Dark Clouds (7 page)

‘Faria was a beautiful woman,’ Sharif says unexpectedly. Is this fucker playing hard ball with my emotions? I can feel the perspiration around my torso and on the palms of my hands. ‘I’m sure you must think about her a lot.’

Every day, you bastard, and frequently in my dreams. I take tranquillisers, cocaine and alcohol, but it doesn’t make any difference. I still want to go out and strangle Mohammad Atta and his friends in the Syrian, Iranian, Pakistani Afghan and North African wastelands. I sometimes think of stoning activists to a slow and painful death. Then I wake up and accept that Faria was a Muslim. She wasn’t particularly devout. But she had a copy of the Koran and her mother still prays to Allah.

‘So how do we get a resolution?’ I ask.

‘And live together peacefully?’

‘Yes – ’

‘Maybe first we need a serious contest, Rudi.’

With bombs and bodies and the lingering consequences of radiation.

‘I see all of this,’ I say. ‘But how far does it have to go before we get around a table and try to sort out our differences?’

There had to be a way that would allow Muslims and the rest of us to live together in peace. I’m doing my best, but Sharif is switching off – politely and with a charming smile.

‘How did you find Sulima?’ he asks.

Great, fantastic, a star – but not too happy.

‘It’s difficult for her at the moment,’ he concedes. ‘She is keeping our business going however, and for that I am grateful. I don’t have the commitment any more, Rudi. What we’re doing here at the Foundation is taking up most of my time.’

According to reports in the financial press, the Sharifs could get several hundred million dollars from the sale of their oil importing business. For now though I see the Foundation as a possible way through to my former friend.

‘So it’s a big day,’ he says, pointing down to the tree-lined street, where people are gathering to file past the Swiss gendarmes on the gates. They are mostly young men with beards, flowing Muslim robes and embroidered white skullcaps. There are a few older people in suits and a handful of women, modestly covered up with burqas, jilbabs or hijabs.

*  *  *  *  *

‘We have a proud history,’ Sharif says when we join the scholarship students, their family members and guests. The Foundation’s reception area is full and people are starting to take their seats in what had been the African politician’s ballroom. ‘I think we have to do something to express how we feel, Rudi,’ the host adds. ‘I see myself merely as a facilitator in this process. I am privileged to assist my brothers and sisters, and what we’re celebrating here today are their academic achievements.’

He’s impressively understated in a pale blue denim shirt, chinos and deck shoes, but people stand aside and lower their heads respectfully as he approaches. I feel like I’m under the protection of the caliph; a favoured guest from another planet, which means that whenever Sharif stops, I’m included in the handshakes and deferential bows.

‘I am Ahmed,’ a member of one group says as the benefactor moves on and I’m  surrounded by half a dozen of the Foundation’s scholarship students from Palestine. ‘I have just completed my Master’s in Business Administration at Princeton, and I feel I owe everything that I have achieved to Mr Sharif … he made it possible.’

He has an untrimmed beard and intense dark eyes. For the moment he’s showing me respect as I’m the main man’s honoured guest. I do feel vulnerable however. It’s my Lower East Side New York accent that has me in the frame. ‘
9/11 was just the start, my man – a taster for what’s to come …we’re preparing now for a big push …it’s pay-back time for the Crusades!
’

‘How have you found the experience of studying in Western countries?’ I ask the group generally, but it’s Ahmed who answers.

‘There’s no question but that you have the best universities,’ he concedes. ‘There is nothing comparable, not even in Russia. So we must come to you … we have no alternative.’

‘And when you complete your studies?’

I’m probing cautiously here between potentially lethal shards of glass, but Ahmed counters with a smile. It’s sugary and all embracing, but there’s a chance it might be deflecting me from a dagger beneath the flowing folds of the guy’s Arabic jellaba.

‘We need your tools,’ he explains as others in the group nod and frown resignedly. ‘But that doesn’t mean we want to replicate either your institutions or your society.’

‘So we’re talking here about getting your qualifications from the West and then going back home to build Islamic states?’

‘Yes, of course … that is how it must be.’

Up to now the group has politely deferred to the fact that I’m a guest of their benefactor. They’ve stood around and listened to my small talk. But they’re being summoned for group photographs before they get allocated their seats in the hall. We bow towards each other and I tell each of them to ‘
take care’
until I’m left with Ahmed.

