The bottom line was: torture didn’t pay. And grown up countries didn’t use it.
‘I’m guessing there was a senior civil servant at the meeting and they put a stop to that?’
‘Yes. In no uncertain terms. Although, the level of desperation in the room was palpable. I wouldn’t have been surprised if the quorum had agreed to it. Anyhow, Sam, Jane asked me to give you a ring. Help out. You’re on the loose again?’
Sam gave Frank thirty seconds on where she was - and why.
‘And, so, I’m heading down to Calabria. I’m not sure what I’m going to do when I get there, but I’ll think of something.’
‘Calabria?’ There was surprise in his voice. Recognition?
‘Yeah. You know, the toe of Italy. The bit kicking Sicily into touch.’
There was a silence from Frank.
‘Frank?’
‘Sorry. I don’t know. Look, Have you heard of Gioia Touro?’
‘Sure. It’s a container port. Newish. Southwest Italy. In … Calabria. Hang on …’ A penny found a slot. ‘Where’s this going, Frank?’
‘It’s the port where the three men landed. They came in from Tunis on a container ship. It took them just two weeks to get to the UK from Eritrea. That’s a world record. I can send you a secure link. It’s a short brief I prepared for Jane.’
Sam’s mind was turning quickly. Villa in Calabria. Port of arrival … in Calabria.
Is there a connection?
She was about to question Frank some more when she spotted something that made her feel she had spent far too long at this service station.
A man and a woman had come in through the main doors. They were casually, but smartly dressed. Trousers and jackets. Not holiday makers. Nor tourists. Not in business - well, not in an ordinary line of business.
The man looked towards the shopping area. As his head turned Sam noticed a slight bulge under his jacket. The woman looked over the restaurant. They were neither buying nor eating.
They are looking for someone.
Me?
What?
Why?
‘Frank. I’ve got to go.’ She was whispering unnecessarily. The two were out of earshot and still an escapable distance from her. If she moved now.
‘Wait. There’s something you should now about the container port.’
Sam was on her feet, heading right, away from the two new potential thorns in her side … between tables, glancing backwards.
‘Oops, scusa.’ She clipped an elbow of a beautifully manicured feminine hand that was, a moment previously, holding a full cup of coffee.
She didn’t wait for a response. The woman had started to stand, her head bowed looking to the dark stain on her cream slacks.
‘Tell me!’ Sam still had her phone to her ear. There was a choice of two doors ahead. One with a circular window led to the kitchen? The other - she had no idea.
‘Gioia Touro is run by the ‘Ndràngheta Mafia. And it’s not a well-kept secret.’
Sam had to make a choice.
Kitchen. There’ll be a route out the back.
As she opened the door, she glanced behind. She met the non-business woman’s eyes.
Was there a spark of recognition?
‘Thanks, Frank. That may be useful. Got to go.’
She pushed her phone into her jeans pocket and legged it through the kitchen amid mild protests from a man in whites.
‘Scusa!’
There was a door at the end of the kitchen. She pushed it.
Why am I being hounded in sodding Italy, of all places?
She was outside. She had no idea if the woman had followed her.
Sam’s car was behind her, on the other side of the building. Potentially one of her two pursuers could have exited the way they had come in and be at her driver’s door well before she could.
Make unexpected choices. Surprise yourself.
She jogged away from the direction of her car, every so often glancing behind. Coming up there were three concrete picnic tables on the grass to one side of a line of cars. They were all full. In the mid-distance was a truck park, packed with articulated lorries.
Three tables. Three families.
Tourists?
Third table. Blonde father. Three blonde kids - assorted school age. Attractive mother: 40s, brown dark hair. Could be Anna-Frid Lyngstad.
Knowing me, knowing you, ah-ha!
Sam found a small space at the end of one of the benches. Next to a young, blonde teenage boy. Facing away from the threat.
She sat down. The boy straightened his back and stared at her.
