Rotten Gods

by Greg Barron

  The interpreter translates, waiting for a response before addressing Marika again. ‘The captain says that you deserved punishment for an unprovoked attack on him. Yet he is willing to put that behind him, in the interests of obtaining your full confession before his commander Dalmar Asad gets back tomorrow. Mr Asad will not treat you so kindly.’

  Wanami does not attempt to hide his contempt for her, and Marika knows that it will take little to provoke him. She shrugs and holds her palms out, a gesture she intends to indicate that she is hiding nothing.

  ‘Please tell Captain Wanami that I am happy to answer his questions.’

  This seems to please the officer. He turns back to converse with the guard at the door. Both smile widely.

  The interpreter turns his eyes on Marika. ‘The captain wishes to inquire as to what your American masters intend by sending you into a country that does not belong to you.’

  ‘Please tell him that I am not American, but Australian, and that I work for the United Nations.’

  The captain’s face changes as the interpreter translates, and the interpreter turns back to Marika, shaking his head, and clicking his tongue as if remonstrating with a wicked child. ‘The captain says that you are being silly. Lies are an offence to God and you are obviously lying, since you carried guns and other military equipment. He asks you to tell the truth. Who do you work for and why did you come here?’

  Marika swallows hard, and glares at Wanami. ‘My name is Marika Hartmann, I am an Australian citizen, and I work for the United Nations. The details of my mission do not concern you.’

  The last sentence, once translated, infuriates Captain Wanami — his face turning purple and a series of veins standing out on his forehead. The interpreter’s voice rises with shared authority, like the school bully’s best friend.

  ‘The captain says that you are a very pretty young woman, but that you will not be so much if he has to extract the information from you. He says that you have tonight to think. He will be back in the morning equipped to take steps to find out what Dalmar Asad has demanded to know. Then, when the warlord himself returns, you can be truly afraid.’

  As abruptly as they arrived the cell door closes behind them. Marika sits back on the bench and closes her eyes, wondering what Abdullah bin al-Rhoumi would think of the mess she was in.

  Day 2, 17:00

  Alek Chastakorlenka, Vice President of the Russian Republic, kneels on the carpet. Sweat flows in a channel from brow to ear and along his neck. He will be next to die. Already the Almohad have killed two: the Presidents of South Sudan and Pakistan. Their bodies lie, bloodied and limp, against the front wall.

  Zhyogal stands over him, reading from a typewritten sheaf of paper. ‘In the year two thousand and three, General Chastakorlenka, then commander of the kontraktniki forty-sixth Motor Rifle Division of the Russian Army, did order the use of a heavy flamethrower weapon on the inhabitants of the Muslim village Beroznya, Chechnya. In spite of pleas from these unarmed civilians, many died in agony. For this atrocity, for this crime, in the name of God, the prescribed penalty is death.’

  The kneeling man wails a long stream of Russian, tears spilling down his face, jowls wobbling like jelly. The words are accompanied by violent shakes of the head. Then, ‘No, no.’

  Two men seize a shoulder each and lift, trying to make Chastakorlenka walk but, whether in sheer fright or defiance, his body sags and will not support his weight. They half drag, half carry him to the bloodstained patch of carpet from which the body of the previous victim was only recently removed.

  Zhyogal stands over the Russian Vice President, draws his pistol and fires. The first shot, despite passing through the head, does not kill him, leaving him kicking his legs and calling out in an inhuman, howling moan. Zhyogal fires again. Alek Chastakorlenka lies still.

  Staying in the shadows, Simon rounds the corner towards the taxi stand. Pink fluorescent tubes on the arched facade of the terminal building spell out the abbreviated ADEN INT’L AIRPORT, followed by the same in Arabic. A huddle of drivers laugh and smoke together but, despite a slow and careful examination of the area, there is no sign of security, or British secret service men in their suits.

  A sound makes him turn, an amplified voice in Arabic, a distant mosque calling believers to prayer, drifting out across the city, haunting and beautiful. He waits until the normal sounds of life resume before walking towards the terminal.

