I died. I never came back to life.
Esa took several deep breaths. He closed the file, seeking a moment of respite.
His thoughts turned to the refugee crisis. The destruction of Syria and the grave suffering of its people were ignored as the root causes of the crisis, absent from the broader political discussion, absent from the news. Would things have been different if instead of printing the word MIGRANT, the headlines had screamed of torture? He didn’t have much faith that they would.
From the starting point of a refugee’s journey to the end, there wasn’t much kindness on offer. There was the reporter who’d kicked a child at the Hungarian border. Smugglers who robbed and raped along the route. Counterfeit life jackets that pulled bodies into the sea. The raid by Golden Dawn, with blocks of stone pelted from the hills. The detention centers in countries around the world, the makeshift, unsanitary camps. The burning of the Calais Jungle. The fences, the checkpoints, the border controls, despite the promise of safety to those at risk of harm.
These records documented another vein of suffering, the persecution of a people within their own borders, where home was no longer a place of refuge. Would greater knowledge of the atrocities authorized by Assad make a difference to public perceptions?
Widespread, systematic torture. Industrial-scale killing.
Regrettably, he knew the answer. Assad’s politicide had been conducted over a period of years. Chemical warfare, the bombing of civilians, hadn’t altered perceptions at all.
To Esa, there was no question of what Syrians were fleeing. But he’d heard the range of responses: Why don’t they have any papers? Why don’t they wait their turn? Why don’t they stay and fight?
But he wondered how civilians could fight against explosives dropped by jets or chemical weapons deployed by their own government. If they took up arms, they were branded jihadists; their neighborhoods suffered the punishment. Over time, jihadist groups had infiltrated the war, adding to the share of killing and destruction, until the Arab Spring was no more than a memory.
He replaced the photographs, wondering how CIJA’s operatives achieved distance from these realities. Or how the prosecutors did. His fingers rested on a page that had become separated from the others. He glanced down at it. Someone had typed up a translation of two paragraphs in Arabic, a description of a session at Branch 215. He skimmed it, sweat forming on his brow. He tried to avoid the details but his attention was caught by the final sentences, by how well he understood them.
My cellmate couldn’t last. He screamed for his mother. When that didn’t help, he cried for the Prophet Muhammad. So the guards brought the Muhammad stick, and then they beat him with that.
The Muhammad stick.
Named for the messenger of peace. Used in the name of terror.
His face gray, his mouth pinched with horror, he put his head in his hands and wept.
34
Delft, the Netherlands
They met Audrey’s contact from CIJA at the Stads-Koffyhuis, a charming street-side café whose windows were framed in the blue-and-white palette of Delftware. A green arboreal border strung with pinecones and tiny lights hung above the patio. Lise Cloutier, a French-Canadian attorney, had insisted they meet inside and wait in an inconspicuous corner.
As they waited for Cloutier to arrive, Esa and Sehr sat across from each other in silence. Esa watched as Sehr perused the menu, but in the end all she ordered was coffee. He chose to wait for Lise Cloutier; when she came, he viewed her arrival with relief, taking her briefcase and pulling out her chair.
When their orders had been placed, he took a moment to study her. He was struck at once by the fierce intelligence in her eyes. He knew not to underestimate her in any case; she was a former prosecutor who’d worked as a special advisor to the high commissioner for human rights at the United Nations. She was one of CIJA’s secret weapons, heavily involved in the training of volunteers, and in collating records smuggled out of Syria.
She offered them nothing until Esa handed over his police ID and showed her a copy of his authorization. Even then, she took out her phone and verified his name and background through Community Policing’s Web site. She studied the photograph on the Web site, compared it to the man sitting across from her, and nodded. Then she frowned at Sehr.
“And you, mademoiselle? What is your stake in this investigation?”
A touch defensively, Sehr explained her position. Lise Cloutier flicked through her phone again, this time confirming that Sehr had worked as a prosecutor in Ontario. Her eyebrows rose as she skimmed Sehr’s background. Sehr didn’t interrupt, a subtle color rising under her skin.
Cloutier’s résumé and reputation were exceedingly distinguished. She’d diagnosed the reasons for Sehr’s career transition in moments.
