Chapter 1346
Coup
Chapter 1346 Coup
At 1:30 PM, in Erbil city center, on Salah al-Din Street.
The heat enveloped the entire city.
Amir Qadeer sat in the driver's seat of his taxi with the windows rolled down completely, but there was hardly any wind.
Sweat soaked through his cheap shirt, forming dark sweat stains on his back and under his armpits.
The radio was playing an afternoon music program, with a female singer singing an old song about heartbreak in a hoarse voice, mixed with the hissing sound of static.
He stared at the meter, having waited idly for an hour.
Business is always like this in the afternoon.
People either stay in air-conditioned offices or take a nap at home during the day.
Only someone like him who can't afford parking would endure the scorching sun.
Mobile phone vibration.
It was his younger brother, who worked at a car repair shop in the north of the city.
"Amir, have you heard?"
The younger brother's voice was very low, as if he were telling a secret.
"What did you hear?"
“I have a customer who is a logistics driver for the General Security Bureau. He said that all the off-duty personnel were urgently recalled this morning, and a large amount of ammunition and equipment were released from the warehouse. He also said that he saw 'Grey Wolf' people loading trucks, fully armed, but wearing civilian clothes.”
Amir frowned. "It's probably just a drill."
"The exercise was suddenly held over the weekend? And I heard that General Barzani suddenly went to Kirkuk yesterday, while Chairman Massoud didn't make a move at all. This is not right."
“Stop speculating,” Amir interrupted him. “We’re just civilians. What does this have to do with us? Get your car fixed.”
After hanging up the phone, Amir felt a strange unease.
His gaze couldn't help but drift out the window.
The self-governing council building stands a few blocks away, its white facade reflecting the glaring sunlight.
At the building entrance, security guards were standing as usual, but there seemed to be one or two more than usual.
Perhaps the younger brother is right.
The atmosphere in this city is indeed somewhat eerie.
Is something really about to happen?
He started the engine and decided to try his luck in the old market area, where there were always people who needed a taxi.
The car slowly drove into the traffic.
While waiting at a red light, Amir noticed three black Toyota Land Cruisers parked on the side of the road. They had no license plates and their windows were tinted dark.
This kind of car is not common in the city, but he has seen several today.
The red light turns green.
He stepped on the gas and saw in the rearview mirror that the three cars had also moved, maintaining a distance that was neither too far nor too far.
It's just a coincidence.
he told himself.
But my palms started sweating as I gripped the steering wheel.
At 1:40 PM, in the old market area, on the second floor of the spice shop.
The old man, Yazidi, sat cross-legged on a cushion, with a copper plate in front of him covered with a pile of cardamom, cinnamon, and nutmeg.
His eyes were closed, but his fingers skillfully sorted the spices—a muscle memory formed over sixty years.
The sounds of a grandson haggling with a customer could be heard downstairs, while smoke from a barbecue across the street drifted in through the window, mingling with the aroma of spices.
This is the world Yazidi knows, a world built on smells, sounds, and daily rhythms.
But today is a little different.
He opened his eyes and looked out at the narrow street.
The market was still crowded, but there were some incongruous figures among the crowd.
There were about a dozen young men, in small groups of three or five, dressed plainly but acting cautiously, their eyes constantly scanning their surroundings.
They have a barely noticeable bulge around their waist.
Yazidi experienced three coups.
1963, 1968, 1973.
Such people appear in the market before every coup.
They are pioneers, scouts, the first drop of rain before the storm.
He slowly stood up and walked to the window.
At the end of the street, two unlicensed SUVs were parked. There were people inside, but no one got out.
"Grandpa?" the grandson peeked out from the stairwell. "Is there anything you need?"
“Close early today,” Yazidi said.
"But it's only a little past one o'clock..."
"listen to me!"
The old man's voice left no room for argument: "Have the customers leave and close the shop door. Then you, your wife, and your children go to the basement, take water and food, and don't come out."
