Circle Around the Sun

by M. D. Johnson

  “I’ve no idea Emily. We’ve never met.”

  Emily peered into her glass, then set it on the breakfront. “I think I’ll go upstairs and have a lie down. This is a little much to absorb. Thank you for enlightening me, Colonel Beresford. I’ll let you know.”

  “Emily, please do not misunderstand me. I’m a consultant to the civil service, nothing else. But I can assure you that you have some very dangerous acquaintances and it is truly only a matter of time before they do some very real damage. Both MI5 and MI6 have people strategically placed. If you change your mind, you know where to reach me and I will put you in touch with others. Please think about it.”

  Emily left her father’s study and went to her room on the second floor. Before too long Mrs. Offlands appeared carrying a tray filled to capacity with roast beef, Yorkshire pudding, roast potatoes, mashed carrots and turnips and, in a sparkling blue crystal goblet, Emily’s favorite dessert, sherry trifle.

  “Oh me little girl,” she said, putting her arms around Emily, “You feel everyone has you shoved into a corner. I heard them all. Don’t be upset with your dad. He’s afraid for you and went to the only person he thought could help. But I wouldn’t trust that Beresford bloke as far as I could throw him. He has no idea what those of us who do all the work go through. Bleedin’ snob he is, but your dad, he’s not like that. He’s just trying to do his best. Give over crying now. You’ll just have to stay here and have your baby.”

  “Mrs. O., I don’t know what to do. I can’t go back to Heidelberg. They’re watching my flat. I don’t know where to go.”

  “Have you spoke with your husband? Maybe you should go and see him, try to make it up.”

  “He has written. He wants me to meet him in Lebanon. I could do that, but I can’t get in touch with him from here. Daddy will know.”

  “Emily, do you remember “Sammi’s Bazaar” in Liverpool? Up by Princes Park where I used to take you when you were little when we needed nails and things? Go and see Old Sammi Farouq. I’ll ring him up and I’m sure he’ll be able to help. Sammi and my Johnny have known each other for years. He’s Lebanese is Sam, you know? Used to be quite a lad when he was young. He still has relatives in Beirut. Let me know where your Ghulam is and I’ll have Sammi get in touch with him.”

  Emily, being desperate for resolution took the bait she was handed. “Oh, Mrs. Offlands, you’re right as always. I’ve been such a fool. I love my husband. This should never have gone so far. He was just upset, maybe even jealous. But I know he still cares for me.” And lost in one last romantic sigh of immaturity, Emily Desai changed the course of her life forever. Within a few days, arrangements had been made for Emily to take a shopping trip to Liverpool under the guise of buying maternity clothes. The real clothes had already been purchased in a local maternity clothing store by Mrs. Offlands and carefully placed without their receipts in the boot of Emily’s Benz. And so on a fine sunny day Emily set off, driving very carefully as she was unused to driving on the left side of the road, to the south end of Liverpool to Sammi’s Bazaar.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Heading slowly from the heart of the city to Upper Parliament Street, Emily stared in disbelief at the dilapidated Georgian houses, formerly the homes of wealthy merchants that had since changed hands to immigrants from Asia and Africa or on short term rent by slum lords to drug dealers and prostitutes. She turned onto Princes Road, made a left turn onto Harrowby Street and then straight down to Granby Street. Granby Street was an immigrant haven. It was the area where anti-colonialism flourished amidst the sweet shops, specialty tobacco stores, grocers, and ethnic butcher shops. There was even a kosher delicatessen open in fiery opposition to the Arab, Indian and Pakistani specialty food shops. She passed a Chinese laundry and an assortment of run down English supermarkets. There were two fish and chip shops, one Chinese and one English. Two hairdressing salons; one catering to black clients the other to whites and finally with its bright green painted storefront was ‘Sammi’s Bazaar’. In the window, alone and proudly defiant, was a Lebanese flag showing a cedar with green leaves on a red and white striped background. Underneath this display of patriotism was another notice reading, “Please do not ask for credit, as refusal often offends.”

