The Jungle - John Milton #9 (John Milton Thrillers) Read online

  The men took the young women to the van. They opened the rear door, put them inside, and shut the door. They shared a joke, the sound of their laughter audible over the noise of the crowd behind them. One of the men got into the driver’s seat and the other started around to the other side.

  Milton broke into a jog.

  The van moved away, slowly negotiating the narrow jetty and then turning onto the road from which it had emerged. It had to slow to turn the corner and Milton was able to close up on it. It was a Mercedes Sprinter and it had been fitted with a rear bumper step. Milton grabbed the door handle with his right hand, stepped up onto the step, and then anchored himself by reaching around the side of the van with his left hand.

  The Sprinter struggled up the sloped road away from the harbour. Milton held on.

  Chapter Forty-Two

  THERE WERE TWO WAYS that they could get off the island and make it to the mainland. They could fly, or they could take the ferry. Milton knew that the latter was the more likely of the two options. The airport was small, and it would be very difficult, if not impossible, for the smugglers to get the women through the administrative rigmarole without arousing suspicion. It was possible that they might have some way of getting through security—a bribed official, perhaps—but it was the least likely of the two choices.

  A ferry would be much easier. For them—and for Milton, too.

  Milton held on as the Sprinter drove across a wide concrete apron away from the harbour, following a narrow road until they turned onto Via Principe di Napoli. The roads were not busy, and, save a handful of pedestrians who gawped at him as he held onto the back of the van, he was able to stay on the back of the vehicle without incident.

  The van drew up to a junction and stopped. Milton glanced around the side of the vehicle and saw that they were about to enter a much busier part of town. There were restaurants on the left, with people eating on the terraces and passing by on the pavements. The harbour was to the right. He saw a parked police car with two officers leaning against it. Milton wouldn’t be able to stay on the back of the van without attracting their attention.

  He had no choice. He hopped down.

  The red light changed to green and the van pulled away. Milton turned and saw a taxi behind him. He waved it down and exhaled with relief as the driver acknowledged him with a flick of his hand and pulled over.

  “Sì?”

  “That van,” Milton said. “Follow it.” The man looked at him uncomprehendingly. Milton searched fruitlessly through his meagre Italian vocabulary. “Follow,” he said again.

  “Ah,” the driver said. “Follow. Seguire. Sì, signore!”

  #

  THEY DROVE for three hours, following the E931 to the east before turning to the north and bisecting the island. Milton had paid fifty euros and reassured the driver that the rest of the fare would be paid. The man was quiet and, at Milton’s direction, kept a reasonable distance behind the Mercedes. Milton was confident that they would not be spotted. There were several destinations that they could have headed for, including Messina for the short ferry hop onto the toe of Italy, but they turned to the west at Campofelice di Roccella and made for Palermo.

  #

  THE MERCEDES COULD HAVE TURNED OFF and headed for the airport, but, to Milton’s relief, it did not. Instead, it picked a route through the traffic until it reached Banchina Crispi, the long road that served the ferry terminal.

  Milton readied himself in the back of the taxi, his limbs stiff from lack of activity. There were three main quays, but only one of them had a ferry tied up alongside. The Mercedes followed the road to the quay and slowed to a stop in the queue of traffic that was waiting to board.

  Milton paid the driver and got out. He watched as the cab turned around and drove away.

  He ambled forward, walking by the Mercedes and then risking a quick glance inside. The two smugglers he had seen in Licata were in the front, one of them sleeping on a bunched-up jacket that was wedged between his head and the window. Milton could hear a throb of bass from the music that the driver was listening to, his head nodding back and forth.

  Milton turned away and kept going. There was a ticket office ahead, and he confirmed with the clerk that the ferry at the quay was the only ship leaving the terminal that day. It was a large vessel, painted white with the name of the operating company—Grandi Navi Veloci—stencilled in blue. The ferry was due to leave for Civitavecchia in two hours, and Milton bought a ticket for it. There were a few other foot passengers waiting to board, and he was able to wait with them as the boat was readied for the voyage.

  The Sprinter was quickly surrounded by other cars and commercial vehicles, but Milton was able to keep it under observation without compromising himself. He could see the shape of the two men through the dirty windows, and, after thirty minutes, he observed one of the men as he stepped out to stretch his legs. Milton watched as he stepped between the lines of parked cars and made his way to the portable buildings that served as the facility’s restrooms.

  Milton considered whether now was the time to make his move.

  He decided against it. He had another idea that he liked better.

  The ferry was equipped with a bow door and the rattle of its chains announced that it was about to be lowered so that embarkation could begin. A gangplank was lowered and the foot passengers were encouraged to embark. Milton dawdled, hanging at the back of the crowd, waiting until the traffic started to move. An official in an orange tabard waved the first car forward. The Sprinter was near the front and, as Milton took his first step onto the gangplank, it bumped over the lip of the ramp and was swallowed into the darkened maw of the ferry.

  Chapter Forty-Three

  THE CROSSING TO CIVITAVECCHIA was scheduled to take fourteen hours. Milton made his way to the upper deck and stood by the rail as the engine was started, the mooring lines untied and the ship slid away from the dock. They passed out of the harbour and turned to the north, the captain marking their departure with a long blast of the horn.

