by Peggy Hanson
I think I returned the greeting. My coffee cup was shaking badly. Had I just exchanged nods with Michael’s murderer?
In my room, I gave the cat some bread and milk and white cheese I’d snatched from the dining room. Mrs. Weston thanked me with a rub against my leg, ate, and meticulously cleaned her whiskers with her paws, reclining on my bed.
How to prepare for the coming police interrogation? The prospect shook me more than I’d have guessed. Another night came to mind. Other Yemeni policemen. Halima arriving, her aristocratic family name allowing her to wrest me from their clutches. And another time in the souq when I’d seen a ghostly form behind bars, pitifully begging passersby for food. I really did not want to go to jail.
The worst night of my life had been in a Yemeni jail. Even now I could hardly bear to think of it. Men trained in cruelty…men who enjoyed taking advantage of the vulnerable. Cries from other cells. Despair…Halima had been my only chance and my salvation.
I pulled myself together. I had to face the police. What information could I give them? Very little, except seeing that Brit go into Michael’s room (I presumed it was Michael’s room) last night. Did I want to tell them that? My own experience and the prisoner in the souq came to mind. No, I wouldn’t tell. My suspicions that Michael Petrovich had been a spy would also remain a secret, for now.
In actual fact, I knew nothing. Really.
A knock on my door. A hotel employee said the police were waiting for me downstairs. I took a deep breath.
CHAPTER 22
“Honest as the cat when the meat is out of reach.”
English proverb from The Quotable Cat
Richard Queens waited until he heard the commotion die down next door. He put on his most bland expression and went out, locking his door. Under his arm he carried a worn briefcase.
The woman from the plane was coming up the stone stairway as he walked down. She was certainly not the innocent bystander she pretended to be. Equally certainly, she had known Petrovich, the bastard.
His report just now to superiors had not included the woman with the brownish hair and intelligent eyes. Why was that? He pondered the question as he headed out for a normal day’s work—though “normal” was a word that didn’t fit Yemen.
It bloody well didn’t fit this situation.
Richard found that he rather relished the thought of investigating the woman from the plane. He’d have to be on guard, of course.
CHAPTER 23
It is something to dislike one’s own defects, even if one sees them only in other people.
Freya Stark, A Winter in Arabia
The same English-speaking policeman waited for me in the manager’s office. The manager sat at his desk, the sign on the desk said “M. Faisal.” I bet the M. stood for Mohammad. Everybody was named Mohammad. It looked as though he’d be sitting in on the interview.
I didn’t know the policeman’s name, but he’s the one who spoke. “Mizz Darcy?”
“Yes.”
“Please to sit down.”
The manager, nervous as a cat in a cage, tried to smile at me. “Would you like coffee? Arabic coffee?” He addressed both me and the policeman and received nods from each. He left in a rush. To bring coffee? Or just to get out of the room?
“You have come to Yemen for why?” The policeman, after shaking hands with me, clearly didn’t want this to degenerate into a social get-together. He probably had to fight his natural hospitality.
“I am a journalist, as Mr. Faisal knows from my registration at the hotel. I am here to write about Yemen’s beautiful architecture for my newspaper in America.” I looked the policeman in the eye. “The Yemeni Embassy in Washington gave me a visa to work on this story.”
In fact, the Embassy had been thrilled to have an American coming to Yemen to provide information that might stimulate the dwindling tourist trade. They’d complied with my request in two days, and had wished me well on my journey. “Be sure to see Wadi Dhar!” said the young consular officer.
But this case was different. The policeman sat forward, straightened his uniform, and ignored my visa information. He was serious about his job. “This man, Mr. Petrovich. How you know him?”
“I didn’t know him at all, except we met on the plane as we arrived in Sana’a. He told me he was a businessman. He said he worked in irrigation and fertilizers. Beyond that, I know nothing.” I thought a moment. “He said he had a meeting after the plane arrived. I do not know who that meeting was with.”
The hotel staff would have told the police that Michael Petrovich ate with the blonde last night. I’d assumed the meeting was with her, but of course had no evidence of any kind. It wasn’t my job to point fingers.
