Dark Clouds (38 page)

There is some talk between them. Fiona’s on Sulima’s side. She wants to protect her from people like Carla Hirsch and myself: rapacious instrumentalists who want to use a vulnerable woman.

‘She’s anxious,’ Fiona says when they finish speaking. ‘So we’ll have to be gentle and considerate ... you understand ... yes?’

Of course. I have warm feelings for Fiona Adler. I love the fact that she’s a ruthless business woman who’s more than capable of looking after herself and her interests. But she has a generous open heart, and I’ve always found her to be a good friend.

‘Here we are,’ she says when Earl enters the Belsize Crescent. ‘Down there on the left ... but please don’t switch on your revolving blue light ... it might alarm the neighbours.’

He responds with another big grin and I’m envious about the state of his teeth. Fiona squeezes my arm as we go from the pavement to the steps leading up to a fine white fronted building with two generous columns supporting a portico at the entrance. A light has already come on in the hallway and I’m holding my breath when the front door opens.

Sulima is wearing white linen pyjamas. She looks like a cross between a model and a saint and Fiona is instantly entranced.

‘I’m truly sorry about waking you up,’ I tell her. ‘We certainly wouldn’t have come if it wasn’t urgent.’

She’s calm. Her long black hair is resting on her shoulders, but she seems to be almost in a trance.

‘Come in,’ she says, leading us towards a ground floor sitting room, where we sit facing each other around a hand-carved Indonesian coffee table.

‘What has happened?’ she asks.

I’m half waiting for Fiona to tell her, but it’s my call. I do the best I can to stick to the essentials. ‘
Pele has hijacked a train load of nuclear waste in Hackney, honey. He’s threatening to blow it up. If he does, a lot of innocent people will be irradiated ... it may not be quite the same as a nuclear bomb, but the consequences could be with us for years.
’

She’s looking blankly towards the curtained bay window and it’s a while before she responds.

‘I think it’s difficult for you to understand where he’s coming from,’ she says.

It’s true. For me, Pele Kalim is in the same group photograph as Mohammed Atta. He’s a crazy, tunnel-visioned fanatic who wants to kill us all.

‘You need to go back a long way in history,’ she says, which has Carla and I nodding.

I’m thinking of lumpen crusaders from the UK who were intent on beating hell out of the civilised Mesopotamians in that whole dodgy part of the Middle East.

‘He believes in what he’s doing,’ Sulima says. ‘And he won’t be deflected ... I don’t think you’ve accepted this?’

It’s as though she’s suddenly turned into a block of granite. She still looks great, and Carla’s eyes are moist, but I’m concerned. I’m thinking about the train on the Hackney Downs and what will happen if Pele explodes the nuclear waste canisters.

‘Look ... ’

‘What do you want me to do, Rudi? Go down and talk to him. Say, Pele – I still love you ... could we get married and raise a family. Of course there is a part of him that would like to do as I suggest ... but his mission is, I fear, rather more important.’

‘
It’s Armageddon time for the West, infidels ... and we’re starting with London town. You don’t really get where we’re coming from, do you? Osama tried to show you the way, but you didn’t see his signals ... so now we’re going to have to up the ante as it were. A little nuclear fallout might get the sort of attention we clearly missed out on with the Twin Towers ... whatever else, the after effects of dark clouds over London will last for much longer
.’

I hadn’t anticipated this resistance, and I feel powerless to do anything about it.

‘We don’t have any other options,’ I say despondently. ‘You are our only hope, Sulima. Pele may not listen to or be persuaded by you ... but if there’s a chance, however remote, that you might influence him, I hope you’ll consider it.’

Fiona has moved to sit beside her on the sofa. She’s got a comforting arm around her shoulder and Sulima isn’t objecting. Is there something in a heartfelt hug that cuts through wordy pleas? It’s crazy, but possible, because I’m catching a small smile in her dark eyes. 

‘Oh Rudi ... you have never changed. You are such an incurable optimist.’

Fiona’s nodding and grinning. ‘It’s true,’ she says. ‘I sometimes think he’s a little deficient in the brain cells department ... but I do believe that what he’s suggesting is worth a try on this occasion.’

