“Christ! Rather sad what we do to our children in school, isn’t it? There’ll always be an England and all that bloody sickening stuff.” He lit a cigarette, “Alright Shallal. Let’s see what she can bring us this time.”
The following night, Tony Shallal and Emily drove to “The Cave”. It was her first visit in almost two years and she was surprised to see many familiar faces, particularly among the African students. Mike and Rose Otu had departed some time ago to work for The Red Cross in Nigeria. She had maintained limited contact with them, suspecting they had more than just a passing interest in right-wing politics. She had been astounded at some of their conservative views, considering they were African. Perhaps Frantz Fanon’s revolutionary theories were right after all! Wealthy Africans had no interest in the poor. They were themselves both product and propagator of imperialism. Native intellectualism was forgotten by these Nigerians. It had been supplanted by Western tradition. Only the clothes remained, she sniggered. “Not bad either. Bet they were pricey though,” she muttered to herself.
“How is it you know so many Africans?” Shallal asked over his cognac.
“Shallal, you are such a racist. Does it make any difference whether they’re African or Egyptian?”
“Emily Desai?” a familiar voice said from behind. “Kadu! Woman, where have you been?”
“Odima,” she replied in Ibo, “Osita, Oh my God! How are you?” Then, “Dr. Osita Udakamma, this is my friend Alego Panos from Athens.”
“Really! Great place, Greece. It’s been a long time since I was there. Well Emily, how have you been? I’m going to England. I’ve taken over a general practice in Liverpool’s south end and I’ve just bought a house in Sefton Park. Not too far away from the African community but not exactly in the bad lands. I’m thrilled.”
“Emily, You’re back!” It was another African, a tall and beautiful woman named Ifeyanwa whom Emily had met at Mike and Rose’s house. She eyed Emily nervously.
“Did you tell her Osita?”
“Good God woman! I hadn’t got ‘round to it yet. OK. Here it is. Get ready for the big shock. We got married eight months ago. I would have invited you had I known where to find you.”
“I think a round of drinks is in order,” Tony added somewhat smugly. “Congratulations Ifey and Obi.”
“God you two, that was sudden!” Emily yelled above the music.
“Sudden? It was arranged when we were children,” Ifeyanwa replied with an air of sarcasm in her voice.
Emily was flabbergasted, remembering that Osita’s last conversation with her had been his proposal of marriage. She laughed out loud, spluttering her Cola Cognac. “I’m sorry. It’s such a shock. I had no idea at all.”
She began intentionally probing, “I mean, all that time you were ‘intended’ for Osita? From childhood, like we do it, with livestock and jewelry? Oh Christ, this is funny. Let’s have a round over here Arno.”
“I wouldn’t call it funny, Emily,” Ifey was clearly hurt.
“Oh, I don’t mean it like that. I’m happy for you. I really am. But I just didn’t see you together, ever.”
“For us, marriage is a transaction bringing together wealth and power. Families merge. These are troubled times for our people. Marriage for us means continuity,” explained Osita.
“How bloody romantic!” Emily, now on her fifth cola cognac and feeling adventurous said quite calmly, “but the times are not that bloody troubled that you’d head back to Nigeria though. Right Osita? Liverpool, you said didn’t you? Not quite Lagos though, is it?”
“Anyway chaps,” she continued, “I’ve got to get my beauty sleep. Congratulations to you both. Alego, I’ll see you tomorrow.” She picked up the tab, paid it leaving an unheard of twenty per cent tip and headed toward the staircase and the fresh air outside, where she hailed a Mercedes sedan taxi back to Ziegelhausen.
“I think we buggered that one up, Tony?” the British agent said to his old adversary as he watched Emily’s slight figure go up the spiral staircase.
“Obi, my dear, I’ll drink to that.”
“What the hell are you doing here Tony Shallal, slumming with students?” Osita Udakamma, asked his MI6 colleague.
“Actually Obi, we’re working with her at the moment.”
“Good luck darling. She’s a cold bitch, I’ll tell you.”
“I wouldn’t say that,” he smiled to himself. “Not at all.”
CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE
By the time she reached her apartment, Emily Desai felt like an enlightened soul. They know each other! Tony Shallal and Osita. He had made the toast, “To Ifey and Obi.” Obi is not the short form for Osita, it’s the abbreviation for Obinna, which was the name she’d found on that photograph years ago. Besides, that dim witted cow of a wife hadn’t even been introduced to Shallal, so how did he know her name? “And even if,” she said out loud, “I am wrong and she was introduced to him and I just missed it, no one would use the tribal short form of Ifeyanwa unless they knew her. What flaming arseholes they all are! Well, I’m not going to be used any more. I’m writing the rules this time.”
