No Place of Refuge Read online

  Esa turned his head. For a moment, they simply looked at each other. Then Sehr switched into her mode as prosecutor.

  ‘We’re twenty minutes from The Hague, from the International Criminal Court. That’s why Audrey brought these boxes here. She was planning to hand them over.’

  ‘What about CIJA?’ Esa asked.

  ‘It’s the Commission for International Justice and Accountability. Those calls we couldn’t trace must have been to her liaison at CIJA. She was trying to arrange a pickup.’

  ‘Why to CIJA? Why not to the International Criminal Court?’

  ‘CIJA is the first independent agency to conduct a war crimes investigation. They have the funding to investigate, but no mandate to prosecute crimes. Ordinarily, war crimes would be referred to the ICC by the UN Security Council, but given Russia’s presence on the council, any attempt to do so would be vetoed. My guess is we won’t be hearing of prosecutions until the war is over. In the meantime, CIJA is collecting and preserving the evidence. You must have heard the name Bill Wiley.’

  CIJA had been founded by Bill Wiley, a Canadian war crimes investigator who’d pioneered the effort to collect evidence of Syrian war crimes. Activists on the ground had collected evidence of the regime’s crackdown that was ultimately unhelpful in furthering prosecutions. It had been Wiley’s idea to redirect these efforts to document a wider range of abuses. CIJA had received funding from the UN, and from several different nations, including Canada, to train Syrians on procedures for collecting evidence – and on the kind of evidence required to corroborate prosecutions.

  ‘For the past fifteen months, activists have been smuggling evidence out of Syria. The Syrian people are building the war crimes case, at great personal risk to themselves.’ Sehr looked down at the coded photographs. ‘CIJA has interviewed two hundred and fifty witnesses, some at Apaydin, in an attempt to secure pattern evidence.’

  ‘I’m not familiar with the term.’

  Sehr knew they were speaking to each other in this manner to obscure the horror on the table. She hastened to explain, glad there was, after all, something of value she could offer.

  ‘To build a war crimes prosecution, you need proof that crimes have been perpetrated in a systematic manner. You need to show the impact of government policy on individual citizens.’

  She gestured at the photographs. ‘That’s what this is, Esa. It’s the evidence. Documents with the embossed hawk emblem are directly from the Central Crisis Management Cell.’

  She explained the significance of Audrey’s collection. Shortly after the uprising in 2011, the Central Crisis Management Cell had held a meeting at the Baath Party Regional Command. The Baath Party was Syria’s governing party; it was ruled by Bashar al-Assad.

  When the Syrian uprising had spread to other parts of the country, the CMC blamed itself for not coordinating the response of Syria’s security services. A new set of commands was issued at that meeting: the security branches were authorized to launch daily raids against protesters, security agents were to coordinate with neighborhood militias to keep the opposition out of protest hotspots, a joint investigation was to be launched that would incorporate representatives from all the security services. Their purpose was to interrogate detainees who would give up fresh targets for the security branches to detain.

  The CMC sent these orders down multiple chains of command. In a stunning coup in 2014, CIJA had acquired proof of these orders. The Baath Party had instructed its organs to crush the protests. Those orders were clear. What CIJA required in addition was proof that the orders had been executed, protesters detained, tortured, or killed.

  The Crisis Cell had insisted its branches provide lists of detainees. The security branches confirmed that orders were carried out.

  We did that a long time ago.

  So thorough was the evidence demonstrating command responsibility that the US ambassador at large had said: ‘When the day of justice arrives, we’ll have much better evidence than we’ve had anywhere since Nuremberg.’

  The photographs on the table were examples. Each body in the photographs was assigned a reference number from the security branch responsible for the death. If a corpse was taken to a military hospital, it was given another number to falsely document that the death had occurred in hospital – presumably while the victim had been undergoing treatment. The deaths of detainees were routinely attributed to heart attack or respiratory failure.

  The case had been broken open by a defector known as Caesar, an official forensic photographer with the military police. In January 2014, overwhelmed by his burden of documenting death, Caesar had smuggled out fifty thousand images of murders carried out by the Mukhabarat, with evidence of systematic torture.

  Caesar had made a chilling statement: ‘The regime documents everything so it will forget nothing.’

  He’d given the images to the Syrian National Movement. Members of that group had formed the Syrian Association for Missing and Conscience Detainees. They took custody of the files, which were transferred to Human Rights Watch. The files contained evidence of twenty-seven detention centers that served as factories for torture.

  ‘These images are new,’ Sehr said. ‘They’re recent – from this year. They’re not part of the cache authenticated by CIJA. The Caesar photographs were made available through the news source Zaman al-Wasl, then picked up by various Facebook groups.’

  ‘Why?’ Esa demanded. ‘These photographs are appalling. Why would anyone make them public?’

  Sehr understood there was a possibility she’d faced darker things than Esa had. They were both officers of the law, but her transition to refugee law had opened up a world in chaos.

  ‘It’s very simple, Esa.’ She kept her tone neutral. ‘So their families can identify the dead.’

  Esa’s hand came down on the table. ‘But these photographs – the horrors they show –?’

  ‘There’s no other way to know. It may be a terrible answer, but it is an answer.’

  Esa studied the photographs. ‘How many?’ he asked.

  ‘Eleven thousand.’ She quoted from the report published on the basis of the Caesar files. ‘Documented industrial-scale killing; systematic, pervasive torture.’ Weighed down by her own words, she added, ‘But the Caesar photographs represent only a fraction of the dead. They cover a two-year period. The photographs are from the al-Khatib branch of the security services in north-east Damascus. So as damning as they are, they’re deficient in terms of giving us the whole picture.’

  ‘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, E
sa 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 hadn’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 ca
n 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 website 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 Wiley, 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?