Authors: Phil Rowan
The internal door doesn’t move when I try it, so I go to the desk and open each of the drawers. Most of the material here and in the unlocked filing cabinets relates to Sharif’s lucrative oil shipping business. There are however a couple of e-mails in a file that is unlabeled. One offers effusive thanks for something that’s not mentioned and the other refers to a London meeting three weeks from today. The ‘thank you’ one might be interesting, so I take pictures of both with Carla’s camera. I’m now sure I didn’t press the right button when I clicked on Sulima’s photograph of her guy.
I’ve been pitched in at the deep end. I’m sweating, and I don’t feel I’ve got time for any more research in Sharif’s study. I peer cautiously to the left and right of the French doors. I’m half expecting a confrontation. Zadine, the servant Sulima mentioned, could be waiting to grab me, but the balcony’s clear when I step out.
* * * * *
Shortly afterwards, a convoy of limousines comes up the avenue to the vast gravel driveway outside the Sharif residence. I’m waiting on the ground floor terrace and when some of his aides have led the guests into the house, Sharif comes over to join me.
‘What did you think, Rudi?’
‘It was interesting … although I did find what the Ayatollah was saying rather hard to take, especially his rant about the
Great Satan
in our White House. A little extreme – no?’
I’m ready to walk down the winding tree-lined avenue to try to call a cab with my mobile. I have numbers for the US and British embassies, but Sharif is enveloping me with a warm smile. He follows it with a squeeze around my shoulders when he sits beside me on the garden bench.
‘You’re taking offence too easily, my friend.’
‘Really? ‘
‘Yes – you are. Our holy man was only saying what we all believe, Rudi. It wasn’t meant as an insult to you personally.’
‘And you think we really are the bad guys?’
Sharif pauses and looks down at the lake. There are strong loyalties from a past friendship in the States, but he needs to express how he feels.
‘After 9/11,’ he says, ‘I think most of us were together. I wanted to avenge Faria’s death just as much as you did. I believed the hijackers and those who supported them were all lunatics, and I thought that for about a year afterwards.’
‘So what changed your mind?’ I want to know, and my guard drops for a moment when Sharif touches the back of my hand.
‘The way things evolved in the aftermath,’ he says. ‘I woke up one morning on Madison Avenue and felt that as a Muslim with US citizenship I was now viewed as an enemy of the American people. I resented that, Rudi – so I came here, and when my father died last year Sulima took over the business. I think she now wants to move on in her life, so we’ll probably sell up and go our separate ways. If you’re wondering where I am now – I’ll tell you … I’m a hijacker … and I won’t give up on Islam or my god until your President genuflects and apologises for what you people, your puppets and your allies have done to us.’
I’m finding it hard to contain myself. I want to swear at Sharif; to tell him that he’s a misguided fuck who’s got everything totally wrong. I’m veering rapidly over to Carla Hirsh’s view of my former friend as a mass killer in the making. It’s difficult to stay cool, but I have to. I grind my teeth together while squeezing my fingernails into the palms of my hands.
‘I’d really like to take a sail in your Laser,’ I say calmly, ‘only I couldn’t manage it on my own … do you fancy an hour out on the water?’
A few years ago, it would have been whisky or beer down on the Lower East Side in New York, followed inevitably by a party in SoHo. If there were problems, anxieties or prospects to celebrate, we shared them together. I want a little of this now, but a wall has gone up and Sharif’s shaking his head.
‘I can’t, Rudi … much as I would like to. There are people who have come back from the Foundation, and you have your interview tomorrow.’
It’s not happening. ‘
That was my excuse for coming here to check you out, you crazy fuck!
’ But it’s irrelevant. Sharif’s already on his feet and Sulima’s approaching from the house.
* * * * *
‘I have to go to Paris,’ she says. Her eyes are fixed on the lake as she speaks. Her brother’s looking beyond her head, and it’s clear that there are unresolved issues here.
‘OK,’ he answers brusquely. It’s almost as though he doesn’t care about her plans. ‘I’ve got to see our guests … and I hope you’ll join us, Rudi.’
‘Sure – ’
Sulima waits until Sharif disappears before taking my hand. ‘So – until next week in London, Rudi … it is important that we speak then.’
