Authors: J.R. Rain
“Just sit tight.”
The soldier stopped and rubbed his eyes, frowning. I tried my best to blend into my surroundings, thinking rock-like thoughts. Faye’s grip was becoming increasing tighter on my arm.
The guard pulled his hood away from his head and scratched his thick mane of black hair. Finally, he re-shouldered his weapon and turned away, moving back through camp at the same leisurely pace.
I let out a long sigh of relief. I hadn’t realized I was holding my breath.
“That was close,” I said.
Faye didn’t say anything, but mercifully relaxed her hold on my upper arm. Then she leaned into me and whispered in my ear: “Why is there only one guard?”
My heart was still hammering like the king’s blacksmith with a deadline. “The camp probably doesn’t need more than one,” I said, “Which means that whatever they’re guarding doesn’t affect Turkish national security.”
“So it’s probably not military,” concluded Faye.
I shrugged. “Probably not.”
“Then why is the military here?”
“The Turkish government will do that, to protect important dignitaries visiting from other countries.”
I continued to watch the guard for some time, trying to discern his pattern. After forty-five minutes, I realized he had no pattern. He moved slowly one way, and then slowly another, meandering in and out of the rows of tents, pausing often to blow on his hands or light a cigarette. His heart just didn’t seem to be into it. He stopped near one such tent and reached inside the flap and removed a clear bottle of alcohol, twisted off the cap and took a big swig.
I turned to Faye. “Keeps the chill away.”
“I wouldn’t mind having a little myself,” she said.
I told her to sit tight. And while she protested, I worked my way down the rocks.
Chapter Twenty-seven
I slipped from the shadows and crossed the open ice field, feeling naked and exposed. The twin spotlights cast my shadow in two different directions. My boots crunched loudly over the ice. An eternity later, although it had only been twenty seconds, I reached camp. I moved as stealthily as a grizzly intoxicated on fermented berries.
Once in camp, I moved low to the ground, stepping quickly from tent to tent. From within most tents came a cacophony of snores and mumbles and wheezes. Sleeping on ice is hell on the sinuses. Shortly, I was crouched before the desired tent. So far, I had gone unnoticed. I took a deep breath and eased the zipper down, and waited. Nothing stirred. No alarms. I slipped inside, leaving the flap partly open to allow for some light.
I scanned the tent quickly. Two bunks. The left contained a figure of unknown size, age or sex. Beneath the bunk was the gleaming barrel of a sub-machine gun. By the looks of it, a Russian AK-47. The right bunk was empty. A quarter would have bounced nicely on the smartly-tucked blanket. And there, propped just inside the tent opening, was the clear bottle of a generic brand of Turkish vodka. I carefully opened it and took a swig. I took another, feeling the warmth spread down my esophagus and through my stomach. A good, good feeling. I screwed the cap back on and leaned it back against the tent opening.
I moved forward in a crab-like crawl, my boots brushing silently over the nylon floor. Without warning, my head banged into an unseen lantern. The loud clang of metal and glass could have woken the dead. However, the figure on the bed barely stirred, simply mumbling: “Idiot, the open flap is letting in the cold.”
“The flap has let in more than that, my friend,” I said.
He sat up suddenly, eyes wide in the half-light. He made a futile effort for the weapon under his cot until I pressed the blade of my pocketknife into his throat. “Do not make a sound!”
He bit my hand, tearing the skin. I shoved my fist into his mouth. He looked like a stuffed pig at a Hawaiian luau.
“I will remove my fist,” I said in Arabic. “If you promise not to yell. Do you promise?”
He nodded; my fist nodded with him.
I pressed my knife blade into his throat, drawing blood. “But if you do decide to yell I will cut your throat. Then you will be dead and I will simply get what I need from someone else. Do you understand?”
He nodded.
I removed my fist. He sucked in air like a newborn. He was a young, good-looking kid. He was also shaking like a leaf. Most important, he was shaking like a leaf
quietly
. “Very good. What’s your name?"
“Hayik.”
“You are a soldier?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know who I am?”
He paused, turning his head slightly, scanning my face. A curious grin touched his lips. “You own the bar in Dogubayazit,” he said, “and you charge too much for beer.”
