‘Can I get you a coffee?’ she asked.
‘I’d prefer water,’ said Shepherd.
‘Over here,’ said Parker, opening a fridge packed with plastic bottles of Evian. ‘One of the perks of working with the French,’ he said. He tossed a bottle to Shepherd and took one for himself. ‘Come on through.’
He took Shepherd down a narrow corridor and opened a door into a large office. It was stiflingly hot and he switched on an air-conditioning unit before dropping onto an orthopedic chair behind a desk piled high with files. ‘I’ll call Yusuf, see where he is.’
As Parker pulled out his phone, Shepherd sipped his water and gazed out through a large window that overlooked the camp. It was huge, with tents stretching almost as far as he could see. They had been laid out with military precision. It was surrounded by a chain-link fence but there were no armed guards and people were free to come and go. The tents had been set up in blocks separated by wide walkways, and in the middle there was a mobile-phone mast. Many of the refugees had smartphones and were sitting or standing as they tapped on the screens. Children were playing and women stood around chatting, but most of the refugees were young men. The heat was relentless. The blinding white light bounced off the soil, which was so bleached it was almost white.
‘Okay, he’s on his way,’ said Parker, putting away his phone. He stood up and went to the window. ‘It’s a hell of a sight, isn’t it?’
‘How many refugees live here?’
‘About forty thousand, give or take,’ said Parker. ‘To be honest, we never have an exact figure because we just don’t know. They come and go, and most of them don’t want to give their details.’
‘The Dublin Regulation?’
Parker nodded. ‘They’re scared that if they go into the system here they won’t be able to move to Europe.’
Under the so-called Dublin Regulation, asylum-seekers were supposed to apply for asylum in the first EU country they entered. Under the law, if they tried to claim asylum anywhere else, they could be returned to the first country they had applied to.
‘In fact the Dublin Regulation was suspended in 2015 when the exodus was in full swing,’ said Parker. ‘Hungary just couldn’t cope with the numbers pouring in so Germany said it was suspending the regulation and would take any Syrians who wanted to come. Czechoslovakia followed suit and promised asylum of passage to another country. But the refugees here think it might be a trap so they don’t allow us to process them.’
Shepherd shaded his Ray-Bans with the flat of his hands as he surveyed the ranks of white tents. ‘Are they all Syrians?’
‘Most of the refugees here are Kurds who fled across the border from Kobane,’ said Parker. ‘Most had only the clothes they were wearing and what they could carry.’
‘There are no guards?’ asked Shepherd, gesturing at the entrance to the camp. There was no gate, just a large gap in the wire through which ran a two-lane concrete road.
‘They’re not prisoners,’ said Parker. ‘They can come and go. Some find work. They go shopping in the town, if they have money. Those who can’t work get by on the monthly vouchers the Turkish government gives them for food and basic necessities. Soap, toilet paper, stuff like that. And the NGOs provide what they can. Initially funds were flooding in but Paris put paid to that. Once the public found out that several of the terrorists who had attacked Paris had posed as Syrian refugees, well, sympathy evaporated.’
‘Understandably,’ said Shepherd.
‘You know what I mean, right? Now everyone assumes that a Syrian refugee is an Islamic State jihadist in disguise. Countries that were lining up to take them are now bringing down the shutters. But I can tell you, most of the refugees in the camp are just that, refugees. People who dropped everything and ran for their lives.’
‘But some Islamic State fighters are using the refugee situation as a way of getting into the EU. That’s a fact, Craig, you can’t deny it.’
‘I’m not saying it doesn’t happen but it’s a tiny, tiny fraction of the refugee population we’re talking about. One in ten thousand, maybe.’
‘Which, extrapolated over two million refugees, means that we could be talking about two hundred terrorists. Look at the damage half a dozen did to Paris. You can see why people are worried.’ He saw disappointment flash across the other man’s face. ‘I’m not here to screw things up for you, Craig. I just want to talk to Yusuf and then I’ll be out of your hair.’
Parker grimaced. ‘If Yusuf gives you what you want and the information goes public, there’ll be even less sympathy for the refugees here.’
‘The security services don’t usually go public with their intel.’
Parker flashed him a tight smile. ‘They do when it serves their purpose,’ he said. ‘The French were bloody quick to publicise how their terrorists got into the country.’