  The shop sold every possible household necessity, from nails and screws to the modern Hoover vacuum cleaners and appliances. Inside sat Sammi, a powerfully built man somewhat on the heavy side wearing a checkered scarf like headdress. Sweat dripped down his face, which he mopped with a silk handkerchief as if constantly attempting to defy gravity. His ample belly protruded over his belt as he bent down to give a lollypop retrieved from the jar by his old cash register to a small dark-skinned boy who handed him money.

  “Go on now Ahmed, give your Ammi my best wishes and tell your Abba to ring me on Tuesday. I‘ll have news for him then.”

  “Mr. Farouq,” Emily began, “I am Amina Desai. A friend of mine thought you could help me reach my husband in Lebanon.”

  “Do come in, Miss Desai. Oh my goodness, I remember you from when you were a little girl. How is Mrs. Offlands?” he asked. ”Such a nice lady, I think,” ushering her through the door as he turned the sign upon it to read “Closed”.

  “That little boy’s father is also on his way to Lebanon. He’s a messenger of sorts. Many people in this neighborhood have relatives in Lebanon. We carry letters and gifts to them all the time. Maybe he will come across your husband on his travels, if it is Allah’s will, peace be upon his name.”

  “Indeed, Mr. Farouq,” Emily replied respectfully.

  “Mrs. Offlands has explained your position and I have in turn telephoned my nephew Marwan, who has talked with your husband already.”

  Emily was surprised at the speed at which the connection had been made. She did not stop to consider its possible contrivance.

  “Your husband,” Sammi Farouq continued, “sends his greetings and will make a place for you in his home. He welcomes you and the child but urges you to travel quickly. I can arrange that also, if you wish. I have many contacts in the travel industry, you know. I own a carpet shop as well in Eastham, not far from where your parents live. Mr. Offlands very frequently helps me deliver to clients. A very, very good man, most accommodating, in fact. Would you like some mint tea? Very good for the digestion you know.”

  Emily accepted his offer. She watched him boil mint leaves with sugar and within a few minutes she was drinking the sweet tea, now much more at ease.

  “Miss Desai, or should I say Madam Ansari, I can help you, but if I do I would like something in return.”

  “And that is, Mr. Farouq?”

  “I have something that must reach a certain party in Beirut, where your husband is.”

  “Define both something and a certain party, Mr. Farouq. I am not a courier.”

  “A letter to a very holy man, much misunderstood both in this country and America. You would do your people and myself a great service if you could ensure it gets safely to its destination. In fact, it will help so much that I would arrange your travel as well as absorb all of the costs.”

  “And if I am detected?”

  “It will be addressed to your husband. He knows of it already. A slight subterfuge to save time and effort, nothing more my dear. He will pass it on to where it must go. Your husband is already aware of the holy man’s existence. Such is the will of Allah, my child. As you are the daughter of a wealthy Moroccan and the daughter-in-law of an equally wealthy Afghan diplomat, the chances are not high you will be stopped in any event.”

  “Mr. Farouq, I thought the idea was that I travel discretely. All ready, through no fault of my own I am being observed by the governments of three countries, when I haven’t done a bloody thing wrong. Now you want me to take another risk carrying letters to people?”

  “My child, you can indeed leave your home in secret or under the guise of returning to Heidelberg or even taking a trip to the Greece to cheer yourself up but you cannot escape who you are. Frankly you are
a marketable commodity to all sides.” He paused briefly allowing her a little time to contemplate his offer then added with a smile, “All I ask is that you give a letter to your husband who will in turn give it to a very righteous man, of whom he has already made acquaintance.”

  “How would I travel to Beirut?” she asked.

  “I have a friend at the ‘Middle East Airline Company’. You can fly directly to Beirut from Gatwick. You can also fly from Paris to Cairo and then back to Lebanon. The choice is yours.”

