Hamza did as he was told. Both were exhilarated by their escape, and the ramifications of the last few minutes hadn’t sunk in.
“That’s the train station over there,” said Anton, pointing. “See?”
“Yes,” said Hamza.
“We go over individually. You go down over that way, and I’ll meet you there in about ten minutes.”
“Why can’t we go together?”
“They’re looking for two men, stupid. We don’t attract as much attention alone. We can melt into the crowd at the station. It’s simple. We just get there alone.”
When they saw each other again, they were the only two people on the upper level of the station. Otherwise, the red trimmed covered area was deserted. Even the concession area was closing down. They had to ask the clerk for directions to purchase tickets.
Once down to platform level, there was a young couple, also waiting for the train to London. They had to stand there for ten minutes, in full view of the whole world, had it cared to look. It didn’t.
They got in to King’s Cross Station well after midnight. They were forced to spend their last cash on a cab. It was either that, or walk nearly five kilometers to Hanadi’s flat in Brewery Square, just across the Thames from the Tower.
When they arrived at the correct address, they buzzed the intercom at the entrance that bore her name card. It hadn’t occurred to them that she might be married, or that she might live with roommates.
A sleepy female voice answered, after a few rings, “Yes?”
“Marwan has sent us,” said Hamza. Which was, in a sense, true.
There was a long silence, long enough that Anton pushed the buzzer again.
“Who are you,” asked the voice, more alert.
“Anton and Hamza, we have your card, remember?”
She did remember, because they were two of four people Marwan had introduced to her. “When I press the lock, come to the top of the stair, I’m the apartment on the left.”
Hanadi, while putting on sweats and stepping into sandals, was assuming that Marwan was in some sort of difficulty with the police. Mentally, she was listing the things that he could have been arrested for. Ever since the BBC broadcast the first of the tapes of the hostage Emma Schiller, she had been dreading the midnight call. Marwan hadn’t told her anything more than they were taking a “willing” hostage, and that they were going to stage a “mock execution.” Terrified, because she knew full well that the penalty would be the same, or nearly so, if they actually did take a hostage and then claim to kill her. She had come very close to calling her father and seeking advice, but had resisted. She didn’t want it to sound to him as if she weren’t truly committed to her course of action. Many times, he had told her to choose her positions wisely, and then to adhere to them. Many times.
There was a soft knock on her door. She looked out the peep hole, recognized the two bedraggled young men, slipped the three deadlocks, and said, “Come in.”
They were obviously upset, and excited, and had not the faintest idea of what to do. In a rush, they told her about being pursued by the police, and abandoning their car.
“Stevenage . . . that’s north, isn’t it?”
“About an hour’s drive,” said Anton.
“I’m not truly clear about what you need,” she said. “I don’t understand what you were doing in Stevenage late at night. Or at any time.”
Hamza inhaled deeply, looked at Anton, and said, “We had her. In the back.”
Hanadi’s insides began to turn cold. “Who? Who did you have?”
“You know, the hostage. Emma Schiller.”
Hanadi swallowed hard. “Would you like some coffee? I need to think.” She moved toward the stove. “So the police have her?”
“Safe bet,” said Anton.
“When you told Marwan,” she said, assuming that he had truly sent them to her, “what suggestions did he have?” She was vaguely surprised that he had not called her before their arrival, but knew security must be carefully observed. Perhaps the time was not right.
“We, uh, didn’t call anybody,” said Hamza. “We just came here because you were the solicitor, you know.”
Hanadi filled the kettle. “Marwan doesn’t know?”
“No. Ah, we really don’t think it would be good to call him yet.”
“I disagree. He must be contacted,” she said, scolding like a mother. “After all, this Emma person must be telling the police everything she knows.”
“Not likely they’ll learn much there,” said Anton.
“I do not know her,” said Hanadi, “but I know she is an American student. She will tell all she knows, believe me.”
