The Cover Wife, page 1
Also by Dan Fesperman
Safe Houses
The Letter Writer
Unmanned
The Double Game
Layover in Dubai
The Arms Maker of Berlin
The Amateur Spy
The Prisoner of Guantánamo
The Warlord’s Son
The Small Boat of Great Sorrows
Lie in the Dark
THIS IS A BORZOI BOOK PUBLISHED BY ALFRED A. KNOPF
Copyright © 2021 by Dan Fesperman
All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Alfred A. Knopf, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York, and distributed in Canada by Penguin Random House Canada Limited, Toronto.
www.aaknopf.com
Knopf, Borzoi Books, and the colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Fesperman, Dan, [date].
Title: The cover wife / Dan Fesperman.
Description: First Edition. | New York : Alfred A. Knopf,
a division of Penguin Random House, LLC, 2021.
Identifiers: LCCN 2020050269 (print) | LCCN 2020050270 (ebook) |
ISBN 9780525657835 (hardcover) | ISBN 9780525657842 (ebook)
Subjects: GSAFD: Suspense fiction. | Mystery fiction.
Classification: LCC PS3556.E778 C68 2021 (print) |
LCC PS3556.E778 (ebook) | DDC 813/.54—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020050269
LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020050270
Ebook ISBN 9780525657842
This is a work of fiction. All incidents and dialogue, and all characters with the exception of some well-known historical and public figures, are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Where real-life historical figures and public figures appear, the situations, incidents, and dialogues concerning those persons are entirely fictional and are not intended to depict actual events or to change the entirely fictional nature of the work. In all other respects, any resemblance to persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.
Cover design by Kelly Blair
ep_prh_5.7.0_c0_r0
Contents
Cover
Also by Dan Fesperman
Title Page
Copyright
May 1999
Chapter 1
Friday, October 1, 1999
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Sunday, October 3
Chapter 7
Monday, October 4
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Tuesday, October 5
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Wednesday, October 6
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Thursday, October 7
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Friday, October 8
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Saturday, October 9
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Friday, October 15
Chapter 58
Tuesday, September 11, 2001
Chapter 59
Acknowledgments
A Note About the Author
MAY 1999
1
The rain clouds parted an hour before sunset, and the hiker’s shadow finally rejoined him on the mountain trail, his only companion all day. Or so he hoped.
Ascending to a granite outcrop with a sweeping view, he paused to look back at the way he’d come: lacy spring foliage and a meadow in bloom, with the trail stitched through it like a dirty suture. Not a soul on it.
The air was golden with pollen, and he considered digging into his pack for an allergy pill before remembering he’d already taken one. He cleared his throat, spit, and immediately regretted it. He rubbed the spot with the toe of his boot, only to make a bigger mess. Sighing, he checked his watch and set off.
Still lurking to his rear was the unseen presence that had haunted him since dawn. All in his head, perhaps, but the reports from the briefing had been sobering enough: two men, well trained and unaccounted for, meaning they might be anywhere. He imagined them back there now, moving briskly just beyond the nearest ridge. He picked up the pace.
A mile later, reaching the level grade of a narrow ridge, he eased into a long and limber stride. Better. His scuffed old boots were a comfort, a reminder of past hikes among friends. Their voices returned to him in the murmur of the leaves, the creak of swaying limbs—distant echoes of dewy mornings and twilight encampments, those long-ago weekends when they would cook up a hearty fireside meal and scrub their mess kits in the gravel of a stream. A tin cup of whiskey to pass around the campfire, everyone carried off to slumber on a tide of laughter and familiar old tales.
Caught up in his memories, he imagined himself later that night, rubbing his hands for warmth as he brewed coffee on a tidy blaze. Or, no, because that would be like lighting a beacon in the night. So instead he would boil water on his tiny stove, eat one of those dehydrated meals from a pouch. He would turn in early, listening carefully from his tent to the noises of the night. Sleep as well as he could, and then rise before dawn.
An old song came to mind, so he whistled a bar just to hear the sound of something human, his footsteps keeping rhythm as the trail steepened. The last notes drifted up into the trees and he fell silent, conserving his breath for the climb. He recalled a boyhood tale of a cavalry scout trying to outrun the Comanches, in which days had turned to weeks. He had packed enough food for five nights, but what if he needed to resupply?
