Spider Shepherd 11 - White Lies

by Stephen Leather

  Coatsworth pointed at the man. ‘I want a word with you,’ he said. The man hesitated so Coatsworth grabbed him by the arm and frogmarched him over to the Mercedes. ‘Where’s my money?’ he asked.

  The Iraqi reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out an envelope. Coatsworth snatched it from him. It contained hundred-euro notes and Coatsworth flicked through them. ‘There’s only fifteen thousand euros here,’ he shouted. ‘That’s not what we agreed. You have to pay twenty thousand. What game are you fucking playing?’

  The man’s wife was looking at them anxiously. Her son began to cry and she picked him up and whispered into his ear. The young girl slipped her arm through the woman’s and bit down on her lower lip as she watched Coatsworth argue with her father.

  ‘I gave him the deposit,’ said the Iraqi, gesturing at Alain. ‘Five hundred euros each. Two thousand euros.’

  ‘The deposit gets you on the list,’ said Coatsworth, waving the envelope in the man’s face. ‘The real money gets you on the boat. The fee is four grand a head. Four thousand pounds. Or five thousand euros. That’s the fee and you were told that before you signed on for this.’

  ‘My son is only three years old,’ protested the man. ‘He is a child.’

  ‘Four thousand pounds a head,’ said Coatsworth. ‘He’s got a head, hasn’t he? Four heads, sixteen thousand pounds. Or twenty thousand euros.’

  The man held out his hands, palms up. ‘I don’t have twenty thousand euros. I have fifteen thousand. That’s all I have.’ There were tears in his eyes and his hands were trembling.

  ‘Bollocks,’ said Coatsworth. ‘You’ve got money, you’re just trying to cheat me and I’ll tell you now that’s not going to work.’

  The man’s wife shouted something in Arabic and the man turned and shouted back at her.

  Coatsworth put a hand on the man’s shoulder. ‘Don’t talk to her, talk to me,’ he snarled.

  ‘I don’t have twenty thousand euros,’ he said. ‘Not in cash. It’s in a bank. I can pay you when we get to England.’

  ‘Yeah, my cheque’ll be in the post and you won’t come in my mouth,’ said Coatsworth.

  The Iraqi frowned. ‘I don’t understand,’ he said.

  ‘Then understand this. No money, no trip. You’ve enough for three people so I’ll take three of you. One of you will have to stay behind.’ He looked at the watch on the man’s wrist. It was a cheap Casio. ‘Does your wife have any jewellery? Any gold?’

  The man shook his head. ‘We were robbed when we were in Turkey.’ The man’s wife walked towards them, the boy in her arms, and said something in Arabic to the man. He replied, and she started talking faster, her free arm waving in the air.

  ‘Bruno, get over here!’ Coatsworth called to Mercier. Mercier closed the suitcase he was searching and jogged over.

  The Iraqi was speaking to his wife in Arabic. Coatsworth turned to Mercier. ‘What’s he saying?’

  Mercier moved closer to Coatsworth. ‘She’s saying she thinks they should wait. And find another way to England. Says she doesn’t like you.’

  Coatsworth laughed harshly. ‘Doesn’t like me? Doesn’t fucking like me?’ He pointed his finger at the woman. ‘You can fuck off back to Arab-land for all I care,’ he shouted. ‘There are plenty of people more than happy to pay me. You and your whole family can just fuck off and I’ll get someone else to take your place.’

  The woman glared at him defiantly. Her husband stepped in front of her and began talking animatedly.

  ‘What’s he saying now?’ Coatsworth asked Mercier.

  ‘He’s calming her down,’ said the Algerian. ‘He says they’re to go ahead and he’ll follow once he’s got the cash.’ He listened for a few seconds and then nodded. ‘They’ve got family in Milton Keynes. Her uncle and her aunt. He wants her to stay with them until he gets over. Says he’ll get the money from the bank and come on the next run.’

  Coatsworth nodded. ‘Finally he sees sense.’ A small group of men and women were still inside the van, watching what was going on. Coatsworth pointed at them. ‘Get the hell out now and bring your bags with you.’

  The Iraqi man finished talking to his wife and came over to Coatsworth.

