‘To be honest, Craig, I’m only concerned about the ones that are making their way to England. You work for a charity, but I don’t.’
‘Message received and understood,’ said Parker.
‘So, tell me what you can about Yusuf,’ said Shepherd.
‘He’s very smooth,’ said Parker. ‘Not at all what you’d expect a people-smuggler to be. Brings food and drugs into the camp, supplies for the school.’
‘Drugs?’
Parker smiled. ‘Medical supplies. Antibiotics. Whatever we need. Logistics out here aren’t great. Say we run short of insulin, Yusuf can usually lay his hands on some at short notice.’
‘No questions asked?’
‘If we’ve got a kid with bad diabetes, I’m not going to start asking him where he got it from.’
‘I’m guessing there’s a quid pro quo. He helps you, and you do what for him?’
‘I know what it sounds like, but we keep a close eye on him.’
‘While he’s doing what?’
Parker sighed. ‘He moves around the camp, talking to the refugees, seeing what they want. He’s a fixer. But he doesn’t come cheap.’
‘False papers?’
‘Officially, I don’t know. Unofficially, yes. Sure. For the right price, Yusuf can get you any papers you need, and get you into any country. Pretty much guaranteed.’
‘So you let a people-trafficker have the run of the camp?’
‘If we kept him out, there’d only be someone else. Or he’d just wait outside. It’s like they say, better to have him inside the tent pissing out than outside pissing in. And Yusuf isn’t one of those bastards shoving families into leaking dinghies and pushing them out into the Mediterranean. He looks for high-end refugees, people with money. And he finds them.’
‘And does what for them?’
‘Arranges passage into Europe. Advises them on the best way of claiming asylum. Arranges paperwork, passports and the like.’
‘He told you that?’
‘He doesn’t go into details. But it’s generally known what he does.’
‘Do you trust him?’
‘Not as far as I can throw him, and he’s a big guy. He’s like all of them. He smiles and he nods a lot and he calls you his friend, but I’ve no idea what’s going on behind his eyes.’
‘And this latest thing, he came to you?’
Parker nodded. ‘Said he had a problem and wondered if I knew anyone who could help.’
‘Why do you think he chose you?’
‘I’ve always got on well with him. Some of the NGO guys treated him like shit. I was always respectful.’
‘Do you think he knows you’re Six?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘It’s important, Craig. Him asking a friend for help is one thing. Putting out feelers to someone he knows is with the intelligence service is something entirely different.’
‘You think it could be a trap?’
‘There’s no need to go jumping the gun,’ said Shepherd. ‘I’m just trying to get the lie of the land. But if Yusuf is playing both ends against the middle, there might be something else going on. What did he actually say when he made the first approach?’
‘We were in a bar. Yusuf is a Muslim but he likes his beer. He was a bit worse for wear and said he was in deep shit with some Islamic State people. He said he’d heard they weren’t happy about him fraternising with the NGOs and were planning to take out him and his family.’
‘What’s his family situation?’
‘Wife and three kids. They’re in Urfa about forty kilometres away. He’s got them protected, he says, but fears for their safety. He was badmouthing Islamic State, saying they were shits for targeting him after all he’d done for them. I asked what exactly and he tapped the side of his nose. You know, Secret Squirrel, couldn’t tell me.’
‘He said that? He said he’d been helping Islamic State?’
‘Like I said, he’d been drinking. Said he needed to get out of Turkey. Said he’d only be safe in the US or the UK.’
‘He specifically said the UK? Not the EU?’
‘He’s got relatives in London. Said he’d be safer there. Anyway, he puts his arm around me, starts calling me his one true friend and did I know anyone who could help him out of his predicament.’
‘No mention of Five or Six? You were just a friend?’
Parker nodded. ‘I said I’d see what I could do and that was the end of it. He started talking about this and that. Didn’t mention it again.’
‘And what did you do, afterwards?’
‘I put in a call to London. London got Shuttleworth to call me, we talked it through and he drove down. Spent an hour with Yusuf but I got the impression they didn’t click.’
‘Because?’
‘Yusuf said he didn’t trust Shuttleworth, to put it bluntly. Too smooth, he said. Too quick with the promises, too eager to see the gold up front.’
‘The gold being?’
‘Names and photographs of Islamic State fighters that Yusuf had moved into Europe. Most of them with fake Syrian paperwork.’
‘So he has pictures?’
