“Your accent is somewhat different than I remember men speaking in Turkey.”

  “You have a good ear. In the beginning, our people were all in Turkey, but many of our families have been here in Syria since the time of Ottoman. We speak Turkish as it was spoken long ago. Our dialect is the Turkmen language.” He elevated his arms, his palms open to the sky, and turned in a tight circle, almost as if he were dancing. “Turkey is our mother country. They shot a Russian plane out of the sky over our heads earlier this year.” Two of the other men shook their rifles at the sky. “The Rouskies were bombing my people, our Turkmen Mountain. The Turks have, how you say, our backs.”

  “Good shot yesterday,” one of the men said while touching the barrel of Ryan’s rifle. Another said, “Long.” Both men spoke English with dense accents.

  “Thank you. You had me going this morning.” Ryan started a fresh round of laughter, backslapping, and nods.

  “We know what that man was. Why you kill him,” the leader said. “We Turkmen are Sunni, Iran is Shia. Iran with the big bomb is not good for Turkmen, for America, or for the Jews.”

  “So, you agree with Israel?”

  “We Turkmen are too few to direct such things. Like Turkey, we are not ready to take the hand of Israel, but we will come to the table when Turkey steps up to accept the Jews. Still, no big bomb is good. We cannot fight the big bomb.”

  Ryan nodded. “Agreed.”

  “Refill your canteen as we are. We need to get back on the trail. This morning’s fun was good. Without laughter, there is too much sadness. We get you to Samra beach tomorrow before dark. To do this, we must move through the night. If we are opposed, we could need one more day. Can you stay up with us?”

  Ryan nodded. “I’ll rest when my mission is finished.”

  #

  For the rest of the day and through the night little more was said. Stops for water were mostly quiet. The band of five plus Ryan crossed one hill after another, only to see more mountainous terrain beyond.

  Early, after crossing a notch, they walked through a patch of morning fog trapped in an area of lowland. After elevating out of it, they traversed a suspension bridge that spanned a fulminant torrent. The bridge was, apparently, viewed as important to the various forces in this multi-sided war since none had sent it crashing into the gorge below.

  On the other side, the leader took the point position followed by three of his men. Ryan remained in the back, except for the last of the Turkmen who, from time to time, melted into the countryside to watch the trail behind. The six moved through canyons, stopping here and there to drink water and refill their canteens. Communication was by hand signals. Their gear was chosen and arranged to travel quietly. They skirted several orchards, stopping to help themselves to citrus, grapes, and cherries which grew more plentifully as they moved farther north.

  “We eat big tonight, deep in the Turkmen Mountain.” The men who followed the leader nodded, and smiled at his reference to what Ryan guessed might be their home. These were the only words said aloud until after the sun topped out in the sky.

  The five were dressed much the same in camouflage pants, military boots, and knit caps, although some had their caps off and stuffed into their waistbands. The only articles of clothing that varied much were their down-filled jackets. Two were black, one dark green, and two were beige.

  The band of six, insignificant in the grand scheme of things, paused partway past a stone cliff which rose far above them to their right.

  How does whatever people do have any meaning when viewed in the context of nature?

  Ryan’s philosophical thoughts dissolved as they resumed their march. Ryan remained next to last in their procession. They moved this way through the day. Single file, holding to a narrow trail. The scruffy brush along the sides tall enough for the trail to go unnoticed unless one were in just the right position, or simply knew its exact location. The trail was low on the hillside, nearer the bottom than the top. Periodically it angled closer to streams for access to fresh water. They circled but never crossed the summits of hills along the course the Turkmen had chosen. Trails along the ridgelines had been more in use during peacetime, which Syria had not experienced since 2011.

  Ryan saw the leader and the men near him suddenly leave the trail and melt into the trees and rocks. Ryan did the same. A moment later, the leader sidled up to him.

  “There are government troops coming. Maybe ten or so. Two minutes out. We are determining if more are nearby. We must decide whether to kill them or let them pass.”

