The Swap

by Nancy Boyarsky

  As she walked in and saw the buffet table, the smell of food made her realize she hadn’t eaten much in days. She felt lightheaded. Why not grab a quick snack? She could use the time to take a careful look around the station. She picked up a tray and selected a Danish pastry with thin apple slices on top and a small assortment of cheese. From the cashier, she ordered a pot of tea. After glancing around, she chose a table near the window.

  She ate quickly, keeping an eye on her watch while scanning the station for Reinhardt. Hidden away in the safety of the coffee shop, she began to realize how unlikely it was that he’d turn up. Even if he’d managed to get off at Paddington, he wouldn’t know what line she’d taken or in which direction. Nor would he have any way of anticipating this stop at Victoria.

  At that moment, a tall man in a Panama hat emerged from the corner of the station where the escalators were located. He was too far away to make out his face, but the sight of that hat brought her to her feet.

  Taking a desperate look around, she darted through the nearest doorway into a tiny, overheated kitchen. The air was heavy with the smell of onions being chopped by a young man in a chef’s hat. He turned to look at her. “You can’t come in, miss. This ‘ere kitchen’s closed to the public.” His eyes were red and running from the onions, and he needed a shave. A cigarette dangled from his lips.

  Nicole fixed him with a look of desperation. “Oh, please don’t make me go back out there,” she gasped. “I was looking for the rear exit. My ex-husband is following me.” She paused to look around, making sure no one had followed her into the kitchen. “He has a violent temper.” This didn’t seem to get much reaction. The man simply stood and stared at her, as if he didn’t quite get what she was saying. Finally, she added, “I think he might be carrying a gun.”

  He froze, gaping at her in a way that made her wonder if she’d overdone it with that bit about the gun. She’d forgotten that people here weren’t allowed to carry guns.

  That did it. A look of panic crossed his face, and he pointed toward a rear corner. “There’s a back exit that brings you right out at the head of the escalator,” he said. “Go down, and you can get the tube. Or slip back round to the train line and get away like that.” He nodded his head vigorously, as if he thought getting out of London altogether was her best option.

  He moved around the table, took her arm, and propelled her toward a large metal door. At close proximity, the reek of onions made her eyes sting. As she dug through her purse for Alice’s note, the young man shot the bolt, yanked the door open, and pushed her into a dimly-lit corridor.

  “Wait,” she said, consulting her directions. “How do I get to the Docklands from here?”

  “You go right along the corridor.” He pointed vaguely into the distance, where it faded into semi-darkness. “Keep on to the end. There’s a door opens right by the escalator. Then you go down and turn right. You’ll see the sign.” With that, he disappeared back into the kitchen and shut the door. A moment later he opened it a crack and peered out at her. Nicole was still standing in the same spot, trying to adjust her eyes to the dim light. He waved her on, making a loud hissing noise, as if shooing a cat. Then he slammed the door.

  At the sound of the bolt sliding into place, she turned and began walking down the warm, airless corridor. It smelled of mold, and the walls were scarred with water stains. Every forty feet or so was a bare bulb, but the wattage was low and some of the bulbs were burned out. The light grew even dimmer as she turned corners and burrowed deeper into the passage. At one point, it forked in two directions, and she had to decide which way to go. As she trudged along, she fought a growing panic, the fear that she’d never find her way out. She could imagine someone years from now, exploring a forgotten passage and stumbling across a pile of bones that would be all that remained of her.

  She walked for what seemed like miles but was probably several long city blocks, the length of the terminal, before she reached the end of the passage and found a metal door identical to the one that led from the kitchen. She was afraid it might be locked. But to her enormous relief, it opened, and the escalator was a few steps away.

  She held her breath as the escalator carried her down into the depths of the system again. She was afraid to look around, afraid she’d find Reinhardt behind her. At the bottom of the escalator, she studied the subway map, figured out a new route, and boarded a train.

