Another soldier passed over the passports, the press cards, and the plastic folder of letters and permits. In the stress of being dragged out of the car, John hadn’t even realized he had left them behind on the seat. The commander looked through them, holding them up and checking the photos against their faces. He leafed through the passports, examining their visas, and John held his breath, hoping that Ramesh’s forgery was good enough to pass this inspection.
He handed the documents back to the soldier and stood, staring at them one by one. His eyes stopped on John and seemed to hold his gaze for longer than necessary. John’s heart stopped, and he waited for the command that would send bullets tearing through them. The commander said something and turned away to walk back to the armored truck. A soldier shouted something in Arabic—the only word John understood was Yalla.
Ferhad and Mansur got to their feet, and John looked nervously at Steve.
“It’s okay, we can go,” Mansur explained, turning to face them.
John let out an enormous sigh of relief and got to his feet. He reached down for his backpack as Steve did the same.
The soldier handed the documents to Mansur, and they all climbed into the car as the soldiers turned their attention to the vehicle behind them. Ferhad started the engine, slipped the car in gear, and pulled away. John scanned his body, releasing all the tension, body part by body part. He could hear Steve muttering under his breath, repeating the same word over and over again. It sounded like “fuck, fuck, fuck.” John glanced toward the armored vehicle as they eased past and saw the officer talking to a man in a different uniform. He was watching them, his eyes locking with John’s as they passed. John wasn’t sure but thought he saw the red white and blue of the Russian flag on a badge on the man’s shoulder.
60
Out of sight of the checkpoint, Ferhad pulled over, switched off the engine, and climbed out of the car. He walked to the front and rested his butt on the hood, removing a crumpled pack of cigarettes from the breast pocket of his shirt.
John looked across at Steve, shrugged, and they both opened their doors and climbed out, followed by Mansur.
Ferhad cupped the flame of his lighter in his hands and lit a cigarette, then offered the packet to the others before stuffing it back into his pocket.
He took a long drag and blew the smoke up into the air, watching as it was snatched away by the breeze.
John twisted his body, then bent forward, stretching out his back. It was good to get out of the little car, and the stretching helped to burn off the excess adrenaline pumping through his veins. Steve watched him, then, catching his eye, gave a shake of his head.
“Fuck me, I almost shat myself.”
“Me too.” John nodded. “For a moment, I thought it was all going to end there.”
“Look at my hand.” Steve held up his hand, and John could see it shaking. “What a shit hole. Imagine dealing with this every day?”
John stood with his hands on his hips, looking back down the road in the direction of the checkpoint. A car moved toward them, the driver raising a hand, and giving a thumbs-up, and John nodded back. He had been behind them in the queue and seen what they had gone through.
“Yeah, we take so much in our lives for granted.”
“I hope we don’t have many more of these to go through before we get to Idlib,” Steve commented. “I don’t think my heart can take it.”
“I’ll find out.” John walked to the front of the car and nodded at Ferhad.
“Is he okay?” John asked Mansur.
“Yes.” Mansur smiled. “He’s just angry. He says they didn’t need to treat you like this. You aren’t dangerous to them.” He paused, listening to Ferhad, then translated. “He says he is sorry you are experiencing this in his country.”
John nodded, his eyes on Ferhad’s face. The man looked genuinely upset.
“Why did they pull us out of the car? I thought he said they all knew him?”
Mansur asked, and Ferhad threw his cigarette butt on the ground and trod it into the dirt with his toe.
Looking up, he spoke to Mansur. Mansur listened then turned to John.
“He says this is a new commander, and he’s probably trying to impress his bosses. He asked if you saw the Russian officer?”
“I did.”
“He says they need to show the Russians how good they are; otherwise, their funding will be cut off.”
“So, it was just a random stop for us?”
“He thinks so, yes.”
John nodded thoughtfully. “Good.” He exhaled, feeling a little more relaxed. “Ask him how many more checkpoints before we get to Arima.”
John watched the two men conversing, Mansur asking another question now and then, then he turned back to John.
“He says there should only be three more, one on the way in and out of Manbij and another just before Arima.” Mansur paused as Ferhad said something else. “He says there may be others, but there were only three the last time he came through this way.”
“When was that?”
“About four weeks ago.”
“Okay, thanks, Mansur.”
Ferhad looked at them all questioningly as if waiting for more questions, and when none came, he asked, “Yalla?”
John reached out and gave him a reassuring pat on the shoulder.
“Yalla. Let's go.”
61
The highway skirted the edge of Ain Issa as it headed west. There were signs of hard-fought battles everywhere—bomb craters, destroyed buildings, and burned-out tanks and armored vehicles. Ferhad explained, through Mansur, it had once been controlled by the Islamic State and had even been attacked by Turkish backed forces just a few months previously. He waved his hand to the right side of the road and explained Turkey still controlled a lot of land to the North.
John looked over at Steve. “That would explain why they were so jumpy at the checkpoint.”
