November Rain

by Donald Harstad

  I glanced at the papers. They were complete with bar codes and everything, including my name. “Uh, thanks.”

  “You have to go to 53 West Jackson Blvd. in Chicago, to get your passport. There’s a list here of what you need to give them when you arrive. The airline ticket information has already been forwarded to the passport people. Those things in the small envelope are two copies of your driver’s license photo that you need for the passport. We got you on American Airlines, because you’re so tall. They have better seat spacing in coach. Even though Lufthansa was cheaper. And they land at Heathrow airport, right in London. Otherwise you’d have to go to Gatwick and it costs more for your shuttle to the hotel.”

  “Okay.” It was quite a bit to absorb this quickly. I wondered if I was getting too old for this. But excitement was starting to build, too.

  “We booked you into a hotel in Kensington,” said Olivia. “It’s near the offices of a firm we do business with, and fairly close to New Scotland Yard. It’s an easy tube ride to your daughter’s apartment in Highgate.”

  “Uh, sure.” Well, at least she knew it was New Scotland Yard.

  “I go over there at least twice a year,” she said. “You’ll like it, and it’s very easy to get around. And it’s only 62 pounds a night.”

  “How much is that in dollars?” I asked. Now was as good a time as any to get the bad news about the exchange rate.

  “Right now,” said Allen Jones, “that would translate into roughly one hundred eleven dollars.”

  “So don’t buy a hamburger that just has a seven and a dot followed by two zeros,” said Kayla. “That’d be just about thirteen bucks.”

  Great. Our per diem, for meals, was fifteen dollars. For three meals.

  “That’s okay,” said Lamar, reading my mind. “You can afford to drop a few pounds.”

  Chapter 5

  Monday, November 10, 2003

  Chiswick, London, UK

  21:36 Greenwich Mean Time

  The young man known as Hamza stood at the right-hand edge of the only window in the shabby flat, and peered through a crack in the curtain. The yellowish street light on the corner opposite revealed the same three cars that had been parked there for the last two hours. Otherwise, the street was deserted. He sighed, to relieve the tension. “Nothing yet,” he said.

  There were muffled sounds from the bedroom behind him. Concerned, he left his post and opened the bedroom door.

  “Everything all right, then?”

  “Brilliant,” came the breathless voice of his associate, Anton.

  Hamza looked in at their captive. Emma Schiller was breathing hard, from her exertions, but now that Anton had secured her ankles with the tape and was sitting on her shins, she was no longer able to kick the wall. Her taped wrists, coupled with the duct tape over her mouth, had not been enough. He, himself had decided not to tape her ankles . . . they were becoming raw from repeated applications of the silvery stuff. It had become necessary to remove the ankle tapes each time she was escorted to the restroom. Her wrists, however, could remain taped while she was eating. They had taped her mouth for the first time today when they knew they would be having guests. It had certainly been much quieter than the usual cloth gag. He sighed, again. It wasn’t likely they could keep her quiet for very long, even like this. Perhaps especially like this. She had much more strength than he had expected, and was very much more resilient. He nodded. “Good. Don’t hurt her.” It was not their task to injure the woman, but to keep her isolated and fairly healthy.

  Anton glanced at him with some irritation. “Right.” He pushed his dark hair back out of his reddened face. “Tell her that.”

  Anton found dealing with the Emma very difficult. In the first place, they had decided to conceal their identities by wearing ski masks in her presence. As soon as it became apparent that they’d be spending twenty-four hours a day with her, the ski masks became much more trouble than they were worth. They’d tried putting a bag over her head, but that had its own set of problems, including the fact that she couldn’t see. Every time they fed her, or took her to the restroom, they had to put on their masks and remove hers. It was much more annoying, just that simple thing, than he would ever have thought possible.

  He and Hamza had both been instructed not to have any sexual contact with her whatsoever. Yet, with no female associate available, they had been required to see to it that the captive could bathe. They had tried to let her bathe by herself by shutting her in the bath with one hand taped to her ankle. Emma had nearly made it out the bathroom window, before they had heard the thumping noise she’d made trying to get her free leg through the small, high opening. Since then, one of them had been required to go into the small bathroom with her, leaving the door open so the other one could be certain there was no un-necessary touching. This had also become necessary as she used the toilet. It was embarrassing for them, and he suspected humiliating for her, although he wasn’t nearly as embarrassed as Hamza.

