“You’re saying it’s different in Turkey?”
From Roux’s face, he could see he’d missed the significance of what she’d just told him. He was following a tangent, but it was one he thought was necessary.
They were facing the Turkish coast, its craggy outline looming up against waves crested with white tufts of foam. Esa couldn’t see any sign of the smugglers’ activities or of boats that had recently been launched. Some distance away, one of the Hellenic Rescue Team’s boats was in the water. A blond-haired woman on the deck was scouting the waves, radioing news of conditions on the water to volunteers on the islands. He wondered if the woman was Eleni Latsoudi. She was too far away to tell.
Rain began to fall, thick fat droplets spattering the deck, until the horizon disappeared in an iridescent silver streak. He and Amélie retreated to the lounge, where Rachel was huddled at a table, shivering as she sipped her watery tea. She’d bought a coat for herself on the island, but it wasn’t as warm as the one she’d brought from Canada.
He understood the impulse that had driven her to give hers away. It was the same impulse he was fighting: the desire to return to Moria and put his language skills to use. The needs of the Afghan children on the hill, contrasted with the prospects for their future, was something he couldn’t erase with a donation. He felt the stirring of an old calling, the sense there was more he could do—must do. He would ask for another meeting with the prime minister. But even that wouldn’t subdue the anguish of his thoughts.
Amélie Roux brought coffee in Styrofoam cups. They rejoined Rachel, whose pallor was beginning to fade.
“Turkey is the most beautiful country I’ve visited. Its history is fascinating. Izmir—Smyrna—is famous for its association with Alexander the Great.” Amélie returned to the question Khattak had asked. “But look at the neighbors, my friend. A dangerous neighborhood, as the Americans would say.”
Khattak was familiar with this characterization, though it wasn’t one he used. But if Amélie was speaking of the border, he could hardly disagree.
“You were speaking of organized crime,” he reminded her, trying to determine what he’d missed.
“Already well established in Turkey. The refugee crisis has opened up new opportunities for profiteers.”
“What kind of profiteers?” Rachel raised her head from her cup.
Amélie leaned forward confidentially. At the table behind her, Khattak caught sight of the same group of men who’d assembled in the café on Lesvos. A mix of Germans, Danes, Italians, and Greeks, joined by Peter Conroy. Despite the rain and the chilly ambience, their conversation was lively. They were headed to Izmir for a break from their work, dressed in civilian clothes.
“Smuggling refugees across from the Anatolian coast to the islands of Greece has been profitable for organized crime. Someone gets the boats together, someone delivers them to the beaches, someone collects refugees from Izmir and drives them to the coast. Someone organizes the routes and keeps an eye on the weather. Well…” She shrugged. “I can’t say that the smugglers are concerned about a safe passage; their job is to collect money—as much money as they can. That’s why they overcrowd the boats. The point is, all of this is a very big operation, a well-coordinated operation. Somebody is running it, someone’s making money.”
Rachel played devil’s advocate. “At least someone’s getting refugees across. They’re not having to do it themselves, and after all, don’t the people who want to cross have the option of remaining in Turkey?”
She wasn’t expecting Amélie’s fierce response. “That’s no more of an option than the Calais Jungle. There are no jobs for such a huge influx of people. Those who exploit them can take their pick, paying one-half, one-third of normal wages, sometimes not paying at all. It’s a machinery that thrives on desperation.”
Khattak didn’t know what Amélie Roux had seen, but he disagreed with some of her conclusions. “Do you think Greece should be expected to cope with the crisis on its own?”
Amélie crumpled up her cup and tossed it into a bin. “Absolutely not. How could they?”
“It’s no easier on Turkey. Turkey hosts nearly three million refugees. It doesn’t have resources to sustain them.”
Amélie bristled at this. “That’s an easy way out, Esa. Turkey has responsibilities under the Convention.”
“So does France,” he rejoined.
“Turkey is a near neighbor. More importantly, the people of Turkey and Syria have more in common.”
