Authors: Phil Rowan
‘There is a feeling,’ he tells me, ‘that unless we do something dramatic, you won’t take us seriously.’
Sure – I can see where he’s coming from. No one’s listening just now and Muslims are getting frustrated about a whole range of issues. In Iraq, Pakistan and Afghanistan – all over the place, I guess. A lot of my people don’t understand what the fuss is about. We lost almost three thousand on 9/11 for Christ’s sake! That was a pretty forceful Islamic gesture. It made an impact, and now Khalad’s saying they want an even bigger bang.
‘So you’re going to assassinate Her Majesty, or maybe put something nasty in my President’s soup?’
I’m getting a small smile, but his hands are still shaking.
‘I don’t agree with some of the ideas that have been mentioned,’ he tells me. ‘But there is talk, Rudi, of an escalation.’
‘In what way?’
‘I’m not sure … but possibly with … well … radiation.’
Oh no, man – get real, please! I mean, what’s the point? You’ll become the universal pariahs. We’ll hit Iran, Pakistan and anywhere else where they make nuclear noises. We’ll go in hard, and if that doesn’t work, we’ll create a new, much larger Guantanamo. We’ll intern everyone who’s ever knelt in a mosque or dared to ask Allah for guidance against us.
‘I must go,’ Khalad says, getting up and extending a light brown hand. ‘Please don’t mention our meeting to anyone, Rudi … and be careful if you talk to Rashid.’
I want to grab at the lapels of his jacket and hold him. He can’t leave me with all of this stuff. I won’t go there. But he’s slipping away, and the Polish girl’s eyes are twinkling with a bill.
* * * * *
I walk to Green Park and down onto Pall Mall. There are police sirens in Trafalgar Square and there’s a helicopter hovering around Whitehall. A royal flag flutters over Buckingham Palace, but outside Downing Street, riot police are keeping Nationalists and their opponents apart.
‘
Fuck off back to your mama’s tits!
’ a bald-headed guy with a swastika on his jacket shouts at a bemused boy. The lad’s got a placard that says
PEACE IN IRAN
and his mouth opens when a cop grabs him, shouting, ‘Get out of here, you little shit! Go on – piss off!’
The helicopter’s moved back towards the House of Commons. I’m looking for a way through the opposing demonstrators when I see police motor cyclists. They are leading the way up Whitehall for an official looking car. The guy in the back seems unsure about how he’s meant to respond to the noisy crowd. He tries waving, looking ahead and nodding seriously. He eventually settles for a foolish grin, and his arm’s moving up for a sort of presidential gesture when a girl throws an egg at his car.
Security’s tight at the Parliament buildings, and I’m trying to work out how nuclear explosions might affect people when a big-bellied Somali with bad teeth runs a hand between my legs and then another across my bum and up along my back.
‘Go through the door over there,’ he says when he’s checked the name and details on my press card. ‘The terrace is straight ahead.’
The building is impressive and entering the Great Hall of the House of Commons is like walking into a really big budget Hollywood movie set. I’m waiting for people in wigs and knee breeches to appear, with maybe Harry Potter floating down from one of the stained glass windows on a broomstick. I’m onto guys in masks and white protective clothing with radiation sensors when another overweight attendant appears sucking in on his teeth. He checks my name on a guest list and then gestures with a limp wrist towards a huge open door at the end of a corridor.
The sun is slipping away over West London. But there is a do on the House of Commons terrace, where MPs and officials from all parties are entertaining members of the British Muslim League. Unfortunately, it’s a strictly no booze event, so when I’ve tried a couple of Indian canapés and washed them down with a plastic glass full of grapefruit juice, I start to mix in with the guests.
Most of the Muslim League people are serious looking guys who keep nodding whenever an MP or a Whitehall official speaks to them. They’re accompanied by a few token women in traditional dress: Respectful family members who smile and bow with a tentative smile if anyone makes eye contact. The message all round is to do with peace, harmony and inter-racial tolerance in a welcoming and inclusive Britain. It’s all OK, but there is a junior immigration minister I’ve met once before, who complains about the absence of alcohol.
‘They could at least have had wine,’ he says irritably. ‘If they put it in white plastic cups and didn’t make a show with the bottles, no one would be offended, would they?’
