Dark Clouds (24 page)

Of course. My Valkyrie Princess – or is it now just a woman called Ingrid – has a studio that overlooks a railway line there, so I know the area.

‘I can meet you in the Phoenix café on Shacklewell Lane at ten tomorrow.’

The way I’m feeling, that’s too early, but I’ll be there.

‘Take care,’ I say and he coughs in acknowledgement.

I’m asleep when the next call comes. It just keeps ringing and I’m hoping it might go to a message when my hand reaches out and presses the answer button.

‘Rudi?’

‘Oh – Ingrid … hi. Where are you?’

‘Didn’t Fiona tell you? My mother has a problem in Helsinki.’

It’s coming back. Her Sardinian father is carrying on with a female pastor in, I think Oslo – or maybe it’s Stockholm.

‘I had to come here from Paris,’ she says, ‘because my mother couldn’t cope.’

‘Ah – ’

‘But what have you been up to … I couldn’t get through on your phone.’

I’m working on a very absorbing story, I tell her. One that needed all of my concentration. ‘I also mislaid my phone, and it’s only just turned up again.’

I’m being deliberately vague. If we’re going south, maybe this is the best way to end it – and there is a long pause.

‘I’m missing your story,’ she says and I’m baffled. ‘You remember … you’re great grandmother Róisín, who joined the Fenians when she was disappointed in love.’

Sure.

‘I want to know more about what happened to her.’

So maybe she hasn’t fallen for the Russian who likes her art work.

‘I’m hoping to get back in the next day or so,’ she says.

Great.

‘And if you still like the idea, we could go to my exhibition in Newcastle.’

I’ve been deliberately shutting her out, and why? For what? I’m a complete idiot. I can already see a chariot coming over the South Downs, and my Valkyrie Princess is whooping up a frenzy of excitement all the way to London. I think Faria’s out there on a star. She’s still smiling and I’m waving back through the window.

‘I’m looking forward to seeing you,’ I tell Ingrid. ‘And is the Greek island still on?’

‘Of course it is. Why … did you think it had sunk into the Aegean?’

What can I say? It’s suddenly all on the up again.

‘Only now, I must go, Rudi. My mother and I are having supper together and there is a nice man who seems to be keen on her. He’s joining us, so maybe soon I won’t be needed by her side.’

Love is definitely in the air. I’m yearning again for Ms Cesaro. We ‘
ciao, darling’
to each other and kiss over the phone. I’ll have to try and be more together. An IBUPROFEN helps me to sleep. I can hear birds twittering in the morning, and instead of pulling the duvet up over my head, I jump out of bed.

The shower is hard work although I do my best to keep the arm bandage dry. There’s still a bump on my head, but Dr Benson has given me a tube of Calendula, which I dab on, and I’m dressed when Abdul arrives with breakfast. He’s got a friendly smile and I try not to concentrate on his hotel name badge as he takes the cover off my full English breakfast.

‘Enjoy your day, sir.’

‘Thanks,’ I say, slipping him a couple of English pounds.

I’ll be broke if I go on tipping like this, but Abdul is pleased and I get a cheery wave when he reaches the door. I’m not really hungry, so when I’ve poured coffee, I put the china lid back on my full English and check for phone messages.

I have strict instructions about ringing the number Robson gave me whenever I leave the hotel. ‘It’s for your security,’ he said, and in general terms I accept this. This morning, however, I need to be on my own. There’s a service lift at the end of my corridor, which is deserted. So I slip out and take it to the basement car park.  

I grin at the guy on the barrier. ‘It’s looking good,’ I say, pointing up at the sun, and he’s thinking he must have missed me on the way in. But either way, I’m wearing a suit and a decent shirt, so I’m unlikely to be a local bad boy checking out expensive, garaged cars.

My cab driver’s cheerful. The sun usually makes people smile in London. ‘Great day, guv,’ he says. ‘Gawd … it’s bin rainin for so long now, I’ve forgotten wha it was like when it wasn’t … know wha I mean?’

There’s a lot of building work going on in Dalston, and I’m taking in the Turkish restaurants when I suddenly see the dome of a mosque. The faithful are just going into pray, and I can see a sign for the Phoenix café.

‘It’s all asylum seekers an drugs down ere,’ the cabbie tells me, so I try to get into an ‘eyes front and walk quickly’ mind set.

