No Place of Refuge Page 23

  ‘We do the best we can. Our welcome center is overwhelmed.’

  ‘Was she looking for anyone in particular? A girl named Israa, by any chance?’

  His tone was one of genuine surprise. ‘She didn’t mention anyone by name. She wanted an overview of operations. She was trying to build a picture in her mind of what happens at each stop along the route.’

  But a picture of what, precisely? Sehr wished she had answers.

  ‘Is there anything else you can tell me, Monsieur Arnaud?’

  ‘There is one thing. When Mademoiselle Clare came, she seemed to know the roadblocks refugees encounter. She knew keeping the camp intact has been a major point of contention between France and our neighbor across the Channel. The pressure to close Calais comes from the English as much as it does from locals. When Mademoiselle Clare expressed interest in the children in the eviction zone, I told her the best thing she could do was take her concerns to the British.’

  Sehr frowned. She was getting close to it now – she could almost put her finger on it.

  ‘The British insisted we wait to close the zone until they relocated the children with their relatives in the UK.’

  ‘And did you?’

  Frustrated, Arnaud flipped his agenda shut. ‘We had no say over the eviction, it was in the hands of the police.’

  Sehr stood up and collected her briefcase. ‘So what happened to the children in question?’

  Arnaud passed over a business card to Sehr. It was the address of a mission in Brussels, but contact details were scant. Inwardly, she sighed. She needed to book a flight. As she made her calculations about her itinerary, she realized Arnaud had yet to answer.

  When she looked at him, she saw that he was sweating.

  ‘Monsieur Arnaud? What happened to these children you say were never counted?’

  His answer sent a frisson of fear down her spine.

  ‘I’m afraid I don’t know.’

  In the taxi that took her to the ferry, Sehr tried Esa’s number again. He didn’t answer her call, she tried a third time. When it went to voicemail, she sat back in her seat to consider her options. Should she set up a meeting at the mission, or should she report back to Nate? If she did go on to Brussels, was there anything the others had discovered that would tell her what questions to ask?

  She decided to call Rachel. She tried not to think about that painful altercation in Athens. The things Esa had said… the harsh way he’d spoken to her… why would she put herself in a place where he could treat her like that again? Her heart beating faster, she realized she was angry. After all this time, she was angry: weary of being a supplicant, weary of having given herself where there was no appreciation of her gifts, of the risks she continued to take for a man who could shut her out of his life as easily as he shut off his phone.

  By the time Rachel picked up, Sehr’s tone was curt and to the point. She explained what she’d learned, advising Rachel she was en route to Brussels.

  Rachel didn’t say anything to this. What she did say in a kind and calming tone was, ‘Are you all right, Sehr? Did anything happen in France?’

  Sehr swallowed a fiery response. Esa’s indifference couldn’t be blamed on Rachel.

  Then it occurred to her she’d never asked him if there was someone else. He was so warm with Rachel, so close to her – why hadn’t she noticed this before? And why hadn’t he told her as much, if her suspicions were true? Maybe he thought nothing would stop what he’d once called her reckless pursuit. Or maybe he preferred to keep his secrets to himself.

  ‘Sehr?’ Rachel prodded. ‘Are you there?’

  Miserable at her own thoughts, Sehr pulled herself together. ‘I’m here, Rachel, I’m sorry. Do you have any leads for me to follow up in Brussels?’

  Rachel summarized their findings in Izmir. She was in a car headed to the Syrian border. Just the thought of it made Sehr worry.

  ‘How close to the border, Rachel? What are you chasing that’s worth the risk?’

  She heard Rachel ask Ali a question along these lines.

  ‘Not that close. We won’t get snatched across the border. But the boss wants me to ask if you found out anything about the storage receipt or about the name CIJA?’

  Sehr ascended into fury. ‘Tell him to ask me himself!’

  She hung up without another word.

  Then she reconsidered. She knew what CIJA was – the name had come up during her research. She’d been distracted by Audrey’s trip to Brussels, but wasn’t the storage facility more significant? She considered Delft’s location, pulling up a map on her phone. She moved the map around until her suspicions were confirmed.

