by Greg Barron
‘You are ready?’
Simon turns to see Ishmael, a Yemeni seaman he met through a series of referrals earlier in the day, hovering on the fringe of the light. ‘Yes. Has the vessel we discussed reached port?’
‘Not an hour ago my brother docked here at Aden. I have spoken to him and he is happy to accept a charter, as soon as he refuels and takes on provisions. You have no luggage?’
‘Just a small bag.’
Ishmael grunts. ‘What about money? My brother will want to see it.’
‘Yes.’
Arranging a substantial transfer from an investment account into the Queen Arwa branch of the al-Ahli Bank of Yemen, has taken time and some frustration, yet now the wad of US dollars — the seagoing brothers’ preferred currency — in his pocket is thick enough to be noticeable. Ishmael’s eyes flick towards it. The avarice is unmistakeable and unsubtle.
‘The full amount necessary?’
‘Of course.’
‘Then follow me.’
Simon ponders the chances of being knifed for the cash in his pocket. This man does not inspire trust, his eyes dark and secretive, resembling one of the starved port rats, visible at the periphery of the light since nightfall. Rats or not, Simon has no choice. He follows in silence down narrow and dark walkways between containers and crates, boats to the left, masts black against the starlight, always that creaking sound of vessels at rest, fenders squealing, grinding against iron and concrete, the slap of water on ageing piles and the distant rumble of pumps and compressors.
They stop beside a vessel of around fifteen metres in length, of fibreglass construction, unlike most of the timber or iron boats surrounding her. Her hull is streamlined, with a fine entry at the bow. A boat built for speed. A man lounges nearby, smoking a cigarette. He and Ishmael exchange a few words in Arabic before the latter turns back to Simon. ‘You like her? Her name is the Jameela. She is nice, eh? Her name means “beautiful”. As I told you, she is the fastest boat of her size to work out of Aden. Come aboard, meet my brother.’
Still wary, yet impressed with the vessel, Simon follows; stepping up from the jetty, over the gunwale, and onto the non-slip moulded surface of the deck. From there, past coiled ropes and a life ring hanging against a bulkhead, they pass through a hinged door into a saloon area, controls and instrument panel up forward.
The saloon is dominated by a dinette table and galley. The cherrywood surface of the table is strewn with books and an open notepad. An unfired coffee mug, half full, sits to one side. A very old woman, head and body cloaked in a red, blue, green and yellow, coarse woven setarrah, occupies one end of the table, eyes staring glassily.
The air in here, Simon decides, has a tinge of something once familiar — an aromatic, burned smell. At first he thinks it might be roasting coffee beans. A studious-looking man of about thirty occupies the helm chair. Like his brother he sports a white kandoura robe and a shemagh. He wears a short black beard and gold rings on the middle fingers of both hands. He stands and comes aft, bony hand extended, regarding Simon intently, saying nothing.
Ishmael acknowledges his brother with that distinctive Yemeni greeting, raising both hands above his head, fists clenched. Then he turns back to Simon. ‘I am happy to introduce my brother, Lubayd. His intellect is considerable. He is a genius.’
Lubayd nods, as if to grudgingly accept the praise. ‘My brother is too effusive. Peace be upon you.’
‘Peace to you also. My name is Simon.’
Ishmael, however, has not finished. ‘Do you know, Lubayd has solved Professor Archimedes’s puzzle every week for one hundred and twenty-two consecutive weeks? No man alive can boast of such a feat.’
Simon raises his eyebrows. ‘I am sure that is a great achievement, yet forgive my ignorance. Who is Professor Archimedes?’
‘Professor Archimedes,’ the younger brother announces, ‘has a puzzle in the al-Ayyam newspaper every Saturday.’
‘That is enough, Ishmael,’ Lubayd chides him. ‘My intellect is no greater than that of a cockroach when compared to God, may praise and glory be to Him.’ He turns to Simon. ‘Will you refresh yourself with us?’
‘If you don’t mind.’
‘Would you like coffee, or mint tea perhaps?’
