The Witness: A Novel (72 page)

My publisher, David Dunham of Dunham Books, served as the judge. My thanks to him for his many sustaining rulings from the bench (shepherding a new author through the publication process).

You, the readers, are the jury.

N
aomi Kryske was educated at Rice University, Houston, Texas. She left Texas when she became a Navy wife. Following her husband, Larry’s, retirement from the Navy, she lived on the Mississippi Gulf Coast until Hurricane Katrina caused their relocation to north Texas.
The Witness
is the first of a series of novels set in London, involving the Metropolitan Police, and exploring the themes of trauma and recovery. In 2008 she was awarded a grant from the Melissa English Writing Trust for
The Witness.

Visit Naomi on the Web at
www.naomikryske.com
.

COMING SOON, THE SECOND IN
THE WITNESS
SERIES:

THE MISSION

T
he Gold Commander at New Scotland Yard could not believe what he saw. His twenty-seven years of experience with London’s Metropolitan Police had taught him to maintain outward calm regardless of inner turmoil, but this afternoon he was finding it difficult. His attention had been directed away from the bank of screens he was monitoring in MetOps, covering the policing of the Arms Fair at the London Docklands. On the lower left, screens showed an aeroplane exploding as it flew into a towering skyscraper in New York City. Was the crash intentional? Had someone found a novel way to kill himself? Certainly no capable pilot could miss the World Trade Center! He watched the replay. No, the skies were perfectly clear, and the plane looked too large to be a private craft. Dear God, what was happening in America? Mass murder? He forced himself to concentrate. Then a second plane hit the second tower, and all hell broke loose.

There wasn’t an officer in the room who didn’t have the same emotional discipline as he, but none of them had dealt with an act of terrorism on this scale. Voices were raised in shock and disbelief. Terse phrases were spit out as individuals attempted to communicate what they were seeing. Frustration erupted as they realised they were powerless to assist their neighbours across the pond in any way. Their brief was to make London safer for its citizens, but loss of innocent life anywhere in the world hit them hard. Britain had been the target of IRA attacks for years, but the landscape of American law enforcement—and her security forces—was now irrevocably altered. Indeed, the entire world had changed in the space of a few minutes, because, for the first time, suicide bombers had operated outside the Middle East, setting a dangerous precedent. More attacks would come, perhaps even in his own country. What could be done to prevent them? What would the likely targets be? Senior officials in the building would be discussing those questions in the very near future, he knew, but each officer needed to be ready to do his part.

The Commissioner of Police was in the air over the mid-Atlantic, on his way to confer with senior NYPD officials. Gold rang the Commissioner’s office and was told by his personal assistant that he
had been informed of the crisis. Because American air space was now closed, his plane had been forced to turn about and would be returning home.

“The Pentagon, sir,” an associate behind him mumbled thickly. “An aeroplane has hit the Pentagon in Washington, D.C.”

“That makes three,” he responded. “How many more? When will this slaughter in the skies end?” He thought of his wife and children and felt a desperate need to ring them and assure himself of their safety. As quickly as the thought arose, however, he quelled it: Individual needs must be set aside. Seeing to the security of the many must take priority over personal concerns. He had not become a policeman to protect one life at a time; he had always hoped he would prove worthy of a rank high enough to affect the safety and well-being of many more.

By now the visual images would have seared into the minds of all who had seen them. Because of the United Kingdom’s close alliance with the United States, London could be the next target. People were spontaneously evacuating high-rise buildings and crowding the streets. To prevent panic, he must supply mental pictures that would reassure them. Uniformed police were a symbol of stability in a country ruled by law. The public looked to the police for protection. They must be seen to be on the Job. He ordered all leaves cancelled and made arrangements for every available officer to report for high visibility duties. He summoned his deputy, whose stricken face had aged him. “Contact our counterparts in Kent and the other neighbouring counties. We’ll need manpower from them to assist us.”

The news must have got round the demonstrators at the Docklands. The screens showed the mass of people splintering into groups which huddled together briefly before dispersing. Excellent. He could reduce the quantity of officers assigned there and increase the number on London streets. He rang the Silver Commander.

There may have been British citizens on the hijacked planes, but regardless of nationality, every seat had held a human being. When had the passengers known their fate? How had parents controlled their own fears and comforted their children? He was put in mind of his early days on the Job. In his two probationary years he had seen more human tragedy than most experienced in a lifetime. Road accidents, train wrecks, bodies battered beyond recognition. In some cases he’d had to notify the next of kin and watched their desperate disbelief replaced by despair as facts crowded out the last slivers of hope. Some screamed; some went silent. Eventually, determination to carry on, to honour the dead, to see justice done, prevailed.

MetOps was now crowded with officers straining to see the drama being played out on the screens. Gasps and exclamations from them joined his own. One of the World Trade Center towers had collapsed, the ash mixing with dark billowing smoke. Without a doubt British citizens had worked in the World Trade Centers. Many would have been killed along with their American colleagues. The lucky ones had
died instantly. Others would carry their fears and scars to the gates of heaven. Still others could be missing under the thousands of tonnes of rubble still being shown. And the loved ones they left behind would be devastated with grief.

He looked about. Not unlike many offices in the World Trade Centers, MetOps was an interior room, artificially lit, located in one of New Scotland Yard’s two-tower buildings. Occupants would have no warning of an approaching threat. Mercifully, however, MetOps was on Victoria Block’s second floor, an unlikely target for an insidious attack of this sort. Fortunately smoking was not allowed. He could not have tolerated the sight of even a wisp of smoke.