  ‘My wife, she is very upset,’ he said. ‘You have to understand, her brother and her cousin were killed this year. Her brother worked for the Ministry of the Interior and the Taliban weren’t happy about what he was doing with border controls. Her cousin was a teacher and she was killed because she taught a lesson about female political leaders. The Taliban shot her in the face. We had to leave, you understand?’

  ‘I hear sob stories like yours all the time, mate,’ said Coatsworth. ‘I’m not a charity, I’m a business. You pay, you go, you don’t, you stay. When you’ve got the extra five thousand euros I’ll take you.’ He gestured at the road. ‘Now on your bike.’

  ‘My bike?’ The Iraqi frowned. ‘My bike? I have no bike.’

  ‘Get lost,’ said Coatsworth.

  ‘But how do I get back to Calais?’

  ‘That’s not my problem,’ said Coatsworth.

  ‘You have to help me,’ pleaded the Iraqi.

  Coatsworth reached inside his coat and pulled out a gun, a small semi-automatic. He pointed it in the Iraqi’s face. ‘I don’t have to do anything,’ he said. ‘Now fuck off.’

  The Iraqi looked over at Bell but Bell just folded his arms and stared back at him. Mercier said something to the Iraqi in Arabic and the Iraqi opened his mouth to say something back but then he had a change of heart and walked away, his head down. Coatsworth turned to look at the woman. She put her arms around the two children. ‘Up to you, you can go with him or you can come to England. I don’t care either way.’

  The woman nodded slowly. ‘We will go with you,’ she said. There was no disguising the hatred in her eyes, but she managed to force a smile. ‘Thank you, for what you are doing. We do not want to cause you any trouble.’

  Coatsworth nodded curtly and put his gun away. ‘Finish searching them,’ he said to Mercier. As the Algerian went over to the refugees, Coatsworth turned to watch the Iraqi walking down the road towards Calais. ‘Stupid bastard,’ he muttered under his breath.

  Bell and Mercier finished searching the refugees. They had found two kitchen knives in the suitcase of one of the Arab men and all the Somalians had been carrying knives. Bell tossed the knives into the boot of the Mercedes.

  ‘Line them up and tell them to get their money out,’ Coatsworth said.

  Mercier shouted at the group in rapid Arabic, French and English. ‘Line up and get your money out now!’

  The refugees did as they were told. Coatsworth walked along the line, taking the money from them and checking it. Once it was checked, he handed the notes to Mercier, who put them in a black backpack. When he reached the Iraqi woman and her two children, Coatsworth grunted and waved at the van. One of the Somalian teenagers helped her up.

  When he reached the three Iraqi men, the one who had asked about the boat the first time had his chin up defiantly. ‘We want to see boat,’ he said.

  ‘Do you see any water here?’ asked Coatsworth.

  The man frowned. ‘Water?’ he repeated.

  ‘The sea? Do you see the fucking sea? We’re two miles from the coast. When we get to the coast you’ll see the bloody boat.’ He held out his hand. ‘Now give me the money or you can walk back to Calais with that other prick.’

  The man frowned, clearly not understanding what he was saying, so Coatsworth gestured at Mercier. ‘Tell him what I said and get them in the van.’ He took the backpack from Mercier, thrust in the last of the cash and took it over to the Mercedes. He tossed the backpack on top of the confiscated weapons and slammed the boot shut.

  He got back into the Mercedes and watched the refugees climb into the van. The Frenchman slammed the doors shut and got back into the cab. Rainey offered him a cigarette and he took it. Rainey lit it and then lit one for himself.

  Bell and Mercier got into the back o
f the Mercedes. Rainey gave Mercier a cigarette and then put the car in gear and followed the van down the road. There was no traffic and they reached the small harbour in just five minutes. The van pulled up next to a line of fisherman’s huts that had been locked up for the night. Rainey brought the Mercedes to a stop behind the van and switched off the headlights.

  Two teenagers in heavy jackets and wool beanies walked over. Mercier wound down the window and spoke to them in rapid French. They answered. ‘All good,’ Mercier said to Coatsworth.

  ‘Let’s do it, then,’ said Coatsworth. ‘Open the boot, Frankie.’

  Coatsworth climbed out of the car and went around to the back. He pulled out the backpack containing the money. Bell and Mercier joined him and retrieved their own bags.

  Rainey got out and tossed the keys to one of the teenagers.

