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They finally let him pass and Rapp tossed his bag on a disintegrating couch before taking a seat next to it. “What’s the plan?”
“We go tonight,” Mustache Man said.
“What about the patrols?”
“There will be none. We’ve paid them.”
“Reliable?”
“Not always. But this time yes. They don’t care about you. Because you go the wrong way. No one wants to go to Syria. They want to leave.”
“What’s the problem then?”
It seemed implausible that Losa would get smugglers involved when a ladder and a map would suffice. Ladders and maps were one hundred percent reliable and didn’t have mouths to run.
“Problem?”
“Why do I need you?”
That prompted another brief exchange in Turkish.
“The other smugglers. This is why we are important. There are many in this area because the border commander here can be bribed. But it means great competition. It would be dangerous for you without protection. It is a war.”
Rapp wasn’t sure if they were referring to the Syrian civil war or the war between the smugglers, but at this point it didn’t matter. He was going over that wall with or without them, and with was probably marginally better than striking out on his own.
He moved his pack to one end of the sofa and lay down, closing his eyes. “Let me know when it’s time.”
“You understand what you have to do?” Nijaz—Mustache Man—asked.
Rapp nodded in the darkness. It was one in the morning and skies were clear, bathing the landscape in colorless light. The concrete wall was surprisingly prominent, with the undulating terrain behind cast in more subdued tones.
“Ahmet, he go first. You second. I go last.”
“I heard you the first three times,” Rapp said.
“The heights. This is not a problem, yes?”
The Turk was once again reeling through everything that could possibly go wrong. Annoying, but understandable. Rapp did the same thing when he was running an op that involved people he didn’t know.
“I’ll be fine.”
A Turkish voice drifted up from below. The man next to Rapp glanced at his watch and translated. “Ahmet sees the patrol. Once it goes over the hill, we must move quickly.”
“Okay.”
The glare of headlights became visible a few minutes later and another five passed before the armored vehicle came fully in view. Rappturned away, protecting his night vision from the powerful light bar mounted on top.
“Now!” his guide said when the taillights disappeared over a rise.
Rapp shouldered his pack and jumped off the porch, taking a zigzagging route down the trailless slope. By the time he reached the road, the Turk had fallen well behind. His partner was faster, having already set up a purpose-built ladder and climbed to the midpoint.
The bottom section had normal rungs and was lashed to spikes hidden in the brush. Where the ladder met the razor wire about ten feet up, it was covered in plywood with two-by-four handholds. Not a fancy solution, but perfectly functional.
Ahmet climbed to the junction between the concrete and wire, then flipped a hinged piece of plywood over the top, creating a kind of teepee over the dangerous section. A thick rope with regularly spaced knots was attached and he tossed it into Syrian territory before continuing.
By the time Rapp started to climb, the wind was kicking up enough dust to provide a little more cover. Not that it was necessary. The Cobra II patrol was long gone, and his guides assured him that budget problems had forced the Turks to cancel plans for electronic surveillance.
Still, he stayed low when he reached the top, slipping over with one hand on a rung and the other on the rope. A few moments later, he’d descended hand over hand to the ground.
