Rotten Gods

by Greg Barron

Taking a deep breath as if to dilute the fear, PJ sets off towards the peak of the hill, keeping to the heavier brush on one side. Moving through an unfamiliar landscape at night, alone, is difficult and frightening. The possibility of more mines makes it worse, never knowing if the next placement of a hand or foot will be the last act he makes on earth. PJ keeps low, moving from dragon’s blood tree to hillock of earth. Always with stealth.

  Over the peak at last, he sees the huts for the first time, nestled down towards the cliff tops. A roaring fire in the middle makes him safer, for few things ruin night vision like firelight, particularly on a night as dark as this one. He stays under cover, protected by a rise in the ground, studying the nearest hut. A facing window is covered by thin curtains yet once or twice he sees the shadow of someone standing behind.

  He counts the men, five at first and then a sixth — taller than the others, casting long shadows as he moves to the fire. The huts are the key. There will be more men inside. Closer, he tells himself, move closer. He creeps down the slope, and even though he is at his most watchful he almost doesn’t see them, hitting the earth as fast as he dares. Unusual shapes — yes, three heads in the darkness, and the telltale stub of a rifle. Ahead, in the darkness, is a fortified emplacement.

  PJ swears under his breath, mouth dry as leather. Far from being unprotected, this is a fortress. A few moments ago, he was thinking of creeping close enough to peer through the windows. Now, with a sinking feeling, he knows that he is fortunate to have loomed so close without detection. No wonder the men around the fireplace are so casual.

  As he waits there is a commotion near the huts and more men spill out from a doorway, carrying weapons, spreading out. The changing of the guard, PJ realises. Five more. He knows he should take the opportunity to get away while they are distracted, before their night vision kicks in. Instead he stays where he is. He has to see at least one of the targets, either the hostages or Saif al-Din, in the flesh, and yet many are dark skinned, and he has only seen a single photograph of the terrorist. He could be any one of those armed men down near the huts.

  PJ studies everything, even the way they handle their weapons. One man checks the load of a machine gun, pulling back the firing handle as he takes charge. Voices fall away as the others disappear into the huts.

  Silence descends, and PJ waits. Thirty minutes come and go. A call comes through on his earphone and he ignores it. More waiting, then the sound of voices. Three females exit the hut, followed by two men with rifles, obviously guards. The taller of the prisoners is in her twenties, willowy in figure, her voice raised in strident complaint.

  ‘If you would just give us some dignity …’

  Her voice is educated British — middle class — cut off by a heavy slap to her face. She staggers backwards. PJ watches, transfixed, controlling the impulse to put a bullet through the man’s brain, moving his eyes to the girls. The smaller one walks with her head held high. Hannah, wasn’t that her name? The elder is less defiant, hands at her sides, eyes fixed on the ground.

  PJ feels a surge of excitement. The hostages are still alive. All of them. And they are here, within spitting distance. The raid will go ahead. He has to subdue this adrenalin-fuelled restlessness and continue to study the camp.

  The armed men lead the girls to a small building that must be an outhouse. The younger girl goes in first, followed by her sister, then the woman, who he guesses must be the nanny. After each girl has visited in turn, the men with guns prod them back towards the hut. PJ feels a pain in his chest so powerful he dares not give it a name.

  Still he has not made a positive ID on the militant that they came to find, but the hostages are enough to initiate action. He turns away into the darkness, trying to subdue the heat that rises from his chest in waves. For the first two hundred metres he no more than crawls, then, out of sight, he rises to his feet, running hunched over like an animal.

  Marika wakes in the night, so cold that her teeth are chattering. She sees nothing — the darkness is complete. Something moves out in the sand and she jumps and gives a little shriek, reaching out and grasping Madoowbe’s shoulder.

  ‘Sorry,’ she says, ‘I thought I heard something out there.’

  ‘No, it was me moving my foot.’

  ‘Where is our camel?’

  ‘He must have got up and wandered off. Sorry, I was asleep.’

  ‘Oh.’ She makes no effort to let go of the warm hard muscle of his shoulder.

  ‘Are you cold?’ he asks.

