Court’s motorcycle rounded a tight turn, cresting a rise in the fog that made it impossible to see what was just thirty yards ahead, and when they straightened out and began going down again, Court reached for the brakes.
A technical was in the middle of the road, blocking it off. In back of the vehicle was a .50 caliber machine gun, with a bearded man standing behind it.
And around the vehicle and the big gun, easily another dozen fighters stood with rifles on their shoulders. It was clear they’d heard the bike approaching for some time.
Court stopped the machine totally, just twenty meters from the truck.
Court said, “Tell me these guys are FSA.”
The Terp did not reply.
“Kid? Are they Iranian?”
After several seconds the Terp said, “They’re Daesh.”
Court felt his passenger reaching for the pistol in the small of Court’s back, but Court saw all the guns on him, and he knew the outcome of any resistance.
“No. Don’t do it.”
Both men raised their hands.
* * *
? ? ?
The young Syrian FSA soldier and Court were stripped of their gear, all the way down to their T-shirts and pants; even their shoes were taken off and carted away. The men who did the frisking said little. They moved with efficiency, and as soon as he and the Terp were led off the road, Court saw why.
A long Ural truck stood behind a stone outcropping on the hill, and inside it were over a dozen men. They all looked like FSA to Court, but he wasn’t about to speak to his partner to find out for sure.
The prisoners were surrounded by five more armed ISIS fighters, putting the total number of hostiles here to nearly a dozen.
Court and the Terp were loaded into the truck. A guard standing in the bed lashed their hands behind their backs and shoved them into positions on the floor of the bed, next to other men.
Court looked around. Heads hung low. Some men had been physically beaten, and one older man, he might have been forty but his head was almost bald and what hair he did have was gray, had obviously been shot in the upper shoulder. The wound glistened and bled unattended as the man lolled his head in immense pain with his arms fastened behind his back.
Court and the Terp sat there with the prisoners for several minutes, until another vehicle drove by the hilltop road; it, too, was stopped at the roadblock, and then three more terrified young men were led around the rock and onto the truck.
The truck rolled off in the late afternoon, heading north, deeper into the hills.
Court and the Terp did not say a single word to each other. Court just looked out at the deep fog. The fog that had saved him, and the fog that had condemned him.
CHAPTER 77
Twenty-four-year-old Yasmin Samara held Jamal Medina tight, looking down at the sleeping boy. She was worried about tonight, but Dr. Saddiqi had promised her everything had been arranged by a man in France who was in contact with Bianca.
Yasmin did not know, and she did not trust. But she did not know what else she could do but go along with the arrangement.
Now she stood in the lobby of the doctor’s apartment building, watching the headlights of the approaching vehicle. The doctor had gone outside to make sure everything was safe first, and he said he would wave her forward if the coast was clear.
She watched him lean into the car. After a few seconds the engine was turned off and two occupants climbed out.
She started to panic, thought about running out the back, as had been the plan, but Dr. Saddiqi waved to her.
The car was driven by an Arab-looking couple in their twenties who wore civilian clothing and smiled at her, and the woman even stroked the baby’s head in Yasmin’s arms as the man loaded her bags into the car. Saddiqi wished Yasmin luck and told her inshallah she would be very safe, very soon. The young doctor went back into his building, and Yasmin climbed into the backseat.
The woman sat in back with her and the baby while the man began driving to the south. The woman explained that although there was no reason to worry, the entire city was looking for the boy in Yasmin’s arms. To get through the checkpoints they would have to play different roles. They were sisters, Yasmin was the boy’s aunt, and the driver was the woman’s husband.
Yasmin was handed forged identity papers; her “sister” took Jamal and put him in her own lap.
Between Damascus and the Jordanian border they were stopped four times. On each occasion the husband calmly told the officers that they were heading home to Daraa. It was clear to Yasmin that the forged papers were good quality, because other than shining flashlights into the backseat, even on the baby, they had no problems. Each time their documents, and their stories, saw them through.
Yasmin had never been to the Jordanian border, so she didn’t know what to expect, but after they passed through the Syrian town of Daraa, there were no lights, no buildings. It was just flat farmland, though if anything was being cultivated here now, the young girl could not see it out the window.
To her surprise the driver pulled the vehicle over to the side of the quiet road, parked, and flashed his headlights. The woman playing the part of Jamal’s mother climbed out with the baby in her arms, and she beckoned Yasmin on. They stood there by the side of the road for a moment, and then a sound broke the quiet, coming in from the opposite direction of the glow from the city of Daraa.
Yasmin knew it was a helicopter, but when she looked into the sky she couldn’t see any lights.
The helicopter was on top of them before she saw it; it appeared out of the darkness above the road right next to the car. A satchel was tossed down and the man caught it, then threw it into the vehicle’s open window.
The tires of the helicopter touched the ground and Yasmin was rushed to it by the woman holding Jamal. She climbed aboard and was heaved in by a pair of strong arms and strapped to a seat. Around her were several men in military uniforms, rifles on their chests.
When the young couple and Jamal were aboard and strapped in, the helicopter took off again; it had not been on the ground for ten seconds. They turned around and flew back in the direction the sound had come from, and Yasmin watched while a soldier put a pair of headphones over the baby’s ears. Just then Yasmin saw a flash of light behind her out the door of the helicopter. She looked back to see the car exploding in a fireball on an otherwise quiet farm road.
* * *
? ? ?
They landed after only fifteen minutes in the air. She was handed back Jamal and told she was safe in Idlib, Jordan, and the man and the woman who’d rescued her disappeared through a doorway.
She and Jamal were ushered to a private room and given food and blankets, she fed Jamal, and every few minutes someone would pop their head in and ask if she had everything she needed.
An hour after she arrived, Jamal was wide awake and in a playful mood. A woman brought a foam cup with some little rocks in it and a lid that had been taped closed. The woman apologized that this Royal Jordanian Air Force base didn’t have any baby toys lying about, but she hoped Jamal would enjoy his new rattle nevertheless.
Yasmin was shaking the toy to Jamal’s delight when Bianca Medina raced into the room, collapsed on her son, and held him tight. Yasmin began to cry and Bianca pulled her into the hug, while Jordanian intelligence agents looked on and wondered just what the hell they were supposed to do with a Spaniard and two Syrians without documents.
CHAPTER 78
Court spent the entire night in a cramped cell with what seemed like fifty or sixty men. He wore an orange jumpsuit, exactly like in his dream the day before, and he’d been given no food or water.