by Phil Rowan
I’m about to be severely reprimanded, and I know it’s serious when Robson flashes his security service ID in Grosvenor Square and we pull up outside my President’s Embassy. A straight-backed marine on the door snaps to attention and salutes Earl. There’s some form-filling, finger-printing and iris checking in an office off the reception area. Earl is then led away by a smart-suited State Department guy, while I sit looking at the wall.
I’ve closed my eyes and I’m doing some deep breathing exercises when the door opens. Someone’s coughing, but I wait until I’ve counted to eight on a final exhalation.
‘Mr Flynn?’ a Chinese US marine corporal asks.
‘Yes – ’
‘Would you like to come with me, please?’
Not really. And I’m thinking along the lines of ‘fuck you, Mao Tse Tung … I’m not going anywhere.’ But he’s got a nice smile and I guess he’s only doing his job.
We walk to a lift that takes us to the top floor of the Embassy. I follow my escort down a corridor to a window that looks out over Grosvenor Square. A familiar voice answers when the marine knocks on an office door. The room is huge and Carla Hirsch is sitting behind an executive desk.
‘Thank you, corporal,’ she says to my escort. She then points me to a chair in front of her desk. She’s wearing a sharp couture shirt with dangly earrings and some unusual mascara.
‘I’ve had enough,’ I protest and she smiles.
‘Sure – I understand how you must feel, Rudi … it can’t be easy for you.’
This is our Grosvenor Square Embassy. The Brits are our allies and Carla Hirsch is sitting behind this A1 status desk. Where exactly, I’m wondering, do I fit in?
‘Earl said you saw a guy called Pele in Brixton.’
‘Yes.’ His photo dropped out of Sulima Sharif’s bag while we were having lunch in Geneva. She had gone to the washroom when I accidentally kicked her bag over … it was under the table at the time.
Agent Hirsch is looking at me like I’m from another planet.
‘But you didn’t mention this when we had our de-brief, Rudi.’
No. It must have slipped my mind. But Carla’s sitting behind this high-up-the-tree desk and her face is a questioning blank.
‘OK – ’ I blurt out when I can’t take any more of her silence. ‘I’m fond of Sulima as a person … I didn’t want to implicate her unnecessarily.’
Agent Hirsch is sitting back, looking up at the ceiling.
‘I think I can understand where you’re coming from,’ she says tolerantly. ‘But you do realise that this Pele person is part of the al-Qaeda movement. You know what these people have done to us already, Rudi.’
Yes – of course. I don’t sympathise with Osama or with anything he stands for. Sulima’s guy, Pele, is not a good person.
‘We think his surname may be Kalim,’ Carla says. ‘Only we don’t know what he looks like, which is unfortunate.’
It’s not my fault that I dropped the camera Earl gave me and that my assailant in the grey burqa grabbed it. I did my best.
‘Of course you did,’ Carla concedes. I’m getting a light stroke and just the hint of a smile from behind her sequined mascara. ‘However, this Pele is a key player, Rudi. If anything serious is going to happen here in the UK, he’ll probably be involved.’
‘Right – ’
‘And the Brits are our friends. So we need to do whatever we can to find this guy before he does something truly awful.’
Of course – I’ve got mushroom clouds in the picture with Pele Kalim pressing the nuclear button. He’s got to be stopped, but how? Is Carla going to give me a pistol? And what would happen if I fired it and hit him? Would Her Majesty’s prosecutor see it as a helpful allied gesture, or might they respond by putting me on trial? I could spend years in the Tower of London or maybe even in some Guantanamo type stockade in the Scottish Highlands.
‘Sulima’s coming over this week,’ Carla says.
Oh shit – no! ‘Yes … on Friday or Saturday.’
Maybe I should call her. ‘Honey, stay away from the UK. Your guy’s here, but people are waiting for you to make contact. They’re ready to move on you, only it’s Pele that they want. Please don’t ask me how I know about this. Just stay away. Ideally, I’d suggest that you disappear. Maybe go and stay with your family in Damascus. Or better still, take off to a hippie commune type place in Thailand or India and melt in with the gap year kids. I’d recommend Palolem Beach in Goa. It’s cool, and there are some nice people there.’