“He did not speak of any other person he was meeting in Sana’a?”
“No.”
“And you, you will stay how long?” He was out of his depth but plowing ahead.
“My visa is for a month, but I don’t plan to stay that long.” Fearing this might sound ungracious, I quickly added, “Though I’d love to stay longer. Yemen is one of my favorite countries!”
The policeman’s serious face cracked just an iota into the usual gratified smile that praise of one’s native country tends to produce.
By this point, Mr. Faisal had returned with a waiter carrying a tray of Arabic coffee. He fidgeted with the pens on his desk. With a gesture, he begged to be excused again, the kind of gesture that means, ‘I’ll be right back.’ Why had the police asked him to stay in the first place?
But my interrogation was over. As Mr. Faisal stood, so did the policeman. “If you have information, you give us?” The remark had a question mark in its tone but sounded imperative.
“Yes. I will tell you if I learn anything.” I took the card he held out. ‘Lt. M. Surash,’ it said. Another Mohammad! He left, his camouflage uniform as crisp as his manner.
Thankfully, I was excused. And Mr. Faisal had remained, when he saw that there was no danger of a confrontation.
Before I could even rise from my chair, though, the door to the office opened with a bang.
The blonde stood in the doorway. She looked more mussed than last night but had changed her clothes.
“Is this then true?” she blurted out. Not California. Her grammar and accent pegged her as European—maybe Scandinavian. Michael’s girlfriend from last night.
M. Faisal jumped up, as though nature called. Police plus one disruptive female was bad enough; two were more than a man should have to bear.
“I must go,” the manager said. “Soon I return.”
I turned to her. “Perhaps I can help you. Are you asking about the man you had dinner with last night? About Michael Petrovich?”
She nodded, tension in the corners of her blue eyes. Instinctively, I made sure she was sitting down before continuing.
“I’m afraid he’s dead.” It was strange telling her this. For all she knew, since Michael had stopped to talk to me as they went to their table, I was another romantic interest of Michael’s.
“Dead? Dead? Michael is dead?” The young woman seemed shocked. Her lovely jaw hung open. Then she closed her mouth and her throat worked. She looked more fearful than grief-stricken, but it can be hard to tell about these things. I felt shocked, myself, and I had hardly known the guy.
“Did you know him well?” Nothing like getting to the point. “And, by the way, I’m Elizabeth Darcy. What is your name?”
“Christine,” she muttered, almost sullenly. “Christine Helmund.” The tragic blue eyes reminded me of Ilsa, in Casablanca. “I am with International Volunteers. Michael knew some of our projects. Came to see us. No, I didn’t know him very well…” Her voice trailed off.
That might be true or it might not. They’d looked like old acquaintances. I’d assumed last night that she was the reason he didn’t accompany me to the hotel the night we landed. “How did you know him?” I asked.
“Michael is a businessman. With French firm.” Her blue eyes swiveled to the side,
away from my gaze; the same movement she’d used to scan the dining room last night. Who was she looking for? Apparently not the Brit, since he’d left as she arrived.
“When did you last see Mr. Petrovich?” I asked.
“He walked with me home and left me. I did not see him after.”
Well, I couldn’t disprove it. And the mysterious Brit had been lurking about. He’d been surprised at the sight of Christine and Petrovich entering the dining room. Why? If there was a connection, I’d like to know. This young woman seemed a weak link.
Mr. Faisal had summoned up the courage to return, and with some misgiving I turned Christine over to him. This young woman wasn’t going to pieces there in the office, though she might later. She had become eerily calm, a hardness in her eyes.
On impulse, I handed her a card. “Come to see me if you wish.” Now, why did I do that? Reporter instinct, natural kindness (my personal choice), or prurient interest in her relationship with Michael?
I went up to my room to change, carefully avoiding the room from which Michael’s body had already been removed. Mrs. Weston was sound asleep, making a perfect circle, paws covering eyes.
