Rotten Gods (50 page)

Yes, PJ decides, these will be good men to work with. Good men to fight with, and if it comes to it, good men to die with.

 

The new tunnel cleaves at a fifty-degree angle into soils that Kruger describes as calcareous sand, proceeding in that direction for five or more dark metres before, on the South African's advice,
Léon orders forward work to cease, and for a larger cavity to be hacked out. From here the tunnel beams back in the opposite direction, at the same angle.

‘Like a New York fire escape,' a wiry American volunteer suggests.

Léon grunts at the aptness of the description. ‘Change shifts.' His voice rings clearly, yet not too loud, for already they are conscious of the proximity of the conference room above. He passes the mattock into a pair of willing hands and staggers a few yards down the tunnel to the sandbag detail.

Here, under Kruger's direction, barrow loads of what he calls spoil — the material dug from the tunnel face — is poured into the sandbags and secured with drawstring closures. These are stacked in overlapping, brick-like rows along each wall of the new tunnel, pierced by spears of reinforcing bar hammered deep into the earth. At full height, the hardwood shoring timbers are laid across the top, making an immensely strong structure that also solves the problem of what to do with much of the soil they have excavated.

‘Are you OK?' Kruger asks.

Léon covers his face with both hands and wipes the sweat away. ‘I am fine. How far to go now?'

‘Three hours at this pace, maybe a little more.'

Léon checks his watch. ‘That is not quick enough. We have two and a half hours until the deadline. Then it is too late for all of us. We have no choice but to dig faster.'

 

The images fill the small screens on the benches and larger ones scattered around the room. First one procrastinating politician, then the next. It does not seem to matter — the demands will not
be met, can never be met. The world has become a nightmare of darkness and there is nothing Isabella can do to change it.

‘… the British Government has made the following further concessions …'

‘The United States Congress has agreed to …'

‘Australia's acting Prime Minister has announced that …'

Isabella is transfixed by the horror of Jafar, the man she is forced to watch all her waking hours, patrolling, eyes hating and wanting her all at once. Then there is Zhyogal, to whom she gave herself willingly, fooled by a performance that was more convincing than that of any trained actor.

She has come to the realisation that her chances of leaving this room alive are slim. The knowledge that she will never see them again — Simon and Frances — is a sick weight in her belly, along with the desperate need to know what has happened to Hannah — if she is truly gone.

In her hands she holds the iPhone, shielded by her legs and the folds of her jacket. By now her SMS activities have become routine. First she looks around to identify where each of the terrorists is standing, then slips the handset from its hiding place and switches it on. Once she turns to see that the same man as always, the American, is watching her. They share a smile, as they have on other occasions.

There is a faint vibration as the unit powers up, a text message from Simon. Disregarding her own safety she thumbs through, reading the black LCD words that mean so much to her and she sees the word Hannah, and strings it together with the others. ‘
Hannah safe with me. All well. Praying for you …'

Oh thank you, Simon, you prince among men who loves your family more than any mother has the right to expect. Oh please take me back  … I'm so sorry for everything  … I will love you
forever, love you until my arms ache if only I can leave this death trap and breathe free air just once more …

‘Stop.'

The voice comes from behind her. Jafar has moved fast, faster than she can credit. It is already too late. He has seen her.

‘Bitch,' he shrieks, racing in with his pistol held like a club.

Isabella drops the phone, lifting both hands to protect her head. The heavy butt strikes her wrist and then, coming down again, the side of her head. Pain. Numbing, blinding shock.

Even as she begins to fall the curly-haired American who has watched her so many times jumps to his feet. ‘The phone is mine,' he shouts. ‘I asked her to hold it.'

Isabella looks up at the tall stranger, eyes watering with pain, body shaking as if she were cold. ‘No, he's got nothing to do with it.'

The Iranian's face comes into focus, grimacing with anger, red and contorted. She watches him swivel the handgun and shoot the American man in the chest; watches him fall back against the seats, a dark stain spreading across his chest, body sprawled, people crying out in shock around him.