  Hamza, on the other hand, had been very surprised to discover their hostage was able to deliver an occasional roundhouse-like kick, as his bruised thighs could attest. He had never expected her to be this way, especially since Marwan had confided that he’d been sleeping with her before she was taken captive. Hamza had imagined someone rather more meek and pliable. Even as he thought about it, she bent her knees, and kicked out, barley missing Anton.

  “Please don’t kick,” said Hamza. “Please.” He was sincere. He was quite terrified that Anton would lose his temper, retaliate, and she would be injured. Then he knew that he and Anton would be held to account.

  Hamza’s true name was Jamal Essabar, although he had styled himself Hamza and was addressed as such by those within the activist movement headed by Marwan. He’d been born in London almost twenty years before, to Arab immigrant parents. His father worked as an accountant, and his mother was a social service worker. Politically as well as religiously, his parents were moderate, and although Hamza privately considered them to be afraid to acknowledge the injustices to their fellow Muslims, he respected them far too much to ever broach the subject. Hamza had been raised in London, and was currently a university student at King’s College, majoring in computer science, with a minor in English. He had a fairly healthy opinion of himself, and was a good student. Irritatingly, he’d recently discovered that his school nick was Snivel. Nobody had called him that to his face, but he had ways of finding these things out.

  Hamza and his associate, one Stefan Wentik, who preferred to be called Anton, had both been recruited by Imad in the last two months. Tonight, they were anxiously awaiting the arrival of their commander, so they could videotape the young woman captive one last time, and then be done with her. That, and get reimbursed. Getting paid was becoming very important, since he’d been required to fund this detestable little flat from his own funds. Still, it wasn’t something that he’d mentioned directly to Marwan. He and Anton were expected to be dedicated, and payment was expected to be a secondary matter. He’d known Marwan for three years, and considered him the best teacher he’d had so far. He wasn’t as aloof as most, and Hamza felt he could talk very freely with him. Hamza had chosen to take the names of one of the 9/11 hijackers as his code name, as soon as he had discovered that Marwan had done the same. Despite the high regard he had for his mentor, Hamza was determined to ask for funds tonight. He was nearly broke, and could not ask his father for additional funds.

  “What do you think they want us to do with her?” he asked. “After tonight?”

  “Take her far, far away,” said Anton. “Antarctica would not be far enough.”

  Hamza nodded to himself. Not Antarctica, naturally, but somewhere suitably remote. He personally thought it would be Bangladesh. Rural Bangladesh. Backwash Bangladesh. He smiled at that. “Backwash Bangladesh,” he said, pleased with himself.

  Anton didn’t respond.

  Disappointed, he went back to the curtain, moved it slightly, and looked out once again. Nothing
appeared to have changed in the last minute or so. His girlfriend, Pamela Arpino, would have appreciated “Backwash Bangladesh,” as an address. She got very nearly all his jokes. Accustomed to seeing her every day prior to the hostage taking, he missed her a lot. He simply hadn’t felt he could trust Anton to be alone with Emma for an extended period of time. Not that he’d told Pamela that. Well, not exactly.

  The abrupt knock on the door startled him. “Yes?” he said, putting his hand on the chain lock, and peering out the peep hole. The lighting in the hallway was dim, but he recognized one of the men standing just outside. Marwan was in his late forties, tall, fit, and dressed in a black turtleneck with a dark grey jacket. The older man with him was almost as tall, but heavier, with grey hair, eyebrows and moustache. He was wearing a reddish or maroon turtleneck, a light grey sports coat, and carried a briefcase. He thought he also caught a glimpse of someone in the hall, but the two men were already coming through the door, and he had to step back to allow them through.

  Hamza had no idea who the older man might be, and had no wish to attempt to establish his identity. Already, he had learned that the less one knew, the better for all.

  “Welcome,” he said.

