No Place of Refuge Page 14

  She blew smoke through teeth that were stained with nicotine. ‘Tell me about Audrey Clare,’ she said.

  ‘What can you tell us about your investigation so far? When exactly was Audrey taken?’

  ‘Taken?’

  He’d used the word deliberately to sound her out.

  ‘What makes you think she was taken?’ Roux held up her hand, counting off on her fingers. ‘She was the last person seen in the tent. Two people were killed here – she was in contact with both. They were killed with her gun, and the next thing you know, our Canadian friend disappears from the scene. So I ask you again, police officer to police officer. What makes you think she was taken?’

  Rachel made an awkward sound of interruption. ‘I suppose my first response would be this. Two gunshots would resound through this camp – the way everything’s packed together so tightly, the sheer number of people. If Audrey Clare had shot two people in this tent, wouldn’t someone have seen her flee the scene?’

  Roux stared at Khattak. ‘You let your subordinate speak for you?’ Khattak stifled a grin. He could almost see Rachel’s raised hackles. ‘Sergeant Getty is my partner. And I think she’s asked you some excellent questions. I can rephrase them, if you like, but it will come to the same thing in the end.’

  He caught Rachel’s startled expression from the corner of his eye. She hadn’t expected him to take this tack: direct and confrontational. And if Rachel thought he was being discourteous, he probably should recalibrate. He was still on edge from his disastrous conversation with Sehr – with the helpless sense of not knowing how to regroup.

  The crushing reality of the refugee crisis should have wiped his personal affairs from his mind; he was disturbed it hadn’t.

  Amélie Roux rested her palms on her knees, her cigarette precariously held. The cool insouciance of her pose reminded him of Marlene Dietrich. He could see she didn’t give a damn what they were doing here; she certainly didn’t intend to share her findings.

  ‘Where are you from, Inspector?’

  ‘Canada.’

  She dismissed this by flicking the ash off the tip of her cigarette. ‘You look like those boys on Afghan Hill.’

  Khattak made no reply. She must have seen his distaste, because she let the subject drop. If it had been a genuine inquiry into his background, he would have given her a forthright answer. It wasn’t, and they both knew it.

  She took a deep drag of her cigarette, stubbed it out, and now she leaned forward so that her face was close to Rachel’s.

  ‘The gunshots were heard just after midnight. It was dark, no one saw Audrey Clare leave the scene. No one saw anyone, for that matter, so that in itself is not exculpatory.’

  ‘What about those streetlights at the perimeter? They look like they light up the camp fairly well.’ Rachel had noticed them on the ride in.

  ‘Not this far up the road. It’s nearly pitch-black at night here. These tents don’t have an independent electricity source, people muddle through as best as they can.’

  Rachel pointed to the generator at the back of the tent. ‘This one does.’

  ‘So the light goes inside, eh? Not outside.’

  Khattak could see this was plausible. And it was a little more cooperation than he’d expected. He decided to be more forthcoming.

  ‘The Canadian prime minister enjoys a close relationship with your president. It’s in the interests of both our countries to resolve these murders quickly. I’m happy to tell you what we’ve learned on our end, just as I want to assure you of the personal interest the prime minister has taken in the welfare of Audrey Clare.’ He tried a smile – its only effect was a narrowing of Roux’s eyes.

  But she must have seen the wisdom of his remarks, because she offered more.

  ‘We are not at this point treating Mademoiselle Clare as a suspect. We have issued a Blue Notice.’

  ‘What’s that?’ Rachel asked. ‘An arrest warrant?’

  Almost pityingly, Inspecteur Roux said, ‘You think we are some kind of international spy force – James Bond with French accents, n’est-ce pas? It is not so. We are mainly bureaucrats, technocrats. We do not have supranational powers, we do not make arrests. A Blue Notice is the equivalent of looking for someone who can help with an investigation. You call this a person of interest, I think. I watch American television programs. I like them, in fact.’ A hint of humor transformed her attitude. ‘I am sorry, Sergeant, to disappoint you.’ She mimed a shoot-’em-up action with her hands. ‘We are liaison officers coordinating officers in different jurisdictions. We also serve as a clearing house, do you follow?’

