by Mark Dawson
“This is pretty weird,” the pilot said, his voice playing out through the speakers in Pope’s helmet. “We’re the only ones up here.”
The pilot started a gentle descent, and after five minutes, the long strip of runway at Hatay became clearer through the haze on the ground. It was a small regional airport that served domestic flights, and Pope saw that all of its jets had been pushed back to the terminal building on the taxiway. Nothing was moving.
The pilot lowered the Typhoon’s undercarriage and dropped into a gentle glide path to bring them down.
Pope was greeted by a man and a woman who introduced themselves as members of airport security. Pope doubted that; they looked very much like spooks to him.
He made his way quickly through the requirements of immigration. He stopped in the arrivals lounge and realised that he was hungry. There was a café there and he picked up breakfast—Turkish sourdough bread, beef sausage and “fruit juice” that turned out to be powdered and almost undrinkable—and then took it with him as he made his way out into the busy throng of the arrivals hall. A path had been formed between two rows of temporary barriers, and on each side of the rails a line of taxi drivers held out their signs. Pope saw a woman holding a placard upon which had been written, in untidy script, his nom de guerre: “Mr Creasey”.
He went over to the woman. She was middle-aged, a blowsy blonde with too much make-up and clothes that were a touch too young for her. She had a wary expression on her face as she regarded the travellers who were making their way through the building. Pope knew that it was very unlikely that she had been provided with a photograph or any other details save that he was male.
“I’m Creasey,” he said.
She regarded him critically. “Mr Creasey from London?”
“No,” he said, recognising one of the exchanges that Group Fifteen agents used to identify themselves with the functionaries that were embedded around the world. “From Birmingham.”
“Very good, Mr Creasey. This way, please. We need to hurry.”
She led the way through the terminal to a multi-storey parking lot. Pope assessed her a little more. He had no way of knowing, but the chances were that she was a local who had been recruited by the embassy years previously. She would have been thoroughly vetted and given a series of tasks to demonstrate that she was reliable and trustworthy. Then she would have been promoted to the position of quartermaster for this part of the world. It was the same with all of the embedded assets that provided the on-the-ground assistance to the Group. The Israelis had a similar set-up for the Mossad. Those agents were called sayanim, men and women who lived unassuming lives and were activated only when they were needed. The Mossad relied upon the sense of loyalty to Israel as the motivation for the sayanim. Group Fifteen was far grubbier. It paid for the loyalty of its helpers or, if the situation permitted it, threatened them with the release of unsavoury information. There was no guessing the motivation of this particular agent.
Her car was parked on the second floor, and they took the elevator in silence. She led the way through the dimly lit space to a Renault Espace and indicated that Pope should get in. She got into the driver’s side and started the engine.
“We must hurry,” she said as she pulled out.
“Do you know where they are?”
“They were seen at Kuzuculu,” she said. “Fifteen minutes ago.”
“How far away is that?”
“Twenty-two miles to the north. Thirty minutes by car, depending on the traffic.”
“Which way will they go?”
“The border with Syria is porous. It is hard to say.”
“Your best guess?”
“They had a choice at Kuzuculu. They could have taken the 214 east and crossed the border near Kilis or they could have gone south and crossed at Reyhanli. They went south. Reyhanli is still the most popular crossing point. I think it will be there.”
“So they’re heading toward us?”
“Yes. I suggest we drive to Belen. The E91 meets the E98 there. If I were in their shoes, I would follow that and then go over the border in the back country. It is very easy to get across. From there, they will head east, probably to Raqqa.”
“We need to make sure they don’t get that far,” Pope said.
Chapter Seven
The district of Belen comprised the small town of the same name together with a cluster of villages that gathered around it on the slopes of the Nur Mountains. The area was within the outcrop of Turkish territory that was pressed between the Mediterranean to the west and the shoulder of Syria to the east.
The quartermaster drove quickly as they left the airport, and Pope watched through the windows as the terrain climbed on either side.
“This area,” Pope said. “Tell me about it.”
“We will reach the Belen Pass in ten minutes. It’s the only way across the mountains between Iskenderun and Antakya. It is the main route between Anatolia and the Middle East. They call it the Syrian Gates. If they keep coming south, they have to come this way. The kids who have crossed into Syria to join the jihad, many of them come this way.” She pointed to the glovebox. “There’s a map in there.”
Pope opened the glovebox and took out the map. He unfolded it and pinpointed their location. They were on the D817, heading south. The O-53 was the main route, bypassing Iskenderun. Salim’s vehicle would most likely have followed it rather than the slower coastal road. The two roads merged to the northwest of Belen and became the E91.
The mountains continued to climb on either side of them. The terrain became less dusty and sandy and more rocky, and Pope had to swallow to equalise the pressure in his ears. The roads were in excellent condition, recently paved, and that was good; the route swung left and right as it traced the easiest path up the mountains, with a number of vicious switchbacks with increasingly steep drops on the other side of the guard rails. The mountains climbed higher on either side of the pass, with low cloud obscuring the summits.
