Rotten Gods (28 page)

Shaking her head at her own bad fortune, Marika sits on the hard and narrow pillion, tense with anger, bladder pain, and the after effects of being shot at. ‘Jesus Christ, I hate you.'

‘Will you please stop saying that?'

‘Only if you stop being such a pain in the arse.'

‘Put your arms around my waist, and hurry.'

‘Do I have to?'

‘If you do not want to fall off, yes.'

As soon as her fingers link together the machine roars off over the sand, overloaded and unsafe, it seems to Marika. ‘Next time you want to rescue someone, ask them first, for God's sake,' she says into his ear. The road looms ahead, and the bike crests a hillock on the verge before gathering pace on the loose dust of the road surface. A pale crescent moon is out, along with a multitude of stars in an otherwise jet black sky.

‘Next time I will not bother.'

They ride in silence for a minute or so before she speaks again. ‘Where did you get this piece of shit from, anyway?'

‘I stole it.'

‘Where from?'

‘Out the back of a repair shop.'

‘That's stupid — how do you know it's not totally stuffed?'

‘She is running, is she not? And has started every time. Eventually.'

As Madoowbe increases speed, Marika looks back, noting the vehicle headlights not far behind. ‘Bugger. Looks like they're back on the road.'

Marika wonders if Captain Wanami will have the stomach to return and tell his boss that they have lost her. No, he will do everything in his power to get her back. This thought is shattered by a burst of heavy machine-gun fire as the technical accelerates.

‘Don't just sit there,' Madoowbe cries. ‘You have your gun. Shoot them.'

Unclipping the Glock from the holster she pulls back the slide to push a round into the chamber, then turns to aim at the pursuing vehicle. When she pulls the trigger there is a click as the mechanism slides through, but no discharge. She tries again. Nothing.

‘Damn it!' Bringing the gun back she works the action and tries again. Still nothing.

‘What's wrong?' Madoowbe shouts.

‘My gun,' she cries. ‘Dalmar Asad must have taken out the firing pin. Damn the bastard.'

With an angry flick of her arm, Marika throws the useless weapon out into the night.

‘The rifle on my back,' Madoowbe urges. ‘Unstrap it.'

‘How am I supposed to do that?'

The back wheel of the bike hits a powderpuff of dust and wriggles across the track. Recovering from the momentary lack of balance, Marika lifts the weapon over Madoowbe's shoulders, gripping the machine with both knees like a rodeo rider while she does so. ‘Lift your arm, for God's sake, it's in my way,' she calls, risking a glance back, seeing the headlights of the technical gaining, another behind it. A burst from the MG sees tracer rounds arc towards them through the darkness.

Now the weapon is free, however, and even as it comes into her hands Marika recognises the familiar balance, the user-friendly feel of the most popular small arm in the world. Designed by Mikhail Kalashnikov, and designated the AK47, for seventy years it has been beloved of terrorists, mercenaries, Third World armies, reactionaries and screenwriters the world over. This one is well worn, with a wooden stock polished from constant handling over many years. Someone has carved words in Arabic on the stock, like school children might on a desk.

Drawing back the charging handle, she feels a round click into the chamber, then moves the selector to the lowest position, knowing that there is no point spraying rounds all over the place. Turning, bracing herself against Madoowbe's back, she lifts the weapon to her shoulder and lines up the peep, attempting to focus on the windscreen.

Both vehicles move so erratically it is possible only to draw a bead in the general direction and wait for the target to bounce into view. About to pull the trigger, she stops, lowering the weapon.

‘Hold on,' she says, ‘these guys were helping me not long ago …'

‘Trust me, we have no choice. Do you really think Dalmar Asad is going to hand Sufia Haweeya over to you? No, he will use her as a bargaining chip with the West. That is how he operates — I have found out much about him. Besides, these three technicals would never have got you through the mountains. People hate Dalmar Asad. By tomorrow you would be dead.'

‘Even so, I don't know. If we surrender now, I'm pretty sure they wouldn't kill me.'

‘No,' Madoowbe cries, ‘but they will kill
me
. Worse. They will roast my testicles before my eyes. I am fond of my testicles. Shoot, and hurry, before it is too late.'

