The three men exchanged glances. It was time.
“Mia, Mia.” Steve nudged her with his shoulder. “Wake up, my darling.”
She blinked, her eyes meeting John’s, then Mansur’s. Mansur smiled. She turned her head to look up at Steve. John saw his throat move as he swallowed before forcing a smile.
John looked toward the door and concentrated on his breathing as his heart rate increased. He slowed his breathing down. Deep inhalation, he heard footsteps on the steps, full exhalation. If he was about to die, he wouldn’t let them see that he was scared. He straightened up, raising his chin. Again, deep inhalation, the door crashed open, full exhalation, fighters stepped into the room, faces hidden behind shemaghs, their weapons on slings over their shoulders. John watched them as if in slow motion as they approached each of them, then a hood was pulled over his head and hands gripped his arms and pulled him to his feet.
“Yalla, yalla!”
John’s feet dragged across the floor as he was half-carried and pulled out of the room. He felt his feet drop from step to step as they carried him downstairs, the light behind the hood increasing as they reached the street. He heard footsteps behind him and the grunts and thuds of the others being dragged out.
He heard shouts in Arabic, what sounded like commands, and his feet dragged through the rubble as his captors pulled him across the road. He struggled to make sense of the sounds outside, to get an idea of what was happening, and heard more vehicles approaching. His captors stopped. The other vehicles stopped, and he heard raised voices, shouting, arguing.
“Mansur?” He felt the grip on his arms tighten, and he was pulled upright. “Mansur, what are they saying?”
John heard what sounded like a curse in Arabic, and the grip on his arms loosened. He fell forward, turning his head just in time to avoid smashing his face as he landed with a thud on the ground, the impact driving the air out of his lungs. He gasped for breath, sucking air in, then realized his hood had shifted. There was a gap, and he could see boots and sports shoes facing each other. The voices were still raised, angry Arabic filling the air. One set of boots stood toe to toe with another before the pair on the right stepped abruptly back as if the person wearing them had been pushed away. The shouting continued for another minute, then John saw boots and shoes moving away. He heard vehicle engines starting, then the sound of vehicles, one, two, maybe three, moving away.
What was going on? Through the gap in his hood, he saw a pair of scuffed and torn sports shoes approaching. They stopped in front of him and shifted position as the wearer squatted down. He felt fingers on his hood and blinked violently as the hood was removed, and his eyes struggled to cope with the influx of light. When his eyes adjusted, he was staring into the face of a young bearded man.
73
Aknife sawed at the rope binding John’s wrists together, and he winced as the restraints broke free, and the blood flowed back into his hands. He wriggled his fingers, rolled onto his back, and sat up as his ankle restraints were cut. The young man—boy—moved toward Mansur and released him before removing his hood. Mansur sat blinking against the light, shaking his arms out, then grinned at John.
“Today’s not the day.”
John looked over his shoulder and saw Mia already released and another man cutting away Steve’s restraints.
What just happened?
The second man finished with Steve and walked over to Mia and helped her to her feet. She threw her arms around him, and he stood, looking uncomfortable, his hands by his side, a commando knife in one hand, Steve’s black hood in the other.
Steve got to his feet and looked at the man in Mia’s arms.
“I never thought the day would come when I would say I’m happy to see you.”
Mia stepped back, holding the man at arm’s length,
“Where’s Malak?”
“She’s here.”
“Where?” Mia looked around frantically.
He jerked his head toward a Mitsubishi pickup parked behind them. “She’s in the pickup.”
Mia spun around and ran to the vehicle, pulled the door open, and reached inside. She stood and turned to face them, a small child in her arms. She kissed the child on the forehead over and over again as Steve approached her.
Mia looked up, her eyes moist. “Uncle Steve, this is Malak.” She kissed her on the forehead again. “My little angel.”
Steve reached out and touched the girl’s face with his fingertips. “Malak.” His face beamed, and he turned to John and Mansur. “This is my grandniece. Isn’t she beautiful?”
