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
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
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