The Unquiet Dead Page 26

  It took them thirty minutes to reach the woods. He climbed into the shadows, pulling Haki up behind him. He grabbed his brother close to his chest and hugged him jubilantly, kissing his rain-washed face over and over.

  “See? We made it. I told you we would.” He ran his hands over Hakija’s arms and legs, an action he hadn’t dared undertake before. “Are you hurt? Were you shot?”

  Hakija shook his head, a ragged smile on his lips.

  “Let’s find our mother.”

  But for a moment he didn’t move. For a moment, as he hugged his brother close, he looked out over the field they had left behind. A field so full of bodies that he couldn’t see the earth. The shadows of the bulldozers hulked over the ground.

  In every direction he looked, there was death.

  Until this moment, he hadn’t cried. For Hakija’s sake, he hadn’t cried. Now he could do nothing else. Sobs tore through his body. He stifled them by biting his fists. He said the prayers the Chetniks had ground to dust beneath their boots. He asked God to accept his single Fatiha as an offering for all his people. His tears were the only comfort his brothers would know at the place of their dying.

  He didn’t let Haki look.

  As they slipped into the woods toward sanctuary and life, he glimpsed an unearthly vision in the moonlight that hallowed the ground. He was headed for Tuzla down a death road.

  The ghosts in the field rose in rank after rank at his shoulder.

  34.

  I knew all of them who did it. They were my neighbors.

  As Rachel drove to the location of Audrey’s clinic downtown, rain began to fall, slowing traffic to a crawl. Audrey was coming from an out-of-town appointment, a longer drive than Rachel’s, yet she appeared as calm and lovely as on their first meeting. Even the rain had chosen to spare her: her hair was beautifully styled, her makeup tasteful and fresh. They met in the parking lot in front of Audrey’s clinic, a humble space whose windows were decorated with posters of hands reaching out to the hands of women around the world. The clinic’s name was lettered in white on a cherry-colored backdrop. Unpretentious and welcoming, much like Audrey herself.

  “Shall we go inside?” Audrey asked her.

  “This won’t take long.” Rachel withdrew the envelope that held Drayton’s papers from under her jacket. “I wanted to learn about your work here. And your clinic.”

  She liked the fact that Audrey didn’t seem to mind the rain, taking the time to consider her question with her laptop case over one shoulder, the keys to her Jaguar cupped in her hand.

  “It’s called Woman to Woman. We do advocacy work on behalf of victims of violence.”

  “What kind of violence?”

  “Rape victims. Torture. Girls who’ve been reclaimed from the sex trade. In some rare cases, domestic violence, although there are other organizations for that.”

  “What kind of background do you need for that?”

  “Mostly you need money, if you’re truly passionate about it. But if you’re asking about my credentials, I’ve done a master’s degree in psychology and another in social work.”

  Exactly as she’d thought. There were depths to Nathan’s sister that were going to prove invaluable. “Do you have a moment? I’d like to show you something related to this case.”

  Audrey waited as Rachel produced the photograph of the girl who had hanged herself.

  “Who is that?” Audrey breathed. “Where did you get it?”

  “I’m showing you this in confidence. It was among Drayton’s papers. You said you’ve worked with victims of rape and torture, which means you must have an international clientele.”

  Audrey nodded. “Refugees, mostly, or women with landed status who are just beginning to open up about the violence they’ve endured.”

  “Which parts of the world?”

  “Congo. The Sudan. Burma. Rwanda.” Her eyes narrowed in realization. “Yes,” she said. “Bosnia and Croatia, as well.”

  “Why might a girl from Srebrenica hang herself? Like the one in this photograph.”

  Audrey set down her laptop case to study the photograph more closely. “It’s impossible to say conclusively. The uncertainty of the war may have been too much for her—a kind of existential dilemma. She may have lost loved ones that day or earlier in the war and felt she couldn’t go on without them.”

  “And what if she was raped?”

  “Is that what happened here?”

  “I don’t know. Would suicide be a likely consequence?”

