Sanctuary Page 9

  Amidst the moaning and groaning and the writhing of bodies, the four stood motionless waiting for the doctor to appear. So did the other three orderlies in attendance. They were volunteer workers, but they too had heard of Yusuf Khalil.

  The tension was palpable and as the seconds ticked by Hala’s fear for Rassen’s safety returned tenfold. But there was little she could do. She could not request the men leave the children in her care – Khalil had demanded to see the doctor and any denial would infuriate him. Besides, the children must be tended to as soon as possible.

  She ran her professional eye over the dusty grey forms of the two little boys. She could see no sign of mutilation, but from where she stood she could also see no apparent sign of life. She had witnessed many such bodies, deceptively whole, but with internal organs crushed under the weight of the rubble. She hoped that in this case she was wrong, but she very much doubted it.

  ‘Captain Khalil.’ Rassen appeared and crossed directly to the rebel leader, ignoring his wife, making no eye contact at all with Hala. If there was to be trouble he dared not signal any personal link between them. ‘I am Dr Khurdaji.’

  Khalil gave a curt nod and indicated the children carried by his henchmen. ‘These are my sons,’ he said. ‘They were injured in the bombing: you will heal them.’

  Rassen knew at first glance that the boys were dead. His eyes flickered to the men who held them in their arms. Surely these men were aware they bore the bodies of dead children. But the men’s eyes did not meet his; instead they continued to stare directly ahead.

  Following normal procedure, Rassen checked the children’s vital signs, holding the small wrists, waiting in vain to feel their pulses. Then …

  ‘I regret to inform you, Captain,’ he said quietly, stepping a respectful pace or two back from the rebel leader, ‘there is nothing I can do for your sons.’

  But Khalil appeared not to hear. ‘You will treat these boys and you will make them well.’

  ‘This I cannot do,’ Rassen said, again quietly, but with authority. ‘These boys are dead.’

  ‘These boys are not dead,’ Khalil snapped contemptuously, ‘these boys are unconscious. Look,’ he indicated each of his sons, ‘not a mark upon them, as you can see.’

  The man’s mad, Rassen thought. ‘Their injuries are internal, I’m afraid.’

  ‘You will do your duty, doctor.’ Khalil gestured to his henchman, who knelt and, with great care, laid the boys’ bodies on the floor, then stood, eyes still front awaiting further orders. ‘I will return in one week and my sons will be here to greet me. This is my command.’

  ‘I cannot restore life where there is none, Captain.’ Rassen remained respectful, but adamant. ‘I cannot bring back the dead.’

  It was then the full force of Khalil’s insanity was unleashed.

  ‘You dare disobey me!’ he screamed. ‘You who owe me so much! I fight for you! I fight for your freedom from the accursed Assad and this is my thanks? You would let my sons die?’

  With one swift motion, the AK-47 slung over Khalil’s shoulder was suddenly in his hands, his eyes focused down its sights, the barrel pointing directly at Rassen’s head. ‘Do you know what happens to those who disobey me?’

  Rassen stood his ground, resisting the urge to close his eyes as he awaited the madman’s bullet.

  Hala remained frozen, unable to look away as she awaited her husband’s execution.

  Then the shot rang out. But it was not Rassen who fell. Khalil had infinitesimally shifted his aim, and fifteen metres away, directly behind Rassen by the door to the hospital’s main corridor, one of the orderlies, a young United Nations volunteer from France, dropped to the ground dead. A perfect head shot. Within easy range perhaps, but proof nonetheless of Khalil’s excellent marksmanship.

  ‘That is what happens to those who disobey me,’ he said calmly, slinging the rifle once again over his shoulder. ‘That is what will happen to you, my friend.’

  The murder of the orderly seemed to have acted as a salve to Khalil’s irrational outburst of rage. But the icy threat that followed was equally frightening in its madness.

  ‘If my sons are not here to greet me upon my return in one week, doctor, I will kill you. If my sons die, you will die, and your family too will die. If you attempt to flee I will hunt you down wherever you go: you cannot escape me. I have spies everywhere. My men will find you, and they will find those of your bloodline, and you will all die, be assured of this.’

  He signalled his men and spun about on his heels.

