The undeclared war had claimed twenty thousand lives by 1996. Ibrahim did not become involved until then, when water became even scarcer in the region due to Turkish operations and his cattle began to die of thirst. Although Ibrahim had served in the Syrian Air Force as a mechanic, he had never been a militant. He believed in the Koran’s teachings of peace and harmony. But he also felt that Turkey was strangling his people, and the genocide could not go unavenged.
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.