‘Do you think there’s any place for democracy in Islamic countries?’ I ask impulsively. I’m edging in towards a little provocation and I get a jaw-jutting response.

‘These so called freedoms are frequently an illusion,’ he says, and there’s a harsh edge in his voice. ‘You people are at liberty to indulge yourselves materially, but your sense of morality frequently descends to a level that decent Muslims find abhorrent.’

And that’s it. Ahmed gives a curt bow before moving off to get his picture taken for the Sharif Foundation’s graduation records. I feel like I’ve been cast in the role of a pariah: An untrustworthy interloper from a despised world that would soon be dealt with by Allah’s army. I’m annoyed at first. I wanted to speak with Ahmed about Sharia Law and to debate the implications for economic growth and prosperity in the Muslim world if they lock their women away and forbid them to engage in business. It would be like trying to run a show on half power, surely. Only no one seems interested. So I accept an orange juice, and I’m on the point of probing some more amongst the other guests when Sharif leads an ageing Ayatollah up onto the stage.

‘God is good!’ my oil billionaire buddy shouts and everyone applauds. When they stop clapping, he welcomes his scholarship students and guests, some of whom are from Islamic embassies. There are also a number of business people who have flown in on recruitment missions from North Africa and the Middle East.

This is a special and potentially profitable opportunity. It is the Ayatollah though who is the star on this occasion, and when he has steadied himself with the help of a walking stick, he grins at the audience who applaud.

Chapter 6

Everything the Shi’ite holy man says in Arabic appears simultaneously with French and English translations on two large screens, which are immediately above him on the podium. God is great he tells us and Allah is god, and whatever way one looks at it, Muslim people are henceforth going to have to work out their own salvation.

It’s good, solid guest speaker stuff, I’m thinking initially: A pep talk for the young scholarship students about how people have to stand on their own two feet if they want to achieve objectives. If I had kids, I’d be giving the same sort of advice. I’m reassured and lulled by the Imam’s wise words. I stop looking up at the English translation board, and I’m imagining Ingrid painting and sculpting in her Dalston warehouse studio. I think I’ve fallen for her, but the holy man’s voice is escalating ominously and everyone’s clapping.

There is a new enemy the letters on the translation screen tell me. It’s serious, and the
Great Satan
is at this very moment plotting in Washington to wreak havoc amongst Allah’s people in the Middle East. The enemy must be engaged and defeated around the world the Ayatollah says. It will be a fight to the death, and the audience should be mindful of the Washington puppets who suck the blood from Islamists in Jordan, Egypt and Saudi Arabia.

I’m blinking nervously as the scholarship students stand to applaud the arthritic holy man. A few of the guests in suits, who could be Egyptians, shuffle uncomfortably and I’m  thinking of slipping away. I can tell Carla Hirsch that my former friend, Mike Sharif, who is now Mohammed, is a dangerous fundamentalist: a crazed and misguided oil mogul who supports the annihilation of my fellow countrymen and all of our allies around the world.

Only the mullah is now being helped to a chair and Sharif is back on the podium with warm words of thanks for the holy man and encouragement for his studious protégés. The presentation ceremonies are about to start and each of the scholarship recipients will make a short speech about how they hope to serve Allah for the rest of their lives.

There aren’t any more references to Washington or Lucifer in the White House and as the bearded beneficiaries make worthy speeches, I’m bringing up the sound of my meditation mantra. I don’t close my eyes however, and as the speeches finish, I look up and see Sulima. She’s standing at the entrance to the former ballroom, and she waves as her brother tells the audience that there’ll now be a break for mint tea, soft drinks and snacks. I’m struggling to stand up. My saviour’s beckoning and I’ve got to get out. It’s a bit of a squeeze, and I have to apologise to a formidable woman in a black burqua, whose toe I stand on as I edge out.

‘You look exhausted,’ Sulima quips when I finally make it through a solid mass of chattering guests and excitable scholarship students.

‘I think I should go,’ I tell her, but she’s already linked my arm. She’s guiding me firmly into the reception hall and then down the steps to where her Porsche is parked.

‘You can’t do that, Rudi,’ she says emphatically. ‘I want you to talk with Mike when he gets back to the house. You may think he’s become a raving fundamentalist. And in a way, he has. But he’s always valued your friendship. So if there’s a chance you can get him back, you must try … for all our sakes.’

