Dark Clouds

by Phil Rowan

  ‘Why do you think that, Mr Flynn?’

  ‘Because these people need to make a statement, sir. They’re not necessarily going for Hiroshima or Nagasaki, or worse ... their objective, I’m pretty sure, is to teach the British a lesson and to leave you with something that will linger for a long time.’

  Nuclear waste with Plutonium or Uranium ticks all the boxes, but the general’s coughing. He wants to make another point, so I get in first.

  ‘Pele Kalim was friendly with a Pakistani nuclear scientist, Mukhtar Ali, who has just been assassinated – apparently, by the Israelis. He had a longer association, however, with a Kashmiri called Khan, who worked for some years at your nuclear reprocessing plant at Sellafield in Cumbria ... he was mainly concerned with nuclear waste, sir.’

  It doesn’t mean a lot, but it’s enough to get the Minister standing up. He smiles tolerantly at the general, who reluctantly gives way. ‘There are many possibilities,’ he says, ‘and we’ll have to guard against the most likely outcomes. We’ll clearly have to be vigilant with all of our trains, but I feel it would be sensible to stop the movement of nuclear waste – and especially through London – over the next week or so. Also ... the Prime Minister and the Cabinet have considered this Committee’s most recent recommendation, and their decision is unanimous ... from this evening, we will operate an all night curfew in London – from mid-night to six a.m. It may not make a great difference ... but the feeling in Downing Street is that we need to do something to prepare Londoners for whatever might happen. With a bit of luck, it will also keep demonstrators and trouble makers off our streets in the coming weeks.’

  A discussion follows about how Muslims in Britain are coping with unrest, and in particular with attacks on their mosques and other suspected Nationalist provocations.

  ‘I think a lot of decent, moderate people are being won over to the side of extremists, ‘ a young Indian MI5er says, and his view is supported by the Commissioner for the Metropolitan Police.

  ‘I believe we need more of an emphasis on Britishness,’ he tells the Committee members. ‘Rather like what they do to absorb immigrants in America, I suppose.’

  Maybe singing Land of Hope and Glory in front of a Union Jack, I’m thinking. Only Her Majesty’s flag has been hijacked in England by the Nationalists and the Minister is looking at his watch.

  ‘We’ll break now for lunch,’ he says. ‘I hope Mr Flynn and Miss Hirsch can join us ... and on behalf of the Government, I would like to extend our thanks to both of them for the excellent work they’ve done for us ... ’

  We get a restrained hand clap for our contribution, which has us nodding and grinning in response. ‘We’re happy to be able to serve, guys ... just like in the grim old days of World War 2 when it was hands across the sea time with Winston and Franklin.’

  ‘It’s a bad show,’ the Admiral says, and the General agrees with him as we leave the conference room and go next door to where white jacketed and gloved soldiers are waiting to offer us canapés, sandwiches and flutes of sparkling white wine.

  I agree with the senior officers about it being a bad show, and I’m then joined by the dark-haired security service Committee member, who raises a flute of Cava towards me with another cool smile. ‘I don’t know what we’d do without your help,’ she says. ‘But how are you finding life in London when you’re not exposing all of these dreadful people?’

  ‘Oh, it’s good ... I love your city.’

  ‘Well – perhaps you might like to see some of our countryside ... maybe next weekend, if you’re free?’

  I’d love to, but I can’t. With luck, I’ll either be in Newcastle or on a Greek island with a Nordic goddess. I haven’t quite got a response together on her kind invitation when the Minister arrives and the attractive security service agent withdraws.

  ‘We do appreciate what you’ve been doing for us,’ he says. ‘And I was wondering ... if, or hopefully, when we get through all of this, I think the PM would like to meet you ... and Miss Hirsch, of course.’

  Gosh. I’m overwhelmed. I’ve always wanted to get a peep into the UK leader’s home.

  ‘There might also be an informal presentation at the Palace.’

  ‘With Her Majesty?’

  ‘Yes ... although in cases where the security services are involved, we have to make it a low key event, as I’m sure you’ll appreciate.’