  Once it was on its way, she began to wonder if she was making a mistake. Alice had said to turn back if she even suspected she was being followed. But she had given Reinhardt the slip, and he was rather bad at staying out of sight. If he was still on her trail, odds were that she’d see him. Then she could go back to Chiswick.

  This question settled, she began to feel calmer. The rest of the subway ride went without a hitch. She transferred to the Central line and headed down another long escalator to catch a train to the Docklands. It was a light rail system constructed several layers below the regular subway. In contrast to the dark and grotty corridors of the Underground, the light rail was clean and quiet with high-ceilings and walls of white tile. The silence gave Nicole an eerie feeling, as did knowing how far she was below ground.

  Only three others boarded the train with her—none of them Reinhardt—and she had a car to herself. Suspended in the smooth-running hum of the new train, she knew that she really had managed to shake him. She not only felt good but was also exhilarated, almost like she was laughing out loud.

  Several stops before her destination, the train ascended from the tunnel to run along the ground then rose to an elevated track. At Canary Wharf, when she finally got off, she had to descend two steep flights of stairs to reach the street. Her only company was a swarm of German tourists armed with cameras.

  Checking her watch, she realized she was twenty minutes late. She walked fast, resisting the urge to run, afraid of attracting attention. The Pig and Whistle Coffee Shop, where she was to meet Alice, was only a half block away. She dashed in, breathless, and glanced around. The place appeared to be empty until a figure emerged from an alcove, a woman wearing a black turban, sunglasses, and dark red lipstick.

  The woman pulled her glasses off, then rushed toward Nicole and pulled her into a hug. Close up, Nicole noticed that Alice had done an amazing job with her makeup, using light and dark shades to create a new structure for her face. She looked like a completely different person.

  “Oh, Nicole,” Alice said in a tremulous voice. “I’ve been so worried about you.” Then, relaxing the hug, she looked around the restaurant. “Let’s take the table over in the corner,” she said. “We’ll ask the waiter to bring us coffee, then we can talk. I want to tell you everything. But I don’t want to put you in danger, Nicole, and I’m frightened that bringing you here has done just that.”

  “I didn’t have any problems getting here,” Nicole lied. “And I’m certain no one followed me.”

  “You’re sure?” Alice asked.

  “Positive. That was a good idea, meeting out here.” As Nicole said this, she felt uneasy and a little guilty. What if her own stubbornness — her refusal to turn back when she saw Reinhardt — had put Alice in danger?

  They settled into the table and summoned the waiter, who also appeared to be the proprietor, to bring coffee. He was a small, plump Indian, whose white turban provided the perfect counterpoint to Alice’s black one. “Perhaps you would like to order a meal.” His high, soft voice was almost a whine. “At this time of day, there is a minimum of ten pounds per head. We must have this policy to keep the tables for our regular patrons.”

  “That’s fine,” Alice said, without a glance at the empty tables around them. “Just leave the menus, and we’ll order in a bit.”

  As the man padded silently away, Alice said, “I want to be sure you know I didn’t have anything to do with that bomb.”

  “Of course not. I know who it was,” Nicole said quickly. “Those men who accosted me in the museum. Listen, Alice, I think you may know more about w
hat’s been happening than you’ve told me.”

  Alice hesitated. “It’s a long story, Nicole,” she said. “And the only way I know how to tell it is from the beginning.”

  She was quiet for a moment while she pulled a pack of cigarettes from her purse. After offering one to Nicole, who refused, Alice lit hers and took a long drag. “About two years ago,” she finally began, “my younger brother Sean told my parents that he had an offer of a job in London making good money. He was nineteen and hadn’t had work since he left school at sixteen. There’s an awful lot of unemployment in our little town, Nicole. Young men leave school, marry, raise children, grow old, and die without ever having a real job. They live by casual work. Or, if they have a bit of land, they grow vegetables to sell on market day.

  “Sean was a wonderful, jolly boy,” she went on. “Everyone loved him. He could make the whole room light up, set people laughing just like one of those comics on the telly.”

