Rotten Gods

by Greg Barron

  ‘I cannot promise that I will sway him, only that I will try.’

  ‘Then I insist that you wear a wire so that we can follow what is happening. Your life might depend on it.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘If we know that you are making progress in talking your husband out of carrying out his threats then we won’t send troops in to put a bullet in his head.’

  ‘Is that likely?’

  ‘We’re working on something. Of course we are. Unless you can reason with him then we have nothing to lose by trying.’

  ‘I have no choice, do I?’

  Abdullah shrugs. ‘You can put it that way if you like.’

  Day 7, 09:00

  Ali Khalid Abukar is tired beyond endurance. Closing his eyes means drifting off into sleep and his legs are leaden weights. Now he is taking Modafinil at ten times the safe dosage. The conversation in the room is a blur of noise. He wants silence — somewhere to sleep. Forever perhaps.

  There is blood on the floor from a dozen new executions, all in retaliation for the attempt on the switchboard. The Brazilian delegation slaughtered, including a twenty-two-year-old aide whose fear manifested itself in a flood of urine down her legs when the first of the men died.

  Out on the dais there is a pathetic but growing line of human beings — twenty or more now — each of whom have agreed to read the confession and sign it in front of the cameras. There is no anger in the room for them, only sympathy. The slaughter has been too much for the delegates; the reality of blood and death. Every few minutes a new volunteer slinks down from the rows and joins the line.

  I now recognise that I represent a corrupt government, that they have initiated a crusade against the …

  ‘At noon today, the time of dhuhr, those who have signed will leave this room and go to the arms of their loved ones,’ Zhyogal announces. ‘It is that simple. Tell the world of your crimes, admit the bastardry of your governments and your part in the murder of Islamic peoples, and you will be spared the carnage that will descend in this place when the sun sets.’

  Ali is scarcely listening. A light blinks on the panel ahead of him. He presses a button and picks up the telephone handset. ‘Yes?’

  Abdullah bin al-Rhoumi’s voice, different this time. Triumphant perhaps, as if he has something up his sleeve. ‘Does the name Sufia Haweeya mean anything to you?’

  Ali staggers as if he has been king-hit. Only his grip on the lectern keeps him upright. Sufia. Here? How and why has this happened? She is safe. Out of reach of the modern world. Is it a trick? Is it true?

  Somehow he manages to keep his voice calm and level. ‘You wouldn’t be asking if you didn’t know.’

  ‘Sufia Haweeya is here beside me, and she wants to come inside when we open the doors at noon.’

  ‘Wait,’ Ali says, then turns to Zhyogal, who ceases his diatribe and circles in close like a shark with the scent of blood. ‘They have my wife, and she wants to come in at noon when the kufr who have signed the confession go out.’

  ‘No. It will be a trick.’

  Ali feels his anger rise. ‘I insist.’

  ‘You would compromise the success of this operation, after having come so far, for a woman.’

  ‘Not any woman, but the one that I love.’

  ‘Love,’ Zhyogal spits. ‘You use words that are weak — Western words.’

  ‘I will tell them to let her in.’

  ‘Then you do not have the strength I had hoped you possessed.’ Zhyogal snatches the phone from his hand. ‘Let the woman in, but if anyone else tries to enter the consequences will be catastrophic. Do you understand?’

  Day 7, 09:30

  The RIB crashes through the surf at the beach, surging around an outcrop of coral and into a channel. Simon grips the rope in his hands and braces himself, catching a burst of spray that tastes of salt on his lips and stings his eyes. The outboard whines as the helmsman guns the throttle, and they shoot into the calm waters of a lagoon so clear they might be floating on air, dappled with scarlet highlights from the sky.

  On the beach, wooden fishing boats are drawn up on the sand above the tide. Two men stop their work of untangling a net, then run for a scattering of makuti thatched huts atop a dune, where men and women are already looking out from doorless openings. Simon feels a new slipperiness in his hands. He sees that the rope has cut into his skin from the force of his grip, and blood coats his wrists.

