Firefly

by Henry Porter

  The Libyan asked him to shift the phone because of the reflection, then he seemed to nod. ‘Maybe I remember her,’ he said.

  ‘Maybe?’ said Samson, his anger showing for the first time. ‘Maybe? I need more than that.’

  ‘There were many women.’

  ‘This one was different. She was very educated, a brilliant doctor and she spoke English fluently like an American, though perhaps she never allowed that to be known. She had dignity, the bearing of an accomplished person – a person who has already done much in her life.’

  ‘I say maybe.’ The Libyan shifted his buttocks on the ground. ‘I’m not sure.’

  Samson stared down at him hard. The man’s eyes avoided his. ‘I think you know her, and I think you know what happened to her, too,’ he said. He waved the heroin in front of the man. ‘Tell me and you can have as much of this stuff as you want.’

  The man took a couple of deep breaths and the hacking cough began again. Samson asked Vuk to give him some water, which he did reluctantly. Vuk knew exactly what kind of man their captive was.

  The Libyan wiped his mouth and started again. ‘Maybe she was the woman the caliphate sold to Abu Wassim. Maybe the caliphate even gave her because Abu Wassim is one of the greatest servants of the caliphate. I do not remember.’

  ‘Abu Wassim – you’re certain that was his name?’

  The Libyan nodded. ‘That is his name – the woman was this man’s property.’

  ‘And who is this man? Where is he now?’

  ‘I never met him.’

  ‘But all these women passed through your hands. You have hundreds of them on your phone. You must know the man who bought her.’

  The Libyan started shaking his head. ‘No, you misunderstand the situation – I was in charge of the records of the disposals and allowing brothers to see what women were available before the disposals, while they were in the field.’

  ‘By disposal you mean the slave market – the auctions,’ said Samson firmly. He desperately wanted to punch Al Kufra’s face in and so looked away to the waters of the river below them. ‘But you saw what happened to the doctor,’ he said eventually ‘Where was she held?’

  ‘Mosul – in a house with twenty others.’

  This tallied exactly with Samson’s information. It was from this house that two young Yazidi girls had escaped and brought news of Dr Hisami’s suicide. They reported that they saw her rarely because they were held in different parts of the complex, which was formerly some kind of clinic. Two weeks before she hanged herself they found her collapsed in a shower. They told of seeing rope marks on her hands and ankles, bruises and cigarette burns across her midriff and neck. Samson had spared Denis Hisami these details.

  ‘Is she on your phone? Do you have a photograph of her?’

  Al Kufra looked up at him slyly. ‘I need what you’ve got in your hand. Then I will help you.’

  Samson stepped forward and seized the man’s collar with his left hand and jerked it up. In doing so the thumb of his right hand slid across the screen. He saw the screen fill with a dozen or so images of young women. He had accidentally opened Al Kufra’s entire catalogue of women for sale. ‘You are way past the point when you will ever make a bargain with anyone again. Now show me the photograph.’ He let go and held the phone up so Al Kufra could see and began to scroll through the faces of hundreds of women. ‘Up? Down? Which way? Where is she?’ he demanded.

  Al Kufra asked him to slow down, then said he should go to the part of the record where there were two sisters. He remembered the sale of the sisters, and that was close to the time when she came up for disposal. The sisters were ‘featured’ together in the same photograph – that was unusual. It was in the spring, he added.

  ‘It was in the spring,’ Samson repeated dully. The cliché about the banality of evil was never truer. The key figure in a programme of mass rape and enslavement was this loser with broken trainers, a filthy football supporter’s shirt and an addict’s restless eyes. The organised barbarity of what he had participated in was up there with the Khmer Rouge in Cambodia, the genocide of the Tutsi people in Rwanda and the slaughter of 7,500 Muslim men and boys by Bosnian Serbs at Srebrenica. In scale and cruelty, it complied with every definition of a war crime. Yet at the heart of the machine that destroyed Dr Aysel Hisami was this scabrous, raddled junkie. After months of patient search and a lot of money paid out in bribes and inducements, Samson had found him by chance because of a stolen phone.

