A long minute passed and then another. Nicole, still sprawled on the floor, propped herself on her elbows and listened hard. Beyond the thudding of her heart, there was only silence. It struck her that rescue wasn’t on its way. The men had thought they’d heard someone coming, but they were wrong. How long before they realized their mistake and were back?
A fresh wave of panic forced her to her feet. Her ankle throbbed as she hobbled back to the main corridor. When she reached the elevator, she punched the button, stabbing it again and again. Her face was hot, and her breath came in quick gulps. The car was taking a long break two floors down. Finally, the floor indicator began moving almost imperceptibly as the car started its ascent. As she watched its progress, she kept looking back, but the corridor remained empty.
At last the elevator arrived, and there was another awful moment waiting for the doors to open. To her relief, it was empty. She got in.
As it started down and she began to catch her breath, she ran her fingers through her hair and tucked her blouse back into her skirt. Only then did she notice her hat was gone, lost in the scuffle. It was probably back there in the hallway, kicked into a corner somewhere. Remembering the lush pink roses on its brim, she felt a sharp pang of loss.
The doors opened, and she stepped into the warm, noisy confusion of the lobby. Tourists were everywhere— consulting in tight clusters, setting off for one display or another, heading in and out of the automatic glass doors. How normal they all looked, as if their biggest problem was finding their way to the next exhibit. That was what amazed her. Here, in the buzz and excitement of all these people, the violence she’d just experienced no longer seemed real.
She knew she should report the incident to someone in authority. Here in the lobby, guards were everywhere— flanking the front door, reinforcing the membership desk as well as the counter where coats and packages were checked. The need to stop and tell nagged at her, the voice of her fourth-grade teacher explaining the duties of good citizenship.
But the urge to bolt was stronger. Instead of stopping, she limped on past the guards, out the front door. Her only thought was getting back to the house. She’d double check the locks and put in a call to D.C. Keaton. After that, she’d take a bath. Then, remembering the break-in, she rejected that idea and opted for a quick splash in the shower. Once she got rid of that horrid man’s smell, she’d get into her nightgown, pour herself a brandy, and climb into bed.
She’d have to call Brad, of course, and found herself dreading it. He’d be quick to portray the whole thing as another symptom of her deteriorating mental state. Again she remembered the fat one’s threat, his preposterous notion that he knew Brad. But what if these were the same men she’d seen at the house? What if they were following her under the mistaken notion that she was someone else? She wondered if the English courts issued restraining orders, the way they did back home, to keep the crazies from stalking people.
Looking around, she spotted a taxi stand across the road from Trafalgar Square. Painfully, she made her way over to join a short queue waiting for the taxis that pulled up to the curb every minute or so. No one gave her a second glance. She took this as a good sign. Despite everything, at least she still looked fairly normal.
As the line moved forward, she glanced at her watch. Two o’clock. Something was happening at two. But what? Then it came to her, and her heart sank. At that very moment, Brad was catching a train for Liverpool to carry out his first official order of business, a two-day junket inspecting SoftPac’s Northern England operations. She didn’t even know where he would be staying. He said he’d call her when he got to his hotel.
He hadn’t asked Nicole to come. But at least she had the satisfaction of knowing Brenda wasn’t going either. He’d made a special point of mentioning it.
In the back of her mind, she heard the fat man’s threat. “We know just how to find you.” She realized she couldn’t go back to Chiswick. She had no idea when Alice would return, and facing the house alone was unthinkable. It occurred to her that she could ask the neighbor, Mr. McGiever, to go in with her, but he’d be useless if there were any real danger. Besides, all that British politeness made her skin crawl. She could imagine how appalled he’d be if she told him about the fat man’s assault, the way he’d threatened her. No, she decided, she didn’t have the strength to put up with it.
By now, she’d reached the head of the line. A cab was standing there, waiting for her. The driver , a nice looking man in shirtsleeves and a visored tweed cap , looked at her quizzically. “You all right, miss?”
