After a few seconds, he attempted to straighten up, and pain shot through his right arm, his ribs on the right side, and the small of his back. He moaned, and the slight extra pressure made his lip feel like it was being torn off his face.
“Don’t move about,” said Hanadi. “Do you want some water?”
He tried to say yes, and ended up nodding.
“Dump it on his head,” said Imad.
Hanadi glared at him, and put a small glass of water to Anton’s lips.
After a small swallow, Anton gingerly turned his head so he could see more of the room with his only functional eye.
Imad, and two other men, were looking at him. They were just sitting there, almost as if it were a social occasion. Anton recognized the other two from his infrequent visits to the mosque in Finsbury Park. They were often standing just outside the place, and seemed to be serving no purpose other than to look at people who passed by or entered. He’d been told they were Algerians, but he had no way of proving that.
“Hello,” he croaked.
“Fuck you,” said Imad. “You idiot.”
Anton had a vague recollection that, between blows, he had told Imad that Hamza had killed the girl. Then, later, that he had killed her himself, but that it had been an accident. He had a somewhat clearer recollection that he had said that it was justified by jihad. That had been just before the heavy blow had sent his mind to another place.
“It was,” Anton managed to get out, “. . . accident.”
“It is not that you killed the bitch,” said Imad. “She was not material.”
Anton looked at him, but could say nothing. He struggled to understand why Imad was so angry, if she meant nothing. He failed.
“You did not tell us,” said Imad. “That was your failure. You tried to conceal the body by moving it. That was incredibly stupid. You failed at that. That was beyond forgiveness. You crept back here. That was foolish, and has endangered Hanadi. That is unforgivable.” He looked down at the battered face of his minion.
Anton struggled to say, “We were afraid of what you would think.” What he was actually able to get out was only, “. . . afraid . . .”
“Really?” asked Imad, sarcastically. “And you don’t even know all you did, you fool. You idiot. You led the police to that Underground station. That is your ultimate crime.”
Anton just couldn’t understand what Imad was talking about. Their hiding place? Hanadi, too, hadn’t any idea why that was such a terrible thing; but she wisely refrained from comment.
“I am told that you stole boxes of cheese from the restaurant, and took them to the Underground station with you. Is this true?”
Anton nodded, very slowly. It hurt.
“Did you eat any of it?”
In his muddled state, Anton could only think that all this was about stealing cheese. “Yes.”
“Did it taste good to you?” asked Imad.
“No.” Perhaps, thought Anton, if they knew that it did not taste good, they would not hit him again. “Bad taste,” he said.
Imad glared at Anton. Thus far, his mistake was not at all apparent. “That cheese was very important to us. It was placed where it was because that was a location the police would never think of to find such things. You led them directly to it.”
Anton looked blank.
“You not only did that, you took some of it with you to your place of concealment. You made a trail.” Imad was not certain just how this had occurred, but it was quite apparent that it had. He was assuming that the police were the ones who Anton and Hamza had confronted in the abandoned tube station, because Hamza had been arrested and Anton had obviously been pursued back through the narrow passage into the restaurant. The resulting search by the police had taken the rest of the “cheese.” His conclusion, based on available information, was that a police informant had somehow come into this information. At the moment, he was struggling with the obvious conclusion that the informant was either Robert Northwood or Hanadi herself. He did not want that to be true.
“There is another who must talk with you,” he said, slowly. “Anticipate that.” He looked down at the battered face of his soldier. “He is very angry. You see, because you did not tell us of your incredible error. . . .” He became so angry himself that he had to pause for a moment. Then he said, “The last tape has already been mailed.”
Highgate
19:41 Greenwich Mean Time
Blyth telephoned during dinner, and wondered if he could come up and see us. There was no question about that. He and Trowbridge showed up a few minutes after we were finished.
If Sue thought Alice was charming, and she did, Blyth and to a lesser extent Trowbridge were the icing on the cake.
Blyth in particular was very gracious, and said if there was anything she needed during her stay, she should feel free to call him.
“Oh,” said Sue, “I really can’t think of a thing.”
“Never underestimate the recuperative powers of the London theater,” said Blyth. “Our shop can easily provide complimentary tickets to any of them. You wouldn’t,” he said, to Jane, “even have to applaud too hard.”
“I’d just love that,” said Jane.
“And I’m sure Sergeant Trowbridge would stand the dining arrangements,” said Blyth.
Trowbridge kind of winced, but was equally gracious when he said, “It would be our pleasure.”
After a few more minutes, Blyth asked to borrow me for a moment, and the two of us stepped outside.
“You haven’t heard from the intrepid Sarah Mitchell as yet?” asked Blyth.
“Not a word.”
“You shall. I expect she’ll be setting up a meeting for the 20th, or thereabouts. Thursday.”
“Okay.” I didn’t ask how he knew.
“I’m terribly sorry about having to prolong this, but there are very extenuating circumstances. Alice has told you about the explosives?”
“She said there were some. Yes, she did.”
“There was a substantial amount, actually. Are you familiar with Semtex?”
“Only that I know what it is,” I said. “Pretty much like C4, isn’t it?”
