Acts of War

FIVE

Ibrahim was asleep when the car eased to a stop. He awoke suddenly.

"Imshee imshee—!" he cried as he looked around. Yousef and Ali were still playing cards in the backseat. Ibrahim's eyes settled on the round, dark face of his brother, which was sleek with sweat. Mahmoud was looking in the rearview mirror.

"Good afternoon," Mahmaud said dryly.

Ibrahim removed his sunglasses and rubbed his eyes. "Mahmoud," he said with obvious relief.

"Yes," his brother said with a half-smile. "It's Mahmoud. Who was it that you wished would leave you alone?"

Ibrahim put his sunglasses on the dashboard. "I don't know. A man. I couldn't see his face. We were in a market and he wanted me to go somewhere."

"Probably to see a new automobile or an airplane or some other device," Mahmoud said. " 'Friend Ibrahim, I am the djinn of dreams and I will take you anywhere you want to go. Tell me. Would you like to meet a beautiful young woman who will be your wife?' 'Oh, thank you, djinn. You are most generous. But if you have a motorboat or a computer, I would very much enjoy making their acquaintance.' "

Ibrahim scowled. "Where is it written that one cannot enjoy speed and power and machines?"

"Nowhere, my brother," Mahmoud replied. He turned from his brother and looked up at the rearview mirror.

"I like women," Ibrahim said. "But women like children and I do not. So we are stalemated. Do you understand?"

"I do," said Mahmoud. "But you miss the point. I have a wife. I see her one night a week for an evening of fire. I kiss the sleeping children before I leave in the morning, then go off to do my work with Walid. I am content."

"That is you," Ibrahim said. "When it is time, I want to be more of a husband, more of a father than that."

"If you find a woman who wants that or needs it," said Mahmoud, "I will be very happy for you."

"Shukran," Ibrahim said. "Thank you." He yawned and vigorously dug his palms into his eyes.

"Afwan," replied Mahmoud. "You're welcome." He squinted into the rearview mirror for a moment and then opened the door. "Now, Ibrahim, if you've washed away the dust of sleep, our brothers are arriving."

Ibrahim looked ahead as two cars passed them and pulled off the road. Both were large, old cars, a Cadillac and a Dodge. Beyond the two vehicles, less than a quarter of a mile distant, were the first low-lying stone buildings of Qamishli. They were misty gray shapes rippled in the radiant heat of the burning afternoon.

Ibrahim, Mahmoud, and their two companions emerged from their car. As they walked ahead, a 707 came in low headed for a landing at the nearby airport. The noise of the engines rumbled loud and long across the flat wasteland.

As Ibrahim and his party approached, three men emerged from the Cadillac, four from the Dodge. All but one were clean-shaven and dressed in jeans and button-down shirts. The exception was Walid al-Nasri. Because the Prophet had worn a beard and a loose-fitting abaya, so did he. The seven men had come up from Raqqa, in the southwest corner of al-Gezira on the Euphrates. It was partly the desperate plight of their once-fertile city that had driven Walid to become active in the movement. And it was the strength and conviction of their newly chosen leader, Commander Kayahan Siriner, that kept Walid and the others active.

The seven Kurds welcomed the others with heartfelt hugs and smiles and the traditional greeting of Al-salaam aleikum, "Peace be upon you." Ibrahim and the others replied with a respectful Wa aleikum al-salaam, "And upon you be peace." They gave their confederates equally warm embraces. But the warmth quickly gave way to the business at hand.

The man in the robe spoke to Mahmoud. "Do you have everything?"

"We do, Walid."

Walid squinted at the Ford. As he did, Ibrahim regarded the revered leader of their band. His features were extremely dark, and the thick beard hid most of the lower half of his long face. The salt-and-pepper expanse was broken only by a long, diagonal scar that ran from the left corner of his mouth to just behind his chin. It was a memento of the June 1982 Israeli invasion of Lebanon, when his was one of over eighty Syrian planes shot down in the Bekaa Valley. Ibrahim felt humbled to be with him and deeply honored to be serving under him.

"The trunk of your automobile," Walid said. "It appears light."

"Aywa," Mahmoud said. "Yes. We put many of the weapons under the front and back seats. We did not want to be back-heavy."

"Why?"

"American satellites," Mahmoud said. "Our man at the palace in Damascus says that the satellites can see everywhere and everything in the Middle East. Even footprints. We have crossed sand in many places, and these satellites are able to measure the depth of tire tracks."

"They dare to be like unto the Mighty One, the Merciful," Walid said. He turned his face toward the skies. It was a face eroded by the hot sun and years of stress. "Allah's eyes are the only ones that matter!" he cried. "But we are told to keep vigil against our enemies," he said to Mahmoud. "You've acted wisely."

