by Mike Gilmore
At least he was out of the direct rain, but the brisk wind still blew the rain on him, and his wet, cold clothing was sticking to his skin. It all added to his sense of failure.
At the other end of the Jubilee Bridges, the driver steered the cart down a wide ramp to access the walkway below. A police car with a flashing rotating blue light was waiting for them. Randy received instructions to transfer to the car with three other officers. They motioned for him to enter the back seat. He was surprised they did not restrain him with handcuffs as probably would have been done in the States. At least he was out of the blowing cold wind and rain and inside a heated cruiser.
The drive was short: north on Northumberland Avenue to The Strand and a right turn. They only drove a few blocks before the police cruiser turned left onto an authorized-only access to Agar Street and the modern police building located at the next intersection.
Once through the entrance lobby, they escorted him to a chest-high counter where he received instructions to empty his pockets. After the officer at the counter logged his possessions, they walked Randy deeper into the building and placed him inside an interrogation room. Typical of police interrogation rooms around the world, the solid walls contained only a basic heavy wooden table and four chairs. They motioned for him to take a seat. A male officer, left in the room, stood near the door, his hands clasped in front of him, to watch Randy. A few minutes later, a female police officer entered the room with a black bag like those carried by doctors in old movies. She requested permission to examine his wounds. She gently probed his head wound and examined the abrasions on his right hand and wrist.
She was probably twenty-eight or thirty years old and about five feet four inches tall. Her face, framed by curly dark hair, was pretty, with soft-looking skin that required little makeup. She reminded Randy of his wife. She looked into his face and offered a small smile. She seemed to decide he was no threat and sat down in the chair next to him. She peered at the wound over his right eye as she opened her medical kit.
“The cut on your forehead looks worse than it really is. I do not think you will need any stitches. Maybe just a couple of butterfly plasters.” She gave him another smile. “Sorry … you Americans call them a Band-Aids, right?”
Randy smiled back. She had a nice accent. Then he remembered he was the foreigner in the room. “Yes. How do you know I’m an American?”
She gave him a bigger smile and then laughed, showing straight white teeth. “Your clothes and shoes are all made in the United States. You are also wearing a Timex wristwatch, so I made a guess based on my observations. How did I do?”
Randy laughed. “Your observations were spot on.”
“Good. Let me get you fixed up, and I’ll see about a towel and a hot cup of coffee or tea.”
Randy nodded his head. “Thanks … a large hot cup of coffee would be great. Do you suppose I could speak with whoever is in charge of this station? I really need to call some people.”
She offered a small smile as she removed a Band-Aid from the sterile wrapper. “I’m sure someone will be here shortly.”
A few minutes later, she finished her work and closed the medical kit. “That will hold you for a little while. I’ll be back in a few minutes with your coffee and something to help you dry off.”
Randy examined the dressing she had placed around his right wrist. “Thank you again.”
As she opened the door, she nearly bumped into the first of two men trying to enter the room. The plainclothes man stepped back to allow her to leave the room and then walked in, followed by an older man in uniform.
They nodded to the uniformed officer in the room, who closed the door after they entered and resumed his position off to the side of the table. They took the two chairs across from Randy and laid Randy’s passport and driver’s license plus a file folder on the table. Randy could not see what the folder contained.
The younger unshaved man was about Randy’s six-foot height but heavier by maybe twenty-five pounds. His dark hair was cut so short Randy could not determine the color. Every dip and curve of his skull was visible, giving him an ugly look. His suit coat showed many wrinkles, and his shoes needed a coat of polish. There was no wedding band on his left hand so Randy guessed he was single. With his sloppy dress and poor personal grooming, Randy did not foresee a wedding any time in the near future for the man. He could understand Annie’s comments about men who thought the unshaved look adopted by television and movie stars was stylish. It only made them look like bums.
The uniformed officer appeared to be around fifty-five years old; his uniform was properly pressed and looked custom made. His black hair was thin, his scalp showing through in several places. His shoulder epaulet was black with what looked like a wreath of leaves arranged in a circle not quite closed at the top. Within the wreath were two round red-tipped poles. To Randy, the poles resembled two cigarettes with one of the ends lit. This man appeared to be the senior officer; his overall appearance was more in keeping with his rank.
The younger man spoke first. “I’m Inspector Lonny Watkins, and this is Commander Corley. He is in charge of the center part of London and most of the area where you were seen chasing a man, ending up in a scuffle.” He flipped open the folder, pulled out a half-dozen photos, and laid them across the table for Randy to see. Randy recognized the various locations in the photographs. Apparently, traffic and security cameras had recorded his bizarre chase through Central London.
Watkins picked up Randy’s passport and looked again at the name. “Now, Mr. Fisher. You haven’t broken any laws except perhaps disorderly conduct, but we are very interested in why you were chasing that man and why he tried to kill you.”
