Dark Clouds (20 page)

I think the elegant fashion columnist’s world is slowly falling apart. All of the clothes, sex and trendy gossip stuff will have to be left on hold for a while, maybe forever. It’s not looking good for Sunita, but in a strange sort of way I think she appreciates the small consideration that Carla Hirsch has just shown her.

Chapter 16

Mukhtar Ali is now in the frame. He’ll be tracked down and dealt with eventually. The problem however is more to do with the young activists he’s been mentoring. ‘
You put a nuclear scientist together with Islamic activists and you’ve got trouble, Rudi.
’

Carla Hirsch is musing as she touches up the varnish on her two tone pink nails. Sunita’s been taken away by Earl and most of the cops have left. We’re on our own in the Manchester Square sitting room of a valuable property. I have to send e-mails to my commissioning editors in New York, but Agent Hirsch needs to talk.

‘You want a drink?’ she asks when she’s finished with her nails. We’re uninvited guests in Sunita Malawi’s inherited house. It doesn’t seem right to plunder her drinks cabinet, but I need the alcohol.

‘Whisky please – and I’ll get ice from the fridge.’

I’m tempted by an open window in the kitchen. I’d have to climb a wall and then maybe break through a cellar door to escape. My freedom wouldn’t last for long though, and the next meeting with my controller would probably be in a windowless room at Paddington Green police station.

‘OK, Rudi,’ she says when I return with the ice. ‘Where do we go from here?’

The Caribbean would be great, preferably Tobago. ‘
You like the Englishman’s Bay, yes?
’ Absolutely – with some dancing in the evening. Alternatively, I could jokingly quiz Carla about how she hit it off with my neighbour, Fiona Adler: Two strong women getting it together in a passionate relationship. Only her eyes are pulling me into line, and flippant speculation is not on.

‘I need to call some of my contacts,’ I say when I’ve glugged back half a tumbler of Sunita Malawi’s vintage Glenfiddick. ‘And I really don’t see what else I can do for you.’

She’s looking at me like a grown up who’s dealing with an unfocused teenager.

‘Get real,’ she says when she’s sipped at a generous gin. ‘Mukhtar Ali’s a nuclear scientist who’s been encouraging Islamic martyrs. We’ve got a lead here, but your friend Sulima’s guy, Pele, is the one we want.’

He looked pretty invincible when I saw him in Brixton. ‘
We’re going to get you, infidel. Today, we’re out on the streets …but it’s just a warm up. We’re going to irradiate London, and when we’re finished, it will be like Japan after Hiroshima and Nagasaki, or Russia when Chernobyl exploded. No one will be able to live or work here
.’

I’m a Londoner by adoption. I don’t have any options. I have to help.

‘OK – so what am I to do?’

I’m trying to work out how she might deal with me if I stray. I can see manacles and maybe a whip as she comes into my cell – but I’m fantasising again.

‘Pele loves Sulima – right?’

‘Yes – I think so.’

‘And she feels the same way?’

Almost certainly.

‘So when she gets here, he’ll probably try to contact her?’

Sulima and my lovely Faria were good friends. They chatted and laughed together over weekends in the Hamptons. They had shared thoughts, I’m sure. ‘
Rudi’s great
,’ Faria might have confided. ‘
Only he’s not too focused, which could be a problem if we want to have a family …we love each other very much, but we’ll need a house and a secure source of income for the mortgage and school fees. It’s early days yet, I guess … but what about you, Sulima? What will you do when you finally meet the love of your life?
’ 

‘And this is where you come in, Rudi,’ Carla suggests. ‘We need your Muslim friend on side, because this is the only way we can get to her guy.’

I can’t allow a situation to develop where Carla uses her shameless interrogation techniques on Sulima. That can’t happen.

‘I’ll call her in Geneva this evening,’ I promise. ‘I’ll confirm the arrangement we’ve made to meet, and I’ll make sure we’re in touch as soon as she arrives.’

My controller likes this. I’m playing ball. I’m still on a tight leash however, but she’s crossing her long, toned legs and I’m concentrating on her designer heels when she takes a call on her mobile. She’s listening without speaking for a while. She then says ‘OK’ before switching off.

‘That was my office in Washington, Rudi. You spoke with a guy on the
Courier
in New York about the interview you did with Wagstaff?’

‘Yes – ’ Name of Stevenson. He was interested in the Islamic students and wanted to know if Jeremy was encouraging their anti-western views.