John still couldn’t understand what had just happened and wasn’t about to relax, but he didn’t want to ruin Steve’s moment.
“She sure is, Steve.”
Steve turned back to look at Mia and her daughter. John caught Mansur’s eye before stepping closer to the older of the two men.
“Are you Naeem?”
The man regarded John with suspicious eyes, then nodded. John held out his hand.
“I’m John.” He gestured toward Mansur. “This is Mansur. We’re friends of Steve.” Naeem shook John’s hand and nodded at Mansur.
“What happened here, Naeem? Who were those men, and why did they let us go?”
Naeem adjusted the position of the AKM on the sling around his shoulder and looked down at the ground.
“My brothers,” he mumbled.
“Your brothers?” John frowned and glanced at Mansur. Mansur understood and moved away to talk to the boy. “How did they get Mia’s phone?”
Naeem jerked his head up, “My phone. They took it from her in the other place.”
“Why did they capture us?”
Naeem sighed and looked over at Mia and Steve.
“It’s complicated. You are... kufaar. Do you know what that means?”
“Non-believers, yes, but why did they let us go?”
“Because I told them to.”
“Because you told them to.” John frowned. That didn’t make sense. “And how did you find us?”
“He told me.” Naeem nodded toward the young boy talking to Mansur. “He followed them here when they brought Mahfuza here.”
“Mia?” John saw his face twitch.
“Yes.”
“Okay, good.” John looked away and for the first time, took in his surroundings. They were in what at one time would have been a residential street but now was a vehicle-wide track between piles of rubble and coils of rebar. On each side stood partially destroyed buildings, the one they had been in one of the few still standing.
“Where are we?”
“Idlib.”
John conjured up an image of the map he had poured over before coming. Idlib was around fifteen kilometers inside the territory held by Hay’at Tahrir al-Sham. They needed to get out of there.
“So, what do we do now?”
Naeem gestured toward the pickup. “You come with me.”
“Where?”
“We need to go south. I know a place to cross.”
John nodded and called out, “Steve, Mia, we have to go.” He glanced over at Mansur, who nodded. He patted the young boy on the shoulder, said something to him in Arabic, and the boy turned and walked toward the Mitsubishi.
Naeem walked toward the rear of the pickup and reached in, pulled out a large piece of cloth, and tossed it to the boy, saying something in Arabic. The boy vaulted into the back, then climbed onto the cab roof. He shook out the cloth and tied it to the aerial. John recognized the white flag with the green insignia from his internet research. The flag of Hayat Tahrir Al-Shams.
“Steve, you and Mia get in the front with Naeem. Mansur and I will sit in the back.”
John climbed in and reached a hand down to help Mansur. The boy sat in the rear with them and unslung his weapon, holding it across his lap. John studied him as he sat down with his back to the cab. He looked maybe sixteen or seventeen, his beard barely taking hold, but his eyes were that of a man much older, hard and empty. John reached
forward and held out his hand.
“Shukraan. Thank you.” The boy hesitated, then shook John’s hand. John pointed at himself. “John.”
The boy nodded and pointed to himself. “Karam,” he replied then looked at John’s chest. He mimed ripping something off, and John looked down, puzzled.
“Shit.” He ripped the Velcro press badge off his ballistic vest and stuffed it into the thigh pocket of his cargos. Mansur did the same, then they ripped them off the back of each other’s vests. The boy had been watching them, and once they were done, he looked away as the vehicle started up and moved off.
John tilted his head toward Mansur and lowered his voice. “What did the boy say?”
“He said the girl was being held prisoner. He didn’t know why, something to do with a phone. Then they brought her here. He overheard them, saying they would execute us. So, he went to find the other guy. Naeem?”
John nodded.
“They came here and told the men to let us go.”
“And they just let us go because Naeem and a boy told them to? It doesn’t make sense.”