  “Hamza,” said Marwan, “This is an associate of mine.”

  Mr. Kazan nodded. “I want to see her,” he said to Hamza.

  “Yes. Of course. We have her in there . . . ,” he said, gesturing toward the bedroom. “Anton is with her.”

  Mr. Kazan glanced at Marwan. “Good,” he said. “She should not be alone.”

  As Kazan passed him, Hamza caught Marwan’s eye, and mouthed the word, Payment?”

  “Don’t be greedy, Hamza,” he replied, in the soft, meticulous inflections of an educated Englishman. “Mr. Kazan must inspect the goods, appear in the last taping, and then we complete the transaction.” He stepped toward the bedroom, pulling on a dark blue ski mask. “Not before,” he said.

  To Hamza, Marwan seemed more intense than usual, more excited. He saw that he almost forgot to put his ski mask on before he entered the bedroom. Since the captive knew him extremely well, that could have been a disaster. He followed him to the bedroom door, arriving just in time to see Anton remove the captive’s hood, and to hear the old man say, “I am Mr. Kazan.”

  The bound, gagged captive attempted to glare at him, but kept blinking in the sudden light.

  “I am to appear with you on your next tape. It’s going to give me great pleasure to be seen with you.”

  Emma Schiller kept staring at the man, her eyes adjusting to the bright room light. She was terrified, but she was making every effort not to show it.

  Mr. Kazan whispered to Marwan. “I wish her to appear very . . . emotional in this one.”

  “Yes,” said Marwan/Northwood, understanding his role. He stepped forward, into the full view of the captive.

  Emma saw Marwan/Northwood for the first time since she’d been taken captive. Although he’d spoken only a single word, it had been enough. She connected his voice with his build and clothes. She began making muffled noises, staring at him, and attempted to move toward him. Mr. Kazan reached out and pushed her back onto the bed.

  With the young woman glaring at him, Mr. Kazan calmly reached out and patted her cheek. “Anger is not the emotion I wish to provoke,” he said. “You . . .” and he indicated Hamza. “Put this on her.” He handed him the shopping bag.

  “Uh,” said Hamza, taken aback. “I, we, let her do that for herself, we just . . .”

  “You will do it,” he snapped. He addressed the girl. “Stand.”

  There was no response.

  “Stand,” said Mr. Kazan. “You must do this, if you wish to see your loving family ever again.”

  Emma remained sitting.

  Mr. Kazan put his hand in his pocket, removed a set of car keys, and took the single step that separated him from Emma Schiller. Even though she flinched backwards, he was able to thrust one of the keys under her right ear, and apply considerable pressure to the portion of her skull behind the ear. Emma made a strangled sound of pain and anger, but stood quickly.

  “Now, dress her,” said Mr. Kazan to Anton and Hamza. “Dress her in what I have provided,” and he handed them the briefcase.

  Hamza took it, and looked inside. “All that’s here is a sweatshirt. . . .”

  Mr. Kazan never took his eyes off Emma. “I did not ask that you tell me the contents of the bag. You will simply dress her.”

  “Ah. . . .”

  “Do as I say. And get the printing to face the front.”

  Hamza held the shirt up. It was white, with large black lettering reading “No More War, No More Lies.” Spattered around the shirt were several splotches of red, apparently representing blood stains. He cleared his throat. “Is this the right shirt . . . ?”

  “The questions will stop,” said Mr. Kazan. “You simply do what you are told. You can do this? Good. So, put the shirt on her.”

  Dressed in the sweatshirt, Emma was seated in a folding chair, her arms bound behind her back. Mr. Kazan carefully adjusted Emma’s head. “There . . . we want your head erect for this one. So the camera gets a very good look at you.” He stepped back, and studied his work. “Yes. Yes, this will do.”

  She adjusted the camera and the lights herself. “Who runs the camera?”

  “Me,” said Hamza.

  “Start when I tell you, and stop when I bow.”

  “Sure. . . .”

