The Recall

It is early September, in a remote town of the Taurus Mountains, Turkey.

In the early morning hours, just before dawn, the air is crisp and carries the moisture of low clouds. A peaceful stillness hangs in the air, like a sweet ether soothing the land. The silence is broken by mountain sparrows, twittering as if joining a morning stretch before taking to the sky.

With the very faint sun rays, from the middle of the town, as if to welcome the sun, a soft, static hum breathes through the hidden metal geometry of the minaret's loudspeakers—a brief mechanical intake of air before the landscape changes. Then, it cuts through the sweet ether.

"Allāhu Akbar..."

The voice is deep, rich, and heavily weighted with a slow, cascading melody. It does not crash into the silence; it pours into it, rippling over the damp stone alleyways and bouncing off the jagged limestone faces of the surrounding Taurus peaks. The sparrows instantly quiet their chattering, yielding the air to the cadence of the chant.

"Allāhu Akbar..."

Inside the stone and stucco houses, the sound slips under doorways and through slightly parted window frames. A faint, amber light flickers to life behind a curtained pane down the hill. A rooster, miles away down the valley, gives a tentative reply. The crier takes a long, rhythmic breath, the microphone catching the crisp mountain chill of his exhalation. He shifts to the next declaration, his voice rising in a mournful, beautiful arc that seems to pull the very crest of the sun over the horizon:

"Ashhadu an lā ilāha illā-llāh..."

As the melody stretches over the sleepy town, the low-hanging clouds begin to blush with a bruised violet and pale gold. The heavy, moist air carries the sound perfectly, vibrating against the pine needles and the cold slate roofs.

But for a group of men, this is not an early morning call. They have been on watch for two weeks, sentinels for an antiterrorist Turkish unit. They are on a hunt. Intelligence and interrogation reports indicate that a commander of the Independent Republic of Urartu Liberation Army (ARKSU) is expected in the area. The team keeps an unblinking, close watch. The ARKSU, a militant group seeking secession of the mutinous region, has a safehouse on the edge of the town.

Inside the observation hut, everything is dark and silent. A faint green light illuminates the face contours of the communication specialist. Outside, comes the gentle, rolling reminder meant only for this specific hour, delivered like a soft hand on a sleeping shoulder:

"As-salātu khayrun minan-nawm... As-salātu khayrun minan-nawm..." Prayer is better than sleep.

"Captain"—a soft whisper, close to the ear of a man sleeping on a rustic bed. As the man's hand approaches the shoulder of Captain Demir, he answers.

"Is he in?"

The men speak in a soft, incredibly quiet tone.

"No, but we have received a message from HQ. Major Arslan is expected to arrive at 0400 hours."

Demir blinked, trying to clear the sleep from his eyes. His face showed an imperceptible sense of disappointment. "This is my operation. What is going on?"

"Okay, anything else?"

"Yes, you are to debrief him on the status of the operation, and are ordered to report to the Ministry of Interior as soon as you arrive in Ankara."

The two men looked into each other's eyes.

"Captain... what is going on?"

Demir exhaled with frustration. "Orders."

The operative tightened his lips and nodded once very gently; no words were required.

The town continued with its quiet pulse. With the final, grounding notes, the minaret's speaker clicked off, leaving a ringing void that was immediately filled by the waking world. The mountain breeze picked up, carrying the faint, earthy scent of woodsmoke from a chimney where a morning pot of Turkish tea was already being set to boil. The day had officially begun for the town.

For nearly four hours, Demir became a shadow in the limestone fractures of the Taurus peaks. To remain invisible, he avoided the dirt tracks entirely, navigating the steep, gravelly goat paths that wound through the juniper brush. His hand-cut wooden stick bit into the dry earth with every step, and by the time the isolated valley opened up before him, a fine, chalky white dust coated his boots and the hems of his trousers.

It was just turning 09:00 AM when he approached the house. 

The early morning sun was already sharp and unforgiving. In the field, a farmer—who had been working the soil since long before the dawn prayer—stood wiping the sweat from his forehead with his forearm. In a circular motion, he waved the approaching man toward the farmhouse.

The house had a well-kept garden. The sharp, sweet aroma of seasonal flowers, drawn out by the morning sun, greeted the two men as they walked down a stone path to enter the house.

Inside, the farmer and Demir entered a workshop. 

The workshop was functional, packed with tools and canisters filled with bolts and nuts. It smelled of lubricants and fuel, but it was organized. The work table was a rich, dark brown, showing an old turntable sitting under the glow of a lamp; someone had been working on it.

As the farmer approached the work table, he stopped, pressed a concealed wall plank, and the tool shelf opened gently to reveal a hidden compartment. Demir pulled his Walther PPK from an interior jacket pocket, unloaded it, and placed it inside the safe. The movements seemed rehearsed—something these two men had done many times before. There was a natural cadence to it.

From the living room of the house, a female voice broke the silence. "Baklava and tea are ready."

The men looked at each other, smiled, and walked toward the woman's voice.

The baklava was sweet and crispy. Demir could not avoid remembering his grandmother's delicacy, prepared with that exact same mastery. In a room very similar to this, he used to enjoy those little bits of life—gifts.

Then he remembered.

His older brother, Yasin, had been kidnapped by militant terrorists many years ago and forced into becoming a child soldier. Oh, Yasin, Demir lamented silently. After all these years, the wound remained open. He suspected Yasin had fallen in combat against the army long ago. The sweetness of the baklava hurt, but Demir was used to the pain.