‘That’s the French. They always do things their own way. This isn’t about messing with your work. This is about identifying potential terrorists who are planning to kill innocent civilians.’
‘I know, I know,’ said Parker. ‘It’s just you don’t see the suffering that I do. Most of these people have lost everything. The least we can do is offer them sanctuary and allow them to rebuild their lives.’
Shepherd didn’t say anything. There wasn’t anything he could say. If the tables were turned and he was fleeing a murderous regime, he’d do whatever he could to save himself and his family. But he wasn’t there to help refugees: he was there to identify and stop terrorists, and when it came to the war on terror there was no place for sentimentality. And there was no denying that the vast majority of the refugees in the camp were young, fit men. There were women and children, and a few old men with walking sticks, but everywhere Shepherd saw men in their twenties and thirties, huddled in groups, playing football or standing around smoking. Many had brand-label shirts, designer jeans and new trainers, and none appeared hungry or injured. He wondered why they didn’t stand and fight for their country, and why, if safety was their predominant concern, they didn’t want to stay in Turkey. But, as he had said to Parker, his mission had nothing to do with refugees and everything to do with terrorism.
There was a knock on the door, and Laura came in. ‘Yusuf is here,’ she said. She stepped aside and a portly man in a white linen suit bowled in. He had a round face and was bald except for a heart-shaped patch of hair above his forehead. There were large dark bags under his eyes and he had droopy jowls that gave him the look of a bloodhound. His lips were large and fleshy and there were rolls of fat around his neck, which glistened with sweat. His shirt had come loose from his trousers and his blue and white tie was loosely knotted and scattered with small stains, which suggested he was a messy eater.
‘Yusuf, welcome,’ said Parker. Yusuf rushed forward and hugged him tightly, then released him and turned to Shepherd. ‘This is John, from London,’ said Parker. ‘The man I told you about.’
Yusuf nodded excitedly. ‘Thank you for coming all this way,’ he said. He stepped forward, arms out, and Shepherd allowed himself to be hugged. He could smell garlic, tobacco and sweat. He looked over Yusuf’s shoulder at Parker, who grinned at his obvious discomfort.
‘I’m going to leave you two alone,’ he said. ‘I’ll be doing some paperwork with Laura. Just open the door when you’re done.’ He went out and shut it behind him.
Yusuf let go of Shepherd and sat on a small sofa under the window. It was for two people but he took up most of the space. He stretched out his feet. He was wearing sandals with no socks and his toenails were a yellowish green. Shepherd pulled the window blinds closed and sat down behind the desk.
‘So, Craig tells me you help people get out of the camp,’ said Shepherd.
Yusuf held out his hands. ‘These people need help,’ he said. ‘I am grateful that Allah allows me to provide that help.’
‘Do you take people across the border?’ asked Shepherd.
Yusuf shook his head. ‘That’s a dirty business,’ he said. ‘And dangerous.’
‘More dangerous than what you’re doing?’
‘All I’m doing is helping refugees,’ said Yusuf. ‘That is a noble cause, which could cause no one any offence. But the border smugglers, that’s the dirty end of the business. They bring people over, but they also take people into Syria, mainly foreigners who want to fight for Daesh.’
‘Daesh’ was an insulting term that many Muslims used to describe Islamic State. It was an abbreviation of Dawlat al-Islamiyah f’al-Iraq wa al-Sham, which translated as ‘Islamic State in Iraq and the Levant’. But in Arabic it sounded like ‘Sowers of discord’, and Islamic State warlords killed anyone they heard using the term.
‘And you don’t do that?’
‘I try not to deal with Daesh. Sometimes it is unavoidable, but I do not do it by choice.’
‘You don’t trust them?’
‘I don’t trust anybody, my friend. Loyalties change, people move on. One day you might be dealing with a Daesh commander who decides he doesn’t like the look of your face and the next thing you know your head has been separated from your body. Or the Americans decide that you are an enemy of their state and they launch a Hellfire missile with your name on it.’ He smiled. ‘No, my friend, I do what I do and that is all I do. I get papers for people who can afford it, and I arrange transport. I am a travel agent, if you like.’
‘What about going the other way? People helping those who want to get into Syria.’
Yusuf grimaced. ‘Now you are talking about jihadists,’ he said. ‘That is not what I do, my friend.’
‘I wasn’t suggesting you did. I’m just interested.’