“Is this some kind of personal redemption for you? Is that why you’ve accompanied Inspector Khattak?”
Khattak stayed quiet, knowing his intervention would be unwelcome.
Sehr gave the older woman a steady glance.
“I was hired by Nathan Clare to assist in the search for his sister. I’m Woman to Woman’s counsel. And Audrey Clare is a friend.”
“I see.” Lise Cloutier transferred her gaze to Khattak. “So then? What do you have for me? Why did you want to see me?”
“We have files that were smuggled out of Syria. We’re here to turn them over.”
Lise Cloutier’s eyes widened. “Where?”
Khattak nodded at the window. “On the street, in the trunk of that parked car. Twenty-five boxes’ worth. Audrey stored them here in Delft. I presume it’s you she came here to meet.”
“Just a moment.” Lise Cloutier made a call on her phone, speaking rapidly in French. Khattak, who’d followed the general sense of her words, offered, “We’d be glad to drive these boxes to your headquarters.”
Cloutier made a sharp gesture of negation. “That won’t be necessary, Inspector Khattak. We’ve been waiting for these boxes for weeks. We didn’t know Audrey was missing until you called us.”
Khattak had thought about his questions for Cloutier in some detail, and now he asked them, deciding not to wait for Sehr’s input. Whatever had happened between them, they had to remember Audrey was their reason for being here.
Cloutier gave them a rapid summary of her meetings with Audrey. The purpose of the meetings was as Khattak had surmised. A defector known to CIJA had been in touch with Audrey—his name was Sami al-Nuri. Audrey had used her contacts to channel his message to CIJA. She’d made a visit to Delft to discuss CIJA’s needs in terms of documentation, then returned to Greece to assist Sami with the channeling of that information through contacts at Camp Apaydin. Sehr didn’t know what had delayed Audrey’s delivery of the documents—she’d come to Delft especially for the purpose of the meeting. An unavoidable delay on Cloutier’s part in communicating a rendezvous point had altered things. Audrey had made an abrupt return to Lesvos, but Cloutier didn’t know the reason for Audrey’s sudden change in plans. Nor had Audrey had time to wait to transfer over the documents.
Khattak observed that it had taken courage for Audrey to embark on her mission, a mission she’d kept a secret.
“That was at our request. We asked her to assist our courier,” Cloutier said. Reflecting on his words, she added, “I’m assuming you looked at what was in those boxes. You must have seen the photographs.”
Khattak agreed that he had. He’d kept his reaction to his discoveries from Sehr, trying to assume the appearance of neutrality, but he wasn’t finding it easy.
“You’re giving credit to the wrong person. If you saw the men in the photographs, you must know what Sami was risking. This is a Syrian story. It belongs to the Syrian people.”
Khattak was silent. It was difficult for him to accept that from the moment he’d landed on Lesvos, even with his experience of the camps, he’d seen the case through the lens of his worry for Audrey. To Esa and Rachel both, Audrey had been the priority. She still was.
/>
In answer to his thoughts, Cloutier said, “Audrey is your responsibility, I understand. I was speaking about CIJA: we’ve taken none of the risks, we’ve suffered none of the losses. I was sorry to hear your news of Sami. He was dedicated to this cause. Without him, we wouldn’t have singled out the torturers at Camp Apaydin.”
The look of sorrow on her face deepened as she told them, “We promised to help resettle him in Canada, but Sami kept delaying. He believed he could do more.”
“You spoke to him?” Khattak asked, a memory ticking over in his mind.
“Many times on the phone. He was exceptionally bright—kind, decent, deeply caring about the plight of his fellow Syrians—he was the brave one, Inspector. Not that Mademoiselle Clare wasn’t helpful, but she didn’t share his risks.”
Audrey’s disappearance may have suggested otherwise, but Khattak didn’t demur. He felt like a schoolboy who’d been chastised by a teacher. His coffee had grown cold and he signaled for another, including his companions. He looked over to find Sehr watching him as if she knew what he’d been thinking, and he was struck by how easily she seemed to read his mood. She asked Cloutier a question.
