Spoils of War, page 35
Feeling more superfluous than ever, they sat in silence as daylight crept slowly through the canvas.
When six o’clock finally came Jack realized Dale had fallen asleep. He went and stood by the front flaps of the tent, taking care not to expose himself to the light from outside.
Thin sunshine was penetrating the mist and smoke that lay across the river. The opening looked across the cratered road junction towards the bridge, about fifty metres away, and almost immediately he saw the boom beside the customs post being raised. No vehicles from the Iraqi side were being allowed through yet; they were made to wait while three trucks crossed in the other direction, piled high with sacks and crates of food. The Kurds had spotted them well in advance and at least a thousand of them were gathered at the far end of the bridge, like animals recognizing their feeding time. They followed the trucks up the slope and there was another degrading scramble as the soldiers threw loaves of bread and bags of rice among them.
When the vehicles had returned to the Turkish side the troops manning the bridge gave their attention to the northbound ones. The first truck had about twenty people packed into the back, and all of them had their papers carefully examined. After much argument four or five of them were turned away to join the wretched crowds on the slopes, while the vehicle with the rest of its passengers was allowed through.
A helicopter went screaming by, following the river towards the west. The noise woke Dale up and she came to join him by the opening. He explained what was happening and they watched the same procedure being followed with the next truck, and the one after that. By half-past six only three of them had been processed. At this rate, even if the Chevrolet was near the front of the queue, it could take half the day to reach the bridge.
Jack noticed one other thing. The refugees were not having their belongings searched, and he guessed this was another ploy to encourage the Iraqis into thinking they were safe.
Delkin confirmed this when he and some of his entourage paid another fleeting visit to the tent a few minutes later. ‘It also helps to speed things up,’ he said. ‘Our friends will be with us in less than an hour.’
‘You mean they’re actually there?’ Jack exclaimed.
‘Spotted from a helicopter,’ the general announced with a smile. ‘They won’t have paid that any attention; they expect plenty of military activity, and they have no reason to think we have any special interest in them. You should be able to see them yourselves quite soon. Try using these.’ He took a pair of field glasses from an officer beside him and handed them to Jack. Adjusting the focusing rings, he got a foreshortened view of the line of trucks across the river; there was one about ten from the front with a cab that might have been painted light blue, though in the smoky haze it was difficult to be certain about colours.
They were there, though. Delkin had been right, and Jack’s earlier vague doubts disappeared. In an hour’s time it would all be over, and suddenly there was some irony in the thought that what had begun with the private worries of one rich man should end among the anguish of these thousands of outcasts.
‘Remember not to show yourselves,’ Delkin reminded them before disappearing again. ‘We are preparing a roadblock two kilometres to the west. I’ll see you again as soon as we have our catch in the bag.’
Left on their own once more, Jack and Dale took turns with the binoculars. Half a dozen more trucks got across the bridge, but on each one there were several people whose papers were not in order and who were not allowed through. The one Jack had picked out drew closer, and now its colour could be seen as definitely blue, and the distinctive Chevrolet emblem was visible on its grille. Half a dozen people, unidentifiable at this distance, sat or stood on its uncovered cargo deck among a large mound of what looked like nondescript baggage. Three more figures were seated in the cab.
‘I suppose you have to admire their nerve,’ he said.
‘For forty million dollars I guess I’d take a few risks myself,’ Dale said, peering through the binoculars. ‘Uh-oh, another hold-up.’
Two more trucks packed with food supplies had arrived. The boom was lowered behind them and the traffic coming this way was halted for ten minutes while they crossed the bridge and distributed their load to the usual frenzied mob. Jack wondered if the same people got their hands on the food every time.
Dale still had the glasses. ‘Hey, things are moving faster!’ she said.
She handed him the binoculars, but he didn’t need them to understand what had happened. The soldiers at the bridge must have realized, or been told, that they didn’t have to stop work every time the traffic was held up. They had used the interval to work back along the queue and process the people on board the waiting trucks. Three of them now lumbered in succession across the bridge, and the blue Chevrolet was next in line.
