Romanian Connection

By Keith Hoare

It all started with a letter from Nigeria, that led to uncovering a trafficking route, which leads Karen Harris, commander of Unit T, into the very core of the trafficker groups. Nevertheless, the traffickers are fighting back. Her soldiers' families are no longer safe, as the fight becomes more and more deadly. This results in Karen going covert to try to get around the impasse, leaving her vulnerable, without backup, fighting a trafficker out to destroy her this time.
The ‘Connection’ series, once again, takes the reader deep into the very dangerous world of the criminals engaged, not only in drugs, but people trafficking, which exists in every town and city. It is not for the faint-hearted, but nevertheless makes compulsive reading.

The authors note: Romanian Connection is the fourth book in the Connection series, following on from the Italian Connection. Although the book can be read and enjoyed as a standalone story.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ragged Cover Publishing
• Release date: Feb 3, 2015
• ISBN: 9781908090409

Book preview

Chapter 1

Kwesi Gueye came to a screeching halt outside his modest house in a village a hundred miles from the Nigerian capital, Abuja. The vehicle was a battered flat truck, used to take their produce to market. Kwesi ran inside; his wife was sitting at the table with her head in her hands, sobbing her heart away.

Where is Misrak? he demanded.

She looked up and ran to him. She’s been taken at the river, along with her two friends. We’ve lost her, Kwesi, she said, then started sobbing uncontrollably once more.

Kwesi pushed her to one side and grabbed a machete hanging on the wall, then stormed out of the house.

She chased after him. Where are you going, husband? she cried out.

I will get her back, you will see, he shouted back at her. Then, before she could say another word, he started the truck, driving away like a man possessed, tyres screeching, the vehicle throwing up a dust cloud behind it.

His wife walked slowly back into the house. She knew it would be a fruitless effort; many girls had been taken by this gang, destined to end up as prostitutes on the lucrative streets of Europe.

***

Three hours’ drive brought Kwesi to the outskirts of Abuja and into one of the many shanty towns surrounding the city. The people who lived here were not of his tribe and were partially suburbanised, many having left the fields to work in the city. It was easier, and offered many opportunities. One such opportunity, for the more violent, was finding both girls and boys for the sex trade, or for long unpaid hours in sweatshops.

Kwesi moved silently along the back of one row of shanty houses, built from corrugated iron and sheets of wood. It was late evening. Many of the residents were sitting around outside their huts, others watching huge televisions inside, that were on constantly until the early hours, adding to the general noise of the area. Kwesi knew where he was going. Once before, when other children had been taken, he, with others, traced the children to this area. They had come as a gang, made their presence known and were beaten back; two were badly injured, another died of his wounds and the children were lost. Since then, they had been scared of returning. However, Kwesi had no such qualms. He loved his daughter Misrak. She was different; smart, intelligent, already reading everything she could get hold of so she would be accepted at a medical training school in the capital. Kwesi had scrimped and saved to allow her to attend a local school – now all that was gone, unless he could bring her back.

Towards the end of the row of shanty houses was a larger and more prestigious one. It was lit up inside, with the television displaying a football match. He could hear many voices commenting on the football game, often insulting and aggressive, when a player missed an opportunity. Slipping between it and the next house, he came out on a narrow street, partially blocked with vehicles of every description. Among them, a few seemed out of place, being modern and expensive. These were the ones owned by the men who worked for the traffickers, showing their importance, their wealth, in the cars they drove.

Kwesi fell back into the shadows and waited. Nearly an hour went by before men began to emerge from the house after the match ended, shouting back at the ones left inside, bidding them goodnight. All of them were obviously worse for wear after downing cheap, but potent drink.

It was another hour until the last of the visitors left and the lights went out in the house, all falling quiet. The night was hot, and although the door was closed, the windows were wide open, in an effort to reduce the unbearable temperature inside.

