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“Yes. The same lab.”
He glanced up at the sky, which was now dark with storm clouds. A chill had fallen over them. “Your friend’s right. It’ll be pouring in a minute. Come on. My car’s this way.”
Gently he touched her sleeve. She moved ahead mechanically, allowing him to guide her into the front seat of his car. He slid in beside her and pulled his door shut. For a moment they sat in silence. The car was an old Volvo, practical, without frills, a model one chose purely for transportation. It fit him, somehow. A trace of warmth still clung to the interior, and Sarah’s glasses clouded over. Pulling them off, she turned and looked at him and saw that his hair was wet.
“You must be cold,” he said. “Let’s get you home.”
The engine roared to life. A blast of air erupted from the heater, gradually warming them as they drove along the winding road from the cemetery. The windshield wiper squeaked back and forth.
“It started out so beautiful this morning,” she said, watching the rain fall.
“Unpredictable. Just like everything else.”
He smoothly turned the car onto the highway bound for D.C. He was a calm driver, with steady hands. The kind who probably never took risks. Savoring the heater’s warmth, Sarah settled back in her seat.
“Why didn’t you return my calls?” he asked.
“It was rude of me. I’m sorry.”
“You didn’t answer my question. Why didn’t you call me back?”
“I guess I didn’t want to hear any more speculation about Geoffrey. Or about his death.”
“Even if they’re facts?”
“You weren’t giving me facts, Mr. O’Hara. You were guessing.”
He stared ahead grimly at the road. “I’m not guessing anymore, Mrs. Fontaine. I’ve got the facts. All I need is a name.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Your husband. You said that six months ago you met Geoffrey Fontaine at a coffee shop. He must have swept you clean off your feet. Four months later you were married. Correct?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t know how to say this, but Geoffrey Fontaine— the real Geoffrey Fontaine—died forty-two years ago. As an infant.”
She couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “I don’t understand…”
He didn’t look at her; he kept his eyes on the road as he talked. “The man you married took the name of a dead infant. It’s easy enough to do. You hunt around for the name of a baby who died around the year you were born. Then you get a copy of the birth certificate. With that you apply for a Social Security number, a driver’s license, a marriage license. You become that infant, grown up. A new identity. A new life. With all the records to prove it.”
“But—but how do you know all this?”
“Everything’s on computer these days. From a few cross-checks, I found out that Geoffrey Fontaine never registered for the draft. He never attended school. He never held a bank account—until a year ago, when his name suddenly appeared in a dozen different places.”
The breath went out of her. “Then who was he?” she whispered at last. “Who did I marry?”
“I don’t know,” Nick answered.
“Why? Why would he do it? Why would he start a new life?”
“I can think of lots of reasons. My first thought was that he was wanted for some crime. His thumbprints were on record with the driver’s license bureau, so I had them run through the FBI computer. He’s not on any of their lists.”
“Then he wasn’t a criminal.”
“There’s no proof that he was. Another possibility is that he was in some kind of federal witness program, that he was given a new name for protection. It’s hard for me to check on that. The data are locked up tight. It would, however, give us a motive for his murder.”
“You mean—the people he testified against—they found him.”
“That’s right.”
“But he would have told me about something like that, he would have shared it with me….”
“That’s what makes me think of one more possibility. Maybe you can confirm it.”
“Go on.”
“What if your husband’s new name and new life were just part of his job? He might not have been running from anything. He might have been sent here.”
“You mean he was a spy,” she said softly.
He looked at her and nodded. His eyes were as gray as the storm clouds outside.
“I don’t believe this,” she said. “None of it!”
“It’s real. I assure you.”
“Then why are you telling me? How do you know I’m not an accomplice or something?”
“I think you’re clean, Mrs. Fontaine. I’ve seen your file—”
“Oh. I have a file, too?” she shot back.
“You got security clearance some years ago, remember? For the research you were working on. Naturally a file was generated.”
“Naturally.”
“But it’s not just your file that makes me think you’re clean. It’s my own gut feeling. Now convince me I’m right.”
“How? Should I hook myself up to a polygraph?”
“Start off by telling me about you and Geoffrey. Were you in love?”
“Of course we were!”
“So it was a real marriage? You had…relations?”
She flushed. “Yes. Like any normal couple. Do you want to know how often? When?”
“I’m not playing games. I’m sticking my neck out for you. If you don’t like my approach, perhaps you’d prefer the way the Company handles it.”
“Then you haven’t told the CIA?”
“No.” His chin came up in an unintended gesture of stubbornness. “I don’t care much for the way they do things. I may get slapped down for this, but then again, I may not.”
“So why are you putting yourself on the line?”
He shrugged. “Curiosity. Maybe a chance to see what I can do on my own.”
“Ambition?”
“That’s part of it, I guess. Plus…” He glanced at her, and their eyes met. Suddenly he fell silent.
“Plus what?” she asked.
“Nothing.”
The rain was coming down in sheets and streamed across the windshield. Nick left the freeway and edged into city-bound traffic. Driving through D.C. rush hour usually made Sarah nervous; today, though, she took it calmly. Something about the way Nick O’Hara drove made her feel safe. In fact, everything about him spoke of safety—the steadiness of his hands on the wheel, the warmth of his car, the low timbre of his voice. Just sitting beside him, she felt secure. She could imagine how safe a woman might feel in his arms.
