Either beco a contributor to the establishnt of the new regi or a rebel against the failed coup.
There is no middle ground.
In the top right corner is the main control room of the national television station.
The technician is preparing the 2:10 news briefing, completely unaware of what the inconspicuous black box in the corner of the console is.
The signal interceptor, capable of cutting off all regular broadcasts within thirty seconds and switching to a backup signal source.
The recording of Barzani's speech has been preloaded there.
Rashid's gaze moved to the central row of images.
The Ministry of Finance, Ministry of Internal Affairs, Communications Center, Central Power Plant…
Every key facility has his pieces in place.
Plainclothed "repairn," "couriers," "visitors," they are already in position, weapons hidden in inconspicuous bags.
What worries him the most is the seventh image.
That is the office of Tariq Hussein, the Minister of Internal Affairs.
Through the window, you can see Tariq in a eting, gesturing intensely, evidently arguing over so issue.
Tariq is Masood's staunchest supporter, a military man by background, and if he resists, blood may be shed.
But Barzani's orders are clear: capture him alive if possible, but in necessary cases, "take extre asures."
Extre asures.
Such an euphemistic way of putting it!
"Chief, Group Eight reporting."
The voice of his subordinate Camille interrupted his thoughts.
"Omar Hassan has not returned to the Ministry of Finance, his cell signal disappeared in the Old Market District. We suspect he might have noticed sothing."
Rashid furrowed his brow.
Omar Hassan, the Minister of Finance, Masood's brother-in-law, who holds the purse strings and all the financial secrets of the autonomous region.
If he gets away, or if he exposes those accounts in the chaos…
"Send more personnel to search."
He ordered, "Check all the places he might go. His mistress's apartnt, his brother's shop, the Turkey bathhouse he frequents. He's definitely sowhere. Also, inform the border checkpoints to raise their alert, but don't disclose his na—we don't want to alert him."
"Understood."
The ninth image is of Little Masood's apartnt.
Thermal imaging shows one person inside, but hasn't moved for two hours. Unusual.
"Group Nine requests forced entry."
The communication channel transmitted the request.
"Approved," Rashid said, "but be careful. Little Masood may have set traps. Have the bomb disposal unit on standby."
"Understood."
Rashid turned and walked towards the command station.
The electronic map on the wall showed the real-ti situation throughout Elbil.
"Any new updates from the General?" he asked Camille.
Camille handed over the tablet, the encrypted ssage read only one line:
The Eagle has spread its wings, the prey is confird. When the sun is at its peak, the old flag will fall.
Barzani has safely arrived in Kirkuk.
Masood confird dead—at least that's what Barzani told him.
Rashid stared at the word "confird," trying to read beyond its literal aning.
No body photograph, no third-party verification, only Barzani's word.
But the arrow has already been released, and there's no turning back, hesitating equals death.
Yet he couldn't help but think of the secret eting three days ago.
Barzani paced before the map in the safe house, the night view of Elbil outside the window. "Rashid, do you know why I chose two in the afternoon?"
"Because all governnt departnts are on-duty, allowing a comprehensive seizure?" Rashid guessed.
"That is only part of it." Barzani stopped his steps, turned around, his eyes shining with an unusual light in the dim glow, "I chose dayti because I want to tell everyone, including Masood's supporters, including the international community, including history, that I don't need the cover of darkness. I want to complete the transition of power under everyone's gaze. It's confidence, and a warning: resistance is futile."
"But if Masood isn't dead…"
"He will die." Barzani's voice cooled down, "An ambush will happen, Masood will 'die for his country.' Then, we will seize power in the na of entering an ergency state and purging insiders. Clean and swift."
"But if he survives?"
Barzani laughed, a smile devoid of warmth.
"Then let him die again. At the right ti, in the right way."
Now Rashid stood in the command center, watching the light points on the screen gradually turn green, repeatedly chewing on the sentence: "Then let him die again."
He walked to the window.
On the distant street, a garbage truck was collecting waste, a few kids were playing soccer by the roadside, a vendor pushed an ice cream cart slowly past.
The everyday world continued to run, completely unaware of what was about to happen in a few minutes.
Rashid recalled the oath he took twenty-three years ago when he joined the security departnt: "Defend Kurdistan, protect the people, uphold the rule of law."
Today, he is betraying it all.
But he told himself, this is a necessary betrayal.
Masood's regi has beco fossilized, increasingly appeasing and weak.
Barzani promises to establish a tougher, more internationally respected Kurdistan.
For this future, it is worth getting one's hands dirty.
Is it worth it?
He didn't have ti to think deeply.
The electronic clock on the wall jumped to 13:59:30.
Thirty seconds.
He scanned the command center.
Forty pairs of eyes looked at him, the air filled with suppressed anticipation—so licked chapped lips, so unconsciously turned wedding rings, so stared at the screen without blinking.
13:59:50.
Rashid's hand was on the master communication button.
His fingertips were cold, slightly trembling.
13:59:55.
He closed his eyes, took a deep breath.
13:59:58.
Opened his eyes.
14:00:00.
Pressed the communication button.
"All teams, attention."
His voice transmitted through the encrypted channel to the ears of all operatives in every corner of the city: "'Scorching Sun' operation, starts now."
User Comments
0 comments from readers