  Rachel nodded, interested in this explanation.

  Khattak saw an opening. ‘Am I correct in thinking that homicide doesn’t fall under Interpol’s mandate?’

  ‘You, at least, are well informed. Yes, Inspector, you are correct.’ She didn’t elaborate.

  ‘Then your presence on the island…?’

  Amélie Roux glanced around the tent, her gaze lingering on the stained plastic tarp.

  ‘Aude Bertin was a friend. I recruited her, I trained her – I want to know how it came to this. Who did this to her? Her death may be inconvenient to my government, but it is a tragedy to me. Your condolences, I appreciate them, but they are not enough.’

  Khattak felt ashamed. How quickly he had judged her and how sensitive he’d become. He resolved to do better at once.

  ‘I understand better than you may realize. Audrey Clare is a friend. I know she couldn’t have done this, just as I know that if she fled, it was to protect herself. If Agent Bertin and Sami al-Nuri were killed at Woman to Woman headquarters, to me it’s very likely that Audrey is in danger. That’s why we’re trying to establish this connection between Audrey and your friend. Why was Agent Bertin on Lesvos? What was Interpol’s reason for sending her?’

  He thought of the likeliest possibilities: drug trafficking, piracy, organized crime. But there were other possibilities, including genocide, terrorism, or war crimes. It was possible that any of these things connected the boy, Sami al-Nuri, to the others.

  What had brought these three people together at the camp on Lesvos?

  ‘Come.’ Inspecteur Roux got to her feet. She led them out of the tent to a smaller tent behind it, this one with an armed Greek police officer at the door. ‘Let me show you something.’

  The police officer stood aside. The interior of the tent was just a collection of seemingly random materials stacked on a plastic table, each in a labeled plastic bag with a sign-off sheet attached. An expensive black suitcase was open under the table, its contents half displayed: a woman’s clothing and her personal toiletries – simple, sensible items.

  ‘She didn’t take it with her, but two things are missing: her laptop and her phone.’

  ‘That’s not all,’ Khattak said. He told her about the missing boxes, and about Audrey’s expenditure of funds. Roux already knew. She handed him a plastic bag that contained a clipboard.

  ‘It’s been printed.’

  ‘What is it?’ Rachel asked.

  ‘I pieced together her itinerary – everywhere Audrey Clare traveled since she arrived on the island. Look at this.’

  Khattak followed her pointing finger. Apart from a list of travel dates to European cities, Roux had flagged three bus tickets to a place called Hatay. It was a trip she’d taken four days before she’d disappeared.

  ‘Hatay?’ The name was unknown to him. Rachel didn’t know it either. Khattak remembered that Shukri had mentioned the Netherlands.

  ‘Is it in Holland?’ he asked her. ‘She took the bus from Germany, perhaps?’

  But he could tell from Inspecteur Roux’s posture, the intensity in her narrow face, that Hatay was the key to Audrey’s disappearance.

  ‘No, cher Inspecteur, Hatay isn’t in Holland. It’s a city in Turkey, close to the Syrian border. Wha
t’s more one of us will have to go there. I’d rather it was you.’

  Then she picked up another file on the table. She placed it before them with a warning: its contents were confidential.

  When they read the file, they knew why.

  By the time they’d finished going over the elements of the case, Roux’s manner had transformed. She took Khattak by the elbow.

  ‘Inspector Khattak, I am sorry, eh? What I said about the Afghan boys. You didn’t like it, I think, this comparison. I apologize, it was discourteous.’

  Khattak’s expression warmed. ‘Not at all. In fact, we likely do share a wider heritage.’

  He sketched a movement in the air. ‘Do you remember the imaginary line the British drew to delimit their sphere of influence – the Durand Line?’

  Inspecteur Roux nodded.