  Milton turned away from the rail.

  Fourteen hours.

  Plenty of time for what he proposed to do.

  Milton was thorough. He took an hour to scout the ferry. It was a medium-sized vessel. There was a car deck and then two decks above that for the passengers. Green Deck was at the top of the boat, and Milton started there. There was a restaurant and a café, bathrooms, and lounges with rows of chairs that were fixed to the floor. There were a handful of passengers stretched out on the hard plastic seats in the common areas, a few tourists eating in the restaurant, but not much else besides. The ship was basic, with minimal amenities, and had not been decorated for years. It was shabby and cheap, with peeling paint, doors that were sticky and difficult to open, and dirty windows. There was an open deck at the stern which was, rather optimistically, labelled as a sun deck. Milton walked the deck from bow to stern and didn’t see the two smugglers or the girls that they had put into the back of the van.

  He methodically repeated the exercise for Blue Deck. It accommodated cabins for the passengers, with no real communal spaces. There was no sign of the smugglers.

  Drivers were supposed to leave their vehicles on the car deck once the ship was underway, but the men would not easily be able to take the women into a public space without the risk of discovery. Milton suspected that they must have an arrangement with corrupt members of the ferry staff that meant that they could stay with their vehicle.

  The car deck was the last place to check. Milton opened the door to the stairs and, bracing himself against the gentle rocking of the ship, he made his way down.

  He opened the door and breathed in the smell of motor oil and fumes. The deck was only half full, and he saw the Sprinter immediately. It was up at the front of the deck, surrounded by cars and another, similar van. He saw the shapes of the two men in the front of the vehicle. He looked deeper into the deck and saw the orange tabard that denoted one of the load operators; the man was head
ing his way, and Milton had no interest in a conversation that might draw attention to him.

  It didn’t matter. He was satisfied: the men were aboard, and they would need to take breaks for the bathroom and refreshments. He would just have to wait.

  #

  MILTON CLIMBED TO THE TOP OF THE SHIP.

  He retraced his steps back to the larger of the two cafés. There were tables with plastic coverings, wooden partitions topped with smoked-glass panels marked with the ferry operator’s logo, and half-domed fittings that spilled out harsh ultraviolet light. He went up to the counter and ordered a cup of black coffee and a bowl of reheated pasta and then took a table in the main café from where he could see both doors that opened into it. He was famished; he finished the pasta and then went back for a second bowl, together with a limp salad that was soggy with balsamic dressing. He had another coffee and then smoked a cigarette on the deck, the smoke torn into shreds by the stiff breeze as soon as it left his lips.

  He went back inside, took his seat again, took off his watch and laid it on the table. He watched as the hands turned about the dial, counting off the hours.

  Ten o’clock.

  Eleven.

  Midnight.

  One.

  The ferry had been at sea for six hours. Milton was about to go down to the car deck again when he recognised one of the smugglers. It was the young man who had sent Kolo down to the hold. Milton caught only a glimpse of him as he went by, but it was enough: he recognised the same sneer, the unpleasant upturn to his lips, and the glitter of cruelty in his eyes.

  There were only a handful of other passengers in the café, and the man had his pick of vacant tables. He chose one near the door to the sun deck, draped his jacket over the back of a chair, and followed the signs to the restroom.

  Milton stayed where he was and watched. It was obvious what the smugglers were doing: they were taking it in shifts to relieve themselves and eat.

  The man came back out, collected a tray, and came back with a plate of chips, a burger and a can of Coke.

  The smuggler had his back to him; Milton could watch with impunity.

  Chapter Forty-Four

  THE SMUGGLER ate his dinner, drained his can of Coke, and then went outside onto the deck.

  Milton gave him a moment and then followed.

  They were at the stern of the ship. It was cold and there was no one else with them outside. Milton looked back. They were well out at sea by now. Milton glanced up, but he couldn’t see any cameras that might record what he had decided to do.

  The smuggler was looking back at the wake that patterned the sea behind them, a ghostly trail that stretched away in the ferry’s lights. He had his hand to his mouth, and Milton saw a cloud of smoke above his head as he exhaled.

  “Excuse me,” Milton said.

  The man turned, the cigarette in his mouth flaring as he inhaled. He reached up with his thumb and forefinger to remove the cigarette. “What?”

  The man was relaxed. He was inclined at a slight angle, leaning back so that the top railing was just below the points of his shoulder blades. His left arm was out straight, resting on the railing, and his legs were crossed, his right ankle resting across the left. Milton took it all in, assessed it all, considered it.

  Milton took out his own cigarettes. He withdrew one and held it up.

  “Do you have a light?”

  The man looked ready to deliver a rebuke, but, instead, sighed with ostentatious irritation and put his left hand into the hip pocket of his jeans. That was exactly what Milton hoped he might do; he might have been able to hold on with his left hand but, now, his hand restrained within the tight pocket, that would be impossible.

  “You don’t recognise me, do you?”

  “No,” the man said, although Milton fancied that a flicker of fear crossed over his face.

