John watched the two men conversing, Mansur asking another question now and then, then he turned back to John.
“He says there should only be three more, one on the way in and out of Manbij and another just before Arima.” Mansur paused as Ferhad said something else. “He says there may be others, but there were only three the last time he came through this way.”
“When was that?”
“About four weeks ago.”
“Okay, thanks, Mansur.”
Ferhad looked at them all questioningly as if waiting for more questions, and when none came, he asked, “Yalla?”
John reached out and gave him a reassuring pat on the shoulder.
“Yalla. Let's go.”
61
The highway skirted the edge of Ain Issa as it headed west. There were signs of hard-fought battles everywhere—bomb craters, destroyed buildings, and burned-out tanks and armored vehicles. Ferhad explained, through Mansur, it had once been controlled by the Islamic State and had even been attacked by Turkish backed forces just a few months previously. He waved his hand to the right side of the road and explained Turkey still controlled a lot of land to the North.
John looked over at Steve. “That would explain why they were so jumpy at the checkpoint.”
On the western edge of town, makeshift tents filled the fields on both sides of the road, some just blue and white plastic sheets draped over boxes or abandoned cars. Children played in the dirt between the shelters while their parents sat on the ground, staring listlessly into space. There was garbage everywhere, and a sense of hopelessness hung heavy in the air.
“Where are these people from, Mansur?”
Mansur asked, then turned and looked over his shoulder. “He says they are from all over but a lot from towns to the west. There has been heavy fighting in recent weeks. It is not safe for these people to go home.”
“What will happen to them?”
“He doesn’t know. Some will go to Turkey, but most will stay here. It’s been like this for years now.”
“Poor bastards,” Steve muttered as they gazed at the mass of humanity whose lives had been destroyed by greed and politics.
The road continued northwest through a landscape of sun-scorched earth and untended fields, and not for the first time, John considered the futility of it all. Millions of lives being destroyed, for what? There was nothing out there but dirt. What was the point?
About an hour and a half out of Ain Issa, the highway took a sharp turn and they slowed to join a long queue of traffic filing into single lanes to cross the Euphrates, the bridge reduced to one span by bombing and sabotage. Soldiers stood at each end of the bridge, fingers on triggers, eyes scanning the slow-moving vehicles as they crossed. John’s breath caught, but the soldiers were more interested in keeping the traffic flowing than stopping individual vehicles. Once on the other side, everyone in the car relaxed as they headed the final fifty kilometers to Arima.
The sun was beginning its descent, its rays coming almost directly through the windshield. Military traffic had noticeably increased in the last few kilometers, convoys of armored vehicles, and armored patrols, flying either the yellow flag of the Syrian Democratic Force or the red, white, and blue flag of the Russian forces. They paid little attention to the small yellow taxi cruising along the highway.
On the outskirts of Manbij, they passed through another two checkpoints with little trouble, the soldiers content with the documentation Ramesh had forged.
The heat inside the car and the monotonous landscape were having a soporific effect, and John was on the verge of drifting off when he was brought alert by the sound of Ferhad saying something to Mansur.
“He says we are about thirty minutes away from Arima.”
“Good.” John turned to Steve. “So far, so good. Hopefully, not long now.”
“Yeah, mate.” Steve pulled out his phone and looked at the screen. “No message from her yet. I’ll try calling again.” He dialed and waited, then shook his head. “It’s just ringing. No answer.”
“Okay.” John frowned. “Send another message that we will be in Arima soon.” He looked out the window as the fields slipped by.
Until she was in the car, John couldn’t relax. Despite his reassurances to Steve that all would turn out alright, the experiences at the checkpoints and seeing the refugees in the tents made him realize nothing was guaranteed or easy. John allowed his mind to wander to thoughts of Adriana.
Once they were back in safety, he would make sure he treasured every moment of his time with her. It had been too easy to think his life was empty and boring, but back in Lisbon, they had a comfortable home and a peaceful life. They knew where their meals were coming from, and with John’s wealth, they never had to want for anything. Despite all he had been through, his life was a breeze compared to the people living in Syria. People who had lost their homes, their livelihoods, and their loved ones. People who didn’t know if they would survive the day.
John pulled out his phone to send a message to Adriana and saw a message on the screen. Good luck and come back soon. I love you.
Despite his nerves, he smiled. He would make sure they got back safely. He typed a reply and slipped the phone back into his pocket—time to think about the next part of the journey.
62
Twelve hours after leaving the Turkish-Syrian border, they rolled into the little town of Arima on the western edge of Kurdish controlled territory. They were tired, thirsty, and more than eager to free themselves from the cramped confines of the little Iranian made taxi.
It was a town much like the others they had passed through—dusty and battered, overgrown with weeds in parts, strewn with garbage and rubble in others. None of the buildings had glass in their windows, and many of the walls bore the scars of urban warfare. There was little sign of civilian life, the people