  This is all going right over my head, and I’m saved from having to explain that I’m really only an almost jobless freelance journalist when the Minister gets a call from his boss, the Home Secretary.

  ‘Excuse me,’ he says, edging away towards a deserted corner of the room.

  The attractive, dark-haired security service woman is having her glass topped up and there’s a mischievous but very English glance, with seductive intentions, winging its way across the room to me when Carla Hirsch appears.

  ‘You did well in there,’ she tells me, ‘and we’ll probably be able to let you go now.’

  ‘Is this for real? I mean, you’re not going to kidnap me again, are you?’

  She nudges my arm with her elbow, and I’m almost sure that I can hear a giggle.

  ‘I don’t believe I scare you any more, Rudi.’

  ‘You’re kidding!’

  ‘No ... I’m serious ... I feel I’m changing. Well, you should know ... you happened by on my more vulnerable side this morning ... although I hope you’ll keep it to yourself.’

  I think she’s still pretty formidable. Given the call from our Commander-in-Chief, I don’t believe she’d have much trouble re-assuming the Carla Hirsch persona that had me shuddering initially and biting nervously on my lower lip whenever she appeared.

  ‘Anyway – good luck ... and take care of yourself,’ she tells me.

  She’s holding my hand, and before I know what’s happening, she’s squeezing my fingers and brushing each of my cheeks with her own.

  Chapter 27

  I don’t know what’s going to happen, but I’m pleased the Brits have decided to stop sending trainloads of nuclear waste up to Sellafield for the next week or so. It’s one less opportunity for Pele Kalim to create a disaster. Also, if he’s frustrated, he may try something else and get caught; or he might contact Sulima. ‘Pele – you’re a wild and irresponsible fellow,’ I can hear her saying. ‘However, if you stop all of this pointless nonsense, I will accept your hand in marriage. We can honeymoon in the Himalayas ... and who knows, it might be the start of our family.’

  I’m fantasising, but I’m also calling Ingrid.

  ‘Rudy!’

  ‘Hi – my love ... everything’s sorted ... I’m all yours.’

  There’s a pause. She’s uncertain. Why did I leave her at dawn?

  ‘It’s a long story,’ I explain. ‘But I was trying to do the right thing for London.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’ll tell you about it when we meet.’

  ‘Are you coming to Newcastle with me tomorrow?’

  ‘Definitely ... and I shall book tickets for Greece at the weekend.’

  She’s weighing it up and I’m worried. I would hesitate if my girl friend woke up suddenly and then dashed away without an explanation.

  ‘All right,’ she says after a long pause. ‘Saturday or Sunday is fine ... but I want a treat today.’

  Name it, Valkyrie goddess. Your wish is my pleasure.

  ‘Meet me at Tate Modern – in the restaurant at the top of building.’

  I’m thinking about the curfew that has yet to be announced.

  ‘Between six and seven,’ she suggests. ‘I’ll confirm later.’

  ‘Great – ’

  I love it. I’ll go to Oxford Street for sandals, shorts and summer shirts. I’ll leave the sun block until we get to Patmos. They’re bound to have it on sale in a village store. Anyway, one can’t cover everything and my phone’s ringing.

  ‘Rudi?’

  Oh, oh – it’s Sheila from New York.

  ‘Hi – ’ She can’t
have been in the office for long. Is there some copy I’ve promised that I haven’t sent?

  ‘I’ve spoken with Brad,’ she says and I’m interested because he’s the guy who controls the purse strings on Sheila’s magazines. ‘You know I said I didn’t think we’d be particularly interested in travel stuff from the Aegean.’

  ‘Right – ’

  ‘Well – we’ve talked it over here, and there is something you could do.’

  I’m concerned. Brad’s only interested in selling extra copies of his magazines, which invariably involves hard work with dirt digging assignments.

  ‘What do you have in mind?’ I ask.

  ‘Celebs and scandals ... you know.’

  I’m not sure I do.

  ‘Oh come on, Rudi ... the Greek islands are full of celebs in the summer. You’ve got movie stars, politicians, sports persons and people who are famous for being famous ... you with me?’

