Milton turned to the young man to his left. "Do you speak English?"

"A little," he said.

"What happened?"

"The engine stopped."

"For how long?"

"Ten minutes. We have just been drifting. They couldn't fix it."

Milton looked back to the stern. The slick of oil behind them had become wider, the viscous fluid refracting rainbows in the bright sunlight.

"I was worried," the man said. "I have never been on a boat before."

Milton looked at him more carefully. He was in his late teens or early twenties, with clear skin and bright eyes. "What's your name?"

"Kolo."

"I'm John," he said. "Where are you from?"

"Somalia. And you?"

"Libya."

Milton did not want to draw attention to the differences between himself and the others. He changed the subject. "How did you get to Sabratah?"

"They drove us through the Sahara." The boy's English was surprisingly good. "It took one week. They kept us in a house in Tripoli until the boat was ready. Three days. I thought we would never leave."

"What are your plans?"

"I get to Italy; then maybe I try to get to Denmark or Sweden. I have friends there. They have jobs; they can send money home. My parents are old. They have no money. I want to help them. And you?"

Milton had considered a number of cover stories. "I have a friend who works in France. A vineyard." Kolo looked at him blankly. Milton added, "Where they grow grapes for wine."

"Ah, I understand-you help them to harvest the grapes?"

"Yes."

"Hard work, especially if it is hot like this." He pointed up at the clear blue sky and the sun burning down on the sea and the boat.

"Very hard," Milton said. He tugged the brim of his cap so that a little extra shadow fell onto his face. He could feel the heat in the fabric of the cap. It was close to midday and the sun was at its most brutal. The sea shimmered away to infinity on either side of the boat, woozy waves radiating over the surface.

Kolo followed Milton's gaze out over the water.

"Can you swim?" Kolo asked.

"Yes," Milton said.

"I cannot. I have never even seen the sea before." He paused, nodding his head out to the waves. "If we, you know-if we sink, how long do you think we would last in that water?"

"Not long," Milton said honestly. "And being able to swim won't make much difference. We must be a hundred miles from land. And the water is colder than it looks."

"Then we better hope that the boat is better than it looks."

Milton thought Kolo was being morbid, but, when he turned to look over at him, he saw his bright white grin. He was laughing at their predicament.

Milton smiled back at him. "We'll be all right," he said.

THE SUN pa.s.sed its peak and slowly started to descend. Milton stared out at the unchanging vista, the miles of unbroken blue that reached all the way to the horizon, the more vivid colour of the sky merging into the haze so that it became difficult to tell where one stopped and the other began. He looked for other ships, but, save a tiny speck that might have been a fishing vessel, he saw nothing.

They were all alone, miles from a.s.sistance, on a boat that was barely seaworthy and manned by a crew who looked as uncomfortable as the pa.s.sengers.

The sun pounded down onto the deck. Milton's cap offered him some protection, but he could still feel the heat, and it was difficult to stay awake. He put his jacket over his head again and allowed himself to drift off once more.

"EXCUSE ME."

Milton awoke. It was Kolo's voice. Milton pulled the jacket off his head and looked over at him. Kolo wasn't talking to him, though; he was calling to one of the smugglers responsible for watching the pa.s.sengers on their deck.

"Excuse me? Sir?"

The smuggler turned to look at him. "What?"

"I am thirsty."

"What do you want me to do about that?"

"Do you have any water?"

"Yes," the man said, sweeping his arm at the ocean. "I have gallons of it."

"Some water I can drink?"

The man reached into his mouth, took out the wad of gum that he had been chewing and flicked it over the side. He reached up, wiped the sweat away from his forehead and then nodded down at Kolo. "You think this is a pleasure cruise?"

"I am thirsty," Kolo said again. "I need a drink."

The man curled his finger. "Come here."

Kolo got up and, barely able to find the s.p.a.ce to bypa.s.s the outstretched legs and supine bodies of the others, he made his way across the deck to the smuggler. The man reached around and pulled a pistol out of the waistband of his trousers. He aimed it at the boy, gesturing with his hand that he should hurry over to him.

Milton sat up straight.

"What is it?" Kolo said. "What have I done wrong?"

"You should not be on the top deck."

"I paid for my ticket."

"You are on the boat. That is what you paid for. But the darker your skin, the farther down you go."

The man unlatched the door to the lower deck. A wave of odour washed out of it: petrol fumes, sweat, vomit, excrement and urine. It was so strong that it overwhelmed the saltiness of the sea, and those pa.s.sengers nearest the door turned away in disgust. Milton looked across and saw a square of gloomy darkness through the open doorway. The Libyan pointed into it with his left hand, his right aiming the gun with a lazy, insouciant confidence.

Milton wanted to intervene, but he knew that there was nothing that he could do. If he spoke out, he would attract attention to himself and the fact that he was so very different from the other pa.s.sengers. He knew that he was safe only for as long as he kept a low profile, out of sight, avoiding any possibility of attracting attention to himself. He doubted that these men would have any compunction in tossing him over the side.

