Pretending to be absorbed in the list, she said, “I’ll be glad to rule out these leads. Should I drive you to the airport first?”
“I’ll take a cab, you keep the car. And take these as well, they might open a few doors.” He passed over the letters of introduction from Roux and from Ambassador Mansur. “Sehr—”
She looked up. He was watching her with an unusual intensity.
“When you come back to Lesvos, I’ll meet you at the airport. We need time to talk without the pressure of what’s been happening.”
Though her pulse had begun to race, Sehr tried not to read too much into his words. She nodded, not knowing he’d read the hope in her face, or that he’d taken heart from it. It wasn’t a victory he’d earned or one she would have wanted him to have.
* * *
When she’d gone, he made a call to Ambassador Mansur, a call she answered on the first ring, the warmth in her voice fading to horror as he told her about the connection to CIJA.
“What do you think has happened to Audrey? Was this the reason she was taken? Did she make herself a target in the eyes of someone at Camp Apaydin?”
He could hear the worry behind the question, the shadow it would cast over Canada’s efforts at easing the refugee crisis if Apaydin became seen as an escape route for Assad’s men.
“I don’t know,” he told her frankly. “I haven’t looked at the politics of this, only at the crisis. The situation on the islands is bleak; now that the borders have closed, we’re effectively talking about detention in these camps.”
Camille Mansur’s voice softened. “You are new to this, habibi, or you’d know that’s what all these places are. Think of Zaatari in Jordan. It’s an end in itself. There’s no going forward for hundreds of thousands of people.”
Esa didn’t want to hear this. He didn’t want to confront the reality of it, though he’d seen it in Souda, Kara Tepe … Moria. He discussed his suspicions for a few minutes more; at the end of the call, Ambassador Mansur promised to convey his concerns to the prime minister.
“You’ll be careful, yes? You have too much experience not to know where to draw the line.”
He reassured her the best he could, though he knew he couldn’t have said where that line was, or where he wanted it to be.
Mytilene, Lesvos
In the bar, Rachel was surrounded by a group of men who joked with each other loudly, though she suspected their banter covered their feelings of despair.
Two-thirds of those who’d made the crossing the previous night had drowned. The Greek Coast Guard and the Hellenic Rescue Team were still fishing bodies out of the water. Whether the bodies would be identified, whether their families would ever learn what had happened to them, Rachel wished she knew. She didn’t ask—she could see that her new friends were drinking to forget.
Peter Conroy’s pale skin had flushed red with his consumption of too many beers. He’d become verbose and was regaling Vincenzo with stories about the Top End, a region of Australia Rachel was fairly certain Conroy had never seen. Vincenzo egged him on—the outlandish size of crocodiles in the north grew bigger with each telling.
The door opened and though Rachel was expecting Khattak, it was Eleni Latsoudi and Shukri Danner who entered. Eleni was still dressed in her rescue gear, and Shukri was wearing a warm coat because she’d been at Eftalou Beach. Her head covering was drenched at the ends.
Rachel shifted to another table and beckoned the women to join her.
They’d spent part of the night together, scouting for boats. They’d all been present when the dead had reached their shores.
Their table was near the fire, and as Eleni stripped off her helmet to shake out her blond hair, several of the men turned to look. Illario Benemerito wasn’t one of them. He’d bought Rachel a beer, and now he tipped his glass at her.
Rachel ordered Shukri a nonalcoholic cider, surprised to learn the bar kept a variety of nonalcoholic drinks available for their new contingent of customers. Vincenzo, as drunk as Conroy, gestured rudely at Shukri.
“What’s she doing here? We don’t need her kind in here, they’re everywhere as it is.”
A sharp rebuke from Benemerito silenced him.
Shukri ignored the commotion. She huddled close to the fire, and unlike the men, the three women talked over the night’s activities. Both Eleni and Shukri asked after Khattak; Rachel responded with a sigh.
“His flight has landed. He should be here any minute.”
Rachel had been waiting for this moment. She placed a folder on the table between the two women. She asked a pointed question. “When the shots were fired at Kara Tepe, did either of you visit the crime scene?”
