Rotten Gods (22 page)

Still, determined to protect as much of her modesty as possible, she steps into the shower cubicle and closes the curtain around her before she undresses. With the taps turned on hard, she opens a plastic package of soap and massages the suds over her abdomen, breasts, upper arms and neck. The water is soft and steaming hot. A pump pack of shampoo sits at the edge of the cubicle and she extracts a handful before lathering up her scalp.

Where the hell does he get these things?

After rinsing herself off she opens the curtain to take a towel off the rail before drying herself and wrapping it around her body. Moving back into the bedroom, she opens the wardrobe, choosing from a stock of underwear still in the packet. After a quick study of the clothes on offer, she unfolds an East African kikoi, dyed with one bright primary colour and a patterned border. Tassels hang from the lower hem.

Retreating into the toilet cubicle, where there are no cameras, she dresses, knotting the bright fabric around her chest. On the way through she studies herself in the mirror, tousles her hair, then turns and opens the door.

 

The bar is the kind of tasteful, elegant establishment that, had it been a commercial venture, Marika would have avoided. Pubs that smell of beer and echo to arguments over the pool table are more her style. Ghedi is waiting for her, opening the door, bowing his head respectfully.

‘Aaba has not yet returned from his ablutions. May I bring you a drink?'

‘No thank you, I will wait for him, if that is OK.'

Ghedi inclines his head and goes back to cleaning glasses at the bar, yet, she suspects, watching her movements at the same time. Walking casually she approaches a large fish tank built into the wall. This does not contain more of the gaudy carp, but a recreation of a tropical sea, with painted crayfish hiding in the coral, and fish darting in iridescent schools. A clownfish. A striped mado. A dramatic wrasse half burrowed into the gravel. Urchins and sea stars. Most of the others are unfamiliar to her, though exquisitely coloured and formed, fins thin as silk waving in the current generated by the filter return.

The tank, beautiful though it is, holds her attention for just a few seconds before her eyes roam around the room and beyond. The windows are thick, double-glazed.

Flicking her eyes to the door, Marika sees motion sensors on either side, and automatic locking bars recessed into the floor. Yes, she decides, this palace could become a prison, or a fortress, with the flick of a switch.

A cowhide door opens and closes, and Dalmar Asad comes through, dressed in a white thoub shirt, buttoned at the front and an embroidered keffiyeh cap — the work of months by someone skilled in needlework.

‘Ah, you are admiring my pets,' he says, ‘are they not brilliant? Most come from Koyaama off our southern coast, collected by a rather eccentric enthusiast — a great friend of mine.'

‘They are beautiful.'

‘Of course. Now come, let us drink. I hope you don't mind my dress. It must seem unusual to you, but in my leisure time I like to return to my faith. Ghedi,' he calls, ‘come here, please.' The servant pads over and waits. ‘The lady would like a cocktail. Have you any suggestions?'

The man nods, never looking at her face, voice formal and polite. ‘Madam, we have today taken delivery of fresh mangos from Marerey, on the Webi Jubba. I can prepare a most excellent mango daiquiri.'

‘That sounds lovely,' she says, ‘but half the rum and vodka, please. I'm tired and the alcohol will go straight to my head.'

‘As you wish, madam.'

‘Aren't you drinking?' she asks her host.

‘No, I am Muslim.' He pronounces the word
Moos-lem
. ‘I do not drink alcohol. Ghedi will prepare a mixture of fruit juices that I find refreshing.'

The servant nods and withdraws. Marika is dismayed to find herself relaxing when there is no time for such luxuries. Dalmar Asad, while cruel and unscrupulous, is a charming companion, his deep voice and general presence somewhat intoxicating.

As they settle back at the table Ghedi brings the drinks, along with a plate of tiny red chilli peppers dusted with coarse salt, and fried in olive oil. Marika raises her cocktail glass, hesitating at the last moment. There are many substances that might have been added to the drink. Rohypnol and GHB spring to mind. Dalmar Asad appears to notice her hesitation, raising one long forefinger like a barrister about to introduce a point of fact. ‘There is nothing
in that drink but clean, fresh ingredients. You have my word on that. If I am to seduce a woman I will do so on my merits rather than with a chemical.'

