John Milton: The Jungle Part 12

"You are like John?"

Hicks didn't answer that for a moment. He knew that Milton had killed more than just the Albanian. He didn't know how many men and women had been unfortunate enough to have had their files pa.s.sed to him, but he knew that there would have been plenty. Dozens? Probably. Hicks had undergone the selection procedure that would have seen him admitted into Group Fifteen, the agency that had employed Milton. It had been Milton who had been responsible for rejecting his application. No reason had been given, and Hicks had never asked for an explanation after meeting Milton again. But, seeing what his career had done to Milton-the solitude that he wore like a badge of honour, the conscience that was so obviously tormented-Hicks found that he was glad that he had been turned down.

Sarah was looking at him expectantly.

"Let's change the subject," he said.

Sarah was content to walk in silence and didn't seem interested in asking Hicks anything else about himself. He found himself relaxing in her company, lulled by the steady cadence of their feet on the trail and the chirping of birds as they flitted between the branches overhead.

"Is John paying you?" she said at last.

"For what?"

"Looking after me."

"No."

"So why do you do it?"

"I owe him a favour."

"He seems like that sort of man."

"What sort?"

"The sort who is owed favours. I think he is the sort of man who likes to help people."

"I suppose he does," Hicks said, thinking of his own history with Milton.

"Thank you," she said at last.

"For what?"

"For this. You do not know me. You do not owe me anything, yet you are here. That is kind."

They turned the last, darkened corner and emerged from the vegetation into the open s.p.a.ce of the car park again. They made their way across to the Range Rover and Hicks opened the doors. He pressed the engine start b.u.t.ton and the console flickered to life. Sarah didn't wait for an invitation: she waited for the apps to appear, scrolled through to Spotify, selected it and browsed through until she found the entry for Eminem.

"I can't tempt you with some Roxy Music?"

"I don't even know what that is."

'The Way I Am' started to play as Hicks fed revs to the engine and rolled out of the car park. Sarah turned her head and gazed out of the window as they picked up speed. He could see her reflection in the mirror. Her eyes were closed and she was gently nodding her head to the beats.

Hicks headed back to the south.

Chapter Twenty.

MILTON SHOWERED, dressed in a pair of clean black jeans, a grey crew neck T-s.h.i.+rt and a black bomber jacket. He checked that he had his pa.s.sport, phone and charger, cigarettes and lighter, car keys and cash, and left his room.

Breakfast was being served in a dining room that was just as bland and functional as the bedroom he had left behind. There were two businessmen sharing a table, and a woman in a skirt and jacket who eyed Milton up as he went to the table and helped himself to a gla.s.s of orange juice and a croissant. He ordered a full English breakfast and a pot of coffee and polished it all off while reading the news on his phone.

The businessmen left, and then the woman. Milton finished his third cup of coffee, collected his bag and took it outside. He smoked a cigarette, enjoying the cool breeze that was blowing in off the water and watching as a large ferry moved sluggishly out of the harbour.

He finished the cigarette, ground it underfoot, got into his car and set off.

MILTON DROVE to the detention centre, went through the rigmarole of signing in and pa.s.sed into the reception room again. Two volunteers were waiting inside, setting up their table and fanning out a series of leaflets. Milton went over and took one; it was written in Arabic, and the cover featured a picture of a man and woman who beamed out at the camera with happy smiles. It all seemed very false.

"h.e.l.lo," said one of the volunteers. "Are you a relative?"

"A friend." He held up the leaflet for her to see. "That happen often?"

"What do you mean?"

"Smiles and laughter. A happy ending."

"More than you might think. But I'd be here even if it didn't. Some of the kids here, they're just boys. They don't speak the language. They're frightened. If we can help them improve things just a little, it's worth it."

Milton nodded and slid the leaflet back into a holder.

The woman smiled at him. "What's your story?"

"Similar," he said. "Just trying to help."

"We could always do with an extra pair of hands."

Milton smiled back at her. "I'm not qualified to give that kind of help."

He turned before she could try to continue the conversation, just as the doors were opened and the detainees were allowed inside.

Samir was at the back of the group. Milton caught his eye and pointed to the same table that they had used before. He went to the table at the back of the room and made two coffees. He turned and saw that Samir was watching him.

Milton went to the table and put the paper cups down.

"I did not think you would come back," Samir said.

"I said that I would."

Samir took the paper cup and put it to his lips. He looked at Milton the whole time, the whites of his eyes standing bright against his black skin.

"I spoke to the lawyer."

"And?"

"She said she will take my case. She says I have a chance. Asylum-she says it is not impossible."

"That's great," Milton said.

