by Phil Rowan
He embraces Pele like an honoured son, and when they have boiled a kettle and made camomile tea, they take their mugs into a respectable, middle class sitting room where they sit opposite each other in comfortable leather armchairs.
‘Are you sure about what you are about to do?’ the older man asks.
‘Yes – it is essential, Mahmoud. It is difficult to apply reason and logic in these situations. One can only go along with what is necessary … it is our god’s will.’
Mahmoud nods and sips at his herbal tea. He is an economics lecturer at one of London’s Polytechnic Universities. He is also Pele Kalim’s mentor in England. He likes his undemanding academic role at the Polyversity. But as a committed Muslim, he understands why great sacrifices have to be made for the cause of Islam – especially in decadent Western countries.
‘I don’t believe these people know where we’re coming from,’ he says to Pele. ‘So it is best that we enlighten them rather than collude for any longer with what they are doing.’
‘My only concern is how we divert the train in Hackney and take it up to Stoke Newington,’ Pele says. ‘Because we need to target the Hassidic Jews if we are to avenge the suffering of our Palestinian brothers.’
Mahmoud the mentor nods silently. This is a daring mission for the jihadists. If it succeeds, it could change the course of history. The stakes are huge.
‘I think Assam is confident about this,’ he says. ‘He has the experience, and I am sure he can do whatever is needed with the railway points. If necessary, he will lever them into position with a crowbar. You will, however, have to be firm with the driver and his assistant. Your authority is crucial, so you make your presence felt immediately. It is essential that you persuade these people to do exactly what is required.’
It is in Allah’s hands now. They are merely humble foot soldiers doing the best they can to honour his name and strike at the infidels.
‘If I am to be honoured with martyrdom,’ Pele says, ‘I want you to do something for me.’
‘Of course – ’
‘I have given my heart to a young woman whose brother has helped to finance what we are doing. I would like to speak with her, but I don’t think is feasible … so I want you to find her, Mahmoud, and give her my parting message.’
The mentor is nodding again. He’ll do whatever is required, even if he becomes irradiated with the explosion Pele is planning.
‘Take this,’ the activist says, passing his mentor a piece of paper with Sulima Sharif’s mobile number. ‘Maybe wait for a week or two. If it is necessary, you may have to travel to Geneva or Paris.’
‘That is not a problem,’ Mahmoud says.
There are tears in Pele Kalim’s eyes. He’s a strong and courageous man, but thoughts of what might have been with Sulima are distressing him.
‘Tell her I never stopped loving her,’ he says. ‘I wanted to be with her and for us to raise a family together … perhaps you could try to explain to her why this hasn’t happened.’
Mahmoud gets up and walks around to put a hand on the activist’s shoulder. There is nothing useful for him to say, but he agrees to do what Pele is requesting.
* * * * *
Eighty miles away, on the outskirts of Dungeness in Kent, a train with large metal canisters of nuclear waste stands in a railway siding. Two armed members of the Atomic Energy Police Force are parked beside it. ‘I don know wha’s ‘appened to these geezers,’ one of the guards says. ‘Only I’ve ‘ad it now. I was due ‘ome fuckin ours ago.’
Shortly afterwards, a taxi appears with a train driver and his assistant.
‘I’m sorry about this, lads,’ Arthur Hodge says. ‘There’s bin a complete fuckin cock-up, but it’s nothin to do with us, I assure you.’
His assistant, Anwar Singh, grins, and when they’ve produced their ID cards one of the Atomic Energy Police guards makes a call. It’s all got to be done properly, but when they’ve confirmed that Arthur Hodge and Anwar Singh are who they say they are, they’re ready to go.’
‘You know there’s bin an embargo on movin this stuff around?’ one of the cops says.
‘Yeah, we’d ‘eard,’ Arthur Hodge answers. ‘This lot’s only goin as far as Stratford though, and it’ll stay there until we’re cleared to continue on to Sellafield … anyway, that’s what our supervisor says, an he ought to know cause he deals wiv the paperwork.’
The locomotive engine is sluggish as it starts. ‘It’s not right you know, Anwar,’ Arthur says. ‘The servicin’s not what it was on these, and I’d say this one needs a proper overhaul.’