“I’m sorry,” she said, stepping out of line. “But I’ve changed my mind. I won’t be needing a cab after all.” She felt his puzzled stare as she turned and limped back across the square and into the museum.
In the administrative office, she told her story to the young woman behind the counter, bracing herself for the same incredulous reaction she’d gotten from Brad, or the dubiousness of the young constable. But the young woman seemed genuinely appalled. She was a pale-eyed, mousy looking girl of perhaps twenty, who emitted squeaks of horror as Nicole described the assault.
She assured Nicole that violence of any sort was all but unheard of in the National Gallery. “Although we do have our pickpockets and bag snatchers. Oh, I’m so dreadfully sorry, miss.” She whispered this in a strangled tone, as if the whole thing were her fault. Then she picked up the phone and called the museum’s security office. As she hung up, she said, “It will take him a few minutes to get here. He’s over in the east wing. He’ll take your report, and then I’ll call an ambulance. I can see how much it’s hurting you to walk. Your ankle might be broken.”
“I don’t want an ambulance,” Nicole insisted. “And my ankle couldn’t be broken, or I wouldn’t be able to walk. Anyway, it’s feeling better now.” In truth, her ankle was throbbing painfully. But she couldn’t bear the thought of being turned into a disaster victim, strapped to a gurney and whisked off God-knew-where.
“The rules require it, miss.” She paused to pull a small booklet out of her desk and open it to an earmarked page. “Medical personnel must be summoned in all cases of injury,” she read, “whether serious or not.” The young woman looked so stricken that Nicole agreed to wait, at least until someone arrived from security.
Meanwhile, Nicole pulled out her phone and called Brad’s cell. When he didn’t pick up, she called his office. The woman who answered promised to track him down when he arrived in Liverpool and have him contact her. After they hung up, Nicole sent Brad a text. He rarely responded to her messages, but it was worth a try.
Then she fished out Keaton’s card and, when the detective didn’t pick up, left a message describing her recent encounter. Once these calls were out of the way, Nicole allowed the girl to help her into the museum administrator’s office. The administrator himself was out, and the girl steered Nicole into a big leather chair that made a soft, swooshing sound as she sunk into its cool caress.
She inspected her ankle. It was starting to swell but didn’t seem quite as painful, as long as she didn’t put her weight on it.
Really, she was all right. If only she didn’t keep hearing that man’s words, the menace in his voice: “Tell yer old man he better pay up. ’E’s got ’til 6:00 tomorrow night. Or it’s yore arse.” She thought of his hands on her, his horrid smell.
He seemed to think he knew her “old man.” That was impossible, ridiculous. Brad would never have anything to do with a lout like that. Then something occurred to her. Was it possible he and his pal were after Lowry? If Reinhardt was looking for him, maybe other people were, too.
She remembered SoftPac’s labor problems, Brad’s reason for coming to England, and felt a flicker of doubt. Maybe these men were involved with Brad’s company. But this seemed unlikely, too. She’d heard of union goons, but these two were a couple of low-class criminals who assaulted innocent bystanders in public. For all their buffoonery, they reminded her of the villainous biker types featured in sci-fi films, patrolling the ruins of civilization.
On the other hand, something had been bothering Brad these last few months. She wondered if he might actually be mixed up in something illegal. It was an old worry of hers, relating to a period before she knew Brad, when he’d gotten into serious trouble with the law.
It had started out as a prank, the kind of mischief young people get into because it presents a challenge. As college freshmen, Brad and his best buddy had used the school’s computer lab to break into the mainframe of a big credit card company. All they’d meant to do was leave a harmless virus. Their program was designed to show an image of a man in a raincoat, a flasher, who exposed himself to the person operating the computer. The raincoat whipped open and shut too quickly for anyone to see he was actually wearing a fig leaf. After the flasher appeared a few times, the virus erased itself.
