The sunset dyed the Kirkuk Plain dark red, and the steel fras of the oil wells silently pierced the sky in the dusk.
The air was filled with the pungent scent of sulfur mixed with unrefined petroleum, a sll of both wealth and danger.
The soldiers of the Abu You Brigade were reinforcing defensive fortifications.
Sandbags were stacked layer upon layer, forming half-height barricades; barbed wire glead coldly in the last light of day; at several critical high points, 12.7mm heavy machine guns were in position, barrels aid northward toward Elbil.
"Sir, the northern checkpoint reports that three civilian trucks are requesting entry, claiming to be a supply convoy from Elbil."
The ssenger's voice lifted Abu You's gaze from the map.
"Have they been checked?"
Abu You asked.
"Checked, and the trucks indeed contain food and dicine, but..."
The young ssenger lowered his voice, moving closer, "The driver told alone that they have a ssage from Chairman Masoud."
A sharp glint flashed in Abu You's eyes.
He put down the red and blue pencil in his hand, which was marking potential defensive weaknesses on the map.
As he stood up, he instinctively pressed the Glock 17 pistol at his waist, on whose grip was engraved in Kurdish: "Victory or death."
"Lead the way."
At the edge of the camp, at the checkpoint, three battered Toyota pickups stopped outside the barbed wire.
The vehicles were covered in mud; their windshields were cracked; they indeed looked like they had traveled a long distance.
The driver was a fifty-sothing Kurd, his face etched with crevices left by desert winds and ti.
He wore an ordinary gray robe, but the military boots he wore gave him away.
Those were Arican-made military boots, only issued to regular army officers among the Kurds.
"General Abu You." The driver bowed slightly, speaking respectfully in Kurdish, his voice bearing the characteristic rolled sound of the Elbil accent, "Chairman Masoud sends his regards and hopes you know he is striving to find a peaceful solution to the current situation."
Abu You did not imdiately respond.
He circled the truck, his fingers trailing along the car's railing, picking up a thin layer of dust with his fingertips.
Then he stood firm in front of the driver, just a step away.
"If Chairman Masoud truly wants peace..."
Abu You finally spoke in response, "He should first acknowledge the rights and status of myself and my soldiers. How much blood and effort did we shed for the Kurdish Tribe back then, only to be driven out of Elbil for fear of our strength. Peace? What is peace? Anyone can talk empty words."
The driver glanced around.
The soldiers at the checkpoint sensibly retreated ten ters but maintained alert postures.
Assured no one could eavesdrop, the driver took out a sealed brown paper envelope from his chest, its edges worn, clearly having been carried for a long ti.
"This is a letter personally written by the Chairman."
The driver said, handing over the envelope with both hands, "He said you were once a hero of the Kurds. You shouldn't beco a traitor to our people."
Abu You took the envelope but didn't open it imdiately.
His gaze was like a nail, fixed on the driver's eyes, the kind used when interrogating prisoners.
"Does General Barzani know I'm here?"
The question ca suddenly and directly.
The muscles on the driver's face twitched almost imperceptibly, the wrinkles by his eyes deepened by half a milliter.
This subtle change didn't escape Abu You's eyes; a man honed by twenty years of warfare had sensitivity to lies etched into his bones.
"I...I'm just a ssenger, General." The driver sidestepped the question, but the evasion was an answer in itself.
"Seems like he knows."
Abu You tore open the envelope, pulling out two pages of paper.
The letter was handwritten in Kurdish, neat and cautious, indeed Masoud's style.
He skimd the content quickly, a cold smile gradually appearing on his lips.
"Masoud wants negotiations, but Barzani wants war."
Abu You folded the letter, tucked it into the chest pocket of his military uniform, "Interesting. One plays the good cop, the other bad cop? Old trick."
The driver earnestly stepped forward slightly, "The Chairman hopes you can temporarily halt expansion, give him so ti to work things out. There are internal divisions in the committee, ti is needed for coordination..."
"My patience is limited." Abu You interrupted him, "Go back and tell Chairman Masoud, three days. If there is no substantial progress within three days — I an written commitnts, not verbal promises — then all oil wells in Kirkuk will bear the na Abu You. Not just those currently occupied, but all of them."
He turned to leave but then stopped in his tracks, adding:
"Also, tell General Barzani, if his troops enter within twenty kiloters of Kirkuk, my snipers will target all officers of his Vanguard troops. I always keep my word."
The driver's face turned pale, he wanted to say more, but Abu You had already gestured to the soldiers to see him off.
The three pickups turned around, disappearing into the encroaching night.
Abu You remained where he was, gazing northward toward Elbil.
On the horizon, the last streak of daylight was fading, darkness washing over the plain like a tide.
He took the letter out of his pocket again, reading it once more under the checkpoint's light.
The letter's content was very official, very cautious, but between the lines, it conveyed one ssage: Masoud truly wanted to negotiate.
Not out of weakness, but because of shrewdness.
This seventy-year-old chairman understood better than anyone else that civil war was a luxury the Kurds could not afford.
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