Moments later Khaldun heard the ladder being removed and the metallic sound of some kind of covering being dragged into position over the entrance to the pit. He waited several minutes for his eyes to adjust to the blackness, and even then there was only the faintest trace of light. Still cautious, he waited several more minutes before he finally began groping his way along the pit wall.
Only then was he aware that there was someone else in the pit with him. When the man spoke, Khaldun knew he was not an Iraqi.
“I fear, my friend,” the voice said, “you will soon discover the futility of trying to find a way out. I have been searching for days and I can assure you that the walls of our cell are quite solid.”
With the sudden realization that someone was in the pit with him, Khaldun turned abruptly, backed up against the wall, and braced himself.
He squinted into the darkness, but there was nothing to see.
“Identify yourself,” he demanded.
The laughter surprised him.
“Under the circumstances, does it matter who I am?”
“You are a Turk?” Khaldun asked.
“And it is equally obvious that you are an Iraqi,” Doronkin said.
Even though Khaldun was unable to see him, the sound of the man’s voice betrayed the fact that he was standing no more than a few feet in front of him. Still Khaldun waited.
“Given time, the darkness pales,” the man said.
“The eyes are quite remarkable; they soon adjust to what little light there is. Very soon you will be surprised at how much more you are able to see.”
“Who are you?” Khaldun repeated.
“I, like you, am also a prisoner of the Kurds. My captors, if I can believe what they tell me, say that I have been here for three days. I admit, however, that it seems a great deal longer.”
“Three days,” Khaldun said.
“And you are being held captive for what reason?”
The moment he asked the question Khaldun detected a slight hesitancy in the way the man responded.
Finally the voice admitted, “I–I was brought here after the accident.”
“Accident?”
Doronkin continued to ramble, oblivious to the question.
“There — there were four — four of us. I am told only two of us survived.”
“And where is this other one they tell you survived?”
Khaldun pressed.
“This survivor, he is here with us?”
“I–I do not know where he is. I am told he was injured. I have not talked to him — nor have I been allowed to see him. The one who brings the food twice a day, she tells me what little I know.”
“What crash?”
“Our aircraft was shot down.”
“This aircraft of which you speak,” Khaldun probed, “it was a helicopter?”
Suddenly it was Doronkin who was exercising caution. When it became apparent the Turk had become reticent, it was Khaldun who began to push.
“I am Captain Sharif Khaldun of the Northern Iraqi Military Force,” he said.
“I was dispatched to Koboli to investigate reports of a helicopter that had penetrated our airspace and was shot down by one of our helicopter patrols.”
In the darkness Doronkin moved closer to Khaldun and lowered his voice.
“You are from the NIMF installation in Ammash?”
Before Khaldun was able to respond he heard the same grating metallic noise he had heard shortly after he was ordered into the pit. The cover was being removed and the beams of several flashlights were suddenly stabbing down into the blackness. Khaldun and Doronkin found themselves staring up into the sudden wash of light, and Khaldun recognized the voice of the Kurd guerrilla leader, Aman.
“Get the Iraqi pig out of there,” he shouted.
“Leave the other one there. We already know his fate.”
Outside the cave, Khaldun found himself surrounded by a handful of taunting Kurd youths.
Then he was blindfolded, a lead rope looped around his neck, his hands cinched behind him, and he was led down a long rocky incline into the center of the settlement. Each time he stumbled and fell, one of the young Kurds used the occasion to kick him and jerk him to his feet. When he reached the bottom of the hill, he felt himself being led up more steps and pushed into a room.
There, Aman removed the blindfold, grabbed him by the shoulders, and shoved him into a chair. His hands were still tied.
The small room was crowded, there was the acrid smell of chip smoke, and despite the Kurds’ attempts to illuminate it, the room remained little more than a montage of suspicious shadows. Candles had been strategically located throughout the room, but the shimmering flames created little more than a sense of foreboding.
It took several moments for Khaldun’s eyes to adjust to the flickering light. When he was finally able to see around the room, he realized he was surrounded by a small army of men. The identity of one of the men was concealed by a hood that covered his face; the rest were bearded and their faces masked by shadows. As near as Khaldun could determine, most of them, even the one called Aman, were dressed in the Kurdish attire of their ancestors. Despite the occasional shuffling of feet, the room was eerily quiet.
Finally, an old man was led into the room and seated at the table directly in front of him. He was flanked on one side by the guerrilla leader who had taken him captive and on the other by a woman. To his surprise, when she stood up and started to speak, she spoke in his native Iraqi.
“I am told that your name is Sharif Khaldun and that you are an officer in the Northern Iraqi Military Force of General Salih Baddour. Is that correct?”
Only then did Khaldun realize that one of Aman’s young guerrilla band had moved in behind him. As soon as the woman asked the question, the youth began prodding him with the butt of his rifle.
“Answer,” the youth insisted, “now.”
“I–I am Captain Khaldun.”
“And these. Captain”—the woman made a sweeping gesture with her hand—“are your judges, the Council of Elders in the Kurdish settlement known as Koboli.”
“Judges?” Khaldun said.
“For what crime am I being judged?”
The woman waited. Finally she said, “You are accused of the crime of genocide against the Kurdish people.”
Khaldun made the mistake of trying to stand up and protest the charge at the same time. The sudden movement alarmed his young Kurd guard, and he responded by clubbing the Iraqi captain in the small of the back with the butt of his rifle.
Khaldun felt the wind go out of him, dropped to his knees, and tried to suck in his breath.
The woman walked slowly around the end of the table and to where Khaldun continued to kneel.
“Three-four days ago a helicopter carrying a Canadian arms dealer and three others crashed near here, Captain. Their intention, we are now convinced, was to travel to Ammash and sell weapons to the armies of General Baddour.”
“I know — know nothing of any such arrangement to sell weapons to the NIMF,” Khaldun protested.
“Would you still deny these charges when we tell you that we have papers to prove these charges?” the woman asked.
Khaldun was still trying to regulate his breathing.
The woman moved closer, slowly circled him, and appraised him. Then she looked at Aman.
“Take the hood off the other prisoner.” The guerrilla leader stood up, walked over, and removed the hood. Bogner’s eyes blinked, trying to adjust to the light. His face was bruised and swollen and his mouth had been taped shut.
“Once again, Captain Khaldun, do you still deny that you know this man?”