The Belgian Bagman (Justin Hall #11)

by Ethan Jones

  Rojan nodded.

  “Where is she?”

  “Justin, I—”

  “Just tell me, Rojan,” Justin shouted.

  “All right, all right, keep your voice down, or you’ll wake up everyone. She’s in one of the villages near Raykhan, but I’m not sure which one.”

  The frown on Justin’s face grew deeper. Raykhan was one of ISIS’s best-protected strongholds. It probably ranked second, after Raqqah, the capital of ISIS’s self-proclaimed caliphate.

  “How many fighters defend Raykhan?”

  “Justin, we can’t attack—”

  “That’s not what I asked, Rojan.”

  “Yes, but I know what you’re thinking. I’ve seen that look before. I know what you’re plotting.”

  “How many fighters?”

  “Too many. Even for us. Look, Justin, even if we gather all our troops in town—which is very unlikely to happen—we’re still maybe a hundred, two hundred, if we count children and old people. ISIS, they have at least five hundred combat-hardened men.”

  “Odds one to five. We’ve been in worse situations.”

  Rojan nodded. “We have, but it was different. We were all fighters. There was a strong reason, a cause.”

  “Liberating Azade isn’t a strong cause?”

  “It is, to you. It’s not going to be good enough for me.”

  Justin shook his head. “I can’t believe you’re saying this, Rojan.”

  “Listen, Justin. I’m not being cruel. But women, men, children disappear all the time. Azade wasn’t the only one who was taken. Six other women, all fighters, vanished at the same time from the camp.”

  “Even more reason to rescue them.”

  “People have tried and failed.”

  “This time will be different.”

  Rojan cursed out loud, then drew on his cigarette. “I should have kept it from you.”

  “No, I would have found out. But . . . what’s the news about her?”

  “We . . . I don’t know much, since there’s very little communication. But she’s still alive, at least she was until a week, ten days ago. One of the ISIS commanders seems to have claimed her as his wife.”

  Justin cursed the man. “I will kill him with my own hands,” he spat out.

  “At least she hasn’t been sold as a sex slave. But there’s not much—”

  “Of course, there is. We’ll free her and all the captives.”

  Rojan closed his eyes and cursed the moment he had told Justin the truth.

  Chapter Eight

  January 12

  Musayri, Northern Iraq

  Justin pulled the cezve, the long-tailed copper coffee pot, from the gas-canister makeshift stove set on a corner of the porch. He glanced at the brownish foam forming at the top of the pot and smiled. He needed a strong cup of coffee. It was his third of the night, but it was not going to be his last. Daybreak was still at least half an hour away, although the darkness had started to pull back, and a single sliver of daylight had begun to appear on the horizon.

  He poured the coffee into the small cup. Unlike the Western drip method, Kurds and some Arab countries boiled their coffee—known as Turkish coffee in most of the world—until it produced the foam, the sign that the drink was ready. Like a true Italian espresso, the small cup packed the punch of three or four regular drip coffees.

  Justin took a sip, then nodded to himself. Yes, this is really good and strong. Then he sighed, thinking of the daunting task ahead of him. Rescuing Azade and the other hostages was not going to be easy. Rojan had described it as an impossible task, considering the small contingent of fighters in town and the large force roaming around the hostages’ location. But perhaps as difficult or even more so was the task of convincing Dilawer, the Peshmergas’ chief, to dispatch his troops into what was going to be a deadly mission.

  He sipped his cup and glanced at the stars. They were less visible now against the morning twilight. Then an eruption came from the left, but Justin did not blink. The Turkish army camp was in that direction, about five miles west. Gunfire had echoed from the camp over the last hour. It was mostly machine gun fire, punctuated by the occasional mortar round, like this last one. Justin assumed they were hitting ISIS-held positions further to the west and southwest. There had been numerous clashes over the last few days between ISIS and the Turks, who seemed to have formed a fragile alliance with the Kurds, at least for the time being, since they were both fighting their common brutal enemy.

  “What’s going on?” Vale asked from the doorway.