  ‘I will see you in one week, doctor,’ he called over his shoulder, ‘and I shall see my sons standing by your side.’

  Khalil strode out of the hospital followed by his two fellow soldiers.

  But one of them hung back for a rebellious moment. Stepping towards Rassen, he muttered just one word.

  ‘Run,’ he said. The man was not issuing an order, but offering advice. ‘Run,’ he repeated, before turning and following his comrades at a brisk march.

  Rassen and Hala took the rebel soldier’s advice. They fled Aleppo, but not before ringing their parents, with whom they had kept in regular touch. Rassen’s father had died many years previously, but his mother was still alive, as were Hala’s parents.

  ‘You must leave Damascus, all three of you,’ Rassen instructed. ‘You must go to England. Do not attempt to find us or make contact in any way, it is possible this might put you at risk. We will get in touch through Elias when we believe it is safe.’

  They rang their son with the same instructions. There was to be no contact between them and he was to help his grandparents settle upon their arrival.

  ‘Thank God Elias is safely in England,’ Rassen said upon completing the call, echoing his wife’s sentiments entirely.

  Hala’s reaction to their predicament was peculiarly ambivalent, however. She feared Yusuf Khalil’s threat of retribution as any sane person would, but Rassen’s renewed strength she found heartening. For so long now, as he’d struggled on in a state of exhaustion, demoralised by the continuing mutilation and death of Aleppo’s children, she had worried for his physical and mental well-being. A fresh purpose was now driving him, and that purpose was the preservation of her life. Initially he had suggested she flee on her own, believing his death would satisfy the madman, but she had refused.

  ‘You heard him, Rassen,’ she’d argued. ‘“If my sons die, you will die, and your family too will die” – that’s what he said. I don’t doubt for a minute he has contacts throughout Syria and he would find me and kill me. If we are to die, my darling, then we die together.’

  Rassen had been galvanised into action from that moment on, just as she had hoped. Perhaps this is what we needed, Hala thought. Perhaps in driving us from Aleppo, Khalil has done us a favour.

  It was only a short distance northwest from Aleppo to the Turkish border, but Rassen decided they would not take that route. Khalil would expect them to do exactly that, he said, and the man was crazy enough to follow them over the border. Hala agreed.

  Instead, they made their way south through war-torn Syria, crossing the border into Lebanon, where they settled in Beirut, Rassen having made contact with a long-time colleague who was Chair of the Medical Faculty at the university there.

  Professor Abdul Bukhari was quite happy to arrange positions for them both, Rassen as a lecturer and Hala in a secretarial capacity. Furthermore, upon hearing their story of the dead children and of Yusuf Khalil’s deranged threat, he organised their employment under false names. Abdul Bukhari himself knew only too well the mayhem and insanity that abounded in Aleppo.

  ‘I’m surprised you both lasted as long as you did, Rassen,’ he said. ‘Many who volunteered have not returned. If they don’t fall victim to the bombs they’re killed by these madmen like your Khalil, or so I hear.’ The professor, a tall, lean man with a leathery face and laconic manner, gave a shrug that seemed to say it all. ‘I don’t personally know of him,’ he said, ‘but the soldiers of the
regime, and the rebels, and now ISIS, they’re as bad as each other, murderous thugs the lot of them. People have a habit of disappearing in Aleppo.’

  ‘Yes,’ Rassen agreed, ‘they certainly do.’

  ‘Well you mustn’t worry. We’ll keep your identity a secret – better to err on the side of caution under such circumstances, I feel – but you’re well away from Aleppo and Khalil’s lunacy here.’

  The professor proved right, or so it seemed, and after one year Rassen and Hala felt it safe to contact Elias. They were relieved to discover their parents had settled happily in England and that their son was delighted to have his grandparents nearby. They were free now, all of them, to keep in regular touch, which they did. Indeed, everything appeared so blissfully resolved that Rassen and Hala planned their return to London. They would reunite with their family and work once again in their true vocation.

  ‘And who knows,’ Hala suggested teasingly, ‘perhaps even at Great Ormond Street Hospital? How romantic.’

  Then, one night, a month before their departure …

  ‘You must leave Beirut,’ Abdul said. ‘You must leave as soon as possible and you must travel as far away as possible.’

