Rotten Gods (33 page)

‘Kneel.'

The President of France is sobbing now, calling out obscenities in his own language.

Zhyogal shouts, ‘The past governments of your country are the architects of nothing short of attempted genocide in Algeria. For two hundred years France has bled my country dry and I have grown from the womb hating you.'

‘That was before my time —'

‘Yes, but there has been no restitution. No responsibility taken. You, personally, have a long list of crimes to your credit. You, monsieur, were the minister of defence who initiated Operation Unicorn in the Ivory Coast. Paratroopers  — masquerading as peacekeepers — slaughtered hundreds of innocent civilians
on your orders
. Your country hides many perpetrators of the genocide in Rwanda and fails to help bring them to justice. You are charged with murder in Libya, Iraq, and Afghanistan. You have treated the Muslim peoples of your own nation with contempt, used riot police to control their justifiable protest.'

Ali watches as Zhyogal holds the pistol an inch from the back of the desperate man's head, waits for the struggles to subside, and fires. The body slumps to the boards and a black stain spreads around it. Ringing silence fills the room.

Holstering the weapon, Zhyogal stands and addresses the cameras. ‘If the world does not listen, I promise death. I promise to open the gates of Hell itself.'

 

The two hunters arrive in the evening, rifles slung on backs, the leader a hook-nosed giant of a man, yet lean of frame, black whiskers concentrated on the chin and upper lip.

‘Who seeks Abdul Haq?' he asks.

‘I do,' says Madoowbe.

‘Why?'

‘I have a message for him.'

‘And who are you?'

‘I am Muyassar Namir Qutb.'

Marika, watching from her place in the shade, has a deepening premonition of danger.

‘No, you are not,' says Abdul Haq.

The silence is complete.

Madoowbe offers a little laugh. ‘Of course I am.'

‘No, you are not. Muyassar is my cousin. I saw him just six months ago, in Burtinle.'

Again Madoowbe laughs, yet the sound is hollow. These seconds, Marika knows, are the only ones she will get, for the hook-nosed man is in the process of unslinging his assault rifle. There on her bench, forgotten, she lifts her own weapon from where it leans beside her and fires from the hip. Warning shots would be futile, she decides  — gunfire is more familiar than
flatulence to these people. One bullet takes the man in the side of the chest and another in the head. He falls in a startled heap in the sand.

Marika starts running before the corpse stops kicking. Men move to block Madoowbe from joining her, but he is agile, and together they pound down the pathway towards the motorbike.

‘Thanks for that,' he says. ‘Rather timely, I might say.'

‘Shut up and run.'

The first burst of gunfire follows them, but appears to have been aimed high, conscious of the danger to the women and children at the fires. Bullets zap and twang in the leaves and branches, some of which fall to earth.

Madoowbe, having started ahead of her, reaches the bike first and straddles it, kicking at the starter, face sheeted with sweat, swearing to encourage the machine to start.

‘Damn it,' Marika cries. ‘Hurry.' A horde of men attempts to reach them, hampered by their own numbers, weapons out and still firing. Her eyes blaze. ‘Are you trying to get me killed on purpose? Is that your plan? If so you're doing one hell of a job.'

Five, six times Madoowbe's foot kicks at the starter, rewarded by not even the tiniest flutter.

‘Leave it,' Marika cries, ‘leave it and run.'

Madoowbe does as she asks, but stops at the nearest camel, a huge beast, adorned with multicoloured tassels along both neck and body, fur matted with dung below and around the tail. It drops to the ground with the same unwieldy grace as a building imploding.

‘Climb on,' he exhorts.

Marika grips the beast's neck for balance, and straddles the hump, feeling Madoowbe get up behind her and lift the reins. The animal rises on long, knobbly legs, still in no hurry. After a
solid kick from Madoowbe, to the accompaniment of shouts and gunfire, it breaks into a run. ‘They will not risk killing this camel,' he says, ‘he is a fine beast, and very valuable.'

‘Then they will surely not allow us to get away with him either.'

‘That is true,' he admits. ‘They will follow.'

‘So why did you have to tell more lies, back there, to the shifta? Why give them a false name?'

