Mrs. John Doe (16 page)

The London Underground is the oldest subway system in the world. It is also one of the longest, with 250 miles of track serving 270 stations. An average year sees approximately one billion riders on
the Tube,
making it one of the busiest public transports in Europe. Eleven separate lines take passengers to a wide variety of destinations in the Greater London area.

He could be going anywhere.

Nora followed the young man into the Russell Square station, making sure to keep people between them. That wasn't difficult; the place was crowded with travelers, even at this late morning hour. Still, she'd have to see which ticket he bought so she could get an identical one. This thought gave her a brief sense of panic. What if he had a Travelcard or one of those Oyster things? He might just swipe something and rush through to the elevators, leaving her here. How would she know what sort of ticket to buy?

She was in luck; he had to purchase a ticket. She crept up behind him as he used a machine, and she saw him touch the indicator for Leicester Square. She quickly bought the same zone 1 ticket, relieved that he wasn't going far, and to a part of London that was familiar to her. The elevator was tricky, but she pressed herself against the wall on the opposite side of the car from him, safely shielded by packed bodies. When they reached the lower level, she let him walk down the platform and stop twenty feet from her. As they waited, she looked around the place, thinking about her husband. Near this station, on July 7, 2005, twenty-six of the people were killed in the London bombings. Jeff had come to London from Langley the next day, and he'd been here for several weeks.

Nora wondered if that young man down the platform, waiting so calmly for the train, had been involved in the massacre. Was he thinking about it now? Did he think about it at all? She looked over at him, studying his impassive face, clenching her hands into fists at her sides.

When the train arrived, Nora got into the car behind his and stayed by the door. She knew this route pretty well, thanks to all the theaters nearby; their destination was in the center of London's West End. The train stopped at Holborn and Covent Garden, then Leicester Square. She followed him up to Charing Cross Road, where he paused just outside the station and pulled out his cellphone.

“Where are you?” he said. “Okay, I'm on my way.” He pocketed the phone and strode away toward the square.

Nora's anxiety had been growing throughout the journey, and now her heart was pounding with a force that alarmed her. Who was the mystery person on the other end of the call? Where was he leading her? Calm down, she told herself. Just stay calm. You can do this.

She kept well behind him on the sidewalk, making sure not to lose sight of him entirely in the throng. They came into Leicester Square, and she glanced around, orienting herself. She'd been here many times in the past; it was the film center for London, where all the big premiere movie palaces were. She looked over at the huge Odeon theater on her left and the Empire on her right, at the north end of the square, and there was the TKTS booth on the south side, where she had frequently waited in line for half-price theater tickets. But the most interesting part of the scene was the little park in the center of the square, with its beautiful gates at each corner and its dramatic centerpiece, the round fountain topped by the famous statue of Shakespeare. She watched as the young man in front of her crossed the street and went directly into the park, and she hurried to catch up with him.

Another park, she thought as she arrived at the gate. What is it with secret agents and parks? Probably something like the gray cars—a neutral ground to meet where it was unlikely that your hush-hush conversation would be overheard. And yet that was precisely what she must now do. She would have to follow him into this place, see the person he was meeting, and somehow listen in on them. I can't do it, she thought. I'll never be able to do it.

Then she thought of her husband. Jeff was out there somewhere, tied up, locked in a room. He might be hurt; his captors may well have injured him. He was alone in some dark place, wondering if anyone was looking for him. He might even be dead—no, that wasn't an option. She couldn't even entertain that thought. Otherwise, she'd give in to despair, and she wouldn't be of any use to him. He's alive, she told herself; he
must
be alive.

And I can do this. For Jeff, I can do anything.

Her quarry, for his part, was apparently agitated too. He walked slowly to the center of the park, by the Shakespeare fountain, looking constantly to his right and left as he went. He even turned around once and scanned the crowds behind him. Nora kept bodies between them as she followed. Yes, he was turning to glance behind him yet again; he was definitely nervous.

This pocket park had a similar layout to Russell Square Gardens, only smaller: a square island with four walkways in an X pattern that met in a central plaza, where the Bard held court. The young man stood before the fountain, gazing around, then walked quickly over to the nearest of the benches that lined the walkways and sat. Nora moved closer, keeping the fountain between them. She looked up at the statue, temporarily arrested by the sight. She was an actor, after all, and in her world this man was the king of kings. She felt a whimsical urge to curtsey, but she was currently an elderly French lady with arthritis, so curtseying was out of the question. She lowered her gaze, peeking around the plinth at the man on the bench. He sat alone, watching all the people passing by him.