  Justin shrugged. “Turkish army pounding ISIS.” He pointed toward the camp. “Did that wake you up?”

  “Yeah.” Vale stifled a yawn. “Is there more coffee?”

  “Here you go.” He poured the rest of the pot in a cup, but filled it only halfway. “I’ll make another pot.”

  “Thanks.” Vale sat next to Justin.

  He brought Vale up to speed on the conversation with Rojan and the captives’ situation. Vale agreed that it was going to be a difficult operation. He did not mention that it was unsanctioned and that their boss most likely would not authorize it, but the implication was clear in Vale’s words and tone of voice.

  When Justin was finished, Vale asked, “How are you going to win over Dilawer to engage the enemy?”

  “I’m not sure. I haven’t figured it out yet. He doesn’t need weapons or money, and I can’t find those readily, even if he did.”

  “A favor then?”

  “Yes, but what kind? And when?”

  Vale shrugged. “Considering what you’re asking, it’ll be whatever Dilawer wants.”

  “Yes, that’s what I’m afraid of.”

  Vale sipped his coffee. “Did you find out more about the ambush?”

  “Yes, Rojan’s men checked the area.” Justin’s face drew back in a frown.

  “And?”

  “Nothing.”

  Vale cocked his head. “What do you mean ‘nothing’?”

  “The bodies were gone, along with their rifles. Other than bullet casings and bloodstains on the sand, there was no trace of anyone.”

  Vale peered at Justin. “It seems someone cleared the area.”

  “Pretty quickly and pretty well. Very unusual.”

  “Yeah, that’s true.”

  Justin shook his head. “So, I don’t know what to make of this. They’re amateurs in the attack, but pros in cleaning up. Things don’t match up.”

  “Right, but someone else did the mop-up.”

  “Uh-huh, but they’re related. I mean, they’re the same group, or closely tied together.”

  “Why would they erase their tracks?”

  “To avoid revenge, maybe. If Behrooz or his mates find out who the attackers were, there will be bloodshed, which will last for ages.”

  “Yeah, revenge feeds these people’s blood.”

  Justin nodded. “Another reason could be the bodies were removed by the attackers’ friends, but not because they fear revenge, but discovery.”

  “Discovery?”

  “Yeah, let’s say they were Turks or Saudis or other foreign fighters roaming the area. News of their ambush and the robbery attempt wouldn’t be welcomed by anyone. The negative impact would be serious.”

  “Yes, that makes sense. And it could explain why they were such lame shooters. Some of these foreigners come here with no combat experience. Depending on how much they learned—or didn’t—these are the results.”

  “They were darker-skinned for sure, but that doesn’t narrow the field much.”

  “It doesn’t.”

  Justin picked up the pot off the flame, then turned the stove off. “More coffee?”

  “Sure.”

  He topped Vale’s cup, then poured the rest into his cup. Vale asked, “When are you meeting Dilawer?”

  “After breakfast. Bad news is better digested on a full stomach.”

  “You have great hopes.”

  “Yeah, not much else left.”


  They sat in silence for a long time, sipping their coffees.

  * * *

  The meeting with the Peshmerga fighters’ chief took place at a small house on the other side of town. Dilawer was an early riser, but still Justin waited until seven before ruining the man’s day. He had never met or heard about the chief before. Whatever little Justin knew came from Rojan. He had told Justin that Dilawer had a short fuse, like most fighters. He disliked all foreign armies involved in the never-ending wars, all for their own reasons and interest, all ignoring the rightful plea of the Kurdish people. While he had a good sense when it came to striking a deal, he was not known as a man of compromise.

  “I’m glad I can meet with you right away,” Justin said in Arabic after he shook hands with Dilawer and sat cross-legged next to the man on the carpeted floor.

  Dilawer nodded. He was younger than Justin had expected, maybe in his late thirties or early forties. His forehead had a perpetual v-shaped wrinkle stamped on it, so Justin could not tell if the chief was infuriated to see him. Dilawer wore a black-and-white headdress and had a full beard. His small brown eyes were looking at Justin with the utmost attention. “I’ve heard a lot about the ‘Canadian crazy wolf,’ so I’m glad I finally get to meet you,” Dilawer said in an even, matter-of-fact tone, and his facial expression did not change.

