Dark Clouds

by Phil Rowan

  I give him a normal tip through the window, but I find myself reaching out to shake his hand as he says, ‘good luck.’

  * * * * *

  I have ambivalent feelings about museums and art galleries. I think they’re great. I like going to visit them, but after a while, I get tired of all the walking around. This happened quite quickly at the V&A. I looked at paintings from Azerbaijan and the Caribbean and I tried to work out the meaning of tiny pieces of pottery from the Ming dynasty in China. If Ingrid had been with me, she could have explained everything, while holding my hand. It would have been fantastic. Instead, however, I go to the shop after half-an-hour and I then find a door out onto a sunny garden in the centre of the building. I don’t think there was anyone else around when I sat on a bench and fell asleep. I’m in North East Australia and I’m then flitting between the two islands in New Zealand when my phone rings. It’s the one I’ve just bought in Islington and it’s got an unusual sound.

  ‘Rudy?’

  ‘Hi – Sulima ... how are you doing?’

  ‘I’ve just seen Pele on the TV news ... I can’t believe what they’re saying about him ... it’s awful – ’

  Wake up. Hold steady and steer carefully through the centre ground.

  ‘Where are you now?’

  ‘I’ve left Maya’s place in Belgrave Square and I’m looking for a taxi.’

  ‘OK ... Penelope’s on the King’s Road. I’ll see you there.’

  She’s crying, but says ‘yes’ before hanging up.

  There are Nationalists chanting ‘Allah out! around the mosque opposite the museum. They’ve got my picture of Pele Kalim on their posters with the word ‘murderer’ underneath. The cops and Community Support Officers are looking tense. They don’t know what’s going to happen next. But the traffic’s cutting off up towards Hyde Park and there are no cabs. My sense of direction in this part of town isn’t brilliant, but a nice Indian man points me towards the Fulham Road, where there’s a sign for Sydney Street. ‘It’s where the siege was, man ... you know, Winston Churchill and the anarchists. It really put him on the political map, and it was years before the second World War.’

  I’m worried about Sulima. She has arrived before me at Penelope’s cafe and is sipping orange juice in the garden. She looks great, although her eyes are covered with huge shades and when she gets up to give me a fraught hug.

  ‘Oh Rudi ... I don’t know what’s happened. They’re saying that Pele threw a hand grenade into a crowd at King’s Cross.’

  ‘Two actually, babe, and the first one could have been for me.’

  I order a coffee with a brandy from one of the Penelope girls. I suggest that Sulima has a shot of something, but she shakes her head.

  ‘I can’t ... I’d probably pass out,’ she tells me, and when she takes off her shades, I’m heartened by a small wry smile.

  ‘I know this is grim for you,’ I say, resting a hand on her wrist. ‘But I think what we need to do is to try and put ourselves in Pele’s position.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ she asks, and I can see she’s shocked by the idea. For the guy I think she still loves has just killed a large group of people and maimed maybe twice as many.

  ‘He’s fighting for something he believes in ... and I don’t think he’s finished.’

  ‘But what else could there be? He’s already killed all of these people.’

  I’m struggling with Pele’s jihad, but then I think of Mohammed Atta and the North Tower. He was hugely focused. His accomplices maybe slightly less so, but they achieved their objectives. Three thousand people died and the world hasn’t been the same since. I’m reluctant to mention the word nuclear. It’s too remote. OK – it can wipe out a lot of people and the after effects might be with us pretty well forever. But Sulima’s waiting, so I drop the N word: slowly, almost matter-of-factly. There is some hearsay evidence, I tell her, and all of the intelligence predictions are pointing towards a nuclear incident with a great cloud of radiation.

  ‘Most probably in London,’ I say when I’ve downed my brandy and asked an obliging Penelope’s girl for another.

  Sulima doesn’t respond for a while, but then she nods. ‘It’s almost the same with Mike, Rudi. He and Pele have moved from an easy-going middle class liberalism to something quite different. I find it hard to accept the way they’ve both changed.’