Her two fellow cell members exchanged glances. “No,” said Hamza, sadly. “She won’t tell them anything . . . because she is dead.”
Hanadi felt faint. She reached out and held on to the counter as she said, “She is dead?”
They both nodded.
She was irrationally terrified that Marwan had shot her. “Who killed her?”
“He did,” was Anton’s instant response. He nodded toward Hamza.
That was even more of a surprise for her. She turned to face them squarely, leaning against the counter for support. “You were driving about with the body of a woman you had murdered in the back of your car? They can trace it, they’ll know it was yours. . . .”
“No sweat,” said Anton. “It wasn’t our car. We stole it.”
Hanadi, whose area of expertise was in contracts, had appeared in criminal court exactly one time, representing a client’s son on a traffic charge. Here they had handed her a murder and a felony theft.
“Your fingerprints,” she said, dazed. “They will find those . . .”
“I told you we should wipe the freezer,” said Hamza.
“And I told you to bloody well hang about and do it yourself. Sod off!” said Anton.
“Freezer?”
They told her everything, then. Every detail, even the ones they’d only assumed. And, of course, on the part of Anton, the ultimate lie that Hamza had killed Emma. They included Mr. Kazan, the taping, and the most significant of all the details, at least to Hanadi. They told her that Marwan had ordered them to keep the girl hostage, at least until the 21st.
Hanadi was stunned. These things were never part of the original plan.
“You must mean that Mr. Kazan told you to keep her. . . .”
“No, no, it was Marwan. To my face,” said Hamza.
By now, they were seated at her kitchen table, drinking coffee. “You cannot stay here,” she said, as the situation began to truly sink in. “I can’t be any use to you if I am in the jail with you. She is no longer alive, so she can no longer exonerate you by saying she was actually cooperating.”
“Do you really think that Marwan could have pulled that off?” Anton glared at her. “At that last taping . . . I did not get the impression that he could pull that off.”
She continued as if he had never spoken. “You cannot stay here at all. Where will you go?”
They had no idea.
Her legal training began taking over as she sat with them, and so she said, “We need to think. To have a plan. You must go somewhere they won’t think to look.”
“Hide. Oh, that’s absolutely fuckin’ brilliant,” said Anton. “Did they teach you that in Law School?”
She glared at him. “By logically, I mean you have to think everything through, and do it quickly. A process that is obviously unfamiliar to you. If you want me to help, we must think together. Do you understand?”
Neither man said anything.
“Therefore,” said Hanadi, “we need to establish criteria. Where they won’t think to look. Where you can stay for some time. Where you have access to us, and we to you. That means we must stock it with supplies, and that we must establish a contact procedure.” She stopped. “Do you comprehend any of what I’ve just said?”
“Yes,” said Hamza, appreciatively. “I just don’t have any pla
ce other than my real flat, or my mother’s in Portsmouth.” He looked at his partner. “You?”
Anton considered a second. “What about the place where we went with Marwan? When he took us to the old tube station . . . on Down Street?”
Hanadi expressed some surprise. “He took you there, too?” She had gone with him on a guided tour of the old station. He’d explained to her that these tours were quite rare, never admitting more than a half dozen people, and were very difficult to arrange. He’d said that he had some influence because he was writing a book about the Underground. She couldn’t imagine anyone letting them in at all, not to mention allowing two members of a tour to slip away and remain below ground. She said as much to the two young men at her table.
“Tour?” said Anton. “Not likely. He’s got his own way down. He goes to a building, then the sub-basement, was some sort of a shelter years back. And presto. Through the wall and into the tube.”
She was astonished.
“He said that he’d been told about it when he was chatting up the owner,” said Hamza. “The tube wall was only five feet from the sub-basement. Told the owner he was up to researching the tubes for a class at University. Nobody knows about it but him, I think. And the owner.”
“And us,” said Anton.
“Why not just stay in the basement?” asked Hanadi, reasonably.
