Tom Savage - Mrs. John Doe

She tore the tracking device from the lining and placed it on the desk. She rummaged on the carpet, tossing her shawl, the gun, her makeup, her P. D. James paperback, and everything else back into the bag. Then she stripped the bed and began tying the sheets together.

She had to get to her husband.

If she’d stopped to think about it, Nora would have talked herself out of climbing out the window. But there wasn’t time for that; she tied her makeshift rope to the radiator, dropped her shoulder bag to the grass below, sat on the sill, and slipped her legs out into the void before the insanity of her actions could even register. Grasping the sheet firmly in her hands, she lowered her entire weight out through the opening until she was dangling twelve feet in the air, her boots kicking the white bricks just above the ground-floor window.

The strain on her arms was tremendous, but she ignored it, thankful that she at least attended her health club regularly. If she were in the same shape as of most of the women her age she knew, this stunt would’ve been impossible. Even so, her bones and muscles all but cried out in protest, and she knew she’d pay for it with ibuprofen and liniment- if she lived through this.

She lowered herself some more, hand over hand on the sheets, praying that there was no one in the room beyond the lower window. When she saw that it was indeed empty and dark, she was so relieved that she let go of the sheets, allowing herself to drop silently to the grass. She maneuvered the sheet rope to the side, hitching it over the side shutter of the lower window, but it still hung down in plain view of anyone who came around to this side of the house. No matter: By the time the sheet was discovered, they’d already know she was gone. She left it hanging there.

She shouldered her bag and leaned against the wall, catching her breath. She must stay close to the building, she reasoned. If she were to step six feet to her left, she’d be in plain sight of the men by the trucks around the corner. The throbbing in her head had receded somewhat, but she wondered if there was any serious damage. She couldn’t afford it, not now; she had things to do and little time in which to do them. She would probably die anyway, but at least she would be with her husband. And there might be a chance for escape, but it all depended on Jeff’s condition, what she found when she made her way to the barn.

The barn. Which way to the barn?

She concentrated, trying to picture the layout as she’d seen it from the hill up there, beyond the corral. The barn and stables were on the other side of the house, so she’d have to go around it. The front was out; the men were there, waiting for instructions from their employers. Bill and Craig and Nassim Gamal were inside somewhere, finalizing their deal, and the henchman, Mustapha, was standing guard outside the bedroom upstairs. She began to laugh at the thought of him, and her bizarre fit of exhilaration told her it was time to move, before full-fledged shock set in. She was a good actor; she recognized the signs in her own body, her instrument. She was about one inch away from a paralyzing meltdown, so she allowed the sudden giddiness to propel her forward.

On with the show . To her right was the back of the building, and she’d have to pass two more windows to reach the corner. Crouching down, wincing at the fresh spasm in her head, she moved, giggling to herself, remembering all those dance classes from her student days. She was in a Bob Fosse musical, and this crouching run was choreography, part of the big number. One, two, three, four-jazz hands! She ran past the windows, not daring to rise and peek in, and around the corner to the backyard. Five, six, seven, eight-pose!

She hugged the wall, gazing around. There was a flagstone patio back here, and a wrought iron table and chairs for outdoor dining. Neglected flower beds everywhere-Bill Howard hadn’t been in residence long enough to see to the landscaping, and she now knew that remaining here had never been part of his master plan. This house, this private property surrounded by forest in the middle of nowhere, was merely a checkpoint, a perfect way station for his international trade.

She regained her breath-the days of her ballet and modern dance classes seemed far away now-and moved slowly forward, crouching down again. Her fit of hilarity had passed; now she was thinking clearly. She was almost to the back door when she arrived below an open window and heard voices from inside. She froze, kneeling there, listening.

“…may take a few moments,” a man was saying. She didn’t recognize the voice, a light baritone with a thick accent, but she guessed Nassim Gamal. “The instructions will be relayed to the bank in- Ah! There it is. Now, enter your account number, and the bank will transfer the funds.”

“Ah yes,” Bill Howard said. “It’s coming through now. Wait a minute-what’s this? That’s ten million more than we agreed on!”

A light laugh from the baritone. “Consider it a bonus, Mr. Howard. I’m hoping we may do business together again in the future. The very near future.”

Now Bill laughed too. “Well, thank you very much, but I won’t be anywhere nearby. I can’t exactly go back to my job after this, you know. My country will be looking for me.”

“Oh, I have something else in mind,” Gamal said. “We don’t need you in London, but we might need certain information from you-certain names, shall we say?-and you can supply that from anywhere. We’ll make it worth your while, of course. Where are you planning to settle down, by the way?”

Bill laughed again. “I’m not sure yet-but I’m afraid I couldn’t tell you, even if I knew. Nothing personal.”

“Of course not,” Gamal said. “How silly of me to ask!” This was followed by a chorus of laughter-the two men and Craig, and the man and woman from Libya, no doubt. Nora had heard enough. Keeping low, she moved silently along the back of the building, past the rear door, and around to the other side. She stopped again, studying the terrain ahead.

Tall grass. Very tall grass for grazing; there was a field of it here, on this side, and the big barn was directly ahead, at a right angle to the house, facing the circular driveway where the trucks were parked. The side barn wall closest to her had only the closed hayloft door ten feet above the ground, and she doubted there’d be any doors or windows at the back, where the forest began. She couldn’t see the stables from here, but they were attached to the other side of the barn. If she could crawl through this grass to the back corner of the barn without being spotted, she could run the length of the barn and stables to the other end.

It was her only hope, so she moved swiftly along the side of the house to the front corner, then dropped to her belly, facedown in the sweet-smelling green. There was an open space, perhaps thirty feet, between the house and the barn, fully visible from the drive. She stared at the expanse of grass before her, thinking, It might as well be a mile.

The high blades pretty much covered her, but she’d have to be quick. She edged forward, slithering like a snake, and peered cautiously to her left, toward the circle. The fancy James Bond car was there, between her and the canvas-covered trucks. The men were beyond that, lounging; two standing by a vehicle and the others sprawled in the grass beside the drive. She could barely see them from here, so their view of her would be similarly blocked. The two standing men faced the others, their backs to her, and she noted the heavy rifles slung from their shoulders. Everyone was smoking cigarettes, and they were laughing and talking loudly in some Arabic language. She didn’t recognize it, whatever it was.