Rotten Gods

by Greg Barron

  ‘Ali Khalid Abukar is dead,’ she says, ‘and some of you will call him a terrorist. My husband was seduced by the radical extreme of his religion. But it happened because the leaders of the world have stopped listening. Political posturing has become more important than right. People are starving, people are dying, we are making our planet uninhabitable, and still our leaders are more ready to send men with guns than food. Power is not inherent in one person, just the illusion of it. Power resides in the will of the people. Please, I beg you, listen to his voice, now lost to us. Listen to the voice of a gentle man called to extremism and violence.’

  There is some murmuring, and the room might have erupted but for one man who has not yet left, having regained his place at the front of the room, staring out at the exodus of delegates as if imagining what might have been. Marika watches him stand, and the voices that follow Sufia’s outburst fall silent. The Secretary General of the United Nations has the face of a man who has stared over the precipice into another Dark Age, into something no sane individual can contemplate.

  His voice carries across the room: ‘Terrible things have happened here. Perhaps the world will never be the same; perhaps we have been made to see things we have not seen until now. We cannot let this chance pass by. Time is running out for all of us.’

  The room becomes still. Even medics sliding bodies into black, zippered bags stop to listen.

  ‘The planet earth is a most beautiful place. Unique in all the universe. We have the intelligence and means to be wise caretakers. Instead we have indulged in an orgy of want, of waste, and destruction. We are faced with decisions that cannot wait. In spite of what has happened, the conference will reconvene in the morning, and hard decisions will be made. Must be made before it is too late. Too late for all of us.’

  The clapping starts from a group of delegates, grey army blankets wrapped around their shoulders, being shepherded from the room. A new feeling permeates the room.

  Yes, there is much to be done. It is time for the hands of the world to join.

  Aftermath

  The sun is just nudging the horizon when Marika climbs the last ridge, rewarded with a glade coloured with rock-cress and protea flowers. Beyond is a sweeping mountain panorama, surmounted by the peaks of Batian and Nelion and deep, mist-filled valleys between, cut through by the Liki River. One whole side of the sky is filled with grey and black thunderheads stacked high in the firmament. Thunder rumbles constantly. Lightning flickers and flashes across the sky.

  Knowing that she should be finding a campsite, pitching her tent and gathering sticks for a fire, she instead sits down on a shelf of syenite rock and watches the view. The immensity and grandeur of it all. The feeling of wonder is strong within her. Of privilege to be who she is, where she is.

  After four weeks at home, healing the aches and pains, she couldn’t resist the urge to travel again. This time to the mountain trails of Kenya; not ready to return to Somalia, yet wanting to be close.

  The Rabi al-Salah conference, reconvening the day after the terrorists were killed, has been hailed as a breakthrough. The people of the West face inconvenience and perhaps a level of want many have never before experienced, but there is a chance that the tide of change can be checked, if not stopped. The stockpiles of the West will be opened to feed the world. Carbon emissions slashed.

  Marika feels part of something new — that her role in this new world has not yet ended. Perhaps just beginning.

  One thousand kilometres away, Saif al-Din squats beside a group of men. All carry assault rifles of various makes and models. None smile. They have just finished praying together. They remember those who have fallen. They talk of death and life, of purpose and mission. These eight men from three continents are the remaining members of al-Jama’a al-Ashara, the council of the Almohad, united with a common purpose.

  ‘This is a setback,’ Saif tells them, ‘not an ending. We must deal more harshly with the kufr. Zhyogal was weak: he should have destroyed the head of the snake when he had the chance. We will not make that mistake again.’

  He looks down at the fresh, livid scars on his lower legs, where shrapnel tore through to the bone, remembering his terror as he swam four miles to an island, bleeding from limbs, body and head, making contact there with Sana’a, via satellite telephone. There is another scar on his temple, yet no doctor has yet cut for the sliver of steel inside.

  Saif al-Din is certain now that God spared him for a reason. There is no doubt in his mind that he has a part yet to play in bringing glory to Him.

