Payback - John Hayes Series 06 (2020)

by Abbott, Mark David

  “See.” He handed her phone back. “I told you so.”

  John poured a coffee for Steve and himself, took a bite of a Tim-Tam, and screwed up his face. “Too sweet for me.” He passed it to Adriana.

  He took a sip of coffee, then gestured at his phone.

  “It says here, the region she’s in has been experiencing heavy fighting.” He looked up at Steve, “That would explain the explosion we heard.”

  “Yeah, I read that, too. The Syrian Army is advancing toward Idlib, which is the closest sizable town near Sarmin.”

  John leaned back in his chair, cradling the coffee cup in his hands.

  “You know, I’ve not paid much attention to what’s been going on there, just the headlines now and then. We need to get as much information as possible before we can decide what to do.”

  “Well, hopefully, my contact can help,” Adriana replied. “We can call him soon. He was just heading back to his apartment when I messaged him.”

  “Okay, let’s wait until we’ve spoken to him. He may have some ideas on who can help get her out.”

  Maadhavi walked back in with two cups, passing one to Adriana. “Try this.”

  Adriana took the cup and moved it back and forth beneath her nose, inhaling the fragrance from the steaming cup.

  “What’s this? It smells wonderful. Cardamom?”

  “Yes.” Maadhavi grinned. “Try it.”

  Adriana took a sip and looked up, her eyebrows raised. “Wow.”

  John chuckled. “Masala chai. India can’t function without it.”

  “It’s delicious. I’ve had a chai latte before, but this is so much better.”

  “Yes.” Maadhavi nodded as she sipped from her cup. “What they give you in the cafés in the west is nothing like a proper homemade chai. I crush the cardamom myself and add lemongrass.”

  “You must teach me.”

  “Of course.” Maadhavi smiled and reached over to squeeze Adriana’s hand.

  John glanced at his watch. “We have about fifteen minutes. Let’s see what else we can find out before the call.”

  15

  The screen flickered, and a face appeared, a youngish man, close-cropped hair, a deep crease in his forehead, black smudges under his eyes. He appeared to be in a living room, a bookshelf behind him and the edge of a map pinned to the wall could just be seen in the edge of the screen.

  “Craig?”

  “Yes, and you must be Adriana?” His voice had a slight Scottish burr.

  “Yes. Thank you for agreeing to speak to us.” Adriana stepped back from the screen. “I have some others here with me. John, Steve, and Maadhavi.”

  “Hi.”

  “Hi, Craig.”

  “Did João explain why we were calling?”

  “He did. There’s a girl and her child you want to get out of Syria.”

  “That’s right, and we wanted to get some information about what’s going on there and maybe some ideas on how to get her out.”

  Craig sighed. “It won’t be easy.” He reached for something off-screen, and his hand came back holding a packet of cigarettes and a lighter. He tapped out a cigarette and lit it, took a puff, then blew a cloud of smoke up and to the side. “Do you know where she is?”

  “Craig, John here. She’s in a place called Sarmin, just southwest of Idlib.”

  Craig’s frown grew deeper, and he took another drag from his cigarette. “I know the area. There’s been a lot of fighting there. Not a safe place to be.”

  “Who’s fighting who?”

  Craig gave a half-smile. “How much do you know about the war in Syria?”

  They all shook their heads.

  “Not much,” John replied.

  “Okay. It’s complicated...”

  “Just give us the easy version as it relates to where she is.”

  Craig nodded, blowing smoke into the air.

  “Forget anything you’ve read in the press about it being a freedom struggle. It may have started like that for some people, but in reality, it’s all about regime change. On one side, you have the Syrian Government. On the other, you have groups of Islamist rebels.”

  “ISIS?” Steve asked.

  “No, not officially.” Craig shook his head. “ISIS, ISIL, Daesh, whatever you want to call them, controlled the southeastern part of Syria, but they’ve been effectively driven out. In Idlib province, you have several factions operating under the umbrella of Al Qaeda.”

  “Al Qaeda? But I thought the bad guys were the Syrian Government?” a puzzled Steve asked.

