Part 24 (1/2)

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 pa.s.sengers 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 b.u.mped 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 s.h.i.+p slid away from the dock. They pa.s.sed 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 pa.s.sengers. Green Deck was at the top of the boat, and Milton started there. There was a restaurant and a cafe, bathrooms, and lounges with rows of chairs that were fixed to the floor. There were a handful of pa.s.sengers stretched out on the hard plastic seats in the common areas, a few tourists eating in the restaurant, but not much else besides. The s.h.i.+p 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 pa.s.sengers, with no real communal s.p.a.ces. There was no sign of the smugglers.

Drivers were supposed to leave their vehicles on the car deck once the s.h.i.+p was underway, but the men would not easily be able to take the women into a public s.p.a.ce 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 s.h.i.+p, 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 heading 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 s.h.i.+P.

He retraced his steps back to the larger of the two cafes. There were tables with plastic coverings, wooden part.i.tions topped with smoked-gla.s.s 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 cafe 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 pa.s.sengers in the cafe, 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 s.h.i.+fts 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 c.o.ke.

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

Chapter Forty-Four.

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

Milton gave him a moment and then followed.

They were at the stern of the s.h.i.+p. 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, a.s.sessed 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 pus.h.i.+ng 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 rus.h.i.+ng 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.