Rotten Gods (23 page)

‘Several things. One is that I gain a bargaining chip with your masters, and their good regard. Let me tell you that soon I will make a play for all of this area of Puntland and will need the support of the United Nations to do so.'

‘An Islamic state?'

‘No, no, dear girl. I am a good Muslim, but to me politics and religion are separate entities. My rule would be secular. There are times, I admit, when it suits my purposes to work with al-Shabaab, or Hizb al-Islam, or even, once or twice, the Almohad, but these people are fanatical and suicidal. I am neither of those things. I want the support of the West to bring stability to this region, and beyond. I am an ambitious man.'

Marika considers the reasoning. It makes sense, yet she still cannot quite fathom his enthusiasm. ‘What else?'

Dalmar Asad moves his hand to her upper arm, curling around her bicep. Black and white on white. ‘You, my dear girl. One night together. One night of passion in return for my help.'

Marika's face screws up in confusion. Surely this man, master of all he surveys, would not initiate such an important cooperative effort in order to secure a sexual partner. ‘You're kidding me?'

‘Not at all. I am a man of voracious appetites, as you have seen. That extends to the sexual also. I find you very attractive indeed, and … I have never made love to a woman from your part of the world. Let's say that I am sensually curious.'

Marika looks back at the strongly featured face, with its powerful jawline and broad nose. The atmosphere becomes charged. ‘You said before that you like to seduce a woman on your merits.'

‘True, yet I sense that you will be a, er, tough nut to crack in the limited time that is available to me. Do I have your agreement?'

‘When we find Sufia and our bargain is fulfilled you will allow me to call in an aircraft and take her out without hindrance?'

‘Of course, provided I get the credit for locating her.'

‘Then I don't see that I have any choice.' She looks down at the shape of her breasts through the kikoi, accentuated by the tight wrap of the material. ‘I suppose you want your “payment” in advance.'

Dalmar Asad's face softens. ‘Not at all. I am a man of honour and you have made me very pleased. I will find this Sufia first, and then I will take my prize — I am skilled in the art of love, I can assure you.' He points down at his lap. ‘You will also find that my unusual colouring extends to all parts of my body. When
I was a child my brothers had a name for my male appendage because of its pigmentation and unusual size.'

Marika bristles. ‘Listen. I appreciate the dinner, and the wine, and I'm desperate enough to accept your so-called deal. But I will not sit here and talk about your donger, multicoloured or otherwise.'

Dalmar Asad's eyes barely flicker, yet she can see that her words have stung him. Already rising, he pauses to speak. ‘I now have some work to do. Ghedi will take you to your room while I get things underway. Perhaps we can meet at the pool in thirty minutes? I habitually swim after supper.'

Marika watches him go, feeling relief, guilt, and fear in equal measure. Ghedi pads across and waits while she gets up, and follows him back up to her room. There she changes into modest one-piece bathers, again using the toilet cubicle.

After a moment of sitting on the bed, running the events of the previous hour through her head, she opens the glass doors and walks out onto a spacious balcony. The swimming pool below is lit deep under the water, and so clear that it glows iridescent blue. This area is lined with banana chairs and tables with umbrellas. Exotic palms and ferns grow from pots and garden beds.

Again her anger flares at how, in a land ravaged by drought, this man has the audacity to fill a swimming pool when others die of thirst. How much water must it take to keep it full in an area where evaporation far exceeds rainfall?

Oblivious to the unfairness of his lifestyle, Dalmar Asad strokes backwards and forwards along the length of the pool, in an economical freestyle. One mottled, muscled arm, then the other rises from the water to propel him onward, breathing every third stroke and using a four-beat flutter kick as good as any up-and-comer on the Bondi squad team. Marika stares at
the unusual colouring on his back and arms, then, making a decision, descends the steps from the balcony to the pool. There, on the softly lit verge she removes the kikoi now looped around her waist and walks to the water's edge, watching him through another half-dozen laps. Finally, he stops at the shallow end and leans on the edge, turning to look at her.