“I don’t disagree. What I’m saying is that a disproportionate burden has fallen on Turkey.” Khattak kept his voice low, conscious that the men at the next table had fallen silent to listen. “And let’s not forget, the European Union has just paid Turkey billions to shut down the flow into Europe. That’s led to people taking increasingly desperate chances on the sea.”
Amélie pulled out a cigarette and lighter. She kept her eyes on Khattak’s face as she lit her cigarette and inhaled.
“Your eyes,” she said to him. “They tell me a lot more than this very polite way you have of speaking. You hate this, I think. You hate everything about this.” She took another draw of her cigarette, then said, “Yes, I agree. The record of France as a member of the European Union is terrible. It’s a dreadful thing that’s been happening with Le Pen and her neo-Nazi following. The force she represents is continuing to gain strength. Another Bataclan or Nice, who knows where we’ll end up?”
She was referring to the terror attacks that had devastated France.
“This cycle we are in is ugly—the French do not want Muslims. They don’t want Arabs, they don’t care whether they are born in France or not. The same thing applies in Turkey. Refugees will go to their graves in these camps. The Turkish template, the Jordanian one at Zaatar—these are not solutions. Calais is even worse.” She turned her head so the smoke would blow away from her companions. “These words … refugees, migrants, maybe they have some legal effect, they don’t mean anything to me. They didn’t mean anything to Aude. She thought of people as having rights, no matter who they were, and now she’s dead.”
Khattak was sorry he’d pushed her so hard. The shine of tears was in her eyes. Respectfully, he looked away, giving her a moment to gather her composure.
“There’s plenty of blame to go around,” he said. “Enough for France … Canada … Turkey. It takes our attention away from the man responsible for this.”
“The lion in his den?” Rachel asked, a little pale herself.
“Assad,” Khattak supplied. “Though I suspect debate on that subject would be just as heated.”
Amélie crushed out her cigarette. She took an envelope from inside her jacket pocket and placed it on the table. Rachel opened the envelope and slid its contents onto the table between them. Three pairs of eyes studied the photograph of Sami al-Nuri.
Every inch of his torso was mutilated.
“Assad will be at The Hague soon enough. There’s too much evidence to come to any other conclusion. If you think of Sami al-Nuri as an emblem of Assad’s Syria, his broken body is all the proof we need.”
Someone dragged a chair over to their table and sat down next to Rachel.
It was Ali Maydani: he was on his own, Aya nowhere to be seen. His curls were standing on end, as if he’d brushed them with some force.
“Am I allowed to speak? I know my country better than you do. Better than Interpol, better than whatever it is you represent, Inspector.”
Khattak heard Rachel gasp. A fury as stark as the endless war was bottled up inside the boy.
He placed a hand on Ali’s shoulder. “You’re right, of course, forgive me. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
He noticed that Commander Benemerito at the neighboring table had risen from his seat, a frown of concern on his face. He gestured to reassure the other man. Benemerito nodded.
“It’s nothing new,” Ali said. “You all do it. The UN, the volunteers, the border agents, people on the news. You make choices tha
t affect us, you decide what our lives will be, you decide what we should think about those choices. All you see is a problem.” His voice became rough. “Even you, Inspector Khattak. You said we’re a burden to Turkey. We’re a burden to the islands, to every country we’ve fled to. We’re a burden within our own borders because we continue to exist.”
His eyes caught sight of the photograph on the table.
“Oh God,” he said. “Oh God, oh God. Is that Sami? Is that what he wouldn’t tell me?” He buried his face in his arms.
Khattak’s instincts took over. He didn’t say anything, just rubbed the boy’s back with his hand, trying to give him comfort. It was clear now that Ali’s connection hadn’t been only to Audrey. He knew Sami al-Nuri, and judging from his grief, knew him well. He signaled Rachel to bring something for Ali to eat.
Benemerito was on his feet, undecided.
Amélie came to the rescue. She tucked the photograph away, lighting a cigarette she passed to the boy. “Here,” she said. “You need this.”
He didn’t raise his head until he’d exhausted his tears. Then he looked up, half-defiant, half-ashamed, rubbing at his face with his sleeve. Khattak handed him a napkin.
Ali took the cigarette and smoked it, his face closed, his eyes shifting from theirs.