  Justin nodded. He was uncertain how to interpret Dilawer’s words. Depending on whom he had talked to, the comment could be flattering or disapproving. Justin had taken part in some difficult—some called them “crazy”—operations, and had used unorthodox means to achieve his or the Peshmergas’ goals. Thus the nickname. “Eh . . . okay, good.” He drew in a deep breath. “Do you mind if we switch to English, so that my teammate understands us?”

  Dilawer nodded. He gestured toward his two associates, sitting to his left and right, holding their M4 American-made assault rifles across their laps. “They know at least some English.”

  Justin smiled. “Good, very good. Now, I know you’re a busy man, so I’ll get straight to the point. It was brought to my attention that a group of civilians—Peshmergas, and some of them women and others—are being held as hostages in the village of Al-Akral, ten miles south of—”

  Dilawer waved his hand and cut Justin off. “Yes, I know where it is, and I know about those poor people. We’re working to secure their release.”

  Justin cocked his head. “You are?”

  “Yes, we are.”

  “And how are the negotiations progressing?”

  Dilawer hesitated for a moment, then said, “We haven’t started yet, but I’m trying to find a mediator, someone to take the message to those Daesh dogs, someone I can trust, and someone Daesh can trust.” He used the derogatory term for ISIS, as he droned on in his dull voice.

  Justin frowned. “Do you know the hostages’ condition?”

  Dilawer nodded. “Yes, the news is they are still alive.”

  “And how are they doing?”

  “They are still alive.”

  Justin did not press his point. “Okay, that’s good,” he said in a soft, warm voice. “And what are your plans once a mediator is found?”

  Dilawer shrugged. “Oh, we’ll negotiate a hostage exchange. The group of ISIS fighters we have captured.”

  “How many do you have?”

  “Four. We had five, but one died of his wounds.”

  “Only four? According to my count, ISIS is holding at least a dozen hostages. You’ll have to strike a hard bargain to get a 3-for-1 trade.”

  Dilawer did not take the bait. “We will discuss terms at the right time.”

  “And when might that be?”

  Dilawer’s frown grew deeper, the only sign that told Justin he had struck a chord. “It will be when it will be. These things take time.”

  Justin bit his lip. Azade doesn’t have time to be brutalized by thugs, he wanted to say, but that would not help his goal. Instead, he nodded and said, “I understand. It is difficult to find people you can trust, who can undertake such a difficult task.”

  Dilawer nodded. His face became a bit more relaxed.

  Justin continued, “You’ve heard about me, and what I used to do when I fought alongside respectful Peshmergas, like yourself and your friends.” He gestured toward Dilawer’s associates. “With your permission, I’d like to volunteer to mediate these negotiations so that—”

  Dilawer waved his hand. “I told you that I’ve heard about your adventures.” He spat out the last word as if it burned his mouth. “This is a delicate, sensitive issue that needs a man I can trust—”

  “You can trust me—”

  “I wasn’t finished.” Dilawer’s voice rose and the frown on his face deepened. “My trust is not the only concern. Daesh will kill the hostages, all of them, if they as much as suspect a trap. I can’t send a man they don’t know or who they can’t trust.”

  Justin nodded. “Very true and wise words. So, why don’t I go along with someone known, trusted by both sides?”

  “I think you missed the part when I said we don’t have a mediator yet.”

  “No, I didn’t. I’m just trying to speed up the process.”

  “Some things cannot be rushed. You should know that, Justin.”

  “Right, but those hostages don’t have all the time in the world. If we don’t act soon, there may be no reason to act at all.” His voice rose despite his efforts to try to remain calm.

  Dilawer glanced at his men, who shifted uncomfortably. One of them tightened his grip around his rifle. The chief said, “I notice this is very personal for you, Justin. But we can’t be emotional when it comes to putting lives in danger.”