  Passing the taxis he scans ahead for the baggage handler, half expecting him not to show, or to find himself surrounded by men with guns. To his relief Simon sees the familiar face up ahead, smoking like the others, looking nervously in all directions.

  Simon hurries towards him, and shakes his hand. ‘Thank you for meeting me.’

  The man drops his butt and grinds it under the toe of his shoe, holding a pack of Gitane cigarettes in one hand. ‘As I said, I feel shame that I took something that belongs to your daughter.’

  ‘Did you find anything out?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘One of the door guards, a friend called Ishaq, told me that his friend Malik mentioned that he saw a man, a woman and two children behaving strangely on Tuesday.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘The woman and children appeared to be upset. The man walked very close beside one of the children, who was weeping. The woman and children were Westerners. That is all I know.’

  ‘Where is this Malik — can I see him?’

  ‘He is not at work right now, but I can take you to his house.’

  Simon feels the first stirring of suspicion. Could this man be planning to take him somewhere secluded and have him shot? ‘How far away?’

  ‘Not far. I have a car, I can take you.’

  Simon wants to believe him — all his considerable experience with human nature tells him to trust this man. Besides, he is no longer able to move freely in the terminal, and this is his sole lead. ‘Let’s go then.’

  The baggage handler offers his hand for a second time. ‘My name is Hisham al-Fahdi. What’s yours?’

  ‘Simon Thompson.’

  ‘Come this way, Simon. My car is in the parking lot there.’

  ‘Thanks very much. I appreciate your efforts.’

  The car is a compact Toyota. The console is filled with the usual paraphernalia of family life — a pen; a folded copy of al-Ayyam, the local paper; an open packet of mints. An electric bakhoor burner is plugged into the cigarette lighter, and the car smells of stale yet aromatic smoke.

  ‘If you don’t mind,’ Hisham says, ‘I will call first.’

  ‘Of course. Go ahead.’

  Cel phone in one hand, the Yemeni consults a folded scrap of paper from his top pocket and dials a number. Simon listens to the conversation. If this is a plot to get him alone it is an elaborate one. Why would they go to such lengths?

  The conversation over, Hisham slips the phone back in his pocket and starts the car. ‘Malik is happy for us to come over.’

  ‘Thank you. You are going to a lot of trouble for me.’

  Hisham nods and backs the car out of the parking space.

  Their route takes them along a four-lane motorway, then into the thick of the city, a place of narrow, chaotic streets, buildings crammed together with their teardrop arched windows. Mosques stand on corners every few blocks, narrow minaret towers pointing to the sky, elegant arches, screens, and whitewashed walls.

  The streets are alive with people. Homeless families with sleeping children on beds of discarded cardboard. Beggars. Groups of young men wearing a pastiche of Western and Eastern clothing. Hawkers. Hotels are surrounded by chain-wire barriers. Uniformed security guards with assault rifles stand watch over the entrances.

  The termite colony complexity of the city reinforces to Simon that anything and anyone could disappear into this maze. No one would ever know. Traffic is light and moves at speed. Hisham turns the car into a side street.

  ‘You said you had children,�
� Simon asks, ‘how old are they?’

  ‘My boy, Ghali, is twelve, and Ramona is eight. Nuriyah is just three.’ The Yemeni smiles. ‘They are the suns and moons of my life. Even the girls bring me much joy.’ The words cut deep into Simon’s heart. Hisham appears to notice. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘No, it’s fine. Really.’

  They pass a wide market square with a mosque to one side and date palms in clusters.

  ‘This is the district of Maalla,’ Hisham says. ‘Here was the worst of the fighting in the revolution. My cousin was killed here, and I, too, fought for freedom. Back then I was a student at the university. I had dreams of becoming a lawyer.’

  Simon glances across and sees regret, but remembrance of past glory, in the Yemeni’s eyes.

  ‘We, the youth, stood as brothers, shoulder to shoulder and chanted, “Allahu akbar.” Soldiers fired on us, and we did not fight back, but trusted in God. And then Saleh was, praise God, struck by a shell in his mosque, and shrapnel pierced his chest. That was God’s warning to him. He came back, but we continued to fight, and eventually we had our freedom.’

