by Greg Barron
Marika’s eyes flick around the cell, a surprisingly large space designed for many more prisoners. An uncovered, half-full latrine bucket sits at one corner, attended by a cloud of green and metallic blue flies. The concrete floor is littered with detritus — chewed animal bones and discarded packaging — so that it resembles the cave of a predator. The smell of urine and faeces, uneaten food, and decay combine into a miasma that numbs the senses.
A stone bench sits against the far wall, a filthy blanket crumpled into a heap at one end. The cell is divided from its neighbours by bars, and the occupants stare in at her also. Bony knuckled hands and gaunt faces.
Marika stands, hands on hips. ‘You have no right to lock me in here. I demand that you release me.’ The crowd at the door laugh, as if the angry woman is the funniest sight of their lives. She crosses her arms in front of her chest. ‘Piss off, why don’t you?’
The answer is another round of laughter followed by silence, then more footsteps. Shouted orders, a commotion. The watchers melt away.
The cell door opens and three men enter. One is the senior man from the vehicle, with that thin moustache and cruel twist to his lips. He saunters up to her, stops, and examines her from head to toe. Abruptly, he lifts one hand and slaps her face so hard that she reels, registering the whiplash effect on her spine as her head flies sideways with the impact of the blow.
Marika is more shocked than hurt at the sudden assault. But she holds her hand to the affected area, swaying, trying to regain her balance. The man who struck her whispers something harsh, and sneers, nostrils flaring. She picks out the word ‘American’ from the torrent he aims at her.
Finding her balance, she steps back, just out of range of another unprovoked blow. ‘I am not an American. Australian, OK?’
Again without changing expression, the man cocks his arm and his fist flies out. Marika ducks, rolling her head sideways, avoiding much of the force of the punch. Even so, bony knuckles ring against her skull.
Marika feels the anger build. One, two, three. Creeping like fire into her veins. OK, you want to fight? I’m not going to lose out twice to you bastards. She backs away, lifting both hands, weight on her right foot, crouched, lips set in a grim line.
At one hundred and eighty centimetres in height, and lithe rather than bulky, Marika knows she can handle herself against all but the most skilled and strongest of men. Years earlier, at a month-long hand-to-hand combat course at Australia’s SAS barracks near Perth, she was forced to spar with one man after another who could not believe that a woman, albeit a fourth dan black belt, could beat them on the mats.
The Somali smiles and lifts his own fists in a boxing stance, feet even and widely spaced. Marika sums up his approach, noting that he has left his groin vulnerable. He feints once, watching her respond, then turns to laugh with the other men, but cuts this short and goes on the attack. He moves in fast, launching a strike to her kidneys that never lands.
Marika’s foot connects like a pile-driver into the apex of his legs, feeling the soft crunch of his testicles beneath the blow. He goes down into a crouch with a shriek of pain, clutching at his damaged balls with both hands.
The sight of the guards cocking their assault rifles prevents her from going in for the kill — a stiffened hand to the base of the neck would finish the man, but instinct tells her that they will shoot if she does so. Instead, she backs up and hovers, still poised to defend herself.
The Samopal rifles are levelled at her, the gunmen growling ominously, talking each other up, shouting warnings. More men appear at the cell door. The injured man is recovering, standing, yet his face is still twisted in pain and anger. He gives an order, then stands, glaring at her, teeth clamped together, lips drawn back.
Nothing happens for perhaps a minute. Marika holds her stance, watchful, every nerve and muscle strained to snapping point. Footsteps sound in the corridor. Running men. She wonders what they are doing. More men perhaps — enough to overcome her with numbers and strength.
The cell door opens and another man enters. In his right hand he carries a weapon that she recognises as a Taser X3. She backs against the wall, trying to prepare herself, but there is no time. The tiny darts, powered by nitrogen, strike her chest and the shock turns her muscles to jelly. She wavers, almost falling.
They give her no time to recover, rushing in at her. A rifle butt strikes the point of her elbow and another crashes into the side of her head. Now she goes down, getting her hands out just in time to break her fall.