Inspired by alcohol together with her own importance and enlightenment, she made a pot of coffee, went immediately to the locked roll top desk and rummaged around until she found her passport and a new yellow legal pad. She quickly wrote down the numbers she had entered as telephone contact information two years before, taken from the letter she had given to Ghulam from Sammi Farouq. Now perhaps it was time to find out for whom the letter was intended. Ghulam was only the intermediary but he had been under the influence of the religious leader of a group known as “The Brotherhood”, and Farouq had to have known that, as he had contacts in the village where Ghulam lived in Lebanon. This was her ace in the hole. Whatever happened in the future, these numbers were the key to her success. She was now absolutely sure that this was what all this cloak and dagger stuff was about. Money! The green stuff! Purely and simply. Find the hidden assets used to fund acts of terrorism in Europe and the Middle East. The only other person who had knowledge of this letter had been Farouq’s friend and neighbor, Leon Swerdlow and not only was he a Communist, he was also Jewish. She had the bank account numbers, hopefully in the right order and all she needed now was the name of the bank.
Emily thought carefully. She had learned during her stay in Lebanon that Muslims do not have the same banking ideology as non-Muslims; moreover, they did not trust western banking practices. As there had been a definite increase in oil revenues they had to be putting their money somewhere and Emily doubted whether Sammi Farouq had been that careful. He was, poor bugger, just the middleman. It was now becoming abundantly clear that at some point the British would discover the part she had played in getting the letter to Ghulam and the potential that within the letter was a bank account number which could lead to those financing terrorism, but at this point the ball was in her court. As she recalled, there was a something called the Organization of Islamic Conference, which might be a good place to start. She had heard Ghulam and other members of the Brotherhood talk about the organization. It had been established in 1969 after an Australian Christian set fire to the Al-Aqsa Mosque in Jerusalem, a sacrilege in the Islamic world. Ghulam had mentioned that the organization wasn’t formally realized until 1970. Its mission was to safeguard the interests of Muslim people, particularly those in Palestine. It promoted solidarity, social, cultural, scientific and financial endeavors and its aim was to protect and liberate Muslim holy sites. One of its major concerns was the future of the Palestinian people.
Clearly association didn’t make the OIC backers of terrorists, but there was no doubt or secret that the organization was only temporarily headquartered in Jeddah, Saudi Arabia pending the inevitable liberation of Jerusalem. All of this was the result of the Saudi and Wahhabi influence on Muslims both within the network and with other groups supporting it worldwide. OIC had grown significantly in the past few years and it seemed rather obvious to Emily that money raised i
n other countries for pro-Palestinian causes would be much more easily laundered through Muslims affiliated with an organization such as this. If, Emily pondered, she had been Sammi Farouq and was going to stash money, where would she do it? Clearly, he would have used a country relatively friendly to the west, and one with established ties to England for the sake of convenience. He would have also selected an international venue as the end stop where financial contributions could be rendered invisible without raising too much suspicion. Maybe a place with old ties to the World War II Nazi coffers as well. Yet one with open arms to tourists and so cloaked in respectability that making “drops” and deposits would go unnoticed, because privacy in banking there was sacrosanct. The initial account must be in Switzerland and then clandestinely distributed to other nations.
Trying to recall her father’s conversations as well as long forgotten lectures on Modern Islamic Society she settled on Egypt as one of the obvious money laundering sites. It was the first country to research, with the more difficult and complex Saudi a clear second. Sammi Farouq, while not a Liverpool native was in love with the city and Liverpool, she knew, had strong ties to Egypt because of its hundreds of years of profiting by both the slave trade and the Cotton Exchange. Her family’s housekeeper Mrs. Offlands often spoke of this, her theory being that Liverpool was built on the profits made from cotton. Cotton had been the gift horse. Sammi, although Lebanese, had strong ties like herself to Egypt. She felt sure that if he was funneling money from Liverpool to the Middle East, it would have to end up in Egypt for disbursement. There were few formal Islamic banks anywhere else. In fact Egypt’s most recent banking concern was, as far as she knew only established there last year. Farouq’s letter had mentioned “a place as cold as the snow on the mountains.” Perhaps there was a prominent Swiss Bank in Cairo with a connection to Liverpool. It was worth a try at least. She called her Aunt Jack, always a mine of information she thought as she dialed the number in Cairo.
“Aunt Jack, tell me about Islamic banking.”
“You call me at three in the morning to ask this?”
“Well it’s only two in the morning here. Tell me anyway.”
“Darling, it’s a very different banking philosophy. I mean, it adheres completely to Islamic principles. For example Islamic banks are in partnership with their depositors as well as the entrepreneurs involved in start-up companies as long as the investment is based on using depositor’s funds productively. Investment and financing must truly conform to Islamic law. Islamic banks actually employ an individual Sharia advisor or even a board of Sharia advisors to make sure the job is done correctly. All the employees must act within the framework of Islam, so that a person coming to that bank is given the impression that they are entering a sacred Islamic place to perform a religious ritual. In other words, the use and working of capital investment can only be enacted in a way that is acceptable to Allah. The bank must serve God, not just mankind. It must always show moral and spiritual rectitude and comply fully with the laws of the Sharia. The Islamic banks, unlike their western counterparts are in business only for the good of the community not simply to make a profit. Interest free banking is based on partnership or shirkah and profit-sharing mudaraba. So the bank is actually an intermediary, using savings from the public in a profit-sharing manner to entrepreneurs. You understand? It’s a unique concept and it does work. For example, if the bank receives public funds to use for profit sharing, there are no restrictions on the kind of activity it’s used for, the length of time involved or even the location where the funds will be applied. However, these funds cannot be used for anything that is forbidden by Islamic law. The bank also has the right to share or pool the net profit from diverse investments. Of course, deductions will be made for things like administrative costs, capital depreciation and any Islamic taxes applied. But unlike Western banking, there is really no risk. You see Emily, the bank and its operation are morally bound to God. Very different, yes? It is all based on faith and like I said, it must adhere to Islamic code. You know my dear, the word Sharia means, ‘the way to the source of life.’ There are four rules to follow in our banking system. There are no interest based transactions, no economic activities involving speculation, there is a tithe, and any goods or services that go against the pattern of Islamic life and welfare are strongly discouraged. OK? And now I’m going back to sleep!”
