The Sea and the Sand

by Finn Óg

  And that brought silence, but it also brought determination. This seedy business in human exploitation had to end.

  Close to exhaustion, they rolled into Alexandria where the final touches needed to be applied to Sam’s hedge.

  Sam hadn’t seen Waleed in full fight but it was worth a watch.

  Tassels was ripped from his bed at three o’clock in the morning. His face forced into the screen of Waleed’s phone.

  “Your cousin,” Waleed screamed in Tassel’s ear.

  “Who are you—”

  “Waleed Ahram.”

  Tassels evidently knew the name because he began to urinate inside his blue pyjama bottoms.

  “You have group arriving from Libya.”

  “Yes,” Tassels bleated.

  “Today.”

  “Yes, how do you know this?”

  “The Libyans told me.”

  Which was true. Waleed’s counterpart had got round to reading his analyst’s handwriting.

  “What do you want?”

  “Your cousin, he has sold you out.”

  Waleed was gripping Tassels by one ear and twisting hard, while whispering and spitting into the other.

  “He has told us you collect the boat captains.”

  “Yes,” mustered Tassels. “Later.”

  “From where?”

  “From train.”

  “My friend here,” he twisted Tassels’ neck to allow him to see Sam for the first time, “will go with you. Understand?”

  “Yes, yes,” panted Tassels.

  “Where is your phone?”

  “By the bed.”

  “We will be staying with you until this is over. If you want to avoid execution, you will do exactly what we say. Understand?”

  “Yes, yes. Understand.”

  Sam didn’t understand. The whole hissing, pissing, growling conversation had been conducted in Arabic, but he imagined the hedge plan had been explained rather eloquently.

  Tassels loitered on the platform smoking furiously. He’d spent the night between two exceptionally angry men as instructions were relayed in English and repeated in Arabic, confirmed and refined.

  He had an A4 piece of paper to identify himself that he held up each time a new train arrived. He swore blind to Waleed he was never told what train the sailors would arrive on. Three carriages came and went before he was approached by a swarthy man in jeans and a plain blue shirt. Ethnically the match with Sam was far from ideal – the man could be Turkish or Lebanese, and size-wise they’d have to find Sam some new kit because the boat captain was tiny.

  He got into the back of Tassels’ car and was bookended by Waleed and Sam. Before long he was tied to a chair in Tassels’ apartment and was explaining his arrangement with Habid in broken English.

  “How did you get this job?” Sam asked.

  “Agency.”

  “What agency?”

  “In Romania.”

  “There is a seafarers’ agency in Romania? There isn’t even sea in Romania.” Sam had scoffed.

  “Not shipping agency,” the man explained. “Transport. Internet. For get to Europe.”

  “Trafficking, in other words,” Sam said.

  “Where did you come from?” Waleed asked.

  “Abkhazia,” the man said.

  “Black Sea?” Sam was surprised.

  “Yes, Black Sea.”

  “So you are Russian?”

  “Nooo,” stressed the man. “Not Russian.”

  Sam couldn’t be hassled with the politics. He knew there were issues in the Caucasus, a lot of the area craved independence, but it wasn’t a primary concern.

  “What are you supposed to say to the man who has hired you?”

  “Nothing. Strict instruction. Say nothing. Not speak to no one.”

  “What are you supposed to do?”

  “Take boat, start engine, bearing is north-west. When ship approach, light flare, go to Europe.”

  Made sense to Sam. It fit with what the doctor and Alea had said. He rooted through the man’s haversack and withdrew a bottle of water, a handbearing compass, a set of decent oilskins and a woolly hat. There was also a small Magellan GPS. Sam packed it all back in apart from the oilies, which were too small to be of any use.

  “No phone?” he asked the man.

  “No,” he said.

  “Search him.”

  Waleed stood the unfortunate sailor up and emptied his pockets. In his sock he found a small Nokia in a plastic sealable bag. Under the insole of his shoe Waleed withdrew a slim wrap of euros.

