Ironically, it was United Nations pressure on Ankara and Baghdad to relax attacks on the Kurds that only recently allowed them, to focus on mounting a unified offensive. A series of meetings at Base Deir in the deepest caves of the northern Bekaa followed. After eight months, representatives of the Iraqi, Syrian, and Turkish Kurds devised Operation Yarmuk, a plan to use water and surgical military activity to throw the Middle East into disorder. In command of the base and its operation was a fifty-seven-year-old Southern California-educated Turkish Kurd named Kayahan Siriner. Siriner’s longtime Syrian friend Walid al-Nasri was one of his most trusted lieutenants.
Mahmoud had used Hasan’s radio to let Base Deir know that they were coming in. They used the same frequency used by the more prosperous farmers in the region to keep in touch with their shepherds, and referred to themselves by code names. Anyone who was eavesdropping electronically would not suspect their real identities. Mahmoud had informed Siriner that they were coming in with several oxen—enemies who were unmanned. Had he told them that he was bringing in bulls, it would have meant that the enemies were armed and the Kurds were the hostages. Still, Siriner knew that Mahmoud could have been coerced into making the broadcast. The Kurd leader would not take any chances.
The appearance of the ROC was preceded by over a minute by the sound of it crawling up the gentle slope. Stones and dead branches cracked thickly beneath its tires, the engine hummed and echoed, and finally it was visible through the trees. The ROC made its circuitous way toward the cave, avoiding the land mines and stopping when the trees became too thick. When the passenger’s door opened, four armed Kurds ran out of the cave, each wearing a black kaffiyeh and camouflage fatigues and carrying an old NATO Model 1968 submachine gun. Before they could deploy, one man on each side, Ibrahim shut the van down and Mahmoud stepped from inside. He raised his pistol and fired three shots into the air. Had he been a hostage, he would not have been carrying a loaded gun. Shouting his thanks to God and His Prophet, Mahmoud holstered his pistol and walked toward the nearest man. As Mahmoud embraced him, and whispered to him of the loss of Hasan, the other three guards went to the open passenger’s door. Ibrahim did not hug the men. His attention was on the blindfolded prisoners, and he didn’t relax until they’d been led one by one into the cave. Only when they had been tied up inside did Ibrahim walk over to Mahmoud, who was standing alone beside the van. The guards had returned with earth-colored tarps. They quickly began throwing them over the van.
Ibrahim hugged his brother. “We paid dearly for this one,” Ibrahim sobbed.
“I know,” Mahmoud said into his ear. “But it was God’s will, and Walid and Hasan are with Him now.”
“I’d rather they were still with us.”
“So do I,” Mahmoud said. “Now come. Siriner will want to hear about the mission.”
Mahmoud kept his arm around his brother’s shoulder as the two of them walked toward the cave. It was the first time Ibrahim had been to the sanctuary of the unified Kurdish freedom fighters. He had always hoped that his coming would have been under different circumstances. Humbly, almost invisibly, as an observer. A witness to history. Not as a hero who felt like a blunderer.
Base Deir was named after the Syrian word for monastery. It was Kayahan Siriner’s way of acknowledging the lonely, sacrificial life he and his people led here. The command headquarters was located in an underground section of the cave. A tunnel had been dug in the floor, and cinderblocks had been used to make steps. The tunnel was covered by a trapdoor which, when shut, could not be seen in the floor of the dark cave. The door had been weighted with heavy strips of rubber. If anyone walked on it, their footsteps wouldn’t sound hollow. Beyond the trapdoor the cave continued to the north. There, the dozens of PKK soldiers slept on cots and ate around a picnic table. Just past their sleeping quarters the cavern forked. The eastern fork was nearly a straight continuation of the north-running tunnel. Daylight was visible from one end to the other. A dead-end dry gallery, this fork contained the militia’s arms and gas-powered generators. The group’s field commander, Kenan Arkin, had a station here and in the command headquarters. The tall, gaunt Turk remained in constant contact with the PKK’s many factions. The natural cave had ended there, but the soldiers had broken through to a small gorge beyond. Cliffs overhung the gorge on either side, hiding it from the air and making it ideal for training. In the western fork of the cavern were ten small, dark pits. They were lined with wire mesh and covered with circular iron grates. The grates were held in place by iron bars which lay across the center. Each end of the bar was fitted into an iron upright. The eight-foot-deep holes were used as jail cells and held two people each. Sanitation consisted of larger mesh openings on the bottom.
Electric lights had been strung along the roof of the narrow passageway, and Siriner’s bunker was protected by an iron door. The door had been made from the hatch and armored plate of a Syrian tank destroyed by the Israelis. It was cool ten feet below the surface of the cave, and within the bunker itself a pair of large fans stirred the musty air. The room was nearly square and roughly the size of a large freight elevator. The walls were naked, and the low ceiling had been covered with a clear plastic tarp. The plastic was pulled tight and bolted in the corner to protect the room in the event of artillery shelling. There were rugs on the dirt floor, a small metal desk, and folding chairs with embroidered cushions. Beside the desk was a shredder. Behind it there was a radio with a headset and stool.
Commander Kayahan Siriner was standing behind his desk when Mahmoud and Ibrahim entered. He was dressed in a drab-green uniform and a white kaffiyeh with a red band. He wore a .38 in a holster on his belt. Siriner was of medium height and build, with dark skin and pale eyes. He had a very thin pencil moustache on his upper lip and a ring on his left index finger. The gold band sported two large silver daggers crossed beneath a star. Like Walid, Commander Siriner bore a scar. This one was a deep, jagged scar which ran from the bridge of his nose to the middle of his right cheek. He had obtained the wound as the leader of the Kurdish food parties in Turkey. It was his job to lead small bands against non-Kurdish villages to obtain food. If the villagers didn’t give it willingly, the Kurds took it by force. Turkish soldiers were killed out of hand whether they resisted or not.
Commander Siriner did not leave the cave unless it was necessary. Even at night, there was the fear that he might be assassinated by Turkish or Iraqi snipers positioned in the peaks around the base.
It was both a relief and an honor that Siriner was standing. An honor because the commander was showing the men respect for what they’d accomplished. A relief because he attached no blame to them for the loss of Walid and Hasan.
“I thank Allah for your safe return and for the success of your mission,” said Siriner, his deep, resonant voice filling the room. “You have come with a trophy, I understand.”
“Yes, Commander,” said Mahmoud. “A vehicle of some kind which the Americans use to spy.”
Siriner nodded. “And you are certain that in bringing it here, you yourselves were not spied upon?”
“We used it to blind the satellite, Commander,” said Ibrahim. “There is no doubt that they cannot see us.”
Siriner smiled. “As their flyovers of the region suggest.” He looked at Mahmoud. “Tell me what happened to Walid’s ring and to Hasan.”
Mahmoud took a step forward. Hasan had radioed the base about Walid’s death, and the guard had just informed Siriner of Hasan’s death. Now, Mahmoud gave their commander the details. The commander remained standing as he spoke. When Mahmoud was finished, Siriner sat down.
“The American is here, in captivity?”
“He is,” said Mahmoud.
“He knows how to work the equipment you’ve captured?”
“He does,” said Mahmoud. “Several of the captives appear to know something of its operation.”
Siriner thought for a long moment, and then called for a soldier who served as his master-at-arms. The brawny young man hurried into the office and saluted. Military formalities were strictly observed among the twenty-five soldiers who were permanently stationed at the base.
The commander returned the salute. “Sadik,” he said, “I want the American leader tortured where the others can hear.”