by Henry Porter
He removed the unlit pipe from his beard and looked up the mountain. ‘Grivo has dirt bike.’
‘Who’s Grivo?’
‘Cousin. I will call for you.’
He went off, while Samson rang Denis Hisami and explained in a roundabout way – because he was not sure who might be listening to Hisami’s phone – why he needed the number so urgently.
‘You can see him now?’
‘Yes, on the hillside ahead of me, which is why I need to get going.’
‘Sounds like you could use some help out there.’
‘Maybe later. If we get to him, we’re going to have to find somewhere safe for him. How’s it going your end?’
‘We’re close,’ said Hisami, ‘very close to identifying the man who is responsible for Aysel’s death.’
‘He’s talking?’
‘Yes, when he’s got his drugs. Slowly we are getting there. The authorities are being most accommodating.’
‘I bet,’ said Samson, thinking that Hisami’s money had prompted all the cooperation he needed. ‘Thanks for everything – I’m grateful.’
‘My pleasure,’ said Hisami. ‘We will be in touch soon, no doubt.’
Samson reduced the contents of his rucksack to just his hat, gloves, the two phones and their chargers, bread, water and some energy bars, leaving the rest in the boot of the hire car. He exchanged phone numbers with Andrej and gave him the key to the car, saying that if he didn’t return, a man called Vuk would collect it. Grivo – a near replica of Andrej but in a black beanie, khaki jacket and work boots – appeared on a black Yamaha dirt bike, which had a raised rear mudguard that doubled as the pillion seat. Samson took out twenty euros and gave it to him. Before they left, Andrej rushed out of the store with a walking stick that had a leather wrist cord at one end and big metal ferrule at the other and told Samson that he would be a fool not to take it.
The way was muddy from the previous night’s rain and the bike kept sliding into deep puddles, which required Samson to dismount so that Grivo could gun his machine back onto firmer ground. Samson was twice sprayed with liquid mud. It all took a lot longer than he had expected and several times they both had to get off the bike and walk through the woods. At length, they remounted the bike, pushed through a plantation of small conifers and sped onto the open ground. Grivo pulled up and shouted over his shoulder for directions. There was no sign of any of the four figures, but Samson knew which way they had gone and pointed left, noticing at the same time that mist was spilling down the western flank of the mountain and onto the route that Naji and his friend had taken, pursued by the other two.
Grivo put the bike into gear and yelled for Samson to hang on. They climbed for a hundred metres then traversed a slope with a firm, gritty surface on which a few stunted shrubs grew. Samson noticed the village come into view below them and realised that they’d reached the point where the pair had been when he first spotted them forty-five minutes before. Suddenly, Grivo skidded the bike to a halt, sending up a spray of grit, and started calling to someone. A shepherd, wearing a big woollen coat and a round hat and carrying a long stick, emerged from the boulders fifty metres up the slope. He waved back, whistled to his dog and started coming down towards them. While they waited for him, Samson looked around, impressed by the stark, monochrome landscape and the mountain steaming like a cauldron above them. Way off in the valley, beyond the village, shafts of light picked out settlements, ploughed fields and brilliant stands of yellow poplar.
The old shepherd and Grivo greeted each other warmly – Samson assumed they were related. They lit cigarettes and the shepherd uncorked and proffered a flask of slivovitz, which he’d whisked out from a leather satchel. Grivo insisted that Samson went first with it. The alcohol burned his throat and warmed his stomach. A long exchange followed, in which Grivo appeared to be asking about everything other than the migrants, but presently the man, pointing with his stick, and adding detail with a curving motion of his hand, indicated that the pair with the dog had gone down and around the mountain to avoid the talus, the stretch of huge flat rocks that had fallen as if sliced from the crags above.
Samson asked Grivo to ask the shepherd about the other two men. They had gone through the talus, which told him they knew nothing about mountains and were probably just relying on a phone to navigate. It looked like a good shortcut on the map, but when the rocks were wet they were treacherous to cross, as the shepherd knew to his cost. He said they’d be clambering through those rocks for a long time.