Kwesi climbed through a window, dropping silently onto the floor. The room was a tip, with empty beer cans strewn about and half-eaten plates of food, flies already settled on the remains. This was a house not looked after by women. He could hear someone snoring, coming from a room to his right. From another room, a man was telling someone to stop struggling; there were slapping sounds before he heard a girl’s voice begging him to stop hitting her. It wasn’t the voice of his Misrak. These sounds were replaced with the girl groaning at times as he took her. He waited in the shadows for the man to finish and settle down. At first he thought they had, when the room fell silent, then there was the creaking of wood, as someone walked across the floor, before the sounds of a man passing wind, before relieving himself into a bucket. He waited until the man who’d gone to the toilet returned to bed, at the same time hearing him tell the girl to move up. Going through into the room, he heard snoring and saw there was a man laid out on a mattress, just in his shorts. Bringing his machete up high, he brought it down on his chest, easily cutting through and bursting the heart. The body twitched for a short time, then fell still, blood pumping from the huge gash, Kwesi indifferent to killing the man as he slept. Making his way through to the next room, where the girl had been raped, this man he recognised immediately as Chege Sesay, the one who had led the gang against him and others from the village, and beaten them back the last time he was here. He was lying on his back, with one arm hanging off the bed, and a young girl naked and huddled up close to him. She didn’t look much older than fourteen.

Immediately Kwesi brought his machete up and sliced through the man’s hand, hanging off the bed.

Chege was shocked out of his sleep. Drawing his arm back, the severed hand remained on the floor, still twitching. The stump gave him intense pain, blood spurting from the wound.

I want the name and address of the man who took my daughter, or I’ll hack you to death, Kwesi screamed at him, his machete raised above his head. Already the young girl at Chege’s side had scrambled off the mattress, cowering in a corner of the room, her hands covering her face. She was terrified.

Rashidi Congo, he lives in the Gambia district, that’s all I know. Now get out of my fucking house, he shouted back. You, your family, your relatives are all dead when we come to your village.

Kwesi knew this would be all the information he’d get out of Chege; he brought the raised machete down onto his chest. The man gasped, then tried to roll away. But it was a fruitless effort on his part. Three times Kwesi hacked at Chege, venting his anger at the loss of his daughter. Now, Chege was no longer moving, the chest caved in, his head partially severed, the bed covered in blood. Kwesi looked at the girl, peeping through her hands, her eyes wide with terror, still cowering in the corner. Go girl, run for your life and never mention what you heard, or saw, otherwise I come for you.

The girl needed no more urging, she scrambled up, grabbed her dress and ran out of the room. Kwesi followed close behind, outside was quiet, what lights had been on in the houses around were now extinguished.

Away from the shanty town, Kwesi parked up and settled for the rest of the night. Tomorrow he would see his brother Bour, who worked at the post office in Abuja. Then he would find where this man Rashidi Congo lived.

***

The area Kwesi had come into was obviously affluent, the houses all walled and large. He’d left his truck some distance away. Such a truck would be stopped by the police, and they’d want to know why he was around here. He’d have no explanation and would be moved on. Kwesi was used to moving around swiftly and quietly, honed by years of hunting to feed his family.

Kwesi already had the address of the man so he was heading directly for it. Huge prestigious gates protected the building along with high walls, but Kwesi was tall and fit and he easily scaled the nearest wall, dropping down on the other side.

He could hear dogs barking, but it was not at this house, the barking came from next door and soon quietened, after someone leaned out of a window and shouted at them. Keeping to the back of lush flower beds, and alongside the shrubs, Kwesi was soon looking into the house. There were still plenty of lights on in the rooms. He sunk back into the bushes, watching, counting the figures he saw crossing at the windows. Finally, he came to the conclusion that it was only the family inside. One young boy, a woman and a man. Only once did he see a man who he thought must be Rashidi, as he came through the kitchen into what he believed must be the lounge. Time went on; Kwesi pulled a dried piece of fruit from the small satchel he carried and began to chew it. His stomach churned every time he thought of Misrak and what she must be going through. The anger inside was very real, thoughts of retaliation as strong as wanting to find Misrak.

