Firefly

by Henry Porter

  ‘We don’t have to go anywhere – we have plenty of food,’ said Naji. ‘How long have these two been here?’

  ‘Not long – the woman came first, then her husband.’

  The woman nodded approvingly and kept repeating, ‘Dobro momče – good boy, good boy.’

  Naji began to take one of the larger bandages out of its packet, but the man tapped him on the shoulder, wagged his finger and gestured in the direction of the tractor. Naji kept on unwrapping the bandage. The man touched him again and began to mime carrying Ifkar to the tractor and going up the mountain with the dog to their place, which he described by drawing walls either side of him in the air and a pitched roof over his head. To this he added the actions of eating with a knife and fork and sleeping, which he did by putting both hands together and pressing them against one cheek. He seemed to enjoy the miming and he made the woman smile.

  Naji looked up at him. He trusted no one except Ifkar, but this old couple seemed nice, and besides, the three of them had very few options. Ifkar needed much more attention than he could give him out in the open. He nodded without looking up at the man, who laid a hand briefly on Naji’s shoulder then set about cutting and stripping two small trees to make straight poles. He went off to his tractor and returned with four drive belts for some kind of machinery, possibly a log saw, which he nailed with tacks at regular intervals along the poles. Next he seized Naji’s treasured plastic sheet, folded it lengthways and fixed it to the poles with more tacks. In no time at all, he’d made a stretcher. Now he considered how to move Ifkar from beside the fire onto the stretcher, for they had already discovered that the slightest touch on the right-hand side of his torso caused him to screw up his face and suppress a cry. Naji and the woman took hold of his legs, while the man worked his hands under Ifkar’s back, as though he was going to lift a heavy log, and on the count of three they moved him to the stretcher. The man took hold of two poles at one end, while Naji and the woman grasped a pole each. Before they set off, Naji called over to Moon, who staggered to her feet and prepared to follow them. Progress was slow, their path blocked by fallen trees and dense clumps of saplings, and after struggling for ten minutes or so the man told them to lower Ifkar while he went to fetch his tractor, which he drove straight into the undergrowth, flattening the young trees before him. They lifted Ifkar onto the trailer. Then the man, who never stopped grinning throughout, put his hand down to Moon’s nose and spoke to her softly. She rubbed against his leg, which Naji knew was a good sign, and he stroked her some more before picking her up and placing her on the trailer alongside Ifkar.

  He turned to Naji and pressed his hand to his chest. ‘Darko,’ he said with his largest grin, his eyes disappearing into his huge red face. With a theatrical flourish, he announced ‘Irina,’ and just to make certain that Naji understood these were their names, he repeated them several times. Naji did likewise for himself, Ifkar and Moon. Then the man suddenly slapped his forehead and did an elaborate mime to say he’d forgotten the basket of mushrooms. Naji went back with him to collect a few things from the camp, particularly his throwing knife, which was in the spot where he’d left it for Ifkar. When he started gathering cooking vessels and the rest of their paraphernalia, the man revolved his hand to indicate they would come back another time for their belongings. Naji began to protest, but the man tapped his watch and beckoned good-naturedly to him and they returned to the tractor.

  Now overwhelmed by exhaustion and close to tears, he clambered onto the trailer to sit beside Moon and Ifkar, while the woman wedged herself in the tiny cab with her husband. They set off up the track and were soon trundling across rolling pastures with Pudnik below them. By the time they reached the couple’s farm, Naji had keeled over and fallen asleep on Moon.

  Fifteen

  Samson was led from the car into a large complex some way out of town. He was searched and taken to an interview room with a table, four chairs and no window. He was there for two hours before the door opened and Simcek of the Macedonian Administration for Security and Counter­intelligence entered his life for the third time that week. On this occasion he was accompanied by an eager young thug in a tight suit, with a scar that sliced across his right eyebrow and continued on his cheek for a couple of centimetres.

  Samson looked up and smiled as they walked in. ‘I mind starting the day without coffee more than being arrested.’