Machine-gun fire stitches its way across the road ahead of them. Passing bullets whip through the air.

‘Hurry.'

Marika raises the rifle again, first settling the peep on the driver, and then the man beside him, waiting for the aim to come true. It seems to her that the passenger must be Captain Wanami — surely he would have changed vehicles and this is where he prefers to sit. Her finger tightens on the trigger. This is a cruel man, one who hurt her physically more than once. Surely he deserves to die? Still she cannot bring herself to kill him, switching her aim to the front passenger-side tyre. She fires twice. The reaction is immediate — the vehicle swerves towards the road verge, where it stops. The other vehicle pauses beside it for a moment, then continues on, now staying back a respectful distance.

‘Good shooting,' Madoowbe shouts.

‘Thank you, just one of my many talents. You know … a modern girl and all that.' In an effort to mould her body to the fast moving bike she feels her ankle contact red-hot metal and stifles a yelp of pain.

‘Are you OK?'

‘Yeah, just the exhaust pipe. They're gaining on us. Can't this thing go any faster?'

‘I'm trying. Stop chattering and let me concentrate.'

The motor, however, is erratic, racing one moment and dawdling the next. The remaining vehicle surges closer, and Marika takes the opportunity to lift the rifle to her shoulder. She fires two short bursts, aiming at the engine block, a much clearer target at a distance than tyres. Despite seeing sparks as bullets strike in the correct area, her efforts seem not to impede the vehicle's progress.

‘You were just now boasting about your marksmanship,' Madoowbe complains.

‘Shut up, damn you. If it wasn't for you I'd be half asleep, on my way to pick up our target.'

‘If it wasn't for me you would be dead on the side of the road when Dalmar Asad's thugs decided they didn't like where they were going.'

‘That's your opinion. Anyway, you're the big SAS man. Why don't you stop and shoot them yourself?'

‘What I told you about being in the SAS was not strictly true,' he grunts. ‘I was in the infantry for a time, but I have never been SAS.'

‘You lied to me?'

‘Yes. I wanted to come with you.'

‘Have you ever parachuted before?'

‘Never.'

‘You seemed to know what you were doing.'

‘I Googled how to do it before we left. There is a Wikipedia article that goes into great detail …'

‘Shit. There's three billion men in the world and I had to get lumped with
you
.' Marika lifts the assault rifle and fires again, this time rewarded with a plume of white steam from the vehicle's radiator.

‘That's better,' Madoowbe offers, ‘but it does not seem to be slowing them down.'

‘No? Look.'

The vehicle appears to falter, but remains on their tail, spewing steam like a fountain.

‘It can't last — they'll overheat, surely.'

As if in response to that observation, the machine begins to fall back. Marika's last glimpse is of men tumbling from the vehicle, one lighting a cigarette, another gesticulating wildly.

Marika needs all her self-control to wait until they have put the technical several kilometres behind them. ‘Stop the bike now, please,' she says.

‘Why? We should travel as far as we can while we have the opportunity …'

‘Shut up, Madoowbe. If you don't stop you're gonna get a wet arse, and I'm going to need a change of underwear. Get it?'

The Somali says nothing, but swings the bike over to the verge. Marika steps off and, hobbling like a cripple, ducks behind the nearest bush, just managing to get her trousers off in time to enjoy the most beautiful relief she can remember.

 

Lubayd agrees to pump two hundred litres of diesel into the other boat's tanks — enough for them to reach the Somali port of Raas
Binne  — only when Simon offers to pay for it. The refuelling process requires a long black hose snaking between the two vessels, thirty minutes of intense manoeuvring and men standing by with boat hooks. Finally, the
Sa-baah
steams away, manned by a somewhat more cheerful crew. When they have gone, Simon sits in the saloon, head in his hands, knowing that now, on the cusp of finding Hannah and Frances, the search has become more difficult than ever.

Ishmael disappears into his cabin, and when he returns the smell of hashish smoke wafts up behind him. Eyes red and pupils tiny as pinpricks, lips puffy and motionless, he broods over a mug of mint tea for some minutes before lifting his head to speak to Lubayd as if Simon is not present. ‘At last, that foolishness is over. I say we drop the Englishman on the main island as was the original plan. We owe a man who pulls a gun on us nothing.'

