by Phil Rowan
‘God is good!’ my oil billionaire buddy shouts and everyone applauds. When they stop clapping, he welcomes his scholarship students and guests, some of whom are from Islamic embassies. There are also a number of business people who have flown in on recruitment missions from North Africa and the Middle East.
This is a special and potentially profitable opportunity. It is the Ayatollah though who is the star on this occasion, and when he has steadied himself with the help of a walking stick, he grins at the audience who applaud.
Chapter 6
Everything the Shi’ite holy man says in Arabic appears simultaneously with French and English translations on two large screens, which are immediately above him on the podium. God is great he tells us and Allah is god, and whatever way one looks at it, Muslim people are henceforth going to have to work out their own salvation.
It’s good, solid guest speaker stuff, I’m thinking initially: A pep talk for the young scholarship students about how people have to stand on their own two feet if they want to achieve objectives. If I had kids, I’d be giving the same sort of advice. I’m reassured and lulled by the Imam’s wise words. I stop looking up at the English translation board, and I’m imagining Ingrid painting and sculpting in her Dalston warehouse studio. I think I’ve fallen for her, but the holy man’s voice is escalating ominously and everyone’s clapping.
There is a new enemy the letters on the translation screen tell me. It’s serious, and the Great Satan is at this very moment plotting in Washington to wreak havoc amongst Allah’s people in the Middle East. The enemy must be engaged and defeated around the world the Ayatollah says. It will be a fight to the death, and the audience should be mindful of the Washington puppets who suck the blood from Islamists in Jordan, Egypt and Saudi Arabia.
I’m blinking nervously as the scholarship students stand to applaud the arthritic holy man. A few of the guests in suits, who could be Egyptians, shuffle uncomfortably and I’m thinking of slipping away. I can tell Carla Hirsch that my former friend, Mike Sharif, who is now Mohammed, is a dangerous fundamentalist: a crazed and misguided oil mogul who supports the annihilation of my fellow countrymen and all of our allies around the world.
Only the mullah is now being helped to a chair and Sharif is back on the podium with warm words of thanks for the holy man and encouragement for his studious protégés. The presentation ceremonies are about to start and each of the scholarship recipients will make a short speech about how they hope to serve Allah for the rest of their lives.
There aren’t any more references to Washington or Lucifer in the White House and as the bearded beneficiaries make worthy speeches, I’m bringing up the sound of my meditation mantra. I don’t close my eyes however, and as the speeches finish, I look up and see Sulima. She’s standing at the entrance to the former ballroom, and she waves as her brother tells the audience that there’ll now be a break for mint tea, soft drinks and snacks. I’m struggling to stand up. My saviour’s beckoning and I’ve got to get out. It’s a bit of a squeeze, and I have to apologise to a formidable woman in a black burqua, whose toe I stand on as I edge out.
‘You look exhausted,’ Sulima quips when I finally make it through a solid mass of chattering guests and excitable scholarship students.
‘I think I should go,’ I tell her, but she’s already linked my arm. She’s guiding me firmly into the reception hall and then down the steps to where her Porsche is parked.
‘You can’t do that, Rudi,’ she says emphatically. ‘I want you to talk with Mike when he gets back to the house. You may think he’s become a raving fundamentalist. And in a way, he has. But he’s always valued your friendship. So if there’s a chance you can get him back, you must try … for all our sakes.’
We’re leaving the Old Town on a road that runs by the lake. The views are incredible, and after a while we come to a walled estate with a magnificent house nestling amongst trees at the top of a hill.
* * * * *
‘The last owner was a Ukrainian arms dealer,’ Sulima tells me with a resigned smile. She’s pointing a bleeper at huge electronic entry gates. They’re impressive, in an over-the-top sort of way, and I’m quite taken with the lute-blowing angles that are interwoven between the stark and otherwise solid iron bars.
It’s all a little surreal. We’re climbing along a steep avenue that finally takes us to a grand Edwardian house. It has an original wrought iron balcony running across the first floor, and when we stop, Sulima flicks her hand towards a perfect lawn. ‘It’s good for croquet,’ she says. ‘When our parents came from Damascus, they used to play there all the time.’
