Dark Clouds (13 page)

I don’t know anything about this, ma’am, so I shrug. I’m trying to be detached, but I feel like I’ve been hooked by Carla Hirsch and I could get reeled in at any time.

‘If you were in love with someone, Rudi, you’d want to see them, wouldn’t you?’

‘Eh, yes – probably.’

I need to call Ingrid. She might be back in London tomorrow. I’m hoping we can meet again soon. But I don’t want to let on to Agent Hirsch that I’m now emotionally involved. She might make a play for my Valkarie Princess, and I’m already having appalling thoughts about Fiona and Carla attempting to lure Ingrid into an immoral and wholly abhorrent threesome.

‘The Sharifs have a house in Eaton Square.’

‘Yes – ’

‘And I think you mentioned to Earl that the sister was coming to London.’

I’m nodding and wriggling. I don’t want Sulima kidnapped and spirited away on an anonymous plane for a bit of water-boarding at Guantanamo. I can see Carla now, licking her lips while contemplating elements of rendition that involve a tickling feather, hot flesh, tears and definitely some human bondage.

‘Whatever her brother may be up to, Sulima has no wish to do anything harmful … I’m sure of this.’ I’m gushing it out, and it’s a bit too frantic.

‘Of course,’ Carla says, crossing her quite long and possibly even sexy legs. ‘I’m sure she’s a delightful creature. However, she has already told you that she loves this Asian guy who’s taken up the baton for Osama. I imagine he feels the same way about her – although his emotions are probably in a secondary position to whatever he sees as his jihadist duty. But if she was here, Rudi, in Eaton Square and – well, let’s assume that her guy isn’t always with Bin Laden in Pakistan … they might meet up, and this could happen here.’

It’s possible. I’m not going to speculate. A shrug’s all I’m conceding – because, whatever happens, I’m on Sulima’s side.

*  *  *  *  *

Carla Hirsch has finished her camomile tea. She’s getting up and walking to examine the garden from the kitchen patio doors. Her fingers are in the back pockets of her pricy jeans. From the rear, I have to admit, she’s hot: Great ass, shoulders, legs and stance. It’s when she turns around that it changes. ‘
You look at me the wrong way, fellah, and I swear I’ll freeze you into a solid block of ice right where you stand …you got that, boy?
’

Oh yes, ma’am. Loud and clear.

‘OK …’ She’s turned around. It’s to do time. ‘I want you to stay in close to Sulima Sharif. Just now, she’s the only possible opening we have on what could be a very dangerous hit … unless – ’

I’m in the dock, mentally stapled to a wooden chair.

‘Yes?’

‘Do you have any other Muslim contacts in London?’

It zinged out like a rocket from left field.

‘Sure, quite a few. I’ve been networking here for a while, but I think most of the people I’ve met are pretty solid.’

I’m not mentioning Khalad, because if I do, I’ll loose him. Carla’s sucking in on her cheeks and I’m focusing on what I think is a black brassiere inside her shirt. I can’t quite see her charming the pants off Fiona Adler, although I suppose anything’s possible.

‘What’s happening here, Rudi, is that the tactics are changing.’

‘Ah – ’

‘We’re getting an increasing number of incidents where Asians appear to be encouraging Afro-Caribbeans to protest. ‘
We is wiv you, man …cos we know you is more oppressed than we is. OK …maybe guns an’ knives is not the way … but you is at bottom of  the pile, man, an’ we is there to ‘elp. So let’s go an’ get whitey on side …all right, bruvs?
’

Pretty normal stuff to be making a fuss about. Students do it all the time – no? I mean, Paris in the late sixties and pretty much everywhere in the seventies and intermittently since. Protesters are making a comeback now. I’m allowed to prattle on until Carla raises her hand.

‘The point,’ she says is that quite a few of these troublesome Asians are Muslims. The only reason they’re getting politicised with street demonstrations is for the cause of Islam.’

Am I bothered? Perhaps I should be. Unemployment is increasing around the world and all sorts of vile creatures are crawling out of the sewers to capitalise on raw frustrations.

‘Which takes us to this guy Wagstaff, whose e-mails to Sharif you photographed.’

Oh shit – no!

‘He’s a tutor at the King’s Cross Academy. Earl reckons he’s a mentor figure for activists, many of whom are British born Muslim Asians.’

And he’s received something from Sharif for which he’s grateful.

