by Ethan Jones
Carrie bit her lip and clenched her fists. “Let’s see if we can fix that.”
“I’m on it.” Vale said.
She walked to the rear of the Land Rover, where the two Mossad operatives were peering through binoculars at the village three miles away. “See anything?” Carrie asked.
Abner, the older of the two, shook his head. “Nothing, no flags, no insignia we can decipher.”
“Maybe they’re Peshmergas,” Carrie said in an upbeat tone.
If the gunmen who attacked the convoy were Kurdish fighters, there was hope Justin was still alive. He had fought alongside Peshmergas and had helped rescue kidnapped Kurdish civilians on a number of occasions.
“I can’t tell,” Abner said and handed Carrie the binoculars.
She gazed for a long moment at the village. Machine gun positions atop the roofs had been fortified with cinder blocks and sandbags. Carrie counted at least twenty gunmen dressed in black and desert tan camouflage fatigues. Some of them were standing near one of the Iveco trucks parked by a large house.
The other three trucks were left burning on the road, about a mile away from the village. From a distance, Carrie and Vale had searched the wreckages. No sign of Justin, but other drivers’ dead bodies were visible, strewn about the site. Carrie hoped very strongly that Justin was still alive. The second part of the convoy had stopped as soon as it heard about the ambush, and everyone was safe.
“Carrie, we’ve got the feed,” Vale said.
Abner, the other Mossad operative, and Carrie rushed to Vale.
He tapped a couple of keys, then clicked on the keyboard. The video filled the entire screen. It was black and white, and there was no audio. But the image quality was good.
Vale pointed at the screen’s bottom right corner showing a series of numbers. “This is just a minute before the attack.”
Carrie nodded. Her hands clenched involuntarily into fists, and her breathing grew faster. The images moved fast. They showed two gunmen fired upon while they were standing near the Toyota. Then, the Toyota truck driver swerved around the checkpoint, and the torrent of bullets poured around the truck.
As the battle unfolded in front of her eyes, Carrie shook her head and let out the occasional curse. She could barely watch the ending when Justin was dragged to a small sedan and put in the trunk. The sedan then drove through the checkpoint and into the village.
Carrie kicked the Land Rover’s tires, then punched the door and cursed the people who had taken Justin.
Vale stepped closer to her. “Carrie, Carrie, it’s all right—”
“No, it’s not. Justin is at the point of death, and we’re here, doing nothing.” She cursed again.
“He was alive when they took him. And I know he’s still alive.”
Abner said, “Yes, they killed most of the others right on the spot. They need Justin alive.”
Carrie shook her head. “So they can film his execution and post it all over the Internet.”
“No, no, don’t think like that,” Vale said. “Justin’s still alive. Perhaps they’ll want a ransom, or to trade him for their own fighters who have been captured.”
Abner nodded. “Justin is more valuable to them alive than dead.”
“We still don’t know who these people are and what they want. But let’s see what we can find. Vale, send the feed to Flavio, so he can see what happened. Abner, can you ask Eli to position the drone over the village, so we can know of the fighters’ movements? And let’s pool our resources to see who controls this area.”
“Right away, Carrie,” Vale said.
“I’ll take care of that,” Abner said.
“You and I will drive back and check with the previous village and the other further to the north,” Carrie said to the other Mossad operative and gestured toward a small hill.
“Shouldn’t we all go?” Abner asked.
“I don’t want to waste a minute. This group of fighters doesn’t know we’re here. And we’re not going far. Three, maybe four miles. We’ll swing by and pick you up before we continue north.”
“All right, but I’ll take the machine gun, just in case,” Abner said.
“I’ll give you a hand,” the other Mossad operative said.
Vale walked over to Carrie, who was checking her rifle. “Carrie, you know we’ll get Justin back alive. We’ll do the impossible.”
“I know, Vale. He’d do the same for me, for you. We just . . .” Her voice trailed off.
“Yes, we’re not abandoning him. We’ll find out who these people are and what they want. And we’ll go from there.”
