The Woman Who Knew Too Much

by Tom Savage

  Nora couldn’t move. She stood at the gate, watching them go, unable to form a coherent thought. A firm hand on her arm brought her back to reality, propelling her gently forward. Frances led her across the garden to the guesthouse behind the grim procession. They went inside, and Sister Genevieve—not smiling, for once—closed the kitchen door behind them.

  Chapter 40

  A tall, thin, older nun with a black satchel and a serious expression on her plain face was waiting at the door of Nora and Jeff’s room when they arrived up the stairs. Mother Agnes unlocked the door and switched on the light while Patch and Aldo carried Jeff over to the bed and gently lowered him into a sitting position on it. They carefully removed his coat before laying him flat on his back. Nora broke free of Frances’s grasp and ran to the bed, sinking down beside it.

  “Jeff? Can you hear me?” she whispered, tapping his left arm. No response. She felt his hot face before placing her hand over his heart, detecting a slow but steady beat. The two men were about to pull his sweater off over his head when they all heard the voice from the doorway.

  “Fermo!” the scowling nun commanded, and the two men froze, then looked over at her. They moved away from the bed as she glided across the room, reaching into her bag and producing an enormous pair of scissors. Nora stood and backed away as the woman knelt beside the bed and went to work, carefully cutting the thick wool sweater away, slicing from bottom to top and gently peeling, then removing the sleeves. She repeated the process with his flannel shirt and the plain white T-shirt he wore under that. All three garments were soaked with blood on the right side. When his bare torso was exposed, Nora stared, then shut her eyes. Frances came over to grasp her arm.

  The nun inspected the six-inch slash down the right side of Jeff’s abdomen. Without turning her head, she barked, “Suor Genevieve.”

  The young nun had been standing in the doorway, but now she advanced into the room, shutting the door behind her. She went to the other side of the bed, and the older woman handed her the bag.

  “Acqua ossigenata con un batuffolo di cotone.”

  Sister Genevieve rummaged in the bag, soaked a cotton ball with peroxide, and silently handed it to the older woman.

  Mother Agnes moved forward. “Dottore Marino sta per arrivare, Suor Michael.”

  The nun nodded, carefully dabbing the wound. Nora stood behind her, looking down. The clear liquid fizzed and foamed at the angry edges of the cut. Sister Michael began cleaning away the blood around it as well, then handed the used cotton ball across Jeff’s body to Sister Genevieve, who was ready with a fresh one. This ritual went on in silence for what seemed to be an eternity, but Nora could see an immediate beneficial effect. The swelling around the slash was already beginning to subside when the door opened and Sister Dorothea entered, ushering in an ancient man in a black suit carrying a black bag.

  Doctor Marino went directly to the bed and leaned down over Jeff, squinting in the dim light. He made a single grunting sound and reached in his bag for a pair of wire-rimmed glasses and a penlight. When he shone the beam directly on the wound, Nora shut her eyes again. He raised his head and muttered something to Sister Michael, who snatched up the lamp from the bedside table, tore off the shade, and held the lamp and naked bulb over the bed. The doctor reached in the bag again and pulled out a hypodermic and a silver object that looked like a long, curved darning needle. When Nora saw it, she uttered an involuntary cry.

  The doctor whipped his head around to look up at Nora, then turned to Sister Michael.

  “Chi è quella?” he asked.

  “La moglie,” the nun replied.

  Now Doctor Marino turned to Frances, who was still holding Nora’s arm. “Signora, portala via di qui, per favore.”

  “Si, Dottore,” Frances said. She put her arm around Nora’s shoulders and led her out of the room. Mother Agnes followed them. The three women went down the stairs and into the lounge. The fireplace was roaring, and the two other women got Nora comfortably seated on a couch near it. Frances sat beside her. The abbess was about to leave when they heard music emanating from her habit, the opening notes of Ave Maria. She pulled out her cellphone.

  “Pronto…Si…Momento.” She looked at Nora. “The doctor wants to know how old he is, his blood type, and if he’s allergic to any medications.”

