Shadow on the Mountain

by Shaker Jeffrey

  “What are you talking about?” Behind him the scraping of a shovel digging in the sand. Another voice in the background was muttering.

  “Who’s with you? I hear noises.”

  “Just one other—a Yazidi. You know him, don’t worry.” He sounded breathless; they had to get rid of the bodies fast.

  It turned out, both men wanted in on the mission I had just begun to formulate—ISIS had the man’s sister; the other needed to rescue his young daughter. They were both held captive in Syria—like my girl.

  “If you’re with me,” I said, “we have to plan this thing down to the minute.”

  “Plan what, exactly?” The other man was asking now from the background, but he was already committed.

  “We are going to infiltrate,” I said. “Infiltrate and extract.”

  And I heard Brownsword’s voice in my ear: Concentrate on the living—the taken. Survivors. All those you can get to.

  I was going to get Dil-Mir.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  The Slave Market

  THE GREEK FORGER WORE A STAINED BUTCHER’S APRON, AND glazed rolls of fat hunkered under his chin like a stack of donuts. When I slid back the corroded van door, he had his hand buried in a can of smoked sausages. As the Middle East hemorrhaged refugees and terrorists, an illicit web of runners and counterfeiters burgeoned across Europe. If you knew one, you found the other—and I knew plenty.

  “How long will it take?” I asked the Greek, who sat on a crate in the back. “I need three cards for now.” The requisite ISIS beard was just sprouting along my jawline.

  “Three, four weeks, maybe. Busy time of year. Passports mostly. But we like you—you’re some kind of crazy vigilante.”

  “Perfect. Half the cash now, as agreed.”

  I held out a wad of euros raised through my cohorts in Iraq and a few generous associates.

  “Put it there,” he said, motioning to a tin box at his feet. “You want a ride back? I’m dropping off some merchandise.”

  “Sure,” I said. “It looks like it’s going to rain, hard.” Sheets of blackened clouds raced over the sky. It would be another long, wet night.

  And he told me that business always picked up after a storm. “A few will die on the sea before morning,” he added. Crossing himself, he kissed his briny fingers.

  Then he called out to the driver. I crawled inside, kicking aside beer cans as I took a seat over newspapers piled up in the corner.

  BECOMING A JIHADIST took manic study into the collective psyche of men for whom mass killing, torture, and rape were homages to God. Penetration of the Islamic State’s communications toolbox was simple. I roamed their encrypted messaging sites, scrutinizing traffic—militants talking to would-be militants about the glories of jihad—and absorbed the crazed pontifical lingo that I would practice out loud on long solitary walks.

  May Allah reward you with a thousand virgins for your goodness, Brother. Inshallah—God willing—I will have many as a martyr in His kingdom.

  I took in hours of propaganda videos: child training camps, hangings of gay men, heretics burned alive; drownings, crucifixions, and the beheadings of journalists and “spies”; jubilant fighters waiting for the distribution of Yazidi sex slaves—all set against the Islamic nasheed, a rhythmic a cappella chant.

  Then I crawled still further down the gullet of the Islamic State, whose minions must have no doubt that I was one of them. Inevitably, I made it through the multiple relays of an overlapping network accessed through “The Onion Router,” or TOR, an illicit browser that ferried users anonymously straight into the dark web. Within that infamous corner of cyberspace, cretins, criminal gangs, and international terror networks prowled. Inside it, I learned to think just like them—discovering, in the end, how little it took. After Allah and the establishment of a fruitful caliphate, their most effective weapon was a young jihadist’s primal weakness—the promise of wanton sex.

  How many can we get and what if I want a new one?

  You will be satisfied, brother. Allah has given us his blessing.

  The older ones understand too much. The young girls don’t know a thing and you can do what you want. I’ve had dozens of each and know what I’m talking about.

  Make sure she has breasts. If she doesn’t, wait for them to start growing a little. We can share our sabayas. You will show me what a man you are.

