Nir burst through a door and into a small lobby.
“Which way?” he called out.
“How would I know? I’m watching from a drone, tembel. You just need to keep moving. Three police cars are braking hard out front,” replied Avi.
Nir ran down a hall, trying door handles as he went.
“There’s an alley out back if you can get through,” said Avi.
At the fifth door, the handle pushed down. Nir burst through the door as he heard yells coming from the lobby. He ran through a small entryway into a family room where three young children sat around a small television, watching a cartoon.
Someone shouted something behind him.
Nir turned. A large man was directly in front of him in the kitchen with his wife. He snatched a cooking knife from nearby and stood to block Nir.
Seriously?
Nir had too much momentum to stop and not enough time to draw his gun. He dove at the father’s knees as the man took a swipe at him. The Iranian toppled and cracked his head on the ground. Nir jumped to his feet, spotted the knife, and kicked it down a hall toward what must have been the bedrooms. The man had twisted on the ground and was grabbing at Nir’s legs. Nir leaned over the man with his hand cocked to punch him when he felt a clang on the back of his head. He stumbled forward, trying to regain his balance. When he turned, he saw the wife standing with fire in her eyes and a large, shallow pan in her hand.
Nir felt as if the room were spinning. The husband was back on his feet, but very unsteady. Before Nir could do anything about the wife, the husband lunged at Nir. But he was sloppy, and even in his fogginess Nir could see it coming. He flopped against a wall, letting the man glance off him, then gave the man a hard punch to the back of his neck so that he went sprawling down the hallway.
Nir turned back to the woman, who was holding up the pan defensively. She looked terrified and determined.
“Out,” Nir said in Arabic. The woman didn’t understand him. Nir pointed to himself, then made his fingers walk fast. “How do I go out?”
Recognition crossed the woman’s face, but she didn’t lower the pan. She pointed to the front door. Nir shook his head. “Back door.” He made his fingers run, then jump.
Again, the woman seemed to understand. She lowered the pan a little and pointed past her husband’s sprawled body to the back rooms.
“Mersi,” he replied.
“Three more cars pulled up out front. Get out of there now, Nir.” It was Avi again, telling him what he already knew.
He ran, leapt over the crumpled husband, and went through the door at the end of the hall. It opened to a nicely kept master bedroom with windows at the back. The stars had cleared from his vision, but he still felt a little uneasy on his feet. Pulling open the window, he was grateful not to find iron bars blocking the exit. Upper body first, he pulled himself through the window.
As he did, Avi said, “Be careful coming out the back. I see two police cars and two motorcycles turning up the alley.”
Nir cursed. “That’s information that would have been helpful ten seconds ago.”
“Okay, I see you. There’s a cut-through across the alley, two buildings to the right.”
Nir ran. He could hear the engines of the motorcycles rev up as he made the turn. The cut-through was narrow—too narrow for a car, but unfortunately not for a bike. Nir was only halfway through when he heard the bikes turn in and gun it. There was no way he would make it out to the street.
Spotting a wood pallet among some restaurant trash, Nir snatched it up, spun, and let it fly. It hit the lead driver squarely in the chest, doubling him over and sending him down. The second motorcycle cop had no time to react and plowed into the first bike. He flew over the handlebars in Nir’s direction and hit the ground. Nir dropped hard with his knee onto the man’s chest, feeling a bone break. He flipped the man over and secured him with his own cuffs. The first man wasn’t moving, so Nir didn’t worry about him. Instead, he lifted his bike, pressed the start button, and was relieved to hear it come to life.
Voices called down the alley. A high-pitched whine flew by his ear followed immediately by the sound of gunshots. Nir twisted the throttle, spun the bike in the opposite direction from the gunfire, and raced out of the alley.
“You’ve got cops coming from both sides. Go straight through to the next alley,” Avi said over the coms.
Nir obeyed, hearing the sirens racing up behind him. Unfortunately, this passageway was wider, and he heard cars turn in after him.
