A Predictable Act

By Stephen Ford

Al-Qaeda has a new leader, Ayman al-Zawahiri and he's no longer prepared to send suicide missions. It's too costly and crude. Now he intends for his fighters to survive and return as heroes and future trainers for the cause. It makes for good propaganda and fund raising amongst the rich Princes and families of Saudi Arabia.
Michael Burrows of the British SIS becomes aware of the terrorist group and their yacht. Repositioning of a surveillance satellite over the Arabian Sea produces an opportune picture of a clandestine rendezvous between a surfaced submarine and a yacht. What he does not know is the nature of the transfer between the two craft, is it a person or perhaps industrial secrets, or something more sinister. Michael correctly guesses the passage of the yacht through the Suez Canal. However, he disastrously fails to track the yacht once the terrorists enter the Mediterranean. Only after their first attack is the hunt on for the terrorists before they can strike again.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Stephen Ford
• Release date: Aug 20, 2011
• ISBN: 9781465938930

Book preview

Chapter 1 – Enduring Freedom

Well before the dust settled upon the debris of the World Trade Centre, the world heard for the first time the name of a new despot, Osama bin Laden. Before nine-eleven, only the global intelligence community knew of him and his terrorist organisation. Since that fateful day, he has become a household name repeated in every language around the world.

To the global community Osama bin Laden seemingly appeared to spring forth from the murkiness of obscurity to infamy in one incomprehensible, vile act. Even after nine-eleven there happened to be a brief span of time when his true ascendency to mass murderer remained conveniently cloaked in the fog of political intrigue. As is often the case, the history of Osama bin Laden finally seeped out. The world at last knew the truth about him.

The world now knows that the computers of the Central Intelligence Agency at Langley, Virginia carry many files and flags on Osama bin Laden and his organisation. Their complicity and duplicity with him is undeniable and inescapable. The United States of America together with others, including wealthy Saudi Arabia, helped him to finance and create his terrorist organisation. He christened the nascent organisation al-Qaeda, a name now reviled and feared. It simply means the base, perhaps alluding to the computer database compiled by the organisation. In time and as predictable as the events in the fictional story of Frankenstein, the financiers lost control of their creation.

Whilst the world community knew little of al-Qaeda, there were several acts of terrorism, widely known to the CIA and others, attributable to it. They commenced, ironically, with the failed first bombing of the World Trade Centre and include amongst others, the fatal attack on the USS Cole whilst moored in the safety of the Yemeni port of Aden.

The origins of al-Qaeda lay back in the early 1980s. The CIA and Pakistan's Inter Services Intelligence Agency, known simply as the ISI, cooperated to form and arm insurgent groups to undermine the Soviet invasion of Afghanistan. This ill-conceived invasion became to the Russians, what previously Vietnam had proved to be to the Americans, a costly killing ground and propaganda disaster. Both superpowers engineered a presence in these countries by machination and deception and both were to suffer the same international humiliation.

These newly formed insurgent groups naturally attracted the more radical extremist Muslims from around the world. This simplistic movement to defeat the Soviets soon became a cause for all Islamic Fundamentalists. The Soviets became the suppressors of the Faith and a natural enemy of all Muslims. Osama bin Laden, himself a multi-millionaire, soon found himself key to the aims of the CIA and the ISI. Both quickly recognised his ability to organise and coerce this rabble collection of men into a very efficient guerrilla army. To the Soviet Union, they became a living nightmare, able to penetrate deep behind their lines in small independent groups. Soviet casualties mounted and as the lines of body bags grew, so inevitably did their political will drain.

Osama bin Laden set up training camps in the mountainous region of Pakistan where it conveniently borders Afghanistan. Funds flowed from the United States with no more control than water flows over rapids. No politicians raised objections; a Congressional Committee never questioned the wisdom of the policy. In 1987 alone, sixty-five thousand tons of weapons and ammunition manufactured in the United States reached the insurgents, now conveniently referred to as freedom fighters by the CIA. Over time and after the successful defeat of the Russians, Osama bin Laden aligned himself with the Taliban fighters in Afghanistan. With his financial and logistical support, they eventually gained control of the country and by way of repayment gave him shelter and sanctuary.