‘Sorry. Thanks. I need a rest.’ Sam tried Latvian. It was close to Russian, but crucially from a Latvian viewpoint, not Russian.
The boy looked confused.
That didn’t work.
But the blonde father, who was two down on the opposite side of the table, spoke instead.
‘Hello?’ Balto-Slavic, probably with a Norwegian twang.
‘Are you Norwegian?’ Sam still spoke Latvian as she looked over her shoulder. The non-business woman was standing by the door from which Sam had exited. She was looking left and right. The man with the bulge appeared from the front of the building. She had seen their faces. She could match them in a line-up. Every time.
‘Yes. But I have worked in the Baltic States. Welcome to our lunch?’
Sam faced the front and smiled at the man’s sarcasm. Typically Scandinavian.
‘Thank you. Look …’ She glanced over her shoulder again. The two non-business people were talking now. The man was giving the woman instructions. At any moment she would head this way.
‘... sorry. I’m in a bit of trouble.’ Everyone in the family had stopped eating their picnic. The boy she had squeezed next to had his mouth open; his pupils were slightly dilated. Sam could see a piece of unfinished smoked fish on his tongue.
She continued. ‘Don’t look, but there’s a man and a woman by the side of the building …’ Sam nodded in the direction of the restaurant.
Her new boyfriend, having closed his mouth, had followed her nod. Sam felt herself ducking.
‘Marcus!’ The father barked at the boy, who sprung his head back.
‘Are you a criminal?’, the father continued.
‘No. Of course not … I’m a … scientist.’ In for a penny. ‘I work for Nokia. On their latest mobile phone. And these people are industrial spies. They have been chasing me over northern Italy. I stopped for a rest. And then they caught up with me. Are they heading this way?’
The father looked over his wife’s head.
‘The man has gone. The woman is still looking. She hasn’t seen you. Hang on … she’s on the phone, and now walking to her right. She’s following the man … away from us.’
Sam didn’t wait for any further explanation.
‘Thanks.’
And then she was off.
It took her twenty seconds to get to the lorry park. Just before she jogged round the front of the first cab, she looked over her shoulder. There was no sign of either the man with the bulge or the non-business woman, but she caught the eye of the Norwegian man’s wife. Sam gave her a short wave. The wife smiled and gave a similar wave back.
Sam walked down the row of trucks. Three cabs down was a bright red Volvo Globetrotter - with Romanian plates. The engine was running. Sam walked round to its right hand side, mounted the two steps to the passenger door and peered in.
The driver was concentrating on the instrument panel. He was alone in the cab.
Holding a grab handle and leaning back, Sam pulled the door open. She slipped around its edge and got in the cab. She pulled the door too with a finality that made her intentions clear. The immediate smell of cigarette smoke was almost overpowering.
The driver, late-30s, mid-build, mid-height and a crew cut, obviously thought all of his Christmases had come at once.
‘Where are you going to?’ She took a chance: Russian.
‘Bari.’ Russian wi
th an inexplicable accent.
Sam did her geography. Bari was a port on the Italian southeast coast. Close to its heel. It was a set of shoelaces from her final destination.
‘I’ll pay you. Two hundred Euros. Nothing else.’ Just in case you’re working in a different form of currency.
The Romanian didn’t add anything. He just smiled and nodded. Then he took out a packet of Carpați Green cigarettes from his shirt pocket and offered one to Sam.
‘No, thank you.’
The driver shrugged, took one out and lit it. He found second gear, looked left and right, and pulled the bright red truck out of its parking place.
Next stop Bari.
If I don’t succumb to lung cancer before I get there.
Appartamento VI, Via Mortelle, Naples
Gareth’s mother stopped abruptly just as she got out of the old, metal-cased lift on Gareth’s floor. As a result he bumped into her.
‘What’s up, mum?’ He asked.
