Rotten Gods (20 page)

The guard drags Madoowbe away by the legs, a mournful groan emanating from his lips.

‘Let us have the facts, for a start,' Asad says. ‘What is your name?'

‘Marika Hartmann.'

‘Who is your employer?'

‘UNESCO.'

‘Don't toy with me, Miss Hartmann. The equipment you carry is MI6 issue. You are here on a political mission and we know it has something to do with Rabi al-Salah. I am in a position to help, provided you inform me of your purpose.'

‘And if I don't?'

‘I will consider you a threat to the stability and peace of my domains and take steps to extract the information from you.'

Her eyes move to the silent Captain Wanami, then flick away. ‘Your friend here will be pleased — he seems to enjoy torturing people.'

‘It is not a matter of enjoyment,' Dalmar Asad snarls, ‘but of necessity.'

‘You,' Marika says, ‘have no understanding of human rights.'

‘And you are a Western brat with no experience of life in Africa.' He takes a pistol, a nickel-plated Colt automatic, from the
holster at his belt. Marika wonders how many times it has been fired in anger. How many times it has killed.

‘In Somalia,' he says, ‘the gun rules, and the weak do not survive. There is neither time nor reason to feel sorry for them. Do you understand?'

She says nothing, unable to tear her eyes away from the gun.

‘You have a choice: either I hand you over to Wanami, or —' he twirls the gun, grinning, ‘ — you accept my help and come with me.'

‘Where to?'

Dalmar Asad laughs. ‘Fairyland.' The other men join in the general mirth.

Marika frowns, thinking. This is a brutal man, with few morals, yet he takes pains to cultivate the veneer of a gentleman. The choice between a twelve-volt battery and alligator clips or the unknown is not a choice.

‘I am at your mercy,' Marika says, wondering what the hell she is letting herself in for.

 

Humid sea air lies heavily over the port area. Simon hovers in the shadows beside a street light, where flying ants circle the humming globe, tiny shadows rising and falling. Checking his watch, he swears to himself, impatient.

‘You are ready?'

Simon turns to see Ishmael, a Yemeni seaman he met through a series of referrals earlier in the day, hovering on the fringe of the light. ‘Yes. Has the vessel we discussed reached port?'

‘Not an hour ago my brother docked here at Aden. I have spoken to him and he is happy to accept a charter, as soon as he refuels and takes on provisions. You have no luggage?'

‘Just a small bag.'

Ishmael grunts. ‘What about money? My brother will want to see it.'

‘Yes.'

Arranging a substantial transfer from an investment account into the Queen Arwa branch of the al-Ahli Bank of Yemen, has taken time and some frustration, yet now the wad of US dollars — the seagoing brothers' preferred currency — in his pocket is thick enough to be noticeable. Ishmael's eyes flick towards it. The avarice is unmistakeable and unsubtle.

‘The full amount necessary?'

‘Of course.'

‘Then follow me.'

Simon ponders the chances of being knifed for the cash in his pocket. This man does not inspire trust, his eyes dark and secretive, resembling one of the starved port rats, visible at the periphery of the light since nightfall. Rats or not, Simon has no choice. He follows in silence down narrow and dark walkways between containers and crates, boats to the left, masts black against the starlight, always that creaking sound of vessels at rest, fenders squealing, grinding against iron and concrete, the slap of water on ageing piles and the distant rumble of pumps and compressors.

They stop beside a vessel of around fifteen metres in length, of fibreglass construction, unlike most of the timber or iron boats surrounding her. Her hull is streamlined, with a fine entry at the bow. A boat built for speed. A man lounges nearby, smoking a cigarette. He and Ishmael exchange a few words in Arabic before the latter turns back to Simon. ‘You like her? Her name is the
Jameela
. She is nice, eh? Her name means “beautiful”. As I told you, she is the fastest boat of her size to work out of Aden. Come aboard, meet my brother.'

Still wary, yet impressed with the vessel, Simon follows; stepping up from the jetty, over the gunwale, and onto the non-slip moulded surface of the deck. From there, past coiled ropes and a life ring hanging against a bulkhead, they pass through a hinged door into a saloon area, controls and instrument panel up forward.