  These were the savages who had my Dil-Mir. Over and over again, I had to restrain the inescapable onslaughts of rage. Out of that shattering torment, Brownsword’s battlefield creed rose like a mantra:

  Thinking and feeling are two different animals, Shaker, that belong in separate pens. The first one keeps you alive, gets the job done—the second gets everyone killed.

  And then, always, Dil-Mir’s last desperate text:

  Come find me, Shaker. Hurry.

  THE STATIC OVER our headsets fused into a mayhem of Arabic voices; in the background the dissonance of battle raged on. I was crouched in a dune with one of my partners, listening. It was the summer of 2016, and we’d spent the last two months studying the enemy, growing beards and layers of fat, memorizing the Koran, and refining our plan. Now we were just inside the ISIS radio transmission zone, eavesdropping on the enemy’s private channels, as I’d done many times with the American military. My eyes strained against the darkness toward Aleppo, past which Dil-Mir was alive and waiting—so close.

  “The slave market is in two days, listen,” Ismail said.

  Every fighter will get his share. Come, brothers, and partake.

  “We’re on,” I said. “Tell Hezni to get the vehicle ready.”

  “Do we tell the women this is it?”

  “Only hours before—in case there’s a hitch. Can’t get their hopes up, but they must also play their own parts—no sign of recognition whatsoever.”

  I’d crossed the line from Turkey carrying forged IDs, water, and nothing else in my satchel. Then I met my contacts and donned an ISIS uniform: fatigues, black shamag, careworn jacket. Hezni had also brought an elaborate makeup kit and would practice on us several times.

  “Your skin is too light, Shaker.”

  We were in a safe house miles from the target point.

  “It has to look completely real, Hezni,” I said. “They will have my picture up at every checkpoint. A lot of people would like the chance to take off my head.”

  “Don’t worry,” Ismail said. “He’s done this a few times.”

  “That right?” I said as a sponge moved over my face.

  Hezni nodded, saying nothing, as was his way, and studied his handiwork.

  I held up a cracked mirror. “It’s good,” I said. “I look like a lazy Arab terrorist.”

  “You look fat,” Ismail laughed. “It suits you.”

  “I’ve been eating lard for weeks.”

  IN THE PREDAWN hours, Dil-Mir came online.

  “At noon we will be sold,” she whispered. “They don’t know I speak Arabic, so they talk freely. There are many fighters and sheikhs coming.”

  “We will be there. You will not recognize me. I have a beard and have put on weight.”

  Her breath wavered. “I’m afraid, Shaker.”

  “I am not. Love for you is my strength.”

  HEZNI HAD ACQUIRED a Syrian ambulance complete with paperwork. The drive to the small settlement on the fringes of Aleppo took less than an hour, and we parked off to the side of an abandoned farm road. From a distance, I made out swarms of black-clad men in the streets. Hezni waved to the ISIS fighters walking past and gave the standard greeting.

  “And peace unto you,” they offered back, without a second glance.

  “Smile, Mohammed, it’s distribution day,” Ismail said to me, and patted my arm.

  “Yes, brother Waleed. I am grateful.” And I grinned like a madman.

  Behind us, the caravan of buses full of slaves approached. From the ditch, I watched each one slide by on the fractured road, tamping down a cyclone of emotions as we stood in
the blinding trails of dust. It took a titanic focus and control not to race forward shouting her name. Through tinted windows, I caught only frantic shadows, but I could hear the muted baying of the women. Somewhere inside that demonic caravan, Dil-Mir awaited her rescue—that thought and nothing else centered my mind. As the procession turned into the lot, I joined the rest of the men and raised my arms, cheering to praise Allah.

  SKIRTING THE EDGE of the market, we moved along the glut of feral men. A loudspeaker announced the arrival of more concubines against beats of music and wild bursts of male laughter. The smell of sweet cakes and cooking smoke wafted past—just like a summer carnival. Walking through, I had to swallow down my own bile. Girls in black niqabs filed through the jeering crowd, whose raw scent intensified like heat. Hezni nudged my arm and we spread out, each one on his own now.

