Rotten Gods (12 page)

Marika has seen footage of Islamist executions. A line of men on their knees, mujahedin with handguns shooting each in the back of the head, bodies tumbling, dying while the killers shout Allahu akbar — God is great. Ronald Schultz, the American security consultant, hands tied, shot with twenty or more 7.62mm rounds from a Kalashnikov, the death so violent that his kneeling body performed a near cartwheel before coming to rest on his side. The beheadings were perhaps the worst: Eugene Armstrong; Jack Hensley; Durmus Kumdereli, the Turkish driver. Marika wonders if her own face has the same numbed fear.

‘I trusted you,' she spits, trying to turn her head.
Worse. Fuck it. I liked you.

Engine noise cuts through the shrieking wind. Into the clearing roars two of the vehicles referred to in this part of the world as ‘technicals'  — four-wheel-drive utilities with a machine gun mounted on the tray, belts of shiny brass cartridges drooping from the chambers. Three men, shemagh head cloths about the neck and head, armed with assault rifles, jump down from the tray even before the vehicles stop, covering her with their weapons.

A fourth man, bandolier of ammunition across his chest, steps from the passenger seat of the second vehicle. He is lighter-skinned than many of the others, wearing just a keffiiyeh cap on his head. He is very lean, with a pencil-thin moustache that emphasises that fact. His more military dress and bearing, along with an obvious swagger, mark him as a leader. A ring in his left earlobe is startlingly bright — real gold.

‘
Sheel qasnaan
,' he shouts at Madoowbe, and they carry on a brief conversation. Marika's Arabic is good, and many words cross over into the Somali language, yet still she understands almost nothing of what they are saying.

Two men drag her to her feet, and the leader pats along her sides and legs, grinning as he removes her sidearm, and a knife in a holster. Sid catches his eye. He takes the unit and passes it to a comrade, who fools with it for a moment before shoving it into a pocket.

Marika watches the man's eyes rest on the chain that hangs around her neck, with the tiny silver scapular — a confirmation present from her parents. She raises a hand to protect it but the man restrains her while another lifts it over her head, then holds it up like a trophy.

More talk with Madoowbe. This lasts for perhaps a minute before the gunmen again take her arms and lead her towards the nearest vehicle, ushering her into a back seat. The sweat smell of them is intense, and they make no effort to keep their distance, sandwiching her between them. Craning her neck, she sees Madoowbe step up into the back seat of the other vehicle.

Treacherous bastard
, she thinks. Yet she is more hurt than angry; hurt that he made a fool of her. Her anger she reserves for herself, for the ease with which he overpowered her.
Tripped, for God's sake
. Her face burns.
If ever there's a round two, you won't be so lucky.

The engine roars into life and the vehicle lurches forwards, tyres spinning in the sand before finding purchase. The other technical takes the lead. The wheels kick up a fountain of sand as the driver accelerates down the track. Marika finds herself swaying, her knees touching the rifles that lie across the men's laps.

With a professional eye, she appraises the weapons — Czech-made Samopal VZ58 assault rifles, not in generic use in this part of the world. This suggests that money is behind them. One man holds a stubby grenade launcher of Chinese manufacture.

In addition to the guns, each man carries a curved dagger in a leather scabbard, the bone handle carved with intricate images and wound with copper wire.

The dark-faced men chew qat, or miraa, constantly, the leaf imported from Kenya and distributed by Somali warlords as a means of both making money and ensuring the loyalty of their troops. Nothing good, Marika knows, can come of being captured by this lot.

‘I am an Australian citizen,' she declares. ‘You have detained me without permission and are therefore in breach of international law. I will see that you are caught and punished.'

If anyone understands her speech they say nothing coherent in reply, but her threat sparks a round of rich, deep-voiced laughter. Marika ignores it, instead staring out the window, the landscape revealed and snatched away as the dust thins and thickens in waves. Once or twice they pass through settlements. The smell of camel and goat wafts inside, overpowering the livestock stench of the armed men.