I jotted a three-line e-mail note to Mac outlining the murder of Michael Petrovich—omitting the fact that I’d met him as well as any mention of suspicious Brits and international beauties—and promised to look into the matter.
I glanced out the window and thought about my duplicity with the policeman. Why hadn’t I mentioned the Brit going into the room? The cage-like jail in the souq with its ghostly inhabitant flitted through my mind. Back to when I thought I might become that ghost. Better to find out what I could on my own. Oh, Halima. I needed you then. I need you now.
It seemed like hours since that dawn wake-up. White dusty sunlight had erased early morning shadows from Jebel Nabi Shu’ayb to the west, bringing out all the sharp edges of Sana’a. The change from sunrise and its magic to the white sameness of mid-morning added to my sense of shock. I still couldn’t believe Petrovich, was dead. Inshallah, God willing, it wasn’t an omen for how Halima’s problem would end.
I rested a little while on the bed, Mrs. Weston close beside me. It had been quite a morning and was only nine o’clock now. But lying around wasn’t going to help. I patted the cat, arose, adjusted my clothes, and went back down the stairs. I’d treat the murder of my seatmate as I would any other murder. Just cover it, to the extent the Trib was interested.
After all the excitement, the hotel staff went quietly about its routine in the hall: sweeping the stone floors; changing the beds and hanging tan sheets out on a windy clothesline; moving dust on every surface so that for a few moments, fingerprints wouldn’t show up as visible tracks.
There was a constant stream of whispers among the employees, though. One could tell from the atmosphere this was no ordinary day at the Dar al-Hamd.
What did they think about last night’s murder? Could there have been fingerprints? Had there been a second cup or glass? Only the police would know. Unless I could find a way to get close to them and gain their confidence, they wouldn’t tell me anything. For all I knew, I was a suspect in their eyes. I wished for a moment I were an official investigator and could get hold of the murder weapon, the jambiya itself. I wished I were a doctor.
Mac back in Washington had expressed interest in the murder, of course, so I was off to the U.S. Embassy to pick up tidbits. News people love murders. Well, doesn’t everybody who doesn’t have to deal with it first hand? Murder is the ultimate tragedy or evil, both for perpetrator and victim. It’s also the ultimate revenge, the last great chance to wipe success off the face of your competitor, to get even with your enemy.
Michael had clearly been murdered. What was the motive?
Walking away from the hotel to do some investigating for the crime that had stabbed its way into my preoccupation with Halima (and the Sana’a story I’d promised the Trib,) I noticed that dust had blown up around the Dar al-Hamd’s front entrance, making little dunes where none had been last night.
Dust to dust. I walked a little faster.
CHAPTER 24
“Allah will protect us,” was all that one could say.
Freya Stark, A Winter in Arabia
Halima and Zuheyla sat in the mufraj, which smelled faintly of lavender, hookah smoke, and incense. The usual scents of hospitality had faded since they no longer had the problem of chatty women neighbors crowding in to have tea with them. No one came to see them these days. In becoming an outcast himself, Ali had brought virtual imprisonment to the family.
Halima couldn’t believe Ali would do those things. Killing civilians, even if they were non-believers? Un-Muslim. She hated the sheikh from Sa’da, whose charisma had managed to penetrate a young man’s adolescence, even though he had a solid and respectable family behind him.
Yes, she should have paid more attention when Ali became so religious a few months ago. For a while, he seemed to spend all his time at the Great Mosque a few streets away. Then he began staying away from home at night. That’s when she said something to Zuheyla, Ali’s intended bride and also their cousin.
“But I will find Ali! I will save him!” Zuheyla would never give up on her beloved, no matter what he was accused of doing.
From the window came the call to prayer, and Halima performed her ritual wash and spread her prayer rug. Placing her forehead on the carpet over and over, she prayed with all her heart that Ali would come to his senses. That he would do so in time. That he would come home.
CHAPTER 25
Curious soldiers with Kalashnikovs slung casually from their shoulders came to gaze at me. One of them smiled coyly and muttered to himself, “Dressed just like a tribesman!”