  “It’s your decision. Speaking selfishly, I’d prefer nothing draw attention to where we are. They could phone in their position. Gunships could be dispatched. It’s important that I get back.”

  “Your mission is complete. So…”

  “I carry unexpected information of great value. A source of information on the plans of ISIL and other militant groups, including the Al-Assad government. If I don’t get back, this resource will be lost.”

  The leader remained still for a moment, stooped upon one knee and one foot. Suddenly, he placed his hand on Ryan’s shoulder and nodded. He made several gestures towards his nearest men. A few minutes later, the Syrian soldiers passed by quietly, except for the snag and tug of their pants against the growth at the edges of the trail. The leader motioned and two of his men went to watch to be sure the soldiers moved on. Three minutes later, the two returned and signaled the government troops were continuing out of the area. The leader motioned and the five Turkmen and Ryan returned to the trail.

  Ryan used the sun and the position of shadows to discern that, while they switched directions depending on topography, their direction was mostly to the west. From time to time they moved back toward the north after drifting south due to changes in the terrain.

  When the trail meandered near a creek, the Turkmen stopped to drink and again refilled their canteens. Ryan’s canteen was never empty, but he trusted they knew best, so he topped off his canteen whenever the others did.

  The leader came to Ryan. “We are west of Salqin, northwest of road 56. Government forces are bombing, it appears, in Bidama.” He pointed in that general direction. “We will move farther to the north.” He pointed, his fingers fluttering in a way suggestive of an increase in elevation. “Later, we will turn southwest toward the coast. Assuming no resistance, we will stay close to the border with Turkey, but remain in Syria.”

  Ryan nodded.

  The leader’s eyes narrowed. “How did you know I would not sell you out to the government forces or ISIL?”

  “I suspect they fear you more than they want to catch me. That if you tried to meet with either of them, they would kill you.”

  Pride filled his face. “This is so.” He put his arm around Ryan’s shoulder and squeezed. “Or try to, eh?” He laughed. “The time is now for you to tell me why you must go to Samra Beach. It is reasonable for us to know. We are here with you. We take you.”

  “It’s my point of departure.”

  “In Aleppo, I heard a rumor that an outsider would meet with a fisherman, Cypriot or Greek. You?”

  “One of several false stories I planted.”

  “Like the one about you traveling with the drug caravan? Obviously, that one was false.”

  “You are well informed.”

  “In these times, information separates life from death.”

  Ryan smiled.

  “Jew boat? Israeli submarine? Is this why—meeting the fisherman?”

  “You’re half right. The story I would meet with the fisherman was to be closer to the border with Lebanon, around Baniyas in Tartus Province.”

  “I see, but with the Russian navy’s warm water port at Tartus, I think that location was not good.”

  “I agree.” Ryan acknowledged with a smile and a nod.

  “The best place to hide something is sometimes under the noses of those who look. You are a devious man, my American friend.”

  “In these times, information separates life from death.” Ryan smiled again, after repeating the leader’s own words.

  The Turkman nested his palm over his mouth and beard. His eyes widened, and he nodded repeatedly as he’d done several times previously when thinking. “So, the fisherman rumor was false, but the submarine part was true. How will you make contact and reach the submarine?”

  “Satellite telephone.”

  “Jew subs have been seen off our coast, not often, but we know they are there. We have young soldiers, not yet ready to fight, but ready to watch. With the women, they attend to such things. How will the sub know when to come near the surface so you can make contact?”

  “In the past, submarines had to approach the surface. Now if the sub is equipped with Deep Siren technology, it’s not necessary.”

  The Turkman put his finger to his mouth and stared up the path. A moment later, one of his men stepped into view and motioned. The leader resumed talking. “It was nothing. You will meet the sub near Samra Beach?”

  “The submarine commander is aware that I will, if able, contact him soon. When he hears from me he’ll send commandos in an inflatable to pick me up.”

