airport or in the street this morning, probably because he’d been a good distance away from her on both occasions. He wore the same leather jacket and jeans as before.
Weapon, weapon…
They regarded each other, and Nora wondered if he knew who she was. Did he really think she was Chris Waverly? Or had he moved past that absurd notion and discovered the truth?
Weapon, weapon…
He was thinking; she could see it in his brown eyes. He was forming words in his head, probably questions. He’d been thirty-two fifteen years ago, so he would be forty-seven or forty-eight now, practically her age. And they were both nearly the same age as the late Bernard Clement, the man he’d presumably killed today, the slave trader who’d assaulted her yesterday with—
—a knife.
Her shoulder bag was on the chair beside the bed. She glanced over, noting with relief that it was open, the top flap folded back, the contents within easy reach. All she had to do was get past the massive arm hemming her in. Bernard Clement’s dagger was in that bag…
Third rule: Backup. She’d have to wait for that.
Fourth rule: Engage. This usually meant battle, but it could be interpreted to mean communication. Get him engaged, she thought. Distract him, make him think you’re Chris Waverly or whoever he wants you to be, divert his attention and get…that…dagger…
“Why haven’t you killed me yet, Mr. Kerensky?” she heard herself say.
His eyes widened and he leaned back a bit, looking down at her. Then, to her surprise, he laughed. It was a harsh, ugly sound.
“Oh, I am most certainly going to kill you, Mrs. Baron,” he said. “But first I will learn why you are pretending to be Rose. You will tell me this before you die. You will tell me who sent you, and why. If you tell me all I wish to know, I promise you will not suffer at the end. A quick death—this is what I will give you if you answer me. Otherwise, this will be a long and painful night for you. These are your two choices. Which is it going to be?”
It was a frightening speech, and he’d delivered it with conviction, but all she could think was, Mrs. Baron. Nora sat up on the bed, pushing his arm away and doing her best to glare at him. Distract him, she thought. Play along. He’d just given her the stock villain’s lines straight out of Goldfinger, and now she was expected to say—
“My name is Julie Campbell,” she said. “I’m a nurse from New York City, and I—”
The blow nearly knocked her off the bed. He’d slapped her with an open hand, but the force of it sent her flying sideways in the direction of the corner. She lay on her side at the far edge of the bed, facing the chair and the purse two feet away from her. Her left cheek stung and her left ear was ringing, but she concentrated on the open purse.
She rolled onto her back and pushed herself clumsily up to a sitting position, her right hand grasping the bag’s shoulder strap. She moaned in exaggerated pain as she dragged the purse to the floor, apparently by accident. Then she fell back down, her right arm hanging beside the bed. She moaned some more as she reached inside the purse, fingers searching. Makeup bag, medicine bag, tissues, paperback novel…
The thin blade had sunk down to the bottom of the bag over the course of two days. Her hand closed around the handle just as Yuri Kerensky grabbed a handful of her hair and yanked her across the bed. She was sprawled on her back, staring up at him. He was on his feet now, leaning down over her, and he was furious.
“You are not Julie Campbell!” he said. “Julie Campbell is Chris Waverly, and you are not this woman. You are Nora Baron!” He placed a knee on the bed beside her and reached down, closing his gloved hands around her neck. “Tell me who sent you or I will kill you right now.” He squeezed his fingers.
Nora felt the pressure on her trachea, and she panicked. She brought up her right arm and plunged the knife down into his back just below his left shoulder blade. The dagger entered at a downward angle through his leather jacket and shirt; it sank in only about two inches, but it did the job.
With a roar of pain, Kerensky let go of her throat and stood up from the bed, reaching around with his left arm to pull the knife out of his back. He couldn’t grasp it, and he lurched toward the hotel room door, apparently preparing for an escape that never came. He made it only a few steps before he sank to his knees and fell forward, facedown on the carpet, just as the door beyond him flew open and a figure burst into the room, arms extended straight out in front of it, clutching a gun. The figure came to a stop above the fallen man and stood looking down, the weapon aimed at his back.
Nora pulled herself up to a sitting position, staring. Michelle Brisson—not the husband, but the wife—had just come to her rescue.
