Payback - John Hayes Series 06 (2020)

by Abbott, Mark David

  The sunrise call to prayer from a distant mosque carried across the fields, mingling with the chirping of birds and the distant barking of dogs as the area began its day. As they walked and the sun rose, they warmed up, and it wasn’t long before they had stripped off their outer jackets, exposing their bulletproof vests with Press emblazoned across the front and back. Steve stopped and removed a camera from his bag and slung it over his shoulder, completing the look, while John looked on approvingly. Steve looked the part, although that early in the morning, there was little sign of life from the farmhouses and huts they passed.

  The road followed a ridgeline with fields stretching out to their right and the land sloping away to their left toward the river, the slopes more lush and greener than those on the right side of the road.

  The buildings became more frequent the closer they got to the village until the fields disappeared from sight, and the houses closed in around them. A man approached from the opposite direction, took a quick look at them, and averted his eyes as he passed. They were strangers, and it was safer to avoid them.

  The three men reached a junction, and not sure where to go, John suggested, Mansur go and enquire about Ferhad Hussein and his taxi. He and Steve shrugged off their backpacks and leaned against the wall while Mansur crossed the street to a tiny bakery. John angled his face toward the sun, feeling the warmth on his face, and kept one eye on Mansur while Steve fiddled with his camera and tried to look casual.

  After a few minutes, the baker stepped out of his shop onto the street and pointed down the road. Judging by the hand signals, John guessed he was giving Mansur directions. A minute later, Mansur returned with a big smile and a handful of flatbread.

  “We’ll find him down that way.” Mansur nodded in the direction the baker had pointed, then handed them each a piece of bread. “Try this. He just made it.”

  The bread was soft and still warm from the oven, and the three men chewed away as they walked down the road.

  “How was he?” John asked. “Suspicious?”

  “No,” Mansur said through a mouthful of bread. He swallowed and continued, “He asked who we worked for, so I told him we work for the BBC, and he accepted it.”

  “Good. Let’s hope it continues. But next time if someone asks, tell them we work for the Portuguese newspaper, Público. Our story has to match our press passes.”

  “No problem.” He pointed toward a street on their right. “This way.”

  They walked on for another five-hundred meters until they entered a village square where, at the far end, an ancient Olive tree provided shade for a line of yellow taxis. Mansur walked ahead and peered inside each one. They were all empty, and there was no sign of the drivers. He turned and shrugged.

  “No-one here.”

  A movement in John’s peripheral vision caught his attention, and he turned his head to see a man appearing from behind a wall, zipping up his pants. John looked at Mansur and jerked his head in the man’s direction. Mansur nodded and walked over as a thin cat with half a tail scampered across his path and hid behind the taxis.

  A twitch from an upper floor window caught John’s eye, and he looked up to see an elderly woman watching them before she stepped back out of sight, pulling the shutters closed behind her.

  After a brief discussion, Mansur returned.

  “He said Ferhad would be here soon. That’s his car there, the third one.”

  They turned to look. It was small, about the size of a Corolla, and there wasn’t a body panel that wasn’t dented or scraped. Thick layers of dust hinted at its heavy mileage, and the tires seemed to be lacking tread.

  “It will be a tight squeeze.”

  “Yeah, well, beggars can’t be choosers,” John replied.

  “This guy said he can take us,” Mansur nodded toward the man who was now smoking and leaning on the hood of the first car in the row.

  John looked at Steve, “What do you think?”

  Steve looked back at the taxi and shrugged.

  “I think we should stick with Hemin’s guy. He said we could trust him.”

  “I agree.” John turned to Mansur. “We’ll wait.”

  52

  The phone buzzed, and Adriana opened her eyes. She reached for the phone on the bedside table and looked at the screen. All okay. In Syria. Heading to Idlib. See you soon.

  She heard Maadhavi stirring beside her, and she looked over and smiled.

  “They’re okay. They’re in Syria and heading to Idlib.”

