by Finn Óg
“I do not know,” said the brother again. “I am told small story only. Just get woman and child to Europe. Kill Gaddafi men. Find house. Seek asee-lum. Nothing happened with plan.”
“Nothing went according to plan,” corrected Sam.
“Is fucking mess,” conceded Sinbad, and Sam nearly laughed.
But there was one more hole in the history.
“So if you were to take them with you, why did you leave Alea and Sadiqah behind in Sicily?”
“What?” asked Sinbad.
“Why did you abandon Alea and Sadiqah in Sicily? Why did you go when you left the little boat? You just fucked off?”
“No, no, no,” he said shaking his head.
Sam gripped his forearm tighter again.
“Is true,” he pleaded. “I no leave them.”
“Then what happened?”
“She see yellow light and she run a screaming at yellow light.”
“What?”
“There is car, for official person. Car with yellow lines and light,” Sinbad said, opening and closing his hand.
“A flashing light?”
“Yes, flashing light. Yellow, like sun.”
Sam considered.
“A coastguard vehicle?”
“I do not know,” said Sinbad.
Sam guessed someone had seen them struggling on the rocks and had called the coastguard, which would explain a lot.
“She run so fast and is screaming. I have no choice. I run other way,” he said.
Well, well, well, Alea, thought Sam. You have courage indeed. He looked over Sinbad’s head and read his name scrawled in dry marker on a whiteboard above the hospital bed. Mr Halassi. His gaze fell to a cabinet, the drawer slightly ajar. He reached around the hapless burn victim and pulled it out.
“La, la!” shouted Sinbad.
Sam grabbed a few scraps of paper from inside the drawer and stuffed them in his back pocket. The noise had caused the woman to peer in the window of the door and she made to enter, but Sam had got all he’d came for, so he stood up and left as fast as he could.
Nineteen
Isla was tucked up with his folks, and given that Sam was in Dublin anyway, he looked up an old friend. They met in the back lounge of O’Donoghue’s. The tourists sat out the front listening to the music and tall stories from the locals, and anyone who wanted a chat or a game of cards went down the back.
“You’ve been quiet this long time I thought you were dead,” said Fran with a smile as wide as the mouth of the Liffey.
“Not dead yet,” Sam laughed. “Not a million miles from it at times, though, Fran.”
“Sure, don’t tell me, ask me,” he said. “Two fine glasses and a follow,” he ordered.
Sam hadn’t had a drink in a long time. He knew the effects would kick in quickly and he didn’t want to get loose tongued in the long grass, much as he trusted Fran. He’d stick to a few and then get a train north.
“Have you been interfering with any ships recently?”
Fran’s job was essentially to unionise the crews of container vessels and look after seafarers. Occasionally that meant extracting them from under the noses of abusive captains or oppressive on-board regimes. That was how the pair had met. Through a referral from Sinead, Fran had asked Sam to help him rescue more than a few crew members in tight situations. Sam’s background had been ideal for such work – leaping on and off ships undetected, often with a forlorn Filipino over his shoulder. He enjoyed the little Dubliner’s roguery and his commitment to comforting the afflicted while afflicting the comfortable.
“Ah, sure,” said Fran. “You know the score, brother. The people that would cause trouble for honest-working men are everywhere. What about yourself? Have you been having any rows with wayward skippers since I last saw ye?”
“Funny enough,” said Sam.
“Ye have an’ all.” Fran’s eyes were twinkling.
“I did have a little barney with a man on a ship. Big boat called Teetaya.”
“Let me write that down, brother,” said Fran, who drew a little notepad from his breast pocket. “Spell that for me?”
Sam rattled out the letters.
“IMO?”
“Can’t remember,” said Sam, who had taken a note of its designation. “I have it written down on the boat.”
“Sure, text it to me when you can and I’ll have a look into its history.” Fran smiled. “Maybe if it comes our way, we can perform an official inspection.”