By some unlucky fluke, the virus was incompatible with the credit card company’s software. The whole system crashed and was down for the good part of an afternoon.
Brad and his friend were tracked down and arrested. The DA tried to make an example of them. The boys got off with a few months community service, but the trial received a great deal of media attention. Nicole herself had followed the story, although she hadn’t even known Brad at the time.
She wanted to believe he’d never do anything like that again. Yet there was something in him that couldn’t resist pushing the limits of authority. Even though his more recent trespasses had been minor, they worried her. On their return from a trip to Paris the previous year, he’d insisted on sneaking several bogus designer watches in through customs. Although they weren’t of any great value, knockoffs like these were considered contraband, and it was illegal to bring them into the U.S. Nicole, who’d seen several news stories about a government crackdown, was certain he’d be caught and arrested.
Brad himself was the picture of cool. “I can’t understand what you’re so freaked out about,” he whispered as they approached the customs inspection station. “This is nickel-and-dime stuff, Nick. A couple of fifty-buck watches. Nobody cares about chicken shit like that.”
And he was right. The customs officer placed stickers on their luggage without inspecting it, motioning them on. As they walked away, Brad laughed. “They always do that. I could be carrying a suitcase full of diamonds, and they’d just wave me through.” He didn’t even bother to lower his voice.
Her thoughts were interrupted when a museum guard walked in, a gray-haired, bespectacled man in a navy blue uniform and visored cap. Right behind him were two London bobbies. They looked no older than the officer who’d come to the house. The one who did most of the talking had bad skin, and the bobbing of his Adam’s apple did not inspire confidence. But at least he was courteous.
She repeated her story, and when she mentioned the break-in at the house and her contact with Detective Keaton, the policeman noted down Keaton’s name. Then he said, “Did the assailant give any indication what he meant by ‘the load of stuff’ he expects your husband to pay for?”
“No,” she replied. “I told you everything the man said before they ran away.”
“Did you get any impression at all as to what it might be?” he persisted. “Drugs or guns, for example — or explosives?”
“Really—I have no idea what he was talking about.”
“Has your husband ever mentioned this individual named …” His eyes dropped to his notes, “Ben or that he owes someone money?”
“Of course not.” Nicole was starting to lose her temper. “My husband’s a business executive. These people were common criminals.”
“Does Mr. Graves make frequent trips to the U.K?”
“He’s come here four or five times in the last year and a half for his company,” she said. “We came once on vacation, and now he’s here for the summer. I suppose you might call that frequent.” She could see where these questions were headed. He had the idea Brad might really be mixed up with these people. Even though she’d had the same thought herself, she found his suggestion insulting.
The young officer asked a few more questions about Brad’s company and his position with them. Then he said, “I wonder if you’d be kind enough to give me your husband’s mobile number. We’d like a few words with him.”
“He’s in Liverpool for a couple of days,” she said. “I just called and he didn’t pick up. His office said they’d track him down and get back to me.”
The two officers exchanged glances. Then the more talkative one said, “That sort of follows what your assailant said, then — doesn’t it ?— that your husband had given them the slip, but he knew where to find you?”
“My husband only left town this afternoon,” she said. “He’s been staying with me in Chiswick since we arrived.”
“When your husband contacts you from Liverpool, please have him give me a ring,” the policeman said. He jotted a number on a page of his notebook, tore it out, and handed it to her. “Now, just a few more questions. Did you hear either of these individuals make demands or express threats against members of the government?” He went on in this vein, as if he were reciting from memory. “Did they say anything about the making or planting of bombs or incendiary devices?”
She found the questions puzzling. She stared at him. “Surely you don’t think these men are terrorists,” she said.
“Can’t be too careful, madam, as I’m sure you know. We receive threats against public buildings like the National Gallery almost every day. You’d be surprised. Now, may we offer you a lift home?”
