John Milton: The Jungle Part 26

"I understand that. I wouldn't trust me if I was in your shoes, either. But I promise: no tricks. You can leave. We're in Italy. I have money for you, too. You can go wherever you like. Here."

He kept enough of the smuggler's money to pay for fuel and sundries and left the rest just inside the compartment. He stepped away from the door and went around to the side. He didn't have to wait long. The woman who spoke English was the first to get down. The second and third women followed immediately afterwards. The three of them stayed close together, as if it might be safer that way. The first woman had the money; the other two were each carrying large bottles of water.

"Where are we?" she said.

"Tarquinia. Rome is just over an hour to the south. There's a bus stop five minutes down the road. You've got more than enough money to go wherever you want. Just be careful."

She glanced around Milton to the front of the Sprinter, as if trying to look inside. "The men who took us?"

"They aren't interested in you anymore. They won't try to stop you. They won't come after you, either. Really, I promise-you're safe. You should go."

Milton could only do so much to persuade them, but he hoped that it was enough. The three of them stood out gathered here like this. Their darker skin made it obvious that they didn't belong there. Cars were pa.s.sing on both sides of the road, and it would have been a simple enough thing for a pa.s.sing police patrol to spot them and come back for a second look. Milton would have preferred to offer more a.s.sistance, but he could not. He was here for Nadia, he reminded himself, and he needed to get going.

The women conversed in quick, hushed Arabic before the one who spoke English turned back to Milton and held up the money. "Thank you," she said.

Milton nodded. They turned away from the van and set off to the south, heading in the direction of the bus stop that Milton had seen a mile before the food truck.

Milton waited until they were five hundred yards away and then, after checking that the road was quiet in both directions, he opened the driver's door. Hamza turned to look, but was unable to prevent Milton from slipping his hands beneath his shoulders and hauling him out onto the dusty verge. Milton dragged him around to the back of the Sprinter and bundled him into the compartment.

"Where are we going?"

"I told you. Calais."

"That's a day's drive."

"Fifteen hours. Sixteen with a couple of stops."

"You want me to be back here for sixteen hours?"

Milton laughed. "Are you serious? You're complaining?" Milton levelled the pistol at his head. "Put your legs together."

Hamza did as he was told, and Milton wrapped tape around his ankles and then up to his knees. He stepped back and admired his handiwork. The man was secure. Milton grabbed Hamza and hauled him into a sitting position, then watched as he shuffled backwards until his back was against the compartment wall.

Hamza nodded down at his crotch. "I need a p.i.s.s."

"You'll work it out."

Milton took one final length of tape and hopped inside. The smell was unpleasant: hot and fetid, with the unmistakeable odour of stale urine. He knelt down next to Hamza and pressed the tape over his mouth, wrapping it all the way around his head.

He cupped the man's chin in his hand and held his face up so that he could look down at him. He put his finger to his lips and then got out, slamming the door behind him.

Milton went around to the front and slid into the seat. He would follow the coastal road to the north, cross into France near Geneva and then take the Autoroute to Bourg-en-Bresse. He would turn to the north and head for Dijon and Reims and then, finally, Calais. All in all, he would have to drive for a thousand miles.

Milton turned the ignition and pulled out onto the empty road. He followed it to the north.

Chapter Forty-Eight.

MILTON DROVE NORTH. The Sprinter had a twenty-gallon tank, and it was half full. He guessed that an older model like this would top out at around thirty miles a gallon, and that meant that he would most likely manage around three hundred miles before he had to stop.

He crossed the border into France at Entrves, with the hulking ma.s.s of Mount Blanc to his left. He continued to the northwest, following the T1 and then the A40 through the mountains. He had underestimated the additional fuel that would be consumed in ascending the Alps, and he made it as far as the ski resort of Chamonix before he had to stop and fill up.

He checked on Hamza before setting off again, removing the tape from his mouth and allowing him a moment to take a drink. The smuggler had wet himself at some point during the journey, his faded jeans a little darker around the crotch. Milton made no comment, taking the bottle away from him and wrapping a fresh length of tape around his mouth.

He got back into the front and set off again, following the A40 towards Geneva.

MILTON KEPT GOING.

He followed the route that Google suggested, following the A40 along the southern border of Switzerland, turning north at Bourg-en-Bresse and then continuing to Lons-le-Saunier, Dijon, Troyes, Reims, Arras and, finally, Calais.