Pope looked behind him to where two large suitcases and a backpack had been left on the back seat. “Is that the gear?”
“Yes,” she said. “In the back, too.”
He unclipped his seat belt and clambered into the rear of the cabin. The suitcases were locked, but the quartermaster handed him two small keys, and when he tried them, the locks opened so that he could push back the lids. The cases held a generous supply of firearms and other ordnance.
Pope selected the items he would need. He took an M4A1 assault rifle and a Beretta M9 semiautomatic 9mm pistol. He added a set of binoculars.
“What’s in the backpack?”
“A general load-out,” she said. “Grenades, GPS, rations.”
Pope didn’t think that he would need it, and he didn’t want to encumber himself.
He took a tactical jacket and an ammo belt and collected seven 5.56mm magazines for his primary weapon and five magazines for his side arm. That made for fourteen magazines in total, given the two that were already in the weapons.
“Where do you want to stop?” she asked him.
He didn’t know the area and there was not going to be sufficient time to reconnoitre it properly. He studied the map. He didn’t want them to get beyond Belen. There was another town, Hallibey, and then Cankaya, Kirikhan and Akpinar. If he allowed them to get that far, they would be within five clicks of the border. He had no idea, nor could he guess, where they would try to cross. It made much sounder tactical sense to intercept them before they had additional options to make things more uncertain.
This stretch of road would likely be as good as any other. They were on a reasonably long straight preceded by a sharp left-hander and then an equally challenging right as the road swung around to continue the climb up the flank of the mountain. There was a parking spot three hundred feet ahead, and Pope pointed to it. “There.”
The quartermaster began to slow.
Pope collected the shoulder holster and put it on. He took the M9 and pushed it into the
holster, leaving the retention strip unclasped. He grabbed the M4, checked the safety and slung it over his shoulder.
The Espace pulled over and came to a stop.
Pope told the woman what he wanted her to do. He opened the door, slid down to the ground and moved briskly away from the car. The parking spot was hemmed in by a slope on three sides. Pope clambered up it, forcing his way through the sparse vegetation until he stopped and looked back. He was thirty feet above the roof of the car. The road was laid out before him, several hundred feet of it, with wide run-offs to either side. There was no drop until it began the right-hand turn that was another fifty feet up the road. It offered a reasonably safe position for what Pope intended to do.
Chapter Eight
Isabella looked out the window of the car. She knew that they were still in Turkey and that they were headed south, but she didn’t recognise any of the names of the towns and villages through which they had passed.
Karsi.
Karayilan.
Azganlik.
Sariseki.
She hadn’t heard of any of them before.
Every fresh mile that they travelled made her doubt just a little more. Where was Pope? Perhaps he had been prevented from following her by the accident that had closed European airspace, but if that was true, why had he not contacted the Turkish authorities? Where were the roadblocks? Where were the police? Where were the attempts to stop them? She glanced back frequently through the rear window, but she didn’t think that they were even being followed.
Was she wrong about Pope?
Had he abandoned her?
Isabella flexed her legs to try to bring a little life back to them. They had been travelling for hours. They had stopped twice. The first time had been in Mersin, to refuel the Viano. The second time had been at an empty truck stop outside Kuzuculu, to allow them all to use the bathroom. Isabella had been primed for an opportunity to escape on both occasions, but the driver had a handgun and he had kept it pressed tight to her ribs until they were moving again. Jasmin had used the bathroom at the truck stop before her and had confirmed that it was empty; they had only allowed her to go inside once they were sure that there was no chance that anyone else would try to go inside. Her attempt to get away had set them all on edge, and if they had once thought that they could take their eyes off her for a moment, they did not think that now.
The road that they were following was obviously a well-used route. The traffic had been dense around the westbound turn-off that was marked for Iskenderun, but as they continued to the south, it had thinned out again. Now there were just a handful of other vehicles on the road. The landscape was rockier and the road had started to ascend. She wished that she knew where she was.
She looked at the others. Jasmin was asleep and Salim was speaking to someone on his cellphone. He was talking in Arabic. Isabella had taught herself the language and understood it well enough. There was no reason why Salim would suspect that she could translate most of what he said; that was useful, because he was not as guarded as he might otherwise have been. He told whoever was on the other end of the line that they were in Turkey, and that they were going to cross the border at Yayladagi. Isabella didn’t recognise the name. Salim listened for a moment and then said that they would follow the coast road to Tartus and then cross the border at Al-Hamidiyah. She didn’t recognise those names either.
Isabella turned to Khalil. The boy was staring sullenly out the window.
“Where are we going?” she said.
He looked over at her with distaste. A bruise had formed on his face from where she had elbowed him. She had noticed that he occasionally reached up to prod at it; it must have been painful.
