by Daniel Silva
“He didn’t have to.”
“Syrians have a distinct accent?”
She nodded. “Especially when they come from the Ansariya Mountains.”
“The Ansariya are in western Syria? Near the Mediterranean?”
“That’s correct.”
“And the people who live there are mainly Alawites, are they not?”
She hesitated, then nodded slowly.
“Forgive me, Jihan, but I am a bit of a novice when it comes to the affairs of the Middle East.”
“Most Germans are.”
He accepted her rebuke with a conciliatory smile and then resumed his line of questioning.
“Was it your impression that Mr. al-Siddiqi was an Alawite?” he asked.
“It was obvious.”
“Are you an Alawite, Jihan?”
“No,” she answered. “I’m not an Alawite.”
She offered no additional biographical details about herself, and Gabriel didn’t ask for any.
“The Alawites are the rulers of your country, are they not?”
“I am a citizen of Germany living in Austria,” she replied.
“Will you allow me to rephrase my question?”
“Please.”
“The ruling family of Syria are Alawites—isn’t that correct, Jihan?”
“Yes.”
“And Alawites hold the most powerful positions in the military and the Syrian security services.”
She gave a brief smile. “Perhaps you’re not such a novice after all.”
“I’m a quick study.”
“Obviously.”
“Did Mr. al-Siddiqi tell you he was a relative of the president?”
“He hinted at it,” she said.
“Did this concern you?”
“It was before the Arab Spring.” She paused, then added, “Before the war.”
“And the two bodyguards outside his door?” asked Gabriel. “How did he explain them?”
“He told me he’d been kidnapped in Beirut several years earlier and held for ransom.”
“And you believed him?”
“Beirut is a dangerous city.”
“You’ve been?”
“Never.”
Gabriel peered into his file again. “Mr. al-Siddiqi must have been very impressed with you,” he said after a moment. “He offered you a job on the spot, at twice the salary you were earning at your bank in Hamburg.”
“How do you know that?”
“It was on your Facebook page. You told everyone you were looking forward to a fresh start. Your colleagues in Hamburg threw a good-bye party for you at a swanky restaurant along the river. I can show you the photos if you like.”
“That won’t be necessary,” she said. “I remember the evening well.”
“And when you arrived in Linz,” Gabriel continued, “Mr. al-Siddiqi had an apartment waiting for you, didn’t he? It was fully furnished—linens, dishes, pots and pans, even the electronics.”
“It was included in my compensation package.”
Gabriel looked up from the file and frowned. “Didn’t you find it odd?”
“He said he wanted my transition to be as painless as possible.”
“That was the word he used? Painless?”
“Yes.”
“And what did Mr. al-Siddiqi ask for in return?”
“Loyalty.”
“Is that all?”
“No,” she said. “He told me I was never to discuss the affairs of Bank Weber with anyone.”
“With good reason.”
She was silent.
“How long did it take you to realize Bank Weber was no ordinary private bank, Jihan?”
“I had some suspicions early on,” she replied. “But by the time spring arrived, I was all but certain of it.”
“What happened in the spring?”
“Fifteen boys from Daraa painted graffiti on the wall of a school. And Mr. al-Siddiqi started to get very nervous.”
For the next six months, she said, he was in constant motion—London, Brussels, Geneva, Dubai, Hong Kong, Argentina, sometimes all in the same week. His appearance began to deteriorate. He lost weight; dark circles appeared beneath his eyes. His concerns about security increased dramatically. When he was in his office, which was seldom, the television was tuned constantly to Al Jazeera.
“He was following the war?” asked Gabriel.
“Obsessively,” replied Jihan.
“Did he choose sides?”
“What do you think?”
Gabriel made no reply. Jihan sipped her tea thoughtfully before elaborating.
“He was furious at the Americans for calling on the Syrian president to step aside,” she said finally. “He said it was Egypt all over again. He said they would rue the day they allowed him to be pushed out.”
“Because al-Qaeda would take over Syria?”
“Yes.”
“And you, Jihan? Did you take sides in the war?”
She was silent.
“Surely Mr. al-Siddiqi must have been curious about how you felt.”
More silence. She glanced nervously around the room, at the walls, at the ceiling. It was the Syrian disease, thought Gabriel. The fear never left them.
“You’re safe here, Jihan,” said Gabriel quietly. “You’re among friends.”
“Am I?”
She looked at the faces gathered around her. The client who was not a client. The neighbor who was not a neighbor. The three tax officials who were not tax officials.
“One doesn’t voice one’s true opinion in front of a man like Mr. al-Siddiqi,” she said after a moment. “Especially if one has relatives who still live in Syria.”
“You were afraid of him?”
“With good reason.”
“And so you told him that you shared his opinion about the war.”
She hesitated, then nodded slowly.
“And do you, Jihan?”
“Share his opinion?”
“Yes.”
Another hesitation. Another nervous glance around the room. Finally, she said, “No, I do not share Mr. al-Siddiqi’s opinion about the war.”
“You support the rebels?”
“I support freedom.”
“Are you a jihadist?”