‘Coffee, please.’
‘Dear brother, will you make coffee for our guest?’
While Ishmael rattles cups and plates, spooning coffee from a tin of instant Nescafe, the elder sibling goes on, ‘Sit please, Simon.’ A smile crosses his face, in the manner of a man having a very pleasant thought. ‘Ah, what a name. I am pleased to host a man with such a wonderful name, so much history — Simon the Zealot, the Canaanite beloved of your Jesus, or the Jewish hero Simon Wiesenthal, the Nazi hunter. Paul Simon the American singer. Illustrious men have borne your name.’
‘Ishmael is right, you are knowledgeable.’
‘Thanks be to God. I spend each day improving my mind. What other worthwhile pursuits are there?’
They move to the dinette, where the old woman remains, saying nothing, just continuing to stare. Lubayd moves his face close to hers. ‘Do you want coffee, Mama?’
A shake of the head. Eyes unfocused, directionless.
Turning his attention back to Simon, Lubayd apologises for her. ‘I am sorry about my mother. She is old and, if not for Ishmael and I, she would be alone. I do not think it is right for a man to abandon his mother, and she loves the sea. Our father sailed a dhow, and she has travelled all over the Red Sea, the Persian Gulf and the ports of East Africa.’
The old woman continues her silence, yet it seems to Simon that something changes in her face, as if with the memory of blue seas, sunsets and the love of a young husband. There is something beautiful in her now, something that a woman never loses.
The coffee comes in enamel mugs. Simon sips the dark, hot drink, then turns to Lubayd. ‘Ishmael tells me that your boat is very fast.’
‘Oh, she is. We can call on two and a half thousand horsepower. Thirty-six knots in a smooth sea. No one can catch us. My brother tells me that you are interested in chartering her.’
‘That’s true. I am.’
‘She will be very kind to you. No man has ever been seasick aboard the Jameela.’
‘The boat I wish to follow left here two days ago, but she is a slow vessel — a tug, I am told.’
‘Bound for where?’
‘The Isles of Socotra, I believe.’
‘At full throttle we can be there not long after dawn, but at such a speed we would use almost every drop of fuel on board. At a more prudent rate we will reach the area by mid-afternoon tomorrow.’
Simon brightens. ‘Can we make a deal?’
‘There is a problem.’
‘What is that?’
‘I will not go there. Despite the indescribable and famous beauty of those islands, even the most inexperienced sailor knows to avoid the area, for all charts warn of the perils.’
‘Then we will find our target on the open sea.’
‘What then? You expect me to fight another boat? My brother and I are not fighters. We are men of peace.’
Simon bites his lip. The effort is starting to tell — there is no time to find another boat, not one as sleek and fast as this. He glares at Lubayd. ‘I want you to take me there. I am not a wealthy man, but I can pay you very well.’
Lubayd sighs, placing both elbows on the table, his chin in his palms, flattening his beard like steel wool. ‘I have no understanding of what you want. You speak of a boat you must find, but why?’
Simon tells him everything, seeing no point in anything but honesty. Beginning with the terrifying announcement high over the Gulf, then the search for clues. By the time it is done he has to wipe his eyes with his sleeve.
‘I am sorry,’ Lubayd says, ‘but there are forces in this world that it is best not to contend with. The Almohad are one such force. Their hands pull the strings of terror and intimidation from Kabul to Jakarta, Gaza to Baghdad. They are masterfu
l exploiters of men, and they plan nothing short of political and religious domination of the world. I am sorry, but I cannot take you out there against them, not even to find your two daughters.’
Simon looks around, as if seeking an outlet for his frustration. ‘What do you and your brother do with this boat, Lubayd?’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Vessels like this do not pay for themselves. What do you do with a thirty-six-knot cruiser?’
‘That is our business.’
‘It is mine also if I am going to associate myself with you.’
Lubayd’s eyes glow darkly. ‘There are many things that need to pass between the coasts of Arabia and Africa — unmarked crates; silent men in suits. I have a reputation for the utmost discretion and trustworthiness, attributes that are priceless in this world.’
