"But you know where he is?"

"Some ideas, yes. He has a series of operating bases within the Sahara." Omar took out a map and laid it over the photograph. "He has a base here." He pointed to a spot on the map. "This is Kufra. It is in the middle of the desert. It has always been a home to smugglers. It is along the trans-Saharan slave route from the Horn of Africa. It is still that way today. They ship everything through Kufra: fuel, weapons, food. And people. Ali transports Eritreans across the Sudanese border and then brings them north to the coast. It has never been safe, but, since the revolution, ISIS has taken the land around it. There is so much chaos now, it is easy for men like Ali to flourish."

"What about Tripoli?"

"His headquarters are in Abu Salim. It is a dangerous area, particularly for a Westerner."

"Where in Abu Salim?"

"Mr. Smith, I am serious: you will have to be very careful. They do not like people looking into their business. And he is very rarely here. He does not stay in the same place."

"I need more than this, Omar."

"I realise that. And I have a contact within his organisation. We placed a man within the uprising before Gaddafi fell. He is a h.o.m.os.e.xual-they would kill him if they found out, so he has remained loyal to us."

"Very nice."

"Please. Are you suggesting that British intelligence wouldn't do such a thing? Come, now-I know you are not that nave."

Milton shrugged. "Tell me about the contact."

"He has stayed with the militia and provides intelligence to the Mukhabarat. I spoke with this man-he provided me with the information that I have given you. He says that you will not be able to talk to Ali. He would kill you if he knew that you had come here. Even if Ali did agree to meet, it is obvious that he would not willingly discuss his arrangements in Italy with you."

"He doesn't have to be willing," Milton said. "I can be persuasive."

"No, not this time. But there is another way. My contact says that they are filling another boat now. It is due to sail tomorrow. He has agreed to speak with you. He says there are girls on the boat who have been selected for the kind of businesses that you mentioned to me yesterday. It is the pimps you really want, yes?"

Milton nodded.

"So if he can tell you where the boat is due to land, then you could fly out and meet it. The crossing takes two days. You would have plenty of time. My contact tells me that the pimps will be there for an exchange when they land. You could be there to meet them."

Milton considered the suggestion. "When does the boat leave?"

"Tomorrow morning, before dawn."

"I need to speak to your man now, then."

Omar took off his sungla.s.ses and rested them on the table. "He has been reliable so far, but you should think carefully before involving yourself with him. Ali is dangerous. If he was to find out, he would have no hesitation in killing you."

Milton put on his own gla.s.ses. "Arrange a meet."

"I have already made the arrangements. He will meet you before evening prayers. He will be outside the Abu Shaala mosque."

"Where is that?"

"Abu Salim."

"And the gun?"

"I'll have it for you tomorrow. We will meet here again."

Chapter Twenty-Eight.

MILTON LOOKED AROUND WARILY.

Abu Salim was everything that Omar had warned him it would be. The district was five miles to the south of the coast and dominated by Abu Salim prison. Milton remembered the facility from his last visit to the city. It had become notorious following the ma.s.sacre of over a thousand prisoners over two days in 1996. They said that the vultures had fed there for days, swooping down and picking at the entrails of the men who had been left in the courtyard to rot. The prison yard itself had now been turned into a vast car market, where locals picked through the hundreds of barely functioning wrecks in the vain hope of finding a bargain. The streets that led away from the prison were beaten down and poor. Precarious apartment blocks stood in need of repair, burned-out cars had been pushed up against the walls, piles of debris spilled out from collapsed buildings, and trash was blown around on the breeze. The locals, too, bore the signs of neglect: there were long queues at the stores that had food, queues of angry cars bullied their way onto gas station forecourts, and pedestrians walked along the side of the road with their eyes downcast, hammered by the sun and the weight of their problems.

The mosque was large, with a particularly tall minaret that Milton was able to see as soon as his taxi entered the district. As they drew closer, he was able to make out more detail: the tall spire with the onion-shaped crown, the gallery from which the muezzin would deliver the call to prayer, the roof-like canopy, the decorative cornices and arches. The mosque itself was surmounted by a large dome, and its walls were topped with decorative crenulations that put Milton in mind of battlements.

The taxi driver pulled up outside the entrance. The area was busy with worshippers who were heeding the call to the Maghrib prayer.

Milton paid the man and asked him to wait. He got out, shut the door and had begun to look around when he heard the sound of the engine and turned back to see the taxi pulling away. There was no point in going after it; it was already too far away and he would just draw attention to himself. He felt vulnerable, though. This was not a friendly neighbourhood, particularly for a Westerner, and he wasn't armed.

The mosque had been built on generous grounds and was surrounded by lawns that were suffering a little in the heat. There was a path that led between two trees to the entrance, and Milton started down it, falling in behind a group of four men who were conversing amiably as they made their way to prayer.

Milton stopped at the entrance, looking left and right for any sign of the man whom he had come here to meet. He didn't see anyone, and, fearful of being spotted as an outsider, he was about to leave when he saw a man step out of the mosque. He was of short stature and slender, and, despite a swagger that looked a little too affected, Milton could see that he was nervous. Milton turned and glanced over at him, then walked away from the entrance until he was in the shade of a tree.