  Craig stubbed his cigarette butt in an ashtray just out of shot and shook his head.

  “When you’ve seen what I’ve seen over the years, you’ll realize there are no good guys or bad guys. It’s war.”

  John leaned forward. “So, this place, ahh Sarmin, is under the control of Al Qaeda?”

  “Technically H.T.S., Hay’at Tahrir al-Sham. Before that, they called themselves the Al Nusrah Front. But yes, the name changes, but it’s still Al Qaeda.”

  John nodded slowly. “And they are fighting the Syrian army.”

  “Yes, they are up against the Syrian Army, which is backed by Russia.”

  “Russia?”

  “Assad invited Russia to help him in driving out ISIS and Al Qaeda from Syria. They’ve pretty much succeeded. Idlib province is one of the last remaining areas under rebel control.”

  “So, where does Turkey come into it? Before this call, I read online, the Turkish Army is engaged in fighting, too.”

  Craig picked up the cigarette packet again. “This is what I meant about complicated.” He tapped out another cigarette. “The Al Qaeda aligned forces are supported by Turkey and other NATO members, including the U.S.”

  John looked across at Steve, his eyebrows raised.

  Craig continued, his cigarette held unlit between nicotine-stained fingers. “All these western powers used the uprising during the Arab Spring to push forward their idea of regime change, so they could gain control of Syrian oil and destroy Iran’s only ally in the Middle East. They, with the help of Saudi Arabia and Qatar, funded, trained, and supported Al Qaeda and ISIS as a means to get their own ends. But...” He paused to light the cigarette. “Now it’s not going their way, they’ve stepped back, leaving Turkey to shoulder the brunt of the action.”

  “But why would Turkey want the Islamists to succeed? Isn’t Turkey a secular nation?”

  “Yes, Adriana, and so was Syria. But the current ruling party is a Muslim Brotherhood party, and they have the same political ideology as Al Qaeda. They would love an Islamic State next door.”

  “Nightmare.”

  “Yup, ahh, John.” Craig puffed on his cigarette. “It’s unlikely to be sorted out anytime soon. Not while there is money to be made and power to be gained. Meanwhile, we have over three million people in the Idlib region alone who are suffering, who have lost their homes, and have nothing to eat. It’s a shit show if you’ll pardon my French.”

  Silence fell as they digested this depressing information while Craig smoked his cigarette.

  Steve spoke first. “So, what do we do about Mia?”

  “Mia is the girl? Who is she to you?”

  “My niece.”

  “Shit. I’m sorry.”

  Steve just nodded.

  Craig rubbed his face with his free hand. “Look, I will be honest with you... Steve?”

  “Yeah, mate, Steve.”

  “Steve, you can try the aid agencies, I’ll give you some contacts, but it’s unlikely they can or even will help you. There’re millions of people there who need their help. People who belong there. Your niece, she’s, I’m guessing by your accent, Australian?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Why is she there? I’m guessing she’s not an aid worker. Journalist?” Craig didn’t wait for an answer, “No, I would have heard about her. My guess is she joined the Jihadis, am I right?”

  “Yup,” Steve sighed.

  Craig nodded slowly. “No-one will
help her. She shouldn’t be there. Even though our governments are supporting these rebels behind our backs, they are officially terrorist groups. H.T.S. was declared a terrorist organization back in 2017. If she’s involved with them, you won’t get any sympathy from anyone. No government in their right mind will help her out.”

  “So, you’re saying I should ignore my niece and her daughter and leave them there to die?” Steve raised his voice.

  On the screen, Craig held his hands up. “Hey, I’m just letting you know how it is. There’s no point in me sugarcoating it.”

  “Fuck.” Steve thumped the table and stepped back from the laptop. Maadhavi placed a hand on his shoulder, and he shook it off. “Fuck,” he cursed again, then walked out of the room.

  John glanced at Adriana, then pulled out a chair and sat down in front of the laptop, Adriana moving to stand behind him.

  “Craig, I’m sorry. It’s his only niece.”

  Craig had lit up another cigarette. “Yeah, I’m sorry too. It’s a shitty position to be in, but there’s no point in giving him false hope.”

