November Rain

by Donald Harstad

  “I’m almost afraid to. But, yeah, that’s what I’m thinking.”

  “Do you have a link in mind? To Emma Schiller?”

  “No,” I said. “But I just want to be sure.”

  “Indeed. I will let you know that, as soon as I can. Do you have a list of those names?”

  “I’ll get it to you as soon as I can.” I hoped it would be fairly quick. I’d have to contact Lamar and Sally, and make sure things were being done.

  “Right. I will tell you what I can. I promise you that.” He slowly twisted the cap on his water bottle counter-clockwise, then back in a clockwise direction. It was very quiet.

  “Well, then,” I said, “good enough. I know how this sort of thing goes. So, okay, I hate to assume things . . . but I’d guess that since you’ve got her recovered, and in a freezer, you have an address for a suspect. Am I right?”

  “Unfortunately, no.”

  That surprised me. “You do have someone in custody?”

  “No.”

  I was about to ask if someone had mailed them the god damned freezer, but thought better of it. He didn’t seem to be lying to me, nor trying to mislead me. He just wasn’t going to tell me everything he knew. I wasn’t happy about it, but it was fair enough. Exactly what I’d probably do if I was in his shoes.

  “Okay . . .” I said. My head was getting busier and busier. In the airplane, I’d thought quite a bit about what would have to be done if Emma were actually dead. “Since I’m going to have to keep quiet about this, what am I supposed to do with the funeral process? I mean, there has to be a coffin, when you’re done with her. Arrangements to have the remains shipped back. . . .” I took a drink of water. “You’re gonna have to give me a hand, here. I can’t for the life of me see a way for me to do those things in secret.”

  I don’t think Blyth had thought that far in advance, either, but he was unflappable. “Certainly,” he said. “I’ll have our people help you make the arrangements as we go. We have friends in high places.” He smiled again. “I promise you we’ll hold you to this for the shortest possible time. But when we give you the go ahead, all the arrangements will have been made.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “Now, what about my friend Carson out there . . . he’s just a local prosecutor, and he’s kinda new at this. He knows she’s dead, now. That could be a problem.”

  “Can we help with that?”

  “Maybe. They got room at Belmarsh?”

  Blyth snorted. “Short of that.”

  “Maybe if you could talk to him yourself, before I do? I’ll keep an eye on him, but it’d be nice to have the foundation laid first.”

  Blyth nodded. “Of course.” He blinked, and then said, “How did you get here, if I might ask?”

  That took me a second, because I thought at first that he was asking about the whole process with Lamar, and I was sure I’d just told him about that. Then I got it.

  “A cab, then the train.” I had an excuse. I was really tired.

  He looked over at Trowbridge. “I should have thought you’d arrange transportation for them, especially at this hour.”

  “I was already here,” he said.

  “Shall we do the right thing, then, and provide transport for them back to their hotel?” It really wasn’t a question. We got Constable Richards, and a car, put at our ‘convenience’ to take us home.

  Chapter 12

  Thursday, November 13, 2003

  01:46 Greenwich Mean Time

  On the way back from Stevenage with Constable Richards, Carson and I had a little chat. I wasn’t quite sure what Blyth had said to him, but he kept repeating the same phrase.

  “Jesus. We could go to prison if we say anything.”

  “True,” said Richards. “Official Secrets and such things . . . very serious business.”

  “Sure enough,” I said. “So we just don’t.” I looked at Carson. “Right?”

  “Oh, right. Bet your ass we don’t. Jesus, Carl, we . . .”

  “I know. Prison. Look, it’s gonna be a lot easier than you might think. Really.”

  “That’s true,” said Richards.

  “With those consequences? I hope to God,” said Carson. “But a man can slip up, you know?”

  “Yep. But, look, hey. It’s easy at first, so you have a chance to get the hang of it. But then things are gonna be said, things are gonna be done. . . . And sometimes just not talking won’t even come close to covering it. Sometimes you have to make misleading statements. I just try not to outright lie. But it gets harder as you go, the longer it gets. Believe me.” I was trying to sound reassuring, but I thought I was blowing it.

