November Rain

by Donald Harstad

  “Well, I don’t know why you think that,” said Sue.

  What could I say? “You’ve got to be awful tired,” I said. “Jet lag is tough.”

  “You’re changing the subject.”

  When you’re caught, always fall back on the security aspects of a case. “I had one reason, that I can’t tell you, because the Brit’s told me because I was an officer. It’s a need to know, right to know thing, and it goes way back.”

  There was a long silence, and I was hoping she’d fallen asleep. No such luck. “Do you think I’d tell someone?” she asked, icily. “Someone over here? Someone I have tea with every afternoon, maybe?”

  “I just can’t,” I said. “You know that.”

  This time, she turned over. I heard her say something, but I couldn’t quite make it out.

  “What?” I just had to ask.

  “I said,” said Sue, her voice raised just a bit, “bullshit.”

  I thought for a second about resuming our years long conversation about intelligence and criminal history data. But just for a second. “Yeah,” I said. “G’night.”

  “Good night.”

  We’d spent a better morning at the girls’ flat, with Sue and Vicky doing fussy things for Jane, and me meeting Carson at the tube station and back to Zizzi for more take-out. Away.

  As we were crossing the little park on our way back to the flat, Carson said, “You know, if it’s getting a little crowded up here, you could always let Vicky come down to the hotel . . .”

  I looked at him. “You’re not serious?”

  “Maybe.”

  I hated to tell him this, but I had already decided late last night that I’d be much better off back at the hotel. “I’ll be back at the hotel tonight. All my stuff is there.”

  “You could have asked me to ring it up today,” he said. We stopped at the south side of the park, for a bus to pass. “I’d have been glad to.”

  “The County’s paying for that room, my boy. No hanky panky.”

  “Ah.” He sounded a little less than sincere.

  “Whatta you mean, ah?”

  “Nothing.”

  I stopped on the other side of the street. “Come here a sec.”

  “What?”

  “Something happen in our room when I wasn’t there?”

  His face got red. “Oh. . . .”

  “With who?” I stepped closer. “I can’t tell you how serious I am.”

  “Well, she just needed somebody to talk to, you know? She was a little scared after all this stuff. And you were off doing your thing. And we had a couple of hours to kill.”

  “Who?” Please, God, I thought, don’t let him say Jane. Whoever else, I’m fine with it. Just not Jane.

  “Vicky. Who else?”

  Thank you, Lord. “I was thinking, you know,” I said, trying to come up with a name. “Maybe that newspaper woman.”

  He looked startled. “You gotta be kidding!”

  “Well, no.” But that settled it. Tonight I was back in the hotel. “But I swear to God, Carson,” I said, doing a pretty good impression of being angry, “if word of that ever leaks out, I’ll kill you myself.”

  He grinned. “I forgive you in advance,” he said, “because it was so worth it.”

  Jane was feeling a little weak, so we played Scrabble until about 2:30, when Alice called and asked if she could drop by.

  She got there a few minutes later, so I knew she’d called on her cell phone. Those things make you re-evaluate timing.

  After a brief greeting to everybody, she asked if she could talk with me outside. Sue got sort of a scowl at that, but I don’t think anyone else noticed.

  We stood just outside the door.

  “The BBC has got another Emma tape,” said Alice.

  “You’re kidding?” I say that way too much. I’ve got to learn how to be inscrutable someday.

  “They demand a meeting with your president, by the evening of the 20th, or they say they’ll not only kill Emma, but that there will be other serious consequences.”

  I thought for a second. “They had to have recorded that before last Saturday. Assuming that the other consequences involve those explosives.”

  “I agree, but remember, we don’t know that those were all the explosives they had available. It would make some sense to split them up. All one’s eggs in the same basket. If, in fact, explosives are involved at all.”

  “Okay. What else could they do?”

  “Another hostage, perhaps? Something with incendiaries? It’s really very difficult to say.”

