“I am Feda,” the boy said. His eyes were bright, his face smudged with dirt.
“Where am I?” Jordan croaked.
“They call this the Jungle,” Feda said.
“What jungle,” Jordan said, struggling to stand.
“No, no, you mustn’t,” Feda said. “You must stay inside. You won’t be safe out there.”
“My bag,” Jordan cried.
“You had no bag, Amerikaayi. You had nothing. My father found you three days ago. By the parking lot. You were badly hurt. You kept saying you were sorry. And other things I didn’t understand.”
Jordan fell back onto the cot. That was it, then. A quarter of a million euros, his phone, his clothes, passport, wallet, everything gone. Why had the trafficker turned on him? He’d checked out. Dozens of successful crossings. No intercepts, no complaints. According to the chat rooms, way safer than the Eastern Europeans. It didn’t matter now. He closed his eyes. All gone.
He wasn’t aware of having fallen asleep but it was dark except for a guttering lantern in the corner that cast the boy’s shadow like a twitching monster across the tarp ceiling. Angry voices on the other side of the doorway.
“You must eat,” the boy was saying. Jordan smelled charred flesh and something yeasty and rich. And something brighter, herbal. Mint, maybe. Feda laid a plate on the wooden crate next to Jordan’s cot. There was a scorched flatbread, long like naan. It was dotted with blackened bits of finely chopped meat. Jordan realized he was famished. He sat up despite the protest of bruises. Feda offered him a pale tea in an old vegetable tin.
It was warm and spread heat throughout his body even though it tasted like weak, bitter, thrice-used tea bags with a hint of old mint. He ate with his hands; the bread singed his fingers but he didn’t care. Feda watched him eat, refilling his tea when it was empty. His shrunken stomach was soon full. Jordan offered the boy the last of the bread. He took it and ate it slowly; his eyes closed almost reverently. Jordan noticed for the first time how thin he was.
“You’re hungry,” Jordan said.
“Sometimes, yes.”
“Why do you feed me if you haven’t enough food for yourself?”
“You are a guest.”
“Where is this jungle? Who are the men outside? How did I get here?”
“I told you, my father found you. You were hurt so he brought you here.”
“Here...”
“This place has no name. Many people live here in the woods all around. This house is the hujra—you know, for guests.”
“What is the language the men are speaking?”
“Pashtun.”
“Pashtun,” Jordan said. “Where is that from?”
The boy smiled. “My tribe is Afghan. Some of the others are from Pakistan. There are also many, many refugees from Syria. They are trying to make the crossing. Many people.”
“You are Afghan?” Jordan asked. “How do you speak English so well?”
Feda smiled again. “There was a man in my village who lived for a long time in your country. The Jirga decided he should teach English to all the children. They thought it would be wise to understand our enemies and that children could get closer. And, of course, it would be easier for the young to learn a new language.”
“But I’m American,” Jordan said. “Why are you helping me?”
“You needed help,” Feda said as if the question was silly. “Pashtunwali, it is the law.” He thought a moment. “It is the way to heaven. It is honor.” He seemed more satisfied with this word. “This is a sacred thing.”
“Even if that man is your enemy?” Jordan said.
“Of course,” Feda said.
“So, if a man tried to kill your family and you found him hurt on the road, you would help him?”
“Of course.”
“And yet on another day, if we met somewhere else...”
“Maybe it would not be the same.”
Looking at his face, still softly contoured, not a trace of facial hair, Jordan found the contradictions impossible to reconcile.
“How old are you, Feda?”
“Twelve years.”
“And when I am better, when I am healed?”
“Where would you want to go?”
“To England.”
Feda nodded. “Everyone wants to go to England. It is difficult.”
