by Anna Smith
‘If you come, fine. If not, don’t call me. I hate goodbyes.’
Even though she’d waited by her phone for days after he left, she knew deep down he wouldn’t call. She’d tried to contact him, believing that once he knew what had happened to her, TJ would be so shocked and caring, he’d get in touch. Maybe he would even come back. But he never answered his phone. He had simply left her behind. That was the hardest thing to take. It was her own fault, she’d told herself, as she threw herself into the new job. She’d let her guard down, and that was her mistake. She’d opened up to TJ more than to anyone else in her whole life, and he walked away. Never again.
That was nearly six months ago, and still the tears welled up in her eyes when she thought of it. It wasn’t just the man/woman thing, the romance. It was the whole damn friendship. The baring of her soul, those deeply buried scars from her childhood that he’d brought to the surface. How could he do that then just disappear? She imagined TJ living in New York; wondered if there was another woman, and if he was sharing the same laughs and arguments with her that they used to have. Christ, this was driving her nuts. She was glad when her mobile rang.
‘Hey, Rosie.’
She recognised Marion, the editor’s secretary.
‘Marion. How you doing?’
‘Well, it’s pissin’ down in July, and I forgot to take my washing in before I went to work this morning. It’s Friday afternoon and my date for the night just called off. You could say, life is not smiling on me.’
Rosie chuckled. ‘Ah, that’s men for you, Marion. Play hard to get next time he calls.’ She promised herself she would do that if TJ ever phoned. But she knew she wouldn’t.
‘I’m too old to play hard to get,’ Marion said. ‘Somebody asks me out, I’m standing with my hat and coat on in case they change their mind! Anyway, enough of my nonsense. Listen, Rosie. I booked you at the Puente Romano in Marbella. Unfortunately, it’s a five-star hotel, but I’m sure you’ll cope. And I’m about to wire some dosh into your account. Same number as last time alright?’
‘Yeah,’ Rosie said. ‘That’s brilliant. How much money?’
‘Five hundred quid. The editor says don’t spend it all at once. It’ll do for starters. Matt’s got his own money.’
‘Don’t worry, Marion. I’ll try to lay off the lobster and champagne. And I’ll bring you back a Spanish donkey.’
‘Yeah. Do that, Rosie. And make sure it’s a two-legged one.’
CHAPTER 2
Besmir had been watching them for days, the whole crowd of them. Eating, drinking, laughing. The men always seemed to be making jokes with each other and guffawing, and the women would shake their heads and smile the way older people did when children were being silly. He didn’t like any of them. They were puffed up like peacocks, full of their own importance.
One time, in a cafe at lunchtime, when he was at a table too far and too insignificant for them to notice him, he saw one of the men give the young waiter a dressing down. He couldn’t understand what the boy was being berated for, but the others sniggered when he walked away, his head bowed, close to tears. Besmir wanted to go up and grab the waiter and tell him to go back to the table and punch the shit out of the guy. That’s what he would have done. Fighting was all Besmir knew. In Albania, you either fought or you were a victim and you got trampled on. The more he watched them, the more he disliked them, and that was good. Because soon they would have a lot more to worry them than whether a waiter served them well.
He had planned to take the girl in the night, when the family were sleeping in their villa on the beach. They were so stupid they slept with the patio door unlocked. He had even been in there while they were fast asleep and he’d looked at the little girl in her bed. She was beautiful. In the end, they’d made it easy for him. She was just out there, on the beach by herself when he walked past for the second time, doing a recce. From a distance earlier, he’d seen the husband of the woman going out wearing shorts and running shoes. He’d run in the opposite direction from where Besmir was, but he’d slipped into the shadows in the sidestreet just in case.
It was only a few minutes later that he saw the other man come by and talk to the woman on the patio. The little girl was nowhere to be seen. Besmir watched as the man and woman disappeared into the house together. He was surprised when he saw the kid come tottering out by herself and sit on the sand. His heart missed a beat. He would do it now. If he was quick, it could be done and over in a minute. He could have her delivered in two hours and get his money. He waited a few minutes in case the mother came out. And when she didn’t, he moved.
