Chapter 1335
"Traitor"
Chapter 1335 "Traitor"
On his way home, Torhan's hands were shaking.
The steering wheel slipped in his sweaty palms, and the wheels made irregular sounds as they rolled over the broken asphalt, just like his erratic heartbeat.
Every detail of the coup replayed in his mind, a nightmare-like experience.
Barzani's cold eyes, Rashid's ruthless smile as he described the ambush plan, and the clinking of the four whiskey glasses—all these now seemed like the tolling of a death knell.
Every image made his stomach churn, and the bitter taste of bile welled up in his throat.
He rolled down the car window, and the cold wind of the early morning rushed into the car, dispersing some of the lingering smell of smoke and the acidic stench of fear.
He parked his car two blocks from home, turned off the engine, and sat quietly in the car to sort out his jumbled thoughts.
The night sky over Erbil was unusually clear.
On nights free from the smoke of war, stars, like shattered diamonds, are scattered across the black velvet-like night sky.
Torhan looked up at the starry sky and recalled that twenty years ago, he was a young platoon leader who led his team on his first night mission in the Sinjar Mountains.
The starry sky was so clear then, and the soldiers around him were still alive, still believing in the cause they were fighting for.
What an ordinary night, what an ordinary city.
The barbecue restaurant on the street corner had already closed, its iron curtain half-drawn; in the distance, the neon lights of the 24-hour pharmacy were still flashing; a couple returning home late walked arm in arm across the street, the girl's laughter as clear as a bell.
All these everyday, ordinary scenes of life, at this moment, appeared so fragile in Tolhan's eyes that they were heartbreaking.
What about after tomorrow?
When the gunshots of the coup rang out, when Chairman Massoud fell in a pool of blood, and when soldiers stormed the government building, how long could the peace in this city last?
People chatting and laughing in barbecue restaurants, families buying cold medicine in pharmacies, and couples walking arm in arm.
Did they know about the approaching storm?
Thorhan rested his forehead on the steering wheel, took a deep breath, and tried to suppress his surging emotions.
Suddenly, the phone vibrated in the passenger seat.
He glanced at the screen.
Rashid's name is flashing.
He let it vibrate until it automatically switched to voicemail.
Five seconds later, an encrypted message popped up: "Six o'clock tomorrow morning, same place, final confirmation. Do not reply."
Final confirmation.
These four words were like four nails, firmly pinning his fate to the cross of betrayal.
Thorhan started the engine and slowly drove the car into his garage.
The screeching sound of the electronic roller shutter closing behind me was particularly jarring in the quiet night.
He sat in the dark carriage for a full three minutes before finally mustering the courage to push open the door.
Most of the lights in the house were off, except for a warm yellow floor lamp that was still on in the living room.
That was his wife Lana's habit.
No matter how late it is, I always leave a light on for him.
This lamp, once the warmest comfort in his many years of military service, now seems like a peering eye, illuminating the unease and filth deep within his soul.
He gently pushed open the door connecting the garage and the kitchen, the hinges creaking slightly.
Almost simultaneously, the kitchen lights came on.
Lana stood there, holding a steaming glass of milk in her hand, and wearing a thin fleece bathrobe.
The warm light outlined the soft lines of her profile and also revealed the shadows under her eyes.
She didn't sleep either.
Normally, he would have smiled and gone up to give his wife a hug.
But today I suddenly felt inexplicably guilty, like I'd done something wrong, and my heart started pounding wildly.
I thought you weren't coming back tonight.
She spoke softly, her voice filled with concern and a hint of complex emotion.
Lana is always perceptive; perhaps she has already sensed something.
"The matter... was dealt with rather late."
Torhan took off his coat, which was soaked with night dew, and took the glass of milk.
The warm porcelain cup in his hand conveyed a false sense of peace; the aroma of milk mixed with the sweetness of honey was a taste he had been familiar with for fifteen years—the taste of home.
Lana moved closer to him, reached out her hand, and gently stroked his furrowed brow with her fingertips.
