[Spider Shepherd #13] - Dark Forces Page 10

  ‘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.’

  Shepherd understood exactly what Yusuf meant because he’d often looked into the eyes of men who had taken lives, and there was something different about them. ‘The men you’v
e been providing passports for, have you helped them leave Turkey?’ he asked.

  ‘The Daesh fighters?’ He shook his head. ‘No. And that is also suspicious. They clearly have their own transport arrangements. All they need from me is the passports.’

  ‘And when you’re suspicious, you keep records?’

  Yusuf smiled slyly. ‘My insurance policy.’

  ‘What about the men you met? Did any of them tell you where exactly they were heading?’

  ‘Those men were not the sort to chat about their plans. But Europe, for sure. America never came up in conversation with any of them. They wanted passage to Europe.’

  ‘But not specifically to the UK?’

  Yusuf shrugged. ‘A couple of them mentioned London. But everyone wants to go to England, don’t they? In England they give refugees money and a house. They all know that. Even when Angela Merkel said they could go to Germany, most of them only wanted to go so they could get a German passport and move to England.’

  ‘But they said London? Specifically London?’

  ‘Yes. Several of them.’

  ‘Why? How did it come up?’

  ‘One said he had family there. Another said he had a friend who would give him somewhere to stay. Some of them were open about it. Others were more circumspect.’

  ‘You have their pictures?’

  Yusuf rested his hands on his stomach. ‘Of course. And copies of their new passports. I have copies of all the passports. All forty-eight.’

  ‘Because you suspected they were not genuine refugees?’

  Yusuf laughed. ‘I keep copies of all the passports I obtain. For insurance.’

  ‘But the forty-eight you’re talking about. You’re sure they’re IS?’

  ‘I wouldn’t be bothering you with suspicions, my friend. I can imagine how upset you would be if you discovered that one of the names I had given you was a genuine refugee.’

  ‘That would be embarrassing,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘The intel I have is one thousand per cent genuine,’ said Yusuf, quietly. ‘There is no doubt. I am sure that all forty-eight of the names I have are of Daesh fighters intent on launching terrorist attacks within Europe. Now, it is true I cannot say which of them are heading to the United Kingdom but we both know how Daesh hates your country and is intent on doing it harm. You cannot afford not to have these names.’

  ‘There’s no need for the hard sell, Yusuf. We’re well aware of the value of your intel.’

  Yusuf smiled ingratiatingly. ‘I’m not a greedy man. All I ask is passports for me, my wife and children, and passage to England. And money, of course.’

  ‘How much money?’ asked Shepherd.

  ‘How much do you think they will pay?’ asked Yusuf, narrowing his eyes.

  ‘That’s not my area,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘Would they pay a million dollars?’

  ‘I wouldn’t think so.’

  ‘Half a million?’ asked Yusuf, hopefully.

  ‘Possibly. It would depend on how good the intel is. If the jihadists are low-level soldiers, then maybe not much. But if they were commanders, or bomb-makers, possibly more.’

  ‘I will need money,’ said Yusuf. ‘My plan is to buy cars and rent them to Uber drivers. Maybe drive myself. You can earn good money with Uber.’

  ‘That sounds like a plan.’

  ‘So who do I talk money with, if not you?’ asked Yusuf.

  ‘Someone from London will come up with a figure after I’ve given my report,’ said Shepherd. ‘I need to see the intel you have.’

  Yusuf shook his head emphatically. ‘If I give it to you, it loses its value,’ he said. ‘At the moment there is no trust between us. You do not know me, I do not know you. Trust has to be earned.’

  ‘You don’t have to give me anything,’ said Shepherd. ‘But I need to see it. They won’t pay for intel if they’re not sure it exists.’

  ‘I don’t have it here.’

  ‘I wouldn’t expect you to carry it around with you.’

  ‘I can take you to it. I can show it to you. But only you.’

  ‘That would work. Where?’

  ‘I have a villa in Urfa. It is where my family stays.’

  Urfa was a city about forty kilometres from the camp, the capital of Sanliurfa Province. ‘You can take me there?’ Shepherd asked.

  ‘You will have to be alone,’ said Yusuf. ‘Only you.’

  ‘That’s okay.’

  ‘You are not worried?’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘About being alone in a strange country? About being kidnapped?’

  ‘Should I be?’

  Yusuf smiled. ‘Of course not, my friend.’

  Shepherd returned the smile. ‘I’ve been kidnapped before,’ he said. ‘And it didn’t end well for the people who did the kidnapping.’

  ‘Your government intervened? Special Forces? The SAS?’

