November Rain

by Donald Harstad

  Hanadi would not have deemed herself particularly religious, since she did not believe that her religion was the central focus of her life. She had been raised in a religious family, however, and morality was at least as important to her as the law. She needed to know the extent of her obligation to Marwan and the committee. She needed a guide.

  She placed a telephone call to a fellow Muslim whose morality she respected. He had studied the religious texts very intensely, and she thought him to be as informed as anyone she knew. He was not an imam. She knew that. She also knew that he was an admirer of the Infantada and Jihadist movements.

  His advice to her was that a killing, regardless of age or sex or circumstance, was permitted by their religion if it “was justified in the eyes of the Mojahed.”

  The Mojahed. The warriors of God. “Even a woman?”

  “If it was necessary in the mind of the warrior. Why are you asking this?”

  “I was . . . just curious. A member of my firm and I had a discussion. It was nothing, but I wanted to know your thoughts.”

  “I see. So, you have them. Is there anything else, Hanadi?”

  “No,” she said. “Your health is good?”

  “As is yours, I hope.”

  She then called a Muslim counselor whom she had known since her undergraduate days. She asked him the same series of questions.

  “To capture and then kill a woman? It would be a horrible stain on the entire Muslim community. It could not be tolerated.”

  “What if it were accidental?”

  “The taking of a hostage accidental?” He laughed ruefully. “Hardly.”

  “No, but the death. An accidental death. Would that ameliorate the situation?”

  “Ah, Hanadi. Your study of the law has changed you. That is a barrister’s argument. Morally, it would be a disaster, accidental or no. Do you understand me?”

  “Yes. And thank you for answering my question.”

  “Hanadi?” He said her name just as she was about to end the conversation.

  “Yes?”

  “Please tell me you are not involved in anything foolish.”

  The question surprised her, and she hesitated for a moment before she said, “Me? Of course not. You know me. The logical one. No. It’s just the news on the telly, and I started to wonder if it might be thought justified, you know?”

  “Absolutely not, and you’re not the first to ask that question.”

  “No, I suppose not.”

  After those calls, she could think of nowhere else to turn. Reluctantly, she decided that the two in the abandoned station could survive for another day. She would make an appointment with the most respected member of her firm, Sir Henry Culbertson, and ask his advice on a theoretical problem. He was a kind man, and she was confident that she would receive the best advice.

  Regardless, she remained appalled at the turn of events that had resulted in the death of Emma Schiller. The plan, so clearly elucidated by Marwan/Northwood had merely been to kidnap the American, make a demand, and release her shortly thereafter, regardless of the response. She could still hear him say, “If it produces the release of some prisoners in Belmarsh, so very good for us. If it doesn’t, and we release her unharmed and none the worse for wear, then good on us anyhow. We have shown compassion. And we can always claim it was a publicity stunt, and that Emma knew about it all along, willingly cooperated. Our word against hers. The scandal sheets will absolutely devour that one. Publicity is the life blood of any movement.” He had seemed very pleased with himself at the time.

  She could not, for the life of her, understand what had happened to change that plan into a murder, accidental or not.

  Thursday, November 13, 2003

  07:22

  We’d gotten to bed early, by about midnight or so. For once, there were no interruptions. Unfortunately, I was unable to go to sleep. You know how it gets, sometimes, when you’re just too damn tired to drop off? I took a couple of melatonin tablets, a couple of Tylenol, and after a while, I woke up. 7:22, according to the clock. I felt pretty good, considering. While Carson snored at the ceiling, I brewed up some hot water and instant coffee, and turned on the TV. I kept the sound off so Carson wouldn’t be bothered, and watched CNN’s headlines at the half hour. President Bush was coming over, on the 18th. People were unhappy about Iraq. I switched to Sky News. England was gearing up for the World Rugby Championships. They sounded very hopeful, although they’d never actually won the Championship before. It sort of reminded me of Cubs fans.

  I poured a second cup of coffee, opened my laptop, and checked my email.

  The first one was from Sue.

