He wondered whether al-Farabi might be here right now.
The migrants were stirring. They got up, folded their blankets, and washed. Naji asked for leben but made do with breast milk. The women who had brought porridge last night now arrived with breakfast, which was flatbread and domiati, a brined cheese. Then the migrants sat around waiting for Hakim to arrive with the bus.
He did not come.
Abdul began to have a very bad feeling.
After an hour they decided to look for Hakim. They split up into groups. Abdul said he would check out the farthest quarter, where the guards’ compound was, and Kiah went with him, carrying Naji. The sun was rising, and most of the men were already at work in the pit, so there were only a few women and children in the camp; Hakim would have stood out. Hamza and Tareq would have been even more conspicuous. None of the three was in sight.
Abdul and Kiah reached the guards’ compound and stared through the fence. ‘Last night the bus was parked just there,’ Abdul said, pointing. It was not there now. Several men were in sight, but not Hakim or Tareq or Hamza.
Abdul optimistically looked for a tall man with grey hair and a black beard, a man with a piercing gaze and an air of authority, who might be al-Farabi. He saw no one of that description.
A voice said: ‘You again.’
Abdul turned to see Mohammed.
The man said: ‘I told you to stay away from here.’ His lack of front teeth gave him a slight lisp.
Abdul said: ‘Where is the Mercedes bus that was parked here last night?’
Mohammed looked startled to be questioned so vehemently. He was probably used to being treated with terrified deference. He recovered quickly and said: ‘I don’t know and I don’t care. Get away from the fence.’
Abdul said: ‘Three men called Hakim, Tareq and Hamza spent the night in that compound, where you live. You must have seen them.’
Mohammed touched the pistol at his belt. ‘Don’t ask me questions.’
‘What time did they leave? Where did they go?’
Mohammed drew his gun, a semi-automatic 9mm pistol, and stuck the end of the barrel into Abdul’s belly. Abdul looked down. Mohammed was holding the gun sideways, and Abdul could see the five-pointed star in a circle stamped on the grip. The gun was a Paektusan, a North Korean copy of the Czech CZ-75.
Mohammed said: ‘Shut your mouth.’
Kiah said: ‘Abdul, let’s go, please.’
Abdul could have taken the gun away from Mohammed in a heartbeat, but he could not overcome a whole camp of guards, and he was not going to get any information either way. He took Kiah’s arm and walked away.
They circled around, still looking for Hakim. Kiah said: ‘Where do you think the bus has gone?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Will it come back?’
‘That’s the big question.’
Abdul would find out as soon as he got a chance to look at the tracking device in the sole of his boot. He decided to do that as soon as he and Kiah had reported back to the others at the shelter. He would walk into the desert on the pretence of answering a call of nature, and there surreptitiously check the device.
But it was not to be. When they reached the shelter they found Mohammed there, sitting on a wooden packing case turned upside-down. He pointed at Abdul then at a place on the ground where Abdul should sit. Abdul decided not to argue. They might be about to learn what had happened to their bus.
The last of the search parties arrived back and joined those sitting on the ground. Mohammed counted them and found thirty-six people, not including Naji. Then he spoke.
‘Your driver has left with the bus,’ he said.
The oldest man among the migrants was Wahed, and he automatically became their spokesman. ‘Where has Hakim gone?’ he said.
‘How should I know?’
‘But he has our money! We paid him to take us to Europe.’
‘Why are you telling me this?’ Mohammed said with an air of exasperation. ‘You didn’t pay me.’
Abdul was intrigued. Where was this going?
Wahed said: ‘What are we supposed to do?’
Mohammed grinned, showing his lack of front teeth. ‘You can leave.’
‘But we have no means of transport.’
‘There is an oasis eighty miles north of here. You could walk there in a few days, if you could find it.’
That was impossible. There was no road, just a track vanishing and reappearing between the dunes. Tuareg tribesmen who lived in the desert could find their way, but the migrants had no chance. They would wander around in the sand until they died of thirst.
This was a disaster. Abdul wondered how he was going to contact Tamara and make his report.
Wahed said: ‘Couldn’t you take us to the oasis?’
‘No. We operate a gold mine here, not a bus service.’ He was enjoying this.
A light dawned on Abdul, and he spoke up. ‘This has happened before, hasn’t it?’ he said to Mohammed.
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘Yes, you do. You’re not troubled or even surprised about Hakim running off. You have your speech ready. You’re even bored, because you’ve said the same words so many times before.’
‘Shut your mouth.’
Hakim was running a scam, Abdul saw. He brought migrants here, took the last of their money, then abandoned them. But what happened to them next? Perhaps Mohammed contacted their families and demanded more money for helping them travel on.
Wahed said: ‘So we just have to stay here until someone appears who is willing to take us away?’
It will be worse than that, Abdul thought.
Mohammed said: ‘Your driver paid us to put you up for one night. Today’s breakfast was your last free meal. We will not give you any more food.’
‘You will starve us to death!’
‘If you want to eat, you’ll have to work.’
So that was it.
Wahed said: ‘Work, how?’
‘The men will work in the pit. The women can help Rahima. She’s the one in the black hijab who runs the kitchen. We’re short of women; this place needs to be cleaned up.’
‘What’s the pay?’
‘Who said anything about money? If you work, you eat. If not, not.’ Mohammed grinned again. ‘Everyone is free to choose. There’s no pay.’
Wahed was outraged. ‘But that’s slave labour!’
‘There are no slaves here. Look around you. No walls, no locks. You can walk out of here any time.’
It was slave labour all the same, Abdul thought. The desert was more effective than a wall.
And that was the final piece of the puzzle. He had wondered what drew people here, and now he understood. They were not drawn, they were captured.
Abdul wondered how much Hakim had been paid. Perhaps a couple of hundred dollars for a slave? If so, he had left here with $7,200. This was nothing compared with the profits from the cocaine, but Abdul suspected that most of those profits went to the jihadis, and Hakim was paid a driver’s fee. That would also explain why Hakim worked so hard to chisel a few extra bucks out of the migrants en route.
Mohammed said: ‘There are rules. The most important are no alcohol, no gambling and no filthy homosexual behaviour.’
Abdul would have liked to ask what the punishment was, but he did not want to call further attention to himself. He feared that Mohammed already had him in his sights.
‘Those of you who want to be given supper tonight need to start work now,’ Mohammed went on. ‘The women should go to the kitchen and speak to Rahima. The men, come with me.’ He stood up and walked out.
Abdul followed, and so did all the other men.
They trudged along the littered path, hearing the din of the jackhammer grow louder. Most of them were in their twenties or thereabouts; they might struggle but they could probably do the work. Wahed certainly could not.