Rotten Gods (40 page)

At last he passes on, and she leans towards the ground, hiding her face from view. Reading the second, unsigned message.

At three am do your best to distract the guard in your quadrant. It is important that he is not alert.

Isabella steels herself.
Oh God, but how can I breathe?

This is a matter of importance. She, in a position of trust and responsibility, has betrayed her country. It is up to her to do her
best to right the wrong, and work to her utmost ability to set the men and women in this room free.

The fat terrorist comes back into view. The plan is not hard to formulate. The difficulty will be to gather her self-control sufficiently not to spit in his face when she is close enough to do so.

Hannah, where are you? My darling. What happened to you?

Day 6, 12:00

The three SAR inflatables have searched since before dawn, starting from the island harbour and working their way out in planned sweeps, two hundred metre intervals between each one.

Simon huddles in the bow of one of the boats, alternately fighting tears and feeling thankful for the life of Frances, who now occupies an infirmary bed. Neither of her wounds is life threatening, but she is groggy and distressed.

The best present she could have, the most important boost to her health, Simon knows, is the return of Hannah, yet time is slipping away. His face is already sunburned, lips cracked, and he does not think to eat or drink unless one of the crew reminds him. They are all volunteers on this search; all conscientious and careful.

Now and then, he stops scanning the horizon, holds his head in his hands. He feels bruised, as if he has suffered the emotional equivalent of a beating with a baseball bat. He wonders if any further hurt can penetrate, any punishment break through the numbness.

All that remains is a kind of emotional flinching away; an attempt to fend off some final, massive blow that will end it all. The general opinion is that Hannah must have still been on board
the launch at the time of the explosion, yet there is no evidence for this assumption. No human remains at all.

They eat lunch on the move — sandwiches and fruit — before resuming the search pattern. Occasionally the drone of two fixed-wing aircraft that have joined the search from their Saudi base, pass to the east or west.

 

By noon the day has become an ordeal, one that sees Marika's thighs, already irritated, chafed almost raw from the camel. Thirst and hunger combine into a cavernous emptiness that extends from spine to stomach. Tired of sand, sun and the endless desert, she begins to hate Somalia as if it were human.

She feels the first flutter of despair. There is no sign that they have gained on the vehicles, and they cannot continue at this pace. She has named the camel that bears her Sarah and offers encouragement as they ride.

‘Sarah is a girl's name,' Madoowbe protests.

‘I know, but he's a girly kind of camel. Look at those eyelashes.'

The animal is, however, beginning to falter, exhausted from the ceaseless trot across the landscape. Likewise, Marika's body screams for rest, and often she looks across at Madoowbe, pleading with her eyes, hoping he might stop and say,
Let's rest, just for an hour — I have some food and cold water I have been saving …

Just as the daydream develops into a fairy tale complete with banquets, swimming pools and handsome young barmen serving cold beer, Marika hears a gunshot ahead. She pulls the camel up with firm pressure on the reins. Madoowbe does the same. A second shot echoes across the desert.

‘Less than a mile away,' Madoowbe says.

‘What do you think is happening?'

‘I don't know. But I think we should find out. There is a rise ahead — we'll leave the trail and see what we can see.'

Leading the camels now, Marika follows Madoowbe up the slope, the surface varying from soft, deep sand to rubble. Everywhere is thorn bush and umbrella trees. Finally, near the summit, they leave the camels tied to an acacia branch and creep forwards on foot.

At the very lip, Madoowbe drops and crawls on all fours. Marika does the same, coming up beside him and looking out into a dry and desolate valley. Four technicals are drawn up in a circle, machine guns limp on their mountings, barrels facing skyward. Men stand near a fire in the centre of the camp. Others are in the process of finalising the pitching of a canvas tent the size of a small house, hammering in the last few pegs, guy ropes stretched tight.

‘The patrol that brought you returned to Dalmar Asad,' Madoowbe whispers, ‘and came back here with reinforcements.'

Marika knows it must be true. There are many of them now: more vehicles, more men.

