November Rain

by Donald Harstad

  At the end of the interview, I said, “What’s the name of this professor?”

  “Pardon?”

  “The one you said Emma was dating. The one whose name you said you’d give us after the interview.”

  “Oh. That one. Yes, it’s Robert.”

  “Robert who?”

  She smiled. “Best I can do. It’s what I have.”

  I was sure she was lying. She wanted to keep the last name from us so she could use that as bait for the next interview. Too bad for her. I thought I already knew it.

  After they thanked us and left, we found ourselves with much of the day ahead of us with nothing to do. There was no point in going back up to Highgate until we collected the girls after classes. We decided to see at least one sight. We started walking west, on High Street. Carson needed an adaptor for English current for his shaver. On the way, we stopped and bought our very own cell phone. The first person I called was Trowbridge, and gave him the new number.

  Kensington Palace was right across the street. We walked through the park, which was, by remarkable coincidence known as Kensington Park, and found ourselves standing in front of the south gate. It was kind of bleak, with the leaves leaving the trees. The stark black wrought ironwork, with gilded tops, was nice. There were three small notes attached to the gate, each with a flower. Not the flood of flowers I remembered seeing on TV when Princess Diana died, but the gesture was still poignant. Especially since we’d found out that Emma was dead just last night.

  After a few moments, Carson said, “Maybe we could do something more cheerful?”

  “Yeah. Let’s walk over this way. There’s that big gold thing over there. Let’s see what that is.”

  We passed a white statue of Queen Victoria at the intersection of two paths. We read the inscription, just to make sure.

  “Wasn’t she the one who was married to Prince Albert?”

  Carson and I had gone to the same high school. “You read that in Lit class? About her as a young girl?”

  “Yeah, I think I did. He was . . . from Saxe-Coburg-Gotha, I remember having to remember that for the final.”

  “The shit you think you’ll never use,” I said.

  The big gold thing turned out to be the Albert Memorial. It had been raised after Albert’s death, and was Queen Victoria’s tribute to him. It was very impressive, and we spent about fifteen minutes reading the names of the scientists and trying to guess who the smaller figures were. We went down the steps of the memorial, re-crossed High Street, and found ourselves in front of an enormous, round brick building. The Royal Albert Hall.

  “I wish somebody would memorialize me like this,” said Carson. “She really must have thought highly of him.”

  We were both quiet, apparently having the same thought.

  “We gotta do something for Emma, when this is done,” I said.

  “Absolutely.”

  “Something really nice.” I looked back across the street to the gleaming memorial. “Really, really nice.”

  Washington, DC

  Intelligence Briefing entitled:“Task, Collect, Process and Use”

  The current group of terrorists are very much influenced by fundamentalist religious beliefs. Previous organizations such as the Red Brigade and Bader-Meinhoff, which were politically motivated and, although violent on what we would now consider a small scale, were more concerned with a message; the current group are motivated by religion and have as their central objective a large number of victims. Rather than campaigning for something that could be considered rightfully theirs, for example; these newer groups are more vengeful in nature, and will kill those who oppose them whether it gains them an advantage or not. It sometimes appears that their ultimate objective is to kill all who oppose them. This would have what they would consider the agreeable result that politics would be unnecessary.

  The truly committed can justify any action as being the will of a supreme being, and therefore are able to suspend any social constraint they otherwise would feel toward another human. This serves to reduce their susceptibility to typical interrogation techniques.

  This phenomenon has produced one other effect that is remarkable. Persuading those committed by religious purpose to abandon their cause is extremely difficult, if not impossible.

  Chapter 14

  Thursday, November 13, 2003

  12:29 Greenwich Mean Time

  I’d placed a call to Sergeant Trowbridge about 10:45 or so, and told the switchboard operator that I’d be back in my room between twelve and one. To save money, we’d gone to Benjy’s near the tube station, and stocked up on submarine sandwiches, chips, and bottled water. The only hard part was trying to look like we weren’t carrying our lunch through the lobby.

