A pause.
Then the woman’s hands were between her legs. Inside her pants.
She’s not wearing any sodding gloves!
Sam had to make a microsecond choice. Let the woman finish her fetish, or stop her in her tracks.
…
She held still. It was over in four or five seconds. The woman’s fingers pushed into her vagina. Cold, clammy fingers against unlubricated, internal skin. It was horrendous. Painful. An assault. She gasped, and involuntarily locked her knees together.
And then her backside! The same fingers? She clasped her buttocks together. She couldn’t stop herself.
And. That. Fucking. Hurt!
Sam clenched her fists. Her teeth locked and she fought every instinct to turn and beat the living crap out of the old woman.
But then it was over.
Finished.
The woman was back in front of her. She wore the face of victory. Her head tilted to one side. A shallow smile, with wet lips. I’ve done what I wanted. I’m in charge. You do as I say.
‘Get dressed. And leave the phone, your passport and the money here. You can have it back when Hasan Kutnetsov has finished with you.’
Sam didn’t move.
The woman stared.
Sam’s brain was whirring. Trying to reconcile her horrific ordeal - and that she hadn’t tried to escape, or prevent it.
She didn’t get that. It didn’t compute. Right and wrong. Fight and flight.
Do nothing.
Acceptance.
I don’t get it. But …
In some strange way she was proud of herself – allowing herself to be abused … for the mission. In another, she hated herself. Despised her own weakness. Enabled a filthy violation.
Some small part of her had been shattered. Snapped by the hands of a wretched woman.
Fingers all over her. In her ...
The woman broke the impasse.
‘The driver will be here in five minutes. Get dressed.’
…
Sam closed her eyes for a couple of seconds. And then opened them quickly. Everything was as she had left it. Room. Table with her stuff on it.
Abuser.
She shook her head.
And got dressed.
Academy of Fine Arts, Naples University, Naples, Italy
Gareth pressed his hand against the windowpane. He spread his fingers out in a wide span. He stared at his knuckles for a few seconds. Then he dropped his hand to his side. His focus altered, his eyes taking in the building opposite. Dirty windows seen through dirty windows. A browny-grey tinge. Opposite looked like an apartment. There were decorative curtains hanging down, not quite reaching the bottom of the glass. Probably a rental. The landlord unwilling to put in new drapes that fitted the frame. He couldn’t make out their colour. Striped of some form. Could be blue or green, and white. But through two pairs of dirty windows the outcome was brown and grey.
Grey and brown.
Dirt.
Curtains that don’t reach.
This was Naples. It was Italy. Dull colours - and things that don’t fit.
How could his mood about this place have changed so dramatically - so quickly? Twenty-four hours ago he couldn’t have been any happier. Giorgio. His year at Accademia di Bell Art di Napoli. The strange and colourful meeting with Chiara. Like a tommy gun. His apartment with the comfortable double bed and …
… Giorgio … oh, Giorgio.
Everything came back to Giorgio.
Now he hated the place. He seethed. All of that taken away from him in a period of six hours. The box. The bags. The watery eye.
And then no Giorgio.
What was he to do?
He’d got up at six. He’d had a quick coffee, put on his trainers and walked – south, towards the harbour. Giorgio’s route from the restaurant. By the time he’d got to the waterfront the sun was a ball of fire rising just off Vesuvius’s left shoulder. The shadows of the yacht masts in the marina clambered over their neighbours and then lost themselves in the depth of the dark blue water
On any other day it would have been the perfect morning walk.
But not today.
It was already warming up; a tingle of sweat spread under his arms.
As he approached Giorgio’s restaurant he took off his linen jacket and slung it over his shoulder. He caught a glimpse of himself in a full-length shop window. Even in mourning he looked the part: white, Jameson Carter straight jeans; dark grey, K-Swiss men’s trainers; a black Mensch t-shirt (with a chest logo in rainbow colours); and gold-rimmed, Samjune Aviator sunglasses. His jacket was linen - and lime green; no label. He’d picked it up from a charity shop in Newport. A wonderfully chanced find.
