Rotten Gods (21 page)

He never tires of scanning the long tiers of men and women. Most of the crowd have settled into groups based on the country of origin. They talk among themselves, yet with a watchful eye on the mujahedin. No one has yet tried anything, but it is always a possibility.

The auditorium layout is unusual and, in some ways, difficult to defend, partly because in order to see everything Zhyogal must stand at the bottom, giving any potential attacker the benefit of high ground.

The pulse of movement in the satellite telephone in his top pocket cuts these thoughts short. Several messages appear every day, not always relevant; information routed from all around the world through a clearing house in Sana'a, Yemen. It has always amused Zhyogal that Western intelligence services do not appear to know that they are being observed by the people they themselves spend so much time and money keeping under surveillance.

In just a few years, al-Muwahhidun have developed one of the most powerful clandestine networks in the world, not least because of the utmost loyalty of its operatives. Leaks are unheard of, mistakes are few. Sympathisers exist in media organisations and political groups around the world.

Zhyogal does not hurry to read his messages, but waits until he has finished the patrol from the top of the most northerly aisle to the bottom, feet dragging on the carpet the only sign of his fatigue, knowing by heart the gaps between steps on the tiered surface.
Three paces flat, three down. Three paces flat, three steps down.
Men and women alike avoid his eyes, and their obvious fear pleases him. Fear means that he has done his job.

Near the dais he removes the phone and waves a hand across
the tinted face to power it up. Scrolling to the message app he begins to read, flicking his eyes from the screen to the crowd, not daring to leave them unobserved for too long.

The email begins with movements of US navy ships. The USS
Atlanta
to the Red Sea. The USS
George Bush
to Valetta Harbour, Malta. The next section covers the fortuitous escape, assisted by God, of three trusted mujahedin who were under pressure from security forces in Bonn, Germany.

Then, Zhyogal freezes, reading the next message over and over.

Rabi al-Salah:
Kufr plan tunnel into bunker underneath centre.

Following this is a series of details. Names. Places.

When he has finished reading, Zhyogal gives the matter some thought. The idea of a tunnel had occurred to the planning team but was dismissed as not viable in the allotted time. Now it seems that the kufr are pursuing this option, however unlikely it might seem.

Countering this distant threat is now important. First Zhyogal studies the number of men at his disposal, then calls one across, a wiry little man, Algerian like himself. ‘Khalil,' he says, ‘there is a possible threat to the bunker below. I would like you to occupy it and listen for unexpected sounds.'

‘Yes, sayyid.'

‘But you will report to me each hour.'

That requirement, of course, will ensure that the chosen guard will not spend his time sleeping.

‘Yes, sayyid.'

Zhyogal again takes out the phone. It was a good thing that as part of the mission plan they decided to keep Saif al-Din on the outside to coordinate the support teams and carry out general troubleshooting.

Last time they spoke, Saif al-Din was in the city, in a safe house in the al-Satwa district. Zhyogal types out a brief, encrypted text. Saif will ensure that no tunnel will ever be finished.

 

The Mercedes 350 SE sits in a concrete garage that smells of grease, wax and polish. Even in the darkness it glows. The interior is luxurious and clean. Marika slides into the back seat and Dalmar Asad slips in beside her. The driver starts the engine, an unobtrusive hum.

Marika feels nervous again, thinking of what the interpreter said earlier about Dalmar Asad wanting to rape her. Is it possible that the civilised veneer hides a man who will force her sexually? She doesn't think so, but this is a worrying train of thought that has her shifting in her seat. Is she on her way to some sophisticated torture chamber from which she will never emerge? Anything is possible. All she can do is look for an opportunity to get away, and back to the mission that may yet be so critical.

The gate opens and the Mercedes floats like a magic carpet over the desert roads. She wonders at the possibility of opening the door and rolling out — no mean feat against the slipstream, and besides, what then? The driver carries a pistol in the holster at his side, as does Dalmar Asad. Even if she does get away, she will be alone in the middle of the desert. No map, no guide, no weapons and little prospect of obtaining any one of the three.