One by one the lights were switched off. He’d watched Rashidi check the glass doors leading out onto the patio were locked and leave the room. Of the windows on the first floor, at least two were wide open. This would be his way into the house. Leaving it another half hour, Kwesi moved to the house and climbed up onto a balcony. The balcony doors were open, a fan in the ceiling of the room trying to keep it cool, but having little effect. In the dim light, he could see a boy laid out on a bed, the covers pushed to one side. Pulling a rag from his pocket, he knotted it in the centre, then went over to him, opening his mouth, stuffing the knot of the rag into his mouth. Then, even before he had woken properly, he wrapped the two ends of the rag around the child’s head, tying it at the back, stopping him spitting it out of his mouth. Grabbing one of the child’s arms, he dragged him out of the room along the corridor, opening doors, looking for the parents’ room. It was at the end of the landing. With the boy in front of him, he pushed him down to his knees, before switching on the lights.

The parents both woke with a start to see Kwesi standing there, holding onto their son’s arm, who was down on his knees with Kwesi’s machete at his throat. The terror in the boy’s face was all too apparent.

You’re Rashidi Congo, a man who takes and sells children into slavery. Your boy here is dead, followed by your wife, unless you tell me where my daughter is, she was brought to you by Chege Sesay? he demanded.

I don’t know, they were all sent together, when was she taken? he gasped.

Two days back, you must know, or you all die.

I will look in my book, it’s downstairs in the safe.

Kwesi said nothing while he thought. Then he decided. You both go down the stairs, I will follow with your son. Try to run and I will cut his throat and come for you.

They both climbed out of bed. Take your nightclothes off, you hide nothing from me, or you die, he shouted.

Rashidi removed his pants, his wife, her nightdress, neither wanted to risk giving Kwesi an excuse to kill their son. Both were convinced this man standing there would not hesitate to carry out his threats.

They went into the lounge, where Rashidi walked over to a picture on the wall, pulling it back to reveal the door of a wall safe. Turning the dial a few times, he moved the handle into the open position.

You stand back facing the wall, don’t open it and put your hand inside, Kwesi shouted.

Rashidi did as he was told and Kwesi went over to the safe, opening it. At the top of a small stack of money was a notebook, on top of that a gun. He smiled to himself. This was what he suspected would be inside. Taking the gun and the money, pushing them both into his satchel, he passed the notebook to Rashdi.

Now I want to know where she has gone.

Rashidi knew where she’d gone, without the notebook. He’d hoped to get at the gun, so he opened the book and pretended to look down the list. She is on a ship bound for Europe, to be taken then by lorry and delivered to a man called Jarek Dudek. She is to be sold at auction and will end up possibly in London, he said, although he knew different. She, like most of the young girls of her age, would almost certainly end up in one of the Polish sweatshops, working a backbreaking twelve hours a day. Now you know, leave us alone.

Kwesi grinned, pushed the boy to the floor, then rushed at Rashidi, swinging the machete in the air; the next moment it had sliced Rashdi’s throat open. This was followed by the wife’s, then the child’s. Kwesi stood waiting for a minute, this for him was retribution, now he had to get to England somehow and find his daughter. Taking the notebook, he left.

Kwesi’s departure from the house of Rashidi was as silent as his arrival. As at Chege Sesay’s house, no one would ever know he’d been there. Maybe, he hoped, when they were found, the police would believe the killing was part of a robbery, by a local gang, with the safe left open, and not something done by a person who lived a hundred miles away. However, in his satchel, he had money, the notebook and a gun.

With the belief he could get to England with the money, already he was convinced Misrak would be found. He made his way to his brother’s house, in a shanty town outside the city, and settled down on a chair outside it. It was early in the morning; soon the ones who worked would be getting up.

