Dark Clouds

by Phil Rowan

  * * * * *

  ‘She’s such a live wire,’ Rashid says tentatively as Mairead strides off. ‘But I wouldn’t want to get on the wrong side of her.’

  I agree. Her red curls are fantastic, but she’s got fierce eyes, and she has a reputation for charming and then crucifying her opponents. Ideally, I’d spend ten minutes gossiping about Mairead and one or two people I know who’ve been involved with her. It would make for a nice bit of harmless chat, but Rashid’s gripping onto the balustrade beside the river.

  ‘What happened in Paris is outrageous,’ he says after a moment’s silence. He’s looking straight ahead, but a small vein on his neck is pulsating angrily.

  ‘Yes – it is … but these incidents are becoming more frequent. It seems that the gulf between us is widening, Rashid.’

  He has turned towards me and I can see tears trickling from his eyes.

  ‘It’s going to get worse, Rudi … the next step is nuclear.’

  ‘You’re sure about this?’

  He’s nodding, and I feel it’s best to just let him talk. All around us, Muslim League guests, politicians and their advisers are looking on the up side. They’re considering ways forward with ethnic minorities becoming more involved in the affairs of their adopted country. There would be special committees and legislation to embrace everyone and make them feel good about what England has to offer. It’s a noble scenario, but I’m thinking of radiation in London’s subway system and other worst case scenarios. What would happen if a nuclear device exploded and we had mini-mushroom clouds enveloping Times Square, the Champs Elysee and Oxford Circus?

  ‘I need your help,’ Rashid says.

  ‘Sure …’

  ‘I have become more involved than I ever intended to with activists … I want to get away from these people, Rudi. I must talk with someone … can you arrange a meeting with whoever it is I need to see?’

  He seems lost and I’m wary about being too accommodating. I have a few contacts who could assist him if he wants to cross over. But there are implications if one suddenly decides to disappear.

  ‘Are you sure you want to do this?’ I ask and he nods.

  ‘As soon as possible …could we meet again on Thursday?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But now I must go.’

  He’s squeezing my hand and I’m worried. It’s selfish, I know. I’m being neurotic. But what if one of these nice Muslim League guys is an activist? If I’m seen with a collaborator, I could be in trouble.

  ‘Rashid …’

  ‘We’ll speak in the morning, Rudi … I’ll call you.’

  I’ve got to go to Paris. I’ve already booked my ticket. My commissioning editors need colour pieces from the carnage in Montmartre. But the author of Our Abyss is scuttling away. As a Kashmiri, he fits in easily enough with the mainly Asian Muslim League guests. His blue blazer and minor public school tie may be a little out of place, but he’s gone, and Mairead Corrigan is returning. She’s waving at me, and she’s holding the elbow of an ass- licking ministerial assistant who wants to talk about my President’s position on nuclear threats to Isreal from Iran.

  Chapter 2

  I’m still thinking about Rashid when I get to the French Embassy in Knightsbridge. ‘It’s Armageddon time for the West, Rudi! We’re going to nuke you bastards, and you’ll rue the day you ever tried to tell us what to do.’

  The building is palatial, and the Ambassador is about to give a late press conference.

  ‘We do not condone Islamic or any other form of terrorism,’ he says from a raised dais in an elegant reception room. ‘And we will deal firmly with anyone who poses a threat to ourselves or our allies.’

  There’s a lot of stuff about France’s proud heritage and what an excellent relationship the metropolitan power has with its former colonies. No one wants to blame anyone at this stage, although the Ambassador is clearly unhappy with the English media people who want to question him about integration in France.

  ‘You’ve got problems, sir – I believe, with your Muslim population at the moment,’ a cheeky tabloid writer suggests. The ambassador puts him down quickly though when he says it’s not appropriate to talk about frustrated petrol bombers or the unruly situation in French ghettos. ‘We are all one nation,’ he insists with a patrician shrug, ‘and our task now is to root out the assassins. We will deal with them, and we will not falter on this task …but we will work closely with our friends and allies who have experienced similar criminal acts in their cities …’

  There is food and wine when his Excellency finally steps down. It’s a peace offering for all of us frustrated hacks who feel we’ve been cheated on the meat by his oily eminence. A French intelligence officer circulates with a sick-making smile and offers off-the-record snippets to go with the canapés.