"But it might take weeks. There is bureaucracy. I need to be out of here, John. My sister needs me."

"I found the place," Milton said.

"The place?"

"The address you gave me. I visited it."

Samir's expression changed to one that mixed fear and antic.i.p.ation. "Was she there?"

"No. They moved her. I'm sorry, Samir."

The young man closed his eyes, and Milton saw his larynx bobbing up and down in his throat as he swallowed. "When was this?"

"The day before yesterday."

Samir looked down at the table.

"Has she been in touch again?" Milton asked him.

"No," Samir said. "Nothing. What happened when you were there?"

"I went inside," he said. "I spoke to someone who was there. Another girl. She told me about Nadia. She was there. I was a day too late."

Samir drank again. His hand was shaking.

"I've got a picture I want to show you," Milton said.

He took out his phone and navigated to the still from the security camera that showed the woman and the man as they exited the brothel. He slid the phone across the table. "That's Nadia, isn't it?"

Samir picked up the phone and stared at it. Tears welled in his eyes. "Yes," he said. His voice was husky and he blinked hard, trying to prevent the tears from falling.

"The man she's with-do you recognise him?"

Samir cleared his throat. "No," he said. "I've never seen him before. Do you know who he is?"

"I don't."

"What do you know? Do you know anything?"

There was anger in his voice; Milton disregarded it. It was reasonable, and he knew that it wasn't directed at him.

"How will we find her now?" Samir asked when Milton didn't respond.

Milton put the telephone back into his pocket. "I'll find her."

Samir stared hard at him. "But you have no idea, do you? They have taken her somewhere else, and there is no way we will be able to find her."

"Not necessarily. I've been thinking about it. About everything that happened to you. There might be a way we can get to them."

Samir clenched his fists on the table, his knuckles bulging. "How?"

"Tell me about the smugglers."

"Why-"

"Tell me what happened. How you found them. How they operated. Everything."

Samir looked dubious. "We travelled from Eritrea," he began. "I told you."

"Tell me again."

"We travelled for a week to get to Tripoli. We travelled at night, in cages, with no food and no drink. Through the desert. We were near Tripoli when we were captured by Libya Dawn. They are a militia. They fight against the other militias and the government. They buy and sell refugees like us for use as slaves or fighters in their gangs. I did not care about what they did to me. I was worried about Nadia. My sister is pretty." He pointed down to Milton's pocket, where he had put the phone. "You have seen. Very pretty, yes?"

Milton inclined his head.

"And I see how the guards look at her. I know what they are thinking. You understand?"

"Yes," Milton said. "Go on."

"The militia were offered money for us. There were thirty of us. They sold us to a smuggler for one thousand dinars each. The smugglers say that they will get us across the sea, but we must pay them back the one thousand dinars as well as the price of the boat trip, our food, life jackets, and everything else that they say that we need. It was two and a half thousand dinars each. We had been saving our money for months and I paid them. The next morning, they told us we would go. They drove us to Sabratah, where they had their boats. They kept us in houses near the beach and then drove us to the boats in trucks. There were five hundred of us. I thought that they would have many boats, but they did not. Two boats. Two boats for all of us. They told us not to worry, that the s.h.i.+ps were new and had a captain and two a.s.sistants, but they lied. They guarded us with Kalashnikovs and told us that no one could leave. Then we go, and they followed us in dinghies until we were out at sea. We were lucky, but the other boat broke down. We left it behind. When we arrived on the island, people asked what happened to it. They said we don't know, but then someone on our boat heard that the other boat sank and everyone drowned."

Samir finished and Milton was quiet for a moment.

"I meant what I said," Milton said. "I want to help you, and I want to help your sister, but I don't think I will be able to find her in London now. So I need to work backwards."

"What do you mean?"

"The smugglers. How do they operate?"

Samir shrugged. "It is easy to do. You need a boat and the contacts to find people like me and my sister. A place like Sabratah or Zuwara is like a market. Dozens of smugglers. The pa.s.sengers are just cargo. If boats leave early, the smugglers with cargo to move will sell them to the smugglers who are ready to go. Say one smuggler has one hundred people. He sells them to another smuggler for one thousand dollars each. He makes a lot of money. The other smuggler, the one who has a boat and is ready to go, he charges the pa.s.sengers two thousand dollars each. He makes a lot of money, too. I think they are all very rich."

"Which smuggler was responsible for you?"

"He is called Ali. He is in charge of the market at Sabratah. He is the biggest."

"And he arranged your trip?"

Samir nodded. "His boats were ready to leave. He bought us from the militia."

"And how would I find him?"

Samir looked at Milton with wide eyes. "He is in Libya, Mr. Smith."