Rotten Gods by Greg Barron Page A

of closing her eyes, even at the computer, she finds herselfdrifting away from the world of shrill telephones and chattering keyboards into something more appealing.
    With Abdullah bin al-Rhoumi’s name opening doors, she has an FBI team from the Tactical Support Branch of the CIRG on their way into a New York apartment, managed by radio waves beamed halfway across the world. The sense of power is dizzying, and dangerous. Marika frowns with concentration so intense it gives her a headache. There can be no mistakes. Lives hang on her decisions, her instincts, and reactions.
    Abdullah appears beside Marika’s chair, accompanied by a tall and lean figure. He wears a goatee beard trimmed close to his face, and the same blue overalls as the other members of the security team. She has seen him around the centre, one of many hundreds, yet has not exchanged a word with him.
    â€˜Miss Hartmann. Have you met Madoowbe?’
    Marika stands, shaking the man’s hand. ‘No, not yet.’
    The grip is dry and firm. Long fingers. His voice is deep, and smooth as honey. ‘Pleased to meet you.’
    â€˜Madoowbe is a very experienced operative indeed, so he may be of help up here,’ Abdullah explains. ‘He is Somalia’s Transitional Federal Government’s contribution to the security force. I’m assigning him to you for the moment.’
    Madoowbe’s eyes are black, owl like, glistening with curiosity and intelligence. Marika hands him a spare pair of headphones from the desk, and plugs them in. ‘You better listen in,’ she tells him. ‘We might need help if the woman we are chasing is at the apartment.’
    â€˜Who is she?’ he asks.
    Marika tries to sum up the situation in as few words as possible. ‘The woman in question is the wife of Dr Abukar. We are unsure of her whereabouts.’
    â€˜What is her name?’
    â€˜Sufia Haweeya. She might have played some part in the plot, or if not, might be used as leverage. In either case, she is worth finding.’
    An electronic voice crackles through the headphones and Marika slips them over her head, the frame so light she can scarcely feel it.
    â€˜This is Rabi al-Salah control, go ahead HRT.’
    â€˜Reading you, Rabi al-Salah. Position outside apartment building in question. We have identified unit nineteen. Ground floor.’ The voice is male, east coast American.
    Ground floor. A passage from a well known al-Qa’ida terror manual comes to mind, a publication named Declaration of Jihad against the Country’s Tyrants – Military Series . According to this tract, It is preferable to rent apartments on the ground floor to facilitate escape and digging of trenches …
    Marika forms a mental image of what is happening in New York. Despite the name, Hostage Rescue Team, this group has a wide variety of responsibilities, including high-risk searches, counter-terrorism, manhunts and personnel protection. The team will be dressed in black, equipped with Springfield 1911 automatic handguns in side holsters. Many will carry M16 rifles while others sport Remington 870 shotguns or even a 7.62mm sniper rifle. One or two operatives will be explosives experts, equipped to locate and disarm anti-personnel weapons encountered in the course of the job. Each man or woman is wired up for hands-free communications. It is just past noon over there now. They will deal politely but firmly with members of the public who come to gawk or obstruct.
    â€˜Does the apartment show any signs of occupancy, HRT?’
    â€˜Negative.’
    â€˜Then please approach and seal building. Detain any personnel trying to enter or leave. When area is secure I want you to penetrate apartment.’
    â€˜Understood, please stand by.’
    Ten minutes of nothing passes. Marika taps her pen on the desk and waits. The inactivity irks her; she is a physical woman, and would rather be there on the ground. The headphones crackle