With a loud snapping sound the tarp that covered the doorway swung back and a man with a gray turban and fierce brows strode into the hujra. He had a long face and a thick gray beard with a single streak of dark black. He had round glasses and his eyes were dark and intense. His face was wind burned. Beneath a green army surplus coat that seemed tight in the shoulders, Jordan could see several looped scarves and a black Guinness sweatshirt. The man stood over Jordan, eyes flickering over his injuries, assessing him while he spoke quickly to Feda. He had the presence of someone used to being obeyed.
When he finished speaking, Feda said, “My father welcomes you. He says you are hamsaya. You are under our protection.”
* * *
“What’s he playing at?” Sam said. It was late and the heat had cycled down to its night setting.
Dennis looked up and arched a brow.
“The Angel says he’s in Calais but his phone is crossing into Belgium. He’s not stupid. What the fuck is he thinking?”
Dennis grunted something noncommittal. “I don’t like it. It doesn’t make sense.”
Manny at the other terminal cocked his head. “Maybe somebody stole his phone.”
“Maybe. I don’t like it. Any of it. I want eyes on him.”
64
OUR MAN IN SOUTHALL
Jordan was alive. She didn’t question this. Alex was somehow responsible. But where was he and what was she supposed to do? Was she in danger? Were the children in danger? Why hadn’t he just called her, or written? Stephanie felt her conviction slip away moment by moment as the irrationalities of the situation pressed down on her.
The phone’s ring made her jump. It was Simon. He sounded tense. “Stephanie?”
“Yes, Simon. What is it? Did you find more?”
“Can you meet me?” he said.
“Of course. I can be there in half an hour.”
“No, not here.” He sounded frightened.
“Okay. Where?”
“You remember the place you and Jordan took me out to when I first started?”
“You mean—”
“Don’t say it,” he interrupted. “Just tell me if you remember.”
“I remember,” she said.
“One hour.” He hung up without waiting for her response.
Jesus. What could he have found that would scare him like that? Stephanie reached for her phone. She’d need someone to get the kids from school.
* * *
The Abu Bakr Mosque in Southall, just west of London, was a nondescript redbrick building that looked more like a school than a house of worship. Dennis met Yaqut Zar Wali in his small spare office just behind the prayer hall.
“Pakheyr, Dennis.”
“Salaam, my friend. It’s been a long time.”
They embraced the way men who have fought together do.
Zar Wali offered a chair and poured chai. They didn’t speak until both had sipped their tea and had a couple sugar-coated almonds. Then Zar Wali put down his cup and folded his hands on the desk in front of him.
“What can I do for you, my friend? I am deeply grateful for the opportunity to repay the great debt I owe you.”
“There is no debt, my friend. You owe nothing. I ask only for a favor as one friend asks another. There is a man. We believe he is among your friends in Calais.”
65
MR. ROBINSON
Aid workers from La Belle étoile provided lunch for the
camp. The line formed early. By eleven the crowd of men outside the converted truck was volatile. The Syrians, Pakistanis, Africans, Afghans and Iraqis clumped together in hostile groups, each jostling for position near the still-shuttered window from which the food would be distributed in another hour or so.
Jordan kept his head down and tried to hold on to his little piece of ground. He was at the edge of a group of around a dozen of the men from Feda’s tribe. He was almost a full head taller than most. Almost no women or children were in the queue.
When the window opened, the goal was to grab as much of the bread and soup as you could and pass it to the outside. Height was an asset. There was a noise from the food truck and a wave seemed to pass through the pack. Jordan stumbled, then regained his balance. A man just ahead of him turned and snarled something Jordan didn’t understand. His lip curled back from his teeth and he spat in the dirt at Jordan’s feet. Jordan raised his hands, palms out in what he assumed was the universally understood sign for peace.
This seemed to enrage the man. His thick black brows rose, then knitted in fury over glittering dark eyes with yellow, bloodshot whites. He yelled something at Jordan, then looked around for confirmation. The crowd of men seemed to open and flow around so now Jordan and the man were in an open space.
The man seemed to expect a response. A murmur of assenting voices rose in the crowd.