  ‘Yep, can’t you tell?’

  ‘If we still had our camel we could use him for warmth, but the best we can do is use each other.’

  ‘I guess so.’ Marika shifts closer, pressing against his back along her full length, her left arm flat beneath her and her right moving to his chest, amazed at the hardness and leanness of his body. As if in response, he snuggles back against her.

  His hair is against her face and he smells of sun and the desert. There is something clean about him, something very different. In recent days her life has become entwined with three men of Somalia: one is willing to use violence to change the world; one has built an entire region into a kingdom; and the third is an enigma — a fighter, yet also one of the most thoughtful and gentle men she has ever met. How can you think like that? The voice in her head is shrill with indignation. He betrayed you. Held a gun to your head.

  ‘You are nice and warm,’ she says.

  ‘Strange that you should say that — so are you.’

  He has acted in my interests, even when it hasn’t seemed so.

  Marika squeezes him tighter, her fingers resting on his sternum, between the flat pads of muscle on his chest. Her breathing changes, body relaxing, hips pressing closer against him.

  Besides, he is beautiful, and it is cold, and tomorrow I might be dead …

  Lifting her head she nestles into his neck so her mouth almost touches his skin. He turns in the circle of her arms, and a shiver of pleasure racks her body.

  ‘Yes,’ she groans, moving her hands to the back of his head, lolling back so that he can reach her, his lips inching their way up to hers.

  Léon Benardt is fatigued beyond endurance, yet, sent back to his room on rotation to sleep, another need manifests itself. How nice it would be to share a bed with a woman! Just for an hour maybe. To drink good wine, then make wild, spontaneous love with a beautiful stranger.

  On other occasions he has had great success at the Buddha Bar in the Dubai Marina. Music and dancing. A little loud for tonight. The idea of somewhere quieter appeals to him. A wine bar, perhaps?

  After some thought Léon selects the Agency Bar at the Emirates Towers. This venue is over the other side of the city, but taxis are cheap here, and it is less trashy than other venues, without the loud music that can make it difficult to be heard. Besides, it sells excellent wine by the glass.

  As the taxi carries him along Sheikh Zayed Road towards the Towers he finds himself, as always, blown away by the sheer exorbitance of Dubai at night. Seeing the speeding traffic — sprinkled with Ferraris, Porsches and Mercedes, and people out enjoying themselves — it is hard to remember just how dire the situation remains at Rabi al-Salah, and how deeply he is involved.

  His working life has been an aimless drift into the military, then the Action Division of the DGSE. At times he is surprised to find himself a member of the multinational security force supporting the Dubai police.

  His early years were innocuous enough, growing up in the village of Longueville, southeast of Paris. His career path appeared set, yet his leaving scores were insufficient to allow him to follow his father, the local tooth puller, into dentistry.

  Instead he joined the infantry, seeing action in the Congo and the Antilles. After serving out his five years, he followed a colleague into a restricted course in military intelligence. From there, he was selected for an interview and found himself one of the handsome young men and women in suits who surround the president of the Republic of France — th
e man who now lies dead in one corner of the Rabi al-Salah conference room — as he travelled from one official engagement or other to the Palais Bourbon, from Paris to Berlin or Geneva.

  The death of Martin Bourque has rocked Léon hard, underlining the dire situation that has developed and how powerless he, and men like him, have become. He wants to fight back, but for now he wants to forget, just for a few hours.

  Léon enters the bar from the side entrance, pleased to see it full, the marble counter dotted with cocktail glasses. Most of the ladies are with male friends, but to one side, near the jazz band, a group of three women sit together, giggling, glasses in hand. One is plain, well dressed and heavily made up. The second is dark skinned, with ringlets of hair falling down to her shoulders, but there is an unattractive hardness to her lips. The third woman, thank God, is a beauty. Blonde and tall, with hair that swings back and forth as she laughs.

  Léon places her at around thirty, a few years younger than he. He likes them that age — old enough to have lost the coyness of sexual inexperience. Old enough to get on top and shake their tits and squeeze a man. Old enough to like a little variety.

