November Rain

by Donald Harstad

  “Interesting. Who tells her?”

  “This Imad fellow. Sounds knowledgeable.”

  “Specifically a thousand pounds, though?”

  “Yes, sir. That’s what it says.”

  “I’ll read the minutes today, but tell me, what impression have you got from it?”

  Rose hesitated. “I’d say that there’s another bunch, separate from this lot. But closely related.”

  He sounded a little hesitant. “Something wrong?” asked Blyth.

  “Ah, well, I wouldn’t even think that, really, weren’t it for them actually having explosives in their control, now. These three main participants, well they don’t seem to have what it would take to actually obtain Semtex. To my mind.”

  Blyth found that very interesting. Rose had been about this business for a long time, and had very reliable instincts. “Get them to my desk by nine, would you?”

  Blyth was just re-entering his home when his mobile phone rang for the second time. It was Chief Inspector John Bassingham, who had some news of his own.

  After Bassingham had given him the sordid details concerning the bogus footman at Buckingham Palace, Blyth said, “Well, I should guess that’s going to make it damnably difficult to tell the Americans that we can handle the security, isn’t it, John?”

  “Not to mention the Home Secretary, the pm, and the Queen,” said Bassingham. “Just to name a few. Christ, what a cock-up.”

  “Indeed.”

  “I’d like to wring that Ryan Parry’s neck for this.”

  “Oh. Yes, him. Isn’t he the one,” asked Blyth, “who did the bit at Wimbledon last summer?”

  There was a black silence.

  “Ah,” said Blyth. “I thought so. Well, we mustn’t shoot the messenger, John. There is obviously a hole in the security fence that needs fixing.”

  “Yes,” sighed Bassingham. “But it’s going to be a severe distraction at a very bad time.”

  “Who’s for the headsman on this one?”

  “Percy, I’m afraid. It’s all his operation over there.”

  “A shame,” said Blyth. “Although I suspect we shall all be wise to check our pension funds over this. By the way, I do have some good news,” he said, and told him about his earlier call. The information retrieval in the Northwood case was a shared venture, and Bassingham would very likely have the same information presented to him at some point this morning. Blyth simply didn’t want to take the chance that it would be lost in the flap over the Palace.

  “A ray of sunshine. Thank you,” said Bassingham. “And, we’re nearly at my office. It looks to be one of those endless days.”

  “My thanks for the prior warning,” said Blyth. “Didn’t realize you were in your car. If there’s any way we can help, do let us know.”

  “You might send me an application form,” said Bassingham, and terminated the conversation.

  Highgate

  10:02 Greenwich Mean Time

  “Hey, Dad! You . . .”

  The rest was unintelligible. I was shaving, and was lucky I even heard Jane over the running water. “What? I can hear you, but . . .”

  “Get in here!”

  She was in the living room. As I came around the corner, I saw a Royal Carriage, on some sort of State detail, with liveried people, and beautiful horses. “Yeah?”

  “See that? One of those guys is a newspaper man!”

  “What?”

  “The footman . . . see him, that one there!” She pointed to a head within a superimposed circle on the screen.

  I must have looked remarkably blank, and with half my face covered with shaving cream, a little silly as well.

  “He went undercover at the Palace. Buckingham Palace! He was there for months. Taking pictures. He was right up to Bush, and Rice, and Powell, and everybody, not to mention the Royal Family. And nobody caught on!”

  “Holy shit,” I said.

  “Yeah! He walked out last night. Nobody had the faintest notion,” laughed Jane. “He’s done this stuff before. He gave a buddy from his local pub as his reference!”

  I watched as more footage showed the same footman at a Palace window, making sort of a surreptitious signal to whoever was running the camera from outside the Palace grounds.

  “Heads are gonna roll,” I said.

  “The Tower, at least,” said Jane, thoroughly delighted.

  “I hope it’s none of our guys,” I said, and turned to go back to finish my shave.

  “What?”

  Communication is a strong suit in our family. “I said . . .”

