November Rain

by Donald Harstad

  When I got the phone back, the first thing I said was, “Let me know as soon as you get a flight. Try to get into Heathrow, it’s really close. I’ll find a way to meet you.”

  “Right . . .” I could tell she’d been crying.

  “She’s really fine,” I said. “Just still a little dopey. But I know she could use you for a few days, just to make sure she takes it easy and stuff.”

  After I broke the connection, Jane said, “Mom comin’ over?”

  “You bet.”

  She gave a very faint smile. “Can she bring Margaret?”

  Margaret is Jane’s dog.

  Chapter 19

  Saturday, November 15, 2003

  16:00 Greenwich Mean Time

  Carson, Vicky and I were just standing around in the waiting area while a couple of nurses did stuff with Jane, when two women showed up. They weren’t together, but they got off the elevator about a minute apart.

  The first was Sarah Mitchell, sans photographer, at least as far as I could tell, although I began glancing around the area immediately.

  “How is she?” was the first thing she said.

  “She’ll be just fine.”

  “Do you have any idea who the assailant was?”

  “Look,” I said, and I sounded tired even to myself, “I really don’t have the time right now. Really.”

  “I know, but. . . .”

  At that moment, the second woman stepped out of the elevator. It was Alice.

  I waived, and stepped right over to her, intercepting her a good fifteen feet from the redoubtable Sarah Mitchell.

  “Mrs. Peel, I presume?” Alice actually blushed. “You did a fantastic job back there,” I said.

  “How is she?” asked Alice.

  “Gonna be just fine,” I said, as I heard voices behind me. Carson was talking to Sarah Mitchell. I got some satisfaction that, at least this time, he wouldn’t be able to blame all the leaks on me. Unfortunately, the voices were getting closer.

  “We should talk,” said Alice, under her breath. She raised her voice as Carson, Vicky and Sarah Mitchell approached. “Would you excuse us? I have some advice for Mr. Houseman. . . .” I’d almost forgotten she was my ‘solicitor.’

  As we walked away, I looked sternly toward Carson. He didn’t even seem to be aware we were leaving. Vicky smiled, and nodded. She’ll keep an eye on him, I thought. I hoped.

  Alice and I strolled down the corridor, past the nurse’s station, and turned into a short dead end kind of place that had a window. Nobody else was there.

  “Our very own alcove,” said Alice. “Excellent. Now, to begin with they weren’t homeless,” she said. “They were bedraggled, but they definitely were not homeless.”

  I knew who she was talking about. “I agree,” I said. Sometimes you just have to say something.

  “Special Branch assure me that the one we have is not a gang member. Just why he was there, we don’t yet know. He had complete identification on him. You saw that. He’s simply not talking, as yet. He hasn’t been charged as yet, but he shall be confronted with a charge of attempted murder.”

  Good. “What’s his name? If you can tell me.”

  “Jamal Essabar.”

  “Middle Eastern?”

  “Yes. But that doesn’t mean much . . . and certainly not what you might think.” She said that with a smile.

  “Yeah. So, what does he do?”

  “We’re checking. I came over as soon as I could. We may even know by now.”

  “I’m curious, that’s all.”

  “Of course. That’s very understandable. Did you see that cheese box on the floor, near the far wall? It was behind where I had him on the floor.”

  Now that she mentioned it, I thought I had. “About so long . . . ?”

  “Yes. That’s the one.”

  “Yeah. Wood. So that’s what it was. Sure.”

  “It was labeled as cheese in Arabic,” she said. “The small hole where the first subject got away? It leads into a sub-basement of a near-eastern restaurant. They apparently stole the cheese from that location, as I’m told there are several identical boxes in the basement. I looked in the box to see how much they’d eaten . . . to tell how long they might have been hiding down there.

  “Excellent.” I meant that. Good piece of work.

  “There were just a few millimeters off one end,” she said.

  “Okay . . .”

  “There’s something about it’s origin that we’re checking.”