Carrie drew in a deep breath. “Good plan. See you in a bit.”
“Stay safe, Carrie.” Vale gave her a hug.
Carrie nodded. “Ready to go?” she called to the Mossad operative.
“Yes.” He climbed into the front passenger seat.
“If we’re not back in thirty, start moving southeast.” Carrie gestured as she turned the Land Rover around. “Keep the coms open, and let’s find what we can.”
Chapter Twenty-six
February 18
Hasoms
Western Syria
Justin slowly opened his weary eyes and tried to move his head. A sharp pain zipped through his entire body. He bit his lip, so he would not scream, and looked around the small dimly lit room. His hands were tied behind his back, and he was lying on the dirty concrete floor. Where . . . where am I? What happened? He scrambled to get a footing on the floor, but slipped. He almost twisted his ankle and another jolt of pain shot through his head and his back. A gasp escaped his lips.
The door opened with a screech and a bang. Two gunmen dressed in khaki pants and olive-green shirts and vests and armed with AK assault rifles entered the room. One of them, the smaller one, who had a three-inch-long beard, leaned over Justin and said, “You’re back, aren’t you?” He grabbed Justin by the hair and yanked his head up.
“I . . . I haven’t done anything wrong.”
“You haven’t?” asked the other gunman. “Three of our brothers are dead. Two more seriously wounded because of you and your friends.”
“I didn’t shoot anyone, and those aren’t my friends.”
“Well, you can tell it to Mustafa. He’ll decide on your fate.”
The two gunmen pulled Justin up, then shoved him toward the door. They went through a narrow hall and passed by a couple of doors. When they reached the third door, one of the gunman knocked. “Come in,” a strong voice said in a language Justin understood.
A smile brightened his bruised face. That’s Kurdish. “Are you Peshmergas?” he asked the gunmen.
“Like you are a dog, we are Peshmergas,” replied one of them.
The other one opened the door and shoved Justin in.
A man in his fifties dressed in a black jacket, white open-collar shirt, and black pants was sitting cross-legged near the wall between two other men younger than him. He had a full head of gray hair, but his thick eyebrows and mustache were jet black. The man had a large furrowed forehead and one of his front teeth was missing. An M4 assault rifle was lying across his lap. The two gunmen also held assault rifles ready for action.
One of the gunmen who brought Justin in nodded respectfully at Mustafa, then said something in Kurdish.
Justin was able to pick out a few words, recognizing “dog,” “prisoner,” and “death” among them. He did not speak, waiting for his turn and for Mustafa to speak first.
Mustafa waved at the two gunmen and then gestured for Justin to come closer.
He walked slowly, keeping his eyes up, but without looking directly at Mustafa or anyone else.
“My name is Mustafa, and I’m the leader of these brave men. We’re fighting for our freedom, for our land, for our families. But you and your caliphate butchers come here to massacre us all,” Mustafa said in a firm and tense tone in Arabic.
Justin remained silent.
“What do you have to say?” Mustafa asked.
“Respected leader, I’m grateful to you and your men for sparing my life. What happened at the checkpoint, it was a tragedy that should have never happened. I’m deeply saddened for the loss of your men. Please accept my deepest, sincerest condolences.”
Mustafa cocked his head at the gunman sitting on his right and gave him a curious glance. “He’s skilled with the tongue.”
The gunman stroked his chin. “Yes, but none of your language skills will save your skin.”
Justin nodded. “Then maybe the truth will help you make the right decision. I stand before you an innocent man. I did not lift a finger to fight; didn’t fire a single round.”
Mustafa waved a dismissive hand. “It doesn’t matter what you did or didn’t. Your murderous friends killed three of my fighters, who were dear as brothers. You brought weapons to arm the enemy so they can kill more of us, our people.”
Justin nodded. “I understand your righteous anger, and in your place, I would be furious as well.” He kept his voice calm and warm, trying not to come across as patronizing. “My papers, which you have seen, identify me as a Syrian driver from Damascus. But that’s not accurate.”