A dyed blonde-haired woman is approaching on teetering heels. I make a point of standing aside to let her pass, but she grabs my arm and whispers in my ear: ‘you fancy a bit of relief, luv?

‘Not just now, thanks … I’ve got an appointment.’

The Phoenix café is pretty much in keeping with the rest of the area. It smells of stale kebab meats. But there’s a row of secluded alcoves along one wall and Khalad’s sitting in one of them with an Arabic newspaper.

‘It is not good for us to meet like this,’ he says when a moustachioed waiter with a Kurdish emblem on his jersey has taken our order for mint teas.

‘I understand how you feel,’ I tell him. ‘But this is important, Khalad. ‘You knew that someone took a shot at me.’

He’s looking over my head at the top of the wooden alcove. He should not have mentioned this when we spoke last night. I haven’t yet been publicly identified as the victim of a drive by shooting, and I can see that he’s uneasy as we wait for our mint teas.

‘I know something is being planned,’ I tell him when I’m sure no one can overhear us. ‘Do you really want to be part of this?’

‘What do you mean?’

Our mint teas arrive and I’m still holding onto his eyes across the plastic-topped table.

‘We both know that a nuclear incident is in the offing for London.’

He’s looking down at the leaves in his tea. ‘Is this what you want?’

I’m trying to avoid making it a specifically Islamic issue. I’m relying on the fact that Khalad is, I’m pretty sure, basically a good guy.

‘Of course I don’t,’ he says emphatically. ‘But the British have brought it on themselves, Rudi. You have seen how these Nationalists are taunting our people and defiling our mosques … also, they sided with the Americans who have humiliated us in Iraq and Afghanistan. We have to make a stand … you understand this, surely?’

When I was growing up as a nominal Catholic, my mother used to tell me that one of the best things about our religion was the whole idea of fallibility and forgiveness. ‘
There are no absolutes with right and wrong
,’ she used to say. ‘
We can all fall and be forgiven – and if we’re tempted occasionally, well, we’re only human
.’

I’m relying on this snippet of maternal wisdom for my pitch point.

‘Khalad … if you help us on this one, you would be richly rewarded.’

‘You mean like Rashid was … I could be shot or stabbed until I die.’

No, no, my man. We can offer safe sanctuary today or tomorrow for yourself and your family. All we need is your co-operation. If you give us this, you will have a bright future. Your family will benefit, both financially and in the quality of life that you will enjoy.

‘And what happens if I refuse to cross over and join you, Rudi?’

Carla Hirsch, Earl Connors and Jason Robson will track you down, my friend. They will subject you to a very uncomfortable interrogation, which will most probably involve your having your head immersed in a large sink full of water. It is also possible that electric wires will be attached to your genitals to give you a series of unpleasant shocks.

‘You have your family in Tunisia, Khalad.’

‘Yes – ’

‘Well, even as we speak, I think I can say with certainty that they’re under surveillance. With a single telephone call they can be detained and taken across the border to Egypt. Where they’ll go from there is anyone’s guess. Their fate is in your hands.’

My Controller isn’t even aware of Khalad’s surname, but he doesn’t know that. We’re bat-and-balling here, and the stakes are high.

‘Have you ever stopped to think, Rudi, why people blow themselves up every other day – not just in Iraq and Afghanistan, but all over the Middle East?’

Maybe it’s the virgins who are waiting in heaven to reward them. Personally, I think seventy-two is too many, and I’d rather trade maybe half of that number in for a case of whisky and a few bottles of vintage French wine, and maybe even a barrel of beer.

‘I think we all understand what motivates martyrs, Khalad. It can, I’m sure, be a noble calling, and I have no doubt but that it brings results. If it’s what you want, fair enough, I can’t stop you … but is this your chosen calling? And what about your family … are they to die as well?’

He’s less righteous and more agitated than I thought he might be.

‘You would never want for anything,’ I tell him. ‘And neither would your family. You would have the very best in a place of your choice.’

Can I deliver on this? Maybe – but I’m not sure. Carla might just take the goods and then do away with my contact.

‘You know I could only go along with you, Rudi, if I was convinced that what our activists are doing is wrong … and I’m not sure it is.’

‘Would you like a gesture of good faith on our part?’

He’s looking at me across the table. I’m talking about a bag of pounds or dollars, quite a decent sum. We’ve developed a certain trust between us in recent weeks. He knows I lost a loved one on 9/11 and I think he sympathises. There’s a good vibe between us.