This is what Sharif needs, I’m thinking. Half-an-hour spent gently tapping a ball through hoops and then on to an innocuous target stump. There are rhododendrons and rose bushes all around us and as we walk towards the house, the front door is opened by yet another respectful servant with Arabic features. A huge marble-floored entrance hall has gently curved staircases leading to a galleried first floor. It’s palatial, and there are hand-woven Persian runners covering the steps.
‘We’ve given you the best room,’ Sulima jokes when we get to the top of the stairs, ‘because you’re special, Rudi.’
‘Oh yeah – ’
If the circumstances were different I might have bat-and-balled more playfully, but I’m still slightly awestruck by the opulence and the definitely weird set-up I’ve pitched into. The large room Sulima shows me is furnished in the style of an Edwardian salon. It’s a little staid and fussy, but the view of Lake Geneva from the French doors that lead onto the wrought iron balcony is incredible.
‘Do you still sail?’ Sulima asks
‘I haven’t had a chance for a while … why – do you have a boat?’
‘Yes – a Laser. It’s moored just beyond the trees and we’ve also got wet suits.’
‘You want to go out?’
She’s vacillating. The sun’s going down and there’s a gentle breeze across the water. It’s just the right time to go sailing, and we could talk. ‘I’d like to tell you what I really feel about what’s happening, Rudi …it’s crazy. I want out …and there’s something you should know about.’ We could be getting there, but she eventually shakes her head.
‘I’d like to,’ she says, biting slightly on her lower lip. ‘We do have a problem in Paris though … and I need to make more calls.’
‘OK.’
‘Why don’t you ask Mike when he gets back? It would be a perfect opportunity for you to speak properly with him.’
And if he clams up or says anything about the Great Satan, I could always turn the racing yacht unexpectedly. I’d have a hold on Sharif’s eyes as he pitched into the water and then struggled while gripping helplessly onto the side. ‘Are you seriously planning to nuke us, Mike. Because if you are, I’m sorry, but you’re going to have to spend time in this Swiss lake, and if you don’t relent, I’ll gybe right here and then tack my way towards you at full speed.’
‘It is a good idea,’ I say, walking out to the balcony that fronts the house. ‘I’ll certainly suggest it to him.’
Sulima follows me and we pause outside another set of French doors that open into a corniced office with computers, filing cabinets and an antique desk.
‘This is Mike’s study,’ she explains. ‘He spends hours here every day … I sometimes wonder what he gets up to. He’s just so completely lost interest in the business, which I now think we’ll have to sell.’
‘Are you sure you don’t want to change your mind and show me how your boat cuts it?’ I ask, and once again she hesitates.
‘I can’t, Rudi … much as I’d like to. There are things I need to talk to you about though when I come to London. Will you keep a diary slot free for me towards the end of next week.’
‘Sure … but – ’
‘Now I must go, but I’ll see you downstairs when Mike gets back. He shouldn’t be long, and if you need anything just ring for Zadine. He’ll sort you out.’
She leaves
through my Edwardian guestroom, and when I’m sure she’s gone I go back to the wrought iron balcony. The lake is still now at the foot of the trees and all around me the snow-capped mountains provided a perfect Swiss panorama. I turn instinctively when I reach the French doors that lead into Sharif’s study. I expect them to be locked, but they open as I turn the brass handle.
The internal door doesn’t move when I try it, so I go to the desk and open each of the drawers. Most of the material here and in the unlocked filing cabinets relates to Sharif’s lucrative oil shipping business. There are however a couple of e-mails in a file that is unlabeled. One offers effusive thanks for something that’s not mentioned and the other refers to a London meeting three weeks from today. The ‘thank you’ one might be interesting, so I take pictures of both with Carla’s camera. I’m now sure I didn’t press the right button when I clicked on Sulima’s photograph of her guy.
I’ve been pitched in at the deep end. I’m sweating, and I don’t feel I’ve got time for any more research in Sharif’s study. I peer cautiously to the left and right of the French doors. I’m half expecting a confrontation. Zadine, the servant Sulima mentioned, could be waiting to grab me, but the balcony’s clear when I step out.