A boot strikes her nose and she feels the blood well and drip from the end of her nose. She rolls, covering her face as best she can as the blows rain down on her. Three men at once. Boots connecting all over her body. The abuse stops then, and the leader, face glowing with anger, goes down to one knee and screams at her.
Up close, her tormentor’s face is terrifying, and the smell of an unwashed male body overpowering. More of the same diatribe; again she picks up the word ‘American’.
Marika spits out the words, ‘Sorry, mate, but I don’t know what the hell you’re on about.’
The face twists with rage, and a palm, held flat, connects with the side of her head, and her hearing goes, becoming a high-pitched hiss, like the sound of a seashell held to the ear. For the first time she considers the prospect of long-term damage at the hands of these thugs.
Now the leader lifts her by her shirt. His mouth opens and closes, but she can no longer hear him. She feels her eyes roll back in her head. Only the pain breaks through as he grips her tighter. She feels as if she is about to suffocate. Blood drips over her lips and down along her neck.
‘Fuck you …’
He drops her, and she falls like a sack of fertiliser. Lying on her back she tries to gather her wits while the officer pulls a knife from a sheath at his side and squats down, sitting on her abdomen, holding the knife close to her face.
This is not the traditional knife some of the others carry, but a large fighting blade of the type Marika has seen for sale in mail-order catalogues and gun shops, an inch-wide blade, viciously serrated on the top; known as Rambo knives after a decades-old movie of the same name. He moves the blade close to her neck and at that moment she believes that she is about to die.
Just before slitting her windpipe, however, the officer grins, changes grip and brings the razor edge up to her face, making as if to cut off her nose. Marika squeals and the other men in the cell, along with spectators at the door, laugh as though this is the funniest sight of their lives. Her tormentor’s eyes move to her breasts. Again he brings the knife blade down and pretends to cut. Again they laugh.
Finally, as if tired of the game, the man stands, sheathes the knife and says something to her, followed by a hawking sound deep in his throat. He spits into her face so that she can feel the loathsome excretion on her cheek and lips.
The cell door opens and the three men leave. When they have gone she picks herself up off the floor and wipes her face, aching in a dozen places, uncaring of the crowd who regather at the doorway.
Day 2, 11:00
Faruq Nabighah has been at work since before dawn, yet down here sun and moon are irrelevant. The roar of the tunnel boring machine is continuous. He is a big man, with long, shaggy hair over his neck and broad shoulders. His most noticeable feature, however, is a set of porcelain-white false teeth, legacy of a blasting accident as a young man that left him with a broken jaw and a mouthful of fragmented molars and incisors. A full beard hides the scar that stretches down from his lower lip and across his chin. Even now he remembers the six months he needed to conquer his new fear of the underground. Months when he trembled with each step into that nether region of artificial light and earthy, unfamiliar scents.
That, however, was long ago, and now he is more at home down here than on any city street. He turns to Kamal.
‘Go, get the geo reports. Run.’
Faruq watches him move — good workers are hard to find, and just when he has them trained to perfe
ction, they leave, worn down by the dust and the noise. In the heavy engineering industry, even in these tough times, there is still work in Dubai and the wider Emirates. The days of wealthy Sheikhs vying with each other to perform miracles are over, but there are still road tunnels and underground walkways to build. Faruq is a rich man. He has an apartment that overlooks al-Mamzar beach, and a red car with an Italian name, yet still he loves his work, drilling tunnels so perfect he could, if he chose, start at either end, two kilometres apart, and join them up to within a metre. This is the environment he thrives on; his office and his passion.
Faruq walks to the cage, opens the door and steps inside, pressing a buzzer on a brushed aluminium console. The door rattles closed, and moments later he hears the whine of an electric motor. The cage hurtles up towards the surface. The sun is bright and hot as he steps out. He slips a pair of dark sunglasses from his pocket, walking towards the transportable shed that makes up his office.
