Circle Around the Sun

by M. D. Johnson

  “They all sound like that, Atiya. It comes from inbreeding and going to the same school! Be a love and fix a bath for me while I get a large scotch and ring him back.”

  She dialed the number and was put through to Beresford’s office immediately. He had her on speaker phone in seconds. “Tony Shallal and Wils de Crecy are here, Emily, as well as Wallace-Terry. They all have questions. Are you ready?”

  “Evening Gentlemen. I’m not staying on long so do be quick. I’m sore and very tired,” Emily was very irritated. They were like wolves moving in on the prey. She sipped her scotch, gaining courage with every mouthful.

  “Understood, Emily. Now do tell us how far away you were from the blast,” It was de Crecy.

  “Alright Wils,” she said, “Take notes now me lad; I’m only going through this once. I was about twenty yards away from the blast. But I was in the club facing the window and door that exploded, not on the outside. However, about ten minutes before the blast. I had passed the two young men who were blown into smithereens. One of them actually said what a great day it was to be alive. Do you hear that Wils, he was happy to be alive minutes before those bastards blew him up! There was a girl, tall, blonde and pregnant who was playing musical cars right before the explosion. She got out before the car blew, so it may be a false alarm. But she had a walk that wasn’t like a pregnant woman’s. You know, it wasn’t awkward. It was, well, sort of proud, controlled like.”

  “Oh come, come, Emily. Give me facts,” he answered with his usual arrogance.

  “Go on, Mina. It’s me, Tony. Tell me about her. What did she look like? Think now, go back in your mind, tell me how she got there. Did you see if she drove in or was she with someone else?”

  Emily told him everything she had noticed including the woman going into another car and not looking so large when she left.

  “Tony, do you remember telling me about the ‘Baby-Bomber’? Get me photographs; perhaps it will jar my memory.”

  “Emily, we want you to drive down here tonight.”

  “Gentlemen, I am not an employee of Her Majesty’s Government. I’m sore, tired and I’m going to bed. If you want anything else from me, do your own bloody dirty work and come here first thing tomorrow morning. By the way, I was grilled by U.S. Military Intelligence and they were a hell of a lot more polite and grateful, I might add. In the words of our American cousins, ya’ll have a nice evening.” She hung up, unplugged the phone and within minutes sank into a relaxing hot bath.

  She turned on the radio to the Armed Forces Network and heard Col. Phil Ramsey from Army Public Affairs being interviewed about the bombing. Ramsey, ordinarily a total professional was obviously totally overwhelmed. He was telling the reporter that both victims were decorated Viet Nam veterans. It seemed to Emily that their lives had been taken by design. Wasn’t this what the Baader-Meinhof group wanted, to strike a blow against the so called oppressors in Viet Nam? Helping herself to another scotch, she breathed a sign of relief as she closed the blinds in her living room and took out some candles from a wall unit. She lit them, sat down cross legged on the floor and focused on the statue of Isis on the living room table.

  “Just protect my family, dear lady, and keep me alive. Tonight was a near miss and I am grateful.” She felt strangely comforted, perhaps more by the scotch than anything else. Yet she knew that she would always be safe. There was no doubt that she would be protected. She had found her purpose. She knew these people. She knew them inside and out. She knew how they thought, what they looked like and now she had met some of their victims. She would not forget those soldiers. The faces of those men and the aftermath of their death would remain with her all of her life. Emily knew that for the intelligence service, no matter which government they represented, the victims were just statistics, part of the game, they were expendable items with no faces, no rank, no serial numbers. But she had seen them. They were imprinted in her psyche. Emily did not realize that night in her scotch induced calm that it would take almost thirty years to exact her toll.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE

  Two days later, an offshoot of the Baader-Meinhof Gang identifying themselves as The Rote Armee Fraktion, (also known as “The Red Army Faktion, Commando 15th July”, the date apparently commemorating the fatal shooting of their compatriot Petra Schelm by the police) took credit for the bombing and the deaths of the two soldiers.

