Rachel could see children playing on the ground on the other side of the fixed red gate. There was a blue gatehouse behind the gate, a pair of trash cans in front. They could see the interior of the camp, but they couldn’t reach it without permission. Rachel wondered if its inhabitants were under guard.
She stayed in the van with Ali, whose face was pale with fear. Did he think he’d be turned over to the Turkish authorities to join the camp’s inhabitants? Their papers had been checked in Cesme, where they’d disembarked from the ferry. Roux’s credentials had stood the boy in good stead there; he’d been waved through with the rest of their party.
She searched the camp for signs of what was troubling Ali—apart from the guard at the entrance, there were no overt signs of military activity. Gazing southeast into the barren distance, she wondered if she was viewing the Syrian border.
The distance to the border could be measured in a handful of miles.
And on the other side of the line was misery that couldn’t be quantified, poorly understood in other parts of the world.
Eleven million people displaced.
Rachel’s mind couldn’t grapple with the scale of Syria’s destruction.
Khattak engaged the guards in conversation. His papers were held up for inspection. If Khattak called for her assistance, Rachel would join him, but he seemed to have the situation well under control. The guards were professional; they weren’t attempting to intimidate him. Nor did they search the van. They did, however, ask Khattak to accompany them inside the gatehouse. The screening area was unlocked to allow Khattak to be processed through.
“This is it,” Ali muttered. His hand reached for the door of the van.
Rachel turned to look at him, staying the movement of his hand. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“I should go take a look. This might be my only chance. They’ve left the gate open.”
“It could be electrified,” Rachel pointed out.
“It isn’t.”
“Why do you want to get in there? Do you know someone in the camp—or do you think Israa is in there?”
His slight hesitation told her that whatever he said, it wasn’t going to be the truth.
She kept the door firmly shut. “You can’t break into a camp under the Turkish government’s authority. Either we get invited in or we don’t.”
“I need to see,” he insisted. “Israa might be there.”
Rachel couldn’t fathom a scenario in which that might be possible. “Why would Israa return to the border? Why would she leave her little sister?”
The boy’s face was tinged with green. His voice shaking, he said, “She wouldn’t. She wouldn’t.”
Rachel placed a hand on his shoulder and squeezed. “Look,” she said, her voice gruff. “I know you’ve been through hell. We’re doing the best we can to find Audrey—when we do, don’t you think she’ll have better answers than you could dig up here? Unless you have some other reason for wanting to get into that camp. You’ve been here before. Do you know what Audrey wanted in the camp?”
He set his jaw. “Israa,” he said stubbornly. “We both want Israa.”
Rachel thought of the bodies that washed up on the beaches. Surely Israa had been in the boat that had accompanied Ali’s. It was possible she’d drowned, and the tides had carried her body to a different shore. Still, she thought Ali was lying.
She jumped when Khattak rapped at the window. She wound the window down. “Any luck, sir?”
He shook his head, his hair falling across his forehead. He was casually dressed for the humidity—the sleeves of his white shirt rolled up, a knotted kerchief at his neck to protect it from the blowing sand. He was wearing his sunglasses against the glare.
“Despite the call Inspecteur Roux put through to Ankara, I’m not able to obtain clearance. I’m afraid we’re not gaining entry to Apaydin.”
A moment later, one of the soldiers who’d been guarding the gate sauntered up to the van. He shrugged an apology at their group, peering into the van for a better look at Rachel.
She smiled at him, and he nodded. Then he stuck his head in the window. Rachel tried to shield Ali, but the guard’s face broke out in a smile.
“Hey, it’s my friend.” His English was casually colloquial. “Did you bring cigarettes this time?” His grin encompassed Rachel. “You have all the luck, man. Another pretty lady you’ve been keeping to yourself.”
“Charmer.” Rachel tried some flattery of her own. She read the name tag on his shirt and addressed him by his first name. “Are you talking about my friend here, Emre?” She pulled up a photograph of Audrey on her phone.
He squinted at her phone, nodding.
