by Mark Dawson
Mustafa did not appear to be persuaded, but, as they drove south, he started to relax. Milton took the opportunity to look him over. He was slender, with light brown skin and a narrow face. He was wearing a ball cap that was pulled down low on his forehead, and he had a patchy beard, trimmed around the mouth and beneath the nose, but wispy and unimpressive on his cheeks. Milton guessed that he was young: twenty-five, perhaps, maybe even younger than that.
They drove south in silence for twenty minutes until they reached a large roundabout where the Airport Highway and Qaser Bin Ghashir-Sawani Road met. The traffic grew a little denser, and Mustafa muscled their way around it until they were able to continue to the east. The open spaces of the airport were visible through the wire mesh fence to their right.
They were fifteen miles from Abu Salim now, and Mustafa seemed finally able to relax.
“Are you okay?” Milton asked.
“I’m fine,” he said defensively, as if Milton had questioned his bravery. “I’m only here because of Omar.”
“I don’t care why. You’re here, and you’re going to help me. Right?”
Mustafa tensed. “Maybe. What do you want?”
“Information.”
“About?”
“Ali has an arrangement. He sells women to pimps in Europe. The women go into the sex industry. There was an Eritrean woman, quite young, several weeks ago. Ali put her and her brother on a boat here, and they sailed to Lampedusa. They were split up. The woman was taken to France and then sold to Albanian pimps.”
“And?”
“And I want you to tell me everything you know about that.”
“I know it happens,” Mustafa said. “They pick out the good-looking girls here. Ali has a man; he takes their pictures before they get on the boat. The ones they like, they make sure they are treated very well on the crossing. They are given water and food, life jackets, they stay on the top deck rather than going down below.”
“What happens then?”
“When they land? They drive them to wherever they need to go. France, as you say. Italy, Spain, Germany. They are introduced to the purchasers and the deal is done. After that, I cannot tell you.”
“There is a boat leaving soon?”
“The day after tomorrow.”
“And there will be girls on the boat who will be sold?”
“Yes. There are several.”
“I need you to find out where that boat is going to sail to.”
“Why?”
“Just find out, Mustafa. That’s all I need you to do. Tell me when it is leaving and where it is going. Lampedusa, Malta, Italy, wherever. Find out for me and I’ll tell Omar you’ve done a good job. You won’t need to do anything else and you’ll never see me again.”
“Why are you interested in this?”
“It doesn’t matter why.”
“Are you a journalist? Writing a story?”
“No.”
“Then you are police?”
“I’m not police. It doesn’t matter who I am or why I’m interested. You just need to get me that information. Do you understand?”
They passed a slip road that was signposted for the Wadi Alrabie Road. The city was to the west, to the left of the car.
“I will try,” Mustafa said. “I will speak to the men and see what I can find. We meet again tomorrow, yes?”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
MUSTAFA HAD DROPPED MILTON outside an abandoned movie theatre on the edge of Abu Salim. He took a bus into the centre of Tripoli and had walked back to his hotel. He turned up the air conditioning and slept. He had an early breakfast, left the hotel at eight and then took a taxi back to the movie theatre.
Mustafa was waiting for him.
Milton got into the car, and Mustafa drove them both away.
“Well?” Milton said.
“There is a problem.”
“The boat?”
“It is as I thought. A boat is leaving tomorrow morning. I know what time it is leaving, and where it is leaving from.”
“But?”
“I don’t know where it is going.”
“I need to know, Mustafa.”
“I understand that, but I cannot find out. It used to be common knowledge, but Ali has changed things. He is worried, I think, about the boats being intercepted. The Italian navy found the last boat and sent it back. Ali thinks they were warned. Now he only tells a few of the men. And I am not one of them.”
Milton gritted his teeth. “So tell me what you do know. Where is it going from?”
“Sabratah. It is a fishing town to the northwest of here. It is fought over by the militia and ISIS. Very dangerous. The government is not there any longer. There are no officials. No police, no army. A lot of chaos. It is very easy to sail a boat out of the harbour. No one cares.”
“And from there?”
“There are several possibilities. Many boats go to Malta. Others to Lampedusa. There are others that will travel to Sicily, and others that will go all the way to the mainland.”
“And there’s no way of knowing?”
“Ali would know. The captain of the boat, obviously, he knows. Ali’s lieutenants, perhaps. I am not a senior man. I do as I am told. I am not given his secrets. I am sorry, Mr. Smith. I tried to find out for you, really, I did. But I do not know what else I can do to help you.”
Milton stared out of the dusty windshield as they drove to the south.
There was another way.
“Can you get me to Sabratah?”
Mustafa stared at him with an open mouth.
“Tomorrow morning,” Milton said. “Can you get me on the boat?”
He looked over at him. “What?”
“I need to know where it is going to end up.”
“You’re crazy—”
Milton spoke over him. “I need to know where the women will be handed over. If you can’t help me, I’ll just have to start following them here, rather than when they land.”
“You are not listening to me. You cannot go on the boat. Are you crazy? They are dangerous. They sink. You have seen the pictures?”