  “No, you’re right.” John looked down at the desk for a moment. “What if we go in and get her?”

  Craig stared at John, then took a long puff on his cigarette.

  “Have you ever been in a war zone before?”

  “No.”

  “Any military training?”

  “No.”

  “Do you work for the government?”

  “No.”

  “What’s your background, John?”

  “I’m... an ex-banker.”

  Craig shook his head and gave a wry smile.

  “And Steve?”

  “An ex-cop. He’s a private investigator now.”

  “No chance.”

  “I’m very resourceful. So is Steve.”

  “Sorry, John, but you are dreaming.”

  16

  John rubbed his face with both hands and turned his head to look up at Adriana. She placed her hand on his shoulder and gave him a reassuring squeeze. Through the window, they could see Steve sitting out on the patio, Maadhavi sitting close beside him, a comforting hand on his leg.

  Turning back to the screen, John sighed.

  “The girl has a daughter. I think she’s only about two years old... she’s sick.”

  “Look, John, I wish I could say something to help, but it’s brutal over there. You can’t just wander in and travel around. Do either of you speak Arabic?”

  “No.”

  Craig studied him through the screen. John matched his gaze until Craig looked away and tapped the ash from his cigarette.

  “Craig, I will back Steve every step of the way on this. I owe him, and I don’t mean just a favor. He saved my,”—John glanced back to Adriana—“our lives once. It’s the least I can do.”

  Craig nodded and leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms. He looked to his right as if looking out a window. John could see him thinking, weighing a decision.

  “Let’s say you can get across the border. I might be able to help you. I know a guy, but you can’t get in through Turkey anymore. It’s impossible. They’ve built a wall along the whole border. It’s three meters high and in places, two meters thick. There are minefields and regular patrols.” Craig lit up another cigarette. “I always cross from Iraq. I fly to Erbil in Iraqi Kurdistan, then drive down to the border. My guy might get you across there. It’s not patrolled as much.”

  John nodded as he typed notes into his phone.

  “Once you are in Syria, you’ll have to cross the entire country from East to West. First through Kurdish controlled territory, then Syrian government territory. In the government area, you’ve got the Syrian Army, the Russians, the Iranians, and Hezbollah. There are checkpoints everywhere.” Craig puffed away on his cigarette. “If you make it to the rebel-held area around Idlib, you’ve got the Turks and H.T.S. If the Turks don’t get you, the H.T.S. will. And they don’t take kindly to westerners interfering in what they’re doing. You could end up on YouTube with a black bag over your head and a knife at your throat.”

  John felt Adriana’s grip on his shoulder tighten.

  “If you survive all that, there are air and drone strikes, IEDs, and booby traps.” Craig flicked ash from his cigarette and leaned forward. “John, I’ve seen stuff you can’t imagine, by both sides. I can’t sleep at night.” He waved his cigarette at the screen. “My only wish is I live long enough for these bloody things to kill me instead.”

  John stared over the top of the laptop at the wall behind it, chewing on his lip. It sounded impossible, but he couldn’t let Steve down. Steve had looked after him; he should at least try. He looked back at the screen.

  “Okay, so now tell me the difficult parts.”

  Craig studied his face for a moment and then broke into a grin.

  “You’re a crazy bugger, John. Okay, this is what we’ll do. You sleep on it, think it over. If you still want to go ahead, I’ll put you in touch with my guy. He’s a smuggler. He’ll get you over the border. It’ll be expensive and don’t trust him completely. He’s a slimy bastard and may sell you out to the next highest bidder given the chance. Once over the border, you’ll be on your own. So, let me know what you decide. The good news is, right now, there’s a temporary truce being negotiated between all the sides, so there may not be much fighting going on. Let’s hope it lasts while you’re there.”

  “Thank you, Craig. I appreciate it.”

  “Good luck, John. Send me your number. If I think of anything, I’ll call you. In fact, I’ll message you a link right now. It’s a live map us journos use to see what’s going on and who controls what. It’s updated daily, so I’ll think you’ll find it useful.”

  “Thanks a lot, Craig.”

