When we step into Broad Street I embrace her. Across the road the Roman emperors are grimacing.
‘Lettie, will you forgive me? And will you find out what you can?’
‘You’re forgiven. And yes, I will do what I can. I’ll text you when I have anything and we should meet. Rich, don’t worry about it; this is just about what they call humint, human intelligence, in covert operations. It’s getting information from real people.’
I cross the quad and go to the Upper Reading Room. I try to imagine what might have happened to the small party of Richard’s men when they left Arles for the Auvergne. I remind myself what Stephen Feuchtwanger said, that there can be profound truth in fiction. At the same time, real life seems to have found me, in the form of SO15. Already I am beginning to fear that I will be badly treated. They may cite my psychiatric episode and threaten to have me locked up. Or they may question me about Noor’s background or our trip to Jordan.
25
Noor
Dearest, dearest Richie,
Thank you so much for your letter. About Moose Creek – no moose there any more, sadly. For your information, their favourite meal is aquatic plants.
I love to hear about our father. Maybe you and he didn’t get on so well because of your mother. Do you think maybe you blamed him, without knowing the facts?
Rich, I am not saying that we should never meet again. But I don’t think we can do it soon. I can’t put a time on it, and that breaks my heart. I think the tragedy is that I won’t ever get over you, which is what the counsellors and psychiatrists say I must do. My biggest worry is that you won’t love me in my fragile state and that you won’t be able to forget – talking of the impossibility of true forgetting – what happened to me. And this is before we try to come to terms with the fact that Room 6 is a thing of another time. We were shown heaven and then banished. I can’t even begin to imagine how I could explain this to my adoptive father. It’s all so, so unfair. The message from my shrink is that I have to start again and I have to find someone else. I don’t want to find someone else: all I want is you. But then she goes on: if I tried to have a chaste (her words) relationship with you, it just wouldn’t work and we would destroy what is so beautiful and innocent and we would deny ourselves children. By the way, only this one shrink knows the whole story.
Do I make sense? I am crying again. Look, just under the word ‘again’ is a large teardrop.
I am having physiotherapy every day and I am becoming stronger, physically. In my mind I am preparing to swim with you to that little island you mentioned, both of us singing ‘Mamma Mia’. There is comfort in the cheesy.
Richie, please have patience, and please write to me about our father, as I have a lot of catching-up to do.
All my love, my darling,
Noor xxx
26
SO15
Lettie is meeting me in the café in St Mary’s Church. I once climbed the many steps winding up the inside of the steeple to a balcony from where you can see the whole of Oxford spread out before you. Way below, entering All Souls that day, I saw a procession to install a new vice-chancellor. Academic gowns flew in the breeze, exposing bright undersides, like the wings of tropical birds. I felt like Jude the Obscure then, gazing at the steeples and towers and ancient colleges, each one of which hid within its walls secret gardens, and I looked at the wooded hills beyond, and I was thinking that I would never fully belong.
The café is busy, in a measured kind of way. I know already just how the cappuccino will be: thin, weak, bubbly foam, sprinkled liberally with cocoa and watery coffee, which will taste as though it has already had a turn in the espresso machine. Of course the coffee will be sourced responsibly in some far-off land. The Church of England has abandoned souls for gesture politics.
I sit nervously for five minutes before Lettie arrives. Under her arm she carries a fat document folder. Is this about me?
‘Hello, Richard.’
We kiss. She places the folder on the table ominously; the word ‘brief’ comes to mind.
‘What would you like?’
She comes back with our coffee in rude mugs.
‘Right. The boys in blue do want to talk to you. They just want you to tell them – by the way you don’t have to tell them anything – what you know about Noor’s background, and if she had any contacts with the UK, also if she had been targeted for kidnap or whether it was an entirely opportunistic job. When you do see them, don’t do it at Ed’s place or wherever, as they are inclined to have a little look around later.’
‘You told me that. What do they want from me?’
‘There is obviously something missing. Maybe they think you can fill in some details for them.’
‘Like what?’
‘Well for instance, what do you know about her covert work?’
‘Nothing. I don’t know anything.’
‘Whatever you do, don’t tell them any lies.’
I am beginning to wonder whose side she is on. Supposing they know that Haneen is her mother. That Noor is my sister? They would find that really interesting. And how plausible would it be that I had met my own, unknown, sister by chance in the famous Cellar Bar, nest of spies?
‘So you think I should call Detective Sergeant whatsit to fix a time for a cosy chat?’
‘Yes, I do.’
‘And if he doesn’t believe me?’
‘Get a lawyer.’
I think of the lugubrious lawyer, Derek Cocks, who wore the brown suit with the cleverly camouflaged tie, and who presided over my signing of the sub-agreement. I don’t think he will do.
‘Lettie, the whole thing is absolutely crazy. I don’t want to talk to SO15, whoever they are. I don’t want to be part of this investigation. I don’t want my life fucked over by these people. In fact I don’t want to be dragged into it at all. I am not involved.’
‘From what I have heard, I don’t think they believe you are involved.’
‘Lettie, tell me, how do you know details like that?’