  “Their lives are already in danger, and have been so ever since they were taken.” Justin shook his head and became more animated. “If we don’t act now—”

  “Then your woman will die? A lot of—”

  Justin waved a hand in front of Dilawer’s face. “Listen, Azade is not my woman, and she’s not the reason I care. These people, these captives, they all have people who love them. I wish you were one of them.”

  Dilawer locked eyes with Justin. “How . . . how dare you come here to my country and my house and insult me, if front of my people?” Dilawer’s voice rose to almost a shout. “If it weren’t for the good they tell me you’ve done and for being my guest, I would have had you thrown out, for good.”

  One of his men moved his rifle slightly toward Justin.

  The other man’s jaws locked into a menacing grin.

  “I meant no disrespect, but I don’t see you doing much to save them.”

  “I’ve had enough of foreigners coming here for sport and telling me how to run my affairs. I don’t care about what you think. Now, get out of my sight before I lose my temper . . .” His hand pointed firmly toward the door.

  The two gunmen jumped to their feet, their rifles at the ready.

  Justin nodded and got up slowly. “You’re making a grave mistake.”

  Dilawer shook his head. “No, you’re the one who already made the mistake of barging in here, thinking and acting like you know everything, even though you’ve been here less than a day.” He waved a finger at Justin. “Now leave my town right away, before I regret my decision to let you live.”

  Justin held Dilawer’s eyes for a long moment.

  One of the gunmen turned his rifle toward Justin. “Out,” he said and nodded toward the door.

  Justin did not move.

  Vale reached for Justin’s arm. “Let’s go.”

  Justin said, “This isn’t over.”

  Dilawer gave Justin a wry grin. “As far as I’m concerned, you’re done here.”

  The second gunman, who had not said a word, stepped forward.

  Vale said, “We should go.”

  Justin nodded. He backed away slowly, ignoring the two gunmen stepping closer to him, and kept his eyes glued to Dilawer’s face. This isn’t over.

  The gunmen escorted them outside, but did not touch them or even
say anything. Once on the debris-littered road, they met with Rojan. He did not need any explanation, since Justin and Vale’s deep-creased faces did all the talking. “How bad is it?” he asked in a low voice, gesturing at the two gunmen standing near the door of the house but keeping a watchful eye on Justin and Vale.

  “It could have been worse,” Justin said.

  Vale nodded. “Yeah, Dilawer could have killed us.”

  “What?” Rojan said. “I thought you went there to ask for help.”

  “We didn’t get that far. Let’s go.”

  “Where?”

  “Out of here.”

  Vale said, “Dilawer wants us to leave town ASAP.”

  Rojan spat on the ground. “He doesn’t own this place and can’t give such orders.”

  Justin shrugged. “We were going to leave today anyway.”

  “Plus, we don’t need new enemies. We have plenty as it is,” Vale said.

  “And the hostages? What are you going to do about them?” Rojan asked.

  An explosion came from the distance, in the direction of the Turkish camp. Justin turned on his heels and looked at the mushroom of smoke rising above the hills. Yes, yes, that’s it. Why didn’t I think of this sooner? “I have an idea,” he said in a low tone, trying to curb the excitement in his voice.

  Chapter Nine

  January 12

  Musayri, Northern Iraq

  “This is crazy.” Rojan threw up his hands and walked to the edge of the porch.

  Vale shook his head slowly. “It’s not going to work, Justin.”

  “I admit that it’s a very long shot, and many pieces need to fall in place, but it’s doable.”

  “It’s just a crazy plan,” Rojan said.

  “No, listen, both of you,” Justin said. “It’s very logical. The Turkish troops will have to react, and right away. And that will draw away most of the forces from Raykhan and the surrounding villages.”

  Rojan took a few steps toward Justin, who was sitting at the other end of the porch, but remained standing. “All right, provided we’re not killed in the attack and make our getaway with the ‘cargo’—let’s call it that—how can we be sure the Turks will attack Raykhan?”