‘You must stay on message, Rudi,’ Carla says. ‘We need Pele, and if your friend, Sulima, is our entrée, then that’s how it is … don’t screw it up, please. Radiation could make this city uninhabitable.’
She’s right. I know that. My country needs me, and so do the Brits.
‘Which brings us to this guy, Jeremy Wagstaff,’ she says. ‘Who’s receiving funds from your friend, Mohammed – previously known as Michael – Sharif.
A deviously evil bastard, I’m sure. He needs tripping up and compromising with legally under-aged youths, either here or in Thailand.
‘I think he’s just a conduit,’ my Controller suggests, and I’m homing in on a greasy pipe through which the polyversity tutor channels large wads of cash from Middle Eastern oil wells.
‘He has certain weaknesses,’ I tell her.
I don’t normally enjoy descending to this sort of gutter-press tabloid practice. But there are matters of state security at stake here.
‘We all have our inclinations, Rudi.’
‘Sure – but in this case, maybe Wagstaff’s predilections could give us some leverage.’
She’s admiring the two-tone pink colouring on her nicely manicured nails. I’m not sure what’s going on under the decorative spikes of her hairstyle, but when she’s glanced out over Grosvenor Square, she comes back to where I’m sitting.
‘Your friend, Julia,’ she muses.
‘Yes – ’
‘Has she been on her own for a while now?’
‘Two, maybe three years. Why?’
‘I rather like her.’
Oh my god, no! I cannot discuss my neighbour’s relationship preferences. It would all be speculation: lascivious tittle tattle.
‘She’s a very interesting person,’ I suggest. ‘But quite involved with her work, which I imagine is demanding.’
Carla Hirsch is enviably toned and expensively dressed. Also, you don’t get to sit in an office on the top floor of the US Embassy in London unless someone in Washington rates your abilities.
‘Are you going to this do at Claridges?’ she asks.
‘Sure … shall we walk down together?’
She’s toying with the idea. I’d be a good decoy escort. We could link arms and stride along to the hotel as two friendly American tourists.
‘No – I can’t leave just yet,’ she says, getting up from behind her cool desk. ‘But you go, and tell Fiona I’ll be there shortly.’
* * * * *
My Chinese marine corporal is waiting outside. We descend silently in the lift and when we get to the Embassy foyer, he gives me a sharp salute.
‘You take care,’ he says, and I come back with a grin.
I’m in England now but my President seems to have an influential presence here. ‘You Brits are pretty important for us Americans,’ a distinguished Republican Senator said recently. ‘You may not be as influential as you once were economically or politically …but we still think you’re great.’
There’s a guy dressed as a clown juggling some balls in Grosvenor Square. He’s being watched by two cops with AK 47s and fleshy bellies spilling out over their belts. He might have an explosive substance in one of his tennis balls, but he’s got a spiritual aura in his smile and I like his brightly coloured face paint.
I could do with a wash and a clean shirt after the action in Brixton. But I don’t look too bad when I look in the mirror of a hat shop window on Davies Street, and I get a decent beam from the doorman at C
laridges.
‘Miss Adler and her guests are on the first floor, sir … but you might like to leave your coat in the ground floor cloakroom.’
It’s a bit scruffy and needs replacing, but the attendant on duty does his best to make me feel like I’m fitting in.
‘I don’t have any change just now,’ I tell him.
‘Please … don’t worry about that, sir … and enjoy your evening.’
I need to get out more. I’m totally overwhelmed by this prestigious hotel. I’m thinking of silk clad movie stars reclining on sofas in every suite. ‘Come up and see me sometime,’ they say with a promising wink. Only I’m then elbowed aside by cool looking guys who take classy hotels in their stride.
There’s a United Press sign hanging on a magnificent old door on the first floor. I can hear laughter and conversation and I’m overwhelmed when I open the door. The room is vast and it’s filled with glamorous guests. They’re all sipping from delicate glasses and it looks like they do this sort of thing all the time.
‘Rudi!’ Fiona calls as I wander around in a daze. ‘It’s so good to see you.’ I get a big hug and a kiss on the cheek. ‘But where have you been?’