‘But you haven’t been back to him?’

Not yet, ma’am. I’ve been too taken up, what with the Brixton riots, my Valkyrie princess, and today – having to stand by while you brutally interrogated your hapless targets.

‘OK … call him. Say what you discovered. Wagstaff’s an agitator; he’s disappeared. Don’t give out anything else … although you can encourage him a little if he speculates.’

‘Right – ’

‘And when you’re through, take a break.’

Great. She’s checking her Glock and when she’s put it back in her McCartney bag, she gets up and leaves the room.

I’m tempted to top up my cut glass tumbler with more of Sunita Malawi’s excellent Scottish malt, but I resist. It’s not my house and we’ve already imposed inordinately by the way we’ve crashed in on the unfortunate woman’s life.

‘Hi Grant – ’ I’ve gone straight through to the
Courier
guy’s desk in New York.

‘Rudi … hey, good to hear from you man. You saw this guy Wagstaff?’

Yes. He gave me an audience at the King’s Cross Academy. I hold back on the photographs of knowing Thai youths on his office walls and in the boxes at his house. That’s a whole other story. ‘
You mean he’s some sort of paedophile pervert and he’s dealing with young people as a tutor?
’ I just concentrate on what I observed amongst Muslim students in the canteen at the college.

‘England’s a very tolerant place, Grant. Sometimes people take advantage and it gets a little out of hand. I think that’s what’s happened at the King’s Cross place. It was an aberration.’

‘But you saw all of these Islamic activists in the student canteen … and there was actually a Mullah from Iran?’

‘Yes … although I wouldn’t say that Wagstaff and other members of staff were any more than mentors for the students … although there may be instances when they’ve stepped over the line, as it were.’

‘OK – and would you say this guy Wagaff is some sort of socialist Trotskyist?’

More of a lefty liberal, I think. It’s sort of traditional for academics in England.

‘There is something else though, Grant.’

‘Yeah?’

‘It seems that Wagstaff and his wife, Annalise, have disappeared. The college authorities or their neighbours don’t know where they are … they’ve just vanished.’

‘Jeez … shit! There’s something going on here, right? I mean, if the guy’s a mentor for Islamic activists, and now he’s gone AWOL … hey – what the fuck’s going on, man?’

I’m not sure. He might have had an indication that the authorities here in the UK wanted to question him. So he’s taken off. Where is he? I don’t know. He could be anywhere. Pakistan, North Africa or the Middle East are all possibilities.

‘I’ll check out what’s happening and get back to you,’ I tell Grant.

‘Hey man – that’s great … but what’s this other stuff we’re getting in from the agencies about trouble in England between right wing nationalists and Trotskyists … or should that be Socialist Workers?’

‘I’ll file something on this for you later,’ I promise.

‘Because reports we’ve had after your riots yesterday indicate that Islamic persons may be encouraging Afro-Caribbeans to create public disorder.’

It’s all very unsettled just now, I explain. But we’re breaking up. Security Service  officers have arrived to check out the rest of Sunita Malawi’s exclusive residence. They’re starting in the bedrooms at the top of the house and Robson’s waiting for me in the hallway.

‘You off home?’ he asks.

Yes. I’ve had enough for one day and I want to see Ingrid.

‘Only – you’ll need to be careful.’

‘Why?’

‘Because the aggravation we had yesterday in Brixton is spreading. The conflict now though seems to be more between the Trots and the Nationalists. It started this morning outside the London School of Economics, and it’s spreading.’

But why are these people getting so worked up now I want to know. It’s a reasonable question. As soon as I get it out, however, I wish I had kept my mouth shut. For Robson supports the Nationalists. He doesn’t exactly wear a badge. That wouldn’t go down too well with his controllers, but he has strong feelings about the way life’s been going in England.

‘It was mad to let all of these people in,’ he tells me. ‘At least in the States, immigrants are Americans first and whatever else afterwards.’

I can see where he’s coming from. We do have a special relationship with our flag and all that goes with it, but I don’t want to talk about it now. I’ve been given the afternoon off by Ms Hirsch.

‘Take care,’ I say when he’s rambled on for a bit and I’ve got my fingers on the front door latch.

Outside, Manchester Square is reassuringly English. I think Madonna made a good decision when she bought her place, which is just a short walk away. I’m heading up Bentinck Street, where the Soviet spy Blunt lived, or was it Kim Philby? It’s difficult to see how sensible, well-educated Brits could defect to a country that eventually produced Vladimir Putin. I’m still thinking about it when I get to Harley Street and hail a cab.