"Your transport is ready. It's time."

Demir followed the farmer back to the workshop, where an old East German MZ motorcycle stood in the middle of the room.

"She's full of gas," the farmer said, tapping the vinyl seat. "You can't kill these engines. It will run on iron will." A small chuckle escaped Demir as he took the handlebars with both hands and wheeled the motorcycle outside while the farmer held the door open. Demir looked back into the shop. Standing at the threshold, the woman of the house waved gently in her white apron, wishing him a good trip.

The farmer stayed by the door, watching as Demir walked the motorcycle toward the end of the property, where a small slope met a bare field of naked earth edged by a mud road that was dried hard as rock.

After a gentle kick, the MZ came to life, followed by a small, signature plume of bluish smoke. Demir waved back. The farmer stood by the door, looking into the distance until the motorcycle finally disappeared.

The road to Ankara wound through gentle elevations, rising and falling like an old rocking chair. The route was flanked on both sides by an incredibly arid terrain and interminable farm fields that had already given up their seasonal crops.

Without warning, a squad of army soldiers in camouflage gear appeared, walking in the opposite direction. They held their army-issued FAL rifles, appearing ready to jump into action at a moment's notice. The MZ continued its steady advance until it reached a security checkpoint.

"Documents."

Demir produced his identity papers under the watchful eye of the checkpoint guards.

"Destination?"

"Ankara."

"Purpose?"

"I am visiting relatives."

"Where exactly is this?" the soldier asked, his eyes darting between Demir’s face and the photograph on the document.

"I am visiting a gecekondu... the address is..."

"It's okay. Continue and have a safe trip," the soldier cut in, returning Demir's documents before turning his attention toward the long line of vehicles that was beginning to queue behind the motorcycle.

In Konya, Demir stopped at a shop: Krank Motors – Kargo Dostu Tamir. He was expected.

He wheeled the MZ into the back of the shop, where a mechanic in blue overalls wiped dark grease from his hands. The two men exchanged keys, and the mechanic extracts a black mobile telephone, Ministry issued, and handles it to Demir — It is ready.

Soon after, Demir resumes his journey, to Ankara in an invisible gray Renault 9.

The vicinity of the Ministry of Interior was unusually well protected. Demir could recognize advanced ministry vehicles and vans placed in strategic intersections —This is was not unusual, as an anniversary of a failed attack on the Ministry by the ARKSU was approaching.

"We are taking no chances, Yasin."

As he approached his destination through the narrow streets, a call came in to his mobile.

"Demir."

"Demir, there is change in the schedule. Do not go directly to the building."

"Understood."

"You are expected at Lola's."

"Which entrance?"

"The vineyard gate."

"I'll be there."

A dried gravel road took the Renault 9 from the main highway into Lola's safehouse, in the Sincan District.  A light cloud of white dust carries the vehicle as it advances. The road cuts through a well orchestrated apple and pears orchard. 

This time, Demir could recognize "perimeter" workers — "The beekeeper is working today" — he notices.

At the end of the road, meeting a farm house, the vehicle is greeted by two magnificent Anatolian Shepherds. They recognize Demir and the encounter softens the face of the warrior.

"Demir!" 

Lieutenant General Yılmaz, head of the counter terrorism unit joins the welcoming party. Demir smiles. He is tired.

"You have been traveling all day. How was your trip?"

"Long... uneventful..."

"But you never complain!"

Both men smile.

"What do you think of Arslan?"

"He seems a little dry..."

"But his is great" — General Yılmaz cuts in — I selected him for your restaurant because he is a great chef. He does not improvise, and will follow your instructions to the T."

Lieutenant General Yılmaz was a colorful man. He never broke character. Captain Demir had been working under his command for many years.

The two men walk to the house, followed by the Shepard dogs.

"Dinner will be ready soon. We are going to have visitors later. But now, refresh yourself. We'll  talk after supper, eh?"

The men met at he academy where Coronel Yılmaz then, taught a counter terrorism course for field officers. He is now a general. He knows what Captain Demir was made off. 

The two men enjoyed dinner on a spacious kitchen table. The Shepherds were there, looking at Demir insistently. They knew some of that rabbit stew could jump in the air anytime. Demir enjoyed the attention.

General Yilmaz did not have to ask questions about the mountain hunt.

"What did the guys called me at the academy?"

"You know!"

"Tell me again; it is only funny when you say it."

"The guys used to say: The Coronel pees holding his dick with his left hand so no one knows he is right handed!"

The men burst into laughter! The kind of laughter is reserved for a kitchen table.

After dinner the men retired to the bibliotheque, a relax room that smelled like books and leather. In the center, two rich and comfortable arm chairs placed on a, humble, yet tasteful kilim, separated by a round table fashioning freshly prepared finest Turkish tea.

Demir seems to wind down after a long day. He cannot remember the last time he sat on a chair like this one.

"Excuse me Demir, I need to give some instructions to ready everything for our visitor."

Demir nods with a smile and continues seeping his tea.

At the threshold, General Yılmaz glances over his shoulder to see Demir submerged in his tea and thoughts — "Only God knows what is in his mind. Let him be."

Yilmaz had been studying the file all day. Demir was perfect for the mission, but, at this very moment he wanted to give him some space.

Captain Demir