Peter Abel Follows Traffickers’ Route in Search for 15-Year-Old Alice

25 Jul Peter Abel Follows Traffickers’ Route in Search for 15-Year-Old Alice

Abel spent a sleepless night confirming the routes favoured by   traffickers who moved girls surreptitiously out of Nigeria. He already had narrowed his search to two: Mali, which Mary had suggested, and the Canary Islands.

Figures he had from Spanish sources showed that human trafficking through the Canary Islands was favoured by many. But there were other routes almost as popular via the Sahara Desert and Gibraltar Straits. He had ruled out the Benin Republic – Libya – Malta route because of the reported hostility of Libyan authorities to immigrants from West Africa.

The thought of Alice being taken by boat out of Nigeria was terrifying.  On the Canary Islands route alone, a total of 14 boats ferrying illegal immigrants sank in 2004; 80 corpses were retrieved and 339 people were rescued. Many others simply disappeared.

Any choice Abel made was a weak one, largely dependent on luck. But Abel often had been lucky. He remembered the old saying, “Luck is the residue of good design.”  Plan smartly and good things will happen. That had always worked for him. He prayed it would work now.

Abel pondered starting his search in the Canaries. While he had always been captivated by the allure of the island group’s eternal springtime, choice hotels and water games, he also felt this was the most logical route from Nigeria. It was possible Alice was still in the Canaries. In a short span of time, she had earned enough to send money home. It was possible she had been put to work. If so, Abel had time to catch up. He booked his flight that afternoon and boarded a plane the next morning.

***************

Abel arrived at Tenerife Reina Sofia airport on a British Airways flight via London two days after the emotional encounter with his boss. He took a taxi straight to the four-star Vulcano Hotel, which he found delightful. Arranged around two swimming pools, the structure was nestled in sub-tropical gardens.

The hotel was a mere 300 metres from the beach in southern Tenerife’s most popular tourist destination, Playas de Las Américas. The Vulcano’s modern, cream décor with dark wood furniture and warm fabrics was to his taste. The lobby was large and the receptionists in similarly collared cream uniforms were exceptionally warm. The pretty young woman smiled as she handed him his room key.

“We will do everything to make you comfortable, Mr. Abel”, she said.

An efficient bellboy led Abel to his double-bed air-conditioned room, which had a furnished balcony overlooking one of the swimming pools. A large central fountain filled the air with the continuous sound of rushing water. It had no doubt been placed there to make the guests feel they were in the presence of a jungle waterfall. And when Abel closed his eyes, he could almost picture the serene setting. If only he were here for pleasure. If only this idyllic island did not harbour such dark practices.

Soon after the bellboy departed, Abel took a quick shower and retired to the rocking chair on the balcony. He found one local newspaper among the three complementary papers provided by the hotel. Its headline struck him immediately: “Another 13 Die at Sea”.

He read the story with interest:  13 people died after a makeshift boat carrying 23 passengers ran into difficulties off Spain’s Canary Islands, according to the rescue services. Rescuers said five more passengers were in critical condition, having drifted at sea for more than a week without food and only meagre supplies of fresh water. Apparently, the victims were all illegals attempting to reach the Canary Islands. The boat was intercepted by a naval vessel some 150 miles off the island of Hierro, the most south-westerly of the island chain in the North Atlantic.

The story only confirmed what Abel’s research had told him. The Canary Islands was a crossroads for traffickers and other illegals. And many who tried to find their way here did not make it.  Abel felt he had made the right choice in beginning his search here. To this end, he decided to familiarise himself with as much of the area as possible before talking to people.

He strolled outside to consider a plan. The evening was cool and mildly windy. As he walked the grounds, people in casual holiday clothes streamed past giggling and chatting excitedly. Attractive young ladies clung romantically to men who might have been paying for the company. It reminded him of what he read before his trip. There were nearly 30,000 British prostitutes in Tenerife. They were known locally as Diana Prostitutes, and they financed their vacation fun by sleeping with men for money. A website he had visited described this as typical British behaviour. He had no idea what that meant, but since the website was established by someone with a French name, he suspected cultural bias. The British and the French had been trading abuse over the ages.

