Rotten Gods (27 page)

Simon realises that they might have lost the battle already — the chain is impossibly heavy, even for a dozen hands. A swell picks up the vessel and drags her sideways, rope slipping, men falling all over each other. One jumps out into the foaming sea, and attempts to splash his way towards the rock.

‘No,' Simon cries, seeing the man disappear beneath the surface, ‘don't give up, for God's sake! Pull.'

The chain comes closer, heavier with every metre as the coil of rope on the rusted iron deck grows. When the first links appear, Simon loops a metre or two of chain over his shoulder and heaves; a wave hits the stern, drenching them, yet that pulse of power adding to his strength. He removes the chain from his shoulder and wraps the links in and around the massive port-side cleat.

‘Chain secured,' he shouts across at Ishmael. ‘Pull us off.'

Even over the surging ocean he hears the
Jameela
's engines, then the metallic snick as the chain comes taut. The tension almost pulls the chain clear of the water, all but for the peaks of waves. Simon clutches for balance, the rocks so close now that he can identify each barnacle. Brown-yellow kelp strands wave like hands in the shallows.

The sea is too strong, and he watches as the
Jameela
is pulled sideways by the force of the waves. But for that tow, however, the tug would already be on the rocks, pounded into scrap metal by the surf. In the cockpit he sees Ishmael, at first staring back at them, then moving forwards and rummaging in a locker, returning to the bow with an axe. They are going to sever the tow, Simon realises  — abandoning them, leaving them to certain disaster. Brute force is necessary to sever a chain under such enormous pressure as this one.

‘No,' he screams, climbing to the gunwale and diving over the side, stroking overhand to reach the other boat.

Now, however, both the swell and surge are against him. His progress is slow, like walking up a steep slope of loose pebbles, every metre gained an exhausting struggle. Raising his head once, he sees Ishmael taking his stance at the bow, where the chain loops around the stainless steel cleat, the only place where he can strike without damaging the hull.

Swimming up-current, sobbing with effort, eyes stinging from the salt, Simon strikes something hard and unyielding and realises that it is the chain itself, rigid as an iron bar. Reaching out with both arms he uses it to drag his body towards the
Jameela
, close now, seeing the world through a lens of water and spray. Ishmael raises the axe, brings it down, the blade landing awkwardly and his face contorting in annoyance.

Simon feels his strength ebb away, but somehow his arms still thrash through the water. It is as if his physical being no longer matters, only the irrepressible will inside. Finally the boarding platform is close and he grips a rail, swinging himself aboard just as Ishmael's axe reaches the apex of its swing. Seeing Simon coming he alters the stroke at the last minute, aiming for him, killing rage on his face. A hashish-misted murderous rage fills his eyes.

Simon seizes the axe behind the iron head and pulls, sending Ishmael off balance. He throws the heavy implement overboard and takes hold of the other man's neck. Even as his thumbs push against the windpipe some small part of him cries,
What kind of man have I become?

‘No. Mercy, please,' Ishmael gasps. ‘We must cut the tow or we will all be killed.'

Simon relaxes his grip, moving his hands to the loose cloth of the younger brother's robe, using it as leverage to push and shove him into the saloon. He shouts at Lubayd, ‘We had a deal! Your brother was about to sever the tow.'

‘No deal includes risking my boat.'

‘There's only one way out of here — drag the
Sa-baah
off. Do it now.'

‘It is not good for the engines to exceed four thousand revolutions.'

‘I don't care what is good or not. Give it every ounce of power or I'll throw your brother overboard.'

Lubayd says nothing, but his hand drops to the throttle lever and eases it forwards. The engines build to a steady whine, hull vibration quickening. The vessel straightens. Simon's eyes drop to the chartplotter, speed over the ground reading, 0.1 knots, then 0.0.

‘We're still not moving,' Lubayd said. ‘It is no use, you see — we cannot do anything. That is full power. We have no choice but to stop the tow — stand off and hope we can pick up survivors.'

