The Book of Spies

17

THE NOISE and chaos of Piccadilly Circus reverberated inside Eva's head as she sped onward, her cell phone dug into her ear, talking to Judd Ryder.
"It's Charles. He's following me. I'm in Piccadilly Circus, heading toward the Criterion. Are you close? He's got a gun."
"I'm already moving. Leave your cell on."
Five streets flowed into the speeding roundabout encircling the busy plaza. Gaudy neon and LED lights advertising Coca-Cola, Sanyo, and McDonald's cast the area in manic red and yellow light. She watched for a bobby. Now that Charles was near, she wanted a policeman.
"I'm passing Lillywhites," she reported to Ryder. When she saw her reflected face in the glass of the sporting goods store, the strain on it, she looked away. Six of the tourists with whom she had crossed the street peeled off toward the Shaftesbury Fountain and statue. She went with them, peering around their shoulders. "Charles is still behind me. He's wearing a phone headset, and he's talking to someone on it."
"So now we know he's got a friend. Is there anyone with him?"
She checked. "Not that I can see. My group is climbing the steps to the fountain, and I'm going with them. I'll move to the other side. The fountain will be good cover to block me from him."
"I'm at the crosswalk with Piccadilly Street. Can you circle back to meet me?"
"He'll spot me."
"Okay. Go to the Trocadero Center. I'll be there."
The bronze Shaftesbury Fountain shone nickle gray in the night's lights. A scattering of people sat on the steps. At the top, Eva rushed around to the far side and looked down on the plaza, congested and rimmed by a waist-high iron fence interrupted by the crosswalk she
needed. There was no sign of Charles or a policeman. But across the teeming traffic stood the London Trocadero Center, a huge building where people thronged for food, alcohol, theater, and video games. That was where she would meet Ryder.
She joined a young couple as they sauntered down the fountain's steps, holding hands. At the base, they headed right, and she moved straight ahead.
Suddenly something hard and sharp pressed into her left side. "That's a gun you feel, Eva." Charles's voice. "You're caught, old darling. It was logical you'd come this way. Sic eunt fata hominum." Thus goes the destiny of man.
"Bad grammar, Charles. Homina. The feminine in my case, you bastard." As they continued along the street, she looked down and saw his trench coat pocket bulged with his hand aiming his weapon.
In her ear, Ryder ordered, "Hide your cell. Leave it on."
But as she slid the cell phone inside her jacket, the gun's muzzle jammed her side again.
"No," Charles snapped. "Give it to me."
She froze, then looked back at him, saw the frosty expression, the hard black eyes. The anger and frustration that had been building in her burst out in a torrent. "I loved you. I thought you loved me. I want to be glad you're alive, but you're making it really hard. What in hell do you think you're doing?"
"Keep walking, and lower your voice. Hand over the phone. Now." A few people were glancing at them. "If you think I won't shoot, you're going to find yourself dead on the pavement."
Her heart was pounding, and a cold sweat bathed her. She handed him the cell. "Don't call me old darling again. I never liked that, you son of a bitch."
He turned off her cell and spoke triumphantly into his headset. "I've got her, Preston. I'll hold her so you can take care of her. Where do you want to pick us up?"