  “My guess, these commandos will be the Shayetet 13. I have heard of them. You must be an important man.”

  “It is the mission that is important.”

  “The hand of Mossad, I see. I respect Israel. In the time of my father, the Jews carved a country for themselves. This was not easy. They are a robust people; I give them that. The Kurds have themselves long hoped to do this thing—to reestablish their Kurdistan. To recapture their country taken from them after the first big war.” He shrugged. “But their progress is small.”

  “What of the Turkmen? Are you carving out your own country?”

  “I think not. We are, in our souls, Turkish. We simply live outside the borders of our country.”

  “I think the world will, one day, know more of the Turkmen and of you, their leader.”

  “We are a small band.” He shrugged. “Who knows what will come on the winds of tomorrow. I serve my people.”

  22

  An hour after the sun ducked behind the tallest mountain while still oozing around its sides, Ryan saw a few tents among the trees in the distance. As they moved closer, and twilight dimmed further, the tents disappeared, then sometimes reappeared as the terrain and late shadows toyed with Ryan’s view. He imagined how similar this might be to the teepees of American Indian tribes whose ancestral grounds were in mountainous regions of America.

  As night spread its dark arms, Ryan began to see new light, flickering light. Candles near where the tents had been visible. The sides of the mountain up from the low points were speckled with these lights, like stars scattered across the earth’s dark blanket. The dense canopy of trees shielded the camp from planes. Mossad had informed him that approximately one-hundred-thousand Turkmen lived on and near this mountain. Other Turkmen lived in the Latakia province that stretched beyond the mountain and down to the coastline. Smaller numbers lived near Aleppo and in central and southern Syria, some in Iraq and, to a lesser degree, elsewhere in the Middle East.

  The Latakia province, Ryan estimated they entered sometime early today, was heavily populated by the Alawite faction of Shia.

  The Turkmen were among the very first to take up arms against the Al-Assad Regime, and against ISIL forces.

  As they came close to the outlying tents of the encampment, many women were cooking over open fires. Their talk included two words familiar to Ryan, plov and manti. Ryan had eaten plov, a fried mixture of mutton, carrots, and rice. Manti he wasn’t sure about. It might be the beef or chicken stuffed dumpling like items he saw frying on the cook fires. There were open baskets filled with a bread Ryan knew. The people in Turkey called it cörek, similar to naan in the Asian subcontinent and found retail in many American grocery stores.

  Ryan’s stomach growled from hunger. He had some jerky left in his pack, but, for most of the day, the Turkmen hadn’t stopped to eat so Ryan followed their lead. Perhaps in anticipation of the meals being prepared near these tents.

  As the influence of night grew, nearby hills came alive with flickering candles and the sparks from campfires. Ryan sat and ate with the leader and the other four with whom he had walked throughout the day. The women smiled, but said nothing. Other men nearby remained quiet while eating and watching Ryan.

  The leader wiped a torn piece of bread across his lips. “Your mission here was for the Mossad, right?”

  “Let’s just say, I’m here doing my own work.”

  “Sure. We can say.” The leader pushed the used bread inside his mouth and chewed while repeating, “Sure. Sure. We can say. You will deliver a message for me, eh?”

  “It would be my pleasure, but to whom?”

  The leader smiled, but did not provide a specific answer. “I’d like a battery-operated player along with a DVD of the U.S. movie Fargo, and the television series by that name.”

  “What?”

  “Fargo. Certainly, you know—”

  “Yes. You just surprised me.”

  “I saw Fargo in a private residence during one of my trips into Turkey.”

  “I see.”

  “I made a, let us say, quiet trip to America not long ago. I got to see some of the Fargo TV series. It reminded me some of the winters here in our homeland, and our manner of justice and retribution. I wish to share it,” he extended his arm, swinging it in a wide arch, “with my people. American movies, when we can get them, help us learn our English. They entertain us.”

  “Why did you visit America?”