Two of the militia drag the limp body of a man across the ground, moving him some distance away, dropping him, then walking back towards the camp. One man harangues the others in loud and strident tones.

‘What's he saying?' Marika asks.

‘It is Dalmar Asad himself. He is saying to let that man's death be an example to them — that men who are disobedient to him die.'

Marika studies the distant figure. Yes, of course it is him — the height and athletic stance are unmistakeable. ‘What a bastard! I hate him. What did the dead guy do?'

Madoowbe's mouth takes on the stitched tightness of someone who has just tasted something too bitter to eat. ‘I did not hear. It could have been anything — a slight disobedience perhaps.'

‘Where is Sufia?'

‘If she is there she must be inside the tent.'

‘They might have killed her.'

‘Yes, but we have seen no more bodies.'

Behind them, one of the camels wheezes. Marika looks back in that direction, staring for some moments before returning her attention to the camp in the valley. ‘So what do we do? How do we get to her?'

‘I am not yet sure.'

Even as her body relaxes, lying prone for the first time that day, Marika hears something that chills her blood. Weapons manufacturers take pains to ensure that safety catches and fire selectors operate silently. Even civilian users dislike spending ten minutes sneaking up on game then spooking the target with a click. Over time, however, metal parts wear and corrode. To Marika, the sound of this mechanism is instantly familiar, even though it comes from some twenty or more paces behind. Her reaction is instinctive  — faster than anything she might have been able to prepare or analyse. The assault weapon in her arm becomes an extension of her body as she rolls, turning as she does so, the movement minimising the chance of being hit by enemy fire and allowing herself the chance to shoot back.

Now, however, she faces not one or two, but half-a-dozen men with automatic weapons — at least three have her covered. In the centre stands Captain Wanami, his sunglasses reflecting back the stunted desert landscape, gold earring shining in the sun.

With just a split second to respond, Marika turns to look at Madoowbe, who is a few paces further away from them. Their
eyes meet, and even as she is ready to lower the assault rifle she remembers the dead men, women and children back on the trail. Anger at these killers blurs her vision. Anger at the arrogance of men who use guns as playthings. Her finger begins to squeeze the trigger.

‘
Whas ghaba
.' Wanami hisses out the words, his AK steady, aimed so that she can see only the obscene black circle of the muzzle. Marika suspects that he would probably enjoy killing her — boast about it later to his cronies around the campfire.

Before she can make a decision, something moves on the periphery of her vision  — Madoowbe. At first she does not understand what he is doing. He leaps to his feet and sprints away, jinking and sidestepping like a rugby fullback. The departure is so abrupt that for several moments no one reacts. Then, a burst of 7.62mm follows him through the scrub, bullets ripping and tearing at the undergrowth, breaking sticks and leaves. The smell of nitro fills the air.

Madoowbe, however, is soon out of sight and away. The gunmen, to her surprise, do not follow him. Instead she watches as the point men move out onto the flanks so she cannot escape.

Again her finger tightens on the trigger, furious now, ready to spray bullets into those arrogant faces. But there is no point in dying now. Not when Sufia is so close.

‘Shit, shit, shit,' Marika says, dropping her assault rifle to the earth so hard she half expects it to discharge. She stands, raising her arms in reluctant surrender. ‘OK, you bastards. You want another prisoner, you got one.'

They come forwards warily, as if expecting her to produce a  hidden weapon. When this does not happen, Captain Wanami steps up close, swinging one hand like a whip across her cheek.

Marika recovers slowly, still holding her cheek, glaring through her captor's sunglasses. His jaw never ceases moving, chewing qat like the others, one cheek bulging with leaf. ‘Your breath stinks. Didn't your mother teach you not to breathe on people?'

Ignoring her now, he barks orders at two of his men, who take an arm each. A third follows, gun barrel jammed into the small of her back.

As they lead her away, Marika's nails bite into the sweating skin of her palms. Now she will face Dalmar Asad. The man who ordered the murder of the family of nomads — even the children. Some small part of her hopes that she might have the opportunity and the courage to kill him herself.