  She had a good idea what the storage facility contained.

  And she knew why Audrey had made the trip to Delft.

  31

  Camp Apaydin

  Hatay, Turkey

  The gated entrance to Camp Apaydin was guarded by a pair of Turkish soldiers in camouflage gear and matching caps. They were lounging under a makeshift shelter, but when the van pulled up to their gates, they jumped to their feet, demanding papers.

  Rachel looked out through the passenger window. They’d approached via a downslope that offered a broad view of the camp – rows of white tents neatly laid out, stamped with the logo of the Turkish Red Crescent. Rachel had done some reading: the camp housed four thousand residents. Nearly all were military officers who’d deserted the Syrian army; the rest were members of their families. Apaydin was under the jurisdiction of the prime minister’s Disasters and Emergencies Directorate, a division known as AFAD. Well maintained and strictly patrolled, the camp was bordered with a perimeter of corrugated tin topped by rolls of barbed wire, while the camp itself was on the grid. Transmission towers were staged throughout the camp.

  Rachel could see children playing on the ground on the other side of the fixed red gate. There was a blue gate house behind the gate, a pair of trash cans in front. They could see the interior of the camp, but they couldn’t reach it without permission. Rachel wondered if its inhabitants were under guard.

  She stayed in the van with Ali, whose face was pale with fear. Did he think he’d be turned over to the Turkish authorities to join the camp’s inhabitants? Their papers had been checked in Cesme, where they’d disembarked from the ferry. Roux’s credentials had stood the boy in good stead there; he’d been waved through with the rest of their party.

  She searched the camp for signs of what was troubling Ali – apart from the guard at the entrance, there were no overt signs of military activity. Gazing south-east into the barren distance, she wondered if she was viewing the Syrian border.

  The distance to the border could be measured in a handful of miles. And on the other side of the line was misery that couldn’t be quantified, poorly understood in other parts of the world.

  Eleven million people displaced.

  Rachel’s mind couldn’t grapple with the scale of Syria’s destruction. Khattak engaged the guards in conversation. His papers were held up for inspection. If Khattak called for her assistance, Rachel would join him, but he seemed to have the situation well under control. The guards were professional; they weren’t attempting to intimidate him. Nor did they search the van. They did, however, ask Khattak to accompany them inside the gate house. The screening area was unlocked to allow Khattak to be processed through.

  ‘This is it,’ Ali muttered. His hand reached for the door of the van. Rachel turned to look at him, staying the movement of his hand.

  ‘What do you think you’re doing?’

  ‘I should go take a look. This might be my only chance. They’ve left the gate open.’

  ‘It could be electrified,’ Rachel pointed out.

  ‘It isn’t.’

  ‘Why do you want to get in there? Do you know someone in the camp – or do you think Israa is in there?’

 
His slight hesitation told her that whatever he said, it wasn’t going to be the truth.

  She kept the door firmly shut. ‘You can’t break into a camp under the Turkish government’s authority. Either we get invited in or we don’t.’

  ‘I need to see,’ he insisted. ‘Israa might be there.’

  Rachel couldn’t fathom a scenario in which that might be possible. ‘Why would Israa return to the border? Why would she leave her little sister?’

  The boy’s face was tinged with green. His voice shaking, he said, ‘She wouldn’t. She wouldn’t.’

  Rachel placed a hand on his shoulder and squeezed. ‘Look,’ she said, her voice gruff. ‘I know you’ve been through hell. We’re doing the best we can to find Audrey – when we do, don’t you think she’ll have better answers than you could dig up here? Unless you have some other reason for wanting to get into that camp. You’ve been here before. Do you know what Audrey wanted in the camp?’

  He set his jaw. ‘Israa,’ he said stubbornly. ‘We both want Israa.’ Rachel thought of the bodies that washed up on the beaches. Surely Israa had been in the boat that had accompanied Ali’s. It was possible she’d drowned, and the tides had carried her body to a different shore. Still, she thought Ali was lying.