‘If you are so well regarded and busy with lucrative work, why did your brother think you might be interested in my charter?’
‘Because I have a week now without prospect of employment of our services. The business of the region has been postponed. Rabi al-Salah is the cause. The Middle East will wait, mid breath, while events unfold. The world may change beyond recognition by the time it is over.’
‘You think so?’
‘I am certain of it. History hinges on the leaders of the nations of the world. Any student of the past knows that. Who can predict what will happen? Instability, even war.’
‘Take me to Socotra. Leave me there. I will swim ashore if I have to. That is all I ask of you. Surely you can outrun any pirate boat in the sea.’
‘Socotran and Somali pirates have machine guns, heavy weapons; I cannot risk damage to my beautiful boat.’
‘If you are as fast as you say, they will not get close enough to do so. Name your price, any price, but I need to leave now, this minute. Each tick of the clock may be the death knell for my children. Can you imagine how that feels for me?’
‘Just say I agree to take you. Please understand that my fuel burn at fast cruise may exceed two hundred dollars an hour. My costs will number in the thousands. You tell me, Simon of England, how much this is worth to you. Put a figure on the love of a father for his daughters.’
‘I have five thousand dollars cash in my pocket. It is yours if you take me.’ Of course, there is another roll in his sock, but he does not want to use it now — there will be other obstacles, and nothing removes obstacles like money.
Lubayd shows some emotion. ‘One thousand now.’
‘That is reasonable.’
‘Ishmael,’ Lubayd calls.
The brother arrives from down below. ‘Yes?’
‘Prepare for sea. I am setting a course for Socotra.’
‘Socotra? Brother, we have not been there for many years, and my memories of the last time are unpleasant. Is this something we have to do?’
‘Yes, Ishmael. This is a lot of money, and we have nothing else to do.’ He turns back to Simon. ‘I will not go against al-Muwahhidun, nor pirates, but I will take you to Socotra. The main island. From there you will have to make your own way.’
Simon inclines his head. ‘You are a kind man. Can we leave now?’
‘It will take an hour or more to inform the harbourmaster and make last-minute preparations.’
‘Half an hour?’
‘I will try.’
When Simon extracts the required deposit and hands it across, Lubayd opens a drawer in the chart table and slips the notes inside. Simon has time to see the dark outline of an automatic pistol inside, and wonders why men of peace feel the need to have a gun so close at hand.
A veteran of several hostage grabs, Zhyogal is aware that the situation is at its most dangerous when the initial shock has worn off, when braver souls start assessing the odds of playing hero. One or more of his men might, at any time, be overpowered and disarmed.
He never tires of scanning the long tiers of men and women. Most of the crowd have settled into groups based on the country of origin. They talk among themselves, yet with a watchful eye on the mujahedin. No one has yet tried anything, but it is always a possibility.
The auditorium layout is unusual and, in some ways, difficult to defend, partly because in order to see everything Zhyogal must stand at the bottom, giving any potential attacker the benefit of high ground.
The pulse of movement in the satellite telephone in his top pocket cuts these thoughts short. Several messages appear every day, not always relevant; information routed from all around the world through a clearing house in Sana’a, Yemen. It has always amused Zhyogal that Western intelligence services do not appear to know that they are being observed by the people they themselves spend so much time and money keeping under surveillance.
In just a few years, al-Muwahhidun have developed one of the most powerful clandestine networks in the world, not least because of the utmost loyalty of its operatives. Leaks are unheard of, mistakes are few. Sympathisers exist in media organisations and political groups around the world.
Zhyogal does not hurry to read his messages, but waits until he has finished the patrol from the top of the most northerly aisle to the bottom, feet dragging on the carpet the only sign of his fatigue, knowing by heart the gaps between steps on the tiered surface. Three paces flat, three down. Three paces flat, three steps down. Men and women alike avoid his eyes, and their obvious fear pleases him. Fear means that he has done his job.