Jack held his breath, watching as three or four gendarmes surrounded the truck, examining the documents handed down to them by the passengers in the cab and in the rear. An agony of time seemed to go by while an officer spoke in a casual way to the driver; either he was putting on an act or he was ignorant of the vehicle’s importance. But none of its occupants were being ordered off, and their baggage was being ignored.
The papers were given back. The officer waved at the driver. The striped boom was raised and the Chevrolet drove into Turkey.
It approached the junction, passing within twenty metres of where Jack and Dale were concealed. Straining to identify any of its passengers, Jack caught only blurred features that would hardly have been recognizable at that distance anyway, even if he’d had something better than indifferent photographs to go by. They were all men, though, all convincingly dressed as Kurds, some in baggy trousers and two or three with turbans.
They were jolted about as the truck rocked over the potholes at the junction and then turned left, on to the westbound road that led eventually to Iskenderun and the sea. It gathered speed quickly and in a few moments had disappeared.
Jack turned to Dale, seeing the same mixture of suspense and relief on her face that must have been apparent on his own. The thing was over but not quite done with. Malik and his men were on Turkish soil and couldn’t now escape. But the final act was being played offstage, down the road. Jack found himself half-awaiting the sound of shooting from that direction as the desperate Mukhabarat tried to fight their way out of the trap.
The warmth in the tent suddenly seemed overwhelming. He took a step outside and felt Dale pluck at his arm.
‘Hey, we’re supposed to stay in here.’
‘It can’t matter now.’
‘What if those Grey Wolf guys come back this way?’
‘They won’t. Their business is in the same direction as Malik’s.’
She followed him outside, a bit dubiously but grateful for the fresh air as well. They walked to the junction and stood looking across the river. The sunshine had given a counterfeit gaiety to the scene on the mountainside, picking out the bright colours of the women’s dresses and the green and orange sheets of plastic that the Kurds had used to make their pathetic shelters.
Another food convoy was approaching and they stepped off the road to let it pass. One more truck had made it across the bridge as well, down on its springs and sagging heavily into the potholes at the junction as it waited for the food lorries to get round the turning. Jack’s gaze was still fixed on the mountainside, so it was something entirely outside his consciousness that drew his mind back to the truck. Even then he wasn’t paying it any real attention, he was merely aware of its bringing something into focus, some inconsistency in his memory of recent events.
Then he knew what it was. Why hadn’t the Chevrolet been moving in the heavy way that this vehicle was? The Chevrolet was supposed to be loaded with three tons of gold, yet it had bounced over the potholes as though it was carrying hardly any weight at all.
He looked up at this truck. Still rather absently, he saw that it was a cream-coloured Dodge, spattered with mud.
Through the side window of the cab he saw the face of General Malik.
It was unmistakable, in spite of the limitations imposed by comparing it with that single fuzzy photograph. The heavy jowls, the frowning brow, the dark pouches under the eyes. At the same moment Jack was aware of Malik staring at him, looking him over, noticing the injured arm in its sling. Whether there was actual recognition hardly mattered; his presence here, with Dale beside him, was a giveaway in itself. Malik knew that something was out of place, but then he must have thought it would be.
When near, you should seem to be far away.
Malik had second-guessed his enemies. Delkin’s trap had been set for the wrong people.
As if confirmation of this were needed, the truck lurched out into the junction, and instead of turning left, towards the west, it headed in the other direction.
32
Dale had seen him staring, had gathered that something was wrong, but didn’t know what. The whole episode had taken only a couple of seconds and now Jack, speechless with astonishment, was pointing with his good arm at the Dodge as it drove off to the east.
‘Malik!’ he blurted out at last.
‘Malik is on that truck? Jesus, let’s do something!’