As he walked the grounds, Abel took a closer look at the outdoor swimming pools, which were overlooked by sun terraces, complete with loungers and parasols. Curvaceous women in swimsuits always attracted his attention, but this evening there weren’t many of them in the pools, much to his disappointment. He was tempted to swim, but he promptly killed the notion with a mental reprimand. This wasn’t a pleasure trip.

He walked on, hands in the pockets of his roomy black slacks, to the beach some three hundred metres away. Few people remained on the beach. He found a quiet area behind an outcropping of rocks, an isolated spot where he could do some breathing exercises. He had to come up with a plan for finding Alice, and breathing exercises always helped him focus.

After 30 minutes of this, he returned to his room and took a seat on the balcony to refine his plans. He became thoroughly engrossed, and didn’t want to interrupt his thinking to go to the restaurant for dinner. Instead, he called room service and ordered rabbit with some local sauces and potatoes. His choice was out of adventure, rather than taste. He’d never had rabbit before, but he enjoyed the meal.

A lady with a toothy smile came by to collect the plates after dinner. As Abel watched her she turned to him: “Mr. Abel, I hope this is not how you want to spend your time on the island of fun. You came to rest or something?”

“Not really. I am just taking some rest before plunging into the fun. But why do you ask?” Abel looked at her more closely. She was a half-caste with a mix of African and Caucasian features. Her long nose sat well on her long face. Her hair was worn in African-style cornrows. Also African was her heavy bum. Abel noticed her large breasts for the first time, as she stood straight up, tray in hand.

“I have to go now, but when you want to be shown around, look for me. I’m Susan”, she said almost in a whisper.

“I will, Susan, but I know you ladies are barred from consorting with hotel guests”, he said.

“Yes, but the rule applies only in the hotel”, she said, as if prepared for his objection. She left, walking provocatively out his door. Just before disappearing, she turned and flashed him an enchanting smile.

“I will remember the offer”, Abel said without thinking.

She nodded and disappeared.

Abel shook his head, getting back to the work at hand. Too many distractions! “I don’t need some female guide”, he muttered and poured himself a cup of coffee.

Abel had decided he needed to get a feel of the country. One of the tourist pamphlets in his room had recommended sight-seeing flights over the islands. As he dressed for bed, he called the concierge and made a reservation.

***************

By seven the following morning Abel had eaten breakfast and hired a hotel cab to take him to the offices of Overfly Limited near the airport.

Business at Overfly was brisk. Five minutes after he arrived at the huge compound, Abel found himself in the rear of a six-seat Augusta helicopter. He had to pay for the vacant seats. His pilot was a lanky Spaniard with scruffy unkempt hair. The man appeared to have a hangover, not something you want to see in a man with your life in his hands. Abel tried to ignore it.

Abel sat in one of the back seats next to the tour guide, Charles Capel who told Abel he was from Birmingham, England. Capel was tall and trim and spiked his hair like a rocker. He had found Abel’s decision to pay for empty seats curious, but as he confessed later, they did offer such private services to rich people. Now, he chatted away, trying to engage Abel in affable banter, assuring him of the safety and exhilaration of helicopter travel. Abel let him prattle, without saying that this wasn’t his first time in a helicopter. Abel had taken helicopter tours of both the Victoria Falls in East Africa and the Grand Canyon in Arizona. Moreover, Abel wasn’t in a mood to chat and said as much to Capel as they strapped their seat belts.

“Alright, sport”, Capel said and licked his lips. “I’ll do the talking, and you can just relax.”

Abel donned his headset with microphones, so he could hear the tour guide and the pilot and ask questions over the din of the chopper’s engine noise.