“If that’s the only way I can find the men I need to find, then I don’t have any other choice.”
Mustafa looked troubled.
Milton pressed, “Can you get me on the boat?”
Mustafa flicked the indicator and pulled over to the side of the road.
“Mustafa?”
“Maybe. It is not an easy thing. Many of the migrants are black. Some of them are Libyans, some Syrian. None of them look like you.”
“Can you do it?”
“Maybe. I will need money. The guards will need to be paid.”
“How much?”
“I know two of the men. Not much. Two hundred dollars each.”
“Fine,” Milton said. He reached into his pocket, took out his roll of notes and counted out eight fifties. He folded them and passed them over to Mustafa. The man reached for the notes, but Milton intercepted his hand and held it. “I’m counting on you, Mustafa. You understand that, don’t you? It’s very important. Don’t let me down. Omar would be unhappy if you did. You know what that would mean for you.”
“You do not have to threaten me,” Mustafa said. “I know very well. That is why I am here.”
Milton held Mustafa’s hand for a beat and then released it, allowing the Libyan to draw his hand away.
“The boat leaves early tomorrow morning. Very early. Where is your hotel?”
“I’ll meet you at the Victory Arch.”
“I will be there at half past three.” He looked as if he was about to speak again, but he shook his head instead.
“What?” Milton said.
“You should make sure you are well dressed. It can be cold at sea.”
Chapter Thirty
MUSTAFA DROVE MILTON back into town and dropped him near the souk.
Milton checked his watch: it was half past nine. He took out his phone and left Omar a message to say that
they would need to meet in an hour.
He went back to Caffe Casa and took a seat outside. He attracted the attention of one of the surly waiters, ordered a double espresso and waited for Omar.
He didn’t have long to wait. He saw the suave intelligence officer as he approached across Essaa Square, distinctive in his smart pale blue suit, bright white shirt and dark glasses. He was carrying a leather satchel. He saw Milton and picked a route between the tables until he was able to take the seat opposite him.
“Mr. Smith.”
“Omar. Would you like a drink?”
“I’ll get them. Would you like another?”
“Just a glass of orange juice.”
Omar cocked his finger, and the waiter, now considerably less surly than when he had served Milton five minutes earlier, came over and dutifully took the order.
“They try very hard here,” Omar said, flicking his fingers to indicate that he meant the café. “They would like us all to think we are in Greece or Italy, sipping a frappe or a Freddo while we watch the world go by. It is a worthy attempt until you hear a car bomb or automatic gunfire and you remember: this is Tripoli, not Paris.”
“I’ve been to worse places.”
“Really? You have not been here long enough, Mr. Smith. How was Abu Salim?”
“Yes, that was worse.”
“Did you have a profitable meeting with Mustafa?”
“Yes and no.”
“You got the information you wanted?”
“Unfortunately not. It seems that Ali is more careful than he used to be. I don’t think it was Mustafa’s fault. Ali just doesn’t advertise the destinations of the boats. And if I don’t know where it is going to land, I can’t do what needs to be done.”
“So what is next?”
“I’m going to go at it from a different angle.” Milton didn’t trust Omar, and there was no reason to give him more information than was strictly necessary. “You were very helpful. I appreciate it.”
Omar raised his hands. “Your gratitude is unnecessary, Mr. Smith. I am happy to help.” He started to rise and then paused. “I nearly forgot. You asked me for something. Do you still need it?”
“Yes,” Milton said. “I do.”
Omar sat down again. He used his foot to push the bag that he had left next to his chair until it was next to Milton’s. “Everything you asked for is there. Weapon and ammunition. Can I ask why you need it?”
“I don’t like to be unprepared. And, as you say: this is Libya, not Europe.” Milton hooked his foot around the bag and dragged it a little closer.
“Will we see each other again?”
“Probably not,” Milton said.
“Then goodbye, Mr. Smith. And good luck.”
#
MILTON WATCHED OMAR GO AND THEN, when he was out of sight, he stood. He picked up the bag. He knew, of course, that he would be followed again and, when he turned to look, he saw the same agents waiting for him to make his move. They didn’t try to conceal themselves this time; Omar must have told them that it was unnecessary. Milton edged between the tables until he was on the square and nodded at the nearest man as he detached himself from his position in the doorway of a shop. The man glared at Milton—Omar must have chided them for their unprofessionalism—and fell into step twenty metres behind him.
Milton went by the clock tower and, as the sun emerged from behind a cloud and shone down on the city, he made his way toward the souk. It was simple to find, and, within moments, he was deep within a maze of narrow streets and alleys that were lined with shops and stalls, their produce and wares spilling out so that it was occasionally necessary to pass between them in single file. The cobbles underfoot were slick with the juice from rotten fruit and animal ordure, racks of ripe vegetables were picked over by discerning locals, fresh fish were laid out on beds of ice, and cheap trinkets were festooned around the necks of battered mannequins that had seen better days.
Milton wandered aimlessly, losing himself in the hubbub until he turned into a narrow alley, passed through an ancient archway and emerged into the part of the market that sold clothes. He bought a new pair of jeans cut from the thickest denim that he could find, a pair of long johns, two T-shirts and a padded jacket. He added a ball cap and a scarf and two packets of cigarettes. His shopping cost a hundred dollars, leaving him with just five hundred. He would have to husband it carefully to make it last.