‘I'm glad you decided to join me.'

Marika nods back at him, then lifts her arms and dives in, shimmying her hips to keep her body driving underwater. She surfaces near the other side of the pool, then turns, completing half a lap in a lazy breaststroke then striking out for the other end. Her desire to swim is unclear to her — perhaps to show Dalmar Asad that she too is a strong swimmer, or just for the sheer pleasure of feeling her arms and legs work in a way they have not for many days.

Four laps later she changes to butterfly, enjoying the warmth in her arms and shoulders as she charges up and down at a competitive speed, finally stopping and standing in waist-deep water alongside her host.

‘That is impressive,' he says. ‘Not many people can swim the butterfly.'

‘Practice makes perfect. I had a bit of talent so they pushed me. Got to state level and when I realised that I'd never make the Olympics, I quit and got interested in other things. I still swim for fitness, though.'

‘It shows.'

Marika looks around. ‘Not bad for a private pool.'

Dalmar Asad grins, his teeth white in the eerie glow of the lights and water. ‘I like that expression.
Not bad
. You Australians are like us. We have a saying in our country,
diep maleh.
It means “no problem”. A bit like your “no worries”.'

He takes a breath and disappears under the water, surfacing again at the other end, before returning in the same manner. When he stands again he is much closer, and Marika sees his chest and upper arms revealed for the first time. He has one of the most highly developed musculatures she has ever seen, ballooning biceps and flat pads of muscle across the expanse of his chest, tapering to a narrow belly — a boxer's physique. The colouring on his torso is startling — a stripe of livid white across his sternum and smaller patches lower down. She has always been attracted to physical power, and finds it hard not to stare. ‘You are an exceptionally fit man,' she says at last.

‘Yes, physical fitness is a mania for me. I will show you the gymnasium later, if you are interested.' He runs a hand over his short hair, water slicking out as it might from a water rat. ‘I believe that a man's physical state is aligned with that of his mind, and I intend to keep both as finely tuned as possible. I believe that a man is born to be a man in all ways.'

‘Mmm, interesting. So how come there is no Mrs Dalmar Asad? You are attractive. Rich. Intelligent. Powerful. Where are the women in your life?'

‘There are women, yes, but it is very difficult, in Somalia, to find a female who is my equal. Few have had more than a basic education. Most who have, go overseas. Sexual partners I can find, but to be honest, there has been little satisfaction for me in recent times.'

Marika swims a lazy lap, breaststroke, then resurfaces beside him. ‘You are very frank.'

‘Yes, and perhaps you might return the favour. What about you? Are there men in your life?'

‘No one special at the moment, but yes, there are men.' Smart, articulate men, often in almost as excellent physical condition as
the one who stands before her. ‘I am no virgin, if that is what you are asking.'

‘Have you ever been in love?'

‘I can only answer that by saying, I think so. Is that enough?'

‘Of course. That is enough.'

Marika wonders if he will advance on her, take her in his arms — try to pre-empt the agreement that stands between them. Instead he places both hands on the concrete sill of the pool and eases himself from the water — polished, chiselled torso shining like wet ebony. ‘Tomorrow will be a big day for us,' he says. ‘I will retire now, and wake you if there is any need. We will find this Sufia by morning, you can be assured of that.'

‘I hope you are right,' Marika says, watching him stand and dry himself off with brisk strokes of the towel. Then, with a strange, knowing twist to his lips, he turns and walks down the path and back into the building.

God said, Let there be lights in the expanse of the sky to separate the day from the night, and let them serve as signs to mark seasons and days and years. And it was so. God made two lights — the greater light to govern the day and the lesser light to govern the night. He also made the stars. God set them in the expanse of the sky to give light on the earth, to govern the day and the night, and to separate light from darkness.