We’re leaving the Old Town on a road that runs by the lake. The views are incredible, and after a while we come to a walled estate with a magnificent house nestling amongst trees at the top of a hill.

*  *  *  *  *

 ‘The last owner was a Ukrainian arms dealer,’ Sulima tells me with a resigned smile. She’s pointing a bleeper at huge electronic entry gates. They’re impressive, in an over-the-top sort of way, and I’m quite taken with the lute-blowing angles that are interwoven between the stark and otherwise solid iron bars.

It’s all a little surreal. We’re climbing along a steep avenue that finally takes us to a grand Edwardian house. It has an original wrought iron balcony running across the first floor, and when we stop, Sulima flicks her hand towards a perfect lawn. ‘It’s good for croquet,’ she says. ‘When our parents came from Damascus, they used to play there all the time.’

 This is what Sharif needs, I’m thinking. Half-an-hour spent gently tapping a ball through hoops and then on to an innocuous target stump. There are rhododendrons and rose bushes all around us and as we walk towards the house, the front door is opened by yet another respectful servant with Arabic features. A huge marble-floored entrance hall has gently curved staircases leading to a galleried first floor. It’s palatial, and there are hand-woven Persian runners covering the steps.

‘We’ve given you the best room,’ Sulima jokes when we get to the top of the stairs, ‘because you’re special, Rudi.’

‘Oh yeah – ’

If the circumstances were different I might have bat-and-balled more playfully, but I’m still slightly awestruck by the opulence and the definitely weird set-up I’ve pitched into. The large room Sulima shows me is furnished in the style of an Edwardian salon. It’s a little staid and fussy, but the view of Lake Geneva from the French doors that lead onto the wrought iron balcony is incredible.

‘Do you still sail?’ Sulima asks

‘I haven’t had a chance for a while … why – do you have a boat?’

‘Yes – a Laser. It’s moored just beyond the trees and we’ve also got wet suits.’

‘You want to go out?’

She’s vacillating. The sun’s going down and there’s a gentle breeze across the water. It’s just the right time to go sailing, and we could talk. ‘
I’d like to tell you what I really feel about what’s happening, Rudi …it’s crazy. I want out …and there’s something you should know about
.’ We could be getting there, but she eventually shakes her head.

‘I’d like to,’ she says, biting slightly on her lower lip. ‘We do have a problem in Paris though … and I need to make more calls.’

‘OK.’

‘Why don’t you ask Mike when he gets back? It would be a perfect opportunity for you to speak properly with him.’

And if he clams up or says anything about the
Great Satan
, I could always turn the racing yacht unexpectedly. I’d have a hold on Sharif’s eyes as he pitched into the water and then struggled while gripping helplessly onto the side. ‘
Are you seriously planning to nuke us, Mike. Because if you are, I’m sorry, but you’re going to have to spend time in this Swiss lake, and if you don’t relent, I’ll gybe right here and then tack my way towards you at full speed.
’

‘It is a good idea,’ I say, walking out to the balcony that fronts the house. ‘I’ll certainly suggest it to him.’

Sulima follows me and we pause outside another set of French doors that open into a corniced office with computers, filing cabinets and an antique desk.

‘This is Mike’s study,’ she explains. ‘He spends hours here every day … I sometimes wonder what he gets up to. He’s just so completely lost interest in the business, which I now think we’ll have to sell.’

‘Are you sure you don’t want to change your mind and show me how your boat cuts it?’ I ask, and once again she hesitates.

‘I can’t, Rudi … much as I’d like to. There are things I need to talk to you about though when I come to London. Will you keep a diary slot free for me towards the end of next week.’

‘Sure … but – ’

‘Now I must go, but I’ll see you downstairs when Mike gets back. He shouldn’t be long, and if you need anything just ring for Zadine. He’ll sort you out.’

She leaves through my Edwardian guestroom, and when I’m sure she’s gone I go back to the wrought iron balcony. The lake is still now at the foot of the trees and all around me the snow-capped mountains provided a perfect Swiss panorama. I turn instinctively when I reach the French doors that lead into Sharif’s study. I expect them to be locked, but they open as I turn the brass handle.