A Dangerous Crossing--A Novel

by Ausma Zehanat Khan

  “Meaning?”

  “The Caesar photographs are the ones Caesar had access to. It’s a fraction of the actual number of those who died in detention. There must be other records to document the rest. I think that’s where Sami came in.”

  Esa nodded his agreement, his voice dispassionate and cool. “You think he was a defector. Kept safe at Apaydin until he found Audrey and passed these files on to her. There’s at least a thousand pages here. He couldn’t have smuggled them out on his body. And if Sami was a defector, why was he tortured so badly?”

  Sehr looked down at her hands. The things she’d had to learn were things she wanted to forget.

  “When the memorandum came down from the Crisis Cell, protesters were detained for the purpose of obtaining confessions. They served a purpose. Assad orchestrated the illusion of a conspiracy against the state: the confessions justified that illusion. Guards at detention centers were pressured to make prisoners confess to treason. If agents weren’t enthusiastic about obtaining those confessions, they too, would disappear.”

  She realized her hands were trembling and that Esa had noticed. She clasped them behind her back.

  “Sami al-Nuri may have been someone with access, who’d fallen afoul of the Mukhabarat. Maybe that’s how he knew to get out—but why he was killed on Lesvos, I can’t say.”

  At the troubled expression on her face, Esa reached for her hands. He held them in his own, despite her attempt to retreat.

  “I didn’t want you involved in this. I’m sorry you’ve had to face this…”

  Sehr freed herself from his grip. She couldn’t bear what he was doing—telling her to stay away, then crossing these boundaries anew.

  Her words careful and measured, she said, “You’re not responsible for my choices. I’m doing the job I was asked to do by Nate. Paid to do, in fact. I don’t need your protection.”

  He looked stung. “Sehr…”

  “Esa.” She adjusted the strap of her briefcase. “Don’t do this to me. Since you’re stuck with me for the moment, treat me like a colleague.” She tried to suppress the emotion in her voice. “I’m not breakable,” she said. “I’m not Samina—though I know in your mind Samina is infallible. I realize you don’t hold me to that standard, but I am capable of operating on my own—I’m not someone who needs my hand held.”

  She waited for his admonition, the weight of it bowing her shoulders.

  He would say it now again—Don’t ever speak about my wife …

  It was hard to look at him, but she did. She had to face this, so it was finished.

  Irreparably broken, as he wanted.

  She felt oppressed by the closeness of the room, locked into a situation she’d never wanted. Esa had taken her in his arms on his return from Iran: she’d misread his intent. He’d been thanking her for her help, nothing more. But his tenderness was unexpected, uncharacteristic for a man who treated women with the reserve of his faith; she’d thought he was ready to move forward. He’d urged her close, then refused a deeper intimacy.

  She was wrenched by his reversals, ragged and worn inside. She repeated to herself like a mantra, With hardship comes ease. Lo, with hardship there will be ease.

  * * *

  Esa shifted away from the table. He took a step closer to Sehr then stopped, not knowing what she’d seen in his face to cause her to look so panicked. She hadn’t been sleeping well, there were shadows under her eyes. Her hair had unraveled from its knot, falling in soft waves around her shoulders.

  He’d never noticed the little gold chips in her eyes, or the tints in her hair. Or her defenseless expression. His words on the terrace had been cruel, spoken from a place of pain, but this he didn’t want—this severance, this parting of ways. He was trying to come to terms with the thought that though he’d insisted on distance, perhaps he no longer wanted it.

  Had Sehr been right to accuse him? Did he blame himself for Samina’s death? Would Samina blame him for getting on with his life? His thoughts had never strayed to Sehr during the years of his marriage, though Samina had asked him to help with the task of finding Sehr a partner. Sehr hadn’t responded, and Khattak’s only interest had been in the wife he adored.

  Samina hadn’t been infallible—she would have been the first to deny Sehr’s claim.

  But perhaps Sehr’s conclusions were closer to the truth than Esa was willing to admit, his memories of Samina acquiring a patina of perfection over time.

