by Leo Gher
Then one of the fighters grabbed Tali, pulled her up, and held her while another injected her with a mixture of Fentanyl and Propanol, a drug cocktail that had a rapid onset. Tali would be out cold for several hours.
“Get her to the cruiser,” said the shadow man. “I will return to the hideout in a week, maybe ten days. Make sure she cannot escape.”
The first soldier hoisted Tali’s limp body onto his shoulder, and then they all scurried for the Ciragan pier. A few minutes later, the Turkish police arrived on the scene, but the kidnappers had entirely disappeared.
The following morning, the Istanbul newspaper headlines read: Armenian Terrorists Attack Ciragan Palace – Azeri Foreign Secretary Killed. All told, 25 people lay dead in the aftermath. Two were identified as Armenian nationals. The investigating officer said that it appeared to be an assassination and that the perpetrators were looking for a second target. But nothing else was found.
26
The Many Roads to Ninots
None of the Vartan Alliance commanders, 400 miles north in the Romanian outback, saw the headlines announcing the assassination of the Azerbaijani Foreign Secretary. It didn’t matter, a decision had been made – the new team was ready for a test. After many weeks of training and culling, Mike, Lindy, and Jake had reduced the Armenian diaspora force to a few hundred AWS operators and support staff. The more than 4,000 others were paid, asked to sign a pledge of secrecy, and then sent home.
Nonetheless, in the back of his mind, Tad Tadesian understood that he could recall his stand-by volunteers any time if the drone strategy failed. But everything had changed. No longer ground troops, members of the reconstituted unit saw themselves as flyers. Accordingly, Tadesian rechristened his team the Vartan Defense Wing. But nobody liked such long awkward moniker; instead, everyone used a shorter handle. They called it the d-Wing.
The commanders of the air company divided the d-Wing into five flights of 40 airmen plus support staff, with a captain in charge of each flight. Then, as many combatants often do, the men and women of the force nicknamed their units to their liking: the California group was called d-Wing Glendale, the Boston association d-Wing Watertown, and so on. Tadesian was the commander, while Mike and Lindy were colonels in charge of logistics and technology. Each flight managed an air regiment: 50,000 weaponized micro drones. But none was sure the d-Wing could perform on the battlefield as it had on the practice fields, so it was time to put theory into action. But how? Was Tadesian’s overriding concern.
“Something will come up,” said Mike.
One of the commanders who knew the trek from the Georgian coast to the Armenian frontier said, “Once we reach Batumi, there are several valleys where we can set up an exercise.”
Another added, “The Turks often use the region for training. We might engage one of their units on the ground.”
“Too risky,” Tadesian said. “We don’t want to be discovered too early.” No one had an answer, so the idea of a test was put on the backburner.
For the past two days, the Carpathian rendezvous contingent had been shutting down the campsite and preparing for the Black Sea crossing. All records, equipment, and munitions had been loaded, and everyone was ready to make the voyage to Georgia and beyond. Lindy and Jake were in their tiny hovel finishing last-minute packing. In a somewhat ornery mood, Lindy said, “I don’t understand why you didn’t take Tadesian’s offer.”
“To join the TDW?”
“To be a Wing captain,” she barked.
“I can’t be tied down. You know I have other plans.”
Lindy closed her eyes and fell back against the wall of the cabin. “That again?” she mumbled. “We’ve worked on this project for more than a year. You can’t quit now.”
Jaws clenched, Jake raised his voice, “Didn’t you hear me? I have plans.”
She opened one eye and glared, ready—if only she had the superpower—to vaporize Moynihan’s stubbornness on the spot. “We. Where, in perdition’s name, is the we in that plan?”
“Go away.”
“Go away? This dump has a bath, a bedroom, and a coffee pot. Where in the name of Christ am I supposed to go?”
Jake said, “You know what I mean.”
Lindy paused for a moment as a picture of Jake’s scheme materialized in her head: Dig up Tom’s bones and steal them away… God, that sounds crazy. Frustrated by the bickering, Lindy reached across and touched Jake’s shoulder, “I understand,” she said, “and want to be a part of that, trust me.”
