Rotten Gods (24 page)

Marika dreams of the world she knows and has become a part of, where impartial media is just a memory and the public digests bias with the daily news without awareness, seeking out the entertainment factor beyond all else; where self-serving politicians no longer care about the public good and the forward march of nations, nor even civilisation itself in the endless thirst for personal power at the expense of morals. A world where, for a politician, there is only one justification for action and that is votes. A world that fears the end of the age of fossil fuels, the drying up of oil, more than rising seas and the burning sun.

Finally, she dreams of the acacia hut. The pouring rain, the mud dissolving in runnels towards the river. The cries as the man and the woman encourage each other in their efforts to resist what becomes inevitable. At how just a few neighbours come to help, how most stay inside their own huts. At how only more hands will save it now, more hands …

The pounding on the door comes when it is still dark. Marika starts awake, ripped from her nocturnal wanderings. The sheets fall away from her chest as she sits up. She clutches at them as if for protection.

‘Who is it?'

‘Sabah wanaqsan, madam. It is Ghedi.' She recognises the voice, muffled by the door. ‘Aaba wants you to attend him.'

‘Now?'

‘It is five thirty in the morning, madam, Aaba has been at his desk for some time.'

‘Can I have a shower first?'

‘Yes. I will inform Aaba.'

Marika steps from the bed, aware of a vague hangoverish feeling that leadens her limbs. Her mouth tastes sour. She showers and dresses, again using the toothbrush placed there for her. Finally, stepping out into the corridor, she almost collides with Ghedi, who, it seems, has been waiting for her.

Marika feels a touch of apprehension. The night before, Ghedi seemed, on the whole, subservient and disinterested. Now she notices a sardonic twist to his lips; a half-amused expression. She wonders if Dalmar Asad has told his servant about their deal. Or has the man been looking at the feed from the camera in her room? Watching her dress, watching her sleep. She shudders and follows him down the stairs, feeling revulsion for the largesse of the previous night, most of all for the bargain she has struck. In
the cold light of morning it seems so childish, pointless — dirty. No, she decides, Dalmar Asad can have something else — money, kudos — but not her.
This little Aussie is not for sale
, she says to herself, repeating it several times like a mantra.

At the foot of the stairs, Ghedi does not lead her towards the bar and dining room but down a wide, carpeted corridor. Closed doors lead off at intervals, and they pass through a courtyard, a skylight two floors high illuminating the space. Here Ghedi pauses at a door and knocks, turning the handle without waiting for an invitation from inside.

The room's interior is bright yet disorganised, an oddity after the clinical tidiness of the rest of the house. The first thing Marika notices is books — and not all in neat ordered shelves, either, but stacked on chairs and on the floor. A desk the size of a billiards table dominates one end of the room, and on the wall behind it are maps pinned so closely together that they overlay each other. Even from a distance it is obvious that Dalmar Asad's interest in geography is not confined to Somalia, but includes Europe, and the Americas. This man, she decides, is one with wide interests — or ambitions.

His voice reverberates through the room, but it is not until she has penetrated well inside that she sees him — down a side alcove, next to a window that overlooks a desert landscape tinged with the coming dawn. He glances across, yet his face registers no emotion.

Even when he ends the call, walking towards her, still holding the slim cordless phone in one hand, his voice is brisk. ‘Sabah wanaqsan, I trust you slept well.'

Marika returns the greeting. ‘Yes, very, thank you.'

‘I'm pleased.' Turning to a tray he pours a hot, aromatic liquid into a tea cup and passes it to her. ‘Cha,' he explains. ‘You will find it tasty, and while you drink I have some news for you.'

Marika takes a sip. ‘Your men have found her already?'

‘Yes and no. Sufia Haweeya is not here in the local area — nor even in her native village where I expected her to be.'

‘No?'

‘Come with me.' Dalmar Asad leads her back into the main part of the office, standing in front of a map. ‘This is our location, here. You can see to the west of us a mountain range called the Hamman, deep in the Ogaden Desert, near our border with Ethiopia. It is a place of dust and sandstorms and dry wastelands, the hangout of shifta and outcasts  — there is no law there, and even my own men will not enter the area unless in force. The woman you seek is hiding there, under the protection of a family group of nomads. That makes her, I am sad to say, rather inaccessible.'

