Rotten Gods (29 page)

‘See if the little fucker can fight,' someone said after school one day. They circled him with their bikes and catcalled until one slid off his seat, turned him round, and hit him on the lip. PJ always tried to fight back but they were bigger, and if he managed to overcome one tormentor there was always another ready to step in.

PJ's growth spurt came late, and by his senior years he had friends of his own. Not many, but they were true friends, ready to stand at his side when the chips were down. The bullies moved on to easier prey, especially since PJ now stood as tall as most, and had thickened around the shoulders and arms.

After school he joined the army, determined to make his mark, yet he remained quiet and retiring. Singled out for Special Forces training, he was taught to fight, yet learned restraint, and he came to understand what his tormentors would never know — that humanity is the most important quality of all.

PJ looks up as the truck rumbles to a halt outside a hangar. Beside it is a Sea King chopper on twenty-four-hour standby. From now they will be on a five-minute state of preparedness, able to deploy anywhere in the Middle East.

 

The sea journey seems to take an age. More than once Lubayd has to work his way around a coral reef lurking black and murderous
just below the surface, unmarked on the charts yet betrayed by a flash of disturbed white water under the moon.

Relieved to rid himself of the bulky wad of money, Simon sits at the saloon table and negotiates an extension on Lubayd's fee for the dramatic rescue off al-Kahf. After this he packs his few belongings into his flight bag, ignoring the occasional poisonous glance from Ishmael.

The darkness is a blanket over a sea that has calmed somewhat through the previous hours. No time remains to go down to the cabin and sleep, and Simon is anxious not to put himself in Ishmael's power, sure that the younger brother would love to plunge a knife in his back, especially since he again disappears below to smoke hashish, returning to the saloon in a catatonic state, dozing in the helm chair, head lolling like that of a marionette.

Simon does not notice his own drift into semi-unconsciousness until Lubayd's sudden shout has him standing, grasping at the chair frame for balance. ‘Wake up. There is a vessel coming up fast on the port beam.'

Simon strains his eyes, looking out into the night, seeing the masthead and running lights of a substantial ship, moving with the speed of a hunting panther across the dark plain of the sea. ‘Who is it? What kind of boat?'

‘I don't know yet. But you had better hope they are not Somali pirates, because they are very fast.'

‘So what do we do?' Simon asks.

‘As the Americans would say, we put the hammer down.'

Simon watches Lubayd push down the throttles. The
Jameela
leaps forward, engines rising in tone to a high-pitched hum. The radar shows how that burst of speed takes them well ahead of the other vehicle's path. The pleasure at this, however, is short-lived,
for the other vessel turns towards them and begins to give chase.

‘There is no doubt,' Lubayd says, ‘they have us on radar — they are in pursuit.' Again he ups the throttles, and though the engines now have a note of strain, there is just an incremental increase in the speed — thirty-two knots according to the plotter. The deck vibrates, and the glasses in the galley tinkle against each other with a distracting rattle. ‘We'll see if they can stay with us now. There are few boats on this ocean who can match us.'

Sweating now, Simon watches the radar. At first it seems that Lubayd is right, and they will easily outdistance the other vessel. Then the other craft begins to gain on them.

‘This is impossible,' Lubayd says. ‘We can go no faster, yet they are still with us.'

Ishmael, coming out of a drug-induced torpor, stands and points a wavering arm at Simon. ‘It is the Englishman's fault. I rue the hour he came aboard — there has been nothing but trouble since I heard his name. Now that we have his money we should throw him over the side and let the sharks feast on his flesh.'

‘There is no advantage in that, brother.'

‘Is there anything we can do?' Simon asks, feeling a new solidarity with Lubayd.

‘Nothing but prayer will help us now. If they are pirates, and they catch us, we are all dead. They will soon find that we are no good for ransom.' He glances at Simon. ‘Except perhaps for you.'

Simon looks away. Everyone he loves is in the hands of extremists. No one else would care enough to pay an extravagant ransom.

Ishmael cries, ‘Set the autopilot and let us take the life raft!'

Lubayd shakes his head. ‘I cannot leave my beautiful boat. Not even to save our lives.'

Simon looks down at the blip of the other vessel, closing fast.

‘A few minutes,' Lubayd whispers, ‘and they will be on us.'

Ishmael disappears below, returning with an archaic shoulder-fired rocket launcher, a single missile lodged in the scratched, green-painted tube. The faded script on the side identifies it as Soviet-era Russian.

‘I will give them something to think about,' Ishmael mutters. ‘I will set fire to their stinking buttocks.' He charges out into the cockpit. Simon follows, staring into the darkness where the pursuing ship is now close. A floodlight beam turns the intervening sea to daylight, and pains the eyes.

