Dark Clouds

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Book: Dark Clouds by Phil Rowan Read Free Book Online
Authors: Phil Rowan
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.

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