  He began to go through the vast album of victims but couldn’t find a photograph of two sisters.

  ‘Maybe in special section,’ said Al Kufra.

  ‘How do you get into that?’

  ‘I have to show you. I need my hands.’ He worked his way from the tyre and leaned forward so that Aco could untie his hands. The instant they were free, he struck with the speed of the cobra and in one movement seized the gun from Vuk and levelled it at Samson. But he hadn’t taken into account that behind him stood a young man who was in all probability one of the most violent individuals in the Balkans. Samson was briefly aware of a slightly manic smile spreading across Aco’s face before he punched Al Kufra hard on the side of the neck and sent him reeling sideways. The gun dropped from his hand and before Al Kufra knew what was happening Aco had him in a headlock and was preparing to snap his neck. Vuk retrieved the gun and used the opportunity to kick the Libyan in the ribs.

  They lifted him up and placed him against the tyre. A few minutes later, with the gun pressed to his temple, Al Kufra opened up the ‘special section’ and led Samson to the heartrending photograph of Aysel Hisami, who was pictured naked, with a look of utter despair in her eyes. It was extremely hard for Samson to see, but he had to make sure that it was the doctor. Beneath was entered the name Abu Wassim and the price paid by him – $160.

  Samson examined the picture briefly and walked away holding the sachets and bag of pills.

  ‘We had a deal,’ Al Kufra said, as Aco tied his hands again.

  Samson tore opened the sachets and shook the powder into the breeze. He opened the bag of pills, placed a stone inside it and tied a knot in the plastic. Then he hurled it high over the scrub on the embankment and the river’s edge and watched it plummet towards the waters of the Vardar. He did not even turn to see the devastation on the Libyan’s face, but kept walking to get away from the man. ‘Kill him if he so much as moves a muscle,’ he said over his shoulder.

  He took a screenshot of the page with Hisami’s photograph and Abu Wassim’s name and the price and sent it to his own email address, and then attached it in a message to Macy Harp’s cell phone.

  Macy called a few minutes later, just as Samson had lit a cigarette. Samson explained how they had apprehended Al Kufra that morning by tracing Naji’s phone, and how he had found the catalogue of sex slaves quite by chance. ‘That photograph is just one of hundreds on his phone.’

  ‘I’m sorry you had to see it, Paul,’ said Macy. ‘I know how much she came to mean to you.’

  ‘Yes, well . . .’ For a moment he couldn’t speak.

  ‘What’s Al Kufra like?’

  ‘This is a man who flipped from playing Candy Crush to selling women for rape by text. But at least we got Abu Wassim’s name.’

  ‘Yes, Denis Hisami will be pleased about that. Did he say anything else about Abu Wassim?’

  ‘Says he didn’t know him.’

  ‘You believe him?’

  ‘No – I think there’ll be more information about the man on the phone. Our friends have looked at it remotely already. I’ll give them the phone when they collect this bastard, which should be any second now. The information about the missing women will be crucial to the families and I guess it could form the basis of some kind of prosecution.’

  ‘That’s good.’

  ‘And you should make sure Nyman understands that I’m giving it to th
em on condition that you’re allowed access to all relevant information about Aysel Hisami. Remind him I was hired to find the boy and that this is a bonus.’

  ‘I don’t have to – he’s onside. You still believe the boy is alive?’

  He took a last puff from the cigarette and stubbed it out carefully on a rock. ‘On balance, I do. The kid’s a survivor.’

  They began to wind up the conversation. Before he said goodbye, Macy said, ‘It’s the last day at Ascot next week – the last meeting of the flat season. Any thoughts?’

  ‘Plenty,’ said Samson. ‘But I’m keeping them to myself for the time being.’

  ‘You’re a cagey bugger,’ said Harp, and hung up. It was odd, possibly inappropriate, that they talked about racing just then, but thinking about Ascot improved Samson’s mood. It made him feel calm again. He kept his distance from Al Kufra from then on, although he was satisfied to see increasing signs of withdrawal. Even in his line of work, he had encountered very few people who had done as much harm as he.

