November Rain

by Donald Harstad

  “But not his flat?”

  “No.”

  “Ah,” said Alice. “You don’t know whose it was?”

  “He said it was his.”

  Alice gave a little laugh. “I’m sorry. I must have misunderstood. I thought you said it wasn’t his. Right, then. So, moving right ahead. . .”

  “It wasn’t.”

  “Wasn’t what?”

  “His . . . oh, bugger. He said he had to rent another flat. Just for a while.”

  “Why on earth . . .” said Alice.

  Pamela’s lip quivered just a little. “I think . . . no, I thought. . . .” She looked Alice in the eye. “You’re older . . . what do you think?”

  Alice cleared her throat. “Ah. Yes. Well, then, let’s get to the bottom of it. What did he tell you?”

  “He wouldn’t tell me. Do you think it might. . . .”

  “Another woman?”

  “No. I don’t know. Do you?”

  Alice shifted into a big sister role. “Between us,” she said, confidentially, “there’s every chance you’ll never know. Men are like that.” It was nearly always a good move to widen the wedge.

  Pamela sighed.

  “Did he say where the flat was?” asked Alice. “Or give you a number?”

  “In Chiswick.” Pamela reached into her backpack, and then paused. “Can I see him? If I tell you?”

  “I can’t promise that, not at this time,” said Alice.

  Pamela removed her hand from her backpack, and sat it back down on the floor next to her. “I don’t remember the address,” she said.

  None of that, thought Alice. She changed tack instantly. “Why would he be in possession of explosives?”

  “What?”

  “Explosives. Plastic explosives, to be more precise. Why would he have them?” Alice had intended to startle Pamela. It worked.

  “Oh, God. It’s that Belmarsh business, isn’t it? What have they got him to do?”

  “What Belmarsh business?”

  “Oh, that damned free the political prisoners group he’s involved with. They’re nobody, really they’re not.”

  “What group?” Alice felt the warm glow of the lucky interrogator beginning to well up in her solar plexus.

  “Oh . . . it’s here,” said Pamela, unzipping a side pocket of her backpack, and rummaging for a moment. “Here . . . the London Movement for the Freedom of Khaled al Fawwaz and Ibrahim Eidarous.” She looked up. “This is it,” she said, handing the folded green flyer over to Alice.

  Across the hall in Room 302, Blyth smiled, and said, “That’s our girl.”

  “How did he find himself involved with a group like this?” asked Alice.

  “That professor Robert bloody fucking Northwood,” spat Pamela. “That’s how.”

  Over in 302, Geoffrey shook his head. “Luck sack,” he said.

  “Indeed,” said Blyth.

  “That would be . . . ?” asked Alice, and spelled Northwood for Pamela.

  “Yes.”

  “Professor, is he? Computer science?”

  “No, English,” said Pamela. Alice looked at her quizzically. “He has an English minor. Jamal has. He had a class of his.”

  “And how does this relate to this?” Alice held up the green flyer.

  “Old Bobby Northwood,” said Pamela, disdainfully, “wants to be a bloody Arab.”

  “Oh, shut up!”

  “No, for true! He really does, the old letch.”

  “No!” Alice leaned back in her chair. “An Arab? Whatever for?”

  “He thinks it’s romantic, probably,” said Pamela. “I’ll just bet there’s a girl. He’s always trying to chum up to younger women, you know? Thinks he’s all posh, very attractive. God’s gift.”

  “He thinks that?”

  “Nobody else does. Some boff him for a grade now and then. They say. He’s just too old. Yuck.”

  “How old is he?”

  “A hundred,” said Pamela. “Oh, no. But all of forty.”

  “That old,” said Alice. “Ancient, isn’t he?”

  In 302, Blyth muttered something about “overplaying her hand.”

  “You’re not so bad,” said Pamela. “Really. Look, you’ve got this already, probably. Here. I won’t help him if I hold back.” With that, she reached into her pack, and produced a small notebook. She opened it, went to a particular page, and handed it over to Alice.