Everyone was looking at Jordan now.
“I’m sorry, I don’t understand you,” Jordan said, trying to back away but hands pushed him forward toward his livid adversary. His hand brushed the sleeve of the man’s jacket as he fell to one knee. The man grabbed a handful of Jordan’s hair and pulled back to look into his eyes. Then he spat full in his face. Jordan felt a spray across his forehead and eyes and a thick rope of saliva ran down the side of his nose. It smelled rancid, like decay and tobacco. Jordan wiped his face with his sleeve and tried to stand. He felt an odd impulse to laugh. The situation seemed too bizarre to be truly dangerous. He reached out his arms again and tried to turn away from his attacker.
He heard the sound of the knife sliding out of its sheath and the sharp intake of collective breath from the crowd.
The man said something low and menacing. Jordan heard the word Amerikaayi and turned. The knife was long, serrated along the top. The handle was wrapped in tape but the blade gleamed as it danced lightly in the man’s fingers. The circle of men around him widened as his enemy closed. Jordan backed in a slow circle but everywhere hands pushed him back. The blade swung; it was an awkward inside-out movement, but it caught in Jordan’s parka just under the shoulder. It opened a long gash in the fabric; tufts of gray-white down puffed at the cut. It missed his skin but he’d felt the blade nick at his shirtsleeve. Reflexively he clutched at the spot with his other hand. No blood. He swung his head wildly, scanning the crowd. The men looked grim; a bloodlust was on them. No one was going to help him.
Just then there was a roar to his left and the crowd parted. Two men stepped through. Jordan recognized one from Feda’s father’s tribe. Jordan’s assailant said something to them without ever taking his eyes off his prey. Then without warning he leaped at Jordan. Jordan threw his hands up to protect his face. There was a deafening explosion as the man crashed into his chest. Then a terrible stillness. The man felt unexpectedly light as he lay across Jordan’s body. Something hot was soaking Jordan’s sleeve and hand, and his ears felt like they had cotton stuffed in them.
Then someone screamed. A woman’s voice. Then pandemonium. The man’s body was pulled away as strong hands grasped Jordan and pulled him to his feet. People were running in all directions. The smell of cordite was thick and bitter. A man cradled the limp body of Jordan’s attacker. He had a black beard and was screaming at the sky. Men clustered around him. He met Jordan’s gaze across the clearing. His face distorted in a snarl of pure hate. One of his front teeth was gold. A strong hand grabbed Jordan’s pant leg. “This way.” Feda. Jordan kept his head down and followed the boy into the woods. No one paid any attention; the show was now the standoff between the men from Feda’s tribe and the dead man’s.
Feda led him down a path where the brush had been beaten down by countless feet making their way through the makeshift tent city. There were crude lean-tos, neat regular huts made of scavenged trash, even mattresses grouped together in the open air. In front of them some women were cooking flatbreads on makeshift stoves made from the convex sides of old oil drums.
There was a low cement building with peeling green paint and a faded Red Cross sign.
Feda led him inside. The sharp ammonia smell made Jordan recoil. The latrine was a long trough with a drain on one side and a trickle of water coming in at the other. There was a faucet that swung out over it. Feda turned this on and Jordan rubbed his hands underneath the stream. The blood ran in a pink ribbon down the latrine. Jordan took off his coat and washed the blood off as well as he could. The down where the sleeve had been cut was flecked with red.
“Are you cut?” Feda asked.
“I’m fine,” Jordan said, wringing out his blood-soaked sleeve.
“This time,” Feda said somberly, “I think it will be hard to protect you here, maybe. That man, Azir, if he is dead, there will be much trouble. You saw his brother, with the gold tooth? He is called Qhaywaan. And there are others. Maybe easier to get you to England.”
Jordan froze. “Really?”
“Maybe. Come.”
