Dark Clouds (25 page)

I’m in a meditation situation again, but I have to sit on the floor, which is uncomfortable. Still, these little ups and downs are sent to try us and I’m refusing to be cowed by what’s happened. I’m stiff, but thinking the sound of my mantra. It always works, and as the nasty little shit with the flak jacket fades, I’m back with the Maharishi. He’s giggling as usual. They’ve just lit his funeral pyre, and he’s waving down at his admirers when my cell door opens and I see Earl Connors. He’s got an indulgent
my, but you are a wilful fellow
smile and he’s telling a uniformed cop to get us two chairs, which are immediately brought in from adjoining cells.

‘Rudi … I’m sorry we had to come for you in this way,’ Earl says. ‘But you are pretty well working for us now, and you did have clear instructions about calling the number Robson gave you if you were leaving the hotel in Islington. This is primarily for your own safety and security. The people who took a shot at you might want to try again … in fact, it’s likely.’

I feel I’m being given a light slap on the wrist by a generally decent sort of headmaster type, but I’m still a bit pissed off.

‘Did you have to bug my phone?’

‘Not quite … we simply installed a tracker device in case anything happened and we had to try and find you  … but what were you doing in the café on Shacklewell Lane?’

My strategy, if you can call it that, has been to try and divert attention from Sulima by shifting the focus onto Khalad. ‘And he may have something for us,’ I tell Earl, ‘provided we can make it worth his while.’

‘So you’re proposing that we pay him?’

‘Yes – ’

‘In return for which you believe he will give us significant information that may help to prevent a nuclear incident here in London?’

Put like that, it seems a little unrealistic. Maybe I was just hoping it would work. And what’s a hundred thousand here or there if one is able to avert a catastrophe that could linger for centuries?

I have done my best to protect Khalad, and I’m still trying. Earl already has his number from my confiscated mobile however, and I’m suffering from nervous exhaustion. Would we meet again at the Phoenix café this evening? I don’t know – maybe. I would have to call Khalad … and it would all depend on whether or not Earl or Miss Hirsch would sanction the handing over of a bag of money that might or might not deliver a result. 

‘There are other matters that are perhaps more pressing now,’ Earl says. ‘I need you to come down with me to the police station at Islington, Rudi.’

I like this guy. Every time I see him, I think of Martin Luther King and the humiliating injustices that the English and white Americans inflicted on black Africans.

‘OK,’ I say. ‘But I have to tell you I wasn’t impressed by the attitude of the person who brought me here today.’

Earl’s grinning and reaching across to put a comforting hand on my arm.

‘I’m sorry about that, man … I’ll see someone speaks with him. But in mitigation, I’m sure you’ll understand there’s a lot of stress around at the moment, and some of us are coping better than others.’

We’re shaking hands for Christ’s sake. I’ve already forgotten about Mr Nasty in his flak jacket. Earl’s Her Majesty’s main man just now. He’s a decent fellow with lots of genuine charm and I’m happy to help him out if I can.

Chapter 20

I’ve got my phone back now, but it’s useless. I don’t trust whatever Carla Hirsch or even ‘nice guy’ Earl may have done to it. I’ll have to spend time copying all of my contact details onto another memory card. We’re heading down towards Islington in an unmarked police car. I’m in the back and Earl is in front with a driver. I could slip out at the lights, but the streets are unusually quiet, and there’s an armoured personnel carrier approaching from the Pentonville road.

‘What’s that doing here?’ I ask and Earl grins. It could be part of a movie sequence, but there are kids from a Council estate jeering and shouting like it’s an intrusion in their lives. Is this England, or am I going through the first stages of Alzheimer’s? In the car park at Islington’s police station, there are two Army Land Rovers and a camouflaged ambulance with a red cross on its back doors.

 A cop at the entrance door is armed and there are several military personnel in khaki fatigues amongst the blue uniformed cops in the control room. They all seem to be studying video footage on monitoring screens from various parts of my favourite city.

‘Rudi!’ Carla Hirsch suddenly calls from behind me. She’s wearing a pricey trouser suit. It’s like nothing unusual has happened and I’m her numero uno, top of the class sub-agent. ‘Earl may have mentioned that the situation on the streets is evolving,’ she says when she’s linked into my arm and steered me towards a better view of the monitoring screens.