“When’s the last time you saw her, do you remember?”
Emre shrugged. “Ali could tell you, he was with her. Ten days ago, maybe two weeks?”
“She hasn’t been back? You’ve been here the whole time?”
He showed her his flashy watch. “I have to pay for this life. I don’t have anywhere else to be.” He saw the concern on Rachel’s face and added, “I’m sorry, I haven’t seen her. She came here asking questions about the officers…” His words trailed off. He cast a quick look back at the gatehouse, suddenly conscious that Khattak was paying close attention to his words. “Shouldn’t have said that.” He pinched his lips shut. “I talk too much.”
Ali spoke up from the back of the van. “Emre, man, please. I’ll bring you cigarettes next time. Did Audrey come back after I came with her?”
“No,” he said quickly. “She spooked a lot of people in the camp, so the boss said no more visitors. They don’t even let local politicians in.” He mimed hefting a rocket launcher onto his shoulder. “In case they get footage of jihadists-in-training.” He laughed. “I’m kidding. That’s what everyone says about Apaydin, but the Russians started that rumor.”
Rachel didn’t know whether to believe him.
He took advantage of Rachel’s interest to lean farther into the van. His breath was hot in her ear. “You know why this camp is under guard, don’t you?”
“Generals,” Rachel said bluntly, keeping her voice low. “Syrian defectors. High-value targets.”
Emre moved too close; she gave him a quick shove back. His smile was unrepentant. “Sorry, miss. Yes. We’re protecting these bastards from the people who fled them. At least, I think that’s what we’re doing.”
He didn’t have more to offer; as his partner joined him at the gate, he stepped away from the van with a cheeky salute and a wink.
“She hasn’t been back,” Khattak said to Rachel. “At least that’s one thing we can cross off the list, one less place for us to search. I’d like to have seen the camp for myself, though.”
As he opened the door, Rachel’s cell phone rang. It was another call from Sehr, who spoke without preamble.
“I’ve figured out what CIJA is. And I know what’s in Delft.” She dictated an address to Rachel, then in a firm, no-nonsense voice, she added, “Tell Esa to meet me there.”
When they were back on the dusty track to Izmir, Rachel looked over at Ali.
“Why did you come to the camp? Why did you go there in the first place? You were nervous the whole time, especially when Emre recognized you.”
She thought about the fact that Amélie Roux hadn’t seen fit to accompany them to Apaydin. If Roux was keeping track of their investigation, why had she abandoned them in Izmir? She’d placed a call on their behalf, but maybe she’d known ahead of time that Camp Apaydin wouldn’t yield any answers. Or maybe the call she’d placed had been to instruct the Turkish guards to refuse them entry to the camp.
Which begged the question of what Roux was trying to hide.
Ali knotted his hands in his lap. His curls shielded his face; Rachel couldn’t read his expression.
“I don’t know what you were doing there,” she said to him. “But I know it wasn’t about Israa.”
32
Delft, the Netherlands
; They didn’t speak to each other during the cab ride to the storage facility. Sehr looked out the window feeling wretched, wondering how she’d gotten to this place. She’d taken the blame on her shoulders for too long—yet how could she blame Esa for not seeing in her the things she’d found in him? The only way to handle it was to do what he was doing, retreat into professionalism, and speak to him with a stilted politeness without quite meeting his eyes.
She’d called Rachel back, explained her discoveries. Rachel had told Esa, who’d texted Sehr a time and place to meet. She’d agreed to meet him because the clock was running out on Audrey. And to prove to him that no matter what else he thought of her, she didn’t lack the courage to face unpalatable truths.
The cab stopped in the shadow of Oude Kerk, a Gothic Protestant cathedral known for its leaning tower. At any other time, Sehr would have chosen to do some sightseeing. She’d been to Holland but not to Delft; the Old Church’s fine timber vaulting and pyramid-shaped roof stirred her interest. From the reading she’d done to distract herself, she knew the painter Jan Vermeer was buried at the church.
