by Gunn, Autumn
“Who do you work for?”
“Sahil.”
“Who is Sahil?”
“Sahil Tourism.”
“What is Sahil Tourism?”
“Coast. Coast Tourism.”
“Sahil means Coast?”
He nodded yes.
I looked at the boy. A look asking for confirmation.
“Yes, Sahil is Arabic for coast. He works for Coast Tourism,” the boy said.
I looked back at the man. “What is your job?”
“Tours.”
“Tours to where?”
“Greece,” he said.
“Only migrants?”
“Anyone who pay can go.”
“How many that are not migrants take tour?”
“Many.”
“How many?” I said.
“Two hundred.”
“Two hundred when? Every day?”
“Summer yes. Now yes.”
“They go at night?”
He didn’t speak.
“They go at night?” I repeated myself.
“No. They go day.”
“How many migrants at night?”
“I no know.”
“Why you no know?”
“I only one captain.”
“More captains?”
“Yes.”
“How many?”
“I no know. Boss no tell me. Just tell me what I must do.”
The guy was a disgusting, scumbag, human trafficker. But I believed him. I wasn’t interested in him anyways.
“Who’s your boss?”
“Boss,” he started. “Boss is Muhammad.”
“Muhammad what?”
“I no know.”
I looked at the boy. “What’s the boss’ name?”
“I don’t know his name. We just had a mobile number. We weren’t supposed to ask these questions.”
“You weren’t curious?”
“Yes, but I just want to make it to London. That is all I care about. The rest is unimportant. Just stay alive until London.”
“What’s your name?”
“Adam.”
I looked at his sister.
“You?”
“Amy.”
Did they really expect me to believe that? I considered probing them about these Western names they had conveniently adopted. I had more important things to consider.
“You still have his number?”
“It’s in my phone. If my phone is still dry then, yes, I have it.”
“Where’s your phone?”
“Luggage. Outside pocket.”
The bag was still sitting against the wall where I had left it. Still water logged. Still surprised I had recovered it in time. I walked over and unzipped the outside pocket. I reached inside. I felt a thick plastic, waterproof bag. I pulled it out. It had two passports. They were navy blue. At the top they said something in Arabic. Below that it said: SYRIAN ARAB REPUBLIC. Below that it said: REPUBLIQUE ARABE SYRIENNE. Below that the Hawk of Quraish. Kind of like the eagle on my passport, but not. I opened them up. There was a picture of the boy on the first one. It looked recent. Next to the picture it said: Given Name/Prénom: ADNAN. Below that it said: Surname/Nom: AL-ATRASH. There were five other fields below that and an Issue No. field at the top. There were also the usual seals, numbers, codes, and such that aim to prevent counterfeiting. I slid it underneath and inspected the other passport. Given Name/Prénom: AMENA. Below that it said: Surname/Nom: AL-ATRASH. So now that they’re on European soil Amena’s ready to be called Amy and Adnan is now Adam. Can’t say I blame that strategy. I reached back inside the bag and felt around. I pulled out an Amazon Kindle. Really? It was sealed in three Ziploc bags. I stuck my hand in again and felt something soft that had become hard. I pulled it out. It was one of those puffy jackets that if you stand on them and roll them tight enough they’ll fit in the palm of your hand. Warm enough for cool spring and fall days, but small enough to stuff in a pants pocket if need be. This one seemed a little bigger and didn’t feel quite right. I started to open it and could feel there was something inside. The jacket was doubling as padding for something. I continued unrolling it. It was the newest model iPhone inside. The screen was dead. I fooled around with it trying to power it on. Eventually the screen came to life. It asked me for a passcode. I looked at Adnan.
“What’s the code?”
“One. Nine. Six. Two.”
“Significance?”
Adnan smiled. “Year of first James Bond movie. Dr. No.”
Maybe he really did have a crush on the British. Then again what boy doesn’t go through a James Bond phase at least once?
I tapped the screen and was confronted with a bunch of small pictures. Thumbnails I believe they’re called. Or are the icons? Doesn’t matter. I took the phone over to the desk and sat down.
“How do I pull up your stored numbers?”
“The light brown icon. The one with the darker brown guy’s head and the spiral notebook thing on the side,” Adnan said.
I was staring right at it. I tapped it. Nothing happened. I looked at Adnan.
“Tap twice.”