The beginning of this most recent chapter in the history of Afghanistan resulted from the political vacuum left by the retreating Russian invaders. After the removal of the last communist President and pressure from the Afghan warlords, power shifted to a transitional Mujahedeen government. This government proved no more democratic or benign than the previous government. Even for Afghanistan, the Mujaddeddi warlords took factional fighting and atrocities to new levels.

With the stage set for the Taliban, based in the Helmand, Kandahar and Uruzgan regions of the country, they emerged as the natural ruling group. The Taliban’s first major military activity took place in 1994. They captured Kandahar City and the surrounding provinces. At this time, the inhabitants widely supported the Taliban. The citizens of the city suffered many atrocities at the hands of the Mujahedeen warlords during their reign. The light casualties inflicted on the Taliban in taking the city reflected their support amongst the population. Their casualties reportedly numbered less than fifty fighters.

In the next three months, the Taliban took control of twelve of Afghanistan's thirty-four provinces. The Mujahedeen warlords often wisely surrendered without a fight, fearing their likely fate if they chose to resist. On September 26th 1996, the capital Kabul finally fell.

Time passed and circumstances changed, it no longer suited Osama bin Laden for the CIA to pull the strings. The terrorist organisation underwent a metamorphosise, which the CIA failed to foresee or recognise. It was not a subtle change, the grubby freedom fighters matured into fully-fledged international terrorists. They exported their vision of social order to wherever the seeds of religious hatred might germinate. Osama bin Laden no longer felt obliged to follow the will of his former paymasters, only the consuming hatred of his own distorted faith.

By October 2001, the Taliban, in shielding Osama bin Laden from the West, became a legitimate target for the West, a focus for revenge after nine-eleven. A simple proposition formed in western society. Eliminate the Taliban and expose al-Qaeda, eliminate al-Qaeda and expose their leader Osama bin Laden, the real target. A simple plan, perhaps too simple, but the politicians in their naivety raced ahead. The United Nations gave approval for a joint invasion of Afghanistan by American and NATO forces. Operation Enduring Freedom began....

Chapter 2 – Hadi

Fit and single but now the wrong side of thirty he had known many girlfriends, but never quite settled with any. Back when he left school, he decided to take a gap year before university except one year proved many. He just could not settle; he had no parents, no brother or sister not now.

When an infant he lived in Iran. His father, the editor of a daily newspaper in Tehran, always steered a difficult and perilous editorial policy. Especially when life became cheap as the Shah’s regime lost its once iron grip over the peoples of the country. Any perceived criticism of the regime, or support for the Islamic fundamentalists within the country, provoked a speedy and often disproportionate action by Sazeman-e Ettela'at va Amniyat-e Keshvar, better known as SAVAK. They were the Shah of Iran’s reviled and most feared secret police to whom he gave unrestrained powers. They vigorously eliminated any opposition to the Shah's regime by any means, however repugnant. They were responsible for some of the most blatant and brutal abuses of human rights.

Late on the Sunday evening the telephone rang. Hadi often recalled his father’s conversation, hushed, economical and unusually anxious. His father’s hand shook as he held the receiver to his ear. Thankfully, he sat beside the ornamental telephone table; otherwise, he may well have collapsed from the impact of the shattering news. Hadi’s father knew the caller, an old and trusted family friend employed in the depths of the regime. Even so, the friend feared discovery, but still risked his life. My old friend, have you thought how wonderful the sky is on these cold winter nights? No of course not, but you can see more stars away from the city where there is no filth, no pollution. Do you follow my thoughts my dear friend? I have read your recent articles; you take an interesting though singularly dangerous editorial line. Alas, my old friend, truth is a dangerous luxury. Then after a moment of reflection, I must go now, but let’s hope that we will meet again one day, when you are able to sit with me at a street cafe and enjoy a game of chess. Until then my dear friend, take care. May Allah go with you on your next journey of life.

I thank you and understand. May Allah also care for you my dear friend. I fear the future also holds danger for you and your family. Do take care.

I have never forgotten your kindness, when I was the one in need, khoda hafez my dearest of friends.

