Bluegrass and Crimson

by Jeff Siebold

“To Syria,” said Catherine. The girls were talking on the phone. It was a Tuesday night and Andrea had just completed her shift at the hospital. Catherine had called her with the announcement.

  “To Syria?” said Andrea. “You don’t know anyone there.”

  “I know Usman,” Catherine teased. “He’s back home now.”

  “Why now?” asked Andrea.

  “Umar’s going back,” she said. “He has asked me to go with him, to be his wife.”

  “What about school?” Andrea said.

  “It’s school. I really haven’t spent much time studying this semester, anyhow,” said Catherine easily. Her thoughts were obviously somewhere else.

  “How will you live? You don’t speak Arabic.”

  “I’ve been learning,” said Catherine. “We’ll be able to make it.”

  “And the war? Mom and Dad will freak out.” Andrea was standing in her brownstone apartment, looking out the bay window at the Georgetown street. While she spoke, she thought about the traffic and the people and the politics and the costs.

  “Come with me, ‘Rea,” said Catherine, using Andrea’s name from when she was young. At three years old, Catherine couldn’t pronounce “Andrea,” and had taken to calling her sister ‘Rea. The name had stuck.

  “But I can’t,” said Andrea. “I just got this job at the hospital…”

  “I’m going. And Usman is already there,” her sister teased again. “We can all live near each other and really make a difference in the world. You know that you can’t do that at the hospital, right? All the rules and protocols and insurance restrictions…”

  In the end, it was the thought of Usman that had changed Andrea’s mind.

  * * *

  But now, Andrea realized, it had all been a mistake.

  “I should have trusted my instincts,” she said to Catherine in a low voice. They were in the kitchen, together, preparing a rice dish for the men who were sitting in the living area, the next room, huddled together and looking at a map.

  “No, ‘Rea, it’s my fault,” whispered Catherine. “We’ve got to get out of here…”

  “But how?” asked Andrea. I don’t even know where we are, really.”

  “I think I can take a cell phone at night when the men are asleep. I can slip away with it for a few minutes and call Dad and Mom. Maybe they can help.”

  “But what could they do?” asked Catherine.

  “I don’t know,” said Andrea. “But there’s got to be a way.”

  Chapter 48

  It had been simple for Zeke to find the hostel. Sa’ood was the one who had coordinated the arrangements for the UVA group. He had been charged with buying the tickets and providing instructions to the departing students, bound for Syria. He was convinced by the FBI to call ahead to Kobane and Aleppo, to arrange the transport, lodging and border crossing for a single male who would be traveling alone.

  Once the bus dropped him in Mursitpinar Bucagi, in Turkey, Zeke made his way to the hostel and checked into the room Sa’ood had reserved for him. Abu, one of the owners, grunted at Zeke and walked away while his brother, Najeeb, had taken Zeke’s money and showed him a small, dark room with one high, glassless window on the south side of the building. Besides the brothers, Zeke saw no one. The hostel was very quiet, and there were no vehicles in the parking area.

  He asked about Turkish coffee in Arabic and Najeeb grudgingly indicated that he would have some made. The coffee house in the city had been bombed in a recent drone attack.

  “They should come for me soon,” Zeke said, feigning more trepidation than conviction.

  Najeeb half smiled. “They will,” he said.

  “How does it work?” Zeke asked.

  “Usually it is a van that stops by the hostel,” said Najeeb. “It comes in the late afternoon and will take you across the border into Kobane.”

  “A van?”

  “Yes, a yellow van. A delivery van. From DHL,” said Najeeb impatiently. “They are able to cross the border frequently.”

  * * *

  The DHL van, with its yellow paint and red lettering, arrived at 5:30 PM the next day. Zeke saw it through the open window in the lobby area, where he was waiting and watching. The driver parked in front of the hostel, blew his horn twice and then left the engine running while he jumped down and entered the building.

  “Allo, Najeeb,” the driver said, in Arabic. “Where’s my cargo?”

  “Right here, Kabir,” said Najeeb, pointing to Zeke. “It’s ready to go.”