***

Kwesi’s brother Bour came of out the house, then stood a little bemused. Kwesi, what are you doing here?he asked, startled.

We need to talk, Bour, he answered.

Then walk with me, I’m going to work.

Once out on the road, Kwesi grasped Bour’s arm. The address, no one knows you gave it me do they?

No, I just looked it up in the records against the name, that’s all.

Good, you may see reports in the paper. I had to kill them all.

Bour stopped dead, and turned to him. You did what?

Rashidi Congo took Misrak, she is to be sold into prostitution, the same as he’s done for hundreds before. I wanted to know where she was taken, and then once I knew, he couldn’t live to warn the people I’m coming for them.

So how are you going to do that… where is Misrak?

London, England.

Bour shook his head sadly. Then she is lost. How would you get there, you would need a passport and visa? They are not easy to get and cost a lot of money.

I have money; I will buy a ticket and get a passport.

No Kwesi, you are a farmer, the officials would know you had no money and would want to know where it came from. Then, before you know it, they will be accusing you of the murder. Did he tell you where in London?

He gave a name, I’ll find that man. I also have a small book with names and numbers. I can use that.

Let me see the book.

Bour looked at the notebook; he was a good reader and understood just what it was. Stopping at a low wall, Bour sat down, studying the book even more, then looked up at Kwesi. I am going to give you advice, take it, or don’t. But I believe there is a way to find Misrak, without you going to London. It is a place of millions of people; you on your own may be there months looking, and never find her.

Kwesi frowned. What is this way you speak of?

There is a woman named Karen Harris who lives there. She is very famous and important. She finds girls such as Misrak and brings them home. I will write a letter for you, enclose the notebook and send it through the post office as a very important letter, for only her to read. She will get your letter and know what to do.

You trust this woman?

Bour smiled. Kwesi, the world trusts this woman. The traffickers are frightened of her. If Misrak can be found, she will find her. I believe that with all my heart.

Then you must do it, before the ship arrives. We must also offer to send money to help bring Misrak home.

***

Later, after Bour returned from his work, he and Kwesi were sitting on chairs outside Bour’s home. He had spent time composing the letter they intended to send. With Kwesi not a good reader, his brother read it back to him, ignoring his address at the top of the letter.

Hello Karen Harris,

My brother Kwesi and me, Bour, beg you read our letter.

Misrak, daughter of Kwesi, has been taken with two other girls, Oneida and Sroda, from their village by men who go to villages and take children to be sold. We found out that a Rashidi Congo, who is now dead, sent the girls away from our country. We believe they are soon to be heading towards you and given to a Jarek Dudek. He is taking them to London, England. The small book with this letter and a picture of Misrak with her friends we hope will help. The book belonged to Rashidi Congo and was passed to us. We do not understand what it is saying, but believe you will.

We love Misrak very much and ask if you would find Misrak and her friends, then send them back to us. We will save very hard to pay for this.

Please, Karen Harris, we pray to God you will help us? We will forever be your friends.

Kwesi and Bour.

Bour looked up at his brother. It is a good letter, yes?

It is good, Bour, you have a way with words I do not. This lady, I am certain, will look for Misrak after reading your letter.

Then I will post it tomorrow. You must return to your village. If she contacts me, I will get word to you. Do not mention to anyone where you have been, or what has happened. If you are asked, you came to see me because you were very upset and wanted to get away for a time, that is all.

***

A worker in Karen’s charity, ‘Lost but Never Forgotten’, looked at the address on the package. ‘Karen Harris, London, England. Very urgent’ was all it said.

The package, sent from Nigeria by the Bour, had ended up in a London sorting office and been forwarded to Karen’s charity. This was usual, with many letters addressed in this way direct to Karen, because her real address was unknown. Most, if not all of the people who wrote to her were desperate, believing that by writing to Karen directly, she would help them. Of course she couldn’t most of the time, but sometimes among the victims brought out, were ones whose relatives had written to her. Often when they were brought home, the local papers would pick up the story. Relatives would then tell them how Karen had helped after they had written to her personally. These newspaper reports would then be taken up by the national papers, always looking for stories about Karen. Even publishing her photo alongside a story sold papers. This then convinced others desperate to find their own children, that Karen did read and act on the letters, resulting in a constant stream of requests for her help.

