On the Back Foot to Hell

by Roland Ladley

  Jane nodded. But Frank thought she wasn’t completely comfortable with them abusing their DfID contacts. He was sure she would check with her oppo at the Department sometime soon.

  ‘Why are some of the names in red?’ Jane asked.

  Frank didn’t reply. Instead he touched one of the red names. A new dialogue box appeared; this one had a photo. And a second blue transit line lit up. It led all the way from Mosul, through Turkey, across the corner of The Black Sea, north to Bulgaria, then Serbia, Austria, Germany, stopping at a yellow square in northern Germany.

  ‘That man, or woman, has made it all the way to the German coast – Bremerhaven, I guess?’ Jane asked.

  ‘Yeah. That’s right. If they make it to a yellow square, we’re assuming they’re looking to cross to England. And if I pick another …’

  Frank touched another red name. This time the illuminated blue line transited through Jordan, across the Med to Greece, then Italy, France, up to the French coast, crossing the channel and ended in London. The yellow box, the point of departure from France, was down a touch from Calais.

  ‘That man … woman, crossed south of Calais. Boulogne?’ Jane asked.

  ‘There, or there abouts. The original dialogue box here …’, Frank pointed back to Mosul, ‘… will detail the transit itinerary.’ He looked. ‘No, we think the crossing was by a chartered yacht from Wissant, between Calais and Boulogne. Where we can, we have attributed a degree of accuracy to the detail. We have 65% on Wissant. And, wait …’, he looked again at the screen, ‘… 80% on him landing just down from Brighton.’

  There was silence for a few seconds. Jane stood and walked to the window just down from where the screen was. The views from this side of the building were unremarkable. Frank knew that if she craned her head she might be able make out one of the four towers of Battersea Power Station. Although, probably not tonight as rain was draining diagonally across the window.

  ‘By the way,’ Frank continued, ‘We know much of this because Border Force closed down the particular yacht charter. The guy’s in court next week. They did a good job.’

  If Jane heard him, she didn’t respond. She just kept staring out of the window.

  He waited.

  She turned back to him. She looked stony-faced and then, as if he’d caught her looking glum, she smiled.

  ‘This is a huge piece of work, Frank. Well done you lot. How many migrants?’

  He paused to get the numbers straight in his head.

  ‘There are 845,000 on the database. Most of whom we have just cut and pasted in, letting Cynthia (SIS’s AI mainframe) piece together much of the detail. The three of us have carried out a one percent gross error check over the last three weeks, that’s 8,500 names. We’ve only found a handful of anomalies. It’s pretty watertight.’

  ‘And how many have made the UK – illegally?’ She asked.

  ‘If you believe the database, and The Met and Border are still inputting their own known names, since 2014 we reckon 4,300. That doesn’t include the 15,000 or so legal migrants the government has allowed into the country from Afghanistan, Iraq and Syria since the start of the crisis.’

  ‘4,300 illegals! That’s a huge number. Do the politicians know?’ Frank thought Jane deserved to sound shocked.

  ‘I haven’t told them.’ He couldn’t think of a better response.

  There was a further silence.

  ‘How many of these are thought to be involved in criminality, or indeed terrorism?’

  That’s a good question. It was difficult to answer. Counterterrorism Police and The Service, The Met and the other police forces, would only know of those they’d arrested. Or had tagged.

  ‘We’ve taken the view that all of the 4,300 are economic migrants. Whilst that doesn’t tell us a great deal, it does mean once they’re here they are likely to do anything for money. And, nearly all of them are poor, so susceptible to radicalisation. Of course, when they’re here they’re The Service’s bailiwick - the migrants are on their turf. So you’d get a better overview from speaking to a pal over there. But, my mate Vernon reckons 75% of economic migrants are either immediately or, pretty soon after they arrive, on the wrong end of modern-day slavery. The men in illegal, poorly paid chain gangs, or as servants; the women as sex workers.’

  Frank didn’t like to think about it. He could cope with these sorts of things happening overseas – in his work domain. But not in his own backyard.

  ‘And is the movement slowing?’ The obvious supplementary from Jane.