‘There won't be any survivors after she hits those rocks. My girls are on board. Locked up in some dirty iron cabin. That boat will sink like a stone. Put her out of gear for a moment while I take the chain off the cleat. Get ready to engage the winch.'

Lubayd shrieks, ‘No. It will just drag us closer to her. It is too dangerous.'

‘We have no choice. It is the last chance.'

‘You know nothing about boats,' Lubayd says. ‘It is very hard to tow a boat by the stern.'

‘Why didn't you tell me that before?'

‘Because you just hurry, hurry, do not give me a chance to say anything.'

‘Then get on the radio and tell them to move the chain forwards. I'll give them some slack.'

Simon walks out onto the side deck, then aft to where the chain is wrapped over the cleat. The straining engines die and the chain goes limp. The place where Ishmael struck with the axe is visible, one of the links severed almost through on one side.

‘Hold, you bastard of a thing, please,' Simon whispers. In a single twist the chain is free, and he begins to pay it out as the men on the other boat move the tow, waving when it is done. He turns back towards the bridge and shouts, ‘Now — take her off.'

Again the engine revolutions build to a roar, the deck vibrating. The chain begins to move as the anchor winch engages. Looking back at the tug, he sees the huddled, frightened faces, almost disappearing as yet another wave engulfs the stern.

Now, however, the chain tightens and the tug begins to spin. Simon sees how sensible this approach is: already the crew of the
other boat are protected by the raised bow. Now Simon feels real movement in the hull.

Ishmael appears, his face sullen and dark. ‘My brother told me to tell you that we are making better than one knot over the ground.'

Simon sees just the faintest curl of water against the other vessel's bow and hears subdued cheering. ‘Thank you.'

‘So, Englishman,' Ishmael goes on, ‘what do we do now? We have rescued a boat load of fanatics — what do we do with them?'

Simon turns and grins. ‘As soon as we are away from this damn rock I will go aboard and get my daughters, after that the rest of them can drown in the sea as far as I care.'

 

Two nautical miles from al-Kahf, the two hulls rafted up, fenders squeezing with the compressive force of the sea like fat sausages. The crew lines the rail, seven strong, the most unlikely terrorists Simon has ever seen: bedraggled and confused, yet happy to be alive. He is first aboard the
Sa-baah
, clambering over the gunwales, accepting thanks and tears, men bowing and embracing him as their rescuer.

The captain, better dressed than the others, has a hint of the Orient in his eyes, a maroon turban tied low and decorated with a cut-glass ornament.

Simon greets him with a handshake. ‘I am looking for two girls. Where are they?'

The captain looks confused and raises three fingers. ‘Three, but one is much older than the others.'

Kelly, of course.
How might she have fared at the hands of her captors? After all, she is a very pretty young lady.
Simon's anger returns in an impatient wave. ‘Where are they?'

‘Gone.'

‘Gone where?'

A shrug of the shoulders, then a long explanation that they are mere hired crew, and do not know who they are working for — only that the owners have a ready supply of cash and carry weapons. All wear long beards. The crew were unaware that the three females were captives, having seen them on deck for short, supervised intervals.

A fast boat, a large kind of inflatable called a RIB, Simon gathers, met with the
Sa-baah
in darkness the previous night, removing the three females and all the owners. Before they left, someone opened the diesel tank drain cocks and left the vessel without fuel and therefore power, as well as damaging the radios. Though the long-range HF set had proved impossible to repair, the engineer had managed to patch up the VHF and send out the Mayday.

 

Simon bends almost double to navigate the narrow corridors below the tug's deck, careful of pipes and bunched wires. He thinks of how Hannah, particularly, must have hated it here — she of the bright open spaces and sunshine. An iron door creaks open to reveal a cabin that consists of four walls with a pair of portholes, firmly closed. On the floor lie three filthy foam mattresses and a mess of sheets and blankets.

Simon sinks to his knees on the scattered bedding, flaring his nostrils as if he might detect the scent of innocent girlhood beneath the harsher scents of rusted metal, engine oil, and bilgewater. Frustration builds in him. Frances and Hannah have been here, slept here  — wept here. He falls to his knees and begins to search. There is nothing obvious, nothing in the open.