Fran had curious powers. His modus operandi was to leverage union membership among stevedores, who were essential to the off-load of any ship’s cargo. He seemed able to persuade them to down tools and refuse to permit any vessel to unload. This meant that harbour masters were reluctant to allow a ship on which there was a dispute to land at any of his berths; time was money and quay space was valuable. In the meantime, Fran could board a ship at sea, occasionally with the assistance of the harbour master who invariably wanted a quiet life and any issues resolved before the vessel tied up to his berth. Once aboard, Fran demanded the crew’s papers. If the ratings hadn’t been paid or had been kept at sea beyond their contracted time, he’d get them reimbursed or removed. Some sailors hadn’t seen their families in years. His take on it was that he was fighting slave labour.
“What did this ship do to annoy you?” asked Fran.
“Refused to take people in trouble to safety,” Sam replied, with a coyness Fran was alive to.
“Say no more, brother.” The case obviously appealed to him. “I shall discover all that my fine organisation has to offer on Teetaya and I shall relay it forthwith.”
“Good man, Fran, thanks,” said Sam. “Another wee drink?”
“Be civil, you two,” said Sinead.
Sam looked at the sister and lied. “Nice to see you again.”
Which was more than she did. “Wish I could say the same.” Áine smiled sarcastically.
“Don’t start.” Sinead wanted to get on with other things. “What’s going on, Sam?”
“Whatever it is, it’s bound to be safe and wholesome,” Áine chirped like a smoke alarm short on battery.
Áine had helped Sam in the past in his clandestine business, Charlie, and as a result had got into a few scrapes because of the nature of the work. It had all been unintended but she resented that her twin had been placed in danger as a result.
Sinead moved to quell the sister’s vitriol. “That’s all in the past. Now give it a rest, I want to know what’s going on.”
Sam explained what had happened on Grafton Street in greater detail. They weren’t surprised at what he’d done – they were used to him by now, but they were baffled at how he’d happened upon Sinbad by accident.
“So you’re telling us you weren’t following him?” Áine was, as usual, sceptical.
“I wasn’t – I didn’t even know he was in Ireland.”
“Right,” said Áine, “and I came up the Liffey in a Comanche kayak.”
Sam had learned to ignore her, despite her usefulness. He fished in his pocket for the scraps of paper.
“I don’t know what any of this says – it’s in Arabic, but that’s definitely a number. Possibly a phone number. I’m guessing the area code is Libya.”
“Big place,” snapped Áine.
“Well, Triploi would be a good place to start, and after that maybe Benghazi, and then perhaps Tobruk.”
“You seem very familiar with Libya and its towns. Maybe you’ve been there before?” she goaded, always pushing, always suspicious. Like many Irish people, the presence of British military – ex or otherwise – still grated a little.
“Can you trace the number?” Sam deflected.
Áine was employed by one of Dublin’s tech multinationals. She seemed to have a new job with a new firm every six months. She was skilled and read code like Sam read trouble.
“If it’s a phone number, then it can be traced, but sure this could be a nuclear warhead code knowing you.”
“Do us a favour and look it up. Please.”
“I’ll get back to ye.”
He’d only just settled back aboard when the phone rang. Not the old work one but the one he actually paid a contract for when he was north of the Irish border. It was his mother-in-law asking if Isla would like to go to Alton Towers.
“How long for?” he asked, nervous but knowing full well that he couldn’t refuse. Isla’s grandparents missed her terribly when Sam took her away and each time she left them was another reminder of unbearable loss.
They settled on a week, which made Sam antsy and irritable. He’d picked her up just a few hours before from his own parents and now he’d just two days with her before she was off again. She, of course, was delighted at the prospect of a week at a fun park.
Sam let her go to pack her bags and turned his attention to what he might do to occupy his mind in her absence. The answer pinged through on the other phone – the work one. He listened to the voicemail.
