20
Mytilene, Lesvos
“Talk,” Eleni Latsoudi said. “Or the water will break your heart.”
She had a home on the island and she’d invited Khattak to join her for coffee on the patio that overlooked an olive grove above the sea. The hills were a luxuriant green, slashed with purple shadows. A night breeze had sprung up, swaying the trees. The brush of the leaves against a thin shell of moon painted a picture of heartbreak: life jackets lay under that moon.
“So many,” she mused. “So many risked their lives to come.”
The coffee was bittersweet on Khattak’s tongue, rough with a bit of drag that kept him wide awake, his senses alert against the wind, heavy with the scent of flowers. Eleni Latsoudi was a graceful woman his own age, with a beautiful fall of blond hair and eyes as dark as the coffee. She was dressed in her work clothes: a waterproof red jacket and pants, over which she wore a neon safety vest. Her yellow helmet with its flashlight rested on a small stone table nearby. When she got a call from the Greek Coast Guard, she’d have to be on the water in less than twenty minutes.
She was a seasoned paramedic who was responsible for training the Hellenic Rescue Team’s influx of volunteers. A call had gone out after the chaos of the crossings in 2015: the HRT’s contribution was vital. He could see from Eleni Latsoudi’s calm description of her work that she was the right person for the job. The Aegean at night was dark and unforgiving—it was easy to panic at the sight of an overturned boat. The small teams that went out together required coordination and discipline to meet the challenge at sea. In addition to search-and-rescue skills, Eleni had incorporated counseling into the training of her volunteers.
They saw too much heartache on the sea—when bodies washed up on the shore, especially those of children, her young volunteers couldn’t cope.
This was what she’d meant when she’d encouraged him to speak: Talk or the water will break your heart.
“When was the last time you saw Audrey? What did she want to talk to you about?”
Eleni turned to face him, the breeze lifting a skein of gold hair across her cheek. “She came out scouting with us when we let her, which truthfully wasn’t that often. We need every available spot on our boats in case the scouting run turns into a rescue. Once or twice we let her accompany us because she wanted to chronicle the course of the crossing as part of her NGO’s work. She wanted to make sure Woman to Woman had the right response tools. A few times, I took her across to Turkey when I went to meet with my Turkish counterparts—we need to stay up to date about rescue efforts on both sides. Once, when I couldn’t take her, she took the ferry to Izmir in the morning and returned to Lesvos on the last boat across.”
“Was she with Ali Maydani?”
“Not to my knowledge. She used a strange phrase. She said she was going to beard the lion in his den.”
“Do you know whom she meant?”
“I don’t. But a shipment came over for Woman to Woman on the ferry, a package fairly large in size. Two days after she received it, Audrey made that trip to Izmir. I liked her,” Eleni added, speaking in the past tense. “Every child, every person on this island mattered to Audrey Clare—islanders and refugees alike. She could sympathize with those who felt the island was overburdened, as much as she could with those who were struggling to reach our shores. Tensions have risen in Greece—we don’t have the resources to support a refugee population in such numbers, and the European Union is refusing to do its share.”
She smiled a beautiful, full-lipped smile at Esa. “The poorest country taking on the ones who are outcast. Is that how you say it, outcast?”
Esa nodded. Something about this woman, with her grave dark eyes and unflustered spirit, eased the despair that had engulfed him since he’d arrived on the island.
“People fill in the gaps, I find.” She smiled that intimate smile again. “When governments won’t act, people open up their hearts and find a way. There’s a wonderful baker on the island of Kos, perhaps you’ve heard of him. Every morning he drives around in his little van to hand out food to those who’ve made the journey. So many times I’ve seen young and old alike, refugees who come here with nothing except their hopes, kiss him on his cheeks, as if the bread is a benediction. His name is Dionysus. We keep in him in our prayers.”
Khattak noticed the tiny gold cross at her neck. “He’ll be in mine now, as well.”
