and stretched. A fork lift truck was already at the bottom of the ramp, preparing to drive up and get the first pallet.
The French aid workers were getting on with their assigned tasks and no one paid any attention to Shepherd as he walked carefully into the blinding sunshine. To his left was a line of white trucks and a dozen or so Turkish men in overalls with the name of the aid company on the back. To the right three white SUVs were similarly marked. Half a dozen casually dressed Westerners were standing in a huddle, smoking cigarettes. They were all in sunglasses and baseball caps.
Some distance away armed security guards in cargo pants and waistcoats carried their weapons of choice: Glocks on the hip and American-made M4 carbines held to the chest.
A good-looking guy in khaki cargos and a faded denim shirt stood alone. He had wraparound sunglasses and jet black hair that he kept flicking away from his face. His shoulders and forearms suggested he worked out a lot.
He smiled. ‘John?’
Shepherd nodded.
‘Craig Parker.’ He had a firm handshake and offered to carry Shepherd’s camera bag. Shepherd shook his head and followed him to a black Jeep, parked behind the SUVs. Next to the Jeep a white Toyota Landcruiser contained four young Western men wearing khaki fatigues and wraparound Oakley sunglasses.
‘We’re about fifty kilometres from the camp,’ said Parker, as he climbed into the driving seat. ‘It’ll take us about an hour.’ He started the engine and headed for the airport exit. The Landcruiser followed.
Shepherd gestured at it. ‘Your security?’
Parker nodded. ‘They go everywhere I go. The camp is close to the border so there’s always the worry that IS will launch an attack.’
‘You might think about telling them they should go ahead of your vehicle if they’re serious about protecting you.’
Parker pulled a face. ‘I hadn’t thought of that.’
‘Also, they need to get out their vehicle before you exit yours. The airport is probably secure, but it’s good practice. Before you get out they should be securing the area for you.’
‘You’re right. I’ll talk to them.’
‘Your NGO pays for them?’
‘Yeah, there’s a security company that does protection worldwide. They’ve got a good reputation. The guys with me are South Africans.’
Shepherd sat back and folded his arms. They left the airport and drove down a decent highway. There was a line of rocky hills to his left and barren land to his right. The sky was cloudless and Parker had the Jeep’s air-con on full blast.
‘How much are you allowed to tell me?’ asked Parker.
‘Not much.’
‘But you’re not a journalist, obviously.’
Shepherd forced a smile.
‘Journalists aren’t interested in what’s happening here,’ said Parker. ‘All they care about is the ones going to the UK. They ignore the millions of refugees here who are just grateful to be out of the hellhole that Syria has become.’
‘To be honest, Craig, I’m only concerned about the ones that are making their way to England. You work for a charity, but I don’t.’
‘Message received and understood,’ said Parker.
‘So, tell me what you can about Yusuf,’ said Shepherd.
‘He’s very smooth,’ said Parker. ‘Not at all what you’d expect a people-smuggler to be. Brings food and drugs into the camp, supplies for the school.’
‘Drugs?’
Parker smiled. ‘Medical supplies. Antibiotics. Whatever we need. Logistics out here aren’t great. Say we run short of insulin, Yusuf can usually lay his hands on some at short notice.’
‘No questions asked?’
‘If we’ve got a kid with bad diabetes, I’m not going to start asking him where he got it from.’
‘I’m guessing there’s a quid pro quo. He helps you, and you do what for him?’
‘I know what it sounds like, but we keep a close eye on him.’
‘While he’s doing what?’
Parker sighed. ‘He moves around the camp, talking to the refugees, seeing what they
The French aid workers were getting on with their assigned tasks and no one paid any attention to Shepherd as he walked carefully into the blinding sunshine. To his left was a line of white trucks and a dozen or so Turkish men in overalls with the name of the aid company on the back. To the right three white SUVs were similarly marked. Half a dozen casually dressed Westerners were standing in a huddle, smoking cigarettes. They were all in sunglasses and baseball caps.
Some distance away armed security guards in cargo pants and waistcoats carried their weapons of choice: Glocks on the hip and American-made M4 carbines held to the chest.
A good-looking guy in khaki cargos and a faded denim shirt stood alone. He had wraparound sunglasses and jet black hair that he kept flicking away from his face. His shoulders and forearms suggested he worked out a lot.
He smiled. ‘John?’
Shepherd nodded.
‘Craig Parker.’ He had a firm handshake and offered to carry Shepherd’s camera bag. Shepherd shook his head and followed him to a black Jeep, parked behind the SUVs. Next to the Jeep a white Toyota Landcruiser contained four young Western men wearing khaki fatigues and wraparound Oakley sunglasses.
‘We’re about fifty kilometres from the camp,’ said Parker, as he climbed into the driving seat. ‘It’ll take us about an hour.’ He started the engine and headed for the airport exit. The Landcruiser followed.
Shepherd gestured at it. ‘Your security?’
Parker nodded. ‘They go everywhere I go. The camp is close to the border so there’s always the worry that IS will launch an attack.’
‘You might think about telling them they should go ahead of your vehicle if they’re serious about protecting you.’
Parker pulled a face. ‘I hadn’t thought of that.’
‘Also, they need to get out their vehicle before you exit yours. The airport is probably secure, but it’s good practice. Before you get out they should be securing the area for you.’
‘You’re right. I’ll talk to them.’
‘Your NGO pays for them?’
‘Yeah, there’s a security company that does protection worldwide. They’ve got a good reputation. The guys with me are South Africans.’
Shepherd sat back and folded his arms. They left the airport and drove down a decent highway. There was a line of rocky hills to his left and barren land to his right. The sky was cloudless and Parker had the Jeep’s air-con on full blast.
‘How much are you allowed to tell me?’ asked Parker.
‘Not much.’
‘But you’re not a journalist, obviously.’
Shepherd forced a smile.
‘Journalists aren’t interested in what’s happening here,’ said Parker. ‘All they care about is the ones going to the UK. They ignore the millions of refugees here who are just grateful to be out of the hellhole that Syria has become.’
‘To be honest, Craig, I’m only concerned about the ones that are making their way to England. You work for a charity, but I don’t.’
‘Message received and understood,’ said Parker.
‘So, tell me what you can about Yusuf,’ said Shepherd.
‘He’s very smooth,’ said Parker. ‘Not at all what you’d expect a people-smuggler to be. Brings food and drugs into the camp, supplies for the school.’
‘Drugs?’
Parker smiled. ‘Medical supplies. Antibiotics. Whatever we need. Logistics out here aren’t great. Say we run short of insulin, Yusuf can usually lay his hands on some at short notice.’
‘No questions asked?’
‘If we’ve got a kid with bad diabetes, I’m not going to start asking him where he got it from.’
‘I’m guessing there’s a quid pro quo. He helps you, and you do what for him?’
‘I know what it sounds like, but we keep a close eye on him.’
‘While he’s doing what?’
Parker sighed. ‘He moves around the camp, talking to the refugees, seeing what they
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