  The RIB hits the beach and a pair of seamen leap over the gunwales, dragging the hull high with the help of a surge as a wave floods the lagoon. Simon follows, not caring that the warm water laps over his ankles, winding the legs of his trousers around his calves. The SBS men move up the beach at his side, three of them, weapons looped over their back. Together they walk past the boats with their stinking sea-catch smell, to the huts, where a central fire burns, water boiling in a battered white enamel kettle. There is no sign of life now, the people having retreated indoors.

  Simon stops. ‘We come in peace,’ he calls in Arabic, ‘don’t be afraid.’

  No answer, just the tinsel soft roll of water on the beach and the crackle of the fire. Durham is a dark and imposing shape, anchored out in the depths beyond the lagoon.

  Simon clears his throat. ‘I have heard of a girl who was bravely rescued from the water. You have called her the white rose. This girl is my daughter. The love of my life, the pearl of my heart.’

  Still no answer.

  Feeling foolish now, as if he is baring his soul to the dragon’s blood trees and spindly palms, he goes on: ‘I have come to reward those who saved my daughter with cash. A quantity of Euros that can be used to purchase anything, anywhere in the world.’

  A face appears in the doorway of one of the huts. Then another. A man steps from behind a palm trunk, tall and wrinkled though he could scarcely be of middle age.

  ‘It was I,’ he says, ‘who rescued her from the sea. With my own two hands I picked her up and trickled fresh water between her lips …’

  Simon has stopped listening, for Hannah, her hand gripped by a giant of a woman, emerges from the nearest hut.

  ‘Daddy,’ she screams, breaking away from the woman and running into his arms.

  He scoops her up and presses her against him.

  ‘You,’ he says at last, ‘are the cleverest little girl in the world, and I love you.’

  Her face is wet and hot on his neck.

  Faruq is accustomed to work, putting in long hours to meet deadlines and contract dates. Al-Moler is an expensive lump of machinery, and idle time is lost income. Even so, never before has he laboured so hard as this. For twelve hours he has been at the controls. Inch by inch, hour by hour, the machine’s cutting discs have eaten their way through earth and rock to precise coordinates below the Rabi al-Salah Centre.

  As the moment nears, Faruq begins to grow nervous, decreasing engine revolutions in order to negate the possibility of someone hearing the noise from above. He looks at his watch, noting the time, then brings the machine off automatic control, taking over manually. He massages the levers until the tracker image aligns with the target. Twenty metres above where he now sits, Faruq knows, is the concrete-reinforced bunker designed to keep the delegates safe from even a nuclear blast.

  Following the orders given by the Almohad, he has built the tunnel to the location the kufr requested, but many metres too deep. When he thinks back to Saif al-Din, and his burning eyes, when he thinks of the threat to his family, he knows that he is right to take this course.

  With the engine barely ticking over, Faruq initiates a series of control changes that will terminate the spinning discs and reverse the hydraulic ‘legs’. The machine’s vibration changes, and Faruq feels the backwards motion. He relaxes. The thing is done. He is on his way out, soul and body intact.

  Even at maximum speed an hour passes before al-Moler nudges its way out into the pit and the open air. Surprised faces appear over the lip, the conversation developing into a commotion. Faruq barrels
out the side door, already shouting orders, sending men scurrying to fetch trucks and equipment. They are pulling out. He has a contract to finish, and will be damned if he will let sleep stand in the way of getting al-Moler back to work.

  Near the entrance he sees the Frenchman and his underlings waiting. You will not get through there, he says to himself, not through my tunnel.

  The massive low loader is back beside the pit and the crane rumbles into position before Benardt appears, face red with anger.

  ‘You stopped the machine too deep, way too deep.’

  Faruq nods. ‘I am aware of that.’

  ‘You can get your brown arse back in the tunnel and do what we agreed.’

  ‘No.’ Faruq trembles with anger at the racism in the insult, but then, he remembers, the French are well known for bigotry and intolerance.

  The Frenchman’s palms are drawn back ambivalently, halfway between supplication and aggression. ‘We have a contract. Why will you not honour it?’