  ‘The Algerian at the Sacre Coeur, Rudi – the one with the rucksack – we cannot be certain, but we think he may have links with renegade elements in the Atlas Mountains.’

  ‘Really – ’

  ‘Yes – although there could also be connections with Casablanca and Tangier.’

  ‘Right – ’

  ‘And we are of course mindful of influences from Saudi Arabia and the Yemen. But our main challenge is still with these barbarians in Afghanistan and Pakistan, or wherever it is that Bin Laden and his people are now hiding.’

  Nothing new here then. When I leave, I’m back with Khalad at the café by the Serpentine and Rashid on the terrace at the House of Commons. They’re both good guys, I think. But their message is scary. ‘There won’t be any more cricket at Lords, Rudi …because it will be like Chernobyl, only worse …and the after effects will linger for a long time.’

  The little Georgian house where I’m staying in Islington’s Crowndale Square is fine, but the stairs are steep, and I’m missing steps when I stumble up to a top floor bedroom. I’ve taken half a tumbler of whisky to try and blot out any more thoughts about Khalad and Rashid and the possibility of renegade Pakistani scientists providing nuclear options for Osama’s guys. I’m not together enough to brush my teeth, and I’m losing myself in the last half-hour of Casablanca on the bedroom TV when I fall asleep.

  Ingrid Bergman is looking up into my eyes, and we’re about to have a passionate clinch when humourless Neo-Con agents appear. They’re huge, ugly hunks with cropped military haircuts and their shirts are saturated with aggressive testosterone. ‘You will come with us!’ one of them yells. ‘Our country is in danger. So it’s your duty to stand up, salute the flag and do whatever your President requires …are you listening, you dumb fuck?’

  The nightmare goes on until dawn, when I wake and see a willow tree swaying in the breeze. There is also a familiar Persian cat meowing on a nearby roof. So it’s OK. I’m alive and well in leafy Islington. The Brits are good people and I’m relatively happy in London. But it’s Ingrid and Humphrey and the French guy I’m thinking of as I spread my arms across the mattress and fantasise about spending time at Rick’s place in Casablanca.

  * * * * *

  Once in LA, a studio executive asked if I might consider the movies as an option after Berkeley. I was flattered – foolishly I guess in retrospect. ‘You got presence, Rudi,’ he told me. ‘I mean you’re what, six foot. Your stomach’s flat and I think maybe the girls could go for that distracted look in your eyes.’ Now my stare is frequently manic; I think I’ve shrunk or sagged a bit and if I’m not careful, there will soon be unflattering alcohol fuelled love handles around my once trim and firm waist.

  Life is all right though, or it could be. But there are motor vehicles coming into the square. I don’t think they belong to any of the residents. The engine sounds are too loud, and they all seem to stop in the street outside my front door.

  An article I read in a broadsheet suggested that paranoia frequently kicks in during the early hours when one is only half awake. What’s happening out in the square now though is for real. I know this because when the vehicle engines are switched off, I can
hear heavy boots running along the pavement and then up the steps of the house where I’m staying.

  Outside, Crowndale Square looks like a picture postcard from 1760. Only there are blue lights revolving ominously under the cherry blossoms. I’m up, but I catch my arm in a bathrobe as a police tactical entry ram smashes through the locks on my front door.

  ‘Don’t move!’ an excited cop with a Heckler and Koch machine pistol shouts when I appear at the top of the stairs. There are others in the hallway and they’re ready to shoot if I do anything I shouldn’t. I’ve already got my arms stretched out, and I’m thinking of Mel Gibson playing the part of Christ before he gets crucified. Only I’m not on a movie set, and I nod co-operatively when a cop beckons me down the stairs.

  I’ve ripped the sleeve of my bathrobe. I feel exposed with my arms in the air. I’m still trying to give out the impression that I’m cool and together. It’s difficult, but when I reach the hallway, I ask the armed, steel-helmeted cops what they want.

  ‘Face the wall – now!’ one of them commands.

