The bluebird by Clare Beecher Kummer

By Clare Beecher Kummer

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Beyond the two vehicles, less than a quarter of a mile distant, were the first low-lying stone buildings of Qamishli. They were misty gray shapes rippled in the radiant heat of the burning afternoon. Ibrahim, Mahmoud, and their two companions emerged from their car. As they walked ahead, a 707 came in low headed for a landing at the nearby airport. The noise of the engines rumbled loud and long across the flat wasteland. As Ibrahim and his party approached, three men emerged from the Cadillac, four from the Dodge.

He moved it from side to side. "Okay," he said, and let the hand drop over the side of the car door. At that instant, Ibrahim and the passengers in the front two cars leaned out the windows, popped the tops on the palm-sized cylinders, and threw them at the booth. While the small guard reached for his pistol, the other opened fire through the thick, orange smoke. As he did, Walid threw his car into reverse, crashed through the gate, and rammed the booth. The outpost shook and the shooting stopped, but only for a moment.

My psych profile says I never sweat anything," he said. " "Bull-do. You'd be as miserable as I was. Look," Stoll said, "let's not go counting Mother Carey's chickens before the storm hits. " "But it's a possibility," Stoll said. He glanced at the clock in the lower right corner of the screen. "I'm supposed to see the boss at seven-thirty to let him know how the ROC is working. Why don't we have dinner tonight? " "Fine," Stoll said. "I'll pick you both up. What time? " Viens asked. "Perfect," said Stoll.

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