There was a beige Lexus outside Sunita Malawi’s house, which reappears as I pull the door shut on the cab. It’s probably just a coincidence, and I forget about it when my traditional London cabbie picks up on my not too pronounced American accent.

‘You’re not from these parts then, guv?’

‘No – I’m just working here, but I love your city.’

It’s like I’ve just lit a fuse and, suddenly, all of this grey-haired guy’s frustrations are spilling out through a small window opening between the front and back of the cab.

‘It’s not wat it was, guv … in fact, I can tell you, it’s totally un-fucking-recognisable … an’ you know why?’

I’m not sure. Well – I have an idea, but I think it’s best if I let my cab-driver express his feelings. He’s a very angry person. ‘
It’s the immigrants – innit? An’ the so called fuckin’ asylum seekers! We got them everywhere now. You go any place in England an’ wha do you find? Poles, Albanians, Muslims and fuckin’ Romanians! We didn’t fight two world wars an’ conquer half the fuckin’ world to end up like this, did we?
’

What can I say? England’s a multicultural society, no question. But that’s how we started out in the States with the Irish, Russians, Italians, Chinese and East Europeans, and some Muslims. Maybe the flag and
old glory
helped. Perhaps Her Majesty needs to have a stronger symbolic presence. I’m not sure about the Union Jack though. It seems to have been taken over by Nationalists, along with the cross of St George. I can see both banners flying in a crowd as we approach Theobald’s Road. There are also a few hammers and sickles and pictures of Che Guevara in his beret amongst the increasingly agitated demonstrators. They’re being watched apprehensively by overweight Police Community Support Officers and there are a few regular cops standing helplessly around the junction with Southampton Row.

‘We can’t keep ‘ow we feel under wraps any longer, guv,’ the cabbie shouts.

A bus load of riot police has just arrived and the Trotskyists are getting excited. ‘Fascists out!’ they scream as a can of tear gas explodes.

‘You ‘ear that?’ my cabbie yells. ‘We need to beat the fuckin’ shit out a those cunts! An’ wen we’ve done wiv ‘em, we’ll deport all of the immigrants an’ so called fuckin’ asylum seekers! Only you know wha the real problem is ‘ere, guv?’

I think it’s time for me to open the cab door and jump out, but it’s locked.

‘No – what’s that?’

‘It’s the Muslims, innit? They don wan to live ‘ere peacefully. They jus wan’ to kill us, don they? Just like wen they knocked your skyscrapers over on 9/11!’

‘I think you can drop me off anywhere here,’ I suggest, but my cab driver’s not having any of it.

‘I like Americans,’ he tells me. ‘We all do. We fought wiv you against the fuckin’ Germans in our darkest days. There’s no way I’m gonna let you out amongst this lot. You might get assaulted, or worse. So I’m takin’ you up to Islington like you asked – right.’

I’m trapped in the back of his cab. Another bus load of cops in riot gear has just arrived and they seem to be concentrating their assault on the Trotskyists.

‘You see – most of our police are proper British people,’ my guy explains. ‘In fac, I’d go so far as to suggest tha they sympathise wiv our position politically … you know?’

He’s passing me a Nationalist sticker, which I lay cautiously on the seat beside me where I hope he can’t see it. It’s not over yet though, because as we cut down Lambs Conduit Street, he’s turning up a BBC radio news programme.

‘You lisen to this,’ he commands.

There’s a BBC woman, Jill Somerville, talking about disturbances in a place called Bradford, which I think is in the North of England. ‘We have reports of a mosque on fire in the city centre,’ she tells us, ‘and we’re going over now to our reporter, Sonil Iqbal … Sonil – what’s happening?’

‘Well – the mosque is on fire as we speak, Jill. And I have with me here the local Imam … sir, what are your feelings about all of this?’

‘
It’s outrageous!
’ the Imam shouts, his voice quivering. ‘
We cannot understand how you English can do this to us. It is an unforgivable crime … and I have to tell you that there will be a response. You have defiled Allah’s temple … and, believe me, you will pay!
’

‘You see wha I mean,’ my cab driver responds reasonably. ‘These people come over ‘ere – on the face of it, to build a better life … an’ now, wha do they wan to do guv? They wanna kill us, don they? Yeah – well, it’s not on, is eet?’