  Audrey spread her hands helplessly. “It’s possible, Rachel. Rape was a feature of the war.”

  “Isn’t that true of all wars?”

  “As a side effect of chaos, lawlessness—the powerful preying upon the helpless. But in Bosnia, mass rape was a policy of the war, systematically carried out, implicating neighbors, paramilitaries, soldiers. Those who wouldn’t participate were threatened, they were told it was a bonding ritual. The policy was to terrorize and humiliate their victims so they would never return to the scene of their degradation, thereby ethnically ‘cleansing’ entire cities and villages. Any building could be transformed into a rape camp. A school gymnasium, a town hall—in Foča, it was the high school and the Partizan Hall.” She twisted her keys between her hands and drew a breath. “I can’t begin to tell you. We’ve helped women from Foča at Woman to Woman.” She studied the photograph again. “The men there were drunk on rape. Once you’ve demonized the Other so thoroughly, it doesn’t matter what you do to them. They cease to be human. A woman subjected to that type of brutality might well decide to bring her suffering to an end. I wouldn’t rule it out.”

  “This was a kid,” Rachel said. “Maybe fourteen years old.”

  “That wouldn’t matter to the perpetrators. They gang-raped children as a matter of course.”

  Rachel’s stomach heaved. She’d dealt with terrible things in the course of her work but nothing as dark and sinister as this. This man who’d lived among them—a teacher of languages, a lover of gardens, a patron of the arts—he had given these orders, let his men run wild, held none to account. She thought of Hadley and Cassidy. The war had not exhausted his menace.

  She considered Audrey with her pixie haircut, her designer jewelry and clothing: a girl raised in wealth and privilege to enjoy a lifetime of the same. Yet she had founded an organization dedicated to helping the vulnerable, when sharing their stories must have been a trauma in itself.

  “Why do you do it? This kind of work, I mean. You don’t have to, right?”

  “Ah, I see.” Audrey collected her laptop. “I could live off my brother’s wealth or my trust fund, jet-setting about the globe, is that what you mean?” She shrugged. “I’m no saint, Rachel. There are plenty of luxuries I haven’t given up.” She waved her keys at Rachel. “My Jag, for example. I suppose you think I’m just another dilettante dabbling in celebrity causes.”

  Rachel swallowed uncomfortably. Until this graphic conversation, she had to admit the thought had crossed her mind. She cleared her throat. “No. I can’t see a dabbler sweating it out in graduate school. It’s just— I’m a cop, and I still find this stuff hard. You’ve had to immerse yourself in misery.”

  “There’s hope as well. The women we work with demonstrate incredible bravery. We learn from them every day, it’s hardly a one-way street.” She fluffed up her rain-dampened hair with one hand. “It’s what our parents taught us, both Nate and me. If you’re given a gift, you have a responsibility to put it to use. That’s why Nate is so invested in immigration policy and multiculturalism: it’s a buttress to the work of our NGO.” She smiled impishly. “That and the fact that we grew up with Esa and Ruksh.”

  Rachel had noticed a common factor about people whose work she admired. They made themselves the smallest part of the equation. As if reading her thoughts, Audrey’s smile softened into reflection.

  “It was my mother, really. Wherever my father traveled on his adventures, she found a way to reach out to the women, t
o work with them.”

  “She sounds remarkable,” Rachel said. She wondered what it would have been like to have been raised by such a woman. “You mentioned Foča.” She pronounced it gingerly. “Would your organization have assisted anyone from Srebrenica? Would you be able to put me in touch with any of the survivors?”

  “I’m afraid not, no. If you’d like to speak with one of the families from Foča, I can ask them. We haven’t dealt directly with anyone from Srebrenica.”

  Audrey reached out and grasped her hand.

  “I’m glad you came into our lives, Rachel. I’m glad Esa brought you. Let me know if you need my help with anything else.”

  * * *

  Rachel pulled into the mosque’s parking lot with more speed than care, her tires screeching. It had taken an hour to fight through traffic, her worst suspicions confirmed by Audrey’s revelations. She hustled her way inside through a larger crowd than usual to Imam Muharrem’s office, where she banged on the door.

