Dark Clouds (12 page)

‘You’re a little Irish, Rudi … in the Flynn part?

Sure – about one quarter on the male side.

‘And did you disapprove of what your people did in Northern Ireland to try and make their point with the British?’

Yes – no – maybe – sometimes.

‘Oh come on, man … for fuck’s sake! It was an entirely different situation. There’s just no way you can link Gerry Adams and Martin McGuinness into the same loop as Osama bin Laden … that’s crazy!’

‘Is it?’

‘Yes, Khalad … you know it is. We’re talking about two completely ball games. The IRA may have shot a few soldiers, policemen and opponents – even some innocent people – but they never considered nuking anyone ... radiation is out, man!’

I need more alcohol, but my mobile’s vibrating. I tell Khalad I’ll be back, and I’m walking towards a flowering robinia tree when I take the call.

‘Rudi – ’

‘Carla!’

‘I need to see you.’

‘OK.’

‘I’ll come to your house – is that all right?’

‘Sure – when?’

‘Twenty minutes, half an hour.’

‘Fine … you know where it is?’

There’s a pause, followed by a throaty laugh from Agent Hirsch.

‘Come on, Rudi … who do you think asked Earl to call on you the other evening with the tactical entry ram?’

Fuck you, bitch! I’ve switched off my phone, but I’m caught in the grip of a neo-con machine, and it’s uncomfortable.

‘I’ll have to go soon,’ I tell Khalad. ‘But I want us to stay in touch.’

He’s nervously rolling the water bottle between his fingers.

‘I think the die is cast,’ he says.

‘What do you mean?’

‘We have been humiliated, and there will be a reckoning. I don’t support a war between us. I want my children to grow up and make something of their lives.’

‘Of course.’

‘But this won’t happen if rash actions lead us to Armageddon.’

He’s right. Tunisia’s a small place. If bright kids want to do well, they’d probably have to spend time in the West, and radiation dust doesn’t settle overnight.

‘
You may have met the people who murdered Rashid
,’ is what I’m saying. ‘
You could be next. I can put you in touch with someone who – if you delivered – would look after you.
’ 

I dress it up a little, but it doesn’t work. Khalad’s pride is hurt. His eyes open wide with anger and he clenches his light brown fists.

‘Sometimes I think you are all degenerate!’ he exclaims. ‘Your moral values are non-existent. There is a part of me that sympathises with suicide bombers and martyrs – especially when they kill Jews!’

He isn’t holding back.

‘But I do not believe a nuclear option is the way forward.’

Which is fine; it’s a laudable statement. However, there are strategists in Washington who are waiting for opportunities. They have two quick hits on their strike force agenda, just like at Hiroshima and Nagasaki. Only this time, the targets would be Tehran and Osamaland, with maybe a token drop on Damascus.

‘I want us to keep talking,’ he says. ‘But if you tell anyone about our meetings, I will disappear, and whatever is being planned will go ahead. So you can either listen to me when I call and keep the trust between us, or you can ignore what I say and accept responsibility for the consequences.’

I don’t want to alienate him. I’ve moved a hand across the table to envelop his fingers. I’m going for meaningful empathy and I don’t want to be too British about it. ‘
We have a deal, Khalad baby … and whatever happens, let’s keep talking. It would also be nice to know what’s being planned before anyone pulls the plutonium pin, as it were
.’

‘You are not the only ones with a monopoly on what’s right and wrong,’ he tells me dismissively ‘Everyone is fallible, Rudi, and most of us can be misguided. There are many good Muslims around the world. We are, however, normal people … we probably have the same proportion of bad or stupid individuals as you do.’

Chapter 10

Fiona Adler is coming into Crowndale Square when I return. She’s driving a silver Mercedes 4x4, which – if anyone dares to ask – she says she needs to get up the steep track that leads to her weekend hideaway in Dorset.

‘Rudi – you lovely man!’ she calls when she pulls up alongside me. ‘How were the Alps?’

Glorious, honey, only I’m not sure if I feel the same about the Swiss. Automatons to a man and woman, I’m afraid … but how are you and what have you been up to in your anti-social vehicle?

She likes this and says she’s been slaving away as usual over the weekend. ‘And in a celibate state, I might add – which frankly, Rudi, is getting really boring because, to be honest, I do need a good emotional and possibly also a physical seeing to – do you know what I mean?’