 

Captain Wanami leads the way through the compound, smoking a cigarette, shooting her the occasional look of pure, unadulterated hatred. Of course, losing her from the patrol would have led to not inconsiderable inconvenience. Dalmar Asad would have taken much of his rage out on the captain. Marika feels the chill in her heart reach the temperature of dry ice as the guards push her on, through a tent flap.

The interior of the tent belies the plain green canvas of the exterior: a cavernous space that incorporates several rooms, the first of which is more luxurious than Marika ever imagined a tent could be. The floor is a woven polyethylene sheet, covered with scattered Persian rugs. Folding chairs and tables in the centre of the main room are lit by a pair of hissing gas lanterns. The heat in here is intense — cloying and humid.

Dalmar Asad stands as she enters, dressed in a parody of a traditional English safari outfit, lacking only the pith hat. The albino stripes across one side of his face and neck appear more
livid than last time she saw him. He wears an expression more of triumph than pleasure. ‘You are here,' he says.

‘Yes. Rather against my wishes.'

‘Your Somali friend is a coward. He ran away.'

‘Better by far to be a coward than a killer.'

‘Killing is sometimes necessary for a man in my position to survive. As I have told you, my people respond only to fear.'

‘The dead babies out in the desert — they were a threat to you? Is that right?'

‘Babies grow into adults, and avenge their parents. Why create a problem for the future? Prudence dictates that they be killed now.'

‘What had
any of them
ever done to you?'

Dalmar Asad's voice betrays a hint of irritation. ‘It was necessary.'

A face appears at the door. The warlord confers with the man then returns, smiling. ‘My soldiers caught up with your irascible friend. They executed him as per my orders.'

Marika reaches out to grip the top of a chair, fighting to keep her reaction from her face.
Madoowbe. Dead?
It seems incredible. At first she cannot speak, but then she stares, open mouthed. ‘I've seen rats with more decency than you.'

Asad inclines his head, as if accepting a compliment. ‘I dismissed the man as ineffectual once before. I gave him the opportunity to escape when I should have had him shot. He proved to be a thorn in my side. My mistake — now it has been rectified, and we have business to attend to.'

‘What business?'

‘You and I, my fair lady, have a deal. The highly sought after Sufia is in my care, and I am ready to pass her over to you. It remains only for you to fulfil your end of the bargain.'

‘Never, you swine.'

Dalmar Asad spreads his hands. ‘Of course, you may choose to renege on our bargain, in which case I will take my frustrations out on Sufia. When I am done my men can have her — women do not live long in their hands, especially not one with such rare beauty as she.'

Stall for time
, Marika tells herself. ‘Where is she? I want to see her.'

‘She is very close, I assure you.'

‘Prove it,' she says, folding her arms and locking her eyes on his until he relents and shouts an order.

In response, a guard leads Sufia into the room by one arm. Tall, regal and beautiful, Marika recognises her from the photos: her stateliness, the elegance that has seen several Somali women forge successful careers on the catwalks of Milan, New York, and Paris.

Dalmar Asad addresses Sufia, reaching out to take her hand. Her arm remains limp, falling back to her side when he releases it.

‘This kufr woman is your saviour,' he says, ‘should she choose to be. Do you understand?'

The woman does not flinch, nor acknowledge him in any way, yet moves her eyes to look at Marika. Understanding passes between them in that moment, women of vastly disparate cultures, yet both strong and worldly in their own way.

Words are not necessary as Marika communicates with her eyes.
I will get you out of here, somehow.

The reply is clear.
Thank you. I will be waiting.

Marika sees something else too, behind the proud face. Worry that must eat at her soul like a disease. Worry for her husband and what he has done. What will happen to him? Is
there a place in the sun for them some day? There is nothing reassuring worth saying. Much is at stake. The world for both women is changing. Ending. There is no guarantee of a new beginning.

‘Take her away,' Dalmar Asad orders. A moment later the woman is gone.