“This is how we go”, Capel said. “We are in Tenerife. We will fly north to the island of La Palma, then south to Hiero, right to Gomera and over Gran Canaria, almost a straight line to the right to Fuerteventura, and north to Lanzarote. And that would be the entire archipelago. Okay?”

“Fine”, Abel said with a nod.

The pilot paid no attention to them, occupying himself with the instrument panel and then with firing up the engine.

Capel started his canned lecture once the chopper was airborne: “The Canary Islands are an archipelago of seven islands of volcanic origin in the Atlantic Ocean, off the northwestern coast of Africa …”

Abel zoned out as he studied the islands below, looking hard for … what?

“Tenerife is the largest of the islands.”

Abel was thinking about Alice who might be somewhere down there, plying her trade under the authority of human scum.

Capel’s tour bled in on Abel’s thoughts now and then: “During the Spanish conquest, the island was divided up into nine distinct menceyatos, and each developed its own architecture and culture. Although the island is now united, its broken landscape is indicative of its diverse flora …”

Abel watched several small craft on the water below, imagining Alice clinging to a spar, adrift after some disaster.

“Any questions?”

Abel realised he hadn’t been listening and so could have no questions. He looked at his bored guide and smiled as if he’d absorbed every word, then shook his head. No questions. Abel turned his attention back to the vast stretch of water below.

After skimming across a rather calm sea with yachts sprinkled here and there, they arrived over La Palma. Capel cast a quick look at Abel and continued: “Palma, as some of us call it, is known for its spectacularly lush vegetation …” Abel could see this for himself. He scanned the bright green jungle for signs of someone or something partially hidden. But he spotted nothing suspicious.

From there they flew south to Hiero, across to La Gomera, then to Gran Canaria. “Also known as the miniature continent …” Capel was saying.  Abel perked up when Capel mentioned the “big city bustle” of the capital, Las Palmas. A likely place for prostitutes, Abel thought. Certainly more likely than the other island, what’s its name, which was covered in thick forest and showed little civilisation.

They next circled over Fuerteventura, which Capel identified as the second largest of the islands. But Abel immediately lost interest when he heard it was the least-populated island. Again, you couldn’t get rich on prostitutes without a large supply of clients, making Fuerteventura an unlikely place to find Alice.  However, when Capel mentioned that this island had a “heavy immigrant population”, Abel made note of that anomaly. Perhaps she had landed there initially, then was transferred to a more populated area. It was all speculation of course, but Abel was trying to narrow his search.

“Lanzarote, a land of a thousand volcanoes, is an eco-tourist’s delight!” Capel seemed to perk up as they flew over this rugged landscape, as if he’d finally found a subject that interested him. He finished his enthusiastic recitation extolling the “wonderful climate” and “lunar-like landscape”, then turned to Abel. “I hope you enjoyed our tour. Now, we will return to the capital island.”

“No!” Abel shook his head.

Capel looked at him, eyes widening in concern for the suddenly uncooperative passenger.

“Is something the matter?” Capel asked almost gingerly.

Abel realised he had come on too strongly. He smiled, trying to reassure his nervous host.

“I’d love to overfly the Strait of Gibraltar. It isn’t very far from here, is it? It is important to me.”

Capel narrowed his eyes and looked at the man as if he suspected Abel might have something other than tourism on his mind.

“That’s not part of the package”, he said.

Abel noticed the pilot was already making a turn back like a horse smelling the barn. He’d have to move quickly. “I’ll pay whatever the extra charge is, even for the empty seats.”

The pilot, who had been an uninterested party until now, turned toward them.

“The route of the chopper is recorded”, he said, annoyed. “What’s your interest anyway?”

Abel affected a look of great sadness. “I am a businessman who has lost the love of his life. My fiancée, she is so young and so beautiful, but I did not pay her enough attention. I have reason to fear that she came here with another man, who does not have the best reputation. I am afraid she might fall in with the wrong elements. I want only to find her, make things up with her, take her home and make her my wife. I must see all the places where she might be. Please. I beg you.”