  “Then arrange it, Mr. Farouq. I will deliver your letter. But I also want an open return ticket.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Forty-eight hours after her return from Liverpool, Emily informed her father she was going to take a trip, giving the excuse that she needed breathing space and was going to Cairo to see her Aunt ‘Jack’. Ibrahim’s sister Yacouta had always been fond of his daughter and perhaps, he thought, a change of scenery would do the girl good. Neither he nor his wife could think of anything to say that might stop her and they both knew that in a few short months she would be unable to travel by plane anyway. He contacted his sister, who confirmed she would expect Emily by the end of the week and who praised all that was Egyptian that the little one was finally coming home to the rest of her family.

  Emily had decided that she would first go to Cairo and then onto Beirut, hopefully with Ghulam. She had contacted Mr. Farouq to let Ghulam know when she would arrive and that he could meet her in Egypt. She felt sure her father would make the arrangements to travel with British Airways and she could switch reservations to Middle East Airlines at the airport. At no time during this façade did she feel the slightest shred of guilt in misleading her father. At that moment she believed he was consorting with and trusting British Intelligence services and probably consorting with the Israeli Government as well. In her eyes Ibrahim Desai neither treated Arabs, particularly those of Palestinian descent fairly or honorably. Emily was angry with her father and suddenly felt betrayed by his wealth and what she felt was an abuse of his power.

  Her flight arrangements through Farouq would begin in Gatwick. She felt confident that some intelligence source would be observing. As she saw it, British Intelligence could, because of her indiscretions, assist the German authorities in monitoring Meinhof and company, not to mention the myriad of contacts Meinhof had with the SDS. While that could be the end result, Emily was not planning on making it an easy task for any them. Emily also knew she could lose ‘the goon squad’, liking the term despite its American origins, without too much of a problem. She was, after all young, fast and imaginative and she hadn’t hung around Ghulam or Mustafa without learning something about covering your tracks.

  On the following Friday, under the pretense of buying some more things for the trip from Liverpool she drove again to Sammi’s Bazaar. This time in the back room she was introduced to two other people. A young, handsome and seemingly British educated Arab and an older man who appeared Eastern European, possibly Russian with a deformed arm and a thick accent. The Arab at first waited to be introduced, then noticing Sammi’s reluctance to do the honors, he extended his hand and introduced himself.

  “I’m Yassir Shallal. Most people call me Tony. And you are?”

  “Amina Desai.”

  “You’re not English?”

  “Being an Arab is a frame of mind, Mr. Shallal. My family is of Moroccan extraction.”

  “Not with a name like Desai.”

  “Mr. Shallal, I understand hundreds of years ago some of my ancestors came from the region of Raichur in India, where our name is a corruption of Deshu and Shahi. Our people have always been wanderers and traders. Outside of the ones who gave us our family name, my father’s family are almost totally Moroccan Berbers, although most of them live in Egypt. We are, as you can understand, quite cosmopolitan.”

  “Miss Desai, I meant no offense.”

  “None taken Mr. Shallal. You are Iraqi, I take it.”

  “My father is Iraqi from Baghdad and my mother is Iraqi-English from London. Her family were military, stationed in Aden, Al Yamen. But I was born here.”

  “When you both have finished, I’d like to get on if I may,” Sammi Farouq interrupted, leaning over to the one armed man, “Why don’t you two young people help yourself to some mint tea and go upstairs to the house while I clear up with Mr. Swerdlow?”

  She followed Shallal up a flight of stairs to a very comfortable living room. Seated on the couch she felt relaxed enough to ask about Swerdlow. She was told that Aby Swerdlow was a Communist and that copies of the ‘Red Star’ newspaper were printed at his shop next door and then delivered to Sammi who hired local youths redistribute them around the neighborhood shops and homes of sympathizers as well as extreme leftist labour party members. Swerdlow, as well as being a well-known local printer was the contact man for ‘the Party’ in the Merseyside and North Wales area.

  “Isn’t he Jewish? I mean Swerdlow is a Jewish name, right?” Emily asked.

  “If we must resort to an ethnic identity. I suppose he is,” replied Shallal with a grin.

  “But a Jew and a Communist? Isn’t that somewhat contradictory?”

  “Not if you hold both things dear to your heart, as I hear he does,” Shallal responded.

  “But you can’t be Jewish, believe in God and be a Communist,” she insisted.

  “Being Jewish is a frame of mind, Miss Desai.”