Both women shook their heads, clearly surprised.
“And you, Ms. Danner, when you were summoned to Athens by the police, were you shown pictures of the victims? Were you taken to the morgue?”
Sipping at her cider, Shukri answered no.
Rachel opened the folder. She showed them the photograph of Aude Bertin. Another one of the dead to add to the weight of what they’d witnessed.
“Ah, God rest her,” Eleni said.
Rachel showed them the photograph of the boy in the morgue. Shukri set down her glass with a thump. The three women ignored the shouts of laughter from the next table.
She muttered a formula that Rachel recognized as one she’d heard from Khattak. From God we come, to God we return.
Except that Shukri chanted it more like a spell, a warding off of evil.
Eleni’s eyes widened. “What happened to this poor boy?”
“You don’t recognize him?” Rachel asked, watching their faces.
Shukri looked up. “Of course I do. But the police said Sami al-Nuri was killed.”
“Alongside Agent Bertin, you mean.”
“Yes.” Shukri nodded vigorously. “This doesn’t make sense.”
“Why?” Rachel asked, a keen light in her eyes.
“Because this isn’t Sami al-Nuri.”
Lowering her voice, Shukri told them the boy’s real name. Rachel caught her breath, her suspicions confirmed. She slid the photograph back into the folder.
“Who identified this body as Sami’s?”
Bemused, Shukri spread her hands. Eleni took another swallow of her beer.
“Was it the French Interpol agent?” Eleni and Shukri exchanged a glance before Eleni spoke. “I think it was. Inspecteur Roux is her name.”
“You met her?” Rachel asked sharply.
“She conducted interviews with everyone who’d spoken to Agent Bertin.”
“She’s not on the island now.” Rachel had done some investigating of her own. “The Greek police told me she caught a flight off-island earlier today. Did either of you know that?”
A trail of steam was rising from Eleni’s gear. She patted down her arms with a napkin. Illario stopped by their table.
“Can I help in any way?” he asked. “You look worried.”
The door to the bar opened. Rachel looked up with relief. “No,” she said. “Thank you. Inspector Khattak is here.”
36
Kara Tepe, Lesvos
They took a taxi up the road to Kara Tepe. They moved between the row of tents, past the Woman to Woman headquarters, which was still marked off as a crime scene. They moved down opposite lanes, looking for signs of the boy.
A stone skidded past Rachel on the path. It was nearly midnight but Aya wasn’t asleep. She waved at them from her tent.
Rachel whistled at Khattak. He followed her lead to the tent. It wasn’t raining, but the night air was cold. Aya ran up to Rachel and hugged her. Khattak ducked into the tent. There were two sleeping bags on one side of the tent; Ali rested on one, the other side was occupied by an elderly man and his grandchildren. Ali sat up on his elbows and waved.
“What is it?” His voice was husky. “Is it Israa? Did you find her?”
Khattak shook his head. “Come outside.”
Rachel gathered Aya up in her arms.
They commandeered a set of plastic chairs.
“We found Ali Maydani,” Khattak said.
The boy rocketed to his feet. “What are you talking about?” he demanded. “I’m Ali Maydani.”
“But you’re not, are you?” Khattak said. “Your real name is Sami al-Nuri.”
* * *
There was no moon to ride the slow, hypnotic pitch of the waves. Rachel and Khattak used their flashlights, making their way along the shore,the boy they now knew as Sami walking ahead, Aya skipping behind, fresh and full of excitement.
“Tell us,” Khattak said to the boy. “You can trust me, I won’t let any harm come to you.”
And Rachel remembered when Khattak had said as much to her in a town called Waverley. A knot formed in her throat. She believed Khattak’s promises.
The boy seemed to be weighing Khattak as an adversary. In a voice warm with empathy, Khattak said, “I prayed at your side in Izmir. I view that as a trust.”
Sami kicked at stones on the beach, ducking his head to hide the tears in his eyes. “I know you do,” he said. “But I once thought a Syrian would never kill another Syrian.”