He was trying to think of Audrey, but in his mind’s eye he kept seeing the curly-headed little girl who’d clung to Ali’s hands, her face full of distrust as he’d passed her off to Shukri Danner. He thought if he witnessed this baker handing out bread to children in the cold, he would have kissed him, too.
Eleni touched his hand. As Amélie Roux had done, she asked him about his resemblance to the boys on Afghan Hill.
“Is it my imagination?” she asked. Briefly, he explained the connection. The boys he’d met on Afghan Hill were Pashtuns or Pathans, as was Esa himself. Pashtun tribal links extended across the Afghanistan/Pakistan border; physical similarities that suggested this heritage could sometimes be discerned.
“Ah.” She took a sip of her coffee. “Then you are experiencing this search for your friend in a more personal way—I can see it in your eyes, Esa.” She used his name with a warmhearted familiarity.
“Perhaps.”
If he started to speak of these things, he didn’t know where it would end. His thoughts moved to Sehr’s accusations. If he didn’t want her—and he didn’t—why had her words struck so deeply? He had a quickened moment of insight into his reticence with Eleni: it was Sehr who would understand, Sehr whose warmth he sought.
Eleni’s phone rang. She spoke into it urgently, assuming a brisk competence. She stood up, fastening her helmet in a practiced move.
“I don’t know if I can help you more than that. I do know the package that came for Audrey is still at her office on Chios. A friend called and asked me if I wanted to take custody of it. I head out there tomorrow if you need a ride.”
Esa thanked her, emotion deepening his voice. He didn’t examine it. He knew it wasn’t about Eleni, despite his admiration of her work. It was about the swirling blue waters beneath them, and what Eleni was setting out to find.
They parted ways at the gate to the road, Eleni lingering for a moment.
“Talk,” she said again. “Don’t let Lesvos break your heart.”
21
Eftalou Beach
Lesvos, Greece
The breeze that blew over the island carried the scent of almond blossom. The island’s trees were heavy with birds whose cries were like an exultation. Spring was coming to Lesvos much earlier than it was to Toronto; it draped the island in a dreamy warmth accented by grape-colored clouds. Rachel was in her element discussing sports with two well-built members of the Coast Guard. Though hockey was her holy grail, she was conversant in soccer, or football as the Italians called it, and the subject took up most of the walk to the northern beach. She’d asked them to spare a little time; Commander Illario Benemerito had invited her to accompany them. If they were taking a break from their work, she decided she might as well enjoy the fresh air.
She marked off a familiar set of questions: How well had they known Audrey, could they pinpoint the last time they’d seen her on the island? Did they know if she’d had any success with her inquiries about a missing girl?
Though Benemerito offered his condolences on Audrey’s disappearance, he didn’t have much to tell her. Vincenzo Sancilio was a cadet who was learning the ropes of his profession; he’d seen Audrey with his commander, but hadn’t spoken to her. Together, the two men were voluble, joking with each other despite the difference in rank, though it was Vincenzo who came in for the bulk of the off-color teasing. He wasn’t at ease in Rachel’s presence: when she offered an opinion on anything from the weather to Barcelona’s famous football club, he directed his response to Illario instead, his English not quite as fluent. She wouldn’t have called his deme
anor deceptive, but something more uneasy.
Benemerito, on the other hand, was forthright and respectful, though a warm glint in his eyes let Rachel know he had noticed her as a woman and approved. He offered a strong hand to assist her on the rockier parts of the descent, keeping her hand in his a second longer than necessary.
At five foot nine and with the build of an athlete, Rachel wasn’t used to chivalrous treatment. Trying not to smile, she found she was enjoying it. This must be what Khattak felt like all the time, basking in admiration—though she had to admit, she couldn’t really accuse Khattak of basking. His poker face was quite good.
She gave herself a mental pat on the back. If she was comparing her conquests to Khattak’s, she was heading up to the big leagues.
She’d thought Illario meant to show her the leisure craft he’d used to come across. He and Vincenzo had a few days’ leave; they were on the island to offer their assistance at the camps. Rachel admitted she hadn’t expected members of the Italian Coast Guard to be so moved.
