Dark Clouds Read Free Page A

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.
    ‘Don’t move!’ an excited cop with a Heckler and Koch machine pistol