Marika shudders.
Seduce her?
The idea is ludicrous. She lifts the glass and takes a sip. The taste is mango rich, reminding her of Queensland summer holidays, when the Kensington Prides hang heavy and orange-yellow from among the broad green leaves, the air sweet with their scent. Having eaten little for so long, however, the alcohol has an immediate effect, clearing her head to the purity of crystal.

Lifting one smaller chilli between thumb and forefinger she takes a cautious nibble at one end. The heat is immediate, but the piquant mingling of salt and garlic arouses the senses. A close inspection reveals that the pepper has been split and the seeds removed. She works her way through the morsel then washes much of the heat away with her drink. ‘Don't you get bored?' She asks the question to fill the silence, yet she is curious. She waves a hand at the bar. ‘Do you sit here by yourself every night?'

‘I drink my juice, then eat a fine meal. As I have said, I come from a poor background, poorer than you can imagine, and I cannot express how much pleasure I draw from my home. I look at the fine timbers and remember how my father and I gathered sticks into bundles and carried them mile after mile for a few coins. I see the marble and think of the stones richer boys would throw at me as I laboured.'

‘Sounds hard.'

‘Indeed, yes. Shall we go through for dinner now?'

‘I'd like that, thank you.'

It seems prudent to let him take her arm and lead her through to an adjoining room. While the centrepiece of the bar was the
fish tank, here it is indoor plants, with lush foliage that freshens the air and gives the area the impression of being unenclosed.

‘You have surprised me again,' Marika says, ‘this is amazing.'

‘I'm glad you think so.'

The central table is large enough to seat a party of at least twenty, but Dalmar Asad leads her past that massive timber slab, so close to plants bursting from their pots that she has to turn sideways to avoid the fronds.

‘Tiger palms,' he explains, ‘native to New Caledonia. Wonderful tolerance to air conditioning.'

They sit at a table against the window that might have been set in a clearing of some tropical jungle. Ghedi appears with a magician's timing and pulls Marika's chair back for her.

‘Thank you.'

‘Champagne, madam?'

‘Why not?'

The servant returns with a bottle of Dom Perignon, peeling the foil from around the cork. Marika recognises the famous name and clutches one hand to her chest, eyes on her host. ‘No, please, don't open that on my account. You don't even drink. I feel terrible.'

‘Oh but I insist. It is very important to me that you have — how shall I say — the time of your life.' Dalmar Asad's face is as impassive as the granite face of a mountain, but his eyes are alive, twinkling darkly.

‘Really?'

‘Really. Drink and enjoy.'

Marika watches Ghedi pour the effervescent liquid and smiles. ‘I've never tasted this stuff, so it's all new to me.'

‘Why would you go through life with second best when you can have the ultimate in everything?'

Because like most people in the world, I can't afford it
, Marika wants to say, but instead she takes a sip from the glass, the bubbles tickling her nose, almost afraid to swallow the liquid. At first she thinks she might be disappointed, but the aftertaste is as fresh as the bubbles in her nose. She realises then that this is not just a drink, but an experience.

A moment later, however, her hand freezes on the glass stem, and she can feel herself stare out into space.

‘What is wrong?' Dalmar Asad asks. ‘Is the Champagne not to your taste?'

‘No, it's lovely, of course. I just feel so guilty. I'm supposed to be working. Instead I'm sitting here drinking Dom bloody Perignon like a princess …' She wants to express her disgust at how she is being indulged while lines of starving men, women and children trudge the roads into a drought-ravaged and bare interior. Feels guilty because the price of one stinking bottle of French Champagne would feed a hundred of those refugees for a week …

‘Kill two birds with one stone. Let us have dinner, and when it is over we will talk of your work. As you have seen, I am a powerful man. I can help you.'

Marika says nothing, but is surprised to see Ghedi walk across carrying two dishes. The experience has been so much like that of a restaurant she feels she should have ordered first.

Dalmar Asad hastens to explain: ‘I hope you don't mind. I took the liberty of discussing the menu with my chef earlier — it makes things much easier for him to have prior warning.'