I tell her about the riot in Brixton. ‘Someone in New York wanted to know what was happening,’ I explain.
‘Oh my goodness – you poor fellow … you do look slightly out of sorts. Ingrid’s not here yet, I’m afraid … and neither is your friend Carla.’
‘Ah – ’
‘You haven’t seen her, have you?’
Absolutely not. Any allusions are verboten and covered, I’m sure, by my President’s Patriot Act.
‘I’m rather taken with her, Rudi.’
‘Really – ’
‘Are you surprised?’
Of course not. We’re in the twenty-first century now, babe. Anything goes. So if Fiona and Carla get off together, that’s great.
‘So – a martini?’ she asks, and I nod. Anything would do; I need the alcohol.
‘We’ve got some gorgeous girls here this evening, Rudi, that you can chat with.’
A waiter is already presenting a silver tray with cocktails. I go for one that’s almost full and start with the glace cherry.
‘There’s food over there,’ Fiona says, pointing towards a table that’s stacked with all sorts of pricy gourmet stuff. ‘And this is Emily, who’s in communications.’
The young woman who’s just arrived is a stunner. She’s also keen to talk about her work as Fiona disappears.
‘I’m with the Foreign Office,’ she tells me.
I’m doing my best to keep my eyes off her breasts, while nodding towards her lovely, animated face.
‘Great … so what exactly do you do in Whitehall, Emily?’
She’s gripping my arm and oozing enthusiasm.
‘The greatest challenge, Rudi,’ is to get our message across on the fact that what we’re doing with the Americans really is for the greatest good … and in PR terms, believe me, this is frequently tricky.’
‘Of course.’ I can see what she and her colleagues are up against. I mean, we’re talking unpopular engagements in Iraq and Afghanistan here, along with problems in Somalia and most of the rest of Africa. And god knows what awful news is waiting to break as we speak.
‘Do you travel a lot?’ I ask, taking in what looks like a natural overall tan.
‘Not for the FO,’ she tells me. ‘But I had some leave which I’ve just spent with my parents in the Caribbean.
A delightful place for a holiday. I’m thinking sun, rum and salsa.
‘Yes – daddy has a yacht. So we just sailed around and stopped off at random spots … the beaches on Tobago were brilliant!’
My knee’s aching from when I stumbled as Marvin Malugo’s supporters chased me in Brixton. I don’t feel I’m quite on the same wavelength as Emily. Although she is delightful, and we’re swapping notes on wind-surfing and Caribbean rap artists when a six foot plus very presentable guy arrives.
‘Oh Rudi – this is Rufus,’ Emily says. ‘He’s in the City.’
My hand’s shaken and squeezed while I nod and grin.
‘Darling – we’ve got to go,’ Rufus announces. ‘Good to meet you, Rudi … and I wouldn’t worry too much about what’s happening at the moment. The whole sub-prime thing was unfortunate. But time’s a great healer … so onwards and upwards, ey!’
I don’t know what he’s talking about, but Emily’s shaking my hand and saying how good it was to meet and talk. ‘If you ever want to get in touch about anything that’s breaking internationally, do call me at the FO,’ she says.
When she’s gone, I quickly take another glass of bubbly stuff from what I think is a Slavonic waitress. She’s got great cheekbones, but the drink’s like lemonade, and I’m struggling with what I’m going to do next when Carla Hirsch waves from the doorway.
She’s turning a few heads. For the fashionists, she’s enviably striking. I wave back and grin, but I’m thinking of polished steel in a human form. I can’t see Julia, so I edge over towards my Controller, while beckoning a waiter with a tray of what could be martinis.
‘Have you been drinking?’ she asks accusingly when we’ve each taken a glass.
No – just socialising, ma’am. Although I’m not very good at it.
‘I think you need a relationship,’ she tells me.
‘Why?’
‘Because we all do … but guys get lost on their own … ah – there’s Julia.’
My Islington neighbour is making a regal progression through her guests, most of whom are showering her with compliments. I get a reassuring pat on the arm, while she and Carla do some cheek-brushing. It’s their first physical contact, I think. Madame Hirsch’s eyes are sparkling as Fiona smiles in a contained, knowing way. She then beckons over a thin, dark-haired girl who is standing on her own.
