by Phil Rowan
‘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.’
I don’t know anything about this, ma’am, so I shrug. I’m trying to be detached, but I feel like I’ve been hooked by Carla Hirsch and I could get reeled in at any time.
‘If you were in love with someone, Rudi, you’d want to see them, wouldn’t you?’
‘Eh, yes – probably.’
I need to call Ingrid. She might be back in London tomorrow. I’m hoping we can meet again soon. But I don’t want to let on to Agent Hirsch that I’m now emotionally involved. She might make a play for my Valkarie Princess, and I’m already having appalling thoughts about Fiona and Carla attempting to lure Ingrid into an immoral and wholly abhorrent threesome.
‘The Sharifs have a house in Eaton Square.’
‘Yes – ’
‘And I think you mentioned to Earl that the sister was coming to London.’
I’m nodding and wriggling. I don’t want Sulima kidnapped and spirited away on an anonymous plane for a bit of water-boarding at Guantanamo. I can see Carla now, licking her lips while contemplating elements of rendition that involve a tickling feather, hot flesh, tears and definitely some human bondage.
‘Whatever her brother may be up to, Sulima has no wish to do anything harmful … I’m sure of this.’ I’m gushing it out, and it’s a bit too frantic.
‘Of course,’ Carla says, crossing her quite long and possibly even sexy legs. ‘I’m sure she’s a delightful creature. However, she has already told you that she loves this Asian guy who’s taken up the baton for Osama. I imagine he feels the same way about her – although his emotions are probably in a secondary position to whatever he sees as his jihadist duty. But if she was here, Rudi, in Eaton Square and – well, let’s assume that her guy isn’t always with Bin Laden in Pakistan … they might meet up, and this could happen here.’
It’s possible. I’m not going to speculate. A shrug’s all I’m conceding – because, whatever happens, I’m on Sulima’s side.
* * * * *
Carla Hirsch has finished her camomile tea. She’s getting up and walking to examine the garden from the kitchen patio doors. Her fingers are in the back pockets of her pricy jeans. From the rear, I have to admit, she’s hot: Great ass, shoulders, legs and stance. It’s when she turns around that it changes. ‘You look at me the wrong way, fellah, and I swear I’ll freeze you into a solid block of ice right where you stand …you got that, boy?’
Oh yes, ma’am. Loud and clear.
‘OK …’ She’s turned around. It’s to do time. ‘I want you to stay in close to Sulima Sharif. Just now, she’s the only possible opening we have on what could be a very dangerous hit … unless – ’
I’m in the dock, mentally stapled to a wooden chair.
‘Yes?’
‘Do you have any other Muslim contacts in London?’
It zinged out like a rocket from left field.
‘Sure, quite a few. I’ve been networking here for a while, but I think most of the people I’ve met are pretty solid.’
I’m not mentioning Khalad, because if I do, I’ll loose him. Carla’s sucking in on her cheeks and I’m focusing on what I think is a black brassiere inside her shirt. I can’t quite see her charming the pants off Fiona Adler, although I suppose anything’s possible.
‘What’s happening here, Rudi, is that the tactics are changing.’
‘Ah – ’
‘We’re getting an increasing number of incidents where Asians appear to be encouraging Afro-Caribbeans to protest. ‘We is wiv you, man …cos we know you is more oppressed than we is. OK …maybe guns an’ knives is not the way … but you is at bottom of the pile, man, an’ we is there to ‘elp. So let’s go an’ get whitey on side …all right, bruvs?’
Pretty normal stuff to be making a fuss about. Students do it all the time – no? I mean, Paris in the late sixties and pretty much everywhere in the seventies and intermittently since. Protesters are making a comeback now. I’m allowed to prattle on until Carla raises her hand.
‘The point,’ she says is that quite a few of these troublesome Asians are Muslims. The only reason they’re getting politicised with street demonstrations is for the cause of Islam.’
Am I bothered? Perhaps I should be. Unemployment is increasing around the world and all sorts of vile creatures are crawling out of the sewers to capitalise on raw frustrations.
‘Which takes us to this guy Wagstaff, whose e-mails to Sharif you photographed.’
Oh shit – no!
‘He’s a tutor at the King’s Cross Academy. Earl reckons he’s a mentor figure for activists, many of whom are British born Muslim Asians.’
And he’s received something from Sharif for which he’s grateful.
‘I don’t know anything about what’s happening with college kids in England,’ I tell my American controller. It’s true. I haven’t been on a campus since I graduated from UCLA in ‘99.
