Firefly

by Henry Porter

  But Naji was already asleep.

  Twelve

  For the remainder of that day, Samson travelled north, stopping frequently to scan the valleys with his binoculars. There was no sign of Naji. The landscape was almost totally empty and he began to question himself about the wisdom of pursuing the boy. He could not seriously argue that Naji was still out there, and he certainly couldn’t be sure the boy was the terrorists’ priority, as he had stated in the meeting, but the dogged side of his nature pushed him to keep going.

  As it grew dark, he found a village with a supermarket in what looked like an old agricultural depot. It was a hangover from Yugoslavia’s communist days, when stores offered basic supplies and did not bother to appeal to passing trade. He bought salami, bread, cheese, water, a bottle of red wine and a few chocolate bars and returned to his car. Outside, he came across four young German hikers, all of them looking like they were in training for the military. They were stocking up before moving on somewhere to pitch their tents. Samson fell into conversation with them in English, and after some chat about the route they were taking, he asked whether they had seen any migrants, particularly an Arab boy on his own. They shook their heads and said they had seen a few migrants but they were all in groups. They moved off and Samson started packing the food away in his rucksack. Then one jogged back to him.

  ‘We should mention that we did see two young Middle Eastern guys walking up the river with a dog. They were a hundred metres below the place where we crossed about five hours ago. They were taking a picture of a fish with a phone. They had a big white dog with them.’

  ‘Did you see what they looked like?’

  The young German shook his head apologetically. ‘They were too far away. We could only just see the fish, which the smaller of the two guys was holding.’

  ‘Can you point out this place for me on the map? It’s really important I find this kid before anyone else does.’

  The other hikers trickled back to join their companion.

  ‘Why do you want this boy? What are you doing?’ asked one.

  ‘This minor was abducted earlier today and escaped a serious sexual assault. You ask what I am doing: right now, it’s called child protection. This boy is in serious danger, and not just from the local population of paedophiles. There are people out here who are trying to kill him for what he knows.’

  They shook their heads in turn.

  ‘What can I do to persuade you?’ Samson asked. ‘Maybe I could call a member of your government who knows exactly what my work is and he can vouch for me.’ He pulled out his personal phone, found the number for Arnold Jager and tapped to call him. Jager was a counterterrorism expert for the BND; they’d been good colleagues on a couple of operations and had kept in touch since Samson left SIS. ‘Hi, Arnie. I am in the Balkans with four of your countrymen. I am looking for someone and I need their help. Can you tell them that I’m legit?’

  Arnie laughed. ‘Sure, put me on speaker.’

  The German boys gathered round the phone to hear Arnie at his most crisp and menacing. ‘Guten Abend, I am an officer with the Bundesnachrichtendienst. I can assure you that if my friend is asking you for your help, it concerns a security matter of the utmost importance. Please provide him with everything he needs and do anything he says. Do I make myself clear?’

  One of the hikers began to mutter his doubts.

  ‘Give me your name and address. I will phone you on your personal phone with your passport number in five minutes.’

  ‘But you don’t have my mobile number,’ said the hiker.

  ‘Exactly,’ said Arnie. ‘Name and address, please.’

  To Samson’s mild astonishment, the young man gave his name as Helmut Muller and said he lived in Munich.

  ‘Fine,’ said Jager, ‘I’ll speak to you in a moment.’

  Samson spread the map and lit a cigarette. It took Jager exactly three minutes to make his call to Muller’s phone, at which point the others, highly amused by his embarrassment, returned to the map and lit it with two phones. They had seen the two young migrants at a spot where the river widened and it was possible to wade across, which is why the Germans had made for that place. They could not tell which way the migrants were travelling, but they suspected they were going north, because that side of the river was an easier route. A few kilometres above that point they would have to make a choice between two valleys, one that went north-east and one that went due west but then veered north. In both valleys were roaring torrents because of a recent storm.

  Samson wished them well and finished packing away his provisions, then stood checking his messages for a few seconds. He looked up, thought for a moment, then slapped his forehead and cursed his stupidity. He immediately dialled Vuk’s phone.

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘With new girlfriend,’ Vuk replied.

  ‘Did you talk to the police about that place I mentioned – the place where the policeman took Naji before he stabbed him?’

  ‘No, I do this tomorrow. I am doing new girlfriend now.’

  Samson grimaced. ‘Vuk, I need you to leave your new girlfriend now and track down that policeman.’ He ignored the protests at the other end and continued, ‘We need to find out if his phone was in the car when the boy stole it.’

  ‘Boy maybe have phone?’

  ‘Exactly – if he stole that phone, I have a way of maybe communicating with him and locating him. I hear he was using a phone this afternoon to take a picture. It may have belonged to someone with him, but let’s try. You have to get that number and make sure that policeman doesn’t call his service provider to have the phone blocked. That’s why you need to find him as soon as possible. You understand what I’m saying?’ He heard Vuk grunt with effort, as though he was getting up.

  ‘Yes, I understand this. But the policeman, he does not give number for love of Vuk Divjak.’