The grandson's expression changed.
"What happened?"
“A storm is coming.” Yazidi looked out the window. “This time it’s during the day. Daytime storms either come quickly and go quickly, or… they’re particularly violent.”
He turned and walked towards the small prayer room inside the house. On the wall hung an embroidered old Kurdish proverb:
"When eagles fight each other, sparrows should lower their heads."
He knelt down and began to pray. Not for either side, but for the ordinary people destined to be crushed in this game of power.
Outside the window, the city's hustle and bustle continues.
But there was a tension in the air, like the silence before a bowstring is stretched to its limit.
At 1:45 PM, in the command center on the seventh floor of the General Security Bureau building.
Rashid felt his heart pounding wildly behind his ribs, a rate far beyond what one would expect from a forty-seven-year-old.
Inside the command center, forty staff members stood guard at their posts, the sounds of keyboards and equipment humming creating a tense white noise.
On the huge curved screen, sixteen monitoring feeds transmit real-time images of every corner of Erbil.
Everything seemed terribly normal.
The top left corner shows the B2 level of the underground parking garage of the Autonomous Committee building.
Three black SUVs were parked in the shadows, with the occupants waiting inside.
Rashid could picture them—adrenaline surging, breathing rapidly, repeatedly checking their equipment.
These "Grey Wolves" team members were all personally selected by him, and each of them knew the significance of today's operation.
They either become heroes in the establishment of the new regime or traitors in the failed coup.
There is no middle road.
The top right corner is the main control room of the national television station.
The technician was preparing a 2:10 news briefing and had no idea what that inconspicuous black box in the corner of the console was.
The signal interceptor can cut off all regular broadcasts within thirty seconds and switch to a backup signal source.
The recording of Barzani's speech was already stored there.
Rashid's gaze shifted to the middle row of images.
Ministry of Finance, Ministry of the Interior, Communications Center, Central Power Plant...
His pieces are in every key facility.
Plainclothes officers, posing as "repairmen," "deliverymen," and "visitors," were already in place, their weapons concealed in inconspicuous bags.
What worried him most was the seventh scene.
That was the office of Interior Minister Tariq Hussein.
Through the window, you can see Tariq in a meeting, gesturing wildly, clearly arguing about something.
Tariq is Massoud's staunchest supporter and a former soldier; if he resists, bloodshed is possible.
But Barzani's orders were clear: capture them alive if possible, but "extreme measures" could be taken if necessary.
Extreme measures.
What a tactful way to put it!
"Director, Team Eight reporting."
His thoughts were interrupted by the voice of his subordinate, Camille.
“Omar Hassan did not return to the Ministry of Finance, and his cell phone signal disappeared in the Old Market area. We suspect he may have been alerted.”
Rashid's brow furrowed.
Omar Hassan, the finance minister and brother-in-law of Masood, controls the autonomous region's purse strings and all its financial secrets.
If he gets away, or if the accounts are made public in the chaos...
"Send more people to search."
He ordered, “Check all the places he might go. His mistress’s apartment, his brother’s shop, the brothel he frequents. He must be somewhere. Also, notify the border checkpoint to be on high alert, but don’t reveal his name—we don’t want to alert him.”
"Yes."
The ninth scene is of Masoud's apartment.
Thermal imaging showed one person indoors, but they did not move for two hours. This is unusual.
"Group Nine has applied to forcibly enter."
A request for instructions came through the communication channel.
“Approved,” Rashid said, “but be careful. Masood Jr. may have set a trap. Have the bomb disposal team on standby.”
"clear."
Rashid turned and walked toward the command post.
The electronic map on the wall displays the real-time situation of the entire Erbil.
"Any new information from the general?" he asked Camille.
Camille handed over the tablet; the encrypted message contained only one line:
The eagle has spread its wings, the prey has been identified. When the sun shines brightly, the old flag will fall.
Barzani has arrived safely in Kirkuk.
