Rotten Gods (39 page)

His preference would be to die in the act of destroying the enemy. To die shahid, the natural culmination of a life of piety. Years when he and other men spoke of martyrdom not just as a possible end of this life, but the most desirable one. There were times when it might have happened — conflicts against the security forces in Nigeria; a police raid in Yemen. Now, however, his role is too important. There is much yet to be done to ensure the success of the Rabi al-Salah operation.

Making twenty knots into the open sea the boat begins to leap off each swell and crash into the next. Saif is no seaman and has to clutch at a rail with one hand to remain standing. The blip on the radar draws closer.

Holding on to the wheel with one hand, Saif gropes in a side pocket for a waterproof plastic container, manufactured in Ohio for the US military, sealed with a rubber gasket. In here he places the pocket edition of the Qur'an he always carries, the satellite telephone, and the roll of high denomination currency from his pocket. This case he shoves into the waistband of his military trousers.

Now, he gropes for a lifejacket; not finding one at hand where he had expected but having to leave the helm for a moment, feeling along the pockets until the cool vinyl crinkles under his fingers. He slips the Class 1 PFD over his head, tightening the belly strap and fastening the buckle. Saif al-Din is a man who knows his own limitations. He is not a strong swimmer. He is not afraid to use what he needs to achieve his aims.

Prepared at last, he sees the warship for the first time. To him the looming dark shape must be the pride of the fleet, a battleship, as huge as any ship can be. He knows that some are nuclear powered. Imagines triggering an explosion that will rock the earth. A shiver of ecstasy racks his body.

 

Simon hears Matt's voice and turns to see him peering over his display. ‘Captain, we have a contact. Bearing two-two-one. Range one thousand. Speed twenty-four knots. I don't know where the hell it's come from — just appeared out of the clutter.'

The ops room appears to close in and darken. General conversation ceases. Marshall's voice booms out. ‘Sound action stations.'

The bosun's mate relays the instruction in what is meant to be a deadpan voice, yet it tremors with excitement. ‘Hands to action stations. Assume NBCD state. One condition Zulu.'

The click-clack of locking dogs slamming home on a hundred hatches reverberates through the hull. Even the engine takes on a new, strained, urgency. Senior ratings move to their posts. The hair stands erect on Simon's arms as Matt's voice drones on. ‘Small and low. Some kind of motor launch, sir.'

‘Is it one of the SBS teams coming back?'

‘No IFF, sir.'

‘Shit!' Marshall turns to the radio operator. ‘See if you can raise them on the VHF.'

‘Will do. This is HMS
Durham
. Vessel on my port beam, identify.'

‘I don't like this,' Marshall breathes. ‘Acquire target.'

The radar operator blurts out, ‘There's no response, sir.'

‘Order them to divert, or we will fire on them.'

Another voice: ‘Target acquired, Phalanx tracking and ready.'

The PWO, with his soft voice and serious eyes, says, ‘Sir, under the rules of engagement we are not permitted to commence hostilities unless fired upon.'

‘Damn the rules of engagement. Rules let them blow a bloody great gash in the USS
Cole
all those years ago. They don't have rules, only we do. I am responsible for the lives of three hundred men — I will use any means at my disposal to protect them.'

Simon, unable to keep silent any longer, screams out, ‘No, stop … it might be them. My girls might be on board …'

The gunnery officer's voice is shrill: ‘Collision in thirty seconds.'

Simon's voice is pleading now. ‘What if it is them? What if the girls are there?'

‘My ship is in danger. I have no choice.' Marshall raises his voice. ‘Commence firing. Destroy the target.'

 

Watching through the spray-spotted screen, Saif sees the dark, huddled shape move out of the tangle of ropes in the anchor locker. The girl. He had almost forgotten about her. He is so close, soon he will reach the kufr warship.

Pulling the handgun from its holster, he takes a shot at the poorly defined shape. He can no longer see her, and turns back to the helm unsure if the bullet found its mark, or if she is still
on board, just as a wall of 20mm HE projectiles begin to ‘walk' across the sea towards the boat.

The first armour-piercing 20mm rounds strike and the hull falters in the water, a fire breaks out, but the momentum of the craft, and the propellers push it on. The inherent buoyancy of the craft, however, helps keep it moving. A series of rounds go astray, churning the sea on the port beam to foam.