Randy had been sitting in the hard wooden chair at an angle that helped the medical officer examine his wounds. Now he turned to sit squarely on the chair and face the two officers. “Do you have the knife he used to attack me? His fingerprints might be on the blade. What else was in the backpack?”
Watkins shook his head. “I’m afraid we will be asking the questions first, sir. Why were you chasing that man?”
Randy knew he needed to end any confusion. “My name is Randy Fisher, and I’m a United States senator. The man I was chasing is an exact look-a-like of the man who shot me three years ago after trying to set off a nuclear device in Columbia, South Carolina.”
Their facial expressions froze. Randy allowed them to recover. “I noticed the resemblance and decided I needed to catch him and discover his identity.” Randy proceeded to tell them about his chase from the restaurant to the south end of the Jubilee Bridges. As he reached the part of his story that aligned with a photo, he touched the photo and sometimes changed its position on the table to match the timeline of the chase.
The commander listened to Randy’s detailed description of the chase before finally breaking his silence. “First, Senator Fisher, let me apologize for the way we treated you. We had no idea who you were.”
Randy was about to reply, but the door opened again. The medical officer entered, holding a tray with a small coffee pot, a china cup with the Metropolitan Police logo, and several small plastic cups holding packets of sugar and powdered creamer. She set the tray on the table in front of Randy and then removed the heavy cotton towel draped over her left shoulder. She wrapped it around his shoulders. Randy thought her kindness was touching; it contrasted with Inspector Watkins’s impatient look at the interruption.
Randy quickly poured a cup of coffee and took a careful sip to test the temperature. It was perfect. He took a deep drink from the cup. He gave the medical officer an appreciative smile. “Thanks. This really hits the spot.”
“You’re welcome, sir.”
Watkins watched the interchange between the officer and the witness. His fingers tightened along the edge of the papers in his hands as his frustration grew. “Perhaps we can continue now.”
The woman’s eyes
snapped toward the plainclothes officer. “A few moments of civility never hurts, Inspector Watkins.”
Her snub toward Watkins was noticeable to all. The uniformed officer still guarding the door coughed to cover his small chuckle.
Commander Corley decided to make the introduction. “Officer Davis, this is United States Senator Fisher. Senator, this is Anne Davis … a very capable officer.”
Randy smiled to Officer Davis. “We’ve met, just not formally. Thank you again, Officer Davis.”
She stepped back from the table. “My pleasure, Senator.” As she turned, she nodded toward Commander Corley and left the room.
Randy took another sip of the hot brew and then set the cup back on the table. He used the warm towel to rub his hair and face. Most of his hair had already dried, but it felt good to move the cotton fabric across his face and around the back of his neck.
Corley turned toward the officer still standing against the wall. “See if you can find the senator some dry clothes until we can get this mess sorted out and him back to his hotel.”
Randy suddenly sat back in his chair. “I need my cell phone. I left all my relatives in the restaurant. They have no idea what is going on.”
Corley looked again at the officer, who was moving toward the door. “Bring his belongings first and then try to get some other clothes.”
When the officer left the room, Randy picked up the photographs on the table. He flipped through them, looking for the face of the man he had chased. It was not evident in the photos.
“How is it you caught my face in all the photos but not the man I was chasing?” Randy quickly decided he had been rash. He had been hatless, while the few times he had seen his adversary, the wide-brim hat hid the man’s face. Avoiding the cameras was probably the reason why both men were wearing the fedoras in the first place.
Their faces started to color from embarrassment, but further discussion of the subject seemed redundant after the uniformed officer reentered the room with Randy’s cell phone. Randy accepted the device and looked at them again. “Do you think I can have a little privacy to talk to my wife? I don’t know about an English wife, but mine will be asking a lot of question that I’m not prepared yet to answer.”
Corley answered, “Of course, Senator. Just step out of the office when you’re ready to resume our talk.”
He began to follow Watkins out of the room but turned back. Randy was accessing the contacts in his smart phone. “What hotel are you staying at, Senator?”
“The Hilton next to Trafalgar Square.”
“Good. The hotel is only a few blocks away from the station. Please tell your wife that one of my officers will be over there shortly to pick up a set of dry clothes for you.”
Randy hit the speed dial for Annie’s cell phone. He was not sure what he would tell her.
Chapter 14
London
Saturday, November 28, 2015
3:15 p.m.
Randy Fisher ended his telephone conversation with Annie. She had immediately launched into a series of nonstop questions, but he had finally calmed her down enough to let him answer a few of them. When he mentioned that someone from the police department would be there shortly to get a fresh set of clothes for him, the questions started again.
Finally, she seemed satisfied with his answers; other questions could wait until he got back to the hotel. He laid the phone on the table next to the photos Corley and Watkins had left on the tabletop. He gathered the photos up and flipped them on their sides before slapping them against the tabletop to align them. Afterward he again flipped through them, looking for a picture of the man he had chased.
He suddenly slapped his right hand against his head. The contact caused both his head and wrist to hurt. “You deserved that, you fool,” he said aloud to the empty room.