Ishmael now has the launcher at his shoulder, one hand on the rail to steady himself, the other on the launcher's grip. ‘Come closer, thing of the night,' he whispers, ‘and may God guide the fire of my rage into your heart.'

The ship grows in stature as she steams closer, and Simon recognises her at last — a British Navy destroyer, D93 painted on the hull in black letters. She has a low profile for a warship, yet with high, flared bows. A rounded gun turret seems to aim directly at them. Further aft rises a network of grey iron, surmounted by more domed turrets and twin masts bristling with communications aerials and surrealistic spheres.

Ishmael mutters, ‘I will destroy you, ship of the darkness, enemy of God. Closer, come closer and you will feel the death I send forth across the night.'

A klaxon blares as the destroyer looms close enough to blot out the night sky, the superstructure towering towards the heavens. Simon cringes back from the light, even as Ishmael leans forwards, ready to absorb the recoil.

‘Die, evil thing,' he shrieks.

Loudspeakers blare: ‘Heave to, heave to. This is Royal Navy destroyer HMS
Durham
 …'

Simon sees Ishmael's hand curl on the trigger of the weapon. ‘No,' he shouts, ‘it's one of ours. Are you trying to get us killed?' The words have no effect. He charges across the deck.

Ishmael must be waiting for him, for his hand leaves the weapon and connects with the side of Simon's chin, sending him staggering across the deck.

‘Go back, go back. This is God's work.'

Gathering himself, again Simon goes for the half-crazed Yemeni, knowing that he is too late, connecting with the man's shoulder just as he pulls the trigger. A tongue of flame leaps from the rear of the tube and a long flash of orange and blue fire shoots up to an impossible height in a fraction of a second before fading into darkness.

The turret gun on the destroyer fires a single round over the
Jameela
, lighting up the sky and sea in a brilliant flash that pains the eyes. The concussion of sound follows an instant later, setting off a ringing in Simon's ears. The loudspeaker comes to life again: ‘Any further aggressive act and we will fire upon you. Heave to, and stand with hands on heads.'

The
Jameela
's engine hum dies away to nothing, and silence descends. It is a strange feeling, Simon thinks to himself as he raises his arms, to want the safety offered by that giant ship, yet aware that it might also mean the end of freedom.

And God said, Let the water teem with living creatures, and let birds fly above the earth across the expanse of the sky. So God created the creatures of the sea and every living and moving thing with which the water teems, according to their kinds, and every winged bird according to its kind. God blessed them and said, Be fruitful and increase in number and fill the water in the seas, and let the birds increase on the earth.

But man cages the birds and fences the animals so he does not need to hunt, and he breeds the birds to be fat, and the animals to grow fat and be docile. He cages them closely, and feeds them by-products from the bodies of their own species. Birds caged to lay eggs are so confined that they cannot learn to walk.

The birds and animals become diseased. The wild creatures disappear before a relentless passion for building and clearing. When the men and women of the earth begin to realise what they have done, it is too late to bring back what is gone.

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

Day 5, 02:00

Zhyogal's eyes reflect the orchestration of a hundred deaths over twenty years, and there is a glimpse of Satan in a cloak of pure faith. Blackness hides behind each footfall, and in the hiss of words that issue from a throat that scrapes the raw tissue of lies and false belief. It is the middle of the night but the lights have not dimmed. No one sleeps.

‘All functionaries of Jewish and imperialist governments who sign a confession of their crimes will be released from this room,' Zhyogal announces. In his hand he holds a sheaf of paper. ‘It is necessary only to read the words on this page, admitting to the guilt of which you are surely aware.'

The conference room is tense and silent, men and women alike staring back at the Algerian, hands immobile on arm rests, not one making eye contact with another.

‘Yes,' he shouts, ‘I give my word. Sign the confession and we will arrange for the door to open and all those who sign can leave. Think upon it! In just hours you will be reunited with your loved ones — your husbands, wives, children. All you must do in return is read the confession aloud and sign your name before the cameras. Stand up now all those who will do so. All those who desire freedom. Stand now and soon it will be so.'

The silence deepens, broken only by an uncomfortable cough out there in the darkness. Not one person stands, but there is a feeling that if someone would do so, more would follow.

‘Not one among you wishes to be free?' Zhyogal shouts. ‘Do you fear the consequences? Do you worry that the world's media might vilify and mock you?' His voice becomes a wolf-like howl of menace. ‘What does it matter when you are going to die here?' He takes a step, pointing at a young man in the third row,
dishevelled in his rolled sleeves and half-unbuttoned shirt. ‘You,' he shouts, ‘do you not want to live?'

At first the delegate does not respond, but then slowly, wilting under the stare, he nods slowly.