‘I need time to think about it,’ he says.

But that’s not possible. If we’re to do a deal, it must be today.

‘But where?’

‘Here … at six this evening. I’ll bring some money.’

I’m taking in the state of his jacket, shirt, shoes and trousers. They all need replacing. He’s a decent guy, no question, but human. My mom would have concluded that there were elements of fallibility in his character.

‘I will meet you again this evening,’ he says. ‘But only because I want to talk everything through with you before making a decision.’

I’ve cast my rod out and I think I’ve got a bite. Will Carla give me a bag of cash to hand over to my contact? I’m not sure about that. But I’m thinking radiation showers. I can’t allow that to happen, even if it means I have to compromise my Tunisian contact.

*  *  *  *  *

The Phoenix café doesn’t sell alcohol. ‘No licence,’ the Kurdish proprietor says when Khalad has gone. I have a £10 note in my pocket and when I take it out the Kurd relents. ‘I have vodka,’ he says, taking the tenner, and I get two thin fingers in a glass that needs a wipe.

It’s too early to call anyone in New York, so I try Fiona Adler. I just need a chat, and I’m hoping she might be free. But she isn’t, so I leave my phone switched on in case she calls back. A second vodka helps me relax and I’m starting to engage the Kurd on his people’s relationship with the Turks.

‘They wan to keel us,’ he tells me. ‘No ees good there now.’

You don’t mess with the Ottomans, that’s for sure, but my phone’s ringing.

‘George?’

‘No … but who is this?’

‘Sorry, mate – I’ve misdialled.’

The number’s not in my directory, so I assume it’s a genuine dialling error. The Kurd is busy with someone who looks just like him. I assume they’re doing an illicit deal. One couldn’t possibly earn a living from the takings at the Phoenix café. But I’m restless again. I don’t know what I’m meant to be doing and I’m certainly not cut out for the amateur spook scene that I’ve been press-ganged into by Carla Hirsch. I’m looking for a way out when I see what looks like a blue light flashing across a mirror that’s hanging behind the Kurd’s cash register. The revolving flashes are outside on either side of the café and there’s a cop with a gun in the doorway.

‘Stay where you are,’ he commands. ‘Don’t move – any of you!’

The Kurd and his accomplice have already raised their hands. ‘
We surrender, officer …it’s a fair cop. But please – in mitigation, we only deal in hashish …no heroin or cocaine.
’

A guy with a flak jacket is coming in with another cop. ‘Are you Rudi Flynn,’ he asks, picking up my phone from the table.

‘Yes … but what’s this all about?’

He’s going through the directory on my mobile and when he’s finished, he’ switches it off.

‘You’d better come with us.’

‘Why?’

‘Oh, for fuck’s sake! Just get up and walk out … all right?’

I don’t think this person is very happy with whatever it is he does, and I can’t see much give or take, or humour, if he’s in any sort of relationship situation.

Outside, Shacklewell Lane has been closed off and a crowd of bemused Muslims are peering from behind the gate of their mosque in the adjoining street. The police are not allowing them out and there’s a white van nearby with radio antennae and a revolving receiver. The guy with the flak jacket pushes me into the back seat of a police van. We then take off with blue lights flashing along the Kingsland Road to the Stoke Newington police station. When we arrive, my escort takes me through a secure car park at the back of the building, and as soon as we’re inside, I’m making a stand.

‘I don’t know who you are,’ I say brusquely, ‘but I’ve been working with your security services, so I suggest you call Earl Connors or Jason Robson. Their numbers are both in my phone, which you’ve just taken without my permission.’

He’s looking at the floor, but when he raises his head, I’m worried.

‘Listen arsehole … why don’t you shut the fuck up and do as you’re told – all right?’

I don’t like this person at all. He’s got discernible psychopathic traits and he’s in urgent need of treatment. He’s got two armed cops backing him up, however, and one of them has a hand on the butt of his gun.

There is an administrative delay while a station officer considers the accommodation situation. I’m then led to a lift that descends to a basement area with a corridor of windowless cells.

‘I don’t like your attitude, and I shall speak with your superior,’ I say to my captor, which gets me a ‘
fuck you
.’ I’m then pushed into a bare cell and there’s a mean little kick on the door as it closes.