  As Alice spoke in her low musical voice, Nicole could almost see Sean. Soon after he left, Alice went on, the family began to wonder where he would have met anyone who could give him such a job. They were even more troubled when, after a few months, he visited home with a suitcase full of gifts and new clothes. He also had plenty of money to spend, and this, above all, worried them.

  As time went by, they began to accept his prosperity. They even bragged to the neighbors about how well Sean had done for himself. But early the previous May, Sean failed to make his usual Sunday afternoon call home. For days they tried to reach his apartment, but there was no answer. Finally, Alice bought a ticket and flew to London. When she went to his place, no one was there. A neighbor told Alice that Sean had been arrested for drug trafficking.

  At this point in her story, Alice nodded and gave Nicole a long, sorrowful look. “That was the kind of work he’d been doing — transporting drugs, driving a car for people who smuggle cannabis and cocaine from west Scotland onto Liverpool and then London.”

  After making a few phone calls to locate Sean, she understood why they hadn’t heard from him. He was in the hospital, unconscious from a beating he’d received in his cell the night of his arrest. Although the police said they had no idea who was responsible, Alice was convinced they knew and might have even played a role in it. She believed his beating had been arranged by the people Sean worked for to make sure he didn’t turn them in. He lingered, unconscious, for a few months and then died.

  As Nicole listened, she fought a growing sense of panic. It was impossible to imagine Brad having anything do to with drug smugglers. The idea was ludicrous. And yet he had been in the U.K. during the period of Sean’s involvement with drug running and his arrest.

  At this point in the story, Alice pulled off her sunglasses, wiped her eyes, and snuffled into a Kleenex. Her hands were shaking, and it was perhaps a full minute before she could go on. “After my brother was hurt, I stayed on in London so I could be near him. As the weeks went by, I found work through a nursing agency. Then when Sean died...”

  Tears spilled down Alice’s cheeks, and her mascara began to run. She pulled another Kleenex from her purse, dabbed at her eyes, and put her glasses back on. “I couldn’t let it go. I couldn’t let the people responsible for his death walk away free, the drug runners and dealers who profit on people’s misery. I had to do something. Do you know…”

  Alice’s voice trailed off and she looked up. The waiter had silently appeared beside her and was waiting to take their order. Alice picked up her menu and said, “I’ll have plaice and chips.” She bit her lip and contemplated the menu again. “And a Coke.”

  After scanning the list of entrées, Nicole ordered curry and a Coke, and the waiter scurried off. Meanwhile, Alice had pulled a compact from her purse and was dabbing at her makeup. “Jesus, what a mess.” She stood up. “I’ve got to make a trip to the loo and do my face. Excuse me, Nicole. I won’t be a minute.”

  After the waiter left, Nicole sat staring out the window, thinking about Alice’s story, the tragedy of her brother’s death.

  She couldn’t wait for Alice to come back and tell her the rest. She was convinced that Alice could explain a lot of the things that had been happening — why, for instance, those men were following her and whether it was Brad they were looking for.

  Just then, the waiter returned with the Cokes they’d ordered. Nicole glanced at her watch. Five minutes had passed since Alice left the table. With a shiver of foreboding, she got up and hurried to the back of the restaurant. The door marked WOMEN’S TOILET was standing open, revealing an empty room, barely big enough for a sink and toilet. Nearby was a swinging door. Pushing it open, she saw that it led into a small, cluttered kitchen where a woman in a sari and a teenage boy looked up from their work.

  “Did you see a woman in a black turban?” Nicole asked.

  The boy looked puzzled, and from the way the woman shrugged, Nicole gathered neither of them spoke English. Looking around, she spotted another door at the end of the hall. She opened it, and a cold wind rushed in. Outside was an alleyway where a row of sagging garbage cans stood against a wooden fence. The gate was latched but didn’t appear to be locked.

  The waiter materialized beside her. When she looked at him, he pointed to a sign she hadn’t noticed. It was posted on the door and said, THIS DOOR IS TO REMAIN CLOSED.