It took twenty minutes to be sure that he had lost the tail and, once he was sure that he had, he returned to the hotel. He checked his watch as he made his way into the coolness of the lobby: eleven. He was pleased that he had a little extra time. He wasn’t going to have long for sleep tonight, and he doubted that there would be much opportunity for relaxation tomorrow.
He went to his room and took the pistol out of the bag to examine it. It was a small handgun, the same size as his open hand. He did not recognise the make and he guessed that it was one of the knock-offs that had started to appear on the local firearms market. It was chambered for .32 ACP, a disappointingly weak handgun calibre, especially when fired from such a short barrel.
He stripped it to ensure that it was clean and that all of the parts were present and working, taking particular care with the firing pin. Omar had provided a box of ammunition. Milton loaded the magazine and ran rounds into and out of the chamber to make sure that it was working as it should. The weakest part on a semi-automatic pistol, especially a cheap one, was the magazine. This one appeared to be satisfactory.
Milton laid the pistol down. He was unimpressed, but it was the best he would have been able to manage on short notice and it would have to suffice.
Milton lay on the bed beneath the overhead fan, and slept.
Chapter Thirty-One
MILTON SET the alarm on his phone for three in the morning, but his sleep had been fitful and he had risen at two thirty. He showered and, still wrapped in the towel, made himself a coffee from the jar of instant granules that had been left on the bureau next to the kettle. He dressed in the warm clothes that he had purchased in the souk yesterday evening. The long johns and the new, thicker jeans felt heavy against his legs. He put on the two long-sleeved T-shirts, his jumper and his boots.
He opened the door and went out into the courtyard. He took out a new packet of cigarettes, tore away the cellophane wrapper, put one between his lips and lit it. He looked into the infinite blackness overhead, listening to the slow sighing of traffic as it passed by outside. It was cold. The night sky was clear, the constellations sparkling. Milton found himself thinking of Samir and Nadia. They would have had a similar view before they set off on the final leg of their journey to bring them to Europe. He wondered what they would have been thinking. They would have been frightened and anxious.
That was not unreasonable.
Milton was anxious, too.
He finished the cigarette, grinding it out against the rough bricks, went back into his room, put on the thick padded jacket that he had bought in the souk, put his pistol, phone and cigarettes into his pocket, and went outside.
#
MUSTAFA WAS LATE.
They had arranged to meet at three thirty, but it was just before four when Milton saw the car that Mustafa had been driving yesterday. The car slowed and pulled over to the side of the road. Milton opened the door and got inside.
“Is everything okay?”
“Yes,” Mustafa said.
“You’re late.”
“There have been some complications.”
“Meaning?”
“Ali is here,” he said.
“In Tripoli?”
“Yes. I saw him yesterday. After I left you.”
“Is that unusual?”
Mustafa nodded. “He doesn’t normally come into the city. I don’t know why he would be here. But it makes me nervous.”
“You can still get me on the boat?”
“I don’t know.”
“I need better than that.”
“Yes
,” he said. “Probably. I think so.”
They drove west out of Tripoli, following the coast road through Janzour, Az-Zawiyah and Surman. The road was empty at this hour. The landscape was arid and featureless between the towns, but Milton’s attention was drawn to the right of the car, to the vast expanse of the sea. The sun was slowly broaching the horizon, and, as it did, the water gradually passed through a spectrum from black to indigo to the darkest of blues. Milton saw the lights of a few other boats far out from shore.
He was preoccupied with the consequences of what he had proposed to do. He was not a man much predisposed to doubt, but he couldn’t ignore the unsettled sensation that had lodged in the pit of his stomach. He knew that what he was planning to do was dangerous. That was not the issue; he had lived with danger all of his adult life. The difference this time was that he was trusting his life to smugglers who did not set a high premium upon the safety of their passengers, men whose laxity had already led to many thousands of deaths.
Milton could live with danger when he was in control of the situation, when he could influence events. But he was ceding that control now. So many things could go wrong over which he had no influence. The engine might not be properly maintained so that it broke down miles out at sea. The hull might not be watertight. The boat might be overloaded with passengers. Any of those things were possible, and any one of them might mean that the boat would sink. Milton was an excellent swimmer, but he wasn’t going to be able to swim sixty miles back to land.
He would drown, just like everyone else.
“There,” Mustafa said, nodding ahead to the lights that were twinkling against the darkness of the sea. “Sabratah.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
SABRATAH WAS A SMALL TOWN that had been founded two thousand years earlier as a trading post, serving as a port for products that had been transported north from the African hinterland. It had been an important Roman outpost, and Milton saw traces of the architecture from the period as they passed through the outskirts.
“You like history?” Mustafa said. Milton didn’t answer, but Mustafa—who was obviously talking because he was nervous—continued anyway. “There is a Roman theatre here. Very impressive. Villas and temples, too. Tourists used to come here to see them. No one comes now. It is not safe.”