Anwar grins. He does this all the time with Arthur. It’s easier than arguing or getting into an endless discussion that invariably goes nowhere.
Arthur Hodge keeps shaking his head as they travel up towards London. He’s not happy with his engine, but he’s due to retire in the autumn.
‘We’re off to Spain,’ he tells Anwar. ‘Sun every day – an all we’ve got to worry about is whether or not we’ll get a deckchair on the beach at Bennydorm.’
Anwar has another twenty years to go before he can retire with a pension to Kerala. He secretly thinks it’s a much more interesting place than England or Bennydorm, and he has persuaded his wife, Amira, to let him put pictures of South India all over their Council house sitting room in Bethnal Green.
The train comes close to stopping on a number of occasions and Arthur’s getting worried when they get onto the North London line. ‘We’re gonna look a bit fuckin stupid, mate, if this breaks down,’ he tells Anwar. ‘We’ll ‘ave fuckin Greens rantin on at us, an they’ll ‘ave to send another engine out from Stratford.’
‘Don’t worry,’ Anwar assures him. ‘We’ll be fine.’
Arthur doesn’t think so. He wants to make a call to his supervisor, but there’s no charge left on the battery of his mobile and Anwar’s forgotten to bring his.
‘We’re stoppin at Dalston,’ he says as they pass through Highbury and Islington. ‘They’ll ave someone there an’ we’ll get them to sort us out.’
Anwar just wanted to go on to Stratford and from there to his home in Bethnal Green. Arthur Hodge is the man in charge though, so as they pass Canonbury, he tests the brakes. There’s a passenger train on the other side of the track at Dalston, and when they stop, Arthur Hodge is aware of someone running from behind the train and waving at them. He’s also just noticed a ‘STOP’ signal straight ahead, which is unusual.
The guy who’s waving is huge and he’s got a shiny bald head. Asian, Arthur’s thinking. But he’s wearing a rail company uniform, so he tells Anwar that it’s all right to open the cab door.
‘What’s with the stop sign, mate ... is there an emergency?’
‘Yes – there is,’ Pele Kalim answers. ‘We’ve got something on the track by Hackney Central, which the police are checking.’
He seems pleasant enough, and reliable, but he’s been joined by another Asian guy in a T-shirt, who is holding an unfamiliar metal object.
‘It’s a gun!’ Anwar yells while trying to push the cab door shut. But he’s too late. The guy in the T-shirt has joined them and he’s pointing his gun at Anwar.
‘One word or a gesture out of place and I’ll kill the two of you,’ he says. ‘You got that?’
They’re both nodding and Anwar places his hands on top of his head as Pele Kalim joins them in the cab.
‘You will take this train to London Fields,’ he says. ‘We need to pick up equipment, and when we have changed the track points, we’ll go to Stoke Newington.
‘But the engine at the rear asn’t bin activated,’ Arthur says, trembling. And it’s true; it’s a security precaution.
‘That’s all right,’ Pele tells him. ‘You can reverse the train.’
‘But wha if there’s somewha comin down?’ Arthur asks. ‘They might crash inno us ... an’ you know wha we’s carryin?’
Pele doesn’t want to argue with the ageing driver, whose face has turned partly blue. He isn’t in good sh
ape physically and, if pushed, he might have a seizure.
‘Just do as I ask, and please don’t say anything else.’
‘Go on,’ Anwar urges. He’s reading Pele Kalim accurately.
‘Very good, sir,’ Arthur Hodge says, restarting the train. ‘I’ll do exactly as you request. Only I’ve got to tell you tha there’s somewhat wrong wiv the engine. Its bin playin up all the way from Dungeness ... an I think it could cut out any time.’
Pele Kalim keeps looking ahead. He’s not interested in Arthur’s thoughts. They’re moving and that’s all that matters. Some of the passengers on the platform opposite them are surprised to see a train with radiation trefoil markings on the canisters stopping at Dalston. It’s an unusual sight, and a girl snaps the occupants of the train cab before moving on to the potentially lethal nuclear waste canisters.