“Okay, you’re going to do a quick right, left, left, right, and left.”
“Seriously? How about I do some calculus in my head while I drive? Just tell me when to turn.”
“Now!” A narrow alley appeared and Nir angled the bike hard. There was trash all around and he almost lost traction as the rear tire skidded.
“Left, now! Go left!”
Nir obeyed. This alley was wider, but dead-ended about 100 meters ahead.
“Left again, then stop and try to blend into the wall!”
Blend into the wall? What?
Then right in front of him, one police car, then two, then three and four sped past.
“Nice blending. Now, as quietly as you can, take your bike across the alley and go up a few buildings. I’ll tell you when to turn right.”
Barely twisting the throttle, Nir eased across the alley.
“Wait!” Avi yelled, but it was too late. Another police car turned into the alley. Nir saw the cop looking right at him. He twisted the throttle as the officer punched down on the accelerator.
“This is ridiculous, Avi! Get me out of here!”
Avi swore. “I’m trying! The cops are everywhere!”
There was no way he was going to escape on the bike. He was too easy to recognize—a tall civilian without a helmet on a police motorcycle. Nir could hear other police bikes in the alleys nearby. It was just a matter of time before they found him.
“Where’s the nearest busy street?” he asked.
“It’s to your right. Any of the alleys will take you to it.”
“Okay, I’m going to try something. Let me know if you see cops turning onto that street.”
Going up three blocks, Nir took a right. Seeing the back door to a restaurant, he dropped the bike in front of it. He opened the door, but didn’t go in. Then he ran ahead to the street. Before stepping out of the alley, he breathed deeply and calmed himself. A row of cars were waiting for a red light to turn green. He scanned the drivers before striding to an old green car to his right.
Inside was a man in his fifties in a business suit. Nir knocked on the front passenger window to get the man’s attention. Then he smiled and did a cranking motion with his hand, indicating for the man to lower his window even through there probably hadn’t been hand-cranked windows on cars for maybe a decade or two. Obviously curious, the man obliged. When the window lowered, Nir reached in, popped the lock, opened the door, and sat down.
He slid his Masada Slim 9mm from his ankle holster and pressed it against the man’s side.
“Negarani nadareh,” Nir said, still smiling and trying to assure the man that he shouldn’t worry. “Rāndan,” Nir added, continuing his butchery of the Farsi language by trying to tell the man to drive.
Apparently the command was clear enough to get the man moving.
“Where am I?” Nir asked Avi in Arabic.
“You’re heading west on Pasteur Street. If you can go up through the Pasteur Square roundabout with Kargar Street, a few blocks past there I can have one of our Kurd friends pick you up in front of the Tahid Mosque. But you’re going to have to do something about your driver.”
“Hang on. I’m going to try something.” Nir looked at the driver, who was stoic yet kept looking down at Nir’s gun. “Hey,” he said. When the man turned to him, Nir said, “Raisi,” referring to the current president of Iran. Then he turned his thumb downward.
The man glared at him. He said, “Raisi,” and pulled his thumb across his neck.
Nir nodded. “Me,” he said, pointing to himself. Then he held up his gun and pointed to it. “Raisi.”
The man stared briefly at Nir, a light of recognition appearing in his eyes. He turned back to the road, muttering, “Inshallah.”
As they approached the mosque, Nir pointed to the roadside. The man pulled over. “Mersi,” said Nir as he stepped out of the car. The man just grunted and drove off.
Of all the cars parked along the street, there was only one that had someone standing outside. Nir went his direction, and the man slipped into the driver’s seat. Nir joined him in the car and found a blue-and-gold embroidered kufi hat on the dash in front of him. He settled it on his head and nodded at the driver. That began a 45-minute journey of main thoroughfares, side streets, and alleyways. Police cars with their sirens blaring passed them often for the first half hour, but gradually diminished in number. Occasionally they saw a roadblock, but the driver was adept enough to weave through the backways to avoid them.