I did and a list of numbers appeared. Some with names some without. Some in Arabic. Some in the Latin alphabet.
I stopped. Realizing I forgot something. I reached inside the filing cabinet and found another towel. I motioned for the cuffed guy to stand up. I grabbed the plastic chair and walked him over to the closet and opened the door. I sat the chair inside and pointed to the seat. He sat down. I wrapped the towel around his head. Covering his ears and eyes. I left the door open and went back and sat down.
“Who are these people? The ones you have numbers for.”
“Everybody we know,” Adnan said.
“And anybody who might be able to help us,” Amena added.
“Do you have parents?”
“Yes,” Amena said.
“Where are they?”
“Back in Syria.”
“Why didn’t they accompany you?”
“Our father is too old. The journey would be too difficult,” Adnan said.
“So he’s taking his chances with ISIS?”
“There are no more chances to take. They already took everything. He is poor now.”
“But you didn’t used to be?”
“No. We were fortunate. We had a good life. Many nice things. A happy family.”
I didn’t say anything. Just thinking for a moment. “Who arranged your transport?”
“Our father.”
“And he gave you money before you left?”
“Yes. And he sent some money to some friends along the way. Friends were we can stop briefly and pick it up.”
“What kind of friends?”
“His friends. I don’t really know.”
“Business or personal?”
“I think at his level they are often the same.”
“What does he do?”
“He was a business man.”
“A very successful one,” I said.
“Yes. You could say that,” Adnan said.
“What business was he in?”
“Exporting of consumer staples.”
“What consumer staples?” I said.
The kids looked at each other. “Male contraceptives,” Adnan said.
“Your family exports condoms?”
“Yes,” Adnan said. “It’s not exactly shameful in our culture, but something you definitely wouldn’t bring up in polite conversation.”
“So you just leave it at consumer staples?”
“Correct.”
“They’re made in Syria?”
“Malaysia.”
“How did your dad get involved?”
“Our mother is Malaysian. They met in Saudi Arabia.”
“And decided to start making condoms together?”
“No. My mother’s family owned a lot of land. My father noticed there were a lot of rubber trees on that land. He got the idea just from that.
”
“How often do you speak with your father?”
“Every day almost.”
“And your father’s friend. The one in Turkey. Where is he in here?”
I looked down at the phone. Neither Adnan nor Amena said anything.
“We really don’t want any trouble for him. He helped us cross.”
“Which one?”
Amena elbowed Adnan in the side. “The one that says McDonalds. McDonalds dash Izmir.”
I scrolled down to the name. The number had a plus ninety prefix. Turkey.
“What happens if we call him right now?”
“I don’t know,” Adnan said. “I don’t think he will be very happy with us.”
“You have to call him at some point to let him know you made it, right?”
“That was his job. He was to return and tell him.” Adnan motioned towards the cuffed man.
“What’s your name?” I asked the cuffed man.
“Kerem,” he said.
I pressed the green phone icon next to McDonalds dash Izmir. It rang three times before someone picked it up. I could tell they had been sleeping.
“Merhaba.”
“I have Kerem, Adnan, and Amena.”
There was a silence on the other line. He had two choices. Claim ignorance and effectively abandon them. Maintain loyalties to their father.
“What do you want?”
“A meeting. This morning.”
“Why? They just want passage. They are refugees.”
“Maybe the are. Maybe they aren’t. I want to talk.”
“About what?”
“A deal.”
“You are police?”
“No.”
“Then why do you want a deal?”
“Kos this morning at 11 o’clock. Return a call to this number when you arrive.” I was prepared to hang up.
“Wait! I cannot go to Greece right now.”
“Why not?”
“I have some problem there.”
“What kind of problem.”
“Problem with police.”
Making the enemy come to you is a much better strategy than going to him. That’s when you have time and negotiating power. I had the power with the man on the other end of the line. Not so much with the Greeks. Now I was technically a kidnapper with three hostages.
I needed a place in Bodrum I knew. A place with plenty of entry and exit points. A place with a lot of traffic in and out. Traffic generates noise. And tourists. I didn’t want prying local eyes.
“Starbucks. 10 o’clock this morning.”
“OK.”
I hung up the phone. Kerem, Adnan, and Amena seemed to realize they weren’t going anywhere anytime soon.