  Coatsworth gestured at Mercier with his chin. ‘Tell them no joyriding and they’d better be here when we get back.’

  As Mercier translated Coatsworth’s instructions, Rainey went around to the boot to get his bag, a Nike holdall. He slammed the boot shut.

  The Frenchman had opened the van doors and the refugees climbed out and gathered together in a tight group like worried sheep.

  ‘Right, get them on to the boats, now,’ said Coatsworth. He waved goodbye to the Frenchman, who climbed into the van and drove off.

  There was a gap in the sea wall leading to a flight of stone steps. At the bottom of the steps was a wooden jetty where two high-performance rigid inflatable boats were bobbing in the swell. Rainey and Mercier ushered the men, women and children down the stone stairs to the waiting ribs. Each was about twenty feet long with a solid hull surrounded by a flexible inflatable collar that allowed the vessel to stay afloat even if swamped in rough seas. Each had a single massive Yamaha engine at the stern. There were few faster boats around, and these were certainly faster than anything owned by the UK’s Border Force or HM Revenue and Customs. The boats were also virtually invisible to radar, making them the perfect smuggler’s boat. Each had dual controls at the bow and a double bench seat in the centre with spaces for eight people and nylon seat belts to keep them securely in place.

  Mercier and Rainey dumped their bags in the bow and helped the refugees into the boats.

  ‘You didn’t say anything about guns,’ Bell muttered to Coatsworth.

  ‘What, you think I’m gonna be wandering around in the dark with thirty grand in my bag without some way of protecting myself?’ sneered Coatsworth. He pointed down at the Somalians who were fastening their seat belts. ‘For all we know they could be bloody pirates. You think I’m going out to sea with people I don’t know without a gun?’ He gestured at the group, who were giving him anxious looks and muttering among themselves. ‘Look, mate, the meek don’t inherit the earth and they sure as hell don’t get out of shitholes like Iraq and Afghanistan or those African countries where they chop off each other’s arms. Anyone who has made it this far has had to lie, cheat, steal and probably done a lot worse. Thieves, warlords and murderers, the odd torturer or two, they’re the ones who get this far.’

  ‘She’s a teacher, the wife of that guy you sent packing,’ said Bell.

  ‘Yeah, well, she’s the exception,’ said Coatsworth. ‘And how do we know she’s telling the truth? For all we know her husband could have been Saddam Hussein’s torturer-in-chief. Do you think teachers and farmers and bus drivers can get the money to escape from Iraq and get here? Do you think nice smiley people with a song in their hearts claw their way out?’ He shook his head. ‘No, mate. The bastards are the ones who make it out and they do it by climbing over everybody else. They do what it takes to survive.’

  ‘You can’t blame them for that,’ said Bell.

  ‘No, you can’t. But the sort of ruthlessness that got them this far is the sort of ruthlessness that could lead to them knifing me when we’re out at sea and throwing me overboard so that they get my money and my boat. That’s why we search them before we put them on board and why I carry a big gun. Got it?’

  ‘Got it,’ said Bell.

  ‘It’s for protection.’

  Bell held up his hands. ‘I hear you, Ally. It’s not a problem.’

  ‘Good man. Now let’s get this cargo delivered.’

  ‘When are you going to tell me where we’re going?’ said Bell.

  ‘I’ve given the GPS coordinates to Frankie,’ said Coatsworth. ‘Don’t take it personal, mate. I’m the only one who knows the drop-off point.’

  ‘Keeping your cards close to your chest? I can understand that.’

  Coatsworth slapped him on the back. ‘I’ve been doing this for a while and never come close to being caught,’ he said. ‘I want to keep it that way. Look, you’ll see it on the GPS anyway. We’re heading north, up to the Suffolk coast. Near a place called Southwold. It’s a quiet beach. I’ve used it before.’

  ‘That’s a long trip,’ said Bell. ‘Close to a hundred miles.’

  ‘A couple of hours,’ said Coatsworth. ‘The water’s quieter up there and there’s almost no Border Force activity. Not that it matters that much, our boats can outrun anything the government has. The only thing that can keep up with us is a helicopter and there’s almost zero chance of us coming across one.’ He slapped Bell on the back again and led him down the stairs. A thick chain had been fixed to the sea wall to give them something to hold on to as they made their way down.