On the western edge of town, makeshift tents filled the fields on both sides of the road, some just blue and white plastic sheets draped over boxes or abandoned cars. Children played in the dirt between the shelters while their parents sat on the ground, staring listlessly into space. There was garbage everywhere, and a sense of hopelessness hung heavy in the air.
“Where are these people from, Mansur?”
Mansur asked, then turned and looked over his shoulder. “He says they are from all over but a lot from towns to the west. There has been heavy fighting in recent weeks. It is not safe for these people to go home.”
“What will happen to them?”
“He doesn’t know. Some will go to Turkey, but most will stay here. It’s been like this for years now.”
“Poor bastards,” Steve muttered as they gazed at the mass of humanity whose lives had been destroyed by greed and politics.
The road continued northwest through a landscape of sun-scorched earth and untended fields, and not for the first time, John considered the futility of it all. Millions of lives being destroyed, for what? There was nothing out there but dirt. What was the point?
About an hour and a half out of Ain Issa, the highway took a sharp turn and they slowed to join a long queue of traffic filing into single lanes to cross the Euphrates, the bridge reduced to one span by bombing and sabotage. Soldiers stood at each end of the bridge, fingers on triggers, eyes scanning the slow-moving vehicles as they crossed. John’s breath caught, but the soldiers were more interested in keeping the traffic flowing than stopping individual vehicles. Once on the other side, everyone in the car relaxed as they headed the final fifty kilometers to Arima.
The sun was beginning its descent, its rays coming almost directly through the windshield. Military traffic had noticeably increased in the last few kilometers, convoys of armored vehicles, and armored patrols, flying either the yellow flag of the Syrian Democratic Force or the red, white, and blue flag of the Russian forces. They paid little attention to the small yellow taxi cruising along the highway.
; On the outskirts of Manbij, they passed through another two checkpoints with little trouble, the soldiers content with the documentation Ramesh had forged.
The heat inside the car and the monotonous landscape were having a soporific effect, and John was on the verge of drifting off when he was brought alert by the sound of Ferhad saying something to Mansur.
“He says we are about thirty minutes away from Arima.”
“Good.” John turned to Steve. “So far, so good. Hopefully, not long now.”
“Yeah, mate.” Steve pulled out his phone and looked at the screen. “No message from her yet. I’ll try calling again.” He dialed and waited, then shook his head. “It’s just ringing. No answer.”
“Okay.” John frowned. “Send another message that we will be in Arima soon.” He looked out the window as the fields slipped by.
Until she was in the car, John couldn’t relax. Despite his reassurances to Steve that all would turn out alright, the experiences at the checkpoints and seeing the refugees in the tents made him realize nothing was guaranteed or easy. John allowed his mind to wander to thoughts of Adriana.
Once they were back in safety, he would make sure he treasured every moment of his time with her. It had been too easy to think his life was empty and boring, but back in Lisbon, they had a comfortable home and a peaceful life. They knew where their meals were coming from, and with John’s wealth, they never had to want for anything. Despite all he had been through, his life was a breeze compared to the people living in Syria. People who had lost their homes, their livelihoods, and their loved ones. People who didn’t know if they would survive the day.
John pulled out his phone to send a message to Adriana and saw a message on the screen. Good luck and come back soon. I love you.
Despite his nerves, he smiled. He would make sure they got back safely. He typed a reply and slipped the phone back into his pocket—time to think about the next part of the journey.
62
Twelve hours after leaving the Turkish-Syrian border, they rolled into the little town of Arima on the western edge of Kurdish controlled territory. They were tired, thirsty, and more than eager to free themselves from the cramped confines of the little Iranian made taxi.
It was a town much like the others they had passed through—dusty and battered, overgrown with weeds in parts, strewn with garbage and rubble in others. None of the buildings had glass in their windows, and many of the walls bore the scars of urban warfare. There was little sign of civilian life, the people in the streets made up of soldiers on patrol or groups of listless young men hanging around on corners, idly watching the traffic pass. Ferhad pulled into a small square and switched off the engine. He spoke to Mansur for a while, then climbed out of the car. The others climbed out and stretched, shaking the cramp out of their legs, and twisting their spines and necks.
“Am I glad to get out of that car,” Steve grumbled.
John gave a half-smile, then asked Mansur, “What did he say? Where’s he going?”
“He said to wait for him. He will ask around and see if anyone can take us closer to Idlib. He said he’s not comfortable doing it himself.”
John nodded and looked around. He noticed people staring at them, averting their eyes when he looked their way. He looked down and realized they were all still wearing their ballistic vests with Press written on them.
“We seem to be attracting a lot of attention. Do you think it’s our vests?”
“Could be.” Steve looked around. “I feel safer with it on, though.”
“Yeah, me too. Let’s see if we can get something to eat. I’m starving.”
“There’s a food stall over there.” Mansur pointed across the square. “You wait by the car. I’ll get something for us.”
John and Steve leaned against the car and watched as Mansur crossed the square and approached one of the few businesses that didn’t have shutters pulled down. A small group of men hung around outside, smoking or squatting in the dirt, and Mansur pushed through them and spoke to the stall owner, the men listening in for a while but soon losing interest.