No one spoke until Rachel brought a cup of tea, accompanied by a roll stuffed with lamb. Ali finished his cigarette. He bolted down the roll.
The ferry was winding down its speed; at the Turkish coast Khattak’s phone gained service. It rang loudly in the silence. He frowned as he saw Sehr’s number. He shut off his phone to give Ali his full attention, blaming himself for his carelessness.
How stingingly accurate the boy’s denunciation was.
He’d said as much to himself many times while watching news of the Middle East or other parts of the world. What he saw on his screen invoked a familiar refrain: Iraq without Iraqis, Afghanistan without Afghans, Palestine without Palestinians, and now Syria without Syrians.
Commander Benemerito joined them at their table, bearing a second tray of coffees.
He glanced gravely at Khattak and Roux. “We don’t discuss politics in public, it’s painful to our Syrian friends. I’m sure you can understand why.” He didn’t wait for an answer, though Khattak took his mild reproach to heart. “You want to come with me?” Benemerito asked Ali. “I can drive you into Izmir to take a look around.”
Vincenzo had risen to his feet, murmuring something in Peter Conroy’s ear. Khattak began to appreciate how close the volunteers were. They worked together, they took time off in each other’s company. What he didn’t understand was the scowl on Vincenzo’s face.
“No,” Ali said at last. “I’m all right, Commander. It’s okay. I want to talk to the police.” He couldn’t muster a smile. “Don’t worry about me, thank you.”
Benemerito nodded his acceptance. “Fine. If you have any trouble with your papers, let me know.”
He left them to themselves. Khattak attempted a more thorough apology for his words. Ali listened to him, but he didn’t say anything at the end, and Khattak knew better than to insist on absolution. His comfort was irrelevant. He wanted Ali to know his thoughts to the extent it would offer the boy any solace from his pain.
Rachel gave them a reprieve by asking about Audrey’s package.
“How do the life jackets fit into all of this?”
The ferry’s engines powered down as it began its docking procedures. Passengers began to empty out of the lounge, preparing to disembark. Khattak’s eyes followed Conroy and Vincenzo as they left the lounge, Benemerito behind them.
“It’s part of the operation I was telling you about—it has to do with organized crime.”
“They’ve jacked up prices for life jackets,” Rachel guessed. “There must be a black market, given the need is so dire. I bet it’s hard for supply to catch up with demand.” She said this carefully, keeping her eyes on Ali to see if she was giving offense.
Ali’s eyes were still red, but his breathing had evened out. He looked from Rachel to Amélie Roux. “What’s this?” he asked. “What are you talking about?”
“Audrey Clare,” Khattak explained. “She ordered Yamaha life jackets. I thought they were for you and Aya for the crossing.” He kept his eyes on Ali’s. “I also thought it was possible that you and Audrey were bringing others across from Turkey.”
Roux interrupted before Ali could answer. “The smugglers have locked down the beaches. They would sink any boat that cut into their profit.”
Khattak was watching the boy. “You know something,” he said. “Please tell us. The longer Audrey is missing, the less likely it is we’ll find her.”
The color drained from Ali’s face. He gasped out Israa’s name.
Esa was aghast. Twice in ten minutes, his thoughtlessness had injured the boy.
Israa had slipped his mind. What he’d said applied equally to Israa, and Israa had been missing longer than Audrey Clare.
The boy’s heart was in his eyes. It was clear that Esa’s assessment carried weight. And he’d just heard Esa confirm his deepest fears. Israa wouldn’t be found; Israa was lost forever. A fresh set of tears rolled down his cheeks, this time in total silence.
“I thought this was about the life vests. I didn’t know what it would cost me.”
28
Izmir, Turkey
“How do we know what we’re looking for?” Rachel asked Khattak.
He nodded at Ali, but he was also looking at something on his phone. He showed it to Rachel. It was the list he’d made of places where Audrey had used her credit card; they fell within a discrete circle.
