by Finn Óg
Just short of the altar a woman sat wrapped in a foil blanket, glistening like a Christmas decoration. Sam’s heart leapt a pace but he didn’t recognise her, and he was grateful for it. She was being admonished by a man in a blue coastguard vest, her head dipped, enduring it. Sam muttered his thanks and turned to leave when he heard another voice, a tiny one, call out. He froze.
“Daddy?”
It wasn’t Isla but he knew in an instant who said it and why. He turned to see Sadiqah sit up from a pew. She too was wrapped in foil, her hair like a bonfire, stiff with salt and all over the place. The woman’s head lifted immediately and she began to sob. Everything became clear.
The coastguard turned and called out to two carabinieri who made towards Sam. He knew he was about to be arrested, that he’d allowed himself and Isla to be compromised, and that Sadiqah knew him only as daddy. He knew too that the woman whose face he had just seen for the first time had been his companion at sea for days, that she had clawed him to save her child, that she had been silent for some dreadful reason. And he could see for the first time her vulnerability, her fear and her beauty now that she’d been stripped of her niqab.
Tassels hadn’t been in good humour, even before his cousin arrived.
“Well, did he say where the boats come from?”
“China. The network is intricate, hence why the rat says it took six months to set up. The boats are made in some far-flung province, transported to a port, hidden in containers and offloaded in Nuweiba away from the authorities. Then they are loaded onto a lorry and concealed. They travel west, taxes to pay, bribes. But he was clear about this – if one boat goes missing or is not collected, the deal ends.”
“Well, we will pick up the boat, won’t we?”
“I thought … your colleague had gone missing?” the doctor almost referred to him as Big Suit.
“He’ll show up.”
“He’d better show up soon. The rat says the boat will be ready for collection. And if it is not collected—”
“Has it been paid for?”
“No,” said the doctor, who had no idea whether it had or not. “Did you not give your colleague any money?”
Tassels ignored his cousin’s question but the answer seemed obvious.
The doc pressed his advantage. “And is he driving a lorry or even a van? The rat says the boat won’t fit in a car.”
Tassels’ head fell forward between his shoulder blades, his hands gripping his filthy desk. Eventually he sat. “He can get one when he gets to Nuweiba. He can hire one.”
“So he has money?”
Tassels rounded on his cousin. “Look, just get all the information you can from that rat. You leave the details to me!”
The doc was dismissed. It had gone better than he could have hoped for.
Two police officers grappled Sam who had decided against flight. Isla was outside and he wouldn’t leave her, but he cursed himself.
“I’ve got a child outside,” he shouted as they tried to wrestle him to the ground, finding him much more solid than expected. “I’ll be calm if you agree to bring her in here and look after her.”
“English,” said the coastguard to the officers.
“Irish, Irelandese, European,” stated Sam as he allowed the men to slip a cable tie around his wrists. If necessary, he could twist and snap his way out in a matter of seconds.
“Ireland?” queried the coastguard.
“Yes, Irish,” he shouted. “We rescued them.”
The coastguard evidently had some English because he nodded sagely as if he knew what was really going on. “Yes, yes,” he said. “And how much did she pay you?”
“Bring my daughter in. She’s outside the door on her own. Bring her in and I will explain everything.”
The coastguard said something to the police, who didn’t appear to like the idea of taking direction from a coastguard. Whatever was said, it was the coastguard who walked warily to the church door and opened it, apparently cautious that he might be on the cusp of attack. There was a dreadful pause during which Sam struggled to turn to face the door but for no good reason was prevented from doing so by the police. He could hear the door close as a muffled, softer conversation was had. Eventually the door creaked open again and Sam breathed in.
“Daddy!” she called and pattered up behind him before confusion set in. “Hey, let go of my daddy!” she shouted, and to Sam’s astonishment she kicked out at one of the policemen, nipping him right on the shin bone with her little brown boot.
The policeman yelped and swiped at her but got lucky and missed. If he’d connected, Sam would have finished him. He stared at the officer who felt the full weight of his mistake as Sam’s body tensed to the point of detonation.
“Isla, calm down, wee love. It’s a mistake. They don’t understand what has happened,” he said as he held the cop’s gaze.
“It is certain we understand,” said the coastguard. “You are not first man to bring people from Africa.”
“I brought them here for safety, not money” Sam said.
“Yes, yes, well, we have you now and you will be processed and so will these people. They will be sent home eventually.” The coastguard seemed to know everything.
Sam looked at the policemen on either side of him. “And what are you two going to do? Are you going to jail me for helping someone?”
The two carabinieri were young, probably far from home and placed in the heart of Mafia land with no idea what to expect. They didn’t appear to understand a word Sam was saying. The coastguard began an exchange with them, nodding knowingly before reverting to Sam.
“They will take you to the police station and then they will process the foreigners.” He nodded at the woman and Sadiqah who were now huddled together just short of the altar.
