The Refugee

by S A Tameez

  Ahmed looked around the room and noticed that the room had the same layout as the card factory, the tables, chairs, bags of drugs; but no children.

  “Where are the kids?”

  “I don’t know what you are talking about, dead man walking!”

  Ahmed pointed the gun at the man’s leg and pulled the trigger. The man screamed in pain and collapsed, clutching his wounded leg.

  “You’re crazy!” the man screamed, rolling around in agony.

  “Thanks for noticing,” Ahmed said and then knelt over him. “Now tell me where they are or the next one will be...” Ahmed looked down at the man’s groin.

  “You wouldn’t!”

  “Do you want to find out whether I would or wouldn’t? Look, you’re a young, good looking guy... I bet you’ve got a pretty girl friend... how long do you think she’ll hang around when... you know...”

  The man swallowed and then looked up at him, and said, “They’ll kill me...”

  Ahmed pointed the gun at the man’s groin. “There are fates far worse than death,” he said, wryly.

  “Ok... ok... don’t shoot. We got a message that someone hit the card factory, maybe one of Dimitris’ men, so, they came to pick the kids up and take them... and they’re sending a couple of cars.” The man stopped talking and held his leg in pain.

  “Relax, you’ll live.” Ahmed looked around and found a towel hung on a wall hook. He wrapped it around the man’s leg tightly. “Where did they take them?”

  “I don’t know,” the man wailed. “I heard that they were being about shipped out of Greece... some of the children get exported out of here to other countries.”

  The children without families who the world had forgotten about, had obviously become a profitable business. Sold off, no doubt, to people with affluence as slaves to filthy-rich perverts.

  “Where do they ship from?”

  “I don’t know, I swear!”

  Ahmed stood up and began thinking of how he was going to get out.

  He could smell the strong stench of cigarettes from the man, he must have a cigarette lighter. “Give me your lighter,” Ahmed demanded.

  “What?”

  Ahmed reached into the man’s pocket and removed a silver zippo lighter and scrunched up a few newspapers scattered close by, and put them on top of the tables.

  “Hey! What are you doing?” the man asked. “There are over twenty-million euros worth of drugs here... you really don’t want to do that... Look, I’ve only been working for the boss for a few weeks, but I know that this guy is crazy... I mean real crazy! He will kill you and your family... don’t do it, man.”

  Ahmed paid no attention to what he was saying, “They’re not worth a single euro to me,” he mumbled, and lit the newspapers on each table. They caught fire fast. Ahmed felt himself staring at the flames. Am I mad? He might have been mad, but he was pleased with himself for destroying the drugs. He was convinced that they were as harmful in the hands of the police as they were with these guys. Ok, he was halfway to being dead, but he had to do what he had to do to help Malik, and if that meant dying doing it, so be it.

  With the flames lighting up the room, he removed his phone from his pocket and called the emergency services.

  “You really are crazy!” the man said, catching his lighter that Ahmed threw to him. Ahmed didn’t respond and his twisted look of triumph would have agreed completely with the man’s judgement of his mental state.

  Within minutes, sirens were screaming. The fire was now getting out of control, the heat unbearable. Ahmed clasped a hand to his mouth, worried about inhaling the fumes from the burning drugs. Getting high was the last thing on his mind.

  Ahmed dragged the man out of the room and shut the door behind him. He then hid behind some large wooden boxes.

  “Say a word and I will shoot you!” Ahmed hadn’t given the man any reason to doubt him. The bullet in his leg would also testify.

  Moments later, Ahmed heard the firefighter’s heavy boots clambering down the metal stairs. He looked out of a small window that faced the street and noticed four SUV vehicles parked on the street. There were a few suspicious looking men standing around them. Boreas sent four cars… he obviously wasn’t taking any chances. In a peculiar way, Ahmed felt a little flattered. He had never been involved in anything like this before, he had no fighting experience yet here he was getting the better of a notorious gangster.

  Think fast... Ahmed remained hidden in the shadows and waited for the fire fighters to rush in to tackle the fire. One of them noticed the man on the floor holding his bloody leg and ran back out. Moments later, two paramedics followed him down the stairs, one with a medic bag and the other carrying a light stretcher. They hurried over to him and Ahmed stepped out from the shadows and pointed the gun at them.

  “What is the meaning of this?” one of the paramedics said in Greek, putting his hands up in the air and looking around him for help.

  “Please,” the man puffed, “we don’t want any trouble, we are unarmed and just want to help this injured man,” the paramedic said in a shaky voice, “Whatever is going on here is not our concern… we can’t even see your face.” The man looked away.

  Ahmed stepped closer and then said, “Take off your shirt and mask now!”

  The paramedics looked at each other in shock.

  “I’d do as he says,” the man lying on the floor said, “he’s completely out of his mind!”

  The paramedic took off his shirt and mask and gave it to Ahmed. Ahmed quickly put on the green shirt and the mask. He put his rucksack on before peering back at the frightened paramedic.

  “You, come with me!

  “What?” The paramedic said.

  “Just do it!” Ahmed pointed the gun directly at his head.

  They got up the stairs and Ahmed pointed the gun at the paramedic again.