  Mr. Kazan reached into his inside jacket pocket, and removed a navy blue ski mask made of a very thin layer of woven material. He pulled it on very carefully, making sure his hair was completely covered and that the openings for the eyes were properly aligned. He removed his jacket, and then stepped behind Emma, quickly pulled off the duct tape over her mouth, and said, “Begin.”

  “Goddamnit, that hurts!” said Emma. “What are you doing here?” she asked, clearly addressing Marwan/Northwood. “Help me, Robert! For God’s sake. What are you here for? Get me out of this shit!”

  Marwan said nothing, and Mr. Kazan delivered a short, sharp blow to the back of Emma’s head. “Quiet.”

  Emma Schiller was many things, but even after this long in captivity, she was not about to be treated this way.

  “Fuck off, you pathetic old. . . .” That was as far as she got before Mr. Kazan delivered a stunning blow to the side of her head.

  “Do as you are instructed,” he said, calmly. “Do not anger me. You have a purpose for the first time in your pathetic life. Act as if it were so.”

  “Stop hitting her,” said Marwan/Northwood. “She’s helpless.”

  With the ski mask, Mr. Kazan’s gaze was even more intimidating. “This is my task. What is she to you but a means to an end?”

  “I,” he said, hesitated, and finished with “. . . I don’t like to hurt people.”

  “You probably say that to everybody you fuck,” said Emma. Her voice was weaker, but her will was intact.

  Mr. Kazan grabbed a handful of the hair at the back of Emma’s head, and slowly turned his wrist, pulling the hair and making her turn her head nearly onto it’s side in an effort to avoid the pain.

  “You’re hurting me. . . .”

  “Yes,” said Mr. Kazan. “You will not speak filthy words.”

  “God damn it, Robert,” yelled Emma. “You gotta help me!”

  Mr. Kazan hit her again, hard, with her hair still twisted in his other hand. Emma screamed.

  Hamza, taping as he was told, winced at the blow. He concentrated on keeping the action in frame, and hoping that Mr. Kazan wouldn’t strike Emma again.

  Anton had no such thoughts.

  The taping took much longer than Hamza had anticipated. Emma, for one thing, just did not cooperate. She kept speaking out of turn, interrupting Mr. Kazan by making some noise, or suddenly straining against her chair.

  Making the best of a bad situation, Mr. Kazan finally had them tape Emma’s mouth over with duct tape once again, and had Anton laying on the
floor at Emma’s feet, just out of camera range, and hanging on to her ankles for all he was worth.

  “You’re certain you cannot do voice dubs?” asked Mr. Kazan.

  Momentarily caught off guard by the unfamiliar term, Hamza said, “What?”

  “A separate voice for me,” said Mr. Kazan. “You cannot do this?”

  “Not with this stuff,” said Hamza. “This equipment. I can’t digitize it, mess with it, and get it back to tape. You said you had to have tape. I could do it on a DVD disk, but I don’t have the equipment. . . .”

  Mr. Kazan exhaled in exasperation. “All right . . . all right. Again.”

  Finally, Marwan stepped in. “Emma,” he said, pleadingly. “Just do this one last tape, dear. One last time. Then you’ll be done, and you can go.”

  She glared at him.

  He kept pleading, and very carefully brushed her hair into a more ordered disarray with his hand. “Please. You must do this. Just be quiet, while Mr. Kazan reads his statement. Then you can go.”

  Emma gave him a long look, and slowly nodded her head.

  In five minutes they were finished. Mr. Kazan had given his statement one last time. Emma only moved enough to show she was alive, which was all they wanted her to do all along.

  Mr. Kazan and Marwan/Northwood moved into the living area while Hamza and Anton put away the equipment, and laid Emma on the bed. Marwan/Northwood was pale and subdued. Mr. Kazan carefully removed his ski mask, and patted his forehead and neck with a handkerchief.

  “Do you think you’ll survive?” he asked Marwan, with a biting edge to his voice.

  “Of course.” He sat on the arm of one of the old stuffed chairs. Even now, he was aware of the grime on the seat. “I’m just grateful that the business is over.”

  “For me, it is. For you, there remains one more task.”

  “And that would be . . . ?”

  Mr. Kazan smiled. “Now you must dispose of her. “She will need to die.”