‘I don’t know anything about what’s happening with college kids in England,’ I tell my American controller. It’s true. I haven’t been on a campus since I graduated from UCLA in ‘99.

She’s sitting down again, which is worrying. Her teeth are good, but she’s trying to hypnotise me. I can’t escape, and the smile that emphasises her chiselled cheekbones isn’t in any way empathetic. It’s scary. ‘
Come on, Rudy baby
,’ it says. ‘
Over here – OK …great – now I’m holding out my nicely manicured hand for you. Oh, gee …honey, you’ve just fallen into this great big trap we had for wild animals. And no – you can’t get out, sugar …maybe later, if you deliver for Earl and me and your President – and of course Her Majesty and the Duke. He’s kinda cute, isn’t he …although, did you know they’ve all got German ancestors, and the one who married Wallace Simpson thought Hitler might actually be good for Germany …
’

‘We’d like you to go and check out this Jeremy Wagstaff.’

‘Me?’

‘Yes. We’ll arrange an interview. You’ll be on assignment for a US newspaper. I’m not sure which one it will be, but you’ll have good credibility, and I’m sure Wagstaff will be flattered that you’ve sought him out.’

‘Why – what’s the story?’

‘Oh, I don’t know. Seriously radicalised students; what’s motivating them; why are they so angry; and what do we have to do to get a satisfactory solution? Everyday issues.’

 ‘But what’s the point of my doing this?’

The smile’s faded and her eyes are drilling into my head. I’m being lobotomised.

‘You’re trying to find out where this fuck’s at, Rudi. If you stroke him up nicely, he might let something out … OK?’

No. It isn’t. I don’t do undercover work for government agencies. It’s dangerous.

‘He’s married,’ she tells me as an afterthought. ‘But he’s actually gay, which could make a difference.’

‘In what way?’

‘He’ll be flattered that a large US newspaper thinks his view on anything is relevant. So you’re in with a good start. All you’ve got to do is smile agreeably and let him talk.’

‘
Seduce him, Rudy …you don’t have to go all the way, at least not initially. Although it might help if you gave the impression that you’re seriously into blow jobs and that you’re not averse to using a finger of butter, or whatever it takes to open up your ass!
’

Chapter 11

Marvin Malugo is fading fast at St Thomas’ Hospital in South London. His family have arrived from Trinidad and there are reports of shops and houses being boarded up in Brixton. ‘
If he die,
’ a Farrakhan Muslim says. ‘
We set dis place alight …you hear me, boy?
’ he tells a nervous TV interviewer. ‘
Cos de police dey murder ‘im – right?
’

I haven’t covered any riots for a while, but my commissioning editors in New York are keen for copy. ‘
So is there something wrong with the Brits, Rudi? I mean – riots for Christ’s sake, involving blacks and the police … hey, that’s so last century, man!
’

They’re right of course. Race relations are generally pretty good in the UK. Although some people feel it was excessive for the cops to shoot Marvin, even if he was defending himself with an AK 47. He’s a bit of an icon figure in South London. At least that’s how he’s coming across on media shots with his tweed cap, grey beard and a winning, folksy smile. He could be Bob Marley as a pensioner. The fact that he dealt in weed, smack and coke is seen by many as a side issue. ‘
Him was a good man, you hear! He got a wife an’ family to support …an’ the police …well – they should no ‘ave shoot ‘im you know. Is wicked!
’

If I had a choice, I’d stick with Marvin. He’s got a nice down home feel about him. Strong human interest for the readers, and there are a lot of people batting for him. Carla Hirsch however, is insistent. ‘
You will check out this guy, Wagstaff, at the King’s Cross Academy,
’ she commands. ‘
And that’s your priority
.’

Not long afterwards, I get a call from Grant Stevenson, an executive editor on the New York
Courier
. ‘Rudi – hi …we haven’t met, but I gather you’re going to interview this guy Wagstaff for us at the King’s College in London.’

Not quite, my man. The King’s Cross Academy isn’t really in the same league as His Majesty’s College, which is part of London University.

‘My impression,’ Grant says, ‘is that Wagstaff is a mentor for radical elements, most of whom seem to be Muslim immigrants.’

‘Don’t worry,’ I tell him, it’s all in hand. My Controller, Carla Hirsch, has arranged the interview. Only she’s not expecting me to write the story. Grant and the
Courier
are, I assume, in league with Homeland Security in Washington. They do whatever my President feels is appropriate. I’m almost there, but I call Fiona in the morning.