From above came the grumble of a single-engine plane, which stopped him in his tracks. He remained still for a full minute, watching as it passed low enough for him to read the tail number. No one had mentioned this possibility, although he supposed it was within their capabilities. Various weapons had been discussed, of course. But this? Yet here he was, cowering beneath the leaves. Sunlight glinted off the fuselage as the plane moved toward the horizon. He exhaled and reached for his water bottle. Yet again he gazed back at the way he’d come.
The trail was still empty, so he allowed himself a moment to enjoy the view. There was much to admire—low sunlight sparkled in the wet branches like diamonds, or the twinkle of a vast city in a valley, stirring to life at dusk. The forest smelled as fresh as a mown pasture, and birdsong was everywhere, the final chorus before nightfall. Such beauty. And for the first time all week, he took hope.
Smiling, he drew a deep breath of the clean mountain air and resumed walking. He had covered fourteen miles today, a tiring distance at his age, but “a good tired,” as his wife liked to say, the kind that settled your mind for a deep and healing sleep. So, after another mile, he decided to leave the trail to scout for a campsite.
The good omens multiplied. He quickly found a level patch of downy grass beneath a spreading beech, where a pale band of fallen leaves pointed like an arrow to the optimum spot. It was like an illustration for a fairy tale, a place of enchantment.
He heaved off his pack, set it down by a big log, and unzipped the top. Fresh, cooling air rushed up the back of his shirt, and the crinkly tent released old, familiar smells as he flattened it on the grass. The rituals of making camp were a comfort, and it felt as if the forest had enveloped him in its arms. Nature, so often harsh, was for the moment his cloak of invisibility. This was his home ground, not theirs, and that counted for plenty.
Yet as he slid the tent poles into their sleeves he noticed that the birds were no longer singing. Were they done for the day, or had something put them on notice? The wind shifted, and for a fleeting moment he thought he detected a whiff of something human—sweat, soap, the smell of exertion. Or maybe it was his own scent, coming back to him on the turning breeze. The hairs on his arms stood on end.
A twig snapped to his rear, and he nearly lost balance as he wheeled awkwardly and rose from his crouch. Looking left, then right, then over his shoulder toward the trail, he saw only the brown expanse of the forest floor, leaves and limbs, the white flash of a squirrel’s belly as it leaped from tree to tree. But the odd smell lingered, unmistakable now, and he remained still.
To his rear, the thump of a footfall. He spun as a metallic click sounded from the edge of the clearing, and he saw a man dressed in black just as the bolt from a crossbow struck him below the breastbone and plunged into his heart. Crying out in agony, he slumped to his knees and collapsed sideways. Blood pooled brightly on the deflating tent, and his eyes rolled back in his head. He gasped for breath, but no air would come.
The birds held their silence. The only sound now was of footsteps approaching steadily across the leaves. They halted, a moment of peace interrupted by the click of a camera—twice, as if to make sure. Then, two more steps, followed by a grunt of effort, and the slurping, ripping sound of the bolt being pulled from muscle and flesh.
Unable to move or speak, he groaned a final time. His last thought was of disappointment in himself for having mistaken beauty for hope. The woods had failed him, and he had failed himself.
The footsteps receded. The birds again took up their song, sounding the all-clear from the trees.
FRIDAY, OCTOBER 1, 1999
2
Paris
The man with binoculars turned from his perch by the window and told Claire Saylor yet again to clear off.
“We’ve got this, you know. And if Marston calls one more time, I’m not covering for you anymore.”
“He’s losing it because I’m late for a meeting, for God’s sake. This is operational. I’m seeing it through.”
A second man, seated at a folding table arrayed with five video screens, joined in.
“Claire, what we’re really saying is we don’t need you. Your part was over an hour ago. So, seriously, go ahead and…Fuck! Do you see this? Screen four.”
The three of them watched the black-and-white image of a prosperous-looking Frenchman, mid-fifties, suit and tie, briefcase in hand, making his way from the stairway exit of a Metro station. Claire was about to offer an observation when her colleague at the window shouted to the man by the video screens.