  Looking at Sehr’s tense expression, he realized his determined indifference had made their relationship more hazardous, not less. She’d been right to call him a coward. And to ask him why he kept her at the periphery of his life, expecting comfort without commitment, or affection without reciprocity.

  Ashamed of himself, he said, “Forgive me, Sehr. I shouldn’t have said those things in Athens. Please know how sorry I am.”

  She gave a defeated shrug. “This proximity won’t last. You’ll find Audrey and I’ll be able to get on with my work.”

  Sehr’s emotions were transparent. She wore them so close to the surface, he knew when he’d hurt her, he knew he could hurt her. It was wrong of him to take advantage, but it gave him the courage to speak.

  “Samina was right. You commit yourself completely to any cause you endorse.”

  A stinging color slashed her cheeks. “You spoke of me with Samina?”

  He wondered why that disturbed her. “You were her closest friend. She talked about you often.”

  Her hand reached for the edge of the table. When she stumbled and he tried to assist her, she snatched her hand away.

  “Don’t!” she said sharply. “Please don’t touch me.” She swung around and buzzed the intercom. “Can you finish up here on your own?”

  “Sehr.” Esa tried to calm her by keeping his voice even. “What are you afraid of? You told me to own up to this … to whatever our relationship is.”

  Sehr whirled back to face him. He was dismayed to see tears in her eyes.

  “Did she know?” Sehr demanded. “Did Samina know that I—?” A wild gesture of her hand finished the sentence for her.

  Esa couldn’t answer. He was stunned by her admission.

  Had Sehr loved him all this time? Since the day he’d married Samina?

  He didn’t know how to respond. If Samina had known, she wouldn’t have spoken of Sehr so lightly. She would have created distance between her husband and her friend. Her tact and sympathy would have been intolerable to Sehr.

  His voice low, Esa said, “No, Samina didn’t know.”

  Then he said the worst thing he could say in the circumstances. “It was a chance infatuation, Sehr. You were so young when we met.”

  Sehr sucked in a breath. Her eyes became opaque.

  “I’m sure you’re right.” She spoke in a careful voice. “I don’t think we need to discuss this further. This isn’t the place for it—not with the horrors we’ve just witnessed.” She shifted her briefcase in her hands. “I’ll figure out what to do about these boxes.”

  His thoughts tumultuous and confused, Esa didn’t answer. He passed a hand over his face. Seeing him do so, Sehr stabbed the intercom again. When the glass doors slid open, she hurried down the hall.

  Esa looked at the photographs he’d spread out on the table without seeing them. He didn’t want to look back; he didn’t want Sehr’s confession to color a past he cherished.

  He couldn’t accept anything that would change the way he’d loved his wife.

  But were his memories vulnerable to suggestion? It was possible Samina had kept Sehr’s secret in order to spare her feelings—or to protect their friendship, perhaps fearing he would ask her to disengage Sehr from their lives.

  It was a terrible thought.

  He’d been ruptured by loss since the death of his wife, but the love between them was the bedrock of his life. He wanted to talk to someone—he needed reassurance. His feelings for Sehr were changing with a suddenness that shifted the ground. They’d said things they ha
dn’t said before. And she’d rebuffed him in a way that was new, asserting her rights against him. He felt shaken by the change—that he could be shaken told him there was something at stake that he’d been unable to acknowledge.

  Unwilling to face these truths, he turned his attention to the box.

  * * *

  Sehr made several calls, seeking out friends in legal practice who could find her a contact at CIJA. When none proved forthcoming, she called Rachel.

  “Where are you now?” Rachel asked her.

  Sehr explained their presence in Delft with an overview of their discoveries. She listened as Rachel pondered the links between Camp Apaydin, Sami al-Nuri, and CIJA. Rachel’s theory developed quickly; as she shared it, Sehr could see she was right.

  “Sami made contact with Audrey and Audrey tried to get his files into the hands of CIJA. Why not straight to the ICC?”