  ‘I made an agreement to dig your tunnel to a precise coordinate beneath the Rabi al-Salah Centre. I will do no more.’

  ‘How are we supposed to get through twenty metres of earth and then reinforced concrete?’

  ‘That is not my problem.’

  ‘You won’t see a cent from this, I promise you.’

  ‘Money is not as important as a man’s soul.’

  The Frenchman takes a pistol from inside his coat and points it at Faruq’s chest. The thing is a revolver, like some cowboy gun from a movie. ‘I order you to return to your machine and finish the work. You have no idea of the authority I can summon.’

  ‘No power on earth will make me change my mind. I am happy if you pull the trigger. There you are. You have my invitation. Shoot, and be damned.’

  Faruq watches the Frenchman’s face as he lowers the gun, slides it back in the holster and strides away, muttering as he goes.

  Ever since the assault on the island stronghold, PJ has felt something warm in his chest. Something that makes him look at the world in a new light. Now that the second of the girls has been found he is inordinately pleased with himself.

  PJ smiles when he thinks of them. Hannah and Frances — now sitting up in bed — the darlings of the ship. With more chocolate, sweets, ice cream, gifts and visitors than a pair of genuine princesses.

  Finding a congenial place on the signal deck, he sits with his legs and lower body in the shade, face in the sun, watching the seabirds work over bait schools. The grey iron is cool, and he idly scratches at some flaking paint with a fingernail. There is another layer below, then another and another. Durham has, of course, been painted dozens of times over the years.

  He wonders if perhaps he should enrol in officer training. That perhaps he can be a real leader of men. The others had wanted to follow him, back there on the island — had recognised his as the correct view. Shouldn’t he develop that? Might he again one day save a life, and perhaps ensure the triumph of right over wrong?

  Or, on the other hand, aren’t there other ways to help? Better ways even. Ways that don’t always involve shooting and killing. He tucks the idea away, to be investigated further, just as he hears footsteps on the ladder. Captain Pennington’s head appears, then his shoulders and body. PJ looks up, unafraid, yet with resignation. Sooner or later they will have to sort this out. ‘Are you going to give me a bollocking for questioning orders?’

  ‘No. I’m going to give you a job.’

  PJ stares back suspiciously.

  Pennington stays on the ladder, leaning on the deck with both hands. ‘We just had a flash message from CINCFLEET. We need someone for the task force the security forces are preparing to take on the terrorists. They have a plan, apparently. I’m volunteering you.’

  ‘Why one of us? Isn’t it up to the DRFS boys, and the Dubai Special Forces. Wouldn’t have thought they’d want to give us a shot at it.’

  ‘We went up against this same group of militants and came out winners. Our mission has been a great morale booster. Front page headlines and all. They think that one of us might bring some know-how on the way these Almohad fuckers operate.’

  ‘Why me?’

  ‘Because you’re the best of us, me included. God, I wish I could move like you.’

  PJ watches in amazement as Pennington finishes climbing the ladder then slides to his rump beside him on the thick steel plate. ‘Really?’

  ‘You have no idea how challenging it is for a young officer to come in and command blokes like you. Frightens the living shit out of a man.’

  PJ looks down and chuckles. ‘Well that’s the strangest thing I’ve heard in a long time.’

  ‘Back there on the island. I was scared — I wanted to put it off, come back with more men, let someone else make the decisions. You forced me to stand up and do what I should have done in the first place.’

  PJ sticks out his hand. ‘I misjudged you, sir. I thought you hated my guts.’

  Pennington smiles and shakes the outstretched hand. ‘Maybe I did, just a little bit. Now, you better get your skates on. Chopper will be here at ten-hundred. You’ve got twelve minutes to get your shit together.’

  By the time he has his kit in one hand, the HK looped over his back, a crowd has gathered on the flight deck. PJ shakes hands with the ship’s captain, then Simon Thompson, brushing aside the thanks and praise of a man filled with gratitude for the return of his children. Finally he pauses in front of Kelly, the nanny, no longer the same young woman he first saw in the firelight of the militant camp. She has showered, and although her face is free of make-up, a healthy glow has returned to her skin. Jesus, she is pretty. Brown hair to just above her shoulders. Body just right — not too skinny.

