"So do I," Mahmoud said. "Now come. Siriner will want to hear about the mission."
Mahmoud kept his arm around his brother's shoulder as the two of them walked toward the cave. It was the first time Ibrahim had been to the sanctuary of the unified Kurdish freedom fighters. He had always hoped that his coming would have been under different circumstances. Humbly, almost invisibly, as an observer. A witness to history. Not as a hero who felt like a blunderer.
Base Deir was named after the Syrian word for monastery. It was Kayahan Siriner's way of acknowledging the lonely, sacrificial life he and his people led here. The command headquarters was located in an underground section of the cave. A tunnel had been dug in the floor, and cinderblocks had been used to make steps. The tunnel was covered by a trapdoor which, when shut, could not be seen in the floor of the dark cave. The door had been weighted with heavy strips of rubber. If anyone walked on it, their footsteps wouldn't sound hollow. Beyond the trapdoor the cave continued to the north. There, the dozens of PKK soldiers slept on cots and ate around a picnic table. Just past their sleeping quarters the cavern forked. The eastern fork was nearly a straight continuation of the north-running tunnel. Daylight was visible from one end to the other. A dead-end dry gallery, this fork contained the militia's arms and gas-powered generators. The group's field commander, Kenan Arkin, had a station here and in the command headquarters. The tall, gaunt Turk remained in constant contact with the PKK's many factions. The natural cave had ended there, but the soldiers had broken through to a small gorge beyond. Cliffs overhung the gorge on either side, hiding it from the air and making it ideal for training. In the western fork of the cavern were ten small, dark pits. They were lined with wire mesh and covered with circular iron grates. The grates were held in place by iron bars which lay across the center. Each end of the bar was fitted into an iron upright. The eight-foot-deep holes were used as jail cells and held two people each. Sanitation consisted of larger mesh openings on the bottom.
Electric lights had been strung along the roof of the narrow passageway, and Siriner's bunker was protected by an iron door. The door had been made from the hatch and armored plate of a Syrian tank destroyed by the Israelis. It was cool ten feet below the surface of the cave, and within the bunker itself a pair of large fans stirred the musty air. The room was nearly square and roughly the size of a large freight elevator. The walls were naked, and the low ceiling had been covered with a clear plastic tarp. The plastic was pulled tight and bolted in the corner to protect the room in the event of artillery shelling. There were rugs on the dirt floor, a small metal desk, and folding chairs with embroidered cushions. Beside the desk was a shredder. Behind it there was a radio with a headset and stool.
Commander Kayahan Siriner was standing behind his desk when Mahmoud and Ibrahim entered. He was dressed in a drab-green uniform and a white kaffiyeh with a red band. He wore a.38 in a holster on his belt. Siriner was of medium height and build, with dark skin and pale eyes. He had a very thin pencil moustache on his upper lip and a ring on his left index finger. The gold band sported two large silver daggers crossed beneath a star. Like Walid, Commander Siriner bore a scar. This one was a deep, jagged scar which ran from the bridge of his nose to the middle of his right cheek. He had obtained the wound as the leader of the Kurdish food parties in Turkey. It was his job to lead small bands against non-Kurdish villages to obtain food. If the villagers didn't give it willingly, the Kurds took it by force. Turkish soldiers were killed out of hand whether they resisted or not.
Commander Siriner did not leave the cave unless it was necessary. Even at night, there was the fear that he might be assassinated by Turkish or Iraqi snipers positioned in the peaks around the base.
It was both a relief and an honor that Siriner was standing. An honor because the commander was showing the men respect for what they'd accomplished. A relief because he attached no blame to them for the loss of Walid and Hasan.
"I thank Allah for your safe return and for the success of your mission," said Siriner, his deep, resonant voice filling the room. "You have come with a trophy, I understand."
"Yes, Commander," said Mahmoud. "A vehicle of some kind which the Americans use to spy."
Siriner nodded. "And you are certain that in bringing it here, you yourselves were not spied upon?"
"We used it to blind the satellite, Commander," said Ibrahim. "There is no doubt that they cannot see us."
Siriner smiled. "As their flyovers of the region suggest." He looked at Mahmoud. "Tell me what happened to Walid's ring and to Hasan."
Mahmoud took a step forward. Hasan had radioed the base about Walid's death, and the guard had just informed Siriner of Hasan's death. Now, Mahmoud gave their commander the details. The commander remained standing as he spoke. When Mahmoud was finished, Siriner sat down.
"The American is here, in captivity?"
"He is," said Mahmoud.
"He knows how to work the equipment you've captured?"
"He does," said Mahmoud. "Several of the captives appear to know something of its operation."
Siriner thought for a long moment, and then called for a soldier who served as his master-at-arms. The brawny young man hurried into the office and saluted. Military formalities were strictly observed among the twenty-five soldiers who were permanently stationed at the base.
The commander returned the salute. "Sadik," he said, "I want the American leader tortured where the others can hear."
Ibrahim wasn't convinced that the American would break. However, he didn't offer his unsolicited opinion. The only answers Siriner accepted from his people were "Yes, sir," and "I'm sorry, sir."
"Yes, sir," the master-at-arms said.
"Mahmoud," said Siriner, "I've heard that there are women prisoners as well?"
"Yes, sir."
Siriner looked back at Sadik. "Select a woman to watch the torture. She will go second. I want this vehicle working for the next part of our operation. It may help us guide the infiltrators."
"Yes, sir."
Siriner dismissed his master-at-arms. He turned back to Mahmoud and Ibrahim. "Mahmoud. I see you wear Walid's ring."
"Yes, sir. He gave it to me before he — left us."
"He was my oldest friend," said Siriner. "He will not die unavenged."
Siriner walked from behind the desk. His expression was a strange mix of grief and pride. Ibrahim had seen the expression before in the faces of people who had lost friends or brothers, husbands or sons to a cause that was equally close to them.
"As we expected, Syrian Army troops have begun moving to the north. Mahmoud. You're acquainted with the role that Walid was to have played in the second phase of our operation?"
"I am, sir," Mahmoud replied. "Upon his return he was going to relieve Field Commander Kenan. Kenan is going to lead the raid upon the Syrian Army outpost in Quteife."
Siriner stood in front of Mahmoud and peered into his eyes. "The raid is vital to our plan. However, Allah is merciful. He has returned you to us. I see in that a sign, Mahmoud al-Rashid. A sign that you and not Kenan are to take Walid's part."
Mahmoud's tired eyelids raised slightly. "Commander?"
"I would like you to lead the Base Deir group to Quteife and then Damascus. Our man there awaits the signal. Set out with the others and I will give it."
Mahmoud was still surprised. He bowed his head. "Of course, Commander. I am honored."
Siriner embraced Mahmoud. He patted his back. "I know you must be tired. But it is important that I be represented in Damascus by a hero of our cause. Go and see Kenan. He will give you your instructions. You can sleep while you wait for the Syrians."
"Again, sir, I am honored."