Always she sees the shadow people, the refugees, tramping down the sides of the road. The slow and hopeless walk of the dispossessed. Some fall to their knees and beg as the Mercedes flies past, necessitating the occasional cold blast on the horn from the driver, who scarcely slows, forcing them to clear the road or
be run down. There are glowing dung or charcoal fires out in the darkness from those who have settled down for the night.

‘Where are they all from?' Marika asks, whispering.

‘Them? They are a nuisance. Refugees from the coast. Not only drought, but now the sea has risen, flooding their villages and crops.'

Marika frowns. ‘Their villages are flooded? I didn't realise that sea levels had risen so high here.'

‘They are not flooded all the time, but on the spring tides. Supertides they are called now. Together with sea level rises and the ocean currents, rises of more than a metre over the old marks have salted hundreds of thousands of hectares of once arable lands. Nothing will grow. The seas have also polluted wells and lakes with salt. There is no drinking water. The refugees move inland, where drought and famine have ravaged the land. Hardly a stalk of corn has not wilted in the heat. They come here and find nothing. They come here and die.'

‘What about the UN? And the NGOs?'

‘They cannot penetrate far beyond Mogadishu — it is not safe for their people. We are not the most moderate of peoples, and have never liked outsiders.'

‘But there must be tens of thousands of refugees on the road.'

‘More, many more.'

‘This is a humanitarian disaster on a terrible scale.'

‘Somalia has been a humanitarian disaster for almost thirty years. This is just the latest manifestation of it.'

Marika's sense of outrage grows. ‘This morning when refugees came to the gate of your compound I watched from the cell window. Your men fired shots to keep them away. You have money, power, and therefore a responsibility to help. You could at least offer them a meal.'

‘You want me, Dalmar Asad, to open a soup kitchen for the wandering vermin of the world?' He laughs, turning to the driver, who guffaws with sycophantic vigour. ‘No. Like it or not, here life is hard, and you must, if need be, fight tooth and nail for every meal. When I was a child I would fight my own brothers for food. That is the way of the land. That is how we live here. The life expectancy for a male is forty-six years, and that was before this drought and the rising sea. Women die in childbirth in staggering numbers.' He strikes his own chest with an audible thump. ‘I am above such statistics, yet now that I have everything I could ever want there are many who seek to take it away from me. Always I am looking behind, searching the eyes of those who serve me, asking myself, can I trust this man or woman? Even when I believe I can trust him, I make it difficult for him to betray me. Make Man A believe that Man B is watching him — set up suspicions to ensure that no man feels safe.'

Marika does not comment, continuing to stare out at the wraiths in the night.
This is the result of two centuries of an industrialised West. The pursuit of labour-saving machines, of gadgets that save us from working. Give us pleasure. Entertain us. In the process we are killing ourselves, starting with the most vulnerable.

The vehicle hits a pothole at speed, and even the Mercedes' suspension is unable to smother the sharp jolt. Marika clutches at the seat while Asad remonstrates with the driver for his carelessness. She ignores the exchange, filled with a powerless rage at what she has seen, staring ahead at a guard post surrounded by another high cyclone fence, illuminated in the yellow glare of the headlights. Two armed men salute as the vehicle moves through.

Ahead looms a building complex, illuminated by lights of varied colours. The sight, Marika decides, would be more at home
in the city than here in the desert. The construction is set on a small hill, two or three storeys high, with marble steps leading to the first level. White pillars frame the entrance. Hues of blue and green light the walls, and the Mercedes circles a fountain with water cascading down a statue carved also of marble: a pair of elephants, massive and angry, trunks raised and tusks curling in the artificial light.

‘Look,' Marika says, ‘this is all very nice but I am in a hurry. You are a civilised man and I have to remind you that I am being held against my will.'

Dalmar Asad does not answer, but holds a hand up as if to say, ‘Stop,' while the driver hurries around to open first Asad's door, then hers.

 

When Marika leaves the car she is both surprised and horrified. The comparison between this opulence and the dispossessed families on the road is breathtaking. She warns herself:
Remember. You have a job to do. Pissing this man off will not help
. She turns to Dalmar Asad. ‘You're kidding. You live here?'

