Ataturk AirportStanding there on the escalator holding his suitcase, at ten o’clock that morning, there was one thought on Jean-Pierre’s mind: he had to find a bathroom quickly, his bladder felt so full that if he had to hold it any longer he would vomit.
After drinking some bad Turkish coffee and taking care of this pressing business, he took a taxi to the Blue Mosque; after all, he was supposed to look like a tourist and his Turkish friends had recommended a visit there many times over the years.
Later that night, a Turkish Airlines plane would take him to Ankara and the next morning he would rent a car and drive to Cappadocia. His first Kurdish intermediary was waiting for him there, in a ceramic factory open to tourists. They had agreed on the time and date before he’d left France an