It was one in the morning. Hamza had explained that his rendezvous with the Albanian was scheduled for nine. Milton was tired and he wanted to have had the benefit of at least a little sleep before then. He found a quiet lay-by on the A26 outside Saint-Omer and pulled over.

He went around and got into the back of the van.

Hamza was sitting with his back against the wall, propping his weight against one of the rear wheel arches.

Milton took the tape from his mouth and put the bottle of water to his lips.

"Where are we?" Hamza asked.

"Twenty miles from Calais."

"What are you going to do with me?"

"You're going to help me find the Albanian. You're going to tell me where I need to go to meet him, and then I'm going to leave you somewhere you won't be found."

"And then?"

"If I find him, I'll call the police and tell them where you are. If I don't, and I have to come back-" Milton let the sentence die. "That wouldn't be the best outcome for you."

"I will tell you," Hamza said.

"I know you will."

Milton was disgusted by him. He fastened a fresh length of tape across his mouth, wrapping it around his head, and then wound another length of tape around his wrists. Once Milton was satisfied that the smuggler was secure, he went back into the front and lay across the seats.

He set his alarm for six and fell asleep within moments of closing his eyes.

Chapter Forty-Nine.

THEY CALLED IT THE JUNGLE, and it was with good reason. The camp had taken over twenty or thirty acres of rough scrubland on the eastern edge of Calais. It was not static, and, over the time it had first coalesced, the tents and structures had been cleared and the inhabitants had moved on. The men and women and children had gathered again around a new location, pitched their tents and built their ramshackle hovels and, before long, the camp had reformed once more. This latest iteration of the camp had found a home in a former landfill site three miles from the centre of the town. Satellites had sprung up in other spots around the perimeter of the town, but this was the princ.i.p.al gathering.

Milton had left the Sprinter on a quiet road that led up to a derelict quarry. He had interrogated Hamza one final time, and the smuggler had given him clear directions and a description of the tent within which the meeting would take place. Milton had gagged him again and left him trussed up in the back of the van. He made sure that the odds were against anyone coming across the van, that if he did nothing, then Hamza would die there. It was a tempting proposition, but Milton knew that that way of thinking was the influence of his old self. It would be the satisfaction of his own selfish desire to punish, and giving in to the temptation would bring him closer to the bottle. The man that he had tossed over the side of the ferry had been different: then, there had been a need to thin out the numbers against him. He knew, though, of course, that retribution had been a contributing motivation. He remembered the way that Kolo had been treated, and the smuggler had personified all of the cruelties that Milton saw in Ali's operation.

Bad luck for him.

But Milton would play this one straight. He would call the police and alert them once he was out of harm's way. The authorities could deal with Hamza.

THERE WAS A MILE between the van and the camp and now, as Milton crested a hill, he saw the sprawling site laid out below him. There were no obvious boundaries, with tents being pitched wherever there were suitable s.p.a.ces, growing denser and denser as they drew nearer to the middle of the camp. He saw the flicker of campfires and the tendrils of smoke that curled into the gloomy early morning; artificial lights shone steadily near to electrical generators. It was impossible to judge how many people were stuffed into the camp, but Milton guessed that it was in the thousands.

There was little order to the way the camp had grown, but s.p.a.ces had been left between tents that resembled roads or paths. Milton started down into the fringe of the camp and followed the paths deeper inside. Whole families were crammed into tents, pale faces staring out of the openings at the comings and goings. Milton saw children gazing out at him with sad eyes, and their parents, recognising him as European, put out their hands for change.

Hamza's instructions were good, and Milton made his way via a series of waypoints that matched the descriptions that he had been given: a cargo container that had been set down on bricks to serve as a legal advice centre; an open kitchen where volunteers served free meals; a lean-to that had been fas.h.i.+oned out of concrete blocks and sheets of corrugated metal, a sign on that sheeting announcing that this was a shop. Milton glanced in through the doorway and saw rows of shelving illuminated by a single naked bulb, each shelf holding tins of food, bags of rice and bottled water. He pa.s.sed a similar structure, but larger, this one equipped with picnic tables and chairs and advertised as a cafe. There were two tables outside the entrance, too, and the men who sat around them, smoking and drinking tea, watched Milton pa.s.s with surly interest.

Milton found a tent that was being used as a clothes shop. He went inside and, for a few euros, he was able to buy a second hand jacket that was stained and threadbare, a garment that would blend in much better than the jacket he was wearing. He changed, discreetly transferred his pistol to the inside pocket, gave his jacket to a coatless man who was browsing the rails, and went outside again.

