“Why did they capture us?”
Naeem sighed and looked over at Mia and Steve.
“It’s complicated. You are... kufaar. Do you know what that means?”
“Non-believers, yes, but why did they let us go?”
“Because I told them to.”
“Because you told them to.” John frowned. That didn’t make sense. “And how did you find us?”
“He told me.” Naeem nodded toward the young boy talking to Mansur. “He followed them here when they brought Mahfuza here.”
“Mia?” John saw his face twitch.
“Yes.”
“Okay, good.” John looked away and for the first time, took in his surroundings. They were in what at one time would have been a residential street but now was a vehicle-wide track between piles of rubble and coils of rebar. On each side stood partially destroyed buildings, the one they had been in one of the few still standing.
“Where are we?”
“Idlib.”
John conjured up an image of the map he had poured over before coming. Idlib was around fifteen kilometers inside the territory held by Hay’at Tahrir al-Sham. They needed to get out of there.
“So, what do we do now?”
Naeem gestured toward the pickup. “You come with me.”
“Where?”
“We need to go south. I know a place to cross.”
John nodded and called out, “Steve, Mia, we have to go.” He glanced over at Mansur, who nodded. He patted the young boy on the shoulder, said something to him in Arabic, and the boy turned and walked toward the Mitsubishi.
Naeem walked toward the rear of the pickup and reached in, pulled out a large piece of cloth, and tossed it to the boy, saying something in Arabic. The boy vaulted into the back, then climbed onto the cab roof. He shook out the cloth and tied it to the aerial. John recognized the white flag with the green insignia from his internet research. The flag of Hayat Tahrir Al-Shams.
“Steve, you and Mia get in the front with Naeem. Mansur and I will sit in the back.”
John climbed in and reached a hand down to help Mansur. The boy sat in the rear with them and unslung his weapon, holding it across his lap. John studied him as he sat down with his back to the cab. He looked maybe sixteen or seventeen, his beard barely taking hold, but his eyes were that of a man much older, hard and empty. John reached forward and held out his hand.
“Shukraan. Thank you.” The boy hesitated, then shook John’s hand. John pointed at himself. “John.”
The boy nodded and pointed to himself. “Karam,” he replied then looked at John’s chest. He mimed ripping something off, and John looked down, puzzled.
“Shit.” He ripped the Velcro press badge off his ballistic vest and stuffed it into the thigh pocket of his cargos. Mansur did the same, then they ripped them off the back of each other’s vests. The boy had been watching them, and once they were done, he looked away as the vehicle started up and moved off.
John tilted his head toward Mansur and lowered his voice. “What did the boy say?”
“He said the girl was being held prisoner. He didn’t know why, something to do with a phone. Then they brought her here. He overheard them, saying they would execute us. So, he went to find the other guy. Naeem?”
John nodded.
“They came here and told the men to let us go.”
“And they just let us go because Naeem and a boy told them to? It doesn’t make sense.”
“No, he said there was another man, an Emir.”
“What’s an Emir?”
“A... general.”
John frowned as the vehicle jolted and jumped over a pile of stones.
“The Emir and his men came with them in another vehicle.”
“I thought I heard three vehicles leaving,”
“Yes.” Mansur reached out and grabbed the side of the truck to steady himself as they rocked back and forth. “He told the other men they had to release us.”
“Why would he do that?”
“I don’t know.” Mansur grunted as the pickup crashed over another pile of debris. “But we are free, that’s all that matters.”
“Yes.” Mansur was right, but it still didn’t make sense.
“Why did this boy help us?”
“He said he’s tired. He doesn’t want to fight anymore. He wants to go home.”
“Where’s he from?”
“Raqqa, Central Syria. His family was killed in an air raid.”
“Shit. He must be only fifteen, sixteen?”
“Sixteen.”
John shook his head and looked back at the troubled young boy with the automatic weapon in his slender hands.
The pickup turned left onto a wider road that had been cleared of debris, and the ride smoothened out. Now the going was easier, John could hear raised voices in the cab. He turned to look through the rear window just as the vehicle pulled to a stop. The passenger door opened, and Steve stepped out.
“What’s the matter?”
Steve leaned his hands on the side of the tray.
“She says she won’t leave without the others.”
“The others?”
“She says there are others.”
74
Craig stood on his tiny balcony and looked down on the street below, already bustling with traders. He loved living in this part of Istanbul. Many of his colleagues stayed across the river in Cihangur with the other expats, but he preferred to be here in Balat, right in the heart of things. He knocked back the last half of his espresso and rested the glass on the handrail. He had worked the phones late into the night and early this morning without any luck.
No-one had seen or heard of any incidents involving three journalists from a Portuguese newspaper. He had tried everyone—Sophie at Médicins Sans Frontières, Trevor at the U.N., Yusuf at The Red Crescent—nothing. Despite promising him a bottle of expensive single malt, even Sergei, his contact in the Voennaya Politsiya, the Russian Military Police, had drawn a blank. As a last resort, he had phoned his government contact in Damascus, a contact he rarely used unless it was extremely important, but no-one had heard anything. Apart from shelling southwest of Saraqib and a couple of Turkish drones spotted above the M5, it had been a quiet twenty-four hours. His thoughts were disturbed by the sound of his phone buzzing, and he