  The car turns several times more before pulling up outside a block of three-storey buildings, resembling cave entrances in a cliff. Simon follows his new friend up a flight of steps, with smells and sounds wafting through open windows: curry and saffron-tinged air; the sound of crying babies; raised voices and al-Jazeera Arabic language news from Doha, Qatar.

  Finally, Hisham stops at a door and knocks. The man who opens it looks as unthreatening as a Surrey grocer. He is slim, with prominent front teeth, holding a male child of around two years in his arms — the child’s wide brown eyes rest on Simon’s with a curiosity common to children everywhere, the soaking up of sights and sounds; the undeniable need to learn.

  Hisham says, ‘Malik, this is the Englishman I told you about. The one who seeks his daughters.’

  ‘Yes. Come in, please.’

  Hisham bends to remove his shoes. Simon follows that example, leaving his socks on and stepping onto the clean swept floor inside. Still carrying the child, Malik leads them past a side table with framed portraits of family members into a sitting room decked out with red patterned cushions and a low dark-grained table, set with a copper sugar bowl and glass salt and pepper shakers. A face-down newspaper sits beside them, stained with bread crumbs and yoghurt. Bakhoor smoke wafts from a ceramic udd burner on a shelf. Long use has left a blackened smudge on the ceiling above.

  Malik calls his wife with a sharp order. She appears in the doorway into what must be the kitchen — short in stature, all but her eyes, nose and lips hidden by the balto. Her hands and wrists are covered with intricate henna tattoos, something that must have taken many hours to complete. Despite the apparent freedom with which she shows herself, Simon is careful not to look at her face, and she too keeps her eyes averted. Talking to her directly could be fraught with danger — a single incorrect word might offend her husband.

  ‘Make coffee, Lutfiyah, please,’ Malik commands, then points to his guests to take a cushion. Malik, himself, is the last to sit, his son settling onto his lap, still looking at Simon in obvious fascination.

  The coffee comes in half full demitasse cups, light in colour and with a layer of froth. Simon sips the steaming liquid, enjoying the spicy cardamom taste, waiting while Malik fusses with his little son, helping him with a mug of milk the woman brings. When his wife has left the room, Malik pours fresh coffee from the brass pot.

  ‘Your wife and children have been kidnapped?’

  ‘My two girls, yes, and their nanny — the woman who looks after them. Did you see them?’

  ‘Perhaps. I saw two men leave the terminal, with a European woman and two girls. One of the girls was crying — the younger one …’

  ‘Did she have long blonde hair?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Simon makes a fist, only uncurling his fingers when his nails bite deep into his palm. ‘And the woman. Was she about nineteen; short dark hair in a bob?’

  ‘Bob?’

  ‘Like this.’ Simon fashions imaginary hair with his hands.

  ‘Yes, I think so.’

  ‘Where did they go?’

  ‘Ordinarily I would not have looked, but they went through the doors and into a car at the kerb.’

  ‘A taxi?’ A policeman friend of Simon’s, chief inspector at Shoreditch Police Station had once told him that few people remember precisely what they have seen until a specific question is put to them.

  ‘No.’

  ‘What colour?’

  ‘White. A Chinese car.’

  ‘Was there anything distinctive about it?’

  Malik strokes his beard. ‘I noticed rust in the corners of the doors.’

  ‘Did the men who were with them get into the car?’

  ‘Yes. One was the driver.’

  ‘Were there any other identifying marks?’

  ‘There was a decal on the vehicle, on the back window. Those stick-on numbers you can buy at a stationery shop.’

  ‘Do you remember what the number was?’

  ‘No, sorry. I think there was maybe a three and a two, but I cannot be sure.’

  ‘What about the licence plate?’

  ‘Sorry. I did not look. I was curious, but not that curious.’

  Simon lowers his eyes, frustrated. ‘Tell me about the men.’

  ‘One was very dark — African. The other had lighter skin.’ He hesitates. ‘I … er, think I have seen him again, but I am not sure.’