  The hands that frisk me are cold and rough, and when I’m allowed to turn around I see a serious looking Afro-Caribbean guy in the living room doorway. He’s wearing a decent suit, shirt and tie. He seems OK. I’m convinced that when he was a younger man, he went to church with a sound Christian woman, most probably his mother.

  ‘Rudi Flynn?’

  ‘Yes, sir – ’

  ‘I’m Earl Connors,’ the black police guy says. ‘I need to speak with you … maybe downstairs.’

  There are already several uniformed and plainclothes cops in the living room. One of them has switched on my laptop and another is going through the files on my desk. I want to protest, but my visitors won’t be deflected, so I stay quiet and move towards the steps that lead down to the kitchen. A cop with a machine pistol follows. He’s got a glazed expression and retreats to a space by the fridge when Earl, who looks like he’s in charge, sits down at the kitchen table.

  ‘Do you know why we’re here,’ he asks.

  I haven’t a clue. But I don’t think Harry, the science fiction writer who owns the house, is going to be too pleased when he discovers what the police have done to his original Georgian front door.

  ‘You have Islamic contacts,’ Earl says. His tone is polite, matter-of-fact. It’s a normal question from an educated officer who’s just doing his job; routine stuff that shouldn’t give an innocent person any cause for concern. Only I can feel the goose pimples on my arms and I know that sensitive, stress-related glands will soon start swelling up around my neck.

  ‘Yes, of course,’ I answer like it’s all perfectly normal. ‘I work as a journalist, so I meet many different people. Just now, with everything that’s happening, I have to speak with a lot of Muslims … well – you know how it is, I’m sure.’

  The ripped bathrobe is making me feel uncomfortable, but I’m trying to give the impression that I’m in control. I haven’t done anything wrong. OK – there are still some parking and congestion charge tickets for Harry the house-owner’s car on the hall table. I hadn’t been completely sober on the few occasions I used the clapped out VW Passat, but my priority is to airbrush Khalad and Rashid right out of the picture, as in: ‘I don’t know any activists, officer, and that’s the god’s honest truth. Sure – I’ve spoken with a few Islamic persons, but it’s always been about the situation generally around the world …and I can assure you, Mister Policeman, sir, that the word nuclear has never been mentioned in any conversation I’ve ever had with potential aggressors.’

  ‘We’re working closely with the Americans at the moment, Mr Flynn,’ Earl says and I nod seriously like I think this is a really good idea. I mean, we’re allies and there’s always been a strong bond between Washington and London. Many Brits aren’t too happy about it, but UK Prime Ministers have usually been welcome in the States. The present one’s a bit distant, but there are photographs of his predecessor riding out on a horse with my President.

  Earl’s OK. I’m sure of that. He’s a solid guy and I’m starting to relax with him when a cop appears in the kitchen entrance.

  ‘Sir – ’

  ‘Yes, Robson.’

  We found some e-mails on the computers.’

  This asshole is definitely keen and pleased with what he’s downloaded. There are half a dozen pieces of paper, but it doesn’t take Earl long to get through them.

  ‘OK,’ he says when he’s passed the printouts back to his assistant. ‘You’d better start at the top of the house and work down.’

  ‘But the furniture,’ I protest. The place is full of old chairs and chests of drawers that go back a couple of hundred years. It’ll be down to me if they get scratched or fall apart in a police search.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Earl says. ‘We’re obliged to take reasonable care … so if there’s any damage, you’ll be covered by our insurance.’

  ‘And what about the computers and my e-mails?’ I ask. There’s a screech in my voice and I’m losing it. ‘This really is an unwarranted intrusion … you have no right – ’

  ‘I’m sorry, sir. We need to check the hard drives, and I’m going to have to take you into custody.’

  ‘You’re arresting me?’

  ‘Yes – so if you’d like to go upstairs with the officer, you can get dressed.’

  I could let it all out about Rashid and how he wants to cross over. It’s not a problem. Earl is already on his feet though, and I’m stammering incoherently when the guard cop steps forward. His biceps are rippling and he’s excited. He’s ready for action. He’s closing in as my mouth opens and shuts. The veins on his neck are throbbing and his index finger is stroking the trigger of his Heckler and Koch machine pistol.