  Coatsworth climbed into the rib with Mercier. All the passengers were on board and Mercier was checking that they had all fastened their seat belts. Their luggage was lying on the floor, close to their feet.

  Bell carefully climbed into his rib. It was a few feet longer than Coatsworth’s and the seats were laid out slightly differently in four rows of two. His passengers were already strapped in. The Iraqi woman was sitting in the front row with her son on her lap. Her daughter was in the seat next to her.

  Bell walked over to her and held on to the back of her seat for balance. ‘Your boy needs to be in a seat,’ he said.

  She shook her head fiercely. ‘He is too small. He will fall out.’

  Bell looked at the boy and realised she had a point. He turned to Rainey. ‘Frankie, there’s a cupboard under your wheel with some life jackets in it. There’s a kid’s one there.’

  Rainey bent down, pulled open a hatch, then straightened up with an orange life jacket in his hand. He tossed it to Bell and Bell handed it to the woman. ‘Put that on your boy, just in case.’

  He went up to the bow and knelt down to reach into the storage bay. He pulled out another seven life jackets.

  ‘Ally never bothers,’ said Rainey.

  ‘Yeah, well, I’m the skipper of this boat and I’m bothering,’ said Bell.

  He went back down the rib, distributing the life jackets. When all his passengers were wearing them, he undid the ropes that kept the rib tethered to the jetty, sat down in the left-hand seat and started the engine. Rainey slid on to the right-hand seat. ‘Frankie, you’re not carrying a gun, are you?’ asked Bell.

  Ahead of them, Coatsworth started his engine. Rainey frowned. ‘Why?’

  ‘Why? Because I want to know if you’re sitting there with a loaded gun in your pocket, that’s why.’

  Rainey grinned. ‘Yeah, the look on your face when Ally pulled out that gun. I thought you were going to piss yourself.’

  ‘Nobody told me there’d be guns,’ said Bell. Coatsworth turned and gave Bell a thumbs-up. Bell grinned and returned the gesture.

  ‘Guns don’t kill people, people kill people,’ said Rainey.

  ‘People with guns kill people without guns, that’s generally how it works,’ said Bell. ‘Now do you have one or not?’

  Rainey shook his head, then reached behind his back and pulled out a large hunting knife with a black handle. ‘No gun, but I’ve got this little beauty if we have any problems.’

  ‘Bloody hell, Frankie. Be careful you don’t cut yourself with that.’ Rainey grinned and put the knife aw
ay.

  Coatsworth gunned his engine and his rib moved away from the jetty. Bell looked over his shoulder and checked that all his passengers were strapped in. He noticed that the young Iraqi boy’s belt was loose so he waved at the mother and mimed for her to tighten it. She did as she was told, then put up the hood of the boy’s anorak. Bell nudged the throttle forward and steered the rib to starboard to move away from the jetty. There was a quarter-moon and the sky was virtually cloudless so visibility was good even at that late hour. Bell pulled a pair of protective goggles from his pocket and put them on. At the speed the rib would be travelling, even a small insect could potentially blind him. Rainey entered the GPS coordinates into the onboard computer. After a few seconds a dotted line appeared on the display, connecting their current position to their destination on the Suffolk coast. Rainey pulled on his own goggles and flashed Bell a thumbs-up. ‘Chocks away!’ he shouted. ‘And don’t spare the horses!’

  Sea spray splattered across his goggles and Bell used his sleeve to wipe them clean. There was some traffic around – the English Channel was the busiest waterway in the world – but not enough to cause them any problems. There were freighters and container ships and a few miles away was a massive cross-Channel ferry heading towards the French coast. Bell was on his feet, leaning against the white plastic bucket seat behind him. He held the wheel with his right hand and gripped the throttle lever with his left. They were doing just under fifteen knots and the throttle wasn’t even at the halfway point. The rib’s single outboard engine, the biggest on the market, cost upwards of fifteen thousand pounds and was capable of generating three hundred horsepower. At close to its top speed of sixty knots the engine burned through eleven gallons an hour and the fifty-five gallons in the tank were more than enough to get them across the Channel and back.

  Rainey was standing to Bell’s right. He had a matching set of controls but he kept his hands away from them and held on to a grab rail for balance. Both men scanned the waves ahead of them, not just for other boats but for anything floating in the water that could rupture the hull or smash the propeller.