  “Our guys?” asked Jane. “Like, who?”

  “Blyth could be a candidate, I’d think. I don’t know just how much he has to do with Palace security, but it could be him. Trowbridge, too, for that matter. Special Branch is probably involved somehow.”

  “Oh, I hope not. Alice?”

  “I wouldn’t think so.” As we talked, I got interested again, and sat down on the couch.

  “Forget something?” asked Sue, looking at my soapy face as she came in from the kitchenette.

  “You really gotta see this, Mom. You’re not gonna believe it. I wonder what Vicky’s going to hear at school?”

  “Wonder who this reporter works for?” I asked. “Oh, boy. Not anything to do with Sarah Mitchell, I hope.”

  “No, really not,” said Jane. “This was the Mirror. An exclusive. They have to say that every time they broadcast this story.”

  “You know,” I said, “it’s kind a funny, isn’t it? I mean, it’s serious, too. But it is funny. . . .”

  There was general agreement.

  “I’m really glad, though,” I said, “that whoever’s responsible, I’m not in their shoes right now.”

  “Tyburn,” said Jane. “That’s where they used to do the public hangings. Tyburn hill. You suppose we should go hang out, just in case?”

  The pun was intended.

  Buckingham Palace

  10:44 Greenwich Mean Time

  Ralph Vincent was the US Secret Service Agent assigned to coordinate the security around the presidential entourage while in the UK. He was standing in the inner courtyard of Buckingham Palace, among several vehicles which had arrived bearing some dozen additional personnel for his detail. Inside, the president was meeting with British Conservative Party and Liberal Democrat leaders. Separately. Shortly, they would be off to Banqueting House, Whitehall Palace where he would deliver a speech. After that, he would meet privately with family members of British soldiers killed in action in Iraq.

  Vincent was with his British counterpart, Percy Uxbridge, who had just returned from a brief personal talk with the Home Secretary.

  “I’m really sorry,” said Vincent. “It could happen to anybody.”

  “Nice of you to say so,” said Uxbridge.

  “Regardless, we’re gonna need additional sweeps ahead of the man. I know you’ve done a great job, but you understand where I’m coming from on this.”

  “I do. We’re pulling in additional specialized personnel for the remainder of the visit. We’re re-vetting anyone hired in the last thirty-six months, by the way. As well as all the family members he’s to meet this afternoon.”

  “Really? The last thirty-six months? That’s a little severe.”

  “That has nothing to do with your president,” said Uxbridge. “It’s the entire list of personnel who may have any close proximity to the Royals, Parliament, and the various government agencies.”

  “That’s gonna cost,” said Vincent.

  “It is. MI5 are on twelve-hour shifts as of this morning.” Uxbridge straightened himself and said, “Senior staff on twenty-four hour availability. So, this group is going to conduct a sweep, is it?”

  “Yeah. We really appreciate you letting us do this.

  “It would be damned difficult to object at this point,” said Uxbridge. He produced a brittle laugh. “I can be assured none of your agents is in the employ of the Washington Post?”

  Vincent laughed.
“Don’t think so, Percy. If there is, we shoot him.”

  There was a bass hum, faint at first, growing louder very quickly. Moments later, a United States Marine Corps CH-53E came into view, its grey paint making it hard to discern against the cloudy sky. It went into a hover, and disappeared behind the inner section of Buckingham Palace.

  “That’s the one?” asked Uxbridge.

  “Yep. That one will pick him up, if there’s an incident. If he’s not injured, they fly him straight up to Wethersfield, to the E-4B up there. Call sign Gordo. If he’s injured, he doesn’t go to Gordo, he goes straight to the nearest hospital. If his health permits, he goes straight from there to Air Force One at Heathrow.” He pressed his hand to his ear, to monitor some radio traffic. “Air Force One has medical facilities. Gordo doesn’t.”

  “Right. The helicopter flies car and all?”