They reached Izmir without incident, renting a car in Cesme, and now Rachel had the opportunity to see what Roux had meant. The city was overdeveloped with ranks of repetitive apartment blocks, but what Rachel couldn’t take her eyes from was the boulevard that swept the curve of Izmir Bay. It was lined with palm trees whose blade-like leaves slashed the mirage of the sea. She hadn’t been expecting palm trees.
It was an exciting, vibrant city, the coastline gorgeously sectioned into parks and colorful marinas. It bustled with all the business of a port—container ships, cargo holds, cruisers sailing into the harbor. The clouds had passed and the air had become mild and balmy, little plumes of mist stroking feathery green palms. Rachel felt a thrill of discovery: she hadn’t expected to end up in Turkey as an outcome of Community Policing. In the course of a single year, her life had turned inside out.
Some of her euphoria left her as Ali directed them to his point of arrival. A helicopter swung low and Ali looked up. “If this was Syria, it would be dropping cluster bombs.”
He was from a place where children heard planes and thought of bombs.
They passed a circular park reached by two thoroughfares, the Gazi Boulevard and the Fezvi Pasha. They found parking in the Basmane neighborhood, popular with Kurds and Syrians. Ali led them along an alley between shop fronts, two-story buildings whose upper floors were residential, in contrast to the activity on the street. The alleyway was formed of paving stones. Single cement blocks mounted up to each shop. Patches of green turf on the blocks lent a dash of color to the street.
Internet cafés were a common sight. Shop windows carried notices in multiple languages: Turkish, English, and Arabic were prevalent. Chalkboard signs were set up on the street, offering money-changing services. There was a raft of plastic chairs on little patios for those seeking the refreshment of Turkish coffee or the apple tea served to tourists.
Rachel noticed the life jackets. Along the crowded pavement, bundles of jackets were wrapped in plastic. As they moved up the street and crossed the thoroughfare, fancier stores featured mannequins dressed in men’s suits on one side, and in life jackets on the other.
“It’s deserted here,” Ali said. “After the deal to seal the border, it no longer makes sense for people to come. Before, you could hardly walk down this street—people were sleeping in the alleys, in
the parks, waiting for smugglers to call them to the boats. There was so much life packed in here.” A smile drifted across his lips. “We made so many friends.” He told the story of his little group, and how they’d agreed to make the crossing. He’d admitted his friendship with Sami: they’d met in Basmane, and the four of them had grown close.
Ali’s head was turning from side to side. He was staring down each blind alley, craning his neck to peer into shops. Then Rachel noticed something else. Wherever there was a signpost or a free spot on a wall or shop window, a flyer with a photograph on it was posted. It was a picture of the girl Israa, and underneath it the words “HAVE YOU SEEN HER?” were printed in three languages above a phone number. A substantial reward was offered for information.
Rachel frowned at it. “Sir.” She drew Khattak’s attention to the flyer. “That number.”
Khattak recognized it at once. “Audrey’s satellite phone.”
They stopped to look at the boy.
“Yes,” he said. “She helped me. She was serious about the search for Israa.”
“Did you get any calls on that phone?”
Ali jammed his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “They were all dead ends, people wanting money. Sometimes families showed up with girls who looked like Israa. I couldn’t blame them. When you make this journey, you’re pushed into doing things you never imagined were possible.”
He didn’t make eye contact, scanning the nearby park. He wasn’t wasting a moment in his search. As Khattak and Roux peeled away to speak to store owners who might have interacted with Audrey, Rachel kept her attention on the boy.
“You’re saying it was busier than this when you first arrived in Turkey?” To Rachel, the streets seemed crowded.
A few young men were sitting with their backpacks leaning against the wall. Ali pointed to them. “The undesirables. As single travelers, we can’t get anywhere. I have an Afghan friend in Moria who made it to Sweden before he was refused.”
“How do you stay in touch?” Rachel asked.
Ali held up his cell phone. “Everyone uses WhatsApp to stay on top of the routes. But a lot of rumors get spread. One of the worst was that a Swedish ship was coming to collect us. We learned it was a lie at the coast.” His eyes met Rachel’s. “You meet good people during the journey, but you also see the worst.”
A Dangerous Crossing--A Novel Page 20