One night, at a do in the West End, my pal – the ruthless magazine mogul – took a glass or two over the ‘
safe to drive your car’
limit and she had started to talk to me about her grandparents. Her grandfather was a lawyer in Prague when the Germans invaded Czechoslovakia. He lived with his family in the Jewish quarter by the River Danube. For a while, apparently, it was all right. Life went on more or less as normal. Then one day the Germans entered the enclave and took her grandfather and his family. They had been transported to a holding facility North West of Prague and that was the last anyone heard about this part of the Adler dynasty. 

I think some of what Fiona’s family had been through is coming across to Sulima. It’s all about trying to keep going, and she can identify with this.

‘I still doubt if Pele will listen to me,’ she says quietly. ‘But I will come with you ... and I will do whatever I can.’

Chapter 29

The streets are eerily quiet. Earl’s security service people carrier has two police motorcycle outriders and there are camouflaged Army Land Rovers in front of us and at the rear. Sulima is sitting between Fiona Adler and me in the back seat. We’re each holding one of her hands, and she grips mine as an Army Sergeant sitting beside Earl gives details of our position on his radio. The hovering helicopters have gone, but there are bewildered crowds of displaced residents on the approaches to the inner city green space. Many are wearing traditional Muslim dress, with the women in hijabs, burqas and jilbabs and the men in knee length tunics or jellabas with kufi hats.

‘There are a lot of Muslim people living here,’ Earl says, ‘and particularly in the newly built Council flats around the incident site on the Downs.’

They’ve all been evacuated and they’re waiting for transport to take them to temporary accommodation in other boroughs. Half-a-mile up the track, Pele and his hijacking buddy would have been in the heart of a large Orthodox Jewish community, most of whom have good relations with their Turkish, Balkan, Pakistani and other Muslim neighbours.

Two huge floodlights have been erected outside the now deserted Council tower blocks. There are armed soldiers everywhere and as we pass through a tight security cordon, I see the train with the clearly marked nuclear waste canisters on the open goods wagons. It’s on a raised embankment that skirts the Downs and there are more Council flats immediately behind it. The goods train engine whose front wheels have been derailed is balancing precariously on the track. We’re being waved through and a marine is directing Earl to a small school that had been built for the children in the now deserted social housing blocks.

Sulima is uneasy. The nuclear waste train driver, Arthur Hodge, his assistant Anwar Singh and the driver of the partially de-railed goods train have been spread-eagled and manacled across three of the nuclear waste canisters. Arthur Hodge seems to have collapsed. His chin is resting on his chest, and for a moment, I can see a shiny bald head in the train cab.

Carla Hirsch is waiting outside the junior school, which is now a security service and Army control centre. She shakes Sulima’s hand respectfully and makes the same gesture to Julia, who hesitates before accepting the greeting.

‘Come inside,’ she suggests and we all follow her to the school assembly hall. There are pictures of Africa, India, Pakistan, Turkey, Bosnia, Kosovo and Albania around the walls, along with the national flags of these countries. There is also a large TV monitor at one end of the assembly hall that has the hijacked train in close up.

‘We think the driver may be dead,’ Carla says, ‘and if you look closely at the flasks, you can see that each of them is fitted with shaped explosive charges. We are advised by the military that these are capable of blowing up each canister and scattering the contents over a large part of London.’

‘Why don’t you just shoot the bastards?’ a familiar voice asks from the doorway.

The Home Office Minister, McCarthy, is surrounded by Labour Party acolytes. They desperately want a solution to the situation on the Hackney Downs, and quickly, for elections are due again within six months.

An Army General steps forward to salute the Minister. ‘We can’t do that, sir,’ he says. ‘The lead hijacker has a detonator switch strapped to his wrist, and he means business. They’ve also fixed sensors around the train, which will alert them if we approach from the rear or any part that they can’t see from the driver’s cab.’

The Minister and his advisers are clearly frustrated. The Government has more than enough in the way of problems at the moment. It is unpopular with the electorate, and nuclear contamination in East London is something they can definitely do without. Disaster must be averted. The General is having a quiet word with the Minister, and they’re both looking over towards Sulima.