Massoud is confirmed dead—at least that's what Barzani told himself.
Rashid stared at the word "confirmed," trying to decipher its meaning beyond its literal words.
There were no photos of the body, no third-party verification, only a single sentence from Barzani.
But now that the arrow has been released, there's no turning back; hesitation is tantamount to suicide.
But he couldn't help but think of that secret meeting three days ago.
Barzani paced in front of the map of the safe house, the night view of Erbil visible through the window. "Rashid, do you know why I chose two in the afternoon?"
"Because all government departments are on duty, they can be caught in one fell swoop?" Rashid guessed.
“That’s only part of it.” Barzani stopped, turned around, and his eyes gleamed strangely in the dim light. “I chose the daytime because I want to tell everyone, including Massoud’s supporters, the international community, and history, that I don’t need the cover of darkness. I want to complete the transfer of power under everyone’s watchful eyes. This is confidence, and also a warning: resistance is futile.”
"But what if Massoud hadn't died..."
“He will definitely die.” Barzani’s voice turned cold. “The ambush will happen, Massoud will ‘die for his country.’ Then we will take over power in the name of declaring a state of emergency and purging the mole. Clean and efficient.”
"But what if he survived?"
Barzani laughed, but there was no warmth in his smile.
"Then let him die again. At the right time, in the right way."
Now, Rashid stands in the command center, watching the light on the screen gradually turn green, repeatedly pondering the phrase: "Then let him die again."
He walked to the window.
On the street in the distance, a garbage truck is collecting trash, several children are playing football by the roadside, and a vendor is slowly pushing an ice cream cart past.
The everyday world continues to turn, with no one knowing what will happen in a few minutes.
Rashid recalled the oath he took when he joined the security service 23 years ago: "Defend Koldistan, defend the people, and uphold the rule of law."
Today, he is betraying all of this.
But he told himself that this was a necessary betrayal.
The Massoud regime has become rigid and increasingly appeasement-driven and weak.
Barzani pledged to build a tougher, more internationally respected Kurdistan.
It's worth getting our hands dirty for this future.
does it worth?
He didn't have time to think deeply.
The digital clock on the wall jumped to 13:59:30.
Thirty seconds.
He surveyed the command center.
Forty pairs of eyes were fixed on him, the air thick with suppressed anticipation. Some licked their chapped lips, some unconsciously twirled their wedding rings, and some stared intently at the screen. 13:59:50.
Rashid placed his hand on the master communication key.
My fingertips are cold and trembling slightly.
13:59:55.
He closed his eyes and took a deep breath.
13:59:58.
Open your eyes.
14:00:00.
Press the call button.
"Attention, all groups."
His voice, transmitted via encrypted channels, reached the ears of all operatives throughout the city: "Operation 'Sun', now commence."
“Repeat: Operation ‘Sun’, begin now.”
"Execute Plan A. Maintain secrecy, prioritize control, and avoid open conflict as much as possible. But if resistance is encountered, authorize the use of all necessary means."
"For the reborn Koldstein."
"action."
The moment the command was given, the sixteen images on the screen simultaneously came to life.
14:02, 8th floor of the Autonomous Committee building, third conference room.
The air conditioning system seemed to be malfunctioning, and the meeting room was unbearably hot and stuffy.
The special meeting of the Finance Committee had been going on for twelve minutes with slow progress. Around the oval table, the Energy Minister and the Industry Minister were arguing louder and louder about the allocation of oil revenues.
The Deputy Minister of Finance attempted to mediate, but with little success.
Adnan Jassim sat in the audience section against the wall, quickly taking notes on the key points of the argument.
As the assistant secretary-general, his task was to compile meeting minutes, identify points of consensus and points of disagreement, and provide a basis for subsequent negotiations.
He had been doing this job for three years and was already familiar with its rhythm.
Arguments, compromises, more arguments, more compromises, and finally a solution that no one is satisfied with but that everyone can accept.