Chapter 22
“Hello,” Madame Brisson said to Nora. “I see that you are having a busy night.” She didn’t look at Nora as she spoke; her attention was entirely on the man who lay moaning at her feet. She held the heavy semiautomatic in both hands, her legs planted slightly apart in the textbook style. A fat cylinder was attached to the barrel of her weapon: a noise-reducing gas suppressor.
Nora stared at the woman, remembering her husband’s story from this morning. All four of her grandparents had died fighting in the Resistance, and her parents and other relatives had been police and federal operatives. Michelle Brisson knew her way around a gunfight.
“I have been watching in the hallway outside your door,” she said, “ever since you returned from the Palais-Royal. I would have come in sooner if I had known that he was here, but I did not know this until I heard him cry out just now. How did he get in?”
Nora looked around, her gaze quickly settling on the side window to the fire escape, which now stood open. “There.”
“Ah, yes,” Madame Brisson said. “We must ask the owner to improve the security on the windows. Please call my husband and tell him to come here.”
The woman sounded quite calm, downright conversational, and Nora felt a bizarre urge to laugh. She knew this was a symptom of shock, so she resisted it. She stood up on shaky legs, reaching for the black phone and fumbling for Michel’s listing. He answered immediately, as though he’d been waiting for a report—which Nora supposed he had if his wife had been standing guard outside her door. Nora managed to explain the situation, and he was already moving before the call was over. Thirty seconds later he was in the room with them, breathing heavily. He hadn’t waited for the elevator; he’d bounded up two long flights of stairs.
The Brissons were in charge of everything. Nora watched as they had a brief conference in rapid French, then sprang into action. The husband gently slid the dagger out of Kerensky’s back, then took it out of the room and down the stairs. The wife ran into Nora’s bathroom and emerged with a bath towel that she wrapped loosely around the moaning man’s upper body, moving him only slightly and with utmost delicacy. She also removed a revolver from his waistband and a knife from his boot. When she’d finished this, she looked over at Nora.
“Who is this man?” she asked.
Nora came over to her. “His name is Yuri Kerensky. He’s a Russian mercenary who’s been trailing me since I got here. He knows my real name, but I’m posing as an agent who’s actually a double-blind cover for several other agents. She doesn’t really exist—she was invented by my handler, Mr. Cole—but Mr. Kerensky doesn’t seem to know that.”
When she said this, Kerensky twisted his head around to stare up at her, muttering words she couldn’t hear. Michelle Brisson merely shrugged.
“This is typical business with agencies,” she said. “We have make-believe French agents, too. He will live, I think, but Michel is taking him outside, in front of the hotel. Then he will call the police and say the man was in a fight out there. He heard the noises and came upstairs to the lobby, and he found this man lying on the sidewalk, you understand? The police will not ask questions—this sort of fight happens in the streets—but they will look around the hotel for witnesses. It is best if you are gone when they get here.”
“I don’t have anywhere to go,” Nora said. “I don’t really trust the people I’m working with, so it will have to be another hotel…”
Madame Brisson smiled. “Do not worry. I am calling Jacques, and he will take you in. There is some blood here; I must get cleaning solvent. Are you ready to go? If not, please get ready now.” She handed Kerensky’s revolver to Nora. “Use it if he moves.” With another smile, she left the room.
Nora clutched the gun, looking down at the man at her feet, who appeared to be unconscious. The dagger had punctured his lung, and it would be filling with blood. She was turning to go back over to the bed when she felt the weak grasp of a gloved hand on her bare ankle.
“Please, Mrs. Baron,” Yuri Kerensky whispered. “Please.” He was looking up at her again, trying to tell her something. She extricated her foot from his grasp and knelt beside him. His eyes were glazed; he was in great pain. Nora didn’t dare try to turn him over onto his back. She leaned closer.
“Please,” he whispered again. “I’m sorry I hit you. I did not mean it about killing you. I only said it to make you talk. But they are lying to you. You have placed her in danger, Mrs. Baron, and now only you can help her. The others…Do not let them find her. If they do, they will kill her. Please…”
“I don’t understand,” Nora said. “Who needs my help?”