‘We so appreciate you coming here,’ McCarthy says when he’s crossed the room with an outstretched hand. ‘And we hope you may be able to persuade Mr Kalim to desist ... I know it may not help, but if you can talk him out of whatever it is he may have in mind, we will do everything we can to meet his requirements ... we would not harm him in any way, and he would of course be free to leave Britain and travel to a country of his choice.’

Sulima shakes the Minister’s hand. She is not convinced by what he’s saying. I don’t think anyone is, and Carla’s picking up on it.

‘Mr McCarthy, sir ... our timing is crucial here. Might I suggest we now brief Miss Sharif and see what we can do to get a resolution?’

The Minister and the General withdraw to the other end of the school assembly hall while Carla motions Sulima, Julia, Earl and me to sit at some children’s desks. She’s drawing up a chair in front of us and I feel it’s like teacher time with the kids –
‘So pay attention, ye all!
’

‘You and Pele are very close,’ she says to Sulima, who nods.

‘We were ... ’

‘I’m sure you still are ... and frankly, I believe you’re the only hope we have. Your friend refuses to negotiate with us. He has made certain demands ... some of which, it’s just not possible for the British Government to deliver on. They will of course do whatever they can with regard to al-Qaeda and other Muslim prisoners they’re holding. That’s a practical matter and not a problem ... the real issue, however, is more straightforward.’

We’re waiting for it, and the punch line is impressive. ‘A large proportion of the people living around here are Muslims,’ Carla says. ‘Most of them have only just moved in to the Council flats behind us, and if Pele blows up the nuclear waste canisters, the train crew will die and all of these people will be homeless.’

The Home Office Minister, the Army General and everyone around them are putting on protective clothing. The white, one piece garments have just arrived and included with them are headpieces that incorporate goggles and a filtered breathing mask.

‘I will talk with Pele,’ Sulima says decisively. ‘I don’t know if he will listen to me ... it’s possible he won’t.’

Carla is discreetly waving away an Army Sergeant with the protective suits we’re expected to change into. There’s a final point she needs to make.

‘He has said he doesn’t want to have any discussions with us until we have something to offer him ... and our American Ambassador is presently talking to Washington about the al-Qaeda people we’re holding.’

‘He will talk to me,’ Sulima says confidently.

‘Of course,’ Carla answers. ‘And we will patch you through to him ... he has switched off his mobile, but we have a PA system outside so we can let him know you’re here. He can then call you directly ... do you have a speaker on your phone?’

‘Yes – ’

‘Excellent ... OK ... let’s go!’

It’s getting risky without the radiation protection suits, but we follow Carla out of the school assembly hall and onto the Hackney Downs, where a microphone has been set up on a table. A Corporal tests the speakers and Carla then leads Sulima forward.

She hesitates and coughs to clear her throat. I catch her eye, and for a brief moment we’re back during one of those laid back and enjoyable weekends at the Sharif place in the Hamptons. Faria Bailey and Sulima are laughing and making jokes at the expense of Mike and myself. Where, I’m wondering, has it all gone wrong? Why is there this bitter animosity between Islam and the rest of us?

‘Pele,’ Sulima says with a steady voice that reverberates around the Hackney Downs. ‘I’m here now ... but I don’t want to talk with you over a public address system ... call me back on my mobile.’

She gives him her number over the Army PA system just in case he’s already erased it from his own phone, and that’s it. We troop back into the junior school assembly hall.  When we’re inside, Carla asks if we want to put on the anti-contamination suits. Sulima shakes her head. She doesn’t want this protection, so to show solidarity, we all decline, including Earl, who has just taken a call from his wife.

‘She want to know where I am,’ he jokes. ‘And when I tell her I’m working, she don’t believe me.’

I reckon it’s OK out in St Albans unless there’s a particularly strong wind blowing up from London. For my money though, if I were Mrs Connors, I’d be rooting for an extended break in the hopefully nuclear free area around Englishman’s Bay in Tobago.

We’re all waiting in silence at the school children’s desks when the Army General comes over with a respectably suited civilian who’s got a thick moustache.

‘This is Dr Metim Kola,’ the General informs us. ‘He’s a psychologist.’

We all shake hands, including Sulima and the guy gives a little bow.