  “Let’s just say, I was there doing my own work.” He laughed openly. Then after a pause he provided more of an answer. “Your defense and intelligence agencies talk with many. I was merely one more.”

  “But one they brought to America.”

  He smiled and bobbed his head from side to side. “While there, at my request, I was taken to Fargo, North Dakota. That is right? North Dakota is like our provinces?”

  Ryan nodded. “Was the visit to Fargo memorable?”

  “I made it so. I farted in Fargo in the dead of winter. I would have made an echo, but I think it froze.”

  Ryan and the leader laughed, as did all those within hearing.

  The leader extended his hand. “I am Adil Suileman.”

  Ryan grasped the Turkmen’s hand with his own. “I am Ryan Testler.”

  Suileman extended the jug of green tea toward Ryan. “You will return to America, Ryan Testler?”

  Ryan waved off the tea. “Yes.”

  “You could stay. Help us free Syria.”

  “Syria has survived much over thousands of years. It will survive this.”

  “I am sure this is true.” Suileman lowered his head. “But with so much suffering.”

  Ryan leaned close. “You could leave. Even return to Turkey. It’s your ancestral homeland.”

  The Turkmen leader stood. “Life puts choices before us. If we do not choose, others, even circumstance, will choose for us. I have chosen. I will stay. Do what I can. What must be done. As long as I am able.”

  Ryan nodded slowly. He understood.

  “Come back one day, my American friend.”

  “I’d like that. Don’t forget the Israelis. They are solid people. You have much in common.”

  “You will not forget the things I asked you to get me.”

  “When I get back, I’ll personally take care of it. May I send them through Mossad?”

  “That is agreeable. Perhaps I should meet with some of their people. Such channels could help us both. We continue to be aware of them. We admire their skill. Yes, such talks could be a good thing. Can you arrange it? Maybe the lovely, skinny Mossad lady, with the battened down boobs. She is often in Aleppo. The one you met with in your room in the hotel owned by that weasel, Ahmed El Sayed.”

  “You know about that?” Ryan asked, pausing a hunk of mutton near his mouth.

  “Yes. I’m pleased you did not try to lie to me about the purpose of that meeting.”

  “I’m glad you’re not my enemy.”

  The leader nodded and raised his eyebrows. Then he refilled Ryan’s cup and his own with more green tea. “Will you do me another favor?”

  “If it’s possible, you only need to ask.”

  “Please, one day, return to Fargo and fart for me.”

  Ryan glanced at Suileman’s men. They were smiling. “With pleasure.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You’re a strange man, Adil Suileman.”

  “The war. It makes us all crazy. Sometimes we get desperate to do something foolish, just for the fun of its doing.”

  “I’ll go this coming winter. And when I do, I’ll say your name. Better yet, I’ll write your name in the snow, and be sure it’s still there before I leave.”

  “And fart.”

  “And fart.”

  23

  TUESDAY MORNING IN THE TURKMAN MOUNTAIN REGION OF SYRIA

  The high mountainsides were covered with a carpet of green. Soon the approaching change of season would mix in yellows and scarlets and oranges. The treetops were scarved with streaks of low clouds. Syria was truly a naturally beautiful place. The wind hollered at the new day as it darted around the jagged rocky spurs and spires created when the mountains rushed up without bringing along topsoil for trees.

  Before the morning sun fully toped the nearby mountain, Ryan unpacked his satellite phone and dialed the number Mossad had him memorize.

  “Water boy one.”

  “Traveler twelve,” Ryan replied.

  “What is certain?”

  “The uncertainty of the Middle East.”

  With contact made and identities confirmed, the plan was set. The Israeli Dolphin class submarine waited submerged in the Mediterranean Sea, many kilometers from Samra Beach. Far enough that if the sub’s position was detected, it would not, by its mere presence, suggest a Samra Beach rendezvous. The sub would move into position and send an inflatable to meet Ryan just north of the first rock outcropping south of Syria’s border with Turkey. Time: tonight, one hour after sunset.