“It is,” he said, “the game of fate.”

The Urban Standoff

A few hours later, back in camouflage, Abdul Hakim Yasin led his fighters to Aleppo. Their assignment at the checkpoint had ended; they were due back at the front lines.

The commander steered wide of the checkpoint. He chose another, longer route, driving with the trucks spread out and at headlong speeds, to limit exposure to attack helicopters and jets.

Once within the city, the trucks weaved through neighborhoods until reaching a cluster of buildings under rebel control. They hid the vehicles in the shade of trees and walked briskly inside, moving into an apartment abandoned by a fleeing police captain. It was a place to stay until dark.

There they watched the government’s televised news; the presenter told of a bomb attack in Damascus, the capital. Reclining on the police captain’s couch, barefoot and drowsy after a night without sleep, Mr. Yasin was amused. His humor had returned. He chuckled. “Maybe Abu Hilal drove all the way to Damascus,” he said.

His fighters were rummaging through the apartment. One found the remote control for the air-conditioner, and turned it on. Others rummaged through the family’s collection of bootleg DVDs. More packed up books to take home. Another cooked a meal on the captain’s stove, and served his commander tea in the captain’s cups.

A fighter came to Mr. Yasin. He had found the captain’s wedding album. Mr. Yasin flipped through it slowly, page by page, stopping when he saw women in the bridal party wearing clothes that clashed with his traditional rural tastes.

“That dress is too short for me,” he said.

Soon he was asleep on his enemy’s couch, resting for his next mission from Al Tawhid.