They turn onto a main road, where, on the verge, men and women, bone thin and obviously starving, pass by. Many walk in pathetic family groups, carrying firewood, filthy plastic water cans or bundled possessions on their heads. None look at the armed vehicles, as if frightened to present any challenge, imagined or real, to the armed men. Many carry infants. Most have a defeated, haunted look. These are the dispossessed. The phenomenon that is inadequately summed up by such a simple word as refugee. Marika remains silent, watching the passing parade, her heart and belly aching with helplessness.

As the journey progresses, Marika finds a hand on her upper arm, fingers curling over her bicep. The sensation is no less alarming than a spider crawling over her bare flesh. Fingertips brush the side of her breast. Her reaction is instinctive, and she spits, ‘Don't touch me. Don't you bloody dare!'

The man withdraws his hand as the moustached leader in the front turns and barks an order. Marika senses that he is telling the man not to touch her but cannot be sure. Either way, nothing happens for some time, until the convoy slows to a stop, engines running. A man from the lead technical opens a chain mesh gate.

With the vehicles now motionless, visibility deepens to a couple of hundred metres. The wire-protected compound looks to be at least two hectares, with dishevelled white-painted buildings
standing in clusters. Men with firearms who have been lounging against a wall walk out to meet the vehicles as they skid to a halt.

Dark faces peer inside, teeth exposed, laughing when they see her. One of her captors winds down the window and chats with his comrade outside. Another photographs her on his cell phone from the window, then stands back, fiddling with the device, probably, she decides, sending the image to his friends.

The doors open, and a man on the outside seizes her arm, dragging her off the seat and onto the ground. Coughing, choking, sprawled in the dust, trying to crawl. Others lift her to her feet — too many to resist — leading her, half dazed, into the nearest building.

Passing through the door and into the darkness inside, the smell strikes her: unwashed bodies, curry, and rotten food scraps. A series of openings loom ahead, and Marika is propelled through the nearest one. A heavy iron door slams behind her, and she shrinks back against the far wall, sucking air like a turbine, staring back at the faces that peer through the barred cell door, laughing and making comments she imagines are crude.

Marika's eyes flick around the cell, a surprisingly large space designed for many more prisoners. An uncovered, half-full latrine bucket sits at one corner, attended by a cloud of green and metallic blue flies. The concrete floor is littered with detritus — chewed animal bones and discarded packaging — so that it resembles the cave of a predator. The smell of urine and faeces, uneaten food, and decay combine into a miasma that numbs the senses.

A stone bench sits against the far wall, a filthy blanket crumpled into a heap at one end. The cell is divided from its neighbours by bars, and the occupants stare in at her also. Bony knuckled hands and gaunt faces.

Marika stands, hands on hips. ‘You have no right to lock me in here. I demand that you release me.' The crowd at the door laugh,
as if the angry woman is the funniest sight of their lives. She crosses her arms in front of her chest. ‘Piss off, why don't you?'

The answer is another round of laughter followed by silence, then more footsteps. Shouted orders, a commotion. The watchers melt away.

The cell door opens and three men enter. One is the senior man from the vehicle, with that thin moustache and cruel twist to his lips. He saunters up to her, stops, and examines her from head to toe. Abruptly, he lifts one hand and slaps her face so hard that she reels, registering the whiplash effect on her spine as her head flies sideways with the impact of the blow.

Marika is more shocked than hurt at the sudden assault. But she holds her hand to the affected area, swaying, trying to regain her balance. The man who struck her whispers something harsh, and sneers, nostrils flaring. She picks out the word ‘American' from the torrent he aims at her.

Finding her balance, she steps back, just out of range of another unprovoked blow. ‘I am not an American. Australian, OK?'

Again without changing expression, the man cocks his arm and his fist flies out. Marika ducks, rolling her head sideways, avoiding much of the force of the punch. Even so, bony knuckles ring against her skull.

Marika feels the anger build. One, two, three. Creeping like fire into her veins.
OK, you want to fight? I'm not going to lose out twice to you bastards.
She backs away, lifting both hands, weight on her right foot, crouched, lips set in a grim line.