  He does not make the mistake of staring overtly, but moves to the bar, pulling up a stool and waiting until the barman — a slim Filipino in a white shirt and bow tie — appears, taking his order for a lusty Cabernet, bringing it in a heavy, good quality glass.

  ‘Those ladies over there,’ Léon asks, ‘have they been here long?’

  ‘Yes, they came here after supper. Been drinking hard all night. Plenty bottles of wine.’

  Léon ignores the man’s knowing grin, instead sitting back and enjoying the aroma and taste of the wine, the way it burns with slow fire on the tongue, then all the way back into the throat, flowing into his brain like magma.

  At the same time he flicks his eyes over the room, double-checking that he hasn’t missed an easier prospect than the pretty blonde with her friends. Sometimes it is so easy there is almost no challenge in it — you can pick them a mile off, usually divorcees or at least the brokenhearted, travelling to try to kill the pain, only they can’t, and they end up in a place like this, drinking alone, waiting for a handsome stranger to come along and give them what they need. Of course, it isn’t what they need, even Léon knows that, but he gives it to them anyway, and leaves them in their rooms, sweating and worn out, his own member limp and spent.

  Tonight, when such a simple target would be convenient, there is no one like that, only one lone female who must be in her fifties at least. She appears to be waiting for someone, judging by the frequency with which she consults her wristwatch.

  His eyes flick back to the group of three, and just for an instant his eyes meet those of the blonde. Oh yes, she is a beauty indeed, and there is no mistaking the spark of interest there. At times it can be difficult to cut one out from a herd, but there is a chance, definitely a chance.

  Still Léon does not make his move, continuing to study the room. Past the three young women is a table of men and their wives or girlfriends, all well on the way to inebriation. One of the men is so loud his voice carries across the room.

  Léon wrinkles his nose in distaste. Loud drunkenness is obnoxious to him; such people miss the entire point of drinking. The cultured seriousness of it. The charm, the tradition. He looks away, back past the blonde, and again she looks up.

  No doubt remains. She likes him. He feels that inner weightlessness that often comes in tandem with sexual excitement, and the tightening of his trousers across his crotch.

  Surreptitiously he looks at his watch, allowing forty minutes for the seduction, one hour at her hotel room then back to his digs for sleep until dawn. It should be easy, but he will not rush too much. No. She is worth taking some time over. Time to stalk her heart with care. He knows from experience that once you have touched a woman’s heart, you can touch her anywhere.

  Lifting his glass he walks over to the table, gripping the back of a spare seat. When he speaks he makes no effort to hide his French accent, instead accentuating it. Women love it, he knows, especially American women, who are so starved of romance.

  ‘Good evening, ladies. Forgive me, but an older woman over there that I am not enamoured of is making suggestive gestures. I wondered if sitting here might give her the idea that I am not available.’

  The three young women dissolve into laughter, but the blonde speaks first, eyes twinkling with interest. ‘Which one? Show us please.’ Her voice is pure California. Sunshine and beaches. Hills and fast cars. Léon loves Californian girls. Hadn’t they practically invented free love?

  Léon sits down, places his glass on the woven raffia coaster, then folds his arms. ‘It would not be gentlemanly for me to tell.’ He smiles to himself. The rest will be fun.

  The desperate brunette to the left clutches at his arm, all over him there in the bar. ‘Oh please, which one?’

  The blonde joins in. ‘Yeah, spill the beans.’

  Léon pretends to be swayed, twisting his lips one way then the other, letting his eyes dance as he does so. His eyes are one of his best features, he knows, so dark as to be almost black. ‘Do not look, but there is one in a red cocktail dress sitting by herself. Reddish hair.’

  The blonde laughs into her hand, and Léon smiles back. The third woman, younger than the other two, barely into her twenties and immature looking to boot, pipes up, ‘Oh my God, she’s so old, and if she’s a natural redhead I’ll run down Jumeirah Beach with my boobs out.’

  ‘Doesn’t she look like — who’s that actress who got really fat?’ The blonde gasps.