Now the crying had stopped, and Besmir hoped the girl had fallen asleep. He hated it when children cried like that. It reminded him of the incessant crying in the orphanage, day and night, children constantly crying. The pictures in his head were sometimes blurred these days. He’d made them that way, but he could remember the crying more clearly than anything. He remembered his own crying and saw himself looking through the bars of the cot, the other miserable children rocking back and forth and wailing. But there was no point. Nobody came. Besmir had no recollection of when he stopped crying, but one day he just did. And he had never cried again. Not once.
He pulled the car off the road and up a quiet, twisting lane. He got out, lit a cigarette and checked to make sure there was nobody around. He went to the boot and clicked it open. She lay curled up and asleep, clutching an oily rag among the tools and debris. Her face was deathly pale and her dark brown curls looked even darker against her white skin. For a second he thought she may have suffocated, and he reached out to touch her arm to feel if there was a pulse. But as he did, she stirred. He closed the boot in case the light would wake her up and start her crying again. He got back into the car and drove on. He called Elira from his mobile to tell her he would be in Algeciras in an hour.
The traffic began to back up as he got closer to Algeciras, and Besmir had to slow down until the line of cars was nearly bumper to bumper. He wondered what had caused the hold-up and rolled his window down to stick his head out. Shit. The cops seemed to be stopping people. He looked at his watch. He had been on the road for nearly two hours. The cops would have been alerted by now and would be looking for the missing kid. But maybe they wouldn’t be this far down yet. The traffic slowed even more. It could be a roadblock. He began to sweat. He didn’t have any papers if he got stopped. Leka had promised him a fake passport and identity card if he did just one more job. Leka always pushed the end game further and further away. He said he would give him three thousand euros for the job. With that kind of money Besmir could be free to go anywhere he wanted. Or he could stay, and become a bigger part of the organisation.
They were everywhere now, the Albanians. From Italy to Spain to London. They were huge and powerful, providing people to order for gangmasters and whorehouses all over Europe. Some people were sold privately as individuals to whoever paid the highest price. There were no restrictions on age or gender. The only rule was that you never crossed the Albanians or the Russians. Ever. Anyone who made that mistake never lived to see the sunset. Especially if they crossed Leka.
Besmir inched closer to the roadblock, and he could see the cop put his hand up to stop the car four in front of him. His heart began to pound. The car was stifling, so the boot would be boiling. All he needed now was for the kid to wake up and start screaming. The fat cop waddled along the line of cars, his pistol in his holster. Besmir made sure he didn’t make eye contact when the cop stopped at his car. Besmir looked up with the bored expression of someone caught in a traffic jam. The cop turned around and walked back down the line. He waved the cars on. Besmir gripped the steering wheel hard to stop his hands shaking.
The port of Algeciras was heaving with activity in the late afternoon, a mix of tourist ferries and freight boats going to and from Morocco. Besmir weaved his car in and out of the traffic, past the docks and up through the tight warren of back streets. The air was heavy with smells from
the exotic mix of restaurants and street stalls. Fried garlic and Moroccan spices mingled with the searing heat and traffic fumes. Cars honked above the din and drivers cut each other up, swerving to avoid pedestrians shouting abuse.
Besmir wanted to get to the house quickly as the girl must surely be awake by now with this noise. He turned into a one-way cobbled street and raced up, knowing he could cut across the alley half way. It was cooler now as he drove towards the block, where he could see Elira standing on the balcony looking down at him. She lifted her chin a little to acknowledge him, then she disappeared inside. He pulled his car to the side of the road and ran upstairs.
‘We must get her out quickly,’ Besmir said as Elira opened the door to him. ‘We can’t wait till it’s dark, or leave her there any longer.’
Elira drew on her cigarette and puffed the smoke out of her fat cheeks. A puppy came bounding out of the small kitchen and slipped comically on the stone floor rushing to greet the visitor.