They let him have a moment, the waves bleeding into silence at his feet.
At last, Khattak asked, “Were you in the tent when the shots were fired? Were you the one who fired them?”
The boy brushed the tears from his face with both hands. “No. But it was my fault.”
Aya ran up to Rachel and clutched her hand, sensing the oppression of the moment. Rachel gave her an encouraging squeeze.
“Why do you say that?”
“Agent Bertin asked to meet me at Woman to Woman. She said she had news about Israa. A boat was coming in and I wanted to wait and see if Israa was on the boat, so I told Ali to go ahead without me. We had almost made it back to camp when I heard the gunshots.”
“You knew they came from Woman to Woman?”
“Yes.” He swallowed. “You could tell. So I ran the rest of the way.”
“Did you get there before the police did?”
He nodded. “I didn’t touch anything other than his papers. I just looked to see if I could help.” He began to cry. “I couldn’t. They were already dead.” His eyes wide and haunted, he said, “I’ve seen the dead, so I knew.”
When Rachel would have gathered up Aya and left Khattak with Sami, he waved a hand at her. “Aya has seen the dead, too. You don’t need to protect her.”
“Did you see who shot Agent Bertin and Ali Maydani?”
Sami shivered in the night air, though Khattak had bought him a thicker coat in Izmir. It was the shiver of a boy who felt the presence of ghosts at his heels.
“There was so much noise and confusion. Everyone who’d been on the beach seemed to be rushing to camp. Peter, Shukri, Vincenzo. Even Octavio, the owner of the bar.”
“Peter Conroy was on the beach?” Rachel interrupted to ask. He shouldn’t have been. He should have been on Chios. Yet, just as he was tonight, Peter was here on Lesvos with his same group of friends.
“He was the first person to reach me on the hill. He didn’t see me at the tent. I don’t think anyone did.”
“And of course, you didn’t confess you’d been there,” Rachel said.
“How could I? If I ended up in detention, what would happen to Aya?”
“Shukri knew the boy who was killed wasn’t Sami al-Nuri. She told us his name is Ali Maydani. She must know who you are, as well.”
“She does, because she helped me register when we landed. But I’ve stayed out of sight since Ali was killed, so she doesn’t know about the mix-up.”
Khattak cut in. “Then who identified the body in the morgue as yours?”
The boy’s lips trembled. “I put my identification on the body. I have documents in Arabic that don’t have a photograph attached. And I took Ali’s papers for myself.”
“But everyone here has been calling you Ali. And you’ve known at least some of them for some time … Commander Benemerito, Vincenzo. Perhaps Peter Conroy.”
“Except for when we registered with Shukri, I told everyone I was Ali. I did it to keep him safe.”
They had come to the edge of the stony beach that bled into a boardwalk with a ledge. Rachel set Aya down on the ledge and sat down beside her. Sami came to a halt, his throat working as he tried to tell them the rest. Khattak placed an arm around his shoulders.
“It’s all right,” he said. “Whatever it is, we’ll handle it together.”
He held on to the boy, offering his protection.
Sami struggled to continue.
“You know the things I told you at Camp Apaydin? The reason we went there, the reason Audrey took us there?”
Khattak nodded. Rachel could see from the resolve in his face that he’d already guessed the answer.
“Ali was able to point out the defectors who shouldn’t have been offered refuge at the camp. They were torturers, murderers. They committed terrible crimes.” He shuddered. “They committed those crimes against Ali. The Turkish authorities didn’t know. Or maybe they did, and were bribed to look the other way. Maybe the camp is guarded so people like me don’t ask questions.”
“That explains the injuries on Ali’s body. Was he a protester? Is that why he was tortured?”
Sami shook his head. “Worse, much worse,” he whispered. “Ali was a member of the Syria Civil Defense in Aleppo. He was captured by Assad’s troops when he was wounded in a bombing. He was transferred into the hands of the Mukhabarat.”
And when they looked at him, confused, he explained, “Ali was a White Helmet.”
Shocked, Rachel found herself whispering as well, “The White Helmets? The ambulance service that rescues people from the bombs? Ali was just a boy.”