Feda led him farther through the woods, which finally opened out onto a beach. The beach was teeming with Eritrean men walking aimlessly, some smoking, some staring out over the choppy gray sea. A few briefly considered Jordan and Feda and, judging them no threat, continued their meandering perambulations.
“Stay here,” Feda said. Jordan walked to the edge of the water. Tiny waves lapped at the sand. He could see land on the other side. A white wavy band. They weren’t kidding about the Dover cliffs. They looked so close he felt like he could stretch his arm out and touch them. A giant ferry with P&O in blue letters on the side was passing parallel to the beach. Jordan could hear the low throb of its engines as the bow started to swing away from shore, froth foaming at the stern. The ferry’s course took it directly away from the beach so it seemed not to move at all but rather slowly shrink as the sea between it and the shore expanded.
Jordan hadn’t noticed Feda’s return so he was startled when the voice beside him said, “Tomorrow night you will be on that boat.”
Jordan looked down. Feda was watching the dwindling ferry with a wistful look. After a moment, he sighed and said, “Come.”
The shoreline curved around to reveal a collection of huge rusted buildings and cranes. An abandoned shipyard. They clambered up a collapsed breakwater onto a dock. At first it seemed deathly still as they walked away from the gentle static of the water but then gradually Jordan became aware of murmuring and creaking sounds all around. They were on a narrow walkway between two massive metal buildings. There were train tracks sunken into the asphalt and, along the building on the right, a row of massive rusted pipe sections on scaffolding about three feet off the ground. Each was about twenty feet long and four feet high with sealed ends and periodic outgrowths of short round pipe facing the ground that made them look like miniature submarines on their backs.
Suddenly a head popped out of the nearest pipe and looked around. It was a young Eritrean boy. When he saw Feda his eyes opened wide and he yelled, “Feda!” The head disappeared and a second later the boy dropped out of the pipe feetfirst.
“Ghedi,” Feda said before conferring with the boy in a language Jordan didn’t understand. He turned to Jordan. “You will stay here tonight. It will be safer for you, I think. Azir’s brothers...”
Jordan nodded as he looked dubiously at his new home. “I need you to get a couple of things for me.”
66
BEN
Sunny’s Diner was almost emp
ty. Simon, wearing a Red Sox jacket and cap with dark glasses, had taken a booth near the back with a view of the door. Stephanie slid into the facing seat. “Since when are you a baseball fan?” she said.
He slid a sheet of paper across the table. “Yrbngwtchd” was written in dark blue pen and above it he’d scribbled “a e i o u y.” A maze of little lines plugged the vowels in.
“You’re being watched,” she murmured under her breath.
“Yeah. Unless you can find something else, I’m afraid so. Listen, Stephanie, I...” He faltered, looked at his hands on the table. “I have to be honest with you. I thought this was all bullshit. I mean, him being alive. I figured, okay, maybe he messed with the code in his own DNA as part of an experiment years ago but that was it. But I have to tell you, I’m scared now. I liked it much better when you were the crazy widow and I was the patient, long-suffering friend.” He laughed sourly.
“I ran the odds of coming up with the phrases we’ve found through random mutation, you know, the proverbial monkeys with typewriters, and it’s fucking millions to one. He’s alive, or at least he was when this was coded, and he’s sorry, he’s scared, scared for you and the kids, and he knows you’re being watched. If this is how he’s reaching out to you, I can only assume that he’s in serious trouble, as well.” Stephanie listened patiently, her eyes darting to the letters on the page when he paused but she didn’t interrupt.
“I care for you. You guys have been great friends to me. But I am, in the end, a coward. I’m an academic geneticist.” That bitter laugh again. “It doesn’t get any more sand-kicked-in-the-face than that. Anyway, what I’m trying to say is I can’t do this anymore. Whoever’s watching you must be watching me now, too. I want to help but I’m not a hero.” He looked her in the eye for the first time. “You must think I am the lowest.”
Exit Strategy Page 23