He wasn't alone for long. He suddenly looked over at the fountain where she was standing, and for one wrenching moment she thought she'd been spotted. No, he wasn't looking at her but past her. A large dark figure in a dark suit passed by her, moving by the fountain to the bench. The figure turned around and sat down beside her quarry, facing her. She gasped when she saw him, and a sharp electric shock rose up from her stomach to her brain. No, she thought.
No!

It was Bill Howard's chauffeur. What was his name? Gilbert—Andy Gilbert. Craig had told her that in the car yesterday. The big black man was wearing his chauffeur's uniform, and he dwarfed the slim young man beside him on the bench. He was so muscular that his neck was the same diameter as his large head. A handsome face, nice features, but the effect was marred by the mean, almost malevolent expression she saw there now. He too scanned the crowds around them, just as the other man was doing. Then he turned to his companion and leaned forward to talk. Her quarry listened intently.

She'd only heard that deep voice utter three words:
Be careful, Pal.
But she had to hear what he was saying now. She glanced around the square, wondering how to get closer, praying to Shakespeare for inspiration.

As if the statue had heard her and answered her prayer, the opportunity arrived. A well-dressed elderly woman with a cane moved slowly along the sidewalk, looking around at the benches for a good place to sit. She chose the empty one beside the chauffeur, sitting a little way from him, at the other end of her bench. If Nora hobbled over there and sat next to her, engaged her in conversation, the two men probably wouldn't even notice.

Probably.

It was her only chance. She drew in a deep breath, made herself as old and stooped as possible, and shuffled carefully out from behind the fountain. She wandered over to the bench and sat between the woman and Andy Gilbert. The two men were talking; they didn't even glance over at her.

“Good morning,” she said to the other woman in her best French accent. “Eesn't thees a lovely day? I'm so glad for thees sunshine.”

The woman smiled over at her and nodded. “Yes, it's a fair morn, all right. No rain, for a change.”

“Een Paris eet ees always the rain too,” Nora said. “I have just come from there. I am here een your beautiful city to consult the—what ees the word?—the particular doctor?”

“I think you mean a specialist,” the woman said. “Nothing serious, I hope?”

Now Nora was in an awkward position. She was sitting on a bench, turned toward the woman beside her, while two men talked a few feet away. She would have to keep up her end of the chat while listening intently for anything she could hear of the conversation behind her. Okay, she decided, pretend we're in a Feydeau farce, a bedroom comedy with lots of eavesdropping.

“Oh, eet ees the aching in the bones, how do you say?”

“She wasn't there, I tell you. I waited, but she didn't show up. The kid at the hotel said—”

“Arthritis? Is that what you mean?”

“Yes, that ees eet: arthritis.”

“Listen, Yussuf, we need to act fast. He's planning to move it out tomorrow—”

“I know how you feel, my dear. My hands have been predicting the weather for years now! I'm Margaret Green, by the way, but everyone calls me Madge.”

“—Copperfield, a Cessna Cargomaster, at three p.m. I'm pretty sure they—”

“How do you do, Madge? My name ees Blanche, Blanche Weelliams.”

“Blanche—what a lovely name! I had a friend at school named Blanche, and she was the prettiest…”

Her new friend was off on a story from her long-ago youth, so Nora concentrated on the voices at her back. Her nemesis, Yussuf, spoke perfect English with a British accent in his light baritone voice. The chauffeur, Andy Gilbert, was a
basso profundo
with a strong Caribbean inflection.

Yussuf:
“They both arrived three days ago. Heathrow. They're going out to Laura's tomorrow.”

Gilbert:
“And where's Naseem?”

Yussuf:
“We don't know.”

Gilbert:
“Damn! Okay, we have to find her, that's all there is to it. It's clear Baron's not going to spill anything, no matter what's done to him. His wife's got it, and we can't let them get it. If they do, we're screwed.”

Yussuf:
“I had the damned purse in my hands. In my hands! I can't believe—”

Gilbert
: “Don't tear yourself up about it now. You had no way of knowing they'd be sticking so close to her.”