The human species, however, creates artificial lights that run on electricity, the generation of which requires the burning of coal and gas. More carbon enters the air, hundreds of millions of tonnes until the heat of the earth cannot escape. Because there is money to be made, power companies will not stop the burning, and the world grows hotter.

Ice melts, waters rise, and still the carbon is pumped from the exhaust pipes and smokestacks of the world. Dirty industries spend millions lobbying and bankrolling political parties so they can keep doing what they have always done — making money for shareholders by poisoning the earth.

And there was evening, and there was morning. The fourth day.

Day 4, 04:45

In the suburb of Everton Hills, Brisbane, twenty-three-year-old Adam McDonald arrives home at his flat from a night of clubbing with friends. He flicks a switch: electrons bump each other along a copper wire; filaments at either end of a glass tube excite the mercury vapour present inside, producing a fluorescent effect from the phosphor-coated glass. Night becomes day.

One hundred and eighty kilometres northwest of the city, at Tarong Power Station, coal tumbles along a massive conveyor from the open pit scar of Kunioon Mine. The black fuel empties into fire pits that heat four boilers, each as big as a mid-sized office building. Superheated steam from the boilers is fed through pipes, turning giant turbines, and this energy spins the generators. Despite electrostatic precipitators and bag filter particulate control, Tarong produces nine-point-eight million tonnes of greenhouse gases each year, as much as two million petrol-powered passenger cars. There are twenty-four comparably sized coal-fired power stations in Australia alone. Together they produce one-third of that country's carbon emissions.

Adam McDonald turns on the oven to heat a packaged dinner, flicks on the television, and plugs his phone into the charger. That afternoon he will join a march down Roma Street to protest the government's inadequate response to climate change.

When he sleeps, he dreams of a better world for his unborn children.

 

Faruq Nabighah has few rituals apart from work. One is to observe the five daily prayers, beginning with the Salat-ul-fajr early in the morning and concluding with the Salat-ul-'isha in the night. Today, even though he arrived home at 1:00 am, having not
slept for thirty-two hours, he wakes at 4:45 am, showers, dresses, kisses his sleeping children on the forehead, and walks outside to the practical little Renault he drives to work.

First stop is the magnificent Jumeirah Mosque, set just back from the beach with its pale yellow stone sides, parallel towers and central dome. This is Faruq's favourite time of day, the call to prayer echoing in his ears, the air cooler and invigorating.

The Salat-ul-fajr completed, he drives to the Hassan al-Bacha cafe for breakfast. Most of the faces at the tables are nodding acquaintances. Faruq has no interest in talking, taking his seat while a waiter hurries over. Smoke from a stub of bakhoor in an etched copper burner wafts up his nose and he moves it further away across the table.

‘Peace be upon you, Faruq,' says the waiter. ‘Will you have your usual?'

‘Yes, thank you, Nu'aim.'

Placing his Samsung tablet on the table, swiping a finger across the screen to power it up, Faruq watches the latest edition of the
al-Bayan
daily newspaper load and display across the screen. The animated main picture frame alternates from Rabi al-Salah to images of other trouble spots across the globe.

Before he has read to the bottom of the front page update on the Rabi al-Salah debacle, he has a mug of cardamom and clove scented Arabic coffee within reach and a plate of flat bread with labaneh. He works his way through the newspaper, digesting everything, even the classifieds, birth and death announcements, paying close attention to the government tender and contract sections at the back. Having done so, he wipes the last smear of sour yoghurt from his plate, drains his coffee to the gritty last, and rises.

He pays the tab, and walks back through the tables and outside, turning towards his car, parked halfway down the block.
His mind is already on the job, assessing metres per hour, and how to deal with the large rock ‘floaters' known to be in the area. Opening his door he gets in and slips the key into the ignition. Before he can turn the key he feels the hard steel of a gun barrel against his neck.

Air, sharply drawn, hisses through his throat as he turns to look into a dark and bearded face. A wiry arm, snaked with veins, holds the gun steady, and the eyes are dark and unblinking.