Absolutely – it’s very important.

‘Although I gather you didn’t exactly go anywhere romantically with Camilla Quince?’

No – I’m afraid not

‘But you were rather taken with that artist woman … what’s her name?’

‘Ingrid – ’

‘Of course, and … oh my God!’

‘What?’

‘You’re blushing … so I’m sensing a little spark there – right?’

I can’t hide much from Fiona Adler. And once she has an inkling, there’s no way I can escape a thorough investigation. Initially, this takes the form of questions about what precisely Ingrid and I had talked about. Pretty soon though, the inquisition goes on to what we did and how many times? Was it OK, and are we now officially seeing each other?

Getting the third degree on my love life from Fiona is exhausting. If she persists, however, I’ve got the fact that she grabbed my Valkarie Princess and subjected her to an exceedingly hot and passionate session. I’m trying not to dwell on her groping around Ingrid’s incredible breasts, and maybe even some of her more intimate parts.

‘
This is all perfectly reasonable, Rudi – I mean, it’s not as if either of you are married or even in a relationship
,’ would – I’m sure – be her response. ‘
We’re free agents. We put ourselves about in life’s market place, and if someone responds – well, we enjoy it.
’

As we banter, she’s considering Therese – a shy but temptingly attractive au pair who’s playing with a couple of toddlers in our delightful square garden.

‘I’ve got a roving eye,’ she explains when I cough. ‘I always have had. So you can stop being such a righteously smug fucking puritan!’

I’m waving over at Therese and her cute little charges when a sleek BMW with darkened rear windows pulls up beside us. The driver is a tough-looking guy with a square jaw and a shaven head. He isn’t the sort of person anyone would want to mess with, but he nods respectfully when Carla Hirsch gets out of the car. She is uber cool and stunning in designer trousers and a light blue fitted shirt. Her heels look like they might have been cut from the skin of an alligator, and she moves her shades up onto her neatly cut two-tone hair spikes when she joins us.

‘Carla – hi … this is Julia,’ I say cautiously. After that, I feel superfluous. The two women make a production about finishing off the introductions. Carla then explains away her American accent by saying that she works for the State Department and is presently on secondment at the US Embassy in Grosvenor Square.

‘Rudi’s been giving me a few pointers on local issues,’ she says, and when Fiona reveals that she’s in magazines, Carla homes in and looks interested.

‘There’s just so much I’ve got to pick up on over here,’ she says helplessly. ‘And you know I feel I’m on a really steep learning curve.’

I reckon these two are made for each other. There’s an instant attraction with the eyes and body language as in: ‘
Gee babe, are you for real … because if you are, I do so want to get to know you, and soon, please!
’ At any other time, it might have been touching, for there is substantial chemistry gushing out all around the Crowndale Square. Fortunately, however, Fiona Adler is quite English about what she does and doesn’t show on the surface. She quickly pulls a decidedly budding attraction into line with a civilised postponement.

‘We’re having a do tomorrow,’ she says. ‘It’s for one of our editors who’s just been offered a two book deal on the strength of her first novel. We’ll be at Claridges from six and it would be great if you could come along, Carla … you too, Rudi, and Ingrid, if she’s free. ‘

I’m mumbling a maybe while Agent Hirsch says she’d love to. It’s as though she’s met her new best friend, but Fiona is saying how she has to get back to the other side of the Square and make a few calls.

*  *  *  *  *

The shiny, dark blue BMW has already moved into a resident’s parking bay and Carla Hirsch is waving after my neighbour’s 4x4. ‘She’s quite something,’ she says when the Mercedes has turned the corner. ‘Is she married?’

Fiona’s technically on her own just now. Although she does have expensive offices full of the most gorgeous fashion girls, and I don’t think she picks all of them for their literary or even their journalistic brilliance. There was also, at one stage, a Mr Adler and I imagine there’s probably a whole
BlackBerry
full of significant others.

‘My understanding is that she’s presently unattached,’ I say primly.

‘Right – ’ Carla’s nodding with interest as we go to the house where I’m staying.

I don’t want to think too much about what might or might not evolve between my neighbour and my newly acquired controller.

‘What about your driver,’ I ask. Is he OK? I mean, would he like tea or juice?’

‘No – he’ll be fine,’ she tells me, getting back into role. ‘But I’d like some camomile if you have any, or iced water.’