“Close enough. There were two boxes labeled as cheese in the tube station where you had your encounter. They contained Semtex, to the tune of some five kilos in the two boxes.”
I thought back to the few explosions I’d witnessed. Five pounds would have been much more than I’d ever seen used. I did remember a demonstration we’d had, where a two pound block of C4 had been set off. They’d placed it on top of a Tupperware bowl with a lid. The bowl had been full of water, and had been placed on top of an old Dodge van. We were standing back a hundred yards when they set it off. The explosive had driven the water from the bowl through the roof of the van, through a bench seat, through the floor, and had cut the drive shaft clean through. All that damage had been done by a column of water, after getting an initial push from the explosive. The blast at a hundred yards had felt like I’d been hit with a well swung pillow the size of my whole body. Not enough to knock me down or anything, but strong enough to halt me in my tracks. That had been a two pound block of plastic explosive. Five kilograms, the amount in the tube station, was roughly eleven pounds.
“That’s a hell of a lot,” I said.
“Indeed,” said Blyth. “There was more in an adjacent sub-basement, about another forty-one kilos, I understand.”
I did the math. That was about ninety pounds. “Shit.”
“Precisely, yes. The whole lot was located too close to Buckingham Palace for our comfort,” he said.
“I didn’t know we were that close.”
“From the old Down Street station to the Palace itself . . . a bit over half a kilometer, I’d say.”
More math. I was worse with kilometers than kilograms. “How far would that be in . . . miles . . . or feet?” I asked.
“Oh, about two thousand feet, in fact. A bit less.”
“Just over a quarter of a m
ile. . . . You can get there underground?”
“There is a sewer,” he said. “Not to worry about that venue. It’s not connected to any tube line, and there are surveillance cameras down there.” He had sort of a distant smile on his face. “We do owe the IRA something for their attentions. That, and with your president coming over so soon, we’ve had foot patrols down there, too. No, we aren’t too concerned about the sewer. But just chucking bits of it over the walls would be quite a threat. In a vehicle, driven with sufficient resolve, or worse, two vehicles . . . one to make a hole, the other to drive though . . . There are going to be sleepless nights.”
“Yeah.” I could barely imagine. “I’ve lost track. When does he get here?”
“Your president? Tomorrow,” he said.
“Jesus.”
“No, Bush.” He got a kick out of that. “At any rate, we still need you for a bit. We want to continue with your arranged meeting with Northwood. We’ve met, and we think it may well work best that way.”
“Sure. Just me, though, okay? And maybe Carson. Nobody else.”
“Just those you decide to invite,” he said.
“How’s this going to work?”
“We have located him,” said Blyth. “A cabin in the Lake District. He’s under constant surveillance, and shall be all the way to your meeting. We’ve visited his flat, and interior surveillance is now up and running. He is, by the way, considered to be non-violent. But taking no chances, we looked about, and there are absolutely no weapons in the flat, except kitchen utensils. He’s an escape risk, of course. But not a violent one.”
“Good to know. I hope you’re not relying on me to chase after him?”
“If you were to merely hang on to his belt. . . .” He chuckled. “Alice will be along, and I feel certain she can handle him.”
“Me, too.”
“I’m told you referred to her as Mrs. Peel?”
“Yeah,” I said. “Only Alice is better.” I looked him in the eye. “So, why do you need us, then?”
“Authenticity. We want him to be comfortable with you, and what better place than his own flat? You will lend presence, and Alice will be able to act as solicitor. Sarah Mitchell will be asking lots of questions, and that shall flatter what we have found to be his considerable ego. We want him to tell you things he wouldn’t tell us, at least not readily.”
“Well . . .”
“He won’t be wheedling for a deal with you,” said Blyth. “He’ll be receiving guilt, plus the surprising information that Emma is dead.”
“He doesn’t know?”
“We believe he does not,” said Blyth. “Remarkable as that seems. We shall release the information in a timely fashion. It should unsettle him.”
“I’ll be damned. How can he not know?”
Blyth told me. When he was done, I believed what he’d said. It had that ring of truth about it. My years of dealing with self-involved petty criminals told me that it could very well happen like that. Hell, even the one real terrorist case I’d worked showed me that. The dipstick had just left too soon. “That sounds like it could happen that way,” I said.
“We think so,” he replied.
“Do you think there’s any continuing threat to Jane, or anyone else in our group over here?”
He thought for a moment. “I don’t know.”
“Will you have someone watching out for them? Especially when I’m gone?”
“Even as we speak,” he said.
That made me feel better, but it looked like the sleepless nights were going to include me.