Her fingertips were slightly cool, yet their touch made Torhan almost tremble.
Her gaze swept across his face, as if searching for something.
Tolhan deliberately avoided eye contact with his wife, afraid that she would read what was hidden behind his shifty eyes.
"What happened again?"
She asked in a very low voice, as if afraid of waking the sleeping child upstairs.
“Your troops have been moving around a lot lately, and there are a lot of rumors in the city… My father called this afternoon and said that his friend in Soleimani told him that the military camp there is one-third empty.”
Torhan's heart clenched.
My father-in-law had deep connections in the Patriotic League of Kold and was incredibly well-informed.
"What rumor?" He tried to keep his voice steady, took the milk and took a sip, the scalding heat making his tongue numb.
Lana shook her head: "They say General Barzani wants to start a war, that Chairman Massoud is too weak, that the Americans are preparing to withdraw their advisors... I don't understand politics, Tor Khan. But I understand you."
Her fingers stopped on his cheek.
“You haven’t been sleeping well lately, and you’re talking nonsense in your dreams. Last night, in the early hours of the morning, you shouted ‘Don’t shoot!’ which woke Ali up.”
Torhan forced a smile and took his wife's hand.
Her hands were small and soft, but her palms and fingertips had thin calluses from years of housework.
"It's all work-related."
He lied.
The voice was so fake that even the speaker disliked it.
"That's how soldiers work, you know. Border tensions, exercises, troop movements... these are all normal occurrences."
Lana gazed at him, her amber eyes appearing exceptionally clear under the light.
She didn't refute or ask any further questions; she simply looked at him quietly.
This silence was more agonizing for Thor Khan than any questioning.
Because she chose to believe, or rather, she knew she was lying, but chose not to expose this clumsy lie.
"Go take a hot shower."
When they arrived, she tiptoed and kissed his cheek; the warmth of her lips was fleeting.
"You look tired. I've already filled the bathtub with water."
Torhan nodded, watching her turn and walk towards the stairs.
The hem of her bathrobe brushed against the wooden steps, making a rustling sound.
He suddenly felt an urge to call out to her, to tell her everything, and to kneel before her to repent for his betrayal.
But he couldn't. The more he knew, the more dangerous she became.
Barzani will not tolerate any potential leakers, and there will be no merciful exceptions on Rashid's "cleanup" list.
He stopped at the top of the stairs as he walked toward the bathroom.
The door to the nursery on the second floor was ajar, and the sound of a kitten crying could be heard from inside.
Torhan gently pushed open the door and saw his three-month-old son, Ali, wriggling in his crib, his pink little face scrunched up.
The nanny, Maria, was trying to soothe him with a bottle, but the little guy was clearly not satisfied.
"let me."
Thorhan said softly, taking the warm baby bottle.
He carefully picked up the soft little life and felt its unreal weight.
Ali gradually calmed down in his arms, his big blue eyes staring at his father's face in the dim light, his little hands unconsciously reaching for his collar.
My son's hands were so small, yet he used so much force.
Tolhan looked at his son, at his sparse, light-colored downy hair, at his slightly twitching nostrils, and felt the faint yet tenacious heartbeat transmitted to his chest through the thin pajamas.
Suddenly, a suffocating panic gripped him.
What are you doing?
He was involved in a plot to assassinate the national leader, a coup that could have led to a full-blown civil war.
How will the child he holds in his arms, the little life he is willing to protect with his own, face a father whose hands are stained with the blood of his compatriots in the future?
If the coup fails, he will die on the execution ground, and his body will be displayed in the square.
Lana will become the widow of a traitor, despised by all, and Ali will grow up in shame, carrying the brand of "son of a traitor" throughout his life in India.
What if it succeeds?
Will Barzani really allow all those in the know to live?
Rashid has made it very clear – “Everyone involved will be dealt with afterwards.”
Once the rabbit is dead, the hunting dog is cooked; once the birds are gone, the bow is put away—this is the unchanging law of the game of power.
He himself would only be a hidden danger that needs to be eliminated in Barzani's new order.
