by Oliver Tidy
He made a pssst noise at Zeynep and waved her over. They heard voices calling. Acer helped Zeynep up to straddle the wall, then shoved her off it. As he swung his leg over the wall and prepared to drop over the other side, the back door opened. He fired a burst at it, not stopping to see if he hit anyone, and dropped off the wall. He scanned both directions and whispered encouragement for Zeynep to hurry up and follow him. He led them, hugging the high and ancient stonework to their right. A wooden gate was set into the wall a few yards down. As the sound of loud and excited voices filled the air from the house in which the dead soldier lay, Acer pushed on the gate. It opened and they both slipped through. Another quick sprint to another back door of another abandoned and bombed-out property. It wasn’t locked. There would have been no point because the windows on either side were both missing their glass.
They closed the door behind them and worked their way without great caution through the ground floor, looking for a front door. When they found it, Acer cracked it open, peered through and – as satisfied as he could be that no threat awaited them – he led them out, shut it behind them and, once more hugging the stone walls, they hurried along the street.
From his memory of the map, they were heading in the wrong direction to get to the university. Maybe that could work to their advantage when they had to double back if they could keep well ahead of their pursuers.
After another quick scan left and right, they ran across the road to more abandoned homes. He tried a door. It was locked. They moved along to the next. It was unlocked. They went in and shut it behind them. This time Acer listened for an occupant. Nothing but quiet. He wasn’t surprised. No one could live this close to the front line for long.
Again, they moved through the ground floor to the back of the house. In the kitchen overlooking a small patch of rubble-spotted paved patio they stopped to catch their breath and talk.
Acer said, ‘We should keep moving. We’re going in the wrong direction for the university, so we need to double back at some point.’
Zeynep had other things occupying her mind. ‘They’ll look hard for us now, won’t they? Because you killed one of them.’
‘I didn’t have a lot of choice.’
Zeynep reached out and touched his arm. ‘That’s not what I’m saying. I’m just being factual, logical.’
‘Yes, they will, which is another good reason why we should get going, find some crowds to mix with.’
They spared a minute to be sure of their bearings from the map. Acer hid the rifle in a cupboard and reclaimed the Sig. He said, ‘Perhaps we should leave our packs here too. If they got a look at us the packs could form part of the description they’ll circulate. Zeynep agreed. They had carried only some quick energy rations, the map and their water bottles.
Hanging up behind the kitchen door was a woman’s thin jacket and a headscarf – something to be thrown on before going to the local market, perhaps, by a woman who was not as pious inside her home as she was expected to be out of it. Zeynep exchanged her top for the jacket and tied the headscarf in place. It worked well enough for them to have a quick look for a new top for Acer. They found some, but nothing that would fit him. Acer took his keffiyeh and his sunglasses out of his pack and put them on. After checking again, they stepped out into the back garden, crossed to the gate in the back wall, went through it and started in the direction of the university.
***
38
Within a couple of streets, they had left the war-torn battlefront and slipped into a district that looked to have been barely touched by the conflict. Acer and Zeynep stood and stared. There were no shops open but it was still early. There were people, civilians, walking, going places, apparently in no great hurry. It was a surreal experience in the context of their morning so far.
Zeynep felt it, too. She said, ‘Where’s the war?’
‘That’s what I was thinking,’ said Acer. And then he thought he understood. He took Zeynep’s elbow to encourage her to keep walking and said, ‘It’s the regime, the government troops, who have the heavy-duty ordnance: the helicopters for barrel bombs, the fighter planes with their missiles, the tanks, the artillery, the mortars, all the things that can raze a city to the ground. The rebels don’t have those sorts of resources. Just small arms and maybe some mortars, some rocket launchers, weapons that will do a lot of damage to targets close by but not capable of inflicting the level of destruction that the government forces can over long distances.’
It made sense. They continued on, vigilant, observant, trying to fit in, keeping out of the way and in the shadows of the buildings. They saw soldiers from the regular army in small groups on foot and in army vehicles. Despite the lack of devastation to their surroundings, the people on this side of Aleppo still looked weary, anxious, defeated and generally old.
They crossed the area in the straightest line they could manage. They checked the map often and quickly on darkened, quiet side streets.
There was damage to buildings further into the district. Acer couldn’t explain it given his arguments regarding the disparity in military hardware between the insurgents and the regular army. But it was real, if isolated. The only explanation he could come up with was that the rebels did, from time to time, get their hands on some weaponry that had a finite life span or a finite number of shells to go with it – something that worked for them for as long as it took the government’s missile-equipped fighter jets to zero in on their positions and bomb them. Maybe the damage was the result of improvised explosive devices that the rebels had worked out a way of catapulting into the government-controlled areas.
Because of the lack of damage to the infrastructure on anything like the scale the eastern districts of the city had suffered, their passage was smoother and faster. They made good time and avoided trouble. When they spotted groups of soldiers heading their way or loitering in the street, maybe manning a checkpoint, they quickly left the road in question to navigate a detour down some darkened alley or dived into a market or a store, only to emerge and go back the way they had come to find a different route.
