else?”
“No. Queen Victoria succeeded him. Let me look in Google.” There was a soft clicking on the keyboard. “Wait a minute—”
“Did you find something?”
“Interesting.”
“What?”
“King William IV Square. Here it is.”
“Come on, tell me!” Sarah almost shouted, unable to contain her impatience.
“That was the original name of Trafalgar Square.”
“Seriously?”
“Yes, without a doubt. Trafalgar Square was King William IV Square.”
“Thanks a million, Natalie. You may have just saved my life.”
“Or not.”
“I’ll be seeing you.”
“Oh, Sarah—” Natalie said just in time.
“Yes?”
“If you get any big scoops, don’t forget me.”
18
Trafalgar Square was the busiest square in all of London. A place for meeting friends, commemoration, celebration, and national exaltation.
The immense size of the place, the two side fountains, and the enormous Corinthian granite column, 185 feet tall, crowned by the statue of Admiral Nelson, the hero killed in the battle, standing high above Westminster Palace, conferred on Trafalgar Square an enchantment that touched Londoners and tourists alike. Four huge bronze lions—reportedly made from the cannons of the ill-fated French fleet—flanked the column, creating an impression of absolute power. Four pedestals crowned with statues adorned the sides of the square. To the northeast, that of King George IV. To the southeast, the one of General Sir Charles James Napier, conqueror of Pakistan. To the southwest, General Havelock. The fourth pedestal accommodated temporary sculptures because there was never a consensus about whom it should honor. The original intent was for it to hold the statue of King William IV, but lack of public funds thwarted that, and as a result, the king who was supposed to be celebrated was instead completely excluded from the plans that he himself had set in motion.
At this hour of the night there were a lot of people in the square, particularly groups of tourists and a few couples. Nobody looked suspicious to Sarah, but everyone could be a suspect. Cars, limousines, taxis, ambulances, buses, mopeds, and bicycles were in ceaseless movement around the square. In the background rose the Admiralty Arch, built in honor of Queen Victoria, which marked the entrance to the grand avenue leading to Buckingham Palace. To the east were the Saint Martin-in-the-Fields Church, the South Africa House, and the Strand, which linked Westminster with the city. But the street of particular interest here was Charing Cross Road in the Soho district, the most bohemian section of the city of London, where a taxi had just stopped at the corner of Great Newport Street.
Sarah Monteiro stepped out of the taxi. After her phone call, she had gone to Waterloo Station and again put herself in jeopardy by withdrawing 300 pounds at an ATM in order to pay cash for whatever might be needed. Having opted not to put herself directly in the lion’s mouth, she asked the taxi driver to drop her off half a mile from her final destination.
Sarah went around the square to the south, downhill toward Trafalgar through Canada House, cautiously slowing her pace, and occasionally sneaking a glance here and there along the way. She crossed in front of the National Gallery and went a few steps farther, until she reached the central stairway leading to the square. For a few moments she stood watching the square, the fountains, Nelson’s Column, and especially the people. Most important were the people, since they were the danger. She surveyed the facades of the distant buildings in search of sinister eyes. A potential murderer could be anywhere, his gun silently ready to erase her life.
At last Sarah spotted him. A sweeper, one of many around the place with their green-and-yellow fluorescent outfits. He reminded her of the man she’d seen hours before from the window of her flat. There was probably nothing to be afraid of, she thought. This guy wasn’t
“No. Queen Victoria succeeded him. Let me look in Google.” There was a soft clicking on the keyboard. “Wait a minute—”
“Did you find something?”
“Interesting.”
“What?”
“King William IV Square. Here it is.”
“Come on, tell me!” Sarah almost shouted, unable to contain her impatience.
“That was the original name of Trafalgar Square.”
“Seriously?”
“Yes, without a doubt. Trafalgar Square was King William IV Square.”
“Thanks a million, Natalie. You may have just saved my life.”
“Or not.”
“I’ll be seeing you.”
“Oh, Sarah—” Natalie said just in time.
“Yes?”
“If you get any big scoops, don’t forget me.”
18
Trafalgar Square was the busiest square in all of London. A place for meeting friends, commemoration, celebration, and national exaltation.
The immense size of the place, the two side fountains, and the enormous Corinthian granite column, 185 feet tall, crowned by the statue of Admiral Nelson, the hero killed in the battle, standing high above Westminster Palace, conferred on Trafalgar Square an enchantment that touched Londoners and tourists alike. Four huge bronze lions—reportedly made from the cannons of the ill-fated French fleet—flanked the column, creating an impression of absolute power. Four pedestals crowned with statues adorned the sides of the square. To the northeast, that of King George IV. To the southeast, the one of General Sir Charles James Napier, conqueror of Pakistan. To the southwest, General Havelock. The fourth pedestal accommodated temporary sculptures because there was never a consensus about whom it should honor. The original intent was for it to hold the statue of King William IV, but lack of public funds thwarted that, and as a result, the king who was supposed to be celebrated was instead completely excluded from the plans that he himself had set in motion.
At this hour of the night there were a lot of people in the square, particularly groups of tourists and a few couples. Nobody looked suspicious to Sarah, but everyone could be a suspect. Cars, limousines, taxis, ambulances, buses, mopeds, and bicycles were in ceaseless movement around the square. In the background rose the Admiralty Arch, built in honor of Queen Victoria, which marked the entrance to the grand avenue leading to Buckingham Palace. To the east were the Saint Martin-in-the-Fields Church, the South Africa House, and the Strand, which linked Westminster with the city. But the street of particular interest here was Charing Cross Road in the Soho district, the most bohemian section of the city of London, where a taxi had just stopped at the corner of Great Newport Street.
Sarah Monteiro stepped out of the taxi. After her phone call, she had gone to Waterloo Station and again put herself in jeopardy by withdrawing 300 pounds at an ATM in order to pay cash for whatever might be needed. Having opted not to put herself directly in the lion’s mouth, she asked the taxi driver to drop her off half a mile from her final destination.
Sarah went around the square to the south, downhill toward Trafalgar through Canada House, cautiously slowing her pace, and occasionally sneaking a glance here and there along the way. She crossed in front of the National Gallery and went a few steps farther, until she reached the central stairway leading to the square. For a few moments she stood watching the square, the fountains, Nelson’s Column, and especially the people. Most important were the people, since they were the danger. She surveyed the facades of the distant buildings in search of sinister eyes. A potential murderer could be anywhere, his gun silently ready to erase her life.
At last Sarah spotted him. A sweeper, one of many around the place with their green-and-yellow fluorescent outfits. He reminded her of the man she’d seen hours before from the window of her flat. There was probably nothing to be afraid of, she thought. This guy wasn’t
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