“Come on,” she said. “You can tell me that.”
“Home.”
“Where is that?”
“Somewhere we will be safe.”
“Where? Syria?”
“Syria? Are you mad?”
“Where, then?”
“Beirut. My father is an influential man. The government will protect us.”
“Shut up, Khalil!” Salim barked out from behind them. “Don’t talk to her.”
Isabella turned. Salim had finished his call and was glaring at her.
“You don’t need me,” she said. “Whatever it is you’re running from, you’re safe now. Let me go.”
“Be quiet,” he said sternly.
“Why do you still need me?”
“I won’t tell you again. Don’t make me gag you.”
She clenched her fists in frustration, but she didn’t push her luck. She turned back to the front and glanced across at Khalil. He gave her a look of withering contempt and turned his head away to look through the window again.
They continued to the south. As they swung around, following a sharp hairpin that climbed suddenly, she could see the road behind them. She saw another car, the first that she had seen for several miles. It was a reasonable distance behind them, but it was moving quickly, much faster than they were. The road straightened out again and Isabella lost sight of the car.
Chapter Nine
Pope lay prone in the sparse vegetation, pressed flat to the ground with stones and rocks sharp against his belly. It was uncomfortable, but he ignored it. He was happy with his position. It offered a clear view of the entire stretch of road. He was elevated above the asphalt by thirty-five feet, and the slope that led down to it was steep, but not so steep that it would be too difficult to negotiate quickly when he needed to move. There was enough brush and scrub that he would be difficult to spot from the road. The sun was behind him, meaning that there would be no telltale reflection against the lens of his sight or his binoculars. He collected them and put them to his eyes. The road was empty in both directions. The only noise was the harsh cawing of a buzzard as it circled high overhead in search of carrion.
A vehicle negotiated the sharp bend at the start of the straight to the north of Pope’s position.
It was an SUV.
The quartermaster had described the vehicle that Salim had been travelling in: a silver Mercedes Viano.
He took the glasses and focussed on the vehicle.
A silver Viano.
He held the glasses steady and focussed on the registration plate.
38 VU 055.
It matched the registration of the vehicle that had been observed earlier.
It was possible that they had changed vehicles, but it seemed unlikely. This was the same car as the one that had been spotted, following the same route that they had predicted for it.
Pope saw the shape of the driver, his details obscured through the darkened glass and the glare of the sun as it shone down upon it. He couldn’t see into the cabin, but he didn’t need convincing. This was it. Isabella was inside that car.
He put the glasses beside him and lowered his face to the M4, pressing his eye against the sight and nudging the weapon so that the car filled the reticule. He slid his index finger through the guard, feeling the trigger against the pad of his finger. He pulled a little, feeling the trigger give, knowing he needed just a few extra ounces of pressure to send the first rounds down range.
He slid the reticule across the windshield until the driver filled it. He aimed down a bit, allowing a little for the closing speed of the SUV and the gentle breeze that was blowing toward it.
He started to squeeze.
Another car turned the corner.
Shit.
He saw it coming, glimpsed it through the scope. A Mitsubishi Grandis.
Shit.
The SUV was approaching.
He couldn’t delay too long.
The first option was to continue with his plan, take the shot to disable the Viano and then mount his attack. There would be witnesses, though. Whoever was in the Mitsubishi would see the Viano leave the road. They might stop and help. They would complicate matters.
The second option? Let al-Khawari progress and make an alternative plan to stop him.
He di
scounted the second option immediately. Salim would be ahead of him, and the longer he was allowed to progress to the south, the more locations he would have to cross the border into Syria. The more difficult it would be for Pope to stop him. The closer he would be to reinforcements.
No.
Pope knew that he had to act now.
Chapter Ten
The car that Isabella had seen closed on them quickly. Isabella could see that their driver was concerned. She saw him looking in the rear-view mirror, his eyes flicking up, back down to the road ahead, back up to the mirror again.
“Sir,” he said, “I think someone is following us.”
Salim turned around and looked through the wide rear windows of the Viano.
“For how long?”
“I saw them just outside Iskenderun,” the driver said. “They started to close a minute ago.”
“What do you think?”
“I don’t know, sir.”
“The Americans?”
“It’s possible.”
“Can we outrun them?”
The driver looked over at the satnav that was stuck to the inside of the window. He tapped the screen to scroll out and looked at the map. “We’re a long way from Antakya. If we could get to one of the towns—Kurtlusoguksu, maybe—then we’d have a chance. But, out here, with no one around, nowhere to lose them, I don’t know.”
Isabella was watching the man when she saw the movement of another car farther down the road to the south, in the direction that they were travelling.
The driver swore.
The second car had pulled out of a blind turning and reversed right across the road. It couldn’t have been an accident; the road passed through two shoulders of rock at that point, narrowing significantly, and the car had stopped in the middle. It did not completely block the way ahead, but it would make it more difficult to pass through.
