“Die?” hissed Marwan/Northwood. “Bloody well die? Out of the question. My God, I’ll not be killing anybody! This was never stated. I don’t kill bloody anyone!”
“You can delegate what you will,” said Mr. Kazan. “But she must die, but not before the 21st of this month. I need her kept for . . . contingencies. After the 21st. Not before.”
Marwan / Northwood stood, and moved toward the door. “It was never even discussed. I won’t have it. Unless I am no longer a part of this, I need the authority to make my own judgment as to when she is ready for release . . . and then release her as planned.”
Mr. Kazan stopped him with, “It was very clearly discussed.”
“It was never!”
“Not with you,” he said, simply. “There are others who have an interest. The date stands. So. And she must die. You, yourself do not have to do this thing. They,” and he indicated the two younger men still in the bedroom with Emma, “will do this for you. If you tell them it is so.”
“I don’t think that’s so,” he said.
“It is so. Remember the conditions. Not before the 21st. That is critical. It will ruin the plan if she is killed too soon.”
“That was not in my plan.” Marwan/Northwood was adamant. “I truly cannot do this. I’m not a killer. That’s murder. How could I ever convince the court that she was a willing participant, if she’s bloody well dead? The press? That I had the cooperation of the corpse? Don’t be a bloody fool. If I am to continue with this mess, it must be on my terms, she must be released. . .”
“You shall find a way to do what I say,” said Mr. Kazan. “The consequences for you, if you fail, are known to you now.”
Marwan was stunned. The implications were suddenly and extremely clear. “Are you threatening me?”
“I do not threaten,” said Mr. Kazan. “It isn’t as though you have to tell her. If you have a problem with your conscience, play her along until then.”
“I will not,” said Marwan/Northwood, drawing himself up, “lie to her.”
“You no longer object to killing as much as you object to having to lie to her?” Mr. Kazan smiled. “See how easy it becomes? Killing her is now the lesser of two evils.”
Marwan stared at Mr. Kazan, his mind churning. Desperately, he said, “But, but, I’m the chairman of this group.”
Mr. Kazan snorted. “Then, Mister Chairman,” he said, sarcastically, “discharge your duty. Imad and I say that she must not be terminated prior to the 21st. That is our decision, not yours. She knows it is you who had her brought here, she has quite probably seen your two,” and at this he nearly spat, “cell members. She must cooperate fully, and then she must die. Really, Marwan. Or Robert. Surely you must have known this would be the result. Or are you such an idealist?”
“Then,” said Marwan/Northwood, in the last gesture of defiance he would be able to manage for quite some time, “you can bloody well have someone else do your dirty work!”
“Don’t be such a coward,” said Mr. Kazan, coldly. “You are in charge. Be flexible. Be creative. You will have her cooperation, to the very end. And then you will do what is necessary. Or,” he said with a whisper and a tight smile, “perhaps you will all die.”
When Hamza entered the living room – kitchen, Mr. Kazan was drying his hands near the kitchen sink. He peered at her reflection in the little mirrored calendar on the wall, and ran a comb through his hair. “Give me the finished tape,” he said, holding out his hand.
Marwan/Northwood nodded, and Hamza handed it over.
“Don’t disappoint us,” he said, more to Marwan than Hamza. He opened the door, and glanced into the hall. “I will be in contact.”
Then he was gone.
“There’s a fuckin’ scary one,” said Hamza to Marwan.
“Indeed.” Marwan/Northwood felt slightly ill, almost queasy, and his mind was racing. He’d been appalled at the long period that Mr. Kazan had given for Emma’s retention, and he was frantically looking for an opportunity to “save” her. He needed to attend to first things first, to start the clock ticking, and to get himself out of here and back to his flat, where he could breathe and think. “There is one more thing to be decided.”
“Where to release her?”
