John Milton: The Jungle Part 23

"The same. It is easy, isn't it, to identify another soldier? Something gives it away. Something about the way we hold ourselves." He pulled up the chair and sat down. "How was your soldiering?"

"Lots of running around and shouting."

"Have you fought in wars?"

"Yes."

"Ireland?"

"Yes."

"Iraq?"

"Yes."

"Kosovo?"

Hicks could place the accent now. He hadn't heard it for many years, but the suggestion reminded him of the time he had spent in Pristina.

"Yes," he said. "You, too?"

"That was my war. I was born in Prekaz, in Drenica. Central Kosovo. It has many hills, many sheep and cattle, very little money. My father and his father were Kosovo Albanian guerrillas who fought the Serbs. They fought t.i.to and then Milosevic. I could not read or write, but I listened to their stories when I was young and I remembered them all. They taught me to fight as soon as I could walk. My mother has a picture of me with an AK-47 that was taller than I was. The Serbs were brutal, Hicks. But the Kosovars were strong men. They still are."

Hicks's muscles were cramping, but there was nothing he could do to relieve them.

Pasko continued, ignoring Hicks's discomfort. "I undertook my military training in Labinot-Mal, in Albania. There were one hundred of us. When we returned, we continued the fight for independence. We sabotaged Serbian interests. We killed their soldiers. Eventually, Milosevic paid attention to us. He sent his soldiers to Prekaz. They had tanks and helicopters. They had artillery. They fired indiscriminately. Women and children were killed. Old men who could not fight. Eventually, there was a siege. They threatened to kill everyone unless we surrendered. They would have done it, Hicks, so we did."

Hicks opened his eyes again. "What does this have to do with me?"

"Be patient. We were taken to the Serbs' police headquarters in Pristina. They beat us for a week before they even asked us what they wanted to know. They used bedposts. They used knives and clubs. Electricity. They injected us with drugs. They starved us. Eventually, I was released. I went back to Albania. We had a staging post in the town of Kukes. There was an old factory there. I was put in charge of interrogating the prisoners that we captured. There were Serbs, Kosovo Albanian collaborators. These men did not have information, Hicks. They had nothing we did not already know. It wasn't about information. It was about creating an example. It was about making them fear us. My superiors wanted to create a myth, someone who would terrify the Serbs. I happened to be very good at what I was asked to do, and they had given me ideas. I was chosen to fulfil that role. My name is still known in Serbia. They called me kirurg. It means surgeon."

Hicks strained against the bonds. It was fruitless; they were too strong and, even if he had been able to remove them, what was he going to do? He was weak from whatever sedative they had used to knock him out, and he was badly outnumbered.

"Let me sleep your drugs off," Hicks said. "We can talk about this afterwards."

Pasko shuffled around in the chair so he could get to the box on the table. "My son was killed when the girl was taken from the flat. I know that you did not kill him. I want you to tell me who did."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

Pasko turned back. "Sarah told me what happened. Your friend attacked the flat. Mr. Smith. He was interested in one of our other girls. He took Sarah and promised that he would look after her. But then he left, and he introduced her to you. That is correct, is it not?"

"I don't know anything about that."

"I am not surprised that this would be your att.i.tude," Pasko said. "Let me ask you another question. Do you know what you are lying on?"

"I know it's not very comfortable."

He chuckled. "And we have not even started yet. It is a parilla. It means cooking grill. The person answering the questions is placed atop it the same way that meat is placed upon a barbecue. It was introduced in South America during the 1970s and 1980s. Pinochet used it extensively. We built this to his design. If you look to your left, you'll see the wall socket from which the electricity is drawn. It is fed through this control box"-Pasko tapped the box on the table-"and then attached to the victim with electrodes."

Pasko held the box up so that Hicks could look at it. It was a simple design: there was an on-off switch and a rheostat that would control the voltage. Pasko reached down for a wire mesh bag that was attached to the end of one of two wires that led from the box.

He took the bag and leaned down over Hicks's body. "Excuse me," he said as he leaned across and fitted the bag over Hicks's t.e.s.t.i.c.l.es.

Now Hicks did strain, but it was no use.