  “Touché, Mr. Shallal,” said Emily, now deciding she liked this man. And in a rather surprised manner, “I had no idea Sammi had Communist leanings.”

  “Oh rubbish, Miss Desai. Sammi’s leanings are more green than red I can assure you. He’ll generally do anything for a profit. A very astute and powerful businessman is our Sam. But what brings you here?”

  “Just family business Mr. Shallal, nothing more. And you?”

  “I’m hear to help repatriate a woman with her husband in Lebanon. I think you might know her. Emily Ansari”

  “Or Amina Desai,” she countered.

  “Why are you going?” he wanted to know.

  “Mr. Shallal, I haven’t seen my husband for several months, I am pregnant with his child and I wish him to be with me when I deliver it. Can you help me?”

  “I have arranged everything already. Your tickets are ready. They are reserved in the name of Emily Ansari which I assume is what’s on your passport.

  “Actually no, I never had my passport changed. It’s still in the name of Emily Desai.”

  “A small matter. I can certainly correct the reservation to reflect that.” His English, although excellent, still had the syntax of one who was born outside the country and that puzzled her, as he had said he was born here

  “Correct what?” asked Sammi as he came through the door.

  Emily explained about the passport and soon the conversation turned to the trip itself. She felt it unnecessary to go into intricate detail, but did explain that flying to Cairo was the best route for her to take. After some discussion and to both men’s surprise, she declined Sammi’s offer of Middle East Airlines and told him her father was purchasing the ticket. Her gut feeling was that despite his congenial manner, something just didn’t seem right with either Farouq or Shallal picking up the tab.

  It was, she felt, always better to have the favor owed you than to owe the favor. She did agree to stop by before driving to the airport. She would go via Speke Airport in Liverpool’s suburbs and on to Gatwick. There would plenty of time to stop at Sammi’s Bazaar. She apologized profusely for wasting Shallal’s time in terms of his having her ticket already and left as graciously as she could.

  On the drive back to Chester she plotted her course. She would leave tomorrow night. Mrs. Offlands had already packed her clothes, which meant she could pick up whatever it was from Sammi and drive straight to Speke Airport from there. Then she would fly to Gatwick and cash in her British Airways Flight. She would then purchase one from Middle Eastern Airlines if and only if there was an immediate fl
ight out. Failing that she would leave the airport and drive to Dover, take the hovercraft to Calais and then drive on to Paris where she would take Middle Eastern Airlines to Cairo. That way she and no on else would be in total control of the situation.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  She arrived at her parents home flushed with excitement. With all this covert activity she felt as though she was working for MI6. Unfortunately, what she didn’t realize at the time was that, in a manner of speaking, nothing could be closer to the truth

  Her father met her at the door. He told her that Col. Beresford had been ringing all afternoon. She took the number he had left with her father and rang it immediately, hoping that her promptness would allay any possible suspicion.

  “My dear, I understand that you visited Liverpool today.”

  “Yes, Colonel. Have I broken the Warsaw pact or just violated the Status of Forces agreement?”

  He snickered, “Not at all my dear. However, I should let you know that Mr. Shallal is a most worthy individual and can be trusted, contrary to your belief. Good luck on your journey and incidentally, go straight to the Airport. The climate in that part of Liverpool is not conducive for your health and welfare. I have this on very, very good authority.”

  “Thank you so much for you advice, Colonel. I’ll keep it in mind.”

  Her father was hovering over her. “Beresford does know what he’s talking about. He really does know a lot of influential people. What does he advise?”

  “I think he wants me to lay low for a little bit until this all blows over. I’m sure they’ll have the left-wingers under control soon. That’s all it is really. I’ve made some strange associations and I should just stay out of the way. Aunt Yacouta’s seems to be the right place for me to be.”

  “Abba,” she continued, “I’ll be leaving tomorrow. You know, I think I need some breathing space after all. I’m going to have a baby. My marriage has gotten off to a bad start and I just don’t understand what the hell I have done wrong here. I danced with my husband’s friend at my wedding. Why all the commotion? It was harmless.”