A Dangerous Crossing--A Novel

by Ausma Zehanat Khan

  His partner went for a cigarette break.

  Deciding in an instant to do it, Sami raced back to the morgue. The photographs were stored on the morgue’s computer. He hid in a doorway, waiting for the photographer to finish up his work. He had a minute, maybe two, before his partner returned. When the photographer left, he slipped into the morgue. He downloaded the week’s cache of information onto the drive in his pocket. Sweating with fear, he wedged the drive into the toe of his boot.

  By the time his partner returned, Sami was leaning against the outer wall. Basil dropped him off at night: it was the regime’s way of monitoring his actions. But Basil was too lazy to be vigilant. Most nights, he had a wife he was eager to get home to.

  Sami wanted to ask Basil’s wife if she knew how many bodies her husband’s hands had disposed of, but he’d have to ask the same question of himself.

  Basil was holding a blanket. “There’s another one. They don’t think he’ll make it, poor bastard.”

  He called all the dead “poor bastards.”

  Though Sami’s heart clenched in his chest, he nodded. “Let’s go.”

  Basil tossed him the blanket. “You go, I’m meeting friends.”

  Sami made a token protest. He knew it was his partner’s night to gamble.

  Basil was watching him. “You’ll get yourself home when you’re done?”

  “I’ve got nowhere else to go.”

  There was nowhere he could go if he didn’t want to join the bodies in the morgue. He was conscious of the thumb drive in his shoe. He’d been expecting to go straight home, where he would have hidden the drive until the end of the next week’s shift. He had to be careful not to lose it. If anyone saw the photographs, they’d match the numbers on the bodies to his shift. Then he’d be sent to 215, if he wasn’t shot at first sight.

  Basil pointed him to a room. “There’s a jihadi in there. If he’s not already dead, it won’t be too long now.”

  When Basil left, Sami crept into the room. A nurse in a mask nodded at him as she left the room. Sami looked over at the bed. The young man lying on it had a battered face. He didn’t look like a trained jihadi—he was weak … probably starved, he didn’t have an overgrown beard. He wasn’t hooked up to any of the monitors. He wasn’t being treated; he was being watched.

  When Sami made a careless sound, the young man’s eyes flickered open. He whispered something to Sami. Sami looked down at his hand. The prisoner’s finger was moving. He was praying, preparing for death. He was so small and slight, so certain of his fate, meeting it with more grace than Sami would ever possess.

  He made his decision in a heartbeat.

  He threw the blanket over the prisoner, carrying him out into the hallway. He passed the nurse, who seemed to be expecting it, and made for the garage. He was taking a terrible risk, but what was the point of going on if he didn’t? Everything hinged on his cousin showing up as the driver of the van. The prisoner would probably die either way.

  The risk was worth it to Sami.

  * * *

  Khattak cradled the sobbing boy to his chest, looking at Rachel over his head. She’d missed the significance of Sami’s words, but he understood why a boy who believed he was at the end of his life would want to leave the world with the shahadah on his lips—testifying to the oneness of God, to Muhammad as His messenger. It was the submission of a believer.

  Torture was meant to rend the individual from himself, to divorce him from reality as he was stricken of every hope. In his darkest hour, Ali had clung to a cornerstone of his faith.

  The perverse degradation of the Muhammad stick touched Khattak’s thoughts again, firing his mind with outrage.

  How could You? rang the helpless echo of his thoughts. How could You let this happen?

  He held the boy until he was calm, then asked the question he’d picked out from the summary of Ali’s ordeal.

  “You were CIJA’s courier, weren’t you? That’s why you returned to the border, why you and Ali risked that visit to Camp Apaydin. Ali was the third passenger on that bus ride, not Aya. You were collecting documents smuggled out of Damascus. You asked Audrey to get them to The Hague.”

  Sami sank down on the ledge beside Rachel. Aya climbed into his lap and linked her arms around his neck, trying to console him.