‘This is my home. Fifty men laboured for two years to build it for me. The finest craftsmen  — stonemasons, carpenters, decorators from all over the Middle East: Syria, Saudi Arabia, Egypt, even Israel.' He chuckles. ‘But don't tell anyone about that.'

‘And who lives here? Just you?'

‘Not quite. My staff numbers nineteen in total, including guards. More than enough to keep me diverted. I am a busy and intensely religious man, and thus have little time for entertaining.' He lowers his voice. ‘Except, of course, when a beautiful young woman like yourself comes my way.'

‘You flatter me.' Marika forces herself to play the game, even allowing Dalmar Asad to take her hand for the gentle ascent up the stairs. She hears soft music from inside, making her wonder at the instructions he has called ahead.

At the top of the stairs there is a courtyard similar to those she has seen in the lobbies of expensive hotels, with a long, raised garden, and intricate patterns in the paving stones. The entrance columns, she realises, are so thick that her arms would not encircle them. Another blue-tinged fountain is surrounded by a fishpond. Marika walks close and stares down into the water. Orange and black shapes flutter decorative tail fins near green water plants as if expecting her to feed them.

‘A unique variety of koi,' Dalmar Asad says, ‘imported from China. They are good feng shui; the very best, I am told.'

‘Beautiful. But they do seem hungry.'

‘Ah, but does a prudent nurse give a child her breast the first time it bleats of hunger? No. My servants are instructed to feed them sparingly. That keeps the water healthy and the fish also. Wanting will not hurt them, and makes them more disposed to eat the mosquito larvae that would soon make evenings in the courtyard unpleasant.'

Marika looks through the glass windows. There she sees pale  leather lounge chairs, plush and inviting, arranged under soft lighting — a room straight from the pages of
Vogue Living.

‘Would you like to come inside?' he asks.

‘Yes, of course.'

A dapper servant opens the glass door and admits Marika first, then Asad. The servant's eyes are light brown, wide with hero worship, whether feigned or real, Marika cannot tell. ‘Good evening, Aaba, and madam.'

When he moves away again, Marika asks, ‘What did he call you just then?'

‘Aaba. Father. All my staff call me that. I consider it a mark of respect. The men and women here are of my own subclan, so there is no question of their loyalty.'

‘Your own clan? You enslave your own people?'

‘They live a thousand times better than their less fortunate brothers and cousins, I can assure you. Not one would hesitate to lay down his life for me.' He rubs his hands together. ‘Now I expect that you would like to shower and change.'

No, I want to find a woman called Sufia Haweeya and get the hell out of here
, she wants to say. Instead she nods. ‘Sounds good.'

Dalmar Asad places one giant hand on her shoulder. ‘Ghedi will show you to your room.'

 

The second-floor bedroom has views across the moonlit desert through glass sliding doors that open onto a balcony. Ghedi, crossing the floor with a rapid flutter of his short legs, opens a wardrobe door, made, like the others, of cowhide stretched over timber frames. ‘There is clothing in here, madam, everything from bathing costumes to evening wear.' His eyes circle her body like a shark then appraise it from shoulders to ankles. ‘I'm certain that some will be in your size.'

‘Thank you.'

Marika waits while he steps back out into the corridor, the door closing behind him. She goes to the bed and lifts a pillow, feeling the sheets with the palm of her hand. Soft, closely weaved with shining threads — real silk. That will be an experience in itself, she decides, as will the feather quilt that covers them. She
sits on the bed and stares at the wall, trying to make sense of her current situation — whether it is any less of a prison than the filthy cell back at the compound.

Scanning the ceiling she notes tiny, almost imperceptible holes where hidden cameras must be. Of course Dalmar Asad will have his guests under surveillance, and with the realisation comes self-consciousness. Even so, the lure of a hot shower is too strong to resist.

Walking into the bathroom, she closes the door behind her, studying the ceiling and walls. Yes, there is a concealed camera here also.
Let 'em look
, she decides. The lack of privacy is fair exchange for hot water.