  Khattak smiled. ‘Sometimes it’s hard to know on which side of it you belong.’

  17

  Moria, Lesvos

  Rachel’s long walk from Kara Tepe to Moria had left her alarmed and disheartened. She’d intercepted any number of volunteers, but no one had answers to her questions. Though Audrey had made an impression on everyone she’d met, the urgencies of camp life, and the sheer volume of people transiting through, meant that very few volunteers could recall their encounters with any precision. She kept at it, trying to orient herself, trying to understand what had motivated Audrey – what she’d thought she could accomplish at either camp.

  The more she witnessed of camp life for herself, the harder she found it to accept the good cheer of the volunteers, or Moria’s system of management, tumultuous yet evidently functional. She’d followed the signs up Afghan Hill, where she’d been surrounded by a circle of children, boys and girls alike, pestering her with questions before their parents had caused them to scatter and leave her alone.

  She’d learned that Syrian refugees were processed separately at Kara Tepe because the war in their country had given them priority: at Kara Tepe, well-established crisis organizations played an important role. Refugees were registered at a steady, streamlined pace and referred to numbered tents or offered medical care by Médecins Sans Frontières or Medicins du Monde. Most moved on quickly to the ferry at Mytilene’s port.

  But the camp at Moria had been a prison before taking on its new incarnation as a hub for refugees. The need was so great that this modest attempt at bureaucracy was overwhelmed. The facilities were inadequate, far outmatched by need. Whether this was deliberate or whether it was a symptom of a crisis that knew no comparison in terms of scale, Rachel wasn’t well informed enough to know. She could question why the UNHCR had erected so few shelters when there were thousands of people in need. It was possible, she supposed, that there was a concerted effort by the authorities not to make Greece more welcoming as a destination.

  And she wondered what lies the people who’d undertaken the perils of the journey had been told – what refuge or earthly paradise they’d been promised.

  People were mainly encamped in the muddy rows of the olive groves, where campfires soldered the darkness in bursts of hot orange light. The olive trees were sparse, the grove stripped for firewood; when there was nothing else to burn, plastic was fed to the fire, creating an acrid haze above the camp. She found herself coughing and wondered at the respiratory effects. Because shelter was so limited, people slept outside huddled around the fires.

  Worse than all of this was the fact that no adequate arrangements had been made for human waste. A strong stench permeated one section of the camp where outhouses and portables had descended into disaster. There was no question of dignity or privacy; it had become a matter of survival and anything extraneous to that thought had been discarded.

  The children played like children: teenage boys engaged in a game of volleyball, a pair of little girls shared a coloring book under a bank of barbed wire. Rachel eavesdropped on a volunteer who was speaking to a translator she’d dragged over to the girls. With them was an older man in scarcely adequate clothing, without shoes. He’d taken the turban from his head and wrapped it over his hands to warm them.

  The volunteer explained something to the translator, who tried to convince the man of the sense of the volunteer’s earnest words. She was wearing a jacket with a patch on one shoulder: the Danish flag. Though she looked young, she spoke with an air of experience.

  ‘Don’t leave your daughters alone,’ she warned. ‘There are too many strangers, people you don’t know. Anything could happen.’

  The translator offered a few blunt phrases to the man.

  When he stared at the young woman with his empty, exhausted eyes, she insisted, ‘You must protect them. You must not let a stranger approach your daughters.’

  His look of surprise was such that Rachel wondered if he had fled a place where, despite its dangers, the thought of a close community causing harm to its own was unthinkable. Or whether he was a man to whom life had offered no opportunities for education or for coming to terms with the cruelties of the world.

  The volunteer broke it down into two simple words.

  ‘Bad men.’ She said it again. ‘Bad men.’

  She pointed around the camp. Then she bent down and hugged the girls, much to their surprise. They giggled at the embrace.

  ‘Keep them close.’

  Finally, the man understood. He sank down beside his daughters on the muddy ground, staring into the distance at something the others couldn’t see.