  Nora had to think a moment. “Fifty-three. O positive. No allergies.”

  Mother Agnes relayed the information, listened for a while, and switched off. “Okay, Sister Michael says the doctor’s assistants are bringing an IV hookup and some prescription medicine. Jeff will be fine, Nora. He passed out from pain and blood loss, but he didn’t lose that much—it usually looks worse than it is. The slash is thin and clean; the doctor says there will barely be a scar, and that can be removed later with cosmetic surgery. The wound is shallow all the way down—no internal damage, praise God. They’re sewing him up now.” She smiled. “Doctor Marino says he’s the healthiest-looking, fittest fifty-three-year-old man he’s ever seen.”

  This made Nora think of the obvious question. “Does—does the doctor know how Jeff got the—”

  “Don’t you worry about that,” the abbess said. “Half of that man’s patients are mafiosi. He never asks questions, and he never tells tales. He’s been this convent’s physician for over forty years. Of course, he’s probably seen the news, and he can put two and two together, but I’ve never once heard him voice an opinion on anything.”

  “I should pay him,” Nora said.

  “My dear, don’t be silly. Ham Green doesn’t know it yet, but he’s about to feed and clothe a great many poor Venetians. I’m adding this to the Company’s hotel bill!”

  Mention of the Company reminded Nora. She jumped up from the couch. “Galina! Where is she?”

  “She’s in her room,” Frances said, “but dinner is in about ten minutes.”

  Dinner. Nora had forgotten all about it. She couldn’t possibly eat, and yet she was suddenly hungry. “I want to go back up there.”

  “No, my dear,” the abbess said. “Sister Anne has made a lovely roast chicken with wild rice and green beans, and leek soup to start. That’s where you’re going now. Jeff needs sleep, and you need nourishment. That’s an order!”

  Patch came into the room, followed by Aldo.

  “I’m going outside now, unless you need me,” Aldo said from the doorway. “I’ll be in the garden tonight.”

  Nora went over to the boatman and embraced him, kissing his cheek. “I can’t find the words to thank you.”

  He blushed. “No need, Signora Baron. Jeff is an ox; all will be well. Let me know if you still need me tomorrow.”

  “I will,” Nora said. “And please call me Nora.”

  Aldo nodded. “Buona notte, Nora. Patch, Signora Camillo, Reverenda Madre.” And he was gone.

  Nora turned to the abbess. “All this commotion must be upsetting to your women. I can’t imagine what they must—”

  “Don’t worry, Nora,” Mother Agnes said. “You don’t exist, remember? They see worse things every day on their rounds. They are strong women, and this is merely another way for them to follow God.” She grinned. “Besides, most of them don’t know a thing about it, and they won’t hear it from me or the women in that room with your husband. I think your biggest problem will be keeping the news from Miss Rostova—that’s what you want to do, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. She can’t know about any of this.”

  Patch spoke up. “Mother, can your nuns get the assistants in and out, and get rid of the doctor, while we’re in the dining room?”

  “They’ll do their best,” the abbess said. “Keep Miss Rostova in the dining room as long as you can. I’ll tell Sister Anne to serve things slowly, and I’ll join you for dessert again. I have some particularly long-drawn-out stories I’d like to share with Miss Rostova tonight.” With a wink, she left the room.

  Nora sank down onto the couch beside Frances. “Galina mustn’t hear anything about Pavel Oblomov. And
Jeff is feeling under the weather—the flu? It’s entirely plausible, with all this snow.”

  “Yes,” Frances said. “Let’s just tell Galina he’s in bed with a fever. But considering all this, do you still want to go to Vicenza tomorrow?”

  Nora shrugged. “Want? It isn’t a question of wanting—we must do it tomorrow. We’ve got an entire military base involved now. If I’ve learned anything about this line of work, it’s that personal issues always take a backseat to the op. Besides, you heard what the doctor said: It’s only a scratch. Patch, can you take care of Jeff tomorrow?”

  “I’ll do whatever you want me to do,” he said.