The saloon is dominated by a dinette table and galley. The cherrywood surface of the table is strewn with books and an open notepad. An unfired coffee mug, half full, sits to one side. A very old woman, head and body cloaked in a red, blue, green and yellow, coarse woven setarrah, occupies one end of the table, eyes staring glassily.

The air in here, Simon decides, has a tinge of something once familiar — an aromatic, burned smell. At first he thinks it might be roasting coffee beans. A studious-looking man of about thirty occupies the helm chair. Like his brother he sports a white kandoura robe and a shemagh. He wears a short black beard and gold rings on the middle fingers of both hands. He stands and comes aft, bony hand extended, regarding Simon intently, saying nothing.

Ishmael acknowledges his brother with that distinctive Yemeni greeting, raising both hands above his head, fists clenched. Then he turns back to Simon. ‘I am happy to introduce my brother, Lubayd. His intellect is considerable. He is a genius.'

Lubayd nods, as if to grudgingly accept the praise. ‘My brother is too effusive. Peace be upon you.'

‘Peace to you also. My name is Simon.'

Ishmael, however, has not finished. ‘Do you know, Lubayd has solved Professor Archimedes's puzzle every week for one hundred and twenty-two consecutive weeks? No man alive can boast of such a feat.'

Simon raises his eyebrows. ‘I am sure that is a great achievement, yet forgive my ignorance. Who is Professor Archimedes?'

‘Professor Archimedes,' the younger brother announces, ‘has a puzzle in the
al-Ayyam
newspaper every Saturday.'

‘That is enough, Ishmael,' Lubayd chides him. ‘My intellect is no greater than that of a cockroach when compared to God, may praise and glory be to Him.' He turns to Simon. ‘Will you refresh yourself with us?'

‘If you don't mind.'

‘Would you like coffee, or mint tea perhaps?'

‘Coffee, please.'

‘Dear brother, will you make coffee for our guest?'

While Ishmael rattles cups and plates, spooning coffee from a tin of instant Nescafe, the elder sibling goes on, ‘Sit please, Simon.' A smile crosses his face, in the manner of a man having a very pleasant thought. ‘
Ah
, what a name. I am pleased to host a man with such a wonderful name, so much history — Simon the Zealot, the Canaanite beloved of your Jesus, or the Jewish hero Simon Wiesenthal, the Nazi hunter. Paul Simon the American singer. Illustrious men have borne your name.'

‘Ishmael is right, you are knowledgeable.'

‘Thanks be to God. I spend each day improving my mind. What other worthwhile pursuits are there?'

They move to the dinette, where the old woman remains, saying nothing, just continuing to stare. Lubayd moves his face close to hers. ‘Do you want coffee, Mama?'

A shake of the head. Eyes unfocused, directionless.

Turning his attention back to Simon, Lubayd apologises for her. ‘I am sorry about my mother. She is old and, if not for Ishmael and I, she would be alone. I do not think it is right for a man to abandon his mother, and she loves the sea. Our father sailed a
dhow, and she has travelled all over the Red Sea, the Persian Gulf and the ports of East Africa.'

The old woman continues her silence, yet it seems to Simon that something changes in her face, as if with the memory of blue seas, sunsets and the love of a young husband. There is something beautiful in her now, something that a woman never loses.

The coffee comes in enamel mugs. Simon sips the dark, hot drink, then turns to Lubayd. ‘Ishmael tells me that your boat is very fast.'

‘Oh, she is. We can call on two and a half thousand horsepower. Thirty-six knots in a smooth sea. No one can catch us. My brother tells me that you are interested in chartering her.'

‘That's true. I am.'

‘She will be very kind to you. No man has ever been seasick aboard the
Jameela
.'

‘The boat I wish to follow left here two days ago, but she is a slow vessel — a tug, I am told.'

‘Bound for where?'

‘The Isles of Socotra, I believe.'

‘At full throttle we can be there not long after dawn, but at such a speed we would use almost every drop of fuel on board. At a more prudent rate we will reach the area by mid-afternoon tomorrow.'

Simon brightens. ‘Can we make a deal?'

‘There is a problem.'

‘What is that?'

‘I will not go there. Despite the indescribable and famous beauty of those islands, even the most inexperienced sailor knows to avoid the area, for all charts warn of the perils.'

