by Greg Barron
Marika shakes her head. ‘I’m not going anywhere until this is over.’
Abdullah smiles back at her. ‘I knew you would say that. Let us face the end together. Whatever it may be.’
Ali’s heart seems to pause, mid-beat, to look at Sufia, knowing now that it was a mistake to let her in here. Grasping her arm, he leads her to where they can find some privacy. He had not expected to see her again before death takes him, but it is a pleasure laced with despair.
Knowing there is a cubicle where a group of shorthand clerks once took details and messages, sent faxes, gossiped, and filed their nails, Ali leads her there, turning, placing a hand on each of her shoulders and staring into her eyes. He has not forgotten how beautiful she is, but her time in the desert seems to have heightened that beauty. Her skin glows with health and vitality. Maybe it is just the sallowness of those in the room that makes her seem that way.
First they embrace for what seems like minutes. Strange how he wants to weep for sheer joy, and at how memories pass before his eyes as if he is already dying.
‘You do not have to do this,’ she says. ‘It is not too late.’
‘Nothing will change my mind now. Perhaps this day will be remembered when other men sit down to make what they call policies, when greed rules over sense.’
‘I have always admired you,’ Sufia says, ‘most of all for your humanity. This is not the right way. It is not the way of the man I love.’
Ali breaks away, unable to meet her eyes. ‘For so long I agonised, and now I believe that this is the only way. If I save ten thousand lives, it is worth it.’
‘Saving by killing? Isn’t that an argument that others have used before you? My dear Ali, they are using you. They do not want to save the world like you do, but to create it in their image — cold, savage and harsh. They do not care about floods and refugees, or a changing world. They just want power in the name of God. They want to repress the people of Africa. From there they will spread their ideology outwards. Ideology that is more than a thousand years old. They are wrong. They have no place in the kind of world we need to build. There is just one way to change the world — people of goodwill coming together and working for peace, equitability and justice.’
Ali reaches out to her, embracing her, eyes closed, one hand on the small of her back, wondering if he can press the switch with Sufia here, allow high explosives to wrench her limbs apart and blast shrapnel into her heart. ‘You cannot persuade me against the course I have chosen. Instead, I ask one thing of you.’
‘Yes?’
‘Get out of here. Let me arrange for you to leave the way you came.’
‘I will not. Instead I ask you to stand up before the world, show compassion, and disarm the weapon you carry. To murder the people in this room you must murder me as well.’
Breath trickles from his lips. ‘I cannot change my mind.’
‘You must! You have made your point. Nothing can be achieved.’ She points out towards the tiered rows. ‘Look at them, each one. Their lives have a validity and worth of their own. They may be wrong, much of the time, and they must change, but this is not the way to bring change about.’
Tears spill from his eyes. ‘No, I am sorry, but it is too late.’
Day 7, 12:30
Abdullah has just managed a cat nap — two or three minutes swaying on the chair with his eyes closed, dozing into a distant and fitful state so hypnotically sweet that the sound of the cell phone in his pocket scarcely cuts through at first.
Even when it does, his first instinct is to turn it off like some wayward alarm clock. With consciousness, however, comes memory, and the meaning of the excited chatter at the other end.
‘No,’ he breathes, ‘that is not possible. We had an agreement for him to finish the tunnel.’
More from the other end. Excuses. A plea for orders. Léon Benardt wants to know how to save the situation. How to salvage the work of days. To stop the bastards from winning. To stop them sending the whole conference room as martyrs to a God who must already be shrieking with delight at blood so thick that it will run off His hands into a river.
‘I’ll tell you what you must do. Get every pick and shovel you can find, and put one in the hands of every man and woman who can hold one, including you. Finish the tunnel.’
‘I don’t know anything about such work.’
‘Find someone who does. Appeal to the public. Anything.’
‘What about the floor of the bunker? Picks and shovels don’t work on concrete.’
‘As I said. Get some advice. It can be blown. Just start digging.’
Abdullah leans back on the chair, hands behind his head in a parody of relaxation, staring at the letter-sized photographs pinned to the board. Each depicts one of the Islamists inside the centre. Dr Abukar, the enigma. Jafar, the Iranian. He focuses on Zhyogal, however.
You don’t give a shit about the demands, you son of a bitch. You don’t care what concessions we make. You just want that room to blow, and now that the Americans are giving over Africa your comrades will move in. You want to dominate a continent. A new empire. You’re using Dr Abukar, aren’t you?
Abdullah wipes his eyes then lifts a pen from the wooden holder, tapping it on the desk. There is no time. In a few hours they will all have to leave. At sunset the room will explode, and no one knows if the building will collapse or not. No one can take that chance.
If Léon Benardt, in all his years of training, had imagined himself leading a dozen young men out of a truck, with a sledgehammer in his hand, about to attack the locked front door of a Dubai hardware store, he might have suspected that he was insane.
Already his eyes are red with strain and he feels more stressed than at any other time in his life. The failure of the planned attack on the centre hurt him personally, since it was he who found the electrician who precipitated the plan. Now this tunnel alternative seems, likewise, to be failing before his eyes.