The man followed.

"Mr. Smith?"

"Yes."

"I am Mustafa."

"Where do you want to talk?"

"You must come with me."

He walked on. Milton let him put a little distance between them both and then followed. Mustafa led the way to a car that had been parked in the alleyway behind the mosque.

"Where are we going?" Milton asked.

"We cannot talk here. It's not safe. Ali has eyes everywhere. It is better if we are on the move."

Milton got inside. Mustafa went around to the driver's side, got into the car, started the engine and pulled away.

"Ali is paranoid. But one does not become as successful as he is without caution."

Mustafa drove them away from Abu Salim and onto the modern highway that led to the airport. He glanced up to the rear-view again and again, his fingers drumming against the wheel.

"Relax," Milton said. "We're not being followed."

"Ali is everywhere. How can you be so sure?"

Milton looked in the mirror. "The road is empty. And I'm good at spotting a tail. We don't have one."

Mustafa did not appear to be persuaded, but, as they drove south, he started to relax. Milton took the opportunity to look him over. He was slender, with light brown skin and a narrow face. He was wearing a ball cap that was pulled down low on his forehead, and he had a patchy beard, trimmed around the mouth and beneath the nose, but wispy and unimpressive on his cheeks. Milton guessed that he was young: twenty-five, perhaps, maybe even younger than that.

They drove south in silence for twenty minutes until they reached a large roundabout where the Airport Highway and Qaser Bin Ghashir-Sawani Road met. The traffic grew a little denser, and Mustafa muscled their way around it until they were able to continue to the east. The open s.p.a.ces of the airport were visible through the wire mesh fence to their right.

They were fifteen miles from Abu Salim now, and Mustafa seemed finally able to relax.

"Are you okay?" Milton asked.

"I'm fine," he said defensively, as if Milton had questioned his bravery. "I'm only here because of Omar."

"I don't care why. You're here, and you're going to help me. Right?"

Mustafa tensed. "Maybe. What do you want?"

"Information."

"About?"

"Ali has an arrangement. He sells women to pimps in Europe. The women go into the s.e.x industry. There was an Eritrean woman, quite young, several weeks ago. Ali put her and her brother on a boat here, and they sailed to Lampedusa. They were split up. The woman was taken to France and then sold to Albanian pimps."

"And?"

"And I want you to tell me everything you know about that."

"I know it happens," Mustafa said. "They pick out the good-looking girls here. Ali has a man; he takes their pictures before they get on the boat. The ones they like, they make sure they are treated very well on the crossing. They are given water and food, life jackets, they stay on the top deck rather than going down below."

"What happens then?"

"When they land? They drive them to wherever they need to go. France, as you say. Italy, Spain, Germany. They are introduced to the purchasers and the deal is done. After that, I cannot tell you."

"There is a boat leaving soon?"

"The day after tomorrow."

"And there will be girls on the boat who will be sold?"

"Yes. There are several."

"I need you to find out where that boat is going to sail to."

"Why?"

"Just find out, Mustafa. That's all I need you to do. Tell me when it is leaving and where it is going. Lampedusa, Malta, Italy, wherever. Find out for me and I'll tell Omar you've done a good job. You won't need to do anything else and you'll never see me again."

"Why are you interested in this?"

"It doesn't matter why."

"Are you a journalist? Writing a story?"

"No."

"Then you are police?"

"I'm not police. It doesn't matter who I am or why I'm interested. You just need to get me that information. Do you understand?"

They pa.s.sed a slip road that was signposted for the Wadi Alrabie Road. The city was to the west, to the left of the car.

"I will try," Mustafa said. "I will speak to the men and see what I can find. We meet again tomorrow, yes?"

Chapter Twenty-Nine.

MUSTAFA HAD DROPPED MILTON outside an abandoned movie theatre on the edge of Abu Salim. He took a bus into the centre of Tripoli and had walked back to his hotel. He turned up the air conditioning and slept. He had an early breakfast, left the hotel at eight and then took a taxi back to the movie theatre.

Mustafa was waiting for him.

Milton got into the car, and Mustafa drove them both away.

"Well?" Milton said.

"There is a problem."

"The boat?"

"It is as I thought. A boat is leaving tomorrow morning. I know what time it is leaving, and where it is leaving from."

"But?"

"I don't know where it is going."

"I need to know, Mustafa."

"I understand that, but I cannot find out. It used to be common knowledge, but Ali has changed things. He is worried, I think, about the boats being intercepted. The Italian navy found the last boat and sent it back. Ali thinks they were warned. Now he only tells a few of the men. And I am not one of them."

Milton gritted his teeth. "So tell me what you do know. Where is it going from?"

"Sabratah. It is a fishing town to the northwest of here. It is fought over by the militia and ISIS. Very dangerous. The government is not there any longer. There are no officials. No police, no army. A lot of chaos. It is very easy to sail a boat out of the harbour. No one cares."

"And from there?"