  “I was on the boat from Sabratah with you.”

  Milton dropped the cigarette and reached out with his right hand, grabbing the man’s belt and sliding his fingers around the leather. He stepped in close, reaching his left hand up to the smuggler’s sternum and pushing down even as he heaved up on the belt. The man realised, too late, what Milton was doing, and tried to struggle. It was futile. Milton had raised him up enough so that the railing was halfway down his back, a useful fulcrum for him to pivot the man over. The man struggled, but he had no purchase, no anchor, no way of resisting Milton’s impetus.

  Milton leaned closer so that his voice was the last thing the man heard. “Can you swim?” he said.

  He released his grip on the belt, looped his right arm beneath the man’s knees, and gave one final heave.

  The smuggler toppled over the railing and fell down into the storm of wash below.

  Milton saw the splash, but the sound of it was inaudible. He could see the young man struggling against the frothy spume. The ferry was moving quickly, and the man was already twenty metres away. Milton could see his arms waving. He might have been calling out, but that would have been pointless; the engines were loud, and the sound of the rushing water added to the noise.

  Milton turned his back and straightened the sleeves of his jacket.

  A man and his teenage son emerged from the restaurant.

  “Evening,” Milton said.

  “Hello.”

  Milton smiled and went back into the warmth.

  Chapter Forty-Five

  MILTON WENT back down to the car deck again. He could see the dark shape of the second man in the passenger seat of the Sprinter. He followed the side of the deck until he was out of sight of the van and then returned to it on the other side, staying down low and keeping out of sight of the mirrors as best he could. There were two members of the crew at the far end of the deck, but they were turned away and engaged in conversation; Milton was not concerned that he would be seen.

  He advanced one car at a time until he was at the back of the Mercedes. The windows were tinted and he couldn’t see through them, but he crouched down low enough that he wouldn’t be visible from the interior and took out the small pistol that Omar had given him in Tripoli. He checked that it was ready to fire and, holding it in his right hand, he stayed low and skirted the van until he was just behind the passenger door. He glanced up: the handle needed to be squeezed in order to activate the operating levers inside the door cavity. He checked that the crew members were distracted, and was pleased to see that they had moved farther away. The noise of the engines seemed to be a little louder, too, which was doubly fortunate. He would not be observed.

  He reached up with his left hand, shuffling a little closer to reach the handle more easily, squeezed the handle and yanked the door open.

  The second smuggler was watching a film on an old iPad. He was older than the man Milton had tossed overboard, but still young. He had his feet propped up against the dash, both hands laced behind his head and the iPad resting in his lap. He turned at the sound of the door opening, the sudden movement dislodging the iPad so that it fell onto the seat and then into the footwell. The man put his feet down and unclasped his hands so that he could start to reach for the glovebox, but there was no way that he would be able to get there before Milton jammed the pistol into his ribs.

  “Shush,” Milton said, putting his finger to his lips. “Put your hands on the dashboard and spread your legs.”

  The man hesitated, unsure of what to do.

  “Now.”

  Milton frisked him. In his inside pocket were a passport and a wallet that was thick with banknotes; he tossed them onto the seat. He patted the front pockets of his black jeans and took out a butterfly knife. The man had a Samsung phone in the opposite pocket and nothing else of note.

  “Get into the other seat.”

  Milton trained the gun on him as the smuggler shuffled across the seats. The man caught the hem of his trousers on the handbrake, jerking his leg until he could free it, and then raised his hands before his chest as he half-turned in the driver’s seat. “What do you want?”<
br />
  “I’d like to talk to you.”

  “About?”

  “We’ll get to that.”

  “And then?”

  “Depends on what you tell me.”

  Milton quietly closed the door and settled into the seat. The gun was still in his right hand, his elbow resting against his ribs, his arm held steady and his aim true. The smuggler looked down at the ugly pistol and then up again at Milton. He could see that he was uncertain, but not yet cowed; he would have liked to crack him across the scalp with the butt of the pistol, but that would have left a mark and Milton couldn’t be sure that he mightn’t still need him. An obvious wound would risk giving the game away.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Hamza.”

  “Very good, Hamza. Next question: the girls in the back,” he said, giving a small nod of his head to indicate them. “Where are you taking them?”

  “Italy.”

  Milton switched the gun to his left hand, resting it in his lap. “And then?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Milton slapped the man in the face. He struck him with an open hand, not hard enough to leave a mark, and, when the man looked back again, his eyes burning with fresh anger, Milton cuffed him again.

  “Try again, Hamza.”

  “Or what? You will slap me?”

  Milton shuffled closer, grabbed the man by the hair and dragged his head back. He pushed the muzzle of the gun into his mouth.

  “No,” Milton said. “I’ll shoot you.”

  Hamza’s eyes bulged fearfully.

  “Aren’t you curious why your friend hasn’t come back?”

  Hamza couldn’t speak with the gun in his mouth.

  “He’s not coming back,” Milton said. “He’s dead. I threw him overboard. And unless you start doing what you’re told, I’ll kill you too.”

  Hamza couldn’t swallow, and a trail of saliva ran out of the side of his mouth.