In the two years that Ibrahim had been part of the eleven-man band, the work had taken on an importance all its own. Acts of terrorism and sabotage in Turkey were no longer just a matter of vengeance to him. As Walid had said, Allah would decide whether there was ever to be a new Kurdistan. In the meantime, the rebel actions were a way of reminding the Turks that the Kurds were determined to be free with or without a homeland.
Typically, two, three, or four of the men would sneak into the country at night, elude the border patrols, and disable a power station or pipeline or snipe at soldiers. But today's objective was different. Two months before, Turkish troops had taken advantage of a spring thaw and a unilateral cease-fire with Turkish Kurds to begin a massive offensive against the rebels. Over one hundred Kurdish freedom fighters had been killed in three days of relentless combat. The attack had been designed to quiet the western regions before Turkey turned its attention to the east. There, territorial disputes with Greece as well as tension between Christian Athens and Islamic Ankara were becoming more and more intense.
Walid and Kenan Demirel, a leader of the Turkish Kurds, had decided that the latest aggression could not go unpunished. Nor would the strike be small, worked by a team that snuck over the border. They would enter the country boldly and show the enemy that acts of oppression and betrayal would not be tolerated.
The caravan passed a black wooden stake stuck in the side of the road. They were in Turkey now. When they reached the Turkish gate, an armed guard poked the barrel of an M1A1 submachine gun through a small opening cut in the glass. His companion emerged and walked over to Walid's car. He wore a 9mm Capinda Tabanca in a crisp new holster.
The agent bent and looked into the car. "Your passports, please."
"Certainly," Walid said. He slid the bundle of small orange documents from a pocket in the visor. He smiled as he handed the documents to the official.
The small, mustachioed Turk compared the photographs to the faces in the car. He went about his work slowly and carefully. "What business have you in Turkey?" he asked.
"We are attending a funeral," Walid replied. He gestured to the cars behind him. "All of us."
"Where?"
"In Harran," Walid told him.
The guard looked back at the other cars. After a moment he asked, "The deceased had only male friends?"
"Our wives are with our children," Walid said.
"They do not mourn him?"
"We sold barley to this man," Walid replied. "Our wives and children did not know him."
"What is his name?" the guard asked.
"Tansu Ozal," Walid replied. "He died on Saturday in a car accident. He drove his car into a deep ditch."
The guard idly pulled at the hem of his green military jacket, regarded Walid for a moment, then returned to his booth. The other sentry continued to point his submachine gun at the car.
Ibrahim had listened to the conversation across the quiet stretch of road. He knew that Walid had told the truth, that this Tansu Ozal had died as he'd said. What Walid hadn't mentioned was that the man was a Kurd who had betrayed his people. He'd guided the Turks to a weapons cache under an old Roman bridge in Koprulu Kanyon. Kenan's people had killed him for his treason.
Ibrahim used a finger to wipe sweat from his eyes. He continued to perspire, as much from nerves now as from the heat. Like his own documents, Walid's papers were obtained using a false birth certificate. Walid's name, though not his likeness, was known to the Turks. Had the border guard known who he was, the Syrian would have been arrested at once.
The Turkish agent made a telephone call and read from each of the passports in turn. Ibrahim hated him. He was a minor official who acted as though he protected the Dome of the Rock. These Turks had no sense of priority.
Ibrahim turned his attention to the armed guard. From their planning sessions, Ibrahim knew that if anyone in the car were wanted by the authorities or seemed suspicious, the guard would shoot the tires out of hand. If any of the Syrians drew a weapon, the guard would shoot to kill. Before returning fire, his companion would step on a button to alert the patrol station five miles up the road. A helicopter gunship was at the ready and would be dispatched at once.
The Syrian border guards would not act unless fired upon. They had no jurisdiction in Turkey.
Ibrahim was slumped low in his seat, his eyes on the Cadillac. To his right, between the door and the seat, was a canister of tear gas. When Walid gave the signal, he would be ready.