“Gimme a call, brother. I’ve the whole diddly dory on your rogue vessel.”
Sam shook his head. In the world of shipping Fran was connected beyond compare. He was evidently excited too because he picked up on the first ring of Sam’s return call.
“I’ve located this wayward freighter,” he began immediately, “and it has a poor pedigree, my friend. A very grim boat on which to be a crew member.” Fran’s patter was nothing if not eloquent.
“Really?”
“It’s been detained no fewer than fifteen times. If it ever comes to Irish waters, I guarantee you it’ll not leave again. Fissures in the hull, lack of lifeboats, lack of supplies for the ratings – although note that the officers were all well fed and watered. Lack of an agreement in place, fire hazards, lack of fresh water—”
“I get the picture, Fran. Who owns it?”
“Greek at origin, flagged wherever it lands. They’ve changed it that many times it’s had more colours up its pole than the summit of Everest. Currently Belize but by the next port – who knows.”
Flags of convenience, which allow shipping companies to cloak their questionable work practices by adhering to the law of the country under which the ship’s listed – or flagged. Unsurprisingly, many ships flew the canvas of states with questionable human rights records, some of which were even landlocked.
“So is it coming to Ireland any time soon?” Sam knew that Fran had the capacity to find out such detail through his network of trades unions overseas.
“No, brother, I’m telling you – we’re too good at this here. They know that if they land in Irish or British waters, they’re fucked.”
“Well, where’s it for next?”
“Tomorrow, Yemen.”
“Lovely spot.”
“I dunno. For those into public executions …”
“Then where?”
“Then Saudi.”
“Then?” Sam somehow knew what was coming.
“Egypt, then Sudan, the canal, then the Med. I dunno if it has sorted its cargo beyond that. Will depend on how efficient the owner is.”
“Where in Egypt?” asked Sam.
“Well, if you fancy diving and cocktails on the Red Sea, you’re out of luck, brother. Place called Nuweiba. Looks like a kip on the east coast.”
“Alright,” he said. “Can you text me the timings?”
“For where?”
“For all the ports, please, and thanks a million, Fran. I appreciate it. Let me know if and when it comes closer to home. I’d love to pay the skipper a wee visit.”
“No bother, my friend. Talk to ye.” And the colourful little Dubliner was gone.
The phone sat silent for all of ten seconds. Sam had been at sea so long it startled him every time it made a noise. He lifted it and saw Charity appear. He made a note to change that in case she ever saw it.
“Sinead,” he said, “how are you?”
“Grand, grand,” she began. “Alea’s doing well, Sadiqah is improving too. It will take time, you know the story. How are ye and Isla?”
Sam loved that she never forgot to ask for Isla. Even before Sinead had met her, she’d inquired after his daughter.
“Not so bad,” he said. “Isla’s off on her holidays without me.”
“Ooh, you’ll miss her.”
Sam was, well, touched, that she got it.
“Mmm. How’s, eh, how’s Áine?” Sam felt compelled to ask by return.
“Well, that’s part of the reason I’m ringing. She’s got a location for that number ye gave her.”
“She’s quick.”
“Piece of piss, she said. I’ll just read you exactly what she wrote down on a note for ye. I haven’t read it yet, so don’t take offence if she’s herself. You know she’s only messing.”
“Go on,” said Sam, although he wasn’t at all sure she was only messing when she slagged him.
Sinead began reading: “Tell that gobshite that he got something right – it was a phone number and it was a Libyan mobile. But – for whatever reason, it’s not in Libya any more. At least the last time it pinged a cellular mast it wasn’t in Libya. It was in Egypt.” Sinead paused. “Make sense so far?”
“Yes,” said Sam, tension building at what he knew was coming.
“Last known location, eastern Egypt. Can track it from Alexandria across Sinai Desert with patches of nothing until … I can’t make this out.”
“Does it begin with N?” he asked, his head in his hands.
