"Niema!" she cried. "It's so good to see you!"
This must be Ambassador Theriot's wife, Eleanor, the old family friend. The chauffeur opened the door, and Niema climbed out, going straight to Mrs. The-riot with a warm hug.
"You look exhausted," Mrs. Theriot said, patting her cheek in a motherly way. "Jet lag is terrible, isn't it? Supposedly it's worse going west-or perhaps that's east, I can never remember which it is, but it doesn't matter because I get jet lag no matter what direction I'm traveling."
Mrs. Theriot was giving her recovery time by chattering, Niema realized. She managed a smile. "I am tired, but I don't want to waste my visit lying around."
"Don't worry about that," Mrs. Theriot cooed as she led her up the steps into the embassy. "A nap will do you a world of good. There's nothing you have to do, nowhere you have to go."
From that, Niema deduced that her presence not only wasn't expected at dinner that night, but for some reason would be a definite problem. "In that case, I would love a nap."
Still smiling, still chatting as if they had known each other for years, Eleanor Theriot led Niema to an elevator. They exited on the third floor. "This is your room," she said, opening the door to a spacious bedchamber decorated in a gorgeous combination of antique and modern pieces, and in a soothing pale turquoise color with touches of peach and white. The bed was so high there was a footstool beside it, and the mattress looked thick enough for her to sink out of sight.
"There's a private bath through here," Mrs. Theriot continued, opening a white paneled door and giving Niema a glimpse of gleaming brass bathroom fixtures -or were they gold? "Your bags will be brought up, and if you'd like a maid will unpack for you."
Niema started to say that wasn't necessary, then realized that Niema Price Jamieson was probably accustomed to such help, even if Niema Burdock wasn't. "A nap first, please," she said. "My bags can be unpacked later."
"Of course, dear. I'll tell everyone you're not to be disturbed." As she talked, Mrs. Theriot walked over to the desk and scribbled a brief note, which she gave to Niema. "When you're awake, we'll have a long talk just to catch up on gossip. I simply don't have the time to call all my friends the way I used to. Just tell me Jacqueline and Sid are all right, and I'll leave you to your nap."
"Jacqueline" and "Sid" were her make-believe parents. "Mom and Dad are fine," Niema replied. "They're in Australia now, for an extended vacation."
"How I envy them! But I won't ask any more questions now. Have a nice rest, dear." She gave Niema another hug, then let herself out.
Niema looked down at the note. "Don't assume you can trust everyone who works in the embassy," Mrs. Theriot had written. "Stick to your cover at all times."
She wadded up the note and started to toss it into the wastebasket, but on second thought tore the paper into tiny pieces and flushed it. She yawned mightily; that nap was becoming more necessary by the moment.
Her luggage arrived, carried by a serious young man who called her "ma'am." Once he was gone and the bedroom door was locked, Niema pulled the curtains closed, then stripped off her clothes and took a quick shower. Fighting to keep her eyes open, she toweled dry and stumbled to the bed, not bothering with a nightgown or pajamas. Using the two-step stool, she climbed upon the bed and stretched out between the cool, fragrant sheets. She groaned in relief as her tired muscles relaxed.
When was this ball at which she was supposed to meet Ronsard? She couldn't remember. Not tonight, for certain. Tomorrow?
Was she ready? She went over the details of her cover, even repeating "Niema Jamieson" to herself over and over, to make certain she responded when someone addressed her by that name. She couldn't just pretend to be Niema Jamieson, she had to become that person. Ronsard was sharp; he would notice if she appeared not to recognize her own name.
John had been thorough in building the cover identity. The documents would stand up to any inspection and investigation. She didn't have to worry about that aspect of her cover. No, what she worried about was her own ability; John might not have doubts about her, but she did. She had never played a role before, unless it was when they were in Iran, if wearing a chador and not speaking was the same as playing a role.
She didn't, however, doubt her ability to plant a listening device in Ronsard's office. When it came to that part of the job, she was confident she could handle it.
"Let the games begin," she murmured to herself, and went to sleep.
PART THREE
>Chapter Thirteen
Paris
Louis! It is wonderful to see you. You are looking as handsome as always." The prime minister's wife beamed up her toothy smile at him as she took both his hands and planted kisses on each cheek.
Louis carried her hands to his lips and returned the salute, briefly kissing her knuckles. He was actually fond of Adeline, who was good-natured and inherently kind. Her strong features bore an unfortunate resemblance to a horse, but in the Parisian way she made the most of her best features, her eyes, and after one got to know her, one saw only her nature and didn't think of the long boniness of her face. "I would never miss the opportunity to see you, my dear."
"Flatterer." She beamed at him. "I must continue greeting the guests, but promise me you won't leave without speaking with me again. I don't see enough of you, you rogue."
He promised, an easy thing to do, then left her to the receiving line and mingled with the throng of guests crowding the ballroom and adjacent rooms. A small orchestra was discreetly installed in an alcove and partially blocked from view by a gauze curtain.