The small Turkish guard shut the door of the booth and returned to the car. He bent slightly and displayed the passports like a cardplayer showing a winning hand. "You have been cleared for a twenty-four-hour visit. When you are finished you will return through this checkpoint."
"Yes," Walid said. "Thank You."
The guard stood and returned the passports. He held up his hand toward the second car. Then he returned to the booth, raised the gate, and allowed Walid's car to pass. When the Cadillac had gone through, the gate was lowered.
The Dodge drove up to the gate. Walid stopped the Cadillac just beyond the gate.
"Move on!" the guard shouted to him. "They will catch up to you."
Walid stuck his left hand out the window and raised it. He moved it from side to side. "Okay," he said, and let the hand drop over the side of the car door.
At that instant, Ibrahim and the passengers in the front two cars leaned out the windows, popped the tops on the palm-sized cylinders, and threw them at the booth. While the small guard reached for his pistol, the other opened fire through the thick, orange smoke. As he did, Walid threw his car into reverse, crashed through the gate, and rammed the booth. The outpost shook and the shooting stopped, but only for a moment. A moment later the driver of the middle car thrust a Makarov pistol out the window. He began firing and shouting oaths at the Turks.
Through the rising tear gas, Ibrahim saw the guard outside the booth go down. The guard in the booth began firing again, though the booth was lopsided and filling with tear gas. Walid drove forward a few feet, jerked into reverse, and hit the booth again. This time it went over.
Two men had emerged.from the second car. They were wearing gas masks. They, disappeared into the spreading orange cloud, and Ibrahim heard several more shots. Then everything was quiet.
Ibrahim looked back at the Syrian guards. They'd taken refuge behind their own weapons in their own booth, but they didn't fire.
After making sure that both of the Turks were dead, and after thanking Allah for their victory, Walid returned to his car. He motioned the caravan onward.
Speeding into Turkey, Ibrahim experienced a new sensation. A feeling of burning anticipation in his belly now that events had irrevocably been set into motion.
"Praise Allah," he said softly, involuntarily. Then his voice rose in his throat and he cried, "Praise Mohammad, peace be upon Him!"
Mahmoud said nothing. Sweat flowed from his temples along his swarthy cheeks to his tight mouth. In the back seat their companions were silent.
Ibrahim watched Walid's car. After two minutes the Cadillac swerved off the road onto the golden desert. The Dodge and Ford followed, spitting up sand as they plowed westward. After less than a hundred yards the cars became bogged down in the sands. The men got out.
While Ibrahim and Mahmoud removed the seats from the car and pulled the false floor from the trunk, the other men went to work swiftly and purposefully.
* * *
SIX
Monday, 2:47 p.m.,
Mardin, Turkey
The Hughes 500D is an extremely quiet helicopter due to sound baffles in the Allison 250-C20B engine. The small T-tail construction provides great stability at all speeds, as well as enormous maneuverability. It holds a pilot and two passengers in the forward bench as well as two to four passengers in the aft. With the addition of a side-mounted 20mm cannon and a.50-caliber machine gun, it makes an ideal vehicle for border patrol.
When the alarm from the guard north of Qamishli sounded
at the Mardin Air Force outpost, the pilot and copilot were having a late lunch. They had already been out once on their hour-long late-morning patrol. They weren't scheduled to go out again until four o'clock. But the two men welcomed the signal. Since the government had begun coming down hard on the Kurds, things had been quiet. So quiet that the fliers feared they might become rusty. With an exchange of smiles and a thumbs-up, they were airborne within five minutes.
The two men flew low, passing isolated villages and remote ranches and farms on their way to the border outpost Unable to raise the two sentries by radio, the fliers were on high alert as they closed in on the border. The pilot guided his craft swiftly over the dry earth. He always kept the helicopter in front of the sun to present a difficult target to anyone on the ground.