“Then why all this bitching?”
“Look, crazy boy, I’m not asking you to give up your plans.” She turned back, looked searchingly into Jake’s eyes, and tried to nudge him gently to levelheadedness. “Just not now.”
“Crazy or not, I made a promise.”
She thought to herself, Yeah, yeah, the fucking promise. After that, Lindy clammed up, knowing that nothing more could be accomplished this morning.
By two pm, the entire d-Wing was on the move. It was an eighty-mile trip to the launching point at the Danube delta. Avoiding Romanian authorities was essential, so the convoy didn’t use the main port, but a private facility at Tulcea, some five miles to the southeast. Tadesian had retained three commercial hydrofoils for the 90-minute trip to the coast. Each high-speed riverboat would have to make two round trips through the streamlets and channels, and then unload the airmen, munitions, and equipment to the cargo vessel waiting on tenterhooks offshore. They hoped to finish before nightfall.
At the same time, across the Black Sea and some 170 miles inland, Sam and Iza Mansour and Chira Beggs had just entered Kars Province in far eastern Turkey when it began sleeting. A spring storm had rendered many of the access roads to the city impassable. The first turnoff to Kars was closed, so Sam was forced to drive further south on the main highway, and then turn west to enter the city. Locating their hotel would now be more difficult. It had been many years since Chira had lived in the area, and she was familiar with only a few of the local landmarks. Chira said, “I know that… it’s the Kars mosque.” She was pointing to a domed building with a conical roof. “It was a museum when I was a kid, during Soviet times.”
“Just one mosque?” Sam asked.
“There are several,” Chira replied. “But that one used to be a Russian Orthodox church called the Church of the Holy Apostles. If you look closely at the exterior, there is a bas-relief of twelve men. The Alevi elders thought they must be the Twelve Apostles of Jesus.”
Iza asked, “Why did it change hands?”
“Like everything here, when outsiders take over the city, they change things up,” she explained. “An Armenian church it once was, then back to Russian, then a warehouse, then a school gymnasium, and so on. I suppose God gets confused about what we silly humans want.”
Sam was more concerned about their destination than the city’s landmarks. “Where’s our hotel?”
“By the river. Look for the Castle on the hill, then keep going west.” It wasn’t a direct route; many streets were mud-packed quagmires, rendered impassable. Then they saw the Castle, high above the Kars. As they drove nearby, they were surprised to see an armed checkpoint, manned by guards, assault vehicles, and a thoroughly controlled entry gate. Further up the road, they recognized what looked like a military bivouac just below the walls of the Castle. It was the Turkish military. “That’s odd,” said Iza. “Why would the Turkish armed forces be stationed here in Kars? It’s a nowhere town.”
“Armenia,” Chira said. “Something is up, and it can’t be good.”
“Now which way to the hotel?”
“Hotel Katerina, yes.” Chira paused to remember the way, but it had been so long ago. “Keep heading west, I think. Look for the river.”
Fifteen minutes later, the little band of travelers found their hotel, tucked between the river and Castle Hill. It was an old hotel – Russian panach
e with over-the-top gilded fixtures and furnishings, and thermal-insulated burgundy drapes. “Your rooms are on the upper floor,” the clerk said. “Would you like some help with your luggage?” Iza nodded, and the woman motioned for the bellhop. She called him TJ.
“We’re searching for a friend.”
“Yes?”
“He was here a few months ago,” she said, “hunting.”
“Did he have a guide?” the clerk asked.
“Yes, I believe his name was Ali.”
“Ali Tabak,” the receptionist replied. “He doesn’t live here, but in Sarikamis.”
“How can we contact him?”
“I’m sure the desk at Katherina’s Mansion would have his number. It is an hour away.”
“Katherina’s Mansion?”
“It’s the ski resort and hunting lodge at Sarikamis.”
Sam commented, “Everything here is named Katerina.”
“Yes,” the clerk replied, “after the Russian Czarina. She lived here, you know.”