  “Papers? ID?” Sam asked.

  But Waleed was already on it. In the lining of the oilskin he found a passport – presumably to get the man as far as Egypt, and some sort of certificate written in a language they couldn’t understand.

  “Is this all the money you have?” Sam waved the cash in front of his face.

  “Employer must pay before departure,” he said, forlorn.

  “Ok,” said Sam. “We,” he pointed between Waleed and himself, “are police. You have been involved in people smuggling. You have been caught. You will not be going to sea tonight. You are lucky. If you had gone to sea, you would have died, for sure.”

  And they left him there, bound with knots from the muscle memory of a seasoned sailor. Waleed would deal with him later, once he had dealt with Tassels.

  Sam longed to see the man he’d travelled thousands of miles to hunt. It had taken five days and enormous good and bad fortune, but when the moment came he was disappointed.

  Tassels, observed at a distance by Waleed, had done his job and ferried the migrants to the bank where monies had been exchanged. That night Sam took up his station by the shore as the tiny tribe approached carrying their heavy bundle between them. Each was bearing a fraction of the load in one hand, and in the other hand four of the travellers each swung a small fuel can.

  Tassels beckoned Sam forward to meet the group. He stood and glared at Habid who barely acknowledged him. He was smaller than Sam had anticipated but sprightly given his injuries. Sam wondered if he’d be as resolute if he had only one toe and one testicle. The grisly figure bent to peel off a few fifty-euro notes, which Sam accepted and stuffed in his pocket before taking a handle on the dinghy and helping the group down towards the sea. Habid didn’t appear to doubt the proceedings for a moment.

  Habid stepped aside from the group and looked around him. Apparently happy, he motioned the others to set the boat down. Then he stooped into it and threw Sam a foot pump. Dutifully Sam set about unscrewing the valve caps and began bellowing air into the inflatable. As he did so he appraised his crew.

  There were three other men, three women and two children – a boy and a girl. None of the women were covered as Alea had been. Each wore headscarves but beyond that there was nothing hindering his view. Two were in their thirties, the last was perhaps fifty. He assumed she was the wife of the oldest man, who was at least sixty. They appeared to have great affection for the children and stroked their heads at times, reassuringly. The younger men were wary, watching everyone, particularly Sam. They obviously had no idea who he was or what he was there to do – Habid explained nothing. Sam regretted that things were about to get tough for the kids.

  He bent down to test the spring in each tank and, when satisfied, replaced the valve cover and moved to the next. When the boat was fully inflated he reached in to lift the two-stroke engine and attach it to the aluminium board at the transom. He then inflated the floor and stood up, slung his bag over his shoulder and nodded at Habid.

  The little man then began gathering documents from the men who each handed over a sheave of paper with obvious reluctance. One looked regretfully at his wife but parted with the bounty nonetheless. Habid snapped a few commands in Arabic and the group gathered around the boat once more to drag it the final few feet towards sea. Not one of the migrants had been offered or wore a life jacket. Things were evidently getting tight on the safety front, thought Sam. When the boat was afloat H
abid gave instructions for the people to climb in. The sea was washing gently up the beach, catching the women by surprise as the cold water rose higher with each wave. The men helped the children and women in before turning expectantly to Sam.

  Habid stood a few feet behind him. He could see the silhouette of Tassels in the near distance and beyond that the unmistakable outline of Waleed ready to secure his prey.

  Sam closed his eyes for a moment, thought through what he had to and lashed round with a full hay baler knocking Habid’s remaining few teeth ten feet up the beach. He heard the women gasp, not scream, then he leaned over Habid and with his open palm hit him in the sweet spot of the jaw, confirming his unconsciousness.

  Sam turned towards the boat with his palms facing downwards in a gesture of calm. He spoke for the first time.

  “Do any of you speak English?”