Steven C. Caton, Yemen Chronicle
The new Arab-style U.S. Embassy, so unlike its beautiful, culturally-correct predecessor set in gardens, was on a hill leading up to Jebel Nuqum and buttressed like Fort Knox. Yemeni security men stood around it like toy soldiers, some of them in machine gun bunkers. It took a virtual body search by an impassive woman guard before I was allowed in, past the stern-faced Marine guard in his glass box. The box was full of buttons he could have pushed at any moment to call in reinforcements. The famed and feared Delta Force trains these Marines for Embassy duty.
The Embassy smell was that of an office. Coffee brewing somewhere. Papers. Books. I had entered a different world.
My hastily-made appointment was with Jason Roberts, a political officer. “Political Officer” is often, not always, code for CIA, known as “the Company” in intelligence circles. When he came down the hall to escort me up, I assumed the good-looking African American kid was a new Company recruit. He wore khaki pants with a tucked-in shirt and exuded youth, vigor, and self-confidence. I hoped to shake him into telling me more than he intended.
He, on the other hand, seemed to hope I’d help solve the problem of too few females in his life. Frankly, while it was flattering to see the interested look in his eye as we exchanged cards, he made me feel like Mrs. Robinson. That’s not a role in my repertoire, and never has been.
“Hello,” I said, professionally.
“Hello, yourself.” By acting cocky, he was trying to call the shots. An amateurish mistake.
I seated myself in the chair in front of his desk and turned on the schoolmarm manner. “I’m writing a story about the murder of an American last night. What can you tell me about Michael Petrovich?” I carefully removed any personal knowledge of Michael or the murder from my voice.
Roberts’s face lost its youthful leer and acquired that noncommittal expression taught in Diplomacy 101. “Well, he’s a businessman. Was. Russian-born, with an American passport. He comes to Yemen on and off. The Embassy is facilitating getting the body back to the States and is supportive of the Yemeni police investigation of circumstances of his death.”
My God. People really talk like that. Maybe Roberts wasn’t as green as I thought.
“So you have no idea whether there was
some special reason why Petrovich died as he did?” I ventured. “I am staying at the Dar al-Hamd and saw the body. I was wondering about the jambiya. Do you assume the jambiya points to Yemeni involvement? Did Petrovich have many Yemeni friends here?”
Roberts shifted uneasily in his chair. “I don’t have any more information right now. The Embassy is cooperating, of course, but is not in the business of checking out Americans’ friends.” He tugged at his collar.
By now, I didn’t believe a word he said. I decided to take advantage of his youth and discomfort. “He seemed to know a young woman here. What can you tell me of Christine Helmund?”
A pregnant pause ensued. He looked taken aback by the quick change of subject. “Christine has been here in Sana’a awhile. We at the Embassy know her socially.”
I’ll bet. Christine was the type to get around socially. How many embassy males had been involved with her, one way or the other? But that wasn’t my concern right now. “What was her relationship to Petrovich?”
“I have no idea.” The flirtatiousness was fading. Good. He seemed uptight about Petrovich. About Michael. I’d warm him up with some typical journalist questions.
“Okay, on to politics,” I said. “How stable is Yemen these days? One hears rumors.”
Roberts took on a warmer, conspiratorial look. A relieved look. “Want to know the truth? The worldwide net of anti-American terrorists might be centered right here.” He seemed to relish gossiping with an American woman, even if she was that perilous property known as a reporter. “Aden was the big Soviet training ground for guerrillas of all stripes before reunification, and the latest big gun, Bin Laden, was originally from Yemen—at least, his father and grandfather came from here.”
So far I knew it all, but still I nodded and took notes.
“What do we do? We work with the Yemenis. They’re not bad on security, and they see it mostly in their own interest to cooperate. Of course, who knows about the sheikhs of the North and the South? They do what they want, always have. And Bin Laden isn’t our friend anymore. He has a lot of allies up around Sa’da as well as in the Hadhramaut, where his family came from. I absolutely do not recommend any American going north—kidnapping, you know. That’s where the action is.” Roberts rustled around in a drawer.