Somehow, through a series of urgent television and radio announcements they located Alan Kruger, a South African mining consultant who cut his teeth on the Witwatersrand goldfields, holidaying with a new young wife at the Burj al-Arab hotel on Jumeirah Beach. He appears to be a real find: bullheaded and knowledgeable. Kruger’s first act was to order five thousand empty sandbags. These they tracked down to an emergency supply organisation. Then he requested huge quantities of hardwood shoring timbers and reo bar. Now they need hand tools, the fastest way possible.
The ten-pound iron head of the sledgehammer, swung with all the strength of Léon’s arms and shoulders, connects with the lock and shatters it. Another blow and the left side of the door sags in on its hinges, glass shards tinkling to the pavement. An alarm wails.
Kruger, whose nose looks like it has been broken with a pick handle, says, ‘Good shot, man.’
Illuminated by the store security lights they forge past shelves of homemaker items towards the hand tools hanging in neat rows, painted in businesslike green and black.
Léon turns to Kruger. ‘You’re the expert. What do we need?’
‘Short-handled spades will be better in a confined space. Here.’
A dozen hands reach out to take them.
‘And these mattocks. We’ll need barrows to take the material out. Get the ones with galvanised iron trays, they’re stronger.’
By the time an impromptu chain of men is busy emptying the section of tools, Léon has made his way back out to the truck. The Dubai police are just arriving, lights flashing over the blue paintwork and yellow lion insignia of the cars.
Léon feels like a thief, but watches as a deputation of GDOIS division police sent by Abdullah bin al-Rhoumi arrives to take the heat off them. He climbs into the passenger seat and waits while the last of the booty clatters into the back.
‘Go,’ he shouts to the driver. The big diesel rumbles to life.
The tunnel is eerie and strange, reeking of disturbed earth, roots, and underground creatures. Here and there are patches of damp
, but mostly the floor is dry earth. The walls and ceiling are smooth, slurry dried hard, perfectly shaped by the passage of al-Moler. Léon is astounded afresh at how efficiently the machine has done its work.
Those who walk behind carry an assortment of lights — headlamps, flashlights, even fluorescent camping lights. Many have ‘borrowed’ hard hats from the hardware store and others wear military steel helmets, surely uncomfortable in the heat and humidity of the tunnel.
Léon turns to Kruger. ‘What are the chances of a cave-in?’
‘Very slim: a TBM compacts as it goes. Having said that, it is always best to tread softly underground.’
Ahead they see the wall of earth where al-Moler stopped digging. This area is not so smooth. Heavy clumps of dirt and a few stones litter the floor area.
Léon feels a twinge of claustrophobia, along with confusion. A hand-built tunnel sounded simple back on the surface. Here, it is difficult to know where to start. The bunker complex is directly above. He knows from images on the computers at the control centre how it is laid out. Where to begin? Surely they cannot just start digging into the ceiling?
He watches Kruger circle the area, studying the walls, picking out samples of soil from here and there and squeezing them in his fingers. He stops, appearing to make a decision, then glances at Léon. ‘Can you bring everyone in?’
They come, faces shining in the artificial light, standing in an anxious circle. This is a foreign environment for all of them, Léon realises. They are a mixed bunch; all those who were available on site. Some are Dubai police, others security contractors or labourers. Many are Pakistani, others local, and there is little talk among them. All understand the gravity and difficulty of the task ahead.
Kruger points at the end wall of the tunnel. ‘We go in there, from the side, and zigzag our way up. Just five men will dig at a time, five on the barrows, five filling and stacking sandbags and five resting. Swap every ten minutes. Do you understand?’
The affirmative is a low mutter, punctuated by scuffing feet and silent nods.
‘I’ll mark the beginning. Pace yourself, don’t go crazy. Who wants to start at the face?’
Léon is full of pride at this underground command. ‘I’ll begin,’ he says, yet with some trepidation. He can run ten miles in fifty-three minutes, and bench press ninety kilograms, but swinging an agricultural implement? Hadn’t he assisted his aunt Noelle to hoe the turnip patch? Last year? Maybe the year before.
Within ten minutes his shoulders ache, sweat pours down his face, and blisters form on the pads of his hands. The soil is hard in places, and though his mattock bites deep, he sees with some chagrin that the other men in the tunnel are making better progress than he.
Only weaklings give in to blisters, to pain, he says to himself, then tightens his grip and attacks the face with renewed vigour.
Day 7, 16:30
It is hard for PJ to shake off the schoolyard fear of unknown personalities as he comes off the chopper and into a canvas-covered Unimog with twenty-seven men he has never seen before. Little by little, however, they chat and introduce themselves, say things that sound mindless, but carry fears and terrors — hidden undercurrents that only other men in this situation would recognise.
The man alongside PJ offers a few squares of army-issue chocolate. He accepts, grateful to break the ice. These are all men like him, he realises, from different countries and cultures and experiences. They are not in the Special Forces because they are violent types, but because they value peace and are ready to accept the burden of protecting it. Most would be scrupulous about physical fitness. Many have young families of their own. All have acknowledged that their community and culture are worth preserving, even at the cost of their own lives.
Yes, PJ decides, these will be good men to work with. Good men to fight with, and if it comes to it, good men to die with.
