The guard appeared in the doorway. He was the young fighter who had been on guard duty in the building with the Yazidi women. He watched her, his face expressionless. He was young and thin, perhaps in his mid-teens, his beard just thin wisps of hair on his chin. The Kalashnikov in his hands looked too big for him, almost comical.
Mia dug deep into her memory, piecing together all the words she knew in Arabic.
“Shuu ismak? What is your name?”
He didn’t answer.
“My name is Mia.”
He glanced over his shoulder, then back at her.
“Karam,” he mumbled.
“Karam?” Mia nodded slowly. “Where are you from?”
Again, he looked over his shoulder and nervously shifted his weight from one foot to the other.
“Raqqa.”
“You are Syrian?”
“Yes.”
“I am from Australia. Do you know where that is?”
Karam shook his head. He turned, so he was sideways in the doorway, a position where he could see outside at the same time.
“It’s a long way from here, on the other side of the world.”
He said nothing but continued to listen.
“It’s a beautiful country. People are free and happy there. I want to go back.”
Karam frowned and shifted the weapon in his arms.
Mia thought she should try another tack.
“Why are you fighting, Karam? With these people? They are not your people. They are from somewhere else.”
Karam looked out the door, not answering. Mia wondered if she had pushed too far. The answer when it came was almost inaudible, and Mia had to strain to hear.
“They killed my mother, my sister.”
“Who?”
He looked back at her.
“They bombed our house. These men found me, dug me out. They said the best way for me to get my revenge was to join them.”
“I’m sorry, Karam, that’s horrible.” Mia thought quickly. “But… how do you know who bombed your house?”
Karam stiffened, and he stood straighter.
“It could have been anyone. This war is confusing,” Mia pushed.
“No. These men, my... brothers.” Karam shook his head, anger mixing with confusion on his face. “They are doing the work of God.”
“Karam, killing people, taking women from their homes... it’s not God’s work.”
“Be quiet!”
“The Yazidi women in the other house, what if they had done the same to your mother, your sister?”
“They are kufaar!” He spat the last word out.
“They are just like you and me, Karam. The world is full of people who have different ways, eat different food, wear different clothes. We should not hate them because of that.”
Karam shifted the position of his weapon, his face contorted in confusion.
“I used to believe in the Caliphate. It could have been a wonderful world, all of us living according to Allah. But there has been too much killing, too much destruction. These men are filling your head with hatred.” Mia paused. “Karam, I’m truly sorry about your family. It is a terrible thing, but doing the same thing to someone else will not bring them back. These men, they just want another fighter, they don’t care about you or your family, they don’t even care about Syria.”
“No, no, no.” Karam continued shaking his head. His fingers tightened their grip on the Kalashnikov.
“Yes, Karam. Abu Mujahid, he is from Egypt. Do you think it matters to him what happens here? Do you see how he treats the women? He... these men are using you.”
“They are my brothers!”
“Karam, they don’t care. You are just another gun to them. Why do you think they only put you on guard duty? You are nothing to them.”
“No!” Karam turned to face her, his eyes filled with anguish. He raised his weapon and pointed the barrel at her chest. “You are wrong!”
64
It didn’t take long for Mansur and Ferhad to find somewhere for them to stay, the promise of easy cash opening doors easily in a town with little business remaining.
It was in what would have been the living room on the ground floor of a two-story building. There was no furniture, just rugs on the floor, and boards over the window, keeping the worst of the night chill out. A single kerosene heater in the corner warmed the room, the temperature dropping significantly once the sun had gone down.
They had removed their vests but kept their jackets on and stretched out on the rugs, drinking hot sweet tea from a large samovar.
Mansur had persuaded the owner, for an extra fee, to run the generator for a while, and they used the time to recharge the phone batteries. John was checking the battery status when Steve’s phone buzzed.
“You’ve got a message, Steve. Maybe it’s Mia.”
Steve sat up and held out his hand. “Toss it here.”
John unplugged it and tossed it across the room, Steve catching it deftly with one hand. He unlocked it and stared at the screen, a smile growing on his face.
“It’s her. She will meet us tomorrow morning at ten.” Steve looked up, an enormous grin on his face. “She’s shared a location where we can find her.” Steve exhaled loudly. “Fuckin’ ace.”
“Hang on, Steve.” John frowned, not keen to ruin Steve’s mood. “Check the location first. I don’t want to sound negative, but it won’t be so easy to get into Idlib. It’s in Al Qaeda territory.”
Steve’s smile faded a little, and he looked down at the screen. He tapped on the link and waited for the location to open in the phone’s web browser. Narrowing his eyes, he squinted at the screen, then his smile grew again.
“Look, it’s not Idlib, it’s the countryside just north of Saraqib.” He handed the phone to John, who looked at the map. The location was in a patch of what looked like open farmland west of the M5 highway and north of Saraqib. John zoomed in and saw a narrow access road leading off the highway into the fields. He nodded and handed the phone back.
“That makes things a lot easier. Tell her we’ll see her there.”
“Yes. It’s happening, guys.” Steve grinned and gave Mansur a friendly punch in the shoulder.
John smiled. He hoped so.
65
The drive toward Saraqib was uneventful for the