  Sort of. But what am I meant to do with Gwyneth Paltrow, Scarlett Johansson, sweet young Russian tennis players and Paris Hilton?

  ‘Where you’ve got celebs – whether they’re A,B,C or D list, Rudi, you’ve also got scandal and gossip ... also, you could maybe fly a few kites ... you know, invent the odd happening.’

  This is outrageous. I don’t normally do this sort of stuff. Still, needs must. Also, I might need diversions occasionally, especially if I’m trying to write a serious story about my Fenian rebel great grandmother.

  ‘OK – I’ll give it a go,’ I tell Sheila. ‘But you’ll have to let me have a week or so to get settled in.’

  ‘No problem,’ she trills. ‘We’ll wait to hear from you ... and we can wire any fees directly to a Greek bank of your choice.’

  On the upside, perhaps I can now afford slightly more in the way of clothes and fun stuff like goggles and snorkelling tubes – maybe even a digital camera. I’m confused about the differences in size measurements between London and New York on swimming trunks, and I’m thinking around a 32 medium when my phone rings again. Only I don’t immediately recognise the caller.

  ‘Rudi ... this is Andrew.’

  ‘Right ... ’

  ‘You know ... I’m in your New York apartment and you’re in my house at Crowndale Square in Islington. Only you haven’t been picking up on the house phone and I’ve been expecting a Special Delivery parcel from my publishers. It’s the final proofed copy of my novel ... and it’s important that I get it.’

  Oh shit. Earl said I could go at night, provided I’m accompanied by one of his people – but it would have to be a quick in and out visit.

  ‘Andrew ... look, I’m really sorry. I’ve been on assignment in various places, but I’ll sort out your Special Delivery parcel ... I’ll go to the Post Office myself and collect it. So how’s it going in New York?’

  He loves it. He’s met a girl and they’re thinking about a long term relationship. Fantastic; I’m really pleased for him.

  ‘The only thing is though, Rudy, it’s all happened rather quickly. I think my novel’s going to be published earlier than expected, so I may need to get back sooner than we had agreed.’

  Does this mean I’m about to be evicted?

  ‘Good lord, no ... you can stay as long as you like, but I hope you won’t mind sharing if Bella and I come over?’

  No problem. ‘I’m actually thinking of taking a break in Greece, Andrew. So come back whenever you want. Meanwhile, I’ll close the shutters if I’m out of town, and Fiona will keep an eye on everything.’

  A small change of plan I guess in the medium term. I’ll go to Greece for a few months with Ingrid. Then if it works out, we could both go back to my place in New York. She hasn’t been, and I’m sure she’d take to life in the Big Apple. It would also mean I could earn more money if tracking celebs around Greek islands didn’t give me the sort of stories that would keep my bank manager happy.

  I’m getting neurotic again. It always happens when I have free time. I’m also thinking about Pele Kalim. Have we foiled him, or is he just going to change his game plan. ‘The infidels think they’ve foiled me, Mr Osama, sir and Mullah Omar ... but I have yet to show them what al-Qaeda can do ... and we will win – for Allah!’

  * * * * *

  I only found out about how it all went wrong a little later. The good people of London came perilously close to disaster, and I was there when it happened.

  Human error was to blame, and the problem evolved shortly after the Joint Intelligence Committee meeting at the Ministry of Defence. The brief was clear enough. All transportation of nuclear waste in the UK – by train or any other means – was to cease forthwith. A senior military officer conveyed this message to a Civil Service executive, who entrusted the task to a pleasant and capable mixed race woman called Chrystal McCabe.

  In any other circumstances, Chrystal would have taken the task in her stride. She would have made the necessary calls, and would then have gone back to cross-check how it was all going with the relevant rail companies, the Atomic Energy Police and British Nuclear Fuels.

  That afternoon, however, Chrystal had many other things on her mind, and most of her concerns came back to her boyfriend, Dwaine. They had been living together at her mother’s place in Tottenham in North London, where it was all a bit cramped. So much so, that her mother had recently started to complain about the noise they made as lovers in an upstairs bedroom.

