Dark Clouds (29 page)

‘Did Pele call?’ I ask cautiously.

‘No … and he may not.’

‘OK – the Hyde Park Hotel is fine for now, but as soon as you can get there, please. Keep your phone on, and if everything works out as I hope it will, you’ll hear from a woman called Fiona Adler before midday. You can trust her implicitly. If she says she’s found you a place to stay, I want you to take it.’

Sulima’s nodding. She’s already poured my coffee but she doesn’t say anything as I chew on a buttered croissant.

‘And you will call me if you hear from Pele?’

‘Yes,’ she says, looking down at the floor.

Am I being too harsh in the way I’m brusquely giving out all of these instructions.

‘Come here?’ I ask, opening my arms.

It’s a gesture that, in the circumstances, she might reject. But she’s walking towards me. We’re then hugging each other and it’s a long, friendly embrace.

‘Must go,’ I tell her. ‘But I’ll call you soon.’

We brush our cheeks together and squeeze hands at the door. There is a shy wave as I get to the pavement and then she disappears.

Fiona Adler’s magazine offices are in a modern block on Curzon Street. I’ve only just got enough to pay the cab driver, who looks incredulously at the money I give him and then at me. ‘Don’t you think you ought to be getting a bus or the tube, mate?’ he asks. ‘I mean – I rely on half way decent tips to take my missus out for a meal of a Saturday.’

‘Sorry,’ I say flushing. ‘I don’t have any more change.’

There’s a well-dressed woman approaching from the back of the Hilton Hotel and she’s smiling at me. ‘
I say …I wonder if …
’ Oh no – please. I’ve got to go – and do I look like a Yank tourist who’s lost in Mayfair and might need a little considerate help? I could be wrong. Maybe she just needs directions or the time. But she’s already beaming at an older, well-dressed man, and as he hesitates, she links into his arm and leads him away. 

The guy at reception in Fiona’s office block is expecting me.

‘Take the lift to the top floor,’ he says. ‘I’ll tell her PA you’re on your way.’

I try to tidy my hair in the lift mirror, but it’s still sticking up in parts. Am I relying too much on my neighbour’s friendship, I’m wondering? But when I get to the top floor, a vibrant PA beckons me towards her Chief Executive’s penthouse office suite. It’s facing south, and the views are spectacular.

Fiona’s on the phone at her
Mistress of the Universe
desk and she removes a pair of severe Calvin Klein spectacles as she finishes her call.

‘Rudi,’ she says coming round by the side of her impressive desk. It’s unexpected, but I’m hugged before being steered to a comfortable leather armchair. ‘You do get yourself into the most frightful pickles ... but how’s your arm and your head?’

All right, I think. I haven’t been aware of any great discomfort, but I do have serious challenges.

‘Fiona – I’m not sure how to put this.’

‘Ah – more pickles?’

‘Yes ... you know Carla.’

Suddenly, her cool in control expression vanishes and she’s furious. ‘That woman is an emotional retard ... I wish I had never met her.’

We’re in the same boat, dear neighbourly friend. I can’t speak for my Controller’s emotional state, but I can confirm that she’s hell to work for.

‘She’s with US Homeland Security,’ I blurt. I don’t feel I have any alternative. ‘And I’ve been forced to co-operate with her and the Brits.’

‘You mean you actually work for this woman ... presumably as some sort of spy?’

I’m wriggling uncomfortably. My self esteem is in tatters, but I’m thinking of Sulima. I need a safe place for her to stay, and I’m hoping Fiona can help me.

‘Look,’ I say when she stares accusingly at me from the sofa. ‘There is a plot to do something awful here in London ... I can’t say any more than that. But a delightful woman called Sulima is friendly with a guy who’s going to press the button, as it were. She may be able to stop him if he contacts her. But Carla Hirsch knows about this woman and the bad guy who loves her. She wants to get her hands on Sulima, literally, and persuade her – if you can call it that, to act as a sort of decoy for the bad guy, who’s actually quite an idealist. I don’t think this will work, and I certainly don’t want my friend to be crudely molested and humiliated by Carla ... so I need a safe place for her to stay.’

There – it’s all out in the open now. I could be convicted under the Patriot Act back home or Earl might have me charged here for contravening Official Secrets legislation. But what else can I do and still continue to live with myself.

Fiona’s expression has softened.

‘Would you like a drink?’ she asks.