‘This is Barking,’ she explains, ‘which appears to be a Nationalist stronghold … do you know anything about these people?’

I’m looking at a video of shaven-headed men and some scary-looking women in leather or synthetic fabric bomber jackets. They’re all carrying either baseball bats or iron bars and they’re being marshalled around some mini-buses. I’m nodding vaguely. Yes – I am aware of the Nationalists. I’ve read about the quaint English Aristo, Mosley and his batty, Hitler-supporting followers who strutted around in black shirts during the 1930s. I’m also aware of his sister-in-law, Unity
Bobo
, who went mad while fantasising about Adolf.

‘They look like they might cause a few problems,’ I say and Carla nods.

‘They can and they will.’

Already, I’m making links between my Controller and German Jewish émigrés who pitched up in the States between the two World Wars. I see her father, who died on 9/11, as part of a select group in this category. They were big on Wall Street and in Hollywood and it’s clear that Carla doesn’t want any more neo-Nazis strutting about anywhere.

A second screen has left-wingers and liberals gathering outside the London School of Economics. There are also a few Trotskyists, who look more focused, while down at the King’s Cross Academy there are mainly Muslim students with placards saying: ‘
We want to pray!
’ and ‘
stop persecuting us!
’

‘Why are the Army here?’ I ask as Carla motions Earl and myself towards a door off the Control Room that has a ‘
Visitors
’ sign hanging on the door handle. She’s carrying a CD and when we get inside she slots it into a TV set.

‘The first clip shows the local police commander speaking earlier,’ she explains. ‘The guy on his left is a Metropolitan Police Assistant Commissioner and the one behind him is an Army General.’

‘
We have problems in various parts of London at the moment
,’ the Commander says. ‘
There is no specific evidence of linkages between particular groups or factions …although it does appear that a number of events have been well organised in advance.

‘Our main concern today is to do with the banning of prayers in lecture halls at the King’s Cross Academy. The ruling appears to cover all non-authorised use of the lecture rooms, but the people most affected in this case are Muslims … and they are particularly displeased about the decision of the college authorities
.

‘
In other circumstances, I think we could rely on our own officers to contain the situation … however, as we know from past experience, left-wing elements – and now, with increasing frequency, those on the right as well – have taken to seizing issues at random to create chaos wherever possible.

‘There is a chance that the board of governors at the King’s Cross Academy – provided  they can contact their chairperson, who is presently on holiday – may be able to reverse the decision of the college Principal, Carlos Rodwell, who appears to be standing firm on the issue.

‘In the meanwhile, however, we expect that both left and right wing elements will attempt to make political capital from what’s happening. Unfortunately, our Commissioner and senior advisors are not confident that we can contain any serious disruption at King’s Cross today, while at the same time providing operational cover in other parts of our presently vulnerable city.

‘So I have to tell you that our Prime Minister and the Cabinet are authorising the deployment – in reserve, I should say – of several lightly armed units from the Queen’s Regiment at the Regent’s Park barracks …
’

Earl’s shaking his head when Carla switches off the CD. ‘This has never happened before,’ he says. ‘Not in my time anyway.’

I’m thinking of National Guard units being brought in to assist local Sheriffs, Mayors and Governors in the States, but they’re not quite the same as the Army. Or maybe it is that in the States we’re just more used to our National Guard firing shots over the heads of noisy elements, or – exceptionally, looters and the like.

‘We’re not really interested in all of this stuff between the left and the right,’ Carla confides. ‘It’s annoying for the Brits, especially when it’s co-ordinated. But my concern is that it’s giving cover for what Islamic extremists might do if there’s any more street chaos here in London.’

Earl thinks we might get a repeat of what happened in Brixton at King’s Cross and Carla agrees. There might also be an escalation she says and I’m putting my hand up to ask what she means.

‘Think Pele Kalim in Brixton, Rudi,’ she suggests, raising her eyes to the ceiling in exasperation. It’s like I’m the dim kid on the block, but I still don’t get it.

