Dark Clouds (6 page)

‘Yes?’

‘I met a Norwegian woman at a party last night, and she gave me her phone number.’

‘Oh – mon dieu, Rudi … is she gorgeous … and what does she do?’

It’s early days yet, I say when I’ve described Ingrid. But Sulima is such good company it’s easy to feel optimistic. Our being together again takes me back to great days in the Hamptons, where the Sharifs had frequent parties at their weekend place. These were laid back, fun and carefree times. During the day, we played tennis, swam and lay on the beach while at night we partied and danced, sometimes until the sun came up the next morning. I had just started work as a journalist in New York. It was a year before the Twin Towers collapsed and I had fallen in love with Sulima’s friend, Faria Bailey.

*  *  *  *  *

‘So much has happened since then,’ she says after a while and I’m aware of the smile faltering around her intense but hauntingly beautiful Syrian face.

‘You mentioned a friend when we last met in London, Sulima.’

It was a brief reference that had escaped over lunch in Covent Garden a month previously. At the time, she had been a little coy about the details. Now however, there are tears edging out along her eyelids and trickling down over her satin smooth Arabic cheeks.

‘Pele and I were in love,’ she admits eventually. ‘We both worked together briefly at the same bank in New York. I don’t think you met him, Rudi. But he was very special for me – until … well – it all ended suddenly, without any warning.’

It happens. It causes great upsets. Someone else comes along, and wham! The love of your life has gone. Fickle hearts get turned and seduced. Only the temptation for Sulima’s guy was different. It came out slowly and reluctantly as we sat at our restaurant table on the lakeside terrace. A fragile Saudi had seduced her man, Pele. A tall, educated Wahabi with a wispy beard, long robes, a hand-woven waistcoat and an Afghan hat.   

 ‘So he’s gone over to Osama?’

‘Yes,’ Sulima admits, and it hurts. ‘He still sends me e-mails. He says he loves me and that he wants us to get married and have children.’

‘Sure – and you will.’

‘Only we’ll have to wait, Rudi … because Pele says none of this can happen until the world’s been turned upside down. He sees it as his mission to punish Allah’s enemies … it’s all so futile.’

I’m taking in a tsunami of grief here, but there’s more to come.

‘It’s Mike,’ she says when our food arrives and she pushes a piece of lettuce from one side of her plate to the other. ‘I don’t know if you’ve heard, but he’s now calling himself Mohammed and he turns to face Mecca every day to say his prayers.’

I’m nodding. I really want to be supportive. Mohammed is after all Sharif’s birth name. He only changed it to Mike so he might fit in more easily with the mainly white Anglo Saxon Protestant guys and girls on our politics course at Berkeley in the late nineties.

‘We’re going through difficult times,’ I say with as much conviction as I can manage. I’m sure it’s just a blip that will pass. ‘
Believe me, honey …we all have our mad moments. But we usually come through even the worst scenarios. So, with a bit of luck, maybe next year, or sometime in the future, Islam and the West will make peace. It will happen, I hope … then everyone can chill out and we’ll all get together again
.’

‘Oh, Rudi … what must you think of me?’ she asks when she’s wiped away the remains of a tear and flicked her thick dark hair from one shoulder of her elegant Fendi jacket to the other. ‘I promise not to get maudlin again while you’re here, and Mike is really looking forward to seeing you. I must warn you though that I’ll be in London again in a week or so. I’ll be relying on you to take me out and introduce me to people with a sense of humour … that’s what I really need!’

I’m willing up positive thoughts on what we could do together in my adopted city. There are some great shows playing in the West End and Fiona would love Sulima. Carla Hirsch is still there in the background though with Earl Connors, Rashid and Khalad and they’re not going to disappear.

‘Will you excuse me for a moment,’ Sulima says when her phone rings. ‘I’ll be right back … and I will have a glass of wine with you.’

She doesn’t normally touch alcohol, but I’m already pouring her a glass of Sancerre, and as my foot moves under the table I knock over her unfastened Gucci bag. Several items fall out, including a photograph. I don’t want to pry because Sulima is a friend. So I put the small mirror, a comb and a tube of face cream back in her bag and I’m about to replace the photograph when I hesitate, hooked by the determined face of a mid-thirties Asian guy.