She raised her bare arm and asked, “Do I look like a jihadist?”
“No,” said Gabriel, smiling at her demonstration. “You look like a thoroughly modern, westernized woman who no doubt finds the conduct of the Syrian regime abhorrent.”
“I do.”
“So why did you remain in the employ of a man who supports a regime that is murdering its own citizens?”
“I sometimes wonder the same thing.”
“Did Mr. al-Siddiqi pressure you to stay?”
“No.”
“Then maybe you stayed for the money. After all, he was paying you twice as much as you were earning at your previous job.” Gabriel paused and cocked his head thoughtfully to one side. “Or maybe you stayed for another reason, Jihan. Maybe you stayed because you were curious about what was going on behind the locked door and the shield of bodyguards. Maybe you were curious about why Mr. al-Siddiqi was traveling so much and losing so much weight.”
She hesitated, then said, “Maybe I was.”
“Do you know what Mr. al-Siddiqi is doing, Jihan?”
“He’s managing the money of a very special client.”
“Do you know the client’s name?”
“I do.”
“How did you learn it?”
“By accident.”
“What sort of accident?”
“I forgot my wallet at work one night,” she answered. “And when I went back to get it, I heard something I wasn’t supposed to hear.”
39
THE ATTERSEE, AUSTRIA
LATER, WHEN JIHAN THOUGHT ABOUT that day, she would remember it as Black Friday. Fears of a Greek meltdown had caused stock prices to plummet dramatically in Europe and America, and in Switz
erland the Economy Ministry announced it was freezing $200 million worth of assets linked to the Syrian ruling family and their associates. Mr. al-Siddiqi appeared stricken by the news. He remained barricaded in his office most of the afternoon, emerging only twice to shout at Jihan over trivial matters. She spent the last hour of that workday watching the clock, and at the stroke of five she bolted for the door without wishing Mr. al-Siddiqi or Herr Weber a pleasant weekend, as was her custom. It was only later, when she was dressing for dinner, that she realized she had left her wallet at the office.
“How did you get back into the bank?” asked Gabriel.
“With my keys, of course.”
“I didn’t realize you had your own set.”
She dug them from her handbag and held them up for Gabriel to see. “As you know,” she said, “Bank Weber isn’t a retail bank. We are a private bank, which means we are primarily a wealth-management firm for high-net-worth individuals.”
“Do you keep cash on hand?”
“A small amount.”
“Does the bank offer safe-deposit boxes to its clients?”
“Of course.”
“Where are they?”
“Below street level.”
“Do you have access to them?”
“I’m the account manager.”
“Which means?”
“I can go anywhere in the bank, except for the offices of Herr Weber or Mr. al-Siddiqi.”
“They’re off-limits?”
“Unless I am invited inside.”
He paused, as if to digest this information, and then asked Jihan to resume her account of the events of Black Friday. She explained that she returned to the bank in her car and, using her personal keys, admitted herself through the front entrance. Once the door was opened, she had thirty seconds to enter the proper eight-digit number into the security system control panel; otherwise, the alarm would sound and half the police force of Linz would be there in a matter of minutes. But when she went to the panel, she could see that the alarm system had not been activated.
“Which meant someone else was in the bank?”
“Correct.”
“It was Mr. al-Siddiqi?”
“He was in his office,” she said, nodding slowly. “On the phone.”
“With whom?”
“Someone who was unhappy that his assets had just been frozen by the Swiss government.”
“Do you know who it was?”
“No,” she answered. “But I suspect it was someone powerful.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because Mr. al-Siddiqi sounded frightened.” She was silent for a moment. “It was rather shocking. It’s not something I’ll ever forget.”
“Were the bodyguards present?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“I assume he’d sent them away.”
He asked what she did next. She answered that she’d collected her wallet and left the bank as quickly as possible. On Monday morning, when she returned to work after the weekend, a note waited on her desk. It was from Mr. al-Siddiqi. He wanted a word in private.
“Why did he want to see you?”
“He said he wished to apologize.” She smiled unexpectedly. “Another first.”
“Apologize for what?”
“For snapping at me the previous Friday. It was a lie, of course,” she added quickly. “He wanted to see whether I’d heard anything when I was inside the bank that evening.”
“He knew you’d been there?”
She nodded.
“How?”
“He routinely checks the memory of the surveillance cameras. In fact, they’re fed directly into the computer on his desk.”
“Did he ask you outright what you’d heard?”
“Mr. al-Siddiqi never does anything outright. He prefers to nibble around the edges.”
“What did you tell him?”
“Enough to put his mind at ease.”
“And he believed you?”
“Yes,” she answered after a moment of thought. “I think he did.”
“And that was the end of it?”
“No,” she replied. “He wanted to talk about the war.”
“What about the war?”
“He asked me whether my relatives still living in Syria were well. He wanted to know whether there was anything he could do to help them.”
“Was he being genuine?”
“When a relative of the ruling family offers to help, it usually means the opposite.”
“He was threatening you?”
She was silent.
“And yet you stayed,” said Gabriel.