  Not only that, but Kelly has class written all over her — she is something special, far removed from the usual young specimen out for a good time at the Bricklayers Arms back in Poole. He suspects that she wouldn’t be seen dead in the place. This makes her somewhat unreachable — unapproachable.

  She kisses him lightly — not on the cheek, but the lips — a momentary contact, but enough to stir him. When she speaks, it seems loud, but he guesses that the approaching chopper will drown out the words from the others.

  ‘If you ever want to look me up, I won’t mind,’ she says.

  PJ doesn’t have time, or the wits, to reply at first, for the chopper settles down, and a man in the back waves him inside.

  He turns once, halfway across the helipad and shouts, ‘I will. You can count on it.’

  Day 7, 11:45

  Hair-thin wires pass from the mike on the inside of Sufia’s lapel to a tiny pack on her waist. Abdullah marvels at how things have changed from the bulky devices he used thirty years earlier. This modern bug will be undetectable without someone running their hands underneath Sufia’s clothing, unlikely in the crowded conference room.

  ‘Are you ready?’ Abdullah asks.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I apologise for my earlier comments. You are brave to go in there.’

  ‘No.’ She shakes her head. ‘Not brave; just a woman in love.’

  Zhyogal’s voice crackles through the speakers.

  ‘No one must stand within twenty metres of the opening, or ten hostages will be shot. Any attempt to rush the door by armed men will result in the immediate detonation of the explosive devices in this room.’

  Marika walks Sufia to within the stipulated distance and smiles up at her. ‘Madoowbe did not die without reason.’

  ‘No. He did not.’ Sufia lays a hand on each of Marika’s shoulders and kisses her on the cheek. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘What for? Bringing you here, to the most dangerous spot on the face of the globe?’

  ‘No, for risking your life for coming to get me. Whatever happens, my place is beside him. Even if we must die hand in hand.’

  Feeling herself close to tears, Marika reaches out and grips Sufia’s arm. ‘You deserve the chance to be together.’ She again has the feeling that there is somet
hing special about the Somali woman. The word noble springs to mind.

  The door opens and a heavy, filthy smell wafts out. The smell of fear, captivity and, worse, the smell of putrescent human corpses. Marika almost gags, seeing the mujahedin on the other side, flanking the pathetic line of men and women, shouting, urging them through, some of the hostages stumbling, attempting to run.

  Marika has a sudden and deep understanding of the bravery of those who remain inside, yet she can feel nothing but sorrow for these desperates who did what they had to do to survive. The line is long, now forty or more in total, and only after the last is through does Sufia walk towards the entrance. Marika can see her fear in the trembling of her legs, watches the Almohad stop her and pat her down, looking for weapons, still shouting and brandishing rifles and pistols.

  Even after the main door closes Marika stares, knowing that she has done something momentous in finding that woman and bringing her here. Who else in the world would have the courage to walk into that room?

  With a strange feeling of emptiness, she climbs the steps towards the control room. Faces look up at her as she enters and slumps into a seat, staring at the blank monitors, so physically tired, yet more awake than she has ever been, wishing she could see what is happening inside.

  Abdullah comes out of his office and takes a seat opposite her. Content at first to simply share the space with her, searching for words perhaps. Someone is reading a news item from a screen out loud, in halting English — an Op-ed predicting an Asian food crisis after Cyclone Zahir has devastated up to one fifth of the world’s rice production. This seems likely — Thai floods a few years earlier showed how vulnerable the sector was to natural disaster.

  ‘You have done well, Marika Hartmann,’ Abdullah says. ‘For what it is worth, I thank you.’

  His words mean more to her than she might have imagined. This man’s approval is important to her.

  ‘Your part in this is over,’ he continues. ‘Go to your room. Shower. Then you may leave. They will begin evacuating the centre at around three this afternoon in any case.’