He is handsomely bald and there is a lot of fervour in the eyes. It worries me just looking at him. I feel he’s got me in the frame and that every move I make will be tracked.  I’m sensing intense commitment followed by explosions in Western cities. I’ve got the miniature camera Carla Hirsch gave me. I’m trying to be discreet, but I’m not sure if I’m pressing the right button. There’s also a waiter grinning expectantly from the other side of the terrace. ‘
Is sir, OK … does madam need anything? No – we’re fine, thanks … and please, just stay where you are
.’

I should return the photograph to Sulima’s bag, but I’m turning it over. There’s a neat inscription on the back. It’s in green ink and says, ‘
I’ll always love you …Pele
’.

Chapter 5

‘Mike’s at the Foundation, and I’m going to drop you off there,’ Sulima says when she returns.

‘Ah – ’

‘Something’s happened at our office in Paris and I need to make some calls.’

I was hoping she might be around when I saw her brother. It’s not a reunion I’m looking forward to. For now though, I’m making out like it’s not a problem.

‘Why don’t we pass on the coffee,’ I suggest.

‘All right … if you don’t mind. I’ll come down to join you as soon as I can,’ she promises.

When we get back to the Porsche, we head towards a bridge that crosses the lake. There are mountains everywhere, and Julie Andrews keeps dancing back with the good guy’s kids. But I’m preoccupied with the photograph that fell out of Sulima’s bag. Mohammad Atta had the same menacing stare as her guy, Pele, and they probably shared a message. ‘
OK … so listen up, you decadent Western scumbags. We may not have achieved a great deal over the last thousand years or whatever, but we’ll settle for having you all shaking in your boots, you Christian reprobates! Do you hear what we’re saying? Take heed, infidels … because the next big bang’s going to be nuclear!
’  

‘There must be a lot of interesting people here,’ I say lightly.

‘You mean men?’

‘Well – ’

‘I’ve switched off on guys Rudi … I can’t cope with what happens when it all goes wrong.’

I’m homing in on people I might introduce her to in London. I’m not sure if any of my acquaintances would be suitable. They’re all a bit cynical or jaded. But Fiona Adler would know what to do. She’s got a book full of eligible contacts and she sees every bruised heart as a matchmaking challenge.

‘Mike has changed,’ Sulima says without warning. We’ve crossed the lake and she’s turned into a tree-lined avenue on the outskirts of Geneva’s Old Town. ‘He’s lost a lot of his sparkle, and he’s at odds with the West, which is difficult for me to live with.’

Could I pass on the Sharif Foundation experience, I’m wondering? Would someone call me, please? Or maybe I could dial a number to nowhere. ‘
Hey …are you my mythical guy at the UN – the one I’m meant to be interviewing on poverty in Africa? Right – OK …ah, so you want to reschedule …like now? No problem … I’m close to the Old Town, so I’ll be right over.
’

This is what I need, but it’s not happening. Sulima’s pulling up outside an impressive building. There’s ivy and wisteria on the walls, and through the gates I can see an enchanting garden with what must be at least a hectare of lush lawns.

‘It belonged to an African politician,’ Sulima says. ‘But something happened in his country. He had to leave quickly, so Mike bought the house.’

There are two Swiss gendarmes outside the gates. Sulima gives them a wave and then a smile. They’re both grinning and saluting. Her ID card is a mere formality between a welcoming ‘
bonjour, madame’
from one and a spontaneous ‘
comment ca va?
’ from the other.

‘I’ll see you soon,’ she says when I get out of the car. Her lips are pursed discreetly into what I think could be a small kiss. It floats towards me like it’s coming from heaven.

I respond with a wink as she turns. I then straighten up respectfully when one of the cops sticks out his chin and rolls a finger over the trigger guard on his Uzi sub-machine gun. They want to check my ID, and when they’re done, a great oak front door opens at the house.

I’ve been admitted to the Sharif Foundation and I’m greeted by a smiling Arab servant. Inside, a spacious reception area leads down to what must once have been a ballroom. It’s furnished now with portable seating in front of a raised podium, while all around the sides there are tables with hors d’oeuvre snacks, canapés and soft drinks.

‘Mr Sharif is expecting you, sir,’ the servant says. ‘If you would like to come with me, I will take you to him.’

We are on the steps of an impressive staircase that curves up to the next floor. I’m clutching at the banisters and thinking of the African politician who had previously lived here. It would have been a great place for entertaining. But from what Sulima said, I guess the previous occupant has either been shot, or is in jail.