“I am a long way from my bar, Hayik. And you come there for
atmosphere
, not a deal on beer. Anyway, I have come for answers, and I will get them from you.” There was a long pause. He stared at me. I shifted my weight and got my shoulder into a better position across his chest. He wasn’t going anywhere.
He shook his head. “I will give you no answers.”
I respected his resolve, but there was no time for it. “You will, or you die. And you will not be dying for your honorable country. You will dying for the Arab’s greed.”
His eyes wavered. A few seconds later, he said, “I will not die for him.” He swallowed. “Can you remove the knife?”
I adjusted the point, but kept the blade firmly against his throat. “What do you know of the American professor and his student?” I asked.
He nodded and said, “Ah.”
“Speak quickly,” I said, emphasizing my urgency by pressing the knife deeper into his skin. “Are they alive?”
When he spoke, he did so carefully, not wishing to make any sudden movements. “They are alive, as far as I know.”
I eased the pressure. “Where are they?”
“There is a cave above camp, perhaps an hour’s climb. They are there.”
Hayik gave me the directions. I knew the cave all too well. “Why are they there?”
“They work for the emir as slaves, removing the rocks that block the tunnel.”
“Are there guards?”
“Two.”
In a quick movement I discarded the knife and slipped my arm behind his neck, pressing my hand into his right temple. I twisted his head and held him like that for many seconds. He kicked once and then lay still. A classic sleeper hold. He should be out for a few minutes. Next, I found some rags and tied his hands and feet together. I shoved another rag in his mouth, and (ever the soft-hearted fool) checked his breathing. He seemed to be doing okay.
I grabbed the AK-47 and the bottle of vodka and slipped out into the night.
Chapter Twenty-eight
We peered down onto a small tunnel opening from a rocky escarpment thirty feet away. Snow fell sporadically around us, fluttering like tiny white butterflies. Two guards were posted just inside the tunnel’s entrance. A small fire illuminated the opening, highlighting the dark granite walls. The guards sat on folding chairs. Between them was a rickety table. They were playing cards and smoking and totally oblivious to us.
Near the entrance, off to the side, was a narrow finger of rock jutting up through the ice. The rock appeared to have been recently excavated from a drift of snow. Indeed, it looked more like an arthritic finger pointing accusingly into the sky.
Son of a bitch
, I thought.
The marker
.
Faye grabbed my arm and pointed to the stone marker. “That’s the marker, Sam. The finger of rock. It must have been hidden in ice all this time. This is the cave. My father is here. I know it.”
As I studied the entrance, I saw myself holding my dead fiancé, the side of her head cracked open and bleeding. I saw myself burying her with my own hands. In a cave. In
this
cave.
Faye asked, “Sam, are you okay?”
I took a deep shuddering breath, and when I spoke again my voice didn’t sound my own. It sounded like someone much older and far too tired. “No, I’m not okay.”
“What’s wrong?”
“I know this cave,” I said.
Although I wasn’t looking at Faye, I could feel her eyes on me. She had heard the pain in my voice and asked softly, “How do you know this cave, Sam?”
“Because it doubles as a tomb,” I said. “I buried my fiancé here.”
* * *
We were quiet. I studied the soldiers and the cave opening. I was pretty sure I could make out their semi-automatics leaning against the cave walls, along with other supplies, such as backpacks and flashlights. I gripped my own AK-47. One guard suddenly threw his head back and guffawed, slapping his knee. The other tossed his handful of cards disgustedly onto the table and lit another cigarette, the flare briefly illuminating his sharp chin and nose and cupped hand.
I said to Faye, “We don’t have much time.”
I wanted a cigarette. I wanted Liz. I wanted Faye. I took a deep shuddering breath and rolled over onto my back and felt the ice crunch between my shoulders. I looked up into the night and watched the snow blow across my face. I closed my eyes and felt each freezing fleck on my skin. “This is going to be a long night,” I whispered.
* * *
I stepped out of the shadows and into the ring of firelight. I held the AK-47 loosely at my side. The two guards didn’t see me at first. The glow from their fire cast my shadow behind me as I stood there. The warmth was nice on my face and hands. The soldiers were young, although one was clearly older than the other. A cigarette hung from the older one’s lower lip. Both wore military green jackets with hoods on, their weapons too far away to do them any good. I cleared my throat.