It’s early in the day. But yes, please. Three fingers of whisky, neat. She gets up and walks to a mahogany sideboard where there’s a bottle of Jameson’s with several cut glass Waterford crystal tumblers.

‘And I thought I knew you, Flynn,’ she says when she returns with my whisky and one for herself, which is unusual.

‘The circumstances are exceptional,’ I tell her.

‘But you and Ingrid are still together?’

‘Very much so ... I’m going to call her this morning. Only can you find me a safe place for Sulima?’

‘It’s possible,’ she says. ‘But if I do, I won’t tell you where it is.’

That’s fine. It’s probably best if I don’t know. I’ve written her mobile number on a page from my moleskin notebook, which I pass to Julia.

‘How do you know this lady?’ she asks and when I’ve sipped at the Jameson’s, I go back twelve years to Berkeley in California with Mike Sharif and myself as students and Sulima coming to visit. I then take the story to New York and include my own special friend, Faria.

Fiona’s enthralled. The journalist in her wants to immediately run a three or five thousand word piece – or maybe even a whole book – on how two disparate and very different cultures evolved from Southern California to incidents that could cause chaos in my adopted city. I’ve left out most of the stuff about Sharif funding the bad guys, and I don’t mention the picture I took of Pele Kalim that’s now on the front page of newspapers around the world.

‘What are you going to do?’ she asks and I shrug.

I have no idea. I believe my working relationship with Carla Hirsch is finished. There really isn’t anything else I can do, either for my President or Her Majesty. I’m holding onto possibilities with Ingrid. The Greek island scenario is appealing, only I’m not sure how I’ll get to pay for my share of the ouzo and retsina, along with the moussaka and electricity bills.

‘I might go back to the States,’ I say, but my heart isn’t in it, and I’m finishing off the whisky when Fiona’s PA, who I think is Russian, knocks and enters.

‘There are persons here who want to see Mr Flynn,’ she says. ‘They are from the police.’

I’m frozen into the leather armchair, but I manage to discreetly raise an index finger to my lips as Fiona’s mouth opens. ‘
Don’t say anything, babe, please ... we’re just old friends talking about life, the universe and – if you wish – the weather
.’

‘Rudi Flynn?’ a middle-aged guy in a suit asks.

‘Yes – ’

‘We have a warrant for your arrest.’

He’s showing me a Metropolitan Police ID card that says he’s Sergeant someone or other, and he’s also waving a piece of paper with Her Majesty’s coat of Arms at the top.

‘Right – OK,’ I say, getting up and winking directly at Fiona like we’re co-conspirators.

She nods discreetly, and her PA’s sparkling eyes blink as I follow the balding, pot-bellied cop and his younger assistant from Fiona’s executive suite.

Chapter 23

My phone rings in the lift. I thought I had turned it off at Sulima’s, but I must have forgotten. So the bug telling Earl’s people exactly where I am has been active for a couple of hours.

‘I’ll take that,’ the younger cop says before I have a chance to answer it.

I’m worried about who the caller might be. If it’s Sulima, they might trace her. But my escort simply switches the phone off and hands it back to me. I’m technically a prisoner, although there are no handcuffs and I’m allowed to walk at my own pace. In Curzon Street however, there is a white police van with radio antennae. It’s similar to the one I last saw when I was apprehended after seeing Khalad in Shacklewell Lane.

‘We’re in the car,’ the baldy guy says, pointing to an unmarked Toyota. He sits in front with the driver while I’m directed into the back with the younger guy.

It’s a silent run, apart from intermittent reports on incidents around the city. ‘
The Euro Star terminal at St Pancras is closed until further notice
,’ a radio operator tells us. Not good for the tourist traffic between London and Paris, I’m thinking. ‘
You Engleesh are so stupid ... why you riot so and fight all the time with each other ... ees crazy! You need a charismatic woman like our Bruni for your Prime Minister ... your Scottish person ... he ees so boring ... and hes wife ... mon dieu, she is overweight!
’

Most of the shop windows around King’s Cross have been boarded up. The glass and other debris has been cleared, but I can see a subway sign hanging precariously from a piece of metal. The streets are mainly deserted and there are two cops with Glock machine pistols standing outside the police station in Islington.

‘I’d like to see a lawyer,’ I say half-heartedly, but neither of my plain clothes escorts take any notice. Instead, I’m led to an interview room with just a table and a few chairs and the door is locked when the cops leave. My arm is tender and  stiff, but I’m about to embrace Ingrid when I hear footsteps in the corridor. There’s an inane giggle outside, and I have soft, silky blonde hair caressing my neck when the door opens and a dapper little Indian man appears.