  WE ALL SAW THE TAPES, AS YOU KNOW. WE DON’T THINK SHE LOOKS TOO BAD. OUR HOPES ARE UP. DO YOU KNOW ANYTHING ABOUT THOSE DEMANDS? ALL WE GET IS SOMETHING ABOUT RELEASING PRISONERS.

  ALL IS FINE HERE. NOTHING NEW AT WORK. REALLY, REALLY MISS YOU BOTH. GIVE JANE A HUG FROME ME.

  LOVE, SUE

  That was nice to get. It did, though, make it just that much harder to keep from telling her that Emma was already dead. I could just picture the hopes that seeing her on those tapes had generated. Damn.

  The second was from Sally.

  I KNOW YOU’RE NOT HAVING A GOOD TIME, BUT HOPE YOU CAN HAVE SOME FUN SOONER OR LATER.

  THE REPORT WENT FED EX NEXT DAY AIR. LAMAR NEARLY HAD A HEMMORHAGE. YOU HAVE ANY IDEA HOW MUCH THAT COSTS?

  CONTACTED HESTER AND SHE WILL BE IN TOUCH VIA EMAIL. CAN’T FIND GEORGE ANYWHERE, AND HIS FIELD OFFICE IS NO HELP AT ALL. WE THINK HE MIGHT BE ON SPECIAL ASSIGNMENT OR SOMESUCH.

  YOU NEED A DISPATCHER? I’M ALL PACKED.

  SALLY

  Cool. The file was on its way. The third was from Lamar.

  ORDERED SALLY TO SEND PACKAGE. NO PROBLEM. KEEP AT IT. EVERYBODY ALL EXCITED ABOUT THE TAPE. I AGREE WITH YOU.

  It wasn’t signed, but it really didn’t have to be. I was sort of amazed that he’d actually sent one himself.

  The fourth was from Hester Gorse, Special Agent, Iowa Division of Criminal Investigation.

  HEY, CARL!

  I DON’T ENVY YOU THIS ASSIGNMENT AT ALL. I SAW EMMA ON A TAPE LAST NIGHT. SHE LOOKS GOOD, BUT IT’S NOT A GOOD IDEA TO GET ANYBODY’S HOPE UP AT THIS POINT. THE DEMAND SOUNDS A LOT LIKE THEY COULDN’T THINK WHAT TO ASK FOR. YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN?

  I CHECKED WITH SALLY, AND SHE SEEMS TO HAVE THE COMPLETE FILE. I HAD SOME NOTES, AND WILL GET THEM OVER TO YOU.

  GEORGE IS ON SOME SORT OF NATIONAL SECURITY THING, STILL, YET, OR AGAIN. I’M TRYING TO CONTACT HIM, TOO, BUT SO FAR NO LUCK.

  SPEAKING OF, STAY LUCKY.

  HESTER

  The luck thing was because of the old saying, “I’d rather be lucky than smart.” I’d always agreed with that.

  So. Well, at least the file was on the way. I looked out the window at the people walking their dogs in Kensington Park. It was a beautiful, sunshiny day, the people wore light jackets or sweaters, and the dogs wore busy as only dogs can be. Almost none of them were leashed inside the park, and they were flying all over the place. It was relaxing, just to watch the park and the traffic in the street below. I could have spent my day doing just that.

  The phone rang, waking Carson, and jolting me back to the real world.

  It was Sergeant Trowbridge.

  “I was emailed a copy of the autopsy report early this morning. Do you want to come over, or could I forward it to you?”

  I gave him my email address.

  “Excellent. The only alteration is the victim’s name and sex. I’ve left it off, just in case things go awry. Will that do?”

  “Sure.”

  “If you have any thoughts, feel free to email a reply. But,” he added, quickly, “if there’s something urgent, use the phone. I only get to my email twice a day.”

  “Got it. By the way, my reports on the terrorist incident in Iowa are being Fed-Exed, next day air. Should get it today or tomorrow.”

  “Excellent. Perhaps you should run that over to Blyth, first? Th
ey do that sort of thing. . . .”

  “Sure.”

  He sounded pretty busy, beginning another conversation as he hung up. I thought it was nice of him to call.

  I brought my email program back up, and there it was.