She’s sitting down again, which is worrying. Her teeth are good, but she’s trying to hypnotise me. I can’t escape, and the smile that emphasises her chiselled cheekbones isn’t in any way empathetic. It’s scary. ‘Come on, Rudy baby,’ it says. ‘Over here – OK …great – now I’m holding out my nicely manicured hand for you. Oh, gee …honey, you’ve just fallen into this great big trap we had for wild animals. And no – you can’t get out, sugar …maybe later, if you deliver for Earl and me and your President – and of course Her Majesty and the Duke. He’s kinda cute, isn’t he …although, did you know they’ve all got German ancestors, and the one who married Wallace Simpson thought Hitler might actually be good for Germany …’
‘We’d like you to go and check out this Jeremy Wagstaff.’
‘Me?’
‘Yes. We’ll arrange an interview. You’ll be on assignment for a US newspaper. I’m not sure which one it will be, but you’ll have good credibility, and I’m sure Wagstaff will be flattered that you’ve sought him out.’
‘Why – what’s the story?’
‘Oh, I don’t know. Seriously radicalised students; what’s motivating them; why are they so angry; and what do we have to do to get a satisfactory solution? Everyday issues.’
‘But what’s the point of my doing this?’
The smile’s faded and her eyes are drilling into my head. I’m being lobotomised.
‘You’re trying to find out where this fuck’s at, Rudi. If you stroke him up nicely, he might let something out … OK?’
No. It isn’t. I don’t do undercover work for government agencies. It’s dangerous.
‘He’s married,’ she tells me as an afterthought. ‘But he’s actually gay, which could make a difference.’
‘In what way?’
‘He’ll be flattered that a large US newspaper thinks his view on anything is relevant. So you’re in with a good start. All you’ve got to do is smile agreeably and let him talk.’
‘Seduce him, Rudy …you don’t have to go all the way, at least not initially. Although it might help if you gave the impression that you’re seriously into blow jobs and that you’re not averse to using a finger of butter, or whatever it takes to open up your ass!’
Chapter 11
Marvin Malugo is fading fast at St Thomas’ Hospital in South London. His family have arrived from Trinidad and there are reports of shops and houses being boarded up in Brixton. ‘If he die,’ a Farrakhan Muslim says. ‘We set dis place alight …you hear me, boy?’ he tells a nervous TV interviewer. ‘Cos de police dey murder ‘im – right?’
I haven’t covered any riots for a while, but my commissioning editors in New York are keen for copy. ‘So is there something wrong with
the Brits, Rudi? I mean – riots for Christ’s sake, involving blacks and the police … hey, that’s so last century, man!’
They’re right of course. Race relations are generally pretty good in the UK. Although some people feel it was excessive for the cops to shoot Marvin, even if he was defending himself with an AK 47. He’s a bit of an icon figure in South London. At least that’s how he’s coming across on media shots with his tweed cap, grey beard and a winning, folksy smile. He could be Bob Marley as a pensioner. The fact that he dealt in weed, smack and coke is seen by many as a side issue. ‘Him was a good man, you hear! He got a wife an’ family to support …an’ the police …well – they should no ‘ave shoot ‘im you know. Is wicked!’
If I had a choice, I’d stick with Marvin. He’s got a nice down home feel about him. Strong human interest for the readers, and there are a lot of people batting for him. Carla Hirsch however, is insistent. ‘You will check out this guy, Wagstaff, at the King’s Cross Academy,’ she commands. ‘And that’s your priority.’
Not long afterwards, I get a call from Grant Stevenson, an executive editor on the New York Courier. ‘Rudi – hi …we haven’t met, but I gather you’re going to interview this guy Wagstaff for us at the King’s College in London.’
Not quite, my man. The King’s Cross Academy isn’t really in the same league as His Majesty’s College, which is part of London University.
‘My impression,’ Grant says, ‘is that Wagstaff is a mentor for radical elements, most of whom seem to be Muslim immigrants.’
‘Don’t worry,’ I tell him, it’s all in hand. My Controller, Carla Hirsch, has arranged the interview. Only she’s not expecting me to write the story. Grant and the Courier are, I assume, in league with Homeland Security in Washington. They do whatever my President feels is appropriate. I’m almost there, but I call Fiona in the morning.
‘I’ve got to go to the King’s Cross Academy,’ I tell her.
‘Oh gawd,’ she sighs.
‘You’re not impressed?’