  “What?” I was thinking about several things, and the unexpected observation threw me for a second.

  “The cheese. There’s something about the cheese that’s got some attention from our experts. I can’t say what, as yet. But I have an idea what it is they’re so concerned about. I was just old that as I was leaving.”

  “You have experts in cheese?”

  “Not precisely.” She smiled again. “Also, there were blankets and some other food items. There’s also a small bag of trash that contains two empty cans of soup that match one of the un-opened cans they had in their little cache. My guess is they’d been bivouacked there for a day or two, at best.”

  “But we have no idea why they were there?”

  “Not as yet.”

  “Anything on the identity of the second one?”

  “No.” She lowered her voice even further. “We do have two men we believe to be them, on surveillance video. They’re walking, after leaving a car in the vicinity of the restaurant, last night.”

  “You had the place under surveillance?” I was astonished. Impressed, but astonished.

  “Oh, no. There are cameras in place all about London. The Mets run them, and they hold video for a time. We just asked for a look up on the cameras that might cover their access routes. The installation at the intersection of Down and Brick Streets got them.”

  “I didn’t know that.”

  She gave me a questioning look.

  “About the cameras. How cool.”

  “Quite useful,” she said.

  “I’ll bet. Over in the US, I think the ACLU would go nuts if we really tried that.”

  “We had a few murmurs,” she said. “Now, they’re ignored until they make themselves useful in criminal cases. Then they’re appreciated.”

  Her information seemed to be at an end. “I just can’t believe we’d run into those guys. Damn it. I would have been more alert, I guess, if I hadn’t known what I knew.”

  “You mean about Emma.”

  “Yeah. Honest to God. That fricking little secret just keeps making things worse and worse.”

  “Yes,” she said. “And in unanticipated ways.” She took out her PDA, and checked it. “Oh, yes. The most important question . . . would you be able to identify the second man again, if you were to see him?”

  “You bet. Not a doubt in my mind.”

  Her brow wrinkled. “You’re certain? It was gloomy, and you only had seconds. . . .”

  “He’s got a crescent shaped cut in his forehead from my flashlight,” I said. “Just a little off center. It was only oozing when I saw it, but he should have a hell of a bruise and a lump, by now, too. Other than that, he’s stocky. Thick, squarish head. Dark hair. Sort of a beard . . . not all that bushy. Brown eyes. Dark brown jacket.” I chuckled to myself. “Dazed or glassy look, if you find him soon enough.”

  We headed back down the corridor. “You know,” I said, “I’m always telling Jane that there’s no such thing as a coincidence. I mean, not in life in general. Coincidences do happen. Just not in a case you’re working on.”

  “Indeed.”

  “Those two shouldn’t have been there.” We walked a little further. “So, I have to conclude it isn’t part of the case, don’t I?”

  “Logically.”

  “Yeah. Did you know that Sue . . . excuse me, my wife, is coming over to be with Jane?”

  “No. What a wonderful idea.”

  “It sure is. Really. But it’s also somebody else I’
ve got to lie to, now. Any idea when they’re going to “discover” Emma for public consumption? This is getting old in a hurry.”

  “I think when we receive the next tape. . . . Perhaps after that. It is becoming more difficult for you, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah.”

  Her cell phone rang, and as she answered it, I rejoined the group outside Jane’s room. Carson was just finishing up with some of the lurid details of Jane being stabbed, and of him being one of those who disarmed the villain. I let him go on. It had nothing to do with Emma’s case, and his over-cooperation right now would make him even more believable when he got back into denying the Emma details. Was I rationalizing? Probably. But I was just so damned tired.

  Just as he wound things up, Alice rejoined the group. She had a frown on her face, and I hoped that she hadn’t been zapped for hanging around with us.

  There was just a pause in the conversation, and then Sarah Mitchell said, “I have a proposal for you, if any of you have the time.”

  “What would that be?” I didn’t want any headlines with Jane, especially with the Sarah Mitchell treatment.