  ‘Yes, and, well, maybe not.’ He pressed a button on the top of the screen and it went blank. ‘Come with me, please.’

  Frank led Jane back to his desk.

  ‘Do you mind?’ He was pointing to his chair.

  ‘No, of course not, Frank. Sit.’

  He sat and touched his middle screen, which had switched to power saving mode. It lit up again showing the same two photos.

  ‘We reckon illegal migration is down to no more than 50 a month, maybe less. Border Force, and indeed all of the overseas border and coastal services, from Portugal through to Denmark, are getting much better and preventing people getting on boats. However …’

  He pointed at the two photos of the man on the screen.

  ‘A good number of economic migrants are part of a chain. Somebody - or a group of people, normally a village - raise enough cash for a singleton to make the perilous journey from Afghanistan, Iraq, whatever, across Europe and into the UK. Once here, their job is to raise money. When they have a wodge they transfer it by, say, Western Union, back to their village. The village elders save that money until they have enough for the next one to make the same journey. And so on.’ He paused for breath. ‘The Met busted an operation the other week where there were eight members from the same village in Afghanistan – five men and three women - living in a one-up, one-down in Brixton. The house was a shoebox. The eight were living with 12 other migrants. Twenty altogether. On interrogation, other than the first, all of them had travelled on the back of money raised by those here in the UK.’

  ‘Eight? From the same village, one after the other?’ It wasn’t really a question from Jane.

  ‘Eight.’

  ‘And they were all in modern-day slavery or involved in some form of criminality?’

  ‘Both. The Met were busting a drugs ring. The six men were low-level carriers. The two women, sex slaves for the badly organised cartel. Apparently the conditions they found them in were squalid.’

  ‘That’s…’ Jane didn’t finish her sentence. ‘But we think we’re getting better at stopping this?’

  ‘Yes. Except.’ Frank looked back at his screen. ‘Look at this guy.’

  Jane bent over and read the name from the mugshot Frank had taken from his right hand screen earlier.

  ‘Abir al-Rasheed.’ She glanced across at Frank’s screen which still showed a blow-up of a small portion of Eritrea. ‘He’s from … Somalia?’

  ‘Eritrea.’ Frank corrected Jane. ‘But a good guess. I haven’t corroborated the two photos yet. But if they are the same man then he’s a migrant from the village of Mersa Fatma.’

  ‘What’s so special about him, Frank.’

  ‘Our people in Asmara, the Eritrean capital, have Abir al-Rasheed fishing, just off the coast from Mersa Fatma, about two weeks ago.’

  ‘Two weeks? But the journey normally takes months?’ Jane sounded incredulous.

  Frank didn’t say anything for a second. Instead he focused on his screen, placing his index fingers on the two men. He moved the images so that they were touching. Are they the same man? Could be. He had three others like al-Rasheed, and they all needed corroborating. He wasn’t quite ready for Jane … yet.

  What the hell.

  ‘If I can get Cynthia’s facial recognition programme to make a match, then I think we have a new type of immigrant. Let’s call them “fast-tracked”.’

  Jane didn’t say anything for a second.

  She stood upright an
d stretched her back, and let out a little yawn.

  ‘Sorry,’ she added. Then she asked, ‘Why?’

  He turned to face her again.

  ‘Because the cost of moving them here quickly must be worth their value, plus some. They must have a special skill, or skills.’ His expression lost its intensity. ‘Although, the view from our people in Asmara is Rasheed is just a plain old fisherman.’ Frank answered.

  Jane blinked. And then shook her head.

  ‘It doesn’t make sense. If there’s plenty of money available, why not just pay for decent forged documentation, get al-Rasheed the bus to Cairo and fly him here?’

  Frank mused for a second.

  ‘Because then we have him, or at least a facsimile of him but with a different name. On our records. He’ll be tagged coming through customs. He’ll not be completely invisible. If he comes overland and by boat, we don’t know he’s here.’

  ‘Good point, Frank. Good point. That makes sense.’

  Jane looked at her watch. Frank knew it was close to nine-forty-five.

