Firefly

by Henry Porter

  What to do with the image was the subject of long deliberation in SIS headquarters. The first idea was to circulate the picture of Naji as widely as possible – to all police and border forces in the Balkans and Northern Europe, as well as to the NGOs and government organisations operating along the migrant route. But how sensible was that? From the Middle East to Northern Europe, people-smuggling organisations had penetrated the police and border agencies, corrupting them with the money from a trade worth well over a billion dollars annually in Europe alone. If it was known that the intelligence services considered Naji vitally important in the fight against terrorism, circulating the photograph might be tantamount to putting a price on his head. It didn’t take too much to imagine how a people smuggler might turn kidnapper and seek a ransom for Naji’s release.

  Then there was the enemy to consider. It was not known exactly how well IS operated in the Balkans, but it was assumed that there was some kind of crude network, at the very minimum a list of numbers and maybe addresses to provide support to terrorists using the migrant trail. A photograph released to all and sundry might easily come into the possession of the very people that wanted to make Naji and everything he knew disappear. It would show just how valuable he was to the European intelligence services. In short, it would provide confirmation, if it were needed, that his death was a priority.

  The result of the discussion was that Nyman and the Chief decided that the photograph should only be shared with key partners – the French, German, Austrian and Italian intelligence services – and, informally, with one or two trusted contacts among the NGOs. It went without saying that Naji’s name would not be released either. Already Okiri and Fell had begun searching databases held on refugees in Turkey, in the hope that they could make a match with a family who had sent their young son, Naji, to find a new life in Europe. This was crucial, for it would then locate the terrorists to a particular camp and, if their luck held out, lead them to the false identities and registration photographs of the men who now sought to re-enter Europe as legitimate refugees. The boy’s destination was important, too, and the German Federal Intelligence Service – the BND – were making a considerable effort to identify exactly which individual or family in the Stuttgart area the boy was aiming to visit, though clues were woefully thin on the ground.

  Nyman called, but he didn’t have to explain to Samson the implications of keeping the boy’s name and photo secret. Samson knew it meant that he alone would be on the trail of the boy for the next few days, at least. Nyman told him there would be help, once he got past the Greek border with Macedonia, although he was confident the boy would be found before that.

  ‘Thanks for the vote of confidence,’ said Samson, ‘but I have little idea where to start.’

  ‘Why not Athens, where you are now? As you said, you’re not very far behind him. and I can’t believe he will travel too long on his own.’

  ‘He’s escaped twice from detention – over a fence that might have surrounded a maximum security prison – and he certainly got on that ferry without showing any papers. He knows what he’s doing, this kid.’

  Nyman ignored this. ‘Stay in touch at every moment of the way,’ he said and hung up.

  *

  A boy could get where he wanted in a crowd, and also what he wanted, if he was light-fingered and swift enough, which is exactly how he had acquired several of the items in his pack. Naji learned that you could use a crowd almost like a medium and swim through it, though nowadays he did not much like the idea of swimming. He had slipped from the side of the crush at the station into the centre and worked his way forward, saying that he had lost his father who was at the front and was about to board the train without him. He showed some tears and people let him through. It was all an act, of course, just like his triumph boarding the Blue Star ship at Mytilene.

  He was now very near the front of the crowd for the train that would take them near to the border with Macedonia, and was waiting patiently to be summoned forward. He looked around and took in his surroundings. The train station was not nearly as large as he had imagined it would be when he bought the ticket from a man in Victoria Square, and he was a bit disappointed.

  It was then that he heard the voice.

  He didn’t turn to look, because he was certain this was Al-munajil’s voice – the croak of the devil. And worse, he could tell from the murmured conversation happening just a few paces behind him that Al-munajil was with Usaim, one of his sidekicks. He treated Usaim appallingly, but the man was like a slave to him, and one of the cruellest of all the fighters.

  Naji froze, astonished that they had not already seen him. If he got on the train he might be placed in the same carriage as Al-munajil and Usaim and they would be sure to spot him on the long journey and then they’d hunt him down at the other end and kill him. He waited, listening to them talking, and remembered the long days and nights that he’d spent with them, riding in the back of the pickup – those months that he could never tell anyone about, not even the nice woman in the camp who’d shown so much interest in him.

  He pulled his cap down over his eyes and moved sideways very slowly, for he realised that he must be in the direct line of sight of the two men. He waited until armed policemen came forward and told the people in the first few ranks of the crowd to have their tickets ready. The crowd surged forward and people began to shout. Naji spun to his left and was soon weaving through the ragged margins of the crush.

  He glanced back and scanned the crowd for a few seconds to make sure they weren’t following him. It was then that he caught sight of Ibrahim, Al-munajil’s terrifying deputy. All three had left the island and were travelling together. This was really bad. Somebody had to stop them. For one moment he thought of telling the police officers at the station, but then they would ask him why he was travelling alone and they’d throw him in one of the orphanages he had heard about. Besides, he wasn’t sure they would believe him.