But for another few seconds they did nothing. Immobilized by their surprise, they watched the truck moving away from them along the narrow road, ponderously at first and then picking up speed. It had high ground clearance and there was a canvas canopy over the back, open to the rear and showing the figures of three men squatting among a heap of bundles and boxes.
Not enough weight there to put the truck so far down on its springs.
Three men in the back and two in the cab made five. Malik and four of his henchmen from the Mukhabarat.; the fifth, Hayawi, still in London. Three tons of gold hidden somewhere beneath that other cargo. And, unbelievably, they were getting away with it.
The truck vanished around a bend two hundred metres away. Recollecting themselves, Jack and Dale sprinted to the tents.
The biggest one was empty, they knew, Delkin away uselessly stopping and searching the wrong vehicle. They pushed their way into the one beside it and found a single young soldier sitting at a table, manning a crackling radio transceiver. Their arrival alarmed him and he made startled negative gestures as they tried to explain what was needed.
‘General Delkin,’ Dale said. ‘We have to speak to General Delkin.’ She pointed at the radio. ‘Can you call him on that?’
She tried French and Arabic as well. The boy replied in Turkish and went on waving his hands in front of him until, with relief, he saw someone else enter the tent behind him. This was a junior officer, but he too spoke only Turkish and seemed to have even more trouble trying to understand them.
‘There’s a man called Malik who has come into Turkey,’ Jack enunciated carefully, supplementing his words with sign language. ‘Malik, an Iraqi, whom General Delkin wants to arrest. We must speak to General Delkin about this Iraqi.’
‘Iraq?’ The officer had caught only one word of this speech. He pointed out of the tent, towards the border, and gave them a questioning look.
Jack made signs mimicking a conversation on the radio, but to no avail. He glanced at Dale in despair. These were regular army men, without the red armbands of the Jandarma, and obviously for reasons of security they had not been told the purpose of Delkin’s operation. Nobody but the general and his immediate staff was going to know what these two foreigners were talking about. It seemed impossible that they should be standing here in his headquarters, with instant communication to hand, and knowing that because they could not make themselves understood Malik was slipping away through their fingers.
‘I’ll go find Delkin,’ Dale said decisively.
‘But –’
‘He’s the only one we can deal with. He’s two kilometres away, right? I can make it in six minutes. Maybe seven, in these.’ She pointed down at the fiat-heeled boots she was wearing, with the corduroy jeans she had put on for warmth tucked into them. ‘You stay right here in case I miss him.’
With the two Turks gaping at her she pulled off her sweater, revealing the white T-shirt she wore beneath it, and without another word she turned and left. Jack followed her to the front of the tent and saw her set off at a steady run down the road to the west.
It seemed he could do nothing but wait. Then he remembered the map that was spread out in the other tent and he went and studied it. The road that ran eastwards from here was marked out as a solid red line for about twenty kilometres. Then it degenerated into a faint track twisting into the mountains to the north. This, however, met up eventually with another road he remembered old Zakarios mentioning, the one that travelled from a point north of Hakkari to the Iranian border.
Could that be Malik’s destination, Iran? Or did he have a plan for hiding the gold once again among these wild mountains? Or even, as Zakarios had suggested, breaking it down into smaller quantities and smuggling it piecemeal out of Turkey? Whatever his intentions, he had neatly circumvented Delkin’s trap. The arrival of the Grey Wolves in the area last night, the story about the blue Chevrolet truck, had clearly been a blind. Perhaps the ship waiting at Iskenderun was part of it, too, suggesting that Malik had made his plans much further in advance than Delkin imagined. Instead of being scared off by the situation on the border, he had turned its confusion to his advantage.
The manoeuvre was as bold as it was risky. And if Delkin didn’t get after him soon there seemed every chance that he would get away with it.