Nicole was grateful for the ride, especially when the two officers assisted her to their patrol car without once mentioning doctors or ambulances. On the way to Chiswick, Nicole felt a certain amazement at finding herself riding in the back of a police car. Just two days in England, and she’d had more contact with law enforcement than in her entire life.
When they reached the Lowrys’ street, Mr. McGiever was out in front of his house, astonished to see her delivered by the police. While the officers helped Nicole out of the back seat, McGiever paced about the sidewalk before following them up the path with the eagerness of a stray dog.
She could see he was eaten up by curiosity, but after all she’d been through, she wasn’t about to explain. Instead, she faked a smile, gave a little wave and did her best to act as if she were used to arriving home accompanied by officers of the law.
While the policemen checked around the house, Nicole glanced out of the front window. A small crowd of neighbors had gathered in front, and McGiever was talking to them excitedly. She wondered what he could possibly be telling them. She felt disappointed in him; what an old busybody he’d turned out to be.
As they left, the more talkative of the two officers said, “Don’t forget to ask Mr. Graves to get in touch with us. I don’t think you’re in any danger, but I wouldn’t stay here alone tonight if I were you.”
Even Nicole, in her somewhat numbed state, could see that. She explained there was a tenant, a nurse, who would be staying with her. Yet even as she said this, she remembered how silent Alice’s room had been at night. It occurred to her that Alice might be sleeping somewhere else.
A few minutes later, as she watched the police car drive away, she was assailed by fresh doubts. What if those men had mistaken Brad for someone else? Worse yet, what if they really were after him?
She thought of what the fat one had said. “Tell yer old man he better pay for that load a stuff. Cause Ben is ready to kill him.” At this moment, they might be tracking Brad down, determined to carry out their threat. My God, she thought. She had to warn him.
She pulled out her phone and checked for messages. Nothing. She called Brad’s office. As it rang, she glanced at the clock on the wall over the stove, surprised to see it was already past 6:00 p.m. At the other end, the phone rang perhaps twenty times before someone finally picked it up. “Ryan here,” he said.
She told the man about her earlier call from the museum, the fact that someone in the office had agreed to track Brad down and have him call her.
“Sorry, luv,” he said. “I don’t know anything about that. Best you call back in the morning.”
“Is Brenda Ferraro there?”
“I seem to be alone here at the moment, and I’m a bit pressed for time. Want to leave a message? Just say the word, luv.”
“If she comes back, have her call me.”
The man took her number.
She put down the phone and then stood there, feeling anxious and vaguely guilty, as if she’d brought all this trouble down by insisting on coming to London. But that was ridiculous. These men were after someone who owed them money and, through some crazy mistake, had focused on her and Brad. It could have been anyone.
At that moment she thought of the message she’d left Keaton earlier. If she could reach her now, maybe she could help locate Brad. Nicole fumbled through her purse until she found the detective’s card with her number.
When the call went directly to Keaton’s voicemail, Nicole glanced at the clock and realized Keaton probably had left for the day. She left her name, number, and a message describing the assault.
As Nicole hung up, her eyes fell on the morning paper, still lying on the kitchen counter. As soon as she saw the date , she realized it was the day the Lowrys were scheduled to arrive in L.A. This meant she’d be able to reach them and let them know about the break-in. And maybe — just maybe — they’d be able to shed some light on what was going on. She wished they’d left her a better means of getting hold of them. Mrs. Lowry had told her they were turning their cell phones off because they didn’t want to run up a big phone bill using them in the States. It was a mystery to Nicole how they’d manage without some kind of telephone or email service. Didn’t the U.K. have overseas calling plans like hers with AT&T?
She dialed her home number and waited while it rang. There was a click and then voicemail kicked in. The message was in her own voice: “We aren’t available right now, but please leave a message … ” She hung up.
At that moment, she heard rumbling from the back of the house. She limped down the hall to catch Alice on her way upstairs.
“Why, Nicole,” Alice said. “Whatever is wrong?”