* * * * *
Shortly afterwards, a convoy of limousines comes up the avenue to the vast gravel driveway outside the Sharif residence. I’m waiting on the ground floor terrace and when some of his aides have led the guests into the house, Sharif comes over to join me.
‘What did you think, Rudi?’
‘It was interesting … although I did find what the Ayatollah was saying rather hard to take, especially his rant about the Great Satan in our White House. A little extreme – no?’
I’m ready to walk down the winding tree-lined avenue to try to call a cab with my mobile. I have numbers for the US and British embassies, but Sharif is enveloping me with a warm smile. He follows it with a squeeze around my shoulders when he sits beside me on the garden bench.
‘You’re taking offence too easily, my friend.’
‘Really? ‘
‘Yes – you are. Our holy man was only saying what we all believe, Rudi. It wasn’t meant as an insult to you personally.’
‘And you think we really are the bad guys?’
Sharif pauses and looks down at the lake. There are strong loyalties from a past friendship in the States, but he needs to express how he feels.
‘After 9/11,’ he says, ‘I think most of us were together. I wanted to avenge Faria’s death just as much as you did. I believed the hijackers and those who supported them were all lunatics, and I thought that for about a year afterwards.’
‘So what changed your mind?’ I want to know, and my guard drops for a moment when Sharif touches the back of my hand.
‘The way things evolved in the aftermath,’ he says. ‘I woke up one morning on Madison Avenue and felt that as a Muslim with US citizenship I was now viewed as an enemy of the American people. I resented that, Rudi – so I came here, and when my father died last year Sulima took over the business. I think she now wants to move on in her life, so we’ll probably sell up and go our separate ways. If you’re wondering where I am now – I’ll tell you … I’m a hijacker … and I won’t give up on Islam or my god until your President genuflects and apologises for what you people, your puppets and your allies have done to us.’
I’m finding it hard to contain myself. I want to swear at Sharif; to tell him that he’s a misguided fuck who’s got everything totally wrong. I’m veering rapidly over to Carla Hirsh’s view of my former friend as a mass killer in the making. It’s difficult to stay cool, but I have to. I grind my teeth together while squeezing my fingernails into the palms of my hands.
‘I’d really like to take a sail in your Laser,’ I say calmly, ‘only I couldn’t manage it on my own … do you fancy an hour out on the water?’
A few years ago, it would have been whisky or beer down on the Lower East Side in New York, followed inevitably by a party in SoHo. If there were problems, anxieties or prospects to celebrate, we shared them together. I want a little of this now, but a wall has gone up and Sharif’s shaking his head.
‘I can’t, Rudi … much as I would like to. There are people who have come back from the Foundation, and you have your interview tomorrow.’
It’s not happening. ‘That was my excuse for coming here to check you out, you crazy fuck!’ But it’s irrelevant. Sharif’s already on his feet and Sulima’s approaching from the house.
* * * * *
‘I have to go to Paris,’ she says. Her eyes are fixed on the lake as she speaks. Her brother’s looking beyond her head, and it’s clear that there are unresolved issues here.
‘OK,’ he answers brusquely. It’s almost as though he doesn’t care about her plans. ‘I’ve got to see our guests … and I hope you’ll join us, Rudi.’
‘Sure – ’
Sulima waits until Sharif disappears before taking my hand. ‘So – until next week in London, Rudi … it is important that we speak then.’
I’m nodding. Of course – maybe she just wants an emotional confidante: someone with whom she can talk about the lover who left her for Osama. She isn’t giving anything away in advance though as we walk back to the house. She takes both of my hands before we part. It’s a moving moment, and my neck’s flushing when she reaches up to kiss my cheeks.
She’s a beautiful woman with a kind heart, and as she slips away I’m thinking of my murdered girlfriend, Faria. Sulima was an important part of our relationship. I can still remember her laughing, joking and sharing secrets with us over weekends in the Hamptons.
‘A drink for you, sir … Mr Sharif thought you might like one,’ a waiter says.