More importantly, was he really going to just stand by and watch Masoud die?
Memories came flooding back.
Ten years ago, my father was on the verge of death due to a relapse of an old injury. It was Masoud who sent his private doctor overnight, bringing with him a special medicine that was impossible to find in the Kolde region at the time.
Seven years ago, at his wedding to Lana, Massoud personally attended to offer his blessings and presented Tor Khan with a ceremonial dagger passed down from his father, saying, "May it protect your family as you protect this land."
Five years ago, when his and his wife's first child died, Masoud held his hand, a warm and strong old hand, and said, "God will make a better arrangement, Torkhan, keep your faith."
That old man was not just a political leader; he was an elder, a benefactor, and a symbol of the decades-long struggle of the Kolds.
Now, he was going to personally send him to the execution ground.
“Sir?” Maria whispered, her voice tinged with uncertain fear. “Little Ali is asleep.”
Thor Khan then realized that the baby in his arms had closed his eyes, the bottle was tilted to one side, and a drop of milk had slid down from the corner of his mouth.
He gently placed Ali back into the crib, his movements as slow as if he were placing a fragile piece of porcelain.
He tucked the blanket around his son and placed a kiss on his smooth forehead. The moment his lips touched the soft skin, tears welled up in his eyes.
Leaving the nursery, Thor Khan did not head towards the bathroom, but instead turned and went into the study.
He locked the door, turned on the desk lamp, and the dim light illuminated the ten-square-meter private space.
His bookshelves were crammed with books on military theory, history, and politics; his photos and medals from his service hung on the walls; and his desk was piled high with official documents and maps.
This was a typical professional soldier's study. He walked to the bookshelf, pulled out a thick book, "Kold's History of Nations," from the bottom shelf, opened the cover, and found a hidden compartment inside.
Torhan took out an old wooden photo frame from it.
The glass was already somewhat blurry, and the gold plating at the edges had peeled off, revealing the black wood underneath.
The photo shows a hillside outside Halabja in the spring of 1988.
Eight-year-old Torhan stood in the middle, wearing ill-fitting traditional clothing, and smiled, revealing a missing front tooth.
On his left is his twelve-year-old brother Karim, his arm draped over his shoulder, his eyes already showing a hint of youthful arrogance.
On the right is his father, Mustafa, who is in his thirties but has graying temples. He stands straight, like an old tree that has weathered many storms but refuses to fall.
Three weeks after the photo was taken, Saddam Hussein's poison gas bombs landed in Khalabja.
Karim died on the run, his lungs burned through by chemical poison, and his last breath was black blood mixed with tissue fragments.
Although my father survived, he suffered permanent lung damage and his spirit collapsed. He spent his days sitting by the window gazing northwards, and later passed away in pain and depression.
Torhan flips the photo frame.
On the back of the cardboard was a line of Kold's script written by the father with trembling hands before his death; the ink had faded to a light brown: "Never betray your fellow citizens for power."
His fingers brushed over the line of writing, and his rough fingertips could feel the slightly raised marks of ink.
Tears welled up without warning, scalding hot as they slid down her cheeks and dripped onto the back of her hand.
Tolhan clenched his fist, suppressing the sobs churning in his throat, his shoulders trembling violently from the forced tears.
He sat at his desk for a full hour, the light from the desk lamp blurring into a dim, yellowish patch through his tear-filled eyes.
In my mind, two voices were locked in a fierce battle.
A voice says: You have made your choice.
That day in the safe house, you raised your glass and said, "For Koldestan." Barzani was right; Massoud was old and weak, and his path of compromise would only cause the Koldestans to lose everything.
Look at Kirkuk, look at Abuyu's betrayal, look at the Americans' indifference. We need a strong leader, we need radical change.
Some sacrifices are necessary; historical progress is always accompanied by bloodshed.
If you back down now, you'll be a coward, a traitor among traitors.
Another voice says: This is murder, blatant betrayal, a coup that will drag the Erbil region into the abyss.
