Three weeks after the photo was taken, Sadam's gas shells fell on Haraabja.
Kareem died on the road to escape, his lungs burned through by chemical agents, his last breath spat out black blood mixed with tissue fragnts.
Although my father survived, his lungs were permanently damaged, and his spirit collapsed. He sat by the window day after day, gazing northward, eventually passing away in illness and depression.
Tor Khan flipped over the photo fra.
On the back of the hard cardboard, in his father's trembling handwriting in Kurdish before he died, in faded brown ink: "Never betray your compatriots for power."
His fingers brushed over the lines of writing, the rough pads of his fingers feeling the slight raised traces of the ink.
Tears welled up without warning, scalding hot they slid down his cheeks, dripping onto the back of his hand.
Tor Khan bit his fist, suppressing the sobs rolling in his throat, his shoulders shaking violently from the forcibly restrained crying.
He sat in front of the desk for a full hour, the lamplight blurring into mottled yellow spots in his tear-filled eyes.
In his mind, two voices were locked in a deadly struggle.
One voice said: You have already made your choice.
That day in the safe house, you raised your glass and said, "For Kurdistan." Barzani was right, Masood is old, weak now, his route of compromise will only make the Kurd people lose everything.
Look at Kirkuk, look at Abu You's betrayal, look at the Aricans' perfunctory attitude. We need a strong leader, a thorough revolution.
So sacrifices are necessary; historical progress is always accompanied by blood.
Backing down now ans you are a coward, a traitor among traitors.
The other voice said: This is murder, naked betrayal, a coup that will drag Elbil Region into the abyss.
Even if Barzani succeeds, can a regi built on an uncle's blood last long?
Will the tribes that support Masood submit? Will the Aricans acknowledge a kin slayer?
Will Turkey and the Persians sit idly by?
Is Barzani really for Kurdistan, or just to satisfy his own lust for power?
Are you, Tor Khan, really for the national cause, or just afraid of Rashid's threat, greedy for the power Barzani promises?
From outside ca the sound of patrol car sirens, approaching from afar, then gradually fading away. Tor Khan suddenly rembered sothing, and his eyes snapped open.
He opened the encrypted laptop, entered three layers of passwords, and called up the troop movent records for the past seventy-two hours.
The data on the screen was cold and objective.
The Third Infantry Brigade was deployed to the Turky-Iraq border, the reason being "to deal with possible cross-border infiltration"; one-third of the Guard personnel participated in "anti-terror ergency training," the location being an abandoned factory fifty kiloters outside the city; the Communications Camp carried out "equipnt upgrade maintenance," during which the main communication lines were switched to the backup system; even three key officers in Masood's Private Guard were arranged to attend "advanced security courses," the ti coinciding with the chairman's trip to Kirkuk.
Every order had a reasonable reason, all in accordance with procedure, even most had paper docunts on file, co-signed by relevant departnts.
But when put together, the assembled picture made Tor Khan's entire body go cold.
This wasn't to deal with external threats; this was a carefully woven web, a net to completely trap Masood, make him disappear without a sound.
And he was one of the hands weaving this web.
Can he turn back?
Tor Khan's hand reached for the military encrypted phone on the desk, his fingertips touched the cold plastic shell, then recoiled as if burned.
If he called Masood now, warned him of the danger, what would happen?
Rashid's Special Forces were likely already monitoring all senior officers' communications.
Once this call was made, within less than ten minutes, he would "disappear," and Lana and Ali would also encounter "accidents."
If he remained silent?
Tomorrow, around two in the afternoon, Masood's convoy would enter that valley.
The "Abu You Rebel Army" arranged by Rashid would open fire, Barzani's Guard would "heroically counterattack," but in the chaos, a "misfired" anti-tank missile would hit the chairman's vehicle.
Masood would die, die miserably, die in obscurity. Then Barzani would, in the na of "avenging the chairman," launch a full-scale attack on Kirkuk, purge all opposition, ascend to the pinnacle of power.
Tens of thousands of Kurdish soldiers would bleed in this civil war, families would break apart, cities would turn to ruins, years of construction achievents would be destroyed overnight.
Tor Khan covered his face with his hands, repressed breaths leaking out through his fingers.
He felt as though he was standing on the edge of a cliff, beneath his feet a bottomless abyss, whether forward or backward, it was a dead end.
Suddenly, a thought struck like lightning, piercing through his chaotic mind—the Aricans.
Major General Duke.
The new commander of the US troops in Iraq.
He didn't just represent Arica's interests; in a sense, he also represented the international community's attention and constraints on the Kurd Region.
Most importantly, the Aricans did not want unrest to occur here.
A stable, controllable Kold Autonomous Region aligned with their strategic interests.
Masood, though sowhat conservative, was at least predictable, negotiable.
Barzani, on the other hand, was a fervent nationalist who, if brought to power, could very well shatter the existing balance, dragging the entire region into uncontrollable conflict.
Tor Khan abruptly stood up, walked to the bookshelf, moved a few books, revealing an inconspicuous safe panel on the wall behind.
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