“You get some sleep, Nora,” he said. “Just for a while. I’ll think of something, don’t you worry.”
She nodded and went over to the bed. She sat on it, removing her boots.
“Craig,” she said, “where do we go from here? Back to London? If the police aren’t looking for you anymore-”
“No,” he said, “we’re going to continue heading east. Mr. Baron was taken from King’s Lynn train station, and I don’t think they’d chance taking him too far. He’s probably being held somewhere near there. The Frenchman must be holed up there too. Where else in England would he have gone? And Nassim Gamal and the man and woman who arrived from wherever-”
Nora had to think a moment. “Libya.”
“-Libya. All these people are meeting up someplace, and that place is most likely where they’re holding Mr. Baron. In the morning, you and I are going to Norfolk. My people in London are calling me back with the address of Mr. Howard’s house there, and I figure it’s the best place to start looking.”
Nora took off her jacket and lay down on the bed. Staring up at the ceiling, she said, “We only have a few hours. Three o’clock tomorrow afternoon…”
“Yes, but now we have something we didn’t have before. We have Mr. Howard’s entire agency. They’re all looking for Maurice Dolin, and Mr. Howard’s death has convinced them that Dolin is involved in the arms deal. Our work is finally being acknowledged by the brass. More than acknowledged: They’ve joined us in it. By noon tomorrow, Norfolk will be swarming with field agents. All roads and airports will be monitored, and all big cars and lorries will be stopped and inspected. Dolin and his friends won’t be able to go anywhere. Rest now, Nora. I have a good feeling about this.”
Nora nodded and shut her eyes. The pillow was soft beneath her head. Her last thought before sleep overcame her was that finding Dolin and the weapons was all well and good, but it wouldn’t necessarily save her husband…
She was awakened a moment later, or so she thought. Craig was gently shaking her and calling her name. She sat up on the bed, instantly alert, surprised to see sunlight streaming in through the curtains at the window.
“What?” she gasped. “What time is it?”
“Get up, Nora. It’s 9:15, time to hit the road.”
She looked up at him, at his beaming face, and felt a glimmer of hope. “What’s happened?”
In answer, he reached for her hand and pulled her up from the bed. She stood in her stockinged feet, blinking at him as he held up a notepad before her face. Three words were written there in block letters. The first two words were COWPER FIELD.
“What’s this?” she asked.
Craig was grinning in triumph. “The head office in London called me back just now, and I wrote down what they told me. They were looking for a Copperfield in the Norfolk area, and they found it. A small private airfield near Titchwell Marsh, you know, the bird reserve. Not Copperfield-Cowper Field!”
Nora nodded, then lowered her gaze to the third word: LAURELS. She stared. “Laurels? What’s Laurels?”
Craig Elder’s grin grew even wider. “That’s where we’re going. Not Laura’s-Laurels! It’s the name of Mr. Howard’s country house!”
Nora didn’t even bother to put on her boots. Snatching them up from the floor, she grabbed her coat and bag and marched to the door, with Craig right behind her.
Chapter 40
On the road to Norfolk, Nora got the lay of the land. They’d stopped at a petrol station to fill up, and Nora had asked the attendant for a local map. What he’d sold her turned out to be a guidebook to the region with a big foldout map attached. As Craig drove them north from Cambridge along the motorway, she studied the map and read the brief descriptions of the countryside.
The village where they were going, Sedgeford, was a tiny farming community, notable for its round-towered church and for the Magazine Cottage, once an actual arsenal for storing gunpowder and weapons hundreds of years ago. The cottage and Magazine Farm were highlights along Peddars Way, the ancient Roman road that ran through the northern edge of the village. The easternmost royal residence, Sandringham House, was nearby, but the queen was rarely there, according to the book.
Sedgeford was a few dozen kilometers northeast of King’s Lynn, where Jeff had last been seen. The Wash, the big estuary carved into the northern side of the Norfolk peninsula, was just to the west, and the North Sea was seven kilometers to the north. The North Sea was where the bird sanctuary Craig had mentioned was located, and-much more important to Nora-the locale of Cowper Field, a private airstrip for cargo planes bringing goods to the local towns and villages. She followed the line of the road north from the village to the airfield on the map, calculating. Seven kilometers: about four miles. Carrying parts for weapons of mass destruction from Laurels to Cowper Field would be a matter of a few minutes’ drive, then a cargo plane to an unknown destination, definitely not in England. The Middle East, eventually. She glanced at her watch: 11:07.
She didn’t need the guidebook to tell her how flat Norfolk was; she could see that through the windshield. As they neared the easternmost coast of England, mountains and hills vanished completely, replaced by flatlands filled with crops: barley and beets, according to the pamphlet, but also fields of glistening golden wheat, as far as she could see. At one point they passed a lavender farm, and the rich scent filled the car.
What the guidebook did not indicate was the exact location of Laurels, or of any of the larger homes in the area. There was apparently a downtown, or high street or whatever, in the village, but the meager population-just over six hundred at the last census-was spread out over a six-mile area. They’d have to ask someone for directions.
Craig was clearly thinking the same thing. He left the motorway at the proper exit and drove along a small country road, heading north. As they passed the first signpost to mention the village by name-SEDGEFORD: 2 KM-he slowed the car. A tall, thin, elderly man in well-worn tweeds was walking along the verge of the road with a beautiful red setter. The car came abreast of him, and Craig leaned out to speak.
“Morning, sir. We’re looking for a place called Laurels. Would you-”
It was as far as he got. With a hearty grin and a bellowed, “G’day to ye, lad!” the old man launched into a monologue, with much pointing and gesticulating, but Nora-for all her dramatic training in speech and regional dialects-couldn’t understand a single word. Fortunately, Craig was much more attuned to the heavy accents of rural England.
“Of course,” he said to the man, and he leaped from the car and opened the rear door. The big dog jumped up onto the backseat, followed by its master, who huffed and puffed a great deal as he settled himself. Craig got back in and continued along the road.
Nora smiled at their new passengers and reached out to stroke the dog’s soft head, getting a friendly lick of her hand in return. The old man laughed and spoke some more gibberish, and Craig responded to this with a few brisk nods. They came into the village, such as it was, a lovely church and a few other buildings, and Craig pulled over near one of them and stopped. The old man and dog got out, and with a hearty handshake for Craig and a winking smile for Nora, they disappeared inside the door beside a swinging sign. A pub, of course.
“What was that all about?” she asked as they drove on.
Craig laughed. “That was Mr. Wycliff and Rex, out for a morning constitutional before repairing to their favorite haunt for an early lunch, which I suspect will be mostly liquid. But he told me where we’re going, anyway. We turn here. Now we look for Peddars Way, the oldest road in Great Britain. We pass Magazine Cottage, and go on until we reach the forest beyond the fields, then we turn left, and it’s a mile down that road to the country estates. That’s what Mr. Wycliff called them, anyway. Apparently, Laurels was once a horse farm, but now the ooties have arrived.”