Elira smiled, her face softening. ‘Look. The girl will have a little friend. It will help to stop her crying.’
Besmir picked up the puppy and it immediately started licking his face and nuzzling him. He pulled the puppy away and put it back on the floor.
‘I’ll get the girl.’ He headed for the door.
‘Leka is on his way,’ Elira said.
‘Good.’ Besmir went out and down the narrow stone staircase to the car.
He looked around the street before he opened the boot. All was quiet, so he clicked it open. The girl’s eyes were wide and blinking. A shaft of setting sunlight streaming between the buildings lit up her face, making her eyes the brightest blue he’d ever seen. It looked at odds with the dark hair and pale face. For a second, he thought the girl was going to smile, but she just stared at him, bewildered. He reached in and picked her up. He held her close to him in case she would start to scream. She felt soft and warm. Like the puppy. He went quickly upstairs. Elira opened the door. As soon as the kid saw her, her lip quivered. The sob started somewhere in her chest like a choking, muffled breath, then exploded in an agonising wail. Besmir handed her to Elira who tried to shush her, but the girl was inconsolable.
‘Ah, ssssh … shhhh baby … Sssh.’ Elira sat down on the sofa and rocked her against her heavy bosom.
But the girl sobbed, huge tears running down her face. Besmir looked away. Then the puppy clambered up beside them.
‘Look. Look,’ Besmir said. ‘Look at your little friend.’ He held the puppy close to the girl and she stopped crying instantly.
She looked at the puppy, then at Elira and Besmir, and she started to bubble again, but it was more of a sniffle. The puppy kept licking her face, and she stopped.
Besmir and Elira glanced at each other when they heard footsteps on the stairs, followed by one loud knock at the door and then the voice they knew. Besmir walked across the room and slid the heavy bolt across and opened the door. Leka stepped in.
‘Besmir.’ He stood for a second and they looked at each other.
Leka’s mouth curled a little, but his eyes were cold. He nodded and looked beyond Besmir to the girl on Elira’s lap and back to Besmir. Now he did smile.
‘You did good, my friend.’
Besmir said nothing. You didn’t make idle chat with Leka. You did what was required and you left. But he knew better than to ask for his money. Leka looked at him, as though reading his thoughts. He touched Besmir’s arm.
‘All in good time, Besmir.’ He walked over to Elira and bent to kiss her on the cheek and run his hand gently over her face.
‘You have a pretty baby there, Elira, yes?’ He surveyed the little girl who was so preoccupied with the puppy she didn’t even look at him. He took hold of her face and gently turned it towards him. Leka made a soft whistling sound with his lips.
‘The eyes, Elira. Look at the eyes. Beautiful. I think her price just went up.’
He walked across to the window and opened one of the shutters a little. The dismal room suddenly looked less glum.
‘Besmir?’ He didn’t turn around. ‘There is a change of plan my friend.’
Besmir’s stomach tightened. Leka turned to face him.
‘I want you to deliver the girl to Morocco. To Tangiers.’
Besmir opened his mouth to speak. Leka put his hand up as though to stop him.
‘Don’t worry, it will be safe. I have it all planned. I just don’t trust anyone else to do it.’ He waved his hand in the direction of the girl. ‘Look how successful you have been here. You showed that you have good instincts by taking the girl the way you did. How could I trust anyone else to finish the job?’
‘But Leka,’ Besmir hoped his voice didn’t sound desperate. ‘You promised. We agreed. My job was only to get her.’
He folded his arms and stood tall. But Leka was taller, and he looked down at him.
Leka nodded. ‘I know. I know, Besmir.’ His steely eyes fixed him. ‘But this is new business. Totally new. We have never done this before. Nobody has. And I want to do it well. The people in Morocco have plans for this one. They never expected us to pull it off, but we have. And I want to prove to them that we can do anything. We are in charge here.’ He sighed. ‘You must. Then you can have what you need.’ He put his hands in his pockets. ‘But to be honest, it would be my wish for you to remain working for us. You are strong and fearless. So are lots of my men. But you, Besmir, you are not stupid. You are different.’