The line went dead, but for some time he held the handset, consumed by his thoughts. Slowly he let the handset slip from his fingers and fall to the marbled floor where it shattered on the hard surface, perhaps as an ominous prophesy of events to come.

Hadi’s father realised that he faced imminent arrest for his political writings. At last, in a life dedicated to reporting the truth, his opinions and views predictably now strayed beyond the thin line judged acceptable to the regime. He knew detention normally resulted in interrogation by SAVAK and destitution for the victim’s family. The caller spoke obliquely, but the years of friendship enabled Hadi’s father to understand the true nature of the conversation. Even in those dark days before the Islamic Revolution, the regime regularly tapped telephone lines and the friend’s voice might be familiar to one of the listeners.

The tentacles of SAVAK spread into all corners of society. Hadi, too young to remember all the events of that evening, could still recall how his parents huddled together stepping on the broken remnants of the phone. How his father explained in his soft voice to Hadi’s mother the need to flee that evening. To flee before those dreaded black saloons screamed to a halt outside their home. Tears flowed down his mother’s cheeks to drip from her face, as his father held her to him to comfort and reassure her. Hadi could only look on, not understanding the reality of his parents’ situation. His parents slowly calmed. They realised Hadi and his siblings looked frightened, unsure of what danger they may face. Their parents were not prone to such outward emotion.

His parents took the decisions quickly, without argument. They packed only enough clothes for the journey. Whilst his mother sorted and crammed food into bags, his father checked the dimly lit street for the presence of any strange vehicles or the silhouette of a person attempting to hide in the shadows of the night. Thankfully, SAVAK were yet to place observers to watch the house.

His father, reassured, left the house and entered the garage through the side entrance. He brought clothing and food for their journey. In the cool of the garage, there were always stored bottles of drinking water and fortuitously two Jerry cans of fuel, which he just managed to cram into the remaining space in the boot of the family car. He returned to the house and then quickly re-emerged with the family. He purposely decided to leave the television and house lights on. Locking the main door, he hurried the family into the garage. After the family were all safely in the car, he opened the sliding garage doors and drove out, stopping the car in the street. He purposely did not drive straight off, but took the time to close and lock the garage doors. The longer things appeared normal within the house the better. Time bought them distance and the greater the distance from Tehran the more likely they might evade their pursuers. They needed as much time as possible before the alarm.

His father drove the large silver Chrysler quietly down the street before turning on the driving lights. Hadi sat in the rear with his mother and sister. His elder brother sat on the front bench seat beside his father to hold the maps, helping his father navigate. They drove in the silence of fear.

They drove west towards the Turkish border, some seven hundred kilometres distance. The roads made it a slow and perilous journey, becoming more rutted and unattended the further they drove from Tehran. The road switched back and forth to climb the steep gradients. The car climbed and then descended into another valley. The darkness of night passed slowly to the grey light of dawn. They only stopped for the necessities of nature; they ate their modest food and drank water on the move. Even with all the windows lowered in the car, the interior still became unbearably hot. There was little escape. The warm breeze blowing through the car did little to cool the occupants.

The children instinctively felt the fear and danger of the journey. The tension percolated from their parents as they peered through the windscreen to spot the anticipated waving arms at a police roadblock. Hadi’s father continually debated in his mind whether he should stop or run if they happened upon a roadblock. Thankfully, he need not have worried, but the tension remained.

The setting sun, exhausted by the passage of the day fell to the west. With its setting, the fierce heat of the day dissipated, giving way to a cool breeze. As during the previous night, Hadi’s father constantly let his eyes drift to the rear view mirror, much as light irresistibly draws a moth. He could not resist a glance, though always fearful that he might make out the jumping headlights of a pursuit car. He knew that capture would result in the utter destruction of his family, with certain death and burial in an unmarked grave for all of them. Their flight would be enough to prove his guilt and his action by association condemned them all.