They bade him goodbye and set off down the slope, avoiding the patches where springs had turned the grit to mud, and passed below the rocks. Then they climbed again, but saw nothing of Naji and his friend. They pressed on for about fifteen minutes, until they reached a perfectly flat plateau where there was lush grass and a bog with large pools of water. Grivo turned off the engine and told Samson that he couldn’t go any further and didn’t have the time to carry the bike across the bog, but that he would show Samson the best way through the soft ground. Samson got off and planted his stick in the ground before pulling on his gloves. He was extremely doubtful about the wisdom of continuing on foot, but then Grivo nudged him and pointed to two tiny figures and a dog on the next mountain. Without saying a word, he swung his arm to the right and Samson picked out the two men in pursuit, who must have traversed the talus with surprising speed, or climbed above them and crossed the boggy ground on the far side of the plateau.
They were about three hundred metres away. Samson took out his binoculars and focused on the men. He watched for a minute before establishing that neither was the long-faced man, Ibrahim, he had seen in the service station video. Maybe they were just a couple of innocent migrants. He switched to watch Naji and his friend, who were crossing a piece of ground lit by the sun. They seemed unaware of the men keeping pace behind them. Certainly they did not look back. They were now walking together and Samson thought they might be talking as they went.
He let the binoculars drop. Inside his backpack, one of his phones was ringing.
*
The going was hard and Naji was already tired and lagging behind Ifkar. His optimism was fading and he began to dwell upon his darkest fears: that he wouldn’t make it to Germany; that his family, who were relying on him, would never see him again; and that they’d spend the rest of their days in the vast camp in Turkey, surrounded by sickness and despair, without hope of anything better to come. The more he had these thoughts, the heavier his backpack seemed and the harder it was to put one foot in front of the other. It didn’t seem to have occurred to Ifkar that Naji might need a rest or the odd word of encouragement. He, too, was with his own thoughts, though Naji suspected that his handsome friend was not a person to stay on a subject for very long, or think very deeply about his life. Ifkar existed in the moment like no person Naji had ever met before. He and the dog were similar in that way. Maybe that’s why Moon was so attached to him, though Naji did notice that even Moon preferred his company to Ifkar’s that morning. Perhaps she didn’t feel like racing ahead either.
For an hour Naji didn’t say anything, but his temper snapped when he tripped and fell into a pool of water and his jeans got soaked and covered in mud. He shouted to Ifkar to slow down and swore at him, calling him everything under the sun including the son of a whore, which he immediately apologised for. Ifkar didn’t seem to mind. That was Ifkar – stuff washed over him – but from then on they walked together with their heads bowed to the wind, and that made Naji feel much better. He took out one of the chocolate bars he’d stolen, and they saw how long they could keep a chunk in their mouths without it melting. As usual, chocolate stimulated Naji’s conversation and he was soon describing ways he thought he would make money in Germany, which were chiefly centred round the phone repair business.
Earlier, they had decided to head for Pudnik, because the road from the town led to a major route and Naji wondere
d if it would be possible to sneak onto a truck to get over the Serbian border. Ifkar doubted it would be easy to hide Moon on a truck and he was sure he didn’t want to cross without her, but he agreed to Naji’s plan anyway because he didn’t have another.
After they’d agreed that Naji was the winner of the chocolate competition and should be allowed the last piece, they left the plateau, trudged round a smaller mountain and skirted a spur, where they were hit by a cold blast of air, more mist and some drops of rain. Just as Naji was saying that it wasn’t going to be more than a shower, Ifkar shouted that he had seen a stone explode a few metres ahead of them. They examined the shattered stone, then looked up and around, searching for the cause, for they had had heard no sound at all. They could see very little due to the mist.