  Zeke hopped up from the chair and said, “As-salam alaykom.” Peace be with you.

  The driver said, automatically, “Wa Alykom As-salaam.” The formal response, Peace be with you, as well.

  Zeke stepped out of the shadows and the driver was taken aback. “Who is this?” he asked Najeeb. “What is this American doing here?”

  Najeed shrugged. “He is as Islamic as we are,” he said. “He’s half American and half Yemeni. His father was from Yemen.” Najeed said this as if it explained everything. “You’ve taken all kinds of people across. He’s no different.”

  Kabir held up his arm. “I don’t think he has paid the price we have paid in this war,” he said angrily. His hand was missing. His arm ended in a scarred stump.

  Zeke looked at him and said nothing.

  “Well, give him a chance. Do you want the money, or not?” asked Najeeb.

  “Ok, Ok, sure,” said Kabir. The two men conferred in Arabic with their backs to Zeke, and then Kabir headed to the door, signaling to Zeke as an afterthought. “Come with me.”

  Zeke grabbed his small bag and followed the man outside.

  * * *

  The building was in disarray. It’s been bombed recently, Zeke thought. Possibly several times. The front door stood at an angle, one hinge attached and the others hanging loosely. It had been painted red long ago, and contrasted with the beige and gray colored walls of concrete and stone. There was rubble along the front of the building, apparently swept there from the street, which was clear.

  “This way,” said Kabir, leading Zeke into the building.

  Inside, the structure was uneven, tilting to the left as if the foundation had been damaged, Zeke noticed immediately. They stepped into the living room, which was furnished with chairs and a table, almost military in its spartan decor. Light bulbs hung from open rafters by short extension cords. The cords were tied around the rafters. The inside walls were mostly made of brick and stone.

  “Your room is in there,” said one man with the wrinkled skin of a nomad and wearing a black and yellow turban. He appeared to be the oldest. The others, based on their body language, appeared to defer to him. He pointed toward a door covered with a light patterned cloth. The others nodded. No one seemed to have anything else to say.

  “Forgive me,” said Zeke. “Is there any food left? I haven’t eaten much today.”

  The man with the turban frowned, and then he called out a command in rapid Arabic.

  Zeke understood him to be telling the women to prepare some food. Any woman within ear shot.

  Zeke immediately heard noises in the kitchen, pans clanking and glasses chinking. Then he smelled bharat, a Syrian mix of spices. The fragrance filled the living room. A woman’s voice called out from the kitchen, “Alhusul ealaa huna.” Get in here, Zeke translated.

  From one of the doorways closer to the kitchen, two young women stepped out from behind the curtain and, eyes cast down to the floor, stepped across the living room to the kitchen. Although their heads were covered, they were clearly westerners. Their skin that showed, their hands and wrists and the skin around their eyes, was pale and light colored. Zeke noticed that the hair on one girl’s wrists was blonde.

  The girls filed through the living area and disappeared behind a curtain, into the kitchen.

  When it happened, the action was surprisingly quick. Kabir re-entered the living room from behind a curtain, carrying a small cardboard box with his stump arm, rummaging through its contents
with his good hand. Then he dropped the box to the floor and pointed the Makarov pistol at Zeke. It was a small, deadly gun, the Makarov PM, and Zeke recognized it as a side arm carried by the Russian military.

  “Let me see what’s in your bag,” Kabir said.

  Zeke set the bag on the floor and slid it toward Kabir. “What’s wrong?” he asked in Arabic. The bag slid to a stop between the two men, almost central to the small living area.

  Kabul stepped forward to retrieve it.

  The tall man with the black and yellow turban, sitting on one side of the room near the wall, said, “Fool. You can’t shoot a gun in here. The bullets will bounce and you’ll kill us all…and yourself!”

  “What’s wrong?” Zeke asked Kabir again.

  “I think the trip here was worth more than you paid me,” said Kabir. The men in the room laughed quietly.

  Kabir was rummaging through Zeke’s bag with his good hand, the pistol reversed and stuck under his bad arm. He found a billfold and held it up and said, “Ha!” He turned to the men along the walls and held out his prize for them to see.