Oh dear God.
The discharge is so loud that her ears feel like they have been plugged with wax, and shock steals the strength from her limbs and the processing power from her mind.
How is it possible that a tiny lump of copper and lead can steal a life so irrevocably?

Pincer-like fingers grip her bicep, pulling her to her feet so that she shrieks with pain and her legs struggle to support her.

‘The penalty for disobedience is death. To send messages is to die.'

Isabella feels the gun barrel against her temple. Now she is sobbing, waiting for the crash of sound and the end; no
longer struggling, paralysed by fear stronger than words. Time telescopes into precious moments and images. She knows how much he wants to kill her. That to do so is the only way for him to expunge his guilt at what he feels for her. What he almost did to her.

‘I kill her now,' Jafar Zartosht screams to the room, ‘and soon all of us will die together, a glorious offering to God.'

 

Léon brings the incoming team together and warns them, ‘You must be silent now. No sound at all … not even a fart. OK?'

The work becomes silent and intense. The cursing and banter stops. Léon takes his turn at the mattock handle, hands wrapped in rags to protect his blisters, knowing that he is ineffective, yet wanting to see this through to the end, determined not to shirk. Even when the rags soak through with blood he does not stop, but continues the slow thud of the blade into the earth.

When his arms feel like they will fall from their sockets and his hands have fused into claws, Kruger calls him across. Léon stands, chest heaving, while the South African directs their efforts to the ceiling of the excavation.

‘Softly, slowly,' he hisses, ‘it is close. Very close.'

Minutes pass before there is an imperceptible click as one of the men on Léon's right strikes reinforced concrete.

‘That's it, take it easy now.'

Across three metres of shaft the undersurface of the slab comes into view, encased in plastic sheet in most places, rough mottled concrete in others. They finish off with their hands, attacking the work with new vigour, despite blisters and exhaustion.

When a section of the slab is clear Léon confers with the South African, then announces, ‘Get the men out of the tunnel,
bring up the explosives.' He stays and watches while the charges are set, unable to tear himself away from an operation that he understands might be the most important few hours of his life. The powder monkeys  — thin, nervous types with an obvious close rapport — unpack their bricks of plastic explosive and set their detonators.

‘Ready to go?' Léon asks.

The ranking expert shows a black box with a Perspex-encased switch. ‘Once I press this, that slab will be history.'

Léon waits until they are done and turns back down the tunnel to where the Special Forces team waits in grim double ranks, an officer passing through, sharing a few words with each man, shaking their hands like tennis players before a tournament.

Walking past, Léon says, ‘Best of luck,' to the nearest of the men. It is good to feel like an equal with these machine-like troops. Some look up and nod, some remain silent, others talk softly to each other.

Léon tries to imagine what it will be like for them — he knows from his training that this is the most difficult of all hostage situations, and not just from the point of view of personal danger. There is a real possibility that mistakes will be made, that in a few minutes not just the terrorists might be dead, but the innocent, killed by an accidental bullet — someone's mother, someone's brother, or even someone's president. There is also a strong chance that the entire room will go up — that these elite troops will find nothing but pulped flesh and spot fires, disembodied limbs and screaming survivors. Some will be dead themselves within a minute or two. He stops beside the officer. Serious and tall, as broad shouldered as the others, yet bowed a little, as if with the extra weight of responsibility.

‘Good luck, captain.'

‘Thanks. You better get out of here. We're moving up now and as soon as the charges go,' he slaps a fist into a hand like a truck hitting a rabbit, ‘we're through.'

Léon turns away, more than a small part of him wishing he could go in also.

 

PJ faces what might be just two or three minutes of intense action, a time when milliseconds could be more important than weeks of normal life — when the decision to squeeze a trigger might have ramifications for his career, his future, and even the world's political landscape.