Sam stared at them. “I know you can speak English.” He directed his call to the woman. “I know she’s your daughter and that man wasn’t your husband. Isla told me. I know she is Sadiqah. Now, for the love of God, will you tell these men I am not a trafficker? Tell them what happened!”
She stared at him for a second and then, as a rooster crowed for the first time, he heard her speak.
“I never seeing this man before,” she said.
12
The driver stared at the phone as it blinked its displeasure. It also offered a loud beep warning the three men in the cab that if it didn’t receive some nourishment soon, it would shutdown.
“Have any of you got a charging cable for that thing?” the driver inquired. He knew he was on the hook to see through this curious command.
The two soldiers to his left shook their heads. Of course they didn’t.
Twenty minutes later they were treated to another bleep and forty minutes into the journey the phone gave an exhausted I-told-you-so string of bleeps as it settled into deep sleep.
In Cairo a police tech dialled another mobile phone and in Alexandria Tassels answered at a snatch.
“Where is it?”
“It was stationary for a long while, then it was on the move for about fifty miles and now it is dark.”
“What do you mean dark?”
“Well, it was in the middle of Sinai, which doesn’t have many phone masts for triangulation, so it could be out of range – maybe it went off the highway.”
“He would not have left the highway,” said Tassels, who in truth had no idea whether his colleague, with all his intellectual challenges, might have left the highway.
“The phone could just be flat?” said the tech.
“He has a charger in his car,” said Tassels. “I’ve seen it.”
“Hmm …” the tech gave a doubtful grumble. “I can see you tried to call this number several times and he did not answer.”
Tassels began to experience a mild sensation of panic. Traceability. He should never have involved the tech unit. They now know he was aware that his sidekick was in Sinai. If the big idiot was executed by extremists with that phone in his pocket, he would
have a lot of questions to answer. He hung up his own phone without another word. Tassels closed his eyes at his own stupidity. He had to work things out, but one thought did occur to him: if you want a job done right, do it yourself.
The coastguard looked confused, Sam’s mouth fell open, Isla was left speechless. The carabinieri to Sam’s left tried to seize control but it was clear that everyone in a position of authority was unsure as to who was most senior.
The coastguard translated for the cop. “Migrants must go to detention centre. We find someone to take this child.”
“Well,” said Sam, a dreadful but familiar calm descending upon him, “that’s not going to happen, chaps.”
Isla instinctively stepped back and the coastguard made the mistake of grabbing her. The policemen holding Sam’s arms were forced together as Sam lunged from their relaxed grip. They were too slow to react and the coastguard’s face exploded. Sam withdrew his forehead, Isla moved swiftly away and the injured man fell back into one of the pews. He wasn’t unconscious, but he wasn’t about to get up either.
The renewed tugging on Sam’s arms made it easier to release himself. He’d already twisted his hands in the cable tie giving the necessary leverage to open his wrists and snap the plastic shackle. The power in his shoulders was incredible – muscle memory from lugging GPMGs for dozens of miles, thousands of chin-ups and carrying a bergen for half his adult life. His strength had been topped up by winching and sanding and working above his head. The two young cops didn’t stand a chance.
“Isla, turn away!” he shouted as he went to work on the two carabinieri.
They went down easily with only one broken arm and a possible snapped collarbone. Sam meant them no ill will – they were just doing their job. He tucked them up in their own cable ties, double wrapped, wrists and feet. Nicely packaged. The coastguard was out of his depth and scared. He too was trussed up, his radio removed and treated to a hefty boot in the chest for having reached at Isla.
And then there was a problem: what next? Sam fell to his knees and put his arms around Isla who was strangely completely calm.
“You’ve got blood on your head, Daddy,” she said.
“I know.”
“Don’t get it on my t-shirt.”
He laughed. “I won’t, darlin’.” In the moment he found it helpful but disturbing that she hadn’t seemed fazed by the violence.
Sam then turned to the ungrateful bloody woman who had so easily forsaken him.
Habid watched the doctor’s deviousness flourish with every visit. It gave him pleasure to see the doc’s confidence build because it created opportunity: a cocky customer is ripe for the plucking.
“He is screwed,” said the doctor, “the interrogator—”
“The butcher,” corrected Habid.
“Big Suit,” settled the doctor, “is still missing and Tassels does not know what to do. He’s driving a car, far as I can tell, with no real cash on him, so my cousin is starting to doubt whether he will be able to pick up the boat or pay for it if he ever does turn up.”
“Good,” said Habid. “So Tassels thinks he needs another plan if he is to get in on the next trip to sea?”
“Indeed.”
“When the time comes, tell him Nuweiba. That’s where he can get the boat. At the ferry port.”
“OK,” said the doctor.
“And what about you?” probed Habid. “Are you ready for the next trip to sea?”
“As a passenger?”
“As a passenger,” confirmed Habid.
“I think I am,” said the doctor.
“Have you the money?”