  “That’s good.” Maadhavi rubbed her eyes and sat up. “What time is it?”

  Adriana peered at the screen. “Just after six-thirty.”

  They had talked for a while once the men left before finally dropping off to a fitful sleep. Adriana kept waking and checking the phone for messages and in between, had been troubled by disturbing dreams. Maadhavi must have been going through the same thing as she had tossed and turned beside her.

  “I’m going to close my eyes again for another half-hour.”

  “Okay.” Adriana put the phone back on the bedside table. She doubted she would get back to sleep, she was too wound up. Instead, she tried imagining where John was but had nothing to compare it to. She’d never been to Syria and thankfully, never to a conflict zone. She believed if anyone could pull this off, it would be John, but it didn’t stop her worrying. She wouldn’t relax until she knew he was safely back on the Turkish side of the border.

  Her life had changed so much since that day in Bangkok when she first met him. Yes, there had been danger, but her life seemed fuller, and she felt more alive as if she had been living life in black and white before she met him. He was a unique man, loving and caring, yet with a steel core. He had his moments, times when he would withdraw into himself, nights when he would wake up covered in sweat, troubled by memories from the past, but she loved him more than anything else in the world.

  Her eyelids slowly drooped shut, and she drifted off into a dreamless sleep.

  She woke about an hour later, feeling a little more rested. Maadhavi was already awake.

  “Did you manage to sleep some more?”

  “Yes.” Maadhavi yawned. “Still tired, though.”

  “It will be a long day.” Adriana sat up in the bed and swung her legs over the side. “Why don’t we have a nice breakfast and see what the town has to offer? I don’t think I can stay here the whole day. I need to keep my mind busy.”

  “Yes, good idea. If I sit in the room, I’ll spend the entire day worrying.” Maadhavi rolled off the bed and stood. “Is there anything to see here?”

  “Well, it’s an ancient town. The Romans were here, as was Alexander the Great, and Noah’s Ark is supposed to have ended up in the mountains near here, but I don’t know if much remains of the town. There was a terrible siege four or five years ago, and much of the town was destroyed.”

  “Really? Why?”

  “The people here are mainly Kurds, and there was conflict between them and the Turkish government.”

  “Oh, no.”

  “Yes, mankind never seems to be able to live in peace.”

  “No,” Maadhavi sighed. “Well, I’ll have a shower and knock on your door in say thirty minutes?”

  “Perfect.”

  Adriana sat back on the bed as the door closed behind Maadhavi. She knew Maadhavi was worried, and the best thing to do was to keep her mind occupied. Adriana needed it, too. The confident and relaxed front she was showing Maadhavi was just that... a front. She too needed to keep her mind busy, or her thoughts would take her on a rapid downward spiral. She had learned this, waiting for John to come back from India. Worrying helped neither of them. She had to keep busy.

  53

  Mia had been awake for half an hour, listening to the sounds of the fighters stirring and chatting among themselves. She kept her eyes closed, pretending to sleep. After a while, she felt Naeem get up, and she pulled Malak closer.

  The men’s voices slowly reduced, and she opened one eye, rais
ing her head slowly to look around the room. The men had all left. Opening both eyes, she sat up. Some of the other women were awake but showed no signs of getting up. Her stomach growled as it did every morning. It had been weeks since her stomach had been full. Perhaps the men would bring back food, but she didn’t hold much hope. Most of what she had, she gave to Malak, anyway.

  Mia looked over at Nour, who lay on her back, her eyes open, face expressionless, staring at the ceiling. Mia couldn’t imagine what the poor girl had gone through... what any of the women had gone through. She suppressed a shudder and slowly got to her feet as if she was going to the toilet. Stepping over the bodies, she made her way to the door and down the stairs to the first floor. Entering the room, she gagged at the overwhelming smell of stale urine and feces, pulling her hijab across her face to cover her mouth and nose. Moving away from the door and to the side, so anyone passing would not see her, she squatted, facing away from the door. She arranged her abaya for modesty as if she was going to the toilet, then reached underneath and retrieved the phone.