‘Who are you?' Faruq croaks.

‘Never mind. Start the engine, then drive. I will direct.'

‘You want money? I have five hundred dirhams in my wallet, more perhaps. It is yours. Just let me go to work.'

‘Soon, brother. But first, start your engine and drive. This will not take long, but if you do not do as I say, I will leave your corpse on the side of the road.'

Faruq's lips tighten as he turns the key, releases the handbrake and directs the Renault out into the awakening traffic of al-Wasl Road. ‘Which way now?'

‘Just drive, I will tell you when to turn.'

Faruq nods, deciding that he should speak as little as possible, lessening the chance of offending this man.

They are past the Iranian Hospital before the man with the gun speaks again.

‘Turn right here.'

Faruq does as he is told, followed by another series of rapid turns into a district of wall-to-wall residential high-rise, many with air-conditioning units on the rooftops, gardens on some of the more modern complexes. Now he begins to worry. What if there are more of these gunmen at their destination? What if he is about to be killed? Surely this has something to do with the tunnel.

They enter narrow streets of low-rise slums in the suburb of al-Satwa. Laundry hangs from building fronts, and men sit listlessly in pairs outside the houses.

‘Pull up here,' the gunman directs. ‘And get out of the car.'

Faruq thinks of running, but two men appear out of nowhere, both bearded like the other. One slams him face down against the car and frisks him. The original gunman appears, tucking a dull black revolver into his waistband, exchanging a few quick, congratulatory words with his comrades. They walk through a narrow space between adobe walls and into a courtyard filthy with old rubbish. The smell of shisha smoke and decay fills his nostrils. They move through a door and into the interior. Faruq looks in all directions like a captured animal, seeking assurance that he is not about to get a bullet in the head.

The room they enter is dominated by a stained wooden table, an open hearth beside it. Benches run along one side. Dried herbs occupy an unfired clay vase, their fragrance long ago exhausted.

Another man squats beside the table, rising as they enter. Faruq's eyes are drawn to him, for he is of impressive physical bearing: narrow across the shoulders yet with eyes that mesmerise. Darker skinned than the others; blacker than any Arab. Something about him makes Faruq want to fall to his knees in obeisance.

‘Faruq Nabighah,' the man says, taking both his hands. ‘Beloved of the Prophet, peace be upon you.' He pauses. ‘You are a devout and godly man. Is that not true?'

‘It is true.' Now Faruq understands: this is an imam, a scholar priest  — the signs are unmistakeable. He falls to his knees, overcome by the man's aura, the overwhelming presence.

‘Rise, my brother. Sit with me.'

Faruq looks around him. The three armed men remain, leaning back against the wall. Is this some kind of test? He takes a chair and sits, looking at the dark face with its compelling eyes.

‘My name is Saif al-Din,' the man says, ‘and I would like to talk with you.'

‘It will be an honour,' Faruq replies. The other man's name means ‘Sword of the Prophet', a name that resonates deep in the bones of his soul.

Those hypnotic eyes settle on his. ‘Do you believe that there is no God but Allah, and that Mohammed is His Messenger?'

‘Of course. I so believe.'

‘Do you practise Zakat? Do you set aside a portion of your earnings for the poor and needy in order to eliminate inequality among people of the one true religion?'

Faruq coughs, wondering if such questions might be asked at the bridge to Jannah. He is ready, and proud to have done the right thing for so long. ‘Each week, sayyid, two hundred and fifty dirhams are transferred from my account to the Muslim Hands aid organisation.'

The man nods. ‘And during Ramadan, do you observe the sawm?'

‘Yes, and I break my fast with a date, just as Mohammed did himself.'

‘What about the Hajj? Have you performed this most sacred of duties?'

Faruq's chest, already proud, swells further. ‘Yes, sayyid, I have journeyed to Maccah, I have worn the Ihram, and walked seven times around the Kaaba. I have stoned the devil with my own two hands.'

