Osman produced his telephone. He spoke into it clearly and concisely, issuing orders, making arrangements, and double-checking he had been understood. After his last call, he looked at them and said, “The operation is under way.”
Osman crossed back over the border into Syria. Rain was teeming. The streets of Hatay were wet, cars shimmered, and the sky was gray. Sadiq and the documentary makers stayed indoors.
A carpet of fog covered the entire region, the spring rain had set in over all of northern Syria, subduing the war, quelling the fighting. At the Antakya Huyuk they waited for updates.
“The regime has closed the road,” Osman wrote the following evening.
At nine o’clock, Leila, unaware of everything that was going on, sent a message to Ismael.
“U Alive?”
“Yeah.”
It bore the hallmarks of a banal conversation, as though they no longer had anything to say to each other.
“How are you?”
Ismael, afraid of giving anything away, refrained from writing more. If the girls found out about the planned kidnapping, it would fail.
Sadiq received another message from Osman on Wednesday evening: “The road was re-opened this afternoon. The boys have left for Raqqa.”
Sadiq could not relax. On Thursday morning, he wrote back to Osman: “Give me some encouraging news, what’s going on?”
Osman rang him in the afternoon: “We’ve run into difficulty.” The car was stuck in the mud and the continuing rain meant it would not be moving anytime soon. “Be patient, my friend. There have been reports that al-Jolani has been killed in an air strike,” he added.
The head of al-Nusra was the last thing Sadiq cared about. He sat motionless in the room, browsing the internet on his phone. Later the same afternoon, Osman reported, “I can’t get hold of the boys. All telecommunications are down where they are. ISIS is communicating by walkie-talkie, we have to wait for the rain to stop and the net to be up and running.”
It was still bucketing down in the Turkish border town. Styrk Jansen was bored. He thought about something Sadiq had told him the previous night, about Hisham having taken two new wives since Ayan had run away from him. Chechens. Hisham had already forgotten Ayan, Sadiq had said.
Osman rang on Friday morning. The route they were planning to take out of Raqqa after picking up the girls had yet to be decided upon. “I suggest going via As-Safirah, the road is longer but safer, we could also take a route through Kurdish-held territory, but the Kurds are troublesome, I don’t trust them, and we run the risk of running into Ahrar al-Sham on the way, what do you think…?”
“What?” Sadiq responded.
“… the Kurds are in Ain Issa, the truck is ready, the girls are … al-Nusra is fine … avoid IS … before it gets dark … ambush, danger of that … driving without lights on … what do you think, brother?”
Sadiq had no clue.
The shortest route was through the area under Kurdish control, by way of Kobane, which IS had lost in late January. If the road was clear, you could be in Turkey in a couple of hours. The other road, the long one, meant an eight-hour drive—assuming you did not run into any obstacles.
Kurdish forces were only a few miles outside Atmeh. They were vying for control of the important border area currently divided among themselves, IS, and al-Nusra. Osman had said that the Kurds owed him a favor. Some time ago he had found a dead Kurdish soldier on al-Nusra land. The common practice was to leave enemy combatants lying where they fell, throw them in an unmarked grave, or sell their remains back to the family. Osman had called the commander of the closest Kurdish battalion. “I’ve found the body of one of yours. I can drive him to you.”
Now it was payback time. He got in touch with the Kurdish officer, reminded him that he had delivered the soldier’s remains, and asked for free passage through his area of control.
His request was granted. With that, the last part of the plan fell into place—they would take the road through Kobane.
A scout car was to drive a few minutes ahead of the tank truck to check the road was safe, that no new checkpoints had been set up or fighting had broken out.
By the time Osman sent word that they would soon be leaving for Raqqa, Sadiq and the film crew had been waiting in Hatay for five days. “They executed a man here in Atmeh after Friday prayers today because they believed him to be a spy,” he told them.
Sadiq waited. Styrk waited. Veslemøy had arrived from Iraqi Kurdistan and was preparing to film the girls. They had production meetings in Sadiq’s room. Sadiq drummed his fingers on the table. He went in and out of the room. Paced up and down the corridor. Walked down to reception. Went outside to smoke. But never far away. His mobile phone stayed close to his heart in his breast pocket.
Osman did not ring until the early hours of Sunday morning.
The car had been approaching Raqqa. Then all hell had broken loose. There was an air raid, bombs had pounded the ground around them. Buildings and cars had been hit. The driver had put the car in reverse and sped back in the direction they came.
They had waited an hour and again driven in the direction of the city. The bombing started again. They turned around. They tried a third time. And beat a retreat for a third time.
“Get some sleep,” Osman wrote to Sadiq. “We’re headed into an area without mobile coverage. Save your strength, you’ll need it when you have your girls back. You’ll hear from me tomorrow.”
“Are the girls in the car??” Styrk asked while Sadiq texted with Osman. “Are they in the car?”
“I don’t know, I don’t know!” Sadiq said, almost shouting.
“Ask him, then!” Styrk