  “You bet. If the limo is operational, it drives right up the ramp and into the chopper. If the limo is down, we pick him up in an alternate vehicle. We have LZ’s picked out all along the route. The RAF was very helpful.”

  “Well, we should go back inside,” said Uxbridge. “I can’t begin to tell you how I hate this. Everything, all our scheduling, has been thrown into a cocked hat. We’ll have to reassign personnel ad hoc, which is going to play bloody hell with many of our other operations.”

  Great Portland Street

  11:00 Greenwich Mean Time

  In his antiquities shop, Mr. Kazan sat, a copy of the Mirror in his hand, having just finished the article about the sham footman at the Palace. He was staring into space, his mind racing. He had a potential catastrophe on his hands, and was frantically considering his options. First and foremost, he needed to use his assets wisely and decisively. The number of terrorists available in London who possessed the two seemingly opposed characteristics of patience and a willingness to blow themselves up was very small, indeed. Those who could gain employment at the Royal Household were even rarer. He had considered ordering them to act immediately, but thought that to be very unwise. First, because the flap that had to be going on at the Palace, together with the additional security personnel accompanying the president, made any chance of their success most unlikely. Besides, the distraction of the fruit truck with a bomb would be out of the question at this short notice; and it would very likely be much less effective today, anyway.

  Even tomorrow, he thought, might be too late. Additional background investigations were bound to be done in the wake of this damned reporter. And since the Mirror article had made such a great thing of the deficient screening process, the security services were bound to begin a re-examination of applications immediately. How far back they would go he didn’t know, but the risk was great that his three associates would be discovered. To have them taken without completing their mission was unthinkable. To have them strike and miss might serve some purpose, but these were very valuable assets and not easily replaced.

  He tapped his fingers on the top of his desk. He wondered if the sacrifice of one of them in a futile bombing would be useful. That was possible, but very unlikely. Besides, Nadeem had insisted that three was the minimum number to make a successful strike at such a heavily protected target. That could still be true.

  Then the three simply had to be pulled out. Their identities could be changed quickly, and they could be kept in a safe place for at least a while. Mr. Kazan had always considered suicide bombers to be an unreliable group, at best, although he would never utter that sentiment to anyone. These three, having their end in sight, and suddenly being exposed, would be extremely likely to undergo an enormous psychological letdown, and therefore be much more prone to divulging information if questioned.

  They had to leave. And, hopefully, in such a way that he would be able to utilize them again, at a later date, although probably only if they’d been properly reconstructed, preferably in the care of someone suitably devout. That was a matter for the future. He picked up his phone.

  “They have to be gotten out, as soon as possible, but no later than this evening,” he said to Nadeem. He listened briefly to the argument he’d expected. “This decision has been made at the very highest level,” he said, “with great risk.” The implication was that someone hiding from American bombers on the Afghan-Pakistan border had just spoken with him, and had run a risk of death to do so. This was not true, although it could have been, and it certainly produced the desired result. Mr. Kazan had the full confidence of his superiors, and knew it.

  When the conversation was finished, he sat very still, composing himself. Years of effort, gone for nothing. He stood, abruptly. “Only nothing if you say so,” he said to himself. “They are smart. Perhaps we could teach one of them to fly. . . .”

  The planning to use the three bombers in another operation began at that moment.

  Highgate

  15:09 Greenwich Mean Time

  While Jane took an enforced nap, Sue and I played Scrabble at the kitchen table and listened to the news on the tube in the living room. Lots of the coverage was about Thursdays playing of the World Cup finals in Rugby. New Zeeland and France were battling for third and fourth place. We assiduously avoided discussing the events that had led to Jane being injured. Well, I know I did, and Sue didn’t bring it up.

  Sue had leveraged Jane into the nap by promising that we’d go out for supper tonight. We weren’t sure just where, and were sort of waiting for Vicky and her escort Carson to come back from school, when Alice called.

  She told me that we were on for tonight, about 23:00.

  “Tonight?”

  “That’s when we expect him home. He’s taking the train. We need to do it this evening because there have been some schedule changes in the Department.”

