Circle Around the Sun

by M. D. Johnson

  “Mason, are you coming home?” Emily deliberately ignored his impassioned rhetoric as her blood pressure rose in her anger.

  “No, I’m staying here. I’m a doctor, I have to help my people. But HE wanted me to let you know what would happen so that you could advise the government.”

  “And so I shall, through official channels but it won’t make any difference. They want a scape-goat. If it’s him or someone else, it doesn’t really matter. The objective has nothing to do with settling the score for 9/11. It’s about money, big business and greed, Mason. Those poor soldiers have no idea what they’re up against. They’ll fight a good fight for a while and then run around in circles. We are an innocent people Mason, we believe everyone fights under the Marquis of Queensbury rules. Odd, isn’t it, that descendants of that same Marquis now have bin Laden blood as well? The allies are going to obliterate Tora Bora; they will get to where the clinic is within a few days, maybe less. It’s not safe there. But after Tora Bora, it will be useless. This is not a conventional war,” Emily choked back tears trying not to make things any worse.

  “Look Mother, I must stay here. I’m a British subject. I’m a doctor working in a hospital. They won’t hurt me. But there are two people I want to get through the borders to safety. One is an American of Afghan descent and the other is my nephew, Amahl. They have Yemeni diplomatic passports too. It’s a long story. They’re going onto Islamabad. Get them back to America or even England, no questions asked, and I’ll feed information to you or Shallal.”

  “Shallal? Mason, is he there?”

  “No, but there is a prick named de Crecy who is bothering the women. He’s a big shot, so I understand. He’s with British Intelligence.”

  “Mason, listen very carefully,” Emily began, “Stay away from de Crecy. He’s a sadistic little shit. Do you remember when you were little in Heidelberg. We were in an Italian restaurant, I think. You hid a letter from him. You were very, very little, but still savvy, and he didn’t find it. Remember? That man was Wilfred de Crecy. He has a license to kill and believe me he has exercised that option. I know he cold-bloodedly murdered one of his operatives. I knew her quite well. But he destroyed her because she was an inconvenience. Her death was simply the icing on very large egotistic cake. Remember these people in intelligence have no conscience, they live lies. They’re all actors. Don’t trust them, don’t make deals with them. They are all corrupt. When you are ready to get out, get in touch through Atiya or Aunt Jack. We have our own network. I will get you out myself. I still have people in the network who owe me. Don’t, repeat, don’t trust authority!”

  “Christ, Mother, you sound like Angela Davis or something.”

  “Mason,” she answered smugly, “both Angela Davis and her sidekick Cathleen Cleaver are very well respected professors and lecturers in these less volatile times, but believe me, as opposed to your dear old Mum, they’re quiet little lambs. Again, Mason, when you want out, I’ll get you out.” And in seconds the connection was broken.

  “Well what do you think now, Mommy Dearest? Do we force him out kicking and screaming or do we let him be a fucking hero. Honestly, I don’t understand the man at all.” Haley, as usual was unimpressed by her brother’s decision making ability. “He’s such a bloody idiot. If he wants to help why doesn’t he join forces with the Red Cross. You know what his damn problem is? His father! He just has never come to terms with not having that asshole around him.”

  “Haley, you’ve never met the man, how can you condemn him?”

  “Excuse me! Let me refresh your memory, Mother. He beat you in the name of God, his honor, and his family, right? Then he pissed off and left you to bring Mason up alone.”

  “Actually Haley, that’s not how it happened, but I get your point.”

  “Look, Mason was brought up by the same man who brought me up. I turned out ok, didn’t I? But he has this thing about being a bloody martyr, or a jihadist, or a renegade doctor. It’s always something weird. Let him go Mother. He’s a big boy now, stop bailing him out.”

  “Bailing him out? This is hardly a bail out. He’s been conned and now he’s in the middle of a war game. Haley, why are you here?”

  “Because Mother I don’t want anything to happen to you and my Dad, ok?”

  “Have you talked to your Dad?” asked Emily.