  Powering it on, she checked the battery indicator; ten percent. She breathed a sigh of relief. It should last if she was careful. The phone searched for a signal, then vibrated in her hand—a message. Opening it, she read the words on the screen, and her heart leapt. She couldn’t believe it. She read it again—Uncle Steve. She checked the date on the message, and her stomach did a little dance. Tonight, he would be here tonight! She permitted herself to smile, an expression that almost felt unnatural. Pressing reply, she typed a message, then pressed send. Oh, she was so excited, she had forgotten to tell him where to find her. She gazed at the wall in front of her. She needed to think of somewhere. He couldn’t come to the house, it was too risky. But where?

  The streets were unrecognizable from each other, just rubble-strewn paths between shells of buildings. How would he find her? Even more important, how would she and Malak get out? She would have to find a way and quickly. Looking down at the phone again, she remembered something they had passed the night they arrived—the garden opposite the stadium. That was the best landmark. She started typing again.

  Her fingers froze in mid-message as she heard a scuff, and a stone kicked behind her. Keeping the phone out of sight, she turned her head and looked over her shoulder, and her heart froze. Standing in the doorway, leaning against the frame, was Abu Mujahid.

  54

  They waited for almost thirty minutes. They could hear sounds of activity as the village awoke, but there were few signs of people, and those they saw were mainly elderly.

  “Have you noticed there aren’t any young people around?” John asked as a dog approached cautiously and sniffed the air.

  “Yeah.” Steve shaded his eyes against the sun, now just above the level of the buildings. “Maybe it’s too early. You know how youngsters like to sleep in.”

  “Ha.” John grinned as he watched the dog cock its leg and pee on the rear wheel of a taxi.

  “They’ve all left.”

  John and Steve turned to look over at Mansur, who was leaning against the car.

  “The baker told me. The young people have either joined the fighting or crossed the border into Turkey.” He nodded toward the buildings, “The old people, they cannot run, they cannot fight.” He shrugged. “So, they stay.” He suddenly straightened, and John followed the direction of his gaze.

  “Is that him?”

  “Maybe.”

  They watched an older man cross the square. He eyed them warily and spoke to the other taxi driver. He nodded, still frowning, and walked over.

  Mansur stepped forward, his arms open wide to his sides, a big smile on his face. He spoke in Arabic, but John recognized the words Ferhad and Hemin. His face relaxed, and he shook hands with Mansur. Mansur appeared to make introductions. John heard his name and Steve’s, then Ferhad stepped forward and shook their hands and waved toward his taxi.

  Mansur turned to John. “He said Hemin called him. Told him everything. He just wasn’t sure it was us.”

  “Oh. Is that good or bad?”

  “Good. He will help us. He’ll take us as far as Manbij but can’t take us any further. It’s not safe for him.”

  John frowned briefly, then nodded. “Okay. Hemin warned us. We’ll worry about the rest of the way when we get there. Tell him okay.”

  “How much do you want to pay?”

  “I’ll leave that up to you, Mansur.” John moved, so Mansur was between him and Ferhad, then reached into his pocket and pulled out a handful of U.S. dollars. He lowered his voice in case Ferhad could understand English. “Take this. The price doesn’t matter, but don’t let him know that.”

  Mansur nodded and went back to Ferhad while John walked around to the other side of the car, opened the rear door, and looked over the roof at Steve.

  “Keep your bag with you. Don’t put it in the trunk.”

  “You don’t trust him?”

  “I don’t know, but best to be safe.”

  Both men levered themselves into the rear of the car while Mansur paid Ferhad, and they both climbed into the front. John’s knees were wedged into the back of the driver’s seat, and Steve wasn’t much better off. John slipped the bag off his knees and jammed it into the space between them, and Steve placed his on top.

  “What kind of car is this, Mansur?” Steve grumbled. “I’ve seen bigger go-karts.”