‘I’ve got to go to the King’s Cross Academy,’ I tell her.

‘Oh gawd,’ she sighs.

‘You’re not impressed?’

‘No – it’s a frightful aberration, Rudi: A ridiculous waste of taxpayers’ money. It produces an endless stream of agitators – most of whom are probably illiterate and innumerate.’

Gosh – it sounds like an interesting place. I could almost walk there, but Fiona suggests I take a cab.

‘And try to disguise your accent.’

‘Why?’

‘Because if any of the students discover that you’re American, they might want to put you on trial.’

This is serious. I didn’t support my President’s occupation or his
surge
in Iraq. I’ve always been a pacifist, but Fiona’s got to go.

‘I’ll see you later in Claridges,’ she trills. ‘Your friend Carla’s coming and Ingrid would be welcome if you two are still an item.’

‘Right – ’

I get a Greek at the cab office on the Upper Street. ‘I lova England,’ he tells me, ‘an’ especially the rain. ‘You know it ees so good jus to stan’ outside here an’ get wet.’

I think the whole world’s losing it, and my man’s tapping his fingers to Zorba dance tunes when we get around to the back of the Euro Star terminal at King’s Cross. ‘This is academy,’ he says. ‘They all crazy here!’

It’s a modern building that looks unfinished.

‘They run outa money,’ my driver says. ‘An’ if a you ask me, I think a it best if they close it down.’

It’s busy outside and all around a vast internal foyer. I think most of the students are from overseas, but a porter at the kiosk inside the main door is an obese, white Londoner, and he’s been drinking.

‘I’m here to see Mr Wagstaff,’ I tell him, holding up my press card.

‘Oh yeah – all right.’

I’m early, but everyone seems to be heading down towards a basement area, so I follow the crowd to a student canteen. There are posters all over the walls protesting about corrupt governments in Africa, the Middle East and Asia. The emphasis seems to be on Muslim affairs, with particular reference to the way the West is propping up puppet tyrants in most of the Islamic world. The students are waiting for a radical Iranian Imam, whose photograph is hanging behind an improvised stage.

‘We have a similar speaker every week now,’ Assad tells me.

He’s a shy but friendly guy from Lebanon. We sit together, and while he’s filling me in on life in Beirut, I’m checking out the students. Many have revolutionary guard type headbands with Arabic letters, but I’m more interested in what the girls are wearing. A few have the full burqa that covers everything except the eyes. Others have chadors or niqabs that cover the nose, mouth and hair. There are also some body cloak jilbabs that leave the face free. But mostly, the females are wearing hijabs that simply cover the hair and ears. I’m intrigued by the furtive glances from the eye slits on the burqas, chawdors and niqabs, and I’m fantasising about covert emotions in deserts when a young woman with Armani jeans and a black hijab veil climbs onto the makeshift stage. She’s grinning down at us while testing the microphone.

‘We are privileged today,’ she says, ‘to have as our guest speaker the honourable Mustapha from Tehran. I think what he has to say is particularly relevant for the Islamic world. But I’m sure it will be of interest also for our visitors … all of whom are most welcome.’

She’s grinning respectfully towards a group of older, mainly white guys in a corner of the cafeteria.

‘They are members of staff,’ Assad whispers.

Of course. And I think I recognise my target, Jeremy Wagstaff, from a photograph Carla e-mailed me earlier. He has bad acne and an unpleasant tendency to pick at his nose and then rub the contents off on the sleeve of his jacket. He’s presently acknowledging the hijab woman’s welcome like he’s the local caliph and the people he’s sitting with are his lower-ranked assistants.

The young woman in the hijab veil is reversing off the stage, and as a curtain opens beside her, there are whoops of welcome and energetic hand-clapping. The honourable Mustapha from Tehran makes a dramatic entrance in flowing white robes and a turban type Osama headdress with gold braid embroidered around the edges. His beard goes down to his chest, and when the applause trails off, he opens his arms to embrace the audience.

‘It is good to see so many devout brothers and sisters here today,’ he says from the diaphragm. ‘Our cause is just, but we will only over claim what is rightfully ours if we have the support of good people like yourselves …you are here now today in England, but tomorrow the cause of Islam may require your presence in other parts of the world. The prophet may ask you to lay down your life … but let me assure you that this would be the ultimate privilege. For in the process of dying for Allah, you would acquire eternal salvation.’