‘He was fixing them up with fake passports. He says he’s kept copies.’
‘But Yusuf wouldn’t show the pictures to Shuttleworth?’
‘He told him he wanted to speak to someone from London face to face. Said he wanted cast-iron guarantees. Shuttleworth wasn’t happy.’
‘I’m sure he wasn’t,’ said Shepherd. ‘Where did they meet?’
‘A café in Suruç.’
‘Your security were there?’
Parker nodded. ‘Shuttleworth insisted on it.’
‘And Yusuf was happy enough to meet in a public place?’
‘He didn’t seem to mind. I assumed he thought it would be less conspicuous than at the camp.’
‘And where is he now?’
‘Out and about, I guess. I called him this morning to confirm you were on your way.’
‘Does he know where we’re meeting?’
‘I said I’d tell him later.’
‘And he didn’t press you for details?’
‘He’s fine. He just wanted to be sure you were from London. That’s all he was concerned about.’
Shepherd nodded. It was a good sign: if a trap was being set up for him, Yusuf would have wanted to know where the meeting was to take place. ‘Where would you suggest?’
‘To be honest, if your cover as a journalist is good, it doesn’t matter.’
‘I’m not sure that’s true, Craig. Would Islamic State be happy for their man to talk to the press?’
‘I hadn’t thought of that,’ said Parker. ‘I reckoned we could say you were doing a feature on the camp and that way you could talk to anybody.’
‘Nah, I need a chat in private. What’s your office like at the camp?’
‘It’s okay. It’s a prefab but it has air-con.’
‘Private?’
‘There’s a few of us use it but I can make sure we’re not disturbed.’
‘Let’s do that, then. But keep your security close by, just in case. Set me up in the office first, then call him in. If anyone sees him coming and going, they’ll assume he’s there to talk to you.’
The Greek coastguard patrol boat was about twice the length of a yacht, but it was much faster and better equipped. The two yachtsmen had seen the boat coming and had carried on heading for Greece under full sail. The wind was lacklustre at best, and even with all the sails unfurled they weren’t making much more than four knots. Not that running was an option. The Faiakas Class boat was just short of twenty-five metres long, came with a .50 calibre heavy machine-gun, and could reach thirty-two knots in calm water.
The two men had their story prepared. They were a couple of Greek sailors showing their English friend the delights of the Mediterranean.
The patrol drew closer and a uniformed sailor with a megaphone shouted at them to heave to. They furled their sail and allowed the men on the boat to tie up to their yacht. Armed sailors stood looking down at them as an officer carefully made his way down a metal ladder to their deck. He was in his late thirties, totally bald with a sunburned scalp. His gun was holstered and his shirt sleeves rolled up. ‘ID,’ he said in Greek.
They handed over their ID cards. ‘Don’t worry, we’re Greek,’ said the older of the two men. His name was Yasir. His family had moved to Greece from Pakistan when he was a toddler and his Greek was perfect, better than his Urdu.
The officer flashed them a tight smile and returned their ID cards. ‘Where are you heading?’
‘Piraeus,’ said Yasir. ‘The wind isn’t great and we were thinking of switching to the engine.’ Piraeus was Greece’s main port, the largest sea passenger terminal in Europe.
The officer grinned. ‘Fair weather sailor, huh?’
‘We don’t want to be out at night,’ said Yasir. That was a lie. The plan was to return to Greece under cover of darkness and they had night-vision goggles for just that purpose.
‘Where in Piraeus?’ asked the officer.
‘Mikrolimano,’ said Yasir. It was the second biggest marina in the port, a popular location with tourists and weekend sailors. It was pretty, surrounded by tavernas and restaurants, and often used as a backdrop in Greek movies.
The officer turned to the second man. He had already checked his ID and confirmed that he was Greek, but he needed to check his language skills. ‘Did you stop anywhere?’ he asked.
The man smiled and nodded. His name was Saif. His parents were also from Pakistan but he had been born in Greece, along with his three brothers and two sisters. Like Yasir, he had spent three months on the Pakistan-Afghanistan border being trained by IS before returning to Greece.
‘A few hours in Küçükkuyu, just taking in the sights.’
‘Did you buy anything? Alcohol? Cigarettes?’
Saif shook his head. ‘We don’t smoke or drink.’
‘Anyone else on board?’
‘Our friend. He’s below deck.’
‘Call him out,’ said the officer.