There was a wooden handle on the table with a metal end. The second wire was attached to the handle, and Pasko picked it up. "The Chileans, in particular, were inventive. For a woman, they would attach the wire to a wetted steel wool pan scrub and insert it into her v.a.g.i.n.a. For men, they would take a thin metal rod and insert it into the urethra. I have a rod like that in the tray here. Perhaps we will use it later." Pasko took a piece of cloth from the table, folded it into a single strip, and then secured it over Hicks's eyes, knotting it behind his head. "One of the distinguis.h.i.+ng features of this equipment is that the shocks are high voltage but low current. You know what that means, of course. The shocks will be excruciating, but they won't kill you. I've used this equipment on people for days at a time."

Hicks couldn't see a thing through the blindfold. He felt a ticklish sensation across his ribs and realised that Pasko was running the metal end across his skin. He couldn't help himself: he instinctively arched his body away from it, but there was nowhere for him to go.

"Let's try again. Who is the man who killed my son?"

Hicks gritted his teeth in antic.i.p.ation of what he knew was about to come. "I don't know what you're talking about."

He heard the click of the switch and then felt a cold sensation as the metal was held against his knee. A bolt of pain flashed from his groin and then down his leg, sending spasms through the muscle and lighting up every nerve ending. He grunted in pain.

"His name is John Smith. Tell me about him."

Hicks took a moment to regain his composure. "The straps are chafing a bit around my wrists," he managed through the pain. "I don't suppose you could loosen them a bit, could you?"

Pasko laughed. "You are a funny man, Mr. Hicks. Unfortunately for you, I have all day. And I will get the information I need."

Hicks heard the flick of the switch again.

Part 5.

Italy and France.

Chapter Forty-One.

MILTON WATCHED as the faint outline of land became visible through the haze on the horizon. The word was pa.s.sed back along the boat, and people stood to look. The journey had been long and fraught, and, now that the end was in sight, there was an outpouring of relief.

It was the afternoon of the second day at sea. They had been travelling for thirty-six hours. The worst moments had come during the night. A huge freighter had crossed their path, worryingly close, and their boat had bucked and kicked across the troughs of wake that had been left in the sea. Spray had lashed them and the boat had oscillated to and fro, the captain taking the wrong angle and allowing the waves to strike them side on rather than carving through them. The pa.s.sengers had exchanged terrified glances, and some of them had started praying. Milton had stayed where he was, his fists clenched, knowing that there was nothing that he could do to affect whether they continued or capsized. The smuggler with the pistol had waved for them all to sit down where they were and, after two or three minutes of uncertainty, the sea calmed down again and they were able to continue. Milton had watched the freighter as it disappeared behind them, visible for another hour until the lights winked out against the horizon and they were alone beneath the stars again.

The pilot nudged the boat to port, the change of direction allowing Milton a better view of the terrain ahead. It was an island; he thought, at first, that it had to be Lampedusa. The island was the first trace of Europe, part of the Pelagie Islands that lay between Italy and Tunisia. As they drew nearer, though, the island grew larger and larger, and Milton realised that it couldn't be Lampedusa.

It must be Sicily.

Details resolved out of the misty haze as they drew closer. Milton saw rocky outcrops of limestone and dolomite, stripped clean and barren thanks to the attention of the wind and the lack of rainfall. He saw buildings and other s.h.i.+ps, and then a harbour, the concrete wall of the dock a distinctive grey stripe against the limpid sea.

They drew closer. Milton had expected them to aim for Lampedusa since it was closest, and he had studied the geography of that island before he departed, in preparation for landing there. His knowledge of Sicily was not quite as current. He could be looking at Agrigento or Gela, perhaps. He knew that those towns were on the southern coast of the island. Wherever it was, this particular harbour might have been pleasant at one time, but it was scruffy and down-at-heel now. Most of the businesses that Milton could see were closed, shutters locked down and emblazoned with graffiti.

They sailed into the harbour, the boat approaching a large concrete harbour wall. The tide was low, meaning that there was a climb of six feet from the gunwale to dry land. Milton noticed a wide concrete ap.r.o.n just beyond the dock wall and a steep slope that climbed up sixty or seventy feet to a collection of makes.h.i.+ft buildings and tents that had been erected where the land eventually plateaued. He saw a sign on one of the buildings-LICATA-and a.s.sumed that that must be the name of the town. There were several cars parked on the concrete ap.r.o.n, several backed right up to the edge. A crowd of people were waiting on the dockside and the slope. Some of them wore the light blue s.h.i.+rts and dark blue trousers of the Italian police.

