* * *
Sadiq had been in contact with a Norwegian film crew about his attempts to rescue the girls. They had been following him since the summer. Their documentary had the working title Only a Father. That was how Sadiq had described himself in Syria when explaining who he was, and to IS when they accused him of being a spy.
The film crew had met Osman, Mehmut the driver, and Firas, the doctor who had bandaged up Leila and had since sought asylum in Sweden. They had also tracked down one of Sadiq’s fellow inmates from the sewage plant, a Syrian from the last cell Sadiq had been held in. All they were missing now was the girls.
Veslemøy Hvidsteen, a reporter working for NRK, the Norwegian state broadcaster, was the one who had gotten in touch with Sadiq after seeing him on the news. His back was to the camera, but Veslemøy had recognized him. In 2006 he had appeared on an episode of Migrapolis—a series about the everyday lives of immigrants in Norway—she had made. Sadiq had been interviewed along with the psychologist who had helped him tackle his trauma and problems with aggression after the Somali civil war. The girls had also featured in the 2006 recordings, playing football with their father: Ayan, a lanky teenager dressed like a tomboy; Leila, still a child.
Veslemøy’s husband, Styrk Jansen, was to direct the documentary. Sadiq had told him about the Double and that they were to meet him in a village near the border. First they’d have to hand over the agreed sum of money, then the girls would be transported out. He had told the documentary makers that the girls were in hiding, had run away from their husbands, were desperate, and had begged him to save them. When he had met Ayan in al-Dana the year before, he confided, she had grabbed hold of him like a cat bearing its claws out and whispered, “Save us, Dad, if you can!”
In early November, the producer ordered plane tickets to Reyhanlı, a town in the south of Turkey, close to the village where they were to meet the Double. Styrk packed his camera, lenses, battery packs, and cash in dollars. Sadiq was allowing him to film the meeting with the Double, follow him to the frontier, if possible, and wait there until the girls came across. The embrace—the reunion between father and daughters—was to be captured on film.
The day before they were due to depart, Styrk received a call from Sadiq. He was breathing heavily and his voice was barely audible.
“I have terrible news…”
“What’s happened?” the producer asked.
“I’ve received a picture … I’ve been sent a picture…”
Sadiq paused before saying in a grave tone, “The Double has been killed.”
Styrk Jansen had to sit down.
“That’s all I know,” Sadiq sobbed. It was Osman who had sent him the photograph, he said. “He’s been beheaded and crucified!”
Sadiq forwarded the image to Styrk. It showed a man tied to a fence, his body leaning into the barbed wire and his arms outstretched. His decapitated head, with a short dark beard and a round, heavyset face, was placed between his legs. There was a placard on his body with the words I AM A TRAITOR.
“Two nights ago he was on his way out of his apartment in Reyhanlı,” Sadiq explained. “Outside the building, he was surrounded by several men in niqabs and bundled into a car. They drove him across the border into Syria. IS had uncovered his double-dealing. The local head of Nusra had been holding secret negotiations with IS in order to join forces. The meetings concluded with the Nusra commander swearing allegiance to Abu Bakr al-Baghdadi. The Islamists pooled weapons and men. The lists of personnel had given the game away. The same man appeared on both. It mattered little that they were now one group—if you’ve betrayed once, you can easily do it again. A spy is a spy. The sentence is death,” Sadiq related.
Styrk shivered.
“Are we the reason he was caught? Could it be because he was going to rescue the girls? Are we to blame for a man’s death?”
“I don’t know,” Sadiq replied. “We’ll have to wait until I get the full version from Osman. He’s in mourning now. They were close relatives.”
Styrk canceled the airline tickets. Put the cameras back on the shelf.
* * *
Autumn brought darkness.
And it would get darker still. Osman texted Sadiq.
“Abu Siddiq is not dead.”
“Who?!”
The Syrian smuggler had made inquiries.
“Hisham! Your son-in-law. He used to call himself Abu Siddiq. Now he’s changed his name again.”
“I’m sure he’s dead,” Sadiq replied.
“He’s alive. A guy that knows him has seen him twice. The second time was only two days ago.”
“Oh, no…”
“He was in the hospital. Wounded. Listen. Wait until you hear. The clinic where he was treated is underground. Several yards down. In a parking facility in Raqqa. And do you know who else was there? The leader! He was wounded in the same assault, or so they say. That’s all I know.”
“How do you know he’s alive?”
“The guy I know confirmed it.”
“So that bloody bastard was alive two days ago…”
“He had a Toyota 4×4 he wanted to sell, the same one he had in Atmeh! I saw pictures of it. His Arabic was really bad, by the way. He speaks the language like an idiot.”
Rumors flew this way and that. Rumors could take a life or they could bring people back from the dead. Osman knew people on all sides. When he got wind of a story, hearing various versions, he analyzed the pieces, added his own; his ability to patch the information together was his main currency as a smuggler.
* * *
Sadiq’s daughters were unaware of their father’s rescue attempts. In early December, after being out of contact with Ismael for several months, Ayan took up the thread of the conversation they had left off.
“Hey you! Have you bothered looking for answers or are you mucking about?”
“How are things?” Ismael answered.
“Alhamdulillah just fine.”
“Where are you now?”
“At