It was time to stop again, the family needed to stretch their aching limbs. Hadi’s father took the opportunity to fill the fuel tank with the last of the fuel from the remaining Jerry can. He shook it to convince himself that it was truly empty and then discarded it into the ditch beside the road. There was little point in carrying the empty can, unlike the West, petrol stations were not commonplace in this wild region of Iran. He opened the driver’s door and sat in the car, allowing the door to rest gently against his leg. The courtesy light remained lit. The map lay on the front bench seat of the car. Looking at the map, he tried to estimate the remaining distance to the border. The Chrysler was a thirsty car; he had not bought it for its economy. He frowned, thinking to himself perhaps they might just make it, but he could not be sure. Then leaning out of the car, Come let’s get going, we must move on. Come Hadi please sit with your mother and sister.

They resumed their journey. There were no road signs, no distance markers to tell them how far they were from the border, only the odometer recorded the distance travelled. Anxiously glancing down at the fuel gauge, Hadi’s father winced for it again showed its ominous message. The small orange light beside the needle glowed, indicating low fuel.

By fate and without knowing it at the time, they had come to the last settlement before the border. Hadi’s father slowed the car to a crawl. His eyes raw with fatigue, he strained to peer through the windscreen at the few desolate humble stone dwellings that comprised the ancient hamlet. It seemed as if life was extinct, not even the ubiquitous barking dog pulling on its tether to break the silence. Their arrival appeared to go unnoticed. In this region, all human and domesticated life sought sanctuary from the cold of the night.

Hadi's father stopped the car and slid the gearshift into park, taking care to kill the lights. The engine quietly idled to keep the heater working and, for what seemed an eternity to the family, he sat unmoving, quiet and deep in thought. He ached with weariness from the lack of sleep and sitting arched over the steering wheel for so long. He knew that the family’s survival weighed heavily upon his shoulders and that he could not rest, not even for the briefest of moments.

Afraid that he might drift unwillingly into sleep in the warmth of the car, he selected a dwelling with a thin plume of smoke slowly curling from the chimney. Frost had already turned the rudimentary roof white. He turned and leant into his seat so that he faced Hadi’s mother. I must leave you here with the children and seek help to cross the border. Please be brave my loved one. Do not leave the car.

She grasped him, not willing to let him go, her face pale with fear. He tenderly reached out for her. She cried softly in his arms and then summoned her inner strength to push him gently away and say, Go carefully my love. For all our sakes be vigilant, I pray for your safe return. Come back my love, we all need you.

He softly kissed her on the lips, as he did on their first date and then gently touched each of the children on their cheeks with both his hands. Fighting back the tears that threatened to fill his eyes his hand fumbled for the door lever. Lock the doors. Keep the engine running for as long as possible, you must all stay warm. Were his parting words.

They felt the harsh cold of the night as he opened the door. He quickly left the car, quietly shutting the door. He shuddered as he felt the cold of the night air bite into his lungs. The chill easily pervaded his city clothes. For a brief moment he did not move, allowing his eyes to adjust to his surroundings. Then he forced himself to move away from the sanctuary of the car. Everything remained quiet; thankfully, their arrival had gone unnoticed. He slowly approached the dwelling he had viewed from the warmth of the car. As he neared, he could discern the barest suggestion of light showing from under the door. Even when he came close to the door, nothing stirred. No sounds came from beyond the door, not even a dog growling a timely warning to his master.

His breath came in nervous gasps and hung as a chilled cloud in the cold night air. His lungs burned from the cold. The moon shone bright and the sky twinkled. He slowly raised his clenched hand and knocked on the rough wooden door. It proved as simple as tossing a coin to decide whom to ask for help. He needed to know about the border. He knew little of the region, a city boy now out of his depth, standing in an alien inhospitable land far from his life in Tehran. The only things he knew of this region came from his reporting events, especially recent events. These communities showed their collective hatred of the Shah and his regime whenever they could. He knew the family lacked the necessary visas and documents to openly drive up to the border and leave Iran, his only hope lay with these people. The cold gnawed at his body as he waited for what seemed an eternity, his breath forming frosty clouds in front of the door. In his mind, he did not know what to expect. Perhaps his worries might disappear in an instant, as a bullet took away his life. For the family, this wild, almost untamed region of the country, posed as much a threat as the Shah’s secret police, although death might be quicker for them here.