Hearing the sympathy in her friend’s voice made Nicole want to cry. Her story tumbled out in a torrent of pain and anger.
As Alice listened, her face grew very pink. “Well, what bastards!” she said, “The bloody bastards!”
When Nicole finished, Alice ushered her into the living room and insisted Nicole lie down on the couch. Then Alice proceeded to pack Nicole’s ankle in a pile of ice-filled plastic bags.
Nicole protested. The bags might leak on the upholstery —the expensive-looking beige damask — and ruin it.
This seemed to infuriate Alice. “Don’t you worry your head about the property of Freddy damned Lowry. Let the Freddy Lowrys of the world look after themselves.” She was quiet a moment, then she said, “I have something I need to tend to. I’ll be right back.”
Nicole lay back on the couch, closed her eyes, and tried to relax. But the ice pack made her ankle hurt more, and she kept hearing the man’s threat, repeating in her head.
Several minutes passed before Alice was back, carrying a small, battered overnight bag.
Nicole’s heart sank. “You’re not leaving, are you?”
Instead of answering, Alice set the bag down, went to the kitchen, and came back with a glass of water. She handed it to Nicole along with two white pills. “Here we are, dear,” Alice said. “I’d like you to take these. They’ll help the pain a little and stop the swelling in your ankle.” She pulled a tiny white box from her pocket, rattled it, and set it down on the lamp table. “These are stronger pain killers. But you shouldn’t take any just yet. They’ll make you drowsy, and you mustn’t nod off while you’re alone here. Now I want you to promise something.”
“All right,” Nicole said. “But first, I want to ask you a question. Why did you rush away from lunch? Was it because of the men sitting at the next table?”
“No, Nicole,” Alice said. “It was the phone call. A friend of mine is having some troubles. But if I’d had any idea you were in danger, I’d never have left.”
“But you do know something, don’t you?” Nicole said. “You know what’s going on.”
Meeting Nicole’s gaze, Alice said, “No, Nicole, I truly don’t. But when scum like that follow you around and threaten violence, you have to take them seriously.” After a pause, while she seemed to consider this, she added, “My gut feeling is that it’s something to do with Freddy. Maybe they think you’re Muriel, you know—his wife.”
Nicole sat up. “How could they possibly think that? Mrs. Lowry is English. I’m American.”
“No, Nicole. That’s not so. She’s American, like you. Oh, she’s lived here for years, but anybody can tell. You people never lose your accent. Of course, she’s older and not nearly so pretty.” She reached out and brushed the hair from Nicole’s forehead.
“Now about that promise I mentioned,” she went on. “I have to go away for a few days. If you reach your husband, perhaps he can catch a train back tonight. But if he can’t, I want you to promise you won’t spend the night here by yourself. Why don’t you let me take you to a wee hotel I know? The owner’s an old friend. It won’t be very dear.”
Nicole’s ankle throbbed, and she felt a wave of overwhelming fatigue. “I need to rest for a bit,” she said. “You go ahead.”
“Nicole,” Alice said sternly. “You’re in danger. I won’t have you staying here by yourself.”
“Okay,” Nicole said. “Give me the name and address of the hotel. In a little while, I’ll call a cab. I promise.”
This seemed to satisfy Alice. “That’s all right, then. I’ll see you in a couple of days.” When she gave Nicole a hug, she said, “Goodbye, Nicole. You’ll take care of yourself, won’t you?”
“You are coming back?” Nicole said, suddenly worried. “I will see you again, won’t I?”
Alice gave a laugh. “Now what are you on about? Of course you’ll be seeing me. Saturday at the latest. We’ll have afternoon tea at Fortnum and Mason. It’s time we started putting some flesh on those bones of yours.”
After she left, Nicole watched through the front window. Alice walked down the front path, turned right, and made her way past the Lowrys’ car, which was parked at the curb.