  “I think I can . . .” and she lowered her voice so far that we all leaned in, “. . . now this has to be just between us right here. Nobody contacts the authorities, understood?”

  Nobody said anything.

  “Right, then,” she continued. Her voice got even lower. “I believe I can put you in contact with Professor Northwood.”

  Alice’s eyes widened, but she didn’t say a word.

  “Really?” I sounded as skeptical as I could. “He’s a hard man to find.”

  “I have a source,” said Sarah Mitchell. “But in exchange, I need you to do something for me.”

  “I knew that was coming,” I said, lightly. “I don’t know what we could have that you’d want.”

  “Given the tone of the last article,” said Alice, officiously, “I really do feel that, if you decide to talk to this woman, I should be present. There’s an enormous potential for libel.”

  To my surprise, Sarah Mitchell just sighed, and said, “Fine. Fine, I don’t object to that. But no one says anything outside this group. That’s an absolute condition.”

  “I’m afraid I must tell my senior partner,” said Alice, not missing a trick. She gave a brilliant smile. “I suspect they’re like editors?”

  “But not one other person,” said our intrepid reporter. “Not one.”

  “I swear I shall tell no one else,” said Alice. “Absolutely.”

  “Well, then, what I’d like from you is permission to go with you back to the Down Street station. At least a couple of you. I understand,” she said, looking at me, “that you might not be available. I’d like you there, but I do understand.”

  That was big of her. “Thanks.”

  “I do have a heart,” she said, brusquely. “So, then, what shall it be?

  “Photos, I suppose,” said Alice.

  “Of course. A reenactment.”

  “Then I must insist, that while I accompany those who are going, my photograph must not be taken.”

  “Shy, are we?” asked Sarah Mitchell, looking up at her.

  “Professional conduct,” said Alice, primly. “We serve our clients best if we aren’t the focus of any articles.” That was certainly true.

  “Trust me,” said Sarah Mitchell, “you won’t be the focus. But I agree. No photos of you.” She turned to Carson. “You’ll be coming?”

  He looked at me, and I nodded. With Alice there, he couldn’t get into too much trouble. After all, Alice could probably whip him with one arm tied behind her. Not that he’d necessarily mind that.

  “Sure,” said Carson. “You want to go back, Vicky?”

  She surprised me by saying that she’d go. I did think that her desire to find and rescue Emma was the predominant reason, and I felt bad about that. But I also suspected she wanted to be along to keep an eye on Carson for personal reasons.

  “So, in exchange,” I said. “We get . . . what?”

  “Let me contact my source,” said Sarah Mitchell.

  “We get the location first, before anybody goes,” I said. “And we talk with him first, too. Not that I don’t trust you. It’ll just work better that way.”

  “Done, unless it takes two or three days to firm him up. I can’t be dealing with old news, and your president is here Tuesday. Your lot will hardly be the most interesting Americans here then. Oh, and there’s another little condition, if you don’t mind?”

  “What?” asked Alice.

  “This is my exclusive, the story in the station. And it’s my exclusive with the professor, as well.”

  “The professor? How can you go exclusive on that?” I asked.

  “Because I’ll come with you to chat him up,” she said, brightly. As if to clinch it, she looked at Alice and said, “And I suggest your solicitor be along for that one, too. In case tempers become an issue.”

  After she left, Alice said, “And just when I thought this case had turned into a true gallimaufry. . . .”

  “A what?”

  “Gallimaufry. A disorganized mess.” She smiled. “What I think you over there would refer to as a bit of a cluster fuck.”

  “You got that right,” I said. “We over there would.”

  “You’d best get back in to be with Jane,” said Alice. “I need to make some calls. . . .”

  Chapter 20

  Saturday, November 15, 2003

  16:45 Greenwich Mean Time

  Blyth checked a printed list on his desktop, dialed his phone, and said, “John, please. It’s Adrian.”

  Chief Inspector John Bassingham came on the line almost instantly. “Blyth? Just about to call you.”

  “Me, first, John. Have you heard from Goodenough?”