  He didn’t answer so she tried the knob. The charming room was empty. As she pondered her next move, a man appeared at her elbow. Small, slight, with twinkling eyes, he asked if he could help her. She introduced herself as Esa Khattak’s sergeant.

  “I’m looking for the imam. Imam Muharrem. He said he could introduce us to some of the survivors from Srebrenica.”

  The small man’s face relaxed. “Muharrem is away at a lecture. He will be back tomorrow. My name is Asaf, perhaps I can help you.”

  She seized on the name at once. He was the mosque’s full-time imam, the man Muharrem had been asked to relieve. “Asaf? Imam Asaf? I think you know my boss.”

  “I know him well. I would be delighted if I could be of service to any friend of Esa’s.”

  “Would you be able to help me locate some of the survivors? Would any of them be at the mosque today?”

  The young imam ushered her into the office. As if sensing her agitation, he went directly to the samovar and poured her a cup of tea.

  “Please take a seat, Sergeant, and tell me how I can help you. I can make calls and ask if anyone is available to meet you here. I’m sure you understand that I prefer not to give out numbers until I’ve learned a little more about your interest. Many of these people have struggled to put the past behind them.”

  “Imam Muharrem didn’t tell you about our previous visit?”

  “I’ve been on holiday.” His blue eyes twinkled at her. “I’m sure you understand that those are the moments one chooses to get away from the pressures of work. He may have called me, I regret I didn’t answer.”

  “No, it’s all right. Look, to be honest with you, I’m trying to understand a little better about what happened in Srebrenica during the war. It’s relevant to a case we’re working that involves a man named Damir Hasanović.”

  “Damir?” The imam sat back in surprise. “I haven’t seen him in some time.”

  “Two years,” Rachel said.

  “Yes, two years. He was an active member of our congregation, on the board of the mosque and so on. He did a great deal of work with the community and he was very much in demand internationally, as well. I hope he is not in any difficulties.”

  “I hope not as well. Would you be able to tell me a little more about his work? What kinds of things he did?”

  Asaf had a quick, intelligent face enhanced by the gentlest of smiles. He would be good at his chosen vocation, she thought, providing spiritual solace to many.

  “He acted as a translator and an advocate. He helped many people come to this country as refugees. He advised our students on access to education. He arranged driver’s licenses, housing, he explained the immigration settlement services to them. If anyone had difficulty with any level of government, he acted as their representative until their issues were resolved. He wrote letters to the media, he gave tours of the mosque. He lectured at schools. Most of his time was spent on behalf of the memorial.”

  “The memorial?” Rachel echoed.

  “The genocide memorial in Srebrenica. To recognize the dead by name when names were all we had. It was an international project but we had a devoted group here in our city. It’s strange,” he mused.

  “What is?” She found both his tea and his manner soothing.

  “It’s not only Damir the community has lost—we still don’t know why or where he went. He was invaluable to us.”

  “Who else?” Rachel prodded.

  “The others who worked on the memorial. Survivors like those you wish to meet.”

  “Survivors of Srebrenica?”

  “Yes. Of the killing fields, there are only a handful of men who survived. Damir arranged to bring Avdo and Hakija here.”

  Rachel stared at him, dumbstruck.

  “What is it, my dear?”

  “I’m sorry, Imam. What names did you say?”

  “Avdo and Hakija. Osmanović. They were to be executed at Grbavici. By some miracle, the boys escaped when the executions were halted for the night. They made it through the woods to the safety of Tuzla.”

  “Your gardens are beautiful,” she mumbled through lips that felt numb.

  The imam quirked an eyebrow at the irrelevance of her remark. “I think you need more tea, dear Sergeant.”

  She handed him her cup without protest. She wouldn’t have objected if he’d added a shot of whiskey.

  “Yes, that is Avdo and Haki’s work. It’s good that they came here—thanks to Damir, they were able to build productive lives, even with Haki’s condition.”