‘Elizabeth – this is Rudi,’ she says. ‘He’s a journalist … and Lizzie’s an actress.’
She’s already leading Carla away and I’m on my own with Lizzie.
‘Do you know all of these people?’ she asks.
‘Just those two,’ I tell her, pointing after Fiona and Carla.
‘I can’t work out why I’m here,’ Lizzie says. ‘My agent was talking about a magazine feature writer, but I can’t find her, and I honestly don’t think I can be bothered any more. It’s all so tedious … do you write features about celebs.’
Occasionally, but they’re mainly politicians. I haven’t met many actresses.
‘I’ve just been a mad murderer in a movie,’ Lizzie tells me. ‘It totally fucked my head, and now all I want to do is snort coke … do you have any?’
No – sorry. And I don’t think I can take too much more of Lizzie. She needs help, and she’s starting to tell me about her father when my mobile rings.
‘Rudi?’
‘Ingrid – where are you?’
‘Downstairs … can you join me?’
‘Sure – ’
‘You remind me of my father,’ Lizzie says.
Oh no – please!
‘Once – we were playing in the garden of our home in Surrey. It was all quite idyllic. I sat on his lap and he ran his fingers through my hair. I was in heaven, Rudi … but then something happened.’
‘Lizzie – ’
She’s got hold of my arm and she’s looking at me accusingly. I’m her father, and I think she’s the mad murderer.
‘Do you believe in re-incarnation?’ she asks.
No – I don’t think so. Although there are Catholic elements amongst my ancestors – especially on the Fenian rebel side in Edwardian Ireland. So I know all about Jesus and the Easter resurrection stuff. I can see the holy lord now rising up from being dead and ascending into heaven after he was crucified by the Romans.
‘I believe we can die and come back again,’ the actress says.
Sure – why not?
‘And if you can find some cocaine, we can go to the toilet and I’ll tell you more about wha
t happened between my father and myself all those years ago in our rural Surrey garden.’
This isn’t one for me, Elizabeth. I don’t think I could cope with your fractured memories. You need serious attention from qualified people … and I’ve got to go.
‘Can you just wait here for a moment,’ I say. ‘I’ve had an idea … so if you can bear with me, I’ll be right back … OK.’
Chapter 14
I’m moving quickly; shuffling and speed-walking towards the door. Downstairs, in the Claridges lobby, my Valkyrie princess is waiting.
‘I hope you don’t mind my not coming up to join you,’ she says. ‘It’s just that Fiona was a little strange when we spoke on the phone … I think she has this idea that we might spend intimate time together.’
I’m very disappointed in my neighbour, Fiona Adler, and I shall say so when I next see her.
‘Let’s go and eat or have a drink,’ I suggest and Ingrid responds with a promising kiss on my cheek.
I think I’m in love. It hasn’t been like this since Faria held my face in her hands on the Lower East Side and smiled silently.
‘I want to tell you about my secret life, Rudi,’ Ingrid says.
I’m intrigued but a little concerned. Is she involved with a Scandinavian billionaire? If she is, I can’t compete. But it’s a long and fascinating story that starts over a cocktail in a small French restaurant and ends blissfully in the Islington house where I’m staying.
‘I’ve had this dream for several years,’ she says. ‘I’m living in a Montparnasse attic when, one evening, I meet someone in a café on the Boulevard St Germain. He’s a little older than I am but he’s very confident, and I like him.’
I’m worried about the competition, but Ingrid wants to involve me. ‘He’s a painter,’ she says, ‘and his work is popular … I think I’m falling in love with him, Rudi, so we go back to his studio in Montmartre.’
OK – it’s all bliss with Fabio whoever or Pablo ‘I’m the hottest thing in town!’
‘Right – ’
‘And I think it’s the same for artists everywhere. We all need our eureka moments – and that’s what I got from Claude.’
I need a sense of perspective here. ‘Stay cool, fellah. Go with the flow. Ingrid Cesaro is an artist. These people think outside the box all the time.’ I must try not to see Claude from a hundred and thirty years ago as a rival. He’s more of an inspiration, I guess: A role model whose jacket I might try on and walk around in for a while.