  Simcek sat down. He did not smile. ‘Is that so? Perhaps we should give you some time to reconsider that remark in one of our prisons, where I am afraid the room service is not what it should be.’

  Samson sniffed the musty basement air and looked around. ‘It’s a big facility for a relatively small town. Built by Tito in the communist years, no doubt. Even so, it seems very large.’

  Simcek studied him. ‘There are problems in this district. Eight policemen were killed here this year. There’s a hard core of troublemakers – Albanians.’ He stopped and sighed. ‘But now you’re the problem. I have orders from the highest level to make sure that you leave our country today.’

  ‘Can I ask why? I have done nothing but help your government. Al Kufra is an important catch for you, and the two men from last night are bound to be useful.’

  ‘And we are grateful, but you are no longer needed here. You entered the country illegally and you were told to leave within a specified period by the border police in Gevgelija.’

  Samson lifted his hands in surrender. ‘Okay, but if I’d left when I was told to, you wouldn’t have arrested those men. By the way, have you got any idea who those two were working for?’

  ‘You can make guesses as well as I can,’ said Simcek.

  ‘Who put them on that mountain? Are they local? Where do they come from?’

  ‘The suspects both required medical treatment and we have not spoken to them for any length of time yet. One of the men had been badly mauled. It’s remarkable that he got so far after he was attacked.’

  Samson tried again. ‘Are they linked to Al-munajil?’

  Simcek didn’t react.

  ‘I thought maybe you could help me out – since I’ve helped you.’

  ‘You are in the country illegally and you are helping a criminal, the boy who attempted to murder one of our police officers.’

  ‘I am not helping him – I haven’t found him – and anyway, he’s not a criminal. He’s too young, as you know. I looked up the Macedonian criminal code on my journey. Yes, really – I looked it up. There’s a consolidated version in English online. The kid is a minor and cannot be found guilty of a crime. And even if you could charge him, he would be able to claim self-defence, because you and I both know that police officer is a predatory paedophile.’

  ‘You have no evidence of that.’

  ‘The man at the gas station said the officer often picked up young migrants there – always young boys. I wonder what happened to those boys, because near where the officer was found with a stab wound there is an abandoned house. I’m no expert but I’d place a large bet that the turned earth at the rear of that building indicates a fresh grave.’

  The young thug began shaking his head. Simcek said, ‘You cannot defame a member of the security forces like this.’

  ‘Is that why you are so interested in the boy?’ asked Samson. ‘Is it that you don’t want him to reveal what happened to him there?’

  ‘You need to mind what you’re saying,’ said Simcek.

  ‘That’s it, isn’t it? You’ve done a deal. Your government has had me taken off the case because you want to make sure he is silenced, or at the very least that he’s never found and therefore cannot testify about the policeman. That makes me think that the policeman has more influence than I ori­ginally thought – maybe he’s the son of someone high up.’ At this, Simcek leaned forward and slapped Samson hard across the right side of his face with such force that Samson nearly fell from the chair. But apart from putting his hand
up to feel where Simcek’s ring had broken the skin, he did not react. He was shocked, because he was certain MI6 had not asked for this, but he knew that to protest would be to invite the intervention of the young ruffian.

  ‘Now we will proceed,’ said Simcek quietly. ‘We are in possession of the phone that the two men took from the boy. This tells us that you made calls to him throughout yesterday and before. We also know that he made calls to a cell phone in Turkey.’

  ‘Yes, to his sister.’

  ‘How did you know the boy stole the police officer’s phone and how did you then acquire that number?’

  ‘I made a guess that Naji had taken the phone because, as you know, his own phone had been stolen and he needed a way of staying in touch with his family. We tracked down the policeman and gave him money – five thousand euros. We wanted to stop him cancelling the phone, so that I could talk to the boy. The policeman asked for a second payment of the same amount, but by that time the two men in your custody had taken the phone.’

