Dark Clouds

by Phil Rowan

  ‘What will you have?’ he asks.

  ‘Whisky, please.’

  He gives me a generous measure and we sit facing each other across the bog standard Army issue desk.

  ‘Are you not joining me?’

  ‘Later, perhaps,’ he says. ‘But to be honest, I prefer rum.’

  ‘Is this the sort of job you always saw yourself doing?’ I ask and he grins again.

  ‘Maybe not, Rudi – maybe not. The thing is though, my parents always wanted us to work hard and try our best to succeed ... that’s all I’ve done.’

  ‘Right – ’

  There is a dismissive note in my tone. So he reaches into the Fresh and Wild bag, takes out a plastic cup and pours himself a modest measure of the budget category Teachers whisky.

  ‘Let me tell you something,’ he says when he’s once again facing me from across the desk. ‘Many people denigrate this country, man. They’re usually comfortably off and they like to see themselves as liberals ... which is fine. We’re all different. But I see it as a great place with all sorts of opportunities for advancement. I live in St Albans, Rudi. It’s an agreeable town. My wife is a lawyer. We don’t have children, but we’re buying a holiday home in Tobago. Do you think any of this would have been remotely possible if I had stayed in Jamaica?’

  Two homes, maybe not. But kids? Yes – lots of them.

  ‘So you feel we need to hit people like Khalad hard?’ I ask.

  We’re not going anywhere fast. Earl’s committed to his career with Her Majesty’s security service. He wants to secure his second home in Tobago, and he sees my Tunisian contact as just another bad or misguided person, who needs to be stopped or turned around before he or his associates do any damage in The Green and Pleasant Land that is England.

  I’m thinking of a second whisky when Carla Hirsch returns and says we need to talk about Sulima.

  ‘Sure ... but can I go to the washroom first?’

  She’s reluctant to let me leave, but I’m getting up, and when she nods Earl speaks with the soldier outside our door. The male lavatory at the end of the corridor smells of bleach and my escort tells me he’ll wait outside until I’m ready to return.

  I choose a cubicle that’s furthest away from the door and when I get inside I take out both of my phones. I put the one I recently purchased on the lavatory cistern. I then bring up Sulima’s number on my original mobile. There isn’t any recognisable sequence in the numbers, but by splitting them up, I’m able to arrange them in a way that, hopefully, will allow me to remember them. It’s a bit like a bank ID code, and when I think I’ve got it, I delete Sulima from each phone.

  I don’t know where she is, and I could go through a lie detector on this. Although I’m not sure if I could continue to hold her phone number in my head if Carla Hirsch resorted to water-boarding with me, or if Brian and Calum were instructed to treat me like a Fenian Irish suspect. They’re each on their mobiles when I get back. Carla’s talking with her Homeland Security boss in Washington, while Earl fields a call from his assertive wife who wants to know if he’ll be back for dinner in St Albans.

  The desk phone then rings and Carla indicates that I should pick it up.

  ‘Mr Connors?’ the Brigadier asks.

  ‘No – this is Rudi Flynn ... Earl’s on another call.’

  ‘Very good ... we’re in the infirmary wing, and I think you’d all better come up here. The trooper outside your door can show you where we are.’

  I don’t like the sound of ‘we’ in the infirmary wing at the Regent’s Park barracks, and especially so if Brian and Calum are the main men. Earl and Carla have each got the gist of what we’re talking about and they quickly end their own conversations.

  ‘What’s happened?’ Carla asks.

  I don’t know, but a part of me is welcoming the fact that we may not now have to talk again about Sulima, at least for a while.

  ‘The infirmary is on the other side of the barracks square,’ our escort tells us. ‘So if you’d like to follow me.’

  There are soldiers in camouflage gear getting into trucks when we go outside. They are big guys and most of them are carrying serious looking riot sticks. We’re an incongruous quartet, I’m thinking, and we get puzzled glances and a few shaking heads from the troops who look like they’re on their way to assist the civil power. ‘There’ll always be an England ... but at times like this we have to forget about being civilised and understated. Why? Because our enemy is ruthless and a lot of misguided people think it’s a good idea to side with the Islamists. They’re deluded of course ... there’s a fierce fight ahead, but one hopes that decent, civilised values will prevail eventually.’