‘You observe Salat?'

‘Always, sayyid.' Faruq holds his head high, displaying the singda in the middle of his forehead. The callus proves his devotion, caused by a lifetime of observing the five daily prayers, his head touching the earth each time.

‘You are a good Muslim, Faruq.'

‘Yes, I believe I am.'

The black man changes, seeming to rise in the seat, his eyes burning with fire. ‘Then why,' he shouts, ‘have you chosen to help the kufr, the Americans and their filthy pig allies, to dig towards Rabi al-Salah, where your brothers risk their lives to bring glory to God?'

Faruq swallows, wondering how they found out. It is just a job, he wants to say, but his lips make no sound.

‘You are an affront to your religion. Your piety means nothing in the face of such an insult to your God and your people.'

Faruq's eyes widen. ‘I am sorry, but …'

‘The Americans will always lie, and their lies are like honey. Let me draw your attention to the word of God: “Such companions will divert them from the path, yet make them believe that they are guided.”'

Faruq's voice takes on a note of pleading, like a man arguing with his bank manager for a loan. ‘I am familiar with that surah. I am devout, as I have told you.'

‘Yes, you are devout, yet now you help the infidel against your own brothers for the shiny dollar — of which you already have a plentiful supply.' Saif al-Din's voice lowers. ‘They will use you like a dog, and cast you aside when they have extracted the last puff of benefit from you.'

‘I am sorry, I did not think …'

‘That's right, you did not think.' The black man opens a leather folder on the table. The first photograph shows a high-rise
apartment building and the second, a woman and child entering a car on the street outside. Faruq feels his breath catch in his throat and a prickle of pure terror begin at the base of his spine and spread upwards.

‘You know who those people are?'

‘Yes, sayyid.'

‘Who are they?'

‘That is my wife, Hamidah, and my daughter, Akilah.'

‘And the building?'

‘It is my home.'

‘Then you understand that there is great danger for them. That if you do not do what I tell you, I and my friends will visit that place where you live. I personally will fuck your girl and your hag of a wife until they regret every jewel and expensive dress they have earned from your whoring with the West. When I and then my brothers have punished them in the way of Ibn Tumart, I will cut their throats and leave their carcasses on their beds. Then you will be next, and your death will be slow. Do you understand?'

‘Yes, but how? I cannot withdraw from the tunnel. The difficult work is done. They will carry on without me. There are others …'

‘No, you must continue to give the impression of complicity. This is what you must do …'

Faruq listens, numbed, for perhaps five minutes, before muttering agreement. ‘In the name of God, sayyid. I will do as you say.'

‘We will be watching, my friend, trusting you to serve God and your people. This is your opportunity to bring glory to your name. You have been a good man, a devout man, all your life. You have obeyed God's law. Let me tell you that if you help the kufr, when the Day of Awakening comes, your devout life will be of no account. When you walk the narrow bridge over the fires
of hell, you will fall, while your wife and children walk on to Paradise. Is that the end you have longed for?'

‘No, sayyid.' Faruq is mumbling now, staring at the tabletop, sick at heart, not hearing the final threats …
Do not even think of calling the police, or bringing them here. We will be gone, and if you do so, you and your loved ones will be dead before the echoes of your voice …

 

Marika rarely dreams, and even when she does so, the images and sounds drain from memory within a moment of waking, leaving fragments of emotions — regret, wistfulness — or just a lingering half sadness that stays with her through breakfast, and occasionally beyond.

During the night at that palatial desert home, however, her mind takes her on a rollicking journey that jolts her awake more than once, riding on wings of spicy desert air, or choking on a fog of imaginary dust. Wearing jasmine-scented robes she roams a world peopled with the familiar yet unfamiliar, roles reversed and images altered subtly. Shadowy shapes of refugees fleeing from a rising ocean, running headlong into desert, dust, and starvation.