I’m intrigued by the idea of Carla Hirsch and Fiona Adler maybe getting together. Two titans locked in an intimate embrace, with birds twittering in the trees when they wake sighing in each other’s arms. This is on the up side, but if anything went wrong I know that I’d have to stay well clear and pretend I had no idea about what might or might not be going on in my leafy English square.

‘I was sorry to hear about what happened to your friend, Rashid Kumar,’ Carla says unexpectedly when I’ve boiled a kettle and presented her with a mug of camomile tea at the kitchen table. ‘From what I can gather, he was a gentle soul.’

I have been trying not to think about the Kashmiri, but now it’s all coming back, and I feel guilty. ‘
I feel at home here, Rudi
,’ he said. ‘
England is so civilised, and I can’t think of anything I would like more than to continue playing cricket with Ankar at the weekends.
’ It seemed unreal, but someone must have been watching. They might have spotted the two of us talking on the terrace at the House of Commons. There were lots of nice Asian guys in suits. There were also plenty of young woman, any one of whom might have had a digital camera.

‘I guess they concluded that he was about to cross over,’ Carla says. ‘So he had to go … and as you’re implicated by association, Rudi, we may have to get you some protection.’

They could put a discreet guard in the square gardens, or they could give me a small pistol that I’d strap to my ankle. I don’t want to think about it. If I could, I’d slip away. I’ve got my cousin with his remote farm in Wyoming. I also had an idea about working as a sub-editor on a newspaper in Canada. Or, if our relationship develops, I might go to Patmos with Ingrid and try to write a story about my great grandmother and the Fenian rebels.

‘The stuff you got on this guy Wagstaff is useful,’ Carla tells me when she’s sniffed at the Camomile drink and taken a sip.

‘OK – ’

‘He has more money in his bank account than he might ever hope to earn as a college tutor, and based on the evidence you found in Geneva, we reckon he got it from Sharif.’

So it’s an M15 or 6 star grade with a discreet show of appreciation from Her Majesty. I might also be up for a Homeland Security A+ with a band playing
Hail to the Chief
and a slap on the back from my President. But where to from here, I’m wondering?

‘I’ve already spoken with Earl,’ she says. ‘But there are a few points I need to clarify. Let’s start with Sulima Sharif.’

I’m uneasy. Agent Hirsch could cause a lot of trouble, and I might be involved.

‘I saw her yesterday in Paris,’ she tells me, ‘on a French Intelligence video. She’s an attractive woman, Rudi, and I guess she’s bright. But your impression was that she doesn’t want to continue working with her brother.’

‘Yes. I think they’re moving in different directions.’

‘And what about Mike, who’s now become Mohammed?’

He seems to have lost it, ma’am. The agreeable guy I drank beer with at Berkeley and on the Lower East Side in New York has, it would seem, been transformed into a Muslim fundamentalist.

‘Is he bitter?’ Carla wants to know. ‘Does he feel he’s been pushed out of our club?’

Maybe. A lot of Muslims feel that it’s
us and them
now.

‘But is he capable of funding an Islamist nuclear attack?’

Logically no; not the Sharif I knew. But if he feels alienated, it might not matter.

‘I wouldn’t put him in the al-Qaeda camp, however, unless I had evidence.’ I tell Carla.

It could all just be pique. He might feel we’ve elbowed him out into the cold. ‘
No Mohammed – you can’t stay in the Ritz tonight. We liked you as Mike, but now you’re Mohammad, we think you could be friendly with Osama …so you can fuck off back to the Tora Bora Mountains, or wherever
.’

‘It’s a pity you didn’t manage to get that picture of Sulima’s guy …what was his name?’

‘I don’t know. She didn’t tell me.’

It wouldn’t be too difficult to get Pele’s name. He and Sulima must have gone out together. Someone knows who he is, but for now, I’m only giving out his description. He’s an intense, bald Asian with angry eyes; a bit like Mohammad Atta, maybe, except he’s probably from Pakistan – and yes, I guess he could be a bomber in waiting.

‘We now have quite a few Asians inciting Afro-Caribbeans to riot,’ she says.

‘Right – ’

‘And Earl tells me that if this drug-dealer, Marvin Malugo, dies, they’re expecting disturbances in Brixton between blacks and the police, and possibly now the Nationalists.’