Chapter 19
The fishing village of Zaquiz is on the Mediterranean coast, some twenty miles east of Algiers.
Eighty percent of the country’s import-export traffic flows through the capital, most of it legitimate.
Because of Zaquiz’s proximity, and for many other reasons, not the least of which was the legendary corruption of the police and customs officials, the village had always been a smuggler’s paradise.
Untaxed goods like silk, olive oil, and leather were loaded at night onto small ships and boats with suspicious registrations, or none at all, and captained by tough men with plenty of fake credentials, just in case anyone asked, but that rarely happened.
The ships and boats took their freight to other shady ports along the Spanish and French coasts.
They returned at night laden with illegal cargo—drugs, alcohol, guns, stolen merchandise like motorcycles, cell phones, and televisions.
And often they brought people. Prostitutes were needed to service the tourists.
Sex trafficking was common along the northern coast of Africa.
Paul arrived with a boatload of heroin and hookers, though the women did not know he was aboard.
He was stuffed in a metal shipping crate, about ten feet long and three feet wide.
It was the type of container the smugglers preferred; not too heavy, easily stacked, easily moved quickly by a couple of dockworkers in case the police were nosing about. That never happened either.
He was wrapped in black cloth from head to foot, with his ankles and wrists bound with plastic cuffs, but not too tight.
He wasn’t going anywhere because the sedatives they were juicing him with were practically killing him.
He couldn’t speak or yell or groan if he wanted to.
He was blindfolded and his ears were stuffed with coarse cotton.
If he’d been given food he would have soiled himself, but he had not eaten in days.
The container was hot and he was soaked with sweat, but there was enough ventilation to survive.
His death was not yet planned and he was more valuable alive.
Every hour or so his handler partially opened the lid to make sure he was still breathing, give him a sip of water, or hit him with another needle.
When the lid was sealed and he had some level of consciousness, he tried to think of Chelsea, the only person, place, or thing that could hold his fragile attention.
—
After sixteen hours at sea, the ship docked in the dark at the Zaquiz harbor.
As always, the police and customs boys were sound asleep.
The prostitutes were whisked off first and hustled to a waiting van.
A ragtag crew of burly stevedores watched them with lust and tossed a few obscenities.
Then they all lit cigarettes, stuck them in the corner of their mouths, and began unloading the unmarked crates filled with contraband.
They had no idea one of them contained a human, but nothing would have surprised them.
Paul was rolled down the pier, where, at the end, a long-wheelbase military jeep was waiting.
Two armed men opened the crate, lifted him roughly, dragged him a few feet, tossed him into the rear of the jeep, and covered him with a tarp.
He was awake just enough to know the vehicle was moving.
For a moment or two it was on asphalt, but that soon gave way to gravel.
Then dirt. The ride grew rougher, and Paul began to retch.
He would have vomited if there had been anything in his system.
The jeep stopped and the men mumbled between themselves.
The tarp was pulled back and Paul’s black hood was removed.
He saw two blurred images, faces of whoever, and for a second saw stars in the sky.
The plastic band was removed from his wrists and he rubbed his hands.
They, along with his feet, had been numb for hours.
If given the chance, he knew he couldn’t stand up.
He was handed a bottle of warm water and he gulped it down. He almost said “Thanks.”
They grabbed his left wrist and cuffed it to a steel brace behind the passenger seat.
—
He had no concept of time, but at the next stop he saw hints of yellow and orange.
The sun was making its appearance in the east. They uncuffed him and actually helped him climb out of the jeep.
When his feet touched the sand, his legs collapsed and he fell, groaning in pain.
They were amused and laughed at him. He collected himself on all-fours, and once steady managed to stand.
Pain shot up and down his legs like hot knives.
He was determined not to make another sound, so he gritted his teeth, turned his back on them, and urinated.
Both were holding guns, fingers on triggers.
They were dressed in desert camo and black and carried other weapons.
They were unshaven, darker-skinned, rather intimidating chaps.
And what was most disturbing was the fact that they no longer cared if he saw their faces.
Paul figured they would kill him sooner or later, so it didn’t matter if he could ever identify them.
Identify them to whom? He was deep in a desert, not even certain which continent he was on. It was impossible to even think about someone coming to his rescue.
One of the men offered him a chunk of dark bread with a thick slice of cheese in the middle of it.
He took it and began eating. Sunlight was falling over the desert, and Paul saw what he thought was the outline of mountains far in the distance.
The sandwich was stale and dry, and utterly delicious.
He could not remember his last bite of food.
Wherever they were going, they were in no rush to get there. Perhaps time meant something else in the desert. One of them tossed a blanket on the sand beside the jeep and lay down for a little snooze.
Paul looked at the other one and asked, “Can I walk around?”
He nodded with his gun, and Paul began taking small steps back down the road, which was little more than ruts ground into the sand. After a hundred yards, his escort said, “Stop.” He motioned for Paul to turn around.
When the break was over, they got in the jeep, put Paul under a tarp, and rode for about an hour, though it could have been two or three. They stopped, and the two men cuffed him again and yanked the veil over his face. When he was still, another needle went into his bicep.