Rotten Gods

by Greg Barron

  The speakers are, with much discussion and pointed orders from the emir, placed on terra firma, facing out in Madoowbe’s general direction. At a shouted order the generator splutters into life, and one of the crew, a beardless adolescent, obviously the outfit’s technical wizard, walks from the container with a small stack of CDs. He powers up the machine, slips in a disc and the assemblage waits. A moment later, at a volume set to compete with occasional gunfire, the music begins.

  Marika listens, bemused, the incongruity of the music making her laugh, taking her back to childhood, to her mother dancing around the kitchen to the husky male voice that now blares from the speakers.

  Aw, aw baby, yeah, ooh yeah, huh, listen to this …

  Marika smiles to herself. Tom Jones. Wonders if anyone has ever pointed out the meaning of the lyrics, doubting that they would please these strict Muslims.

  The song ends, and after much discussion the CD is ejected and another slid in to replace it.

  What next? Marika thinks.

  A classical piece that Marika does not recognise follows, but the kettle drums echoing around the cliffs are strangely resonant. The music is warlike, martial in style, and appeals to the shifta, who stand throughout, eyes misty, as though recalling glorious battles and ambushes of long ago.

  The recital lasts for around thirty minutes, at which point the emir barks an order. Someone presses the kill switch on the generator and the stereo system returns to the cardboard box. Everything is packed away in the shipping container and the door closes. Marika shares a glance with Madoowbe and does her best to communicate with her eyes. These people are crazy. Let’s get the hell out of here.

  Madoowbe appears to understand. He nods and looks away.

  Before long, Marika dozes in the chair, waking to the occasional sound of gunfire. This, she realises, is an extension of the shifta’s conversation — like a loud shout of pleasure. At one stage Madoowbe is led away — for a tour of the area, she imagines.

  Returning half an hour later he is able to pause beside her for a moment.

  ‘Have you found anything out?’ she asks.

  ‘Yes. These people know everything that passes through this land. Two of them made contact with a party of nomads a week ago. Apparently they learned that a woman who has been in America walks among them — a woman who wears clothes like a male.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Somewhere to the northwest, and not too far away. The same two men are out in the desert hunting dikdik, and will return before dark. I need to talk to them first, and perhaps they will lead us there.’

  One of the shifta calls Madoowbe across. ‘Hi, cousin, my friend Samih has come to hear your story of the two goats in the corn field. Can you tell it again?’

  Marika shrugs, resigned to sitting there a little longer. ‘Go on, keep them happy, but I want to be out of here by nightfall, OK?’

  Day 5, 15:30

  Twenty nautical miles out from the island, HMS Durham runs in with the Rolls Royce turbines barely ticking over, yet still making five knots over the ground. The ops room is lit from above with red fluorescent tubes, giving the appearance of a photographer’s dark room. Captain Marshall stands at the front, in discussion with the PWO.

  On duty, Matt is a different man altogether. His face shows a sheen of sweat, even in the air-conditioned room. ‘Looks like we’ll get a briefing, in a minute,’ he says, ‘and you might get an idea of what the hell is going on.’

  ‘What if these people on the island have their own radar?’ Simon asks. ‘Won’t they see us here?’

  ‘The captain’s already thought of that. There’s an EA-18G Growler circling over us, forty thousand feet up, jamming them. They might suspect that something’s amiss, but they won’t know much.’

  The main LCD screen now displays an image that resembles the civilian Google Earth, yet with superior resolution. The island is a dun-coloured sprawl, rocky and inhospitable, pounded by long lines of ocean rollers.

  Marshall uses a pointer to mark out a group of crude structures above the cliffs. ‘These are fishermen’s huts, used occasionally — no one lives there. This image, however, is about a month old; the satellite has picked up at least one new dwelling since then, and signs of people moving around. There are two places where a boat can land on the island; one is the only protected anchorage, just below the huts. The other is a beach at the base of some rugged cliffs.’

  The screen changes and the next image is a patchwork of colour. Marshall’s eyes settle on Simon’s. ‘This is an infra-red exposure. Do you understand what that means?’