  Mansur chuckled. “It’s a Saipa. Made in Iran. Very cheap.”

  “Not surprised. Made out of a bloody soup can.” Steve turned to John. “How far do we have to go?”

  “About four hundred and fifty kilometers.”

  “Great.”

  The car started on the fourth attempt, Ferhad revving it until it settled into a noisy idle. He looked across at Mansur.

  “Yalla.”

  Ferhad grinned, and with a wave of his arm out the open window toward the other driver, he pulled out of the square.

  John wound down his window and allowed the crisp morning air to flow over him while Mansur conversed with Ferhad.

  “There’s some money on the backseat,” John said in English. He shook his head at Steve, who was looking at him with a puzzled look on his face. He leaned over and said in a low voice, “Just checking to see if he speaks English.”

  Steve grinned. “I’d say that’s a no.”

  John smiled back and tapped Mansur on the arm.

  “Ask him how long it will take?”

  Mansur spoke for a while, then turned to look back. “He says it will take around nine to ten hours. It will depend on the checkpoints.”

  “Are there many checkpoints?”

  “He said yes, but not to worry. He drives this way a lot. He said he is Kurdish, and the road until Manbij is controlled by the Kurds.”

  “That’s a relief,” John muttered to Steve.

  “What do we do when we get to Manbij? We still don’t know how to get to Idlib or where she is.”

  “Check the phone again, maybe she’s seen your message.”

  Steve shifted his weight to one side and retrieved the phone from his pocket and peered at the screen.

  “Still nothing. Shit!” He banged his fist on his leg and stared out the side window.

  “Hey, Steve, we’ll work something out. We’ve got this far. Just keep checking the phone.”

  Steve kept looking out the window but nodded. John looked back at the road ahead. He hoped he was right.

  55

  From the village of Zuhajrijja, a dirt road headed west toward the town of Al-Malikiyah through fields, stretching off to both sides as far as the eye could see, acres and acres of brown and green patchwork. There were few people to be seen, and those they did see were, as in Zuhajrijja, mostly elderly.

  After around fifteen kilometers, Ferhad muttered something to Mansur.

  Mansur nodded and turned in his seat.

  “We are approaching the town of Al-Malikiyah, and there is a checkpoint coming. Should be okay, it’s just a local mil
itia, but he said hold your passports and press cards up so they can see them.” He turned his head even more. “Mr. Steve, no photos.”

  Steve exchanged a nervous glance with John, and both men removed their passports and press cards.

  John took a series of deep breaths in an effort to keep his increasing heart rate under control as Ferhad slowed and joined onto the end of a line of slow-moving traffic, dusty pickups and battered sedans like theirs. John peered through the windshield toward the checkpoint. Large concrete blocks with Arabic script spray-painted across them blocked the road. He could see a white pickup with a man standing in the rear. In front of him, resting on a bipod on the roof was a machine gun, pointed in their direction. At the end of a long aerial, a yellow flag with a red star in the middle fluttered in the wind. John swallowed and tugged on his bulletproof vest, making sure it was secure. The cars edged forward, and as they got closer, John saw three men with shotguns, leather jackets, and bandoliers of ammunition strung around their bodies. Two approached the car in front, one on each side while the third stood in front, his shotgun aimed at the driver, only moving out of the way when the other men gave the vehicle the all-clear to move on.

  John heard Steve exhale loudly and glanced across.

  “It’ll be okay, Steve. Don’t worry.”

  Ferhad edged forward and pulled up at the checkpoint. He called out a greeting to the man on his left while on the passenger side, the other man approached and looked inside at Mansur. He saw Mansur’s Omani passport and spoke to him in Arabic. Mansur replied, and John recognized the name of Adriana’s paper. The man nodded, stepped to the side, and stared at John, then glanced at the passport and press card he was holding up. He nodded and took a step back, waiting for his partner to finish talking to Ferhad.

  There was a buzzing sound from somewhere in the car, but John ignored it, his sole focus on what was happening outside.