Tom Savage - Mrs. John Doe

Or so she hoped. It was vital that she watch the café from a distance- stake it out, in the vernacular of her husband and his associates-and see just who arrived there looking for her. Would the purse snatcher take the chance of showing up again, knowing that he’d been followed from the hotel a mere two hours ago? Was he really that bold? Nora had no idea, but she wouldn’t be surprised. So far, he’d made it clear that he wanted what her husband had “willed” her, and he obviously wasn’t too particular about how he obtained it. These people were desperate, whoever they were.

She found an empty bench beside the path, exactly where she wanted to be. The nearby trees cast the seat in sun-dappled shade, a pocket of cool darkness. Good, she thought. The darker, the better. She sat down and pulled a paperback novel from her Coach bag, then covered the bag with a fold of her coat. She always carried a book with her, though she hadn’t had occasion to read in a while, but now it would be a suitable prop. This one was an old favorite, a mystery by P. D. James she’d been rereading, perfect for an elderly lady on a British park bench. She opened it at the bookmark and pretended to read, glancing covertly around her.

It was just going on eleven o’clock. The glass-fronted café was on her right in the northeast corner of the park, about sixty feet from where she sat, and she had an unobstructed view of the interior, the sidewalk tables in front of it, and-most important-the walkways nearby. Too early for the lunch crowd, but this was the country that had invented elevenses, and most of the tables, inside and outside, were occupied by people sipping hot drinks and eating pastries. Nora glanced down at her book and idly turned a page, thinking, It won’t be long now…

As if on cue, he appeared. It was indeed her nemesis, but it took her a moment to be sure. She almost didn’t recognize him from this distance, in his jeans and T-shirt and leather jacket. He looked younger without the suit and tie, practically a teenager, and there was something else she noticed as he approached from the other end of the park. He wasn’t nearly as dark-skinned as she remembered from the plane and their first encounter in this very place. Now, in broad daylight, he seemed to have an average olive complexion, enhanced by the tan anyone would get from being in the sun. On closer, longer inspection, she decided that he might not be South Asian at all. She remembered her original impressions in the airliner. Spanish? Greek? It was hard to tell.

But he must be South Asian, she reasoned. Why else would he be doing this? He was with a group of terrorists who were procuring bomb parts for their cause, whatever that cause was. It stood to reason that he’d be one of them.

Now she had something much more immediate to worry about: He was coming this way. He passed the fountain, ambling along the sidewalk as though he didn’t have a care in the world. He moved toward her bench, toward the café. He was going to pass right by, within three feet of her. Nora lowered her gaze to the book in her lap, hunching over, looking down at the fine print on the page through her wire-rimmed spectacles. She held her breath.

The sound of footsteps grew louder. A young woman was walking just in front of him, her high heels click-clacking on the pavement. The woman passed her bench, going on toward the café. Nora kept her head down, but she watched the patch of sidewalk right in front of her. He was wearing sneakers today, black Nikes; she’d know that logo anywhere. His feet were medium, maybe size 9 or 10, definitely not Jeff’s famous size 13. The feet passed by her bench without so much as a hitch in their gait.

And then they stopped.

Nora was suddenly, deeply, passionately interested in the P. D. James novel. She bent her head down until her nose was practically touching the paper, straining her eyes in their sockets as she peered sideways. He was standing about fifteen feet to her right, his back to her, looking over at the café. She couldn’t see his face, of course, but she imagined him scanning the outdoor tables and the crowded interior beyond them with his big dark eyes, looking for a tall, chestnut-haired woman. He raised his wrist, consulting his watch. Nora checked her own watch: 11:12. As she stole another glance at him, he looked to his left, studying the sidewalk at the northern edge of the park. He swiveled his head to the right, checking out the pedestrians on the east and south walkways.

He turned around.

Nora gripped the paperback tightly in her gloved hands, staring down at the words, concentrating on them. A student nurse was telling Inspector Dalgliesh exactly where she’d been standing in the room when the other student nurse was murdered, and the inspector wasn’t sure if he believed her…

The man stood very still, facing the center of the park, looking at the fountain where he’d attempted to rob her the other night. Without lifting her gaze from the book, she knew that he was studying each figure in the distant plaza, hoping to see one that looked like Nora Baron. She nearly smiled despite her terror, thinking, Nora Baron is not here today. If she thought that over and over to herself, like a mantra, maybe she could make it true by sheer force of will. Perhaps she would actually vanish from this bench, fade into the ether, teleported into another reality like those actors on Star Trek .

Or not. She was definitely still here, clutching the book in sweaty gloved hands, with more moisture trickling down her heavily powdered cheeks, while her enemy stood very still not fifteen feet away. He was gazing past her down the walkway, squinting to make out every detail. All he needed to do was shift that laser-beam gaze a few inches to the left and he would be looking directly at her, the overly made-up lady in the phony-looking spray-painted wig. What on earth had she been thinking? This was a bad idea. A very bad idea.

He never so much as glanced her way. With a last visual sweep of the entire park around him, he turned his back on her once more and walked toward the crowded building. He didn’t get too close to it, she noted. When he was still some twenty feet from the first tables on the patio, he veered off onto the grass, looking casually around him as though this lovely setting simply enchanted him. He pulled a cellphone from his pocket and snapped a couple of photos of a flower border in the center of the patch he was in. Then, ever so casually, he raised the instrument to his ear and began to speak.

Nora strained to listen, barely making out his low voice over the ambient din of the other people around her. He was about twenty-five feet from her now, and he was facing her way. He was speaking English, which surprised her. She didn’t hear all of it, but she was able to catch a few phrases.

“Not yet…I don’t know if she’s…the fellow at the hotel said…another few minutes, and if she doesn’t show up I’ll come to…Okay, wait there.”

She held her breath, wondering if he’d now do what she was fully expecting him to do. More than expecting: She was counting on it.

He did. He punched something else into the phone and raised it again. Now he spoke in a mincing lilt.

“Hello, Byron Hotel? This is…I was wondering if Mrs. Baron…Yes, you said she was going to be…Oh? When was that?…I see. Thank you. I’ll try her later.”

At this point, Lonny Tindall had Nora’s permission to marry her daughter. He’d obviously delivered the follow-up message perfectly. Mrs. Baron had called from somewhere and left word that she couldn’t meet her friend in the park after all. She couldn’t reach her friend by phone, so if the friend called the hotel, Lonny was to tell her that Mrs. Baron was visiting a sick colleague, but he didn’t know whom or where. This surfeit of information had just been breezily spilled to her enemy, the “florist.”