The warship rears ahead, a thing of utter repugnance to Saif al-Din, representative of all that he abhors. A military machine that has provoked his fellow believers into the most bitter fight since the crusades. He steadies the boat, aiming it into the centre of the kufr vessel, locking on the autopilot, then pressing the ‘arm' button on the timer. Now he leaps onto the gunwale and jumps far out into the sea. Shrapnel tears into his leg, and then a needle like agony in his temple. He cannot prevent a shriek of pain.

He struggles to swim, his injured legs useless, watching the RIB disintegrating on its way to the warship. A shell finds the outboard engines before the range is too short even for the Phalanx system to bear. Saif feels a surge of triumph and excitement as he watches the RIB pass ‘under the guns'. This is the moment of glory. He has succeeded.

The charges ignite and a blinding light fills his heart and soul.

There is only one God, and Mohammed is His Prophet …

 

White heat sears through the windows of the bridge, and then the shockwave hits the ship. Simon goes down as if he has been punched. Durham tilts to an angle close to the tipping point.

Mingled with it all are shouts, shrieks, screams; unsecured items sliding across the deck. The floor is wet. Simon finds himself scrambling for purchase.

The hull rights itself. Someone is screaming, and there is a terrible, unfamiliar smell in the air.

Marshall is back on his feet and on the microphone. ‘Damage reports.'

‘Sir, flooding in compartments Echo, Foxtrot, and Golf. Fire in the engine room.'

Simon gropes his way out to the open deck. The sea is lit for a kilometre or more by flames leaping from the side of the hull. A klaxon sounds, and men spill up from below decks.

 

Fighting fires is the best-organised and most-practised drill in the Royal Navy. The total crew on
Durham
numbers almost three hundred, and each man and woman has a station. Pumps clatter to life. Hose reels turn. Automatic fire systems spit water and foam from brass sprinklers.

Men in dreadnought suits hold long hoses that direct streams of seawater onto the flames. Others produce spray that cloaks the firefighters in billions of protective droplets, shielding them from heat and flame.

Simon is conscious of being in the way, an errant civilian with no purpose. He climbs to the signal deck. From that vantage point he watches the flames lick higher, feels the heat on his face, drying the tears to grainy salt.

To Simon, this is the end of the world. There now seems no possibility of Hannah and Frances returning. If the terrorists were in a position to attack the ship, then what have they done to the SBS men? Their power seems inexorable.

For perhaps thirty minutes, he is convinced that the ship will sink, for she lists heavily. But the flames smother under foam and water, and the list disappears as pumps and damage control
teams deal with the flooding. He gains the courage to return to the bridge and ask the officer of the watch, ‘Will she be OK?'

‘Yeah, I think we were lucky. They holed us, the bastards, but just above the waterline and we're getting the fires under control now. Once it cools down they'll plug it up and we'll be operational again. This tub may be old, but she's solid.'

The smoke shrinks back to a black and stinking smudge that hangs over the ship like a blanket. The last of the fires dwindle to nothing, and the clean up process begins. Simon finds himself praying such as he has not prayed for many years. The darkness of the sky and the vast sea make him feel small — a mere thread on the tapestry the local vicar used to talk about. For most of his life he has rejected the strict Anglican faith of his childhood — did his time as a choirboy and in the youth group, and then turned his back on it all.

Psalm 23, so beloved of the faithful, comes back to him in all its majesty and beauty. His lips move silently.

The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.

He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: He leadeth me beside the still waters.

He restoreth my soul: He leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for His name's sake.

Over and over again he repeats those words, until he means them as he has never meant anything, believes in the sincerity of them; until his chest aches and his tears fall to his chest.

From out in the night he hears the soft hum of almost silent motors. From across the sea, three shapes blacker than the night itself appear, riding ahead of a greater darkness.

They come more swiftly than he might have imagined. Already he is craning forwards, seeing the shapes of heads in the boats. He hurries down a pair of ladders and onto the deck
where crews are mopping up the mess remaining from the fire. First he tries to climb over the rail, then, realising the folly of that, stands, gripping a stanchion with one hand, waving his arms like a madman.