Absolutely, Minister. You’re right, of course. But he’s moved off and a smiling, freckle-faced woman is homing in on me. She’s wearing a smart, tailored suit and she’s got an official looking badge with lions and a crown pinned to her jacket.
‘Rudi!’
‘Mairead – ’
‘I’m so glad you could come,’ she says. ‘Rashid Kumar’s been looking for you … he’s a bit down this evening, which is understandable I suppose in view of what happened in Paris.
‘Ah – ’
‘There he is now – over by the balustrade … look, he’s waving at us!’
Mairead is a senior communications adviser with the Government. She’s an attractive but formidable woman who knows exactly what has to be done in most situations, and I’m trying to psych myself up for a challenging meeting when she takes my arm and steers me over towards the Kashmiri author.
‘I’ll leave you to it,’ she says when we’ve grinned at each other. ‘And perhaps we could get together later, Rudi … I’d like to talk with you about what’s happening in Iran.’
* * * * *
‘She’s such a live wire,’ Rashid says tentatively as Mairead strides off. ‘But I wouldn’t want to get on the wrong side of her.’
I agree. Her red curls are fantastic, but she’s got fierce eyes, and she has a reputation for charming and then crucifying her opponents. Ideally, I’d spend ten minutes gossiping about Mairead and one or two people I know who’ve been involved with her. It would make for a nice bit of harmless chat, but Rashid’s gripping onto the balustrade beside the river.
‘What happened in Paris is outrageous,’ he says after a moment’s silence. He’s looking straight ahead, but a small vein on his neck is pulsating angrily.
‘Yes – it is … but these incidents are becoming more frequent. It seems that the gulf between us is widening, Rashid.’
He has turned towards me and I can see tears trickling from his eyes.
‘It’s going to get worse, Rudi … the next step is nuclear.’
‘You’re sure about this?’
He’s nodding, and I feel it’s best to just let him talk. All around us, Muslim League guests, politicians and their advisers are looking on the up side. They’re considering ways forward with ethnic minorities becoming more involved in the affairs of their adopted country. There would be special committees and legislation to embrace everyone and make them feel good about what England has to offer. It’s a noble scenario, but I’m thinking of radiation in London’s subway system and other worst case scenarios. What would happen if a nuclear device exploded and we had mini-mushroom clouds enveloping Times Square, the Champs Elysee and Oxford Circus?
‘I need your help,’ Rashid says.
‘Sure …’
‘I have become more involved than I ever intended to with activists … I want to get away from these people, Rudi. I must talk with someone … can you arrange a meeting with whoever it is I need to see?’
He seems lost and I’m wary about being too accommodating. I have a few contacts who could assist him if he wants to cross over. But there are implications if one suddenly decides to disappear.
‘Are you sure you want to do this?’ I ask and he nods.
‘As soon as possible …could we meet again on Thursday?’
‘Yes.’
‘But now I must go.’
He’s squeezing my hand and I’m worried. It’s selfish, I know. I’m being neurotic. But what if one of these nice Muslim League guys is an activist? If I’m seen with a collaborator, I could be in trouble.
‘Rashid …’
‘We’ll speak in the morning, Rudi … I’ll call you.’
I’ve got to go to Paris. I’ve already booked my ticket. My commissioning editors need colour pieces from the carnage in Montmartre. But the author of
Our Abyss
is scuttling away. As a Kashmiri, he fits in easily enough with the mainly Asian Muslim League guests. His blue blazer and minor public school tie may be a little out of place, but he’s gone, and Mairead Corrigan is returning. She’s waving at me, and she’s holding the elbow of an ass- licking ministerial assistant who wants to talk about my President’s position on nuclear threats to Isreal from Iran.
Chapter 2
I’m still thinking about Rashid when I get to the French Embassy in Knightsbridge. ‘
It’s Armageddon time for the West, Rudi! We’re going to nuke you bastards, and you’ll rue the day you ever tried to tell us what to do
.’
The building is palatial, and the Ambassador is about to give a late press conference.
‘
We do not condone Islamic or any other form of terrorism
,
’ he says from a raised dais in an elegant reception room. ‘
And we will deal firmly with anyone who poses a threat to ourselves or our allies
.