  ‘Kind of.’

  ‘The cameras pick up heat arrays rather than images. Human bodies, for example, stand out at night, because they are warmer than the surrounding ground. The coloured patches are humans, and the streaks indicate movement. There are at least ten people in and around the huts. Some haven’t moved much in the period covered by the satellite pass. Some a little more.’

  Simon leans back and sighs.

  A signalman moves through the hatch, pausing beside the captain and saluting. ‘Flash traffic from Fleet Headquarters, for CO’s eyes only.’

  Marshall smiles at Simon. ‘This’ll be it now.’

  Simon watches Marshall unfold a yellow sheet of paper, scanning it with his eyes. His expression changes as he screws up the paper and slips it into his pocket. ‘Bad news. We’ve been ordered back to base.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘They didn’t say. That’s the way things work around here, I’m afraid. Obviously this little sideline is not important any more.’

  Matt scoffs, ‘It means that the brass don’t think that the lives of two girls are enough to risk one warship. Even one as old and embarrassing as us.’

  ‘Be careful what you say, young Wyman,’ the captain warns.

  Simon frowns. ‘So we just have to pack up and go?’

  ‘It seems that way, yes.’

  ‘Can’t you query the order?’

  ‘I can, and I will. But I’ll eat my hat if they change their minds.’

  Simon grips a rail so tight it seems that his fingers might crack. ‘Can I use the satphone, please?’

  ‘Of course you can. If you think it’ll do any good.’

  Simon makes the call from the signal deck, looking down at the sea, helplessly watching the rapid and thorough preparations for departure. He dials the number from memory.

  ‘Can I speak to Mr Thomas Mossel, please?’

  ‘I’m sorry, sir, Mr Mossel is in a meeting.’

  ‘Get him.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘Are you fucking listening? Get him.’ To Simon it sounds like someone else talking.

  There is a shocked silence, then piped music as he is put on hold. A minute later, Tom Mossel’s voice.

  ‘Who is this?’

  ‘It’s Simon. Tom, I need your help.’

  ‘OK, but you just upset my secretary.’

  ‘Sorry about that. This is important.’

  ‘Lots of things are important right now. What is it?’

  ‘I think you probably know. Durham just got ordered back to base. They had a job to do and now it’s changed. Why?’

  ‘That’s a navy decision. I can’t interfere. More recent images have thrown doubt on earlier conclusions. Our analysts are now putting activity on the island down to a family group of fishermen.’

  ‘Crap.’

  ‘Listen, Simon, I’m in a link-up with the acting PM right now. That’s important too. I can’t interfere. I’m sorry, but I can’t.’

  Simon feels something cold and calm. ‘I get it now,’ he says, ‘you wanted to find the girls because you thought they might lead you to this terrorist called Saif al-Din, didn’t you? That’s no longer the case. He’s somewhere else and you don’t care any more. Is that right?’

  The sigh of expelled breath is audible across the line. ‘If you must know, Saif al-Din was spotted yesterday in Dubai. Our operatives are busy looking for him there
.’

  ‘So finding my girls is no longer important?’

  ‘Of course it’s important, but just not a priority. Jesus, Simon, put yourself in my shoes. The world is turning to shit and we have to concentrate on the most critical problems. I’m sorry.’

  ‘You gave me a spiel about my daughters being British citizens, that they would not be abandoned. Was that just a speech? You’re talking to the acting PM, surely she can do something.’ He pauses, searching for the right words. ‘You’re my only hope.’

  More silence. ‘Simon, you’re talking about men’s lives. People getting killed maybe. Leave it with me, but for the moment, I don’t have enough cause to interfere with RN orders.’

  Simon ends the call and carries the handset back to the ops room, where he faces the captain. ‘Take me up to the island,’ he pleads, ‘give me a small boat and a gun and I’ll get them out myself.’

  Marshall shakes his head. ‘You know I can’t do that.’

  ‘If you turn and head for base my kids are dead. There’s no one else.’ Simon feels all the fight go out of him. There is nothing he can do now. Everything is in the hands of others, and they will never care the way he does.

