The traditional power structures from Assad’s time, when Idlib province was ruled by a network of party careerists and local clan leaders, were gone. Atmeh had become a quagmire of organized crime, strict Islamic control—and anarchy. There was no authority with a monopoly on violence; it was the survival of the fittest. Many sank to the bottom and disappeared, first threatened and then killed. Abductions were rife, the victims often ordinary people, anyone, as long as they could pay. A nephew, a cousin, or a father might be kidnapped in an attempt to squeeze cash out of a family. Whether on the front line or in a dispute over a dollar, a life had little value.
Al-Qaida’s Syrian arm had the most clout in the province and demanded others submit to it. Al-Nusra was attempting to establish a proto-emirate—putting its own area under strict Islamist rule and increasingly stealing features from IS. It engaged in extensive taxation of its territories, levying charges, tariffs, and fines for any infringement of the new rules. Smugglers were no exception. On the contrary, al-Nusra closely followed their activities and wanted a share of the profits.
“Things are tough. I’m exhausted. I feel like I’m at the end of my tether,” Osman wrote.
“No, brother, don’t say that. What happened to Nusra?”
“Nusra has become like IS,” Osman replied. “Any friends I had in Nusra are all martyrs now.”
“May God receive them. How did Nusra become like IS?”
Al-Nusra issued laws and decrees and sent them out to towns and villages under their control. Infidelity and homosexuality meant death by stoning, Assad loyalists could expect execution by gunshot to the head. “All entertainment stores that feature billiards, table football, and computer games” were ordered closed, an edict read. The store owners were responsible for looking for another form of livelihood, which it was pointed out had to be legitimate according to sharia. Shops had to close during prayer time because God the Almighty had said, “Bow with those who bow.” Written at the bottom of each edict were the words: “And God is the one behind this intention.”
Al-Nusra was one of the wealthiest rebel groups in Syria. In the beginning, half of its resources had come directly from al-Qaida, the rest from donors abroad, mostly from the Gulf, and Qatar in particular. Over time the group captured military matériel from Assad and also financed its activities with income from the oil fields they had taken. They also earned millions from abducting people and holding them for ransom. If you were a foreigner who had the misfortune to be kidnapped in Syria, being taken by al-Nusra was a blessing in disguise. They were more interested in the money they could get for you than your head on a plate.
* * *
“Brother, have you spoken to your daughters? Is there any news?”
It was night. January had turned to February. Osman had logged on to Viber.
“The younger is four months pregnant.” Sadiq had just heard the news from Sara.
“The younger!” Osman exclaimed, and sent a crying emoji.
Sadiq just wrote KKKKKKKKKK, the Somali way of representing laughter in writing.
“Ah, you’ll be a granddad, old man!” Osman wrote. “You need to get her now, inshallah. The longer it goes, the more difficult it will become.”
That was just it. So many harsh words had passed between Sadiq and his daughters. They no longer spoke to him: They called Sara in Somaliland when they wanted to get in touch. When Sadiq had spoken to the Double prior to New Year, the Syrian had stressed that the assignment was extremely dangerous. The daughters had to cooperate.
Sadiq had been unable to admit to the smuggler that he could not even get in touch with them.
They must want to leave.
Sadiq had called the Double back after their initial conversation and reached his voice mail.
“Can you kidnap them?” he had asked.
A short time later it was the Double who left a message on Sadiq’s voice mail. “Sorry. If they don’t want to get out then there’s nothing I can do. That’s not a job I’m willing to undertake. It’s impossible.”
Sadiq had waited, hoping for a miracle: that the girls would call and say, Save us. Then he would have the plan ready: the rescuer, the vehicle, and the film crew. That was why he had let Styrk order the airplane tickets. Let him pack the equipment. They could still call and say: Save us, Dad!
But they didn’t.
The day before he and Styrk were to travel to Reyhanlı via Istanbul, he had had to find a way to end the deception. It was too late to tell Styrk the plain truth—that the girls didn’t want to leave the caliphate and that the Double had quite simply refused to take on the job.
It had been easier to make up a story about his beheading and crucifixion.
* * *
“When they have children they’ll wake up and realize what kind of regime they’re living under, that’s what happens with the foreign women. Then they’re forced to regret,” Osman wrote to him late one night. “When the babies arrive they will focus all their emotions on them, then they’ll want to flee Syria.”
Osman was the only one he had told about the girls not wanting to return home. The two of them could sit for hours chatting online.
“How are you planning to abduct them?” Sadiq asked.
“I haven’t found the right people yet.”
“Try as hard as you can.”
“As long as there is blood in my veins and breath in my body I will not forget my sisters, your daughters, Abu Ismael. Don’t worry, I’m your proxy in Syria.”
“You need to think up an exceptional plan. Think of it as the most outstanding operation you have ever carried out. And after that you and your family can be in Norway in a matter of days.”
Sadiq had promised Osman that he could get him asylum in Norway. “Don’t be afraid, my brother,” he added. “Say hello to your dear wife, whose name you have yet to tell me.”
“Do the girls speak Arabic?”