  He hung around outside the station and managed to get a little money for his ticket, though nothing like the price he had paid to the man in the square, and then he took himself to a park a hundred metres away and found a shaded spot where migrant families were resting. He ate the cheese and bread he’d saved from the boat and finished the bottle of water he’d bought for the train ride, yet the terror he felt wouldn’t go away. He was shaking.

  He took out his flute and played, more for himself than anyone in the little park, although he did place his cap on the ground in front of him. For some reason the music conjured the image of his mother baking bread and calling for his sisters to help her with her work. He rarely allowed himself to think of his family, but he did so now because it reminded him why he was making the journey – so one day they could be together again and he could play while his mother baked bread for the family.

  A few people gathered around him to listen and he began to grin and play up to the crowd with some jaunty tunes that were harder than the wistful piece he had started with. A tourist came along and stopped in front of him, and her husband filmed him with his phone. They dropped a note into the hat – not coins, but a ten-euro note! He could barely believe his luck, and not for the first time thanked the force that seemed to be watching over him. He played for another half-hour and earned a few coins and some kindly glances from passers-by. Things were looking up. He’d made back most of the money he’d lost on the train ticket. Then, to his astonishment, he heard someone call his name. He turned and saw the two girls from the camp in Lesbos, Hayat and Sana.

  He gave them a big smile and a wave. Without Hayat and Sana he would probably still be languishing in the detention centre for boys. Hayat had given him the smock and hijab that had allowed him to escape the second time. The clothes meant he didn’t have to climb up the back of one of the huts and scale the fence in the middle of the night like he had done before.

  The second escape had been a lot less frightening. He noti
ced that when the aid worker came to check on the boys in the early morning, he never locked the padlock and just left the gate closed behind him because the boys were always asleep. He popped his head into each hut, starting with the first on the left, which was Naji’s. The moment the man had looked in, Naji, who was already wearing the girls’ clothes, scrambled off the bed, leaving the blanket covering some black bags filled with rubbish, crept out of the hut and slipped through the gate. The man didn’t notice and no one bothered to question Naji at the main gate. Dressed as a girl, he walked all the way to the port.

  ‘Have you still got my clothes?’ Hayat called out. Naji prayed no one had heard that.

  ‘I left them on the island. I didn’t think I’d see you again.’

  ‘What a shame!’ said Sana, who was two years younger than her cousin Hayat. ‘I bet you looked really good as a girl. You should have gone all the way to Germany like that, Naji – as a pretty young girl.’

  He felt himself flush and he began to put away his flute. ‘I’m sorry,’ he muttered.

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ said Hayat. ‘As you can see, we dress as Western girls now.’ She came round and sat on the bench next to Naji’s bag. Sana joined her. ‘When are you going north?’

  ‘Soon,’ he replied.

  ‘We’re taking the bus to Thessaloniki tonight with our families,’ said Hayat. ‘Why don’t you come with us?’ She said it as though it was some kind of holiday outing. He didn’t think these girls had any idea what lay ahead of them.

  ‘I have to find a cheap way of travelling, I have little money.’

  ‘The bus is going to be great,’ said Sana. ‘Did you hear what happened to the trains?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘They are being delayed because there’s trouble in the north. All the people have to get off the train at a station and wait. They say there’s a demonstration by Greek people. Nobody knows what’s going on. It will be better on the bus.’

  ‘How do you know this?’ Naji said.

  ‘It’s on the refugee website, but the links are all in ­English.’

  ‘Can I read them?’ he asked, taking the phone from Sana.

  There were several stories in the English media and one or two in German newspapers. Naji sat down and very quickly worked out what was going on. He reminded himself that he must find a way of charging his own phone.

  The girls waited impatiently. ‘Yes, you’re right, ‘ he said eventually. ‘There are two problems: the Macedonian border is closed, and there’s a demonstration by Greek farmers who have blocked the track with their vehicles. They expect it to be cleared soon.’

  ‘You read English and German!’ said Hayat.

  ‘I’m learning German,’ said Naji. ‘I will bring my family to Germany, and I’ll need to speak the language. I can read it quite well now.’

  The girls exchanged looks, as if they now had confirmation that Naji was some kind of freak.

  ‘If you can read German, can you help my father?’ Hayat asked suddenly. ‘He has documents that he must translate.’

  Naji knew Hayat’s father was a big shot from Homs and that he had once owned a shopping mall as well as two hotels, but he’d lost everything in the war. Hayat had boasted about her family’s former wealth when they were in the camp.

  ‘I can try to help,’ said Naji. ‘German can be hard.’

  ‘I’m sure it’s worth the price of a bus ticket to my father,’ Hayat said.

  There were two families sitting on mats under a tree: Sana’s mother and uncle; and Hayat’s father, mother, sister and brother. Hayat’s father was fat with a double chin and his face was set in a permanent scowl. When the girls introduced Naji, he said he didn’t much like the look of the street musician they were associating with. Just because they had been brought down in the world didn’t mean they should mix with scum, he said, as he shook roasted pumpkin seeds from a paper bag. Hayat’s mother told Naji not to take any notice – her husband was always in a bad mood these days.