Gareth didn’t need to wait for an answer. The entrance to his flat was a few feet forward left of the lift’s exit. And it had a message on it, badly daubed in red paint:
leave him alone
He sighed, closing his eyes as he did. Up until now he’d managed to spin his parents a half-lie about the message on the card left in his backpack.
‘Dad’s right, Mum. It’s a lover’s tiff thing. Nothing more.’
‘So much so the jilted party smacks you on the back of the head with a baseball bat and almost kills you?’ His dad had asked. His reddening face an image of incredulity.
‘Well, they’re pretty passionate these Italians. You know how it is?’
His dad clearly didn’t.
When Gareth had woken from the 48-hour coma he was definitely heading home. Enough was enough. There was nothing left to stay for. His life was worth more than a bit of sunshine and the odd romp with an Italian beauty.
Five minutes later he had changed his mind. That is, Giorgio had changed his mind. The series of left messages on his phone. His love was in trouble. He was crying out for Gareth to get in touch.
And he had. The first thing he’d done having read the messages was to reply to Giorgio’s latest text:
sorry, been in hospital with no access to my phone. am getting better. will not let you down and will phone tonight. G xxx.
He had initially added, luv u, but deleted it.
That may come in time.
His dad had been in a rush to get back to Wales and now he knew Gareth was on the mend he’d had a final cup of tea and left to catch a plane home. As he reached the door of the ward he’d turned, smiled and said, ‘See you in less than a week, son. I’m so glad you going to be OK.’
Gareth had smiled back and waved.
But he wouldn’t see his dad in a week. He wasn’t coming home. Giorgio was in trouble. He needed Gareth. And Gareth wouldn’t let him down.
And that had been Gareth’s first lie. He’d told his dad he was coming home, once he and his mum had cleared his flat. The universities would understand and they’d sort something out.
That lie hung between him and his mum as the doctor cleared his release. He’d never lied to her before and he would have to tell her sooner or later. It was just a question of timing.
That discussion had been brought forward as soon as they pushed open his daubed front door.
The place was a mess. It had been vandalised to the point nothing in the flat, neither his stuff nor the landlord’s furniture, was intact. Everything was broken, ripped or smashed. It was disgusting.
His mother stood in the middle of the main room surrounded by the broken table, bits of crockery and Gareth’s favourite picture, a Picassoesque face by Nathaniel Mary Quinn which he’d bought a couple of summers ago having worked in a bar in Barry. The picture, not much bigger than a sheet of A4, was out of its frame and torn in half.
‘What the hell is happening?’ He couldn’t stop himself. He spun around, oblivious to his mother, registering the contents of his short life laying about the floor in tatters.
His mother reached for his arm and grabbed it tightly. It stopped him, dead.
‘Don’t swear, dear. This is horrible, I can see that. We must phone the police.’
‘No.’ Gareth spat-out his response without thinking. He softened his tone. ‘No, mum. No. Look ...’ His mind was racing.
What do I do now? Is she right about the police?
But all of his thoughts coalesced into two words: help Giorgio.
His mother had both of his arms now. They were facing each other. Tears were welling up in her eyes. He couldn’t stop himself. A lump rose in his throat and the corners of his eyes became damp.
‘Mum. This is complicated.’ He stupidly looked for somewhere to sit. So he could tell her of his plans in some degree of comfort. But there was nothing safe to sit on.
Was there anything left of his here?
No. Nothing. He already knew that everything was gone.
Fuck it.
A tear rolled down his cheek. His mother reached up and dabbed it with the sleeve of her blouse. He smiled.
‘Mum. I’m in love. With an Italian man. He desperately needs my help. Whilst I was asleep I had 15 missed calls and 13 text messages from him. His name is Giorgio. He says he’s in trouble. And I believe …’
His mother raised her hand and put a finger to his mouth. It stopped him mid-sentence.
‘Shhh, Gareth. This is the boy they’re telling you to leave alone?’