The doctor faltered. “Money? You have the cheek to ask me for money after saving you and preparing the ground for you to be released?” he hissed, incandescent.
Habid cracked a menacing smile. “Don’t worry, we have a deal, doctor. The money is not for me. It is for you when you get to the other side, to set up, to begin again, as it were.”
The doctor calmed down a little. “Well, yes, I shall be fine in that regard.”
“And your medical qualifications, they are in order?”
“Of course,” said the doctor, knowing full well that they weren’t.
“Then aboard you shall be,” said Habid, affecting as eloquent a tone as he knew how, “provided you can get me out of here to make the necessary arrangements. I need to get others to join you, including your captain. It makes the trip more … economical.”
“You put a captain on board?”
“Generally a fisherman. Someone who knows the sea and boats. From Senegal. They are the best candidates – their rates are reduced slightly. They keep the process safe.”
Which was true, up to a point.
“Why did you not just tell them that we’d rescued you?” Sam snarled in a barely audible hiss, livid with the woman.
She stared at him, cold. “You sent us away with him.”
It struck Sam that of the two of them she was somehow the more angry. “I came back,” he said dismissively, “as soon as I knew he wasn’t your husband.”
“What is difference if he was husband? You are seeing how he is treat-ed me.”
“That’s how it is where you come from.”
She just stared at him, unable to speak further. He had seldom seen such rage in someone’s face, the injustice of which incensed him. But he had to think, to find a way out of the immediate mess.
Sam and the police were way beyond the point of reasoning. How many of their colleagues knew where they were? What or who had brought them to the church and was that person still around? And when were these men expected back at their station? Sam had no control over so many variables – their radios or phones could be buzzing within moments, without answer. And where was Sinbad? He’d be happy to leave the woman and take the child, but they were an inseparable package. His boat was out of the water, and, in any case, it was built for endurance not speed. Any fast inflatable would be on them within minutes.
What were his advantages? Well, he reckoned, the cops had no reason to suspect that he’d arrived by boat. The coastguard’s presence was an irritation but he calculated that the police would assume he was the collection agent for the migrants, not the delivery man. They were more likely, therefore, to determine that he’d arrived by car to take them to their next destination. So he thought that if he left by car, they would look inland. Only problem with that was he didn’t have a car.
The disadvantages were that he’d told the coastguard he was Irish and he’d told the crane man he was Irish, and that wouldn’t take long to piece together. He didn’t want people crawling all over the boat. There was almost one hundred grand in notes in the bilge and he didn’t want to have to explain where it had come from. He looked up again at the woman, which stirred her from thought and re-ignited the argument.
“What you know of where I come from?” she rasped in rage.
“I know husbands don't always respect their wives. That’s what I thought was going on.”
“What you know of how my husband treat-ed me?”
“Well, where is your husband?” asked Sam, exasperated, but even as he said it he instinctively knew the answer.
It came quietly. “His body was with me when you take us from sea.”
“There are things I need to know, Habid,” said the doctor, who had drawn up a seat beside his patient’s makeshift bed.
“There are things you want to know, doctor, but that does not mean you need to know them.”
The doctor was becoming familiar, exhausted even, with Habid’s superior tone. It was as if the rat relished his ability to hold officials at his mercy despite being mutilated and susceptible to their whim. If the doctor decided to cut the fluids or dose the rat, he would die. Infection, the doctor would call it, and nobody would really be able to counter that. Yet the rat had knowledge the doctor wanted, that Tassels needed, and which he had been prepared to take to his bloody grave with him. The doc stared at the invalid and decided
he had to give him credit. The little Libyan had balls, well, one but it was big.
“So indulge me,” said the doctor, adopting the florid language of his uneducated but street-smart companion.
“What do you want to know?”
“When I get on the boat and the Senegalese captain drives us to sea, what guarantee have I of being picked up?”
“None. No guarantee, but it is extremely likely you will be picked up,” the rat paused, “one way or another.”
“By an NGO, to go to Europe.”
“Yes.”
“What if it’s someone else. The Egyptian navy might intercept us.”
“Unlikely, but possible.” Images of the doctor’s corpse floating face down, arms flapping slowly to the rhythm of the waves filled his mind. “Some navy or customs boat could pick you up.”
“And what would happen then?”
Habid saw an opportunity. “Well, you would be taken to a holding centre – maybe in Egypt, maybe in Libya. You would be detained indefinitely unless you have documents to show you are Egyptian and they see you are a doctor. If you carry your bank details, then maybe you can buy your freedom.”
The doctor didn’t like the sound of that but noted how the rat seemed to take energy from the suggestion as if it pleased him.
“And how many of your boats get intercepted by the authorities.”
“None,” lied Habid, “so far.”
He had no idea what happened to the boats he’d sent to sea. His business was a work in progress refining all the time, which was why he’d altered the plan for the most recent journey – to get more bang for his buck, as the Americans might say.
“But the plan is to be picked up by a European boat?”