At one hundred and eighty centimetres in height, and lithe rather than bulky, Marika knows she can handle herself against all but the most skilled and strongest of men. Years earlier, at a month-long hand-to-hand combat course at Australia's SAS barracks near Perth, she was forced to spar with one man after
another who could not believe that a woman, albeit a fourth dan black belt, could beat them on the mats.

The Somali smiles and lifts his own fists in a boxing stance, feet even and widely spaced. Marika sums up his approach, noting that he has left his groin vulnerable. He feints once, watching her respond, then turns to laugh with the other men, but cuts this short and goes on the attack. He moves in fast, launching a strike to her kidneys that never lands.

Marika's foot connects like a pile-driver into the apex of his legs, feeling the soft crunch of his testicles beneath the blow. He goes down into a crouch with a shriek of pain, clutching at his damaged balls with both hands.

The sight of the guards cocking their assault rifles prevents her from going in for the kill — a stiffened hand to the base of the neck would finish the man, but instinct tells her that they will shoot if she does so. Instead, she backs up and hovers, still poised to defend herself.

The Samopal rifles are levelled at her, the gunmen growling ominously, talking each other up, shouting warnings. More men appear at the cell door. The injured man is recovering, standing, yet his face is still twisted in pain and anger. He gives an order, then stands, glaring at her, teeth clamped together, lips drawn back.

Nothing happens for perhaps a minute. Marika holds her stance, watchful, every nerve and muscle strained to snapping point. Footsteps sound in the corridor. Running men. She wonders what they are doing. More men perhaps — enough to overcome her with numbers and strength.

The cell door opens and another man enters. In his right hand he carries a weapon that she recognises as a Taser X3. She backs against the wall, trying to prepare herself, but there
is no time. The tiny darts, powered by nitrogen, strike her chest and the shock turns her muscles to jelly. She wavers, almost falling.

They give her no time to recover, rushing in at her. A rifle butt strikes the point of her elbow and another crashes into the side of her head. Now she goes down, getting her hands out just in time to break her fall.

A boot strikes her nose and she feels the blood well and drip from the end of her nose. She rolls, covering her face as best she can as the blows rain down on her. Three men at once. Boots connecting all over her body. The abuse stops then, and the leader, face glowing with anger, goes down to one knee and screams at her.

Up close, her tormentor's face is terrifying, and the smell of an unwashed male body overpowering. More of the same diatribe; again she picks up the word ‘American'.

Marika spits out the words, ‘Sorry, mate, but I don't know what the hell you're on about.'

The face twists with rage, and a palm, held flat, connects with the side of her head, and her hearing goes, becoming a high-pitched hiss, like the sound of a seashell held to the ear. For the first time she considers the prospect of long-term damage at the hands of these thugs.

Now the leader lifts her by her shirt. His mouth opens and closes, but she can no longer hear him. She feels her eyes roll back in her head. Only the pain breaks through as he grips her tighter. She feels as if she is about to suffocate. Blood drips over her lips and down along her neck.

‘Fuck you …'

He drops her, and she falls like a sack of fertiliser. Lying on her back she tries to gather her wits while the officer pulls a
knife from a sheath at his side and squats down, sitting on her abdomen, holding the knife close to her face.

This is not the traditional knife some of the others carry, but a large fighting blade of the type Marika has seen for sale in mail-order catalogues and gun shops, an inch-wide blade, viciously serrated on the top; known as Rambo knives after a decades-old movie of the same name. He moves the blade close to her neck and at that moment she believes that she is about to die.

Just before slitting her windpipe, however, the officer grins, changes grip and brings the razor edge up to her face, making as if to cut off her nose. Marika squeals and the other men in the cell, along with spectators at the door, laugh as though this is the funniest sight of their lives. Her tormentor's eyes move to her breasts. Again he brings the knife blade down and pretends to cut. Again they laugh.

Finally, as if tired of the game, the man stands, sheathes the knife and says something to her, followed by a hawking sound deep in his throat. He spits into her face so that she can feel the loathsome excretion on her cheek and lips.