  *

  About an hour later they moved him to high ground to be collected by a civilian helicopter, which had on board the SIS man from the Skopje embassy, Sonny Small, and two Macedonian intelligence officers. The Frenchman appeared to have been left behind. The Libyan struggled, protesting that he was an innocent refugee and that they had no evidence against him, but Samson showed the Macedonians what was on the phone. They took one look and Al Kufra was hoisted unceremoniously into the helicopter and forced to the floor with a gun in his face.

  ‘London mentioned some drugs,’ said Small, out of earshot.

  ‘I disposed of them all. You don’t want the Macedonians charging him with drugs offences? He’ll be here for the next decade.’

  ‘Quite right,’ said Small.

  ‘He’s going to be crazy for a while – he’s coming off speed and a high-grade heroin.’

  ‘Maybe that’s no bad thing.’

  ‘Indeed,’ said Samson, ‘a little suffering would not go amiss. He says he has TB, so don’t let him cough all over you.’

  Small lifted his chin towards the two Macedonians. ‘They want to know who you are and what you are doing here.’

  ‘Tell them the truth – that I’m a private contractor looking for someone among the migrants. I’ll be gone in the next twenty-four hours. I’m very happy for them to call Macy – he has a lot of contacts from the days of the break-up of Yugoslavia. Probably knows these guys’ boss.’ He gave Small the number.

  ‘Right, I think that’s everything,’ said Small, moving to the aircraft. He had forgotten to ask for Naji’s phone, and Samson wasn’t going to remind him. He wanted to look at it more thoroughly himself – and besides, SIS had access to it, as long as it was on.

  They watched the chopper take off. When the noise had died down, he turned to Vuk. ‘I think we should find somewhere to have a drink and some food.’

  Vuk said he knew just the place in the local town where they could wait while Simon and Lupcho checked the stretch of rail line to the south of them on the slim chance that Naji was on it.

  ‘What we do about boy?’ he said.

  ‘Wait,’ said Samson.

  Ten

  From the moment they hit the highway, Naji’s rescuer made clear the favour was not without its price. As he accelerated to 120 mph, he put his hand on Naji’s leg and groped the inside of his thigh. There was nothing Naji could do. They were travelling faster than he had ever been in his life, and he couldn’t risk distracting the man, even though the highway was clear. Naji screamed ‘Nein!’ and ‘No!’ several times, but it just seemed to make him more excited. He was enjoying Naji’s panic. And then he showed him a card, which featured a blue shield in which there was a Cyrillic heading, the word Police and the initials PM between laurels.

  He flashed the card at the first tollbooth and went through the barrier without paying. He pulled up in a truck inspection area on the right of the highway and waited there, revving his engine and glancing in his mirror. It wasn’t long before the pickup arrived at the barrier to pay.

  ‘They will kill us. Sie . . . sind . . . Terroristen,’ said Naji. ‘They are terrorists.’

  The man raised his sunglasses and gave Naji a sadistic smile. The pickup passed through the barrier and drifted towards them. Usaim and Ibrahim were peering over the roof from the back. Al-munajil had one arm out of the window.

  Naji begged the man to move. ‘They will kill us.’

  He put his foot on the accelerator and they moved about thirty metres.

  The man touched him again, this time on his stomach, and searched Naji’s face for a sign of compliance. Naji was shaking. He could have cried, but he was just too frightened. If the man left him on the side of the highway, Al-munajil would grab him and kill him. He tried to smile, and he gave the man a nod, as though he would accept his attentions. But this did not seem to be enough. The man allowed Al-munajil’s pickup to approach them again. It was a game of cat and mouse. Every time they nearly caught them, the policeman’s car shot forward. He didn’t understand why Al-munajil had not drawn level and opened fire. If this were Syria, they’d be dead by now. Something was holding them back. Maybe they didn’t have any guns – a person posing as a migrant couldn’t risk being found with a weapon.