  This was embarrassing, and Chrystal knew they would have to get a place of their own. It wasn’t going to be easy though, because Dwaine, whose main interest was in music, wasn’t earning anything. He had also, Chrystal suspected, been carrying on with her cousin Sheryl, who had an eye-catching figure. So with all of this in the background, her period was also distracting her. It was particularly heavy and painful this month, but Chrystal nevertheless steeled herself for the task she had been given.

  ‘This isn’t somm’at that can be done overnight, you know,’ a mouthy train operating clerk told her.

  ‘Look – all I need is a printout of the waste trains you’re running through London on behalf of British Nuclear Fuels,’ she said reasonably.

  ‘Yeah – all right then ... I’ll do wha I can.’ The mouthy clerk said. ‘Only there’s one stuck on a siding in Kent, and I don’t know if it’s goin anywhere.’

  ‘Fine ... if you could perhaps let me have whatever you’ve got.’

  ‘Yeah ... all right, doll, but I’ll ave to clear it wiv my manager first. It’s procedure, see, an I can’t go an change all of tha jus cos you say so – even if you is the Ministry, or whaever.’

  She would happily have slapped this guy if he had been in the same room. Instead, she took two aspirins and waved across the open-plan office at James. Her interest in him was growing as her suspicions about Dwaine and Sheryl escalated. They had shared a sandwich lunch together recently in the Embankment Gardens and she was pleased now when they came together at the water cooler.

  ‘We should maybe go and have a drink together later,’ she said impulsively.

  James was certainly up for it. He thought Chrystal was well fit, and they now had a date. She went back to her desk feeling good, but when the printouts came through on the train times for nuclear waste movements in the UK, she didn’t look too closely at them. There were two sheets, numbered page 1 of 2 and page 2 of 2, so she assumed there weren’t any more. Normally, she would have called back to check precisely what information had been sent and if the data was complete.

  She was thinking of James now though. If they were going to have a drink together, she wanted to make a good impression. She would get her junior colleague, Jane, to make the calls that would stop the trains. It was quite straightforward, but it had to go through the Atomic Energy Police office at Sellafield, and Jane knew what to do.

  So Chrystal went to the ladies toilet, where she primped up her hair and re-did her lippy and eye makeup. Her period could be a problem. She would have to hold back on James if they kissed and there was a possibility of intimacy. That migh
t not be a bad idea on their first outing together though.

  She was excited when she returned to the office, and she didn’t see a third sheet that had come through for her on a secure fax line. It gave details of a nuclear waste train on a siding outside Dungeness in Kent. It was presently without a crew but a relief driver was expected, so it might be best if the MoD included this train on the list of those to be suspended. The mouthy clerk with the rail company had even written his own note on the fax apologising for the omission. It was appropriate to include it now though, he felt. But his belated offering was covered by several other fax messages, which had arrived while Chrystal was in the ladies toilet.

  It was a crucial piece of information that would stay overnight in the MoD fax tray.

  * * * * *

  Outside, thousands of Londoners are ending their working day in pubs, cafes and restaurants. There is talk of the impending curfew. ‘A right bloody nuisance and no mistake,’ is the general view. Life goes on however and love, as usual, is emotionally focused. ‘We might have to go home early,’ James says to Chrystal.

  There is a teasing smile around his mouth, which she likes. She wants to take his hand and then embrace him. That will all follow, she hopes, and she doesn’t really care anymore about what might happen between her loser guy, Dwaine, and her cousin Sheryl. She’ll go ahead with James.

  Meanwhile, in North London, Pele Kalim turns a prayer mat around on the floor and kneels to worship his god. He is a fit and strikingly handsome Pakistani in his mid thirties. Any young woman passing him in the street, and quite a few men, would catch and be instantly attracted to the power of his physical presence. Later, perhaps, some of his admirers might be daunted and dissuaded by the intense and serious way in which he regarded almost everything.

  When he has finished paying his respects to Allah and Mohammed, he leaves the bedroom and goes downstairs. Shortly afterwards, the front door of the Edwardian semi-detached house opens and an older man appears. He is wearing a grey, knee length Muslim tunic with silk covered buttons and he has the air of a slightly distracted academic.