Part 25 (1/2)
”They will be sold.”
”Who are you meeting?”
”A man from London. The Albanian. I do not know his name. He looks at the girls. Checks them out. Perhaps he sees one he likes. He buys her. Perhaps he does not. He pays me or he does not pay me, and I leave.”
”The girls?”
”Any girl he does not buy, she is free to go.”
”And if he does buy?”
”They go with him. That is not my concern.”
Milton tightened his grip around the b.u.t.t of the pistol; Hamza noticed the increased tension.
”How do they get them out of the country?”
”They have a business. I do not know the word. It is for when you are dead.”
”An undertaker's?”
”The boxes that bodies go into before they are put in the ground.”
”They put them in coffins?”
”Coffins, yes. I have not seen them. But that is what I have been told.”
Milton allowed that thought to sink in a little. It was morbid and unpleasant, but it was clever. Coffins? Surely immigration would wave a coffin through. Who would open a coffin?
”Why do you want to know this?” Hamza said fretfully.
Milton ignored him. ”This is what we're going to do,” he said instead, putting a little iron certainty in his voice and underlining it by reaching out until the gun's muzzle was pressed up against the man's temple. ”We're going to drive to Calais. You and me, our own little road trip. The girls in the back don't need to come-we'll let them out as soon as we get to Italy. You're going to take me to meet the Albanian. If anything happens that means we don't make it all the way there-and I mean anything, whether it's your fault or just dumb luck-I'll shoot you and then I'll disappear. That clear enough for you?”
Hamza nodded.
Milton looked at his watch. ”We've got another seven hours before we dock. Have you got a contact on the ferry? Someone who lets you stay with the vehicle?”
”Yes,” the man said. ”We always use this crossing. There are three crewmen. They are paid not to bother us.”
Milton had guessed as much, but it was fortunate. There was an opening in the part.i.tion that divided the cab from the rest of the van; it was covered with a slat that could be pulled back.
Milton kept the gun trained on Hamza and pulled the slat back.
”h.e.l.lo?” he said. ”Can you hear me?”
There was no response.
”My name is John. I'm here to help you. Can you hear me?”
”Yes,” came a quiet voice in reply.
”Can you speak English?”
”A little.”
”How many of you are there?”
”Three.”
”Do you have food and water?”
”Yes,” the woman said.
”And you are okay?”
”Yes.”
There was a pause, and the sound of hushed conversation. Milton spared a quick glance into the rear. It was dark, but the light from the cab meant that he could see the dim shapes of people behind him.
”What is happening?” the woman asked.
”I need you to be patient,” Milton said. ”We're on a ferry, crossing to Italy. We have another seven hours to go. I need you to stay in the back until we land. As soon as we do, I'll find somewhere safe for you to get out and you'll be free to go. Is that okay?”
”What about the men who took us?”
”You don't need to worry about them anymore. Okay?”
”Yes,” she said.
”If you need anything, just knock.”
”I understand.”
Milton closed the slide.
Hamza eyed the pistol. ”You will just let them go?”
”That's right,” Milton said.
”You know who I work for?”
”Yes. I know all about Ali.”
”He will find out what you have done.”