  Without a pause, Zeke took the two steps toward Kabir, surprising him. He slid the gun from under the man’s arm and, holding it in his left hand, he punched Kabir twice in the throat with short, straight jabs. Kabir dropped the wallet and the bag and fell to the ground, holding his neck and choking, trying to catch his breath.

  Zeke reversed the pistol and handed it to the man in the black and yellow turban. And then he turned to retrieved his bag. The man nodded at Zeke, and the gun disappeared beneath his robes. Moving Kabir to a more comfortable position, Zeke patted him down for weapons. He found none, and he unobtrusively slipped the man’s van keys from his pocket and dropped them into his bag.

  “He is angry about his hand. He has been for years,” the man said. “Relax and have something to eat. He won’t bother you anymore.”

  “Thank you,” said Zeke.

  “We have a meeting to attend, but the women will feed you now.” The men, except for Kabir, who was still sitting on the floor, obviously feeling nauseous, exited the house.

  * * *

  Zeke slung his bag over his shoulder and went in search of the food. There were three women in the small kitchen area, and judging by the aromatic smell, they were preparing Syrian chicken, most likely with giant couscous. The oldest woman handed Zeke a plate of food and set a piece of pita bread on top of it.

  “Shukraan,” said Zeke. Thank you. The women made no eye contact with him.

  He shrugged and sat at the wooden table where they had been working. The chicken was good. The distinct flavors of the cumin, cinnamon and garlic blend nicely, he thought to himself. He watched as the girls, the Cook sisters, cleaned up the prep table and began washing a large pot. Their movements were automatic, almost robotic, as they went about their chores, and they were silent.

  Now to get them out of here, he thought.

  “Ronald,” Zeke said aloud, vaguely, as if to himself. “Constance. Connie.”

  He felt the palpable stiffening of both girls as they recognized their parents’ names. They continued their cleanup of the kitchen, but he sensed their sudden attentiveness.

  Zeke waited until the Syrian woman left the kitchen, and then he quickly finished his meal and scraped the scraps into a bucket that was on the floor near the kitchen sink. He set his plate in the sink, picked up the bucket and turned to the Cook girls.

  “Can you show me where to empty this?” he asked.

  They nodded and stepped toward the door. The Syrian woman was returning to the kitchen, and she started to say something, but Zeke said, “Too late,” and sprayed her in the face with pepper spray. She shrieked and fell to the floor while holding her eyes and crying.

  “Keep moving,” Zeke said to the girls. Behind the cloth in the living room, Zeke heard commotion. “Keep moving, I’ll show you where,” he repeated as they stepped out the red door and into the darkness.

  Chapter 49

  The street was empty.

  “The bombs will start pretty soon,” said Andrea. The truck was still there, parked between two buildings in a narrow alley with just enough space to open one of the doors. Zeke climbed in and started it, and backed out far enough for the girls to open the passenger side door and climb in.

  “How did you find us?” asked Andrea. “How did you know we were here?”

  Catherine Cook was crying, now, with loud sobs of fear and relief.

  “Your phone call confirmed it,” said Zeke. “But we arrested the terrorists stateside who were coordinating the travel. They knew where you were being held.”

  Zeke was driving the DHL van through the city streets as quickly as it would go. The extraction point was ninety minutes due west, just over the border in Reyhanli, Turkey. He hoped the truck would make the trip.

  * * *

  Hanson Brown, a young Royal Air Force lieutenant who had served two tours on gunships in Afghanistan, was charged with safely meeting and extracting Zeke and the Cook girls from a point outside of Reyhanli in the middle of the night. He had taken off from the RAF Akrotiri base on the south shore of Cyprus, and had flown east, low and quick, into Turkish airspace. He was presently protected by two Tornado GR4 fighters, one to his right and one at his six o’clock, behind and above him.

  The Westland Lynx helicopter, a modified version of the model that RAF Lieutenant Brown was flying, had set the world speed record for helicopters years before, but now he was traveling at a more reasonable rate. He expected the trip to take no more than two hours.