He whispered something, but again Nora had to lean closer.
“What did you say?” she asked.
He drew in a ragged breath. “Lucerne. Go to Lucerne. Hotel Toler. Find…Sonya. Sonya Hoffman at Hotel Toler. Do not let them kill her…I think I am dying…Tell her
I…love her.”
“Who’s Sonya Hoffman? Who wants to kill her?”
Kerensky shook his head and muttered some more words. She nearly had to press her ear against his lips. “Sonya knows. He must not find her. Soon there will be three of us. I will change my life. I love her. Please…”
He was almost unconscious, and Nora knew she had only a moment; he was probably dying. She couldn’t hide the urgency in her voice. “Who? Who must not find her?”
His reply was one word. He breathed it more than spoke it, but she heard him clearly.
“Cole!”
Now he rallied. He was seriously wounded, but whatever passion motivated him was urging him to continue. He pulled the leather glove from his left hand and dropped it on the carpet. He actually attempted to rise from the floor, pressing down with his hands and lifting his torso, but he didn’t get far. He looked at Nora again, holding up his left hand in front of her face. With another moan of pain, he sank back down to the carpet, and his eyes closed.
Nora stared. She’d killed before, but she’d never get used to the feeling. She wondered if anyone ever did. Probably not; it was a sense of devastation she couldn’t begin to describe.
Then she thought she saw him move.
She leaned into him, listening for his respiration, assuming the worst. To her great relief, she discovered that he was definitely breathing, faintly but evenly. She stood up, looking down at him, at his left hand on the carpet, and saw what he’d been trying to show her.
A wedding ring.
Nora sat on the edge of the bed in the dimly lit hotel room, watching over The Falcon. It was just after three in the morning, the so-called dead of night. Somewhere in this night, a woman was in great danger, brought about by her, Nora, and her willingness to help these mysterious operatives in their questionable mission. This man might not be dead yet, but it was probably a matter of time, and that was on her, too. She thought back over it again, everything she’d seen and heard in the last few days. The more she thought about it, the more convinced she became that she’d been working for the wrong side. And all the while, she stared at the gleaming gold ring on Yuri Kerensky’s outstretched hand.
By the time the Brissons came back, Nora Baron had made a big decision. She was responsible for this, and only she could make it right.
Chapter 23
The emerge
ncy meeting took place in the apartment beyond the red door.
The police and paramedics had come and gone, and Yuri Kerensky was in a hospital. The gendarmes had shown little interest; this was one of several fights tonight, probably over money or a woman, with no lasting harm done as far as they could see. The technicians who’d lifted Kerensky into the ambulance had said encouraging things about his condition, and Michel had conveyed them to Nora. Now she sat in the Brissons’ basement living room, sipping tea and looking around at her new team.
Jacques Lanier had come alone to the hotel at four o’clock, to be met by Michel at the back door and ushered down here, where Nora had been hiding since before the police arrived. His sons and daughter-in-law were asleep in their respective homes, and he’d seen no reason to wake them at this hour. The Brissons sat together on the couch, facing their two guests in armchairs. Nora’s suitcase and shoulder bag were beside her chair.
“Here are the things you will need, mademoiselle,” Jacques said, extending a paper bag to her. Nora took it from him and looked inside, removing articles and placing them on the coffee table: a short blond wig, a French passport, a driver’s license, and a credit card. The last three items were all in the name Marianne Lanier. “But now I must call you ‘madame,’ for now you are my wife. I cannot go with you—I cannot walk very well these days, and that would not help you—but you shall travel as my own Marianne.”
Nora looked down at Madame Lanier’s personal belongings. “I can’t use these, Jacques. I can’t impose on—”
“Oh, be silent, mademoiselle! It was Marianne who had the thought, who insists that you do this.” He pointed to the wig. “She says la perruque and your acting professionalism will get you into La Suisse without clanging the bells of the people you wish to avoid. Until not long ago, you could have gone through the European Union borders without the identification, but now that train has left the building, yes? You will need to be someone who is not Julie or Chris or Nora Baron, so you will be Marianne, and she is delighted. She has always had the secret desire to be a spy.”