‘OK – ’ she says, speaking slowly. ‘In Brixton, you had Trotskyists and liberals shouting for the Afro-Caribbeans because one of them, who happened to have a nominal association with the
Nation of Islam
, had died in police custody. Marvin Malugo’s tenuous Muslim links allowed Islamists to infiltrate the crowd and spur them on to rioting, looting and some serious arson …’

‘All right – I’m getting the picture.’

‘Well,’ Carla continues, and I feel she’s enjoying the school ma’am bit. ‘At King’s Cross, the issue is rather more straightforward. Nationalists have torched mosques in various parts of England, and Muslim students at King’s Cross have, as they see it, been deprived of their right to pray at their college … so they’re going to protest. They have the support, as you would expect, of left-liberals and Trotskyists. However, because Muslims are the victims, it’s an excellent opportunity for Islamic activists to come in and make a noise, which they will … only it could be a big bang … and there might even be a radiation shower.’

Oh no. Not now, please. I don’t have a mask or overalls, and I know some nice people who live only a short gust of wind away. I’m thinking of Fiona Adler and Daisy Glover, and Ingrid, when she gets back to her Dalston studio. A south-westerly wind would put all of them within range. The Army would probably look after Earl and maybe Carla. Although I guess she or her minder will have protective clothing in the boot of her courtesy BMW, and it wouldn’t take her long to get to a US Air Force base in Suffolk or Norfolk.

‘It’s a shame none of the pictures you took of Pele Kalim survived, Rudi,’ she says, ‘Because he does seem to be our jihad man of the moment.’

Right – well I did my best.

‘And the Israelis seem to think he stayed intermittently at Mukhtar Ali’s place in Knightsbridge … the problem though is that you – and I suppose your friend, Sulima – are the only ones who know what he looks like.’

I feel I’m being targeted here as the one who screwed up big time, and I’ve had enough.

‘OK – I didn’t get a shot of the bastard … what do I do, shoot myself?’

Carla’s examining the creases in her trousers. They’re perfectly tailored and she’s got a discreet Japanese bag that she’s now reaching into.

  ‘Here – take this,’ she says, passing me a cheap throwaway camera with a built-in flash. ‘Go down to King’s Cross – and who knows, you might find another opportunity.’

Sure – to get blown up, or worse. ‘
We’re sorry to have to tell you, ladies and gentlemen, but this afternoon in central London, Islamic suicide bombers exploded a nuclear device. There’s already quite a lot of radiation in the atmosphere, and exactly how much of the city will be affected depends, almost entirely, on the strength and direction of prevailing winds …
’

I take the camera grudgingly. I can always lose it later on, but there is another diversion possibility.

 ‘I don’t know if Earl’s told you about my meeting with Khalad Hassan this morning?’

‘When you slipped out of your Islington hotel without telling us.’

‘Yes … he’s my contact and I didn’t want to scare him off.’

‘Of course – ’

‘Well – if I give him an inducement …’

‘You mean cash?’

‘Right … then I think there’s a real possibility he can give us a lead on whatever it is the activists may have in mind.’

I think she sees me partly as a naïve younger brother. A well-meaning amateur, who’s trying to do his best for Old Glory, but isn’t quite cutting it.

‘Listen,’ she says coming to the table that I’m perched on the edge of and putting an elder sisterly arm around my shoulder. ‘You’ve done reasonably well so far. If we get a result, I’ll probably put your name forward in Washington for a formal citation … you know what I mean?’

Sure – just like in a dreamland movie. I get a cab to the White House; a salute from the marine on duty, followed by a quick walk/half-march up the steps to where our Commander-in-Chief shakes my hand, pins a medal on my jacket lapel and tells me to take care.

‘I’ll deal with your friend Khalad later,’ she tells me. ‘I won’t hurt him, Rudi … but right now we need you on the front line at King’s Cross. If you see Pele Kalim, please try to take his picture and then come straight back here.’

‘Right – ’

‘And you’ve got your phone?

‘Yes … I’ll try to remember to keep it switched on.’

‘Excellent, because that’s the only way we can keep in touch with you … and as Earl mentioned, we have fitted it with a tracking device. But that’s to keep you safe … I mean, we need to be able to find you quickly if anything happens.’