The two fliers saw the wreckage of the automobile moments before they saw the destroyed guardhouse. Circling the area from just north of the border to north of the cars, they radioed headquarters that they saw the two dead border guards, as well as three dead drivers.
"The vehicles appear to have been shot at," the pilot said into his helmet microphone. He peered for a moment through his amber-tinted visor. "Two of the drivers are not moving and one of them is moving only slightly."
"I'll send a medical team by air," said the dispatcher.
"It appears as though the cars ran the gate, struck the booth, and were shot by the guard," the pilot said. "The survivor may not be alive for long," he added. "I want to go down and question him before he dies."
There was a short consultation on the other end. "Captain Galata says you are to proceed at your own discretion," the dispatcher told him. "What about the Syrian border guards?"
"Both men are inside the booth," said the pilot. "They appear to be unharmed. Do you want us to try and raise them?"
"Negative," said the dispatcher. "They'll be contacted through government channels."
The pilot wasn't surprised. If the dead and dying were Syrians, then the Syrian border guards would not say anything to the Turks. If they were Turks, the Syrians would not be believed. Just getting the pilots across the border to talk to them would require high-level approvals. The entire process would be a long and practically useless exercise.
The pilot dropped the 500D to forty feet. He circled again. The rotor whipped the loose sands and obscured their view. He told the copilot they were going to have to land.
The chopper settled down nearly fifty yards from the three cars. Both men retrieved old Model 1968 submachine guns from the wall rack just inside the cabin. They put on goggles to protect themselves from sands swirled by the rotor blades. The copilot exited first. He shut his door and came around to the pilot's side. Then the pilot got out. He left the rotor on in case they had to get away quickly. He closed his door. The men walked one behind the other toward the first car, a Cadillac, where the driver was still alive.
The man was leaning through the partly open window. His arm was hanging along the door, blood dribbling from under the sleeve of his robe, down to his fingers, and onto the sand. He looked up with obvious effort.
"Help me."
The copilot raised his weapon. He looked to the left and to the right. The pilot walked in front of him, his weapon pointed up.
The pilot turned. "Cover me," he said as they neared the car.
The copilot stopped, tucked the stock of his weapon against his shoulder, and aimed the gun at the driver. The pilot continued to walk ahead, slowing as he neared the vehicle. He peered into the back and then walked sideways, moving around the car and bending to make sure no one was hiding beneath it. He checked the blown tires and then returned to the driver's side.
The bearded man looked up at him.
"Who are you?" the pilot asked.
The man tried to speak. His voice was a whisper.
The pilot leaned closer. "Say it again."
The driver swallowed. He raised his bloody hand. And then with one swift and fluid motion he reached behind the pilot's neck and pulled his forehead hard into the top edge of the open window.
The pilot was blocking the copilot's fire. As he shifted to shoot, a man rose from the sand behind him. He had been lying beneath it, his gun at his side; the Turk never saw the burst of gunfire that ended his life. As soon as he went down, Walid released the pilot. The Turk staggered back and fell. Sand was still falling from Mahmoud's shirt and trousers as he shot the pilot.
Ibrahim rose from the sand on the other side of the car. He had been waiting there in case the helicopter had landed on that side. The other Syrians climbed from the trunks of the three cars.
Walid opened the door and got out. He untied the leather thong around his upper arm and removed the packet of goat's blood that was under his sleeve. He threw it into the car, then retrieved the pistol that had been under his right thigh. He tucked it into his belt.
Walid jogged toward the helicopter. "We lost no one," he shouted proudly. "The extra men we brought--not needed. You planned well, Mahmoud."
"Al-fi shukr," Mahmoud replied as he vigorously brushed sand from his hair. "Thank you very much."
Ibrahim ran after Walid. Except for the former Syrian Air Force pilot, Ibrahim was the only one with any knowledge of helicopters.
"I feared--" said Ibrahim, angrily spitting sand. "I feared the rotors might uncover us."
"Then I would have shot the Turks," Walid said as he opened the pilot's-side door. Before he got in, he put his hand over the switch to turn off the radio.