"Thank you," Mahmoud replied. "Also, the sentries on our own border might have noticed the weight. I didn't want them to move against them."

Walid regarded Mahmoud and his companions. "Of course not. We are peaceful, as the Koran teaches. Murder is forbidden." Walid raised his hands toward the heavens. "But killing in self-defense is not murder. If an oppressor lays violent hands upon us, are we not obliged to cut them off? If he writes ill of us, do we not sever the tips of his fingers?"

"If it is the will of God," said Mahmoud.

"It is the will of God," Walid confirmed. "We are His hand. Does the hand of God shy from an enemy, however great his numbers?"

"La," replied Mahmoud and the others, shaking their heads: "No."

"Is it not inscribed in the Celestial Plate, and thus inerrant? 'There was a sign for you in the two armies which met on the battlefield. One was fighting for the cause of God; the other was a host of unbelievers. The faithful saw with their very eyes that they were twice their own number. But God strengthens with His aid whom He will.' Is God not offended by our treatment at the hands of the Turks?" Walid asked, his voice rising. "Are we not the chosen instruments of God?"

"Aywa," replied Mahmoud and the others.

Ibrahim's response was quieter than that of his companions. He was no less devout than Walid or Mahmoud. But he believed, as did most, that the Koran advocated justice and not retribution. It was a matter of some debate between Ibrahim and his family, just as it was throughout Islam. Yet the Koran also taught devotion and fealty. When attacks against the Kurds had begun to intensify and Mahmoud had asked him to join the group, Ibrahim could not have refused.

Walid lowered his hands. He regarded Mahmoud's team. "Are you ready to move on?"

"We are," said Mahmoud.

"Then let us first pray," said Walid. Acting the role of the muezzin, the caller to worship, he shut his eyes and recited the Adhan, the summons to prayer. "Allah u Akbar. God is greater. God is greater. I witness that there is no god but God. I witness that Mohammad is the Prophet of God. Rise to prayer. Rise to felicity. God is greater. God is greater. There is no god but God."

As Walid spoke, the men removed their prayer rugs from the cars and placed them on the ground. The qibla, the direction of prayer, was chosen carefully. The men faced south, toward western Saudi Arabia and the holy city of Mecca. Bowing low, they offered their mid-afternoon prayers. This was the third of their five daily devotions, which were given at dawn, noon, mid-afternoon, dusk, and after dark.

The prayers consisted of several minutes of private recitations from the Koran as well as personal meditations. When they were finished, the men returned to their cars. A short time later they were driving northeast toward the small, old city. As they did, Ibrahim reflected that they were one more caravan among the countless caravans that had passed this way since the beginning of civilization. Each had had its own means of travel, its own personality, its own goals. That thought gave Ibrahim a precious sense of continuity, but also of insignificance. For each set of footprints lasted no more than a moment in the impermanent sands of al-Gezira.

Qamishli passed quickly. Ibrahim paid no attention to the ancient minarets and the cluttered market. He ignored the Turks and Syrians who mingled freely in this border city. His mind was on the job and on his faith, not as separate things but as one. He reflected on how the Koran speaks of Judgment Day, the final fulfillment of both God's threat and His promise. He thought about how those who live according to the holy words and commandments will join the other faithful and the alluring, virginal houri in Paradise. And those who do not will spend eternity in Hell. It was that faith, intensely held, that told Ibrahim that he needed to do what he would be called upon to do.

After they passed through the village, the cars moved on toward the Turkish border. Ibrahim rolled down his window.

The border crossing consisted of two sentry posts, one behind the other. One was Syrian, the other Turkish. There was a gate arm beside each booth and thirty yards of roadway between them. The road was weed-strewn on the Syrian side, clean on the Turkish side.

Walid's car was in the front of the caravan, Ibrahim's in the rear. Walid presented the visas and passports for his car. After the clerk examined them, he signaled an armed guard beside him to raise the gate arm.

Ibrahim began to feel the weight of destiny on his shoulders. He had a specific goal, the one Walid had selected for them. But he also had a personal mission. He was a Kurd, one of the traditionally nomadic peoples of the plateau and mountain regions of eastern Turkey, northern Syria, northeastern Iraq, and northwestern Iran.

Since the middle 1980s, the many guerrilla factions of the Kurds living and operating in Turkey had fought repression by the Turks, who feared that Kurdish autonomy would lead to a new and hostile Kurdistan comprised of portions of Turkey, Iraq, and Iran. This was not a religious issue, but a cultural, linguistic, and political one.

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.