Milton continued to the middle of the camp. The scrum of people grew denser, with crowds gathering around a caravan that was marked with the logos of Medecins Sans Frontires and another that was staffed by volunteers offering immigration advice. Milton had to shoulder his way through the sudden tide of people who surged toward another caravan where bags of rice were being given out. It was hot and smelly, the air freighted with the odour of unwashed human bodies and raw sewage. It was difficult to understand how people could live like this.

Milton paused. Hamza had said that the rendezvous was in a tent here. He had described the tent, but now, as Milton searched, he couldn't see it.

Milton looked left and right and saw a man with two pretty young girls approaching from behind. He waited until they pa.s.sed. The man was behind the girls, leading them ahead with hands on their shoulders. They looked frightened, and the man was impatient and self-important.

Milton recognised them for what they were: another smuggler bringing more merchandise for sale.

Milton followed and watched. The man led the girls to a tent, stopped them with a hand on each shoulder, and spoke to them.

Milton stopped, too, stepping inside another semi-permanent structure that had been given over to another shop.

The proprietor glared up at him. "What you want?"

Milton spared a quick glimpse at him and his store. The man had built a set of rickety shelves to display the sum total of his goods: a dozen boxed mobile phones, with a sign behind the counter announcing that he also had SIM cards to sell.

He looked back outside. The tent was as Hamza had described it: large, the canvas patched and st.i.tched and marked with a stencil that identified it as property of the UN. The tent flap had been opened and folded back against the side of the tent, and the two girls were being ushered inside.

"You can't just stand there," the shopkeeper complained.

"That tent over there," Milton said, pointing as the man who had shepherded the two girls went inside and pulled the tent flap closed behind him. "Who's inside?"

The proprietor came out from behind the counter. "You buy, or go."

Milton ignored his complaint. Instead, he took a note from his pocket and gave it to the man. "That tent," he said. "Tell me about it."

The man held out his hand with the note laid flat across it. "Another."

Milton took another ten and laid it atop the first.

"I don't know who they are," the man said. "I have seen them before. Two times. The last time was one week ago. The men are not from the camp."

"Describe them."

"There are three. One is big-this big." The proprietor was a touch under six feet tall, and he raised his hand four or five inches above his head. "Shaved head, tattoos on his neck. The other two come with him. All white. Not from camp."

"And?"

"Girls come to see them. Most girls come out again, go back to camp. Others stay. They take them away. It is like a bazaar. A souk. You know these words?"

"I do. Thank you."

Milton stepped away from the proprietor and turned away. He reached into his pocket for the little pistol. His fingers found the grip, and he pressed down until the b.u.t.t was pressed in his palm and his finger was around the outside of the trigger guard. He pulled it out a little, freeing it so that it would be easier to pull, and crossed the path to the tent into which the man had led the two women.

He could hear the sounds of conversation emanating from inside: laughter, a timorous voice, a harsh word, more laughter. He walked on for a little while, turning through the chaotic lanes and alleys until he was at the other side of the tent. He couldn't see anything that gave him any cause for concern. The people went about their business, none of them sparing the tent any more attention than the other tents nearby.

Milton continued around it until he was back at the front again.

He took the gun out, holding it against his body so that it would be hidden from the crowds that eddied along the thoroughfare behind him.

He knew what he was going to do. His plan had been successful, so far at least; this was where the Albanians came to do their recruitment. This was the place they came to stock their brothels.

He held the gun in his right hand; he reached out with his left for the flap of the tent.

"Excuse me, sir."

Milton turned his head. There was a man next to him.

Milton realised what was about to happen, but by then it was too late for him to do anything about it. He was aware of a second person behind him, but, before he could turn or step away, he felt a sharp scratching against the skin on the back of his neck. He felt a sensation of cold deep inside his muscles. His arm, held up so that he could probe his neck with his fingers, became weak. He was dazed by sudden wooziness, and the strength drained out of his legs as if at the press of a switch.

He stumbled forward, his fall arrested by hands that slipped beneath his shoulders.

The tent flaps were opened, and Milton caught a glimpse of the men and women inside, lit by the flickering light of a hurricane lamp, before he was dropped inside. He fell to his knees. He looked up into the frightened faces of the women he had seen outside, and, behind them, a large man with a shaven head and tattoos on his neck.

He was identical to the man Milton had suffocated in the brothel.

Milton lost his balance and toppled over onto his side, the plasticky smell of the groundsheet filling his nostrils.

A curtain of darkness fell. His eyes closed, and the darkness was complete.

Part 6.

London.