Chapter 28
It’s after midnight and we’re in Ingrid’s warehouse studio in Dalston. We’ve been to the Vietnamese Canteen, where we had our first proper date. Here, we met an engaging actor who kept us entertained with gossip about his former co-stars in a string of classic movies. We’re ready to go to Newcastle the next day so I can finally see Ingrid’s exhibition of paintings and we’ve got tickets for Athens at the weekend.
I’m looking forward to a change in my life. There had been police sirens earlier all around this part of Hackney, which we dismissed as being down to local excesses. Lads and girls with too much to drink getting in the way of cars and buses on the streets.
‘I am concerned about the curfew though, Rudi,’ Ingrid says.
‘It means you can’t throw me out until the morning.’
‘But seriously ... all of these riots on the streets – it’s not good.’
They’ll pass, I tell her, and London will revert to being everyone’s favourite place. Interesting, cool and tolerant. Just wait for it. There are however helicopters hovering nearby and we’re looking at their lights focusing down on the nearby Hackney Downs when the intercom buzzer goes.
Ingrid picks up the entry phone, and she’s fazed. ‘Someone wants to speak with you,’ she says.
I recognise Earl Connors voice, and he’s apologetic. ‘It’s all taken a serious turn,’ he tells me. ‘And we need to talk.’
‘Can’t it wait?’
‘No – Rudi,’ Carla Hirsch interjects. ‘Can you open the door, please,’
I don’t feel I have any options. If I refuse, it will be tactical entry ram time again, so I press the entry button.
‘These people work for the British and American Governments,’ I explain to Ingrid. ‘I’ve been forced to help them because someone I know has been funding Islamic terrorists ... I thought my job was done, but ... ’
She’s staring accusingly at me like I might be a neo-con CIA agent. Her whole upbringing and life experience has been within a liberal, free expression and generally anti-establishment milieu.
It’s not looking good when I open the studio door and Carla strides in followed by Earl. Her fluorescent spikes have disappeared. Her hair is flat, her face is drawn, and she’s wearing jeans, boots and a leather bomber jacket.
‘I’m sorry about intruding on your privacy like this,’ she says to Ingrid. ‘But we’ve got a disaster in the making ... and it’s all happening over there.’
She’s pointing towards the helicopters that are circling above the Hackney Downs.
‘Who are you? Ingrid wants to know.
‘I’m Carla,’ my re-instated Controller says, ‘and this is Earl.’
They both present Home Office ID cards with Her Majesty’s crest above their photographs.
The story about Pele Kalim and the hijacked nuclear waste train unravels in detail, including the bit about the engine reversing up a track from London Fields to the Hackney Downs.
‘Why did it stop there?’ I want to know.
‘Because there was another train coming down the same track,’ Earl explains. ‘The driver braked, but they collided and the front wheels of the oncoming train were derailed.’
‘We think Pele wanted to take the nuclear waste train up to Stoke Newington or Stamford Hill,’ Carla says. ‘So if it exploded, most of the radioactive waste would fall on the local Jewish community ... there are apparently 20,000 of them in the area.’
I’m numbed by what I’m hearing and Ingrid’s mouth is open in shock.
‘Would you like tea or coffee?’ she asks when she finally takes in what’s happening almost outside her studio.
‘You’re very kind,’ Carla says, ‘but we need to get back to the scene.’
I think she’s definitely becoming more human. I’m not exactly warming to her yet, but there is some empathy.
‘Why have you come here?’ I ask.
I’m apprehensive. Earl’s looking down at his shoes and Ingrid is pouring me three fingers of Jameson’s whisky.
‘Pele has someone with him,’ Carla tells me. ‘They’ve wired the nuclear waste canisters with shaped explosives and they’ve shackled the driver and his assistant to these. Everything appears to be very professional, including the sensors they’ve fitted around the train, which can trigger the detonators if anyone approaches.’
‘Have they made any demands?’ I ask.
‘Yes,’ Earl says. ‘They want all Islamists held here or in the States to be released ... and they’re proposing that Guantanamo should be closed.’
I’m with the train hijackers on the last one. But how can the Brits persuade my President to release our al-Qaeda and other Muslim prisoners? It’s a tough call.