  Shepherd laughed. ‘No, mate. The British aren’t like the Russians or the Israelis. If you fall in the shit they leave you to your own devices. It was the Yanks. The Americans. And they were doing a favour for a friend. A lot of people died, Yusuf. Just so you know.’

  ‘No one is going to kidnap you, my friend,’ said Yusuf. ‘You have my word.’

  ‘When can we go?’ asked Shepherd.

  Yusuf shrugged carelessly. ‘I can take you now. What is it you say? “Strike while the iron is hot”? I am ready when you are.’

  ‘I’ll need to make a phone call.’

  ‘Take all the time you need,’ said Yusuf. ‘But afterwards I must ask you to leave your phone here.’

  Shepherd nodded. ‘I understand,’ he said. Yusuf was right to be cautious: phones could be tracked, and with drones able to deal near-instant death from the skies it was only common sense to keep his home a closely guarded secret.

  Mohammed al-Hussain was still kneeling down with his head over the toilet when the yacht moored in the marina at Mikrolimano. Saif went below deck to fetch him. ‘Are you all right, brother?’ he asked.

  Al-Hussain spat into the toilet bowl. ‘No,’ he said.

  ‘We have arrived,’ said Saif.

  ‘Ashokrulillah.’ Praise be to Allah.

  Saif touched his arm. ‘We need to go now. Your transport is waiting.’

  Al-Hussain groaned and grabbed a bottle of water. He rinsed his mouth and got unsteadily to his feet. Saif picked up his backpack and helped him up the steps to the deck where Yasir was waiting.

  ‘Feeling any better, brother?’ he asked, gripping al-Hussain’s arm.

  ‘Is the sea always as rough as that?’ asked al-Hussain.

  Yasir laughed. ‘Brother, the sea was as smooth as silk.’

  Al-Hussain moaned softly. Yasir and Saif helped him off the yacht and onto the wooden pier. Two Asian men were waiting at the far end. They were dark-skinned and beardless, wearing leather jackets and faded jeans.

  Saif gave al-Hussain his backpack, then hugged him. When Saif stepped back, Yasir hugged al-Hussain and kissed him on both cheeks. ‘Allah yusallmak,’ he said. May God protect you.

  Al-Hussain thanked them and walked unsteadily along the pier towards the Asians. They greeted him, then took him along to a waiting SUV.

  Yusuf was an erratic driver at best. He rarely had more than one hand on the wheel and seemed to pay little attention to any other traffic on the road. His vehicle was an old Renault, its red paintwork pretty much obliterated by a thick layer of dust. It was an automatic, and Yusuf drove using both feet, his left on the brake and his right on the accelerator. Sometimes when he braked he stamped on both pedals at the same time resulting in the engine roaring as they came to a jerking halt. The passenger seatbelt was broken but he kept the speed down and there wasn’t much traffic on the road.

  ‘You live in London, my friend?’ asked Yusuf, taking his eyes off the road to look at Shepherd.

  ‘Yes,’ said Shepherd.

  Yusuf continued to study him, one hand on the wheel, the other pulling at his e
ar lobe. ‘I have heard that Manchester is a better place to live.’

  ‘It rains a lot,’ said Shepherd.

  There was a pick-up truck ahead of them and Yusuf didn’t appear to have noticed it.

  ‘We have a lot of rain here too,’ he said, ‘though you wouldn’t think so at the moment. But the rain will come. Sometimes snow. Manchester is cheaper than London?’

  ‘Sure,’ said Shepherd. ‘London is crazy. Everything is expensive.’ The pick-up truck was only fifty feet away and Yusuf was still looking at him. Shepherd was about to say something when Yusuf jerked the wheel and overtook the truck without even glancing at it.

  ‘I am looking forward to living in England and becoming an Englishman,’ said Yusuf. ‘My children will do so much better at an English school. They are very excited. My wife, too.’

  Shepherd didn’t say anything. There wasn’t much he could say until he’d seen the information Yusuf had.

  ‘You know we have half a million Syrian refugees in our province?’ said Yusuf.

  ‘I heard that, yes.’

  ‘One in three people who live here are refugees,’ said Yusuf. ‘The world doesn’t know that, I think. Or doesn’t care.’

  ‘People care,’ said Shepherd. ‘They just don’t see what can be done.’

  ‘Many here are protesting, but they have no solution. In a perfect world they’d be sent home, but how can we do that when we know what will happen to them in their own countries? This could bankrupt our country. So far we have spent six billion dollars taking care of refugees. And we lost another two billion that Syrian tourists used to spend here. And the war means we no longer export to Syria. That has cost us another six billion dollars.’ He shrugged. ‘I don’t know how much longer Turkey can sustain those costs.’