  “Sure. . . .”

  “The tough part is looking shocked when they finally find out that she’s dead. I mean, we’ll need to be just as surprised as anybody, and just as devastated. Understand?”

  “Yeah. Sure. We could go to prison,” muttered Carson. “That man was from MI5. That’s who James Bond works for. Shit!”

  “Too right,” said Richards. “But good old double oh seven works for MI6, actually. That’s the foreign end of things. MI5’s domestic, you know.” He seemed to be getting a kick out of this. Well, in a way, so was I.

  “Same difference,” said Carson. “But it’s an Official Secret. Tell nobody. And afterward, after we all know . . . ?” he asked. “What do we do . . . ? I mean it’s over, then, and we can just tell ’em? Right?”

  “About tonight? Nope. We never tell about tonight unless it’s okayed by the Brit authorities.”

  “God, Carl, this isn’t easy.”

  “Listen to me. After we all know? That’s the toughest time. For the next thirty years. Because we can’t ever let on that we knew. You got that?” I really felt I needed to prepare him for the reality of the whole thing. I was especially concerned about Jane. If she ever found that I’d known well before she did, she’d never forgive me.

  “Never?”

  “Not until I’m in my grave, how’s that? After I’m dead, you can tell anyone you want. That way you can go to prison alone.”

  “You’re serious?”

  “Dead.”

  “You’ve done this before?” It was beginning to sink in.

  “Not over here. But, yeah. A few times. Not quite like this. Usually just dope cases, where we bust somebody and roll him over. We can never let on he talked, you know? But, you know, it gets easier if you just don’t think about it. Don’t dwell on it. Just suck it up and keep quiet. Like attorney-client stuff, you know?”

  He thought about that. “Yeah. But, sooner or later, they’re gonna figure all this out. Somebody will. Jane and Vicky aren’t stupid, not by a long shot.”

  “I know.”

  “What am I supposed to do, change the subject?”

  Richards took that one. “Artfully,” he said.

  Carson didn’t look too damned convinced. Hell, I wasn’t sure he could pull this off either, but I had no choice at this point but to hope that he could.

  “You’ve got it easy,” I said. “If you just absolutely gotta talk about it, talk to me.”

  That seemed to lighten his load a little. It sure didn’t lighten mine, though.

  Just to change the subject, Constable Richards told us that he’d been with the Metropolitan Police for ten years, before transferring to Stevenage, where he’d been for four.

  I gave him my pedigree, and we talked some cop stuff for a few minutes. War stories are the same everywhere, I guess.

  As long as we seemed to have so much in common, I ran my theory by him about the identity of the suspect being limited to the owner of the residence, or the persons with access to a commercial property. I went a little further, and suggested that there might even be a suspect either in custody, or being actively sought.

  “I mean, they at least have to have the address where they found the freezer.”

  “You’d think so, wouldn’t you?” said Richards. “And you’re absolutely right in your reasoning. Unfortunately, that’s not the w
ay it happened. In your position, you wouldn’t even be able to guess, I think. I’m of a mind to tell you what really happened.” He swiveled his head and looked at us. “Can you blokes keep another secret?”

  “I know I can,” I said. I gestured toward Carson. “Not too sure about him, though.”

  Richards laughed, and Carson protested. “Hell, they can only send me to prison once . . . I might as well know another one.”

  “I think you should know,” said Richards, “that I was the one who found the body. It was subsequent to a traffic violation.” He paused for effect. It worked. “She was in the freezer, right enough, but the freezer was in the back of a car.”

  That surprised me, I have to admit. I suppose that’s why I said, “No shit?”

  “Indeed,” said Richards. “There was this car, a Jazz, one of the little hatchbacks? Nice, though. Well, it was acting dodgy . . . you know. Hanging about, making hesitant turns about the park area. Stopped in the traveled way, he did, and turned up the wrong way, and backed up. I start in behind him, and he gets nervous, you know the way they do. Suddenly all careful. I’m nearly ready to stop him, you know, but I’m hoping for one more glaring error to put down in the report, when he starts what he has to think is evasive maneuvers. Hard turns, picks up speed. Well,” he said, with increasing enthusiasm, “I activate the lights and the siren, and stick to him like glue. It’s only moments, and I’m talking to base, saying I’ve got myself a live one, and he stops like that!” He clapped his hands and then put one back on the wheel. “I slide on past, due to the wet and all, and I’m out of the unit in a blink, but I see two of ’em running off like a pair of bleedin’ Olympians, going in two directions, not even shutting their vehicle down before they leave.”