  ‘Look, I’ve still got lots of stuff to do. And I haven’t asked you what I originally came over here for.’

  ‘What was that?’ Frank asked.

  ‘Have you ever heard of the FFO, a South Ossetia Islamic terror group?’

  No.

  ‘No, sorry. Should I?’

  ‘No. Not really. Never mind.’ Jane put a hand up. ‘And I need to talk to you about this whole migrant thing and you coordinating migration work with the sub-Saharan desk. But that can wait.’

  Frank glanced over his left shoulder to the 80-incher in the corner. What Jane had failed to pick up were the blue transit lines that fell off the screen due south, as if into an abyss. Those lines had terminals in sub-Saharan countries such as Guinea, Sierra Leone and Ghana. Whatever she was going to ask of him, he was pretty sure he was already onto it.

  Appartamento VI, Via Mortelle, Naples

  Gareth unlocked the front door to his flat with his spare hand and used his bum to push it open. His free hand was carrying the shopping he’d picked up from the local Conad supermarket. His bag of goodies, which included fresh clams, would knock up a superb spaghetti alle vongole. It would be hot on the table in about three hours when Giorgio got in from work. And, over the meal, rather than fantasise about him wearing the sauce, they’d have a long and in-depth conversation about each other. They would.

  After this yesterday’s meeting with Chiara, it had been a frantic and reasonably interesting afternoon – so much so he’d worked until 7 pm. At which point the caretaker had thrown him out.

  Matteo Monza.

  The name on the back of Chiara’s business card. The Mafia’s influence on Italian art.

  Couldn’t be.

  He was huge. A young Italian protean artist – no medium was beyond him.

  Originally Monza studied at the Florence Academy of Fine Arts. His brilliance was quickly recognised and after two years he was offered a place at the Rhode Island School of Design, a top-ranking art school in Boston, US – known for its more modern and maverick approach to art and design. If you were into art, Monza’s work was already legendary - even at the tender age of 28. His most recent work, which Gareth thought was easily his best, was an immersion piece put together in Amsterdam. Monza had taken over the whole top floor of a disused warehouse, creating enclosed narrow corridors and much larger ‘domey’ rooms from polystyrene. Entitled Death in Paradise, it was all blue/black - as if you’d been dropped into the ocean. Whilst the corridors and the display rooms were exhibits in themselves, the art they held had a dystopian-aquatic theme. There was one room filled with thousands of fish – all blue, set off against a black background. When you looked closer, small white plastic balls floated around the fish, delicately balancing on almost invisible wires. Then you noticed half of the fish were portrayed as being dead; floating upside down. Dead fish and plastic. It was shocking.

  Moving through an all-blue corridor you were met by the huge mouth of a whale, its small teeth made of discarded plastic bottles, its tongue from dark blue plastic bags. As if you were Jonah, the passage through the exhibit led you down into the whale’s throat. You popped out the other side into a new room with even more startling work displaying the effect of plastics and debris on our oceans and rivers.

  It was the most remarkable thing Gareth had ever seen, amplified by the fact only one person could enter the exhibit at any one time – you were let in, on your own, at intervals. To enhance the effect, the rooms were cold and the accompanying soundtrack had been recorded in the depths of the Atlantic Ocean. He had travelled to Amsterdam during his Spring break to see the exhibition; it was brilliant.

  Monza was currently working on a new exhibit in Chicago. Its theme was a secret, but everyone expected it to be some form of anti-popularist, anti-climate change – maybe even anti-religion? – piece, to highlight the US’s current slide away from centrist politics towards isolationism. It was due to open for the Christmas break. Gareth was doing all he could to find the airfare and get a ticket.

  But Monza having some Mafia involvement? If it were true, as Gareth had commented to Chiara this morning, it would be a huge revelation. And it would surely destroy his reputation.

  Gareth had spent the afternoon on Google. He’d pieced together Monza’s childhood and career. He was born in Turin – hardly Mafia country – to professional parents. His father was an engineer; also from the north. He’d met his mother, a Swiss national and a half-decent artist, whilst he was skiing in Cortina; seemingly no Mafia influence there. From what he could gather Monza’s schooling had been unremarkable, but he had shown a real ability for art, winning a couple of local competitions. Pushed by his mother he’d earned a place at Florence’s Academy of Fine Arts where he had thrived.