  It was after dark when Abdul Bukhari called around to the apartment they rented not far from the university campus. They were surprised to see him at such an hour and during a weeknight. Socialising with the professor and his wife was usually an occasional weekend get-together. They were surprised too by his urgency.

  ‘There have been enquiries made at the university for a Dr Rassen Khurdaji,’ Abdul explained, ‘and I am told also by my staff that there are enquiries being made at hospitals and medical centres throughout Beirut. Rumours abound,’ he added ominously.

  ‘What sort of rumours?’ Rassen asked.

  ‘Dr Rassen Khurdaji is wanted for the murder of two children who were placed in his care.’

  Rassen and Hala stared incredulously at one another. Then after a moment’s silence Hala turned back to Abdul.

  ‘But the children were dead,’ she said.

  ‘I know. You told me. Nonetheless this Khalil character is spreading the word far and wide that Rassen is wanted for murder.’

  ‘Good God,’ Rassen shook his head in disbelief, ‘close to eighteen months now, and still he’s obsessed. Hasn’t anyone been able to convince him his sons were dead when they were pulled from the rubble?’

  ‘If they’d tried they probably didn’t live to tell the tale,’ Hala said drily. ‘You saw how terrified those soldiers were. They were carrying dead children, they must have known that, and yet they didn’t dare tell him. Khalil is insane, Rassen. He has sworn an oath to kill you and your family, and he’s not going to give up.’

  ‘Hala is right,’ Abdul agreed. ‘You are not safe, Rassen, you must leave the Middle East. You must travel as far from here as you can and you must sever all links.’

  They discussed amongst the three of them the best course of action, Rassen and Hala deciding for their family’s sake not to return to London. Irksome as it was, they must once again distance themselves and avoid all contact. They could not afford the risk of a reunion.

  ‘We must somehow disappear,’ Rassen said, ‘but to where?’

  Abdul, who had already given the matter some thought, told them about an agency he’d heard of in the city centre, an agency that specialised in helping refugees get to Australia.

  ‘Australia!’ Once again Rassen and Hala exchanged an incredulous glance.

  ‘Why not?’ A shrug and a laconic smile so typical of the professor. ‘It’s about as far away as you’ll find, and a very nice place I believe.’

  Deliberating further on Australia as an option, Abdul advised them it would be useless to apply through official channels. ‘It would take forever,’ he said, ‘and speed is of the essence in your case. Well, it is in most cases,’ he added wryly, ‘but the Australian government is renowned for acting slowly when it comes to matters of urgency, like life and death.’

  Rassen, who knew very little of Australia, did some research on his computer that night, and the following day they visited the agency, where they were told by an extremely knowledgeable young man called Isaac about the great humanitarian Benny Hitono.

  ‘Oh yes,’ Isaac assured them, after mapping out the route that would finally take them to the shores of Australia, ‘Mr Hitono is a man who really cares. He saved his own family in getting them to Australia by boat from Jakarta and ever since then he has dedicated himself to the cause of saving others. Others from all over the world,’ he added expansively, ‘there are well established routes from many major cities.’

  ‘But I read on the net that “people smugglers” is a term much demonised in Australia,’ Rassen argued, ‘and that is what we are talking about, is it not, smuggling people into the country?’ The young man was well spoken and his manner confident, but there was an element of contradiction, Rassen thought.

  ‘No, no, no.’ Isaac airily brushed aside the notion. People smuggler was a term he was instructed never to use, and he had his patter down perfectly should it come up in conversation, as it had on occasion. ‘That is propaganda from Australian far-right groups, nothing more. Those who wish to keep refugees out of the country defame the reputations of true humanitarians like Mr Hitono. They deliberately vilify these so-called “people smugglers” for their own political purposes.’ Isaac’s smile was self-assured. ‘After all, historically people smugglers have been heroes, haven’t they? The term would never have been derogatorily applied to those who helped Jews escape Nazi Germany. Nor would it be applied in any war where resistance fighters smuggle their allies across borders to freedom, would it?’

  The young man appeared extremely erudite on the subject so Rassen accepted the argument, which seemed sound enough, but he had a further query prompted by the news report he’d read just the previous night.