‘I don't mind at all. Smells delicious, in fact.' The plate Ghedi places on the table contains a deliciously aromatic concoction, tinged with saffron; reminiscent of desert mountains and dust and a warm Arabian Sea.

‘The meat is camel — halal, of course. You will enjoy it.'

The identification of the animal troubles Marika little — she has eaten kangaroo mince in her bolognaise since birth and her Special Forces training included field survival courses, eating everything from lizard meat to stringy desert birds.

The taste is sensational — so many individual flavours seeming to stand alone, then blend into something far greater than the parts. For two weeks she has suffered catered food — curries and rice; mass produced and bland.

‘This is great,' she says, waving her fork, ‘it really is.'

‘I'm glad you like it.'

The main meal is a seafood feast — the centrepiece a spiny crayfish, cooked to deep orange and smelling of the sea. The tail has been cracked and the meat removed, cooked in a mornay sauce then replaced. On each side of the crayfish lie tiger prawns and spanner crabs with spindly legs and broad carapaces. The oysters are as large as Marika's cupped hands, and painted with a tangy sauce. Beside them, hairy-shelled mussels sit back to back.

‘I hope you like seafood?'

‘I'm an Australian, mate. I would have been raised on the stuff if it wasn't so bloody expensive. Do you mind if I use my fingers?'

‘That, as they say, is the way to do it.'

Attacking the array of seafood is a task she approaches with tenacity, twisting a leg off the spanner crab, snapping the brittle cylinder to reveal a tube of white meat inside. She sucks it out, eyes half closed, and washes it down with a sip of Champagne. The oysters she scoops out of their shells with a splade.

Dalmar Asad also eats with appetite, yet more thoroughly than Marika has ever seen — opening the crab and wiping the body meat in the entrails, devouring every scrap of edible matter from inside.

‘You know,' Marika observes, ‘I've never seen anyone eat seafood so
completely
.'

‘It's amazing how a childhood of want makes one abhor waste.'

‘That's very commendable.'

Marika cannot remember ever feeling satiated from a meal of such quality. Yet by the time the crustaceans are mere piles of hollow, cracked carapace, and the mollusc shells bare of all but the toughest portions, her belly has that uncomfortable fullness born of a period of abstention then indulgence. Dalmar Asad lifts the bottle and refills her glass.

‘I hope you've left room for dessert, my dear.'

Marika's eyes widen, then crinkle in amused thought. ‘I guess I'll find space somewhere.' She lifts the nut cracker she has been using on the crabs' nippers, squeezes the arms together, then lays it on the plate.

Dessert is a rich mousse topped with flaked chocolate that has Marika's senses stirring. If there is any food in the world that she might consider herself a connoisseur of, it is chocolate. This is the real thing, dark and rich, melt-in-the-mouth stuff. Yet guilt and revulsion swells inside her like a tumour — with so little time remaining she has somehow been duped into indulging herself all evening. There are questions she has not even begun to ask. Madoowbe's whereabouts, for a start. Traitor or not, he didn't deserve to get beaten into a pulp and dumped.

‘I shouldn't be enjoying this,' she says.

‘No? As I have said, together you and I can achieve what you came here to do, quickly, and without fuss. In fact, I feel confident that I already know why you are here in my country.'

Marika plants one elbow on the table, then her chin on her knuckles. ‘Oh yes?'

‘If we accept that you are working for the multinational security forces at Rabi al-Salah, then it follows that you seek to help resolve the situation that has developed there. The Somali humanitarian turned militant, Ali Khalid Abukar, is a loner, but we know that he has a wife. She is of a desert tribe. That is why you came to this area — to find her. To see what she knows and if she can help. Perhaps you hope she might be used to coerce her husband. Am I correct?'

Marika is intrigued; this man has a network that must span a large chunk of Somalia. She would be a fool to spurn his help. ‘Let's just say, for a moment, that you are right. What can you do for me?'

‘If I give the order, a thousand men will go out to the villages of my tribal lands. We will find her, I promise you. When she is located we will either bring her to you, or you may accompany us to her.'

‘That is a generous offer, but I can't help wondering what you will get out of it.'