I motioned for them to stand and follow me. I took them upstairs and showed them each to a room. There was just a bed in each room. There were no windows. The walls were thickly padded in a cream color. They looked like a mattress without the sheet. The doors locked from the outside. The rooms had been used to detain drunks while the downstairs was used for processing. Now it was a coffee shop. I had never used the upstairs. I added the beds myself just yesterday. It would serve perfectly for the next few hours. I put them each in a room. Locked the doors.
I went back downstairs. The suitcase was still in its place. I unzipped it and examined the contents. Mostly wet clothes. There was also some jewelry. I found some Euro bank notes inside another Ziploc bag. There was a hole carefully cut in the fabric at the corner of the frame. They had been wedged in there. Everything seemed legit. I couldn’t find what I was looking for.
I went back to my chair. Propped my feet back on the desk. The first ferry across wasn’t until 0915. I had over four and a half hours to kill. The SEAL teams know that whenever you get a chance to eat, you eat. Whenever you get a chance to rest, you rest. I set my alarm for 0830. Plenty of time to be first in line for a ticket.
As the ferry pulled into port in Bodrum I knew my target had eyes on me. He knew I was coming over on this first boat unless I had my own watercraft. I had ditched my night gear in favor of a t-shirt, shorts, and boat shoes. It’s surprising how fast you can run in boat shoes when they’re laced tight. I had a small man bag. The kind you see everywhere in Europe. The bag contained a windbreaker, Adnan’s iPhone, three passports of varying origin, a pen, paper, and a pistol. On the pistol slide it said: P226. Below that it said: Made in W Germany. It was a SIG Sauer P226 9mm pistol. Extremely easy to take apart and put back together. It was an older model. The Made in W Germany gave it away.
The tourists exited the boat in a tight formation. Apart from my height and size, it was easy to fit in. Most everyone went running off to secure a sun lounger at the beaches they had studied the prior night in their travel guides. I was nine hours away from the closest U.S. city, but I was headed to a Starbucks to meet a guy who I only know as McDonalds dash Izmir.
I walked around the area. I could guess where he might have his men stationed and what I would do if I needed to deal with these clowns.
I was right on time by design. I didn’t want to arrive early and assume a position like a sitting duck. I stood on the boardwalk in front. I saw a man sitting by himself. He was having a Turkish coffee and looked relaxed. He was wearing aviator sunglasses, a navy blue polo shirt, and navy blue jeans. He had Adidas running shoes on his feet. You could tell he was the boss of something by the way he carried himself. His body language was dominant. I tapped on his number in my phone. I saw the man pick up his phone. I saw his lips move and then heard the sound through Adnan’s iPhone.
“I am here.”
I kept the phone in my left hand by my side. I walked up to his table and held the phone out as if to show it was me whom had called. He stood to shake my hand.
“Please, have a seat.”
“Thank you.”
We were off to a civilized start.
The waiter came by. I ordered a filtered coffee. Black.
“I am interested in a deal,” I said.
“What deal and for what?” he said.
“I have your boat captain and two of your clients. I also have a jet ski and connections on the Greece side. What I don’t have are enough refugees. The higher paying ones.”
“You want refugees?”
“Yes,” I said.
He smiled ear-to-ear. “You think I don’t know what an American cop looks like?”
“I’m not a cop.”
“Right,” he said and took a sip of his coffee. “And why in the world wouldn’t you be a cop?”
“There’s more money on the other side.”
“And you’re all about the money, yes? An American in Greece smuggling refugees. That makes a lot of sense. You call a meeting to practice your jokes?”
My coffee arrived. The waiter set it on the table and quickly excused himself.
It was a big Starbucks shop. It had a couple levels and an inside and outside. It was early, but it was already filling up. Most people were drinking concoctions that were topped in whipped cream.
“Have you seen the news this morning?”
“No. I was woken in the night by a call. I had some things to do so I remained awake until now.”
“Maybe you should take a look.”
He motioned for the waiter to come over and then said something to him in Turkish. The waiter disappeared and then reappeared holding a newspaper. He scanned the front and the first few pages.
“I see nothing unusual.”
“Try online. Hürriyet.”
He tapped on his phone. I could see the Hürriyet logo. The third most visited website in all of Europe. I could see an image. Probably taken about the time I arrived on shore. He studied the article for a full minute. I saw him clicking around to some other websites that cover the news.
