by Henry Porter
‘Look, he’s watching him,’ said Samson, pointing to the man standing by a dark blue Opel Zafira.
‘This guy, he likes fuck the boys,’ said Vuk.
‘Maybe,’ said Samson.
They watched the man for a while, then Vuk pointed to the small section of the screen that still showed Naji. Samson clicked to enlarge. Naji had stopped playing and was staring in front of him. The time was 09.12.
‘What’s he seen?’ murmured Samson.
They searched the feeds from the other cameras. Beyond the petrol pumps, the bottom half of a metallic grey pickup was visible. It has just pulled up and the exhaust pipe was smoking badly. An arm hung out of the passenger window and a hand patted the door. A man in navy sweatpants jumped down from the back – a tall, lean individual who was wearing a cap beneath a hoodie. He strode under the cameras that were covering the pumps, then was seen coming from the left in the shot of the front of the building which featured Naji.
He approached Naji and took hold of him. Samson and Vuk watched him marching Naji towards the pickup, then Naji breaking free and running back, not to the building entrance as they expected, but to some gas canisters, where he picked up a stick. The man stopped and whipped round. He seemed to want to go after Naji, but hesitated and decided to return to the pickup.
Over the next five minutes, flipping from camera to camera, they pieced together the order of events around 09.14 that morning: the attempt by the pickup – a Nissan – to snatch Naji; the interception by the dark blue Opel; and the beginning of the pursuit up the highway. The footage supplied much vital information. Samson froze the shot of Naji’s would-be kidnapper as he lifted his cap, and got a very clear image of his face, which he photographed with his phone and immediately sent to London. He also sent a more blurred picture of this individual and another man in the back of the pickup, captured as it circled the pumps before driving away. One of the men was wearing a bandage, so identification might be difficult. He grabbed a good image of the man in the Opel and photographed the registration plates of the two cars. The Opel Zafira hatchback had a two-letter area code – DE. Vuk told him that meant it came from Delčevo, a small town in the eastern part of Macedonia, close to Bulgaria. Vuk thought he could get the details of the Opel’s owner quickly, but the Nissan had a Bosnian plate and that would take a day or two.
The significance of the vehicle from Bosnia, whence increasing number of jihadist recruits were coming, did not escape Samson. He sent the registration number to London, to be forwarded to the British embassy in Sarajevo, which could establish whether the plates were fake or genuine – and track down the owner if they were the latter. Normally he would have made arrangements to copy sections of the film, but he didn’t want to alert the manager of the service area to what precisely was on his system, particularly as the police were due the next day. Besides, he had all that he needed.
They left the back office with plenty of time to spare. The manager of the service station looked up from the cash register: ‘Got what you wanted?’ he asked.
‘Yes, you’ve been a great help,’ said Samson, holding out his hand. ‘We’re grateful to you. And can I just say it was good of you to let him rest in the toilets last night? I have an interest in the boy’s survival – I meant what I said about your kindness.’
Zoran blushed and said it was nothing
When he got outside, Vuk was already talking to his contacts in the police about the owner of the Opel. Samson moved away from the pumps and rang London to bring the Office up to date.
Chris Okiri answered. ‘This is really good – marvellous stuff. You bagged three of the bastards in one day.’
‘It’s just a photograph, Chris.’
‘Yeah, but a photograph that matches some images from Athens – this guy was a few feet behind Naji in the railway station. The quality of the pictures from Athens is not good, but it’s definitely the same man. And now we’re examining the other men around him, trying for matches in imagery from camps in Lesbos and Turkey. Really, this is fantastic.’
‘No one has any clue about his ID?’
‘No, but we’re searching all the databases. In a couple of hours we’ll be showing the photograph to the people who have been in that particular part of the world. We should get something out of them.’
‘He’s not the machete man,’ said Samson. ‘He wouldn’t have risked showing his face like that. But I get the feeling he was in the car. So we need to find that pickup damned fast.’