“Because the bloody owners go down there sometimes, your honor. It ain’t abandoned like the station. You have to think everything through,” he said, with a smirk.
She blushed.
“It’s a restaurant, upstairs at the street level,” said Hamza. “They store vegetables and things in the basement. They have a key they leave for the delivery trucks. It’s under a stone in the rear, a little dock.”
“It’s too close to Buckingham Palace,” said Hanadi. “They’ll be watching.”
“Oh, bugger fuck,” said Anton. “It’s not close enough to matter. You can’t even see bloody Buckingham Palace from there.”
“And, since it’s a restaurant,” said Hamza, “we might be able to borrow some food, late at night. They’ll never miss it.”
“Steal it, you mean,” said Anton. “Just say what you mean. For a bloody killer, you’re so careful. . . .”
“Shut up!” said Hamza too loudly, almost immediately regaining control of himself. “Don’t say that. It was an accident.”
“A fine difference that’ll make,” said Anton. “Ask her.”
Hanadi looked sad as she said, “That is true, I’m sorry to say. After kidnapping her, to kill her even accidentally is a murder.” She looked to Anton. “For both of you, in fact.”
That settled him down.
Mr. Kazan, whose true name was Ahmed Bhatti, was the proprietor of a small antiquities shop on Great Portland Street, just a few blocks south of Regent’s Park in Marylebone. He rose at 06:45, just like every day for the last thirty years, and made his morning coffee. Today, he thought, would be the day to begin to move the plan to the next level. At approximately 7:10, shortly before leaving for his place of business, he placed a telephone call to Chief Inspector John Bassingham, New Scotland Yard Special Branch, at his residence. Chief Inspector Bassingham’s wife, Molly, answered.
“The Bassinghams’, she said, brightly.
“May I speak with John?”
“Certainly,” she said. She thought she recognized the voice as belonging to one of John’s ‘Baker Street Irregulars,’ as she called them. She simply could not abide the other terms that were applied to police informants.
As he waited for John to come to the phone, Mr. Kazan reflected on the purpose of his mission. Imad had been the first to propose recruiting a non-Islamic Englishman into the group, to be used operationally. The particular operation would also be of an experimental variety, whereby the operation would merely serve as a diversion from the real operation. The plan had been opposed from the outset by the fact that it was wisely considered a mistake to trust a non-Islamic associate with a major operational role.
Imad had persisted. He said that it would give the British pause, that it would create the image of the movement being more universal, and not confined to the Islamic world. Anything, he maintained, that disconcerted the infidel was a bonus.
One of the attendant imams had rather condescendingly explained to Imad that those benefits would only accrue if the Englishman were exposed. Mr. Kazan would never forget the sly, satisfied smile on Imad’s face.
“Yes?” said John, a few moments later.
“It is Ahmed. How are you this fine morning?”
“Absolutely brilliant,” said the Chief Inspector. “Yourself?”
“As well as can be expected,” said Mr. Kazan. “Time passes all too quickly.”
“I don’t suppose this would be regarding a bargain coin, would it?” That was the code phrase that Chief Inspector Bassingham always used to indicate that the line was clear, and that he was alone.
“Unfortunately,” said Mr. Kazan, “all that is new is an Antoninous Pius Sestertius, just bronze, I’m afraid. I can let you steal it for ten pounds.” The type of Roman coin varied from conversation to conversation, but the ten pound steal was the confirmation that he, too, was unattended.
It is worth noting at this juncture that Mr. Kazan had not been associated with any particular terrorist group until the late ’80s. He was not a plant, nor was he the result of long-term planning by anyone but himself. He had gotten involved with certain terrorist related groups for financial gain, being paid well to launder funds. His primary connection with terrorism had been his cousin in Tripoli, who had been killed during the Israeli occupation of Beirut in 1982, while with the Palestine Liberation Organization. Although no member of the PLO himself, Mr. Kazan discovered he had a predisposition to be both anti-Israeli and anti-American.