They ended up on the west bank of the canal, where cars were parked on one side, and bicycles on the other. Colorful shop fronts lined the canal, the tower casting its reflection in the water. She walked along beside Esa, not saying anything, conscious of a buried sadness at the widening gulf between them.
He held the door for her once they reached the storage unit. It was in a small office building, attached to others in a row of housing, and from its entryway, it didn’t seem as though there was room for much storage of anything. Where in this facility would Audrey’s boxes be hidden? She thought she knew what the boxes contained. She was waiting for confirmation so she didn’t look like a fool.
A pleasant young man with an air of competence took Esa’s police identification in stride. He read the letter Inspecteur Roux had provided on Interpol letterhead. If he raised the issue of a warrant, Sehr had her arguments ready. He didn’t. He produced a pass card from a locked drawer and led them through sliding glass doors to a second set of doors.
The main storage area was behind these doors. Banks of cabinets with digital displays ran along the walls. He cast a look around for the one assigned to Audrey Clare: Unit 601. He nodded to himself, hesitating for a moment before he keyed in an override password.
“I’ll leave you to it, shall I? If you need anything else, please don’t hesitate to call me.” He pointed to an intercom button on the wall.
Sehr stepped back so Esa could search the unit. The boxes it contained were wide and flat, not much bigger than shoeboxes. Sehr estimated each box could hold fifty pages of paper. They were stacked in numerical order.
Esa reached for box 1 and placed it on a table in the center of the room. She watched Esa’s face as he read through its contents. She saw the sick pallor of his skin, the lowered line of his brows as he made sense of what he was reading. These were numbered documents with prefixes and codes attached, the documents embossed with the emblem of a tiny gold hawk. They were signed in green ink and accompanied by photographs.
Esa drew in a breath, turning the photographs over before Sehr could take a look. Gently, she eased them out from underneath his hand.
“Sehr,” he said. “Don’t look.” But he didn’t stop her by placing his hand on hers.
She ignored his warning, steadying herself. She’d seen worse things in her work.
“It was about Camp Apaydin. It comes back to Assad in the end.” She pointed to the panels attached to each photograph. “Look at this—215,” she said. “Every bit of this is crystal clear.”
“I’m not following.”
Esa’s face was so pale that Sehr wondered if she should urge him to a seat. Instead, he braced his hands on the table, briefly closing his eyes.
“Why these boxes are here in Delft, what CIJA means, who Sami al-Nuri was—what those burns on his body were—why he was killed. It’s all here in this box.”
Esa turned his head. For a moment, they simply looked at each other. Then Sehr switched into her mode as prosecutor.
“We’re twenty minutes from The Hague, from the International Criminal Court. That’s why Audrey brought these boxes here. She was planning to hand them over.”
“What about CIJA?” Esa asked.
“It’s the Commission for International Justice and Accountability. Those calls we couldn’t trace must have been to her liaison at CIJA. She was trying to arrange a pickup.”
“Why to CIJA? Why not to the International Criminal Court?”
“CIJA is the first independent agency to conduct a war crimes investigation. They have the funding to investigate, but no mandate to prosecute crimes. Ordinarily, war crimes would be referred to the ICC by the UN Security Council, but given Russia’s presence on the council, any attempt to do so would be vetoed. My guess is we won’t be hearing of prosecutions until the war is over. In the meantime, CIJA is collecting and preserving the evidence. You must have heard the name Bill Wiley.”
CIJA had been founded by Bill Wiley, a Canadian war crimes investigator who’d pioneered the effort to collect evidence of Syrian war crimes. Activists on the ground had collected evidence of the regime’s crackdown that was ultimately unhelpful in furthering prosecutions. It had been Wiley’s idea to redirect these efforts to document a wider range of abuses. CIJA had received funding from the UN, and from several different nations, including Canada, to train Syrians on procedures for collecting evidence—and on the kind of evidence required to corroborate prosecutions.