  Our escort’s boots reverberate ahead of us as we walk across the tarmaced parade ground. Then it’s into another sanitised corridor and up in a lift to the top floor of the barracks complex. There is a smell of disinfectant as the lift doors open, and there are more clinical odours as we approach the infirmary. The Brigadier is waiting for us in what looks like a doctor’s office.

  ‘Brian and Calum are still interrogating your subject,’ he says. ‘But something has come up I felt you ought to know about straightaway.’

  I’m scanning book titles on a medicine cabinet shelf. They seem to be mainly about the effects of certain drugs on the brain, which is disquieting. Carla has already sat herself down on a chair behind the desk. She crosses her long, elegantly trousered legs and then smiles invitingly for the Brigadier’s benefit.

  ‘It appears that there is going to be an explosion,’ he tells us. ‘And Mr Hassan seems to think there is a train involved in the proposed incident.’

  ‘So they’re going to blow up a train?’ Carla says.

  ‘Possibly – ’

  ‘Big deal ... I don’t think that takes us very far, does it?’

  ‘Brian and Calum are still questioning your suspect,’ the Brigadier answers defensively. ‘But I have to tell you they’re not optimistic about getting any more information from him.’

  ‘Why?’ Carla asks impatiently. ‘I thought you said they were experts, who usually get results. Otherwise ... what’s the point of using them?’

  The Army officer is uncomfortable. He’s not used to being spoken to in this way by anyone, and certainly not by pushy American women with sexually ambivalent hair styles.

  ‘Frankly,’ he says after a pause, ‘I don’t believe your Tunisian knows anything else. He’s been thoroughly dealt with, and I can assure you that Brian and Calum are very experienced in assessing subject responses in these circumstances.’

  Carla Hirsch is shaking her head. She’s had it with the Brits. Ok, they may be all right out in the field or marching down Pall Mall in funny hats. But the situation is serious and she has a suggestion.

  ‘I think you should take him out to Northolt,’ she says. ‘Or to one of our bases in Suffolk or Norfolk ... and we’ll take it on from there.’

  ‘You see, we know how to do this sort of stuff, bumpkin ... we’ve got the experience and the contacts. If it was down to me, I’d have this guy flown straight to Cairo. That’s the place, buddy. The Egyptians can get just about anything out of a recalcitrant’s head ... and they are our friends.’

  ‘I’m afraid we’d have to get clearance from the MoD to do anything like that, ma’am – and I’m not sure if ... ’

  ‘Oh for fuck’s sake, man!’ Carla spits it out. ‘You don’t know your ass from your fucking elbow on this, and I’ve had it with your wimpy attitude ... you got a senior officer here ... and I mean the head guy. I want to see him, now!’

  The Brigadier has finally been stirred out of his understated mode. His neck is red and he’s about to answer Carla when a medical orderly with a Sergeant’s stripes appears.

  ‘Beg pardon, sir,’ he says in a Scottish accent. ‘But something’s happened.’

  ‘What?’ the Brigadier asks sharply.

  ‘It’s the prisoner, sir ... he’s had a turn. We’re not sure yet what it is ... only it could b
e his heart.’

  * * * * *

  Khalad survives, but I’m not happy about what I’ve got him into. I keep thinking of Mohammad Atta and his friends. What was it, I wonder, that propelled them into our World Trade Centre on 9/11? I’m going back to Egypt, Morocco and Tunisia. I’ve got a lot of friendly welcoming guys in traditional dress: Little kufi hats, long jellabas and mischievously endearing smiles. Laurence of Arabia comes to mind with Peter O’Toole careering across the North African desert on a camel. He’s got hundreds of loyal Berber tribesmen following on behind him.

  We got along all right with Arab and other Muslims for quite a few years. OK – maybe there was some disharmony between Allah and Jesus in Laurence Durrell’s Alexandria, but relations were generally good between us. The Saudis and others enjoyed their wealth in the West and in return for our hospitality, they kept a lid on their more excitable and radical thinkers. I’ve got this photograph of Osama and his extended family posing proudly in front of a Western Villa and they all look shyly content. So where did we go wrong?