It was a huge lie, but Abel could not reveal the truth to people he didn’t know. He thought his “confession” might be a way to get the pilot’s attention. And it did. The pilot turned and looked at him with genuine concern.

“The Strait is becoming notorious as a place to bring in illegal young women who are then turned out as prostitutes”, he said.

Abel took heart from the man’s tone. It was obvious he was offended by such activities.

Abel said, “And of course the reputation of your gorgeous islands is getting stained by dead bodies from drowned immigrants who wash up on your beaches.”

Finally, the pilot nodded. “I will take you, but you pay extra.”

“Of course.” Abel assured him. “I’ll pay.”

Capel had remained silent throughout these negotiations. But he stroked his temple, his eye fixed on the pilot as he made a turn north to the Strait. Abel wondered what he was thinking. Was he unhappy about being upstaged? Did he have some pressing appointment?  Or was this a subject that made him uncomfortable? The pilot interrupted Abel’s thoughts.

“As a Spaniard, I worry about the archipelago becoming a popular route for traffickers. Look at that recent tragedy. Thirteen Africans drowned. The police said some of them were from Nigeria.” He looked at Abel. “That’s your country, right?”

“You don’t sound Spanish, Mr. …”

“My name is Aleck. Charles should have introduced me, but he still thinks I slept with his girl last week.”

Capel glared at the pilot, not amused. Aleck continued. “I don’t need to steal his girl. There are more ladies here than grains of sand on the beach.” He laughed.

Abel couldn’t tell if this rivalry was friendly or not. But he sensed he and Aleck were kindred spirits. Abel made a mental note of the pilot’s name. He strongly suspected he would want to enlist the man’s aid at some future time. He obviously knew the territory well, and might be willing to show Abel around, take him places Abel could not find on his own.

“I take it you’ve lived abroad”, Abel said to the pilot, making conversation. “You have an unusual accent, not at all like a Spaniard.”

Aleck laughed again. “You have a very good ear. In fact, I have lived most of my life working for Bristol all over the world as a chopper pilot. Oil fields mostly. But I retired last year. At my age, I find this job less strenuous. And it leaves me more time for the nice ladies, but only for those who like me for myself, not for my money, if you get the idea.”

He winked at Abel, probably hoping to needle Capel. The Englishman finally jumped in, trying to staunch the flow of jokes at his expense.

“He thinks he’s God’s gift to women. If he only knew what they say behind his back. Anyway, let me give you the tour here, Mr. Abel. It’s my job, not Aleck’s.”

Aleck grunted mockingly. “Go ahead, boy. You are paid to do that.”

Capel turned to Abel, his body language attempting to shut Aleck out of the conversation. They struck Abel as two quarrelling lovers.

“Mr. Abel, if trafficking is your interest, I am wondering whether you need to see the Straits at all. The route to Fuerteventura and Lanzarote has become an alternative to attempting the currents of the Straits.”

“What happened to those 13 poor souls who drowned is typical Gibraltar revenge”, Aleck added. “You try to cross her, you die.”

“I’m telling the story”, Capel snapped. He turned back to Abel.

“It is true, though. Those victims started their journey from a beach near the town of el-Aioun, in the Moroccan-run Western Sahara, 60 miles from Fuerteventura. El-Aioun is also becoming a congregating point for people from all over Africa looking for entry points into Europe. They come in shallow Moroccan fishing boats, with total disregard for safety. It is horrible, really.”

Abel was interested in any information having to do with attempts to breach the European shores from Africa, any route on which Alice might have been taken. Abel wanted to encourage Capel to disclose more.

“Why does this trouble you?” he said.

“The spiral effects are an alarming threat to our business and to the economy here. Tourism drives the economy and, of course, that is what Aleck and I live on. With dead bodies washing up on local beaches, tourism is at risk. The police become unnecessarily edgy with the growing number of migrants. And of course, many of the migrants are unable to continue because of the vigilance of the police and immigration officers. Instead of moving on to Europe, they get stuck here and become a drain on our economy.”