Marika nods. ‘Even so, I have to make the attempt — there isn't much time left.'

‘That is already taken care of. I have prepared a ten-man patrol in three vehicles to move into the area and bring her out.'

‘I will go with them.'

‘There is no need. You may stay here as my guest, and my men will bring the woman back.'

Ghedi interrupts, bringing two bowls of milky porridge, and placing them on the table.

‘Ugali,' Dalmar Asad explains. ‘Maize meal with coconut milk. Very nutritious.'

Marika picks up her bowl and eats several spoonfuls. The gruel-like preparation is bland and starchy, but not unpleasant; a step up from the version she consumed in the prison. ‘I insist on accompanying them. My presence might be crucial — I do not want her to come in under duress. Not unless it is necessary. Do you understand?'

‘Of course I do. You will be well protected and quite safe. The shifta are like dogs  — ready always to attack the unprotected and unwary, but will run to their pathetic hiding places when the victim turns to bite. They will not take on a well-protected patrol, not one with heavy machine guns. I would accompany the venture also but I have already been away for several days, and I have much to attend to.'

Marika shivers, wrapping her arms around her middle as if to warm her body. The success of her mission now rests in this man's hands. Looking down at the ground so he cannot see her face, she wonders if, once again, she has misplaced her trust.

 

Simon dreams of Isabella so often that at times he wakes with the feeling that they are still together, and he has to feel across the bed to be certain she isn't there. Other times, these nocturnal visions turn to a darker side.

This is when his mind conjures the most terrifying spectre he can imagine:
the other man
, naked and as male as a bull, muscled torso straining against Isabella. He dreams all the detail in the manner of the most graphic pornography. The man has the face of terror: bearded, eyes filled with hatred, eyes that have seen and orchestrated violent death many times.

The image jolts him awake. At first he has the unpleasant feeling of not knowing where he is, hearing the dull thump of the diesels, conscious of the forward motion of the boat, slicing into the back of a swell, stalling for a moment, then racing as the energy of the wave carries her along. Blinking, he sits up, and sees Ishmael at the end of the bed, staring with an unusual, hazed expression, eyes narrowed to slits.

The cabin has long been used as a storage room and every
available space is filled with boxes, ropes, fenders, polystyrene buoys and even stacked books so that there is no room for two to stand. Ishmael, for this reason, is half out the door, half in. Simon's anger flares at the Yemeni seaman walking in without knocking.

‘What are you doing in here?'

‘Lubayd told me to wake you.'

‘You could have knocked.'

‘I am sorry.'

‘Are we almost there?'

‘Two hours, but my brother thought you might like to eat and be refreshed before our arrival.'

‘Thank you.'

Simon sits on the edge of the bunk, reaching down to pull on crusty, dry socks, then his shoes. Standing, he is still so drowsy from sleep that he needs to clutch at the doorway as he leaves the cabin.

In the saloon Lubayd is at the dinette, busy with an archaic Toshiba laptop computer and open books. The helm is controlled by the autopilot, the wheel moving as if of its own accord. There is no sign of the old woman. The strange burnt smell Simon noted the previous day is stronger now, and he recognises it now — hashish smoke. The realisation explains Ishmael's eyes and behaviour.

‘You slept well?' Lubayd asks.

Simon studies the older brother. There is no sign of drug use in his eyes or manner. ‘Yes, thank you.'

‘Forgive my books. I am studying a Bachelor of Economics degree by correspondence.'

‘Most commendable.'

‘King Saud University.' He pauses as if waiting for a comment, then, ‘Ishmael will prepare your breakfast.'

‘How far away are we?' Simon looks across at the plotter screen, seeing the first islands marked ahead, little more than outcrops in the sea.

‘Not far. Soon we will have to reduce speed, for there are uncharted shoals here, and many other dangers. Would you like to shower? There is sufficient time and we have a full tank of fresh water.'

‘I would appreciate that.'