The face of an old man appeared at a small rudimentary opening hatch set into the ancient door. The villager remained protected by a wrought iron grill. A warm, fetid smell came from the open hatch. Hadi’s father spoke quickly, lest the old man close the wooden hatch. This region remained primitive and life came cheap, especially for a stranger. The old man listened, then without warning abruptly closed the hatch.

Hadi’s father felt a sudden sense of despair as his knees sagged, forcing him involuntarily to seek the support of the rough cold stone of the dwelling. He rethought and questioned his actions of the past day. From the moment of the phone call to the present, could he have overreacted, should he have waited to seek confirmation of his friend’s warning? Every minute and every kilometre of their flight, he constantly dwelt on the single fear that the border posed an impassable barrier to their freedom and safety. He could not share his concerns with his wife. The children would listen. Already frightened by their parents’ strange and unusual actions they would surely become hysterical and uncontrollable if they became aware of their parents’ true plight. He tried to remain cheerful but now he struggled to maintain control of himself and the situation.

He felt all hope dissipate from his body, pain flashed through his chest and his bladder felt about to explode. He leaned harder against the stone to stop himself from collapsing to the ground. His strength seemed to sap from his body. He thought of the distance between himself and the warmth of the car. He was no longer sure he could return to the car, his strength now exhausted. He thought perhaps he might just lie down and peacefully sleep in eternity. Although he did not know it, he need not worry. There, in the confusion of his thoughts, came the sound of a wooden locking bar moving on the other side of the door and then an ancient lock turning. The door creaked on its old wrought iron hinges, as it swung open. He found himself illuminated by an ancient copper oil lamp held by the old man’s wife. A sour, warm air escaping from the dwelling engulfed him. The old man appeared behind his wife brandishing an ancient rifle, gained by his father’s father in some long forgotten skirmish. Hadi’s father almost panicked and ran, overtaken by the basic instinct of fear of the unknown. The only thing that stopped him were his legs, they lacked the strength to move. The emotional journey to the border, his fears, the absence of warm food and the lack of thick warm clothing all took a toll on his stamina. He neared the end of his reserves and his knees were buckling, his vision blurring.

The old man recognised the situation and dragged the stranger into his humble dwelling. Hadi’s father, still stricken with fear, collapsed to his knees. Whilst the old man’s wife quickly closed the door, the old man helped Hadi’s father off the floor and across the modest single room dwelling. There two ancient wooden stools, worn smooth by use, rested in front of the open wood fire. The old woman picked up an ancient metal ladle and clucked to herself as she filled a clay bowl with a simple bean and potato soup that simmered in a cast iron pot suspended over the fire. She handed Hadi’s father the bowl and a wooden spoon. The old man went to the corner of the room where a table leaned against the wall. He roughly pulled a lump of bread from the flat loaf that lay upon the table. He turned and tossed the bread to the stranger. Apart from the light from the oil lamp, which again hung from one of the wooden beams that supported the roof, the fire provided the only other light in the room. The earthen floor reflected the hard life of the occupants and their trodden down existence.

When the stranger regained his complexion, the old man silently listened to his story. Finally, he stood and indicated that he must follow him. He led him from the warmth of his dwelling across the village to a larger stone house, the bright moonlight being the only aid to their passage. The old man thumped on the door with the butt of his ancient rifle, his constant companion. The house, as Hadi’s father soon found out, belonged to the village Imam.

The Imam, a man of learning, quickly understood why Hadi’s family now found themselves in his village. He proved to be a sympathetic listener, for he awaited the return of the true leader of his faith, a man who would rid his country of the tyrant who sat on the Peacock throne. In response he muttered, He’s a tyrant who came to power with the aid of the greedy Yankee Infidels, but his time is almost up he will be soon gone, for Allah has told me so. Our pain will soon be gone; our day of freedom is near.

The Imam knew that there were ways to avoid the border guards, ways to cross the countryside into Turkey. Crossing the border is relatively easy, he said, it’s just a way of life for the villagers on either side. Although the border dissects our homelands, it proves no hindrance to our movements. It is, my friend, but a line on a piece of paper that Allah does not see.

The Imam explained that there were guides, But my friend, as they say, no one does anything for nothing, especially when it might expose their life expectancy to a speedy shortening.