Marwan / Northwood took a deep breath. “Unfortunately, the plan has changed somewhat. What we need to decide is what you’ll do with her for ten or eleven more days.” He pulled out his wallet, and removed some bills. “Here . . . five hundred pounds. That’s for now. You must keep her until the 21st.” He held up his hand. “It’s not for you to know. But she must not leave before the 21st.” That was the easiest part of his statement, seeing as he, too had no idea why the 21st was important. “Do not attempt to contact me.” He held up his hand, to forestall any comment from Hamza, and to make provision for whatever he might be able to accomplish with his persuasive powers between now and then. “I will talk with you before the 21st..”
Hamza’s next question was chilling. “Did I overhear Mr. Kazan say that she will die?”
Marwan/Northwood had always been able to think his way out of virtually every difficulty he’d ever encountered, and he was certain that he would be able to do so in this case. He just didn’t know quite how. His mind had been exploring alternatives, and lies, all the time he was talking with Mr. Kazan. He needed time. He needed leverage. And the only leverage he could think of was possession and control of Emma Schiller.
“It was mentioned. But I, I am in charge, here. I intend to take her somewhere myself, to talk with her for a day or two, and then I shall convince Mr. Kazan to release her. I will relieve you of her shortly. And at that point, you’ll find an additional five thousand pounds waiting for you.”
“Hold on,” said Hamza. “This bit wasn’t part of the agreement.” He wasn’t bargaining for more money. Five thousand pounds was more than enough. He was trying to avoid an even more prolonged time with Emma, avoid any possibility of Emma suffering permanent harm, and desperately trying to think.
“There is no agreement. There is an oath of obedience. Or have you forgotten?”
There was a silence. Then Hamza said, “We didn’t agree to anything so . . . so terrible. And we don’t run a bloody rooming house, either.” He turned toward Anton. “Do we?”
Anton spoke for the first time since Marwan/Northwood had entered the flat. “We do anything for the right price. I heard Mr. Kazan all right, and I know what the alternative is going to be.”
Marwan looked at him, brow furrowed. “You speak English?”
“Well, that’s obvious, now, ain’t it?” said Anton.
“Imad,” said Marwan to Hamza, “told me he was Bulgarian. You told Imad Anton here was a Bulgarian!”
“Oh, he is, he is,” said Hamza.
“Are you?”
“You might say so, yes. I’m third generation,” said Anton. “Grandfather granted asylum here in the UK in ’47. You know. Right after the war.”
Marwan looked from one to the other. “You moron,” he said to Hamza. “A Bulgarian is not someone whose ancestors fled bloody fucking Thrace. My God.” Disgusted, he glanced toward the bedroom. “Do your job. Keep her until you hear from me. You wouldn’t want me to have to tell my friends to retain someone else, would you? Perhaps someone whose family hasn’t ever emigrated. . . .”
The full implication of that wasn’t lost on Hamza. ‘Someone else’ would have much closer ties to someone like al-Qaeda or some other group; and whoever it was would be ‘cleaning’ he and Anton up, as well. “Right. Well, then. We won’t disappoint you,” he said.
“Oh, you have once, haven’t you? Just see to it that you don’t again.” He opened the door. “I don’t want our relationship to deteriorate. That man is a force to be reckoned with, and I don’t think you want to aggravate him any more than he has been. I think,” said Marwan, “that it’s time for you to be very quietly compliant.” He had another thought . . . that if he didn’t yet have a place to take Emma that Mr. Kazan wo
uldn’t know about, there might be another way to have her at a more, well, neutral location for a day or two, until he came up with a safe place for him to take her, to persuade her that he was on her side, and to think of a way to get out of this mess. . . .
“I’ve been thinking,” he said. “I suggest you all move out of here as soon as you can. Tonight, if possible. Don’t cancel the rent . . . use some of the money to obtain another flat a long way from here. Take care of business once you’re there. I want no connection with this place, understand?”
“You want us to fucking move her?” asked Hamza.
“That’s exactly what I want. You figure out how to do it. No noise, no fuss, no attention. Just do the thing. But don’t contact me. I will contact you before the 21st. On your cell phone. Absolutely no contact until then. You’re clear on that?”
“Right,” said Anton. “The 21st. Absolutely.”