Naji shrugged. ‘Maybe you kicked another stone without noticing. Maybe a bird dropped something.’ He looked around again. ‘Maybe you imagined it.’
‘Maybe not,’ shouted Ifkar over the wind. They moved down to a patch of short, densely packed conifers, which gave them shelter. The pine needles tickled their faces as they pushed through, making them laugh.
Five minutes later, the policeman’s phone began to sound with a heavy metal ringtone in Naji’s backpack. Ifkar swung round with a look of surprise; Naji held his stick up and strummed an imaginary guitar.
‘Aren’t you going to answer it?’
Naji shook his head and kept strumming until the phone went silent.
‘Why?’
‘Because it’s a call for the pervert cop. It could be him phoning to see if I’ll answer.’
Ifkar agreed that it was better not to answer.
Later, they stopped to eat and rest at a point where they could see the town below them. It was larger than they’d expected after looking at the map, with warehouses and factories and three smokestacks that belched thick, grey smoke. The wind brought an acrid smell up the mountain. Naji dozed on the dry ground beneath a tree, using Moon as a pillow. Then the phone sprang to life again. There had been four or five calls in the last hour and each time he’d let them ring out, but this time the phone pinged with a message and he took it out of the backpack, thinking he would put it on silent. The screen was illuminated with the beginning of a text message in Arabic. To his astonishment, it began, From your sister Munira.
He opened the message. I tried calling but no answer. You need to hide. Two men are following you on the mountain. A man who speaks Arabic is trying to help you. He is a friend. You must call him. Call me and I will explain.
His hands shook as he immediately dialled the number, but the call wouldn’t go through. He tried several times without success. He thought for a few seconds, then, with many reservations, he dialled the number she had added for the man she said was trying to help him. His mind swirled with questions. He had given Munira his number when he sent her the email with the photo earlier that day, so that explained how she had called him, but who had contacted her? How did that person know her number? How did he know where he was? How did they know men were following him?
That call didn’t go through either, which was explained by just one bar at the top of the screen – enough for a text message maybe, but not a call. He wrote a text, but it refused to leave the phone. Then he told Ifkar that his sister had contacted him to say that someone was following them, and he needed to find a place with a much stronger signal. At first Ifkar didn’t take him seriously – they hadn’t seen a person on the mountains for days. ‘No one knows where we are,’ he said, although Naji noticed some doubt in his eyes.
‘What about that splintered stone?’ Naji demanded. ‘You think that might have been a bullet?’ He felt more fearful than at any moment since he was drowning in the ocean. Not only were Al-munajil and his men tracking him, but the darkness of Syria had followed him across the sea and into the heart of these mountains. Maybe he’d never shake it off.
Ifkar looked at him steadily but didn’t answer the question about the splintered stone. ‘We should go down to the village so you can make the calls – there will be a better signal down there.’ He laid a hand on Naji’s shoulder. ‘It will be okay, you’ll see.’
Naji nodded with a weak smile. In this new friendship of theirs, neither was dominant, despite the difference in age. There were times when Naji led with his ideas and bounce, but Ifkar’s unflappable strength took over at other moments and Naji was content to follow.
Sensing they were about to leave, Moon got up and stretched her back legs, one after the other. They shouldered their packs and set off through the pines, moving as stealthily as they knew how and stopping every few minutes to listen to the forest.
*
Samson answered the phone to Vuk, who gave him the number of the policeman’s cell phone, also texting it to him make sure Samson had it right.
‘There is problem. Bastard want another five thousand tomorrow. If we don’t give it, he cancel phone.’
Samson absorbed this. ‘Did he say anything about the police searching for Naji?’
‘Yes, Naji is big time terrorist. They say he killed plenty people.’
‘He told you that?’
‘Yes, this is why he wants five thousand tomorrow.’