The university was well signposted and therefore not hard to find. They arrived in the late morning to a scene that was more in keeping with a refugee camp than a university campus. There was no form of security at the entry point where they found themselves. They passed from the street into the campus through a stone arch with the university’s name above it.
It was immediately clear that the regional seat of learning was spread over a substantial plot of the city and had been turned into a centre for displaced citizens of Aleppo – a lot of the open ground was taken up with temporary structures closely packed in. There were dozens and dozens of tents of all shapes and sizes and colours. Where tents had not been available, plastic sheeting, wooden pallets and cardboard had been used to make something a family could call its temporary shelter.
They saw what must at one time have been students’ dormitory buildings – featureless concrete structures of anything from five to ten floors. Drying laundry hung from just about every available window or balcony or fire escape. Blank, worried faces of all ages peered out from the windows.
Acer and Zeynep followed paths until they found signposts for the humanities faculty. Their walk took them past two buildings that had had their fronts blown off. Much of the rubble remained, piled high in the car park in front of them. The car park bore the signs of the impact of some serious missiles packed with high explosives. This was a long way from the front line. Acer thought it too far for rebel forces to have been responsible. The idea that the damage was caused by a car bomb occurred to him. He wondered how many had died.
They found the humanities faculty building behind the buildings for dentistry and architecture. It was a large, squat practical-looking building over four floors. Made from reinforced concrete, it had the aesthetic appeal of a shoebox. The windows were thin continuous ribbons of darkened glass wrapped round the structure, like black bands. Acer believed it could
have been designed by a first-year student from the architecture faculty.
They stood at the bottom of the dozen or so concrete steps that led up to the glass and chrome front entrance.
Acer gave Zeynep a little smile of encouragement and said, ‘So far so good.’
She nodded and seemed to brighten a shade. ‘What will we do if he’s not here? If he is but his daughter isn’t? If they’ve left Aleppo for good?’
‘Will you stop worrying about things that haven’t happened? There’s only one way to find out. We go in and ask.’
‘I know. I’m sorry. It’s just that we’re here. We’ve made it to here. I don’t know how I’ll feel if it’s been for nothing.’
Acer put his hand on her shoulder and in a gentler voice said, ‘I know.’
Zeynep took a deep breath and it seemed to fill her with more than air. She said, ‘It might be best if you didn’t come in. There could be security inside or just people asking questions that might be harder to answer with you there.’
Acer nodded his understanding. He pointed to a bench in the sun under a tree stripped early of its leaves. ‘I’ll wait on that. Listen, Zeynep, I don’t want to alarm you, but just because things seem calmer here doesn’t mean we shouldn’t remain mindful that we are potentially unwelcome guests and that regimes like the one in power have eyes and ears everywhere. There’s always someone looking to curry favour with the authorities in places like this. What I’m saying is, be careful. Be on your guard. Don’t say more than necessary to anyone and if you feel threatened, get out quickly. I’ll be watching the door for you. If you come out of it adjusting your headscarf it means there’s trouble. Clear?’
She nodded and was looking serious and solemn again. That’s what Acer wanted. He crossed to the bench and sat down, wishing he had a local newspaper. Just something to make it look like he was reading and minding his own business. Few things looked more suspicious than a man sitting on a bench doing nothing.
He checked his watch and thought about how long it would take them to get back to the crossing point. He worried about whether they should risk going for the radio to talk to Tanner. Crossing back in the dark, while bringing its own difficulties, would potentially be a lot better for them. He closed his eyes and remembered the way. He kept his eyes closed and tilted his head a fraction as the sun came out from behind a cloud to warm his face. He pictured his beautiful daughter alive and waiting for him and the mischievous look she had about her mouth. It made him smile. His mind strayed to Mrs Botha and how that could all work, providing he could free them from her brother’s control.
He felt the sun go back behind a cloud and sighed. Then he felt a tap on his knee that made him open his eyes with a start. The sun hadn’t gone in – a man in a private security uniform was standing in front of him blocking it out. He held a metre long stick. Acer couldn’t see his face clearly under the shaded peak of his cap and with his back to the sun.
The man spoke rapidly and severely. From the intonation, Acer believed it was a question. The man repeated himself and pointed his baton in a direction away from the bench. Acer shrugged. Because he didn’t know what else to do, he pointed to his own ears and shook his head. The man frowned deeply and spoke louder and pointed again. Then he tapped Acer on the leg again. Acer recognised it as a move it along signal. Acer looked towards the building Zeynep had gone into. There was no sign of her. With little choice, he stood up. The man gave him a poke in the back with his baton and Acer felt it would be best to start walking before he felt moved to take the man’s stick off him and snap it over his thigh.