  “Yes,” said one man.

  “I do,” said a younger woman.

  “Good. I am here to help you. Do you all know one another?”

  “Yes,” said the man.

  Sam looked to the woman. “Is that right?”

  She nodded.

  “I need to make sure. Were you underground together?”

  “Yes, yes,” nodded the woman.

  “For a long time or just recently?”

  “For almost one year,” she said.

  “Everyone here?” Sam asked.

  “Yes, yes,” she said. Why?”

  “Can the children speak English?” he checked.

  “No, they are too young.”

  “I need to be sure because this man,” he pointed at Habid’s carcass, “has placed people in boats before and then killed them. Are you sure you know all these men?”

  “He is my husband,” she pointed at one of them, “he is my sister’s husband,” she pointed to a woman and the other younger man.

  “What about them?” Sam asked, gesturing to the old man and woman.

  “They are known to us. They have been underground as long as we have.”

  Sam had to be sure, so he leaned into the boat and patted the old man down, felt his trouser legs down to his socks and nodded.

  “Ok.”

  He turned and picked Habid up from the beach and tossed him into the base of the boat.

  “If he wakes up, make sure you tell me. He is one evil little bastard. Now, you can take your papers back from him – try and keep them as close to your body as possible.”

  There was a minor scramble from the men as they shook Habid’s torso down and sorted the papers between them. Then Sam pushed the boat out a little, dropped the outboard, attached and massaged the fuel lead and ball and ripped the cord. It took almost twenty tugs but the engine coughed into life and Sam gave it some throttle in neutral. Once he was convinced it was pumping water to cool it and that the fuel was drawing correctly, he turned to face Waleed and gave him a long salute of a wave. Waleed returned the gesture with both hands. Sam leapt in and knocked the engine into gear.

  A mile offshore he checked Habid for life signs and showed the men how to bail the water out with their shoes. He withdrew the Magellan GPS from the Abkhazian’s haversack and switched it on. He motored due north straight into the swell until the shallows became depths and the sea state moderated. Then he turned north-west and ran the engine until empty. The migrants just stared ahead expectantly.

  It took three refills and four hours before he was close to the position he wanted: forty-two miles north-west of Alexandria. He allowed the engine to idle while he drew the backpack towards him again and lifted the most valuable weapon he’d held in years.

  Waleed had sourced the VHF – a very high frequency radio, from an Egyptian naval colleague in town. Better than that, he’d managed to obtain the planned transit line of a ship familiar to Sam. He fired up the VHF, turned the dial to channel sixteen and began the call, willing it to be answered.

  “LE Niamh, LE Niamh, this is a migrant vessel in need of assistance, over.”

  There was a hush in the boat as the Libyans gazed up at Sam, confused, curious, hopeful.

  “LE Niamh, LE Niamh, LE Niamh, this is a migrant vessel in need of assistance, over.”

  A full minute passed before the radio snapped into life.

  “Station calling LE Niamh, say again, over?”

  The sound was beautiful. An Irish woman answering an Irish man forty miles north of Libya. Sam could barely contain his relief.

  He looked at the GPS. “LE Niamh, LE Niamh, our position is twenty-six degrees, thirty-three minutes and fifty-one north, and seventeen degrees, twenty-two and eighty-three west.”

  Sam repeated the coordinates and braced himself for a reply.

  “Migrant vessel, this is LE Niamh. Transmission received. Hold your position. Over.”

  “LE Niamh, this is migrant vessel. Holding position. Listening sixteen.”

  Sam turned his attention to the people in his charge. “I need you all to look forward – look for the ship. It is an Irish naval vessel. It is patrolling these waters to rescue migrants. Do not look into this boat or you will get sick. Keep a lookout for the navy ship, do not look into this boat. Keep the children looking forward. Understand?”

  The woman spoke to the children and hunkered them down, facing front. The men too all peered into the darkness. The women had gathered at the front of the boat and were transfixed on the horizon.