Samson understood perfectly – the policeman would take another five thousand from Vuk, then either cancel the phone or, if the Macedonian authorities had the technology, suggest his colleagues track it. The thing that really interested him was that the Macedonians now believed Naji was a killer, and they could only have got that from Nyman or Sonia Fell. MI6 plainly had no further use for Naji, which to his mind was a mistake, but worse still was that they were shedding responsibility for the Syrian boy and were happy for him to vanish into some grim detention centre.
‘You didn’t say whether the police were actively searching for Naji,’ said Samson.
‘For me, I do not think they look for Naji. No big time operation. If they find Naji maybe they feel lucky.’
‘That’s my guess, too,’ said Samson and hung up.
During the call he had watched the distant figures of Naji and his friend being swallowed by the mist, which had rolled down the slopes on the other side of the plateau. The two other men, it seemed to him, veered to the right just before disappearing in the mist. He thanked Grivo, who pointed out the sticks that marked the way through the bog before also starting the bike and departing with a wave.
There was no time to lose, but Samson was careful to think through the various courses of action. To call Naji out of the blue would be obviously the most direct way of alerting him to the possible danger of the two men, but there would be too much explaining to do and Naji would be bound to suspect his motives. Using Naji’s own phone, which was in his pocket, wouldn’t make any difference; in fact, it would probably make him even more alarmed. Instead, Samson dialled the number for Naji’s sister, which he’d prised from the reluctant Sonia Fell two days before.
He got through on the second attempt and, speaking in Arabic, gave his name, said he was a colleague of Fell’s and told her that he needed help to bring Naji to safety.
There was a lot of noise in the background and then a woman’s voice repeatedly asking Munira who was on the phone. It was a friend of hers, she explained. He told her to find somewhere quieter.
He began again. ‘We think some of the individuals Naji was associating with in your country – the men from Iraq – are here in Macedonia and are looking for him. I believe you know who these men are and why they are so dangerous.’
‘Yes,’ she said, but he could hear the doubt in her voice.
‘If I meant Naji harm, I wouldn’t be calling you, would I?’
She said nothing to that either.
‘Okay,’ said Samson, ‘I understand your caution, but I need your help right now. Naji has a new phone and I want you to call him on it.’
‘I know, he sent me the num
ber.’
‘Can I check the number with you?’ He read out the number Vuk had given him and she confirmed it was correct. ‘Great, thanks,’ he said. At last he was getting somewhere. ‘Naji has a friend and they’re with a dog, a lovely, big, white dog that is protecting them. They are walking across some hills. I hope to catch them up. But I do need your help.’
‘How?’
‘I want you to speak to Naji and tell him that I am a friend and I’m going to help him. Naji is not far from me, but the trouble is that I saw two other men on the mountain. They could be innocent refugees, like Naji, but I just want to make sure he knows they are behind him and for him to take precautions.’
‘Who are you?’ the girl demanded.
‘I work with Sonia, the lady you met two days ago. I live in London, though originally I am from a village in Lebanon. I was once a refugee, too. But for most of my life I have lived in the UK. I was hired by the people Sonia works for to find Naji because he may have valuable information that will save lives.’ He paused before adding, ‘Munira, I am not lying to you. I really need you to call Naji now.’
‘We didn’t like that woman who came to talk to us,’ she said.
‘She’s just doing her job the best way she knows how. Maybe she was in a hurry. Look, this is really important, Munira. We haven’t much time. Please will you talk to him? I could try, but I don’t think he will take any notice of me.’
‘I will call him,’ she said, and hung up.
He crossed the boggy ground with ease and took Naji’s course, rather than the higher line across the slope he thought the two men had followed. He walked quickly and was alert to everything that was going on around him, just as he had been in his crossings of the Turkish border into Syria. He noticed the slight changes in the ground, which on the whole was firmer than on the first mountain, and the capricious nature of the mist, which by turns obscured the mountain then the valleys below, smothering him so that he could barely make out his own boots then lifting so that he could suddenly see a hundred metres ahead of him.