After a 60-hour voyage across the Black Sea, the cargo vessel carrying the Vartan Defense Wing arrived at Batumi in the early afternoon of March 9. It docked inland at a commercial port near the mouth of the Chorokhi River. A convoy of trucks was waiting as planned. That’s where Jake Moynihan said goodbye to Lindy Bedrosian. “Once I secure my father’s remains,” he said, “I’ll rejoin the VDW as soon as possible.”
Lindy didn’t believe him. “Stop lying, Jake. Just go back to Chicago and forget about us.”
“I can’t forget about you.”
Lindy looked directly into his eyes and knew that this might be the end of their relationship. They hugged without affection, and then Jake picked up his duffel and left. Lindy watched him intently for a few minutes, a few tears welling up. But when he was out of sight, she caught her breath and turned to the obligations she had waiting in Armenia.
After a night’s rest, Sam, Iza, and Chira left their hotel in search of Ali Tabak. Because Sarikamis was 1,000 feet higher than Kars, the road was still frozen, and traveling there was less complicated. Once they arrived at the resort, they quickly found the concierge, who knew the hunting guide. “I have his number. Would you like me to text him?”
Sam replied, “Yes. Please tell him we are looking for Rufet Qurb.” A few minutes later, Ali replied: “No problem. Tell them to come to my cabin. Rufet is here with me.”
Ali lived in a small house above the city. The simple pinewood cabin was first owned by his uncle, who raised him and a cousin there, but now he lived alone. His uncle was dead, as were his parents, and he had no siblings. The one luxury of Tabak Chalet was the magnificent view of Mt. Aladag; it was the highest peak in the district.
Ali made a living as what Americans would call, in an earlier century, a mountain man. He worked various jobs. In late fall and early winter, he guided hunters in the lower Caucasus. The Russians forever wanted to hunt wolves, brown bears, and the Caucasian lynx, but such species were rare nowadays, and the hunts often ended without seeing any game. Ali preferred to hunt the Ibex, and there were plenty of Europeans and Middle Easterners who sought a trophy for mounting at home.
In summers, Ali would guide birdwatchers in the Aras-Kura Valley wetlands. In recent years, he and one group of ringers and observers had identified a bird species new to the area, the raptor commonly known as the Little Banded Goshawk. When not hunting or guiding birders, Ali hired out as a scout for the Turkish army. To make such a living, Ali needed a keen sense of the territories, a knowledge of herbal remedies, and, of course, the skills of an expert marksman.
When the two university professors knocked on Ali’s door, they didn’t know what to expect but were delighted at the prospect of seeing Rufet again. “Mr. Tabak!” Iza shouted out. “It’s the Mansours.”
A moment later, Ali appeared. “Welcome,” he said. “Come in. I’ve made tea.” The interior of the cabin was a surprise. Each of the visitors expected to see a variety of taxidermy mounted on the walls, but there was none, just a few photos of Ali with friends. Everything was natural white pine, which was plentiful in the area. All the furnishings were simple, rustic, and were painted a pale blue, a nice compliment to the aged wood. “Have a seat,” said Ali. “I’ll bring the pot.” Ali was short, stocky, and sported a military buzz-cut. He was 28 years old, poised and affable.
Sam said, “Very kind of you, Ali, but we’re anxious to see our old friend Rufet.”
Ali was taken aback, “See Mr. Qurb?”
“Yes, he’s been missing for months.”
It took a moment, but Ali gradually understood, and his face fell. “When I said, ‘Rufet’s with me,’ you thought…” He paused and heaved a sigh. “Let me show you. Come with me.” Ali led Sam, Iza, and Chira into a bedroom at the back of the cabin. It was empty, but Sam recognized Rufet’s old Weatherby rifle sitting next to the bed. Ali walked to the window that looked out toward the mountain and pointed. “He’s there,” he said. “I buried him next to the path that leads to the high ridge. See that pillar of stones? I thought I should mark his grave.”
“Rufet’s dead?” Iza asked in a whisper.
“He loved looking at Mt. Sarikamis,” Ali replied. “He spent his time in this bedroom longing for one more hunt on the mountains.”
Sam said, “No one knew what happened.”
