On the Back Foot to Hell

by Roland Ladley

  And then he did something that made Toffer shiver involuntarily. He made a pistol out of his right hand and fired an imaginary shot in the direction of the car.

  Bang.

  He then raised the imaginary barrel to his mouth and blew away imaginary smoke. And smiled a non-imaginary smile.

  Toffer couldn’t stop himself. His head whipped around to check on the kids …

  … who were happily immersed in whatever it was their tablets were engaging them in.

  He brought his head back to the front.

  The man was gone. And the van door was closed.

  Headquarters SIS, Vauxhall, London

  Frank was sitting on a soft brown, faux-leather armchair that he would struggle to fit through the front door of his house. He was in, what the team called, ‘the mood room’ - a Googlesque meeting and relaxing space designed to declutter the mind and allow for ‘big thoughts’. There was one on each floor of Babylon and he was one of only a few people who used it for what it was designed for: thinking. Others escaped into it when the pressure seeping out of their phones and keyboards was overwhelming, or for somewhere quiet to eat their lunch. And he’d known three or four folk use it as a bedspace when they’d worked so late it was almost time to come back in again.

  All of those uses seemed fair to him. But he popped in when he needed to declutter and focus. And he needed to do that now because … it had been quite a day.

  Last night’s examination of the potential routes Abir al-Rasheed might have taken to get from Mersa Fatma to East Compton, established that ten days ago eight people (according to the manifest, six men and two women) had disembarked a small container ship, Marks Cross, at Gioia Tauro. First thing this morning he had pinged a request to an old SIS pal of his, Justin, who worked out of the British Embassy in Rome. He’d given Justin a date and time and asked him to pull whatever favours he could to get any info they had from the container port of Gioia Tauro. He was looking for eight passengers. Ten days ago. Marks Cross. Any images, or any details they could get.

  And then it all got a bit strange.

  Justin had called him back two hours later. Having received Frank’s email he’d spoken to one of his contacts in the Arma dei Carabinieri (Italian armed police). Details were passed and promises were made.

  The same policeman had just come back to him. There was confusion all round.

  ‘Are you sure about the date, Frank?’

  ‘What? Yeah. Let me check the email I sent you.’

  It took Frank 15 seconds to throw up the missive he’d dispatched to Justin. He then crossed-checked it with his notes he’d taken last night on the freighter’s movements.

  ‘Hi, Justin. Yeah. That’s correct. Why, is there a problem?’

  ‘Well, maybe. It’s just my contact in the Arma dei Carabinieri has been in touch with the security operations at the port and they have no record of a Marks Cross docking within the last two weeks. According to them your ship doesn’t exist - not on the southwest coast of Italy.’

  What the …?

  ‘Hang on, Justin. Let me check.’

  Last night Cynthia had found Marks Cross for him. He was pretty sure she used marinetraffic.com, an online, minute-by-minute worldwide ship tracking programme to scope the problem. He could have used the website himself, but Cynthia had built-in AI and was a million times quicker than he was.

  Maybe she was wrong?

  This time, instead of using Cynthia, he opened up marinetraffic.com and searched for Marks Cross - sailing under a Guatemalan flag.

  What?

  There it was.

  In the mid-Atlantic.

  How strange.

  He glanced at his notebook and then back at the screen.

  And then the terrorist notes on the Gioia Tauro area that had been overlaid by AISE came back to him.

  I wonder ...

  ‘Justin, can you do me another favour? Could you see if you could get any CCTV footage from or close to the port, at the date I’ve given you - that was when Marks Cross was meant to have berthed in Gioia Tauro - let’s make the window 24-hours. I’m looking for either eight passengers ambling about, or anything that could transport eight people. Probably not hidden. In plain sight. Maybe a minibus.’

  Frank closed his eyes. Think. ‘And, if possible, don’t use your Arma dei Carabinieri contact. Can you go straight to the Carabinieri?’

  There was a pause on the end of the line.

  ‘Hang on, Frank. Do you think someone’s messing with this?’

  Definitely.