He’s appeared from nowhere with an opaque glass on a tray. Another fucking cordial, I guess, or maybe just fizzy water with ice. I take it reluctantly and don’t bother to look at the liquid. When I finally raise the glass to quench my thirst however, I get the welcome smell of whisky. It’s a treat, and I reckon I’m holding at least two generous shots of a decent malt.
‘Are you a friend of Monsieur Sharif’s?’ a dark brown skinned man with a large nose asks when I get inside. He’s a Lebanese diplomat and I don’t want to cause any offence with my illicit drink. I’m trying to hold the glass under one arm while introducing myself. I want to fit in, so I tell the Lebanese guy that Sharif and I knew each other in the States.
‘And the presentations at the Foundation … they were interesting for you?’ he asks.
‘Oh – absolutely!’ A real cause for celebration, and all the more so since it was an entirely Islamic event. Everyone is chatting amiably in Sharif’s large reception room and I’m not going to put a foot wrong.
‘I think we really do have to move ahead on our own,’ the diplomat says and I’m nodding. Foreign aid, I suggest, is often detrimental to the developing regions. I feel that my country can take a little stick from those previously dependent on dollar aid as they start operating independently.
‘Although I believe Western society can play a useful part in helping to educate your brightest people,’ I say in the spirit of open discussion. ‘I guess this may be a way of bringing our communities closer together.’
‘You cannot be serious,’ the Lebanese man answers with surprise.
‘Sure – of course I am … why not?’
The guy’s incredulous expression has now evolved into an unpleasant sneer.
‘I feel your situation in America is similar to what happened during the closing stages of the Roman Empire,’ he snorts dismissively. ‘Your foundations are disintegrating. I think at any moment we can expect the Western world – and particularly your part of it – to crumble ignominiously into ruins.’
I’m taking a nasty kicking here, along with Old Glory. I need to answer these gratuitous insults. Only the diplomat has turned and he’s walking away.
‘Hey – wait a minute!’ I call after him, but he just keeps going to the other end o
f the room. I’m thinking of following him. We need to sort this out, but Sharif’s beckoning to me. He’s with the ageing Ayatollah, who is grimacing through thick, rimless spectacles.
I don’t need any more anti-American ranting, but the holy man has linked into Sharif’s arm and he’s waving his stick in front of them. I’m already in the cockpit of a B 29. I’m on a bombing mission over Iran and I’m very focused. My mission is to decimate the Iranians, and when I’ve done with the Revolutionary Guards, I’ll be heading for Syria. Meanwhile, my adversaries are making slow progress across an intricately woven Kashmiri carpet.
The jihadi Ayatollah is homing in on me through his jam-jar bottom spectacles. There’s no escape that isn’t going to be socially embarrassing. So it’s courage mon brave and stiffen the back. My stomach’s taut and I’m jutting out my chin. I’m also raising the opaque glass towards my mouth. It’s tense and stressful when Sharif grins and the evil holy man blasts into my brain. I don’t have any allies, but I down my shot and a half of malt whisky in one gulp.
Chapter 7
On the flight back to London, I go through my notes on the stuff I photographed in Sharif’s study. There are indications that someone called Wagstaff is grateful for what they have received. It could be a charitable donation, but there might be other implications.
‘What do you reckon on this?’ a businessman sitting next to me asks. He’s pointing at a picture in the UK Daily News that shows a crowd of black youths taunting the police.
It’s not looking good, and my fellow traveller shakes his head.
‘They say some of the instigators in these disturbances are Asian, and that they may be Muslims.’
I don’t want to know. I’m more interested in the Harry Potter movie that’s featuring on the drop-down screens. So I nod, grin and put my earphones on. What I love about JK Rowling is the way you can get completely lost in her stories. I don’t care if they’re fairytales. They’re great. It is still difficult however to get away from the fact that a magazine I flicked through at Geneva airport had a picture of the Pope in Pakistan on its cover with Taliban and al-Qaeda fighters ranged around him. ‘HOLY FATHER IN TROUBLE!’ a headline screamed, while inside there were cartoon pictures of God’s Rottweiler showing his teeth and going for the retreating rumps of fundamentalist pit bulls.