  She jumped when Khattak rapped at the window. She wound the window down. ‘Any luck, sir?’

  He shook his head, his hair falling across his forehead. He was casually dressed for the humidity – the sleeves of his white shirt rolled up, a knotted kerchief at his neck to protect it from the blowing sand. He was wearing his sunglasses against the glare.

  ‘Despite the call Inspecteur Roux put through to Ankara, I’m not able to obtain clearance. I’m afraid we’re not gaining entry to Apaydin.’

  A moment later, one of the soldiers who’d been guarding the gate sauntered up to the van. He shrugged an apology at their group, peering into the van for a better look at Rachel.

  She smiled at him, and he nodded. Then he stuck his head in the window. Rachel tried to shield Ali, but the guard’s face broke out in a smile.

  ‘Hey, it’s my friend.’ His English was casually colloquial. ‘Did you bring cigarettes this time?’ His grin encompassed Rachel. ‘You have all the luck, man. Another pretty lady you’ve been keeping to yourself.’

  ‘Charmer.’ Rachel tried some flattery of her own. She read the name tag on his shirt and addressed him by his first name. ‘Are you talking about my friend here, Emre?’ She pulled up a photograph of Audrey on her phone.

  He squinted at her phone, nodding.

  ‘When’s the last time you saw her, do you remember?’

  Emre shrugged. ‘Ali could tell you, he was with her. Ten days ago, maybe two weeks?’

  ‘She hasn’t been back? You’ve been here the whole time?’

  He showed her his flashy watch. ‘I have to pay for this life. I don’t have anywhere else to be.’ He saw the concern on Rachel’s face and added, ‘I’m sorry, I haven’t seen her. She came here asking questions about the officers…’ His words trailed off. He cast a quick look back at the gate house, suddenly conscious that Khattak was paying close attention to his words. ‘Shouldn’t have said that.’ He pinched his lips shut. ‘I talk too much.’

  Ali spoke up from the back of the van. ‘Emre, man, please. I’ll bring you cigarettes next time. Did Audrey come back after I came with her?’

  ‘No,’ he said quickly. ‘She spooked a lot of people in the camp, so the boss said no more visitors. They don’t even let local politicians in.’ He mimed hefting a rocket launcher onto his shoulder. ‘In case they get footage of jihadists-in-training.’ He laughed. ‘I’m kidding. That’s what everyone says about Apaydin, but the Russians started that rumor.’

  Rachel didn’t know whether to believe him.

  He took advantage of Rachel’s interest to lean farther into the van. His breath was hot in her ear. ‘You know why this camp is under guard, don’t you?’

  ‘Generals,’ Rachel said bluntly, keeping her voice low. ‘Syrian defectors. High-value targets.’

  Emre moved too close; she gave him a quick shove back. His smile was unrepentant. ‘Sorry, miss. Yes. We’re protecting these bastards from the people who fled them. At least, I think that’s what we’re doing.’

  He didn’t have more to offer; as his partner joined him at the gate, he stepped away from the van with a cheeky salute and a wink.

  ‘She hasn’t been back,’ Khattak said to Rachel. ‘At least that’s one thing we can cross off the list, one less place for us to search. I’d like to have seen the camp for myself, though.’

  As he opened the door, Rachel’s cell phone rang. It was another call from Sehr, who spoke without preamble.

  ‘I’ve figured out what CIJA is. And I know what’s in Delft.’ She dictated an address to Rachel, then in a firm, no-nonsense voice, she added, ‘Tell Esa to meet me there.’

  When they were back on the dusty track to Izmir, Rachel looked over at Ali.

  ‘Why did you come to the camp? Why did you go there in the first place? You were nervous the whole time, especially when Emre recognized you.’

  She thought about the fact that Amélie Roux hadn’t seen fit to accompany them to Apaydin. If Roux was keeping track of their investigation, why had she abandoned them in Izmir? She’d placed a call on their behalf, but maybe she’d known ahead of time that Camp Apaydin wouldn’t yield any answers. Or maybe the call she’d placed had been to instruct the Turkish guards to refuse them entry to the camp.

