But by then Osman’s phone had lost its signal.
* * *
The filmmakers said good night to Sadiq and left the room. Osman would be calling in the morning. It was best to get some rest; none of them had had much sleep. The waiting kept them high on adrenaline.
Back in their room, the camera bags were packed and ready. Extra battery packs were charging. Early in the morning Mehmut was going to pick them up and take them out to get some shots of the surrounding area, unless Osman let them know he was approaching the border with the girls. In that case, Mehmut would drive them all there.
It was just before midnight and the couple were already in bed when there was a knock on the door. Styrk got up.
“Who is it?” he asked.
A man’s voice answered. “Norwegian Police Security Service. PST. Can we come in?”
What was this? Styrk slid the door chain off its track.
Two men were standing outside. They were tall, broad shouldered. One of them had a shaved head and snus under his lip, the other was dark-haired with pale, almost white skin.
“Hope we didn’t wake you,” one said.
“No, you didn’t wake us,” Styrk replied, looking at the two Norwegians in surprise.
“The rescue plan is in the final phase and we’re here to see it through,” the other one said.
“What?”
“We’re cooperating with the Turkish authorities and are taking over from here.”
“Huh?”
“That means the two of you need to head home.”
Veslemøy, who had hurried from Kurdistan to get the girls’ border crossing on film, reacted with anger.
“You don’t have the authority to send us on our way!”
However, the Turkish authorities do, the policemen pointed out.
“If you fail to leave, it could put you in a very unpleasant situation.”
“The girls could be here tomorrow! We’re filming it. We’ve arranged it all with Sadiq,” Styrk exclaimed. He stood, hands on his hips, glaring at the two policemen.
“Sadiq stays with us,” one of the policemen said. “He’s taken care of.”
The documentarists were told that filming at the border was anyway and under all circumstances out of the question.
“If you turn up at the border with cameras, you will be in serious trouble,” one of the policemen said.
“We’ve been planning this for months! Now you turn up and ruin it, just so you can take credit for saving little girls from IS!”
Veslemøy, still in her nightgown, saw the film, their final scene, slipping away.
“This is Turkey,” one of the policemen said. “Turkish rules apply.”
The air went out of them. Fear set in. The Turkish authorities were not known for sympathetic treatment of journalists filming without a permit.
“So you do it, then!” Styrk said. “You film it for us.” He held out a spare video camera.
“We’ll see what we can do,” the policeman answered, taking the camera. “Have a safe trip home!”
As soon as they left, Styrk rang Sadiq.
There was no answer. He sent a text. He tried calling again. Still no answer.
Styrk and Veslemøy stood in the room talking things over. The policemen had said something about Sadiq being taken into custody, hadn’t he? That they had him under supervision. Was that how they had put it? The documentarists weren’t sure. Taken into custody by the Turkish authorities? Was he under arrest?
The couple discussed what the best plan of action was. Should they stay and try to find out what had happened to Sadiq, was that the right thing to do? Or should they do as PST advised them and clear out?
At one in the morning Styrk texted a colleague in Oslo.
“We were just woken up in our hotel room by two PST men at the door. We have been requested to stay away. They are taking over the operation.”
* * *
After Styrk and Veslemøy had said good night and retired to their room earlier that evening, Sadiq had quickly packed his few possessions and left the hotel.
He had been in touch with the two policemen, whom he knew as Nils and Bjørn, the previous day.
Sadiq had sought assistance from them long ago. He had first asked if PST could help in getting the girls out of Syria. That was not something they were willing to take on. But following discussions at the top level, and since Leila was a minor, the decision was made to assist on Turkish soil, something they had not done with other jihadists. As far as PST was concerned, what happened in Syria was Sadiq’s business, what they referred to as “a private rescue operation.” The Norwegian police would make the Turkish authorities aware of the situation so the girls did not end up in prison for crossing the border illegally. Sadiq and the policemen, who were both from the local PST office in Asker and Bærum, had had several meetings over the course of the last year, and in February, Sadiq had informed them that the plan was soon to be put into action. He asked them to be prepared for the girls’ impending extrication.
The Norwegian embassy in Ankara had also been involved for some time. Cooperating with Turkish intelligence had not been all smooth sailing; in Turkey, do as the Turks say. Everything was carried out in the strictest secrecy. The legal attaché at the embassy had worked hard to get assurances from the Turkish authorities that the girls would not face arrest when they got to the border. There was still paperwork to be taken care of.
When Nils and Bjørn had arrived in Hatay, they were notified by the Turks that they would not facilitate matters unless the film team left. PST had no knowledge of any film team. If the team neared the border, the cooperation would be stopped, the Turks said.
“Do you have a camera crew along with you, Sadiq?” the policemen had asked when they met him on Saturday afternoon.
Sadiq confirmed that he had.
“They need to go home,” the PST men had said.
Sadiq had gulped down some water to calm himself. That was the film down the tube. And what was he going to