“Can you think of anyone who had reason to harm Sami? Was the Interpol agent Aude Bertin tied into CIJA’s work? Perhaps that’s the reason they were targets.”
Cloutier looked at Sehr with dawning interest. “Agent Bertin was not affiliated with CIJA, I have no idea why she was killed. As for your other question, many people had reason to wish Sami al-Nuri dead. He was an enemy to those who run Assad’s detention centers, he was an enemy to some at Apaydin. From my conversations with him, I can tell you one thing. He wasn’t about to give up on Apaydin, any more than he intended to give up his search for Israa.”
Khattak’s hands jerked together. He looked at Sehr in shock. Sehr shook her head, indicating he should ask.
“Sami was searching for a girl named Israa?”
Cloutier was surprised. She waved a hand over her coffee cup. “Of course. It was why he kept returning to Turkey. He thought the more valuable he was to us—as an interpreter or informer, call him what you like—the more likely it was that we’d be able to assist in resettling his friends. Legally, the Fakhris weren’t eligible to sponsor Sami’s friends; their safe resettlement in Canada was the condition Sami imposed.”
His nerves on edge, Khattak took out his phone. He found Rachel’s photographs from the morgue. He showed the picture of Aude Bertin to Cloutier. Her mouth folded up in sympathy.
Then he pulled up the photograph of Sami’s abused body.
“They were shot together at close range. Aude Bertin may have been killed trying to defend Sami.”
Cloutier gripped the phone. “What do you mean?” she asked. “That isn’t Sami al-Nuri.”
* * *
Leaving Sehr to wrap up their meeting, Khattak stepped out into the street to call Rachel. He wandered down to the canal, where he breathed in the scent of freshly budded trees hanging over the river. He passed an unexpected little grove of elms, then found a quiet place to make his call under a thicket of trees bearing their branches to the ground.
“It’s not Sami al-Nuri?” Rachel repeated, incredulous. “Then who the hell is it?”
“Think back to our interview with the Fakhris. What did Dania say when we showed her the photograph of Sami?”
Wherever Rachel was, it was noisy. She asked him to repeat himself, and he did.
“Ah, I’ve got you now, sir. I think we told her the boy in the photograph was Sami, and she asked if we were certain he was dead.”
Khattak remembered now. That was exactly what Dania had said.
“Sir.” There was a doubting note in Rachel’s voice. “She knew he wasn’t Sami al-Nuri. She knew he wasn’t a relation of hers, because remember she said, ‘This boy didn’t contact us. He isn’t our family.’”
As usual, Rachel was right. Though Dania hadn’t placed quite that emphasis on the words. But he’d thought he’d glimpsed a strange relief in her eyes.
“Rachel.” He wanted her to follow his line of thought to see if it took her to the same conclusions. “Lise Cloutier doesn’t know who the young man in the morgue is. She just knows it’s not Sami al-Nuri. But she did say that the Sami she spoke to was looking for a girl named Israa—he wouldn’t turn his documents over to CIJA until he received a guarantee that his friends would be also be resettled.”
Rachel didn’t point out that this resembled a bribe—that was hardly the point.
“I’ll be on Lesvos in half an hour, sir. Commander Benemerito is taking me across. You should get back here, pronto.”
“Why is that, Rachel?”
She sounded resolute. “We need to talk to Ali.”
* * *
Back in the café, Esa asked Cloutier if she knew the name Ali Maydani.
“He’s a friend of Sami’s. He brought us testimony from Military Intelligence in Aleppo, and from Hospital 601, where he was later transferred.”
Khattak frowned in concentration. Audrey had stored her records in a unit of that number. And in Sami’s application, 601 was a number on Audrey’s list.
“A hospital?” Khattak studied Cloutier’s shuttered expression. “What kind of testimony comes from a hospital?”
Cloutier shook her head. “That’s none of your business.”
Sehr intervened. “Given the prime minister’s backing, and the sensitive nature of your work, I think we can agree that anything that helps us find Audrey is relevant both to your investigation and ours. I’ve read the 2015 report, but it would save us time if you tell us what you know.” Politely, she asked Esa, “We’re headed back to Lesvos, aren’t we?”