Yussuf:
“That goddamn Elder! I didn't even see him in the fog until he was on top of me!”

Gilbert
: “I know. He's very good at what he does, damn him to hell! Look, I've been gone too long. I've got to—”

Yussuf:
“Okay, you get back to work. I'll keep looking for her. I've got someone watching the hotel, so we can grab her if she shows up there. She got away in the cemetery, but her luck can't hold forever. She won't get away from me again.”

Gilbert
: “All right. I'll meet you at Laura's.”

Yussuf:
“Okay, Laura's, noon tomorrow. Bring any firepower you can lay your hands on. If they're on to us, we'll need it.”

Gilbert:
“Right. Call me if you find her.”

“…but she didn't marry him. She married the banker instead. So, she ended up rich, but she let her true love get away. Wasn't that silly of her?”

“Yes, very seelly.” Nora blinked and smiled at Madge Green, acutely aware of the movements behind her. The two men were standing up from their bench and walking away in opposite directions. Her quarry, Yussuf, was returning the way he'd come, past the fountain and out at the northeast corner of the park, in the direction of the Tube station. He crossed the street and disappeared.

“Well, Blanche was always a silly creature, even when we were girls. Not a lot going on upstairs, if you know what I mean—”

Nora made a big show of looking at her watch. “
Mon Dieu!
Eet ees already
une heure
—how you say?—one of the clock! I must be een Harley Street for my veeseet
avec le docteur
!”

Madge Green smiled and pulled knitting needles and wool from her purse. “You'd best run along then, love. It was very nice to meet you. If you're back in London soon, you'll find me right here most afternoons. We can have another lovely chat.”

“
Merci,
Madge.
Au revoir!
” Nora shouldered her bag and stood up, then walked slowly away from the bench, tottering past the fountain and out of the park. She wasn't overly concerned that her quarry had gotten away; she knew where he was going to be tomorrow, and when. But now she had to be alone and think about everything she'd just overheard.

Jeff was alive! That was the good news; the men had made that clear in their conversation. But she didn't have time to exult, not now, because now she knew exactly how much longer they'd keep him alive. She was afraid, more afraid than she'd been since she arrived in Europe, even more than she'd been in the cemetery.

It was now one o'clock, and whatever was happening would occur at three o'clock tomorrow afternoon. She had twenty-six hours to find her husband and free him from these people. After that, he would be expendable.

An average-looking, three-story, nineteenth-century house on a quiet side street in Soho, a short walk north of Leicester Square. From the sidewalk, there was nothing remarkable about the building, which made it the perfect place for her husband to stay in London. Nora stood on that sidewalk now, gazing up at the front door, hoping her guess about the manila envelope was correct. Otherwise, she wouldn't be able to get inside.

She looked down at the three keys on the ring clutched in her hand. These keys had been found on the body in the wrecked car in Kensington, along with the wallet and the disposable camera. The camera was a mystery, but it was probably the item everyone wanted so badly. The wallet contained cash, in case she needed it, and she hoped the keys were for this place, Jeff's secret London address. She'd dismissed the idea of coming here last night when she returned to London, but now she had no choice. Besides, she reasoned that her husband would only leave her his keys if he thought she'd be safe here.

She had to get inside undetected. Craig Elder had mentioned
people
—the people here had told Bill Howard that Jeff hadn't shown up at his flat since his disappearance. Would these
people
be in the building? Inside the apartment itself? Or were they across the street, in that row of townhouses over there, watching her from one of the curtained windows? Nora glanced at those windows before hurrying up the steps to the entrance.

Now she faced the door. On her left, five houses down, was the corner where a much busier thoroughfare crossed this one. She could see cars and pedestrians down that way, milling among the kitschy new age shops and exotic restaurants—Indian, Chinese, Thai—that lined the streets in this part of town. The other end, on her right, was farther away; she couldn't hear the traffic from here. This stretch of road was residential and very quiet at this early afternoon hour.