Yasir laughed. ‘I’m not sure he can come. He’s throwing up.’
The officer frowned. ‘Seasick? Why did you bring him on board if he’s got no sea legs?’
‘His sea legs are fine,’ said Yasir. ‘He had some bad chicken in Küçükkuyu. You know the Turks, not the cleanest, right?’
The officer pointed at the hatch. ‘I’m going to have to talk to him.’
Yasir stood to the side. ‘Be our guest,’ he said. ‘He’s in the forward cabin. But I warn you, it smells terrible. Oh, and he doesn’t speak Greek.’
The officer’s eyes narrowed. ‘Where is he from?’
Yasir laughed. ‘Don’t worry, we’re not smuggling in asylum-seekers,’ he said. ‘He’s English.’
The officer waved for one of the armed sailors to accompany him and the two men went down the hatch. The officer wrinkled his nose at the nauseating smell coming from the forward cabin. As they walked through the galley they heard retching sounds and the slop of vomit hitting the head.
‘Can you come out here, please?’ the officer called in Greek. Then he repeated his request in English. There was no reply other than more retching. The officer stepped to the side and waved the sailor through. Rank had its privileges, and the closer they got to the cabin, the worse the smell.
The sailor grimaced but went forward. The door was open and inside the cabin a young Asian man was on his knees, throwing up again. ‘Sir, we need to talk to you,’ said the sailor in English.
‘Okay, okay,’ said the man. He tried to get up, turned to face the men, and was promptly sick on the floor. ‘Sorry, sorry,’ he said, dropping back to the floor.
‘What is your name?’ asked the sailor in heavily accented English.
‘Hammad Rajput.’
‘Where are you from?’
‘England.’
‘I need to see your passport.’
‘My bag. On the bed.’
The sailor went into the main cabin. There was a black backpack on the bed and he found a British passport in a side pocket. He flicked through to the photograph. He checked the name. Hammad Rajput. Born in Birmingham. ‘Date of birth?’ asked the sailor.
The man looked up from the toilet. His beard was smeared with yellowish vomit. ‘What?’
‘Your date of birth?’
The man groaned and closed his eyes. ‘March the fifth,’ he said.
The sailor nodded. ‘Okay.’ He put the passport back. ‘Have you taken medicine?’
The man heaved and put his head back over the toilet. The sailor chuckled and went back to the officer. ‘All good, sir.’
He headed back up on deck. ‘You might want to get your friend to the hospital, have him checked out,’ he said to Yasir. ‘Food poisoning can be serious.’
‘We’ll see how he is when he gets to port,’ said Yasir. ‘He’ll probably have thrown up most of the chicken by then.’
The officer climbed off the yacht and on to the cutter, and his sailor followed him. Yasir switched on the yacht’s engine and steered away from the larger vessel. Five minutes later the cutter was heading back to Greece leaving a foaming white wake behind it.
It took just under an hour for Parker to drive to the refugee camp at Suruç. His company compound was outside the refugee camp. Like the camp, it was surrounded by a chain-link fence, but it was patrolled by armed guards and everyone who went in or out had to show their ID. The compound included a storage area where food, water and medicines were held before distribution, a line of Portakabins, with the NGO’s logo on the door, and another of blue portable toilets. Parker slowed to a halt at the entrance and wound down the window. A guard wearing the ubiquitous baseball cap and wraparound Oakleys came up to the window. ‘How’s it going, Craig?’ he asked, in an Afrikaans accent.
‘All good, Jed,’ said Parker. ‘This is John Whitehill. He’s a journalist doing a story on us.’
Shepherd held out his Whitehill press card but the guard barely glanced at it and waved them on. Parker drove through the gate and over to a parking area with a dozen SUVs already in it. The Landcruiser parked in front of a Portakabin with SECURITY on the door.
Parker and Shepherd climbed out of the Jeep. The heat hit Shepherd immediately and sweat beaded on his forehead. He followed Parker to one of the Portakabins, and by the time they stepped inside Shepherd’s shirt was wet under the arms. The door opened into a waiting area with two plastic sofas and a coffee-table, and beyond it a desk where a young woman sat tapping on a computer keyboard. ‘This is Laura – she pretty much runs the place,’ said Parker.
The woman looked up and smiled brightly.
‘This is John. He’s a journalist,’ said Parker. ‘I’m introducing him to a few people around the camp.’