  “Yeah, sure, Mother. I always talk to him. He’s logical. He called about ten minutes before you got here to say that he and Dana thingy are leaving the London Symposium, driving to Paris and then getting the first available flight to Pakistan. They decided not to get a direct flight from London in case it aroused suspicion.”

  “Like Paris isn’t suspicious enough?”

  “Look, stop worrying. Dad’ll make it there without a problem and I’ll feel a hell of a lot better when he does.”

  CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED THIRTY-ONE

  The flight to Islamabad was harrowing, the security lax and the plane overloaded with angered journalists and photographers primed for another cyber-war, but whose credentials still couldn’t get them a drink on the “dry” PIA Airlines. Harrison Cowan and Dana Johnson reached Atiya’s home, which was close to the main Nazzimuddin Road in less than an hour after landing. The house was a huge older residence that had been completely renovated and was now a stately white building with marble floors, five bedrooms, and several fireplaces with English mantels. Outside was a beautiful rose garden with a gazebo. The house also had two spacious apartments in the east wing that were leased, unfortunately for Cowan and Johnson, to U.S. Embassy staff. Although the embassy staff were said to be administrators and not connected to the intelligence community, the visitors were genuinely unnerved when they heard the news. The story Atiya had told her house staff was in part truthful, they were believed to be researchers and journalists who needed peace and quiet in a very stressful international situation. If they played their cards right, Cowan believed, they wouldn’t run into the renters at all. Both residences had separate entrances not connected to the main house, so all should be well.

  They settled in, made the appropriate phone calls and after resting for a few hours met in the dining room to discuss their mission. The general plan was to fly into Afghanistan. Dana Johnson as an attorney specializing in international law and human rights was a frequent lecturer and consultant on issues concerning citizenship and violations of U.S. residency. If Mason were charged with any such violations she would be in a position to represent his best interests in the eyes of the immigration service, which soon, perhaps dangerously so, would be under the control of the newly founded Office of Homeland Security.

  “My problem with all of this, Harrison,” Dana began, “is that under the anti-terrorism bills passed in 1996, Mason has already put himself at considerable risk as far as his residency is concerned. With the advent of the new Homeland Security acts, I’m afraid that he might not receive any protection under American law, and we all know that the Brits will be most reluctant to grant him any type of asylum should the shit hit the fan. His only recourse would be to use these Yemeni Diplomatic passports that he has and get back into the country, leaving us to resolve the other issues once he’s safely there.”

  “Are you suggesting as his attorney that he enters the U.S. illegally?” Cowan inquired.

  “Absolutely not, Harrison,” Dana explained gently, understanding that Cowan was becoming fearful for Mason’s safety no matter what he did. “He already has the right to reside in the United States. He does not have the right to leave the U.S. and expect to return, having willfully helped our enemies. But he could enter of his own volition any way he wants to, as we are very careless at passport control in airports, and then use his information as a negotiation tool, and if he has any sense that’s what he’ll do. We are not at war with Yemen, they are one of the half dozen countries on our shit list right now because they aid terrorists, but we seldom if ever bother diplomats at airports. The government only observes them, scans their faces into our data base and lets
them through under permanent surveillance. I am not his attorney, by the way, as I’m not being paid nor have I been formally hired by him. I’m his mother’s friend, and an expert so they tell me on such issues. Mason can always attempt to seek political asylum in the worst case scenario, but even that gets complicated because he has a British Passport. He’s not Afghani, but he can use the fact that his father is a Taliban big shot and it is unlikely there’ll be an international incident. But they have every right to detain and question him. His best bet is to say that he went to help out in a war zone because he is a physician and that anything else was the result of his being abducted by the Taliban and forced to work for them. Rather like Pasternak’s ‘Zhivago’. Unfortunately, Harrison, the other problem is he’s now vulnerable to attack from within the United States by al-Qaeda cell groups or jihadists on U.S. soil. Make no mistake, they are certainly in existence and they are, as a rule, rich and powerful.”

  “Then is he safer where he is, working at a clinic over the Afghan border?”

  “This isn’t your decision, It’s his. He’s a man, not a child,” she said, picking up her cell phone to call the U.S. Embassy.

