“Hi,” she wrote.
“Oh my God!” Ismael replied, typing in a smiley and four red hearts.
“Long time no see,” his sister responded.
“Indeed.”
“What’s happening?” Leila asked.
“You tell me. How’s it going?”
“I’m pregnant!”
“Hahaha.”
“7 months! I have a big belly!”
Ismael sent a shocked emoji and asked, “Everything else good?”
“I’m good Alhamdulillah, the cold is the only thing I can complain about otherwise things are fine, the man of the house was wounded a few months back, but maybe you heard about that. How are things with You?”
“Great. I’ve accepted the world as it is.”
“How is Mom getting on? And don’t be so pessimistic! The world only seems like a bad place if you choose to view it like that, it’s all about perspective.”
“Mom has gone to Somaliland. And taken the boys. Dad is here in Norway.”
“I know all that.”
“I’ve learned to accept that Mom doesn’t love me and that my sisters are in Syria.”
“What do you mean she doesn’t love you?”
“It’s because I have no belief. I’ve been, like, disowned. Kinda.”
“Then we’re in the same boat, Dad has done the same to me.”
“Not exactly the same boat. Same sea. Different boat nigga.”
“Fine I don’t want your stupid boat anyway, mine cooler! IS**”
“Can I ask you a question?”
“Go for it.”
“Do you seriously believe IS will take over the world?”
“Yes.”
“Then I know how far down in the sand your head is buried. No offense.”
“I’ve lived here over a year now, I can see how things are headed.”
“IS is not a proper army, with ground forces and airplanes.”
“From a military viewpoint they have a really good army and FYI they have well-organized ground forces and are building up their air force.”
“They can’t even fly. Or have I been misinformed? I have seen videos of the ground forces.”
“Ismael, the media make them out to be a gang of unprepared noobs living in a bubble who just want to pick a fight with the world. But that’s far from the truth. They’re taking over airports and military airstrips and there are many among them who can fly.”
“But not one plane in the air.”
“They have a national army and are prepared for an attack by the Americans, they’ve even invited them to try.”
“That’s like me writing to John Cena saying ‘come and fight me, you coward, I’m ready for you.’ U feel the analogy.”
“When the Americans pulled out of Iraq after declaring ‘mission accomplished,’ IS promised to return bigger and stronger than before,” Leila responded.
“The USA annihilated the Iraqi army and killed Saddam. Because they could,” Ismael wrote back.
“Are you aware of what little effect their air strikes here have had?”
“Ground forces would accomplish more. But Obama isn’t allowed to send them in.”
“He’ll do it eventually. Trust me.”
“I promise you that IS will disappear from the Middle East.”
“And I promise you that they’re here to stay. Ismael, this might seem a little random, but have you straightened your hair in your profile picture?”
“Hahahaha. Yeah. A bit. Nah. Lots of gel.”
“Not bad. Not bad.”
Ismael was a handsome young man. Golden skin, an open, still-childish face, and a big smile that competed with the new white sweater he was posing in. He pasted another picture of himself on the thread.
“Omg! You’ve grown!” Leila wrote.
Ismael sent her another, where he was wearing a black-and-white singlet, mirrored sunglasses, and headphones. In his profile picture he was sporting a navy blue jacket with a fur collar. Somali straight outta Bærum style.
“Send me some photos too. I miss your ugly face,” he wrote, adding a red heart.
“Haha. Some other time. Talk soon inshallah, it’s getting late and I have a child that needs to sleep lol haha.”
“Remember to do it. You could be dead by tomorrow.”
“Okay, inshallah.”
“Sweet. Good night!”
Leila sent a photo all the same. A headless selfie showing a long, slim body dressed in black pants, a black sweater, with a shawl over her shoulders and a bulge on her stomach.
“Ur face woman!”
“Good night. Hahahaha. See ya don’t wanna be ya…”
“Fuckin’ nigger!”
“Hey, watch your language.”
“Sorry, meant sweetheart.”
“Hahaha, sure.”
“I’m only kidding. Bye.”
29
BOYS FROM NORWAY
On Sunday, March 1, Sadiq and Styrk Jansen traveled to Hatay. The girls were finally to be rescued. The producer brought along $3,000, a laptop, and the telephoto lens Osman had requested. He was hoping to get a happy ending in the can so they could wrap up the documentary.
The film crew had become Sadiq’s closest allies, helping with money, applications, and printouts, lending him a car when needed. They stuck by him every step of the way on his rescue plan, through thick and thin. They paid for his plane ticket now, just as they had for the flight to Reyhanlı back in November when they were supposed to meet the Double. They were still shaken by his crucifixion and murder, and hoped that their rescue plan had had nothing to do with it. They believed what Sadiq told them, that the girls were desperate to get out of Syria. That Hisham was the problem.
Styrk had booked rooms at the Antakya Huyuk, just by the Sugar Palace, arriving late at night during a torrential downpour. Osman came to the hotel the next morning to pick up the money, the laptop, and the camera equipment. Osman told Styrk he needed the camera in order to take better-quality photographs. The ones he took on his mobile phone were not so good.
The smuggler outlined the plan. The girls were to remain inside the tank truck as long as they were in IS territory. Once clear, they would get out of the tank, switch vehicles, and drive until they crossed the border into Turkey, where Sadiq would be waiting with a rented car at a prearranged spot.
Osman had contacts deep within the IS system, and he controlled a network of couriers and drivers known to him via family ties in the three northern provinces of Raqqa, Aleppo, and Idlib. Two of his nephews had recently married. The plan
