Rotten Gods (32 page)

Almost as soon as she finishes she looks across at Madoowbe, trying to catch his eye. He smiles back as if in an effort to reassure her, then resumes his conversation.

Just as the afternoon seems as if it might stretch on forever without incident, the emir issues a shouted command, and the camp snaps to attention. A space is cleared beside the hearth, and a small team of men get to work, each to pre-arranged tasks.

At first Marika assumes that she is witnessing some quasi-religious ritual. Two men carry a wooden table into the cleared space. Two others disappear, then return with a portable generator, faded Chinese lettering on the sides. This machine they set up twenty or so metres away, then run a heavy-duty power lead across to the table.

Meanwhile, two others carry a battered cardboard box from the shipping container. The word SONY is printed on the sides. Watching them unpack the box Marika shakes her head in disbelief as first speakers, then the separate components of an archaic compact disc player and amplifier, are lifted onto the table and wired up.

The speakers are, with much discussion and pointed orders from the emir, placed on terra firma, facing out in Madoowbe's general direction. At a shouted order the generator splutters into life, and one of the crew, a beardless adolescent, obviously the outfit's technical wizard, walks from the container with a small stack of CDs. He powers up the machine, slips in a disc and the assemblage waits. A moment later, at a volume set to compete with occasional gunfire, the music begins.

Marika listens, bemused, the incongruity of the music making her laugh, taking her back to childhood, to her mother dancing
around the kitchen to the husky male voice that now blares from the speakers.

Aw, aw baby, yeah, ooh yeah, huh, listen to this …

Marika smiles to herself.
Tom Jones
. Wonders if anyone has ever pointed out the meaning of the lyrics, doubting that they would please these strict Muslims.

The song ends, and after much discussion the CD is ejected and another slid in to replace it.

What next?
Marika thinks.

A classical piece that Marika does not recognise follows, but the kettle drums echoing around the cliffs are strangely resonant. The music is warlike, martial in style, and appeals to the shifta, who stand throughout, eyes misty, as though recalling glorious battles and ambushes of long ago.

The recital lasts for around thirty minutes, at which point the emir barks an order. Someone presses the kill switch on the generator and the stereo system returns to the cardboard box. Everything is packed away in the shipping container and the door closes. Marika shares a glance with Madoowbe and does her best to communicate with her eyes.
These people are crazy. Let's get the hell out of here.

Madoowbe appears to understand. He nods and looks away.

 

Before long, Marika dozes in the chair, waking to the occasional sound of gunfire. This, she realises, is an extension of the shifta's conversation  — like a loud shout of pleasure. At one stage Madoowbe is led away — for a tour of the area, she imagines.

Returning half an hour later he is able to pause beside her for a moment.

‘Have you found anything out?' she asks.

‘Yes. These people know everything that passes through this land. Two of them made contact with a party of nomads a week ago. Apparently they learned that a woman who has been in America walks among them — a woman who wears clothes like a male.'

‘Where?'

‘Somewhere to the northwest, and not too far away. The same two men are out in the desert hunting dikdik, and will return before dark. I need to talk to them first, and perhaps they will lead us there.'

One of the shifta calls Madoowbe across. ‘Hi, cousin, my friend Samih has come to hear your story of the two goats in the corn field. Can you tell it again?'

Marika shrugs, resigned to sitting there a little longer. ‘Go on, keep them happy, but I want to be out of here by nightfall, OK?'

Day 5, 15:30

Twenty nautical miles out from the island, HMS
Durham
runs in with the Rolls Royce turbines barely ticking over, yet still making five knots over the ground. The ops room is lit from above with red fluorescent tubes, giving the appearance of a photographer's dark room. Captain Marshall stands at the front, in discussion with the PWO.

On duty, Matt is a different man altogether. His face shows a sheen of sweat, even in the air-conditioned room. ‘Looks like we'll get a briefing, in a minute,' he says, ‘and you might get an idea of what the hell is going on.'