  Which begged the question of what Roux was trying to hide.

  Ali knotted his hands in his lap. His curls shielded his face; Rachel couldn’t read his expression.

  ‘I don’t know what you were doing there,’ she said to him. ‘But I know it wasn’t about Israa.’

  32

  Delft, the Netherlands

  They didn’t speak to each other during the cab ride to the storage facility. Sehr looked out the window feeling wretched, wondering how she’d gotten to this place. She’d taken the blame on her shoulders for too long – yet how could she blame Esa for not seeing in her the things she’d found in him? The only way to handle it was to do what he was doing, retreat into professionalism, and speak to him with a stilted politeness without quite meeting his eyes.

  She’d called Rachel back, explained her discoveries. Rachel had told Esa, who’d texted Sehr a time and place to meet. She’d agreed to meet him because the clock was running out on Audrey. And to prove to him that no matter what else he thought of her, she didn’t lack the courage to face unpalatable truths.

  The cab stopped in the shadow of the Oude Kerk, a Gothic Protestant cathedral known for its leaning tower. At any other time, Sehr would have chosen to do some sightseeing. She’d been to Holland but not to Delft; the Old Church’s fine timber vaulting and pyramid-shaped roof stirred her interest. From the reading she’d done to distract herself, she knew the painter Jan Vermeer was buried at the church.

  They ended up on the west bank of the canal, where cars were parked on one side, and bicycles on the other. Colorful shop fronts lined the canal, the tower casting its reflection in the water. She walked along beside Esa, not saying anything, conscious of a buried sadness at the widening gulf between them.

  He held the door for her once they reached the storage unit. It was in a small office building, attached to others in a row of housing, and from its entryway, it didn’t seem as though there was room for much storage of anything. Where in this facility would Audrey’s boxes be hidden? She thought she knew what the boxes contained. She was waiting for confirmation so she didn’t look like a fool.

  A pleasant young man with an air of competence took Esa’s police identification in his stride. He read the letter Inspecteur Roux had provided on Interpol letterhead. If he raised the issue of a warrant, Sehr had her arguments ready. He didn’t. He produced a pass card
from a locked drawer and led them through sliding glass doors to a second set of doors.

  The main storage area was behind these doors. Banks of cabinets with digital displays ran along the walls. He cast a look around for the one assigned to Audrey Clare: Unit 601. He nodded to himself, hesitating for a moment before he keyed in an override password.

  ‘I’ll leave you to it, shall I? If you need anything else, please don’t hesitate to call me.’ He pointed to an intercom button on the wall.

  Sehr stepped back so Esa could search the unit. The boxes it contained were wide and flat, not much bigger than shoeboxes. Sehr estimated each box could hold fifty pages of paper. They were stacked in numerical order.

  Esa reached for box 1 and placed it on a table in the center of the room. She watched Esa’s face as he read through its contents. She saw the sick pallor of his skin, the lowered line of his brows as he made sense of what he was reading. These were numbered documents with prefixes and codes attached, the documents embossed with the emblem of a tiny gold hawk. They were signed in green ink and accompanied by photographs.

  Esa drew in a breath, turning the photographs over before Sehr could take a look. Gently, she eased them out from underneath his hand.

  ‘Sehr,’ he said. ‘Don’t look.’ But he didn’t stop her by placing his hand on hers.

  She ignored his warning, steadying herself. She’d seen worse things in her work.

  ‘It was about Camp Apaydin. It comes back to Assad in the end.’ She pointed to the panels attached to each photograph. ‘Look at this – 215,’ she said. ‘Every bit of this is crystal clear.’

  ‘I’m not following.’

  Esa’s face was so pale that Sehr wondered if she should urge him to a seat. Instead, he braced his hands on the table, briefly closing his eyes.

  ‘Why these boxes are here in Delft, what CIJA means, who Sami al-Nuri was – what those burns on his body were – why he was killed. It’s all here in this box.’