  “Now, get on the stretcher!”

  “What?! No!”

  “It’ll be the last thing I ask of you, I promise. I won’t hurt you… you have my word.”

  The frightened paramedic got onto the stretcher and Ahmed wheeled him out into the ambulance as if he were a patient. The unsuspecting men, outside, ignored Ahmed as he rushed past them and pushed the stretcher into the ambulance. They were waiting for Goldstein to walk out. They had a picture of a menacing killer, a gangster that had dared to challenge Boreas. Rumours of him being a notorious gangster from some other country, here to make his mark, were already floating around.

  They would have been shocked if they saw Ahmed, he didn’t look like a menace or a gangster. He was as much gangster as they were PHD graduates.

  Ahmed drove the ambulance off in a rush, sirens blazing. He looked in the rear view, watching to see if the men would react but they didn’t. They stood watching the building with hawk like expressions. He couldn’t believe that he pulled it off, again.

  They had no idea. Those guys are so stupid!

  Although he knew that they weren’t giving him chase, he couldn’t take his eyes off the mirrors, just in case.

  He finally stopped a few streets down, adrenaline still buzzing in his body. He peered back to make sure the paramedic was ok before he abandoned the ambulance and ran as fast as he could. He wasn’t quite sure why he was running, no one was following him. But Ahmed just kept running. He ran until he could run no more. When he eventually stopped, he crouched over and desperately tried to get his breath back. The burger he ate earlier was almost at his throat and he desperately needed to pee. He was exhausted and his body was trying to convince him to give up, but he couldn’t… He had to find Malik. Every time he thought about giving up and stopping, he reminded himself of his young, beautiful boy, taken by these savages. If this meant that he would get killed in the process, then so be it, and if he had to kill everyone that got in his way, then that is what he would do. There was a time for talking and a time for action — he was done talking.

  He took off the paramedic’s shirt and threw it in a bush. Strapping
the rucksack back on tightly. As he stood, taking deep breaths, hoping that the sharp stitch would wear off, he noticed lights shining from further ahead. He walked towards it and discovered that he was near a street that was full of shops and large buildings. He didn’t know what street it was and kept his head down. Some morning joggers passed him as he limped along the walkway with blistered feet. A postman rode past on a bicycle and gave him a sympathetic smile. It was a kind, generous smile that spoke a thousand gentle and beautiful words. Ahmed, although completely beat, returned the smile. And this, somehow, helped Ahmed calm down. It was only a smile but was enough to momentarily make him feel human again.

  He looked down at himself and his nice white shirt was stained with dirt. His face was blackened by smoke from the fire and, as he ran a hand through his hair, he had to laugh to himself, imagining how the hotel stylist who’d worked on his hair, would have disapproved of what Ahmed had done to his creation.

  He trudged along the street that was showing signs of waking. People stared at him, sympathetically, as if they thought he was a hobo or a tramp. Not that anyone stopped to see if he was ok or offered him anything. It didn’t matter, he didn’t need that sort of help, especially with the ridiculous amount of money he was lugging around on his back.

  Suddenly, as he walked past a TV shop, he caught sight of a man who looked exactly like himself. He stopped, taking a moment to realise it was himself; the image on the screen was him.

  Breaking News: Authorities are still on the hunt for Mohammad Ahmed, he is believed to be an ISIS agent and has been linked to a murder at a refugee camp and possibly to another body of a man found murdered this morning. Authorities have not released the exact location of where the body was found. He is also believed to be responsible for a car bomb at a card factory. Members of the public are urged to not approach this man if spotted. He is highly dangerous.

  Officials have said that they will be increasing the level of police presence over the next few days.

  In other news: working people and small businesses may face an increase in tax over the next few months, exactly how much, is unclear at the moment…

  Ahmed walked away quickly, he had heard enough. He was now officially a terrorist.

  And in a way, he was.

  It was comforting, however, that all governments and media organisations operated in a similar fashion — sensationalising every situation for their personal gain. I guess crookedness doesn’t have borders and slavery has many channels.

  ****

  “Have we got the CCTV footage from the card factory?” Agent Stavros asked.

  “We have...” Inspector Lambros replied faintly, “but, there’s a problem.”

  “What?”

  “I think it’s better I show you.” Lambros turned the laptop computer to face him, “This is the footage of the main cameras at the entrance just before the incident... the footage showed the front of the building. And then… boom. It all goes pink.”

  “What the hell happened there?” Harris stood in front of the screen, scratching his head.

  “Interesting... what about the car? Any ideas on who the car belongs to?” Stavros asked, nudging Harris out of the way.

  “Yeah, actually the car belongs to Alexandros S Titos. He runs a law firm in town.”

  “And why would Mr. Titos want to do such a bizarre thing?”

  “No idea…”

  “So... have we spoken to Mr. Titos about his car crashing into a factory and exploding?” Stavros asked. He was tired of asking obvious questions.

  “We can’t...”

  “Erm... why not?

  “Because he’s been missing since yesterday.”

  Well that’s a surprise! Stavros thought.

  “Maybe he was drunk and slammed into the factory and the two incidents aren’t related…” Harris remarked.