He runs aft, ignoring busy seamen, seeing a stretcher carried up from the sea, fighting his way to her side, seeing the bloody bandages, and the morphine calm of Frances's face. But he rejoices that she is alive. He kisses her lips and tears spill down his face.

They lead Kelly up, a blanket wrapped around her shoulders, and they embrace; he can feel her sobbing into his neck. Men form a silent circle around them, and Simon searches with his eyes for Hannah.

The SBS fighter who spoke to Simon earlier touches his shoulder, eyes dull. ‘I'm sorry. We still haven't located her.'

Simon feels himself assaulted by an avalanche of feelings he cannot begin to control: despair; relief at having Frances back; worry at her wounds. An unfathomable abyss of hurt and thanksgiving.

God said, ‘Let us make man in Our image, in Our likeness, and let him rule over the fish of the sea and the birds of the air, over the livestock, over all the earth, and over the creatures that move along the ground.'

So God created man in His own image, in the image of God He created him; male and female He created them. God blessed them and said to them, ‘Be fruitful and increase in number; fill the earth and subdue it.'

So humankind was fruitful, and clever. Subduing nature came easily to him. Very early he learned to fell trees and bridge rivers, and devised sophisticated ways to kill. Man invented science, and with science crafted the world according to his wishes. If his house is cold he can heat it. If there is rain he has a roof to defeat it. If his work is difficult, he invents a machine to take his place.

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

Day 6, 05:00

At dawn, Marika wakes to find the world changed. The wind has stopped. Sand lies in drifts against the foot of the hills and any
other object that slows the torrent. Outside their hiding place is a land without footsteps, devoid of any living thing other than thorn trees and vultures, already up and scouring the earth for carrion.

They rise together, and Marika senses a strangeness between them. On impulse she places a hand on Madoowbe's shoulder and leans up to kiss the wire-brush stubble on his cheeks. ‘What do we do now?'

‘We find our camel.'

Walking together, they circle the low hills, feet squeaking in the new layer of fine desert sand. Some distance away, they find their transport chewing the dried remnants of a bush. It pauses, still masticating, lifts its head and glares, yet allows Madoowbe to come close and grasp the halter.

Mounting the ungainly creature now seems as natural, to Marika, as climbing into a car.

‘Sufia cannot be far away,' Madoowbe says.

Far, however, in the deserts of Africa, is a relative term. The landscape is an empty slate, yet to have the passage of man and animal imprinted upon it. The stillness is eerie, and Marika has to fight the numbing calmness that emanates from air and sand alike.

The landscape changes from sandy desert to vast clay steppe, where there seems to exist no life at all. Then, just as this emptiness promises to go on forever, they reach a surreal landscape that Madoowbe explains as petrified sand dunes. Once, as if to reassure her that animals do indeed live here, he points out the delicate tracks left behind by a tiny jerboa.

The seconds advance with dull momentum.
One and a half days
, Marika says to herself,
just thirty-odd hours to go. Barely enough time to find Sufia, and what then? Tell her that the man she loves is holding the world to ransom, that only she might have the
power to change his mind? Will she listen to me, or to Madoowbe? He hasn't seen her since she was a baby. She probably doesn't even know that he exists.

Marika's reasoning leads her to conclude that this is a useless excursion at the far end of the world, removed from the real action. It occurs to her that the whole thing could be over, even now  — that a negotiator has convinced Dr Abukar to disarm himself, or the Special Forces troops she knows are standing by have forced their way in and shot the terrorists dead.

Swaying from side to side at the camel's progress, Marika continues this fantasy in her head, wishing she was at Rabi al-Salah still — that she could have been there at the end instead of riding a stolen camel into oblivion.

But then, what if … what if Sufia is the key? What if the lives of all those world leaders are truly in her hands? Why are they so important anyway? Why are they any more important than a woman of south India who has collected seeds for half a century and holds stores of pure species now forgotten in the world of monoculture? Why are presidents and prime ministers more important than a man who does nothing more than farm his land and feed his family?

The daydream ends with a feeling of hunger, not for Somali porridge and camel blood, but real food: roast lamb, baked potatoes, gravy; maybe a fresh snapper grilled on a barbecue, butter sizzling through the foil …

‘Oi,' Madoowbe says, and while Marika drags herself back to reality, he slips to the ground before the camel has come to a halt, grabbing the halter and kneeling.