  Marshall drops one hand to his shoulder. ‘Look, I’ve been thinking while you were out of the room. There is one other thing we could try.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Stinger.’

  ‘What the hell is that?’

  ‘A micro air vehicle. Camera drone. Use it to check out the island. It won’t take long, and it’ll tell us one way or the other if there’s something going on.’ He turns and shouts to the executive officer. ‘XO. Tell Comms to message Fleet. Tell them that we’re going to do a flyover with Stinger before we go. They’ll want to monitor it too.’

  Simon lifts both hands and wipes a clammy sheen of sweat from his face, wondering how much more of this he can take.

  Ali Khalid Abukar wipes his eyes and stares upwards. The newsreader has a dry, Eastern European voice with an American texture. Despite the red-painted lips and stylish clothing she seems as machine like and remote as a computer generated abstraction.

  The Canadian Government today announced the withdrawal of more than one hundred military engineers from Afghanistan. They will also initiate urgent shipments of aid to East Africa, an initiative that may total five hundred thousand tonnes of grain.

  The government of France has refused to cooperate with terrorism in any way.

  There is a hiss of shock in the room and Ali watches the French President, seeing the fear in his eyes.

  The United States Congress has agreed to the following ….

  The government of Israel welcomes peace initiatives from Palestinian organisations but will not respond to demands made under duress, and rejects the methods used …

  The voice drones on: Pakistan … withdrawing troops … ceasing hostilities … Germany … withdrawing armed forces personnel …

  Ali leans over the dais, holding a pen at its fulcrum and swinging it like a toy, still watching the screen. The roll call of responses continues for at least ten minutes. He coughs, and stares out at the hostages. His hostages. They are restless, confused. Some countries have followed instructions, many haven’t.

  Hearing footsteps, he turns. Zhyogal is on his way to the dais, his face a mask of anger, his voice a cracking whip. ‘Did I not tell you that there are countries who will treat us with contempt?’

  ‘That is true, but …’

  Zhyogal slides the pistol from his holster. ‘They are no longer afraid. We have not yet touched the greatest imperialists of all. They feel safe. Now is the time.’

  Ali feels as light as air, panicking like a fish stranded on a beach, flopping in all directions yet still unable to breathe. ‘So many are doing what we have asked. It is still a great success — even the United States. Will more violence not provoke them further?’

  ‘Did you hear? They have committed nothing. Industrialised nations have plundered and exploited us for centuries. Their actions now bring ruination to us all. They must pay, and now is the time to show the world that we are serious.’ Zhyogal takes the dais and shakes a fist. ‘You do not understand the danger you are in. Many of your countries have chosen to insult their own leaders by showing bravado. It is time to bring down the biggest criminals of all. Starting from now, I will judge and execute the war criminals of the countries who regard themselves as the leaders of the West. I will begin with the French President.’ He raises his voice: ‘Bring Monsieur Bourque here. Let him be an example.’

  Two of the mujahedin converge on the Frenchman. At the last moment he stands and tries to run, but they seize an arm each and drag him to the dais where they kick his legs out from underneath him.

  ‘Kneel.’

  The President of France is sobbing now, calling out obscenities in his own language.

  Zhyogal shouts, ‘The past governments of your country are the architects of nothing short of attempted genocide in Algeria. For two hundred years France has bled my country dry and I have grown from the womb hating you.’

  ‘That was before my time —’

  ‘Yes, but there has been no restitution. No responsibility taken. You, personally, have a long list of crimes to your credit. You, monsieur, were the minister of defence who initiated Operation Unicorn in the Ivory Coast. Paratroopers — masquerading as peacekeepers — slaughtered hundreds of innocent civilians on your orders. Your country hides many perpetrators of the genocide in Rwanda and fails to help bring them to justice. You are charged with murder in Libya, Iraq, and Afghanistan. You have treated the Muslim peoples of your own nation with contempt, used riot police to control their justifiable protest.’