  They played this game for about five minutes. Naji ended up with his eyes fixed on his backpack, which was wedged between his legs in the footwell, praying that something would save him from the situation. Quite suddenly the pickup roared ahead of them and started up the highway. Naji soon saw why. Two police cars with flashing lights were passing through the tollbooth – they were the first of a motorcade that included a big black saloon, and a Mercedes SUV with darkened windows and another car with flashing lights behind its radiator grill.

  Naji thought of opening the door and making a run for it right then, but the man read his mind and grabbed his arm at the same time as moving the car forward. The motorcade disappeared up the highway and passed the pickup, which began to slow down again. The Opel caught up with it, but as soon as it tried to pass, the pickup swerved into their path. This went on for a long time, despite other vehicles occasionally going by, and for most of it the man felt able to fondle and touch him wherever he wanted. Naji’s face grew hot with rage and shame. The man called a friend on his phone and although Naji had no idea what he was saying, he knew from the lascivious looks and gestures that this wasn’t good news for him. In Greece, he had been warned about predators on the road. He’d taken no notice, despite his experience when buying a life jacket. He realised that the man he was with now was many degrees more dangerous than the old bastard with the big belly who had tried to grope him in the alley.

  And still one car blocked the other. The man got so bored that he used the camera to take a picture of Naji and sent it to his friend, and then rang him back to discuss him more. Naji felt like a little goat in the market. He resolved to try to escape, even if that meant jumping out of the car when it was moving.

  After about twenty minutes, they reached an exit on the highway. The pickup’s driver slowed down, presumably trying to work out whether the car Naji was travelling in would take the exit or keep heading north towards the border with Serbia. The Opel moved to the fast lane and accelerated, as if planning to continue on the highway. The pickup moved to block its way. The Opel swerved to the right and headed to the exit at great speed, clipping a bank of gravel. The driver let out a whoop of triumph, but before they took the roundabout to follow the road east towards the Bulgarian border, Naji saw the pickup go into the slow lane and begin to reverse, so it too could take the exit. They wouldn’t be far behind.

  The man’s demeanour suddenly became much more aggressive. He kept cuffing him and grabbing him by the neck. For the second time that day, Naji’s hand closed around the handle of the knife in his pocket, but they were going too fast for him to do anything.r />
  The fields and vineyards gave way to unfarmed land and scrub. Suddenly the man turned left, up a minor road that meandered in parallel with one of the many tributaries of the Vardar. It was a beautiful area, though Naji was in no state to appreciate the wild European countryside. Without warning, they turned off the road and went down a leafy track towards the river, at the end of which was a deserted building with a tin roof and walls that were made from huge boulders. The man seemed to know the spot well. He reversed the car to the side of the building so it could not be seen from the road. He turned the engine off and grabbed Naji, trying to fondle him again. Naji fended him off. The man got out and went round to the passenger door, opened it and hauled Naji out. He was strong and Naji knew he didn’t stand a chance against him. But he broke free and summoned all the German he knew to plead with the man to leave him alone. All he got in return was a shake of the head and a brutal smile. The man removed his jacket, laid it carefully on the car’s roof, unbuckled his belt and came after him.

  Naji took the knife from his pocket, feinted to the left then, ducking down, he moved to the right and plunged the blade into the man’s thigh. He aimed low intentionally, but he could just as easily have stabbed him in the stomach. He pulled the knife out, stepped back and readied himself to lunge again. His assailant looked down at the spreading patch of blood on his left trouser leg and yelled. He lunged at Naji with his fist, missed, then took hold of his leg with both hands and let out another cry of pain. Naji stepped back, certain that the man was not yet finished with him. He knew that a thrust to the man’s chest with the fat, long blade of the throwing knife might kill him, but he desperately didn’t want to have to do this, even though the man was a rapist. Their eyes locked. Naji raised the knife again and silently shook his head to tell the man that he really meant business. He said something in Arabic, which came out without him even thinking about it. ‘I come from a country where people kill each other every day of every week, and I will kill you if you don’t leave me alone, sir.’ Of course, the man didn’t understand the sentence, least of all the honorific that Naji rather oddly tacked onto the end, but maybe he got some of its meaning.