‘What is it?' she asks.

‘Tracks. A dozen men and women, some children. Camels.'

‘Do you think it might be her?'

‘I can read the signs on the earth but I am not a soothsayer. All we can do is follow, and hope. There is one thing for certain. A group passed here this morning, and may not be far ahead.'

Marika's eyes blaze. ‘Well, you'd better climb back up here and get this animal moving.'

The camel, when persuaded with boot heels, is able to manage a reluctant trot, snorting in protest through oversized nostrils.

‘Can't it go any faster?' Marika asks, voice shaking with the motion.

‘Yes, but then he will falter within a mile. At this pace he can swallow the ground for an hour or more.'

The trail passes through a ravine between two dramatic stony peaks, sheathed and shelved with stone so weathered it might have been polished by some long gone river. There, in the shadows, the air cools, and Marika wishes they could stop. Perhaps find water. As if sensing this, Madoowbe turns. ‘We can have a quick rest, if you like?'

‘No, keep going. We might be close.'

Back out on the plain, Marika finds herself dozing, waking when the camel slows almost to a standstill. Madoowbe is gazing out at the horizon; she feels the change through her knees and her hands at his waist. ‘What is it?'

‘Look ahead.'

Marika squints into the distance, sees the tiny shapes wheeling in the still air, hearing the odd raucous cry. ‘What are they?'

‘White-backed vultures. Carrion birds.'

‘Why are they here?'

Madoowbe shrugs, but she feels him kick back into the camel's flanks. The animal responds by gathering pace.

The vultures are further than Marika expects, but finally the cries sound close, the fat bellies and long, drooping beaks
visible. Some are clustered on small brown hillocks. Not hillocks. Something else. Closer now, she sees the dark stains on the earth and twisted necks and limbs.

‘Camels,' she breathes, ‘dead camels. Why?'

Madoowbe says nothing, and then the first human bodies come into view. One is a child, who might have been running, robes billowed out under him. A bullet has torn a crater in his chest. One leg is twisted at an awkward angle beneath his body.

The camel stops to Madoowbe's command. Marika dismounts and kneels beside the dead child, trying to hold back tears. After remaining like this for some minutes she looks up at Madoowbe, who stands, one hand on the halter.

‘Be careful,' he tells her, ‘it is possible that whoever did this is still nearby.'

Marika comes back to her feet, walking around the dozen bodies that litter the area, most surrounding the still smouldering remnants of a camel dung fire, a small pot of spiced meat hanging from a cradle. All have been shot, some several times. Cartridge cases litter the earth.

Marika fights to control her emotions. She has been trained to deal with this kind of situation, yet still the anger and pain spills from her eyes. ‘Who did this? The shifta?'

‘No,' Madoowbe says, ‘they would have taken the camels, not killed them.' He walks forwards ten paces and points to tracks in the dust. ‘Four-wheel-drive vehicles. The killers were not shifta. And I have examined the female bodies — Sufia is not among them. Not unless she has changed a great deal from her photograph. They have taken her.'

‘Who would have done such a thing?'

His tone remains expressionless. No trace of anger. ‘The warlord Dalmar Asad, who else but he?'

Marika's heart feels as if it carries a tonne of ballast. ‘Can we bury them?'

‘There is no time. We have to follow.'

Marika's eyes blaze. ‘Don't you feel this? Can't you show one shred of emotion?'

He shrugs. ‘It is sad, but I did not know them.'

‘Aren't you angry?'

Madoowbe's eyes are as cold as steel. ‘I am not in the habit of displaying everything I feel. That is a peculiarity of Westerners.'

‘Well maybe,' Marika says, ‘that is at least
one
damn good thing about us. We don't feel the need to hide everything away.' Her voice softens and she touches his shoulder. ‘It's OK to feel pain. Crying is not a betrayal.'

For a moment she thinks he might reply, but instead he orders the camel down so they can mount. ‘There is no profit in standing around and talking. We need to find the people who did this, and we need to know if they have taken my sister Sufia.'

Marika nods. ‘You are right. We don't have time for this now. But later, you cold bugger, I'm going to break through that shell of yours and see what's underneath. I had a sample and I like it. Got it?'

The smile on his face is a mere shadow.

 

Half a mile along, following the tracks of three vehicles, Madoowbe once again stops the camel.