  He gave Khattak a searching look. “Both of us were at risk. I might have been recognized as a defector from 601, though they couldn’t have known I smuggled out the photographs. Or that there were other defectors in Apaydin who had passed me physical records—orders from the CMC. And Ali might have been recognized as a member of the Civil Defense. We thought, between the two of us, his was the more dangerous identity, because military intelligence had had him for so long. So I took on his name, he took on mine, in case we were being followed.”

  “By a member of the Mukhabarat who slipped into the camp?”

  “We saw faces we recognized at Apaydin. They may have recognized us, too. We didn’t know who’d made it to the islands. If they knew we could identify them—they may have meant to kill Ali.” His hand stroked over Aya’s curls. “Or I might have been the target, and Agent Bertin was in the way.”

  It seemed possible, even plausible, to Khattak.

  Two people murdered to protect the identity of someone who’d done much worse. He’d felt the creeping dread of Apaydin, the suspicion on all sides, though he knew the camp’s inhabitants were mainly those who’d refused to prosecute Assad’s war.

  He was left with the question of whether Audrey had witnessed the shooting; she might have been in hiding from someone at Apaydin. Which made him consider whether Agent Bertin was involved in the transmission of files to CIJA. War crimes and crimes against humanity fell under Interpol’s ambit.

  “Was Agent Bertin helping you? Was that her connection to Audrey?”

  “Audrey was helping me. I didn’t know anyone else.” Sami’s young face looked anxious. Khattak decided to push him harder. “Did you see Audrey that night at the tent?”

  Sami twisted his hands together.

  “I can’t help you unless you tell me everything.”

  Aya spoke up in a soft, sweet voice. “Miss Audrey was there. She ran from the tent to the beach. We chased her.”

  Sami’s face went pale. “No, we didn’t,” he said to Aya. “You weren’t with me.”

  Aya’s head bobbed. “Yes, I was. I followed you, you didn’t see me.”

  Khattak pinned Sami with a razor-sharp glance. “So Audrey was there that night. Did you follow her to the beach?”

  The words he’d held back now tumbled from Sami’s lips. “I saw her run from the tent. She took a different path down to the beach. Someone was chasing her—I couldn’t see who it was—it was just a shadow. When Audrey reached the road, there was a van waiting with its lights off. The person who was chasing her hit me on the head. I heard a cry, I heard the van drive away. When I got to the road, she was gone.”

  “Did you recognize the van? Could you see a license plate?”

  “It looked like a tourist van, it was white with big black windows.”

  “Can you tell us anything else about it?”

  The boy’s chest heaved with a sob. “I couldn’t see anything else. The van was old. It was dirty with mud from the road.”

  Rachel patted his shoulder. “Why didn’t you tell anyone what you’d seen? The police have been looking for Audrey—this information could have helped them.”

  Khattak knew the answer, even if Rachel didn’t.

  Sami hadn’t known who to trust.

  37

  The Hague, the Netherlands

  Sehr’s feet were aching. She’d been to every address associated with a credit card purchase on the list Esa had given her, and she hadn’t turned up anything more than cafés, restaurants, and a whimsical antique store.

  She’d saved the address in The Hague for last because she thought it was most likely connected to the role Audrey had been playing as a courier for CIJA. On her
first day in the Netherlands, Audrey had taken a train from Schiphol Airport in Amsterdam to The Hague Central Station. Sehr mapped the location on her phone and drove herself to the station. She parked her car, strolling over to Hague Central to take a look around.

  The blue glass construction was a recently renovated paean to modernism—it loomed over the square like a butcher’s block edged in steel. The signage was clear inside, and directions to the numerous platforms were relatively easy to follow. Audrey had purchased a tram ticket from the station; Sehr spent a few minutes orienting herself until she found the track for Tram 1. She purchased a ticket for herself, boarded the tram, and a few minutes later, she exited at the World Forum, a gleaming convention center in the heart of the city that hosted regular trade fair business. She didn’t enter the building because she couldn’t see why Audrey would have come here. There was a directory in the middle of the giant outdoor park, close to a pond fronted by small green shrubs. She parsed it carefully. Audrey had made no other purchases that would narrow down her destination: there were several hotels, a museum, an opera center, the World Forum itself—and then, to one side, the International Criminal Tribunal for the former Yugoslavia.