He returned to the screens. “Four,” he whispered, his concentration so complete that he was unaware he had spoken aloud. In Pennsylvania a fourth plane had crashed. Still the nightmare continued: A second tower fell, then part of the Pentagon. He felt again the shock, then the grip of despair, and resolved that he would not give in to either. Determination was the order of the day. His mission: take steps to do everything within his considerable power to deliver the best security to Londoners that his force could provide. He knew he’d be on watch indefinitely. He reached for his phone.

The battle has been joined on many fronts.

—George W. Bush

J
ennifer Sinclair’s serene September day was shattered by a phone call. It was her husband, Colin, a detective chief inspector with London’s Metropolitan Police. He often called during the day, but this time his voice was terse and strained. “Jenny, turn on the telly. Your country’s been attacked. New York and other places. We’re all on alert here. I don’t know when I’ll be home. Jenny — remember that evil cannot win. There are more of us fighting it than those participating in it.”

“Texas — is Texas okay?”

“So far.”

“Colin, I wish you were here!”

“I know. I’ll be with you as soon as I can. I love you.”

All the news channels were covering the events. Over and over she saw planes flying into buildings, the skies raining flames, smoke, ash, glass, papers, and—
people
. People had jumped to their deaths from the burning towers. She didn’t mind the repetitive nature of the reports: It helped the unthinkable to sink in. Terrorists had attacked her country and murdered hundreds, perhaps thousands, of her people. She imagined her nation uttering one great collective scream before the silence of shock muted her.

The memory of her rape resurrected itself with frightening intensity: the terror she had felt, how helpless she had been. But her attacker hadn’t known or cared that she was an American, only that she was the right size and sex for his violence. Then when he had discovered she had been found alive, he had sent others to kill her. Colin had placed her in witness protection, but she had endured months of fear until her attacker had been convicted. Would her country face further attacks? The tightness in her chest made it hard to get a breath. Like her country, she had lost her innocence through violent acts on a beautifully clear fall day. And as she had, tomorrow all Americans would wake to a new and frightening world in which the rules of engagement were forever changed.

Over the pounding of her heart, she heard her mobile ring again. This time her hands were shaking when she answered.

“Are you all right, love?” a voice she knew well asked. One of the Met’s
specialist firearms officers, Sergeant Simon Casey had been in charge of her witness protection team. Everything about him had frightened her at first: his stern expression, his uncompromising manner, even his icy blue eyes, which had dared her not to meet his expectations. Prior to joining the police, he had been a Special Forces operative until an injury required him to retire from military service.

“Simon, what does it mean?”

“Your country’s at war. Unless I miss my guess, we’ll be in it with you. And I’m in the wrong bloody uniform.”

“At war with who? Didn’t the terrorist die on the planes?”

“Jenny, someone sent them. It was a complex and coordinated attack. They were well trained and well equipped.”

“Simon, I can’t stop shaking.”

“Breathe. Focus. Like I taught you.”

“Is it over? Will there be more?”

“It’s too soon to know, but your people will find out who is behind it. Don’t panic. You’re safe with us.”

“Thank you, Simon.” She closed her phone. Safe. She had been safe ever since Colin had become a part of her life. He had made sure of it. She returned to the news coverage. She saw again the fireballs when the planes hit their targets. She knew how fragile people’s bodies were, how easily skin split open and bones broke. Had their blood burned, those passengers who had flown into eternity? Passengers — my God, there would have been women and children on those planes! What kind of monster planned to murder
children?

Lines from Longfellow’s poem, “The Building of the Ship,” flashed through her mind: “Sail on, O Ship of State! / Humanity with all its fears, / With all the hopes of future years, / Is hanging breathless on thy fate!” The British named their warships after courageous qualities: HMS Dauntless, HMS Resolute, and HMS Invincible. Gilbert and Sullivan had poked fun at the practice by placing sailors in one of their operettas on HMS Pinafore, named for a girl’s article of clothing, but seamen on the real ships were proud of their legacy and wanted to prove themselves worthy. Now America was like the Titanic, a ship touted as unsinkable but vulnerable nonetheless to an insidious threat.

She shivered. Their flat in Hampstead, a suburb north of London, was difficult to heat, but she suspected she was chilled more by the fear in the air. She made some tea — the British palliative — and dialed her parents’ number again, but only the busy signal answered, and she felt lonely and defenseless. In witness protection the officers assigned to her had provided a constant, reassuring presence. PC Danny Sullivan, not much older than her brothers, was an inveterate practical joker who had kept the atmosphere light. Even today he would have found a way to pierce the dread and make her smile. PC Brian Davies, a huge bear of a man whose wife was now one of her closest friends, had been an outstanding cook. Maybe if the flat were filled with the aroma of one of his dishes, she would feel less alone. Even Hunt, the irreverent
PC Alan Hunt, would remind her not to take life too seriously. And, of course, the ginger-haired thirty-something Simon, who had treated her tension with regular doses of exercise and challenged her to face every adversity. She respected his dedication and focus.

“Colin, I want to go home,” she said when he called again.

“You’ll have to wait for a bit. All planes are grounded in the States, and no international flights are allowed into American air space.”

“But I can’t reach my family!”

“They’ll be all right, Jenny. They are out of the line of fire. Open a bottle of wine. I’ll be home before too long. I have something for you. Wait there for me.”

It would take at least thirty minutes, she knew, for him to walk to the Embankment Station, take the Edgware branch of the Northern Line to Hampstead Station, and traverse the Hampstead streets that lay between the tube and their home. She washed her face, ran a brush through her hair, and found the corkscrew, all the while wondering what he could be bringing her.

It was an American flag.