When she said as much to Illario, he shrugged off her praise.
“When you’ve seen what we’ve seen, when you’ve rescued people stranded at sea, it leaves its mark on you. The volunteers here, the Greek people—” He made an expansive gesture with his hand. “They’re the heroes of this crisis. We do a little here and there, but they’re the backbone of the effort to save lives. You might be able to do a little yourself,” he added with a smile. Rachel noticed a gold tooth—the gleam from one of Illario’s incisors gave him the air of a pirate.
She demurred, a little embarrassed. “I’m a member of Canadian law enforcement.”
“I’m a commander of the Guardia Costiera,” he said easily. “That doesn’t stop me. Don’t you want to know what we’re doing on this beach?”
Rachel looked around. This wasn’t the same beach she’d explored before. Illario and Vincenzo had brought her some distance in the dark, the moon sunk low over the curl of the waves. The wind whipped up along the water. Rachel shivered a little inside her jacket. Unselfconsciously, Illario placed an arm around her shoulders, offering the warmth of his body. Rachel hesitated briefly before accepting.
She was alone on the beach with two men who were strangers, but she wasn’t afraid. One, she had her gun strapped in the holster at her waist. Two, she had expert qualifications when it came to self-defense. Three, she was an excellent judge of character. Illario’s warm and casual manner posed no threat to her. He was a man used to taking care of others.
“I thought we were out for a stroll.”
Vincenzo took out his flashlight. He swept it over the water in wide, concentric loops.
“Do you think we’re here to waste our time?” he said rudely. “We come here to wait for the boats. We don’t only think of ourselves.”
Now Rachel noticed that both men had zipped up their jackets, and were wearing waterproof boots. A flashlight flickered from farther down the beach where a team of volunteers worked, members of a Christian mission. Each white vest was marked with a bright green cross. They were pulling a cart over the stony beach, but stopped a few yards away and began to unload blankets. A few members of the group played their flashlights over the blankets’ reflective surface, creating a glare that could be seen from a distance.
His arm still around her shoulders, Illario marched Rachel toward the group.
“Come on,” he said. “They’ll need our help. They’re mostly girls—they’re not strong enough to pull the boats in.”
He pulled her into a circle of volunteers and released his hold, observing a professional decorum. Greetings were exchanged, with brief introductions, and soon their little group was assembled at the edge of the water, facing out over the waves. Rachel made inquiries about Audrey, and though some of the volunteers knew her, none could offer any knowledge of Audrey’s private activities beyond experiences they’d shared as volunteers.
Rachel tugged Illario aside. “Why did you take her across? Audrey was making regular trips to Turkey. She wouldn’t have been traveling through Italian waters.”
“No,” he agreed. He pulled out a pair of binoculars, scanning the silent waves. “She was educating herself about the refugee journey. She learned the routes over the Aegean, but she also wanted to know what was happening on the Italian side. Most of the migrants we rescue have fled from Libya across the Mediterranean, they’re mainly young black men: Ethiopians, Sudanese, Somalis, Gambians. Their experience at the hands of smugglers is the worst of any group that’s passing through. There’s a strong element of racism to all this.”
“Migrants?” Rachel noted the deliberate word choice.
He lowered his binoculars for a moment. “Yes, some are refugees—particularly those fleeing Eritrea. But many are economic migrants who wouldn’t qualify as Convention refugees.” He shrugged his broad shoulders. “The poverty and corruption they are fleeing is no less a danger to their survival, in my opinion; I’m not trying to be political.” He spared Rachel a smile. “It’s just important to be accurate, so we neither understate nor overstate the magnitude of the crisis.”
Rachel remembered the conditions at Moria. “I don’t think anyone is in danger of overstating things.”
Vincenzo broke into their conversation.