  ‘Then you offer him money – a lot of money.’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘One thousand dollars to start with – go up to five. The money will be available from tomorrow morning in Skopje – okay?’

  ‘And maybe he does not cooperate with Vuk like this.’

  ‘That’s when you tell him you have concerns about that place where the stone building is. You tell him you are worried about what might be out there. That’s all you say – nothing more. I’m pretty sure he’ll cooperate.’

  ‘Okay,’ Vuk said with little enthusiasm. ‘I go now.’

  ‘I’ll make sure you are well compensated,’ said Samson. ‘And Vuk – thank you.’

  He hung up and stared into the night for a few moments before messaging Denis Hisami to ask whether he could provide upwards of $1,000 in cash at short notice. I think this could be a breakthrough, he added.

  Hisami replied immediately: By all means – let me know when and where. We learned a lot in the first session today. Am staying for duration. Keep in touch.

  Samson thanked him then texted Anastasia. I need your help ASAP. Can you make it? Understand if you can’t. Eternal thanks.

  He waited for a reply. Nothing came, so he got into the car and examined the map. The German group had seen the two migrants with a dog at around five o’clock. At most, the pair had a couple of hours of light before they would need to make camp for the night, but not all that time would be spent walking. He reckoned they would make it between one or two kilometres north of the crossing place before finding somewhere to sleep. The trouble was that he would have to leave the car by the road and, not having any clear idea where they were, commit himself to entering some pretty rough terrain. The chances of finding them would be slim and again he would lose time. He drove north, passed the place where they had been spotted and parked on a patch of rough ground at the point where the road swung right away from the river and up a hill. From there he could see about one kilometre to the south and much further t
o the countryside in the north, which was dotted with the lights of occasional farmsteads.

  He got out and scanned the landscape with his binoculars. There was some cloud cover, but the night was quite light, and when the moon came out the river became a strip of silvery ribbon meandering through the shadows of the woods. He saw nothing, and after a few minutes of looking opened the wine and drank a little from the bottle. He tore some bread from the loaf and cut slices of sausage, which he consumed slowly and without much enthusiasm while staring dully at the insects that had been drawn to the interior light of the car.

  His reverie was disturbed by his personal phone, which was lying on the passenger seat. He reached for it through the window and, as he answered his mother’s call, noticed that he had also received a text from Anastasia.

  ‘Hi, how are you, Mother?’ he said, moving to perch on the warm bonnet of the car.

  ‘Worried,’ she replied.

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. What about?’

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Just taking the air, having finished a meal.’

  ‘I know when you’re lying to me, Paul. Please don’t tell me stories full of untruths and fantasy.’

  ‘It’s completely true, Mother. Anyway, it’s great to hear from you. Is there a special reason you called?’

  A sigh of exasperation came from the other end. ‘I wanted to talk to my only son – is there any harm in that? Is that a crime? I was thinking of you this morning.’

  ‘How nice,’ said Samson, knowing, almost to the word, what was about to follow.

  ‘I woke this morning with thoughts of your father, as I do so often.’

  ‘Yes, Mother.’

  ‘Such a lovely man: such perfect manners, and so handsome. I miss him very much, you know.’

  ‘Yes, I know,’ said Samson.

  ‘And he was such a very good father, too.’

  ‘Yes, he certainly had his moments – a great father.’ While his father had been more glamorous and funny than anyone Samson had ever met, he could never have been described as a great family man. This wasn’t the slightest source of resentment for Samson. His father was a trader, a dealer – a man who lived in the marketplace, for that was where his charm worked best.

  ‘More than moments! He was very good with you, Paul. He loved you and he understood you. I woke this morning thinking that you, too, would be a very good father. You remind me of him in so many ways.’ She muttered something he couldn’t hear, and probably wasn’t meant to hear. ‘I was talking to your sister last night and she agrees with me that it’s time you took a proper job and had a family.’

  ‘Right, my sister! Please give her my love. You think Leila should be giving me advice on marriage when her second has just failed?’

  ‘She has your interests at heart, as you know. You spend your life thinking about horses and doing these mysterious consultations. That is not a man’s life, Paul. You should take on responsibilities and become someone.’

  ‘I will put some thought into it, I promise. But I need to find someone who will put up with me, Mother. That’s not going to be easy.’

  ‘Nonsense. There are plenty of nice young women who would be happy to marry you. Your problem is that you do not stay with any of them long enough to know if they would be suitable.’

  ‘You’re probably right,’ he said absently, his gaze coming to rest on the lights of the vehicle that had stopped at the place where the road rejoined the line of the river, about one and a half kilometres to the north. The lights swept to and fro as the vehicle turned. He watched the car begin to move in his direction, stopping every so often for a few seconds. He could not see enough to have any idea what it was doing, but decided that he would leave the side of the road and find somewhere less obvious to park before it reached him.

  His mother now moved on to the subject of his sister’s children – his two nephews and a young niece – and the problems with the eldest boy, whose father took no interest. She asked Samson if he would talk to the boy when he returned to London.