  He chuckled. We all seem to enjoy this aspect of our work. “Right, then, I’m on my best speed, heading for the driver, and I notice as I pass the vehicle that it’s beginning to move about again, and I stop so fast I slide, and I’m turning about to try to get in and stop the bloody thing before it gets into housing and hurts someone, and it hits a tree with a grand thump. Up goes the bonnet, and the hatchback springs, the air bags bang out, and there’s steam and all, it was quite a sight!”

  “Shit!” I like stories as much as the next guy.

  “Shit, indeed. So there I am, the blokes both gone into the gloom, and the car what would have stopped regardless when it hit the tree, so I’m standing there, having accomplished nothing but witness a crash that occurs after the driver has fled!”

  I loved it. “I wish I could have seen that,” I said.

  “Well, then, you know how it is. I call the station, and my sergeant is on the way, and he orders me to stay put, so I figure there’s nothing for it but to have a poke about, you know, to see if I can discover evidence telling why the two occupants have fled. So, the first thing I see is this cube-like edifice standing up in the back, against the back of the seats.” The glee faded completely from his voice, as he continued, “I thought I’d just have a look inside, calculating that what was in there could well be contraband, and that was why they fled, you know? So I opened the lid. . . .”

  It got pretty quiet in the car.

  “Well,” he said, “you know what I saw. I thought my heart would stop, just then. Totally unexpected, it was. Totally.”

  It stayed quiet for a few seconds. “You know who the car belonged to?” I asked. It was obvious to me that the plate and registration would be the first, most automatic think they’d look at.

  “Right,” he said. “Stolen that very evening, from where it was parked. In Chiswick, on Elliott Road.”

  “Chizzick?” I asked. That’s what it sounded like.

  “Right. The owner’s a man of doubtful intelligence, as he left it unlocked with the keys inside. Was coming right back out, you know. We can go by there if you like. It’s not too far from your hotel.”

  “Cool,” I said. No matter what, it helps to see someplace involved in a crime. It just gives you a sense of things. “Owner checks out, I’m sure?”

  “Right. The Mets gave him a very clean bill of health.” Richards looked over at me. “It wouldn’t do for you to be following up on this, now.”

  “No, I won’t. Promise. Hell, I wouldn’t be able to find it again in a million years. Trust me.” That was absolutely true.

  It was very dark when we went up Elliott Road. Nothing remarkable at all, to tell the truth. Richards didn’t know just exactly where it was on Elliott Road, but we got to see the general area. It was really quiet. So, at least, I could put a location to where the car had been stolen from. That sort of thing helps, believe it or not.

  We got to the hotel after 4 AM. I wasn’t even tired, mostly because it was about 7 PM Iowa time. Suppertime, in fact. The problem was, there was no room service, and absolutely nothing within walking distance seemed to be open.

  “I’m not gonna be able to sleep,” said Carson. “All I can think about is Emma, you know, the way she looked. God, she used to be so pretty.”

  I remembered the purplish face, and the blotchy lividity. “You’ve never seen a dead body before?”

  “No.”

  “That can be rough, the first time. Nobody who’s been killed like that ever looks normal. They can’t. All the muscle tone’s gone, you know? That’s what gives faces character. Especially then if they’ve been put in unusual positions, or frozen, or whatever. They just don’t look the same.”

  “Yeah . . . but that first view. You know, she wasn’t covered up or anything.”

  “Yeah. Well, she wasn’t really her anymore. I’m sure she didn’t care.”

  “Oh, sure,” he said. “And the other thing isn’t helping, either.”

  “What’s that?” I asked, knowing what was coming.

  “You know, having to lie, or go to prison for telling the truth. Those bastards are serious.”