  ‘Possibly. Last night Cynthia did a trawl for me looking at sailings between Tunis and Gioia Tauro. Among others she came up with Marks Cross. I wrote the name down in capitals on my notepad, …’, he had the pad in his hand, ‘... and then double-underlined it. Before I left the office I e-copied the details from Cynthia and dropped them into a draft report, a copy of which I have open on my screen.’ Frank glanced at the central monitor. ‘And that’s the same document I cut and pasted into the email to you a couple of hours ago. There’s no error between the three. In short, last night Cynthia had heard of Marks Cross and had plotted its route between Tunis and Gioia Tauro - 10 days ago. This morning, according to marinetraffic.com, the ship is in the mid-Atlantic. I would say that’s suspicious. Wouldn’t you?’

  ‘Unless you’ve made a mistake. Maybe?’

  I don’t make mistakes.

  ‘I think that’s unlikely, but it is a possibility. The thing is, there’s a time constraint on this. So whilst I check again, could you put your best man on it ... please?’

  ‘OK. Sure thing. I’ll get on with that. And I don’t need to contact the Carabinieri. The Embassy’s embedded Italian police LO has access to all of the government-owned CCTV. I’ll go upstairs now and see what he’s got. I’m on it.’

  After that Frank had called the Southampton-based, Maritime and Coastguard Agency. Within a minute the officer he spoke to had found Marks Cross. It was as Cynthia had described last night - a 13,000 tonne container ship. But that’s the only thing the officer and Cynthia agreed on. As for location he was with marinetraffic.com. The ship wasn’t in the Med. It was sailing from the Panama Canal to Conakry, the capital of Guinea, West Africa.

  ‘Are you sure?’ Frank had asked.

  ‘Yes, of course.’ The officer sounded a bit put out.

  ‘Is there anyway …’ Frank didn’t have time to complete the sentence.

  ‘Hang on.’

  Frank waited. Either the officer was busy checking something, or he had been distracted. Frank didn’t need distractions at the moment.

  ‘That’s not right. No. Something’s not right here. There’s an anomaly. The ship was on the cross-Atlantic route two weeks ago headed for Guinea. Cargo … cheap goods from China, as far as I can make out. Picking up fruit. Its itinerary was the Med: Tunis, Italy and then back again. It left …’

  It sounded to Frank as the man was poring over a spreadsheet of infinite detail. He knew what that felt like.

  ‘..., uh, Conakry for Freetown, Sierra Leone. And then, hang on, and this is where it gets weird, as if by magic it’s back halfway across the Pacific - steaming east for Panama. It time-jumped, backwards, like a Tardis. Is this why you spooks are interested in it?’

  ‘Possibly. Thanks.’ Frank was leaning back in his chair, chewing his pen. ‘Does this thing happen often? You know, ships being somewhere, but then not.’

  ‘I’ve never come across it before. No. Ships’ VHF and satellite tracking systems are bomb-proof. But, I guess, systems break.’

  The officer didn’t sound convinced.

  ‘Can you find out where Marks Cross actually is?’ Frank asked.

  ‘Not immediately, no. But I can trawl the databases we have access to and check where it last really berthed, and what its actual route was. Can you give me an hour?’

  ‘Sure. Sure. You have my number?’

  ‘Yes, I do. I’ll come back to you as soon as I have something.’

&
nbsp; In the end Frank didn’t need corroboration that someone had interfered with Marks Cross’s positional data. Because they’d found Abir al-Rasheed.

  Justin had called him back at lunchtime. There was a CCTV camera at the traffic lights of the container port slip road heading onto the north-south, E45 motorway. Justin had sent through 27 clips of ‘vehicles large enough to carry at least 8 people’. It was a combination of people carriers, minibuses and coaches.

  Immediately after the phone call Frank got to work. He started with minibuses joining the motorway, heading north.

