Read Online Rotten Gods by Greg Barron - Free Book Online Page A

The index creeps back when the Tokyo Times reports a possible negotiated end to the crisis. This report proves to be false, and another round of selling begins, cut short by the close of trade.
    Day 1, 20:00
    As stars appear in the darkened sky, visible through the single high window, the conference room lights remain on. Isabella sees eyes close and sleep arrive for many of the delegates. Of course, she has scarcely dozed in seventy-two hours, and for at least an hour, she too sleeps. When she wakes it is with an unpleasant jolt. Someone has dimmed the lights.
    The man who once introduced himself as a suave and urbane businessman called Rami  — now revealed as terrorist and murderer Zhyogal — prowls the room, scarcely glancing at her now.
    At least one of the hijackers is asleep far across the room, lying on the carpet beside the wall. The mujahedin, she decides, must be taking turns to rest, sleeping in relays.
    Rather than enlivening her, the short sleep fills Isabella with despair at what has happened to Hannah and Frances, at the memory of what she has done — that she is to blame, in part, for this. Her eyes fall on the shoulder bag near her feet, remembering the spare phone still inside. Using one foot she hooks the bag closer, waiting until she is sure Zhyogal and the others are not watching.
    Trying not to think of what they will do to her if she is caught, she leans over, delves into the bag, and brings out the phone in its blue silicone case. She covers it with both hands and waits again.
    Delegates withholding a telephone will be shot.
    Isabella presses the power button; there is a soft electronic beep. Again she hides the machine and looks around before choosing the ‘silent’ option and looking at the screen. Three missed calls flagged in red. She checks the numbers — Simon. She almost sobs with frustration. Then, seeing that an SMS has come through, she opens it up, reading the words in their light grey LCD bubble, fighting to keep the tears from her eyes.
    What have you done? Frantic. Looking for girls. Where? Simon.
    Isabella looks around again. The mujahedin have not stirred, but she meets the eyes of another delegate a row behind. She is certain that he has seen her with the phone. He is pleasant looking, with a clean jawline and athletic shoulders, his brown hair longer than that of most of the other males in the room, and his smile open and honest. They exchange what she decides is understanding. Is he part of the large American delegation? She thinks so, for the President — still the most powerful man in the world, if control of nuclear warheads, ships and men with guns is a true measure of power — sits nearby, surrounded by a gaggle of aides and inferiors.
    Looking up between letters, Isabella uses her thumb on the virtual keypad to reply.
    Simon. Forgive me. Girls taken from Aden airport. My heart is with you, along with all my hopes and trust.
    She pauses, wanting to say more. Everything seems so petty now. At that moment she feels closer to him than to any human being alive — the man who held her hand while she screamed in pain and brought forth the children they conceived together. She could never doubt his love for his children and thinking of him warms her heart. Still, it is all too complicated — the wounds so fresh. What can she say that will not undo all that was so hard to do? Moving her thumb back to the keypad she picks out the final word — Isabella.
    Sitting in the dull light, she gathers courage. Now she has the means to explain herself, then to help; to pay back some of what she owes. She composes a text in her mind. It has to be short, and to the point. The next question is who to address the message to.
    Isabella’s immediate superior is a genuine Dame — the honour bestowed because of her charity work — Shelley Chandler. She is a capable woman with a busy social life of openings and