At last, after turning a corner, the man abruptly pulled to the side of the road. Nir looked and realized he was back at the safe house. He thanked the man, who didn’t respond. Exiting the car, he went through the front gates and into the courtyard where Gil and Yaron were waiting for him, as were Colonel Nurettin and his small group of men.
Before Nir had time to deliver his “Sorry, guys, I got sidetracked shopping for truncheons at the morality store” line—which he had been practicing in his mind for at least 20 minutes—a frantic Nurettin stepped forward and grabbed his arm. As he dragged Nir toward an idling box truck, he said, “You’re finally here. We are running far behind schedule. Quick, we must get into the truck and on the road. They’ll be closing down the highways soon.”
Submitting to the Kurd’s lead, Nir allowed himself to be pulled along. “What happens if they close the roads before we get through?”
“I am killed immediately. You will be kept alive for a show trial before you are killed.”
Nir turned to see if there was any indication that the man was joking. There was not. He glanced at Gil and Yaron, who both looked equally tense.
Glad I didn’t get the truncheon line out. You’ve got to read the room.
Nir climbed first into the back of the truck, followed by Gil and Yaron. A heated argument with the driver delayed Nurettin a minute before he, too, pulled himself in. The four men tucked themselves into the front of the box and the false wall was secured to block them from prying eyes.
“Everything okay?” Nir asked, sitting down on the metal floor.
“Persian Kurds are just a little softer than those of us who live in the war zone,” answered the colonel. He seemed exasperated, but Nir didn’t sense it was with him.
“Are you sure that they won’t sell us out?”
“That’s what I was reminding them of. They don’t need to think just of themselves, but of their extended families. They’ll be fine.”
“Interesting. I’ve had to use that ‘kill your family’ line on quite a few enemies. Never on a friend.”
As he spoke, Nurettin retrieved a long piece of fabric from next to him and began to unwrap it. “There are many kinds of friends among the Kurds. Most don’t need reminding. Some do. We’ll be fine.”
Once the soft covering was removed, the colonel lifted an M16A4. He pulled the mag to make sure it was full, then slammed it back in and chambered a round.
Nir nodded toward the gun. “And that? What kind of friend is that for?”
“We Kurds learn early that anyone who is not a friend is an enemy. There are few Kurds in this world. That means there are many, many enemies.”
“So what does that make me? I’m not a Kurd.”
Nurettin laughed. “No, you are not. But I have declared you to be an honorary Kurd.”
“Cool. Do I get a medal or a certificate or something?”
“Still the funny man. Being an honorary Kurd just means that I help you and you help me, and we’ll try not to kill each other while we’re doing it.”
“Sounds like a good deal to me,” said Nir, sliding across the floor toward the cooler. He tossed bottles of water to each of the men.
As he did, Nurettin said, “With men like you, we could do great things. Who knows? Maybe we could take over Iraq.”
“Who’d want it?” grumbled Yaron.
“Ha! Despite how he looks, he’s a funny man too! We have to have the grumpy one along with us. We could take over the world!”
The roads were still passable as they exited the city and began their long trek north. Nurettin spent the time talking about ways they could invade Baghdad and topple the Iraqi government. At first, the three Israelis barely paid attention, but soon they were all engaged. Anything to pass the long, monotonous hours riding in the back of a box truck.
Elnur Isayev, the former Azeri intelligence man, had already left Khankendi by the time the team arrived back in Azerbaijan. This allowed Nurettin’s men to drive the Israelis all the way to the air base. After saying their goodbyes, Nir’s team boarded their agency Gulfstream. Nir was disappointed to see they had a new crew.
On the way back, the plane stopped in Tbilisi, Georgia, where Nir left the rest of the team. His flight plans didn’t have him going south, but west. He’d be back in Tel Aviv soon enough. But for now, there were a few things he needed to wrap up back in Belgium.