  To the translator, the Danish volunteer said, ‘It’s not getting better here, is it?’

  The translator – Rachel didn’t recognize the language he’d spoken, but she thought the man was an American either of Arab background or Iranian. He nodded.

  ‘Believe me, Freja. I’ve tried to warn them. I heard there was an incident in Kara Tepe.’

  The volunteer named Freja sighed. ‘There are so many people here, it’s hard to keep track of who’s coming or going. There have been thefts, and occasionally fights have broken out, but this is new.’

  ‘Why? What happened?’

  ‘Someone grabbed a girl, she fought back pretty hard. She couldn’t say who it was, but she scratched him up pretty bad.’

  They told each other to keep a weather eye out.

  None of it surprised Rachel. Stealing from those with nothing to steal. Harm done to those who were desperate. Refugee status wasn’t a badge of sainthood any more than it was a choice. She couldn’t discount that crime and predation were possible in the camp. She viewed the world through the lens of a police officer, the lens of someone who’d imagined terrible outcomes for her brother. She expected cruelty from the world, she’d known her share of it, though she’d done her best to move past it. She expunged her father’s violence from her mind: it had made her who she was. She was lucky it hadn’t unmade her.

  As she watched the girls playing in the mud, her despair was overcome by self-contempt. Each person in this camp could likely tell her a story more painful than her own.

  Children under barbed wire, an image that would never leave her now.

  She asked herself what else she didn’t know as she left the camp for the beach, the scene of other disasters. The temperature had dropped and the water was cold, the pristine shoreline marred by detritus on the beach: black flotation devices resembling rubber tires, stacks of orange life jackets, the occasional dinghy that would never float again, odd bits of clothing, mismatched shoes, a single sock.

  She had left the stench of Moria behind, breathing in great, gasping gulps, trying to focus on Audrey, when suffering was all around her.

  She wondered how Khattak felt – could his composure rise to this occasion? He’d said nothing as they crossed the gate, nothing outside the parameters of the case, until he’d spoken to Roux about the Afghan boys.

  She’d tried to decipher his emotion and failed. Whether he felt anger, regret, bitterne
ss, he was often a mystery to her. But he couldn’t be indifferent to what they’d witnessed. He’d left her at the hill to put his language skills to use. Boys had urged him to join in their game. She’d seen another side to Khattak, laughing and affectionate with children who were thrilled to find someone who spoke their tongue – someone who looked like them, as Amélie Roux had observed. They’d teased him mercilessly, delighted to be teased in return.

  ‘Walk around,’ he’d said to Rachel. ‘Get a feel for what we’re dealing with here.’

  Doubtfully, she’d warned him, ‘They might become too much for you to handle.’

  He’d waved her off with a grin, teasing her as well. ‘They’re not as fearsome as you think. I’m certain I can manage.’

  Maybe Khattak’s life wasn’t as sheltered as hers; maybe he’d been to places like Moria before. Kicking aside a life vest with her toe, Rachel asked herself if there were other places like this. She needed to educate herself. Until she did, she wouldn’t be able to figure out the motive behind the murders, or to puzzle through the role Audrey might have played. There had to be someone on Lesvos who could tell her why Audrey had risked a trip to the Turkey-Syria border, and why she had taken two children to such a dangerous crossing.

  She was also thinking of the missing boxes. What was in them? Who had taken them? Sehr had made it clear that the local police were choosing not to be helpful. Rachel wondered if she should try speaking to them as a colleague.

  ‘The boats come here at night.’ The voice spoke to her from nearby. Rachel looked over her shoulder. A boy and a young girl were picking their way along the shore. She recognized the girl. She’d been watching Rachel at the Woman to Woman tent.

  The girl had bright brown eyes, wide and long-lashed, and thick curly hair shaped into a mop. Her face and clothes were clean but her hands were dirty, her fingernails torn. She saw Rachel looking at them and shoved them behind her back.

  ‘Who are you?’ Rachel asked the boy.