‘You asked me to find out, and I did. If you want my advice – which, can I remind you, you requested – talk to them, try not to become angry and tell them what you know.’
‘What did Ed tell you about Noor and me?’
‘Why?’
‘Because I don’t trust you any longer. You may already have given your contact all sorts of bits of information. You tell me how I am supposed to answer if they ask me how I met Noor. You know it was in the Cellar Bar in Jerusalem, you know that it is famous for clandestine meetings, spook central, and you know they aren’t going to believe the truth, that I was staying there while researching for my fucking project on Crusader art, and that I met Noor by chance, and you know that I went to Jordan with Noor, and you know the reason they want to speak to me is that they want to discover if I am some sort of jihadi myself, or Noor’s controller, and one with delusions to boot. Have you told them I was in the Warneford? Did you tell them that your lover took me there? That he has been talking to me, and passing it on to you, at least until he left for the land of the kookaburra? Did you warn me off meeting the plods at Ed’s place for a reason, that it could have been embarrassing for you? You know what I think? I think you are a spook, not the pocket-litter type of spook of course, but the high-altitude, well-connected, gosh isn’t this exciting type of spook. Am I right?’
‘No, you are totally wrong and you are incredibly ungrateful, not only for what I have done, but especially for what Ed has done. Goodbye.’
She walks out of the café, composed, but rigid with anger. I sit frozen. If anybody has been watching this scene, they will think we have been having one of those lovers’ arguments where the more injured party stands up and walks majestically away, leaving the other looking guilty and embarrassed, even if he or she is in the right and as blameless as a newborn lamb.
I am overwhelmed. The spooks want me and, for all the Mamma Mia! shtick, Noor has all but rejected me, and my five brave knights, who ar
e supposed to make my name as the writer of an upmarket The Da Vinci Code, are stranded somewhere, both in my mind and in the region of the Puy-en-Velay in the Auvergne, now best known for its lentils. And Richard the Lionheart is still a prisoner, and becoming bitter:
Honte i avant por ma reancon
Sui ça dues yvers pris.
My friends will be shamed if for my ransom
I am imprisoned for two winters.
In Germany the negotiations drag on. Winter approaches.
I decide that I must speak to Detective Sergeant Alandale: ‘Detective-Sergeant Alandale.’
‘Hello. Yes, it’s Richard Cathar here. I believe you wanted to speak to me.’
‘Oh, yes, I’ve got it. We do want to speak to you. Thank you for calling. We would like a little help with an investigation. I am sure you understand. Can you meet us soon?’
‘I’m in Oxford at the moment, doing research, but I could get to London tomorrow.’
‘Thank you. Can we meet at your place? In Hackney?’
‘It’s not my place any more. What about in the British Museum, in the covered courtyard? I could be there at eleven. I’ll wait for you at the bottom of the staircase.’
‘OK. That sounds fine. I’ve got your mobile number now, so I’ll call when I am at the museum.’
‘Are you coming on your own?’
‘Yes.’
‘OK. I look forward to meeting you, but I have to warn you I don’t know anything much about what happened in Cairo.’
‘I am sure you can help us.’
The sun is shining through the grid of the clear roof, so that it creates a geometric pattern on the stone floor below. I am early. I am wearing my suit. I want to be sure that there isn’t back-up hanging about. I imagine the back-up will look different from the tourists and I will be able to spot them. I half believe that they will arrest me on some grounds, perhaps as an encouragement to get me to talk. I feel as though it may be obvious that I have guilty secrets, and sex with my half-sister is the one I least want to talk about to Detective Sergeant Alandale.
When he arrives, I pick him out immediately. He’s wearing casual clothes, a windcheater and jeans, but it’s obvious he is a little uneasy: he is off his turf. My phone rings.
‘Morning, I’m standing just at the bottom of the steps.’
‘I see you.’
He is about fifty, with a congealed face, like ice floes backing up; his cheeks are encroaching on his eyes from beneath, and his forehead is encroaching from above, so that eventually he will be snow-blind.
‘Morning, Mr Cathar. Thank you very much for helping us, sir.’
I attribute the ‘sir’ to the suit.
‘Morning, I’ll do my best.’
‘Can’t say fairer than that.’
‘No.’
There is nothing in the formalities to worry me yet. But I have the feeling that I have strayed into genre fiction. I am never sure how to pronounce ‘genre’. Is it French, all eliding together, which sounds pretentious, or is it ‘john-re’, which is clumsy? As we walk to the café with its long communal tables, I ponder the idea that you could divide all your experiences into literary genres. This would be a thriller. I have never liked thrillers, because the authors withhold information improbably.
Alandale takes his coffee long and white. Not too strong. He takes out a notebook and a pen.
‘Right, this is very informal. These notes are only to remind me of what we have discussed. But first, I have to tell you formally that I am Detective Sergeant Wayne Alandale of the Metropolitan Police’s special operations department, SO15.’
‘Can I ask you what you do?’
‘We do police work around possible terrorist acts. At the moment we are trying to help our colleagues in Canada, who want to know about your relationship to the woman who was kidnapped in Cairo, Ms Noor Nassashibi, a Canadian citizen.’