Not bad.
Even if he said so himself.
He had no idea what he’d do when he got to the restaurant. It would be closed and there’d be no one to talk to.
Talk.
Is that what he wanted to do? Talk?
And did he really want to find Giorgio? Did Giorgio want to be found? His lover had been clear last night: no phone; no text. Giorgio had split up from him. In the coldest way possible.
People get jilted.
Shit happens.
Did that still make any sense, though?
Did it?
It sure as hell didn’t make any sense last night … and whichever way he cut it, it still didn’t make any sense this morning. It just didn’t.
He stopped outside of the restaurant, put a hand on the window and peered in.
Nothing. Why would there be? It was just gone seven.
He paced up and down for a few minutes in deep thought. Does it make sense? Lovers. That long, goodbye kiss … and then nothing? Was he such a poor judge of character?
Lost for what to do next, he dodged traffic across the busy road and ended up right on the waterfront. He found a bench and sat, facing the sea.
And thought about not much.
And listened.
It took a while, but then the yachts and boats started to sing to him. He wasn’t a sailor and knew little about the water - as a family they hadn’t spent much time by the sea, even though it was only a 40 minute trip down the valley. But he recognised the song from somewhere. A gentle wind dancing through the taut wires of the masts – one pitch here; a different pitch there – discord and harmony together as one. The slosh of water against hull. Other clicks and cracks as the wind turned small turbines and fluttered ensigns. The music wasn’t as loud as the traffic behind him, but he tuned out what he could and listened to the track from the boats
…
Giorgio.
What?
He was sure he heard his name.
He strained to listen.
…
Click, whine and crack; song and hymn.
…
Giorgiooo.
He shook himself. Was it a sign? Was he making things up?
This is nonsense.
It was nonsense. It was the red wine talking. He was a fool. A stupid sodding fool.
He stood, shook his head as if to clear the noisy bloody boats, turned and crossed the road; avoiding cars again, but this time one or two of them got too close and he got a toot for good measure.
He’d made it to the university much earlier than usual and had spent a frantic last couple of hours searching the net for any reference of Giorgio. Gareth didn’t have a Facebook page, so it hadn’t crossed his mind that Giorgio might. He typed in Giorgio’s full name, Giorgio Pacenti, and found four Facebook links - none of whom was his Giorgio. He checked on Twitter, Instagram and tried every other avenue he could think of, but to no avail. Either Giorgio wasn’t Giorgio Pacenti, or he led a very quiet life indeed.
It was all very frustrating.
He then thought hard about typing in Mateo Monza, which he’d done countless times yesterday. Just for the hell of it. That would teach the bastards; show them who’s boss. Maybe he’d get a pillow full of horse’s head next?
Am I scared?
Was he scared? Did he really think that they’d come after him - and do him in?
And does that bother me?
Of course it bothered him. He dwelt on that for a minute.
Scared? His right knee shook up and down. He told it to stop, which it did. He looked above the laptop’s screen, staring at some old BluTac on the wall. His knee started to rock again as his mind moved on.
Decision.
He opened his top drawer and started to empty it.
Into what?
Onto his tidy desk? He had nothing to put stuff in. Was he leaving?
Now?
What would he tell his Italian tutor? Should he tell his Italian tutor?
Should I phone Adam? Would Adam know what to do?
Possibly.
Probably not.
His Dad?
No. Not a good idea.
He stopped emptying his drawer, leaving it open. He stood and walked to the window - and stared at the grey and brown curtains across from him.
Anger grew again.
And frustration.
And hatred.
He felt like an animal in a cage. Freedom, whatever that was, was on the other side of the glass. Freedom he could touch but couldn’t reach.
His mind raced.