  “Because of the footman thing?”

  “Likely. We lose all eyes-on surveillance tomorrow, except for one team of two. We’ll have two teams if we go for him tonight.”

  “Okay.”

  “Has Sarah Mitchell contacted you yet?”

  “No, not a word.”

  “We shall contact her, then. I’m fairly certain that she’d try for tomorrow,” said Alice. “Let me ring her up, and say that you have another appointment that might take most of the day tomorrow. Something medical with Jane. I’ll suggest tonight.”

  “How’re you gonna pull that off?” I wanted to hear this.

  “She’s got most of her information from his departmental secretary at the school,” said Alice. “She’s only been told that he will be back for class on Thursday, at ten forty-five am. We, on the other hand, know where he is. He needs to take the train in order to return here, and the scheduling would work out much more easily if he were to arrive tonight.”

  “Nice deduction,” I said.

  “He also told someone that he was going to return to London tonight.” There was some amusement in her voice.

  “Confirmation always helps.”

  “One of ours is actually on the train with him as we speak,” she said, the lilt in her voice becoming more obvious. “They left at 14:10 and will arrive at approximately 19:24 at Euston Station. A ten minute taxi ride, and he’s home.”

  “Cool. But that’s cheating.”

  “Tisn’t. That shall give Sarah Mitchell three hours to contact him, make the urgent appointment for an interview, and get us in there.”

  I thought that was going to be pretty close. “What if somebody talks to him before then?”

  “It’s taken care of. He has delivery of the Times, and they’ve disappeared. He’ll receive no incoming calls, except from our Sarah Mitchell. And all outgoing calls will receive a busy signal.”

  “You can do that?”

  “We can even fake his voice mail,” she said.

  “His computer?”

  “Piece of cake,” she said. “His server is down. No email, no net.”

  I decided to play the game. “He could always go to a pay phone. . . .”

  “He’ll be entirely to busy,” she said.r />
  “TV?”

  “He actually doesn’t own one,” said Alice.

  “Okay. But this interview business won’t be a tip-off?”

  “We can trust Sarah Mitchell to see to that,” said Alice. “She can insinuate herself in anywhere.”

  “I believe that. Hey, while I’ve got you on the phone, is there some place nice to eat you’d recommend. We’re taking Jane out for dinner tonight.”

  “She’s well enough?”

  “Oh, yeah. Sure. Fine.”

  “Well, if you’d like to dress a bit? That sort of thing?”

  “Sure.”

  “Let us make a reservation for you. You three, plus Carson and Vicky?”

  “Yep.”

  “I’ll call you in ten minutes,” she said. “I know the perfect place, and I can pick you up there for the interview.”

  MI5 Headquarters

  Thames House

  London

  16:21 Greenwich Mean Time

  “No, that’s not the way it works,” said the supervisor. “If your bloody shift ends at ten, you are done at ten. Not ten and then time to go home, or return to the office, or stow your gear or anything of the sort. Ten is bloody ten. If it takes half an hour to get to your check-in point, then leave at nine bloody thirty!”

  “Sorry,” said the agent.

  “We’ve got so much overtime building up now. . . . No nonsense. Do you hear me? None. End of shift is when you’ve got yourself and your kit back to your hotel, or your office, or your bleeding bivouac. Not when you leave your assignment.”

  “Naturally.”

  “If you want triple time, with crumpets, emigrate and join the FBI”

  “Got it.” The agent started out the door. “Unless we’re actually involved. . . .”

  “Go away!”

  In London that day, there were some 14,000 police and security personnel working the US presidential visit. Due to the large number of protestors, even the traffic wardens were very thin on the ground outside the central London area. The security personnel for the Underground were stretched due to the crowds of protestors taking the tubes to the various areas of the presidential itinerary. Law enforcement units in areas outside central London were operating under what the BBC called “minimum” staffing conditions. This was occurring even though leaves and vacations had been canceled, and various personnel were on extended shifts.