Even if Barzani succeeds, can a regime built on the blood of his uncle last long?
Will the tribes that support Massoud submit? Will Americans acknowledge a patricide?
Will Turkey and Persia stand idly by?
Was Barzani truly acting in Koldestan's interest, or was he simply satisfying his own lust for power?
Are you, Torhan, truly acting for the greater good of the nation, or are you simply fearing Rashid's threat and coveting the power promised by Barzani?
The sound of a patrol car siren came from outside the window, growing louder as it approached and then fading away. Torhan suddenly remembered something and abruptly opened his eyes.
He opened his encrypted laptop, entered a triple password, and retrieved the troop movement records for the last 72 hours.
The data on the screen is cold and objective.
The 3rd Infantry Brigade was deployed to the Turkish-Iranian border under the pretext of "responding to possible cross-border infiltration"; one-third of the guard battalion participated in "counter-terrorism emergency training" at an abandoned factory 50 kilometers outside the city; the communications battalion underwent "equipment upgrades and maintenance," during which the main communication lines were switched to a backup system; even three key officers from Massoud's private guard were arranged to attend "advanced security courses," the timing of which coincided with the president's trip to Kirkuk.
Every order has a reasonable justification, complies with procedures, and most even have paper documents on file and are countersigned by relevant departments.
But putting them together, the picture that came together sent chills down Torhan's spine.
This is not to deal with external threats; it is an elaborately woven net, a net designed to completely trap Massoud and make him disappear without a trace.
And I am one of the hands that weaves this web.
Is it possible to turn back?
Thorhan reached for the military-grade encrypted phone on his desk, his fingertips touching the cold plastic casing before he pulled back as if burned.
What if he called Massoud right now and warned him of the danger?
Rashid's special forces are likely already monitoring communications of all senior officers.
Once this call is made, he will "disappear" in less than ten minutes, and Lana and Ali will also encounter an "accident".
What if he remains silent?
Masoud's convoy will enter the valley around 2 p.m. tomorrow.
Rashid's "Abu Yuri rebels" will open fire, and Barzani's guards will "bravely retaliate," but in the chaos, an "accidentally fired" anti-tank missile will hit the president's vehicle.
Massoud will die, a gruesome death, a death shrouded in mystery. Then Barzani will launch a full-scale attack on Kirkuk under the pretext of "avenging the Chairman," purging all opponents and ascending to the pinnacle of power.
Thousands of Kold's soldiers will bleed in this civil war, families will be torn apart, cities will be reduced to ruins, and years of hard work will be destroyed.
Torhan covered his face with his hands, his suppressed breaths leaking through his fingers.
He felt as if he were standing on the edge of a cliff, with a bottomless abyss below him, and that going forward or backward would only lead to certain death.
Suddenly, a thought flashed through his chaotic thoughts like lightning—American.
Major General Duke.
The newly appointed commander of the US forces in Iraq.
He represents not only the interests of the United States, but also, to some extent, the international community's concern and constraints on the Kold'd region.
Most importantly, Americans do not want unrest here.
A stable and controllable autonomous region of Koldi is in their strategic interest.
Although Massoud is somewhat conservative, he is at least predictable and negotiable.
Barzani is a fervent nationalist, and if he comes to power, he is likely to disrupt the existing balance and drag the entire region into uncontrollable conflict.
Thorhan suddenly stood up, walked to the bookshelf, moved a few books aside, revealing an inconspicuous security panel on the wall behind it.
He entered the password, the panel slid open, revealing a small in-wall safe.
Turn the mechanical lock disc, and with a click, the cabinet door opens.
There were no documents or cash inside, only an old Nokia phone.
This is a prepaid phone he bought on the black market, registered with a fake identity, and has never been used, so theoretically it cannot be traced.
He opened the back cover with trembling hands, inserted the battery and SIM card, and pressed the power button.
The green screen lit up, and the signal bars were flashing.
Thorhan took a deep breath and dug that number out of the depths of his memory.
