He signaled to Davis to kneel to the right of the door, then handed him his 416 and hid the 226 in the back waistband of his pants so he wouldn’t look too intimidating, even though he was stripped to the waist and covered with dirt and sweat. He knocked twice, then backed up and knelt on the ground so that if anyone fired through the door, he wouldn’t get hit in the chest.
Someone inside groaned something.
“What did he say?” Crocker whispered.
“He says he’s an old man,” Hassan whispered back. “We can go in.”
Crocker stood, turned the knob, and stepped inside.
The little room smelled of old leather and BO. The gray-bearded man looked up as if ready to accept anything. “Welcome,” he said in Arabic. “I won’t ask questions. If you have any food, I’ll be very grateful. Otherwise, take what you want. There’s hardly anything left.”
Crocker turned back to tell Davis to bring the last couple of MREs from the van while Hassan explained that they were humanitarian workers carrying wounded refugees to Turkey. Highway 60 was under attack and they needed to find an alternative route.
The old man had heard the explosions, even though he was deaf in one ear. All he had left was his dog and a couple of tapes for his cassette player. He showed how he had jerry-rigged the radio to work on AA batteries.
When Crocker handed him the MREs he smiled, revealing only two remaining front teeth. “Rest here for the night,” the old man said. “We can talk about the women in our lives and listen to music.”
The old man offered to brew coffee on a burner made from an ashtray filled with some kind of anise-flavored liquor. He showed them how he collected the melted wax from his candles and reused it, inserting strips of fabric to serve as wicks.
“You’re a generous man,” Crocker said in Arabic. “But we’re in a hurry to get back to Turkey. Can you show us the way?”
“Of course,” the old man said as he drew a map on the back of an old piece of paper. “I was hoping you could stay a while. Because the only thing I haven’t been able to solve is the loneliness.” He showed them that if they followed the road they were on it would link with another and then a third that would take them to the Turkish border town of Kilis.
Crocker patted the dog’s head. “You’ve got him.”
“My friend Arak is even older and more feeble than I am. Maybe before we die things will change again, and people will come back.”
“I hope so.”
“How long will it take us to reach Kilis, approximately?” Hassan asked.
The man considered and held up a crooked finger. “Maybe one hour.”
Mancini drove while Crocker sat with his 416 ready by the passenger window and Hassan slept between them with his head back and his mouth wide open.
“Big day for the young man,” Mancini commented.
“Yeah.”
Davis reported that baby and mother were resting peacefully in back. Akil was running a fever.
“Give him a couple Advils from the medical pack.”
“Roger.”
The Sprinter engine labored hard as they climbed slowly through winding hills. Olive and fig groves glistened in the moonlight. A breeze carried the scent of rosemary. The dull thud of explosions continued in the distance to their right.
As they chugged along at thirty miles an hour, Mancini said, “This land was controlled by the Macedonians, then the Romans, the Ottomans, and ceded to the French after World War I.”
“All that nonsense, and it probably hasn’t changed much.”
Mancini changed the subject. “You hear about the blonde who put lipstick on her forehead so she could make up her mind?”
Sometimes the problems came so fast and from so many directions that all you could do was laugh.
“I like that one, Manny.”
He looked at the fuel gauge, which showed they were down to less than a quarter of a tank.
“Why do blondes wear underwear?” Mancini asked, rubbing the tribal tattoo on his neck.
“Why?”
“To keep their ankles warm.”
“Really?”
“What do you call the skeleton in the closet with blond hair?”
“Give up.”
“Last year’s hide-and-seek winner.”
Crocker liked that one. His back burned, his face and arms itched from the scratches, and his whole right side ached, but none of that mattered. He was looking for the last turnoff, which the old man said would be past two burned-out tanks and a barn on the left.
He and Mancini had been working together for nearly ten years now. They’d witnessed almost every kind of tragedy imaginable-from drownings to bombings, plane crashes, and beheadings. They’d shared a lot of good times, too-hot-air balloon racing in New Mexico, surfing in Hawaii, climbing Mount Kilimanjaro, marlin fishing off the coast of Chile. They’d seen colleagues marry, have children, and watched them die. Even though they weren’t close friends off-duty, Crocker thought of him as his brother. He couldn’t imagine going on a mission without him.
Seeing Mancini yawn, Crocker asked, “You want to rest while I take over?”
“No, boss. As long as you stay awake and talk to me, I’m good.”
“Pretty land.”
“Yeah, reminds me a little of Tuscany.”
“Good wine and pretty women.”
Mancini shook his head and smiled.
“What?” Crocker asked.
“Remember the time you, me, and Ritchie grabbed that Libyan terrorist and his girlfriend outside of Assisi?”
“Yeah. We had to drive to Milan dressed as priests.”
“That was Ritchie’s idea,” Mancini said.
“Pissed the Italian authorities off. Fucking Ritchie.”
“I miss him.”
“Yeah. Me, too.”
An hour and a half later, Crocker spotted yellow-and-orange signs warning that Syrian customs stood ten kilometers ahead. The lack of roadblocks had induced a state of complacency that was quickly replaced by concern.
What if the Syrians try to stop us? We don’t know which rebel faction controls the border. If they’re Assad’s people, we could be screwed.
His anxiety grew as they drew closer. Red-and-yellow warning lights flashed ahead.
“What do you think?” Mancini asked, the bold colors washing over his face. “You want to turn off the road and find a way around it?”
Crocker looked at the fuel gauge, which was already in the red. “Don’t want to get stuck here. No. Fuck it.”
“Should we stop and contact Ankara?”
“What are they gonna do?” asked Crocker, craning his neck left and right, looking for an alternate route.
“I don’t know. Call ahead, maybe. Tell us who controls the border.”
“They’ve been useless so far,” Crocker responded. “Let’s pull closer and take a look.”
They approached within two hundred feet of the border. Mancini paused outside a boarded-up store while Crocker checked out the facility through the Steiners. Saw that the barriers were up in both directions and no one appeared to be manning the checkpoint.
“Looks unoccupied,” he said, relieved. “We should be good.”
They readied their weapons just in case, then passed an old man sweeping the little guard shack, and a sleeping dog. Neither looked up.
“Sweet.”
“Now what?”
“Look for an IHOP and order a big breakfast.”
“Pancakes, eggs, bacon, coffee.”
The Turkish side was quiet, too. A couple of young soldiers with M1s looked at the blue cross on the hood of the van and nodded.
They stopped in a parking lot past the blue-and-white customs building and called Janice on the satellite phone.