‘I also advise you not to land on Socotra in Western attire. You will be a curiosity there and draw much attention. I will give you suitable clothes — I have many spares. They are loose, so will fit you.'

Lubayd hurries below, returning with an armful of clothes that smell of naphthalene. Thirty minutes later, Simon looks in the mirror and cannot believe his own reflection  — paler skinned than many Arabs yet, with his dark brows and hair, the shemagh on his head and a loose-fitting kandoura, he would not stand out in any Arab city.

In the saloon he finds that Lubayd has abandoned his studies and is huddled over the radar set with Ishmael. In his hand he holds a compact USB memory stick, fiddling with the cap.

‘What is it?'

The older brother turns. ‘We have received a distress call from a vessel near a stone outcrop called al-Kahf. You can see them on the radar.'

Standing between them now, Simon sees the blip on the screen, so close to the stronger return off the outcrop that the two are almost indistinguishable. The VHF radio speaker crackles into life, a desperate voice: ‘Mayday, Mayday. Out of fuel and drifting towards rocks. Any vessel able to render assistance please acknowledge.'

‘Ask her to identify herself.' Simon feels the thud of his heartbeat pulsing down into the deck under his feet.

Lubayd speaks into the microphone and a voice from the ether responds. The name of the vessel is clear in the stutter of rapid, frightened dialogue.

‘The
Sa-baah
. That's her,' Simon shouts.

‘What if it's a trap, a lure?'

‘We have to take that chance. How far away is she?'

‘Twenty-five nautical miles, but there is a head sea. One hour's steaming at fast cruise. These are dangerous waters. I will not risk my boat.'

Simon walks to the chart table, wrenches open the drawer and reaches for the gun he noticed there earlier. His hand grips the butt and drags it out, aiming the muzzle at Lubayd's head.

‘The gun is not cocked,' the elder brother says, seemingly unafraid.

One of the many training courses Simon has had to attend over the years involved weapons that might be encountered in a hijack attempt. This particular handgun is familiar to him — the name he does not remember, but he recalls enough to grip the slide between his thumb and the knuckle of his first finger and pull it back, watching a brass cartridge slide into place. ‘Thank you. It is cocked now. I am a desperate man. Change course and radio that you intend to render assistance. Hurry.'

The two brothers look at each other. Lubayd spreads his arms in supplication. ‘This is not the way of a civilised man, Simon. You are making a mistake. Put the gun down.'

Simon glares back, saying nothing, but his forefinger tightens on the trigger.

‘OK, OK, we will do it.' Lubayd disengages the autopilot and makes exaggerated movements of the wheel. ‘We are changing
course. Look at the chartplotter if you don't believe me.' He jabs a thumb at the screen.

Simon relaxes but does not lower the gun, merely allowing his elbow to drop down onto his chest to take the weight.

Lubayd goes on, ‘All I was trying to say was that we are not set up to help when we get there. This is a pleasure boat.' He shrugs. ‘What can we do?'

‘There is no point me going to the main island when the ship I am looking for is foundering out here. Can you go faster?'

‘Not against this sea, I am sorry.'

Simon walks closer to the helm where he has a good view of the plotter, the ship represented by a dark triangle, their course a trailing dotted line. The abrupt change in course shows as a clear dogleg. On the top left-hand corner of the screen is a series of pale circles, the rocky island in question marked in red. At the bottom of the screen the speed readout flickers around twenty-four knots.

Looking down at the gun, Simon feels embarrassed, wanting to explain.
Hey, I don't normally do this kind of thing, very sorry, it's just that there's these terrorists and they're holding my children, and I'm pretty sure they're on that boat …

Day 4, 11:00

The technicals line up in the yard, machine guns pointed skywards — Russian DShK 12.7mm, Marika decides. Serious firepower. The weapons look well maintained, with oiled rags wrapped around the breechblock and mere traces of rust where the original blue has worn through.

Waiting while the men load the trucks, she adjusts the fatigues that Dalmar Asad ordered to be issued from the stores. Most of
the men, however, wear a conglomerate of clothes: part camo, part jeans and T-shirts.