Most were sifted out by the charity, and added to their database with any information they could glean from the letters. However, the charity workers were also alive to the fact that sometimes a letter could be very important, with what was said, or enclosed. Those letters were passed to Karen, who would make the decision as to their value. The letter sent by the Bour from Nigeria was one such letter the charity passed across to Karen.

Karen was currently staying at her flat located above the charity offices in central London. She was going through letters, put to one side by the charity as perhaps being interesting in their content, for her to read. She had opened the package sent by Bour, glanced at the photo and was reading the enclosed letter. The letter, of course, was obviously written by someone who had little education, but was nonetheless just as heartrending. She then opened the notebook inside the package that the letter referred to. Now, Karen began to look at what had been sent far more seriously. She couldn’t believe the contents as she turned over each page and more importantly, the man Jarek Dudek, referred to in the letter, was mentioned a great deal. This man, it would seem, was a major importer of children from Africa. It was also a name she had never heard of before. She needed urgently to return to her unit in France, where she had a large intelligence operation, well able to interpret just what she suspected the material was telling her, besides being able to locate this man. But before she left, Karen went to her computer.

***

Bour had travelled all day. When he arrived at the village where his brother Kwesi lived, it was early evening. Kwesi had just returned from the fields and was sitting talking to his wife outside their house.

Bour, what brings you all this way? Kwesi asked, shocked to see his brother.

I’ve received a letter from London, England about Misrak. I just had to come and show it to you.

Kwesi gasped. You mean Karen Harris has replied?

"She has, but she is not, as we believed, just famous, she is also a great military commander. I have looked up the letters after her name, they show a woman who is brave and fearless, recognised by the Queen of England and the President of the United States of America. Misrak is in good hands, Kwesi, that is very certain. I will read the letter to you.

Dear Kwesi and Bour,

Thank you for your letter. I’m dreadfully sorry to read what has happened. It is very sad when a child is taken like this. I receive many requests from loved ones to find their children. We do our best, but the number of children abducted are in their thousands, so you can understand that it is a very difficult task. However, having said that, we do have successes so you should never give up hope. As for your daughter Misrak and her friends Oneida and Sroda, the information you have supplied, both with the photograph and the notebook, could well point us in the right direction. You can be assured I will act on it.

If and when we do find them, you should not worry about their welfare. My charity ‘Lost but Never Forgotten’ will look after them and bring them all home to your village, at no cost to you.

Once again, thank you for your letter and the trust you have placed in me. I, like you, pray to God that we can help these children. If you don’t hear from me for some time, please, never believe I forgot the girls. Investigations can be long and complex, but I will write back and tell you of our progress.

Yours very sincerely

Colonel Karen Harris LG MOH MaV CGC bar

Commander of Unit T

Kwesi and his wife stared wide-eyed at Bour. Not only was a stranger across the other side of the world prepared to help them, but as Bour had said, she was a very important person.

Chapter 2

Misrak, was in the back of a lorry. She had cramp with being unable to move, chained as she was with six other girls in ankle irons. They had left Africa sometime back, she wasn’t sure just how long ago it was, kept most of the time in the dark, hidden behind false walls in lorry containers as they travelled, left for hours in stinking cellars and given little food. Now, once more, they were on the move, but with no toilet facilities, most girls could no longer hold back, going in the clothes they wore, the smell catching the throats of others, making some sick.

She, like her two friends Oneida and Sroda, taken at the same time, had cried her eyes out, knowing when the men came and dragged them away from the river what was happening to them. They, like many before, were on their way to live their lives out as slaves, or be forced into prostitution. No one had ever come back.