“Anyway,” he continued, “you can see we’ve got a lot of unanswered questions. You might have some of the answers, whether you know it or not.”
“I don’t have any answers.”
“Let’s start off with what you do know.”
She shook her head, bewildered. “I was married to him and I can’t even tell you his real name!”
“Everyone, Sarah, even the best spy, slips up. He must’ve let his guard down for a moment. Maybe he talked in his sleep. Maybe he said things you can’t explain. Think.”
She bit her lip, suddenly thinking not about Geoffrey, but about Nick. He’d called her by her first name. Sarah. “Even if there were things,” she said, “little things—I might not have considered them significant.”
“Such as?”
“Oh, he might have—he might have called me Evie once or twice. But he always apologized right away. He said she was an old girlfriend.”
“What about family? Friends? Didn’t he talk about them?”
“He said he was born in Vermont, then raised in London. His parents were theater people. They’re dead. He never talked about any other relatives. He always seemed so…self-sufficient. He didn’t have any close friends, not even from work. At least, none he introduced me to.”
“Oh, yes. His work. I’ve been checking on that. It seems he was listed on the Bank of London payroll. He had a desk in some back office. But no one remembers quite what he did.”
“Then even that part wasn’t real.”
“So it seems.”
Sarah sank deeper into the seat. Each thing this man told her left another slash in the fabric of her life. Her marriage was dissolving away to nothing. It had been all shadow and no substance. Reality was here and now, the rain hitting the car, the windshield wipers beating back and forth. Most of all, reality was the man sitting silently beside her. He was not an illusion. She scarcely knew him, and yet he’d become the only reality she could cling to.
She wondered about Nick O’Hara. She didn’t think he was married. Despite his aloofness she found him attractive enough; any woman would have. But there was more than just the physical attraction. She sensed his need. Something told her he was lonely, troubled. Vague shadows of unhappiness surrounded his eyes, creating a feeling of restlessness; it was the look of a man without a home. He probably had none. The foreign service was a career for nomads, not for people who craved a house in the suburbs. Nick O’Hara was definitely not the suburban type.
Shivering, she longed desperately to be back in her apartment, drinking that cup of tea with Abby. It won’t be long, she thought as the streets became more and more familiar. Connecticut Avenue glistened in the rain. The downpour had already stripped the cherry trees of half their blossoms; the first rush of spring had been short-lived.
They pulled up in front of her apartment, and Nick dashed around the car to open her door. It was a funny little gesture, the sort of thing Geoffrey used to do, gallant and sweetly impractical. By the time they stamped into the lobby they were both soaked. The rain had plastered his hair in dark curls against his forehead.
“I suppose you have more questions.” She sighed as they headed toward the stairs leading to the second floor.
“If you mean do I want to come up, the answer is yes.”
“For tea or interrogation?”
He smiled and brushed away the water dripping down his cheek. “A little of both. I’ve had so much trouble getting hold of you, I’d better ask all my questions now.”
They reached the top of the stairs. She was just about to say something when the hallway came into view. What she saw made her freeze.
The door to her apartment was hanging open. Someone had broken in.
Instinctively Sarah retreated, terrified of whatever lay beyond the door. She fell back against Nick and found herself wordlessly clutching his arm. He stared at the open door, his face suddenly tense. Except for the pounding of her own heart, she heard nothing. The apartment was absolutely silent.
Light spilled into the hall through the open doorway. Nick motioned her to stay where she was, then cautiously approached the door. Sarah started to follow him, but he gave her such a dark look of warning that she shrank back at once.
He nudged the door open, and the arc of light widened and spilled across his face. For a few seconds, he stood in the doorway, staring at the room beyond. Then he entered the apartment.
In the hall Sarah waited, frightened by the absolute silence. What was happening inside? A shadow flickered in the doorway, and panic began to overtake her as she watched the outline grow larger. Then, to her relief, Nick poked his head out.
“It’s all right, Sarah,” he said. “There’s no one here.”
She ran past him into the apartment. In the living room, she paused, surprised by what she saw. She had expected to find her possessions gone, to find only empty shelves where her TV and stereo had always sat. But nothing had been touched. Even the antique clock was in its place, ticking softly on the bookshelf.
She turned and ran into the bedroom with Nick close behind. He watched from the doorway as she went directly to the jewelry box on her dresser. There, on red velvet, was her string of pearls, right where it should be. Slamming the box shut, she turned and quickly surveyed the room, taking in the king-size bed, the nightstand with its china lamp, the closet. In confusion she looked back at Nick.
“What’s missing?” he asked.
She shook her head. “Nothing. Could I have just left the door unlocked?”
He stalked out of her bedroom, back to the hall. She found him crouched in the doorway. “Look,” he said, pointing down at the wood splinters and fragments of antique-white paint littering the gray carpet. “It’s definitely been forced open.”
“But it doesn’t make sense! Why break into an apartment and then not take anything?”