  With his usual impeccable timing Colonel Archie Beresford arrived at Emily’s apartment armed with a bunch of yellow roses, a basket of fruit and several bags of English chocolate as a show of good faith.

  “How astute of you Colonel. You’ve heard I can be bought with Cadbury’s Chocolate Flakes. Cheaper than bank notes in a tin can left under a loose brick in the park isn’t it? Alright, sir. What can I do to help, and thank God you didn’t send the loathsome Crecy?”

  “Can’t stand the man myself. Sad I’m his step-father, but one can’t choose one’s relatives, I suppose.”

  Atiya brought in some tea and chocolate covered digestive biscuits with some resentment as these hard to come by British items were treated as gold in the household. Emily poured two cups while Beresford brought out brown file folders from his briefcase. “These are the people the German Police are looking for in connection with the bombing. Any resemblance to the pregnant woman you saw?”

  “Possible,” Emily answered looking at a somewhat blurred photograph of a dark haired young woman, “If this one was wearing a wig.”

  “I’m going to the boutique I visited with Shallal. It’s possible that a girl who works there has some idea who did this. You have a file on her, I suppose.”

  “Ah yes, young Verena. Actually Crecy is going there this morning. We thought he could pass himself off as a young Nazi. A dye job with a sun tan, so to speak. ‘Master race’ and all that. He’s totally fluent in German, you know? Grandfather was actually Prussian, a descendant of one of Queen Victoria’s daughters.”

  “Oh Christ, now I’ve heard it all. Don’t say it. He’s not in the line of succession too is he? This is enough for me to renounce the monarchy completely. I mean, does the Queen know about this? This is probably why the Queen had an heir with three spares, just to keep Crecy out of the monarchy. What an awful thought, King Crecy! And all the time I just thought he was descended from God. I must have more tea. I’m weakening by the minute.”

  “Steady on old girl. He’s not an idiot, you know.”

  “True, but he’s a callous bastard. Perfect fit for you lot though.”

  “The German Authorities,” Beresford began, “have offered a large reward for information about the bombings. This is most unusual, but this sort of inducement may have the desired effect among people jealous of the type of publicity these radicals are getting. This sort of thing isn’t really doing the radical cause any good, you see.”

  “I understand that. The very people they are trying to impress are now fearful themselves and outraged at the violence on their own doorstep. They don’t want to live in the new Beirut or Gaza strip. But Colonel, the fact still remains; surely it isn’t the role of the British to step in here. So why is it of concern to you?”

  “Emily, frankly all of Europe is concerned. We at ‘the office’ do not want a conglomeration of terrorists. The present thinking is that they are now exchanging members or ‘loaning out’ as ‘the cousins’ would put it. Imagine the consequences. We have to nip it in the bud now.”

  “But that has been going on for years. I told you all this after the training camp,” Emily replied. “Do you think they’ll use the Olympic Games as a test bed?”

  “That’s the general idea, yes.”

  “What about Shallal. How does he feel?”

  “Right now he’s not in a position to feel anything”

  “Why not?”

  “Well my dear girl, He’s on sabbatical.”

  “Oh very nice. Anywhere I know?”

  “I think you know better than to ask,” came the response.

  �
�Look Colonel, I’m leaving for Paris in a few days to let Ghulam’s parents see Mason. Why don’t you stay here? Atiya will be closing up after her finals in a few weeks and then we’re all meeting in Chester before she goes back to Afghanistan and I go with Aunt Jack on to Cairo. If you talk to Tony, tell him I wish him luck.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTY

  Emily reviewed more of the photographs and was unable to match them with anyone she had seen at ‘The Catacomb’. Beresford returned to the Embassy in Frankfurt.