  * * * * *

  I’m handcuffed in the back of a windowless van, and I need a lawyer. I don’t believe there is anything incriminating on either my laptop or the house computer, but Khalad and Rashid could be embarrassing contacts. ‘We’re not terrorists, Rudi. You can be sure of that. But some of our fellow Islamists have strong feelings about what they want to do to you.’ If I’m seen to be even tangentially in touch with guys who are planning to irradiate Western cities, I’m in trouble. Prosecutors on both sides of the pond could, I’m sure, conjure up treasonable offences under the US Patriot Act and whatever the Brit equivalent is.

  No one wants to take my fingerprints or check my details at Paddington Green. Instead, they take me to a dank cell that smells of urine. There’s a mattress with a blanket on the floor and a toilet without a seat in the opposite corner. I doze intermittently on the soiled blanket with thoughts flitting between the stockade at Guantanamo and mushroom clouds in St James’s Park when I hear boots in the corridor and my cell door opens.

  ‘Rudi Flynn?’ a bald cop asks.

  ‘Yes – ’

  ‘Come on then.’

  He’s big, with a scar on his neck and we don’t talk as we walk to a lift. He stands between me and the door and we seem to move quickly up through the building. The sun’s coming in through an East facing window when we get out. I can see rooftops all around us and there’s a fitted carpet on the floor. My escort knocks respectfully. He then opens a large solid wood door and motions me inside.

  Earl Connors is sitting behind a glass-topped boardroom table in a large, bright room. Beside him, there’s a woman in her late thirties or early forties with designer jeans and boots and a casual shirt. Her features are sharp, with an interesting triangle between her cheekbones and chin. I can’t see her as a cop, but her eyes stay with me as I take in the red and blonde hair spikes that must have cost a few bucks at some talked about salon.

  ‘Hi Rudi,’ she says when the door closes behind me. ‘I’m Carla Hirsch … I’m on secondment from Homeland Security in Washington. Earl and I are working together, and we’d like to talk to you.’

  Her voice is Ivy League, East Coast American, with maybe a hint of one of the Southern states when she rolls out her words. She has light eye
make-up and a subtle gloss on full lips. But she’s very together, and when she looks at me, I feel like I’ve been caught in the headlights of a high-powered Federal vehicle.

  ‘I don’t know why I’m here,’ I say lamely. ‘I want to see a lawyer … I’m not discussing anything until that’s agreed – OK.’

  I’m making a reasonable point. It’s a fundamental principle of Brit law, surely. You can’t question someone without a lawyer. And I may be ringing bells, because Carla Hirsch is nodding like she understands while Earl Connors coughs.

  ‘You don’t need to worry about any of that,’ she says with a dismissive wave. ‘We see you primarily as a friend, Rudi: a person who can help us. Only there are matters we need to clear up. So why don’t you sit down and relax.’

  She’s pointing to a chair in front of the glass-topped table, and I do as she asks.

  ‘You saw Rashid Kumar last night at the House of Commons?’

  ‘Yes, we met – briefly.’ There’s no point in denying it.

  ‘He seems to have disappeared, Rudi. He didn’t go home last night, and the Albanian doctor guy he lives with is concerned.’

  Oh – no. The jihadists have got to the Kashmiri before he could cross over. I’m feeling for him. He’s a sensitive guy with forbidden inclinations and his experience with the hardball players is going to be painful.

  ‘He was troubled when I saw him.’ I’m blurting it out. ‘He wanted me to put him in touch with someone he could talk to.’

  ‘What about?’ Carla Hirsch asks.

  I’m right between the cross wires of her assault weapon. ‘You talk, baby – or you’re dead meat.’

  ‘He has contacts with Islamic activists here in London. He believes they are planning something.’

  ‘What?’

  I’m pausing for breath, but I can feel this woman’s eyes screwing relentlessly into my head.

  ‘He thought it might be nuclear … and he didn’t want to get involved.’

  There. I’ve delivered. I’ve come clean on Rashid, although I’m holding back on Khalad for the moment.