  “Because you still don’t know for sure just who they are,” I said. It was a statement, not a question. “As far as I can tell, you’ve got the lower echelon. From what’s been said, it doesn’t sound to me like this Professor Northwood is anybody’s idea of a major player. Right?”

  “Likely,” she said.

  “So there’s still a bunch of uncertainty, isn’t there?”

  “Oh, yes, indeed.” She shrugged. “It‘s increased the tension a bit. Your American security people as well.”

  “I can understand that.”

  “We did think of simply taking Northwood instanter, but the plan stays the same. Your security people agreed.”

  It being that I didn’t have any security people, I assumed she meant those with the president. It kind of surprised me that they had agreed. I’ve only met maybe two Secret Service people over the years, at least that I actually got to talk with at any length, and they sure hadn’t struck me as the sort who take any chances at all, if they could help it. I said as much.

  “We need to know how widespread this is, for one thing. It’s frustrating, I give you that,” she said, “but we don’t want to delay obtaining the information further by having our professor whisked off to Paddington Green and into the clutches of his attorney.”

  “Sure.” I could understand that. “So . . . what? You want me to beat him up for you?”

  She laughed out loud. “No. Not that it’s a bad idea . . . just too complicated in the long run. Questions, but mostly listening. Let me maneuver him. I’ll do most of the talking, in a believable way.”

  “My solicitor,” I said. “That’s why I pay you so well. Anyway, I can assume that he doesn’t know of the screwup of his buddies? With Emma and the explosives?”

  “We are quite sure he does not. He’s not even aware of the impending meeting with you and Sarah Mitchell.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “Then how?”

  “He’s apparently taking a short sabbatical. Sarah Mitchell is communicating with his school, and has found the date of his return. We, in turn, have communicated with his sister, who has no idea what is afoot. She will cooperate.”

  I wondered how they’d gotten her to do that, but didn’t ask. Later, I heard that there were a couple of Special Branch people with her in her house when Robert Northwood came back from the cabin. They were introduced as some of her husband’s assoicates, and he never got any wiser. Resources. They must be great.

  “Doesn’t Sarah Mitchell know about the new tape?”

  “If she doesn’t, we suspect she certainly shall. BBC have agreed not to air the tape for a grace period. She might not be the most scrupulous person, but to scoop BBC would be disastrous for her. Whoever gives her that information will make that perfectly clear.”

  “Hmm. Okay. I mean, you guys know that stuff. Okay, then. It’s still set for Thursday?”

  “Yes. The day after tomorrow. She’s confirmed that, and will likely contact you later today.”

  She seemed very sure of herself. I felt that I could pretty safely assume that they had Sarah Mitchell totally wired by this time, and very likely followed as well. That was good. It meant that there would be very few surprises on that front.

  “Okay.”

  “We two, and Carson, if he wishes to accompany us, shall meet tomorrow to go over details and procedures. After noon, but before four.”

  “Sounds good. Can I ask you a question, p
romise you won’t laugh?”

  “Of course.”

  “Sarah Mitchell. Ah, she doesn’t work for you guys, does she?” I asked. It had just crossed my mind.

  “Certainly not, thank God,” said Alice. It seemed to brighten her day.

  Since Jane wasn’t feeling too peppy, the rest of that Tuesday was spent playing Scrabble, eating popcorn, and just sort of hanging around Jane and Vicky’s flat. We watched some of the anti-Bush protests. They were really more that than anti-American or anti-US. I wondered how long that would last.

  We decided that it would be best for Jane to rest the whole day, so we did take-out or away for supper again. This time Carson and Vicky did the honors, going to the Gatehouse for our food. I had bangers and mash. Sue glanced at it disapprovingly, but didn’t say a word.

  I re-thought my position about heading back to the hotel with Carson, especially in the light of Alice’s offhand remark about “. . . possibly another hostage.” I figured my place was in Highgate. Carson was a little disappointed, because I told him Vicky’s place was in Highgate, too.