  The other two dissolve into laughter and all the commotion attracts the woman’s attention, for she stares back. As if in response the brunette half stands and slips an arm around Léon’s shoulder. ‘I’ll save you, don’t worry.’

  He smiles and extends a hand, first to the blonde, making it plain that she is the one he is interested in. ‘My name is Léon, what is yours?’

  ‘I’m Cathy, this is June, and Elspeth.’

  The third woman adds, ‘Just about everyone calls me Ellie.’

  He kisses their hands one by one, seeing them swoon as he does so. His forward progress is then interrupted by the nearby table of drunks, the male members launching into some kind of drunken rugby song. The English inflection is unmistakeable, and the sound is loud enough to forestall any further attempt at conversation.

  When it is over, Léon continues his work. ‘I suppose you three are old friends?’

  ‘Not at all — we’re on a tour. Only known each other for a few days.’

  ‘Oh, OK.’ That will make it easier.

  ‘What about you?’

  Léon stops for a moment; the conversation at the other table has turned to Rabi al-Salah, and he pricks up his ears. ‘Fuckin’ terrorists. Should all get fuckin’ locked up …’ It is nothing, he decides, just drunken ranting. Soon, one of the doormen will hear and eject the man from the bar. The sooner the better, he decides, then realises that he is being asked a question.

  ‘Sorry, what do you mean?’

  The blonde brushes her hair back from her ears. ‘Are you here on business or pleasure?’

  ‘A little of both.’ He smiles and gives his head that sexy little shake he knows women love. ‘You know how it is. Work. Play.’

  ‘What line of work are you in?’

  ‘Ah, security.’

  ‘Ooh, sounds exciting.’

  And now it’s like the other two aren’t there. They fall silent, and the laughter stops, tension growing. Léon discovers that Cathy lectures at UCLA in Humanities, that she loves cats, and has taken a year off work to travel the world. Yes, she is going to Paris, and yes, it would be great if they met up there and he showed her around.

  Again he finds himself distracted by the conversation across at the other table. Two of the men have been arm wrestling, but now that the contest is over the conversation returns to Rabi al-Salah.

  ‘I could fuckin’ fix that up in five
minutes flat,’ one of the men is saying. ‘Shoot every one of those fuckers dead.’

  ‘Yeah sure, how?’

  ‘I just know, OK …’

  On cue, the brunette shoulders her handbag. ‘Well. I’m off. Need my beauty sleep.’ Elspeth stands also, excusing herself. Léon watches them go with a smile on his face. Now it’s just him and Cathy, the blonde. He says nothing, just shifts in his seat until he is closer to her. ‘Would you like another drink?’

  ‘Not really, I think I’ve had enough.’

  ‘Perhaps a walk then …’

  ‘OK, if you like.’

  Léon feels his groin tighten further. It is so easy; a stroll outside around the massive curved exterior of the hotel, and then back to her room, almost certainly here at the Emirates Towers. He stands, but now his brow knits with concentration. The drunken man at the adjacent table is still talking.

  ‘I done the fuckin’ electrical work, see — worked for the main contractor. Supervised the whole job. When you put together a series of circuits you need to take into account maintenance in the future, and safety, see. Ya gotta have an override, a way of shutting down power so that future electricians can work in safety. So we had to have a way of both leaving the main door open, for access, and have power off to that circuit so that technicians can move in and out of the conference room, while working on the system without any risk of electrocution. That’s how I could fix this up in five fuckin’ minutes.’

  Léon leans on the chair for balance, frozen to the spot.

  The blonde reaches for his arm. ‘What’s wrong? Are we going?’

  Ignoring her, Léon is already moving across the floor, reaching out for the drunken electrician, grabbing him by the collar. ‘You installed an override that will do what you just said?’

  The man tries to fight. ‘Get away from me, fuck ya. Leave me alone.’

  Léon grips his arm and twists it. ‘Answer me.’

  The contractor’s jaw opens, panting. Tiny beads of sweat surround his lips. ‘Yeah. There’s a switchboard locker in the cleaner’s storeroom on the southern wall of the conference room. It has a manual switch for the doors and the power.’