“Aunt Jack, how is it that you know so much?”
“Because I have a degree in Economics and I was married to a banker. Although your uncle was French, he had many friends in world banking. He was very interested in Islamic banking principles and often used to say the Muslims are the most honest bankers in the civilized world.”
“If I wanted to invest in a Swiss Bank, not a Muslim one, in Cairo, who would you recommend?”
“’Credit Montreux’, of course. I have accounts there. So does everyone of importance.”
“Why Credit Montreux?”
They’ve been here since 1928 and survived the Wall Street crash, World War II and the Arab-Israeli conflict. Your father uses it too, as it has a small office in Liverpool.”
“How do I contact them, Aunt Jack?”
“Call Gustav Renz, and he’ll take care of it. The number is...wait a minute,” and grabbing her address book she gave Emily the direct number of the manager.
The following morning Emily placed the call.
“Herr Renz,” she began, sounding very professional for 8.30 a.m., “I am Emily Desai Ansari. I am the niece of Yacouta Desai D’Aboville. I am the widow of an Afghan National who died rather suddenly in Lebanon. I am trying to trace my husband’s assets, settle his affairs and establish a trust fund for our son. I have found a number, amongst his possessions, which I understand is Bank Account for a Swiss Bank in Egypt. If I give you the first four numbers can you identify the Bank Code and Location?”
“Certainly, Madame Ansari. It is not difficult. Every bank has a numeric code for International identification. The first four digits will identify the bank but not the location. You must then contact the bank and they will advise you further. In order to access the account, you understand, you would need the appropriate paperwork”
“You mean marriage license and death certificate?”
“Oui Madame. Just a formality, of course. There might be probate issues as well.”
She gave him the first four digits of numbers from the letter written two years previously by Sammi Farouq.”
“Why, that is ‘Credit Commerciale d’Egypt’. They are here in Cairo on Alexander Street.” He gave her the telephone number.
She thanked him and placing the phone on the receiver, she decided to interrupt the sleep of Tony Shallal. Her objective was to arouse his interest, nothing more. This was simply bait. She told him she remembered Ghulam discussing money he had received from a source unknown to her. The money was to be used to establish training facilities for “The Brotherhood”. It had been coming in, she said, fairly regularly, at least until she left. Furthermore, she spoke somewhat derisively, the whole process had just occurred to her and she thought he should know. And now for the kill, she thought to herself. She closed the conversation with nothing further other than she looked forward to seeing him tomorrow, baiting him with a promise of a trip to “Ulla’s boutique”.
CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX
Ulla’s Boutique hadn’t changed much since her last visit eighteen months ago. The same “Beautiful People” still bought floral skirts, peasant blouses, Biba bracelets, Indian earrings and the like. Some like Emily had more expensive tastes and converged on the hand knitted Peruvian sweaters, trouser suits and pashmina shawls. Emily introduced Tony as Alego Panos to Ulla and Verena Stoltz and again kept to the story that he was Greek, adding that he was a writer researching a new book, “The New Left”. She said this deliberately, wanting to see how fast Shallal could think on his feet, and she enjoyed watching his discomfort as he searched for a response. Ulla was a little stand-offish that morning at first
, until she realized how much Emily was buying, and when Emily began selecting hand knit merino wool sweaters for Tony, her attitude changed considerably.
“What do you think Verena?” Emily held up the beautiful Aztec designed full length woolen dress so that it cascaded to the Moroccan rug on the shop’s floor.
“Very you, I think.”
“I’ll take it then, although it’s awfully expensive. I’ll take the purple feather boa as well. Just stack it all together. His and mine.”
“Two separate checks, Frau Ansari?”
“No, Verena, just one. You can get this Alego. Instead of paying me for my research!”
The British Government was thus compelled to foot the bill for eight hundred and fifty Deutche Marks worth of designer clothing.
“Verena, anything happening in town this week? I’m a bit out of touch.”
“Well, there’s an Osibisa concert tonight at ‘Club Catacombe’,” Ulla broke into the conversation, “It’s a trial run for their concert in Frankfurt tomorrow. Why don’t you both come?”
“Well, I have to leave in a few days and I really should catch up on some work.”
“Alego, you can’t miss Osibisa. They’re African and I know how you just love their culture and music. You simply can’t miss it. Besides, you can do some first hand research for the book. Ulla and Verena know some of the most talked about radicals in the country. ‘The Catacombe’ is where it’s all happening!”
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