  Nora noticed that her friends weren’t asking the obvious questions about this afternoon’s incident. She looked at them, marveling at their resilience. Jeff had apparently killed a man today, and he’d nearly been killed himself. The sudden violence that occasionally came with his job was totally foreign to these gentle people, and yet they’d thrown in their lot with him. And with her, Nora.

  “You two are extraordinary,” she told them. “I wouldn’t ever have been able to—”

  The door opened at that moment, and Galina Rostova made her entrance.

  Chapter 41

  Nora was onstage. She made that conscious decision the moment Galina came into the lounge, and for the next two hours she stuck to it. She smiled as they entered the dining room, laughed all through dinner, and listened, fascinated, as Mother Agnes regaled them with stories about Venice over Sister Anne’s amazing chocolate mousse. Well, Nora assumed it was amazing—she couldn’t taste anything. Not the chicken, not the wine, not the dessert. She was on automatic pilot, acting.

  Her performance appeared to be a success, as far as Galina was concerned. The others at the dinner table knew Nora was pretending—they were pretending too—but the Russian actress seemed blithely unaware of the tension in the room. Nora thought this was odd, because Galina was a genuinely brilliant performer, and good actors are usually more aware of their surroundings than other people.

  Nora couldn’t have asked for a better supporting cast. Frances Camillo had ceased to surprise Nora with her ease and grace in every situation, and Nora had only known the woman for a grand total of seven days. Last Sunday night—one week ago tonight—Ham Green had arrived in her home and asked for her help. The next day, Monday, she’d met Frances in New York, and two days later they were in Venice. Yet it felt as if she’d known this woman much longer than that. She’d seen Patch Sullivan around for about a year, thanks to her daughter, but she’d never really gotten to know him until now. For all his hippie trappings and “cool” lingo, he was a solid young man. And Mother Agnes was just about the most interesting person she’d ever met. From CIA wife to CIA widow to novice to nun to abbess, she was a woman of great strength and unshakable faith.

  The offstage players in her drama were also excellent. Nora, Patch, and Frances kept the conversation at the table lively, and Nora never heard a sound from beyond the dining room door. She imagined the elderly doctor’s helpers moving the bulky intravenous drip apparatus in the front door and up the stairs, then stealing back down and out into the night, but they were uncannily quiet about it. Nora assumed Mother Agnes had asked the formidable Sister Michael to supervise them. If that woman told you to do something quietly, you’d be silent as the grave, because fear of her disapproval would be worse than fear of a beating. Just looking at the nurse’s stern, humorless face reminded Nora of her worst memories of twelve years of parochial school. She wondered if Sister Michael had a clicker.

  However they’d managed it, the doctor, the assistants, and the nuns had Jeff hooked up and sleeping peacefully by the time Nora could go upstairs to him. But that was a while—a long while, or so it seemed to Nora. She was beginning to think this three-act drama would never end.

  When dessert was over, she excused herself long enough to sneak upstairs and assess the situation. The doctor and his people were gone, and he’d left a note of instructions for Nora that had been written in English by the multilingual Sister Dorothea. Jeff was asleep, the entire right side of his torso covered in gauze and white tape. Someone—certainly not the nuns; probably a male assistant—had removed all his clothes and dressed him in a striped pajama bottom.

  The IV wasn’t blood, as she’d expected, but three bags of clear liquid connected by tubes to three taped entry ports, two on his left arm and the other on the right one. Sister Dorothea whispered to her that they were an antibiotic, a painkiller, and a sucrose-vitamin cocktail. Nora left the note on the night table unread, thanked the three nuns around the bed for everything they were doing, and joined the others in the lounge for after-dinner coffee and tea.

  Mother Agnes had gone back to the convent and retired for the night, so it was just the four of them. Nora took charge of the meeting, outlining in detail everything they’d be doing tomorrow, and the others listened intently.