  His logic was that Abir al-Rasheed was precious cargo - with, maybe, seven others. He wasn’t paying for his own trip and wouldn’t be taking chances inside a packing case in the back of an articulated lorry. Or in a sealed, metalled grain container. Or any of the other horrible methods refugees used to illegally cross Europe. Abir al-Rasheed had taken two weeks to make a three month journey. Somebody wanted him in the UK quickly. In one piece. If he were on Marks Cross, his agent would have paid a lot of money to get him off the boat and out of the port, almost certainly with decent, albeit forged, papers. Outside of the port’s perimeter the chance of getting stopped by the police until he reached the northern European coast was minimal. So Frank would definitely be making sure his cargo travelled in some sort of luxury.

  In a 24-hour period nine minibuses had left Gioia Tauro, heading north. Five were empty; four had passengers. The CCTV imagery wasn’t good enough to make out who the passengers were, but he had the vehicles’ registration details. Significantly, only one of the four with passengers had left the port at night.

  He’d got straight back on the phone to Justin.

  ‘It’s great work Justin. Can you do something else?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘I need to track a single minibus, …’, he read out the number plate of the van that had left in darkness. ‘It went through your CCTV at 1.13 am. It’s heading north. I would guess eventually crossing into France at Nice. But I can’t be sure. It’s probably making best legal speed, but will need to stop at a couple of service stations. Let’s assume a range of between three and five hundred kilometres. Can you get CCTV imagery of any fuel stop on the east coast motorway? I need a mugshot of the passengers. They will need to get out and pee.’

  ‘I’m on it, Frank.’

  Most of the time being an analyst is days and days on painstaking effort with no reward. Every so often a hunch pays off. A lead comes good. Today was such a day.

  Justin had called back three quarters of an hour later. Frank was brushing custard cream crumbs from his jeans. He almost dropped the phone.

  ‘Bingo, Frank, bingo. I’ve just sent through some stills.’

  Frank stopped brushing, found his mouse and opened the mail.

  There he was.

  Abir al-Rasheed.

  At a service station just north of Salerno. And Justin had three full-face and four glancing shots of the other passengers. They were all northeast African. Tall, slim with very dark faces.

  From the same village?

  Frank just about found the time to thank his pal. He was too busy opening up the images taken by his SIS colleagues from Asmara.

  Fifteen minutes later he had two certains and one likely.

  It was clear. Abir al-Rasheed, a fast track immigrant from a sleepy fishing village in Eritrea, and very likely at least three others, had made the same speedy journey at the same time to London.

  What now?

  Frank needed thinking time. So he’d made himself another cuppa and retreated to the ‘mood room’.

  Unfortunately his thinking time was interrupted by Claire, Jane’s PA. He was relaxing in a chair big enough for three of him when she tapped on the glass wall.

  Frank glanced across at Claire, then round the room. He was on his own.

  She mouthed, ‘Jane. Now.’

  Frank mouthed back, ‘Me?’

  Claire raised her eyebrows and tutted silently.

  ‘Yes, you.’

  Greed

  Chapter 8

  Somewhere in the English Channel

  They had a system. He and Sophie carried all the gear - a picnic, pillows and a couple of rugs - and Amy ran ahead to the family bar at the pointy end of the boat and bagged a table, two chairs and bench. It worked every time, even when there was a ferry-load of coaches. And it had worked this time. Right in the middle of the boat, looking out on a beautiful autumn day. Light blue sky, darker closer to the heavens, with a pale half-moon leading the way. It would be a better view if the ferry company knew how to clean their windows, but it was still pretty spectacular.

  The kids were in their own version of heaven: sausage rolls, Doritos, dips, breadsticks, cucumber cut in chunks and small bread rolls, buttered with salmon paste. Coke Zero, of course, and dark chocolate digestive biscuits. The picnic had developed over the years and this was the agreed outcome. Toffer had gone out of his way to make it so again this year. Of course it wouldn’t be complete without being plugged into your tablet - playing on your favourite game. Sophie was tucked up on one of the chairs, with her legs under her bum. Amy was laid flat out on the bench, her head resting on a pillow. And he was on the second chair, a bar-bought coffee in his hand and his eyes fixed on the horizon - which didn’t budge. The sea conditions were perfect.