Almost there, he stops and squints at a pair of unfamiliar cars that sit in the dusty car park, both neat little Nissan hybrids, both new, and both dark silver. He crinkles his nose and sniffs the air like an animal sensing … not danger, but something unusual that might threaten his routine.
Continuing to walk, he sees men waiting, and the smell of officialdom becomes as strong as that of offal. Faruq dislikes rules and red tape. They cost money and time, and he values both.
The group walks towards him, led by a tall man with hair greying at the sides. ‘My name is Abdullah bin al-Rhoumi, may peace be upon you.’
They fill the site office to capacity, the air-conditioner rattling away on the wall. For a minute or two, as custom dictates, they make conversation, including polite inquiry as to the health of each man.
Faruq has heard of Abdullah, for his name features occasionally in the al-Bayan newspaper he reads each day. ‘I am honoured by your visit,’ he says at last, ‘yet remain at a loss as to how I can help you.’
The visitor unrolls a chart on the desk. ‘This is the Rabi al-Salah Centre near the port. You do, of course, know what has happened there?’
Faruq glances at his watch. ‘God has blessed me with sufficient intelligence to grasp the affairs of the world.’
‘We want to dig a tunnel from here, near the Interchange Number Seven, to beneath the centre itself. How do you assess the feasibility of such a plan?’
Faruq studies the map for a full minute. The work would entail burrowing under built-up streets and even industrial sites. Dredging up what he knows of the area he leans back in his chair, understanding at last why they have come to see him. ‘Everything is possible, but how do you intend to dig the tunnel?’
‘That is a question I will address to you. How will you dig the tunnel?’
‘No, not me. Impossible. It would take several days just to move my machines and equipment. By the time it is done your crisis will be over.’
‘Can you move your operation in twelve hours?’
Faruq mulls through the machinery, the consumables, the portable toilets, and the low loaders necessary. Then he considers the distance from here to the new site. The region of greater Dubai exists in his head as a grid of one-kilometre squares. Eighteen kilometres as the crow flies, he calculates. ‘No. I am sorry. Perhaps seventy-two hours if we work like ants … But this is academic. I am committed to a project. We are running on time. I will not abort it — a contract is my law, and these days they are hard to come by.’
Again the tall man seems not to have heard this last comment, instead mumbling to himself. ‘Seventy-two hours. That is too long, and we could move heavy gear only at night. Many eyes will be watching.’
Faruq folds his arms. ‘I will not do it. There is no use in discussing the logistics.’
‘You have to do it.’
‘I will not.’ Standing, he brushes down the crease in his cotton work trousers. ‘Thank you, gentlemen, but I have work to do.’
Still Abdullah makes no effort to move, but produces a cell phone and punches a few buttons. ‘This is Abdullah bin al-Rhoumi. Head of GDOIS. Put me through to Sheikh Mohammed al-Rashid, Vice President of the UAE and Prime Minister of Dubai.’
Faruq sits down, feeling like a gambler who is about to lose to a card cheat. His visitor, it seems, has contacts.
‘Hello. Abdullah here. It is necessary to requisition the assets of a company. Yes; yes; good.’ He puts the phone down and turns to the young Frenchman beside him. ‘We can take all the machinery. You have researched some men who can direct the work for us, haven’t you, Léon?’
‘Certainly — Pierre Dauphin, in Paris, and James Lloyd in London. Both are happy to fly across at a moment’s notice.’
Faruq glares at the young man, bristling at his obscene good looks and obvious arrogance. He explodes with anger. ‘You think I would let Dauphin place one filthy hand on my TBM? Or James Lloyd, the philanderer? Never, may God curse them both. Neither man could ever do what you want — they are like bulls rushing in and making noise and blasting when they do not have to blast. They do not know the soils here in Dubai and I will not let them near al-Moler. You will have to kill me first.’
The Frenchman continues as if he has not heard. ‘Dauphin said he could get the gear on site and ready to roll in eighteen hours.’