Sami shrugged. “Maybe you can’t tell from the body at the morgue, but Ali was twenty-two. There are younger volunteers who work with the Civil Defense. We don’t have much choice, because we are all we have.”
The blue-black tones of the night lent a poignancy to Sami’s words. Khattak cleared a constriction in his throat.
“How did Ali escape the Mukhabarat? His body is covered in the signs of their work.”
“He was transferred to Damascus because of his value as a prop. His family is well-placed so they were able to arrange what they thought was his rescue by paying an enormous bribe. He was sent to Military Hospital 601.”
Khattak’s head snapped up. He’d explained his findings to Rachel on their walk up to Kara Tepe, speaking with an unfeigned distress that told her more than he knew.
“Military Hospital 601 is an extension of the detention system.”
Sami’s hands balled into fists. A profound relief lit his eyes. “You know,” he said. “Finally, someone knows.”
“It was in the boxes,” Rachel explained. “The boxes Audrey took to Delft.”
Khattak cut across her words, his own question urgent. “How could Ali have escaped from Hospital 601?”
Sami crammed his fist into his mouth. He was on the verge of hyperventilating.
Khattak eased his hand away, murmuring in an undertone. “Trust me,” he said to the boy. “Tell me so I can help.”
“I was an assistant at the hospital. I helped the military photographer photograph the bodies, and I delivered the bodies to the transfer vans for burial. Ali was nearly dead when he arrived at 601. Before they could do anything more to him, I took him to the loading bay. One of the drivers was my cousin. He let me ride in the van and dropped us both at my house. The transfers take place in the dark. I smuggled Ali into our house. Israa took over his care, and I went back to work. I needed to alter the records so no one would know. I deleted his photograph from hospital records.”
“Why?” Rachel asked, shocked by the risks the boy had taken. “Why save Ali instead of someone else?”
“I was planning to leave Damascus within the next few days. And I thought—I thought I should take someone with me. It was a place of death—the stink of death was i
n every breath I took. I was sent to Ali’s hospital room and I saw—I saw…”
“What did you see?” Khattak asked gently. “Tell me. Get it out of your mind.”
“He was lying on his bed with his eyes closed but he was holding up one finger.” Sami showed them the gesture, raising his right index finger, the others tightly furled. “He was reciting the shahadah. I took that for a sign.”
* * *
It was the fourth body Sami had taken to the hospital from Branch 215, the branch they called “the branch of death.” Over the course of ten days, Sami had transported forty bodies from the prison whose inhumane conditions were merely a respite from torture. The prisoners lived in filthy surroundings, sometimes for months and years, subject to slow starvation, drinking from toilets, their clothes disintegrating in the heat, suffering from a range of diseases, the least of which was mental breakdown. If they survived the shabeh and the basat al-reeh, they were tortured by other means.
He was down to his final death of the day, transporting the body from the hospital to the garage, the morgue too full to receive it. He waited while the forensic doctor assigned the body a number and wrote up his brief report. The body was photographed—this one bearing unspeakable deformities. When the photographer was finished, the doctor ordered Sami to wrap the body in plastic. He caught a glimpse of the cause of death: heart failure. Only two verdicts were recorded: heart or respiratory failure, neither an accurate reflection of the actual cause of death.
The morgue was out of plastic sheeting because the week had been busier than usual. The prisoners who’d been transferred from Aleppo to Damascus were members of the Civil Defense. As far as Sami knew, no White Helmet had lived to speak of his heroism. He knew their commitment to the wounded was entrenched; he wished he was working with them.
The guard he was partnered with gave him a blanket to cover the body. He wrote the name of the body on a card, along with the ID number the doctor had assigned. The card was tucked inside the prisoner’s underwear. Sami carried the body to the entrance of the garage for removal. The processing session was over. He looked at the man’s face—he always looked at the faces. And he tallied up the deaths for the week, his heart a stone in his chest. He knew he was less than human. He was so tired he didn’t care.
A Dangerous Crossing--A Novel Page 26