Chapter 23
Tuesday, November 18, 2003
Thames House, London
09:10 Greenwich Mean Time
Adrian Blyth left his morning briefing, and took the elevator to his office. It was unusual for him to have attended the briefing, but this had been an important occasion. Last night, MI5 had communicated the information regarding the incident at the Down Street station to the FBI in Washington, DC. The explosives were the highest priority during that call, with the identification of at least two of the suspects as UK born Muslims being a high second. The link to the abduction of the American girl, Emma Schiller, had been a strong third. The elements of a possible assassination plot coupled with a hostage taking, and the involvement of a possible radical Muslim terrorist connection had hit the FBI like a bombshell. The last that Blyth had heard, the FBI was going to attempt to convince the President to either postpone, or to radically change the scheduling of his trip to the UK. Postponement, candidly discussed, was fairly well ruled out. The change of itinerary was a distinct possibility, however, and would cause a massive realignment of security forces. Frankly, Blyth believed that the suggested changes would be refused. To secure entirely new areas of visitation would be impossible, and simply mixing the order of the events would only serve to disrupt the already strained security forces. As usual, he was right.
His secretary took the call just as he passed through her office and was opening the door to his own.
“It’s Chief Inspector Bassingham,” she said, and she handed him a note as he passed.
He stepped across the threshold, and picked up the phone as he came round the end of his desk.
“John,” he said as he sat, “good of you to call.”
“You were right,” said Bassingham. “The Yanks are going to go ahead with the original itinerary.”
“I think that’s for the best. We can shift some personnel, to increase the coverage.” He glanced at the note in his hand. It told him to see the Director as soon as he was able.
“It’s provoked a bit more of a reaction than that,” said Bassingham. “I’ve just been speaking with a presidential aide named Rich. They have this minigun that they can mount in one of these huge American SUV’s . . . You know, like we have in helicopters?”
“The door gun on a Chinook,” said Blyth.
“The same. It seems this is 5.56 mm, and they want to have it with the presidential motorcade.”
“You must be joking?”
“I fear not, Adrian. They want it to go with him everywhere.”
Blyth had a quick mental image of the carnage that could be caused by an arrangement such as that one. The minigun fired 100 rounds per second. In a crowded space such as was common in the streets of London, especially one filled with onlookers, a couple of two second bursts could shred a crowd. If a vehicle were moving, the accuracy would be very questionable.
“Well they bloody well can’t have it,” said Blyth. “They could kill a hundred people in seconds.”
“I agree,” said Bassingham. “Unfortunately, I don’t have that say.”
“Neither do I,” said Blyth, “but the Secretary certainly does. I shall see to it. Good Lord.”
“As long as you’re at it,” said Bassingham, “there’s a bit more. It seems they can have US helicopter gun ships here very shortly. Bring them in on a C-5 from Germany. They’ll be asking for permission to fly them in our airspace, to cover the routes.”
“Just who is this Agent Rich? Doctor bloody Strangelove in disguise?”
Bassingham gave a strained laugh. “I am suspicious. Honestly, I think he’s a bit new to his position.”
“Reassure him. We’ll provide the security. They can assist with their usual methods. Agents, side arms, and continued liaison. Their Secret Service are very good at working with us. I know that President Bush in unpopular in some circles, but they should know that he’s safe here. Not necessarily popular, but we’ll keep him safe.”
“You might like to take this up with Eliza.”
Eliza referred to Elizabeth Lydia “Eliza” Manningham-Buller, the Director General of MI5. “I suspect she’s already on this one,” said Blyth. “I’ve a note to see her.”
“Excellent,” said Bassingham. “I’ve great faith in her.”
Blyth did, too. The Director of MI5 had been a high level liaison with the US Intelligence Services in the ’90s, and knew her way around the Wa
shington system as well as anyone. She also had a solid working relationship with some extremely highly placed personnel. “She’ll make things work,” said Blyth. “We just can’t slip up on our end.”
“Right you are, Adrian. By the way, there’s been another development that should stir things up a bit more.”
“Please say that was a joke,” said Blyth.
“Sorry, can’t. The Beeb just received another tape from the kidnappers of Emma Schiller.”
There was a momentary silence. “What does it say, John?”
“Haven’t seen it myself. It should be here in a few moments. Care to send someone over?”
“Yes. And invite the Americans, too. We really had better.”
Highgate
11:35 Greenwich Mean Time
Last night, it had been decided that regardless of the presence of security people outside, I would spend the night at the girls’ flat. It was a night filled with tension, not because I was afraid of somebody machine gunning the place, but because Sue and I have this tendency to discuss the day’s events before we fall asleep. We’d been true to form, with the addition of discussing events that had occurred since I’d been in London. I found myself in the trying situation of trying to fill Sue in on what we’d learned, without filling Sue in on what we’d learned. It was especially difficult as my being so damned relaxed in the Down Street station was because I knew Emma was dead. Sue didn’t actually say it was my fault, but the implication was clearly there. Well, hell, she was right. I felt terrible about it, but did manage to fall back on the truthful and honest feeling I’d had when I heard that the two dudes in the station were actually part of the kidnapping of Emma.
“It was just too much of a coincidence,” I said. “Honest to God. They just shouldn’t have been there.”
“But Jane was right, wasn’t she?” said Sue. “She thought that underground place had something to do with Emma, didn’t she?”
I made a sort of growly sound of chagrin. “Yeah. But they shouldn’t have been there, damn it. There was absolutely no evidence there that Emma had ever been hidden in that place. None. They had no reason to go there.” That was about as close as I could get to it, without saying something about their fleeing all the way from Stevenage to the tube station after they lost control of Emma’s remains.
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