Yusuf pulled at his right ear lobe. Shepherd marked it down as a nervous gesture. ‘There are cafés near the border, literally within sight of the fence, where such people can be found,’ he said. ‘Going into Syria unannounced can be a dangerous business. Daesh do not take kindly to strangers, even those who say they have come to fight. The agent checks them out first, then takes a fee from them. The going rate is two hundred dollars. Or euros. For that they are taken across the border to a Daesh recruitment house. Men and women. You’d be surprised how many Western women want to be the bride of a jihadist fighter.’
‘Girls are always drawn to bad boys, I suppose,’ said Shepherd.
Yusuf laughed. ‘It’s true, isn’t it? They can be chopping the heads off Christians or setting fire to Russians and the girls just keep on coming. Violence makes them wet, they say. At the recruitment centre they are interrogated by a Daesh official. Sometimes that can take a month. If they are approved, they are moved on.’
‘And if not?’ asked Shepherd.
Yusuf made a throat-cutting gesture with his finger. ‘That is not what I do, my friend. I help people get from Turkey to the West. I am not interested in helping jihadists into Syria.’
‘I understand,’ said Shepherd. ‘So you need to tell me exactly what information you have.’
Yusuf lowered his voice and leaned towards Shepherd. ‘I have the details of Daesh fighters who have left here intending to go to Europe. They plan to hide among the genuine refugees.’
‘How do you know they are with Islamic State?’
Yusuf smiled. ‘I know,’ he said. ‘Trust me, I know.’
‘And what details do you have?’
‘I have their photographs, and copies of the passports I obtained for them.’
‘What passports do they have, these fighters?’
‘Syrian,’ said Yusuf.
Shepherd frowned. ‘You’ve been getting Syrian passports for Syrians?’
‘No, of course not. They were Afghans. Iraqis. Two were from Pakistan.’
‘And these passports were fake?’
‘No, real passports. A lot of the refugees leave without their papers so the Syrian government has made it easier for passports to be issued abroad. I have a contact at the Syrian embassy in Ankara. For a fee he will issue me a genuine passport in any name I require, using any photograph. It takes ten days, including the courier service.’
‘Expensive?’
‘Very. But the passport is genuine, and if the holder can get to Europe he – or she – will have no problem claiming asylum.’
‘And how many of these have you done?’
Yusuf smiled. ‘Hundreds. It is a nice business and I have a steady stream of clients.’
‘So how do you know who are genuine refugees and who are IS fighters?’
Yusuf bit his lower lip. ‘You are going to help me, my friend?’ he asked. ‘You will help me and my family get to England?’
‘Providing the information you give me is helpful, yes,’ said Shepherd.
‘And money?’
Shepherd nodded. ‘Money, too. You and your family will be taken care of, Yusuf. But the information you give me must be helpful and accurate. Now how do you know which are IS fighters and which are genuine refugees?’
‘Sometimes I don’t get to see them,’ said Yusuf. ‘There’s a Daesh commander who moves back and forth across the border. He brings me photographs and cash and collects the passports.’
‘How many have you done for him?’
‘A couple of dozen.’
‘You don’t know for sure?’
‘Twenty-five,’ said Yusuf.
‘And did you ask this commander why the men weren’t here themselves?’
‘Of course not. You do not question men like him, not unless you want your head separated from your shoulders.’
‘But there are others you’re sure are with Islamic State?’
‘Forty-eight in total,’ said Yusuf.
‘Okay, so twenty-five came from a Daesh commander. You know they’re Islamic State. But the rest? How can you tell?’
‘I just can,’ said Yusuf. ‘The really desperate ones are the ones with families. They’ll do anything to get to Europe. They beg, they plead, they bribe. They offer me whatever they have.’ He jerked a thumb at the window. ‘Out there, in the camp, you can get a blow-job for medicine. Sex for ten dollars. They are desperate people, John. You have no idea.’ He put up his hands. ‘Not me, of course. But there are men out there who will take advantage of the weak and defenceless. There are fathers offering their daughters for sex. And their sons.’ He shuddered. ‘I wish I could help them all, but I do what I can. Some of the men who come to me, you can just tell they’re not refugees. They’re not running from anything. They don’t have families. They’re young, they’re fit. It’s their eyes that give them away. You can see what they have done in their eyes.’