’
There’s a lot of stuff about France’s proud heritage and what an excellent relationship the metropolitan power has with its former colonies. No one wants to blame anyone at this stage, although the Ambassador is clearly unhappy with the English media people who want to question him about integration in France.
‘
You’ve got problems, sir – I believe, with your Muslim population at the moment
,’ a cheeky tabloid writer suggests. The ambassador puts him down quickly though when he says it’s not appropriate to talk about frustrated petrol bombers or the unruly situation in French ghettos. ‘
We are all one nation
,’ he insists with a patrician shrug, ‘
and our task now is to root out the assassins. We will deal with them, and we will not falter on this task …but we will work closely with our friends and allies who have experienced similar criminal acts in their cities …
’
There is food and wine when his Excellency finally steps down. It’s a peace offering for all of us frustrated hacks who feel we’ve been cheated on the meat by his oily eminence. A French intelligence officer circulates with a sick-making smile and offers off-the-record snippets to go with the canapés.
‘The Algerian at the Sacre Coeur, Rudi – the one with the rucksack – we cannot be certain, but we think he may have links with renegade elements in the Atlas Mountains.’
‘Really – ’
‘Yes – although there could also be connections with Casablanca and Tangier.’
‘Right – ’
‘And we are of course mindful of influences from Saudi Arabia and the Yemen. But our main challenge is still with these barbarians in Afghanistan and Pakistan, or wherever it is that Bin Laden and his people are now hiding.’
Nothing new here then. When I leave, I’m back with Khalad at the café by the Serpentine and Rashid on the terrace at the House of Commons. They’re both good guys, I think. But their message is scary. ‘
There won’t be any more cricket at Lords, Rudi …because it will be like Chernobyl, only worse …and the after effects will linger for a long time.
’
The little Georgian house where I’m staying in Islington’s Crowndale Square is fine, but the stairs are steep, and I’m missing steps when I stumble up to a top floor bedroom. I’ve taken half a tumbler of whisky to try and blot out any more thoughts about Khalad and Rashid and the possibility of renegade Pakistani scientists providing nuclear options for Osama’s guys. I’m not together enough to brush my teeth, and I’m losing myself in the last half-hour of
Casablanca
on the bedroom TV when I fall asleep.
Ingrid Bergman is looking up into my eyes, and we’re about to have a passionate clinch when humourless Neo-Con agents appear. They’re huge, ugly hunks with cropped military haircuts and their shirts are saturated with aggressive testosterone. ‘
You will come with us!
’ one of them yells. ‘
Our country is in danger. So it’s your duty to stand up, salute the flag and do whatever your President requires …are you listening, you dumb fuck?
’
The nightmare goes on until dawn, when I wake and see a willow tree swaying in the breeze. There is also a familiar Persian cat meowing on a nearby roof. So it’s OK. I’m alive and well in leafy Islington. The Brits are good people and I’m relatively happy in London. But it’s Ingrid and Humphrey and the French guy I’m thinking of as I spread my arms across the mattress and fantasise about spending time at Rick’s place in
Casablanca.
* * * * *
Once in LA, a studio executive asked if I might consider the movies as an option after Berkeley. I was flattered – foolishly I guess in retrospect. ‘
You got presence, Rudi,
’ he told me.
‘I mean you’re what, six foot. Your stomach’s flat and I think maybe the girls could go for that distracted look in your eyes
.’ Now my stare is frequently manic; I think I’ve shrunk or sagged a bit and if I’m not careful, there will soon be unflattering alcohol fuelled love handles around my once trim and firm waist.
Life is all right though, or it could be. But there are motor vehicles coming into the square. I don’t think they belong to any of the residents. The engine sounds are too loud, and they all seem to stop in the street outside my front door.
An article I read in a broadsheet suggested that paranoia frequently kicks in during the early hours when one is only half awake. What’s happening out in the square now though is for real. I know this because when the vehicle engines are switched off, I can hear heavy boots running along the pavement and then up the steps of the house where I’m staying.
Outside, Crowndale Square looks like a picture postcard from 1760. Only there are blue lights revolving ominously under the cherry blossoms. I’m up, but I catch my arm in a bathrobe as a police tactical entry ram smashes through the locks on my front door.