  This was clearly all news to Simcek, but he did his best not to seem surprised. He couldn’t very well doubt that the police officer had accepted the money, because the man had made no attempt to cancel the phone service, the normal reaction of someone who has had their phone stolen.

  ‘So you made an arrangement to meet Naji Touma?’

  Samson shook his head. ‘He was attacked as I was speaking to him, so we did not make a rendezvous. I don’t know what happened to him – Naji could be dead, for all I know. I heard several shots. But the two men in your custody can tell you exactly what occurred.’

  ‘When we searched them last night, they had no weapons. Are you suggesting they threw away their guns?’

  Samson met his gaze. ‘Who knows, but to answer your question, I have no rendezvous with the boy and I have no idea where he is. I hoped that he might turn up in the bus station; that’s why I waited there all night.’

  Simcek looked him over. ‘Where is the backpack you had with you last night? Where is the phone you were using?’

  ‘When your men arrested me I didn’t have time to retrieve it from a friend. But I believe it is safe, if that is what’s worrying you.’ Samson wondered if Simcek was after the really important phone – the one that Naji had brought across the sea from Turkey. But maybe he didn’t know about it; maybe in their haste to capture Al-munajil and his gang, SIS had completely forgotten about the phone, or at least not thought to mention it to Simcek. There was no reason MI6 would alert Simcek to its existence, particularly as they seemed to have lost interest in Naji and any information he might have. For all intents and purposes, they seemed not to care whether he lived or died.

  There were a few more half-hearted plays by Simcek, during which Samson reminded him that he was close to Denis Hisami, who’d had access to the Al Kufra interrogation, and also to Macy Harp, who was well connected in the Balkans, but he sensed the interview was ending. For as long as Simcek could say to his superiors that Samson had no plans to meet the boy and there was no hope of locating him in the mountains, and, moreover, that Samson was on a plane out of the country, nothing more could be expected of him.

  A few minutes later, Simcek and his sidekick rose together. ‘You will wait here until we can escort you to the airport,’ said Simcek.

  ‘What about my backpack?’

  ‘That’s of no interest to us. I’m sure your friend will arrange for its return.’

  ‘Any chance of some coffee?’ said Samson.

  Simcek got up. ‘I’ll see what we can do,’ he said.

  No coffee arrived and he was left in the interview room for a further five hours, which hung very heavily indeed because he knew that this day would be crucial for Naji. If he had survived whatever had occurred in that clearing, he would urgently need help, for he’d probably reached the end of his strength and resourcefulness, and was almost certainly as frightened as hell. Samson knew enough about Naji to assume that he would get hold of another phone and try to make contact with him again. It was agonising to think that the boy’s calls were going unanswered, unless of course Vuk had the wit to answer them, but there was no guarantee of that. If he was put on a plane out of Macedonia, or pushed over the border, Vuk would be the boy’s only hope.

  He was good at keeping himself occupied when forced into inactivity – he’d had to be in Syria, where he’d spent days holed up until it was safe to move or his contact turned up. Now, as he sat in the Macedonian interview room, he found himself thinking about Anastasia quite a bit, which surprised him, and when he had exhausted the memory of their conversations, he reverted to his strategy for the forthcoming race and Dark Narcissus’s chances.

  At three o’clock he was transferred to a room at ground level and given a bottle of water. His cigarettes, wallet and passport were all returned to him. Ten minutes later, he was placed in the back of an unmarked SUV, blue lights flashing behind its radiator grill, and driven at speed to Skopje airport. When they arrived, the two officers, who had said nothing during the hour-long trip, handcuffed him and marched him to the Lufthansa desk. The ticket was waiting for him. The woman behind the desk smiled as if nothing was untoward and wished him a pleasant flight to Vienna. The officers removed the handcuffs and led him to the ­security check. Only when he’d passed through and was waiting in line for the immigration booth did they leave him and head for the exit.

  Samson watched them all the way to the car park, then began to consider ways of passing back through security.