The gunman who had not spoken yet flogged Justin with a fiery gaze. “I suspected that much,” he said in a gruff tone. “Those documents looked too clean.”
Mustafa asked, “Then who are you?”
Justin took a step forward. “My name is Justin Hall, and I work for the Canadian Intelligence Service. I’ve served many times in Syria and Iraq alongside brave, honorable Peshmergas.”
Mustafa’s face showed no sign of surprise. It seemed he had expected such a revelation.
One of the gunmen asked, “So, if that is true, what are you doing here, secret agent Justin?”
“My objective is to make sure those weapons in the trucks are the last that are sent here under the pretext of helping the Iraqi Army and ending up in the hands of terrorists.”
“And how are you doing that?” Mustafa asked.
“Cutting off the head of the snake. We’re going after the one sending the weapons.”
“And who would that be?”
Justin had anticipated the question. “We’re still uncertain, but we’re very close to identifying the financier.”
“And how can we know for sure these things are true?” Mustafa raised up his hands in a clear gesture of disbelief.
“A number of respected Peshmerga leaders across Syria and Iraq will be able to verify my claims. Mertal, Wissam, Rojan. The list goes on and on. All men of honor, who would never tell a lie.”
Mustafa gave Justin a slight nod, but the look of doubt remained on the Peshmerga leader’s face. “If I find out you made up this story, you will beg for a swift end to your miserable life.”
Justin nodded. “Thank you for considering my words worthy of your time, sir. I appreciate your—”
Mustafa waved his hand and cut Justin off. “Save your breath. You may still need it to say your prayers, if you lied to me.”
Justin nodded again. “I’m telling you the truth. Even amongst your men, someone may recognize me, especially if they were operating in northern Iraq, in January, around the Bashaweh Turkish base.”
The mention of that name seemed to catch Mustafa’s attention. He whispered something to the gunman to his right, then peered at Justin. “That’s the incident Daesh thugs said wasn’t their doing?” He used the derogatory term for the ISIS terrorist group.
Justin nodded. “You’re correct.”
“And I’m assuming you had something to do with it?”
“I fought with a number of lionhearted Peshmergas to avenge many wrongs the Turks have done and continue to do against this land.” Justin’s voice took on a slight tone of solemnity.
Mustafa’s frown began to ease up. “I will check your story to see if you’re telling the truth.”
Then what? Justin wanted to ask, but decided not to press his fate. “Thank you,” he said in a soft, humble tone.
Mustafa glanced to his left and gestured at the gunman. “Return him to his cell, but no beatings until we’ve clarified this situation.”
Justin waited until the gunman had grabbed him by the arm, then said again, “Thank you.”
Chapter Twenty-seven
February 18
Three miles south of Hasoms
Western Syria
“It’s confirmed: the village is in Peshmergas’ hands. The other two villages further to the north and east are ISIS strongholds, but this one is controlled by Kurdish fighters. Their commander, a man by the name of Mustafa Jamil, is known to be a reasonable, practical man,” Carrie said to Vale and Abner huddled near the Land Rover. She and the Mossad operative had just returned from their reconnaissance mission. The operative was now standing guard at the rear of the Land Rover.
“Even when his men have been killed or wounded?” Abner asked in an uncertain voice.
Carrie shrugged and gave Abner a thoughtful look. “Yes, this may be a difficult negotiation. Mustafa took his revenge on the rest of the drivers. According to the feed, only a few survived. But if Mustafa receives orders to let Justin go, the commander may be forced to obey.”
“Do we really want to force Mustafa’s hand?” Vale asked.
“Perhaps the word ‘force’ is not the right one. But Mustafa needs to get the message that Justin must not be killed. Whether it is by negotiation or by direct order to release him . . . Anything we can do.”
Vale nodded. “I’ll find out who Mustafa reports to and how we can convince this person to let Justin walk free.”