‘I be all right thank you,’ he tells the cop with the holstered pistol who remains in place with the door half open.

‘You be Flynn?’ he asks me.

‘Yes – ’

‘And I Doctor Badis ... you have bullet in arm?’

I hope not, but he wants me to take off my jacket and shirt. ‘I need look at wound.’ Check for gangrene maybe? If it’s crept in, I might lose my arm, along with my left hand, which I use for writing.

He unwraps the bandage impatiently and stares for a while at my battered upper arm skin.

‘There is no bullet here,’ he says. ‘Just a bit of cut.’

‘Right – ’

‘And your head?’

‘Is fine, thanks – no problem.’

I think he feels his visit is unnecessary and that I’m a waste of time. He does, however, put a large dressing on my arm wound, which he straps on with tape.

‘No swimming or hanky panky,’ he says. ‘You understand?’

Yes, thank you ... can I go now? But he’s not interested, and when he’s bagged my old bandage and thrown it in a bin, he turns and leaves. I’m resigned to whatever’s happening. It will be sorted eventually. So I put my shirt and jacket back on and and return to Ingrid. I’m mesmerised by her face on a pillow and her moist lips are beckoning when my cell door opens again and Robson enters.

‘You fucked off without telling me yesterday, didn’t you?’ he says and I nod. It’s pretty obvious, but I don’t care.

‘Miss Hirsch wasn’t best pleased, I can tell you.’

‘Really?’

‘Yeah ... I’d say you’re lucky you’re not up on a charge.’

Desertion on duty. There’ll be a firing squad at dawn for you, Flynn.

‘What do you want?’ I ask.

‘Shall I tell you?’

‘Please do.’

‘I’d like to give you a good kicking, you cocky cunt.’

I don’t believe Robson’s ever going to get to the top of a career tree. His attitude is defective; I don’t think he could inspire people.

‘You want a fight?’ I ask and his mouth opens in disbelief. ‘Come on then.’ I’m getting up and pushing away the table that’s between us. ‘I’d really like to teach you a lesson.’

I’ve got my fists up like it’s strictly Marquis of Queensbury rules. Ten rounds and may the best man win. Robson, however, has taken a gun from his shoulder holster and he’s backing off towards the door. ‘You stupid fucking shit,’ he mutters. ‘You’ll get your just deserts, believe me, it’s just a question of when and how.’

I’m sure he’s right. I’m being dangerously cavalier; but he’s not my favourite person. I’m peacefully thinking about the maharishi in a state of levitation when my cell door opens for the third time and it’s the same guys who arrested me at Fiona’s penthouse office suite.

‘Would you come with us, sir, please,’ the pot-bellied one asks. His tone is acceptable, so I get up.

‘I want to see a lawyer,’ I tell him, ‘and I’m not going anywhere until I do.’

‘That’s all right, sir ... you’ve got nothing to be concerned about, I can assure you.’   

 ‘And I need something to eat and drink.’

‘Of course, sir. That’s a very reasonable request and it will be sorted out within half-an-hour. Only if you wouldn’t mind now, we need to make a move.’

There’s no sign of Robson, but the Toyota’s waiting in the car park and the seating arrangements are the same as when we arrived. I close my eyes as we get onto the Pentonville Road again. Suddenly, London’s not quite so magical for me, and I’m windsurfing off Pukhet when we stop outside the Regent’s Park military barracks. An Army sergeant is giving my escorts the once over and I don’t think he’s impressed.

‘Very good then,’ he says standing upright. ‘If the visiting person would like to come with me.’

He’s got a great moustache and a huge barrel chest. ‘Come on, sir,’ the young cop sitting beside me says.

I’m the visitor. I can’t really argue with the sergeant; he’s in a different league from Robson, so I get out and stand beside him. A small gate then opens in the centre of a much larger one and I’m struggling to keep up with the military man.

He doesn’t say anything and looks straight ahead as we enter a building, climb some stairs and walk along a bare, scrubbed and polished corridor. We stop outside room number 114. The Sergeant knocks on the door and a familiar voice says, ‘come in.’

Carla Hirsch is sitting at a desk and behind her a window looks onto the barracks square. She’s wearing yet another smartly tailored suit with a neatly pressed shirt and designer heels. Her smile is tolerant, but something about her is different. It’s the pointy spikes of her hair; they’ve been retouched and lightened.