I’m nodding. Of course – maybe she just wants an emotional confidante: someone with whom she can talk about the lover who left her for Osama. She isn’t giving anything away in advance though as we walk back to the house. She takes both of my hands before we part. It’s a moving moment, and my neck’s flushing when she reaches up to kiss my cheeks.
She’s a beautiful woman with a kind heart, and as she slips away I’m thinking of my murdered girlfriend, Faria. Sulima was an important part of our relationship. I can still remember her laughing, joking and sharing secrets with us over weekends in the Hamptons.
‘A drink for you, sir … Mr Sharif thought you might like one,’ a waiter says.
He’s appeared from nowhere with an opaque glass on a tray. Another fucking cordial, I guess, or maybe just fizzy water with ice. I take it reluctantly and don’t bother to look at the liquid. When I finally raise the glass to quench my thirst however, I get the welcome smell of whisky. It’s a treat, and I reckon I’m holding at least two generous shots of a decent malt.
‘Are you a friend of Monsieur Sharif’s?’ a dark brown skinned man with a large nose asks when I get inside. He’s a Lebanese diplomat and I don’t want to cause any offence with my illicit drink. I’m trying to hold the glass under one arm while introducing myself. I want to fit in, so I tell the Lebanese guy that Sharif and I knew each other in the States.
‘And the presentations at the Foundation … they were interesting for you?’ he asks.
‘Oh – absolutely!’ A real cause for celebration, and all the more so since it was an entirely Islamic event. Everyone is chatting amiably in Sharif’s large reception room and I’m not going to put a foot wrong.
‘I think we really do have to move ahead on our own,’ the diplomat says and I’m nodding. Foreign aid, I suggest, is often detrimental to the developing regions. I feel that my country can take a little stick from those previously dependent on dollar aid as they start operating independently.
‘Although I believe Western society can play a useful part in helping to educate your brightest people,’ I say in the spirit of open discussion. ‘I guess this may be a way of bringing our communities closer together.’
‘You cannot be serious,’ the Lebanese man answers with surprise.
‘Sure – of course I am … why not?’
The guy’s incredulous expression has now evolved into an unpleasant sneer.
‘I feel your situation in America is similar to what happened during the closing stages of the Roman Empire,’ he snorts dismissively. ‘Your foundations are disintegrating. I think at any moment we can expect the Western world – and particularly your part of it – to crumble ignominiously into ruins.’
I’m taking a nasty kicking here, along with Old Glory. I need to answer these gratuitous insults. Only the diplomat has turned and he’s walking away.
‘Hey – wait a minute!’ I call after him, but he just keeps going to the other end of the room. I’m thinking of following him. We need to sort this out, but Sharif’s beckoning to me. He’s with the ageing Ayatollah, who is grimacing through thick, rimless spectacles.
I don’t need any more anti-American ranting, but the holy man has linked into Sharif’s arm and he’s waving his stick in front of them. I’m already in the cockpit of a B 29. I’m on a bombing mission over Iran and I’m very focused. My mission is to decimate the Iranians, and when I’ve done with the Revolutionary Guards, I’ll be heading for Syria. Meanwhile, my adversaries are making slow progress across an intricately woven Kashmiri carpet.
The jihadi Ayatollah is homing in on me through his jam-jar bottom spectacles. There’s no escape that isn’t going to be socially embarrassing. So it’s
courage mon brave
and stiffen the back. My stomach’s taut and I’m jutting out my chin. I’m also raising the opaque glass towards my mouth. It’s tense and stressful when Sharif grins and the evil holy man blasts into my brain. I don’t have any allies, but I down my shot and a half of malt whisky in one gulp.
Chapter 7
On the flight back to London, I go through my notes on the stuff I photographed in Sharif’s study. There are indications that someone called Wagstaff is grateful for what they have received. It could be a charitable donation, but there might be other implications.
‘What do you reckon on this?’ a businessman sitting next to me asks. He’s pointing at a picture in the UK
Daily News
that shows a crowd of black youths taunting the police.
It’s not looking good, and my fellow traveller shakes his head.
‘They say some of the instigators in these disturbances are Asian, and that they may be Muslims.’