Lubayd, ignoring his brother, fixes his eyes on Simon. ‘You heard the crew of that tug. Your daughters' captors took a fast boat. There are many islands — we cannot search them all. They could have met a float plane, a tanker. Anything.'

‘No. If they were going to rendezvous with another vessel or aircraft, why would they have sailed so far? It doesn't make sense.'

‘Lubayd! Think straight!' Ishmael cries. ‘Do not listen to his clever fabrications. Take the money now and set him ashore. Anywhere. There has been nothing but risk for us since we brought him aboard. Let that be the end of it.'

Lubayd's face is a picture of concentration. ‘You are right, Ishmael. And this time I will listen.' His eyebrows knit together as he stares at Simon. ‘We will now make for Socotra, where you will pay us and leave this boat. That is our bargain. What you do from there is not our concern.'

‘If my girls are not on Socotra, then there is no point going there. Help me for just one day, that's all I ask. Cruise past some of these islands; let us see if there is a boat such as they described moored there.'

Ishmael pushes his face so close that hashish and garlic fumes assault Simon's senses. ‘You are not so tough without a gun in your hand.'

Simon ignores him, instead fixing his eyes on the older brother. ‘Please, help me. Just for one day.'

Lubayd lifts one hand. ‘No argument. That is the end of it.'

Simon remains at the dinette table, staring into space. The old crone who has said nothing for so long extends one long, bony hand and covers his. Staring into his eyes she speaks in archaic Arabic.

‘You must not weep,' she says. ‘You cannot hold on to what you love forever.'

Day 4, 21:00

In the port city of Umm Qasr, Southern Iraq, in a base that does not officially exist, twenty-two men burdened with packs and assault rifles file out from a C130 transport plane and towards a Unimog truck that will take them to temporary barracks. This is the port that once protected a bridge linking Saddam Hussein's regime to Kuwait, famously compared with Southampton by Geoff Hoon, defence secretary during the Second Gulf War, to which a British soldier quipped back: ‘There's no beer, no prostitutes and people are shooting at us. It's more like Portsmouth.'

Each man in the line carries rations for three days, five hundred rounds of NATO standard 7.62mm ammunition, and one hundred
of 9mm. They also carry three grenades — two phosphorus and one high explosive.

In addition, each individual has the tools peculiar to his trade  — sniper rifles, long-distance listening equipment, or communications. Each squad is equipped with a packaged, folding watercraft and diving equipment. Each man was hand-picked for his strength, stamina, and competence. He can run a hundred metres in under twelve seconds and swim ten miles in a cold sea.

First in line walks PJ Johnson. Point men get in the habit of leading, and also in the habit of watchfulness. His eyes never stop moving, flicking ahead as if he is already in a combat zone. He climbs into the open back of the truck and onto the bench, leaning forward, resting his weight on the stock of his Heckler and Koch assault rifle. The men settling into their places opposite him show signs that they share his own nervousness.

PJ turns and looks out the acrylic windows; dust blows in a constant stream from the ground, obscuring the hangars and workshops of the airfield and the high fences beyond. He closes his eyes, thinking back to when all he wanted was to be a soldier; a tough guy like the GI Joe action figures he pitted against one another. Toy tanks shooting it out, dust flying and children crying.

A childhood moving from city to city. Norwich, Ipswich, Colchester. Another school, new faces, yet always the snide remarks on the first day, comments about his ears, or the stained and torn jacket three sizes too small. Sometimes a knowing slur on matters beyond his control.

‘My dad says that his dad is a drunk,' someone would announce. ‘Can't hold down a job anywhere. My dad says that his dad has been in Brixton.'

It was true. PJ remembers the long year when the old man was inside, and they visited him every Saturday afternoon. Brought
chocolate and cartons of Player cigarettes, watching him sit with his muscled, tattooed arms on the table, listening to the monosyllabic news of a man who had nothing to talk about, nothing to share of interest to an eight-year-old boy.

His mum insisted that they went. ‘Some families won't visit their dad in jail — too ashamed. I won't be like that. Not one of us will be. A man needs to see his family, no matter what mistakes he's made.'