  Ali watches as Zhyogal holds the pistol an inch from the back of the desperate man’s head, waits for the struggles to subside, and fires. The body slumps to the boards and a black stain spreads around it. Ringing silence fills the room.

  Holstering the weapon, Zhyogal stands and addresses the cameras. ‘If the world does not listen, I promise death. I promise to open the gates of Hell itself.’

  The two hunters arrive in the evening, rifles slung on backs, the leader a hook-nosed giant of a man, yet lean of frame, black whiskers concentrated on the chin and upper lip.

  ‘Who seeks Abdul Haq?’ he asks.

  ‘I do,’ says Madoowbe.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I have a message for him.’

  ‘And who are you?’

  ‘I am Muyassar Namir Qutb.’

  Marika, watching from her place in the shade, has a deepening premonition of danger.

  ‘No, you are not,’ says Abdul Haq.

  The silence is complete.

  Madoowbe offers a little laugh. ‘Of course I am.’

  ‘No, you are not. Muyassar is my cousin. I saw him just six months ago, in Burtinle.’

  Again Madoowbe laughs, yet the sound is hollow. These seconds, Marika knows, are the only ones she will get, for the hook-nosed man is in the process of unslinging his assault rifle. There on her bench, forgotten, she lifts her own weapon from where it leans beside her and fires from the hip. Warning shots would be futile, she decides — gunfire is more familiar than flatulence to these people. One bullet takes the man in the side of the chest and another in the head. He falls in a startled heap in the sand.

  Marika starts running before the corpse stops kicking. Men move to block Madoowbe from joining her, but he is agile, and together they pound down the pathway towards the motorbike.

  ‘Thanks for that,’ he says. ‘Rather timely, I might say.’

  ‘Shut up and run.’

  The first burst of gunfire follows them, but appears to have been aimed high, conscious of the danger to the women and children at the fires. Bullets zap and twang in the leaves and branches, some of which fall to earth.

  Madoowbe, having started ahead of her, reaches the bike first and straddles it, kicking at the starter, face sheeted with sweat, swearing to encourage the machine to
start.

  ‘Damn it,’ Marika cries. ‘Hurry.’ A horde of men attempts to reach them, hampered by their own numbers, weapons out and still firing. Her eyes blaze. ‘Are you trying to get me killed on purpose? Is that your plan? If so you’re doing one hell of a job.’

  Five, six times Madoowbe’s foot kicks at the starter, rewarded by not even the tiniest flutter.

  ‘Leave it,’ Marika cries, ‘leave it and run.’

  Madoowbe does as she asks, but stops at the nearest camel, a huge beast, adorned with multicoloured tassels along both neck and body, fur matted with dung below and around the tail. It drops to the ground with the same unwieldy grace as a building imploding.

  ‘Climb on,’ he exhorts.

  Marika grips the beast’s neck for balance, and straddles the hump, feeling Madoowbe get up behind her and lift the reins. The animal rises on long, knobbly legs, still in no hurry. After a solid kick from Madoowbe, to the accompaniment of shouts and gunfire, it breaks into a run. ‘They will not risk killing this camel,’ he says, ‘he is a fine beast, and very valuable.’

  ‘Then they will surely not allow us to get away with him either.’

  ‘That is true,’ he admits. ‘They will follow.’

  ‘So why did you have to tell more lies, back there, to the shifta? Why give them a false name?’

  ‘Because if I hadn’t we would both be dead.’

  ‘That’s always your excuse. Every bloody time. Who is this Muyassar whatever it is? Where did you get the name from?’

  ‘I borrowed it from a man I met in the coffee shop yesterday — the one who told me all about Dalmar Asad. It was a risk, yes, but our only way through. I am not of this subclan and they would have killed us.’

  Marika turns to see camels and riders lurch into pursuit. ‘This is bloody hopeless, even if we find her — I’ve lost all my communications gear. What the hell are we going to do? Walk out of Somalia on foot? God damn you, Madoowbe, if you’re not this Muyassar Namir Whatever, then who the hell are you? Can’t you tell the truth for once? Just once?’