The ferry was equipped with a bow door and the rattle of its chains announced that it was about to be lowered so that embarkation could begin. A gangplank was lowered and the foot pa.s.sengers were encouraged to embark. Milton dawdled, hanging at the back of the crowd, waiting until the traffic started to move. An official in an orange tabard waved the first car forward. The Sprinter was near the front and, as Milton took his first step onto the gangplank, it b.u.mped over the lip of the ramp and was swallowed into the darkened maw of the ferry.

Chapter Forty-Three.

THE CROSSING TO CIVITAVECCHIA was scheduled to take fourteen hours. Milton made his way to the upper deck and stood by the rail as the engine was started, the mooring lines untied and the ship slid away from the dock. They pa.s.sed out of the harbour and turned to the north, the captain marking their departure with a long blast of the horn.

Milton turned away from the rail.

Fourteen hours.

Plenty of time for what he proposed to do.

Milton was thorough. He took an hour to scout the ferry. It was a medium-sized vessel. There was a car deck and then two decks above that for the pa.s.sengers. Green Deck was at the top of the boat, and Milton started there. There was a restaurant and a cafe, bathrooms, and lounges with rows of chairs that were fixed to the floor. There were a handful of pa.s.sengers stretched out on the hard plastic seats in the common areas, a few tourists eating in the restaurant, but not much else besides. The ship was basic, with minimal amenities, and had not been decorated for years. It was shabby and cheap, with peeling paint, doors that were sticky and difficult to open, and dirty windows. There was an open deck at the stern which was, rather optimistically, labelled as a sun deck. Milton walked the deck from bow to stern and didn't see the two smugglers or the girls that they had put into the back of the van.

He methodically repeated the exercise for Blue Deck. It accommodated cabins for the pa.s.sengers, with no real communal s.p.a.ces. There was no sign of the smugglers.

Drivers were supposed to leave their vehicles on the car deck once the ship was underway, but the men would not easily be able to take the women into a public s.p.a.ce without the risk of discovery. Milton suspected that they must have an arrangement with corrupt members of the ferry staff that meant that they could stay with their vehicle.

The car deck was the last place to check. Milton opened the door to the stairs and, bracing himself against the gentle rocking of the ship, he made his way down.

He opened the door and breathed in the smell of motor oil and fumes. The deck was only half full, and he saw the Sprinter immediately. It was up at the front of the deck, surrounded by cars and another, similar van. He saw the shapes of the two men in the front of the vehicle. He looked deeper into the deck and saw the orange tabard that denoted one of the load operators; the man was heading his way, and Milton had no interest in a conversation that might draw attention to him.

It didn't matter. He was satisfied: the men were aboard, and they would need to take breaks for the bathroom and refreshments. He would just have to wait.

MILTON CLIMBED TO THE TOP OF THE SHIP.

He retraced his steps back to the larger of the two cafes. There were tables with plastic coverings, wooden part.i.tions topped with smoked-gla.s.s panels marked with the ferry operator's logo, and half-domed fittings that spilled out harsh ultraviolet light. He went up to the counter and ordered a cup of black coffee and a bowl of reheated pasta and then took a table in the main cafe from where he could see both doors that opened into it. He was famished; he finished the pasta and then went back for a second bowl, together with a limp salad that was soggy with balsamic dressing. He had another coffee and then smoked a cigarette on the deck, the smoke torn into shreds by the stiff breeze as soon as it left his lips.

He went back inside, took his seat again, took off his watch and laid it on the table. He watched as the hands turned about the dial, counting off the hours.

Ten o'clock.

Eleven.

Midnight.

One.

The ferry had been at sea for six hours. Milton was about to go down to the car deck again when he recognised one of the smugglers. It was the young man who had sent Kolo down to the hold. Milton caught only a glimpse of him as he went by, but it was enough: he recognised the same sneer, the unpleasant upturn to his lips, and the glitter of cruelty in his eyes.

There were only a handful of other pa.s.sengers in the cafe, and the man had his pick of vacant tables. He chose one near the door to the sun deck, draped his jacket over the back of a chair, and followed the signs to the restroom.

Milton stayed where he was and watched. It was obvious what the smugglers were doing: they were taking it in shifts to relieve themselves and eat.

The man came back out, collected a tray, and came back with a plate of chips, a burger and a can of c.o.ke.

The smuggler had his back to him; Milton could watch with impunity.

Chapter Forty-Four.

THE SMUGGLER ate his dinner, drained his can of c.o.ke, and then went outside onto the deck.

Milton gave him a moment and then followed.

They were at the stern of the ship. It was cold and there was no one else with them outside. Milton looked back. They were well out at sea by now. Milton glanced up, but he couldn't see any cameras that might record what he had decided to do.

The smuggler was looking back at the wake that patterned the sea behind them, a ghostly trail that stretched away in the ferry's lights. He had his hand to his mouth, and Milton saw a cloud of smoke above his head as he exhaled.

"Excuse me," Milton said.

The man turned, the cigarette in his mouth flaring as he inhaled. He reached up with his thumb and forefinger to remove the cigarette. "What?"

The man was relaxed. He was inclined at a slight angle, leaning back so that the top railing was just below the points of his shoulder blades. His left arm was out straight, resting on the railing, and his legs were crossed, his right ankle resting across the left. Milton took it all in, a.s.sessed it all, considered it.

Milton took out his own cigarettes. He withdrew one and held it up.

"Do you have a light?"

The man looked ready to deliver a rebuke, but, instead, sighed with ostentatious irritation and put his left hand into the hip pocket of his jeans. That was exactly what Milton hoped he might do; he might have been able to hold on with his left hand but, now, his hand restrained within the tight pocket, that would be impossible.