Looking down, his kit is unfamiliar to him — a desert camo pattern instead of dull grey. The weapons are his. The HK53 and the SIG Sauer automatic at his waist. Already he has changed the sequence of cartridges twice, and resists the temptation to do so for a third time.

The ranking officer addresses them, and there is soothing authority in his voice and bearing. ‘You all know what to do. Time is critical. We have three minutes until the terrorists detonate their explosives. Follow me, and good luck.'

The reply is heartfelt. They are dependent on each other to a degree impossible in any other situation.

PJ does not know who determined the safe distance they should wait from the explosion, but it seems close. The tunnel ends only metres ahead before heading up to the shelter above. A drop of sweat rolls down his forehead.

‘Down,' someone orders.

PJ does as he is told, making sure the protective ear muffs are tight over his ears.

Day 7, Maghrib — Sunset

When the explosion comes PJ feels rather than hears it  — an oncoming rush of dust and air and the earth itself shaking as if in a signal that things will never be the same again. That the old world order is crumbling.

There is no shouted command, just the ranks of men moving off at a run, onwards and through the shattered, broken blocks of reinforced concrete — into the unknown.

 

Ali Khalid Abukar watches Zhyogal take up the microphone for what might be the last time. So many countries have not gone far enough, paying lip service to the demands. A thrill goes through him, of pleasure and revulsion and atavistic terror.

Zhyogal's voice echoes with triumph. ‘I am sorry to announce that the response has been inadequate. In two minutes, at the expiration of the deadline, we will destroy this room and everyone in it.' Then with a final shout he exclaims, ‘Allahu akbar.'

Yes
, Ali decides,
now I am truly bringing glory to God.
Something akin to ecstasy begins to course through his veins as he walks away from the dais and to Sufia. It is time to say goodbye.

Again they go to the cubicle. He takes her in his arms. His breath comes fast. He wants to live, yes. He does not want it to end. But are there not more important things than life? He hears footsteps, and turns to see Zhyogal walk into the area, scowling.

‘Ah, the bitch continues to work her poison.'

Ali shakes his head. ‘Leave us, I am entitled to some privacy.'

‘No. The Americans and their puppets in the GDOIS have sent her here. I told you, she is with them.'

‘That is a lie.'

Before Ali can stop him Zhyogal takes two quick steps forwards, grips Sufia's collar and rips it open, revealing the fine microphone with its wires against the clear dark skin of her chest and white underclothing.

‘See? See that she is the tool of the kufr.' Zhyogal slips the handgun from his holster and passes it across, pulling back the slide. ‘Kill her yourself, brother. Prove to me that you will not falter. Remember how we talked of the glorious world when Islam outshines the insanity of Christ followers and the Zionists?'

Ali's gaze settles on Sufia. Yet even now there is no begging in her eyes. ‘You wore a wire in here?'

‘I agreed so they would know if you planned to disarm yourself. So that when the soldiers come they will spare you.'

‘They are coming?'

‘Yes.'

Zhyogal speaks through gritted teeth. ‘She is a liar. She is a tool of the capitalist machine that you and I must destroy. Kill her.'

Ali focuses his eyes on Zhyogal and passes the handgun back. Taking Sufia's arm, he leads her from the cubicle, while the deadline comes with the inexorability that is unique to time — never stopping, never slowing or speeding, despite sometimes giving the impression that it might.

Twenty seconds.

In Paradise are rivers of water …

Ali looks at Sufia, now as close to despair as he has ever seen her. The delegates too are restless now that the time is close. The weaker souls are gone. All that remain had the courage not to sell their honour for freedom.

One man stands up, shouting, ‘Murderers.'

Ali's body shakes as if from a physical blow. Never has he imagined that such a word might apply to him. He hears snatches of prayer, as the delegates prepare themselves.

Hail Mary, full of Grace …

The sound of the explosion down below is muffled, yet unmistakeable. Ali turns and locks eyes with Zhyogal. Both know what is happening.
They
are coming; the Special Forces troops are on their way. Ali feels a treacherous but profound relief.