“You mentioned negotiations,” Abner said. “What do you have in mind?”
“Anything this man will accept in exchange for Justin. Whether it’s ransom—or let’s call it compensation for the victims’ families—or providing them intel on ISIS or other terrorist groups, or exchanging Justin for Peshmergas held by the enemy,” Carrie said.
Abner shook his head. “Peshmergas don’t operate that way. They don’t accept ransom. Intel or an exchange will go a long way.”
Carrie shrugged. “Not all Peshmergas are cut from the same cloth, Abner. Like our agencies, some are more honorable than others. But I see your point, and that’s why we’re exploring all options.”
Abner nodded. It seemed he wanted to add something, but then he shook his head.
Carrie glanced at Vale. “Anything else?”
Before he could answer, Carrie’s phone buzzed. She recognized the ringtone before she picked it up. “Yes, boss. Carrie here.”
“Carrie, anything new about Justin?”
“Negative, sir. We’re trying to learn about Mustafa’s commander and what we may need to do—”
“Don’t worry about that. I already have the answer. The man’s name is Berzan Tofeq.”
“Tofeq? I think I’ve heard that name.”
“You probably have. He’s a tough man to talk to, never mind convince him to do something. If we intervene, we may even make matters worse for Justin. That’s if he’s still alive.”
Carrie nodded. “Of course he is, sir. But what can we offer Tofeq? Everyone is after something.”
“True, for common people. But Tofeq is far from common. He sneers at money and riches. He commands a vast network of people, who are well-connected. Any intel we may offer has little value. And his Peshmergas have clear orders not to be captured alive. Tofeq has never accepted a hostage exchange.”
Carrie frowned. “There must be something he needs, wants, or desires. Maybe there’s someone sick in his family or among his relatives, someone who can’t afford a decent surgery. Or perhaps we can support Tofeq’s ambition for power or what—”
“I don’t think there’s time to dig deeper. Plus, there’s always the risk our attempt may backfire. Once Tofeq learns about the dead Peshmergas, he’ll be enraged and may want Justin’s head simply to prove his authority.”
“I see. So, there’s nothing . . . nothing we can do for Justin?” she said in a wavering tone.
“Well, that’s not exactly accurate, Carrie. I’m trying, we’re all trying to see how we can save him. His situation is extremely difficult. Because of the circumstances and the location, a rescue mission is not in the works.”
Carrie cursed under her breath. “These are circumstances in which the agency placed him, sir. We can’t abandon him now.”
“Carrie, we’re not doing that.” Flavio’s voice turned firm and sharp. “No one is even thinking of abandoning Justin. But we need to move carefully and make wise decisions.”
“Justin doesn’t have a lot of time.”
“Clearly, he doesn’t, and I know that. But we’re working at it. Tofeq may be the commander, but there are other commanders in the area whom he may trust or fear. Those are our next targets. If one of them can be convinced on our behalf, then we can intervene.”
Carrie shook her head. That plan would take hours, perhaps even days. But she understood Flavio’s position and the severe limitations regarding the situation. “I see,” she said in a low voice.
“This isn’t the end, Carrie. We’ll do all we can to get Justin back. You have my word.”
“Thank you.”
“Yes, now be safe and I’ll call you as soon as I have something.” Flavio ended the call.
Carrie sighed, then tossed her phone over the Land Rover’s hood. “You heard most of it, right?” she said to Vale and Abner. “Mustafa’s commander is as tough as nails. We’re to stand down and wait for Flavio’s orders.”
Vale nodded.
Abner said, “This is not what you want to hear, Carrie, but your boss is right. Realistically, our hands are tied. Even if we got all the drivers to help, we can’t mount a successful attack. The Peshmergas are just too many.”
Carrie nodded, but the frown remained on her face. “You’re right, Abner, but the truth doesn’t make me feel better.” She gestured toward the village. “They may be torturing him right now, and . . . and we’re just standing here, talking. It just . . . the whole situation just makes me sick.”