"You don't recognise me, do you?"

"No," the man said, although Milton fancied that a flicker of fear crossed over his face.

"I was on the boat from Sabratah with you."

Milton dropped the cigarette and reached out with his right hand, grabbing the man's belt and sliding his fingers around the leather. He stepped in close, reaching his left hand up to the smuggler's sternum and pushing down even as he heaved up on the belt. The man realised, too late, what Milton was doing, and tried to struggle. It was futile. Milton had raised him up enough so that the railing was halfway down his back, a useful fulcrum for him to pivot the man over. The man struggled, but he had no purchase, no anchor, no way of resisting Milton's impetus.

Milton leaned closer so that his voice was the last thing the man heard. "Can you swim?" he said.

He released his grip on the belt, looped his right arm beneath the man's knees, and gave one final heave.

The smuggler toppled over the railing and fell down into the storm of wash below.

Milton saw the splash, but the sound of it was inaudible. He could see the young man struggling against the frothy spume. The ferry was moving quickly, and the man was already twenty metres away. Milton could see his arms waving. He might have been calling out, but that would have been pointless; the engines were loud, and the sound of the rushing water added to the noise.

Milton turned his back and straightened the sleeves of his jacket.

A man and his teenage son emerged from the restaurant.

"Evening," Milton said.

"h.e.l.lo."

Milton smiled and went back into the warmth.

Chapter Forty-Five.

MILTON WENT back down to the car deck again. He could see the dark shape of the second man in the pa.s.senger seat of the Sprinter. He followed the side of the deck until he was out of sight of the van and then returned to it on the other side, staying down low and keeping out of sight of the mirrors as best he could. There were two members of the crew at the far end of the deck, but they were turned away and engaged in conversation; Milton was not concerned that he would be seen.

He advanced one car at a time until he was at the back of the Mercedes. The windows were tinted and he couldn't see through them, but he crouched down low enough that he wouldn't be visible from the interior and took out the small pistol that Omar had given him in Tripoli. He checked that it was ready to fire and, holding it in his right hand, he stayed low and skirted the van until he was just behind the pa.s.senger door. He glanced up: the handle needed to be squeezed in order to activate the operating levers inside the door cavity. He checked that the crew members were distracted, and was pleased to see that they had moved farther away. The noise of the engines seemed to be a little louder, too, which was doubly fortunate. He would not be observed.

He reached up with his left hand, shuffling a little closer to reach the handle more easily, squeezed the handle and yanked the door open.

The second smuggler was watching a film on an old iPad. He was older than the man Milton had tossed overboard, but still young. He had his feet propped up against the dash, both hands laced behind his head and the iPad resting in his lap. He turned at the sound of the door opening, the sudden movement dislodging the iPad so that it fell onto the seat and then into the footwell. The man put his feet down and unclasped his hands so that he could start to reach for the glovebox, but there was no way that he would be able to get there before Milton jammed the pistol into his ribs.

"Shush," Milton said, putting his finger to his lips. "Put your hands on the dashboard and spread your legs."

The man hesitated, unsure of what to do.

"Now."

Milton frisked him. In his inside pocket were a pa.s.sport and a wallet that was thick with banknotes; he tossed them onto the seat. He patted the front pockets of his black jeans and took out a b.u.t.terfly knife. The man had a Samsung phone in the opposite pocket and nothing else of note.

"Get into the other seat."

Milton trained the gun on him as the smuggler shuffled across the seats. The man caught the hem of his trousers on the handbrake, jerking his leg until he could free it, and then raised his hands before his chest as he half-turned in the driver's seat. "What do you want?"

"I'd like to talk to you."

"About?"

"We'll get to that."

"And then?"

"Depends on what you tell me."

Milton quietly closed the door and settled into the seat. The gun was still in his right hand, his elbow resting against his ribs, his arm held steady and his aim true. The smuggler looked down at the ugly pistol and then up again at Milton. He could see that he was uncertain, but not yet cowed; he would have liked to crack him across the scalp with the b.u.t.t of the pistol, but that would have left a mark and Milton couldn't be sure that he mightn't still need him. An obvious wound would risk giving the game away.

"What's your name?"

"Hamza."

"Very good, Hamza. Next question: the girls in the back," he said, giving a small nod of his head to indicate them. "Where are you taking them?"

"Italy."

Milton switched the gun to his left hand, resting it in his lap. "And then?"

"I don't know."

Milton slapped the man in the face. He struck him with an open hand, not hard enough to leave a mark, and, when the man looked back again, his eyes burning with fresh anger, Milton cuffed him again.

"Try again, Hamza."

"Or what? You will slap me?"

Milton shuffled closer, grabbed the man by the hair and dragged his head back. He pushed the muzzle of the gun into his mouth.

"No," Milton said. "I'll shoot you."

Hamza's eyes bulged fearfully.

"Aren't you curious why your friend hasn't come back?"

Hamza couldn't speak with the gun in his mouth.

"He's not coming back," Milton said. "He's dead. I threw him overboard. And unless you start doing what you're told, I'll kill you too."

Hamza couldn't swallow, and a trail of saliva ran out of the side of his mouth.

"Shall we try again?"

He nodded.

Milton withdrew the gun and aimed it at him again. "Good. So, like I said, I have some questions for you. Shall we start with that easy one? The girls. Where are you taking them?"

"France."

"Go on."

"There is a place where the immigrants go, where they try to get into Britain."

"Outside Calais? The Jungle?"

"The Jungle, yes-the camp. There is a meeting there."

"What happens?"