  VICTIM: AGE: 33 SEX:

  PLACE OF DEATH: UNKNOWN

  DATE OF DEATH: UNKNOWN

  PATHOLOGIST: MALLAMPALLI

  DATE OF AUTOPSY: 16/10/03

  FINAL ANATOMICAL DIAGNOSES:

  SKULL FRACTURE, LEFT TEMPORAL BONE, RECENT 2 CM FRACTURE MAXILLIA AND 1 CM FRACTURE, CONCURRENT, OF NASAL BONE

  FRACTURE OF NASAL CARTILAGE

  BRUISES AND ABRASIONS, FACE AND NECK, RECENT

  LIGATURE MARKS, BOTH WRISTS, RECENT

  LIGATURE MARKS, BOTH ANKLES, RECENT

  ABRASIONS, BOTH KNEES, RECENT

  ABRASION, RIGHT ELBOW, RECENT

  BRUISES, UPPER RIGHT ARM AND SHOULDER, RECENT

  POSTMORTEM FREEZING

  AUTOPSY INDICATES: ASPIRATION OF BLOOD AND VOMITUS. AIRWAY COMPLETELY OBSTRUCTED BY BLOOD, VOMITUS, AND MUCUS.

  TOXICOLOGY FOLLOWS. INITIAL CONCLUSION THAT TOXIC SUBSTANCES NOT DIRECT CONTRIBUTORS TO DEATH.

  CAUSE OF DEATH: ASPHYXIATION

  That was it. They hadn’t sent the main sheets, which was all right with me. All they do in those is routine things like weigh your liver, and stuff. What I had was more than enough to tell me what had happened. She’d drowned, in effect. Since the blood and stuff was aspirated, and the airway was completely blocked, it took her a little while to do it. That was an ugly way to go. I hoped that she’d been knocked unconscious before the process started.

  “What’s that?” asked Carson, referring to my computer screen.

  “Autopsy report,” I said. “Have some coffee, before you read it.”

  “What happened to her?”

  I told him. “I sure hope they get whoever’s responsible,” I said.

  “I’d like to get ’em first,” said Carson.

  Now, as a cop, you learn not to say things like that. You just go out and do the job of arresting and charging, and let it go at that. It’s usually satisfying enough. But, here, there was absolutely no chance I’d be able to do that, even if I could. I wasn’t even a private citizen. I was just a tourist.

  “It’d be nice,” I said. “Not a chance, though. Not unless you want to thump people at random. Taking the chance that you just arbitrarily got the right one.”

  “Yeah.”

  “I think you’d have to smack around about fourteen million people, just to be sure,” I said.

  “I get it,” said Carson. “Really.”

  “Assuming that it’s somebody who lives in the London area . . .”

  “So, what do you want to do today?” He poured some hot water into a cup, and added the tube full of instant.

  “I’m not sure. Maybe go to that tube station? I dunno.”

  “That’d be a waste of time.” He took a sip. “Wouldn’t it?”

  “Probably. But if the professor’s been there, and is interested in the place . . . Hell, Carson, I don’t know. But it might help Jane and Vicky.”

  He looked at his watch. “Don’t they do the Changing of the Guard at eleven? We could go see that, and then to that station. They said it was close.”

  “I wonder if they take a tour today? I’m sure they won’t let us in without a guide.”

  “The liability laws are a little different over here,” said Carson, staring out the window. “Here, they just tell you to be careful. You screw up; you’re on your own.”

  “No shit? That’s refreshing.” I thought a moment. “So, then, how do their attorneys eat?”

  I stopped at the desk on the way to breakfast, to see if we could get into the Down Street station. The concierge gave me a really strange look when I asked him to check. We went in the dining room, ate breakfast, and he had his answer for us on our way out.

  “They do have tours, sir,” he said. “But only twice a year and you’ve missed them both.”

  We called the girls in Highgate as soon as we got back to the room. They were very disappointed.

  “You have pretty good contacts, Dad. Could you see if there could be something special done? Like have somebody go with us, who can get in any time?”

  “Very unlikely,” I said. “They’d require some sort of guide, and . . .”

  “Try, would you?” It was the same tone she’d used when she’d tried to wheedle the keys to the family car out of me ten years ago. She got the same answer.