  “Hello, Everett,” she began, “I’ve got a peculiar problem with a green card holding Brit who’s working as emergency physician in a clinic on the border. He’s needed here with the Red Cross but he isn’t affiliated with them and has no paperwork. If he needs to get out, will you sanction it? There’s no criminal record, not even a parking ticket, all he has is a British passport. He hasn’t lived in Britain for twenty-five years and his green card is valid until he renews in 2004. I’m apprehensive about his safety and I’m here with his step-father, who’s a citizen. We’re waiting on news that he’s ok. If the clinic where he is gets closed down, he can, I’m sure, get to the border but I want to know that he’ll get across without a problem and that he can at least get some type of safe harbor from both embassies if necessary. What can you do to help?”

  “What’s in it for me?” Everett McArthur responded quickly. “He’s British, right? Call them. If they can’t help when the time arises, then get back to me.”

  “His mother’s a consultant to a White House Task Force on Terrorism and the step-dad is a security big shot. He might be at risk for abduction. You don’t need an incident.”

  “Tough shit. Like I said, if the Brits won’t help, call me.”

  “Good enough, Everett. Thanks.”

  “Rather curt in his response, wasn’t he? What was all that about?” Harrison asked.

  “I knew Everett McArthur at George Washington University. He’s a good contact who specializes in Central Asia. A very smart man, although with his attitude, I don’t know why he chose a career as a diplomat. The point is, Harrison, it starts a ‘book’. All incoming calls are monitored for security. Now at least there’ll be a record that I called and why, in case something does go wrong, I’ve established that a ‘good guy’, a doctor, could need our help, and it’s on tape now being scrutinized.”

  “Fair enough, Dana, but doesn’t this mean that they now know you’re here. What will they do?”

  “Harrison, never underestimate the tardiness and rivalry between agencies and embassies. They all want a coup. I would say we’ve got about two days before anyone find out we’re here in Pakistan. Let’s sit and wait until Mason or Atiya contact us.”

  “Atiya won’t leave until they carry her out.”

  “That’s what I’m afraid of. But, unlike Mason, she does have diplomatic connections and they will help her.”

  “Mason has diplomatic connections too. His grandparents.”

  “His mother is contacting them in Paris, right?”

  ‘Of course. At this point she’ll be visiting with everyone she’s known for thirty years. A lot of people owe her favors. She’ll call them in if anything happens to Mason.”

  CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED THIRTY-TWO

  Emily, Sinead and Haley were in Heidelberg’s Haupstrasse, about to make the turn onto Kramergasse. The tiny dark street hadn’t changed much in thirty years. It still looked clean, or “tip-top sauber” in local vernacular, a fact which never cased to amaze Emily. Heidelberg was always clean; the locals took pride in their city. It was a tourist trap and certainly a showcase of the ideal German lifestyle, but it was also in perfect condition all the time, as if readying itself for military inspection. The American military presence since the end of World War II had decreased considerably. The Germans had become prouder and more conscious of their leadership role since their entry into the European Union. Germany had always presented a practical yet prosperous way of life. Emily had never seen a homeless person or a beggar in Heidelberg, nor had she ever heard of anyone going without medical treatment due to a lack of money. These people had strong work ethics and were blunt in their approach to sexuality, finance, and religion. They accepted everyone at face value, apart from one group, the ‘Gastarbeiters’.

  Guest workers, or ‘Gast Arbeiters’ from less well off countries flooded the gates of Western Europe in the sixties and seventies, bringing with them changes in culture, language, and religion. Initially they congregated in less affluent Heidelberg areas, taking menial jobs which still paid much more than what they would make in the countries they left behind. They prospered and integrated themselves into the community over time. For many however, the stigma of being called gypsies or Zigeuners at the onset had given them a sense of furtive survivalism and frequently they chose to spiritually and financially support groups of renegades in their country of origin. Emily encountered several of these people in her student days and had kept in touch with them over the years. Through informal conversation she had become privy to prominent names in the emerging Muslim counter-culture. She had known many months in advance that the Berlin wall would be torn down, because of the former students she remembered from Heidelberg in the seventies. They had remained active in their fight against anyone’s oppression, transferring their extreme leftist political views to a more eighties sacrosanct protection of the underclass. At the time, the underclass was the East Germans, whom the West Germans had originally wanted in their country. Little did they expect that those who arrived would bring with them a tenacity never seen before in the West. Solzhenitsyn’s “Gulag Archipelago” had come to life. Present day Germany was an angry venue, now the old underclass of guest workers had met in confrontation head on with the survivors of communism who wanted it all. History had repeated itself. Ethnic and racial unrest, together with overt religious intolerance became the norm as the strengthened underclass prospered. Emily understood this underclass and its survivalist mentality very, very well.