‘Rudi – ’ Carla says when I’ve sipped at the Jameson’s. ‘There’s a real chance that Pele and his buddy will blow up all of the nuclear waste canisters. First reports from the UK military people confirm that the wiring and the explosives are sufficient to shatter the containers. If they explode, then the Plutonium or Uranium waste elements will contaminate the whole of East London. The radiation effects may spread a lot further, depending on the wind ... I don’t think anyone wants that to happen.’
No – of course not.
‘And there’s only one person this Kalim guy might listen to.’
I don’t know where Sulima is. I’ve deleted her contact number from my mobile because I didn’t want Carla Hirsch to track her down, which leaves a single possible way of getting through to her.
‘I wouldn’t bank on Fiona saying where she is.’
‘She’s hiding her?’
‘Not exactly – ’
‘But she knows where to find her?’
I can see Fiona spitting in Carla’s eye and saying, ‘fuck off, you fascist American bitch ... I’m not telling you where this innocent Syrian woman is ... and if you lay a finger on me, I swear I’ll track you down, and when I do ... ’ Well – anything could happen.
‘Why don’t you go and ask her?’ I suggest.
If this is the old Carla, I’m going to stand up to her and opt out. But it isn’t. She’s changed, and it’s not just the peroxide spikes in her hair. She’s operating on a discernibly more responsive level, which is working.
‘Rudi ... I don’t think Fiona’s going to pay any attention to Earl or me,’ she says. ‘She’s a strong woman. If I were in her position, I’d probably respond in the same way ... but she might listen to you.’
‘Where is Sulima, honey? I know I asked you to hide her away and not tell anyone where she is. The situation has changed however ... we desperately need her to talk to a guy who loves her. He’s over on the Hackney Downs just now with a train load of nuclear waste that was destined for the Orthodox Jewish community in Stoke Newington ...’
‘All right,’ I say after a while. ‘I’ll speak with her ... but there’s a condition.’
‘What’s that?’ Carla asks.
‘I want you to take Ingrid somewhere safe.’
‘No – no ... I’m fine here,’ she protests.
‘If you don’t do as I ask,’ I say to Carla. ‘And I mean now ... I won’t talk to Juli
a.’
I’m not sure if Ingrid and I are ever going to meet again. My Nordic goddess may, understandably, wish to banish me from her life. ‘I don’t do American secret agents, Rudi ... so would you kindly fuck off, please, and don’t ever think of coming back.’
There is a long silence. Ingrid is furious with my obstinacy. Just who the hell do I think I am? There is a glorious and commendable panorama of feminists struggling with arrogant and frequently dominant males. ‘Just who the hell do you guys think you are issuing directives? The world’s changed, Rudi baby. We girls don’t any longer respond – and in many cases we don’t even listen – when you guys make demands and lay it on the line. And if you have any doubts about what I’m saying, let me remind you that I’m part Sardinian and part Scandinavian. If you cross a Southern Italian, honey, you could end up with a bullet in your brain. And moving to the North, we Scandinavian females are pretty formidable ... have you heard about what the Vikings did when they came to visit the Brits?’
I’m doing what I think is right. That doesn’t mean it’s going to happen, but I’m holding firm. In this case, the situation is clearly way beyond normal everyday events. I may still be a chauvinistic, low life male who needs a good kicking occasionally, but the stakes are way beyond Ingrid’s personal feelings on guys generally and my eyes say I’m looking out for her.
‘I have a friend, Josie, in Southwark,’ she says tells us reluctantly. ‘I’ll call her.’
This doesn’t take long. Her friend is intrigued by the prospect of an unexpected late night visit and is looking forward to seeing my assertive Valkyrie.
‘I’ll take you, honey,’ Carla tells her, which gets me concerned. I’m thinking about how Agent Hirsch dealt with the Wagstaffs and Sunita Malawi.
There is a portable blue lamp on the roof of her BMW with the darkened windows and her driver looks like he’s a shaven-headed eunuch. Would he blink if Carla came on to my Nordic Princess in the back of her official car? I don’t know, but I do care.
‘I’m not sure if I’ll excuse or forgive your duplicity,’ Ingrid says. ‘I trusted you, Rudi ... and for what?’