‘Believe me – we’re working on it. By the way, how the hell did they know the boy was going to be there?’
‘They didn’t – it was pure chance.’
‘And he left with this other man – the bloke in the Opel?’
‘Yes, that may be a problem,’ said Samson, looking over to Vuk, who was gesticulating angrily into the phone. ‘We’re looking into that now. We’ll be going east later.’
‘You may have to delay that. The boss is flying in. He’s expecting you in the capital. And our friend in Turkey will be there, too. She’s got a hell of a story to tell.’
‘I’ll be in the east, as I said.’
‘This stuff has to be face to face – you know that. You can delay for a few hours, surely?’
Samson was silent. He was familiar with the discreet signals his former colleagues gave out, the gentle steers and nudges towards a particular course of action. It was like the dance performed by honeybees to communicate a message. They wouldn’t say it, of course, but the boy was no longer important to them.
‘What’s going on, Chris?’
‘Nothing. Everyone’s absolutely thrilled with your brilliant work today. The man you brought in this morning is really valuable – we’re sure of that. He knows a lot about what’s happening in Libya, too. And this photograph you just sent is a breakthrough. We’re going to be building on that through the night. Believe me – you’ve done a wonderful job. Look, go and hear what they have to say. I’ll send the details.’
‘But you’re giving up on the boy?’
‘No, of course not! We’re committed to Firefly. That’s why you’re on the job.’
Samson shook his head as he listened, surprised that Okiri thought he’d fall for such obvious bullshit. ‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘When is our friend going to arrive from Turkey?’
‘Last flight from Sofia tonight. So, you’ll be in the capital. What shall I tell the boss?’
‘I’m not sure what you should say to your boss. But I’ll be there if I can make it back from the east.’
‘I’ll tell him you’ll be there.’
‘He’s got my number, if he wants to check in,’ said Samson, and hung up. He went over to Vuk, who apparently had no anxiety about smoking in the petrol station. ‘Any luck?’ he asked him.
Vuk shook his head. ‘Maybe police bastard.’
‘You’re saying they’re not giving out registration details for police officers, is that right?
‘Yes, this is what I am saying. New vehicle so he maybe police bastard.’
‘So the boy was picked up by an off-duty cop – that’s really not good news for several reasons.’
‘Why?’
‘For a start, a policeman who has a taste for little boys is going to think he can get away with more. He’ll take bigger risks.’
‘He maybe in the government also,’ said Vuk.
‘The same applies.’ Samson looked around. ‘Where’s Aco?’
‘Hunting jihadis.’
Samson immediately understood he’d been redeployed at London’s behest. ‘And Lupcho and Simeon, too?’
Vuk confirmed this with a regretful nod.
‘So, we no longer give a shit about the boy. Just one of the many kids that disappear on the road, is that it?’ He almost said it to himself.
‘I give shit for Naji.’ Vuk put his elbows close to
gether and let his hands fall open like an aggrieved Italian. ‘I give many shits, mister.’
*
Samson had some time on his hands without the address to visit in Delčevo. He drove with Vuk to Skopje airport – also, to the fury of the Greeks, named after Alexander the Great. There, they rented a car from a pathetically grateful young man who represented one of the smaller car hire companies – in Samson’s view, the bigger ones had all given up trying long ago – and loitered in the almost deserted airport, waiting for Sonia Fell’s delayed flight. He received a couple of oblique texts from Nyman, who was already at the British embassy, but ignored them. He knew exactly the game Nyman was playing. This all reminded him of the enormous amount of communication that occurred in the Office, designed to give out various discreet signals but saying absolutely nothing. He didn’t miss that institutionalised waste of time, or the furious search for meaning in emails between colleagues. In fact, he didn’t miss much about SIS – certainly not characters like Nyman, nor, now he came to think of it, Sonia Fell, who for a brief moment he had been attracted to. They’d had a mild flirtation that lasted a few dinners and an outing to the theatre, but went no further because Fell insisted on examining him on past love affairs, of which there were quite a few, and talking about work and her ambition. And, it went without saying that she disapproved of his passion for horseracing, which was more or less a deal breaker for Samson.