‘Then we will find our target on the open sea.'

‘What then? You expect me to fight another boat? My brother and I are not fighters. We are men of peace.'

Simon bites his lip. The effort is starting to tell — there is no time to find another boat, not one as sleek and fast as this. He glares at Lubayd. ‘I want you to take me there. I am not a wealthy man, but I can pay you very well.'

Lubayd sighs, placing both elbows on the table, his chin in his palms, flattening his beard like steel wool. ‘I have no understanding of what you want. You speak of a boat you must find, but why?'

Simon tells him everything, seeing no point in anything but honesty. Beginning with the terrifying announcement high over the Gulf, then the search for clues. By the time it is done he has to wipe his eyes with his sleeve.

‘I am sorry,' Lubayd says, ‘but there are forces in this world that it is best not to contend with. The Almohad are one such force. Their hands pull the strings of terror and intimidation from Kabul to Jakarta, Gaza to Baghdad. They are masterful exploiters of men, and they plan nothing short of political and religious domination of the world. I am sorry, but I cannot take you out there against them, not even to find your two daughters.'

Simon looks around, as if seeking an outlet for his frustration. ‘What do you and your brother do with this boat, Lubayd?'

‘I beg your pardon?'

‘Vessels like this do not pay for themselves. What do you do with a thirty-six-knot cruiser?'

‘That is
our
business.'

‘It is mine also if I am going to associate myself with you.'

Lubayd's eyes glow darkly. ‘There are many things that need to pass between the coasts of Arabia and Africa — unmarked crates;
silent men in suits. I have a reputation for the utmost discretion and trustworthiness, attributes that are priceless in this world.'

‘If you are so well regarded and busy with lucrative work, why did your brother think you might be interested in my charter?'

‘Because I have a week now without prospect of employment of our services. The business of the region has been postponed. Rabi al-Salah is the cause. The Middle East will wait, mid breath, while events unfold. The world may change beyond recognition by the time it is over.'

‘You think so?'

‘I am certain of it. History hinges on the leaders of the nations of the world. Any student of the past knows that. Who can predict what will happen? Instability, even war.'

‘Take me to Socotra. Leave me there. I will swim ashore if I have to. That is all I ask of you. Surely you can outrun any pirate boat in the sea.'

‘Socotran and Somali pirates have machine guns, heavy weapons; I cannot risk damage to my beautiful boat.'

‘If you are as fast as you say, they will not get close enough to do so. Name your price, any price, but I need to leave now, this minute. Each tick of the clock may be the death knell for my children. Can you imagine how that feels for me?'

‘Just say I agree to take you. Please understand that my fuel burn at fast cruise may exceed two hundred dollars an hour. My costs will number in the thousands. You tell me, Simon of England, how much this is worth to you. Put a figure on the love of a father for his daughters.'

‘I have five thousand dollars cash in my pocket. It is yours if you take me.' Of course, there is another roll in his sock, but he does not want to use it now — there will be other obstacles, and nothing removes obstacles like money.

Lubayd shows some emotion. ‘One thousand now.'

‘That is reasonable.'

‘Ishmael,' Lubayd calls.

The brother arrives from down below. ‘Yes?'

‘Prepare for sea. I am setting a course for Socotra.'

‘Socotra? Brother, we have not been there for many years, and my memories of the last time are unpleasant. Is this something we have to do?'

‘Yes, Ishmael. This is a lot of money, and we have nothing else to do.' He turns back to Simon. ‘I will not go against al-Muwahhidun, nor pirates, but I will take you to Socotra. The main island. From there you will have to make your own way.'

Simon inclines his head. ‘You are a kind man. Can we leave now?'

‘It will take an hour or more to inform the harbourmaster and make last-minute preparations.'

‘Half an hour?'

‘I will try.'

When Simon extracts the required deposit and hands it across, Lubayd opens a drawer in the chart table and slips the notes inside. Simon has time to see the dark outline of an automatic pistol inside, and wonders why men of peace feel the need to have a gun so close at hand.

 

A veteran of several hostage grabs, Zhyogal is aware that the situation is at its most dangerous when the initial shock has worn off, when braver souls start assessing the odds of playing hero. One or more of his men might, at any time, be overpowered and disarmed.