The mood had lightened as soon as the pa.s.sengers had realised that they were going to make it, but now the quick burst of jubilation had been smothered by anxiety. There were immigration officials on the dockside, too, waiting for the boat as it was b.u.mped and buffeted on the rolling waves. The skipper turned the wheel so that they were side on, and men at the fore and aft took the coiled mooring lines and tossed them ash.o.r.e. They were collected and looped around concrete bollards.

There were a man and woman with two young children ahead of him. The man jumped across first, but, as the woman tried to lift her daughter, the boat jerked on the tide and she lost her balance. She clutched the toddler to her chest as she started to fall ahead, into the suddenly widening gap. Milton reached out and caught her by the shoulder, pulling her back once again. The men on the dock hauled the mooring line and the boat drew closer to the jetty.

"Let me," Milton said and, when she looked at him uncomprehendingly, he pointed at the girl and then to himself. "Let me help."

The woman looked uncertain, but there was a queue of people behind them who were anxious to disembark, and the experience had evidently unsettled her. She nodded and pa.s.sed the child to Milton. He took the girl and, balancing himself on the gunwale, pa.s.sed her over the gap to her father. He reached down for the young boy who had been clasping his mother's legs, gently extricated him, and pa.s.sed him across, too. He waited to help the woman across and then clasped the father's outstretched hand and hopped ash.o.r.e himself.

"Thank you," the man said.

Milton glanced ahead. Two of the smugglers were approaching a young woman. The boat had been better secured now and pa.s.sengers were clambering out of the boat more quickly, a stream of them vaulting across to drop to their knees on the concrete. Milton ducked in and out of the crowd, trying to get a better view of the group ahead of him, and, as he clambered up the slope, he was rewarded. The two men had reached the woman and she was protesting, her body language defensive, and, as Milton set off toward her, he saw one of the men grab her by the elbow. She tried to free herself and, failing, she raised her voice and was rewarded with a crisp slap across the cheek. Milton was twenty metres away from her and had to fight the urge to run; instead, he forced himself to slow down, idling at the fringe of the fast-expanding crowd. The man said something, stabbing his finger in the face of the woman and, whatever it was that he said, it subdued her. The fight left her and, with both men on either side of her, putting proprietorial hands on her shoulders, she was angled away from the crowd and started to walk away.

A man in the blue uniform of the Italian police stepped in front of Milton.

"Scusa," the man said, holding up his hand and placing it flat against Milton's chest. "What is your name?"

"John Smith. I'm English."

"Your papers, please."

Milton took out his pa.s.sport and handed it to the man. "I'm English," he repeated.

"But you were on boat?"

"No. Tourist."

The man looked at Milton's fake pa.s.sport, flipping slowly through the pages as if expecting to find something incriminating. He made a show of it, licking his finger to help him turn the pages, his brow crinkled with deliberate, ponderous concentration. Milton watched over his shoulder as another woman was pulled from the crowd, and then another, and another. He saw three women now, including the woman that the man on the deck had complained about after Kolo had been sent down into the hold. They were being shepherded away from the other migrants, more of the smugglers appearing to prevent the companions of the women from following.

Milton saw a van roll down from a side street up ahead, backing around so that the rear doors were facing the approaching women. They wouldn't wait around; Milton knew that if he didn't act soon, he would lose his opportunity to follow them.

He had to stop himself from sidestepping the policeman. "What's the problem?" he said.

"Why are you at the harbour?"

"I saw the boat," he said. "I know where they've come from. I thought I could help."

"You want to help these scaraf.a.ggios?" he said. "You tell them to go back where they came from."

Milton's Italian was basic, but he knew the word for c.o.c.kroach.

The policeman handed the pa.s.sport back. Milton took it, thanked him, and then set off toward the van. He followed the jetty, pa.s.sing shuttered huts that offered seaside snacks and moored boats that offered 'sunset aperitivi'.'

The men took the young women to the van. They opened the rear door, put them inside, and shut the door. They shared a joke, the sound of their laughter audible over the noise of the crowd behind them. One of the men got into the driver's seat and the other started around to the other side.