  Eyes closed, Marika hears the first heavy rain drops, thinking of the mob at the gates of Dalmar Asad’s compound. A scene that will be repeated across the world. The clamour of the people of this earth, yet to be heard in full voice. Freedom. Dignity. An environment free of pollutants and danger. Eight billion voices. Marika remembers the acacia hut. She remembers what it is like to cry.

  The sun dips below the mountains, the moon becoming defined with the passing of a greater light. She stands, brushes off her khaki shorts, then slips her pack over her shoulders, adjusts the straps so the weight is distributed evenly and turns away.

  Her feet leave prints in the dust behind her, only to be washed away by the coming storm.

  An Excerpt from LETHAL SKY

  BOOK ONE

  Flying over Baghdad at ten thousand feet;

  Listening to those beeps and squeaks.

  Hajji in his house talking on the cell,

  Hellfire’s coming, send him straight to hell.

  USAF Major Matt J Martin, in Predator, The Remote-Control Air War over Iraq and Afghanistan’ A Pilot’s Story

  1430 (Zulu) Syrian Airspace / Alt 20000m—Vis range 410000m / Wind NW 20–25 knots / Temp (ground) 43°C /

  The drone. The machine. Is called Phantom Eye.

  Twenty kilometres above the earth, it crosses oceans and borders. Able to ‘see’ five hundred kilometres in all directions, its 2.8-gigapixel cameras can zoom in on a child’s toy in a backyard two nations away.

  Silent and almost invisible, Phantom Eye can stay aloft for twenty days and nights at a time. Its wings span fifty metres from tip to tip. It weighs more than a loaded bus and carries a sophisticated sensor and communications suite.

  It runs on hydrogen, emitting water vapour as exhaust. Equipped by Boeing engineers with artificial intelligence capabilities, it changes course, avoids storms, moves towards areas of interest — all without human guidance. Phantom Eye is autonomous. It thinks for itself.

  Phantom Eye has been given a task’ to find the Most Wanted Man in the World. It knows the shape of his skull. The spacing and size of his eye sockets. The structure of his cheeks. The shape of his earlobes. He is unique; there is no one else like him. Phantom Eye can scan a city and pick him out of a crowd.

  ONE

  GATWICK AIRPORT, ENGLAND

  JUNE 20, LOCAL TIME: 1800

  PJ Johnson spins the wheel of the silver BMW 2 Series coupé and accelerates across the tarmac, the airport lights moving in liquid droplets across the windscreen from the rain. At a distance of some forty metres from the Gulfstream G280, he brakes gently, switches off the engine, and turns to the woman in the seat beside him.

  ‘That’s it then. Good luck, and see you in a few days.’

  ‘Yeah, thanks.’

  ‘Back to your home town, you must be looking forward to it. Two stops?’

  Just one, Dubai. An hour or two.’

  PJ allows himself to admire Marika Hartmann for a moment. Her dark brown hair is tied back, the way he likes it. Her eyes, the same colour, are warm and alive. Her lashes aren’t long, nor her lips overly sensuous. Everything, however, is in pleasing proportion.

  Marika places her hand over his, almost casually. ‘It’s a shame you’re not coming with me.’

  ‘I know — I asked. But the director says he needs me here.’

  Chatter from London’s FM96 radio, fills the silence. PJ reaches out to the dial and turns it down.
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  ‘Are your feet holding up to the workload?’ Marika asks.

  Just nine months earlier most of the bones in PJ’s feet and ankles had been clubbed into soft tissue. Steel pins now hold the bone together, but he can walk at normal pace, and has upped his physical activity to light jogging twice a week. Only those who know him best can see the slight limp, particularly after a long day.

  ‘Almost back to my old self,’ he grins.

  ‘Yeah sure.’

  ‘Want a race?’

  ‘No.’ Marika smiles. ‘I don’t want a race.’

  On the same day as PJ’s mutilation, Marika was forced to kill a man, and was in return shot twice in the chest at point blank range, so close that the Kevlar shear-fluid vest saved her life but did not prevent injuries. They, both field agents for the Directorate of Resource and Future Security — part of the Vauxhall Cross-based SIS — have healed together, and in the process have become close.