  He wanted to go on the Northwood interview, and I really didn’t see anything wrong with that. We talked about it briefly between us. Sue overheard some of what we said, and it took an hour to reassure her that we’d be just fine. I finally ended up saying, “I came here to help out. That’s just what I’m doing. They asked, and I agreed. It’s perfectly reasonable.”

  “Are you sure it wasn’t your idea?”

  “Absolutely. I haven’t any say in what goes on over here. None. I just cooperate with them when I’m asked.”

  For some reason, she seemed happier that I wasn’t able to directly effect anything. I sure as hell wasn’t, but as long as she was mollified, I was happy.

  Then Sue said, “Are you sure you want to go, Carson?”

  “I am,” he said. “Absolutely.”

  “You aren’t just saying that?”

  I intervened. “Don’t be such a teacher,” I said. That was one of our mutual signals for ‘stop interfering.’ Hers to me was to not be such a cop.

  Jane came to my rescue. “It wasn’t Dad’s idea to go to the tube station, Mom. It was mine. I asked to go. He just went along with it. Really. I don’t think he thought I was right. If he had, I don’t think he’d have agreed to let me be along.”

  Just how she knew what the underlying issue was, I’m not sure. I guess it’s a daughter-mother thing. Anyway, we changed the subject.

  After supper we watched Air Force One landing at Heathrow. The TV coverage was constant, with the time between the drive and the arrival of the motorcade at Buckingham Palace being taken up by a fascinating variety of pundits and commentators. We had a good time, and consumed another round of popcorn.

  “They just don’t seem too happy with us, do they?” said Carson.

  “I think that’s a fair statement,” I said. “You know what? I didn’t vote for Bush, and I don’t care who knows it. But some of this is getting me just a little pissed off.”

  That seemed to be part of the general feeling. It got a bit more pronounced when it was announced that the president wouldn’t be addressing Parliament, because several of the members refused to guarantee they wouldn’t boo and make catcalls.

  “That would never happen in an address to Congress,” said Sue. “I thought the British were more dignified than that.”

  Carson spoke up. “I took a class in the British Parliamentary system. They do things like that. It’s probably not as awful as we think.”

  “Well,” said Jane, “they’ll be on somebody else next week. Probably us again.”

  “Who?” asked Sue.

  Jane produced the newspaper. The one with the “America’s Sweet Tart” headline.

  That kept Sue up most of the night. I mean, she was jet lagged already, and the adrenaline rush just about did her in. The fact that I was quoted, and the fact that Sarah Mitchell had done the interviews and she was the one that we were going to cooperate with. . . . Well, it was a sleepless night, all right. I thought Blyth didn’t know how lucky he was just having to worry about little things like security.

  Chapter 24

  Wednesday, November 19, 2003

  The Residence of Chief Inspector Bassingham, London

  06:38 Greenwich Mean Time

  Molly Bassingham, waking from a sound sleep, answered the telephone on the second ring.

  “Yes, Bassingham’s . . .”

  “May I speak with the Chief Inspector, please? It’s Sergeant Trowbridge, ma’am.”

  Sleepily, she handed the telephone to her awakening husband. “It’s Sergeant Trowbridge,” she said.

  “Yes,” said Bassingham, his voice heavy with sleep.

  “We’ve a huge flap on,” said Trowbridge. “I believe you’ll want to come straight over.”

  Chief Inspector Bassingham heaved a large sigh, sat up on the edge of the bed, and said, “Tell me now. I’m up.”

  “Ah . . . well, it seems that some reporter fellow for the Mirror, one Ryan Parry, has, uh, managed to pass himself off as a footman at Buckingham Palace.”

  “What!”

  “Ah, indeed he has. He, ah, provided his true name. Merely neglected to say he was a reporter. Used one of his mates from his pub as his character reference. Some bloody idiot didn’t vet him properly. He’s the same bloke who investigated the security at Wimbledon last summer.”