He tried to persuade her that making a large bet could be a thoroughly rational business – indeed, like investing in a promising stock – and that there was no element of addiction to his behaviour because he did not get a kick out of the risk, or possess some deep-seated need to lose. He explained that since he was a student at Oxford, he had successfully made money by being careful and very, very disciplined. He even showed the little book where he kept the record of all the bets he’d made since he was nineteen, and pointed out that in some years he had not gambled, but she was unimpressed and also rather shocked by the amounts risked in the most recent punts. In her mind, the gambling was not only a weakness in itself, but indicative of, or at least allied to, what she thought was his sexual incontinence – her expression, not his.
His mind moved to the prospects of Dark Narcissus, a four-year-old mare with one good win to her name, in the last big flat race of the season at Ascot. Lightly raced, she was a sharp little racehorse and he particularly liked the way she’d rounded a bend with such purpose in a race of one mile and one furlong at Sandown. But it hadn’t been the jockey’s finest hour: he took the wrong line in the final three furlongs and got boxed in, with the result that Dark Narcissus was sixth. What attracted Samson to the bet was that she wasn’t given credit for the way she ran the race until that moment, and no one seemed to notice that the jockey eased back once he knew he’d screwed up. At 16–1 she was a good price. The favourite, a horse called Snow Hat, was at 4–1.
While a morose man worked a floor polisher around him, he did some calculations, which involved betting on both horses at different times. The first bet would be on Snow Hat and he’d make it with Jay Judah, a bookie from whom he had taken a lot of money in the previous year. The moment he placed the bet the price would come in: £5,000 on the nose should do the trick. Judah would gab away about Samson’s interest in Snow Hat and start a minor fashion for the horse. That would probably mean the prices on the less fancied horses would go out, particularly as it was a big field. He could see Dark Narcissus drift to 20–1 or even 25–1.
He made the bet online through his account and wasn’t surprised five minutes later to receive a call from Judah, whom he knew kept a wary eye on the market at all hours of the day. ‘This is unusual for you,’ said Judah after some stiff pleasantries. ‘What do you know about the animal?’
‘Not a lot, but it seems to have improved over the season. I just like the way it competes.’
There was silence from Judah for a few seconds. ‘Bollocks,’ he said. ‘Bloody bollocks. You know something. What do you know?’
‘Really, I know nothing about Snow Hat. Just a feeling – that’s all.’
‘You don’t do feelings, Samson. You’re a fucking shark. I’m laying most of this off.’
Samson now had a good banker bet on Snow Hat that would produce a large profit if it won and cover much of his stake on Dark Narcissus. Now he’d wait and watch the price move out on Dark Narcissus.
Sonia Fell arrived at just before ten and was surprised to see him. ‘They didn’t say you were picking me up,’ she said.
‘They didn’t know. I wanted to talk to you about Naji before . . .’
‘I talk to Nyman?’
‘I have a feeling they’ve lost interest in Firefly.’
Fell was too good a politician to comment on that. ‘What do you want to know?’
‘Everything you can tell me about him.’
She thought about this and he realised that she was working out what she could and couldn’t share.
‘I’ll give you an outline. Have you eaten?’
‘A sort of mutant sandwich-wrap, which I got over there,’ he said pointing to the last remaining outlet open. ‘From your time in the Balkans, you must know a good restaurant where we can talk?’
*
They slid into a corner table at a self-consciously folksy restaurant called The Eagle, where the waiting staff wore traditional Macedonian costume and shouted over the music of an accordion and a guitar. Fell ordered a martini and he a beer. She caught him eyeing the waitress and grinned at him. ‘You haven’t changed, have you?’
‘Just wondering if she heard me right,’ he said good-naturedly. ‘But, yes, she is pretty.’ He paused and engaged Fell’s smile, but said nothing. She still had something for him, a kind of prim sexiness that had become more pronounced as her ambition increased.