Because she sounded as though she wasn’t certain of her role, Esa nodded. To Lise Cloutier he said, “If we find your courier, this Sami al-Nuri, what will happen to his request for asylum now that we’ve turned in his files?”
Cloutier’s response was brisk. “Sami is a priority for us, we’ll make sure he lands on his feet. We need to protect his identity so he can testify once we go to trial.”
“How long will that take?” Sehr asked.
Cloutier mimed a gesture of dismissal. “You’re a bright young woman, mademoiselle. I’m sure you understand as well as I do the lack of political will. Maybe one day, they’ll send Assad to The Hague. At any rate, we’ll be ready.”
Esa could see that Sehr didn’t require further explanation. And he wondered if he could speak to her comfortably, at least about the case.
“What about Israa and Aya?”
Cloutier looked back at Sehr, her composure unruffled, her certainty intact. “You’ve handed over Sami’s leverage.”
At the ready distress that sprang to Sehr’s eyes, she added, “Inspector Khattak does have a direct line to Ambassador Mansur.”
It shouldn’t have surprised him that Cloutier knew more about him than she’d disclosed, or that she knew the players involved in orchestrating Syrian resettlement in Canada. It was tied in to her work, and though she was working at CIJA in an independent capacity, she was still a Canadian national.
She was getting ready to depart, so Khattak repeated his question. “Hospital 601. What can you tell us about it?”
“Any number of horrifying things that would rob you of your sleep.” She cut off Khattak’s protest. “You might have seen a little in those boxes, but if you haven’t seen the Caesar files, you’ve barely scratched the surface. Hospital 601 sits at the base of Mount Mezzeh. The presidential palace is perched at the top, which should give you some idea of how closely the regime is tied to the Mukhabarat’s atrocities. Detainees are brought to the hospital—they think for treatment for the brutality they’ve endured. At the hospital, they’re assigned numbers instead of names. Hospital 601 is a slaughterhouse.”
A young man arrived to collect Cloutier. Khattak handed over the keys to their car, to allow for the transfer of boxes.
Appalled, Sehr asked Cloutier, “How do you make s
ense of it all? How do you count the dead?”
Her face severe, Cloutier answered, “I’ll count each one at The Hague.”
35
Delft, the Netherlands
“Should I go on to Brussels?” Sehr asked.
If Audrey had gone on to Brussels, it might be necessary to follow her trail to Belgium. But Sehr had no contact name and no specific idea of what Audrey had been doing there. At the camp in Calais, Matthieu Arnaud hadn’t been able to clear this up. She’d be visiting the mission with no idea of what she was searching for. She would have been grateful for the distance from Esa, but Audrey’s disappearance was her priority as well.
Esa took out a note case from the inside of his jacket. He scanned a typewritten list before he passed it to Sehr.
“I think we’ve cleared up the question of what brought Audrey to the Netherlands.” He didn’t smile at her, but his voice was a little warmer as he offered, “You did excellent work on CIJA. You would have made a fine detective.”
A young couple walking hand in hand passed them on the narrow street, causing Esa to move closer. Sehr took a step back. Esa’s face tightened. With impatience or anger, she couldn’t tell. She pushed past the moment. “We’re each doing what we can.”
He nodded at the list. “I was wondering if instead of returning with me, you could make sure we haven’t missed anything. Those are the numbers Audrey called while she was in Delft, as connected to locations she visited. I did a cursory check: the storage unit wasn’t her only stop.”
“The others could be places where she met Cloutier. One of them could be CIJA headquarters.”
“Cloutier wasn’t forthcoming, but we shouldn’t ignore other leads.” Esa’s eyes narrowed against the sun. He brushed away a leaf that had landed on his shoulder.
Sehr looked away from his face, focusing on the list. She knew he was pushing her away—this time she didn’t mind. There was a new look on his face, a fragility behind his eyes. He wasn’t going to share what was bothering him, unless it was with Rachel. He was heading back to Lesvos because he wanted to talk to Rachel.
A Dangerous Crossing--A Novel Page 25