He finished the second cup of coffee and as he rose from the chair and headed toward the door, he grabbed the folder cover. On the other side of the door, he saw a number of officers gathered in several small groups. Their discussion faded quickly as they looked at him in the open doorway.
“Where’s Commander Corley?” Randy asked.
The officer who had brought Randy his cell phone stepped forward. “Please walk with me, Senator Fisher. I’ll take you to the commander’s office.”
Randy followed the officer deeper into the building; they came to a bank of elevators. One of the doors was just opening as they approached so they did not need to slow their pace. The officer pushed the button for the top floor and the door closed.
Several floors higher, they stepped off the elevator and walked straight down a hallway to a set of double glass doors. Corley was sitting behind his office desk, talking on the telephone. He had seen Randy exit the elevator and watched his approach.
Corley quickly finished his telephone call as Randy walked into his office without waiting for permission. Randy had his cell phone in his right hand.
“I’ve got a photo of the man I was chasing on my cell phone.”
Corley looked back at his guest. “I didn’t think you had time to snap a picture of him.”
Randy’s lips pulled to the side as he tried to determine how to explain his next statement to the commander.
“Commander, have you ever been shot?”
Corley was slow to answer. He readjusted his body in the office chair. “No. I have been very lucky in my years of service. I have never been required to fire a weapon in the line of duty or been faced with someone who was trying to kill me. I am, of course, somewhat aware of your personal history, Senator.”
Randy nodded. “Then you know my government never identified the man. Nothing … no name or nationality. No clue who he was or who supported him in his efforts to obtain the weapon and bring it into my country.” Randy paused to plan his next words. “I hope you don’t think what I’m about to tell you is strange. Someone tried to kill me, and I think it would be natural for everyone to realize I would want to know everything there is to learn about my assailant.” He looked from Corley back to the uniformed officer still in the room.
Corley simply nodded at the American. “Yes. Quite correct.”
Randy nodded in return and plunged ahead with his explanation. He lifted his smart phone to indicate it. “I used my position on the US Senate Committee on Intelligence to obtain the complete file on the man who shot me. I have all the information stored on my phone right here. It is stored behind several layers of encryption, but it will have all of that information, plus a photograph of the man I chased. Remember, he acknowledged the man who shot me was his brother. You have to believe me when I tell you they were identical twins.”
Randy opened a file on the smart phone and entered a password. The file opened, but the letters were a scrambled mess of unintelligible words. He entered a different password, and slowly the scrambled letters took shape; readable words appeared.
He moved around the room and laid the phone on the commander’s desk. The other officer did not ask Corley for permission before he moved around to the other side of the desk to look at the phone.
Randy slowly scrolled down the file. Finally they came to the photograph of the terrorist. He had not looked at the file for the almost two years since he had originally loaded the information on the phone. He had not told anyone he had copied the information, which probably was in violation of several security articles of the United States government. Regardless, he had wanted the information, and now he could put it to good use.
Corley sat back in his chair. “We need you to send us this file, Senator. With this information together with the contents of the backpack, we might be able to identify your man and perhaps learn what he’s up to here in London.”
Randy agreed. He picked up the phone from the commander’s desk, about to ask him for an e-mail address, when the face of his phone changed to show an incoming call. The number ID in
dicated the call was from one of Randy’s best friends.
“Please excuse me while I take this call, Commander.”
Randy pressed the accept button on the phone and raised it to his right ear with his bandaged hand. The different time zones between England and the United States made the time in Washington about nine fifteen in the morning.
“Good morning, Marion. How are you this fine day?”
Randy heard the voice of his best friend, Marion Bellwood. The voice of the deputy director of operations for the Central Intelligence Agency came in very clear from across the Atlantic Ocean.
“I’m fine. Thanks for asking, MP. I understand you’ve been playing some sort of English variation on hide and seek and have gotten yourself hurt.”
Randy chuckled to himself at Marion’s use of his “MP” nickname. They had both served in Europe back in the nineteen nineties. Randy had been a member of the army’s military police, and Marion had been a CIA case officer. They had spent many evenings in one of the bars near the army base at Mannheim, Germany. Marion had tagged Randy with the nickname, and he would use it whenever he thought the younger man was getting himself into some sort of trouble.
“Well, you know, Marion, it wouldn’t be any fun if I didn’t see a terrorist every time I came to London.”
Marion’s voice took on a serious tone. “Annie called Marci and told her you’ve been hurt and need help. I got the call coming out of a meeting with the national security advisor. What is going on over there?”
Randy spent thirty seconds bringing his friend up to date on his morning’s activities. There was silence for several moments after he had filled in the details.
Marion came back with a question. “Where are you now?”
“I’m at the Agar Station of the Metropolitan Police. It’s close to Trafalgar Square.”
“I know where it’s at,” Marion said. “I’ll make a few calls while I’m on my way to the airport. I will see you in six or seven hours. Try to avoid any more trouble until I get there.”