Two women with shopping bags passed by on the sidewalk behind her, and Nora could feel their curious gaze on her. She studied the four buzzers beside the doorframe as though she weren't certain which apartment she wanted, but she knew immediately. The names were neatly printed beside each buzzer:
B
—
R
YDER; #1—
P
ARKHURST; #2—
J
ENNER; #3—
N
OONE
. The women disappeared into a building two doors down, and she held up the three keys, studying them. Large, medium, small. The large one should open this door…

It did. In a flash, she was inside the building, shutting the door behind her. She was standing in a long, narrow, dimly lit foyer with a staircase against the wall on her right and a door on her left. This would be Parkhurst, the ground floor tenant, and someone named Ryder was in the basement flat. She needed to get to the top floor.
N
OONE—
that name again. The same inside joke as in the apartment house in Paris where Solange had died.
No one
.

She climbed the stairs as swiftly and silently as she could, then waited a moment, listening, before moving lightly down the hall to the next staircase. In order to do this, she had to pass by the door of the resident of #2, Jenner. She didn't hear anything from beyond the door as she passed, but just as she reached the next flight, it suddenly opened.

Nora pressed herself against the wall at the foot of the stairs, holding her breath, watching as a dark-haired young woman in a T-shirt and jeans came out into the hall and shut the door behind her. She turned around to lock the door, then headed for the other stairs, the ones Nora had just ascended. Nora moved quickly onto the steps to the next level, shielding herself from the woman's view. She listened as the footsteps descended and crossed the foyer, and the street door opened and closed. Only then did she continue on her way.

The medium-size key opened the apartment on the top floor, and Nora was inside a dark, silent room. She shut the door and locked it before feeling along the wall for a light switch. Her hand came upon a cold metal panel, and she looked over to see a flashing red light. Of course: an alarm, triggered when she opened the door. She'd have fifteen, maybe twenty seconds before the earsplitting noise began.

Stifling the thrill of panic that rose up in her, she drew in a deep breath and squinted in the gloom at the keypad on the panel. Without hesitating, she stabbed it seven times with her index finger:
D-A-N-A-L-E-E
. The flashing red light stopped. It was their usual, all-purpose password, and she knew her husband as well as she knew herself. He'd left her these keys, knowing she might have to come here and face this alarm, so he'd only use a password she'd know. She turned off the device and reached for the light switch.

An overhead light came on, illuminating a big, carpeted living room lined with bookshelves, with a plain brown couch and armchair, a coffee table, and a television. Heavy drapes covered the windows, allowing no sunlight in. She explored the apartment: An archway led to the kitchen, and another arch began a hallway with three doors, two bedrooms and a bathroom. The curtains in these rooms were closed as well. Only one of the bedrooms was evidently in use, the larger one, and Nora recognized the clothes there. The faint scent of his aftershave hung in the still air. She actually smiled when she saw a copy of
For Whom the Bell Tolls
on the bedside table next to a framed photo of her. He was working his way through Hemingway again; he'd read the complete works at least twice already.

She went back out into the living room, brushing tears from her eyes. She knew without looking that there'd be fresh coffee beans and a grinder in the kitchen. The silence and darkness of the place closed in on her. Here, in his habitat, with familiar things all around her, she was overwhelmed by his absence.

His desk was in a corner of the main room, with a blotter, paper, pens, and pencils. His laptop wasn't here, of course; he would have taken that with him when he went into hiding at Bill Howard's country house.

Bill Howard.

In the bathroom, she removed her gray wig and washed the age makeup from her face. She found the coffee beans, grinder, and coffeemaker in the kitchen. While the pot brewed, she sat at the desk with a pen and a legal pad, writing down everything she remembered of the conversation in Leicester Square.

She wondered who or what
Copperfield
was, and who
Laura
was, not to mention
Naseem
. The two men had spoken of this person with particular urgency; they didn't know where he/she was, and that clearly worried them.
Naseem,
or possibly
Nassim
? Definitely an Eastern name, whichever way you spelled it.

But now she had a more pressing problem. The suspicion had been gnawing at her since she first saw the chauffeur join her quarry on the bench. She went into the kitchen and poured coffee in the oversize mug she found in the drainer. She smiled at the words on the cup:
STOLEN FROM BUCKINGHAM PALACE.
Back at the desk, she started a fresh page of the legal pad, a timeline of the actions as she understood them:

Nora stared down at the page, reading and rereading the sequence of events, and one fact was clear to her. Someone was very much in charge of everything that was happening to her. It seemed almost staged, like a play. Someone was directing all the action, and she had a fair guess whom that someone must be. It was the only way to make sense of the whole scenario.