She seemed to know what was in his mind. ‘You had your chance,’ she said.
‘Did I? I was unaware of that.’
She looked away. ‘But we were unsuited, Paul – that’s the truth, isn’t it?’
He followed her gaze across the restaurant. He had never seriously considered making a play for her, but evidently she had expected it, which was maybe why she could be so damned chilly on occasions. ‘You probably right – but you know you’re one hell of an attractive woman, Sonia.’
She studied his face for signs of insincerity. The drinks came and he raised his glass to her. ‘I mean it – you’re looking terrific these days.’
She accepted this with a nod.
‘So, Naji . . .’ he started.
‘Before I talk about him, just tell me what went on today.’
Samson gave her ten minutes on the events on the railway line and at the service station and ended with his attempt to track the driver of the Opel through Vuk’s contacts.
‘You think he’s going to be one of these children who just vanish?’ she asked.
‘I pray not. Nyman has redeployed Vuk’s boys, so it’s going to be doubly hard to track him down, but if we can get the details of that police officer we stand a chance. So, Naji . . .’
‘Full name Naji Touma. Father – Faris Touma, a teacher; mother – Nada, sometime civil servant. His father’s family came from the countryside, near Hajar Saqat. Her people are city dwellers – storekeepers of one sort or another, and quite well off. She had some money of her own from her father, who owned a dozen minimarts in the north of the country. Faris had very little money. They met and fell in love at university. They have three daughters and Naji, whose fourteenth birthday is in a few weeks’ time. He’s the second child. Faris was also a writer . . .’
‘Was?’
‘Yes, he died. The boy never accepted it, but he was present at the death.’
‘He didn’t tell that to the psychologist in Lesbos. He was quite specific that his family all came out to Turkey together.’
‘They did, but
his father died from a stroke in the camp.’ She stopped to order for them both. ‘Faris was a teacher of literature and English studies in quite a big town near Raqqa,’ she continued, when the waitress had scooped up the menus and left. ‘When the uprising against Bashar al-Assad began in 2011, he took no part. He was a peaceful man, according to his wife – basically apolitical and not particularly religious either. Early in the revolution he went in search of two sixteen-year-old students who had gone missing from his class. The relatives of the boys had appealed to him as a man of standing in the local community and asked if he would make inquires with the authorities about the boys on their behalf. He went several times to the local police headquarters. I’m not sure which town this was, but she implied that he made a considerable journey each time. He wouldn’t give up and eventually the government security people took him into custody and tortured him very badly. At some stage he received a blow to the back of his head and lost some of his sight. Once she knew where he was, his wife expected never to see him again, but after four months he was dumped by the roadside in a shocking state – fractured limbs, missing teeth, lacerations and that sort of thing – and he was brought home to his family. He recovered much of his sight, but he was a broken man. He couldn’t work and was in a state of nervous collapse, from which he never properly recovered. Nada had lost her job, so they went back to his village where they could receive help from their extended family and tribal connections. Naji, who had been in the same school as the two missing boys and was taught by his father, took it upon himself, on his father’s arrest, to become the man of the family, and did a lot to keep food on the table. He made a fruit stall, fixed people’s computers and phones, ran errands – that kind of thing.’
Samson shook his head. ‘So they were in the village when IS appeared?’
‘Yes, and at first the fighters were welcomed in this village and were given billets and as much food as they could eat. They were all Sunni people in the village, and Naji’s family had been victimised by the Alawites, so they believed that IS would be their protectors. They had no idea that IS would turn out to be as brutal as the government torturers. Nada’s time was taken up with looking after her husband and her daughters. She didn’t see what was going on around her, or, in the first weeks, notice anything different about Naji, who was spending a lot of time out of the home. She’s now certain he witnessed terrible things; maybe he even participated in them, though she’s not sure. She began to notice changes in him, but he provided food and money and they were just so grateful that she ignored it. That’s something she regrets.