  “This is marvelous,” Galina said when Nora had concluded the projected scenario. “Nora, you have thought of everything! I am afraid now because the Federation guards must be looking for me. I fear they could find me before we—”

  “Don’t worry,” Nora said, recalling what Vera had said this afternoon. “They probably think you’ve already left Venice. And they wouldn’t look in this part of the city; why would they? We’ll be gone before they widen their search so far from San Marco.” She smiled at the woman as she said this, surprised at her own talent. She sounded convincing, even to herself—but in truth, Nora was far from convinced.

  “Is there a television here?” Galina asked. “I want to see if I am in the news.”

  Nora stared, forming a suitably vague reply. Patch beat her to it.

  “There’s not a word about you in the news,” he told the actress. “There are no TVs in the convent or the guesthouse, but I found this cool old radio, and it works just fine.” He pointed to the instrument, which he’d replaced on the bookshelf where he’d found it. When Galina’s eyes brightened and she looked over at the radio, he quickly added, ‘Well, it worked for a while this afternoon, but then it blew a fuse. It doesn’t work now. Please don’t tell Mother Agnes I broke it.”

  Galina frowned in frustration, but Nora and Frances suppressed smiles. He’d managed to allay Galina’s fears and prevent her from hearing the actual headlines, all in one neat lie. Nora could have kissed him.

  “I wish to be in the plane,” Galina whispered, gazing into the fire. “I wish to be in America.” She suddenly brightened and looked over at Nora. “I will tell the people in Washington what I know, and then I will call the people in New York and Los Angeles who have been so kind to me. They wish to talk with me about making plays and films in America. I have been invited to the CAA; this is an agency for the actors. I will be having my own agents! Can you imagine, Nora?”

  Nora forced a smile. “That’s one of the best agencies in the business. I hope it all works out for you.” She rose, glancing over at the others before looking back at Galina. “I must go upstairs now, everyone. I want to be sure Jeff’s fever isn’t getting worse. If you don’t mind, I’ll say good night. We have a big day tomorrow.”

  “Tell Jeff I hope he’s feeling better,” Frances said, rising from her couch and going over to the card table. “Hey, you two, let’s have a quick round of Galina’s card game before bed, shall we?”

  “Oh, yes!” Galina said. “Good night, Nora. I hope Mr. Baron is getting well soon.”

  “Thank you.” Nora watched from the doorway as Frances and Patch took over the babysitting duties. She knew they didn’t enjoy the silly game, but they were determined to distract the star until bedtime. She left the lounge and hurried up the stairs.

  The bedroom was dark now, with only the dim lamp providing any illumination. Jeff was asleep, snoring slightly amid the clear plastic tubes snaking down from the hanging bags to his arms. Nora watched him from the doorway, studying the face she knew so well for any signs of pain or discomfort. He seemed to be sleep
ing peacefully.

  She thought she was alone in the room with him until she heard the soft murmuring. She searched the darkness for the source of the sound.

  In the deep shadows on the far side of the bed, Sister Michael knelt beside Jeff, her rosary in her hands, whispering the appropriate words. The nurse’s eyes were closed, her head bowed, and perhaps she was unaware that Nora had come into the room. Seeing the imposing old nun so rapturously praying for her husband’s recovery filled Nora with a sense of guilt. She was ashamed of herself for her unkind thoughts about the woman earlier. Sister Michael was a religious of the old school, and there was nothing wrong with that. At this moment, at Jeff’s bedside, she wasn’t formidable at all.

  The buzzing of the phone in her pocket sent Nora out into the hallway. She shut the door carefully behind her before answering. It was Ham Green, and he wasted no time.

  “The Russian police just called,” he said. “They made that search you requested. Bingo!”

  Chapter 42

  When Nora came back into the room, Sister Michael was on her feet again, checking the IV bags and the taped-down portals in Jeff’s arms. She placed her hand on his forehead and held it there for several seconds. She nodded once, and then headed for the door. As she passed Nora in the doorway, she actually smiled.

  “La febbre è passata, grazie a Dio,” she said. “Buona notte, Signora.”

  “Molte grazie,” Nora whispered. “Dio la benedica, Suor. Buona notte.”