  PJ is quiet for a while, then: ‘I’ve been thinking. Maybe when this is over you and I could take a holiday. A couple of weeks somewhere — far from trouble.’

  ‘Amazing!’ she laughs. ‘Paisley Johnson comes through with the Seychelles diving trip at last!’

  PJ leans towards her. ‘Maybe somewhere closer to home — I’m thinking the Greek islands. I know a man on Mikonos who owns a thirty-five foot ketch — he’d give us a good deal on a charter. Knows all the good fishing and mooring spots too. We could just live on fish and …’

  His eyes settle on her, and Marika’s face reddens. ‘I’d better get going.’

  ‘Yes, you’d better.’ He reaches for the door handle, and walks around the back to get her kit from the boot.

  They stand together in awkward silence for a moment, then she kisses him on the cheek. ‘See you soon. Look after yourself, Paisley, and don’t overdo it.’

  ‘You too. Keep safe.’

  He watches her walk across the drizzling wet tarmac to the Gulfstream. The plane is almost brand new: metallic silver, eight-metres long from pointed nose to winged tail. With a range of almost seven thousand kilometres travelling at Mach .80, it is one of the fastest methods of crossing the world.

  Marika waves one last time as she enters the cabin, and finally PJ climbs back into the car and out of the rain. He starts the engine, the radio is playing another old hit, ‘Us Against the World’ by Coldplay.

  Back on duty in eight hours, PJ suspects that going home is a poor option. After all, An Tèarmunn — Gaelic for ‘The Sanctuary’ — his four-and-a-half acre paradise, is more than an hour from London, and at least the same from here. Yet home is his respite from the world. Work has been frantic; all staff working double shifts, pulling surveillance on a swathe of business premises and individuals. The drive will be worth it.

  There are two possible routes: either backtracking towards London on the M23 then heading west on the M25, or going cross-country. The latter option is more appealing than overtaking and merging at seventy miles an hour on the freeway.

  The fog is thick as he heads across on Smalls Hill Road past Edolphs Copse. A pleasant enough place during the day, in the gloom of a wet evening it seems ghostly, trees sticking out from a low blanket of fog.

  The handling of the car, however, is superb, the Pirelli P Zero tyres gripping the road like glue. One of the benefits of a dangerous job is excellent pay, with little time to spend it. Expensive toys like this one are within reach. Warm air breathes out from the vents, music from the speakers. Something more recent — from the new wave of London ska bands.

  PJ’s thoughts keep him busy. Marika. The gathering storm across the world. Days of high alert are starting to tell, the lack of results frustrating. Farmland on either side now, luminous white cow’s eyes reflecting from the headlights. Verdant countryside made eerie by the night.

  He has just crossed Beam Brook, the water dark and steaming, when headlights burn through the gloom behind him. A car, coming up fast.

  PJ watches in the rear-vision mirror as it speeds closer, moving to within a few metres of his rear fender. The music, the car, even thoughts of Marika give way to a prickling of worry. The luxury car does not fit the profile of an impatient local, and the shapes behind the glare are of well-dressed men.

  The first priority is to test their interest in him. Side lanes intersect with the main road at regular intervals, and when PJ comes up to the next junction he throws the BMW into a hard right turn, entering a narrow thoroughfare called, ironically, Broad Lane.

  The other car turns also, fishtailing into the lane. So their arrival was no coincidence, PJ thinks to himself, and decides on one final test. He brakes hard, and turns the wheel full lock, spinning the rear wheels deliberately to tighten the U-turn. The BMW accelerates back towards the intersection, driving partially onto the verge, mud flicking up onto the undercarriage, speeding around the black luxury car — a Lexus maybe? Now he sees faces behind the heavy tinting. Dull and unidentifiable.

  Ahead at the junction, another set of headlights arrive at speed. Another black Lexus, this one turning sideways to block the lane, wheels spinning on damp grass. PJ starts to gun the motor, but then, realising that he can’t get through, comes to a stop, hemmed in by stone walls on either side. As new-model BMWs are designed to do at rest, the engine cuts out, leaving only silence.

