The small, mustachioed Turk compared the photographs to the faces in the car. He went about his work slowly and carefully. 'What business have you in Turkey?' he asked.
'We are attending a funeral,' Walid replied. He gestured to the cars behind him. 'All of us.'
'Where?'
'In Harran,' Walid told him.
The guard looked back at the other cars. After a moment he asked, 'The deceased had only male friends?'
'Our wives are with our children,' Walid said.
'They do not mourn him?'
'We sold barley to this man,' Walid replied. 'Our wives and children did not know him.'
'What is his name?' the guard asked.
'Tansu Ozal,' Walid replied. 'He died on Saturday in a car accident. He drove his car into a deep ditch.'
The guard idly pulled at the hem of his green military jacket, regarded Walid for a moment, then returned to his booth. The other sentry continued to point his submachine gun at the car.
Ibrahim had listened to the conversation across the quiet stretch of road. He knew that Walid had told the truth, that this Tansu Ozal had died as he'd said. What Walid hadn't mentioned was that the man was a Kurd who had betrayed his people. He'd guided the Turks to a weapons cache under an old Roman bridge in Koprulu Kanyon. Kenan's people had killed him for his treason.
Ibrahim used a finger to wipe sweat from his eyes. He continued to perspire, as much from nerves now as from the heat. Like his own documents, Walid's papers were obtained using a false birth certificate. Walid's name, though not his likeness, was known to the Turks. Had the border guard known who he was, the Syrian would have been arrested at once.
The Turkish agent made a telephone call and read from each of the passports in turn. Ibrahim hated him. He was a minor official who acted as though he protected the Dome of the Rock. These Turks had no sense of priority.
Ibrahim turned his attention to the armed guard. From their planning sessions, Ibrahim knew that if anyone in the car were wanted by the authorities or seemed suspicious, the guard would shoot the tires out of hand. If any of the Syrians drew a weapon, the guard would shoot to kill. Before returning fire, his companion would step on a button to alert the patrol station five miles up the road. A helicopter gunship was at the ready and would be dispatched at once.
The Syrian border guards would not act unless fired upon. They had no jurisdiction in Turkey.
Ibrahim was slumped low in his seat, his eyes on the Cadillac. To his right, between the door and the seat, was a canister of tear gas. When Walid gave the signal, he would be ready.
The small Turkish guard shut the door of the booth and returned to the car. He bent slightly and displayed the passports like a cardplayer showing a winning hand. 'You have been cleared for a twenty-four-hour visit. When you are finished you will return through this checkpoint.'
'Yes,' Walid said. 'Thank You.'
The guard stood and returned the passports. He held up his hand toward the second car. Then he returned to the booth, raised the gate, and allowed Walid's car to pass. When the Cadillac had gone through, the gate was lowered.
The Dodge drove up to the gate. Walid stopped the Cadillac just beyond the gate.
'Move on!' the guard shouted to him. 'They will catch up to you.'
Walid stuck his left hand out the window and raised it. He moved it from side to side. 'Okay,' he said, and let the hand drop over the side of the car door.
At that instant, Ibrahim and the passengers in the front two cars leaned out the windows, popped the tops on the palm-sized cylinders, and threw them at the booth. While the small guard reached for his pistol, the other opened fire through the thick, orange smoke. As he did, Walid threw his car into reverse, crashed through the gate, and rammed the booth. The outpost shook and the shooting stopped, but only for a moment. A moment later the driver of the middle car thrust a Makarov pistol out the window. He began firing and shouting oaths at the Turks.
Through the rising tear gas, Ibrahim saw the guard outside the booth go down. The guard in the booth began firing again, though the booth was lopsided and filling with tear gas. Walid drove forward a few feet, jerked into reverse, and hit the booth again. This time it went over.
Two men had emerged.from the second car. They were wearing gas masks. They, disappeared into the spreading orange cloud, and Ibrahim heard several more shots. Then everything was quiet.
Ibrahim looked back at the Syrian guards. They'd taken refuge behind their own weapons in their own booth, but they didn't fire.
After making sure that both of the Turks were dead, and after thanking Allah for their victory, Walid returned to his car. He motioned the caravan onward.
Speeding into Turkey, Ibrahim experienced a new sensation. A feeling of burning anticipation in his belly now that events had irrevocably been set into motion.
'Praise Allah,' he said softly, involuntarily. Then his voice rose in his throat and he cried,
Mahmoud said nothing. Sweat flowed from his temples along his swarthy cheeks to his tight mouth. In the back seat their companions were silent.
Ibrahim watched Walid's car. After two minutes the Cadillac swerved off the road onto the golden desert. The Dodge and Ford followed, spitting up sand as they plowed westward. After less than a hundred yards the cars became bogged down in the sands. The men got out.
While Ibrahim and Mahmoud removed the seats from the car and pulled the false floor from the trunk, the other men went to work swiftly and purposefully.
SIX
The Hughes 500D is an extremely quiet helicopter due to sound baffles in the Allison 250-C20B engine. The small T-tail construction provides great stability at all speeds, as well as enormous maneuverability. It holds a pilot and two passengers in the forward bench as well as two to four passengers in the aft. With the addition of a side- mounted 20mm cannon and a.50-caliber machine gun, it makes an ideal vehicle for border patrol.
When the alarm from the guard north of Qamishli sounded at the Mardin Air Force outpost, the pilot and copilot were having a late lunch. They had already been out once on their hour-long late-morning patrol. They weren't scheduled to go out again until four o'clock. But the two men welcomed the signal. Since the government had begun coming down hard on the Kurds, things had been quiet. So quiet that the fliers feared they might become rusty. With an exchange of smiles and a thumbs-up, they were airborne within five minutes.
The two men flew low, passing isolated villages and remote ranches and farms on their way to the border outpost Unable to raise the two sentries by radio, the fliers were on high alert as they closed in on the border. The pilot guided his craft swiftly over the dry earth. He always kept the helicopter in front of the sun to present a difficult target to anyone on the ground.
The two fliers saw the wreckage of the automobile moments before they saw the destroyed guardhouse. Circling the area from just north of the border to north of the cars, they radioed headquarters that they saw the two dead border guards, as well as three dead drivers.
'The vehicles appear to have been shot at,' the pilot said into his helmet microphone. He peered for a moment through his amber-tinted visor. 'Two of the drivers are not moving and one of them is moving only slightly.'
'I'll send a medical team by air,' said the dispatcher.
'It appears as though the cars ran the gate, struck the booth, and were shot by the guard,' the pilot said. 'The survivor may not be alive for long,' he added. 'I want to go down and question him before he dies.'