Fortunately, Hadi’s father’s intuition served him well and encouraged him to save dollars and purchase gold for a rainy day or, as events now transpired, a very chilly night. His political awareness - it came with the job - meant he always kept money and gold in the house ready for the day when he may need to flee.

The family’s safety remained perilous. Discovery would hand them to the local police. Then life after a few phone calls would become very tenuous. None of their friends knew where they were and no one would know the location of their burial. Without the normal custom of drawn-out haggling, he quickly agreed the cost of a guide with the Imam. Hadi’s father was in no position to haggle over a few Rials. How could the strangers know the value of his family?

Relieved, he returned to the car with the old man. He knew the journey ahead held many perils but, even so, he felt an inner relief as he gathered his family and their few possessions. Now they abandoned the warmth and security of the car to return to the Imam’s house. The Imam offered food and tea to the family to fortify them for their coming journey. The villagers knew him as a kindly man, fond of children and of life, even as they knew it.

Shortly afterwards they were joined by a young man in his early twenties, dressed in an assortment of dull brown clothes, his face concealed by a dark bushy beard. He smelt of the animals he tended. The young herdsman proved a good choice; he knew the trails like the back of his hand. He walked the hills as a small boy, chasing his elder brothers as they tended to the herd of assorted goats. Though introduced, no one wanted to remember names, time slipped by, they needed to depart the village and resume their escape. Hadi’s father gave his car keys to the Imam who happily accepted the unexpected gift and his newly acquired consumer status. He could not drive, but Allah would surely guide him in his quest to master the infernal carriage. Hadi’s father turned to the old man and looking him in the face thanked him for his hospitality and quietly put a piece of gold in his gnarled hands as they both shook hands for the last time.

The family commenced the next leg of their journey, a tense twenty hours of stumbling across the rough, unforgiving terrain transcending the border. The cold, sterile, white light of the moon shone down upon them, providing their only aid to see the path ahead. They stumbled and tripped across the rough terrain, their tired feet finding every sharp stone.

Ahead their guide, the herdsman, stopped. He remained still and unmoving, straining to hear any sound and to see any change in the shadows ahead. He waved an arm to signal that they should kneel to reduce their profiles. His keen hearing finally picked up a sound coming from farther along the path. Suddenly from in front, the sound of rocks shifting clearly came to them. The guide sunk ever lower. He strained his eyes to catch a glimpse of what approached. Hadi’s father held his finger to his mouth, in a sign of silence to the family. Their breath misted in front of them from the unrelenting cold. Their hearts raced uncontrollably and the children held each other from fear. What’s ahead darling? The children are frightened.

I don’t know, perhaps an armed border patrol or a mountain cat? Does it really matter? We are virtually defenceless. We have little defence against either, only the guide’s old gun.

Hadi started to cry. How could he understand their plight? His body shivered from the cold and he yearned for his warm bed. Papa, Papa!

His father quickly placed his cold hand lightly across Hadi’s mouth and hugged him in a reassuring brace. Shush, shush, my son don’t cry, all is well. Don’t be frightened; be brave for your mother and sister.

The sound of movement carried to them in the wind. The herdsman’s instincts, sharpened from many nights on the hills, proved correct. Something or someone moved ahead of them. The herdsman stepped silently off the track, signalling for them to follow him. They hid below a ledge, lying close to the ground, the cold of the frost chilling their faces. They attempted to hide themselves in the sparse surroundings.

A mountain goat came into view, its nostrils steaming in the cold air. Someone moved, cramp was setting in; the goat timid and surprisingly agile shied away from them and disappeared into the night. The guide signalled for them to be still, he knew something had spooked the animal further along the track.

There again came the sound of rock and gravel disturbed by something approaching. They were now shivering from the cold and unable to bring warmth to their limbs by moving. They could not afford to signal their presence without knowing what now lay ahead of them. Then a shadowy image gradually took shape and slowly materialised into the visible form of four border police. Fed up and cold, they just shambled along oblivious of their surroundings, for them patrols never bore fruit only frozen limbs. The ageing lieutenant could not have cared less. Promotion passed him by many years before. He now only craved his bed and the warmth of his fat wife. He stumbled past the fugitives and then stopped. He turned and moved to the ledge and looked around.