“As they do wherever they settle”, Abel said.

Capel took his lead and warmed to the subject. “We want people with money to come visit, not illegals who become penniless beggars! Summer is the worst. There are more attempts by the immigrants on summer nights. It is warm, and the water is calm. In the winter, everything ceases.”

Abel took in the implications of Capel’s diatribe. He tried to weed out the racist flavour and heartless attitude and distil it to something useful to his own search.

“So, Fuerteventura and Lanzarote likely have large numbers of stranded migrants?” Abel said. He wondered if Alice was waiting in the Canaries for more favourable weather.

“You’ve got it” Capel said. “If you want the fun African stuff, surely that is where to go. There and Playas de Las Americas.” Then, remembering Abel’s lie about a fiancée, Capel apologised. “I’m sorry, Sir. I did not mean to imply that your lady friend is there.”

“It’s fine”, Abel said. “My intention is to find my fiancée, not to exploit others. But to find her, I think, I have to know where to look.”

“That is Capel for you”, Aleck said. “Always opening his mouth before he engages his brain.” He pointed out the chopper’s front window. “But you wanted to see it, and here’s the Strait.”

The chopper flew over the body of water as they moved away from the coastline.

“Great”, Abel said. He heard the excitement in his voice. “Aleck, can you show it to me from as many angles as possible?”

“Part of the service you are paying for. No problem.”

Capel took up his narrative. “We’re about a kilometre to the west of the mouth of the Strait. Look left. That’s Spain. See the Rock of Gibraltar?”

Abel spotted the rock, then pointed to a town nearby. “What’s that place?”

“Tarifa. Entry point for the immigrants.”

Abel studied the town, thinking about what he had just heard. Then Capel pointed out the other side.

“Morocco’s over there. The Strait is about 13 kilometres across at its narrowest point. Deep water. Tricky currents. You wonder why people take the risk to cross in ramshackle boats.” He shrugged then answered his own question. “Desperation probably.”

Abel turned from Capel, whose cool detached observation made him sad. The landmass from both countries looked like parted knuckles, and the contrast of Western architecture on the Spanish side from the Arabian architecture of Morocco should have been thrilling. But he was numbed by the thought of anguished drowning migrants.

Capel must have read his mood because he fell silent, and the guided tour came to an end.

After a few minutes of observing the area from the circling chopper, Abel spoke to the pilot. “We can go back, Aleck.”

All the way back to Tenerife, Abel was haunted by so many “ifs”:

If Africa had more responsible leadership; if people had been less greedy; if there was proper education about the risks on the route. And somewhere in all these hypothetical questions was a very real girl in real danger.

 

 *****************

Abel returned to his hotel room a tired and emotionally drained man. He called for lunch and soaked himself in an herbal bath soon after eating. He needed a respite from the anxiety he carried around with him. He decided that night he would take what the Islands so proudly offered: a slice of hedonistic pleasure.

He had read about the fun to be had here: “Night time is an experience in “Las Americas” where just about anything goes. The place to head to is the central stretch of “Veronicas”. This is where you’ll find the best night clubs and streets packed with huge crowds of revellers who party into the early hours of every morning”.

And he also hoped with a faint ache, that he might, by some miracle, run into Alice on one of those street corners.

**********************

Abel set out just after eight p.m. for Playas de Las Americas determined to kill many birds with one stone. He had chosen La Flo Nightclub, which offered an international male and female escort service, as well as erotic massage. He had read that although the Spanish government had outlawed prostitution, it thrived in the clubs. And La Flo was openly boastful about its array of beautiful girls. Abel couldn’t argue with this.

Dressed in a white silk shirt and trousers, Abel stepped into the club and looked around. He was struck by the leopard skin colours and leafy ceiling decor. After surveying the interior and getting his bearings, he chose a stool at the bar and ordered a beer.