  She stepped back while he struggled against the wind to close it. “I don’t know where my friend is,” she said. “Did you see her leave?”

  He finished latching the door and shook his head. “I am sorry, madam,” he said in his careful English, “but we have already prepared the dishes you ordered. Even if your friend could not wait, you must still pay for her meal.”

  “Of course,” she said, trying to hold on to her patience. “But, please. That gate— where does it lead?”

  He shrugged. “To the alley.”

  “And where does that go?”

  “To the street, madam.”

  She made her way back through the restaurant to the front door and out to the sidewalk, the man a step behind her. People in business garb hurried by, along with a few tourists, but there was no sign of Alice. Nicole went back inside; still dogged by the waiter, she sat down again. A feeling of dread rose in her throat.

  She waited while her curry, still untasted, cooled and congealed. Every few minutes she got up and went to the front window. Sometimes she walked to the rear of the restaurant and, ignoring the sign, opened the door to look up and down the alley. Finally, she motioned for the waiter to take the food away and bring the check.

  Only as she was putting her change away did she notice that she still had Alice’s envelope. She hadn’t had a chance to give it to her.

  On the walk back to the station and while she waited for the train, Nicole felt sick with remorse. If only she’d turned back when she saw Reinhardt. She’d ignored Alice’s warning in her need to find out what Alice had to say.

  As she thought about it, she realized something. Reinhardt might be responsible for Alice’s disappearance, but he certainly hadn’t arrested her. What policeman would arrive on foot, make an arrest, and whisk the suspect away without attracting notice? At the very least, the scene would have included a squad car and a bit of drama. The few arrests Nicole had witnessed back home had been high public spectacle with suspects spread-eagled on the ground or against the car, a policeman standing a short distance away with gun outstretched while a second cop conducted a search.

  If Alice hadn’t been arrested, there were plenty of other possibilities. She might have been kidnapped, or worse. On the other hand, she could have spotted Reinhardt or someone else she thought was following her and bolted. Sufficiently frightened, she might have disappeared without a word.

  Yet, no matter how hard Nicole tried to convince herself otherwise, she had the feeling that something terrible had happened to Alice and that she was to blame.

  Fourteen

  Waiting for the return train, Nicole kept picturing Alice bei
ng dragged, fighting and kicking through the back door of the restaurant and down the alley. There would have been no witnesses, no one to help. Her teeth began to chatter, and the sour taste of bile rose in her throat. She got up from the bench and paced up and down the platform.

  After a minute or so, a train was there on the track next to her. As she stepped aboard, she noticed the car had one other passenger—a derelict sprawled across a rear seat. It was impossible to tell if he was asleep or unconscious.

  She eyed him warily and for the briefest moment toyed with the idea that this might be Reinhardt in disguise. But this man was genuinely disgusting. His clothes were filthy and ragged, and his skin was a sick, grayish color. No, she thought. No one would go to that much trouble to follow her.

  The train started up, slowly at first. She made her way forward. The next car was empty. She took a seat toward the front.

  She considered what to do. Detective Keaton had urged her to call if she saw anything suspicious. But, for all of Keaton’s professed sympathy, the detective hadn’t been of any help.

  The train slowed to a stop and she glanced out the window. Here, the track was still above ground, offering a skyline of tall buildings against the gray sky. When her eyes focused on the platform next to her, she felt a sudden jolt of alarm. Not twenty feet from her window were two familiar figures, one short and fat, the other tall and thin.

  They were looking into the train as if searching for someone. When the fat one spotted her, their eyes met, and he gave a little smile.

  For a moment she was too stunned to move, but when he headed toward the open door at the rear of her car, she jumped to her feet and rushed forward. She understood that these men had followed her to the Docklands. They must have seen her boarding the train at Canary Wharf and had somehow raced ahead to intercept her.

  Then she had another thought. If these men had been following her, they must be the ones who’d taken Alice. If so, where was she? What had they done with her?