  We’d just finished, when the phone rang. It was Sergeant Trowbridge, returning my call.

  I asked what was new, and got a response that surprised me.

  “We’d be most appreciative if we could talk with you later this afternoon. Around three?”

  “Sure.” I knew better than to even ask what about over the phone. Then he asked, politely, if there was anything new with us. I told him about the interview.

  “Ahh . . . I’m not so certain that was wise. With whom did you speak?”

  “Just a sec,” I said, and fished out her card. “The National Sun Express, it says . . . the reporter was a gal named Sarah Mitchell.”

  There was a short silence at the other end. Then, “That’s not a good one to share things with. Not at all. I do hope you didn’t tell her anything.”

  “She already knew who we were. She knew quite a bit about the case. We didn’t mention anything we weren’t supposed to.”

  “I do hope that’s true.”

  “Don’t worry. She did have some information for us, though. About a professor, and who he was dating. And his connections with a certain group.” I was trying to be circumspect due to an unsecured line, and hoped he might have at least some idea what I was talking about. Apparently he did.

  There was another of those pregnant pauses. “I think we’ll be sending a car for you straightaway,” he said. “Do not, and I cannot emphasize this enough, do not talk with anyone. Not even to ask the time. A car will be there in less than five minutes. Go directly to the lift, and stand in the lobby. There will be a uniformed officer there for you.”

  “Ah, okay, sure.”

  I hung up, and said to Carson, “If you gotta use the head, do it now. We have to be in the lobby in four or five minutes.”

  “I’m good. What’s up?”

  “He wanted to see us about three or so. Then, well you heard. He wasn’t all that happy about the interview, but when I mentioned the bit about the professor, he just about crapped. I think we might be in for an interesting afternoon.”

  I don’t think it took more than three or four minutes to get to the lobby. There was a constable waiting for us.

  “You’d be the two gentlemen from the States?”

  I made another mental note to find out just why that seemed to be so obvious. “That’s us.”

  “Right this way, gentlemen,” he said, and ushered past the concierge’s station, out the door, and down the steps to the marked police van that was sitting at the curb, looking about as conspicuous as only a marked patrol vehicle can.

  It was a fun ride.

  We were driven to a place called the Paddington Green police station. It was really close to the Edgeware Road tube station. That would make it convenient for us later. It was a more modern building than I was expecting, by a long shot. Mostly concrete and glass, it was probably a hundred years newer than our Nation County Jail.

  We were ushered in, assisted with security and ID, and escorted through secure doors to an elevator. We were met on the second floor by Sergeant Trowbridge, who escorted us with very few words down a hall to an office identified with a 221 in small numerals. I could tell just from the thickness of the door and the acoustic tiles on the ceiling that it was a secure room. />
  The door shut, he relaxed just a little.

  “I’ve been called twice after I made the first call to tell certain persons what you told me that Ms. Mitchell told you some things. You’ve stirred up quite a bit of interest.”

  “Sorry,” I said, and meant it.

  “Not to worry. Blyth, whom you met last night, is on his way over. Along with, I suspect, his special team. Have a seat.”

  We sat.

  “We’ve begun security surveillance of your daughter and her friend Vicky, this morning.”

  “What?” That took me by surprise. “Is there a threat?”

  “No, no. It’s not that we think they’re in imminent danger,” he said. “But just a precautionary sort of business. There’s someone assigned to each of them. We’ll arrange a formal meeting, and an explanation of the procedures involved, later today.”

  That told me that they wanted to watch them for a while without them being aware of it. Cop work is like that . . . you never want to take a chance, I guess. As a cop, I could appreciate the tactic. As Jane’s father, I was both grateful and irritated. That’s not a comfortable combination.