“By that time, I shall convince Mr. Kazan of an alternate plan.” The door closed, and Marwan was gone.
In the silence that followed, Hamza inhaled deeply, held it, and let it out in a long sigh. “Bloody hell,” he said. “Now what do we do?”
“Obviously,” said Anton, “we play musical rooms.”
“Not me,” said Hamza. “I didn’t agree to kill her. Just grab her and hand her over.”
“Might as well, though, eh? The penalty’s the thing, and if we don’t we could die. You know that. Besides, the money’s better if we finish the task.”
“Sod the penalty,” said Hamza. “Not the same thing.”
Anton sighed. “Right. So, tell me, you know him?”
Hamza nodded. “He’s Marwan. From the club, that’s where I know him.”
“Not his nick,” said Anton. “Do you know his real name.”
Hamza thought. “I don’t know it,” he lied. “She called him Robert. That could be it. You think someone like him would use his real name? I think I could find out. . . .”
“Oh, right. And the other one? Can you tell me who he is, then?”
“No. Never seen ’em before,” said Hamza, truthfully, this time. “He said he was Mr. Kazan. You heard that bit. But I’m sure that isn’t his real name, either.”
“Well, that’s just too fuckin’ brilliant. Because they know who we are. They’ve actually been here, ain’t they now? Your little rented flat, you wanker.” He gave a disgusted gesture toward the bedroom. “Not to mention her. You’ve already got a life sentence just all bundled and tidy. If you don’t finish the job and give them a chance to do whatever it is they want about her, you’ll serve it. They can kiss us off any time. We’re the ones who grabbed her, simpleton.”
Hamza felt the walls of a grim reality closing in. “But . . .”
“Let me put it in language you can understand,” said Anton, evenly. “It’s we do what they want to her, or they do what they want to all three of us. Simple enough?”
“We never should have . . .”
“Shut up! Bloody waste of time, is what that is. We did it. That’s all. Now we make the best of it.”
Back at his flat on Ashburnham Road, Robert Northwood took stock. He was a man who needed to feel in control of his situation, and he was most uncomfortable at the moment. Somehow, between now and the 21st, he had to convince Emma Schiller that she wanted to go along with things. At least that he was her friend and was her savior, who had really had nothing to say about what had happened to her, and who had fought bravely and even heroically against the kidnapping plot. Difficult though that would be, he thought, it would surely be the easiest part.
“God,” he murmured. He’d have to see her, of course. Possibly spend quite a bit of time with her. “Possibly fucking drug her,” he said, aloud. “Might as well try brain surgery. . . . God!”
He’d read some mysteries, in his time, and had a vague memory of keeping the hostage in fear and doubt, in order to weaken their resolve. That part, he began to think, could be left to Hamza and Anton. Let her bake for a while. She’d be even happier to see him, and perhaps this time, she’d appreciate what he would say he was trying to do for her. Fearful enough, so if he then told her that he had thought of a way to save her life. . . .
“Possibly,” he said.
But she had to stew in her own juice for a while. Indeed. But how long? And then, how? How to bring it off. Would Mr. Kazan actually kill her? He had no doubt of that. Would Kazan kill him? He would. Willingly.
“Never trust a bloody Arab,” he said, to himself. Any awareness of his being largely responsible for his own predicament was fading, being driven into the back of his mind by fear, anger, and desperation. The fact that he’d inserted himself into a situation and a movement where he had absolutely no business venturing never had, and never would occur to him. He had entirely too much faith in himself to waste time even considering such things.
He decided that what he needed was time to focus his thoughts, and to prepare himself for the onslaught of Emma’s reason and defenses. But, when? Today was Monday, the 10th. Tomorrow, and Thursday the 13th, he had his two weekly classes. He could not miss those, as he correctly felt that an absence, even with a very good excuse, would draw un-necessary attention. There was no way to take a mini-retreat until Friday, the 14th, as his next class after that wasn’t until the next Tuesday the 18th.