Hannah and Gretel. Hannah and Gretel. Clever girl. Where did you hide it?

Under the filthy blankets, and into the dark corner. Running his hand over the greasy flaked steel plate. Something sharp butts into the heel of his hand. He holds it up to the light.

Another charm, this one the grisly visage of a skull. He remembers how Isabella did not want Hannah to buy it, calling it macabre. The child, however, prevailed, and it was hers. Simon lifts it to his lips and kisses the cold surface.

Day 4, 19:00

Dusk. Travelling at speed on a smooth section of road, head lolling with the curves, the crackle of automatic gunfire jolts Marika awake. Sitting up, she sees two or three brilliant muzzle flashes from broken cover on the left-hand side of the road. The technical ahead lurches and stops, steam jetting from under the bonnet. Her own vehicle swerves to avoid the other, losing grip and sliding for one terrifying moment before scudding to a halt.

Someone swears, already returning fire, the DShK machine gun stuttering from above, seeming to rob the air of oxygen. Bullets thud into the doors and chassis of their vehicle. Marika hears shouted instructions. One of the men grabs her arm, dragging her out of the vehicle into the swirling dust and smoke outside.

Even as she follows the crouching gunman across the road, Marika studies the mechanics of the ambush. As far as she can see there must be only a handful of attackers, yet they show signs of training, conserving ammunition and preventing their weapons from overheating by firing short, controlled bursts.

Behind a small hillock, Marika's guard urges her to the ground, his rifle held flat. Her breath comes hard, even though
they have run just a short distance, and she knows that this is one of the debilitating effects of being under fire, what some of her instructors called the adrenalin factor — a feeling that cannot be simulated under training conditions.

One vehicle has been destroyed, decimating their complement and perhaps compromising their ability to win through to the mountains. Her hand curls in annoyance, reaching down to press against her aching bladder. Just a short time ago things were proceeding well. Turning to the guard, who has a rudimentary grasp of English, she asks, ‘Who are they?'

‘Shifta. They … after the guns, may God … curse them.'

Marika thinks back on Dalmar Asad's conviction that the shifta would not dare attack them.
Maybe they're not such bloody cowards after all.

The wooden stock of a rifle appears out of the darkness, swinging in a wide arc as if of its own volition, smacking into the side of the guard's head with the crack of a breaking tree branch. He utters no sound, falling almost gently to the earth.

Already she is responding, reaching for her sidearm, rolling onto her back to clear her field of fire. She brings her gun hand up, staring at the killer, expecting him to attack her before she can get the shot away.

‘Stop, do not shoot! It's me.'

Marika blinks, as if to clear a vision. ‘Bloody hell! Madoowbe, is that you?'

‘Yes, now hurry. Follow me.'

‘What in Christ's name do you think you're doing?' She struggles for breath, indignation building.

‘Nothing in Christ's name. I do not act in the name of religion.'

‘Good for you. I had a freaking escort ten minutes ago in case
you didn't notice what they were doing before you decided to kill half of them.'

‘Leave it. We must hurry — already they are regrouping.'

Marika, seeing no alternative, follows, her voice louder now, muffled by the firefight occurring around the vehicles. ‘By morning I would have had her, you interfering idiot.'

Madoowbe turns, and she sees that one eye is still swollen, the socket dark with bruises. ‘What should I have done — stopped your friends and asked them? How was I to know that they were not taking you out to kill you?'

Marika is about to offer a reply when she sees the outline of a motorcycle under the tangled canopy of a thorn tree. ‘You want us both to travel on that?'

‘It is all I have.' He hurries to the machine, straddles it and kicks the starter several times before the engine fires.

‘You weren't alone back there,' Marika observes, crossing her arms and making no move to follow him. ‘Your friends — where the hell did you find them?'

‘After I saw your column leave the compound I went to a cafe in Bacaadweyn. I made a deal with some bandits. They want the guns and vehicles. If they can get them.' He lifts his head and appears to listen, even over the rattle of the motorcycle engine. ‘They have stopped fighting; we had better hurry. Get on.'