  “Not since this morning.”

  “Ah. Just rang me up. They’ve found a fair bit of Semtex in the Underground.”

  “Bloody hell!”

  “My words, exactly, John.”

  “Where?”

  “An abandoned station, Down Street. Piccadilly line between Hyde Park and Green Park, actually.”

  “How much is a fair bit?” asked Bassingham.

  “In the actual station, some five kilos, I believe.”

  There was some relief in the Chief Inspector’s voice. “Ah, well, it could be much worse, now, couldn’t it?”

  “Yes, but here’s the interesting part, John. They’ve found a bit more in a sub-basement of a restaurant near the station. One can pass directly from the restaurant, it seems, and into the station.”

  “Don’t make me ask you how much was in the restaurant, Adrian,” said Bassingham. “I hate it when you enjoy these.”

  Blyth chuckled. “Done. Forty-one kilos, to be exact, John.”

  “Bloody hell! Surely not?”

  “Well, about fifteen kilos of Semtex, actually. And twenty-six kilos of Torpex/RDX. The difference, Goodenough assures me, is minimal.”

  “Twenty-six kilos of RDX?”

  “Indeed.”

  “That could very well mean two sources,” said Bassingham. “And two very different targets, as well.” Torpex/RDX was known for its underwater use, while Semtex was normally associated with explosions in dryer environments.

  “Or not,” said Blyth.

  “There’s got to be a target in mind . . . who controls it?”

  “That’s the question, John, isn’t it?” Blyth leaned back in his chair. “Absolutely no word from signals. No informants have gotten to us as yet. No information coming our way about this one, at all. No source. The Semtex was definitely manufactured after Lockerbie, by the way.”

  “Metalic traces?”

  “Right.” Semtex was manufactured in the Czech Republic, and they had added metal traces to make it detectable by airport X-ray equipment after the Pan am flight 103 that crashed at Lockerbie, Scotland in December of 1988. Semtex had been the explosive used in that incident. “They tell me it also has that odor.” The odor,
too, had been added to what had originally been a nearly odorless plastic explosive.

  “How’d you lot get involved?” asked Bassingham.

  “Strangely, as seems all too likely these days. The American girl. Schiller, in the hostage tapes?”

  “Yes?”

  “One of her roommates, actually. She and some friends, including the one girl’s father, went looking for the Schiller girl in the abandoned station,” said Blyth.

  “And they stumbled on explosives? Unlikely, Adrian, don’t you think?”

  “Would have thought so, yes, but our girl Alice was along. They disturbed two men lurking in the old station, and one of them stabbed the American girl. In the confusion, one suspect succeeded in fleeing. Crawled through an access, I’m told, and eventually led us to the restaurant.”

  “How contained is it?” asked Bassingham. “The information?”

  “Only we folk, so far as the explosives are concerned. The Met handled the stabbing. The Fire Brigade was first at the scene. They bundled the victim off via tube, in fact. Stopped one of the trains . . . Down Street is an emergency fire exit. Ought to have been some surprised passengers on that one. And a bloke named Hicks, who takes the occasional tour group through Down Street. They’re chatting up the one they arrested even as we speak. I’ve not word on that, yet. He’s at Paddington Green, if you want to send someone over.”

  “Islamic?”

  “I believe so, yes.”

  “Damn,” said Bassingham. “I was hoping . . . ah, well. Lord, I hope it has nothing to do with our friends around Finsbury Park.”

  “Nothing at all, so far,” said Blyth. There was a mosque at Finsbury Park that had been raided at least twice, having been used by some radical Muslims to plan, and store, for terrorists acts. It was an extremely sensitive issue, and not having it involved in any way with this mess would be a very positive thing.

  “Who’s doing the interview?”

  “Just the Met, so far, John. Alice has hung about, but mainly because she was a witness. I’d like to be rather circumspect regarding this. I really want that last tape from these people, whoever they are.”

  “As do I. Let me send a pair over. Do the Mets know about the explosives?”