“You haven’t seen the Italian ports. They’re sweeping through our cities, sleeping in our parks, chasing the tourists away. Families can’t go out in safety anymore. Wherever they go, they leave their garbage behind.”
Illario rebuked him. “No one asked for your opinion.”
Vincenzo scowled. “Free country,” he muttered.
Illario turned back to Rachel. “It is true that this year more refugees are reaching Italy than Greece.”
There was a heavy sterling cross at his neck that he raised and kissed. “When you’ve pulled as many people from the water as we have, you’re in a constant battle with death. I can’t say we’re winning it.”
This time when he raised his binoculars, he let out a shout. He extended his arm out to the sea, pointing. “There! Vincenzo, move!”
He passed his binoculars to a volunteer, striding out into the water, Vincenzo at his side, the water sloshing up against their boots.
At first, Rachel couldn’t see the boat. It was half-submerged and darker than the water. The first sign she had that the boat was headed to shore was the sight of orange life jackets dipping against the waves. However the dinghy was powered, it wasn’t moving forward now, just buffeted by the waves. Vincenzo and Illario lost their footing a few times before they regained their feet. Vincenzo swam out ahead to meet the boat.
In the glare of the volunteers’ flashlights, Rachel had her first look at a boat arriving from Turkey. It was a small rubber craft designed for twenty people, but double that number were crammed aboard, sitting on each other’s laps, children packed into the middle, silent and numb with cold. A few of the older boys who could swim were clinging to the sides of the boat, treading water to prevent the boat from sinking under the weight of such a load. Families were squeezed together—the elderly, the middle-aged, the young—small children and babies gripped in their mothers’ arms.
The faces of the travelers were white in the glare of the lights, filled with dread and panic. Illario reached the boat. His strong arms began to pull it in, Vincenzo swimming around to push the dinghy from the back.
Farther up the beach where the land met the road, Rachel heard the honking of horns. Two or three white vans were driving down the road close to the edge of the beach. One of the volunteers had gotten a fire going on the beach, the smoke rising to meet the waves.
It was a scene of chaos and noise, and Rachel couldn’t stand by and watch. She ran into the water, her steps slowing as they met the drag of the waves. She took the opposite side of the dinghy, using her upper-body strength to help Illario pull it in. The young men who’d been treading water did the rest. How they found the strength, Rachel didn’t know. Even this limited attempt was wearing
at her muscles. At the rear of the dinghy, Vincenzo shoved the boat ashore. The minute it was out of the water, its occupants began to clamber out.
They were met by volunteers with blankets and urged toward the fire. Some did as they were told, others looked blankly back at the dinghy, searching the faces of those who hadn’t stirred. A young woman whose lips were blue unclutched her freezing hands from the baby in her lap. The man beside her—a husband, a brother?—reached down and passed the baby to Rachel. She unzipped her jacket and pressed the child to her chest, struggling back to the shore. The baby’s skin was cold, its eyes closed. She passed it to a volunteer, and stumbled back to the boat to help the mother.
So the next half hour passed—hands meeting hands, life jackets being unzipped and abandoned on the rocks, paramedics attempting a makeshift triage. A hastily contrived stretcher was brought from one of the vans to assist an elderly woman whose long black abaya was soaked. A little boy translated anxiously for his silent, stoic parents.
The last of the men treading water next to the boat now staggered ashore and fell to his knees, kissing the rocky ground. He raised one finger high above his head, his body racked with sobs. He was praying, Rachel saw.
Others were crying as well—the absence of a reply to names that were called out, fathers diving back into the boat to search for children they couldn’t find. When Rachel spun around next, the woman who’d passed Rachel her child was sitting alone near the fire, her face empty as she stared into the flames. The baby was beside her on the ground, its small body covered with a blanket. The paramedics had moved on to those who were still alive.
Rachel caught a glimpse of Illario crouched down next to two little boys who appeared to be alone. He stood and craned his neck, playing his flashlight over the crowd. He was making a count of how many had arrived on this particular boat.
A Dangerous Crossing--A Novel Page 16