He’d not gone more than half a dozen slow paces when he heard Zeynep calling out. He almost turned to face her. The security guard stopped walking, giving Acer a legitimate reason to stop and turn to see why. Zeynep spoke urgently to the security man. The man answered her briskly and without apparent good humour. Acer decided to reinforce his position. He used his arms and hands like he was signing to Zeynep. He pointed to his ears and then to the security guard. Zeynep caught on quickly and spoke to the guard. He seemed placated. Zeynep smiled nicely at him and took Acer’s hand and headed back to the humanities faculty building.
When they were a safe distance from the guard, who had not stayed behind, Acer said, ‘What did you tell him?’
‘That you are my deaf brother and my responsibility. That I’d just left you for a minute while I visited my mentor.’
‘And he was happy with that?’
‘Relieved, I think.’
‘Works just as well. Is he here?’
‘Yes. He wants to meet you.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I told him you were outside.’
‘You told him why we’re here? The reason we’re looking for his daughter?’
‘Yes.’
‘Was that wise, Zeynep?’
‘I didn’t have much choice.’
‘Why?’
‘Because his daughter is dead.’
***
39
He followed her back up the steps, through the glass door and into a lobby area. She gave a little wave to a woman standing behind a reception counter, like she really was a mature student going to see her mentor and was well known. The woman smiled politely back. She had a long inquisitive look for Acer.
Zeynep led them down a tiled corridor. The walls were bare. There was one large picture window in the wall at the far end to provide natural light. Halfway down, they turned right for the stairs just past a lift with a sign on the doors – Acer believed it was the Arabic for ‘Out of Order’.
Along another corridor, identical to the previous lower one, Zeynep came to an abrupt halt outside a door that she then knocked on. A male voice beckoned them in.
The man was in his sixties or early seventies, maybe five and a half feet tall and reedy in his physical form. He dressed like he took his job seriously, although the clothes looked old and well worn. His hair was thick, grey and short, as was his beard. He wore a pair of small glasses, which he removed as they entered and slid into the top outside pocket of his suit jacket. He wasn’t smiling. He didn’t offer his hand in welcome.
The man folded shut the lid of a cardboard box on his desk and pointed to a small sofa and two identical soft chairs situated at the opposite side of his small office space against a solid wall. He came around from behind his desk to sit with them.
He said, ‘I am Professor Dardari. Who are you?’ He was looking at Acer. His English was very good.
‘My name is Acer Sansom.’
‘What do you want?’
Acer looked at Zeynep.
Dardari said, ‘I am talking to you, young man. Your friend has told me what she wants.’
Again Acer looked at Zeynep and received a little tilt of the head in encouragement. He said, ‘Information. Information that your daughter may have brought to Syria with her when she left Istanbul.’
‘Why do you seek this information?’
‘Because a man has my daughter. He is holding her captive. He is a powerful man. A Turk living in Istanbul. I can’t get my daughter back from him without either extreme violence or something that would persuade him to give her back and then leave us alone. For good.’
‘Why has he got your daughter?’
‘It’s a very long story, sir.’
‘You love your daughter, Mr Sansom?’
‘More than anything else I can think of. We were parted in criminal circumstances. I thought she was dead. I’ve found out she is alive. I want her back.’
‘How old is she?’
‘She will be three on her next birthday. She was taken from my wife and me as a baby.’
The man nodded. And then sighed. ‘I wish I could have my daughter back, Mr Sansom.’
Acer felt emboldened to say, ‘She’s dead?’
The man nodded. ‘My only child. The only child I ever needed.’
‘What happened?’
‘Did you pass the bomb-damaged buildings on the un
iversity campus?’
Acer nodded.
‘She was in one of them when the missiles struck. Eighty-two people lost their lives.’
Acer said, ‘Missiles? A rebel attack?’
The man shook his head and looked gravely at Acer. ‘No. Many eyewitness reports claim they were fired by government fighter planes.’
‘What? I thought this was a government-held part of the city.’
‘It is, Mr Sansom. I and many others are convinced the attacks were part of what is referred to as “false flag” attacks.’
Zeynep said, ‘What’s a false flag attack?’
Acer said, ‘False flag attacks are where a government, for example, would attack its own people and make it look like someone else did it.’
She said, ‘Why would they do that? Bomb their own people?’
Acer said, ‘So that they could blame others and then use the event to their advantage, generate support for a course of subsequent action. To instil fear in the population. There are many reasons.’
Professor Dardari was nodding his approval of the explanation. He said, ‘That’s the kind of regime we are living under in this country. A regime that thinks nothing of slaughtering its own people.’
Acer said, ‘I’m sorry for your loss.’
‘Thank you. Tell me about this information you think my daughter might have brought to Syria with her.’
Zeynep said, ‘How much do you know about your daughter’s fiancé?’
‘I know his name and that he was a journalist. I know he is dead. I met him only once. He seemed a good man and my daughter obviously thought highly of him.’
‘He was an investigative journalist. When he disappeared he was gathering information on deep state in Turkey. Are you familiar with that as a concept?’
The man nodded yes. ‘Another example of a secret society that will happily use false flag atrocities to further its own ends.’
‘He was killed by them,’ said Zeynep.