  Stalking the bazaar, I swapped greetings with the other men as my eyes roved. Wearing a famished look was not out of place there, and I felt a rivulet of sweat snake down my back. Over one hundred women were grouped according to age, origin, and sexual status: virgin or used. Lashings of garish eye makeup showed through the slits of their quivering veils. Smiling brokers called out figures, and some of the women held white placards listing their prices. Many cheaper than a carton of cigarettes—those were the older hand-me-downs.

  “Come get what your right hand possesses,” a broker hollered. Behind him girls stood chained in a row.

  A man stepped up and pulled back a veil, revealing a pale young girl, a gash of rouge smearing her lips. “Open your mouth,” he barked, hooking her jaw. “She’s perfect,” the broker said. “Untouched and ready. You can enjoy her first. And she has already submitted to Allah.”

  The girl glanced at me, glassy-eyed as a lamb before the knife.

  “Ah, don’t you look hungry, brother,” a man said, coming up to me. “Can I help you get your milk al-yameen?”

  “Well, there is one I want,” I said, pulling out a cracked Nokia phone taken off one of the dead fighters. “Found her online.” I showed him the picture of a bewildered Dil-Mir that I discovered on the sex-slave marketplace.

  “Let me see. A Yazidi. Used—but very, very pretty. Go see the man in the back.”

  “May Allah reward you for your goodness, brother,” I said.

  Resolute in my stride, I walked toward a small constellation of girls cowering behind a red rope. Here more affluent buyers skulked in their extravagant robes, tugging veils and lifting skirts. Big hairy hands slapped thighs, squeezed breasts.

  “This one has good flesh, but I want lighter hair,” a sheikh said.

  All I could see were slivers of Yazidi eyes, almond-shaped and blinking through the fabric. Slowly I hunted—so sure of the mission now. Each draped gaze looked down as I passed, but one—and I locked my stare to her. Hard to tell.

  “Assalamu alaikum,” I said to the man in charge.

  “And peace be upon you, too,” he replied through a wilderness of gray beard.

  “A brother sent me to you for this one.” I held out my screen.

  “She costs more,” he said, waving a hand. “These ones all do.”

  Then a sheikh with a long cane walked by, hitting each woman hard on the back. “Get ready to walk to the buses.”

  “Brother, we just got here,” I said—easy smile like swallowing a razor blade.

  “Orders,” he said, and shrugged. “They need you to go fight. I’ll mark her down for you.”

  “Brother, I’ve killed plenty of murtadin. I’m here to take one of their women as my prize this day.” Then I handed over my card. “This day.”

  “Ah.” He chuckled and patted my cheek. “So this is your first sabaya. May Allah reward you for your bravery, but the rules have changed. You must buy now.”

  “How much?” I said, my throat squeezing out the words. “For her?”

  “I will consider,” he said, studying me closely. “A fitting price for a very hungry man.” Right then, I thought he could see everything through the sweat on my brow.

  In a moment, the loud speakers crackled to life and the market rippled into silence.

  “Go fight with your brothers for our glory. And I will arrange a sale.”

  Nodding, I gave him a WhatsApp contact. “Today.”

  “Soon enough, you’ll have your price.”

  Then the women filed out, roped together like livestock, and I just stood there watching them go. Her form was a noose about my neck, and with every step she took away from me, it tightened. Then her head tilted slightly, a pale hand coming free from that dark cocoon like the wing of a bird—and I was sure.

  “Dil-Mir,” I whispered. “I’m here.” But the shape had already vanished.

  No choice now, I dovetailed into a black river of the depraved on their way to the mosque, where I’d take off my shoes and bow among them.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Saved by Mosquitos

  AFTERNOON, SEVERAL DAYS LATER, AND MY PHONE SAT SILENT. Between heartbeats, I waited and tried for rest. I’d been back to the market two times, but could not find Dil-Mir, or uncover her whereabouts. Outside the abandoned shed, leagues of seared ground stood as raw to the sun as my mind to the long, flaying hours. While ISIS contingents prowled the cauldron, my partners packed up and went back to wherever. All three of us empty-handed, for now.