  “Come on, Harris, that was hell of an explosion for someone who had driven his car into a wall,” Stavros said.

  Harris plumped himself back into his chair and stared at the at the floor like a lost child. “Has the car been examined?” he asked, slightly tilting his head as he awaited a response.

  “Erm… no, not yet,” Lambros responded.

  “Interesting.” Stavros spun the chair around and faced the wall for a moment and then quickly spun it back again when he heard the phone on the desk ring. Everyone was dead silent and in such deep thought that the loud ringing almost made them jump. It didn’t help that it was one of those archaic, wired phones, the sort that had an old-fashioned bell chime that left your ears ringing long after it had stopped.

  “Can I get that?” the inspector asked, almost sarcastically.

  “Please do,” Stavros responded with equilibrium.

  “Inspector Lambros speaking,” he said, and looked at agent Stavros, “from my office!” he added with a hint of spite in his tone. “What?” he gasped, and his slumped spine suddenly straightened. “When? Ok, wait there, I’m on route.”

  “What is it?” Stavros asked, noticing the sudden panic that surged through Lambros. It was like watching an old diesel engine suddenly fire up.

  Lambros stood up and straightened out his clothes and clipped his radio securely on his belt.

  “There’s been a fire at another factory, a textiles factory close by.”

  “Oh, you think they’re linked?” Stavros asked and reached for Lambros’ coat. “Here, let me get that for you.”

  “Erm, it’s possible, but not confirmed yet… I suppose you guys are coming, right?” Lambros said, looking a little flustered.

  “We’ll meet you there…” Stavros replied, sitting back down.

  “Suit yourself.” Lambros dashed out of the office as if he was on fire.

  There was a long moment of silence as Stavros chewed on his thoughts. He then swivelled in the chair a few times and then stopped, staring thoughtfully at the wall.

  “Erm...” Harris muttered, “shouldn’t we be on our way to the factory to look for clues? Maybe it was our guy?”

  Stavros took a moment before he responded, “Of course… but, before that,” Stavros lowered his arm and allowed a black note book to slide out of his sleeve and he immediately threw it on the floor. “It seems as though the inspector dropped something. There’s something strange about our inspector,” Stavros said as he got up and picked up the note book.

  “I thought it was strange that you picked up the inspector’s coat. You filched the book out of his coat, didn’t you?”

  “What do you mean, filched?” asked Stavros, not used to the nuances Harris used in his speech.

  “Never mind,” Harris said, “What do you mean about the inspector being ‘strange’?

  “Just the way he reacted to the news of the fire in the factory. His face went as red as tomatoes.”

  “Go on…”

  “Maybe it’s nothing, or maybe it’s something.” Stavros opened the book and flicked through the pages. “He seemed very concerned about the factory. I’m guessing that this factory might belong to the same person that owns the one that got attacked earlier, and quite possibly, Lambros knows more about it than he lets on.”

  “Boreas owns it…” Harris nodded his head. “Wait, you think that Lambros is dirty?”

  “I don’t know… but something definitely isn’t right here.”

  “But why would Lambros be concerned with a couple of old run-down factories?”

  “Isn’t it unusual that nothing was found at the card factory… not even cards.”

  “It was almost as though the building was cleared out before anyone got a whiff of what was going on,” said Harris.

  “But, the police were first to the scene.” Stavros lowered the notebook and peered over at Harris.

  “But I…” Harris paused for a moment, and said, “Oh… I see…”

  Stavros, now looking relieved that the penny had finally dropped, said, “Precisely!” He lifted the notebook up again, “But this begs a more pressing question.”
r />   “Why are the police helping Boreas cover up?”

  “Harris, my dear friend, I envy your simplicity, I really do. The real question here is… why does an ISIS terrorist want to attack factories that belong to Boreas? Surely, he would want to kill as many people as he could… a busy train, or the High Street at the peak time — yet, he is attacking empty factories — and it appears that he is actually trying not to kill people.”

  “So, you think the textiles factory belongs to Boreas as well?”

  “Unquestionably,” Stavros continued flicking through the pages. “Furthermore… I think our friend Ahmed is not a ISIS terrorist at all, he seems too clever. Have a look at this,” he turned the notebook to face Harris, “its noted down here that the person that alerted the authorities about the factory called himself Goldstein.”

  “Goldstein?”

  “As in… Emmanuel Goldstein.”

  “Emmanuel Goldstein?” Harris shrugged his shoulders with an annoying blank look on his face.

  Stavros thought of referring to his earlier somewhat sarcastic comment about Harris’ simplicity, but he decided against saying anything.

  “Emmanuel Goldstein was a character in George Orwell’s novel, 1984.”

  “Ok?”

  “He was the enemy of the state, used in propaganda and in a way to steer people into a particular direction, and to divert attention.”

  “Oh… or maybe his name is Goldstein and this is just a big coincidence?”

  Stavros rolled his eyes. “Maybe, or maybe not. Good thing I don’t believe in coincidences.”

  12

  A night and a day had passed, the factory was now freezing and Stelios had been trying to stretch the electrical wires to get his arms free. It wasn’t working and the agony that cut into his wrists was acute.