They jumped comically, cards flying from their hands. Instinctively, they reached for their weapons. In Arabic, I told them that wasn’t a good idea. The young one didn’t listen and continued to move toward his AK-47, fingers out-stretched. I threw back the bolt of my weapon, the metallic sound echoing in the tunnel. The soldier froze. Slowly, both sets of dark eyes turned toward me. I nodded to them, ever the kind stranger.
“Good evening, gentleman,” I said.
They said nothing, perhaps too shocked for words. Two of their playing cards ended up in the fire. They turned black and curled into nothing.
“Sorry about the intrusion,” I said in Arabic. “But I believe you have something I want.”
The oldest was in his early twenties. Thick beard. Crooked nose. He regained some of his composure and eyed me coolly. “What would that be?”
“You’re going to lead me to the old man and his student.”
And then I told them to put their hands behind their heads and turn around, in that order. The youngest did as he was told, but the older continued to stare at me, perhaps considering testing me. My finger tightened on the trigger. Finally he turned.
“A wise decision,” I said. I called Faye over and she trotted boldly from the shadows. She had a look of expectation on her face, for she knew her father may be just around the corner. I gave the order, and the four us promptly marched into the tunnel.
Chapter Twenty-nine
As we made our way around a slight bend in the tunnel, and as the light from the fire slowly faded into the background, we were forced to use the soldiers’ flashlights. The tunnel was high enough to walk through without ducking. The jagged granite walls were coated with lichen, which grew in clumps and seemed to emit a soft green light, although that could have been my imagination. The tunnel angled to the right and up. Sand muffled the sounds of our boots. The ceiling was cloaked in stygian darkness, and as we moved deeper within the tunnel, the temperature began to rise.
“It’s getting warm,” said Faye, loosening her collar.
“As a rule of thumb,” I said, “the temperature rises five degrees for every one hundred yards in most subterranean tunnels.”
Suddenly, the older sentry dropped a hand to his waist and removed an object from his hip, and started to turn, all in a blink of eye. But I was waiting for this one to try something, and so I moved quickly, smashing the stock of the rifle between his shoulder blades, knocking him forward into the sand. He got up slowly and turned, gasping for breath. I leveled the weapon at his chest.
I had knocked the wind
and
snot out of him, judging by the gleaming spittle on his thick beard. Glinting dully near his feet was a small knife. I stepped over and kicked it away, and the black-handled blade scuttled over the sand and hit the far wall with a clang.
I turned to the younger one. His hands shook over his head. “Is your friend always this stupid?” I asked, but the kid didn’t answer. Asking the kid’s name, rank and serial number would have gotten the same results:
nothing
.
I turned back to the older soldier. “Raise your hands up high. Good boy.”
Then I stepped over and punched him solid in the face, and his head snapped back and he stumbled against the granite wall. It had been a good punch, splitting his cheek and hurting my hand. He wanted to fall, or at least slide down to his rear end, but pure hatred and stubbornness kept him on his feet. He would be a good soldier. “You challenge me again, and you die,” I said. “Do you understand?”
Slowly, probably when the stars stopped flashing in his head, he nodded.
“Good,” I said. “Now get moving.”
I gave him a moment to find his feet, and then he stumbled forward, hands still in the air. I told the younger soldier to walk next to me. He was crying silently, tears glistening in the dark corners of his eyes.
“What’s your name?” I asked.
“Harim.”
“How old are you, Harim?”
“Fifteen.”
“Why are you not in school?” I asked.
He stared at the weapon in my hand, then finally looked up at me. “I have never gone to school,” he said.
I nodded. In Turkey, boys and girls in most rural villages did not to attend school; instead, they worked at home with their families. “Which village are you from, Harim?” I asked.
“Arsuz,” he said. And amazingly, he mustered enough courage to say it proudly.
I knew of the village. It was on the southern coast of Turkey and even doubled as a minor resort area for the wealthy. Most citizens of Arsuz, and other such cities along the southern coast, were either dirt poor or in employment to the wealthy.