  ‘The final and main leg of the journey,’ he said, ‘the journey by sea from Jakarta, does that not present a problem? I believe the Australian government refuses to accept refugees who arrive by sea. In fact I read a news report stating there is even a policy known as “turn back the boats”, and that refugees who attempt to arrive by sea are summarily rejected. How does Mr Hitono propose to overcome such an obstacle?’

  Isaac had never been queried quite so precisely in the past, having dealt mostly with desperate people, many of whom were semi-literate, but he was undeterred. There was an answer for everything.

  ‘Ah, the “turn back the boats” policy,’ he replied as if it was something that had momentarily skipped his mind. ‘Yes that, too, is propaganda. Admittedly from the government, this is true, but merely put out as a deterrent. The Australian government does not wish to appear overly encouraging so they publish such warnings in order to limit the numbers. But of course their coastline is vast, and it is impossible to police all arrivals. Mr Hitono always makes a personal guarantee that his excellent captains and crew will safely land their passengers on Australian soil. Once this has been achieved, the local authorities of course take in the refugees, who are then processed and permitted to stay. Particularly those such as your good self, Dr Khurdaji, and you also,’ Isaac added with a smile to Hala, who had remained silent throughout. ‘Given your excellent qualifications, you would both be welcomed into Australia, I can assure you.’

  Did they believe him? It was easier to do so. Easier all round to have a solid plan of action. They believed they’d made the right choice.

  They continued to believe this throughout their flight to Indonesia and also during the waiting period when they were settled in a dirty little hotel room in Jakarta. Despite the huge sum of money they’d paid up front, close to twenty thousand American dollars, easily accessible from the sale of their Damascus property, they had no expectations of luxury. ‘Beggars can’t be choosers,’ they’d agreed.

  They’d continued to believe in the wisdom of their choice even after their first meeting with Benny Hitono, although the
y’d recognised immediately the man’s cunning.

  ‘You will call me Benny,’ the Indonesian had said in his broken but clearly understandable English. ‘I get you to Australia safe and sound, no worry,’ he’d assured them with a broad grin, pumping their hands effusively. ‘My boats they are strong, safe and sound, my captains and crew good seamen, the best.’ Safe and sound was a phrase Benny liked and had adopted as a mantra.

  ‘More opportunistic than humanitarian,’ had been Hala’s comment once they were alone.

  ‘Granted,’ Rassen replied, ‘but we should probably have expected that. Just so long as he can deliver, that’s all that matters.’

  They worked hard to keep each other’s hopes high over the ensuing weeks, during the trip with others by truck to the safe house in Bogor two hours out of Jakarta. And then later, when they were moved, again by trucks, on to the next safe house at Sendang Biru in Malang Province, where they were to await the vessel Benny was arranging. But by then it had become difficult. By then they knew in their hearts they were deluding themselves.

  Their fears were justified. Even as they waited at the safe house for news of their departure, Benny was out lining up a local fisherman and boat. The skipper would be paid one thousand American dollars, equivalent to a year’s earnings for himself and his two-man crew, a goldmine for any peasant. And the way Benny painted it, the job was simple. The skipper was to transport his passengers to the northwest coast of Australia and land them where they could wade ashore and make their presence known to the local authorities. Then he was to turn around and come home. Easy.

  Benny was drumming up as much trade as he could these days, his once lucrative people-smuggling business having taken a dive. For years he’d been recruiting Middle Eastern refugees from his links in Kabul, Damascus, Islamabad and Beirut, but recently people were heading for Europe instead. And not only the ‘desperates’, as he was wont to call them, but those seeking to improve their economic state, which seemed to him grossly unfair. It was, wasn’t it? A principle applied here: the ‘desperates’ shouldn’t have to compete with those whose lives were not at risk. And then of course there was the ‘deaths at sea’ argument the Australian government put out in order to back up its ‘stop the boats’ policy. That was a sure killer for business. Of course accidents did happen, which was only to be expected. People accepted that sort of risk when they were fleeing for their lives. Either way, Benny didn’t actually care, he’d received all his money by the time the boat set out to sea. What happened after that was hardly his concern.