“So. What have you got for me today?” asked Bassingham.
“The unfortunate American girl, the one who was taken hostage?”
“Yes?”
“Allah grant that she be well,” said Mr. Kazan. “I have heard that a group of crazy ones have taken her. You know that, of course. But I was also told that the leader of this group is an Englishman.”
“Really?”
“His name, I am told, is Robert Northwood. I believe he is a professor of English here in London.”
“Really?” This time Chief Inspector Bassingham spoke just a bit more loudly.
“This is only what I am told. I, myself, of course have no knowledge of such things.”
“Of course.” Chief Inspector Bassingham thought quickly. “That is surprising,” he said. “Any idea how he got himself involved in such a sordid business?”
“I hesitate to say this, because it is only a suspicion,” said Mr. Kazan. He paused for effect. “I believe he is the actual leader of the group.”
“Really?”
“This is based only on one small statement. I cannot be certain, and I mean no offense.”
“Naturally not,” said the Chief Inspector.
“That is all I know,” said Mr. Kazan, apologetically. “Do you wish me to ask further in this matter?”
“As always,” said the Chief Inspector.
“I will pass to you what I can discover,” said Mr. Kazan.
“You’ve done well, once again.”
“Than you,” said Mr. Kazan, letting a bit of his true pride into his voice. “I hope that it will benefit you.”
The Chief Inspector put down the phone. Ahmed had originally been an informant in an embezzlement case many years before, and they had maintained an occasional relationship since then. When Bassingham had been assigned to Special Branch, and in particular SO-13, which was the counter-terrorism unit, Ahmed had been of use on two occasions. This made him a reliable informant. That he was a confidential informant went without saying. As such, his true identity was recorded, he was assigned a number, and he was never referred to by anything other than that number in any communication.
&nbs
p; The inspector picked the phone back up, dialing another Inspector.
“Freddy? John here. Six zed one nine just rang me up. Do a check on a Robert Northwood, would you? He’s likely an English Professor, somewhere here in London. We’ll meet in my office before nine.”
Mr. Kazan, the most urgent business of the day already completed, left his flat and walked downstairs to his antiquities shop, confident that he was in control of the situation. He was not, of course, aware that Emma was dead. Neither was he aware that a particular abandoned tube station, adjacent to a restaurant well known to him, had been compromised by Imad’s ego. Imad had told Mr. Kazan that it was he who had discovered the proximity of the tube station to the restaurant, and that it was he who had visited the tube station. Imad had told the truth when he said that he was the one who had the idea of using the restaurant as a storage facility, which would permit access to the abandoned tube station, and an exit to the surface completely separate from and un-related to the Camel restaurant; and that he himself had persuaded the Islamic owner to allow him access to the storage basement. It had not been a conceit on the part of Imad to claim the complete credit; he had done so primarily because he thought the locations so perfect that he feared that Mr. Kazan would prevent their use if he had known the origin had been Robert Northwood.
In the latter assumption, Imad had been entirely correct.
Once in his shop, Mr. Kazan waited for another of his “special customers,” a certain Nadeem whom he had known for many years, and who was the orchestrator of the planned use of the stored explosives. Nadeem had coordinated the two plans; the first being the diversionary kidnapping of the American woman, which had appeared so foolish to Nadeem that he considered it ideal to draw attention from the British Security away from the primary attack. The participants, with the exception of Imad, were entirely dispensable, and Imad would be pulled from the group prior to the start of the operation.
Nadeem’s masterpiece was the primary attack. That attack targeted the British Royal Family, and involved what Mr. Kazan considered the coup of the century. Nadeem had managed to insinuate three of his fighters into the kitchen staff at Buckingham Palace. It had taken two years to accomplish this feat, but the personnel were in place, the explosives were within reach, and all that remained was the execution of the attack itself.
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