Ibrahim went around to the copilot's door. As the other men came running over, he prepared to close down the helicopter's tracking beacon. When Walid nodded, he and Ibrahim shut the switches simultaneously. At Mardin, the Turks would assume the helicopter had suddenly lost power and gone down. Rescue efforts would be centered on the flight path.
"The Turks are not what bothers me," Ibrahim said. "We planned every detail of this operation. I repaired helicopters and you flew them. Yet neither one of us anticipated that."
"There is always the unexpected," Walid pointed out as he climbed into the cockpit.
"That's true," Ibrahim said. "But this was our area of expertise."
"Which is why we overlooked it," Walid snapped. "This was a warning. We are told, 'Nor do We punish a nation until We have sent forth an apostle to forewarn them.' We have been forewarned."
Ibrahim reflected on Walid's words as the other men ran over. Three of them embraced the others and wished them well. Then they returned to the cars to drive them back to Syria. With a helicopter gunship at their back, the Syrian, guards would let them through without any questions. Nor would they help investigators from Damascus or Ankara, for fear of reprisals.
"Now we don't look back," Walid said to the three men in the helicopter. "We look ahead. Backup aircraft will be here in less than ten minutes." Walid glanced over his shoulder. "Are you ready?"
Mahmoud had waited for the other man, Hasan, their radio operator, to get in. Extra containers of fuel were loaded from the car, along with a backpack, which was handled gingerly. It was studded from the inside out with nails. When Ibrahim had settled into his seat with the backpack nestled between his feet, Mahmoud climbed,aboard.
"We're ready," Mahmoud said, shutting the door.
Without a word Walid checked his instruments and throttled up, and the helicopter was airborne.
Ibrahim watched the desert sink away. The road became lace, patches of asphalt covered with patterns of sand, and the carnage below became even more impersonal. He turned his face to the sun. It burned through the windshield, dwarfing the efforts of the air-conditioner to keep them cool.
As we will burn through the Turks for attempting to keep our own fires from burning, Ibrahim thought.
Walid was right. They'd made a miscalculation; just one. And they'd still managed to achieve their goal. Now they must look ahead to the next, much bigger target. To an adventure that would be celebrated throughout the Kurdish world. To an act which would force the world to pay lo
ng-overdue attention to their plight.
To the beginning of the end of the world order as it stood.
* * *
SEVEN
Monday, 7:56 a.m.,
Washington, D. C.
"I'm unhappy about it too, Matt," Paul Hood said as he finished his first Op-Center cup of coffee. "Stephen Viens has been a good friend of ours and I'd like to help him."
"Then let's," Stoll said. He sat on the couch to the left of the door, nervously moving his knee up and down. "Cripes, we're secret agents. Let's abduct the guy and give him a new identity."
Hood frowned. "I'm open to serious suggestions."
Stoll continued to look at Hood instead of at Political and Economics Officer Martha Mackall. She sat to his left on the couch. Her arms were crossed and she wore an unsympathetic expression.
"Awright, I don't know what we can do," Stoll admitted. "But the bloodhounds on the Hill won't get to work for another ninety minutes or so. We can do something by then. Maybe we can put together a list of the missions Stephen's assisted us on. Or we can bring in people whose lives he's saved. Jesus, that's got to count for something."
"Not unless those lives add up to a hell of a lot of votes," Hood said.
Martha crossed her long legs. "Matt, I appreciate your loyalty. But forward funding is a super-hot topic these days. Stephen Viens got caught taking money from one project and putting it into another."
"Because he knew that project was needed for national security," Stoll said. "It's not like the guy got rich off what he was doing."
"Irrelevant," said Martha. "He broke the rules."
"They were stupid rules."
"Also irrelevant," she said. "Frankly, the best we can hope for is that no one on the committee decides to investigate Op-Center because we've had improper access to NRO assets."
Acts Of War (1997) Page 4