  I almost laughed. “You’ll adjust,” I said.

  “We really could go to prison, you know.”

  “That could be a real kicker,” I said. “I mean, attorneys never get sent to prison for lying, and then they send one there for telling the truth? Shit, Carson, you could be famous.”

  So there we were. Emma dead as hell. Murdered, by kidnappers who were making some demand about releasing prisoners. And us not being able to tell anybody who cared about her.

  “You think this might have some connection to the terrorism thing you and the Feds got into that time in the barn?”

  “No. I mean, I can’t see how, and the odds on that being connected are a million to one.” I took off my shoes. “It did surprise me, the political motivation. I do think it has a hell of a lot to do with her being an American, though.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “Nothing. Just what I think. And I’ll tell you something else I think. . . .”

  “Go for it,” said Carson.

  “I think the Brits suspect that it might have something to do with G.W. Bush coming here.”

  “You’re shitting me?”

  “Just think about it for a minute. You’ll see what I mean.”

  He shook his head. “No evidence for that. Nope, Carl, there isn’t any at all.”

  “Not yet.” I grinned. “Like I said, it’s just something I think. But wouldn’t you, if you were Scotland Yard, or MI5? They have to think that. And so do the Secret Service. They can’t take any chances, so they have to know. That’s gotta be why they don’t want anybody to know that they know Emma’s dead. They want to see what the next demand will be. See if it says anything about the President.”

  “But, shit Carl,” said Carson, getting excited, “the guys who ran off and left Emma in the freezer know they left her, for God’s sake.”

  “Exactly. And if they’re two idiots acting alone, it’s over. No new demand, because it’s not going to mean shit to them. They know they have no bargaining power any more. But if it’s not just two idiots,” I said, slowly, “there’s a chance that the two flunkies
who gave her up are going to split just as fast as they can. Let’s say they work for some real, honest to God terrorist group. Somebody who told ’em to dump the body way away from where it had been killed. Would you want to piss those guys off and tell ’em you screwed up and gave the body to the cops?”

  “Well, no. But . . . ?”

  “Especially if nobody reads in the paper that there was a body found in Stevenage, right? Regardless of motivational shit, nobody who thinks the boss will off ’em if they fuck up is going to run right out to the boss and say, ‘Hey, guess what?’ Right?”

  “Well, yeah. Sure.” He didn’t look quite convinced.

  “And from what we’ve seen, whoever held her wasn’t exactly a polished professional, now, were they?” I thought that was a very good point.

  “True.” He was getting into it, too.

  “But what if somebody who was a pro told ’em to grab her? Somebody they’re afraid of? Somebody who wanted to use her for some higher reason?”

  “Like what?”

  “Beats the shit out of me,” I said. “But let’s work on that.”

  Thursday, November 13, 2003

  Chiswick, London

  02:58 Greenwich Mean Time

  Hamza and Anton, who were effectively the only two functional soldiers of the London Reform Movement for the Freedom of Khaled al Fawwaz and Ibrahim Eidarous and Lions of the Front for Jihad in Britain, were walking along Mayfield Avenue, tired, cold, but buoyed by a small success. They had been taking great care to elude their pursuers all the way from Stevenage, by taking sudden route changes, going to ground in the restroom of the train station, referring to each other by fictitious names in the cab from the station, giving the driver an address several blocks from their true destination, and other similarly inspired tactics. The fact that they had not been followed was unknown to them.

  They were now nearly at the flat of one Hanadi Tamish, known to them as Ayat. They had met her only once, at a meeting of their cell in Marwan’s favorite pub; and had been told that she would provide legal assistance if it was ever needed. The assistance that had been meant was more along the lines of legal advice for articles and posters. At the time, both Hamza and Anton had looked at the young woman very skeptically because she appeared too young to be a college graduate, let alone an attorney. Because of that, she’d made the amateurish mistake of giving them her card. Since neither of them knew the address of Marwan or anyone else in the cell except the one on Hanadi’s card, she’d been their only choice. They certainly couldn’t go to ground with someone who wasn’t a cell member. Calling Marwan was absolutely out of the question.