“For the past fifteen months, activists have been smuggling evidence out of Syria. The Syrian people are building the war crimes case, at great personal risk to themselves.” Sehr looked down at the coded photographs. “CIJA has interviewed two hundred and fifty witnesses, some at Apaydin, in an attempt to secure pattern evidence.”
“I’m not familiar with the term.”
Sehr knew they were speaking to each other in this manner to obscure the horror on the table. She hastened to explain, glad there was, after all, something of value she could offer.
“To build a war crimes prosecution, you need proof that crimes have been perpetrated in a systematic manner. You need to show the impact of government policy on individual citizens.”
She gestured at the photographs. “That’s what this is, Esa. It’s the evidence. Documents with the embossed hawk emblem are directly from the Central Crisis Management Cell.”
She explained the significance of Audrey’s collection. Shortly after the uprising in 2011, the Central Crisis Management Cell had held a meeting at the Baath Party Regional Command. The Baath Party was Syria’s governing party; it was ruled by Bashar al-Assad.
When the Syrian uprising had spread to other parts of the country, the CMC blamed itself for not coordinating the response of Syria’s security services. A new set of commands was issued at that meeting: the security branches were authorized to launch daily raids against protesters, security agents were to coordinate with neighborhood militias to keep the opposition out of protest hotspots, a joint investigation was to be launched that would incorporate representatives from all the security services. Their purpose was to interrogate detainees who would give up fresh targets for the security branches to detain.
The CMC sent these orders down multiple chains of command. In a stunning coup in 2014, CIJA had acquired proof of these orders. The Baath Party had instructed its organs to crush the protests. Those orders were clear. What CIJA required in addition was proof that the orders had been executed, protesters detained, tortured, or killed. The Crisis Cell had insisted its branches provide lists of detainees. The security branches confirmed that orders were carried out.
We did that a long time ago.
So thorough was the evidence demonstrating command responsibility that the U.S. ambassador at large had said: “When the day of justice arrives, we’ll have much better evidence than we’ve had anywhere since Nuremberg.”
The ph
otographs on the table were examples. Each body in the photographs was assigned a reference number from the security branch responsible for the death. If a corpse was taken to a military hospital, it was given another number to falsely document that the death had occurred in hospital—presumably while the victim had been undergoing treatment. The deaths of detainees were routinely attributed to heart attack or respiratory failure.
The case had been broken open by a defector known as Caesar, an official forensic photographer with the military police. In January 2014, overwhelmed by his burden of documenting death, Caesar had smuggled out fifty thousand images of murders carried out by the Mukhabarat, with evidence of systematic torture.
Caesar had made a chilling statement: “The regime documents everything so it will forget nothing.”
He’d given the images to the Syrian National Movement. Members of that group had formed the Syrian Association for Missing and Conscience Detainees. They took custody of the files, which were transferred to Human Rights Watch. The files contained evidence of twenty-seven detention centers that served as factories for torture.
“These images are new,” Sehr said. “They’re recent—from this year. They’re not part of the cache authenticated by CIJA. The Caesar photographs were made available through the news source Zaman al-Wasl, then picked up by various Facebook groups.”
“Why?” Esa demanded. “These photographs are appalling. Why would anyone make them public?”
Sehr understood there was a possibility she’d faced darker things than Esa had. They were both officers of the law, but her transition to refugee law had opened up a world in chaos.
“It’s very simple, Esa.” She kept her tone neutral. “So their families can identify the dead.”
Esa’s hand came down on the table. “But these photographs—the horrors they show—?”
“There’s no other way to know. It may be a terrible answer, but it is an answer.”
Esa studied the photographs. “How many?” he asked.
“Eleven thousand.” She quoted from the report published on the basis of the Caesar files. “Documented industrial-scale killing; systematic, pervasive torture.” Weighed down by her own words, she added, “But the Caesar photographs represent only a fraction of the dead. They cover a two-year period. The photographs are from the al-Khatib branch of the security services in northeast Damascus. So as damning as they are, they’re deficient in terms of giving us the whole picture.”
A Dangerous Crossing--A Novel Page 23