“You said he’d be gone till noon!”
“He usually is. Call Clay, get him out of there!”
“Can’t. He just turned off his phone for the sound check.”
“Well, then, Clay’s fucked. We all are. You know the target’s history.”
Indeed they did. Dresses like Pierre Cardin, slashes like Jack the Ripper. All of them had read the dossier.
“I told you we should’ve given him some backup coms.”
“Sure, to make him completely obvious when the gendarmes show.”
“Well, Jesus, it would have beaten the hell out of…Hey, where are you going?”
Claire was headed for the exit at double time. She turned the deadbolt and stepped onto the porch as they called out after her.
“Now you bail on us!”
“Thanks, Claire!”
She shut the door on their voices, in too much of a hurry to answer. Glancing up the street, she saw the man from the video screen, thirty yards to the right and closing fast. She smoothed her skirt, took a deep breath, and descended the steps. Mustering the most inviting possible smile, she waved toward the man and called out in French worthy of a lifelong Parisian.
“Excuse me, sir. I was wondering if you might have a phone I could borrow?” She gestured toward the “For Sale” sign on the porch behind her, while hoping her colleagues were staying clear of the windows. “I was supposed to meet a real estate agent half an hour ago, but she hasn’t shown. And, well, my battery’s dead. So, if you don’t mind…?”
She reached the walkway and stepped behind him, so that he had to pivot to face her. His back was now turned to the house three doors down, where Clay was still inside. The man appraised her from head to toe, as Frenchmen tended to do. The contents of his file had made her expect nothing less, and by now he had probably observed that there were no rings on her fingers.
She appraised him in return. Age fifty, five years her senior, but stylistically they were a decent match—fit, poised, polished. The suit looked tailored—Pierre Cardin, indeed. The rub was that his dossier also said there was a better-than-average chance that the inside pocket of his jacket concealed a long, slender blade. If she were to give herself away, she had little doubt that he would use it, right here on the street. She held his gaze and smiled again.
He smiled back, as if in approval, although when he reached into his jacket it was all she could do to keep from flinching. If the blade appeared, she would try to block it with her left forearm while sweeping her right foot across his ankles to knock him to the ground. Instead he pulled out one of those tiny Nokia models that half of Paris now seemed to possess, everyone using them wherever you went. She didn’t move an inch.
“A single call for a single girl? I believe I could manage that.”
“Thank you. It should only take a second.”
Claire took the phone and turned away, partly to conceal her actions, partly to hide her flush of relief. She punched in the number for the landline in the man’s house, which she’d memorized from the file. Clay would never dare answer it, but perhaps if she disconnected after a single ring he would realize that someone was sounding the alarm. So that’s what she did, while pretending to wait through several more rings.
“Oh, c’mon!” she hissed for show, tapping her foot impatiently.
She turned around to face the Frenchman, again doing everything she could to hold his attention. Eye contact. A sigh of helpless exasperation.
“First she stands me up. Now she refuses to answer.”
“These estate agents,” he said, shaking his head in sympathy. “You know, if you really want some leads on houses in this neighborhood, I could probably be of greater assistance to you than her, Miss…?”
He arched his eyebrows inquisitively.
“Laveau. Marie Laveau. And I’d be grateful for your help.”
Over his shoulder she saw Clay rushing down the front steps as he stuffed coiled wiring into a satchel. He headed up the sidewalk in the opposite direction, toward the nearest intersection, where a van was waiting just out of sight around the corner. She handed back the phone.
“I am Claude,” he said. “Claude Durand. Perhaps we will be neighbors soon?”
“That would be something to look forward to.”
“In the meantime, how could I reach you to let you know if a more suitable property becomes available? Or perhaps simply for moral support.”
Yes, he was an old pro, so she rewarded him with a phone number. He again reached into his jacket, and she again fought off the urge to back away, or make a move. Maybe he was onto her.
He produced a small datebook—literally a little black book—and wrote down her number. If he ever dialed it, he would be greeted by a rushed “Hallo? Take your order?” from Phong, owner of a Vietnamese takeout eleven blocks from her flat.