He turned back to the window.
‘Go now and come back tomorrow at four. Everything will be arranged for you.’
Besmir looked at Elira who looked back blankly. He felt the colour rise in his cheeks. He knew he had no choice.
‘OK, Leka,’ he said. ‘Tomorrow.’
CHAPTER 3
The Rt. Hon. Michael Carter-Smith MP turned back the cuffs of his immaculate white linen shirt and pulled the gold Rolex watch over his suntanned wrist. He walked closer to the mirror to examine his face, smooth and tanned after twelve days in the sun. His bronzed complexion made his eyes an even deeper blue, striking as they already were, fringed with thick black lashes. The newspapers and magazines who were fascinated by him always said he looked a decade younger than his fifty-one years, and he knew it. And, as they often added in veiled reference to his homosexuality, the Home Secretary wasn’t just a pretty face.
No. Carter-Smith was the acceptable face of New Labour. The face that had helped get them elected because it was he who was instrumental in them winning over the Middle Englanders whose traditions were steeped in Toryism, but who had become disillusioned after Thatcher’s reign. If someone like Carter-Smith, the privileged son of a wealthy banker, with credentials that were true-blue Tory, could put himself at the centre of New Labour, then perhaps they’d give the Party a chance. And they did.
His appointment to the Home Office after they won the General Election was not unexpected: it had been leaked to the newspapers before it was announced. Carter-Smith made sure of that. Nobody did underhand tactics better than he. The campaign trail was littered with the political dead he’d backstabbed as he climbed his way to the top. When he came out of the closet and was outspoken about his homosexuality a year before the General Election, his kudos actually went up. He had made sure the story emerged in such as way that even the buttoned-up old cloth caps in the Labour ranks would admire him.
You could send Carter-Smith anywhere. He could charm the wives at the working men’s club in his constituency just as much as the ladies who lunched at the Dorchester. Men loved to hate him, but they accepted him, and everyone admired him. The gay community, of course, had much to thank him for, and they all did – with their votes.
No red-top tabloids had ever turned Michael Carter-Smith over. Even those who hated New Labour wouldn’t dare, because he was the very soul of discretion in his private life. He had to be. The Home Secretary’s little sexual peccadillo was his penchant for fresh young teenage boys. He loved the danger almost as much as the thr
ill and responsive enthusiasm of their tight young bodies. He never made mistakes. The word arrogant was invented for him …
He looked at the time. In precisely one hour he’d be on board the yacht of his multi-billionaire Russian businessman friend. If the tabloids got a sniff of that, they’d be all over him. He left his bedroom and headed down the marbled hallway to the living-room where his oldest chum, Oliver Woolard, was waiting for him.
‘Ah, Michael.’ Oliver handed him a drink. ‘Shaken, just enough to excite it, but not stirred,’ he said. ‘Just the way you like it.’
Carter-Smith grinned. He knew Oliver could never resist a dig. They had been at boarding school together and nobody knew more of his secrets than Oliver Woolard did. But Carter-Smith knew plenty of his too, and he watched, amused, at Oliver fawning over his beautiful wife, Connie, as though she was the only woman who had ever lived. But before the night was out, no matter how beguiling his wife was – and she truly was – he would be lapping up the variety of young women served on a plate for him by their Russian host.
Michael knocked back half his martini and put the glass down on the table. He looked at his watch.
‘Come on, Oliver. Car will be waiting.’
Oliver gave Connie a lingering kiss on the lips and held her lush dark mane of hair before letting it tumble onto her bare shoulders. He squeezed her bottom, encased in a tight electric-blue satin dress.
‘I might be terribly late, darling. Don’t wait up.’ He kissed her hand.
All dressed up, nowhere to go … ? Michael kissed Connie on the cheek as they left, wondering if she felt sufficiently warmed up now for the young fitness instructor who would steal into the villa by the time their car was arriving at the harbour in Estepona.