  I take a couple of Diazepam tablets when I get back to the hotel in Islington. It’s a stark, impersonal place and I’m missing my bedroom in Crowndale Square with the blue Persian cat, just like Maya’s, who used to meow at me from across the rooftops. The pills help though, and it’s almost midday when I wake the next morning. I got my phone with the tracking device back before I left the Regent’s Park Barracks on condition that I kept it switched on. ‘We need to know where you are, Rudi,’ Carla said. But I don’t think I’m on duty any longer for either Her Majesty or my President, so I switch it off.

  I’m trying to remember the correct sequence on the number I’ve deleted for Sulima, but I’m missing out on a couple of digits when the news comes up on my TV.

  ‘President Armadinejad of Iran is warning the West not to provoke the Muslim world any further,’ the newsreader says. ‘... Meanwhile, from Israel, we have reports that Air Force units have bombed suspected nuclear installations in both Iraq and Iran ...’ I switch off the TV when I finish my coffee. I’ll call New York later and pitch a few ideas on what’s been happening in London. Now though, I want to get away from my impersonal hotel. I can’t see Robson or anyone else looking out for me in the lobby area. They could still be tracking me discreetly, so I slip out quickly and then try to lose myself in the busy little streets around the Angel. It doesn’t take long to get through to the Upper Street, although I do avoid Crowndale Square, which is almost certainly under surveillance.

  I’m half hoping I might catch Therese the au pair wheeling her two adorable charges in their double buggy. I want to thank her for kneeling by my head and calling an ambulance when I was shot. But she’s not around, so I make straight for the Queen’s Arms, where I’m greeted by Joseph Carmody.

  ‘Yerra, Jeazus, Flynn ... I heard someone took a pot at you?’

  An unfortunate incident, Joseph. Goes with the job, I’m afraid – so you’d best watch out if you write anything about volatile elements.

  ‘I spent a few years as a journalist in Northern Ireland at the height of the troubles,’ he tells me. ‘I was frequently seen as part of the problem by occupying forces – but the ones who really made life difficult for us were the Ulster police ... Prods to a man they were, and evil with it.’

  I’m thinking of Brian and Calum and what they did to Khalad at the Regent’s Park military barracks. It was enough to make one sympathise whole heartedly with the Irish Republicans at the peak of their problems with the Brits.

  ‘And will you look at this,’ a familiar voice says from behind me.

  Mairead Corrigan is more sharply suited than she usually is. She also has a small flower pinned to her lapel and her dark red curls are touching the collar of her jacket.

  ‘Ah – ’ I say, allowing my cheeks to be lightly brushed by Mairead’s. ‘And what are you doing up here in this old hacks hangout.’

  ‘Joseph and I are going to a wedding in the Hackney Town Hall, Rudi. The Prime Minister is also coming to make a speech ...you might like to join us?’

  I see Mairead primarily as a Government spinner with a ruthless touch. I can’t really tie her in with weddings, flowers and tears of joy.

  ‘Who’s getting married?’ I ask when I’ve ordered a round of Brian the landlord’s best Merlot.

  ‘My friends Beth and Patsy,’ Mairead says. ‘We all work at Millbank, so we should have members of the cabinet there as well as the Prime Minister.’

  I’m impressed, although I’m curious about Patsy. Is this a popular version of Paddy or Patrick – or what?

  ‘They’re both females,’ Mairead says when she’s tapped into where my head’s going. ‘And it’s a cause for celebration, Rudi.’

  ‘Of course – ’

  ‘Only there’s a lot of chauvinistic thinking these days about girl-on-girl relationships ... so support from our Government on these occasions is to be welcomed.’

  And why would anyone think otherwise. I know for a fact that one of the Sex and the City girls has a female partner, and I think we’re all getting pretty grown up about these sort of issues.

  ‘What’s the Downing Street take on Nationalists at the moment?’ I ask when I’ve had a satisfying mouthful of Merlot.

  Mairead’s not ready for this shift of emphasis, but Carmody – as usual – has an answer.

  ‘They’re going to have to pay attention,’ he says.

  ‘And why’s that?’