  Sam reached out and pulled Habid towards him by the foot. His body was small enough to bundle behind him while he kept a hand on the tiller and throttle of the outboard. One of the men turned to look at what Sam was doing but Sam pointed at him to look ahead again. The man did as he was bid. Then with a sweep he scooped Habid’s waist up with one arm and levered his head and shoulders over the side tank. He gave the engine a little blast of throttle and leveraged the moment of the boat forward to flick the rat’s legs over. The noise was no more than a seal might make slipping into a rising tide. Only the oldest man in the boat noticed what he’d done but if he disapproved, he said nothing.

  Twenty Five

  The Irish navy treated the Libyans with total respect. They were corralled on a deck at the stern of the ship and processed, prepared for a wash and given food.

  Sam had produced his Irish passport and set about the necessary explanations. Initial suspicions were that he’d been part of the trafficking racket. He had remonstrated during an interminable interrogation and had eventually been obliged to make a call he would rather have conducted in private.

  “How are you?” Sinead answered immediately.

  “I’m grand. We’re on an Irish navy ship.

  “We?”

  “Eh, yeah.”

  “More waifs and strays?”

  “Actually, as it happens—”

  “Really?”

  “Really. It’s a long story.”

  “Sure, what’s new, Sam,” she said, more in admiration than admonishment. “There’s a few things to fill you in on this end too.”

  “Really?”

  “Really.”

  “Anything serious?”

  “Depends how scared you are of my sister.”

  “That’s quite serious.”

  Sinead didn’t laugh. “When will you be back?”

  “Well, that depends. I could do with a favour,” he said sheepishly. He looked up at an officer who was listening to every word.

  “Like I said, what’s new?”

  “I need you to explain to some of the officers on this ship what I’m about.”

  “Oh? That’s a bit of a break from the norm, Sam. You’re usually pretty protective. You want me to divulge the whole works?”

  “If you could just explain some of the work I do for you,” he looked again at the officer, careful not to lead the witness, “hopefully they’ll understand.”

  “So not the whole back catalogue – not that I’d be able to tell them much about that, frankly,” she nipped.

  “And then, could you ask, ehm, the woman you met in
Dungarvan to give me a call?”

  Sinead coughed out air testily as if to say – are you fucking kidding me?

  “Not like that.”

  “No,” Sinead relented. “I know, I think.”

  “Here’s the officer.”

  He handed the phone to his observer and listened to one end of the conversation.

  “We have a man here claims to be Sam Ireland,” he began, but with the skill of an investigator he paused hoping the gaps would fill themselves with useful information.

  Sam could hear the buzz of dialogue from the other end.

  “I need to be satisfied that this man poses no threat to my crew or to the people he was rescued from the sea with.”

  More chat.

  “Over how long?”

  Sinead was obviously doing her bit.

  “And was this work legal or licensed in anyway?”

  Sam heard her pause, then chat, then the man’s eyes locked on his own. The officer leaned across and scratched Sinead’s name on a Post-it and beckoned forward an NCO. The note was handed over and the gesture clear – check her out.

  “These women, they were brought into the country illegally. Why did they not seek asylum?”

  Sam’s tiredness began to coast over him like puffs of breeze. His confidence in Sinead was absolute, so his cares began to fall away.

  The NCO returned with a printout that the officer read as he listened.

  “Ok, thank you for your time,” he said, and handed back the phone to Sam.

  She had hung up, which he tried not to take to heart. “So?” he said, looking at the officer.

  “You’re ex-navy.”

  “Yes.”

  “I suspect you’re more than that.”

  Sam said nothing.

  “Your record is limited in detail.”

  Nothing.

  “You will be given quarters and confined to your deck. You appear to be who you say you are but we’ll let the authorities deal with that when we land.”

  “Where are we headed?”

  “Catania,” came the reply.

  “Where is that?”