  At long last, an alert rose in the dead space like a buoy light, and I lunged:

  10,000 euros. Non-negotiable—the standard smuggling fee, not a sale.

  Suddenly, the game had changed and I was dealing with a brand new player. Without a doubt, the man at the other end was a runner brought in for a private job. The broker must have finally sniffed out my heretic blood—another desperate soul to plunder. Come nightfall, my new plan was in motion: clamber back across the frontier; set the network to raising flash funds; race to Greece and then Germany to solicit help from every quarter. Sell off my possessions: watch, old laptop, clothes, all for a pittance. It didn’t matter—each scrounged euro was another strand in the lifeline. If I could strip the skin from my flesh and trade it, I would.

  It will take time—I wrote back.

  One week—was the answer.

  Not enough.

  It’s all you have.

  CROSSING A SPOONED-OUT valley in Turkey, I was on my way to another pick-up point, when Dil-Mir called again.

  “Why didn’t you get me out?” Each word was made of wind.

  Alone, I went down into the swaying grasses, forehead against my knees, cradling her voice in the dark well of my lap. Along the branches of nearby trees, singing birds congregated; all over the ground insects pulsed; through my veins, the raging blood roared—and Dil-Mir’s sobs were so feeble against the chorus of the unbothered world, I had to strain to hear her.

  “Listen to me,” I said. “I will come back. They want money—I’m going to get it.”

  “Please, don’t leave me here. I can’t live as a sabaya. They rape me. Every day. Three, four times. Many men. My body is broken.”

  “I will get you out and we will put you back together, one piece at a time.”

  “And then what? People will look at me—you will look at me, and see it.”

  “Dil-Mir, the ones who get out are survivors—you are all our treasure, not our shame. I love you more today than any other day.” How I meant it.

  “I wish I was dead, Shaker. I thought it was finally over, and now I’m still here.”

  “Only a little longer. We will keep talking. And I will come back.”

  “How could you leave me, Shaker? You were just here.”

  And then she wasn’t.

  MY WORLD GONE to wishes: to get the money in time, to meet her at the checkpoint, to carry us both way back to where we once were. To walk the cobblestones of Berlin, arms entwined, learn German together. Liebe: love. Für immer: forever. To be at home with Dil-Mir, and nothing else—make us one with rings.

  To never have answered the call when it came in, and sim
ply lived my whole life oblivious, searching the boundless continent of false hope.

  Anything but this.

  “I am Farida. Are you Shaker? I was sold with Dil-Mir.”

  “Yes, Farida. Where is she?”

  “She’s gone.”

  “Gone where?”

  “Gone, Shaker. Hanged herself with a veil.”

  I SAW DIL-MIR again strolling the serpentine path to the temple, her long abundant hair worn por vekeri, free. A faint smile told me to follow her into the enveloping mists—right to the edge of all things.

  I’m back now, Shaker. Let’s walk.

  Where can we go?

  We can’t go anywhere. Just here.

  This little white room—that’s all we get?

  Suddenly, a man shone a light like a tiny sun into one eye, and then the other, but I was far less than half-aware.

  “What’s wrong with him?” said a female from the other side of me.

  Then a studied voice listed off my ailments: Stomach infection. Malnutrition. Sounded pretty bad. He knew I’d been in Greece working in the camps, eating bugs, maggots. Someone else said strange people were looking for me. Apparently, I’d had death threats—that’s why no visitors.

  “Came in trying to sell his kidney and collapsed,” I heard them say.

  And that’s when I remembered the moment: hauling my body through the emergency room doors, hollering and holding up my shirt, begging for a surgeon to take the organ.

  “His kidney? That’s crazy.”

  “The man’s had a crisis. Been incoherent for over a week. Keeps getting up and crawling the walls. We can’t stop him.”

  “What kind of crisis—drugs?”

  “No—” He listened to my heart for a while. Slow and steady, because I was already on my way back to elsewhere with my girl. “He’s just a Yazidi.”

  “Oh,” the woman said, clucking her tongue, and I’ll never forget that sound and the thing she said next—so full of pity and yet so far removed. “Poor thing.”