  Sehr went over her reasoning again, digging into CIJA’s background a little more.

  “Hang on,” Rachel said. “There is something I can check. Let me have a look at Audrey’s phone records for the dates she was in Delft. She wouldn’t have put the papers in storage unless she had to. Maybe there was a delay before she could get them to CIJA. If she was called back to Lesvos, for example. By the way, I think I can answer another question for you. She was running her printers at Woman to Woman, night and day. Shukri Danner complained about Audrey’s extravagance with resources. Say Sami got out some kind of record—evidence on Assad’s prisons. A thumb drive or a few CDs, and Audrey printed up the material for The Hague.”

  “Where is the drive itself, then?” Sehr asked, fiddling with the snaps of her briefcase. A little nervous distraction helped her to focus her thoughts. “What about the fact that some of the documents are originals?”

  “Maybe a few were smuggled out. I’ve been wondering about these trips between Turkey and Greece, and the fact that Ali tagged along—hard enough for him to transit once, why did Audrey allow him to make such a dangerous crossing again? Was he helping her search for Israa? Or was he involved in something else? Something connected to CIJA?”

  Sehr tried to puzzle this through. The quickest way to find answers would be to locate Audrey’s contact at CIJA. There was still no sign of Esa, so she pulled out her laptop and began a search.

  Despite her efforts, she couldn’t find a Web site for CIJA. She looked for phone numbers, contacts, names. None were provided, even as an offshoot under the UN, the EU, or the International Criminal Court. Strange. It puzzled her because it made her wonder how those in a position to report on Assad’s crimes could make their information safely known to CIJA.

  She encountered a small amount of press coverage devoted to the Caesar photographs and to the key players at CIJA: Bill Riley, Stephen Rapp, a man named Charles Engel. She’d already read the Human Rights Watch report; now she remembered the Caesar profile in the New Yorker. She skimmed it quickly then backtracked.

  The reporter had understated one of his observations: the location of CIJA’s headquarters wasn’t publicly disclosed; neither were the identities of their Syrian volunteers. The reasons for this were evident. It was to ensure a safe conduit for the delivery of documentation like the Caesar cache. And for the couriers of the evidence.

  She opened a file on her laptop and began to make notes, her expression thoughtful as she collected the facts: there was a chancy nature to CIJA’s work. It was dangerous for the Syrians involved. Sami al-Nuri had been shot at close range—did she need further proof?

  Perhaps this was also the reason for Audrey’s itinerant activity, and the absolute absence of written communication as to what she’d been pursuing. If Audrey was acting as a courier for CIJA, she must have had a contact at CIJA. Whoever that contact was, they needed to hand over the boxes. Sehr frowned, a delicate knitting of her eyebrows.

  That still didn’t explain Audrey’s trip to Calais or her detour to Brussels. How could Sehr find the links between the stops on Audrey’s route? Like the answer to a prayer, her phone rang. It was Rachel. She had two numbers for Sehr that she’d pulled from the records collected by Paul Gaffney in Toronto. Though the numbers were unattributed, both were local to Delft.

  Sehr decided not to wait for Esa. Whatever was taking him so long in the vault, she was grateful for the reprieve. She called the first of the two numbers and heard a busy signal. The second number rang through, to be answered by a young man.

  “I’m calling on behalf of Audrey Clare,” Sehr said. “I think I have something you want.”

  There was a pause on the line. “I don’t know what you mean,” the man said.

  Sehr decided to take the risk. “I’m calling about Caesar.”

  A longer pause this time.

  Then the man said, “I think you’re looking for my boss.”