  The rest of Emily’s time was spent packing and getting ready for the trip to Paris. She would meet Aunt Jack at her favorite hotel, “The Paris Ritz” in the Place Vendome. Emily would drive there with the children and Atiya who would fly back after the weekend to finish up her internship at the university hospital, take her finals and close up the apartment for the summer. She would miss Atiya, who was intent on returning to Kabul after graduation. Perhaps, Emily thought, she could put in a good word with the Ansaris and Atiya could get a decent posting after the results of her finals. There would always be a need for pediatricians in third-world countries. Maybe we should just all emigrate to America. At least there all people were equal. It was worth considering one day. She looked at the statue of Isis on the coffee table. It brought her luck and always offered comfort. She wrapped it up in her favorite shawl and placed it in her suitcase with Mason’s beloved Rupert Bear. The packing completed and suitcases full, the four of them left for ‘Café Straub’, a light dinner and an early night before their exhausting trip to Paris in the early morning.

  They set out well before dawn the following morning. The Mercedes was in top form and purred along the road to Wieblingen. They traveled the near empty Autobahn to Mannheim at the standard 140 kilometers per hour, then on to Saarbrucken, where after several hours they would cross the border into France in very good time. Emily wondered what she would do in England now that she was used to driving without a speed limit. Ninety miles an hour was the accepted norm in Germany. She loved everything about driving the Benz, always feeling safe surrounded by a ton and a half of car. The question now was whether to keep driving or stop at the nearest village. She saw the sign for Saarbrucken and following the exit, she headed for the first Gasthaus she could find.

  After a good meal and short rest Atiya took the wheel and Emily navigated the rest of the way toward the French Border following the A4 route. At the Porte de Bercy Emily took over the perilous task of driving in Paris city traffic which at lunch time was horrendous. In all the trip had taken seven hours including their two hour stop. Emily’s shoulders ached from holding the wheel. They passed Quai De La Tournelle, following the city route to Place de Vendome where she willingly surrendered her car keys to the nearest uniformed parking attendant realizing all too well that parking at the hotel would probably cost more than a weekend stay anywhere else.

  Tired and stiff from their journey they made an undignified entry into the hotel amidst the stares of the well-heeled guests. They were led to the suite that her aunt had reserved for them and on observing this the attitude of the onlookers changed. No longer were they tatty looking outsiders with screaming children in tow, they had suddenly transformed into “beautiful” but passably eccentric people of considerable means. Feeling rather like a rock star, Emily followed the young man in blue, smiling at everyone who crossed their path. Mason tagged along, staring at everyone in his inimitable way until finally they reached the suite where Aunt Jack was waiting.

  After the rudiments of civility, a hot bath and tea in bone china cups, the children were safely ensconced in their rooms. Aunt Jack planned their itinerary for the next several days including the visit to the Ansari family. The Afghan Embassy was on Avenue Raphael and using the number she had been given, Emily gave the telephone to Atiya with instructions to arrange dinner with them later in the evening. That being done and with a few hours to spare, Emily, her aunt and Atiya planned their offensive in the worst case scenario.

  “We cannot under any circumstances meet inside the Embassy, as that is considered Afghani territory and we may not be able to get Mason back again,” Atiya pointed out.

  “Good point. I was going to arrange it there for safety’s sake,” said Emily, now feeling somewhat foolish for not thinking of the obvious.

  “Alright, we’ll ask them here and get room service. That way they can see the children and be totally safe.”

  “What do we tell them about Hallah?” asked Atiya.

  “Meaning what, Atiya?”

  “She’s not their grandchild? Why should they see her at all?” Atiya added quickly.

  “You know, you’re right. What do I tell them?”

  “Why not the truth, Miss Emily? Haley is the product of your being left alone and undefended in Lebanon by their son.”

  “No, because it’s not the truth. But, on the other hand it does have a nice ring to it.”

  “OK. I’ll explain this before they get here and see whether they wish to meet Haley or not.”

  Three hours later, the Ansaris, having been told that dinner would be in Emily’s suite arrived without any formality. It was easy to see where Ghulam got his looks. They were an impressive couple. Masud Ansari was tall, like his son, with eagle like features. His wife Humera, a small, slender woman had the sad yet limpid dark eyes that their grandson had inherited. They had not seen Emily since her marriage to their son, but their greeting was more than cordial.