“Yeah, how’d ye know that?”
“Sound it out,” he said – just as he made Isla do with her reading books.
“What am I, like five? Nu-wi-ba,” she said.
“Nuweiba,” he repeated.
“Weird.” Sinead dismissed the incidentals and got back to the note. “It went dark closest to a town called Nuweiba. Tell him to …” Sinead trailed off for a moment then came back. “Well, that’s the gist of it.”
“Tell him to what?” he pressed.
“The rest is just nonsense really.”
“Go on, some nonsense might cheer me up just now.”
“No,” she said, unusually firm.
“Go on,” he giggled.
He later imagined her set on a path before being nudged by him towards wavering. It had been a big decision.
“Come on, Sinead, what else did she write?” he asked.
He heard her take a big breath and then dive in.
“Tell him to make a decision about my sister and stop fucking with her head. She’s been through enough dickheads already.”
There was a deathly silence for a few moments. There was no point in denying anything. They were grown-ups and they’d both been around the block. Sam eventually spoke.
“I don’t mean to mess with your head, Sinead.”
“I know, Sam,” she said. “I know.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Forget about it. It’s not an issue. But … I’m going to go now, ok?”
“Ok,” was all Sam could think to say.
And she was gone.
He sat for a long while thinking about things he didn’t want to be thinking about. All he wanted was a bit of time with his daughter, alone. But that was going to have to wait, so he hunted for a distraction and wondered about Shannon and what she would say.
She’d ask what the bad guys had done. He’d tell her they were people trafficking. She’d ask what he intended to do about it – not if he intended to do anything but what he intended to do. He’d talk her through possible scenarios, toning down or ignoring the violence. She’d weigh it all up and opt for the hard road. If people are harming children or women, remove them. She would have no problem with that.
So he fired up the Wi-Fi and searched for flights to Egypt.
Twenty
“Irish Ireland, Irish Ireland. Passport office.”
First impressions: Middle Eastern mayhem.
There were chickens running about being chased by headless Arabs, their scarves bound round their sku
lls to stave off the weather. Ancient Mercedes estate cars were three-storey stacked with mattresses, furniture, old square television sets, and Sam even spotted a dog kennel. He thought he’d seen it all until a pickup emerged from the ship with what appeared to be a bundle of sandy rugs in the back. He thought little of it until the rig opened its eyes, bore a jaw full of enormous teeth and he realised he was staring into the face of a camel. Like, seriously, who brings a camel across the sea in the back of their car? And what shipping company lets them?
He was enjoying Nuweiba very much indeed, despite the ferry crossing during which men had unashamedly squatted to shit on the decks and piss against the life-jacket holds. Sam doubted there were any life jackets in them anyway. He had thought on more than one occasion that if the ship was to sink, he would be the sole survivor.
The route was far from ideal. Sam was spoiled for passports, and all of his passports were spoiled. He had two Irish issues and one British – all legit and a by-product of the happy circumstance of being born in Belfast, where the Good Friday Agreement provided for possession of both. A person could be Irish, British or both in the new Ireland. A person could identify as a box of chocolates as far as Sam could care.
Sam’s intention had been to enter Egypt as undetected as possible, but he had Israeli stamps on two of his passports. That could prove a problem for Arab border guards, many of whom were hostile to the Jewish state. Besides, his travel history was so murky he could well be mistaken for a mercenary or special ops soldier and be sent back or scooped. Being arrested wasn’t an option – given Isla – so he had to travel clean.
To compound the complications he couldn’t say for sure that he wasn’t being actively sought in that state, given the work which Shannon had given him shortly after they’d first met. Israelis were exceptionally good at questioning new arrivals.
Because of the strife in Egypt no commercial carrier was flying to Cairo, so he decided to get to Amman, get through Jordan and catch the ferry at Aqaba, which was why some clown in an Egyptian customs kiosk was reading his passport, word by word, over a tannoy.