Near the dais he removes the phone and waves a hand across the tinted face to power it up. Scrolling to the message app he begins to read, flicking his eyes from the screen to the crowd, not daring to leave them unobserved for too long.
The email begins with movements of US navy ships. The USS Atlanta to the Red Sea. The USS George Bush to Valetta Harbour, Malta. The next section covers the fortuitous escape, assisted by God, of three trusted mujahedin who were under pressure from security forces in Bonn, Germany.
Then, Zhyogal freezes, reading the next message over and over.
Rabi al-Salah: Kufr plan tunnel into bunker underneath centre.
Following this is a series of details. Names. Places.
When he has finished reading, Zhyogal gives the matter some thought. The idea of a tunnel had occurred to the planning team but was dismissed as not viable in the allotted time. Now it seems that the kufr are pursuing this option, however unlikely it might seem.
Countering this distant threat is now important. First Zhyogal studies the number of men at his disposal, then calls one across, a wiry little man, Algerian like himself. ‘Khalil,’ he says, ‘there is a possible threat to the bunker below. I would like you to occupy it and listen for unexpected sounds.’
‘Yes, sayyid.’
‘But you will report to me each hour.’
That requirement, of course, will ensure that the chosen guard will not spend his time sleeping.
‘Yes, sayyid.’
Zhyogal again takes out the phone. It was a good thing that as part of the mission plan they decided to keep Saif al-Din on the outside to coordinate the support teams and carry out general troubleshooting.
Last time they spoke, Saif al-Din was in the city, in a safe house in the al-Satwa district. Zhyogal types out a brief, encrypted text. Saif will ensure that no tunnel will ever be finished.
The Mercedes 350 SE sits in a concrete garage that smells of grease, wax and polish. Even in the darkness it glows. The interior is luxurious and clean. Marika slides into the back seat and Dalmar Asad slips in beside her. The driver starts the engine, an unobtrusive hum.
Marika feels nervous again, thinking of what the interpreter said earlier about Dalmar Asad wanting to rape her. Is it possible that the civilised veneer hides a man who will force her sexually? She doesn’t think so, but this is a worrying train of thought that has her shifting in her seat. Is she on her way to some sophisticated torture chamber from which she will never emerge? Anything is possible. All she can do is look for an opportunity to get away, and back to the mission that may yet be so critic
al.
The gate opens and the Mercedes floats like a magic carpet over the desert roads. She wonders at the possibility of opening the door and rolling out — no mean feat against the slipstream, and besides, what then? The driver carries a pistol in the holster at his side, as does Dalmar Asad. Even if she does get away, she will be alone in the middle of the desert. No map, no guide, no weapons and little prospect of obtaining any one of the three.
Always she sees the shadow people, the refugees, tramping down the sides of the road. The slow and hopeless walk of the dispossessed. Some fall to their knees and beg as the Mercedes flies past, necessitating the occasional cold blast on the horn from the driver, who scarcely slows, forcing them to clear the road or be run down. There are glowing dung or charcoal fires out in the darkness from those who have settled down for the night.
‘Where are they all from?’ Marika asks, whispering.
‘Them? They are a nuisance. Refugees from the coast. Not only drought, but now the sea has risen, flooding their villages and crops.’
Marika frowns. ‘Their villages are flooded? I didn’t realise that sea levels had risen so high here.’
‘They are not flooded all the time, but on the spring tides. Supertides they are called now. Together with sea level rises and the ocean currents, rises of more than a metre over the old marks have salted hundreds of thousands of hectares of once arable lands. Nothing will grow. The seas have also polluted wells and lakes with salt. There is no drinking water. The refugees move inland, where drought and famine have ravaged the land. Hardly a stalk of corn has not wilted in the heat. They come here and find nothing. They come here and die.’
‘What about the UN? And the NGOs?’
‘They cannot penetrate far beyond Mogadishu — it is not safe for their people. We are not the most moderate of peoples, and have never liked outsiders.’
‘But there must be tens of thousands of refugees on the road.’
‘More, many more.’
‘This is a humanitarian disaster on a terrible scale.’