‘What are you doing?' Marika asks. ‘You said yourself we need to hurry.'

Madoowbe points to a stand of umbrella thorn trees. Marika follows the direction of his pointing finger. Brown, stubbled legs and a patch of neck resolve into two camels, still with halter
ropes attached. ‘It looks like at least two of their mounts got away from the guns.'

Marika watches as Madoowbe dismounts and approaches the stray animals, talking under his breath. The camels lift their heads and watch him come, suspiciously, munching on their cud, molars grinding audibly.

Madoowbe's whispered words become a song: soft, melodic and sweet; distinctively Arabic with the extra quarter-tone notes. With each phrase he moves a step closer until he has the lead rope of first one camel and then the other in his hand.

‘Upgraded transportation.' He grins, bringing them towards her.

‘Well done. I'm impressed.'

‘Perhaps there is something of the herdboy in me still. Which one do you want?'

Marika looks at the two camels  — one is smaller than the other, and in camel terms, has a feminine, almost pretty face.

‘I'll have her. She looks like she'll treat me well.'

‘It's a him, actually.'

‘Oh. I didn't see his, er — oh yeah, there it is. Him then.'

Having transferred their few belongings across, Madoowbe lets the other camel go free. They mount up. Marika senses the change — these new animals are well rested and trained to a higher standard than the ones belonging to the shifta.

‘Still not as fast as a vehicle,' she says, thinking aloud.

‘Not so much slower than you might think,' Madoowbe says. ‘The men we follow are not careful drivers. They are more interested in bravado than safety. Does not your culture have a fable about a hare and a tortoise? There is an African version also.'

Marika does not ask him to explain further, but not far ahead they reach a plain of sharp stones where it becomes difficult to
make out any trail at all. There are, however, occasional patches of sand where the wheels have left a bossed imprint. On the far side — a journey of almost an hour — they discover that the small convoy stopped to change a tyre on one of the vehicles.

‘Fifteen minutes wasted, at least,' Madoowbe says, ‘and it would have taken them almost as long as us to negotiate the stones. They are not far ahead now.'

Marika tries to smile, but her belly is as tight as a drum. ‘I just wish I wasn't so damn hungry.'

‘Both of us are hungry, but there will be time to eat later.' His face hardens. ‘When we find Sufia and take her to safety.'

Marika lets her hands tighten around his middle. ‘I'm sorry, I forget sometimes that she is your sister. You must be so worried.'

‘We cannot even be sure that they have her — that she was with that particular group. All we can do is hope that we will be in time, whoever they have taken.'

Marika says nothing. They both know that Sufia is there, and that Dalmar Asad has proved to be swifter and more ruthless than they imagined. Despite the heat, she shivers.

The man is a killer. A manipulator. Isn't this all my fault?

If she had never confessed her mission to him, the family might not have been slaughtered back there in the desert. But then, if that were the case, might she have been tortured and shot?

There is no right answer, she decides. No way to go back and find the right path — only the present, and the future.

 

For almost an hour, Isabella watches for an opportunity to check the phone for messages, but always the fat mujahedin, Jafar, stays close. Leering at her, lips parted, sometimes even adjusting his
crotch when he knows she is watching. Ever since the death of the French President she has been edgy, the atmosphere in the room electric.

The constancy of death in this room is a reminder that these men operate outside the normal moral sphere. That the cell phone is a terrible risk. Still she waits. Zhyogal comes across to talk to the fat one and she is safe, for a moment, slipping the phone out from her underwear and turning it on. Two new messages.

Reading the first, unable to believe the words, stifling an exclamation of simultaneous joy and despair.

Frances injured but stable and with me. Kelly safe and well. All worried for you. Simon.

Each word is a tingling electric shock through her limbs, followed by a wave of relief and horror that flows like a tide in her bloodstream.

Where the hell is Hannah? Oh God. Hannah is still missing. But Frances is injured. Where? How badly? But she is alive …

Isabella is frozen. Stunned. For a moment she almost forgets to hide the handset, and it is only the approaching form of Jafar that has her dropping her hand into her skirt and slipping the phone back into its hiding place before he reaches her. As always his eyes seek her out, staring, lustful, and she knows that getting her emotions under control is not just desirable, but essential — to be caught is to die.