Hadi’s father looked up and could clearly see him. He felt for a stone in the rubble at his feet. Hadi’s father winced at the loud click of the hammer, as their guide cocked his ancient rifle. The lieutenant did not hear the sound, he was too interested in opening his flies. He urinated into the darkness ahead with a loud sigh of relief. The foul smell of his urine drifted in the still air. Steam engulfed the officer. Relieved, he turned and returned to his troop, doing up the buttons of his flies as he went. They heard him shout, Başlatırken, itler, and then came the sound of the patrol moving off. Their grumblings faded as they disappeared back into the darkness of the night. The troop never knew how close they might have come to death.

The family stayed where they were, the cold biting into their bones. Eventually the guide decided it was safe to move on. They slowly stood. Their limbs ached, stiff with the cold. They stamped their feet and beat their arms in an attempt to get their blood flowing and to get warmth back into their bodies. Hadi’s father carried him. He slept on his father’s shoulder, totally exhausted.

At last, the greying sky to the east heralded another day. They were surviving on their last reserves, cold and hungry. Slowly the warmth offered by the rising sun touched their backs, to give them the strength to carry on.

As the sun progressed across the sky their guide, who spoke little during their escape except to give directions, gave them the welcome news that they safely stood within the land of Turkey. With what seemed to them to be their last strength, Hadi’s parents hugged each other and then kissed the children as they gathered them into their arms. Unrestrained tears streamed down their faces. They could not speak and just hugged each other even closer sinking slowly to their knees. The guide waited patiently. He had moved off some distance to give the family at least the pretence of privacy, but now he returned to the family sensing the moment to be right. He spoke softly, The directions for the next leg of your journey are simple. His advice sincere, You must move off and as a matter of urgency secure yourselves shelter for tonight. Do not wait until sunset. You may not have enough time to find suitable shelter. You must not stay outside during the night. It is too dangerous. Apart from the cold, there are the wild animals. In one final touching gesture, he gave them the last of his food. May Allah be with you and keep you safe.

With that last blessing they parted, the guide returning the way they had come, the family turning in the opposite direction. The family were now travelling across Eastern Anatolia, by far the largest and most rugged region of Turkey. All around them were the peaks of extinct volcanoes and lava flows - they were in an area of sparse population. Hadi’s father had wisely pocketed the map from the car before leaving the village. They needed to navigate to the town of Van.

America once contained the Wild West - Turkey retained the Wild East. Although they successfully evaded the border patrol to leave Iran, they were now in the region of Turkey renown for its bandits and lawlessness. There existed little employment and crime gave the only guaranteed fulltime occupation. To the locals, murder happened to be just a waste product of crime, a necessity of life.

It took many more exhausting days before the family reached the questionable civilisation of Van, the ancient Urartian capital. The city lay beside Lake Van, the largest and deepest in Turkey, formed in an instant by the massive explosion of the Nemrut volcano.

By the time the family entered Van they matched well with the locals. Their clothes were in tatters, dirty, stained and torn. The city dwellers no longer looked out of place in this impoverished community. They blended well with their surroundings.

In town, the family found primitive accommodation, a single room in which to rest and recover their strength. The children recovered first, their young limbs regaining their strength quickly. In contrast, Hadi’s parents limped for several days, until their bodies finally recovered. The children explored the surroundings and became fascinated by the local cats, with their long pure white fur and the unusual feature of one blue and one green eye. Hadi befriended a stray young kitten, but still cried at night for the faithful family dog left in Tehran.

Hadi’s father acquired a battered Ford truck. It appeared way past its best though the price would ensure the seller a lifestyle way beyond his wildest dreams. The only good thing about the vehicle lay in its anonymity in a land of wrecks and its lack of appeal to any would-be thief.

Rested, the time came for the family to leave Van. They needed to head for the capital, Ankara, for the friendly sanctuary they sought. Hadi held his newly found feline companion. Eventually, and not a moment too soon, as the truck was losing its battle against wear and fatigue, they arrived at their destination. They were haggard, thin and travel-weary, but glad to be alive. Unbelievably the truck