The new tunnel cleaves at a fifty-degree angle into soils that Kruger describes as calcareous sand, proceeding in that direction for five or more dark metres before, on the South African’s advice, Léon orders forward work to cease, and for a larger cavity to be hacked out. From here the tunnel beams back in the opposite direction, at the same angle.
‘Like a New York fire escape,’ a wiry American volunteer suggests.
Léon grunts at the aptness of the description. ‘Change shifts.’ His voice rings clearly, yet not too loud, for already they are conscious of the proximity of the conference room above. He passes the mattock into a pair of willing hands and staggers a few yards down the tunnel to the sandbag detail.
Here, under Kruger’s direction, barrow loads of what he calls spoil — the material dug from the tunnel face — is poured into the sandbags and secured with drawstring closures. These are stacked in overlapping, brick-like rows along each wall of the new tunnel, pierced by spears of reinforcing bar hammered deep into the earth. At full height, the hardwood shoring timbers are laid across the top, making an immensely strong structure that also solves the problem of what to do with much of the soil they have excavated.
‘Are you OK?’ Kruger asks.
Léon covers his face with both hands and wipes the sweat away. ‘I am fine. How far to go now?’
‘Three hours at this pace, maybe a little more.’
Léon checks his watch. ‘That is not quick enough. We have two and a half hours until the deadline. Then it is too late for all of us. We have no choice but to dig faster.’
The images fill the small screens on the benches and larger ones scattered around the room. First one procrastinating politician, then the next. It does not seem to matter — the demands will not be met, can never be met. The world has become a nightmare of darkness and there is nothing Isabella can do to change it.
‘… the British Government has made the following further concessions …’
‘The United States Congress has agreed to …’
‘Australia’s acting Prime Minister has announced that …’
Isabella is transfixed by the horror of Jafar, the man she is forced to watch all her waking hours, patrolling, eyes hating and wanting her all at once. Then there is Zhyogal, to whom she gave herself willingly, fooled by a performance that was more convincing than that of any trained actor.
She has come to the realisation that her chances of leaving this room alive are slim. The knowledge that she will never see them again — Simon and Frances — is a sick weight in her belly, along with the desperate need to know what has happened to Hannah — if she is truly gone.
In her hands she holds the iPhone, shielded by her legs and the folds of her jacket. By now her SMS activities have become routine. First she looks around to identify where each of the terrorists is standing, then slips the handset from its hiding place and switches it on. Once she turns to see that the same man as always, the American, is watching her. They share a smile, as they have on other occasions.
There is a faint vibration as the unit powers up, a text message from Simon. Disregarding her own safety she thumbs through, reading the black LCD words that mean so much to her and she sees the word Hannah, and strings it together with the others. ‘Hannah safe with me. All well. Praying for you …’
Oh thank you, Simon, you prince among men who loves your family more than any mother has the right to expect. Oh please take me back … I’m so sorry for everything … I will love you forever, love you until my arms ache if only I can leave this death trap and breathe free air just once more …
‘Stop.’
The voice comes from behind her. Jafar has moved fast, faster than she can credit. It is already too late. He has seen her.
‘Bitch,’ he shrieks, racing in with his pistol held like a club.
Isabella drops the phone, lifting both hands to protect her head. The heavy butt strikes her wrist and then, coming down again, the side of her head. Pain. Numbing, blinding shock.
Even as she begins to fall the curly-haired American who has watched her so many times jumps to his feet. ‘The ph
one is mine,’ he shouts. ‘I asked her to hold it.’
Isabella looks up at the tall stranger, eyes watering with pain, body shaking as if she were cold. ‘No, he’s got nothing to do with it.’
The Iranian’s face comes into focus, grimacing with anger, red and contorted. She watches him swivel the handgun and shoot the American man in the chest; watches him fall back against the seats, a dark stain spreading across his chest, body sprawled, people crying out in shock around him.
Oh dear God. The discharge is so loud that her ears feel like they have been plugged with wax, and shock steals the strength from her limbs and the processing power from her mind. How is it possible that a tiny lump of copper and lead can steal a life so irrevocably?
Pincer-like fingers grip her bicep, pulling her to her feet so that she shrieks with pain and her legs struggle to support her.
‘The penalty for disobedience is death. To send messages is to die.’
Isabella feels the gun barrel against her temple. Now she is sobbing, waiting for the crash of sound and the end; no longer struggling, paralysed by fear stronger than words. Time telescopes into precious moments and images. She knows how much he wants to kill her. That to do so is the only way for him to expunge his guilt at what he feels for her. What he almost did to her.
‘I kill her now,’ Jafar Zartosht screams to the room, ‘and soon all of us will die together, a glorious offering to God.’
Léon brings the incoming team together and warns them, ‘You must be silent now. No sound at all … not even a fart. OK?’
The work becomes silent and intense. The cursing and banter stops. Léon takes his turn at the mattock handle, hands wrapped in rags to protect his blisters, knowing that he is ineffective, yet wanting to see this through to the end, determined not to shirk. Even when the rags soak through with blood he does not stop, but continues the slow thud of the blade into the earth.