When she was out of sight, Nicole pulled out her phone and called Brad’s cell again, then his office. The same man answered. “Sorry, luv,” he said, before she had a chance to ask. “Haven’t seen a soul. Just heading for the door myself.” His accent was even more clipped than before. Clearly, he was in an enormous hurry, eager to get rid of her.
“It’s urgent I reach Brad,” she said. “Brenda is sure to have some idea where he is. I wonder if you might have her phone number.”
There was a brief silence at the other end of the line. Then the man said, “Hang on a mo. I just remembered — old Bren’s gone to Liverpool herself.”
“That’s impossible!” Nicole said, unable to hide her distress. “Brad said she wasn’t going.”
There was a long pause. Then he said, “I’m sorry, luv. You know, I think I was mistaken. Yes, that’s right. Brenda didn’t go at all. Now, why don’t you call back bright and early in the morning. She’s sure to be here, and she’ll help you find him.”
From the way he said this, his sudden patience, Nicole could tell he was trying to placate her. He knew Brenda was in Liverpool, just as he understood exactly why Nicole would be upset about it.
Her thoughts were spinning. If Brenda was on that trip… But no. The man had to be wrong. “Listen — this is an emergency,” she said. “My husband’s life may be in danger. Is it possible Brenda left a number where she can be reached?”
“Haven’t a clue. Awfully sorry, luv. Really must run. Ring back tomorrow.” There was a click, and he was gone.
Nicole went to the front window and stared out. Then she limped into the dining room. As she stood in front of the painting, she realized she’d been avoiding it since that first day. Sure enough, there they were: the same nude, androgynous creatures engaged in their eternal struggle.
Since she’d last seen it, the picture seemed to have acquired a message — something to do with the trouble between her and Brad. Even beyond that, it symbolized the war between men and women that she witnessed daily in her office’s legal practice; the huge gap between their needs and desires; the hopelessness of either side achieving any satisfaction.
The idea was too complex, or perhaps too muddled, to sort out. But as she pondered it, she felt the most enormous lump of anger growing inside. It grew until she was trembling almost uncontrollably. Finally she shook her fists at the picture and screamed at the top of her lungs, as if it were to blame for everything.
Despite the protests of her ankle, she hobbled upstairs. In the bedroom, she systematically tore Brad’s things out of the closet and went through his pockets. Then she started going through his dresser. In the top drawer, at the very back, she noticed a red velvet drawstring bag. The sight of it made goosebumps rise on the back of her neck.
She pulled it from the drawer, untied the cord and dumped out the contents. Half a dozen watches clattered onto the dresser top. They were crafted of soft glowing gold with black faces. Each had a ring of diamonds around the dial. If they were fakes, they were masterfully done.
As she stared at them, it struck her that this might be even worse than she’d imagined. He wasn’t just involved with Brenda, but in some crooked deal. Who knew what trouble he might be in?
After a moment, she scooped the watches back into the drawer and began looking through the rest of his things. She reached in every pocket, shook out each garment, scanned notebooks and bits of paper until his possessions lay in a great disordered heap in the middle of the room.
On her second run through the pile, she wore her glasses and went more slowly. This time, she recognized some notebook-sized pages that were stapled together. It was a printout of the address book he kept on his computer.
She found Brenda’s number and called it. A recorded message came on. “This is Brenda Ferraro. I’ll be out of town on business until Friday. If this is an emergency, please call my office and ask them to get in touch.” She gave the number. “Otherwise, leave a message, and I’ll call you the moment I’m back.” There was the sound of her high, tinkling laughter. “Can’t wait!” Then: “Ciao!”
Nicole hung up and took a few deep gulps of air. She knew what she was going to do.
She threw a few things into an overnight bag and called a cab. Then she went to the desk and took out a brand new credit card, one of two that Brad had brought along. It was impressive-looking—shiny and black—and it had her name on it. He’d ordered the cards for the trip, in case of an emergency.
Well, this certainly was an emergency.