*  *  *  *  *

‘Oui – entrez,’ a familiar voice says when the servant knocks on the door of a first floor room at the front of the house.

It’s been a few years since we last met. I’m apprehensive, but Sulima’s still quite handsome older brother hasn’t changed much. There are a few flecks of grey in his thick black hair. The shadows under his eyes are slightly more pronounced, but he still has a winning smile and a commanding presence.

‘Rudi!’ he exclaims, getting up from behind a vast mahogany desk and coming towards me with outstretched arms.

‘Ah – Mike … or should I say Mohammed?’

He laughs at this and when we’ve embraced, he shakes his head. ‘You haven’t changed, Flynn … I bet you’re still the same disreputable fucking bastard we all loved at Berkeley and in New York!’

Absolutely! I’ll run with this and anything else that says we’re still buddies. My Syrian has a mischievous grin. He’s always been a dark charmer and it’s difficult to see him as an enemy of my President: A calculating jihadist who, according to Carla Hirsch, could be preparing to eliminate everyone who disagrees with his warped ideas.

‘It’s been a while,’ I say, ‘and I like your place here – I mean, it’s almost rural compared with New York. I can’t see you getting up to anything out of hand with the locals.’

I’m testing the water. When we had known each other in the States, it had frequently been pre-party drinks in the evening on the Lower East Side with maybe tennis and beach barbecues over weekends at the Sharifs’ place in the Hamptons.

‘This is very different,’ he says. There is still, however, a smile in his dark eyes and he steers me to a comfortable sofa when his servant returns with glasses of mint tea. ‘I guess I have changed, Rudi … well, as you can see, I’m into tea now rather than beer!’

 Carla Hirsch and Earl Connors are hovering like spirits in the corner and I’ve got a huge radiation sign hanging on the door behind Sharif. ‘
If we nuke you, Rudi, you won’t ever recover. Can you imagine what it would be like if we irradiated London? Where would everyone go? The economy would be ruined …you’d be like primitives scrabbling for water in an arid desert …
’ I’m already in role though, and there’s no way I’m giving the impression that we’re anything other than soul mates from the past.

‘We’re all evolving,’ I say with a shrug. ‘The world’s changing around us.’

He seems to like what I’m offering, although he does pause before coming back.

‘I suppose you’re wondering why I’ve reverted to my birth name?’

‘Not at all … I think I understand.’

‘Really?’

‘Sure – you’re unhappy with the way it’s going between Islam and the West … but you know where you are.’

You’re on one side and I’m on the other. We’re at war, Mike, or should I say Mohammed. I’m thinking of respectable Brits and Germans who could have been firm friends before 1914. Then, suddenly, instead of going off to the theatre or the opera together they found themselves fighting and killing each other in France and Belgium.

‘I don’t know how we got to where we are now,’ Sharif says. He’s looking out over the gardens, ‘but the differences between us are very real … and I’m not alone in the way I feel.’

The mint tea is a welcome distraction, but I’m batting covertly for my President and Her Majesty now. I’ve got to go for it, so I embrace Sharif with my eyes. ‘Iraq was a mistake,’ I tell him. ‘And Afghanistan … crazy, misguided adventures that have totally isolated us.’

I’m up against a solid block of Islamic conviction. But there are distant memories of good times we once shared together: Carefree days and nights when we drank too much and partied through the night with a whole swathe of fun friends.

 ‘It goes back a lot further than what’s happened recently, Rudi,’ Sharif says eventually. And I believe it’s going to get worse before we have any sort of resolution.’

Does he mean like Nagasaki or Hiroshima multiplied by 10 or 100? I feel this is what he has in mind. I’m praying for the mint tea to quickly change into whisky. I desperately need something to block out the implications of what I’m hearing.

‘How do you think it’ll go?’ I ask. I’m trying to pretend that we might still be knocking up before a weekend tennis match at the Hamptons. It’s getting heavy though and I’m trapped.

‘We’re a proud people,’ Sharif says. ‘We have a great sense of community, but now we feel we have been humiliated … and it’s not acceptable. You’ll agree, I’m sure.’

I’m nodding desperately. Is there a way of turning this around? Could we shake hands and make up before we get to Armageddon? There are already dark clouds over Iran and Pakistan. The Middle East’s in turmoil, but now the threat’s closer to home. ‘
We think your friend is funding a group that wants to hit London or New York, Rudi,
’ Carla Hirsch had suggested. ‘
And it could be nuclear …
’