  ‘How are you doing there?’ said an American voice from behind him. Samson turned to see a man of about his height and age. ‘If you give me your passport, we can expedite your deportation,’ he murmured with a grin. He handed Samson a fob. ‘Mr Hisami has arranged a car for you. It’s out front, right by the door. Tell them you’ve forgotten to turn the lights off – they’ll let you go back.’

  Samson took out his passport and slipped it to the man.

  ‘Don’t worry – you’ll have it back by tomorrow morning.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Samson.

  ‘Don’t thank me – I get to have dinner in Vienna. Oh, I need your boarding pass, too.’

  ‘It’s inside the passport,’ said Samson.

  ‘There’s a friend in the vehicle. They’ll tell you where to go. So, I guess you’re all set.’

  ‘Great,’ said Samson. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow.’

  ‘You got it.’

  Samson began to simulate forgetfulness and returned to the uniformed security guards to explain about the car, which was just visible from their desk. They told him he would have to go through the check again and he had better hurry if he was hoping to make the Vienna flight. He said he’d have to risk it. He jogged across the terminal floor, went through the automatic doors, pressed the fob to make sure he’d got the right vehicle and climbed in.

  ‘Hello, Mr Spy,’ said a female voice over his shoulder.

  Samson whipped round to see Anastasia’s grinning face. ‘What the! How long have you been here?’

  She roared with laughter. ‘Such a good joke! I thought spies were meant to check the back seat before they got into a car.’

  He smiled – it was good to see her. ‘Are you going to join me, or are you enjoying yourself too much back there?’

  She got out, hopped into the passenger seat and gave him a peck on the cheek.

  ‘When did you get here?’ he asked.

  ‘Late last night. Your weird friend Vuk picked me up.’

  ‘But he was in the square with me this morning.’

  ‘Yes, we were going to surprise you but then you went and got arrested – most inconvenient of you. Still, I met Denis Hisami.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘He’s at Pudnik – well, near there, in a hotel.’

  The penny dropped. ‘Vuk is working for him now. And who was that man in there?’

/>   ‘Jim Tulliver. He works for Denis. He calls himself Denis’s “man of affairs”. He set the destination on the satnav.’ She pressed the screen and the route guidance began.

  He looked over the controls of the car and moved off. ‘We’re going back to Pudnik, right?’ he said.

  ‘Yes, to find Naji.’

  ‘To find Naji,’ he repeated. ‘Did Denis explain why he was in Macedonia?’

  She shook her head and looked out of the side window. ‘It is an appalling story. He didn’t say much, except to tell me what you went through to try to find his sister. She sounds a wonderful person.’

  ‘She was – after all those months of looking for her I began to feel I knew her, almost like a friend.’

  ‘Is that the same with Naji?’

  ‘No, I find it hard to imagine knowing Naji – he’s like a little sprite dodging from place to place. A firefly.’

  ‘You think he’s still alive?’

  ‘Absolutely.’ They stopped at a junction and he turned to her. ‘I’m certain he got out of that clearing with his friend and the dog. Don’t ask me how, I just know. I think the Macedonians know, too, because they interrogated the two men that were arrested last night. Simcek wouldn’t tell me anything.’

  As they joined the motorway, Samson began to describe all that had happened in the last few days in the hope that Anastasia could give him some kind of reading of Naji’s psychological state and maybe an idea of what he would do next. But after he’d finished she was silent for several minutes and he had to prompt her. ‘So, where do you think his head is? What sort mental state is he in?’

  ‘It’s hard to say. Naji is highly motivated – the most motivated child that I have ever met. I believe he has both intrinsic and extrinsic motivation. He is determined to get things done and achieve goals because it gives him satisfaction. Did you know that he had the highest grades in his class and he was studying with kids that were much older than him? When Syria broke apart and his father was arrested and school ended, he didn’t stop reading and learning. He has a hunger for things that make him think. At the camp, I had to keep finding him books because he read them so quickly – even in English – and nothing was too hard or specialised for him. And then, of course, he has a high degree of extrinsic motivation, also.’