“Yes,” she said. “I stayed.”
“And your relatives?” he asked, consulting his file again. “Are they well, Jihan?”
“Several have been killed or injured.”
“I’m very sorry to hear that.”
She nodded once but said nothing.
“Where were they killed?”
“In Damascus.”
“Is that where you’re from, Jihan?”
“I lived there briefly when I was a child.”
“But you weren’t born there?”
“No,” she said. “I was born north of Damascus.”
“Where?”
“Hama,” she said. “I was born in Hama.”
40
THE ATTERSEE, AUSTRIA
A SILENCE FELL OVER THE ROOM, heavy and foreboding, like the silence that follows hard upon a suicide bombing in a crowded marketplace. Bella crept into it without introduction and settled herself in an empty chair directly across from Jihan. The two women stared at each other, as if they alone were privy to a terrible secret, while Gabriel leafed distractedly through his file. When finally he spoke again, he adopted a tone of clinical detachment, a doctor conducting a routine physical on an otherwise healthy patient.
“You’re thirty-eight years old, Jihan?” he asked.
“Thirty-nine,” she corrected him. “But has no one ever told you that it’s terribly impolite to ask a woman her age?”
Her remark produced tepid smiles around the room, which faded as Gabriel posed his next question.
“Which means you were born in . . .” His voice trailed off, as though he were trying to work out the calculation. Jihan supplied the date for him without further prompting.
“I was born in 1976,” she said.
“In Hama?”
“Yes,” she answered. “In Hama.”
Bella looked at her husband, who was looking elsewhere. Gabriel was again leafing through his file with a tax collector’s devotion to printed matter.
“And when did you move to Damascus, Jihan?” he asked.
“It was the autumn of 1982.”
He looked up suddenly and wrinkled his brow. “Why, Jihan?” he asked. “Why did you leave Hama in the autumn of 1982?”
She returned his gaze silently. Then she looked at Bella, the newcomer, the woman with no apparent job or purpose, and delivered her response. “We left Hama,” she said, “because in the autumn of 1982 there was no Hama. The city was gone. Hama had been wiped from the face of the earth.”
“There was fighting in Hama between the regime and the Muslim Brotherhood?”
“It wasn’t fighting,” she replied. “It was a massacre.”
“And so you and your family moved to Damascus?”
“No,” she said. “I went by myself.”
“Why, Jihan?” he asked, closing the file. “Why did you go to Damascus by yourself?”
“Because I didn’t have a family anymore. No family, no town.” She looked at Bella again. “I was alone.”
To understand what happened in Hama, Jihan resumed, it was necessary to know what had come before. The city was once regarded as the most beautiful in Syria, noted for the graceful waterwheels along the Orontes River. It was also known for the unique fervor of its Sunni Islam. The women of Hama wore the veil long before it was fashionable in the rest of the
Muslim world, especially in the old neighborhood of Barudi, where the Nawaz family lived in a cramped apartment. Jihan was one of five children, the youngest, the only girl. Her father had no formal education and worked odd jobs in the old souk on the other side of the river. Mainly, he studied the Koran and railed against the Syrian dictator, whom he regarded as a heretic and a peasant who had no right to rule over Sunnis. Her father was not a full-fledged member of the Muslim Brotherhood, but he supported the Brotherhood’s goal of turning Syria into an Islamic state. Twice he was arrested and tortured by the Mukhabarat, and once he was forced to dance in the street while singing the praises of the ruler and his family. “It was the ultimate insult,” Jihan explained. “As a devout Sunni Muslim, my father did not listen to music. And he never danced.”
Her personal memories of the troubles leading up to the massacre were gauzy at best. She recalled some of the Brotherhood’s bigger terrorist bombings—in particular, an attack in Damascus that killed sixty-four innocent people—and she remembered bullet-riddled bodies in the alleys of Barudi, victims of summary executions carried out by agents of the Mukhabarat. But like most Hamawis, she had no premonition of the calamity that was about to befall the beautiful city along the banks of the Orontes. Then, on a wet, cold night in early February, word spread that units of the Defense Companies had quietly slipped into the city. They attempted to stage their first raid in Barudi, but the Brotherhood was lying in wait. Several of the regime’s men were cut down in a hail of gunfire. Then the Brotherhood and their supporters launched a series of murderous attacks against members of the Baath Party and the Mukhabarat across the city. From the minarets came the same exhortation: “Rise up and drive the unbelievers from Hama!” The battle for the city had begun.
As it turned out, the Brotherhood’s initial successes would unleash the fury of the regime as never before. For the next three weeks, the Syrian army used tanks, attack helicopters, and artillery to turn Hama into a pile of rubble. And when the military phase of the operation was complete, Syrian demolition experts dynamited any building left standing and steamrolled the debris. Those who managed to survive the onslaught were rounded up and put into detention centers. Anyone suspected of having links to the Brotherhood was brutally tortured and killed. The corpses were buried in mass graves and paved over with asphalt. “To walk the streets of Hama today,” said Jihan, “is to walk over the bones of the dead.”