“Realistically, Steve, we won’t get there tonight.”
“No,” Steve sighed.
“It will be dark soon. I think we need to find somewhere to sleep for the night and continue on in the morning.” John turned to face Steve. “I don’t want to be here any longer than necessary, but we’ll be rested and better able to deal with anything that comes our way.”
“Yeah.” Steve crossed his arms, looked down at the ground, and kicked a stone out of the way.
“Hey, Steve, we’ll get there. Think of where we’ve come today. We’ll bring her back, but let’s stay focused. One day at a time. We’re much closer than we were yesterday.”
“Yeah, you’re right, mate.” Steve unfolded his arms, squared his shoulders, and looked up. “Thanks, mate. Really. I couldn’t have done this alone.”
“Yes, you could. It just would have been harder.” John grinned. “But you would have had more room in the car.”
“Huh. Yeah, maybe I should have done it myself. I hope the next guy has a bigger vehicle.”
Mansur came back with food, and they stood beside the car, using the trunk lid as a table, feasting on flatbread, hummus, and boiled eggs.
Ferhad returned after thirty minutes, accompanied by a fair young man with a clean-shaven chin and pale blue eyes. He spoke to Mansur for a few minutes, and Mansur translated.
“This man can take us to Saraqib, just fifteen kilometers south of Idlib, but he says it’s dangerous. He wants extra for the danger, and he won’t go at night. He can take us in the morning.”
“Tell him okay. Work out a price you think is reasonable. Tell him we’ll leave at seven.”
Mansur spoke for a while, the conversation going back and forth between him, Ferhad, and the new driver. After a couple of minutes, Mansur reached out, and the man shook his hand.
“All done. He’ll meet us here at seven. I told him half now and half when we get there.”
“Good.” John turned to Steve, “Send her a message. Tell her we will be in Saraqib by ten. It will give her some confidence that we’re getting closer.”
“Good idea.” Steve pulled out his phone and started typing.
John looked at Mansur. “Do you think you can find us somewhere to spend the night?”
“Yeah, Mansur.” Steve looked up from his phone. “See if you can book us into the Ritz.”
63
Mia shifted her weight from one buttock to the other. The concrete floor was cold and hard, and her head throbbed with pain. She had no idea of the time but guessed, based on the falling light, the whole day had passed since she was caught with the phone. When the gun barrel was pressed to her head, she thought it was all over, but then it was taken away, and she was hit on the side of her head, and everything went dark. She was alive, but what was the point? Everything had gone wrong. Where was Malak? Were the women looking after her? What about Uncle Steve? Where was he? What would he do when he couldn’t reach her? She rocked back and forth, a heavy lump in her chest. Why? Why? When she was so close to getting out of there and providing a new life for Malak, why did it all have to go wrong?
A pellet of anger began to smolder in the pit of her belly. The more she thought about her situation, the more the fire grew, her frustration transmuting into anger and hatred—anger at Abu Mujahid, anger at Naeem who had dragged her to this horrible place, anger at the world, anger at religion. It was all wrong. And where was Naeem? She thought she’d heard his voice earlier in the street but couldn’t be sure. Where was he now? Couldn’t even defend his wife and daughter. Man of god? Holy warrior? Huh! She shook her head.
She had to do something herself, at least try. She couldn’t sit around, feeling sorry for herself, and put it all down to Allah’s will. It wasn’t Allah’s will that Malak was born into an environment like this. Malak didn’t have a choice. The fault was with her parents, and Mia had to do everything she could
to make sure Malak didn’t suffer because of her poor decisions. She clenched her jaw and straightened up against the wall she was leaning against.
“Hey.” She heard a noise by the door. “Hello.”
The guard appeared in the doorway. He was the young fighter who had been on guard duty in the building with the Yazidi women. He watched her, his face expressionless. He was young and thin, perhaps in his mid-teens, his beard just thin wisps of hair on his chin. The Kalashnikov in his hands looked too big for him, almost comical.
Mia dug deep into her memory, piecing together all the words she knew in Arabic.
“Shuu ismak? What is your name?”
He didn’t answer.
“My name is Mia.”
He glanced over his shoulder, then back at her.
“Karam,” he mumbled.
“Karam?” Mia nodded slowly. “Where are you from?”
Again, he looked over his shoulder and nervously shifted his weight from one foot to the other.
“Raqqa.”
“You are Syrian?”
“Yes.”
“I am from Australia. Do you know where that is?”
Karam shook his head. He turned, so he was sideways in the doorway, a position where he could see outside at the same time.
“It’s a long way from here, on the other side of the world.”
He said nothing but continued to listen.
“It’s a beautiful country. People are free and happy there. I want to go back.”
Karam frowned and shifted the weapon in his arms.
Mia thought she should try another tack.
“Why are you fighting, Karam? With these people? They are not your people. They are from somewhere else.”
Karam looked out the door, not answering. Mia wondered if she had pushed too far. The answer when it came was almost inaudible, and Mia had to strain to hear.
Payback - John Hayes Series 06 (2020) Page 15