Jack went on staring at the map for a while. The orderly who had been in the tent earlier had left, but there was still hot coffee in the urn and he helped himself to some and went and stood at the entrance, gazing across the river again. Ten minutes had gone by when he heard the howl of a helicopter approaching, and a few moments later it came in from his right, another gunship or perhaps the same one that had brought them here, flying very fast towards the east. There was no way of knowing whether it was responding to an emergency or not.
The latest food convoy was making its way back across the bridge after again being besieged by the mob. Trucks were still coming across in this direction as though nothing untoward had happened. Then there was a roar of motors from the right and Delkin’s jeep swung in off the road, followed by another one crammed with his officers. Dale was sitting in the rear of the leading vehicle beside the general, and she gave Jack a thumbs-up sign as the jeeps slid to a halt next to the tents. A troop carrier drew up behind them, and soldiers piled out and ran to take up crouching positions along either side of the road, rifles and carbines held ready.
Delkin remained in the jeep, talking urgently into a radio handset. Dale hopped to the ground, showing not a trace of exhaustion after her run. Jack gave her a hug, but before either of them could speak the sound of shooting came from the east, two or three deep-throated bursts from a machine-gun, and then the whine of the helicopter was audible again, growing gradually louder.
Dale explained quickly what had happened: ‘I got to Delkin in time for him to order a roadblock set up about fifteen kilometres from here. The Iraqis turned the truck around when they saw it and they’re coming back this way. And now the helicopter has caught up with them.’
Delkin was still muttering into his radio. Beneath that and the rising scream of the turbojet engines the whole valley seemed to have fallen silent. Even the Kurds on the mountainside had ceased their restlessness, gazing downriver like everyone else as though they sensed some high drama being enacted on the opposite bank.
The gunship finally came into view, flying very low above the road from the east. Then, a minute later, the Dodge truck lurched around the nearest bend with dust billowing up around it. The helicopter was right over it, its skids just a metre or two above the cab, like a bird of prey waiting for its moment to pounce. If it had been going to attack, though, it would have done so before now. Jack realized that the shots they had heard had been warning bursts from the helicopter’s gun door. Delkin still wanted the Iraqis alive if possible, and short of strafing the vehicle and killing its occupants the gunship could do nothing to control its movements.
As it approached the junction along the straight stretch of road the truck showed no sign of stopping. If anything, it was picking up speed. Delkin made a decision and barked an order into his radio. A second later it was relayed to the troops beside the road, and a rattle of small-arms fire broke out.
What they hit, if anything, was impossible to see, for the helicopter raised such a storm of dust as it passed them by that it almost obliterated the target. But as the truck reached the junction it veered heavily to the left, hitting the side of the troop carrier and swerving almost out of control before the driver straightened it and set it on a shaky course towards the bridge.
A kind of collective gasp went up from the group in front of the tents as they realized what was happening. Malik was trying to re-cross the river. Taking the gold with him, preferring to chance his survival back in Iraq.
If he got back there he would be out of reach for ever.
The soldiers had scrambled to their feet and were firing at the rear of the truck. None of the Mukhabarat was visible beneath the canopy, presumably having dropped behind the tailboard to protect themselves. The helicopter had overshot the junction and was now circling to get back above its target. And the Dodge, although peppered with bullet holes, was still moving. It was rolling on to the bridge.
It hit the metal boom at speed, buckling it and knocking it aside. Now the road ahead was clear, with the vehicles on the Iraqi side halted short of the approach to the bridge. There was nothing there to stop it.
Except the Kurds.
There was no way of gauging how much they understood of what going on. They had seen the helicopter shadowing the truck and they had heard the shooting; but the fact that must have been uppermost in their hunger-conscious minds was that the only vehicles that crossed into Iraq at present were food trucks. Within a matter of seconds, it seemed, hundreds of them had materialized from nowhere to gather in a tight, expectant knot at the far end of the bridge. If they noticed that there were no Turkish soldiers on the truck it probably only heightened their anticipation. What they didn’t notice until it was too late was that the Dodge wasn’t slowing down.