  It was a very long ten minutes of small talk before there was a knock at the door and Blyth entered. He was accompanied by three younger people: an athletic looking woman of about twenty-five, short blonde hair, who was close to six feet tall, and had bright blue eyes; an equally tall, thin man with short dark hair and glasses, of about the same age; and a shorter reddish haired man who was probably all of thirty.

  “Hello,” said Blyth. “I’d like you to meet Alice, Mark and Geoffrey. They’re all incredibly energetic, and fortunately for me, they’re a large part of my unit.” His face cracked with a wide grin. “I refer to them as Vera, Chuck and Dave.”

  I laughed, but Carson didn’t. Wrong generation?

  “Hello,” said Alice, extending her hand. “Pay him no mind.”

  Carson and I were both standing by that time, and we shook her hand. “It’s nice to meet you,” she said. That was a good start. Mark and Geoffrey were equally polite, and Mark seemed to have a keen interest in the two of us.

  “Never met a US Sheriff before,” he said, sounding very pleased. “Brilliant.”

  “Show him your badge,” said Trowbridge.

  I did so.

  “My,” said Mark. “Are all Sheriff’s badges that fancy, then?”

  “At least in Iowa,” I said. “I’m just a Deputy.” That got a quizzical look. “We do the actual work. The Sheriff himself just kind of runs the place.”

  “The same the world over,” he said.

  “A little respect, please,” said Blyth. “I shouldn’t want to have to tell Mum.” He made motions for everybody to sit. “So,” he said, “I’m given to understand that you’ve made the acquaintance of our very own Sarah Mitchell?”

  “At breakfast,” I said. “We ate at the hotel.”

  “Ah, nothing’s sacred these days,” said Blyth. “Well, then. Let me begin with this; you’re aware of the tabloid press? Sensationalist journalism, and all that?”

  “Oh, yeah.” I knew where this was headed now. I shook my head, and said, “I think I know what’s coming. Sorry about that. We got trapped.”

  “I suppose that couldn’t be helped. You’ve just had an interview with one of the most, well, sensational of them all, at least of the current lot.” Blyth cleared his throat. “So, then. Just what did you tell her?”

  “Not a word,” said Carson, out of the blue. “Carl did all the talking. I didn’t tell her anything.”

  He was still just scared about prison I guess, but he was beginning to sound like a little brother. Just a little exasperated at him, I said, “First of all, I said nothing whatsoever about last night. She knew who we were. She asked for some routine stuff. I told her why we were here in London. Left the politics out, you’ll be glad to know.” He smiled. “About as low-key as I could make it, I think. She knew that my last name and Jane’s were the same, and I couldn’t think of a good reason to try to hide the fact that she’s my daughter. Just cause trouble in the long run, I think. Other than that, not much at all. I did,” I added, to make myself sound a little brighter, “manage to get her to tell me a couple of things first.”

  “Good,” said Blyth. “Did she appear at all reluctant to exchange this information with you?”

  “Hardly. I had nothing to pressure her with. She just started with asking if I knew that Emma was, well, active with dating. I said I knew that. I could tell her stories, in fact. But, I didn’t say that,” I added quickly. “Then she asked if I knew she was dating one of her professors. Emma, not the reporter. I said I knew that, too, but I really didn’t. I figured she didn’t need to know that. So she went another step, because she wasn’t going to get an interview if she only told me stuff I already knew.”

  Alice nodded. Approvingly, I thought.

  “And that’s when she said?” continued Blyth.

  “She said his name was Robert. Then she asked me if I knew that this professor was an activist, and in a group whose purpose was the same as that stated by the hostage takers on that tape.”

  “The one that was aired, then?” he asked.

  “Yeah . . . anyway. . .” I stopped for a moment. “Well, hell, wait a minute. No. It sure as shit couldn’t be, could it? I mean, there was nothing in that tape . . . no voice. No audio. Well, son of a bitch. It was an attached written note, wasn’t it?” I looked at Sergeant Trowbridge. He nodded. “Okay, sure. A note, but that wasn’t published. . . .”