I don’t want to know. I’m more interested in the Harry Potter movie that’s featuring on the drop-down screens. So I nod, grin and put my earphones on. What I love about JK Rowling is the way you can get completely lost in her stories. I don’t care if they’re fairytales. They’re great. It is still difficult however to get away from the fact that a magazine I flicked through at Geneva airport had a picture of the Pope in Pakistan on its cover with Taliban and al-Qaeda fighters ranged around him. ‘
HOLY FATHER IN TROUBLE!
’ a headline screamed, while inside there were cartoon pictures of God’s Rottweiler showing his teeth and going for the retreating rumps of fundamentalist pit bulls.
‘Would you like a drink, sir?’ a stewardess asks. It’s too early, but she has a lovely fresh-faced smile, so I go for a scotch.
Inside the terminal building at Heathrow a TV set flickers with pictures of a riot on the previous day in Birmingham. The main participants seem to be black youths, but there are also a few Asians. Guys with Muslim headbands have placards saying ‘
Death to the Pope
’ and ‘
Kill all Infidels
’
. I feel ill, although I haven’t eaten anything, and I’m looking for the subway sign when I see a familiar face.
‘Mr Flynn, sir!’
‘Yes – ’
‘I’m Robson … from Mr Connors’ team.’
Right. He’s the one who checked the computers when Earl’s guys smashed through my front door in Islington. I’d rather not stop and chat, but I don’t think I have a choice.
‘I was just going to get a tube,’ I tell him.
‘No need for that, sir. I’ve got a car outside.’
There are overweight cops with machine pistols at the doors and Robson’s car is holding up traffic in a bus lane.
‘You had a good flight?’ he asks when one of the armed cops stops traffic to let us out.
‘Sure – it was fine.’
‘And did you find anything of interest?’
‘Maybe – I made some notes. Do you want me to go through them?’
‘Not just now,’ Robson says. ‘Although I’m sure Mr Connors would like to know what happened.’
There is news in between the light music on the radio and the speakerine’s voice is serious as she describes the death of an Afro-Caribbean man in Birmingham and the arrest of Bangladeshis who had tried to set fire to a Catholic cathedral in Bristol. There is also, almost as an afterthought, a report on an incident in Lyme Regis where three white youths had attacked a Yemeni waiter and carved a swastika into the skin of his forehead.
‘It’s getting very violent here,’ I say to Robson when we reach the Hammersmith flyover.
‘And I can’t see it getting any better, sir.’
‘Why not?’
Robson seems like a fairly average sort of cop. An Essex guy who commutes into London, but who’d never dream of living there. If he stays out of trouble and does a reasonable job, he’ll probably make Sergeant in a year or two.
‘It’s all coming to the top of the trough now.’ He says. ‘It’s been building for a while … and I’ll tell you something … I’ve personally had enough.’
‘Really?’
‘Yeah – and my wife feels the same … it’s because we’ve got kids see.’
‘So you’re going to leave the police force?’
‘Well – not quite. I mean, we’re looking at Australia and Canada at the moment. If we go to either of these places, I could probably do police work.’
I’m hazy about the local street geography, but we seem to have passed the turnings that would take us either to Paddington Green Police Station or to the house where I’m staying in Islington.
‘Where are we going?’ I ask.
‘Mr Connors would like to see you, sir. It won’t take long, but he’s in East London.’
We’ll have a debrief, I guess. I can’t see that there’s much else I can do for either my President or Her Majesty. I’ll call New York as soon as I get home. ‘Sorry, guys …I got diverted. I didn’t have any options …I’m back in London Town now though. I know it’s probably too late for me to do Paris. The explosion at the Sacre Coeur is definitely yesterday’s news …however, how about …?’ Well, whatever happens, I need a cash source.
* * * * *
The BBC lunchtime news has a Home Office minister saying how everyone regrets what’s happening on the streets in parts of Britain. ‘
We need to live peaceably together
,’ he tells the interviewer. ‘
And whatever happens, we must not give any credence to the claims of British nationalists that they represent our people …because I can say categorically that they don’t. We’re a multicultural society. We always have been and we’re proud of our diversity
.’
‘You don’t expect too much of this extreme stuff here,’ I say, but Robson disagrees.
‘I come from Harlow in Essex, sir. And wherever you go, people say they want a Government that can bring back something of the England we was all familiar with when we were growing up … because, to be honest, most of us ‘ave had it with multiculturalism. It’s not working, an’ we’ve given up too much of our heritage already. Do you know what I mean?’