  “What’s this?”

  “Oh, it’s his ‘special’ flat in Chiswick. He never did tell me. But I followed him back there. This is the address. I don’t know which flat.”

  “Ah. Did he know this?”

  “No. I felt bad, you know? Because I didn’t trust him.”

  Alice reached for the phone. “Do you mind? I want some checking done on this.”

  “No, go ahead . . .” said Pamela, and leaned back. “Please, let me see him, won’t you?”

  “Can’t guarantee,” said Alice, as the phone rang through. “Alice, here. I have an address in Chiswick we should check out. . . .” She gave the address to Geoffrey, and then glanced back up at Pamela. “Hungry?”

  Pamela, looking rather surprised, nodded.

  “Be a dear,” said Alice on the phone, “and run out and . . . one moment. Pamela, want to have at some curry?” Receiving an assenting nod, she said to Geoffrey, “. . . could you order us some take-away? I don’t have the number committed to memory or anything, but there’s this lovely little restaurant. . . .”

  Chapter 21

  Saturday, October 15, 2003

  Chiswick, London, UK

  23:58 Greenwich Mean Time

  Chief Inspector John Bassingham, Special Branch SO-13 looked around the little flat. He stood well out of the way of the technicians processing the scene. With him was Adrian Blyth of MI5. They had arrived at the flat some ten minutes apart, Bassingham having called Blyth as soon as the warrant had been obtained.

  “So, Alice is still talking with her?”

  Blyth nodded. “As I left, they’d just finished up an enormous amount of take-away. I expect Alice will know all there is to know by two this morning.”

  Bassingham nodded. “Look there, Adrian. They must have done the taping back there. . . .”

  The first Forensic Services Counter-Terrorism Team investigator on the scene had closed the flat to non-specialist personnel as soon as she observed the blood stains on the mattress, the dishing of the plaster wall where a roundish object had obviously impacted, and the severed pieces of duct tape in the kitchen. That was less than a minute after she’d entered the flat. She had been advised of the particulars of the Emma Schiller kidnapping case within minutes after the first tape had been received, and had been in the loop ever since. She was making notes to herself, including mention of the laptop, the camera tripod, and the black bag she believed to contain a floodlight and tripod. As she finished up, she approached Chief Inspector Bassingham.

  “This could easily be the place,” she said. “The tripod . . . and I’ll be surprised if that long bag doesn’t contain some sort of lighting rig.”

  “Indeed.”

  “John,” said Blyth, “I’d appreciate it if you’d allow our people to check that portable computer first.”

  “Ah . . .” said the woman investigator, “we’re quite able. . . .”

  Blyth nodded. “You are. Undoubtedly. But I have some reason to believe that there is a certain category of information being dealt with here that may exceed your clearance.”

  “Indeed?” She was a little put off, because the MI5 crowd often used that excuse, and she always had a lingering doubt that they were being absolutely straight with her.

  Bassingham said, “You can sign it over to them, as the experts, you know. You’ll be able to have everything you need. Isn’t that true, Adrian?”

  “Of course, John.”

  The investigating officer, who knew very well who Chief Inspector Bassingham was, could only agree. But she made a mental note to very specifically det
ail these events, just in case.

  “Shall do,” she said.

  “They expected to return, didn’t they, John,” said Blyth.

  “I’d think they did originally,” he replied. “Then they were too afraid to do so.”

  The investigator wisely edged away at that point.

  “I’d be amazed,” said Blyth, “if the one who gave Alice the slip would come here. But I do think he might well fly to our professor. I’m assured by the younger members of my team that they can have that portable over there scoured in an hour or two. The one we’ve got seems rather bright. It would be a very nice thing if he kept records.”

  “It would. Good that you’ve got your people lined up for it, then. You lot are luckier than we are. If I touch it, it will contain card games and little else.”

  “You will give us someone to stay with it, won’t you? We’d best stay close together on this one.”

  “No sign of our cheese?” asked Blyth.

  “None.”