  ‘Because a lot of traditional Labour voters have sympathy with these people. They’ve watched over the years while everything they thought of as British got diluted or disappeared altogether. ‘

  Mairead might conceivably have sided with Carmody on Irish issues, and certainly before the Prods and Catholics made peace with each other in Northern Ireland. Britain today is a different story though, and the Government spinner sees it as her job to make sure everyone’s got the Downing Street line.

  ‘That’s not altogether true, Joseph,’ she says gently while Carmody rolls his eyes. ‘We’ve been evolving for a while. Britain is no longer an insular little place. We’re a multicultural community and proud of it ... just like New York. Wouldn’t you agree, Rudi?’

  I’m not sure if she’s comparing like with like here. OK – we are a mixed bag in most US cities, but for the most part we all salute the same flag, and we’d like to believe we’re a well integrated community. I’m not sure if it’s quite the same in England, and Brian the landlord has strong views on what’s happening in London.

  ‘Did you see the picture of that fellah with the baldy head who blew up those innocent people at King’s Cross?’ he asks.

  Mairead feels impelled to adjudicate. Usually, she might slap a cheeky questioner down with a cutting quip, or even an expletive. Brian is however raising a point that’s on everyone’s mind at the moment. He’s also got Irish roots though and Mairead doesn’t want to find herself barred from the Queen’s Arms.

  ‘I think what happened at King’s Cross was appalling,’ she says. ‘There’s no excuse whatsoever for that sort of behaviour. However, some of these Nationalists have been rather provocative recently, and they have been saying unpleasant things about our ethnic minorities.’

  Brian’s polishing a glass behind the counter. He’s giving it a little more attention than he usually does and a number of people around the bar are waiting for his response.

  ‘That fellah with the baldy head was a Paki – right?’

  ‘Yes ... that’s true,’ Carmody says.

  ‘And he was most likely a Muslim?’

  No one answers on this, and Pat’s put down the glass he’s been polishing.

  ‘We don’t want these sort of people here,’ he says defiantly. ‘They’re our enemies. They want to kill or convert us, and at the minute, the only persons who are saying what everyone’s thinking are the Nationalists. They’ll have my vote at the next election, and anyone who disagrees with what I’m saying can fuck off out of here now ... and
don’t come back!’

  He’s definitely going over the top, we’re all embarrassed. Mairead however, is furious. She puts her half full glass of wine down on the counter and looks at Carmody. ‘Are you coming?’ she asks. ‘I don’t think I’ll be coming back here again anytime soon.’

  Carmody shifts uncomfortably on his stool. He relies on Mairead for many of his news and gossip leads. It’s not an easy decision, because he quite likes to chill out in the Queen’s Arms. But he’s sliding his feet down onto the floor, and he nods helplessly at Brian the landlord before following Mairead to the door.

  ‘I’ll have another red wine,’ I say when they’re gone. I don’t approve of Brian’s outburst, but I’m not ready to leave yet.

  ‘I was maybe a bit too quick there,’ he says when he’s refilled my glass. ‘You can have this on the house, and maybe you’d tell Joseph that he’s welcome to come back ... only I don’t want to see herself.’

  It’s getting tense and touchy around my adopted city. I thank Brian for his free drink though, and then mumble something about having to pop out and make a call in the garden. There are a couple of messages on my mobile, one of which is from Sheila, a valued magazine commissioning editor in New York, who keeps coming back for my take on whatever’s happening.

  ‘Rudi!’ she enthuses when I call her. ‘Where are you, honey? We’ve been trying to reach you, but you’re not picking up.’

  I know. I’ve been unusually busy, but I’m back in the saddle now and going for it. ‘Only I was wondering, Sheila ... how would you like a few travel pieces from the Greek islands? You know – Patmos, Santorini, Rhodes ... all of the sun-kissed spots with a great Greek vibe?’

  There’s a long pause in New York. ‘Are you serious, man? I mean, for Christ’s sake, we’ve got experienced travel writers for that sort of stuff. What we want from you, Rudi, is hard, gritty in your face reportage from the world’s G-spots. We are not, I’m afraid, at themoment into sun, sea and sangria, or whatever ... OK?’

  Chapter 25