‘Of course you do. You have a girlfriend. You want to live to father her children. To grow rich perhaps. To live your life.' Zhyogal's voice softens. ‘Step down here now, read the confession and sign. Then you can go free. You have my word.'

‘No.' The young man's voice is tremulous, whisper soft, but it can be heard in every corner of that room, with a power stronger than all the histrionics of the Algerian.

That answer sends Zhyogal into a rage. ‘What if I execute ten men and women every hour? If we see a lake of blood beneath your feet. Then you will sign my papers, I can guarantee it.' His eyes move around the room, finally meeting those of Isabella Thompson. He points with one arm.

‘That one,' he shrieks. ‘Bring her to me.'

 

Isabella has not moved for some time, held rigid to her seat as if by a magnet. Now, as Zhyogal's arm swings to identify her, she sags as if there is no strength left. The nightmare takes the form of a whirlpool, spinning, dragging her deeper.

The mujahedin come from both sides, gripping her arms and dragging, fingers digging in to the bone. They force her to walk with them, half stumbling down the rows past dull, staring faces, hair falling in front of her face so that she cannot see.

On the dais they knock her down, and she does not try to rise, allowing her legs to fold underneath her. Zhyogal grips a fist full of her hair and lifts her. Until that moment she would not have believed such a feat possible. The pain is so sharp she
can do nothing, scarcely even breathe as he does it. Then she is looking into his eyes, just as she had a week earlier in a moment of passion, when she had believed in him, imagined that he was attracted to her, helping to find and piece together the shattered porcelain of her heart.

Now his eyes are red rimmed and raw from lack of sleep, and there is madness in him. ‘You,' he cries, ‘you will sign.'

‘No,' she sobs, ‘I won't do it.'

He holds the paper in front of her face, still half supporting her with the hand in her hair. ‘You
will
sign. If you do not I will make a simple phone call and two beautiful girls will die. I promise you.'

‘Oh Jesus,
no
. I hate you, I hate you!' She tries to rake down his face with one hand but he moves deftly out of the way, changing his grip on her.

‘Come now, sit and begin reading. Hurry, I am losing patience.' He pulls the cell phone from his suit pocket and switches it on.

‘Stop. I'll sign. I'll do anything.'

There is a table prepared, a pen on the synthetic top. Isabella sits, pulling her hair back so she can see, avoiding the staring eyes of the people in the rows, knowing their contempt for her weakness. The words on the page are a blur as she picks up the pen and seeks the line reserved for a signature. Just two paces away one of the mujahedin has a tiny digital video camera trained on her.

‘No!' Zhyogal shouts. ‘Read it first. You must read it aloud. The camera is rolling. They must see you do it.'

Crying again, Isabella picks up the sheet, trying to focus on the words. They come haltingly. ‘
I now recognise that I represent a corrupt government; that they have initiated a crusade against the …'
Isabella stops, looking up at the people around the room. There is sympathy there, and understanding, yet …

Now the words come in a flood, like a hurdler who has reached the final straight.
‘… the government which I represent is a farce and … lies to the world … I have been personally responsible for the death and persecution of …'
Again she looks out. These are good people. Not all, but in the main. Some have clutched at power above all else, but in her experience the majority want the best for their country, their people, and there is no misplaced higher purpose beyond that. Not religion. Not power for its own sake. She studies the next line.
I have been the tool and puppet of the Jewish overlords …
There is no truth there, not one sand grain in a beach of lies. There has to be a point, she realises, where truth carries more weight than any other consideration. That her life, even those of her children, no longer matter.

She takes a deep breath. ‘I'm sorry, but I will read no more. I will not sign.'

Zhyogal lashes out with an open hand, and the blow lands like a whip, stinging her skin and knocking her head sideways. He does this repeatedly, one side then the other, knocking her from the chair and to the carpet where she lies sobbing.

Stepping back from her he takes the phone from his pocket and taps out a number. A short conversation in Arabic follows. When it is done he stands over her. ‘My colleague is on his way to the place where your daughters are held. He has assured me that he will execute them in the name of God. You have made your choice. Go back to your seat.'

Isabella cannot hear through the roar of pain and helplessness in her head.

 

Madoowbe purchases fuel in a village that comprises no more than a collection of hide tents, with camels tethered next to
abandoned motor vehicles. It is still so dark that the only light emanates from a kerosene lantern belonging to the local mullah.

There are no more refugees now. Nothing to see. Marika dozes off for short periods. Waking, on one occasion, she feels dreamily content, the desert bathed in tawny beauty, and the bike continuing its steady drone.

Arms around his waist, she asks, ‘How much further?'

‘Soon we will reach the Wells of Wahbadi. That is the beginning of the mountains.'