The place was hardly jumping with action. He thought perhaps he was too early. There were only 20 customers at the long bar. But before he could finish the first tall glass of brew, the place suddenly filled up.

Abel noticed there were many girls there, all as beautiful as if they had been cast in a film. Some of them made passes at him as they swarmed the bar ordering all manner of drinks. Of the lot, there were only two Africans, but they were of exceptional beauty. After ordering his second beer, Abel stood up so he could see the whole room, now crowded and noisy.

Almost immediately, a 20-something white woman, whose breasts spilled generously out of a tight, low cut blouse, arrived before him. Bending toward him, she asked pointedly, “You are alone?”  Apparently nobody stood on ceremony here.

“For now”, he said flatly.

“You are sure she is not standing you up? There are lots of us here to offer company to handsome men like you.” She sat down slowly, took a sip of what looked like brandy and licked her lips. “Whoever you are waiting for, I’m better.”

Abel had to admit her directness was a turn on, but he wasn’t looking for a white lady. He wanted a black woman who would volunteer information.  He smiled thinly at her. She took the hint, shrugged and moved on to the next man she saw.

Abel looked around for more black women, but he had only seen two. And they were engaged with some obviously turned-on burly white guys.

Abel turned around and almost bumped into the white woman who had just approached him. Apparently, she struck out with her next target, too.

“I’m still available.” She smiled at Abel.

“Tough night?”

“I’ll hook up sooner or later. Always do. Sure you don’t want to party?”

“Maybe another time. I’m going for a massage.” He started to leave.

“Well, make sure you get the erotic one”, she winked at him.

“That’s why I’m here, my dear.” Abel turned and moved away to the entrance marked “Erotic”.

He pushed past some potted plants and entered a small sitting room where three ladies waited. They offered him a nice variety:  an African, a Caucasian and an Asian. Curvy in white bras and white towels tied from their waist down, they looked stunning.

“There are three massage rooms on the left”, the Asian said. “You choose your kind of lady and she will take you in.”

All the women were appealing, but the black lady had the most generous bust, and large breasts always took the prize where Abel was concerned. He would also get some information from her.

“I’ll take this lovely lady”, Abel said indicating the black masseuse.  She smiled and led the way down the hall. Her legs were hot.

The room painted white was warm enough and dimly lit. Soft music drifted from some unseen speaker. Abel noticed the air smelled of mild incense. His escort suggested he take a hot bath to open the pores. It would, she assured him, make the massage feel twice as relaxing.

After his bath, he lay down on a table and shut his eyes. Abel felt soft, tender hands on his upper and lower back.

“As you breathe, imagine with each breath that you are sinking lower and lower into the table”, the masseuse said soothingly.

Moments later, she stood up for something and said, “Now, I’m going to run a feather over your back. Put all your awareness into the place where the feather is touching you.”

Abel gave himself over to the sensations, and for the moment all his worries dissolved. He knew, of course, that tomorrow, the hunt would begin again, but for now, he was content.

Abel left the massage table after an hour feeling very refreshed, and with a lighter head capable of focusing better. He had decided to relax instead of asking questions for a lead on Alice. He made his way to the bar, where a striptease was under way on stage. The performer was a voluptuous black lady called Black Panther.

Abel didn’t find her seductive enough to watch very long. Instead, he went for another beer, and found a place to stand at the back of the club. From here he could scan the patrons, looking for black ladies. By now there were six blacks in evidence, but they were older, at least in their mid-twenties. None was Alice.

As he sipped his beer, he thought about his helicopter ride and the womanising pilot, Aleck. It occurred to Abel that such a man might be useful to him. Perhaps he would know where the prostitutes hung out and who might run them.  He would try to find the man’s number in the morning. For now, he was content to finish his beer in peace and return to the hotel. He felt a strong urge to lie down and sleep. It would be the last good sleep he would have for some time.