Payback - John Hayes Series 06 (2020), стр. 37
“Is that him?”
“Maybe.”
They watched an older man cross the square. He eyed them warily and spoke to the other taxi driver. He nodded, still frowning, and walked over.
Mansur stepped forward, his arms open wide to his sides, a big smile on his face. He spoke in Arabic, but John recognized the words Ferhad and Hemin. His face relaxed, and he shook hands with Mansur. Mansur appeared to make introductions. John heard his name and Steve’s, then Ferhad stepped forward and shook their hands and waved toward his taxi.
Mansur turned to John. “He said Hemin called him. Told him everything. He just wasn’t sure it was us.”
“Oh. Is that good or bad?”
“Good. He will help us. He’ll take us as far as Manbij but can’t take us any further. It’s not safe for him.”
John frowned briefly, then nodded. “Okay. Hemin warned us. We’ll worry about the rest of the way when we get there. Tell him okay.”
“How much do you want to pay?”
“I’ll leave that up to you, Mansur.” John moved, so Mansur was between him and Ferhad, then reached into his pocket and pulled out a handful of U.S. dollars. He lowered his voice in case Ferhad could understand English. “Take this. The price doesn’t matter, but don’t let him know that.”
Mansur nodded and went back to Ferhad while John walked around to the other side of the car, opened the rear door, and looked over the roof at Steve.
“Keep your bag with you. Don’t put it in the trunk.”
“You don’t trust him?”
“I don’t know, but best to be safe.”
Both men levered themselves into the rear of the car while Mansur paid Ferhad, and they both climbed into the front. John’s knees were wedged into the back of the driver’s seat, and Steve wasn’t much better off. John slipped the bag off his knees and jammed it into the space between them, and Steve placed his on top.
“What kind of car is this, Mansur?” Steve grumbled. “I’ve seen bigger go-karts.”
Mansur chuckled. “It’s a Saipa. Made in Iran. Very cheap.”
“Not surprised. Made out of a bloody soup can.” Steve turned to John. “How far do we have to go?”
“About four hundred and fifty kilometers.”
“Great.”
The car started on the fourth attempt, Ferhad revving it until it settled into a noisy idle. He looked across at Mansur.
“Yalla.”
Ferhad grinned, and with a wave of his arm out the open window toward the other driver, he pulled out of the square.
John wound down his window and allowed the crisp morning air to flow over him while Mansur conversed with Ferhad.
“There’s some money on the backseat,” John said in English. He shook his head at Steve, who was looking at him with a puzzled look on his face. He leaned over and said in a low voice, “Just checking to see if he speaks English.”
Steve grinned. “I’d say that’s a no.”
John smiled back and tapped Mansur on the arm.
“Ask him how long it will take?”
Mansur spoke for a while, then turned to look back. “He says it will take around nine to ten hours. It will depend on the checkpoints.”
“Are there many checkpoints?”
“He said yes, but not to worry. He drives this way a lot. He said he is Kurdish, and the road until Manbij is controlled by the Kurds.”
“That’s a relief,” John muttered to Steve.
“What do we do when we get to Manbij? We still don’t know how to get to Idlib or where she is.”
“Check the phone again, maybe she’s seen your message.”
Steve shifted his weight to one side and retrieved the phone from his pocket and peered at the screen.
“Still nothing. Shit!” He banged his fist on his leg and stared out the side window.
“Hey, Steve, we’ll work something out. We’ve got this far. Just keep checking the phone.”
Steve kept looking out the window but nodded. John looked back at the road ahead. He hoped he was right.
55
From the village of Zuhajrijja, a dirt road headed west toward the town of Al-Malikiyah through fields, stretching off to both sides as far as the eye could see, acres and acres of brown and green patchwork. There were few people to be seen, and those they did see were, as in Zuhajrijja, mostly elderly.
After around fifteen kilometers, Ferhad muttered something to Mansur.
Mansur nodded and turned in his seat.
“We are approaching the town of Al-Malikiyah, and there is a checkpoint coming. Should be okay, it’s just a local militia, but he said hold your passports and press cards up so they can see them.” He turned his head even more. “Mr. Steve, no photos.”
Steve exchanged a nervous glance with John, and both men removed their passports and press cards.
John took a series of deep breaths in an effort to keep his increasing heart rate under control as Ferhad slowed and joined onto the end of a line of slow-moving traffic, dusty pickups and battered sedans like theirs. John peered through the windshield toward the checkpoint. Large concrete blocks with Arabic script spray-painted across them blocked the road. He could see a white pickup with a man standing in the rear. In front of him, resting on a bipod on the roof was a machine gun, pointed in their direction. At the end of a long aerial, a yellow flag with a red star in the middle fluttered in the wind. John swallowed and tugged on his bulletproof vest, making sure it was secure. The cars edged forward, and as they got closer, John saw three men with shotguns, leather jackets, and bandoliers of ammunition strung around their bodies. Two approached the car in front, one on each side while the third stood in front, his shotgun aimed at the driver, only moving out of the way when the other men gave the vehicle the all-clear to move on.
John heard Steve exhale loudly and glanced across.
“It’ll be okay, Steve. Don’t worry.”
Ferhad edged forward and pulled up at the checkpoint. He called out a greeting to the man on his left while on the passenger side, the other man