  But it was at Rhode Island where his true talent unfurled. His ability as a traditional artist now mixed with an almost explosive creative pallet. Strange, thought-provoking and, for some, heart-stopping exhibits followed. Since he’d left Rhode Island he’d had major exhibitions in Berlin and Beijing. Amsterdam followed.

  But none of it pointed toward a Mafia connection. As far as Gareth could tell he’d never travelled further south than Florence. And Boston was hardly the centre of ‘the Mob’. It didn’t make much sense.

  Running out of ideas he had managed to unearth a list of sponsors for the Amsterdam set. He recognised one of the businesses and a couple of the names, but the list was a couple of pages long. By the time he started Googling each one the caretaker had stuck his head round the door and asked him to leave.

  He’d pick up on that piece of work tomorrow.

  In four strides Gareth was in the centre of the flat, a quarter turn right and he was at his kitchen table. It was three rooms. A kitchen/sitting room, a decent sized bedroom and a bathroom. Best for him, though, was the obligatory narrow double doors leading out onto a concrete Juliet balcony where he could just fit two folding, metal chairs. From there, if he strained his neck, he could see Vesuvius in the distance. Perfect.

  He put the bag of groceries on the table … and noticed something.

  In the middle of the table, next to a small vase with a single, plastic red rose, was a small brown parcel, no bigger than something his monthly contact lenses were delivered in. He picked it up and studied it. It was neatly wrapped and marked with his name in capitals, scribed in black felt tip. There was no stamp – no postage details at all. But, of course, there wouldn’t have been. Along with all the other flats his post was delivered to a small mailbox in the tatty lobby of the apartment block. He checked it regularly by putting his fingers into the hole where the mail would be dropped. He’d looked on the way in; there was nothing there.

  And no one had a key to his flat, apart from him and his landlord. He’d made a note to get one cut for Giorgio, but hadn’t got round to it.

  Oh well. It was clearly something from his altogether vacant landlord. He’d never met the man. On arr
ival he’d been let in by a neighbour. And he paid his rent via the Academy. If he thought about it, he wasn’t sure who his landlord was.

  A cup of tea first?

  He was about to put the package back on the table when inquisitiveness overcame him. He lifted the box to his ear and shook it. There was a sloshing sound.

  Mmm. Good. An alcoholic, belated, ‘welcome to Naples’ from his landlord.

  He nodded and smiled to himself.

  With box in hand he walked across the room and opened the balcony double doors, which pulled toward him. He was met by the noise and smells of the city. Fish and unburnt fuel. Air conditioning. Cars, mopeds and the constant chatter of Italian talkmanship. A woman opposite was hanging out her washing on a metal airer that hung from the railings of her own balcony. She was shouting at high speed to someone behind her, failing to overcome the noise of the TV inside the room.

  His tiny brick and tarmac garden had its own particular atmosphere. It was fantastic.

  He stepped onto the balcony and sat on one of the chairs. The sun, now low in the sky, was a distant memory to the street below. But the bricks retained their heat. It must have been 28 degrees in his particular piece of shade.

  Gareth looked at the package for the final time and then unwrapped it.

  Inside was a white box. It was second-hand and had Italian markings. It looked like the packaging from a clothing shop; possibly a box for some socks, or similar?

  He turned the box on its end and opened the lid. He peered inside. There was a see-through plastic bag; maybe one inside another. The bags were what was holding the fluid.

  This is very odd.

  Squeezed between the bag and the side of the box was a piece paper. He didn’t know what to go for first.

  So he pulled out the plastic bag.

  And almost dropped it.

  It was disgusting. His stomach gave a lurch, but he steadied himself. Between a finger and a thumb he held the specimen at arm’s length, pulling his shoulders away from the bag so that it was as far away from him as possible without dropping it onto the pavement below. He turned his face to one side and grimaced.