Their glasses were focussed on a waterfront scene. Three stevedores were working hard and sweating copiously, stripped to the waist under arc lights. They were unloading a container, lifting big sacks made of heavy-duty polythene and transferring them to a panel van.
Abdul spoke in a low voice even though there was no one other than Doyle to hear him. ‘How much do those sacks weigh?’
‘Twenty kilos,’ said Doyle. He spoke with a clipped Boston accent. ‘Forty-five pounds, near as dammit.’
‘Hard work in this weather.’
‘In any weather.’
Abdul frowned. ‘I can’t read what’s printed on the sacks.’
‘It says: “Caution – dangerous chemicals”, in several languages.’
‘You’ve seen those sacks before.’
Doyle nodded. ‘I watched them being loaded into that container by the gang that controls the Colombian port of Buenaventura. I tracked them across the Atlantic. From here on, they’re yours.’
‘I guess the label’s not wrong: pure cocaine is a very dangerous chemical.’
‘Bet your ass.’
The van was not large enough to take all the contents of a full-size container, but Abdul guessed that the cocaine had been a part-load, perhaps concealed within a hidden compartment.
The work was being supervised by a big man in a dress shirt who kept counting and recounting the sacks. There were also three black-clad guards carrying assault rifles. A limousine waited nearby, its engine idling. Every few minutes the stevedores stopped to drink from giant plastic bottles of soda pop. Abdul wondered whether they had any conception of the value of the cargo they were handling. He guessed not. The man who kept counting did, though. And so did whoever was in the limo.
Doyle said: ‘Inside three of those sacks are miniature radio transmitters – three, just in case one or two sacks get stolen or otherwise removed from the consignment.’ He took from his pocket a small black device. ‘You switch them on remotely with this gizmo. The screen tells you how far away they are and in what direction. Don’t forget to switch off, to save the batteries in the transmitters. You could do all that with a phone, but you’re going to places where there’s no connectivity, so it has to be a radio signal.’
‘Got it.’
‘You can follow at a distance, but you’ll have to get close sometimes. Your mission is to identify the people who handle the consignment and the places it goes. Those people are terrorists, and the places are their hideouts. We need to know how many jihadis are in a place and how well armed they are, so that our forces know what to expect when they go in there to wipe the bastards out.’
‘Don’t worry, I’ll get close enough.’
They were silent for a minute or two, then Doyle said: ‘I guess your family don’t really know what you do.’
‘I have no family,’ Abdul said. ‘Both my parents are dead, and my sister.’ He pointed at the waterfront scene. ‘They’ve finished.’
The stevedores closed up the container and the truck, banging the metal doors cheerfully, clearly seeing no reason to be surreptitious, having no fear of the police who were undoubtedly well bribed. They lit cigarettes and stood around, talking and laughing. The guards shouldered their weapons and joined in the conversation.
The driver of the limo got out and opened the passenger door. The man who emerged from the back seat was dressed as if to go to a nightclub, with a T-shirt under a tuxedo jacket that had a gold design on the back. He spoke to the man in the dress shirt, then they both took out their phones.
Doyle said: ‘Right now the money’s being transferred from one Swiss bank account to another.’
‘How much?’
‘Something like twenty million dollars.’
Abdul was surprised. ‘Even more than I thought.’
‘It will be worth double that when it gets to Tripoli, double again in Europe, and double again on the street.’
The phone calls ended and the two men shook hands. The one in the tux reached back into his car and drew out a plastic bag marked ‘Dubai Duty Free’ in English and Arabic. It appeared to be full of banknotes packed in banded bricks. He handed a brick to each of the three stevedores and three guards. The men were all smiles: clearly they were being paid well. Finally, he opened the trunk of his car and gave each of them a carton of Cleopatra cigarettes – a kind of bonus, Abdul supposed.
The man disappeared into his limo and it drove off. The stevedores and the guards drifted away. The truck full of cocaine departed.
Abdul said: ‘I’m out of here.’
Doyle held out his hand and Abdul shook it.
‘You’re a brave man,’ said Doyle. ‘Good luck.’
*
For days Kiah agonized over her conversation with the white woman.
As a little girl Kiah had imagined that all European women were nuns, since nuns were the only white women she ever saw. The first time she came across an ordinary Frenchwoman, wearing a knee-length dress and stockings and carrying a handbag, she had been as shocked as if she had met a ghost.
But she was used to them now, and instinctively she trusted Tamara, who had a frank, open face with no hint of guile.
She understood now that wealthy European women did man-type jobs and so did not have time to clean their own houses, so they paid maids, from Chad and other poor countries, to do the housework. Kiah was reassured. There was a role for her in France, a life she could live, a way she could feed her child.
Kiah was not sure why rich women would want to be lawyers and doctors. Why did they not spend their days playing with their children and talking to their friends? She still had much to learn about Europeans. But she knew the most important fact: that they wanted to employ migrants from Africa.
By contrast, what Tamara had said about people smugglers had been the opposite of reassuring. She had looked horrified. And this was what was causing Kiah to agonize. She could not deny the logic of what Tamara said. She was planning to put herself in the hands of criminals; why would they not rob her?
She had a few minutes to reflect on these questions while Naji was taking his afternoon nap. She gazed at him now, naked on a cotton sheet, sleeping in tranquillity, oblivious to care. She had not loved her parents or even her husband as much as she loved her son. Her feelings for Naji had overwhelmed all other emotions and had taken control of her life. But love was not enough. He needed food and water, and clothes to protect his soft skin from the burning sun. And it was up to her to provide for his needs. But she would be risking his life, too, in the desert. And he was so little, and weak, and trusting.
She needed help. She could go on this dangerous journey, but not alone. With a friend, perhaps, she could manage.
As she watched Naji, he opened his eyes. He did not wake slowly, as adults did, but all at once. He got to his feet, toddled to Kiah, and said: ‘Leben.’ He loved this dish, cooked rice with buttermilk, and she always gave him a little after his nap.
While feeding him she decided to speak to her second-cousin Yusuf. He was her own age, and lived in the next village, a couple of miles away, with his wife and a daughter the same age as Naji. Yusuf was a shepherd, but most of his flock had died for lack of grazing, and now he, too, was thinking of migrating before all his savings were spent. She wanted to talk over the problems with him. If he decided to go, she could travel with him and his family and feel a lot safer.
By the time Kiah had dressed Naji it was mid-afternoon, and the sun was past its height. She set off with the child on her hip. She was strong, and could still carry him for considerable distances, but she was not sure how long that would continue. Sooner or later he would be too heavy and, when he had to walk, their progress would be slower.