Faruq scowls. ‘I could do it in sixteen if I had to …’
Abdullah smiles, seizing the chance he has orchestrated. ‘Then you will need to do it for us. You will be paid, of course. Paid well.’
Gritting his teeth, Faruq places both hairy arms on the table, callused palms open. ‘I would want a thirty per cent bonus over my usual rates — I will have to placate my client, and pay the men overtime.’
‘That is acceptable. I will have someone make contact, and you can work out the financial details with them.’
Faruq heaves a sigh in his throat and leans over the map, eyebrows beetling as he studies it. ‘This tunnel, what is the point? We cannot bore our way up through the floor of your conference room. That is ludicrous.’
‘No. There is a bunker, twenty metres beneath Rabi al-Salah, designed to shelter the leaders of the world from war and,’ Abdullah clears his throat, ‘terrorist action. Even from a nuclear blast. That is where we must drill to. The most practical access point.’
‘Then we should start the tunnel here, at the base of the hill of Ut-la. You know the one? It has many satellite dishes on the top, beside the new housing development?’
Abdullah nods. ‘I know it.’
‘The hill will shield us from view and the subsoil is sand all the way to the centre. We will be able to drill very quickly — I realise that you are ignorant of the mechanics of this business, but al-Moler is a double-shielded machine, and therefore fast. Yet because we are passing under an urban area it is important that there is no surface subsidence. Our system uses the latest bentonite slurry techniques to negate such problems.’
‘The details we leave to you, but if you need anything, just pick up the phone and ask.’
Faruq points at the site. ‘This is public land. Anyone could wander in.’
‘No longer. We’ll have it fenced off by dusk.’
‘Good. Please leave now, I have many things to do.’
‘Sixteen hours, are you sure?’
Faruq grins so that his false teeth shine white in the fluorescent light. ‘I am a man of my word. By dawn tomorrow al-Moler, the mole, will be diving below the earth, eating soil like the subterranean beast she is.’
Even as the car doors slam, Faruq presses a switch on the intercom set.
‘Hello, Rahul?’
‘Yes.’
‘Call the men in and get al-Moler out of the tunnel.’
Silence, then: ‘Truly? But that will cause delays, cost much time. I mean no disrespect in asking, but why?’
‘We have another job to do — one week. It is worth it, trust me.’
His next act is to pick up the phone. Other men need to be mobilised, some of them outside
contractors: truck drivers, road escort services. The TBM is carried on a custom-built low loader, but there are many other items to be moved: a site office, earthmoving machinery. Within an hour, the calls are made, the orders issued. Now Faruq steps outside. The first task is the safe loading of al-Moler.
With a flash of his security card, Simon moves through the gate and into the staff cafeteria. It is past noon and the tables are full. The room smells of spicy meat and starchy rice.
Buying a meal, he takes the plate back to a table, its peeling laminex surface in need of hot water and detergent. The meat is fatty and stringy — old mutton or goat — and the rice grains congealed as if with glue. Even so, he eats, watching and listening to everyone who comes and goes, hearing snatches of conversation, all of it innocuous, mundane, most of it from an adjacent table where four men are eating together, obvious friends.
For countless hours, Simon has walked the corridors, listened outside doors and passed in and out of the security area, using his British Airways ID like a skeleton key, surprised at how invisible it is possible to become when you hide behind an official badge. For an hour, perhaps two, he slept on a toilet seat in the men’s bathroom, woken by a pair of cleaners whose loud banter announced their arrival.
The group of diners beside him laugh together. The moon-faced individual in the centre appears to be the butt of some teasing, and Simon chews slowly, listening to the theatrical whine of a thinner man, who uses widened eyes and head lolling to accentuate his words. ‘So now,’ he says, ‘our friend Mu’ayyad is boastful that he is rich, merely for making certain that one item of luggage went on the carousel without incident.’
Simon stops chewing. Turns in time to see Mu’ayyad’s frown of annoyance, then a finger held lightly over his lips.