  “When?”

  “Pardon, sir?”

  “When did he sign on? How bloody long was he there?”

  “Some two months, sir.”

  “Two bloody fucking months!” He found himself without words for a moment. “What sort of access?”

  “We aren’t exactly certain, but the paper claims he was standing right behind the president at his arrival. Helped lay out the room niceties for the president and his entire party, it seems.”

  “Bloody hell,” said Bassingham, softly.

  “He was scheduled to serve breakfast to Ms. Rice, the US National Security Advisor, and Mr. Powell, the Secretary of State, this morning,” continued Trowbridge.

  Bassingham simply groaned. “So, then. How did we catch him?”

  “Well, sir, it seems we didn’t,” said Trowbridge.

  “Who did? Oh, bloody hell. Not the Americans?”

  “Oh, no sir. They certainly did no such thing. I’d venture to say they were as surprised as we were. He, well, sir, he appears to have simply walked off the job late last night. Before anyone was aware of who he was.”

  After a short silence, Chief Inspector Bassingham asked the awful question. “And how do we know all this?”

  “It’s in the morning paper, sir.”

  “Jesus Christ.” Bassingham felt drained.

  “He seems to have taken photographs,” continued Trowbridge. “Says that he had a camera with him at all times, and that it was never noticed by any of the security people.”

  “Send a car,” said Bassingham. “Ten minutes.”

  “It’s out front now, sir.”

  Chief Inspector Bassingham put the phone down. Molly was looking at him. “Bad news, dear?”

  He hardly knew how to begin.

  Adrian Blyth’s day began somewhat earlier than his friend John Bassingham’s, with a jog in the park at 06:00 sharp. His first call came on his mobile phone, and was from a member of the team that had “cleared” Robert Northwood’s apartment. Clearing, in this particular instance, had involved talking a look through his computer files, and downloading them onto a portable hard drive.

  “We may have something of interest here,” said Agent Rose.

  “Very good,” puffed Blyth. “You must rise at four. What have you got?”

  “That little group this Northwood’s a member of? There’s a person named Ayat, apparently was the recording secretary or something of that sort. Kept minutes of their meetings.” He chuckled. “Forwarded them to Northwood via email. Email is registered to one Hanadi Tamish. We’re checking for her address n
ow.”

  “Minutes? Well, that was a bit foolish, now, wasn’t it.”

  “It was all of that,” said Rose. “There seems to be just three members who say anything, and usually just those three who attend the meetings. There were others, on one occasion. One of them was the little chap we have in custody, in fact.”

  “Another smoking gun,” said Blyth.

  “Indeed, sir. The other chap is referred to as Anton, and we believe that’s the same one who led Alice on the chase in the tube station.”

  “Excellent.”

  “The most interesting set, though, could be this one . . . our Mr. Northwood and a man called Imad, who is the third principal, had a rather involved discussion, duly recorded, back in June. Regarding tactics and targets in London that would disrupt things a bit.”

  “Really?” Blyth was nearing the end of his fourth and final lap. “Such as?”

  “Well, a kidnapping was discussed a bit. Northwood specifically mentioned an American girl, but not by name. To ‘divide the alliance,’ as he put it.”

  “Indeed,” said Blyth, breathing harder as he neared the end of the lap.

  “Also discussed was blowing up at least a portion of the Thames Tidal Barrier.”

  Blyth slowed to a walk. “Again?” It seemed that blowing up the Thames Tidal Barrier was the favorite scheme of every lunatic group they encountered these days. “That’s remarkably un-original. Grammar school, in fact.”

  “This one does suggest the use of a thousand pounds of Semtex.”

  “I see. Perhaps not grammar school, then. Assuming they actually having a fair quantity of Semtex does lend credence. Does it say how much they actually have got?”

  “No. There’s no other mention of Semtex, or of any other explosive, in any other minutes. In fact, the recording secretary has to ask how it should be spelt.”