Part 26 (1/2)

”I understand that. I wouldn't trust me if I was in your shoes, either. But I promise: no tricks. You can leave. We're in Italy. I have money for you, too. You can go wherever you like. Here.”

He kept enough of the smuggler's money to pay for fuel and sundries and left the rest just inside the compartment. He stepped away from the door and went around to the side. He didn't have to wait long. The woman who spoke English was the first to get down. The second and third women followed immediately afterwards. The three of them stayed close together, as if it might be safer that way. The first woman had the money; the other two were each carrying large bottles of water.

”Where are we?” she said.

”Tarquinia. Rome is just over an hour to the south. There's a bus stop five minutes down the road. You've got more than enough money to go wherever you want. Just be careful.”

She glanced around Milton to the front of the Sprinter, as if trying to look inside. ”The men who took us?”

”They aren't interested in you anymore. They won't try to stop you. They won't come after you, either. Really, I promise-you're safe. You should go.”

Milton could only do so much to persuade them, but he hoped that it was enough. The three of them stood out gathered here like this. Their darker skin made it obvious that they didn't belong there. Cars were pa.s.sing on both sides of the road, and it would have been a simple enough thing for a pa.s.sing police patrol to spot them and come back for a second look. Milton would have preferred to offer more a.s.sistance, but he could not. He was here for Nadia, he reminded himself, and he needed to get going.

The women conversed in quick, hushed Arabic before the one who spoke English turned back to Milton and held up the money. ”Thank you,” she said.

Milton nodded. They turned away from the van and set off to the south, heading in the direction of the bus stop that Milton had seen a mile before the food truck.

Milton waited until they were five hundred yards away and then, after checking that the road was quiet in both directions, he opened the driver's door. Hamza turned to look, but was unable to prevent Milton from slipping his hands beneath his shoulders and hauling him out onto the dusty verge. Milton dragged him around to the back of the Sprinter and bundled him into the compartment.

”Where are we going?”

”I told you. Calais.”

”That's a day's drive.”

”Fifteen hours. Sixteen with a couple of stops.”

”You want me to be back here for sixteen hours?”

Milton laughed. ”Are you serious? You're complaining?” Milton levelled the pistol at his head. ”Put your legs together.”

Hamza did as he was told, and Milton wrapped tape around his ankles and then up to his knees. He stepped back and admired his handiwork. The man was secure. Milton grabbed Hamza and hauled him into a sitting position, then watched as he shuffled backwards until his back was against the compartment wall.

Hamza nodded down at his crotch. ”I need a p.i.s.s.”

”You'll work it out.”

Milton took one final length of tape and hopped inside. The smell was unpleasant: hot and fetid, with the unmistakeable odour of stale urine. He knelt down next to Hamza and pressed the tape over his mouth, wrapping it all the way around his head.

He cupped the man's chin in his hand and held his face up so that he could look down at him. He put his finger to his lips and then got out, slamming the door behind him.

Milton went around to the front and slid into the seat. He would follow the coastal road to the north, cross into France near Geneva and then take the Autoroute to Bourg-en-Bresse. He would turn to the north and head for Dijon and Reims and then, finally, Calais. All in all, he would have to drive for a thousand miles.

Milton turned the ignition and pulled out onto the empty road. He followed it to the north.

Chapter Forty-Eight.

MILTON DROVE NORTH. The Sprinter had a twenty-gallon tank, and it was half full. He guessed that an older model like this would top out at around thirty miles a gallon, and that meant that he would most likely manage around three hundred miles before he had to stop.

He crossed the border into France at Entrves, with the hulking ma.s.s of Mount Blanc to his left. He continued to the northwest, following the T1 and then the A40 through the mountains. He had underestimated the additional fuel that would be consumed in ascending the Alps, and he made it as far as the ski resort of Chamonix before he had to stop and fill up.

He checked on Hamza before setting off again, removing the tape from his mouth and allowing him a moment to take a drink. The smuggler had wet himself at some point during the journey, his faded jeans a little darker around the crotch. Milton made no comment, taking the bottle away from him and wrapping a fresh length of tape around his mouth.

He got back into the front and set off again, following the A40 towards Geneva.

MILTON KEPT GOING.

He followed the route that Google suggested, following the A40 along the southern border of Switzerland, turning north at Bourg-en-Bresse and then continuing to Lons-le-Saunier, Dijon, Troyes, Reims, Arras and, finally, Calais.

It was one in the morning. Hamza had explained that his rendezvous with the Albanian was scheduled for nine. Milton was tired and he wanted to have had the benefit of at least a little sleep before then. He found a quiet lay-by on the A26 outside Saint-Omer and pulled over.

He went around and got into the back of the van.

Hamza was sitting with his back against the wall, propping his weight against one of the rear wheel arches.

Milton took the tape from his mouth and put the bottle of water to his lips.

”Where are we?” Hamza asked.

”Twenty miles from Calais.”

”What are you going to do with me?”

”You're going to help me find the Albanian. You're going to tell me where I need to go to meet him, and then I'm going to leave you somewhere you won't be found.”

”And then?”

”If I find him, I'll call the police and tell them where you are. If I don't, and I have to come back-” Milton let the sentence die. ”That wouldn't be the best outcome for you.”

”I will tell you,” Hamza said.

”I know you will.”

Milton was disgusted by him. He fastened a fresh length of tape across his mouth, wrapping it around his head, and then wound another length of tape around his wrists. Once Milton was satisfied that the smuggler was secure, he went back into the front and lay across the seats.

He set his alarm for six and fell asleep within moments of closing his eyes.

Chapter Forty-Nine.

THEY CALLED IT THE JUNGLE, and it was with good reason. The camp had taken over twenty or thirty acres of rough scrubland on the eastern edge of Calais. It was not static, and, over the time it had first coalesced, the tents and structures had been cleared and the inhabitants had moved on. The men and women and children had gathered again around a new location, pitched their tents and built their ramshackle hovels and, before long, the camp had reformed once more. This latest iteration of the camp had found a home in a former landfill site three miles from the centre of the town. Satellites had sprung up in other spots around the perimeter of the town, but this was the princ.i.p.al gathering.