  I don’t know Pele Kalim, but I share Sulima’s feelings about the way her brother has been seduced into a jihadist lunacy. At UCLA, and again in New York, there were occasional humorous references to American imperialism. ‘You’re just like the Romans, Rudi,’ Sharif would say. ‘You want to go everywhere and control the way we view the world.’ A little harsh, I used to think. We were a thriving democracy; we had lots of good things to offer the world. If they did it our way they could all become rich and satisfied. Yes? No – alas. Osama and Mohammed Atta had other ideas. ‘You will rue the day you tried to humiliate us, infidel. We don’t want any part of your tawdry commercial culture ... we’re going to obliterate you ... and if the nuclear option is the only way, then so be it.’

  ‘Pele had a friend who worked at Sellafield,’ Sulima says when I’ve sipped at my second brandy. ‘He was a Kashmiri scientist.’

  These nuclear guys keep popping up. First Mukhtar Ali and now a Kashmiri called Khan. I’m thinking of rogue states who suddenly get the technology and wham! Or boom! It hasn’t happened yet, but I’m sure it will.

  ‘When did you last hear from Pele?’ I ask and Sulima hesitates.

  ‘It was on Wednesday ... I was in Paris.’

  And I was lying in the Homerton Hospital having just been shot at, possibly by one of Khan’s associates.

  ‘Does he know you’re here.’

  ‘I said I was coming today.’

  We’re alone at a table under a tree in this rather unusual cafe. I’m not sure where I’m going. The one thing I’m solid on however is that I don’t want Carla to get her hands on Sulima. This means I have to try and work something out with her to avert a disaster.

  ‘You two are clearly very close?’

  She’s stalling again, just a little. But then she nods and I can sense the strength of her feelings for Pele Kalim. ‘I don’t want him to do anything like what you’re suggesting he might,’ she says and I’m convinced she means it.

  ‘Could you dissuade him?’

  She’s serene in her soul and stunning. I’m sure she could get half the world’s males to do as she wished. But not Pele, it seems.

  ‘His life is a crusade, Rudi. He’s in Allah’s hands, and he will go for whatever it takes to get a result.’

  I’m recalling youngsters in Iraq and Afghanistan happily blowing themselves up every other day as suicide martyrs. Presumably, someone they respect told them it was a good thing to do and that they could have their reward in heaven.

  ‘Would you try to stop him if he contacts you?’

  ‘Yes – I will do all I can ... but I don’t have his number ... and – ’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I don’t wish to betray him.’

  So we’re relying on gentle words: a soft, winning smile; a plea to desist. ‘Pele – my love ... for me ... could you please not do whatever it is you’re planning with the nuclear ingredients.’

  I’m not sure how Carla would respond to this. She would want to take my friend into custody, and that would just be the beginning.

  ‘There are people who want to speak with you,’ I say and she’s puzzled.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because Mike has given money to the guys who are backing Pele on this nuclear adventure.’

  If anyone else had told her this, she would have reacted angrily. It couldn’t happen. Her brother may have become a more devout Muslim, but he would never fund terrorists ... he wasn’t like that.

  ‘Are you sure?’ she asks and there is a hard edge in her voice.

  ‘Yes ... there is evidence.’

  I took the picture of Wagstaff’s e-mail e
xpressing gratitude to Sharif, and Jeremy is now co-operating wholeheartedly with the authorities.

  ‘Are you working with the security services, Rudi?’

  I can’t shake my head and say I’m not. She already has her suspicions.

  ‘Yes – I am.’

  ‘So why don’t you just make a call and have me arrested?’

  Because I’ve always thought of you as a friend. A soul mate, if you like. You were also close with my first love, Faria.

  ‘There are too many good times that we all shared together in New York,’ I tell her, although I think it’s clear that this ‘for old times sake’ stuff does not apply to her brother. He and I were also close in the States, but not any more.

  She’s softening again now, and I think she wants to trust me.

  ‘What am I to do?’ she asks. ‘Can I stay in Eaton Square?’

  ‘No.’ The Sharif’s London residence is known to both Earl and Carla. It’s almost certainly under surveillance as we speak. ‘I don’t want anyone to know where you are,’ I say emphatically. I’ve never been known for taking control of situations and there’s a bemused smile on Sulima’s face.