  One of the searchers approached them. “I’ve some telephone numbers here . . . would you like me to copy them down for you?” The actual note would not be available for some time, due to the processing of the document examiners section.

  “Oh, indeed,” said Blyth. “John here will appreciate that one.”

  When they were more or less alone again, Bassingham turned thoughtful. “They’re making it too easy to find our hiding professor, aren’t they?”

  “It does appear that way,” said Blyth, “doesn’t it? We’ve got the request in to the Secretary for an intercept on Sarah Mitchell. You know how loathe the Secretary is to do that sort of thing. The press and all, I mean.”

  “Indeed.”

  “Still, I think we’ve made a good case. I’d hope to be having people hanging from her eaves by noon.”

  Bassingham snorted. “Really? And a fine set of eaves she has, too.”

  “Now, John. I do worry about the foreign involvement here, though.”

  “Really? Afghani? Iranian?”

  “No, American. Whoever has leaked this professor’s address . . . it went to Ms. Mitchell, on purpose. Likely based on her treatment of the case, but also on her being the only one to get the American visitors to talk.”

  “Are they trying for another hostage, do you suppose?”

  Blyth shook his head. “Difficult to say. I shouldn’t think they would, unless they know we’ve found the dead one. It worries me, though, John.”

  “It’s all in the knowing, Adrian. Now that’s the dicey part isn’t it?”

  Hanadi’s Flat

  Near Tower Bridge, South Bank

  London, UK

  01:26

  Anton had spent the better part of the day, since his narrow escape from Alice, hiding in the men’s room at the McDonald’s restaurant near Marble Arch Underground. When the traffic would bear it, he would slip from his stall and grab more paper towels, both damp and dry, for his forehead. When he would do so, he would look in the mirror. The place where the big man had struck him in the forehead was a deep purple, with a curving cut that had produced a flap of skin, which tended to fall away from his head like a small door opening. He kept pressure on it, a scab would form soon that would at least hold it in place. He alternated between too hot and too cold, and the throbbing of the wound was distracting.

  When customers came in, he had found that by pursing his lips, making loud farting sounds, and alternating those with groans, nobody even lingered, let alone tried to enter his stall. He knew he was only safe for a while until the noon rush, but he simply could not think of another way to wait undisturbed.

  He remembered the stunned look on the face of the woman he had stabbed. He hoped that he’d killed her.

  “What the bloody hell were they doing there?” he asked himself. And the big man with the weapon . . . if he ever saw him again, he’d by Allah kill him, too. The fact that he’d been flattened, and then chased by a woman, and barely escaped was fading quickly. Revenge was the thing.

  That, and hunger.

  He was concentrating so hard that, when the employee came in to mop the floor, Anton missed the call of “Anyone here?” The sound of the wheeled bucket penetrated, just about the time the employee attempted to open the door to Anton’s stall.

  “Give us a minute!” he yelled.

  “Oh, sorry! I’ll wait outside,” came a young voice.

  After a moment, Anton anxiously peeked out. Whoever it had been was gone, but the bucket and mop were still standing near the sinks. Inspired, he rubbed his forehead hard enough to cause some bleeding to recommence, stepped over and kicked the bucket as hard as he could and threw himself against the entry door, at the same time yelling “Bloody hell!”

  It worked even better than he had expected. The assistant manager, after applying a bandage to the wound on his forehead and yelling at the hapless employee who had left the bucket, insisted that he have a free Quarter Pounder, fries, and a Coke.

  He ate quickly, but happily, and left the restaurant with his head well enough bandaged to avoid immediate attention from passersby.

  By walking leisurely all the way, to avoid attention, he was able to make the four and a half miles to Hanadi’s apartment by two in the afternoon. She had been home, but was very distressed to see him. Distressed, in fact, was the very word she had used.

  He had tried to explain to her what had occurred in the abandoned tube station, but since he was none too clear on that himself, it was a very difficult task. He soon grew tired of repeating the small amount of information he had, and became angry.