That's politics, he once thought.
Slow, tedious, but necessary.
Then the door was violently kicked open.
Six men in dark suits filed in.
They looked like government officials, but their swift movements and the bulges around their waists betrayed their identities.
After the last person entered, he immediately closed the door, stood with his back against the door, and placed his hands inside his coat.
The conference room suddenly became quiet.
Everyone stared at the intruder.
"Sorry to interrupt the meeting."
The leader showed his identification.
He was from the Special Investigations Division of the General Security Bureau.
"By order of the Emergency Committee, the committee building is temporarily under the control of security forces. Please remain seated, refrain from using communication devices, and cooperate with our work."
A few seconds of deathly silence.
Then Industry Minister Mohammed Ali suddenly stood up, his chair sliding backward behind him and crashing to the floor with a loud thud.
"What does this mean? The State of Emergency Committee? Who authorized it? Does Chairman Masood know about it?"
"President Massoud was assassinated in Kirkuk this morning and has tragically died for his country."
The speaker's voice was steady, as if he were reading a news announcement.
"Vice President Barzani, in accordance with the emergency clause of the constitution, announced the establishment of an emergency committee to temporarily assume all powers. This is a necessary measure during the transition period."
"Assassination?"
Transport Minister Qasim turned pale. "This is impossible! I'm going to call the President's office..."
"Communication has been temporarily interrupted."
The security official stepped forward. “Please sit down, Mr. Minister. We do not wish to use force.”
Adnan's mind raced in shock.
Assassination?
Is Masoud dead?
Barzani takes over power?
All of this happened too fast, too suddenly.
But his intelligence training made him immediately realize—this was a coup.
This is a blatant coup!
And in broad daylight!
He looked around the conference room.
The Energy Minister sat in his chair, but his hands were trembling; the Industry Minister was still standing, his face flushed; the Deputy Finance Minister looked down at the table, his lips moving as if in silent prayer; the other officials had different expressions: shock, fear, and bewilderment.
One or two people seemed quite excited...
It seems like they're expecting something?
The door was opened a crack again, revealing the view of the corridor outside.
More people in suits or casual clothes are "escorting" government employees back to their offices or into temporary detention centers.
There were no gunshots, no shouts; everything proceeded in an orderly and silent manner.
Saire, a veteran advisor to the Department of Energy, suddenly spoke up, his voice filled with anger: "This is a coup."
The security official glanced at him but did not deny it.
"This is a constitutionally authorized transition of power. Please cooperate in order to reduce unnecessary chaos and bloodshed."
"Bloodshed?" the Minister of Industry sneered. "You're already prepared to shed blood?"
“We are prepared to prevent bloodshed,” the security officer corrected. “But if anyone attempts to resist or create chaos, we will have to take the necessary measures. Now, please leave the meeting room one by one and proceed to the designated rest area. Thank you for your cooperation.”
Adnan stood up with the others and walked towards the door.
As he passed by a security official, he overheard the official whispering to a colleague, "The people on the list are being kept under individual supervision, especially Adnan Jassim."
His heart sank.
They know him.
This means he is not on the "can be won over" list, but on the "needs to be controlled" list.
More staff members were gathered in the corridor.
Adnan saw the director of the policy research office, legal advisor Sadiq, and the deputy director of the foreign affairs office...
They are all key figures in their respective departments.
They were divided into two groups.
One group was led to the rest area on the west side, and the other group was led to the small meeting room on the east side.
Adnan was assigned to the east group.
He was led into a small conference room, where there were already seven or eight people.
Legal advisor Sadiq nodded to him with a wry smile: "Welcome to the first cell of the new era, young man."
"Did they really assassinate the chairman?" Adnan asked in a low voice as he sat down next to Sadiq.
“Barzani said it was the Abuyu Brigade that did it.” Sadiq lowered his voice, almost whispering, “But I’ve heard some rumors from other sources—Chairman Massoud may not be dead yet.”