  ‘So where do I go ... I’ve still got to feed Maya’s cat, Trudi, this evening and tomorrow morning.’

  If Ingrid was here, I might be able to persuade her to hide an elegant Syrian woman with perfect features and legs to die for. Any artist would be instantly taken with her. But my Valkyrie Princess isn’t around and since the Asian guy took a shot at me I’m not allowed to go anywhere near the house where I’ve been staying in Crowndale Square.

  ‘I think you’ll be safe in your friend’s place tonight ... but we’ll have to find you somewhere else tomorrow.’

  She looks at me like I’m trying to rescue a maiden in distress. ‘Thank you, kind sir.’ Then we both start to laugh and it’s a relief.

  ‘Can we have supper together this evening?’ she asks.

  God – yes. Of course.

  I had promised to introduce her to some interesting people in London. I would still like to do this, but it will have to wait.

  Chapter 22

  I want something special for our night out on the town together. First, however, we have to take a cab to Belgrave Square. I’m overwhelmed by the opulence of the place, and Maya’s house is discreetly splendid.

  ‘She is a Venezuelan oil heiress,’ Sulima explains.

  ‘You are a very select group,’ I say flippantly and immediately regret it. She can’t be responsible for the fact that she has inherited huge wells of oil in Syria. But she’s smiling.

  ‘So you think I’m a spoilt child, Rudi … a trustafarian who just wants to spend her father’s money.’

  Heavens no – anything but.

  ‘You do … that’s how you see me.’

  Thankfully, she’s joking. We’re on a delicate balancing act here though, what with the man she still loves hovering in the background while waiting to press a lethal button. When she’s ready, which takes some time, I feed the smooth blue-coated Persian cat, Trudi, and we set off. Covent Garden is the place to go, I think. There’s a Spanish restaurant with great food and Latino music. I’m hoping Sulima will like it, and she does. There are live musicians due on shortly, and in the meanwhile there’s salsa in the background.

  ‘This brings back some good memories,’ she says.

  ‘Where from?’

  ‘Cuba … I spent a month there with Maya a couple of years ago. We drove from the North to the South, which was six or seven hundred miles.’

  It’s politically a no go area for Americans. So I listen, intrigued, as she takes me down to the old Spanish capital of Santiago.

  ‘It’s a symbolic place, Rudi, with some magnificent buildings, although many of them are crumbling now.’

  I’m there with her and cigar chomping musicians who play at random in the streets. We then go up into the Sierra Madras Mountains to savour a little of what Fidel, Che and Raul got up to with their guerrillas at the end of the 1950s. She refers briefly to Guantanamo Bay, which I think is a disgrace. It’s also a place that I suspect my Controller, Carla Hirsch, might be familiar with. ‘OK, guys … we think you’re on the wrong side and that you may have stories to tell us. So we’re going to take you around the world, stopping occasionally to refuel at friendly government airports. But our destination is the US military base at Guantanamo in South Cuba. This is not considered to be part of the US of A, I’m afraid, so we can do whatever it takes to get you talking to us while you’re there. You won’t have any visitors, and if you step out of line you will be punished. We won’t allow you to pray to Allah or wear beards, and you may be required to watch salacious Western movies, or do whatever your guards feel is appropriate as an amusing and possibly pornographic exercise.’

  The Cubans ran excursion trips out to a ridge that overlooks the base,’ Sulima says, but we steered well clear of the place, and I think the best part started when we returned to Havana.

  ‘Ah – ’

  ‘Do you know that I can dance the Salsa?’

  She’s a glamorous accountant, but I can’t really see her doing the one, two, three and twirl out on the floor.

  ‘I’ll show you when the band starts,’ she teases. ‘But Maya and I both got into it at the Tropicana in Havana.’ An old Mafia haunt, I’ve read about, with decadent images from the thirties and forties and some fantastic American cars, many of which are still running.

  ‘And how is your love life, Rudi?’ she asks unexpectedly as we progress through a delicious selection of tapas dishes. I think I’ve briefly touched on my Nordic goddess with her in Geneva, but that was before Ingrid and I got together as a passionate item.