  “Well . . . Okay. But all I can do is ask.”

  “That’s great! Oh, and the security dudes came by. I guess we should have told them that we were cutting classes today.”

  “Oh, yeah. I’ll bet.”

  “They said that one of them can ‘go on days off’ now, if Vicky and I promise to stay together.”

  It made perfect sense to me.

  “You know what?” she asked. “I’ll bet that if we go to that abandoned station, our security guy has to come, too. You think?”

  “Probably.”

  “Then all we need is a guide, or a key,” she said, brightly.

  I called Blyth’s office. One of his staff took the call, and said that he’d get back to me regarding the station as soon as he had some free time. I started to give my new cell phone number to the person at the other end, and he repeated it to me before I was finished.

  “Is that it?”

  “Yep.”

  “Brilliant. We have everything then. He’ll call.”

  I considered it a plus that the number was so readily available.

  Blyth called just as we were sitting down to lunch with Jane and Vicky at a place called Prezzo, just off High Street.

  “I’ve done some checking,” said Blyth, “and we can get you in for a look round tomorrow morning.”

  “No kidding?”

  “We’ve secured a guide,” he said, “but there’s a bit of a problem with security. Your girls’ escort is going to have to be given a day away, due to your president’s visit. It seems that just about everyone will be working from Tuesday next through Friday.”

  “Everyone?”

  “We are supposed to field about 14,000 personnel for security.”

  “Jesus.”

  “Oh that he were included,” he said. “Nonetheless, the Underground require you have official accompaniment. I had a chat with my friend O’Toole who operates the tube, and he was very gracious and wishes to express his concern for Emma. He said that he was more than willing to do anything to help get her back.” He paused. He’d had to lie, too. “So. I have a volunteer on my staff who will tag along on her day off. It shall be Alice, naturally. She seems to have taken quite a liking to your girls. She’ll meet with you at the Down Street entrance at 09:00 sharp. Shouldn’t take more than an hour or two.”

  “She doesn’t have to do that . . .”

  “True. But she does want to do it. She’ll be good company, and I’m sure you’ll find her quite resourceful.”

  I smiled to myself, remembering the ‘barrister’ bit. “I’ve seen that. She certainly is.”

  Jane and Vicky were quite happy that their security tail had been taken off. I’m sure they didn’t think they really needed it, and I could only agree with that. The odds were very great against either of them being targeted at this point. Although, to be truthful, I thought they were safe because Emma was dead, and that another hostage or two wouldn’t fit with whatever their plans were. I wasn’t sure why Jane and Vicky were so certain, and I didn’t ask.

  We spent the rest of the day at the girls’ flat in Highgate, looking up tube information on the net, and periodically checking with our hotel to see if the FedEx package had arrived. I took the tube back down to our hotel to pick up my laptop. I was inordinately proud of myself for making it that far without getting lost. I have to admit the color coding of the tube lines helps a lot.

  When I got back to Highgate, I found that the oth
ers had been shopping while I was gone. We were now the proud possessors of flashlights, or torches as I was informed they were called over here; much bottled water; two ‘tins’ of Walker’s shortbread cookies; and a travelers first aid kit.

  “Good Lord,” I said. “You guys expecting to be gone a long time?”

  “We just got things we might need,” said Jane.

  “A first aid kit?”

  “Sure, Dad. If we do find Emma, it might be a good thing to have. Not to think negative, you know? But just in case.” She was so serious, I almost told her. Almost.

  Rather than lie, or say something I knew would mislead, I said, “How good are those shortbread cookies?”

  “They’re delicious,” she said. “But they’re for tomorrow.”

  She gets more like her mother every day.

  “Did you remember to bring your camera? There might be evidence we need to record.”

  As a matter of fact, I had, but just to record the occasion for Sue. I came close to spilling the beans again.

  “Got it,” I said.

  “Do you have a tape recorder?”

  “Uh . . . no. I didn’t bring one.” I hadn’t been packing to do a crime scene investigation.

  “Geeze, Dad.” She held out a small recorder. “I use it for lectures. There’s a fresh tape inside.”

  Chapter 17

  Friday, November 14, 2003