  Emily arranged to meet Dimitri and Vika Schulkin in ‘The Cave’. Schulkin had maintained his residence in nearby Rohrbach, close to the American military community. He continued to teach at the University and still served as a consultant on Russian thought and culture to the highest bidder. When Emily saw ‘The Cave’ she was momentarily transported back to 1970. It hadn’t changed at all. The doorman was still a long-haired hippie type in an old t-shirt. She still had to grab the stair rail to get down to the main section of the club, although now she was considerably fearful of losing her balance, something she hadn’t considered thirty years previously. Her girth now somewhat broader than before prevented a much younger couple from going upwards and they seemed somewhat perturbed at having to wait. “I felt the same way myself thirty years ago,” she said, out of politeness. They remained unimpressed and passed her, deliberately pinning her against the rail. She finally led her friend and daughter down to the place where she had danced, drank and raised political hell or awareness, depending on which side one represented. They moved towards the bar where she discovered she now had considerable difficulty getting onto a bar stool gracefully. The bartender, an older man with a long white ponytail took their order, same as always, Cola cognac for Emily and glasses of Mueller Thurgau for the others.

  “I’m trying to find the man who used to work here
years ago. His name was Arno,” she said to the bartender.

  “I’m Arno.”

  “Gott in Himmel!” she exclaimed, “I’m Emily Desai. I used to come here when I was a student. You’ve changed a lot.”

  “I’m not alone in that. Now what did you say your name was? Desai?”

  “Yes, I was friends with a group of Nigerian students, The Otu’s.”

  “Ach ja,” he replied, slowly remembering, “die Schwartze.”

  Emily was stunned. She had not expected his use of the term, ‘the blacks’, which in German while not totally derogatory was something akin to the good ol’ boy term, “people of the darker persuasion.”

  “Schwartzers? What happened to you? I thought you liked the Otus.”

  “It turned out,” Arno recalled somewhat placidly in his usual dull monotone, “the Otus were really British Intelligence on the prowl. They put good people away for a very long time. It was a bad time for us here. Because of them, I almost went to jail myself. There was a gun-running thing. Some of the others were dealing in arms; they all worked for an Ost-Berliner they called, ‘The Orchid’. His name was really Freitag, I think. These days, who really cares anymore? I think he was in the Russian Mafia. This is the place they would all hook up, you know? They would meet here. I run a club. I didn’t know what was happening. You know how it was...students drank, let off a little political rhetoric. Sometimes they just danced, but it was innocent, nicht vahr?”

  “One day, a Brit came in, no ausweis, just a lot of authority,” he continued reflectively. “A tall, skinny guy, dark fellow, he was passing for German. I knew he was an Englander. I told him a joke, you know? He didn’t get it. I mean, it was in Schwabian dialect, he didn’t understand the, how do you say it, colloquialisms. If he had been German or even lived here, he would have known. I asked around about him and one of the African girls said he was with the Embassy in Frankfurt. Why would he pass himself off as German? We used to welcome everyone who was a student here and then he started hanging out with Verena Stoltz, you remember her? She worked for Ulla at the boutique around the corner. Now there’s someone who came to a very bad end. She used to come here very late at night. You know she was pregnant? I had taken photographs of the Africans before they all left, and the British one was with them. I showed her the photograph and she recognized him. That’s how I knew for sure he was not German. She told me who he was, and she said he was a writer.”