  But eventually he handed the documents to Naji, who took himself off to read through them. There were just three pages, with not much text, and they were very hard to understand. After an hour, during which he used Hayat’s phone to translate some phrases into Arabic, he realised her father was in danger of missing a deadline. He had to sign at the bottom of each page to show he had read and understood all the terms of the agreement for a partnership he was setting up with a Syrian businessman in Hamburg, and return it to him within the next five days. It seems he had had the document for two months.

  When he heard this, Hayat’s father cupped hands in a gesture of helplessness. What was he to do?

  Naji replied that he simply needed to buy an envelope, find a post office and mail the documents to Germany. His daughter nodded when Naji suggested that maybe she could address the envelope in the Western alphabet for him.

  He took the documents from Naji and let them drop on to the mat beside him and went back to his pumpkin seeds.

  ‘Can I have the money for the bus ticket, as we agreed, sir?’

  The man looked straight through him, as though he was no longer there.

  Naji repeated his request a little louder.

  ‘Go play your music, boy,’ he said nastily, ‘and stop bothering me.’

  Not so long ago, Naji might have accepted that someone like Hayat’s father could do what he wanted, but this man was an ignorant fool and Naji had likely saved him a lot of money. Everyone was equal on the road.

  ‘We had a deal, sir,’ he said. ‘You agreed to give me the bus fare if I helped you translate this document.’

  ‘Get out of my sight.’

  ‘You owe that money to me, sir. Everyone here knows that.’

  The adults in the party looked away, but Hayat caught his eye and began tipping her head in the direction of the document, which still lay beside her father. Naji knew exactly what she meant: he bent down, grabbed the document and ran for the park exit. There was uproar behind him but he was too fast and no one attempted to pursue him.

  He left it for fifteen minutes before returning to the edge of the park. Hayat spotted him and ran over. She was giggling by the time she reached him. ‘I got you forty euros,’ she said as he handed the document to her. ‘It was great that you did that. My father isn’t used to people standing up to him – he’s such a bully.’

  Naji pocketed the money and looked at her ruefully. ‘Thanks. I know I owe you twice over now.’

  ‘I’m glad,’ she said, the coquettish look returning to her face. ‘You can find me on Facebook, then you can work out how you are going to pay me back.’

  ‘When I reach Germany I will pay you back.’

  ‘Stay safe, clever Naji,’ she said, glancing behind her to make sure she was out of sight of her family. ‘Be very careful out there: you’re young to make this journey alone.’

  ‘Not much younger that you.’

  ‘Yes, but you are still quite slight,’ she said.

  There was no point in denying that. ‘Maybe we will be on the same bus,’ he said.

  ‘I hope not – my father would kill you.’ She examined him as if memorising his face, and started tugging at something on her wrist. She handed him a bracelet of red silk that had a charm dangling from it. ‘This is all I have. Maybe it’ll bring you luck on your journey.’ Then she gave him a smile that he was sure would stay with him for the whole of his life, turned and walked back to her family.

  *

  ‘That’s him,’ said Andre Procopio, the Greek intelligence officer who had passed the story of Naji to McLennan a few days before.

  ‘Which?’ Samson asked, peering forward.

  ‘The man with the red shirt, lighting a cigarette – that’s Iliev, the Bulgarian. He’s the man we need to talk to.’ They watched for a while. Procopio, a rather laid-back former policeman with a
ready smile, wanted to see whom Iliev was talking to.

  ‘It’s okay,’ he said. They left his car and walked quickly to the centre of the square, where there was a flowerbed full of garbage.

  Procopio called out to the man in Greek. Iliev turned, seemed to consider running but thought better of it and grinned, showing them a mouthful of gold. A rapid exchange ensued in which it was clear that Procopio was threatening the Bulgarian, though never at any stage did he lose his smile. Eventually he turned to Samson. ‘All is good. My friend here is going to introduce us to his associates. One of them is bound to have encountered the young man we are looking for. He will call his associates and we will meet them in the bar over there.’

  Samson wasn’t surprised that Greek intelligence had such good access to the networks sending thousands through the Balkans every week. It was, after all, in the Greek national interest that people landing from the Middle East spent as little time in the country as possible. The smugglers who operated in Turkey – tempting migrants of every sort with websites that promised blonde women, free accommodation and benefits in Northern Europe – were detested, but members of the same trade in Greece were grudgingly tolerated, at least for the moment.

  The first two of Iliev’s associates had no memory of seeing the boy in the photograph, but the third, a parody of sleaz­iness, wearing a medallion and with a scar across his chin, said he’d sold the boy a train ticket two days before. He was certain of it – the boy was young but he had bargained hard and knew what he wanted.

  Samson knew which train the boy had likely taken and when it arrived in the north, and it was now clear that he stood a good chance of catching up with his quarry at the border, if, as was reported, it was only intermittently open. His main concern was to work out the fastest way to get there, but then a fourth and a fifth smuggler arrived in the bar and Samson decided to show them the photograph anyway. Both had seen Naji in the square and one even knew his name because he had overheard a conversation with some girls. The other was quite certain that he’d sold Naji a bus ticket and that he’d seen him busking to raise money before he bought it. He admired the little fellow and said he had balls.