  33

  Delft, the Netherlands

  The photographs on the table were terrible to study. Esa felt a surge of wretchedness at this evidence of Assad’s crimes. The nightmare reality he’d plumbed during his case in Iran was exponentially worse in Syria. How many thousands of Syrians had been processed through these centers to face these unspeakable acts? These violations had taken place at the instigation of the four main intelligence agencies that made up the Mukhabarat: the Department of Military Intelligence, the Political Security Directorate, the General Intelligence Directorate, and the Air Force Intelligence Directorate. The Crisis Management Cell coordinated these four bodies, reporting directly to Assad. Each of the four agencies had a central branch in Damascus, as well as regional and municipal branches with separate detention facilities. Once a detention center became too crowded, prisoners would be transferred to new locations, while retaining their original affiliation.

  In Arabic, the transferees were called ida, a word that meant “deposits.” The majority of these cases represented enforced disappearances, a process whereby agents of the state detained ordinary citizens on trumped-up charges of sedition or terrorism or threats to national security, and then refused to acknowledge the detention or the detainee’s location. Nothing could change their fates—not the extortionate bribes demanded for information, not highly placed connections within the regime, not the offer of cooperation or collusion.

  He remembered Ahmed Fakhri’s desperate offer.

  I can give you all of their names.

  Fakhri had fallen back on lessons he must have learned in detention—his terror at being questioned now fully explained. He’d assumed that Khattak had wanted him to inform on other Syrians—anyone who disagreed with Assad’s butchery—and he’d snatched at an imaginary list—his cellmates? his friends?—to stave off the further possibility of torture.

  The war crimes trials would come too late to deliver those in Assad’s hands. Khattak forced himself to look at the photographs, to observe the forensic details. Each photograph had three numbers assigned, but Esa couldn’t tell what the numbers meant. Going back through the documentation didn’t make it clearer. Which meant that the need to get these photographs into the hands of experts was exigent: they urgently required a thorough forensic analysis.

  Paging through the evidence, he realized he’d seen at least some of these numbers before. When Suha Obeidi had shown him Sami al-Nuri’s application in Toronto, a list of numbers had been appended that weren’t connected to Sanctuary Syria’s protocols.

  A sick feeling in his stomach, Khattak realized the numbers referred to detention centers: 215, 216, 220, 227, 235, 248. The numbers linked Sami al-Nuri to Syria’s detention system, his tortured corpse prima facie evidence. Audrey had stumbled onto something terrible, something she’d never discussed with Nate. And he didn’t think she’d told Ruksh either, though when he was done in this room, he would call his sister to find out.

  The pictures provided testimony of the methods the Mukhabarat had used to kill, a design of overarching evil, a word Khattak used advisedly. The pictures were of boys and young men. Their emaciated bodies had sharply defined pelvic bon
es and ribcages; their faces were deeply sunken. There was ample evidence of trauma, suffocation, starvation, gunshot wounds to the head, open head wounds, dried blood in body cavities, and other forms of torture.

  Khattak turned to the accompanying report. He read the description of the most common types of torture used in detention: beatings with an object, electrocution, shabeh, dulab, falaqa, basat al-reeh. He didn’t require a translation of the Arabic: each term was accompanied by a drawing.

  Shabeh: to be hung from the ceiling by the wrists and beaten to force a confession, beatings that continued for hours. Dulab: to have the head, back, and legs forced inside a tire and be beaten with batons and whips. Falaqa: to be beaten on the soles of the feet with whips and batons until the feet were swollen, making it impossible to stand. The basat al-reeh or “flying carpet”: to be tied to a board with the head suspended, hands and feet bound, and be beaten with a braided cable.

  Esa forced himself to keep reading. To read horrors as debased as these was the least one human soul could commit to another, the record an act of witness.

  Phrases stained his mind, corrupting what little of his innocence remained.

  There are places that God never visits.

  My death was near me all the time.

  There were no questions, just accusations.

  But I didn’t do anything.

  Except I screamed.

  Because I couldn’t bear the pain.

  They put electric prongs on my teeth … they kicked me with their boots … every time I called for help, they laughed … my body was blue from the beatings … they made me suck my blood from the floor … they tied me to a metal chair … they used electrodes … they wrapped wires around my genitals … they raped me … they raped me, four, five men at a time …