  She hadn’t forgotten the Drayton inquiry that Rachel and Esa had been embroiled in—but she couldn’t see how the tribunal would be relevant to Audrey’s disappearance. She was about to give up and find a bench so she could call Esa for clarification, when from the corner of her vision she caught sight of three concrete buildings sheeted in glass, arranged like a series of blocks. From a distance, they seemed ominous and impressive. She was in the international zone—was it possible the buildings represented the United Nations? Flags lined the pathway that led to the first of the concrete blocks.

  Sehr checked the directory for further elucidation. She checked again to be sure.

  She followed the trail of flags, her pounding heart telling her she was on the right trail. She cast a glance over her shoulder, not certain why she was nervous. The day was bright and warm; the people around her were a mix of bureaucrats and tourists.

  Hastening her pace, she found herself in front of the complex and saw that the three blocks were attached to a central base. A royal blue flag with a circle of yellow stars looked familiar. More familiar was the sign bearing the building’s name.

  She’d discovered Europol’s headquarters.

  * * *

  When she tried to obtain admission through the visitors’ entrance, she was told very pleasantly she required written permission that could be obtained through the Web site. She asked to speak to someone in authority, showing the gatekeeper her letters of introduction. Phone calls were made and quiet conferences were held between sober-faced, immaculately uniformed personnel.

  Sehr fidgeted with the strap of her computer bag, which had scorched a trail of fire down her shoulder. Her nervous fidgeting drew the staff’s attention. A man in his forties with white-blond hair directed her to place her bag and purse on the security belt. Her possessions were searched, her passport and driver’s license scrutinized, but she was treated with excessive courtesy. She walked through a security gate to be wanded by a woman who bore a passing resemblance to Audrey. After these rituals were completed, she was led to a windowless room, halfway down a corridor. She wished now that she’d texted Esa about her discoveries, or her present location. She could see her phone and laptop were not likely to be returned in time for her to do so.

  On the other hand, no one had confiscated them for forensic analysis.

  When she was asked to state her business, she wiped a sticky strand of hair from her forehead and said, “I’m inquiring about Audrey Clare, a Canadian citizen who is missing in Greece. I’d like to know who she met with at Europol. It would help us in our search.”

  The man with white-blond hair and nearly transparent eyes nodded once. He left the room, taking Sehr’s purse and computer, and shutting the door behind him.

  She glanced around the room. It was the kind of office that might be loaned to visiting colleagues, bland and impersonal with its metal filing cabinets and sleek glass desk. Her mind was sorting through her memories of Europol’s mandate. It was clearly distinct from Interpol’s, yet there was a leather note case on the desk bearing the Interpol logo.

  She picked up the case and opened it. A pad of lined paper was covered with writing in French. Sehr’s French was adequate; she made a quick survey of the page, frowning when she caught sight of Audrey Clare’s name followed by the words trafiquants d’etre humains. She was startled to see her own name linked with Esa’s.

  She didn’t have her phone to photograph the page, but if she acted quickly, she could rip out the page and take it, assuming she wasn’t detained.

  She didn’t have long to think it over. She’d just raised her hand to tear out the sheet when the door opened and a woman’s voice said, “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

  Slowly, Sehr turned around. She recognized the woman because they had met in Athens, after the murders on Lesvos. She was the French liaison with Interpol.

  Her name was Amélie Roux.

  * * *

  “So you found me,” Roux said. She took the seat across from Sehr.

  Confused, Sehr said, “Weren’t you just in Turkey with Inspector Khattak?”

  “He mentioned you were heading to Delft, so I knew you were getting close.”