‘Because if I hadn't we would both be dead.'

‘That's always your excuse. Every bloody time. Who is this Muyassar whatever it is? Where did you get the name from?'

‘I borrowed it from a man I met in the coffee shop yesterday — the one who told me all about Dalmar Asad. It was a risk, yes, but our only way through. I am not of this subclan and they would have killed us.'

Marika turns to see camels and riders lurch into pursuit. ‘This is bloody hopeless, even if we find her — I've lost all my communications gear. What the hell are we going to do? Walk out of Somalia on foot? God damn you, Madoowbe, if you're not this Muyassar Namir Whatever, then who the hell are you? Can't you tell the truth for once? Just once?'

‘Later perhaps,' he says, ‘if they do not catch us, and if we do not ride into another minefield, then perhaps I will tell you.'

‘More minefields?'

‘Yes, of course. They are common in this area.'

‘Where are we heading?'

‘Northwest. She was last seen in that direction. We must look there.'

‘How will we get away from the shifta?'

‘There is one way: ride faster than they do.'

Marika is silent for a moment, conscious of the closeness of their position, his body pressed against her back, his arms
extending from around her body to hold the reins. ‘What if our camel is slower than theirs?'

‘Getting away will not be possible.'

 

Stinger is constructed of four propfan equipped discs joined at the middle. The energy comes from a hydrogen fuel cell housed in the centre just above the camera. Sitting on a simple launch pad on the flight deck the entire gadget is assembled and prepared in just a few minutes.

At a command from the operator, who moonlights as a computer technician, the fans spin and the thing levitates from the deck, buzzing ominously. Controlled by a laptop computer, it swoops, dives, and hovers in a short sequence of operational tests. The device reminds Simon of the Golden Snitch from the Harry Potter films of his youth.

The buzz rises in pitch and in an instant, the machine is off and away, rising to an incredible height at which point the pale blue painted underside is no longer visible.

‘That's the beauty of it,' Marshall says. ‘At two thousand feet no one can see the damn thing from the ground. Can't hear it either. Come on, we'll get a better view on the screen in the ops room.'

 

The LED backlit screen shows a bird's-eye view of the ocean from what Simon judges to be around three thousand feet.

‘Be handy for fishing,' someone says.

‘Don't even joke about it,' Marshall warns. ‘Before they pretty much wiped out the bluefin tuna, skippers were using these things to find the schools.' He turns to the technician in control of Stinger. ‘How much flight time have we got?'

‘Twenty-two minutes' power remaining. At this speed it should be plenty.'

‘Change bearing eight degrees north.' Matt orders adjustments as he tracks Stinger's path towards the island.

‘Course corrected.'

Simon can only guess the speed at which Stinger travels, but within five minutes the outline of the island appears ahead. He recognises the basic features from the flat topographical image that Marshall showed him earlier, but it looks very different. He finds himself praying. There is something dark and forbidding about the place. From a distance it looks uninhabited and drab, as if there is no vegetation at all.

Stinger moves closer, revealing steep cliffs, and waves rolling in, breaking on the rocks. Simon notes the small natural harbour, yet no real detail from that height.

‘OK,' Marshall orders, ‘put Stinger on a holding station there.'

Now Simon understands the design of the MAV better: the ability to hover, almost motionless, for long periods. The image slows and becomes better defined, focused on the huts above the natural harbour. Even at that height, they are visible. A smudge of smoke emanates from what must be a fire.

‘Now. Zoom us in.'

Watching the screen gives Simon a feeling of vertigo; the unpleasant sensation of freefalling towards the earth at warp speed. The huts and surrounding landscape enlarge. Objects that were just specks become boulders, or human beings or bizarre trees that look like no other Simon has ever seen. The huts themselves are makeshift structures built of driftwood and flotsam, roofed with palm fronds.

‘There's a group of men to the bottom left,' Marshall says. ‘Enlarge them please.'

Simon scarcely dares to breathe as the camera zooms in. Are they merely fishermen, or something more sinister? The dress is certainly not military, but standard Arab garb that could mean anything.