  ‘I have absolutely no idea what to say to him.’

  ‘Of course you do – don’t be silly,’ said his mother with a tone of finality.

  ‘I don’t remember me and my father having many heart to hearts.’

  ‘What are you saying, Paul? You talked all the time! You were the best of friends.’

  That part was true. There had been plenty of laughter and many conspiratorial winks as his father roughly patted him or grabbed his knee, but they never talked properly, which was why Samson missed him still. If anything, that void was now larger than in the months immediately after he had suffered a heart attack while parking the cherished Alvis coupé outside their home. He’d enjoy his father’s raffish company now, and he’d like to hear what he thought of the world and of his son’s life, though he would almost certainly disapprove of his current occupation. And the gambling – he’d like to ask his father where that came from. His father was cautious when it came to business, which is how he had made his money, and yet he could win or lose £100,000 without moving a muscle, and confessed to feeling sick after either eventuality. That was pretty much Samson’s experience, too. A big win was relief, but it was never the pleasure that people imagined.

  ‘You come back to us soon, son.’

  ‘I will,’ he said.

  ‘And start thinking about having children. He would be saying the same to you if he were alive today. You owe that to him.’

  ‘I will,’ he said automatically, before gently ending the conversation and raising the binoculars to the car that had pulled up in the distance. He couldn’t make out much, although he thought he glimpsed a figure passing in front of the lights. He got back into his car and read the message from Anastasia: I’ll come when you need me. Have you found him?

  Not yet. But great that you can come! Thanks. Will have a man named Vuk meet you. Will advise on status of your client tomorrow.

  He turned the car and headed for what he took to be a forestry track a little distance down the road. He drove slowly up the incline to a spot where he found he could see much more of the valley, reclined the seat a little and hunkered down for the night. Eventually the car he had been watching disappeared, but later, when he was dozing, he heard a vehicle pass below him. He jumped out to train the binoculars down the road, but saw nothing except a pair of red lights vanishing into the distance at some speed.

  At about 11.30 p.m., Vuk called and opened the conversation with, ‘Bastard policeman, he want five grand.’

  ‘He can have it because we’re in a hurry, but you be sure to tell his colleagues in Skopje about that place when we don’t need him to keep the phone open any longer. I believe Naji was fighting for his life at that ruin. The money will be available first thing. Where are you going to meet the cop?’

  ‘Skopje.’

  ‘And that’s where the money will be delivered to you. After that I want you to pick up a friend of mine at the airport – a young woman doctor who is going to help me. I will send her your details and you can make the arrangements directly with her.’

  ‘Okay, I go now and fuck my new girl.’ He stopped and grunted. ‘Oh, I forgetting. They tracking terrorists in Serbia. They follow car to Bosnia-Herzegovina.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘This is true. They see these three men.’

  ‘Good – that makes things a lot easier.’

  *

  Naji and Ifkar woke with the cold just before dawn. Ifkar sat up in his sleeping bag and prodded the fire with a stick; when it failed to catch light he got up and hunted around to find tinder. He boiled water in an old can and made them tea. Naji fished out the sachets of sugar he had taken from the motorway service area. They drank in silence, watching the sky between the trees grow lighter. Ifkar did some exercises, pulling himself up on a branch then perf
orming countless press-ups and sit-ups. He found a log and placed it across his shoulders and proceeded to do squats. Moon and Naji watched, and then Naji, feeling warmer and still tired, dozed for another hour until the sun rose above the mountains in the east and sunlight dappled their campsite. Ifkar had packed his own things and was ready to leave long before then, but he waited for Naji to wake, stroking Moon and gazing up to the treetops where some butterflies spun round in a double helix.

  They stamped on the fire and threw a little water on it, which sent a billowing cloud of smoke through the trees and made the logs fizz. It was Ifkar’s idea to keep to the ridge above them rather than return to the river, because they would cover more ground. The cold night air reminded them that the seasons were changing, but the sun was still strong during the day and they kept to the shade of the trees for as long as they could. They made good progress. Naji drew the flute from his backpack and played as they walked, which greatly pleased Ifkar, who occasionally danced a step or two, clicking his fingers in the air. They were thick as thieves, and Naji wished he had his phone to tell Munira in person how well things were going, for he was now sure that with Ifkar at his side he would soon find his way to Germany. When he had time, he would sit down and write an email telling her all about Ifkar and Moon, using the phone he had taken from the man’s car. The phone was fully charged, and not protected by any meaningful password – it was 1234 – so he was able to see where they were on the map in the rare moments when there was good reception.

  They continued for two hours until the woods opened up to a bare, round mountain, its gentle slopes rolling into pinewood valleys on either side of them. They lost sight of the river, but they had filled their water bottles the evening before and would have enough water for the day. Ifkar said he loved being on top of the world with the views all around – it made him feel freer than any other time in his life. He had never been in a more beautiful landscape, not even in his homeland, and he sang strange, mournful songs in his own language to honour it.