Mesut Carzani swiveled back in his chair and swung around toward Omri Sherut. He was talking to Baskale on the radio.
“I know that,” Carzani said, smiling. “I saw the helicopter crash from here. Were there any survivors?”
“I’m afraid so,” came a muffled response.
“How many?”
“Two.”
Sherut looked a bit concerned. “Does he know which men survived?”
There was no response.
“It doesn’t matter, Omri,” the Kurd said. “There are only two of them. We can handle that. Besides, they would be crazy to try anything. Only two men?”
Omri Sherut wasn’t so sure. If one of them was Jake Adams, then crazy was the best way to describe him. He should have killed Adams in Odessa when he had the chance. He would have if it had been his choice.
“I don’t think we should take these two men for granted,” Sherut said. “They just might be crazy enough to try something.”
●
The woman crouched in the woods above the old barn, watching people come and go from the front door, yet still able to see the back, where goats and sheep had just been fed and watered by a teenaged boy. The barn looked like every other barn in the village, but she knew this one was different. Her people had found out about the large shipment of isopropyl alcohol to the barn, and she even knew about the two men who had been studying bio-chemistry in America, who she suspected were in there now mixing the compounds. She had learned all of this from her contact in Georgia. She knew she had only one choice, and that was to get what should have been hers in the first place.
The morning had broken. Villagers had started setting up a market on the street. A Saturday ritual. Women carried baskets on their heads. Young girls followed them with buckets. To the casual observer, it seemed like any other Turkish village. But this one was different. All the men were scattered about in small patrols. She had watched them form up an hour ago. Some headed down the mountain in trucks and set up a road block. Others had taken off on foot toward the crash site, searching the helicopter wreckage. She was still not certain of the nationality of that helicopter. The Kurds had been so quiet in the past month, not wanting to make waves, she suspected. Downing the helicopter would surely bring a retaliatory strike. Especially from the Turkish government. How much time would she have?
She sunk lower to the ground and covered herself with leaves and grass. Wait a minute, she thought. The Kurds must have known they could shoot down the chopper without fear of reprisal. Of course.
●
Jake and Steve Nelsen had managed to stay away from all the patrols, keeping as close to the rock cliff as possible. They sat now overlooking the Kurdish village.
Watching the morning activity in the village through binoculars, Jake couldn’t help drawing similarities to his trips to the safe havens. The people had been so poor, yet they had this spirit and pride within them that all the money in the world couldn’t buy. They could have been starving to death, but still made sure the children were fed and drank enough water. Halabja had been different, of course. Jake had been there secretly, much like now, but by the time he reached the Iraqi village, almost five thousand people had died. He had held the fifteen year old girl in his arms, trying to give her strength and courage to survive. She had lost everything. Her mother. Her father. All of her brothers and sisters. And why? Because she had gone alone to the neighboring village to buy a goat for the family. She had seen the jets fly in. Jets had been flying by for over eight years. It was all she could remember. Jake had learned all of this from her in the three days when she refused to leave his side.
Jake scanned the village from one side to the next. He saw the mosque. He saw the laboratory barn. He noticed where each sentry stood. How vigilant they were, or were not.
“What do you think?” Nelsen asked.
Jake lowered the binoculars to his chest. “I think we’re nuts. The place looks like a military fort.”
“What do you mean? All the men have gone off in other directions.”
“Looking for us. No doubt.”
“True.”
“Where were you planning on dropping the commandos?”
Nelsen pointed down the dirt road below the village. “We would have come in under darkness, though.”
“Hardly. Who in the hell set up the timing? You, me and Garcia would have gotten here after the shooting started. In full daylight. We should have gotten here at midnight with night vision goggles...the works.”
“I didn’t plan this one,” Nelsen said, his jaw clenched. “This one was Langley all the way.”
“I had a feeling,” he muttered. Jake looked out through the binoculars again. “The new Agency is just as fucked up as the old Agency.”
“You got a better plan?”
Jake gazed back at Nelsen. “You got that right.” He laid out what he thought they should do. When he was done, Nelsen let out a deep sigh and agreed. They would hold tight until dark.
●
Sinclair Tucker had heard about the American helicopter being shot down by a guard who had brought him his breakfast. It had been the arrogant young man in his early twenties. Tucker wondered now if his friend Jake Adams had been in the chopper. He knew that Jake was crazy enough to come after him. He smiled now, his first smile since he himself had crashed.
He tried to eat the mushy grain covered in goat’s milk, but he couldn’t force himself this time. His leg was feeling a little better. The swelling was down slightly.
Looking over at the co-pilot, he slid off of his makeshift bed and scooted over to the man in the flight suit. Tucker touched the man’s hand, and quickly pulled his hand away. He was cold and clammy. He moved closer and checked for a carotid pulse. Nothing. He was dead.
Tucker flung the bowl of food against the stone wall. Now he was alone. His survival depended on keeping his mind fresh and nursing his leg. Heated anger flushed through his body. If he got a chance now, he would try to go after the guard.
●
Chavva was in a small cafe in the village, the only restaurant in town. She was drinking coffee and eating eggs with a slice of lamb.
She was wearing a black skirt that rested on her ankles, a tan blouse covered by a long leather jacket, and heel-less leather shoes. She could have fit into any Turkish village, and her Kurdish while ordering her food, had been perfect. Some things were never forgotten. The owner, an older woman, had mentioned she had not seen her in town before, and she had said she was visiting an old friend. Chavva knew the woman would never ask for a name. That was a trait of prying westerners.
She would walk the streets throughout the day, freely. And wait for her time. The night.