  Hanadi mollified him by brewing coffee and cooking an early supper.

  Hanadi’s main concern was to get this man out of her apartment for the last time, ever. To that end, she called the only one she could completely trust. Imad. She did not tell Anton who it was she was calling, she merely got through to him, and said, “You must come here immediately. It is vital. It is absolutely vital.”

  As she ended the connection, Anton emerged from the bathroom and said, “Who were you calling?”

  Hanadi, skilled in maintaining the upper hand, merely said, “Imad.”

  “It must have been long distance. He’s gone back to Syria.” Anton had received this information from Professor Northwood, who had appeared distressed by the notion that Imad was to be fighting American and British troops.

  “No. He has not.” Hanadi had not been part of the deception regarding Imad’s supposed recall.

  “I’m sure,” said Anton, “that he doesn’t confide to you.”

  “Would you like some aspirin?”

  “No.” He would not admit to her that his head hurt.

  “Ice?”

  “I can take pain. Stop treating me like a woman.”

  At that moment, she could have sworn he was her father.

  It had been a very long day for Hanadi, as well. She had met with the senior member of her firm, Sir Henry Culbertson just before noon. She had attempted to explain her situation as a hypothetical, referring to herself as a close friend of hers who needed advice. Sir Henry had not been fooled for a moment, of course, but had very graciously allowed her to continue. When she had finished, he had seemed absorbed in thought for several long seconds, and then had said: “This friend of yours has been very, very foolish. There appear to be no avenues open to her that lead anywhere but to disgrace and disbarment. She is a knowing participant in a foul crime, one that began in a deliberate fashion with kidnapping, and led to murder, regardless of how winding the path became. Regardless of how noble the motivation for the initial involvement. She deepened her guilt by aiding and abetting co-conspirators after the fact. A most egregious error. Her situation may be hopeless, I’m afraid. Her only chance, her only real option now, is to go to the police and tell them everything, and to cooperate with them in tracking down all the members of this . . . cabal.” He waited for a response from her, but none was forthcoming.

  “Hanadi, I can only tell you that thi
s firm will recommend a good barrister for your ‘friend.’ But we shall have no involvement in the matter other than that. Anything more would be detrimental to our reputation.”

  This time she’d said, “I understand,” in a very soft voice. Sir Henry had been her last hope, and she’d known the odds were greatly against her.

  “Thank you, Sir Henry,” she said, and turned to leave.

  “Hanadi?”

  She stopped at the door. He surprised her by stepping around his desk, and walking toward the door.

  “Tell your friend that every minute she hesitates to go to the police, the more remote the chance of a reduction in her sentence. Every minute, Hanadi.”

  He opened the door for her. “And thank you for coming to me,” he’d said, as she left.

  The enormity of the recent events had stunned Hanadi. The abrupt change in her fortunes, coupled with the horror of realizing that she had, indeed, been an accomplice in the kidnapping and subsequent murder of a completely innocent woman had simply stopped her in her tracks. She had gone home, looked up the number for New Scotland Yard, written it on a pad near her phone, and had actually started dialing it twice. She had failed to complete the call both times, because she could not bring herself to betray . . . what? Her friends? Only Imad, of the persons she knew to be involved, was a friend. But, yes, that was a strong factor. Her sense of loyalty and commitment to freeing the prisoners in Belmarsh? Hardly that, now that it was so likely she was to join them. Her religion? To an extent, but just how much of one was difficult for her to determine. Her family? That, as well, she thought. Her profession, which she had worked so hard to achieve? Yes. Without a doubt. Thoughts of her profession brought her back to her family again. The only time her father had ever praised her was when she had graduated from law school. The entire framework of her life was being dismantled before her eyes, and she herself was the primary cause of the fragmentation. She had nowhere to turn. She had never felt so lost and lonely in her life.

  She had considered Imad to be her last, best hope, but to tell him that she had even considered betraying the group would very likely result in her not only dying almost immediately, but dying in disgrace. Now, she would be lying to him, too.