It seemed to him he had three choices. Abandon everything. Get on and complete his dissertation, knowing that he’d never be sure what piece of what animal’s anatomy might be left on his kitchen table next. Or pursue Giorgio. Go back to the restaurant tonight and find him. If he’s not there, then maybe someone will know where he lives.
But …
… Giorgio didn’t want to be found. Not by him. He’d made that clear.
That doesn’t make sodding sense!
Giorgio had left him yesterday morning …
He didn’t complete the sentence in his head. He knew how it finished.
And the song. This morning by the waterfront.
Don’t be a Welsh prick. The boats weren’t talking to you.
He pulled away from the window and looked back at his desk, with its open drawer and the contents strewn about, messing up his normally tidy desktop.
Run away. Dissertation. Giorgio.
A choice of three.
Or phone Chiara?
Option four. He had her number. On the business card. Where was it? There. By his wallet.
Gareth picked it up, turned it over and found the number. He took out his mobile from his jeans pocket and dialled.
It rang … three long tones. Then she picked up.
A splurge of Italian. He got her name, but nothing else.
‘It’s me, Chiara. Gareth. We met yesterday for coffee. You gave me a name …?’ he spoke in English.
‘Ah, tommy-gun man. Yes, of course. Gareth. Yes, Gareth the gay. Good looking, but unattainable. How can I help you, Gareth the gay?’ She was playing again. Did she always play?
‘This going to sound really strange. But …’, he hadn’t thought through what he was going to say. He was unsure if he wanted to tell the whole story … what the hell. ‘… I got home late yesterday afternoon and someone had left a package on my kitchen table. Someone who had a key to my apartment.’ He paused.
‘Yes, go on.’
‘Inside the package was an eye. A whole eye. Like it could have been mine. Or yours. Suspended in water. And there was a note. It said, “leave him alone”. An eye and a note. Isn’t that absurd?’
There was quiet for a few seconds. Gareth heard Chiara’s shallow breathing. She was unusually quiet.
‘Well?’ His patience broke.
‘I don’t know. How would I know? What have you done?’ Three sentences as one. No punctuation. English as Italian. Her tone was accusatory. Blaming him.
Gareth returned at speed. ‘I didn’t do anything! I just, well, did some internet research. That’s all. Using the name you gave me.’ He didn’t want to mention Mateo Monza’s name – he didn’t know why.
Did he sound pathetic? Like a child who had broken his Mum’s best vase?
But, she sounded worried – as though he’d crossed a line – and it was all his fault.
What had she expected him to do?
Her anxiousness had added to his. What had he started?
There was more quiet from the other end of the phone. He didn’t like it when she was quiet. She was a woman of words. Lots of them. Quiet meant thinking – concern.
Then, ‘This sounds so unreal. It just can’t be? These people have friends, who have friends. And those friends have friends. They are good at what they do. They extort – and they launder. They bully and they befriend. Nothing is for nothing with them. Everything has a price. They’re brutal, but, they’re not efficient. Non sono la CIA.’ The Italian pronounced with passion. And she continued. ‘They don’t reach every corner of my country. This is ... the speed of this. The eye. It doesn’t make sense.’
Gareth was breathless listening to her.
‘What do I do? What would you do?’
‘I don’t think you have a choice.’ She paused. ‘If I were you, I’d go back to my own country and forget about Naples. If you don’t do that, forget about Mateo Monza. Forever.’
Gareth closed his eyes and lent his head right back. His mouth naturally fell open. He let out a sigh as he thought. There was a finality to Chiara’s words which betrayed her occupation. She was a journalist. This may be the biggest story of her lifetime. It would certainly blow the art world apart. And yet ... and yet she was telling him to run away.
Run away. Away from Naples. Away from his hitherto fabulous life.
Away from Giorgio.
Away from Giorgio?
No.
No, he wouldn’t do that. He wouldn’t run away.
He straightened his neck and opened his eyes.
‘Thanks, Chiara.’