The engine of the lorry suddenly fell silent. Minutes later, the wall of the false room was removed and the girls brought outside. The girls savoured the relief of just being in the fresh air. They were in a courtyard, its main doors closed, with only the lorry inside. Two men, both carrying whips, stood while a woman released the girls’ ankle irons. They were all ordered to strip and place their soiled clothes in a pile, then made to stand by a wall, while they washed themselves down with a sponge and soap, all the time being doused with water from a hosepipe, with a sprinkler attached. One of the men poured petrol on their clothes and set light to them.

Once they were all clean, each was given a long nightshirt and led into the house and taken directly to a large room, where they were given food and a drink. After they finished, they were allowed to toilet before going through to another room. Already there were at least ten girls inside, some stood around, others sitting on the floor.

Where are we? Misrak asked one of the girls already in the room.

You’re in Poland and waiting to be taken through to be sold. It’s been going on all morning and now they seem to have stopped. Maybe they are eating, the same as we have.

Where is this Poland, is it part of Africa? another girl asked.

No. If, like you say, it is Poland, then we are in Europe, Misrak cut in.

You know about this country? the girl who asked where Poland was, wanted to know.

I know about it, I learnt of it and other countries at the school. We are a very long way from home.

Then what is to happen to us?

Another girl who’d been listening cut in. We will be worked, the same as at home, for us there is no difference. We will never go home, it is not worth thinking about your family, your friends. Many children have been taken from our village. You never hear of them again. They, like us, are forgotten.

Misrak shook her head. I will go home, you will see. My life is not this, the learned one of the village told me I would be an important doctor one day.

The conversation came to an end as the door opened and the girls were made to form a queue. Each one, when they reached the front of the queue, was told to remove the nightshirt and leave it on the floor, then go through into another room. In less than fifteen minutes it was Misrak’s turn. As she went through she was pushed into the centre of the room. All around her men were shouting. Some came over to her, looked in her mouth, in her ears, pulled her eyelids up, besides having her bend down to touch her feet, checking she wasn’t injured. Then they would look back at the man who was conducting the sale and nod to a price. In a matter of minutes, it was all over and she was back in the room she’d undressed in. After replacing her nightshirt, Misrak was led away.

Outside was a small van. She climbed in the back and was again chained up. There were two other girls sitting there. Her friends never came, they had gone elsewhere. After another girl joined them a man, white, with a beard looked inside at them, before slamming the doors shut. Soon the engine started, they were on the move once more.

***

It was over five hours before the door opened. The girls were brought out and taken through the back door of a large building and down into the basement. There they were released from their ankle chains and told to sit on mattresses laid out on the floor.

Welcome to my house. I am known as Chev and now I own you all. Have no doubt about it, if you have difficulty in accepting that, you will soon learn disobedience attracts severe punishment. This is where you live, next door are toilets and washing facilities. You have been brought here to work and work you will. Upstairs is a laundry. We wash and make ready linen used in hospitals and hotels. It will be your job to unpack the soiled linen, sort it out, before loading it in the washer/dryers. For this you will receive lodging and food. You work through the night, every night. You sleep in the day when the regular workers will iron and pack what you have washed. He hesitated, looking round at them listening. I expect and will get twelve hours’ work a day out of you. Anything less and you will be made an example of. Again he hesitated, looking at his watch. Food will be served now. After eating you will take turns each day to wash the dirty dishes and pans in the kitchen. For the ones not on kitchen duty, I will provide books for you to read, before you settle to sleep. Work begins in six hours, so get plenty of rest after your food.

Leaving the basement, Chev went up to his office, which overlooked the work floor. The workers were all busily steam-pressing linen, before packing it in boxes ready to be returned to the customers. Business had increased so much he needed more workers. Regular employed workers cost money, which would eat into his profits. On the other hand, the ones he’d bought today, apart from the purchase price, now cost only food and