Four days would certainly do. A day to go north, at least two days at his brother-in-laws little cabin, just south of Bothel near the Lake District, and a day home. He could even leave after three pm on Thursday, for that matter. Nearly five whole days. The shack would be available because his brother-in-law, who he considered an insignificant factotum for an insurance company, was conducting his annual inspection of one of the North Sea oil rigs.
He thought of it as the time necessary to think, and regain control of the situation; to reassert himself as the man who should be in charge. The fact that it was much more a case of his fleeing the reality of the situation might have crossed his mind. If it did, it was brushed aside. A mind as self involved as his could hardly be expected to spare the time to contemplate realities, when so much energy was required to bolster his perception of control.
He placed a call to his sister, and asked if she could let him use the cabin. It certainly wouldn’t do to barge in on someone else. It was as he expected, very much available and stocked with canned goods. To forestall her questions, he merely said that he had to read a thesis for a friend, and didn’t want to be bothered at home.
The real problem, naturally, would be this damned Kazan. But if he had Emma safely at his sister’s cabin, he would be in a position to bargain. His last resort would be the police. He could always call the police. But the image of himself being countered by the testimony of Imad, Anton, Hamza, and Mr. Kazan was very uncomfortable. He’d rather have called the police now, but he had just told two men to kill Emma in a few days. How could he deny that? He’d have to get Emma to himself, convince her, and rely on the fact that her testimony about himself as the new Galahad would get him off.
That was it. And if it was leaked to the press just before . . . and there was the possibility of a book, too. He had a flash image of his photo on the back cover. He smiled for the first time that day. Publish or perish, indeed.
Satisfied, Robert Northwood went to bed and slept quite well.
Chapter 6
Monday, November 10, 2003
16:40 Central Standard Time
I sat down in a spare wooden chair in the Dispatch Center, and carefully placed my full coffee cup on the printer stand. Sally Wells, my favorite dispatcher, had her back to me, typing furiously on the teletype keyboard. “I’ll be with you in just a sec . . .” she said, without turning around. “You really get to go to London?”
“Yeah.”
“No shit,” she said, pressing the send key and turning around to face me. “How come you’re so lucky?”
“It’s a long story,” I said. “Believe me. Luck isn’t the right term. It’s kind of like your promo
tion.” Sally had just made Chief Dispatcher, and was quietly tearing her hair out over scheduling and sick leave problems. “Be careful what you wish for.”
“You got that right,” she said. “So, when do you leave?”
“Tomorrow morning. So I’m gonna need a bunch of contact phone numbers, and any possible background data you can get for me on Emma Schiller.”
“I don’t think there’s much . . . you have a DOB?”
I thought for a moment. “No. But she’s pretty close to Jane’s age. I’d think about 1972 or so . . . maybe 71 or 73.”
“Oh, that’s a hell of a help,” she said. “I’ll see what I can get. . . .”
“Go back as far as you can,” I said. “I don’t care if it’s some juvenile simple misdemeanor. If anybody gives you any crap about juvenile records, refer ’em to Lamar.”
She smiled. “My pleasure. You want traffic, too?”
“Yeah,” I said. “I think we’re not going to have much else, really. If that. But I want to take everything I can with me to London.” It sounded very strange to say that.
“Okay.” She grinned. “You really get to work with Scotland Yard and all that?”
“Yeah. And it’s been New Scotland Yard for a hundred years, now.”
“Lighten up. They’ll like you better. Anyway, traffic citations . . . ?”
“Yeah. And that includes anything you know, or heard, about her or any member of her family.” She looked startled. “And I already know about her uncle Virgil Breckenridge. He got ten years for embezzling mega bucks in St. Louis, a long time ago. As far as I know, that’s the only member of her family who has a criminal record.”
“Her cousin . . . oh, hell, what’s her name . . . Addie Donnigan,” said Sally. “You and Mike busted her along with about five or six others for meth about a year ago.”
“No shit? I didn’t know old Addie was her cousin. Well,” I said, “you just never know. Must be on her mother’s side . . .”
“Yep.” Sally leaned forward, confidentially. “Do you think she’s dead?”
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