  The vehicle, the Westland Lynx, was a military helicopter, this one painted in dark and light gray camouflage. This type chopper was routinely used in search and rescue, battlefield, anti-armor and anti-submarine warfare. Tonight’s mission was an extraction.

  By prearranged plan, Zeke, Andrea and Catherine were to wait for the RAF helicopter near a soccer stadium, north of the Turkish city. Traveling west from Aleppo on the 62 Syrian Highway, Zeke had driven the truck through the mountains to the M45 Syrian Highway, which became the D827 Turkish Highway at the border. They crossed the Turkish border at the Bab al-Hawa Border Crossing. Although this border crossing had been tightly guarded and even closed during the Syrian Civil War, it was momentarily opened for Zeke’s egress from Syria. The Turkish Brotherhood guards cheered as the worn yellow DHL van drove through the Cilvegozu gate, the “Gate of Winds.” The truck passed a 6th-century triumphal arch that had once been a part of the city wall. Now, six and a half miles northwest of the border crossing, in Turkey, the three waited in darkness just outside the empty stadium.

  “Will they come for us?” asked Catherine.

  “Yes,” said Zeke for what seemed like the hundredth time. He knew that the girls were stressed and out of their element, and he saw the strain of uncertainty on their faces. Catherine had become more chatty on the trip, and Andrea, conversely, had gone silent.

  “Who’s picking us up?” asked Catherine, again.

  “The Brits are sending someone for us,” said Zeke.

  “Why the Brits?”

  “It’s a friend of a friend deal,” said Zeke. “It was the most expeditious way.”

  * * *

  The unique thwump-thwump sound of the helicopter blades grew louder. It was too dark to see it, but Zeke had a sense that the chopper was right above them, hovering and looking for a signal. Zeke flashed the small flashlight that he’d been holding for the last twenty minutes. Two long flashes.

  “Look at me, girls,” he said. “You’ll need your eyes.”

  As they did, a quick, bright flash of the chopper’s floodlight confirmed the contact.

  “Get ready to board when he lands,” Zeke shouted. “He’ll set it down long enough for us to climb aboard.”

  “Where do we go?” asked Andrea. “How do we get on?”

  “They’ll have a door open, and a couple strong young men to help you aboard,” said Zeke. “Just look for them. I’ll be right behind yo
u.”

  “I’m scared,” said Catherine, again.

  Chapter 50

  “Glad you’re good,” said Clive. “Seems like it got dicey there.”

  “Yep,” said Zeke. “I appreciate the air support.”

  They were standing in Clive’s office in Washington. Zeke stood at the window, looking across the street at the Department of Justice building. Clive busied himself with a paper file, laid open on his low office table. There was a steady rain falling outside and it had swollen traffic on the going-home side of Pennsylvania Avenue.

  “The girls are back with their parents, whatever their condition,” Clive stated.

  “I’m not sure they’re the same girls who left, but yes,” Zeke agreed.

  “Not much more you could have done, old man,” said Clive.

  There was a momentary pause as each man grew pensive.

  “How much luck was involved with you finding their location on the first try?” asked Clive.

  “Not so much. Sa’ood, the student, told us that all of the recruits pass through Aleppo initially. The men, the leaders, want to see them, meet them and measure their commitment,” said Zeke. “But it was good timing.”

  * * *

  “It’s been quite a journey, this time,” said Clive. He was seated on a barstool in the Elephant & Castle pub during a busy happy hour. Zeke sat next to him. Between the assorted bottles on the shelves, they could see the entire room reflected in the mirror behind the bar. The bar was populated with an “after five” crowd of what looked like government workers, sharing a drink before their commute home. To Zeke, it seemed too formal. Everyone in the place was wearing a suit.

  Zeke said, “It sort of was. Quite a journey.” He took a sip from the cold glass in front of him. “That’s good,” he said, of the Guinness Extra Stout.

  “The stolen rifles, Roger’s murder on the cruise ship, on-campus terrorists, the Dulles thing, the Lailat al Mi’raj attacks. This one took on a life of its own.” Clive was nursing a Boodles Gin Martini in a lowball glass. He paused.