Chira recognized what to do next. It was the custom of the people of the region to convey the story of how a loved one died. “Tell us about it, Ali… tell us what happened, and how you saved him.”
Ali nodded humbly and then escorted his guests back to the great room of the cabin. They sat down at the table, and Ali said, “I’ll bring the tea now.”
Once everyone had been served, Ali began: “Straightaway I knew Rufet Qurb to be a righteous man, a man of the mountains. I joined him in the lobby of the ski resort. He said, ‘I want to hunt for an Ibex trophy; 50-inch horns, nothing less will do.’ Rufet told me he had four days, and wanted to hunt alone as he did in his youth on Mount Sheki.”
Sam said, “Rufet and his boss, Conor, had had a meeting with President Guliyev at Kars Castle.”
“Yes, he told me about that. He told me many things about the Kedar Bey.”
“So, you know that war is in the offing?” said Iza.
“Rufet had a strong sense that he was dying, and said he had vital information about the Kos family… that I needed to relay things about them and what was happening in Azerbaijan.”
Chira interjected, “Finish your story first, Ali. We can talk about Bәla later.”
Ali looked at Chira Beggs enigmatically, “You’re Alevi, right?” She affirmed his reading. “A soothsayer?” Chira nodded again.
Ali continued the story of the rescue: “I was concerned about his age, the rugged terrain, and a snow squall that would soon blanket the region. But he was adamant: ‘I’ll take my satellite phone; I’ll just call you in case of trouble,’ he said.
“I didn’t argue. The next day, I packed camping gear, bought provisions, and rented two good horses for the trip up-range. After several hours, I discovered what I thought to be an excellent location for hunting Ibex, on a rising slope just below the two ridges, the Torluu Ridge and the Korluk. It was late afternoon when I found a suitable spot for his base camp. It was level ground, so I dug a pit in case he wanted to start a fire. He was set. He had an old Weatherby rifle; bolt-action with a Swarovski scope. You saw it in the bedroom. Rufet knew what he was doing, and I was okay with that. ‘Be back in three days,’ Qurb said. I agreed, spiked out the tent, and then left.
“The following day, there was a sudden drop in the temperature, and on the Anatolian Plateau, that often means a storm. I became worried… that I couldn’t get back to him on time, so I decided to head out in the morning. When I arrived at his camp at noon, I was a day early, and Rufet was missing. At first, I thought nothing of it. H
e’s on the hunt. I’ll just wait until he returns. But then I noticed the snow on the ground around his tent was undisturbed, and there were no warm ashes in the fire pit. I realized, no one was in camp last night. I had four or five hours before sunset, so I set out with both horses to track his movements.
“About 90 minutes later, I arrived at the grazing slopes where a large herd of Ibex was usually found. There was no snow there, and that was good news, so I searched up and down the range but found nothing, no clues. I dismounted, sat down, and reached for my canteen. Just as I began sitting, there was a flash of light that startled me. I thought it might be a signal. I reached for my binoculars and searched the area. It happened again, and I marked the location with my rangefinder. It was 100 yards or so below.
“When I arrived there, I quickly understood what was causing the flash of light. It was sunlight reflecting off the lens of the scope of Rufet’s Weatherby. It had been abandoned on the ground. What the hell? I thought. Qurb would never leave his rifle. But he was nowhere in sight. That’s when I noticed the loose shale on the precipice just above. It was dangerous, but I peeked over the edge and saw Rufet’s body about 20 or 25 feet below.”
Iza interrupted, “How in God’s name did you rescue his body?”
“Let him finish, Iza.”
“Good question,” Ali replied. “I always carry a rope on my hunts, and I secured one end to my lead horse, then rappelled to the ledge below. Once I secured Rufet’s body, I climbed back out and then walked the horse away until he was out of the crag. I had no notion whether he was alive or dead. Once I got back to the base camp, I carried Rufet inside the tent. He was alive… barely. He had two wounds, one in the chest and the other in the leg. The chest wound looked grave, but the ribs had stopped the bullet from penetrating any vital organs. It must have been a very long shot. It severed veins, and there was a lot of bleeding at first. The cold temperatures probably saved his life. The leg wound was much worse.