Milton broke into a jog.

The van moved away, slowly negotiating the narrow jetty and then turning onto the road from which it had emerged. It had to slow to turn the corner and Milton was able to close up on it. It was a Mercedes Sprinter and it had been fitted with a rear b.u.mper step. Milton grabbed the door handle with his right hand, stepped up onto the step, and then anch.o.r.ed himself by reaching around the side of the van with his left hand.

The Sprinter struggled up the sloped road away from the harbour. Milton held on.

Chapter Forty-Two.

THERE WERE TWO WAYS that they could get off the island and make it to the mainland. They could fly, or they could take the ferry. Milton knew that the latter was the more likely of the two options. The airport was small, and it would be very difficult, if not impossible, for the smugglers to get the women through the administrative rigmarole without arousing suspicion. It was possible that they might have some way of getting through security-a bribed official, perhaps-but it was the least likely of the two choices.

A ferry would be much easier. For them-and for Milton, too.

Milton held on as the Sprinter drove across a wide concrete ap.r.o.n away from the harbour, following a narrow road until they turned onto Via Principe di Napoli. The roads were not busy, and, save a handful of pedestrians who gawped at him as he held onto the back of the van, he was able to stay on the back of the vehicle without incident.

The van drew up to a junction and stopped. Milton glanced around the side of the vehicle and saw that they were about to enter a much busier part of town. There were restaurants on the left, with people eating on the terraces and pa.s.sing by on the pavements. The harbour was to the right. He saw a parked police car with two officers leaning against it. Milton wouldn't be able to stay on the back of the van without attracting their attention.

He had no choice. He hopped down.

The red light changed to green and the van pulled away. Milton turned and saw a taxi behind him. He waved it down and exhaled with relief as the driver acknowledged him with a flick of his hand and pulled over.

"S?"

"That van," Milton said. "Follow it." The man looked at him uncomprehendingly. Milton searched fruitlessly through his meagre Italian vocabulary. "Follow," he said again.

"Ah," the driver said. "Follow. Seguire. S, signore!"

THEY DROVE for three hours, following the E931 to the east before turning to the north and bisecting the island. Milton had paid fifty euros and rea.s.sured the driver that the rest of the fare would be paid. The man was quiet and, at Milton's direction, kept a reasonable distance behind the Mercedes. Milton was confident that they would not be spotted. There were several destinations that they could have headed for, including Messina for the short ferry hop onto the toe of Italy, but they turned to the west at Campofelice di Roccella and made for Palermo.

THE MERCEDES COULD HAVE TURNED OFF and headed for the airport, but, to Milton's relief, it did not. Instead, it picked a route through the traffic until it reached Banchina Crispi, the long road that served the ferry terminal.

Milton readied himself in the back of the taxi, his limbs stiff from lack of activity. There were three main quays, but only one of them had a ferry tied up alongside. The Mercedes followed the road to the quay and slowed to a stop in the queue of traffic that was waiting to board.

Milton paid the driver and got out. He watched as the cab turned around and drove away.

He ambled forward, walking by the Mercedes and then risking a quick glance inside. The two smugglers he had seen in Licata were in the front, one of them sleeping on a bunched-up jacket that was wedged between his head and the window. Milton could hear a throb of ba.s.s from the music that the driver was listening to, his head nodding back and forth.

Milton turned away and kept going. There was a ticket office ahead, and he confirmed with the clerk that the ferry at the quay was the only s.h.i.+p leaving the terminal that day. It was a large vessel, painted white with the name of the operating company-Grandi Navi Veloci-stencilled in blue. The ferry was due to leave for Civitavecchia in two hours, and Milton bought a ticket for it. There were a few other foot pa.s.sengers waiting to board, and he was able to wait with them as the boat was readied for the voyage.

The Sprinter was quickly surrounded by other cars and commercial vehicles, but Milton was able to keep it under observation without compromising himself. He could see the shape of the two men through the dirty windows, and, after thirty minutes, he observed one of the men as he stepped out to stretch his legs. Milton watched as he stepped between the lines of parked cars and made his way to the portable buildings that served as the facility's restrooms.

Milton considered whether now was the time to make his move.

He decided against it. He had another idea that he liked better.