What? No! It’s not like that …
He reached up and gently moved her hand away.
‘No, mum, that’s not it.’
He sighed and, standing less than a foot apart, he told her the whole story. This time there was no finger asking him to stop.
‘And that’s why I’m not coming home, mum. Not yet. I’ll leave the Mafia well alone, I promise. But now I have to go and help Giorgio. He needs me. I don’t know why, but he does. He’s given me an address in southern Italy and asked me to meet him there as soon as I can. That’s what I’m going to do.’ He had another glance around the room. ‘Look, as there’s literally nothing left for me here, we should maybe go and get a cup of coffee somewhere. I’ll then book you into a local hotel and make sure you’re OK. And then I’ll head off. I promise to keep in touch. And, once Giorgio’s OK, I’ll come home. Promise.’
His mother looked down at her feet.
‘Are you sure this …’, she pointed at the mess, ‘... isn’t anything to do with him?’
‘Sure, mum. Sure. I told you. Everyone said I was foolish to look at the Mafia art thing. And they were right. I made a mistake. And this is the cost.’
‘Do you love him?’
Gareth didn’t answer, because he didn’t know how. He couldn’t love Giorgio. They hadn’t known each other long enough. But there was something organic, almost primeval, between them. Something unspoken. He felt it. And he was convinced Giorgio did too.
‘No, mum. I don’t know him that well. But, do you know what?’
She smiled a confused smile.
‘Tell me.’
‘He’s gorgeous, mum. Think of an 18 year old Bruno Tonioli - your favourite. You wouldn’t be able to keep your hands off him!’
His mother blushed, smacked him on the arm and smiled all at the same time.
‘You fool. I wouldn’t … nothing, nobody would come between me and your dad.’
Gareth smiled back. This time he held her hands.
‘Let’s go and get you booked into a hotel. And then I’ll get on my white charger and gallop off into the sunset to rescue my prince.’
There was silence for a second. For the first time since they’d come into the flat Gareth heard the sound of Naples murmuring in the background.
‘Don’t fall off, Gareth. There’s only one of you and it would break my heart if you got hurt more than you have been.’
Headquarters SIS, Vauxhall, London
Jane had two docume
nts to look over. The first was a half-page report from Carla, the one she’d asked for this morning. The title was: The unknown billionaire. Unfortunately there was nothing of substance in the report. The Service had agreed to relaunch an investigation into the missing details; Carla would let Jane know if that avenue came up with anything. She’d also spoken to colleagues in the CIA to check if their list of the top-100 was anything like the one from The Treasury. Once she had the list, she’d make a comparison and come back to Jane. She reckoned she’d have something by the morning.
The second document was a response from a junior analyst of hers, Nadia. She had made a slow start in the building and Jane hadn’t yet gained enough confidence in her abilities to let her loose on any major independent work. However, what Nadia had produced was excellent; just what Jane wanted. Jane scribbled a note on a separate pad: give Nadia an independent task.
Nadia had produced two animations. Both began with an ordinary 2-D map of the world, with the land in white and all the water in blue. The borders of all 195 countries were marked with thin black lines.
The first animation was time-lapsed. It ran for 266 days, starting with the Embassy attack in South Africa. Every attack was marked with a star which was colour-coded: blue for bombs; green for guns; etc. And each star was a certain size, depending upon the most likely number of casualties - not the actual number. Nadia was looking from the enemy’s perspective. What was the expected result? A simple pipe bomb came up as a small blue star, with an expectation of no more than five deaths. A gun attack on a beach, a bigger green star: less than 20 deaths. And so it went on. The final star, which was given its own colour - purple, was the ferry hijacking. Centred on the North Sea, in comparison with the other stars, its size would have covered the whole map of the world, and some. But Nadia’s scale was ‘semi-logarithmic’ and 300 deaths only produced a star as wide as the gap between Scotland and Norway.
On the Back Foot to Hell Page 23