  “What condition is that, sir?”

  “The boys were buried under a mountain of bodies. That’s how they escaped. Avdi had a plan, it seemed. He knew they would end up at an execution site. From the moment he was loaded on a bus, he plotted their escape.” Asaf’s voice marveled at it. “I don’t know how he did it, how he managed. He’s very resourceful. Sadly, by the time he found their mother in Tuzla, Haki was catatonic. After that, it was a simple matter for Damir to arrange their evacuation. And Haki’s had wonderful, ongoing treatment in the city. It’s helped him a great deal, although it’s doubtful he will ever fully recover.”

  “No,” Rachel agreed, thinking of Harry Osmond. “I can’t imagine what that would be like.”

  Asaf made a reassuring noise in his throat. “If you are interested, their testimony is available on the Web site of the tribunal. It has been used in several of the Srebrenica convictions.”

  “And these were the people who worked with Damir Hasanović on the memorial?”

  “Tirelessly. Damir tried to bring the Sinanović family as well. The boys were killed in the woods—some have said by chemical weapons. Their bodies have been identified. Selmira, their sister, died on the base.”

  Rachel was having trouble assimilating the information.

  Everything she had imagined was true.

  The music, the photograph, the lilies, the gun.

  Her voice husky, she asked, “She was killed?”

  Asaf’s face clouded over. He lifted a Qur’an from the desk and placed both hands over it as if to calm himself.

  “I don’t know if I should speak of it, dear Sergeant. I’m not sure I have the right.”

  Rachel wasn’t trying to trick him when she said, “We would like to do her justice.” She produced the photograph of the girl hanging from her scarf in the darkling woods of Bosnia. “Is this Selmira?”

  Asaf’s gentle face crumpled.

  “I seek refuge in Allah,” he whispered. “Where did you get this?” His fingers gripped the Qur’an.

  “Tell me about Selmira,” she said. “Did they kill her at Potočari?”

  He shook his head from side to side. Like Imam Muharrem, he murmured prayers under his breath.

  “She was fourteen years old when she took her own life. She was taken by the Chetniks and raped. It was Damir’s dearest wish to place her name on the memorial, but the rape of our daughters is something the community struggles with. The shame is a lasting stigma. It was why Selmira ha
nged herself.”

  “Shame and horror,” Rachel agreed.

  It was what Audrey Clare had taught her, well-versed in the trauma endured by rape victims through her work with her organization, the work she had lightly dismissed. Rachel had remembered Nate’s description of his sister as a human rights advocate.

  The photograph had been her first clue. When she had paired it with the lines of one of the letters, she’d understood.

  Keep the good ones over there. Enjoy yourselves.

  “You said Damir Hasanović tried to bring the Sinanović family here. What did you mean?”

  He poured more tea for them both, his hands trembling on the samovar.

  As she listened to his explanation, she irrevocably understood why Khattak had defended Hasanović from the heart.

  * * *

  The music, the photograph, the lilies, the gun. The clues arranged in a circle on Nathan’s table. The words that whispered their damning indictment.

  On Tuesday, there will be no bread in Sarajevo.

  The besieged city of Jajce has fallen to the aggressor.

  They are shelling Bihać.

  They are shelling Goražde.

  They are shelling Tuzla.

  They have shelled Srebrenica.

  They have killed Avdo Palić, the defender of Žepa.

  They assassinated our prime minister while the French troops watched.

  Everything around us is on fire and we ourselves are nearly smoldering.

  The National Library is burning, it’s burning. Will no one save it, save us?

  They will burn us all.

  They will burn us all.

  * * *

  Rachel left the sanctuary of the mosque and stood outside, breathing deeply. The thunderheads massed on the horizon echoed her own turmoil. The words meant something. They were chosen for a reason. They directed Drayton to a revelation, an accusation.

  A revelation she feared. Especially because Khattak was nowhere to be found.

  The rain that had been so mild during her interview with Audrey picked up, muffling the sound of her phone ringing. She hoped it was Nate, the one person who could reach Esa.