  “Close to what?” Sehr knew better than to mention CIJA until the other woman confirmed her suspicions. Was it Inspecteur Roux who’d gotten Audrey involved as a courier for CIJA? But war crimes didn’t fall under Europol’s mandate. Europol was the EU’s criminal intelligence agency. So what had brought Audrey here? Had she come to meet Inspecteur Roux?

  “You’re not investigating Agent Bertin’s murder, are you?”

  “On the contrary, I assure you I am. Agent Bertin was a member of a Europol Joint Investigations Team—she involved me because she used to work for me.”

  That didn’t clear anything up for Sehr. “Why is Interpol involved?”

  “Because Europol is a criminal intelligence agency that does not operate outside of Europe, and Turkey is not a member of the European Union, despite existing cooperation agreements.”

  Sehr was lost, trying to put the pieces together. “Do you think Audrey killed your friend? Is that your connection to this case?”

  “No, mademoiselle. You completely misunderstand. Audrey Clare came to us. She asked us for our help. We would have found our way to Lesvos eventually because it was tangential to our investigation.”

  Sehr puzzled this through. Knowing she shouldn’t be the first to put it in words, she did anyway. “Did Audrey ask you to assist her in getting proof of war crimes to CIJA? Were you waiting for a courier in Apaydin?”

  “What? No.” Roux gave an impatient toss of her head. “This isn’t about war crimes. Europol has nothing to do with the Turkey-Syria border.”

  Sehr stared at the other woman. “Then why did Audrey come to see you?”

  “It’s very simple, mademoiselle. She came because of Israa.”

  * * *

  The uniformed guard knocked on the door. He was carrying a tray of coffee that he set down on the table. A thousand questions crowded Sehr’s mind. It was evident now that Roux was investigating more than the death of her colleague. Her presence at Europol confirmed this. Her knowledge of Audrey’s activities was proof of the same. But she seemed to be suggesting a different track than the one Esa and Sehr had pursued. She wondered if they’d finally reached the point where Roux would tell them the truth. She ventured a tentative question.

  “Are you saying Audrey wasn’t acting as a courier for CIJA? I’ve seen the documents myself.”

  Roux was unflustered by Sehr’s keen appraisal. “I know you have. That’s why I’m here. We’ve worked at cross-purposes too long.”

  Sehr choked back a protest at the injustice of this remark. It was Amélie Roux who had kept them in the dark, Roux who could have put them o
n the right track from the start. Guessing at her thoughts, Roux said, “I had no reason to trust a costly and sensitive operation to your discretion. I didn’t know you, I didn’t know what your government’s role was, or where your loyalties lay. So I waited to see what you would do.”

  Sehr sat back in her chair, making her face a blank. “And now? Did something change your mind? Is that why you came here to meet me?”

  Roux tipped her head to one side. “You left me no choice. I couldn’t have you blundering into the path of our operation. You’ve learned all you can on your own. It’s time we worked together.”

  Sehr understood the nuances Roux chose not to make explicit. By surrendering the documents in Audrey’s locker to CIJA, she and Esa had proven themselves to Roux. Their loyalty to Audrey hadn’t served as an excuse to obstruct justice.

  Getting to the point, Sehr said, “You said this was about Israa. Was Israa the courier? Was she Audrey’s contact?”

  Roux looked at her with a faintly pitying expression. “Audrey never met Israa. Nor did she disclose anything beyond what was necessary about her work with CIJA. She assisted their courier, nothing more. But in the course of that work, she came to realize she was hearing stories about disappearances.”

  Sehr nodded. “As a function of Syria’s prison system.”

  Inspecteur Roux offered Sehr an espresso, taking a long sip of hers. Her fingers tapped impatiently on the table.

  “No, mademoiselle. I refer to disappearances along the refugee route. Unaccompanied minors are missing from the route—we suspect in the thousands. You haven’t read the report Europol released in January?”

  Dumbfounded, Sehr shook her head. “But then—are you talking about human trafficking? Is that why Audrey came to you?”

  “Yes,” Roux said. “I told you. She came about the girl, Israa.”

  “I thought Israa drowned at sea.”