  But he couldn’t get that image out of his mind. The tall, dark … African? With a hand doubling as a pistol. That veiled threat. The fleeting sense of imminent horror.

  Was he aiming at him? Or his children? For some reason that made him look around.

  Wait ...

  Shit!

  There he was. Walking through the bar. Casually, but with purpose. Grey joggers, a black hoodie with a white rope cord. And a backpack.

  He’s coming this way. Towards the centre of the bar: a large circle of arc-like benches, facing inwards. The area was full of chairs and small round tables, much like the ones he and the girls were sitting on. In the middle there was a small round space that wasn’t filled with furniture. If they moved a few tables and chairs it could have been a dance floor.

  The man stopped there. He took off his backpack.

  And then …

  … what … shit!

  Toffer instinctively lunged towards Sophie and pulled her to the floor.

  She screamed … which cut through the noise in the bar.

  He didn’t care. Only one thing mattered.

  Sophie was on the ground; he was on all fours. Amy’s head was level with his. She was staring at him, her face wrenched away from the screen, reacting to her sister’s scream. He grabbed her by the arm and pulled at her; his strength overcame the minimal friction between his daughter’s clothes and the plastic of the seats. She slipped off the bench and fell in a heap joining them on the floor.

  ‘Dad! What are you doing?!’ It was a shout. Louder than the surrounding background noise.

  He had to get them to be quiet. He had to get them safe.

  He pulled Amy towards him, she instinctively moved closer.

  They were now one bundle under the table. Toffer had thrown his body over the girls. The small circular table gave some protection. His back was facing the bar.

  Between them and the man.

  The man who had taken an imaginary shot at him and his family. And had blown away the imaginary smoke.

  The man who, seconds earlier, had pulled a gun from his backpack.

  A gun.

  A proper gun.

  From his backpack.

  There was nothing imaginary about this now.

  Toffer clung on. The girls asking, probing … protesting.

  And the noise level grew.

  Screams. Shouts …

  … and then …

  Bang! Bang! Bang!

  The loudest noise Toffer had ever heard.

  It was three shots. One after the other. Toffer expected to be hit. To feel pain. The tall black man had singled his family out for punishment before they
had got on the ferry. He was now seeing that through. With a real gun. And real bullets.

  They were going to die.

  Please, no.

  ‘Are you OK? Sophie? Amy?’ He screamed the question, his face muzzled against one of the backs.

  ‘Yes, Daddy. Yes.’ A stereo response. ‘What’s happening Daddy? I’m scared!’ He couldn’t make out which girl was saying what. He was so glad they were talking - still with him. Unhurt.

  Bang! Bang! Bang!

  Toffer flinched. He held the girls tighter. Tried to make his shoulders wider.

  No pain. Not that he could tell.

  Screams. Shouts. Movement. They were in the scene of a disaster movie.

  Then ...

  ‘SHUT UP! AND DON’T MOVE.’ A huge voice, above the screaming. Loud and clear. Dark and thick with an African accent.

  Bang! Bang!

  ‘SHUT UP! You …’, Toffer imagined some pointing, ‘... shut up! DON’T MOVE.’

  A piercing scream … the sound of panicked movement ...

  … and then ...

  Bang!

  No scream.

  ‘Oh God!’ A plea. Above the background noise which had been reduced to a murmur.

  ‘Oh my God! She’s been hit.’ A pause. ‘You’ve killed her!’

  Bang!

  A gurgling noise. Then nothing. Quiet. Heavy breathing.

  A whimper.

  Noisy tears.

  The silence of fear.

  Toffer held the girls tighter still. Really tight.

  He whispers.

  ‘Don’t talk. Don’t scream. Please. Shhh.’

  Toffer listened.

  Muffled crying. A sob.

  ‘You’re next.’ African. Thick, but clear.

  Toffer was working with only what he could hear. He had been expecting to die. But he was alive. Still. He could feel Amy and Sophie breathing under him. They were alive.

  Now, cowering beneath the table, he didn’t know what was happening. He couldn’t see. He needed to see.

  He carefully lifted his head and turned it so he could make out the centre of the bar.