  “No, it wasn’t,” said Blyth. “That’s explainable; as I’m sure she has very good contacts throughout the journalistic community.” He seemed just a little distracted. “What I’d like to know, though, is just where she got this information regarding this professor fellow.”

  “I can’t help you there,” I said.

  His eyes positively twinkled. “Don’t be too sure, Deputy Houseman. Why do you suppose she told you all that she did?”

  I considered what I knew. “Oh . . . I’d say there’s a good chance, based on you guys’ reaction, that she got a hold of something pretty good. I’d also say, since she told me so early on in the bargaining, that she doesn’t really realize exactly what she’s got. Not quite. And the reason she only told me his first name might be that she wanted my cooperation in her story. Personally . . . I think she’d got the last name, and wants to dangle that out there, because she doesn’t think we’ll be able to get it on our own. She’s right, as far as that goes. Well, either that, or she just wants to stir stuff up. Maybe?”

  “Very good,” said Blyth. “Her disreputable broadside is due in the stands in time for the evening rush. Another miracle of the computer age. Let’s wait to see what she says.”

  “Then again,” I said, “maybe she’s got a hard-on for this professor. . . .”

  “Well, yeah,” said Carson.

  “Regardless,” said Blyth, “we may have to ask you to stay in her good graces for a while. There’s every possibility that she knows more, even if she doesn’t realize that she does. You may have to talk with her again.”

  “How difficult could that be, now?” I asked, more of myself than anybody else.

  “Best wait until we’ve seen her article,” he said. “How goes it with your daughter and . . . Vicky, isn’t it?”

  “Not bad. So far, we’ve only talked on the phone today.” But as long as we were on the subject; “You mind if I ask her and Vicky about this professor? Whether Emma ever went out with him?”

  “By all means. If you’d not mind having one of us there.”

  “Sure, we’re gonna meet up at the Highgate tube station about 4:15 or 4:30.” That seemed good enough to me. We talked for another fifteen or twenty minutes, and he said that there had been one or two ‘minor developments,’ that, if they panned out, he’d share with us. We were not to initiate contact with the professor, or anybody we thought might have taken part in Emma’s abduction. We were to stay away fr
om the University, as much as possible, and were to make no attempt to interview students or faculty.

  “Of course, if someone initiates contact with your lot,” said Blyth, “you’ll let us know immediately.”

  “Oh, absolutely.”

  Alice said, “I just want you to know that I think I can appreciate what you’re going through. Having to be less than truthful with your daughter. It’s a horrid situation.”

  “It’s gonna get worse,” I said. “But thanks.”

  “If there’s any way we can help,” she said, “please call.” She handed me her card. “A cover story, perhaps? Or a distraction . . . ?”

  She was dead serious. I appreciated that more than I could ever tell her.

  I took the opportunity of giving her our new cell phone number. Or, at least, trying. I couldn’t remember it, and the paper I’d written it down on was at the hotel.

  “Just call up your number on the display,” said Carson.

  After a few seconds my fumbling delay was getting pretty painful, so I just gave it to him. He pressed a combination of keys, and read the number off almost instantly.

  “That’s what the children are for,” said Blyth.

  Carson brought up the funeral arrangements, and we were once again assured that matters would be expedited, as soon as the remains were no longer being held in secret.

  After that, Carson and I found ourselves, once again, at loose ends. That was difficult, because I knew that all the “other guys” were busy digging, interviewing, and maybe even doing some surveillance. I just couldn’t get comfortable with doing nothing.

  Anyway, we didn’t want to go back up to Highgate, at least without the girls, because we wouldn’t even know where to begin with talking to people up there.

  We decided to go to the Victoria and Albert Museum, to kill time. The Museum, or the V&A as it was called, was absolutely fascinating. So much so, it was nearly 3:15 when we finally got away.

  “Don’t you feel guilty about this?”

  “What?”

  “Oh, you know. Doing tourist stuff. Shouldn’t we be doing more cop stuff?”