“No, he said there was another man, an Emir.”
“What’s an Emir?”
“A... general.”
John frowned as the vehicle jolted and jumped over a pile of stones.
“The Emir and his men came with them in another vehicle.”
“I thought I heard three vehicles leaving,”
“Yes.” Mansur reached out and grabbed the side of the truck to steady himself as they rocked back and forth. “He told the other men they had to release us.”
“Why would he do that?”
“I don’t know.” Mansur grunted as the pickup crashed over another pile of debris. “But we are free, that’s all that matters.”
“Yes.” Mansur was right, but it still didn’t make sense.
“Why did this boy help us?”
“He said he’s tired. He doesn’t want to fight anymore. He wants to go home.”
“Where’s he from?”
“Raqqa, Central Syria. His family was killed in an air raid.”
“Shit. He must be only fifteen, sixteen?”
“Sixteen.”
John shook his head and looked back at the troubled young boy with the automatic weapon in his slender hands.
The pickup turned left onto a wider road that had been cleared of debris, and the ride smoothened out. Now the going was easier, John could hear raised voices in the cab. He turned to look through the rear window just as the vehicle pulled to a stop. The passenger door opened, and Steve stepped out.
“What’s the matter?”
Steve leaned his hands on the side of the tray.
“She says she won’t leave without the others.”
“The others?”
“She says there are others.”
74
Craig stood on his tiny balcony and looked down on the street below, already bustling with traders. He loved living in this part of Istanbul. Many of his colleagues stayed across the river in Cihangur with the other expats, but he preferred to be here in Balat, right in the heart of things. He knocked back the last half of his espresso and rested the glass on the handrail. He had worked the phones late into the night and early this morning without any luck.
No-one had seen or heard of any incidents involving three journalists from a Portuguese newspaper. He had tried everyone—Sophie at Médicins Sans Frontières, Trevor at the U.N., Yusuf at The Red Crescent—nothing. Despite promising him a bottle of expensive single malt, even Sergei, his contact in the Voennaya Politsiya, the Russian Military Police, had drawn a blank. As a last resort, he had phoned his government contact in Damascus, a contact he rarely used unless it was extremely important, but no-one had heard anything. Apart from shelling southwest of Saraqib and a couple of Turkish drones spotted above the M5, it had been a quiet twenty-four hours. His thoughts were disturbed by the sound of his phone buzzing, and he stepped back inside to pick it up off his desk.
“Adriana, any news?”
“No.” He heard the worry in her voice. “I was hoping you had heard something.”
Craig grimaced. “I’m... sorry, Adriana. I’ve worked my contacts, but no-one has seen them.”
The silence on the other end was deafening.
“Adriana, don’t worry yet. Just keep trying their phones. As I said, it could just be a network problem. Whenever I’m there, I always have problems.” He heard her sigh, and he closed his eyes, feeling her pain. “Look, I’ll keep trying, too. If I hear anything, I’ll be straight on the phone to you.”
“Thank you, Craig. I’m sorry to trouble you, I... I just don’t know what to do.”
“It’s no trouble at all. Stay positive, Adriana, everything will turn out alright.”
“I hope so.” He heard her sigh again. “Thank you, Craig.”
“Don’t mention it. I’ll be in touch as soon as I can.”
He ended the call and tossed the phone back onto the desk. He picked up a packet of cigarettes and his lighter and went back out onto the balcony. He tapped out a cigarette, flicked open the zippo, shielding the flame with his hands, and lit up. He took a long drag and blew the smoke into the air. Leaning his forearms onto the handrail, he stared down at the street below. There must be something he could do, someone he could call. He took another drag and flicked the ash off the end, watching the particles float out over the street. An idea was forming, but he didn’t like it. He thought over the possible connotations as he finished his cigarette and then reached a decision. Flicking the butt onto the floor of his balcony, he grabbed his espresso glass and walked back inside, putting the glass and cigarette pack down on the desk and picked up the phone. Scrolling through the phone book, he selected a number and dialed.