  TWO

  KARACHI, PAKISTAN

  LOCAL TIME: 2330

  The tributaries that feed the Indus River start in Tibet, fed by glacier and snow melt from the world’s highest mountain ranges. The main branch flows through Kashmir and Baltistan, then the plains of Punjab and Sindh before splitting into the seven channels that make up the delta. Korangi Creek is the most westerly of the seven branches, crowded up against the city of Karachi. The air here smells of rotting hull timbers, mud flats, and of the slums that begin just beyond the reach of the tide.

  The freighter Isra lies alongside one of the many jetties, her iron sides rearing high into the darkness, overshadowing the countless fishing dhows and wooden ferry boats that line the riverbank at Korangi township. Her full fifty metre length is scaled with rust, her wheelhouse deck topped with communication towers. She flies Cypriot colours, a flag of convenience common on the seas of the world.

  ‘Three hundred and twenty-three souls move in an orderly line from the jetty, up the gangplank and into the freighter. They sign contracts at a folding table set up on the main deck. Contracts that condemn them to five years as indentured labourers, to feed the insatiable demand in the Middle East for cheap servants. Fifty to eighty per cent of the population of some Gulf States are now low-paid workers from Pakistan, India and Bangladesh.

  Badi al-Zaman al-Hamadhani al-Assadi, the Most Wanted Man in the World, stalks the main deck like a hawk. He is tall and slim, giving an overall impression not of physical power, but of grace and economy of movement. His face, hooded and dark with shadows, is imperious, with a light, wispy beard and dominant eyes.

  He wrings his hands impatiently, anxious to have the holds filled and to make way before the tide drops. Running aground on one of the many sand bars in the river mouth would not only mean a long delay, but possibly a visit from the Pakistani navy.

  ‘How many?’ Badi asks the recruitment agent, a wiry Sikh with a blue dastar turban wrapped around his head. It is necessary to speak somewhat loudly, competing with the haunting notes of qawwali music drifting in from the township and excited chatter from those walking up the ramp.

  Three hundred and twenty-three. Can you really accommodate them all?’

  ‘Of course,’ Badi says, spreading his hands as if to demonstrate the vastness of his vessel. ‘The Isra has just been fully refitted in Oman. This will be the first of many journeys. You, my friend, will soon be a rich man.’

  The Isra’s crew usher the human cargo below, into the forward holds. Designed for stacked shipping containers, the holds have been refitted and prepared for passengers. The facilities are basic and crowded — hammocks strung from iron poles
and chemical toilets in the corners, screened with burlap fabric.

  The agent’s eyes narrow. ‘This is a lot of men for one ship.’

  ‘Ah yes, but we cruise at eleven knots. By dawn of the day after tomorrow we will steam in to a quiet beach in the United Arab Emirates, near Sharjah. The ramp at the bow will open, and your people will walk out into the arms of my trustworthy representatives who have arranged good jobs, and clean hostels for them to live in. Your clients will work hard, but I expect that most of them will send ten, maybe twenty US dollars home each week. That’s good publicity for your business.’

  ‘Why are you insisting that the men remain below throughout the journey? They have complained to me — most would prefer to be out on deck, at least in the morning and evening.’

  ‘The journey is short. We’ve had passengers interfering with the operation of the ship in the past. That is a requirement I insist on for the most speedy and trouble-free journey.’

  The last passengers have reached the deck and are signing their contracts, laughing and smiling at each other before being ushered below.

  The agent looks unhappy. ‘Other ships I have used in the past have had decent facilities for the transport of men. This one worries me. I doubt my clients will be comfortable packed in a cargo hold.’

  ‘Why should you or I worry about their comfort?’ Badi says softly. ‘We are making money, that’s the important thing.’

  ‘On the contrary,’ says the Sikh. ‘I feel for these men. I care for them. Their very poverty forces them to leave their wives and children for many years, in hope of providing a better future. That is a huge sacrifice. I insist that they be well treated, and if you are uncaring of their welfare you and I will not do business again.’