‘What if these people on the island have their own radar?' Simon asks. ‘Won't they see us here?'

‘The captain's already thought of that. There's an EA-18G Growler circling over us, forty thousand feet up, jamming them.
They might suspect that something's amiss, but they won't know much.'

The main LCD screen now displays an image that resembles the civilian Google Earth, yet with superior resolution. The island is a dun-coloured sprawl, rocky and inhospitable, pounded by long lines of ocean rollers.

Marshall uses a pointer to mark out a group of crude structures above the cliffs. ‘These are fishermen's huts, used occasionally — no one lives there. This image, however, is about a month old; the satellite has picked up at least one new dwelling since then, and signs of people moving around. There are two places where a boat can land on the island; one is the only protected anchorage, just below the huts. The other is a beach at the base of some rugged cliffs.'

The screen changes and the next image is a patchwork of colour. Marshall's eyes settle on Simon's. ‘This is an infra-red exposure. Do you understand what that means?'

‘Kind of.'

‘The cameras pick up heat arrays rather than images. Human bodies, for example, stand out at night, because they are warmer than the surrounding ground. The coloured patches are humans, and the streaks indicate movement. There are at least ten people in and around the huts. Some haven't moved much in the period covered by the satellite pass. Some a little more.'

Simon leans back and sighs.

A signalman moves through the hatch, pausing beside the captain and saluting. ‘Flash traffic from Fleet Headquarters, for CO's eyes only.'

Marshall smiles at Simon. ‘This'll be it now.'

Simon watches Marshall unfold a yellow sheet of paper, scanning it with his eyes. His expression changes as he screws
up the paper and slips it into his pocket. ‘Bad news. We've been ordered back to base.'

‘Why?'

‘They didn't say. That's the way things work around here, I'm afraid. Obviously this little sideline is not important any more.'

Matt scoffs, ‘It means that the brass don't think that the lives of two girls are enough to risk one warship. Even one as old and embarrassing as us.'

‘Be careful what you say, young Wyman,' the captain warns.

Simon frowns. ‘So we just have to pack up and go?'

‘It seems that way, yes.'

‘Can't you query the order?'

‘I can, and I will. But I'll eat my hat if they change their minds.'

Simon grips a rail so tight it seems that his fingers might crack. ‘Can I use the satphone, please?'

‘Of course you can. If you think it'll do any good.'

 

Simon makes the call from the signal deck, looking down at the sea, helplessly watching the rapid and thorough preparations for departure. He dials the number from memory.

‘Can I speak to Mr Thomas Mossel, please?'

‘I'm sorry, sir, Mr Mossel is in a meeting.'

‘Get him.'

‘I'm sorry?'

‘Are you fucking listening? Get him.' To Simon it sounds like someone else talking.

There is a shocked silence, then piped music as he is put on hold. A minute later, Tom Mossel's voice.

‘Who is this?'

‘It's Simon. Tom, I need your help.'

‘OK, but you just upset my secretary.'

‘Sorry about that. This is important.'

‘Lots of things are important right now. What is it?'

‘I think you probably know.
Durham
just got ordered back to base. They had a job to do and now it's changed. Why?'

‘That's a navy decision. I can't interfere. More recent images have thrown doubt on earlier conclusions. Our analysts are now putting activity on the island down to a family group of fishermen.'

‘Crap.'

‘Listen, Simon, I'm in a link-up with the acting PM right now. That's important too. I can't interfere. I'm sorry, but I can't.'

Simon feels something cold and calm. ‘I get it now,' he says, ‘you wanted to find the girls because you thought they might lead you to this terrorist called Saif al-Din, didn't you? That's no longer the case. He's somewhere else and you don't care any more. Is that right?'

The sigh of expelled breath is audible across the line. ‘If you must know, Saif al-Din was spotted yesterday in Dubai. Our operatives are busy looking for him there.'

‘So finding my girls is no longer important?'