‘There,' someone shouts, ‘that man has a weapon. You can see the muzzle.'

The vertical view makes positive identification difficult, but another of the men has his rifle slung, but levelled. ‘That's a definite,' Marshall says, ‘looks like an AK-style assault weapon.'

‘That's it then,' Simon hisses, ‘they wanted proof, and we've got it.'

Marshall shakes his head. ‘Simon, just about everyone in this part of the world carries a gun.'

‘Even fishermen?'

‘Even Avon ladies.'

‘Fourteen minutes' power remaining,' warns the technician.

‘God, if only we could see inside those huts.'

Marshall takes a call on the sat phone and walks to the back of the room while Stinger covers every square metre of the encampment. The other item of interest is a tarpaulin-covered area to one side that might be a trench, possibly hiding more powerful weaponry.

Coming back, Marshall holds one hand over the phone. ‘I've got Fleet on the line. They're still not convinced. Want us to have a look at the harbour. See what's there.'

The field of view drops back, giving Simon the uncomfortable feeling of rising through the air, and Stinger flies until it is centred over the harbour. Down again, camera zooming in until it focuses on what looks like a crude but solid dock, and another hut, this one more substantial than the ones above. Again there are men. Two of them, lounging in the shade. If they have weapons they are not carrying them. There is no boat in sight.

‘Nine minutes' power remaining, sir. We'll need most of that to bring Stinger home.'

Marshall talks back into the phone, then. ‘OK, bring her back. There's nothing else to see.' He looks across at Simon apologetically.

As the screen view changes, moving out over a white-capped sea, the general attention of the room wanders. The crew talk among themselves. Only Simon continues to stare.

Without warning, the view on the screen rocks as if shaken and Stinger turns somersault several times. Simon's first thought is that it has run out of fuel prematurely.

‘What the hell?' someone blurts out.

Marshall's face displays a new tension. ‘What's going on?'

‘It's a plane, sir, just about cleaned Stinger up.'

‘Get us a view of it, hurry.'

The camera scans from side to side until it picks up a fast-receding aircraft, floats visible below the fuselage. A faded blue stripe extends for the full length, and heavy struts support the wings.

‘Hell, a float plane. Cessna 7045 by the look of her. What's it doing here?'

‘They didn't even see Stinger.'

‘She's going in to land.'

As the camera swivels back down to monitor the Cessna touching down, Simon sees the long white wake of a power boat on course to meet her.

‘Six minutes' power remaining. We're going to lose Stinger.'

‘Doesn't matter. I'll buy you another one for Christmas. Stay on station. Stay for as long as you can.'

 

The chartered float plane touches down on a ruffled sea, propeller buffeting in a crosswind as it turns. Saif al-Din sees the RIB waiting for him, ready for pick up, carving through the waves and wind chop.

Readying his few possessions, he waits at the door. There is no time to waste, not now, with Rabi al-Salah at such a critical stage. When the plane comes to rest, Saif watches the RIB motor closer. The man skippering the boat, a Pakistani called Inzaman, is a devout and reliable man, but still a relatively inexperienced seaman, and the hull bumps hard against the floats, prompting a bout of swearing and abuse from the pilot.

Saif waits for his opportunity, then steps across, almost losing his footing on the gunwale, gripping a rail hard as Ibrahim accelerates away. Settling into a seat, he focuses his mind on what he has come to do. Two tasks, both important. He had, in fact, been already on his way out here when the call came through for the kufr girls to be terminated. Saif would carry out the task without regret. If Zhyogal considered the death of the girls necessary then he would not flinch at the task.

The main reason for the journey to the island would not be so easy to resolve: two factions within the mujahedin here had developed a fitna, a division.

Although members of al-Muwahhidun, these men are drawn from different nations but also from different schools of Sunni thought. These schools are known as madh'hab, and each bring to Almohadism their own interpretation of the main principle of tawhid: the unity or oneness of God.

Most of the mujahedin were educated in the Maliki madh'hab, following the teachings of the scholar Malik ibn Anas. This is the dominant African form of the religion, based on the practices and beliefs of the Salaf people of Medina, Mohammed's first kingdom.