Rotten Gods by Greg Barron Page B

back to life.
    â€˜Building secure.’
    â€˜There is a possibility of claymore-type mines or other set hazards in apartment. Proceed with caution.’
    â€˜Understood.’ A longer pause. The sound of booted feet on tiles. ‘We are outside apartment door. Confirm that no lights show from inside. Listening devices detect no sound from the interior.’
    â€˜Ring the bell.’
    â€˜No response.’
    â€˜Try it again.’
    â€˜No response. Door swept for attachments. No set hazards.’
    â€˜Proceed to force entry.’
    Even across thousands of miles, Marika hears heavy blows from a Zak ram on the door. For the first time she hears her contact breathing. ‘The apartment is dark. Light switch does not work, moving to personal lighting.’
    â€˜General impressions?’ Marika glances across at Madoowbe, who is also listening, making no sound.
    â€˜Room is tidy. Musty but clean.’ Nothing for thirty or forty seconds. ‘Table surfaces free of clutter. I am now entering the kitchen. The refrigerator door is open, turned off, and it is empty. Linoleum floor clean.’
    â€˜Secure the other rooms and start checking drawers and cupboards.’
    â€˜What are we looking for?’
    â€˜Travel plans, brochures, maps. Anything. Have you come across any computer equipment?’
    â€˜Not yet.’
    â€˜Tell me if you do.’
    Marika reaches for a tissue from the half-empty box beside her workstation. Blowing her nose, she waits for the operative to recommence communications. Beside her, Madoowbe shifts in his seat. For a few more seconds she allows herself the indulgence of watching him. He is an attractive man: tall, with Nilotic features. Lean, but wiry. It is the smouldering eyes, however, that hold her attention.
    â€˜How long have you been in Dubai?’ she asks, taking advantage of the break in radio traffic.
    â€˜A little over a month.’
    â€˜Do you like it here?’
    The expression on his face is comical, as if he finds her question amusing. ‘Strangely, no.’
    Aware that she is still holding the used tissue in her hand Marika stands up and drops it in the nearest bin. ‘A little too hectic for you?’
    â€˜Not exactly.’
    Again that expression, and Marika finds herself growing angry. You patronising bastard. Wish I’d never asked.
    The earphones crackle into life. ‘The apartment is clear. I’ve got men combing it now, and forensics on site.’
    â€˜Good, can we find out if the neighbours know anything?’
    â€˜Affirmative.’
    Marika glances again at Madoowbe, who has found something interesting to look at on the far side of the room. Dismissing him from her thoughts, she finds herself thinkingof home, imagining a good clean southerly swell rolling up the coast to Bondi. There are dolphins cruising just behind the break, and cormorants diving. Quite often, these days, the microbe count is so high swimming is not recommended, but with all her heart she wishes she was there — soaking up the winter sun in her favourite spot just down from the RSL club walkway.
    This is a great time of year in the mountains, too — freezing at night, so she’d pack her treasured Black Wolf sleeping bag, rated for ten below, and the Salewa tent. Yet it rains less in July than most other months, and there are few people on the trails. A great time to sit on the boulder-strewn banks of the Shoalhaven, deep in the gorge where only the tough and well-prepared penetrate, and watch the platypus at play. Her mind roams, planning a solo trip  — no one else to get in the way, particularly not a man. That kind of complication, she muses, sneaking another glance at Madoowbe, she doesn’t need.
    The voice over the radio brings her back to reality. ‘The apartment is clean. No computers. No toothbrushes. Even the bed sheets look brand new. Forensics are beginning to think that there’s not a