Free Rotten Gods by Greg Barron Page B

the Palms and the unfinished World were threatened by water, ravaged by supertides. Billions of dollars worth of man-made real estate, threatened by the changing planet. Itinerant workers were trapped without employment, housed in their slum estates, unable to afford the fares home. Crime rates soared. The world of Abdullah’s childhood cracked and crumbled.
    Now past any likelihood of marriage, Abdullah is experienced in sexual intercourse only with Russian and Chinese prostitutes, who solicit in certain streets and nightclubs of Dubai. Technically no virgin, spiritually he has never been touched. Modern Dubai courtship, much of which centres on passing business cards to members of the opposite sex you find attractive, is repugnant to him.
    His home is visited only by Lualhati, the Filipino maid who has, for twenty years, parked her Corolla in his underground parkingspace at 11:00am, cleaned the unit, and prepared an evening meal. Rarely laying eyes on her, Abdullah mails her a cheque every second Thursday, with a small bonus on the holiday of Eid, at the conclusion of Ramadan.
    A long-standing member of the Equestrian Club, he competes in three or four races a year, and maintains four hardy Arabs, agisted through the club and stabled by professionals. On weekends he still rides, finding pleasure in companionship with the finest horses money can buy.
    The job of coordinating security at Rabi al-Salah is the culmination of a lifetime’s work, a task at which he has already failed. The overall plan was simple: a core of GDOIS and British DRFS, supplemented by representatives from other nations, backed up by the elite Dubai Fifth Air Battalion.
    It should have been enough. Would normally have been enough. But there is always the imponderable — the gentle man who has gone to the other side. Something that defies even the most rigorous security checks.
    Abdullah prays, inviting his God to prepare for Dr Ali Khalid Abukar the hottest fires at His disposal.
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    Despite his job, Simon hasn’t been to Aden for years, a city that remains impoverished and relatively lawless. It did, however, escape the mass killings seen in Taiz and Sana’a, during the vigorous protest movement that resulted in such severe wounds to the dictator Saleh that he was forced to leave the country to seek treatment. The violence worsened on his return, and thousands died in the pursuit of freedom. Even now, Yemen teeters on the edge of civil war.
    Reputedly the site where Noah built his ark and invited the animals aboard two by two, the peninsula is shaped like adragon’s head, divided by the crater of a long dead volcano, the industrial city of Sheikh Othman on the opposite shore to the sprawling port complex. Ripples of rock make up the ridges of the mountain — the backbone of the dragon.
    The airport was once a RAF base, and those hangars of 1950s corrugated iron remain. It boasts long and serviceable runways; the only hazard on take-off and landing being the volcano itself.
    As the plane comes to rest, Simon is already moving, lifting down his bag and leading a line of passengers to the door, waiting while the stairway is clipped into place. Inside the terminal, he switches on his phone and reads Isabella’s text message.
    Simon. Forgive me. Girls taken from Aden airport. My heart is with you, along with all my hopes and trust.
    For a moment he cannot move, instead running her words through his mind.
    Forgive you for what? What did you do, Isabella? Is it true that you had sex with him? That you screwed an Algerian terrorist? That while our girls slept you rutted with a killer, a planter of bombs? That you let the bastards take the one beautiful thing in our lives. The daughters we both love, whatever our own failings …
    Entering a grimy bathroom of pale linoleum and ceramic, rust-stained sinks, Simon wrinkles his nose at the smell of urine and worse. He washes and shaves, changing his shirt for a