It is the last category who are interesting. Crew members have to show proof of identity in the form of passports, and they require temporary working papers from the Greek government. They are usually hired by Xenides through a local Athens employment agency which has strong ties to sources of labour – the Philippines, Indonesia, etc. In the past year, however, Xenides has used a new employment agency which is Pakistani-owned, so unsurprisingly more crewmen have started to come from Pakistan.
On this occasion, after the unsuccessful hijacking and a delay of half a day, the Aristides continued on down the east coast of Africa to Kenya, where it offloaded its cargo in Mombasa. Its crew were then granted shore leave of two days, but 6 of them did not return when the ship was due to sail. Occasionally crewmen jump ship during a voyage, usually when the ship stops at a port offering temptations – Marseilles and Beirut most famously. Mombasa is not known for its onshore attractions. But despite the Captain’s delaying departure by 12 hours, none of the missing men reboarded, and Captain Steffer finally sailed without them.
The missing 6 were the Pakistani contingent. Steffer told me he had already formed suspicions about them because they spoke to each other in English rather than in Urdu. Greek liaison has sent copies of their employment papers and photocopies of their passports. There are many obvious irregularities: one passport gave the date of birth for a very young-looking man as 1960.
It is unlikely that any of the 6 Pakistani crewmen were who they claimed to be. It is highly probable that assumed identities backed up by forged or stolen documents were used to establish the credentials that allowed them to be employed on board the Aristides.
The questions that remain are who these people really were/are, why they enlisted on the Aristides, why they disappeared and where they are now.
PK
Peggy was sitting at her desk, just beginning to think about what she and Tim would have for supper. Around her, a few colleagues were packing up for the day. The phone on her desk rang; she picked up the receiver. As she listened, the blood drained from her face. She ended the call, picked up a sheaf of papers from the desk and walked quickly out of the office.
Liz was putting papers in her security cupboard for the night when Peggy appeared in the doorway. Liz knew immediately from her expression that neither of them would be going home soon. She sat down heavily at the desk and waved Peggy to a chair.
‘What’s up?’
‘It’s from the internet café at the mosque. You know we’ve managed to work out from Boatman’s identifications that it’s being used by several of Bakri’s followers? They’re in touch with all sorts of radical Islamic groups, in London and Pakistan. Up to now it’s been general extremist chatter. But I’ve just heard that they’re talking about “silencing” someone.’
‘Oh, God. Who do they want to silence?’ said Liz, putting her head in her hands.
‘No names. But it’s someone at the New Springfield Mosque. That’s got to be Boatman.’
‘Yes, you’re right. He’s blown. At least, we’ve got to assume he is. We’re going to have to pull him out right away. Where’s Kanaan?’
‘He’s on holiday… back in the morning. He was going to see Boatman tomorrow evening.’
‘We can’t wait. I’ll get hold of Dave Armstrong – we need to move on this right away. You’d better brief Lamb Lincoln – tell him it’s urgent, top priority. We’ll need total A4 coverage. If there’s any problem, let me know and I’ll ring DG.’
Salim had tried to see Malik again, but the other man had proved elusive. He had not been at prayers at the New Springfield Mosque and he hadn’t attended the latest session of the imam’s study group.
As Salim had left Friday prayers, he’d spotted Malik in front of the mosque, talking to a Yemeni man who had arrived only the month before. Salim had decided to wait on the front steps until Malik was free. But there had been a distraction – some white boys had passed by and shouted obscenities at the robed worshippers, and by the time they’d been driven off by a group of angry Muslims, Malik had disappeared.
Today, Salim left work slightly late, delayed by a lingering customer in his uncle’s hardware shop – an Asian man, young and bearded, who’d walked slowly up and down all the aisles. When Salim had asked if he wanted help, the man had brusquely said no. Then, a minute later, he’d left empty-handed.
Out on the High Street, seeing the bus approach, Salim ran to the stop. The effort made him pant and he realised how tired he was; he worked long hours for his uncle – 6.30 to 7 on weekdays; 8 to 6 on Saturdays; only on Sundays did they close a little early. As a single man he hadn’t minded; now he was married he found himself watching the clock, eager to get home to Jamila, his bride.