“Alo.”
“Mehmet, it’s Craig.”
75
“How many are there?”
“Seven.”
“Shit,” John muttered almost to himself. He glanced at Steve and John, then looked back at Mia who sat half out of the pickup cab holding Malak in her arms. Steve and Mansur stood beside him while Karam perched on the edge of the rear tray, monitoring the street. “And you say they are slaves?”
“Yes, they’ve been kidnapped from their villages and raped repeatedly. Some are only teenagers. One girl, Shayma, has been bought and sold five times. She’s fourteen!”
“They are not our problem,” Naeem grumbled from inside the cab.
“I told you I’m not leaving without them!” Mia snapped.
“Mahfuza, we cannot go back there. We have to leave.”
“No.” Mia shook her head. “I’m not going anywhere. And my name is Mia.” She looked up at John and Steve. “Don’t listen to him. He thinks it’s their right to take women as slaves. He says the Koran allows it.” She looked over at Mansur. “Is that right?”
Mansur shook his head.
She turned back to face Steve.
“Uncle Steve, if you had seen these poor girls, you wouldn’t hesitate.”
“Mia, it won’t be safe.” Steve sighed. “We have to get out of here. I’ve put John and Mansur in enough danger already.”
Mia looked at John. “Please. We can’t leave them. Mansur?”
John exhaled loudly and looked up the street. A vehicle approached from the other direction, weaving its way through the rubble. Mia reached up and arranged her hijab to cover her face as the vehicle got closer, another pickup with bearded, armed men sitting in the back. Naeem raised a hand and waved to the driver as it approached. The driver waved back, and the pickup continued by, the fighters in the rear staring at them as they passed. John waited until they were further up the street, then turned to Mansur and Steve.
“What do you think?”
“I don’t like it, mate. We came here to get Mia and Malak. We’ve got them. The sensible thing is to leave as soon as possible.”
“Mansur?”
“Mr. Steve is right. The sensible thing to do
is to leave. But...” Mansur hesitated and looked down at Mia and her child.
“But what?”
“What these men are doing is wrong. These are mothers, daughters, someone’s sister.”
John nodded. Mansur was right. They should at least try. He looked at Steve.
“Imagine it was Maadhavi.”
“I know, I know.” Steve rubbed his head in frustration. “You’re right, you’re both right.” He kicked the tire of the pickup. “But how do we do it?” He bent over so he could see inside the cab. “Naeem?”
“I’m not doing it.”
“Now listen to me, you little shit,” Steve growled. “I’ve been tolerant so far because you got us free, but…” He held up his hand, the tips of his thumb and forefinger an inch apart. “I’m this close to ripping your fucking throat out. If you want to redeem yourself, you get off your arse, come out here, and tell us how we can do this.”
Naeem didn’t move.
John bent down to look inside, and he could see the knuckles of Naeem’s right hand turn white as he gripped the butt of his AKM. He turned to Steve and tried to catch his eye, but Steve ignored him, glaring at Naeem. After a moment, there was a click, the driver’s door swung open, and Naeem got out. John and Mansur exchanged glances, then stepped back to give him space as he walked around the front of the vehicle. Naeem refused to make eye contact with Steve and stood sullenly, looking at the ground.
“Describe the building, Naeem,” John asked.
“It’s... a three-story building, abandoned,” he mumbled.
“Speak up,” Steve snapped.
John raised a calming hand.
“Go on.”
“They are on the second floor.”
“Any guards?”
Naeem shook his head. “Just one.” He glanced toward Karam. “It used to be him.”
“And are the men there now? During the day?”
Naeem shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe.”
Steve grabbed Naeem by the shoulders and pushed him up against the side of the car, his face just inches from Naeem’s.
Payback - John Hayes Series 06 (2020) Page 18