‘Of course it's important, but just not a priority. Jesus, Simon, put yourself in my shoes. The world is turning to shit and we have to concentrate on the most critical problems. I'm sorry.'

‘You gave me a spiel about my daughters being British citizens, that they would not be abandoned. Was that just a speech? You're talking to the acting PM, surely she can do something.' He pauses, searching for the right words. ‘You're my only hope.'

More silence. ‘Simon, you're talking about men's lives. People getting killed maybe. Leave it with me, but for the moment, I don't have enough cause to interfere with RN orders.'

Simon ends the call and carries the handset back to the ops room, where he faces the captain. ‘Take me up to the island,' he pleads, ‘give me a small boat and a gun and I'll get them out myself.'

Marshall shakes his head. ‘You know I can't do that.'

‘If you turn and head for base my kids are dead. There's no one else.' Simon feels all the fight go out of him. There is nothing he can do now. Everything is in the hands of others, and they will never care the way he does.

Marshall drops one hand to his shoulder. ‘Look, I've been thinking while you were out of the room. There is one other thing we could try.'

‘What's that?'

‘Stinger.'

‘What the hell is that?'

‘A micro air vehicle. Camera drone. Use it to check out the island. It won't take long, and it'll tell us one way or the other if there's something going on.' He turns and shouts to the executive officer. ‘XO. Tell Comms to message Fleet. Tell them that we're going to do a flyover with Stinger before we go. They'll want to monitor it too.'

Simon lifts both hands and wipes a clammy sheen of sweat from his face, wondering how much more of this he can take.

 

Ali Khalid Abukar wipes his eyes and stares upwards. The newsreader has a dry, Eastern European voice with an American texture. Despite the red-painted lips and stylish clothing she seems as machine like and remote as a computer generated abstraction.

The Canadian Government today announced the withdrawal of more than one hundred military engineers from Afghanistan.
They will also initiate urgent shipments of aid to East Africa, an initiative that may total five hundred thousand tonnes of grain.

The government of France has refused to cooperate with terrorism in any way.

There is a hiss of shock in the room and Ali watches the French President, seeing the fear in his eyes.

The United States Congress has agreed to the following ….

The government of Israel welcomes peace initiatives from Palestinian organisations but will not respond to demands made under duress, and rejects the methods used …

The voice drones on:
Pakistan … withdrawing troops … ceasing hostilities  … Germany  … withdrawing armed forces personnel …

Ali leans over the dais, holding a pen at its fulcrum and swinging it like a toy, still watching the screen. The roll call of responses continues for at least ten minutes. He coughs, and stares out at the hostages.
His
hostages. They are restless, confused. Some countries have followed instructions, many haven't.

Hearing footsteps, he turns. Zhyogal is on his way to the dais, his face a mask of anger, his voice a cracking whip. ‘Did I not tell you that there are countries who will treat us with contempt?'

‘That is true, but …'

Zhyogal slides the pistol from his holster. ‘They are no longer afraid. We have not yet touched the greatest imperialists of all. They feel safe. Now is the time.'

Ali feels as light as air, panicking like a fish stranded on a beach, flopping in all directions yet still unable to breathe. ‘So many are doing what we have asked. It is still a great success — even the United States. Will more violence not provoke them further?'

‘Did you hear? They have committed nothing. Industrialised nations have plundered and exploited us for centuries. Their
actions now bring ruination to us all. They must pay, and now is the time to show the world that we are serious.' Zhyogal takes the dais and shakes a fist. ‘You do not understand the danger you are in. Many of your countries have chosen to insult their own leaders by showing bravado. It is time to bring down the biggest criminals of all. Starting from now, I will judge and execute the war criminals of the countries who regard themselves as the leaders of the West. I will begin with the French President.' He raises his voice: ‘Bring Monsieur Bourque here. Let him be an example.'

Two of the mujahedin converge on the Frenchman. At the last moment he stands and tries to run, but they seize an arm each and drag him to the dais where they kick his legs out from underneath him.