Now she remembered something else. The phony second note, the one the creepy man had given her in Musée Rodin:
GOOT! Dix roses pour Grand-tante J ce soir
. She recalled a night, a dinner in a beautiful London restaurant some ten or eleven years ago. She and Jeff had been the guests of Bill and Vivian Howard, and Jeff had told their hosts about his most recent trip to France. He'd explained about his regular pilgrimages to Pinède, placing a dozen roses on
Grand-
tante Jeanette's grave. Vivian had said she thought that was the sweetest thing she'd ever heard, and her husband had agreed…

Something was wrong with Nora's timeline, something that nagged at her. She looked back at the earliest notes at the top of the page. And there it was:

That wasn't possible, was it? Jeff arranged the accident, yes, that much was true. But the notes from Solange were only necessary later,
after
Nora had been knocked down in Russell Square Gardens.
That's
when Jeff decided to get Nora out of England to France, to Charles de Gaulle Airport. He wouldn't have written the two notes until then, June 30, two days after the accident. If he had been already hiding out in the house in East Anglia—on the other side of England—on June 30, how had he managed to get two handwritten notes to Solange in London? And how on earth had Solange managed to get there so fast, waiting in the hotel lobby when Nora arrived, less than an hour after the attempted robbery in the park?

Unless…

Unless Solange had been a backup, plan B, a contingency plan in case Nora was in danger at any time after she was given the manila envelope. That's the only way Jeff could have written the notes two days beforehand. He knew there might be trouble, so he had Craig Elder follow her, and he had Solange waiting to take over the babysitting duties in the hotel. Solange had the notes, if necessary; otherwise, she was simply supposed to guard Nora until Nora flew back to New York the next day.

But Nora had disrupted the schedule, getting out of the limousine and heading into the park instead of going straight back to the Byron as expected. Craig Elder had followed her there, and the terrorist, Yussuf, had been following her ever since she'd boarded the plane at Kennedy. When he showed himself and tried to steal her purse, plan B had immediately gone into play.

Now it all became clear. Except for one thing…

Solange had been Bill Howard's new girlfriend. He was divorcing his wife of twenty-five years to marry her. He'd even bought the country house for her. If they had been so much in love, how could Bill Howard be the arms dealer?

That was what Nora now suspected. When the arms dealer had learned that Nora was being sent to France, he'd come up with a diversion, a phony but plausible way to get her to an isolated place, kill her, and bury her. The note instructing her to go to Pinède:
Dix roses pour Grand-tante J ce soir
. Aside from herself and Jeff, Bill Howard and his wife were the only people who knew about Pinède. And it was Bill Howard's driver, Andy Gilbert, who'd met the terrorist in Leicester Square.
He's planning to move it out tomorrow. He was
Bill Howard. Who else?

But Solange had been murdered, probably by the same assassin who'd waited for Nora in the cemetery. Could Bill Howard really be that cold-blooded? Could he have ordered the killing of his own lover, fiancée, future wife? No, it didn't make any sense. Which left only one possibility.

Vivian.

Vivian Howard, Nora's chic, funny, scatterbrained friend of fifteen years, a criminal mastermind? That was patently absurd. Vivian, bless her heart, could barely negotiate a white sale at Fortnum & Mason, let alone an illegal arms deal. She thought Red China was what you used with a black tablecloth, and she probably couldn't find Iran or Iraq or Afghanistan on a map. If she ever met an Al Qaeda operative face-to-face, she'd ask him who designed his lovely
kaffiyeh
. No, Vivian was definitely not involved in this.

Nora had to assume that Bill was Mr. X. She had to assume that he'd had Solange killed. The people on the other end of the deal were presumably paying millions, much more than Bill Howard would ever see from Her Majesty's government payroll, and that was a good motive. Untold wealth was always a good motive for just about anything.

She had to find Craig Elder.

There was no telephone in the apartment. Jeff had taken his cell with him, along with his computer. Craig had given her his phone number, so she decided to risk a trip outside, to find a pay phone in the neighborhood.

She was standing up from her husband's desk, reaching for her coat, when she heard the sudden sound of a key in the lock of the apartment door. She froze, staring, as the door slowly swung open.