  ‘Where?’

  Malik picks up the newspaper that was face down on the table. Like all Arabic tabloids the front page is what would be the back in the West. Two grainy photographs dominate the cover. One is Dr Abukar, scholarly and, to all appearances, incapable of violence. To his right is a sharply featured face. The word underneath is in English script: Zhyogal.

  ‘I am insane,’ Malik says, ‘but he looked so much like that one there. The more I look, the more I am certain. Yes. I recognise him as I would the devil. He was … a frightening man.’

  Simon stares down at that face with a swelling hatred that he knows he will never control.

  Marika wakes once during the night. The cell is dark, and strange shadows move across the walls. Huddled in one corner she hears the moaning howl of a man in agony, the sound of voices, then moaning again. Fighting the ache in face and abdomen where she was hit, she sits up, aware that the hairs on the back of her neck and her forearms are standing erect, as if in a reaction to something primordial and terrible out there in the darkness of this hellhole in the wilderness.

  The sound becomes a shriek, and then low sobbing. There is something familiar in that voice, and a terrible, sickening awareness settles upon her.

  Now it is his turn.

  As if in sympathy, Marika holds both hands against her face and weeps until tears coat her cheeks, and her throat aches with the acid gall of shared suffering.

  THE THIRD DAY

  And God said, ‘Let the water under the sky be gathered to one place, and let dry ground appear.’ And it was so. God called the dry ground ‘land’. And it was good.

  Yet the land has been disturbed and tunnelled through to find gold and oil, and poisoned with radioactive waste, sewers, and heavy metals that fall in the ash from the sky. The earth has been so denuded of nutrients that farmers pile seabird droppings on the fields, but now even the guano is running out.

  God said, ‘Let the land produce vegetation: seed-bearing plants and trees on the land that bear fruit with seed in it, according to their various kinds.’

  Biotech companies engineer plant genomes to make them resistant to disease and herbicides; to grow faster; to bear more fruit. The number of species under cultivation dwindles. Engineered species ‘infect’ their wild cousins, and the gene pool narrows. When drought comes, engineered plants wilt — all of them, for there is no longer the genetic diversity required to cope with change.

  Diverse ecosystems such as rainfores
ts are cleared at a rate of one hundred thousand acres every week. Soils planted to monoculture are leached of all fertility by unseasonable flooding rains, or blown away by the powder-dry winds of drought.

  And there was evening and there was morning. The third day.

  Day 3, 04:55

  In Karachi, Pakistan, sixteen-year-old Sehba Hamid reads The Way of Jihad by Hassan al-Banna, founder of the Muslim Brotherhood. He sits on a hand-embroidered cushion in a one-room house thick with the smell of incense and the open sewer on the street. The tract sets out the case for war, why all Muslims must fight. He reads the words:

  My brothers! The ummah that knows how to die a noble and honourable death is granted an exalted life in this world and eternal felicity in the next. Degradation and dishonour are the results of the love of this world and the fear of death. Therefore prepare for jihad and be the lovers of death …

  New meaning awakens and grows; a sense that Sehba’s life may have purpose, that he too can be a warrior. That he can rise above the squalor of his surroundings and bring glory to God.

  At the madrasah an older man makes contact with him, one who keeps himself apart. A man known for silent purity and intolerance of vice. The others whisper that he belongs to the al-Muwahhidun. Over several days the recruiter sounds Sehba out, then invites him to a meeting.

  Sehba listens to what they have to say, then decides that he will join with them, and if he is required to die in the name of God, he will do it willingly. A sense of joy pervades his soul.

  Zhyogal, warrior for Islam, beloved of the Prophet, has been known by many names over the years, moving across borders like a phantom, new passports just an encrypted email and a dead letter drop away.

  He was born Sami Kazaati, in Illizi, Algeria, in 1983, between the desert of Issaouane Irarraren and the mountains of Tassilin-Ajjer. He was still a student at the village school when friction between Islamist protesters and the government reached a peak with the slaughter of more than forty civilians at the Place des Martyrs, Algiers, by security forces.