The landscape here is flat and empty, with few villages but for the occasional semi-nomadic camp, ten or less tukul covered in thatch, or hide and potato sacks sewn together. Rarely is there any sign of a serious attempt at cultivation. Camels and stoic, staring goats are the only livestock.

The wells loom out of this wasteland, first marked by the crumbled walls of some ancient fortress, yellow stone blocks in rows, chimneys stark against the sky, and the fallen ramparts that must once have been ten paces thick. Marika wonders what defenders manned those walls, who they must have faced. Whether they won, or if time was the only victor here.

Many of the wells have fallen into disuse and the most recent tracks lead to just one — a circular, earthen pit, a long stone's throw across, a foot trail winding down to a muddy pool at the bottom. Camels must have often been tethered to the thorn trees nearby, for their dung lies in scattered piles on the sand.

Marika waits while Madoowbe kicks down the bike stand in the shade, seeing, for the first time in daylight, the fading bruised and puffy patches around one eye and both cheeks from the beating Dalmar Asad's men gave him.

‘You need attention for that cut under your eye,' she says. ‘I can bathe it if you like.'

‘There is no need. I am a man, not a child.'

‘Suit yourself, but if it gets infected, don't blame me.'

They walk the path down towards the muddy water.

‘How long do you think these wells might have been in use?' she asks.

‘Oh five hundred years, perhaps a thousand or more.'

The thought makes Marika smile; five hundred years of feet, and camels led in single file down that narrow track. Five hundred years of warriors, lovers, quarrelling spouses and questioning children. ‘Do they ever dry up?'

‘Every few hundred years or so a new one might be dug.'

‘How did your ancestors find them?'

‘They say that elephants began most of the wells, but no elephants have been seen in these parts for many years.'

‘Where have they gone?'

‘As you have seen, this is a country where every man owns an AK47 assault rifle.'

Marika is incredulous. ‘They kill elephants with a 7.62mm round?'

‘Ammunition is cheap compared to the price of ivory. It might take fifty bullets, but they fall in the end.'

The descent takes longer than Marika expects. The well floor is as wide as a tennis court. The water is inches deep in places, and nonexistent in others. It smells of urine and earth. Here and there people have dug deeper with their hands to improve access.

Marika watches Madoowbe sink to his knees and suck the cool water by making a straw with pursed lips. She, however, squats at the edge and uses cupped hands to raise water to her lips. As soon as she does so, however, sediment stains the surface, making the area filthy.

Madoowbe grins at her. ‘Drink as I did.'

‘Yeah, yeah, a bit of dirt never hurt anyone.'

Again she cups her hand, ignoring the rank taste, drinking until she feels satiated. She splashes her face and hair, enjoying the feel of it on her skin, watching Madoowbe fill the canvas water bag that hangs from the bike pillion.

They sit down together on the shady, cool earth, resting. Madoowbe at first seems content to sit in silence, until finally he says, ‘You have lived all your life in the West. What do you think of Somalia?'

Marika hesitates, resisting the temptation to throw out a dismissive, empty comment. A basket case. A lost cause. Yet the truth is so much sadder than that. ‘I think that Somalia embodies where we have gone wrong as a species.'

‘As a Westerner, you accept the blame?'

Marika shrugs. ‘Not personally, but I have lived in a system that let this happen.'

‘Unfortunately,' he says, ‘you are right. Somalia is full of guns, refugees, and feuding clans, but it is not us who will destroy the earth, but the West. The world cannot afford to give up its bounty indefinitely. Oil is running out now, the age of the internal combustion engine is almost over; plastics too are petroleum byproducts. Next the iron ore will go. The planet will be exhausted. Every creature that outstrips its natural resources must die out. That is what plague species do. We will be the same. The meeting in Dubai is a farce.'

Marika looks sideways at him. ‘Careful — I'll start to wonder whose side you're on. Again.'

‘It is not a matter of sides. These guns you see everywhere in my country, we did not make them ourselves. They come from Russia, China, Pakistan, Korea, and America. This arming of the poorer nations of the world is not right. Militant Islam is not right
either, but how can you blame a man who has seen his family starve, or be killed by American bombs, for picking up a gun? How can you blame him for hating? Your leaders can label him as evil, vilify and caricature him, yet you cannot, in all truth, blame him for standing up to what
he
sees as evil, in a direct and terrible way.'

‘Oh yes, I can.' Marika thrusts out her chin. ‘Western culture is good as well as bad. Rabi al-Salah is our chance to turn things around. The Almohad have taken it over and will exploit it for their own ends. They do not care about the welfare of their people, only their God and what they see as
His
desires. How can you defend
them
?'

‘No.' He looks down at the earth. ‘I do not defend them. They are misguided. But still, they have reasons for being what they are.'