The police car locked its brakes and slid to a stop. More police cars were up ahead, stacked behind a big-wheeled Kobra armored car in blue and white TNP colors. The driver shoved two ammo cases into Nate’s hands, took two himself, jerked his head, and started running uphill. It was a steep, narrow street with houses on either side, the windowpanes reflecting the two-score flashing blue lights. The echoing cracks of incessant firing became louder. Clustered at the corner of a wall ahead were a group of TNP officers, some in uniform, others in jeans and leather jackets, peeking around the corner of the wall. Hanefi saw Nate and ran to greet him.
“You bring ammunition,” he said, clapping Nate on the back. The wall across the street was suddenly riddled by bullets that chipped cement and filled the air with dust. Hanefi pulled Nate closer into the lee of the wall.
“Hanefi, what’s going on?”
“Four people, PKK, in top apartment,” said Hanefi, loading a magazine for his MP5. Other officers were digging into the ammunition like kids around a bowl of candy. Nate looked past them. The street was covered in spent casings, thousands of them, brass winking in the flashing lights.
“How long have you been shooting?”
“Many hours; we ran out of ammunition.” He held his weapon out to Nate. “Here, you try.” Nate shook his head. Hanefi barked something in Turkish to another officer, who held out his weapon, a heavier assault rifle. “Try this one.” Nate held up his hands in polite refusal.
A bullhorn blared and the shooting slowed, then stopped. Hanefi pulled Nate by the sleeve to peer around the corner. The small apartment building was bathed in spotlights. The top-floor apartment was marked by thousands of bullet holes, the windows were ragged gaps in the walls, and the concrete balcony railing was chipped and broken. It was a miracle that anyone could survive up there.
Hanefi nudged Nate and pointed with his chin. Two shadows—police commandos—were sliding slowly headfirst down the roof tiles. At the edge, they would reach over the gutter and throw fragmentation grenades down into the PKK apartment. Before they were in place, a young woman in a red parka ran onto the balcony with an RPG over her shoulder. Hanefi shouted and tried pulling Nate back. The woman aimed at them and fired the missile, but the back blast from the launching charge rebounded in the small space and blew the woman off the balcony. She cartwheeled four stories into a pile of rubble, followed by the missile that arced harmlessly to the ground. Hanefi looked at Nate in amazement. “Bad luck,” said Nate.
The grenades cracked and a thin plume of gray smoke came out of one of the windows. Another boom was followed by a flurry of shots, then silence, then the shrill blast of a whistle. “All over. Let us go up,” said Hanefi.
The interior of the little apartment was an eye-stinging charnel house, with a bullet hole in every square inch of the room. Wallpaper hung curled off the walls, the few pieces of furniture had been reduced to kindling, and a prayer rug smoldered in the corner. Bits of upholstery stuffing floated in the air. Two men lay on the floor on their backs, bloody shirts pulled up to their chins. In the back bedroom a young woman lay between the pulverized wall and a shredded box mattress, her fists clenched and mouth puckered, eyes half-open. Black hair showed beneath a head scarf.
Hanefi looked with interest at Nate’s face, which had gone somewhat pale. He would not make fun of his new American friend. He patted Nate’s shoulder. “It is our job,” he said, holding up four fingers. “
Shlykov’s covert action had been ruined: twenty-four PKK cells had been wrapped up; the morgues were already full. The Russian munitions had been recovered, and the publicity would be devastating when the weapons would be put on display for the TV cameras.