“Maybe he didn’t have time. Maybe he was interrupted….” Rising, he turned and looked at her. “You look shook up. Are you all right?”
“I’m just—just bewildered.”
He touched her hand; his fingers felt hot against hers. “You’re also freezing. You’d better get out of those wet clothes.”
“I’m fine, Mr. O’Hara. Really.”
“Come on. Off with the coat.” He insisted. “And sit down while I make a few calls.”
Something about his tone seemed to leave Sarah no choice but to obey. She let him tug off her coat, then sat on the couch and watched numbly as he reached for the telephone. Suddenly she felt as though she’d lost control of her actions. As though, just by walking into her apartment, Nick O’Hara had taken over her life. Almost as an act of protest, she rose and headed for the kitchen.
“Sarah?”
“I’m going to make a pot of tea.”
“Look, don’t go to any trouble—”
“It’s no trouble. We could both use a cup, I think.”
From the kitchen doorway, she saw him dial his call. As she put the kettle on, she heard him say, “Hello? Tim Greenstein, please. This is Nick O’Hara calling…. Yes, I’ll hold.”
The next pause seemed to last forever. Nick began to pace back and forth, like an animal in a cage, first pulling off his overcoat, then loosening his tie. His agitation made him entirely out of place in her small, tidy living room.
“Shouldn’t you call the police?” she asked.
“That’s next on the list. First I’d like an informal chat with the bureau. If I can just get through the damned lines.”
“The bureau? You mean the FBI? But why?”
“There’s something about all this that bugs me….”
His words were lost when the kettle abruptly whistled. Sarah filled the teapot and carried the tray out to the living room, where Nick was still waiting on the phone.
“Dammit,” he muttered to himself. “Where the hell are you, Greenstein?”
“Tea, Mr. O’Hara?”
“Hmm?” He turned and saw the cup she held out to him. “Yeah. Thanks.”
She sat down, holding a cup and saucer on her lap. “Does Mr. Greenstein work for the FBI?”
“No. But he has a friend who—hello? Tim? It’s about time! Don’t you answer your calls anymore?”
In the silence that followed, Nick’s face and the way he stood, with his shoulders squared and his back rigid, told Sarah that something was wrong. He was livid. The loud clatter of his teacup on the saucer made her jump.
“How the hell did Ambrose get wind of it?” he snapped into the receiver, turning away from Sarah.
Another silence. She stared at his back, wondering what kind of catastrophe had made Nick O’Hara so angry. Up until now she’d thought of him as a man completely in control of his emotions. No longer. His anger surprised her, yet somehow it also reassured her that he was human.
“Okay,” he said into the phone. “I’ll be there in half an hour. Look, Tim, something else has come up. Someone’s broken into Sarah’s apartment. No, nothing’s been touched. Can you get me the number of this FBI friend? I want to— Yeah, I’m sorry I got you into this, but…” He turned and gave Sarah a harassed look. “Okay! Half an hour. My trip to the woodshed. Meet you in Ambrose’s office.” He hung up with a scowl.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
“So end eight glorious years with the State Department,” he muttered, furiously snatching up his overcoat and walking toward the door. “I’ve gotta go. Look, you’ve still got the chain. Use it. Better yet, stay with your friend tonight. And call the police. I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.”
She followed him into the hallway. “But Mr. O’Hara—”
“Later!” he called over his shoulder as he stalked away. She heard his footsteps echo in the stairwell, and moments later the lobby door slammed shut.
She closed the door and slid the chain in place, then slowly gazed around the room. Her stack of Advances in Microbiology lay on the coffee table. A vase of peonies dropped petals onto the bookshelf. Everything was as it should be.
No, not quite. Something was different. If she could just put her finger on it…
She was halfway across the room when it suddenly struck her—there was an empty space on the bookshelf. Her wedding picture was gone.
A cry of anger welled up in her throat. For the first time since she’d returned to the apartment, she felt a sense of violation, of fury that someone had invaded her house. It had only been a photograph, a pair of happy faces beaming at a camera, yet it meant more to her than anything else she owned. The picture had been all she had left of Geoffrey. Even if her marriage had been mere illusion, she never wanted to forget how she had loved him. Of all the things in her apartment, why would anyone steal a photograph?
Her heart skipped a beat as the phone rang. It was probably Abby, calling as promised. She picked up the receiver.
The first sound she heard was the hiss of a long-distance connection. Sarah froze. For some reason she found herself staring at the empty shelf, at the spot where the photograph should have been.
“Hello?” she said.
“Come to me, Sarah. I love you.”
A scream caught in her throat. The room was spinning wildly, and she reached out for support. The receiver slipped from her fingers and thudded on the carpet. This is impossible! she thought. Geoffrey is dead....
She scrambled on the floor for the receiver, scrambled to hear the voice of what could only be a ghost.
“Hello? Hello? Geoffrey!” she screamed.
The long-distance hiss was gone. There was only silence and then, a few seconds later, the hum of the dial tone.
But she had heard enough. Everything that had happened in the past two weeks faded away as if it were a nightmare remembered in the light of day. None of it had been real. The voice she’d just heard, the voice she knew so well—that was real.
Geoffrey was alive.
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