A few months ago, after a joint U.S.-Kurk counterterrorism exercise, Major General Duke privately handed him a business card. In addition to his official contact information, there was a number written in pencil on the back, saying, "If there's anything really important, call this number to contact me."
At the time, Thorhan didn't understand why Duke did it, but now he does.
It's no secret that the Americans developed informants within Kold's military.
Duke saw his potential in his position, and also in certain qualities of his personality.
The call connected and rang four times.
"I am Duke."
The sound was clear and the background was quiet, so it was clear that the person was not sleeping.
Thorhan licked his dry lips and said in English, "Major General Duke, this is Thorhan Mustafa, commander of the 1st Mechanized Brigade. I have urgent intelligence..."
He paused, took a deep breath, and finally mustered the courage to begin his statement:
"General Barzani plans to launch a coup tomorrow, targeting Chairman Massoud."
There was a full five seconds of silence on the other end of the phone.
Torhan could hear the roar of his blood surging against his eardrums and feel cold sweat trickling down his temples.
"make it clear."
Duke's voice was flat, but his speaking speed was noticeably faster.
Thorhan closed his eyes, wiped the sweat from his forehead, and forced himself to organize his thoughts for the next sentence:
"Tomorrow morning, Chairman Massoud will be inspecting the Kirkuk front. Barzani has arranged an ambush in the valley area 20 kilometers from Kirkuk along Highway 1. He will use the Abuyu Brigade as a cover, but it will actually be a secret operations unit deployed by Rashid. They will use Russian-made 'Kornet' anti-tank missiles to attack Massoud's vehicle, and then use the opportunity to launch a coup..."
He finished speaking in one breath, his lungs burning from lack of oxygen.
There was another silence on the other end of the phone. This time, Torhan could hear the rapid typing on a keyboard and hushed conversation in the background, but he couldn't make out the content.
"Why are you telling me this?"
Duke asked, his voice carrying the professional skepticism characteristic of an intelligence officer.
"You were a member of Barzani's inner circle and participated in planning the coup, yet now you're betraying him?"
Tolhan's throat tightened: "Because I... I don't want to see my compatriots bleed."
His voice choked up; this time it wasn't acting, it was a genuine emotional breakdown.
“My father, my brother, both died in infighting and oppression. The people of Kold have already shed too much blood; they cannot continue to kill each other like this. Moreover…”
He paused for a moment. “Barzani’s plan will not succeed. Even if he kills Massoud and takes control of Erbil, his opponents will rebel, the Ottoman Empire and the Persians will intervene, and we will be plunged into a full-blown civil war. That will be the end of the Kold’s nation.”
Where are you now? Are you safe?
Duke's tone softened slightly.
“I’m at home. They won’t suspect me for now,” Tolhan said, then, realizing something, added, “But I might already be under surveillance. Rashid’s men are everywhere.”
“Listen, Thor Khan,” Duke’s voice became urgent and clear. “I want you to keep your communications open, but don’t contact me first. Hide this phone. If we need to evacuate, I’ll give you instructions through this number. If the situation changes, or if you feel danger, send a blank text message to this number, and I’ll understand. Understand?”
"Understood. But Major General... time is running out. The ambush is planned for around 2 PM tomorrow. Chairman Massoud will depart from Erbil at 10 AM."
"I see."
The sound of typing on the keyboard on the other end of the phone became even more frequent.
"Take care of yourself and your family. May God bless you for making the right choice."
The phone hangs up.
Torhan slumped in his chair, as if all the bones in his body had been removed.
He looked down at his trembling hands, his palms covered in cold, damp sweat.
I did it myself, I really did it.
There's no turning back now.
Whether Massoud lives or dies, whether the coup succeeds or fails, he is already a traitor.
First he betrayed Massoud, and now he has betrayed Barzani.
He removed the phone battery and hid it in a corner of the study.
After doing all this, he walked to the window and opened the blinds a crack.
The sky was beginning to lighten, and on the eastern horizon, a pale white hue was driving away the deep blue of the night.
A new day is about to begin.
Second update, 10,000 words complete!
(End of this chapter)