‘Well, I was in Jerusalem researching – I am writing a dissertation funded by my Oxford college – and I met Noor in a hotel, the American Colony. We met a few more times after that and a relationship developed.’
‘Are you engaged to her, as our colleagues in Ottawa believe?’
I wonder if Mr Macdonald, or Lettie, has been behind this interview.
‘Yes. Informally, a week or so before she left for Cairo. She hadn’t told her parents, as far as I know, and I don’t have a family to tell. Obviously, we will have to consider everything when her treatment is complete. As you know, she was badly treated by her kidnappers.’
‘I didn’t know. I am sorry. Did you have any other contacts in Israel?’
‘No, apart from a Father Prosper Dupuis at the French Bible School. He helped me – he’s still helping me – with my research.’
‘Can I just check the spelling of Dupuis?’
I tell him.
‘And do you know’ – he reads uncertainly from his notes – ‘a Mrs Haneen Husayni?’
‘Yes. She knew my father many years ago, and I was introduced to her by Father Dupuis.’
‘Were you aware when you met Ms Nassashibi that she was an agent?’
‘No. I thought she was a journalist. I don’t know anything about any other activities, even now.’
‘Did she ask you to do any errands for her, or deliver letters, or send email for her?’
‘No.’
‘And can you tell me why you and Ms Nassashibi went to Jordan?’
‘I was looking at castles and we took a break.’
‘Castles. Are there castles in Jordan?’
‘Yes, there are. Crusader castles.’
‘I see, and why were you looking at Crusader castles?’
‘This may be a bit boring, but it was because in the eleventh, twelfth and thirteenth centuries these castles were built by the Crusaders, mostly by the Franks, that is, French-speaking. At the time, by the way, that included the English. They brought their own art and religious books and ideas of architecture with them and in effect the whole of what is now Jordan, Lebanon, Palestine, Israel and Syria became the Kingdom of Jerusalem. It is also known as the Latin Kingdom. Anyway, my particular interest is in how these cultures – the Muslim, the Byzantine and the Christian – drew one from the other. I warned you it would be boring.’
‘Very interesting, actually. But why would you look at castles for that?’
‘Because castles are durable and they contain architecture and art. The churches have different styles over the years – Byzantine, Romanesque, Gothic – and there are even some frescos still visible. After the fall of Jerusalem in 1187, Richard the Lionheart . . .’
‘Three lions on his chest.’
‘That’s him, Richard the Lionheart arrived on Crusade and defeated Saladin, but he could never capture Jerusalem.’
‘Wasn’t he gay, by the way?’
‘Who?’
‘Richard the Lionheart.’
‘Probably not.’
‘All right, so you and Ms Nassashibi went sightseeing in Jordan. Did she speak to anybody or meet anybody during that time?’
‘No.’
‘Not a Mr Hasad al-Sayid?’
‘I think he was the owner of a shop, selling antiquities. He tried to sell us something.’
‘What was the exact relationship between Ms Nassashibi’ – he glances at his notes – ‘and Mrs Haneen Husayni? Am I pronouncing that correctly?’
‘Yes, I think you are. Mrs Husayni was always referred to as the aunt of Noor Nassashibi. Her father in Toronto is Mrs Husayni’s brother.’
‘You said your father knew her?’
‘Yes, he met her in the seventies. I think I said that my father knew Father Prosper Dupuis.’
‘You did. Did you know that Mrs Husayni has bought an apartment in London?’
‘Yes, I did. But I am not sure why this is your business if you don’t mind my saying so.’
‘I am just here to gather background information. Do you know why she bought a flat in Knightsbridge?’
&n
bsp; ‘It’s in Kensington, I think. I imagine – I really don’t know – that she felt the time had come to have an alternative home.’
‘I see. Why had the time come?’
‘I think it was mainly a religious thing. She and her family are Christians, a very old sect, going back to a time before the Crusades, but I think she feels that Christians are increasingly under pressure in the Middle East.’
‘Have you had political discussions with Mrs Husayni?’
‘We have talked about all sorts of things.’
‘And she never mentioned Mossad to you?’
‘No, I don’t think so. Not specifically, anyway.’
‘Did she ever suggest to you that Islamist groups were targeting her or her niece?’
‘No. Look, I am sorry but I don’t want to speculate about things that I don’t really know anything about. Mrs Husayni was very kind to me when I was working in Jerusalem. We talked a lot – she helped me with the art particularly. She’s very knowledgeable. But also, as I am sure you know from your line of work, you can never fully know the mind of another.’
‘No, I think that would be true. Did she ever tell you about threats to her life?’
‘No. Still no.’
I remember Lettie’s warning about not becoming angry.
‘And has Ms Nassashibi been in touch since she was flown back to Canada?’
‘No. As I understand it from her aunt, she is not well enough and her doctors have suggested that it would be very upsetting for her to see me or write to me. Possibly because she wouldn’t want me to see her in this condition.’
‘Have you ever considered the possibility that she was using you as cover?’
‘Do you know something I don’t?’
Lion Heart Page 21