  ‘I’m smitten,’ I tell her.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes … and it’s probably the first time since Faria.’

  I’ve let it slip out and Sulima wants the whole story. Do we feel the same about each other? Will we marry and what are the prospects for a Cesaro/Flynn family?

  I haven’t thought about any of this. It’s like ‘everything’s happening now’ and ‘tomorrow’s another day.’

  ‘You are a lucky fellow,’ she says when I’ve done my best to fill her in on Ingrid and her work and how I’m looking forward to seeing her again when she gets back from Oslo or Helsinki, or wherever it is her mother is having the complicated marital challenge with her father and his female clergywoman.

  I haven’t switched on either of my phones. I’ve been hoping that Pele Kalim might ring Sulima, but it hasn’t happened, and I’m trying not to think about it when she reaches across the table and puts a slim, ringless hand over mine.

  ‘Let’s salsa,’ she says as a small Latino group starts to play. There are already a few people on the floor and I’m being led out to join them. My partner’s wearing a fitted black couture frock with Emma Hope heels and already she’s moving perfectly with the music.

  I haven’t done any of this for ages, but it’s coming back, and I think there’s a rhythm working down from my shoulders and hands to my hips and feet.

  ‘Hey – you’re not bad,’ she says when we start to move together. ‘Three each side, forward back, turn and get those hips moving!’

  Sulima’s better than I am with the steps, but it doesn’t seem to matter. We’re getting a few smiles and even the odd cheer from other diners. With her hair up, she looks like a more interesting version of Audrey Hepburn. It’s difficult to imagine her in a burqa or even a veil, although I know that she occasionally visits a mosque in Geneva. I need to be careful though, because I’m getting a little mesmerised by my vibrant dance partner, and the music is playing tricks with my feelings.

  In between our lively sessions on the floor, I’m drinking wine interspersed with whisky. It’s not a lot I keep telling myself, but after two hours, I’m faltering.

  ‘Come on,’ Sulima says. ‘You need a coffee.’

  I’ve dropped my credit card onto the floor, and I’m embarrassed when I get back
from underneath the table to find that my guest has already paid the bill.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ she assures me as we hail a cab. ‘The next treat is yours, and I’m looking forward to meeting your Norwegian girlfriend.’

  I ought to be returning to my hotel in Islington. I should also check my phone to see if there are any messages. But Sulima’s talking about old Havana and a small fishing village where Ernest Hemingway kept a boat.

  ‘It’s now in the grounds of his house, which is a museum outside Havana,’ she says, ‘and thousands of people go to see it every year.’

  She’s wearing Chanel, I think, and she’s linked into one of my arms.

  ‘Belgrave Square, ma’am,’ the cab driver announces after what seems like a very short journey. ‘Do you want left or right?’

  ‘Left please … and Rudi … I don’t have any change.’

  Well fifteen or twenty pounds or whatever the meter says is the least I can contribute. I’m getting the notes out, and I’m about to tell Sulima that I’m off to Islington when she takes my hand and says, ‘coffee … you are inebriated, and I’m not letting you go anywhere on your own until you’ve sobered up.’

  I’ve thought about taking a break from the booze. I’ve even got a number for Alcoholics Anonymous and I’ve rehearsed my introductory line several times. ‘I’m an alcoholic and my name is Rudi Flynn’ Or is it the other way round with my name first?

  I follow Sulima up the steps of her friend Maya’s hugely expensive home. Trudi, the Persian cat, is meowing pitifully, but Sulima says she can’t have any more food and would I mind putting a kettle on in the kitchen, which is downstairs.

  I have to hold the stair rail carefully on the way down. The lights are confusing, but I eventually get the right switch, and when I find a kettle I get it on. I then sit at a table and put my head on my hands. What follows is inevitable. I fall asleep thinking about the jihadist, Pele Kalim, and I’m on the point of shouting his name when Sulima pulls at my arm. She’s got a tolerant tone as she leads me up through the house to a small room in a back addition. It’s got a single bed and the curtains are already drawn.