Kolo looked back at Milton. He held the boy's gaze for a moment and then forced himself to look away. When Milton glanced back again, Kolo had stepped over the sill of the door and was descending the stairs to the lower deck. The Libyan closed the door with a resounding crash and fastened the latch again.

"What about her?" called out one of the pa.s.sengers.

The smuggler swivelled and looked over at the man who had just spoken. He was Libyan or Syrian, and Milton had noticed that he had been causing trouble over on his side of the boat.

"She is African," the man said. "She is as black as he is."

The smuggler shook his head. "No," he said.

"Come on, man. There's not enough s.p.a.ce up here. Put her down with the others, too."

"I paid to-"

The smuggler jabbed the gun in the man's direction; everyone flinched. "Did you hear me? I said she stays here with us. No more talking. If you talk, I shoot you and throw you over the side."

The man raised his hands in surrender, his protest at an end. The smuggler shook his head in disgust, hawked up a wad of phlegm and spat it over the side. He put the gun back into his trousers and turned away.

Milton regarded the girl. She was sitting with her back against the side of the boat. She was tall, with long legs and slender arms. The man who had tried to have her moved looked over at her with a disdain he did not bother to conceal, and she turned her head and looked away. It looked as if she was alone on the boat; her dark skin certainly stood out among the lighter browns of the Libyans and Syrians who sat around her. She turned her head in Milton's direction. She wasn't focussing on anything or anyone, but, for a moment, it felt to him as if she was looking right at him. She was very pretty.

Milton knew why she had been put up on the top deck. He remembered what Mustafa had told him.

She was merchandise.

The Albanians had contracted with Ali for girls, and she was one of them.

He looked around the deck and saw a number of women who bore similarities to the first girl: the teenager sitting with her back to the wheelhouse, surrounded by her family; an older woman, early twenties, gazing out at the ocean; two girls, possibly sisters, talking to each other in nervous whispers. Were they all part of the same consignment? Maybe, maybe not. But Milton was willing to guess that at least some of them had been earmarked for a career that they had not antic.i.p.ated as soon as they reached their destination.

Milton might not be able to help them while they were on the boat, but things would be different when they reached land. And suspecting who they were would make it easier for him to do what he had planned to do.

They were the bait.

Part Four.

London.

Chapter Thirty-Six.

MILTON HAD been gone for six days.

Hicks and Sarah had settled into a comfortable arrangement that was interspersed with moments of awkwardness. It was a small flat, and the sleeping arrangements were not perfect. Hicks stayed in the living room, and Sarah remained in the bedroom. There had been occasions where they had surprised each other early in the morning or late at night: Hicks going to the bathroom in his shorts as Sarah emerged from her own room in one of Milton's plain white T-shirts barely large enough to reach down to her thighs. The kitchen was tiny, and it was impossible for either of them to pa.s.s without brushing up against the other. It had happened twice before Hicks resolved not to try to use the room while Sarah was there. That she was attractive was not in question, and nor was it a problem-Hicks had no interest in her romantically-but the press of her body against his made him feel uncomfortable.

He knew why. He hadn't told Rachel the nature of his business in London. He realised, with a pang of guilt, that he had unconsciously shied away from telling her that he was looking after a young, and unquestionably attractive, woman. There was no reason for his reticence other than the fact that what he was doing made him feel nervous. It was the antic.i.p.ation that he might make Rachel unhappy, even though, rationally, he knew that she would understand.

That made him question himself more thoroughly, and he started to worry that he had kept quiet because he had a guilty conscience.

Because he did find Sarah physically attractive. Even though he had no intention of acting on that attraction, that knowledge, and the fact that there was still no sign of Milton's return, made him unsettled.

THEY RETURNED to Epping Forest for another walk and returned to the car at a little after six. They had walked for three hours, deeper into the forest, and Hicks had found that he had enjoyed the time they spent together. Sarah leaned forward as soon as Hicks started the engine and found Spotify on the console.

"I had a radio in Syria," she said as she scrolled through the curated playlists. "Well-it was my boyfriend's. We listened to it all the time."

"You left it behind?"

"Of course. I could not bring it with me."

"You didn't say you had a boyfriend."

She swiped across the screen. "I did. Not anymore."

"What happened?"

"He was killed."

"I'm sorry-"

She kept swiping.

Hicks proceeded delicately. "Was this before you left?"

"No," she said. "Afterwards. He stayed. The government killed him. He was a porter at the hospital in Zafarana. They dropped a barrel bomb onto the town and then, when the injured were taken to hospital, they dropped two more bombs onto it. He died in the second blast. His parents emailed to tell me."

"I'm sorry. I didn't-"

"Why? It's nothing to do with you, Hicks." She found an old-school hip-hop playlist and Twista started to play. "You can't trust men," she said, lightening her words with a laugh that Hicks could tell was manufactured. "My father. Then Joran. They always leave me, one way or another."

She crossed her legs and drummed her fingers on her knee; save the music, there was silence between them. Hicks didn't know how to respond, so he thought about what she had said as he drove them west to Bethnal Green.

She spoke again as he pulled into a parking s.p.a.ce next to Milton's building.