‘Well, what are you going to do?’ There was still immediacy in her voice.
‘I don’t know.’ He did. ‘I’m probably going to sleep on it. But thanks for your help and advice.’
A further pause.
‘OK, Gareth the gay ...’, she was calm again now, ‘... but be careful, mister.’
The phone went dead. He looked at it for a second and then placed it on the table. He sat at his desk, swiped the finger pad of his laptop to wake it from its slumber and checked the time. It was 1.45 pm. He’d work for a couple of hours and then walk down to the restaurant and take an early tea. Some seafood. And a couple of bottles of Peroni. If Giorgio were there, he’d have it out with him. If he wasn’t, he’d ask around. Somebody would know something. He would find Giorgio. He would find him and they would talk.
In the meantime ...
... he typed in the Google search box:
‘Mateo Monza – current works, galleries and exhibitions in Italy’
Tomorrow was the weekend. He needed to get a bellyful of his nemesis’s art work as soon as he could. He was sure some of his work would be on display somewhere within a train ride of Naples. He just needed to find it.
Headquarters SIS, Vauxhall, London
Cynthia had come back with a positive response on the two images. They were the same man. Abir al-Rasheed. The man by the tube station two days ago. And the man from Mersa Fatma in Eritrea, the fishing village with 27 boats and the large RIB. He’d been spotted by SIS staff two weeks ago getting off his fishing boat; very much at home. A casual pick up – ‘tourist-snaps’ taken whilst the SIS team were asking around. Apparently their cover had been as ex-pats looking for someone to take them to sea for the day so they could fish for grouper and snapper. Casual. Frank could imagine it – all bonhomie and slaps on the back. Snaps of a fishing port, and selfies with men with boats to take them out.
In a village on the Red Sea - which had two new warehouses and 27 boats.
And a big RIB.
Frank knew that’s what SIS case officers did. They, and the local analysts,
pore over satellite imagery. They spot something unusual. And then go and investigate.
The images showed that the warehouses were metal, well put together and unmarked. This had caused the SIS team concern; as a result they would need further investigation. When they’d asked around they’d been told the village had paid for them. It was about expanding the fishing business. There was more money in fish than emaciated cattle. And they were saving for a new pier. One which would take bigger boats. And a refrigeration unit for one of the warehouses. To keep the fish cool until a bigger boat comes along and takes the fish away.
The village was on the up.
Unlike most villages in Eritrea.
Among about a hundred photos of boats and warehouses taken by the SIS team, Frank had fourteen - mostly men - out of 47 documented village members.
One of the photos was definitely Abir al-Rasheed; one of the SIS team had asked him his name as he waded out of the sea, the details recorded on a hidden voice recorder.
And Frank had found Abir al-Rasheed in East Putney, just two weeks later. Frank knew that now. Cynthia had attributed 87% to the match. That was as good as it gets.
Abir al-Rasheed. A man who had moved through the migration system quicker than a Jack Russell down a burrow. Currently the only ‘fast-track’ Frank could pinpoint. But he was after more.
It was a result. And knitted into a developing, wider picture.
The Met were certain they had one of the other five al-Rasheeds from Mersa Fatma in the UK; but no photos. They’d picked up his name through a SO (Special Operations) contact, but they had no idea where he was – or what he was doing. The Service had notes on two others – again, picked up from cascons and a single phone tap. But still no photos. It seemed that four al-Rasheeds were in the UK. Only one of whom they could positively identify: Abir.
And Frank, whose job was to match cross-continent migration with those turning up in the UK, had him down as ‘fast-track’. Currently the only migrant in the past 12 months who had made it from east to west in under a month.
He thought that made Abir special.
The MTMT was open on Frank’s right screen. It showed four of the six al-Rasheeds highlighted in red. They had the one – dead cert. What route did he take? When did the other three leave Mersa Fatma? How did they get here? Were they ‘fast-track’ as well?
On the Back Foot to Hell Page 11