  The simple dinner Emily had arranged was over quickly and the conversation turned to discussing Ghulam. The Ansaris had heard nothing directly from him in over a year. Their son, for whom they could make no apology, had entered a different world in Lebanon. He had, they concluded, become a fanatical follower of the Wahhabi tradition, one that was becoming prominent in the Middle East as well as throughout Asia. There was, they sincerely believed, a resurgence of this austere Sunni Hanafi form of Islam.

  Looking directly at Aunt Jack, Masud Ansari stated most convincingly, “Do not misunderstand us, dear lady, this is serious. Culturally, such a philosophical trend could set Muslim women back thousands of years if it gets a foothold in a country like ours with a delicate balance of tribal culture. This is not some form of new religion as you know, Madam D’Aboville. It began as a measure to cleanse the Sufi influence from the Saudi Bedu. It was, as you know highly successful. But you see; now it offers hope to nationalists as a means to cleanse western influence from other Islamic countries. Ghulam is a passionate nationalist, but he also easily led. We heard from his friend that he had gone into a camp for some sort of religious training. We thought it was some type of sabbatical or retreat. It is, we believe, on the Lebanese border. We used every possible diplomatic means we could to try and ascertain his whereabouts. Then in desperation, we sent a loyal servant from home to Lebanon with money to try and bribe a villager to go into the camp where we heard he was. But he did not return.”

  Madam Ansari picked up the tale, “We received a telephone call from Mustafa Jalil just after our posting to Paris. He had been contacted by a Red Cross worker who was given his name by a man injured in a skirmish in a Leebanese border village. The Red Cross Worker told Mustafa that a man claiming to be Ghulam had given him the message for us to say he would soon be in paradise, which would indicate he thought his injuries were fatal. The Red Cross could not verify this when we contacted them and we have found no records showing his death. So we do not know if it was true or if our son still lives.”

  “Why would you trust Mustafa Jalil?” asked Aunt Jack. “My brother Ibrahim does not speak well of this man. He was unforgivably rude at the wedding reception and I believe he was the reason you son reacted so badly. Not that it excuses his behavior, but my niece did give Ghulam a second opportunity to redeem himself, did she not? And as a result she was badly treated by him as well as by militants in Lebanon. Clearly your son has undergone some sort of emotional breakdown and I believe this other person Mustafa was involved in some way. I cannot imagine with parents suc
h as you he was brought up to be violent and ungentlemanly.”

  “Believe me, Madame D’Aboville, Ghulam was tender and softhearted as a child, perhaps a little...,” Mr. Ansari paused for the word, “over indulged, but he is our only child. He was solemn, serious and very kind. What can one say?”

  “It is not good to speak ill of those absent or dead,” Aunt Jack said tactlessly, “I’m sorry, that was unkind, we do not know if he is missing or not, do we? I cannot I imagine your pain. Forgive my rudeness,” she added hastily.

  “I am divorced as you know,” interrupted Emily, “at least under British Law, and I have another child, a daughter. The father is unimportant to my life but if you are to maintain contact with your grandson, I urge you to treat both children equally where possible, as they are very close. My family is of great importance to me. The children will be brought up according to Muslim tradition but with a full understanding and tolerance of other religions. I am not asking for any financial support from your family, but I believe there is a matter of monies given to Ghulam and me for our wedding from my father. The gift should be returned, as my son is now without a father and a trust fund for his future must be established”. She gave the name and address of her lawyer in Heidelberg, Dr. Hans Jurgen Rehm with the instructions to contact him whenever they needed information on their grandson or herself if her family could not be reached.

  “Until I remarry” Emily began with a certain air of finality “If I do remarry that is, my parents and aunt will be helping me raise my children. If you wish to remain grandparents in the fullest sense of the word, I would welcome it. I have nothing against Masud spending time with you, however you must understand I do not wish Ghulam, if he lives to take any part whatsoever in the upbringing of his son and I forbid you to leave Masud in the care of his father at any time, should he still be alive. That is my only condition. If you agree to this I will ask Dr. Rehm to write up a legal and binding document to this effect and then we can continue our relationship. I’m sorry for all the formality but I must protect my children and myself and I know how persuasive Ghulam and his friends can be.”