Tom Savage - Mrs. John Doe

She was proud of herself, and she wondered if Jeff would be proud of her too. Probably. She’d managed to get her quarry here, to the park, and then denied him the very thing he’d come to find. But she had him in her sights, and now, all things being equal, he would presumably leave the park and head-

Head where? That’s what Nora had to find out. Even now, the man was pocketing the cellphone and striding away across the lawn in the direction of the eastern entrance. She closed her book and reached for her shoulder bag. In seconds, she was moving along the sidewalk, following him out of the park.

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.