Adnan's heart skipped a beat. "What?"
"Shhh."
Sadiq gestured for him to be quiet and spoke in an even softer voice.
"The general's convoy was ambushed, and the chairman was seriously wounded, but was rescued by a private military company. Nobody knows where he is now, or whether he is dead or alive. Barzani may have... acted ahead of time, before the chairman could recover or send a message."
Adnan's brain was working at lightning speed.
If Massoud were still alive, this coup would be a gamble built on sand.
If Massoud dies, Barzani will be the sole heir to power.
But in any case, they are now prisoners of war.
It could be either a bargaining chip for a coup or an obstacle to suppressing a rebellion.
He recalled a brief meeting with Chairman Masood two weeks earlier.
The old man looked very tired at the time, but his eyes lit up when he talked about young people's involvement in politics:
“Adnan, it’s good that you’ve received a Western education and have ideals. But remember, politics isn’t just about ideals; it’s also about responsibility. Responsibility to the people, responsibility to history, and responsibility to your own conscience.”
responsibility.
How should Adnan fulfill his responsibilities now?
Cooperate with the coup plotters to try and survive?
Or should they resist and become martyrs?
The door opened again.
Two security officers stood in the doorway, their eyes scanning the people inside the room.
"Adnan Jassim, come out here for a moment."
All eyes were on him.
Sadiq patted him on the shoulder, his eyes filled with complex emotions.
Perhaps it's encouragement, perhaps it's farewell, or perhaps... a warning?
Adnan stood up, his legs feeling a little weak, but he forced himself to straighten his back.
As he walked out of the meeting room, he took one last look at his colleagues.
Samir, a senior advisor at the Department of Energy, nodded slightly to him, his lips silently saying, "Be careful."
In the corridor, the head security officer was waiting for him.
“Mr. Adnan, Director Rashid wants to speak with you about… how to minimize the bloodshed during this transition.”
"What do you mean?"
“You are young, have a Western education, and are not deeply involved in factional struggles. The new government needs talent like you. Of course, this requires you to demonstrate… a cooperative attitude.”
Adnan stared at the other person: "For example?"
"For example, persuade your colleagues to remain calm and cooperate. For example, publicly express your support for the State of Emergency Committee when appropriate. For example... provide some clues about the remnants of Massoud's faction."
"What if I say no?"
The security official smiled, but the smile didn't reach his eyes.
"You just heard it, your wife is pregnant, three months along, right? She had the checkup at the West City Hospital. Do you hope the father will be by your side when the child is born?"
A naked threat.
Adnan felt his blood clot.
They even know this.
This means that his family is already under surveillance and may have been taken into custody.
Anger and fear battled in my veins.
He recalled what President Masood had said at a youth forum: "Sometimes, it takes more courage to live than to die. Because those who live must continue to fight, and fighting is not limited to picking up a gun."
He loosened his clenched fist.
"I need to make sure my wife is safe first."
"It can be arranged. Now, please follow me."
Adnan was led to the elevator.
As the elevator doors closed, he saw his face reflected in the metal.
Twenty-eight years old, born into a prominent family in the Chold region, highly educated, with a promising future.
I used to think politics was a game of documents and debates, but now I realize it's a choice between life and death.
The elevator goes down.
He didn't know where he would be taken, nor what choices he would have to make.
But he knew that from this moment on, he was no longer that naive young bureaucrat.
The elevator stopped on the second basement level.
The door opened, revealing a parking lot, but it had been cleared out, with only a few black SUVs parked there.
Adnan was led to one of the vehicles.
Before getting into the car, he took one last look at the parking lot entrance.
Natural light streamed in, cutting a bright strip of light across the ground. Outside, it was the normal world: bright sunshine and bustling traffic.
Then the car door closed, and he was taken away to an unknown fate.
First update, 6,000 words. Requesting monthly votes. I'll strive to maintain 10,000 words per day this month.
(End of this chapter)