  Adriana leaned forward. “Thank you, Craig.”

  “You’re welcome. Say hi to João for me.”

  “I will. Goodbye.”

  The screen went blank, and Adriana wrapped her arms around John from behind, kissed the top of his head, then rested her chin on his head as they both stared silently at the wall in front of them.

  17

  John walked out onto the rear patio where Steve was sitting, staring out over the swimming pool. Beside him, Maadhavi looked up and smiled, then spying the glass in John’s hand and the bottle of beer, she nodded and stood. She leaned down, placed a kiss on Steve’s head, then, with a nod at John, walked back into the house.

  John sat down and handed the bottle of beer to Steve.

  “Cheers.”

  Steve nodded and sat forward. Leaning his elbows on his knees, he took a long pull on the bottle, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

  “I can’t leave her there, John.”

  “I know.”

  “You know, my ex-wife and I never had kids...” Steve shook his head. “We didn’t plan it that way. It just never happened.” He glanced at John. “It was probably for the best. Our marriage didn’t last. Imagine having kids as well.”

  John nodded and sipped his drink, allowing Steve to talk it through.

  “But Mia, she was the closest thing I had to a daughter. I still remember holding her in my arms when she was born.” Steve’s voice caught in his throat. “She was so tiny, she could fit on my forearm.” He stared down at the ground, the beer bottle dangling in his fingers. “She used to spend her school holidays with us. I’d take leave, and we would go camping, fishing. Just the two of us. She’d tell me things she could never share with her parents.” He sipped from the bottle again. “Then she met that fucking lowlife piece of shit.” He shook his head. “She changed, John. She withdrew, spent less time with me, started dressing differently. I should have done something.” Steve sighed and took a swig from his bottle.

  “But I had my own issues, the divorce,”—he waved around the garden—“moving here. We lost touch. The day I found out she was in Syria was one of the worst days of my life. That shitbag of a boyfriend… if I could get my hands on him, I’d r
ip his fucking guts out.” Steve drained the bottle and placed it on the ground beside his chair and sat back, then turned to look at John.

  “I’m not leaving her there. We all make wrong decisions in life, make mistakes, choose the wrong partners, but that doesn’t make us bad people. She’s a good girl, John, and she will always be the daughter I never had. I’ll never be able to live with myself if I don’t try to save her.”

  John swirled the ice cubes around in his glass, listening to the tinkle of the ice. Taking a sip, he held the liquid in his mouth, savoring the flavor of the gin on the tastebuds at the back of his mouth, then swallowed.

  “It won’t be easy.”

  “I know.”

  “We could die.”

  “We?”

  John grinned. “You didn’t think I would let you do this by yourself, did you?”

  Steve reached over and clasped a giant hand on John’s shoulder.

  “I hoped you’d say that. That’s why I called you.” His eyes misted, and he gripped John’s shoulder hard and gave him a shake. “Thanks, mate. I mean it.”

  “Well, I never bought you that beer after you helped me in Oman.” He shrugged, “It’s the least I can do.” John stood. “Come, we can plan tomorrow after a goodnight’s sleep. Let’s get another drink and see what our beautiful ladies are up to.”

  18

  John slept fitfully that night. After a big dinner and three or four large gin and tonics, he had fallen asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow but had woken hours later drenched in sweat, his heart pounding, and filled with a sense of unease. After that, he couldn’t get back into a decent sleep, tossing and turning. Every time he closed his eyes, his head filled with images of blood and sand. In the end, he gave up and laid, staring at the ceiling. Eventually, he reached over to the bedside table and picked up his G-Shock. The luminous dial read five fifteen, and it was still dark outside, the sun not due to be up for another hour and a half.

  John turned his head and looked over at Adriana. The ambient light filtering through the window was just enough to make out the details of her features, her thick mane of raven hair framing her face against the crisp white pillow. Her breathing was deep and steady through slightly parted lips, and he envied her ability to sleep so soundly. He rolled onto his side, propping himself up on one elbow and gazed at her. Even in the faint light, he could make out the fine lines of her face, the high cheekbones, her long eyelashes, her nose. She was perfect.