“We need a ship’s name,” says Ruiz.
“Or a sailing time,” echoes Hokke.
I stare at the slip of paper. It’s not enough. We can’t phone ahead and alert Customs or the police. What would we tell them?
“Most likely they want to smuggle her into the U.K.,” I say. “They’ve used Harwich before.”
“They might choose an alternative port this time.”
“Or stick to what they know.”
Hokke shakes his head. It is a wild impossible chase. Rotterdam is the biggest container port in Europe. He has an idea. A friend, a former police officer, works for a private security firm that patrols some of the terminals.
Hokke calls him. They chat to each other gruffly, in stern sentences full of Dutch consonants. Meanwhile, I follow the brightly lit motorway signs, counting down the kilometers and the minutes. In the moonlight I can make out wind turbines like ghostly giants marching across the fields.
Trucks and semis are nose-to-tail in the outside lane. I wonder if Samira could be inside one of them. What must it be like? Deafening. Black. Lonely.
Hokke finishes the call and outlines the possibilities. Security is tight around the terminals and docks with CCTV cameras on the fences and regular dog patrols. Once inside there are Customs checks, heat-seeking scanners and more dogs. More than six and a half million shipping containers pass through the port every year. These have to be specially sealed. Empty containers awaiting transfer are a different story but even if someone breached the security and reached the containers, they wouldn’t know which ship it was meant to be loaded on unless they had inside information.
“Which means they’re more likely to target a truck
Hokke nods. “We’re probably looking at roll-on, roll-off ferries. There are two major ferry operators doing North Sea crossings. Stena Line has a terminal on the Hook of Holland. PO operates from a dock fifteen kilometers farther east, closer to the city.”
We’re still twenty miles away and it’s nearly eight thirty.
Hokke makes another call, getting a timetable of departures, calling out the details. A PO ferry sails for Hull at nine o’clock. The Stena Line night ferry to Harwich leaves at eleven. Both arrive in the U.K. in the early hours of tomorrow morning.
“Are you carrying a passport, grasshopper?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You want to take the first ferry or the second?”
“I’ll take the second.”
Ruiz nods in agreement. “Anyone know the weather forecast?”
Hokke is on the mobile to PO seeing if they will hold the passenger gates open. They’re supposed to close fifteen minutes before departure, which means we won’t make it.
We’re basing our assumptions on a ratio of about 2 percent detail and 98 percent desire. Even if Samira is on board one of the ferries, she won’t be mingling with other passengers. They’ll keep her hidden. How are we going to find her?
My mind aches when I think about her. I made promises. I said I would find Zala and keep her safe. What am I going to say to her?
De Souza asked if I wanted the babies for myself. It was a ridiculous suggestion. Why would he say that? I’m doing this for Cate and for Samira. For the twins.
The docks are lit up for miles. Cranes and gantries act as massive lighting towers, painting the hulls of ships and rows of stacked containers. The water is dark and solid in between, and the waves are hardly waves at all, they’re wrinkles on a sluggish river.
The taxi pulls up outside the PO terminal. Ruiz is out the door before we stop moving. A week of maddening pain and morphine won’t slow him down.
“Good luck,” he yells without turning back. “I’m going to find her first.”
“Yeah, right. You’ll spend your entire time throwing up.”
His hand rises. One finger extends.
The Stena Line terminal is at the western edge of the port where the Hook of Holland reaches out into the North Sea. The taxi drops me and I say goodbye to Hokke.
“I can never repay you.”
“But you will,” he laughs, pointing to the meter.
I give him all my remaining Euros for he still has to get home.
He kisses me three times—left cheek, right cheek and left cheek again.
“Be careful.”
“I will.”
I have an hour until the
Seagulls circle and swoop for insects in the beam of the spotlights. They appear so graceful in flight yet they squabble like fishwives on the ground. And they always sound so desperately sad, wailing in misery like creatures already condemned to hell.
Many trucks and trailers are already on board. I can see them lined up on the open decks, a few feet apart, buttressed hard against the stern railings. More trucks are queuing on the loading ramp. Meanwhile cars and vans are being marshaled in a different parking area, waiting their turn.
A young woman in the ticket office wears a light blue skirt and matching jacket, like a maritime stewardess. “You will need to write down the details of your vehicle,” she says.
“I don’t have a vehicle.”
“I’m sorry but there is no pedestrian footbridge on this service. We cannot board foot passengers.”
“But I have to catch this ferry.”
“That is not possible.” She glances over my shoulder. “Perhaps…?”
An elderly couple has just pulled up in an early-model Range Rover towing an old-fashioned caravan that looks like a Cinderella pumpkin carriage. The driver is bald with a small goatee that could be a shaving oversight. His wife is twice his size, wearing acres of denim across her hips. They look Welsh and sound Welsh.
“What is it, pet?” she asks, as I interrupt their cup of thermos tea.
“They won’t let me onto the ferry as a foot passenger. I really need to get back to England. I was wondering if I could ride with you.”
Husband and wife look at each other.
“Are you a terrorist?” he asks.
“No.”
“Are you carrying drugs?”
“No.”
“Do you vote Tory?”
“No.”
“Are you a Catholic?”
“No.”
He winks at his wife. “Clear on all counts.”
“Welcome aboard,” she announces, thrusting out her hand. “I’m Bridget Jones. Not the fat one from the movies—the fatter one from Cardiff. This is Bryce, my husband.”
The Range Rover is packed to the gunwales with suitcases, shopping bags and duty-free: Dutch cheeses, French sausage, two cases of Stella Artois, a bottle of Baileys Irish Cream and assorted souvenirs.
They are very cute. A twee couple, with matching lumbar cushions and traveling mugs. Mr. Jones is wearing driving gloves with cut-off fingers and she has road maps, color-coded in a pocket on the dashboard.
“We’ve been to Poland,” she announces.
“Really?”
