Deadline Yemen

by Peggy Hanson

  “Elizabeth Darcy!” said Tom, getting to his bare feet as he said goodbye to two guys in very slouchy jeans. No doubt they’d been chewing qat. They waved nonchalantly to me as they left. The narghiles, or hookahs, with their snake-like pipes had been gathered in a corner after the qat chew, but the smell of tobacco lingered.

  Tom beamed. “How are you, my dear?” I received a big hug and kiss. “I’m glad you could make it!”

  “Who are we meeting?” I asked.

  “It’s a surprise!” Surely not someone I knew well. Surely not Bo? We had not been in touch since our brief wartime fling three years ago.

  I looked to the little fan of stained glass over the window at the end of the mufraj, now reflecting sunset colors. One of the advantages Tom had living in the Jewish quarter was that most of the best artisans of window panes and jewelry were originally Yemenite Jews. Since 1949, when most of the Jews migrated to Israel, windows like these—deep, pure, primary colors in intricate patterns—had become rare. As they broke, they were replaced by an inferior type: lighter-colored glass, lacking the richness of their predecessors, and cut coarsely into simpler designs. One cost of separating populations whose specialties have been divided for centuries…kind of like divorce or death of a spouse… Both sides lose, in a way.

  As Tom drove us downtown in his tan SUV, through traffic that had worsened since my last visit, we chatted about mutual acquaintances from the worlds of journalism and travel. Each of us knew some of them better than we knew each other.

  “Faye Mollington?” Tom asked. “She came through a couple of months ago and mentioned she knew you.”

  That was a surprise. Faye hadn’t told me she’d gone to Yemen. Well, she wouldn’t. Spies don’t talk. I guess they’re all Scorpios. Keeping themselves to themselves.

  “I hear from Faye regularly,” I said. “She’s in Turkey. Still with the Times.” I didn’t add anything about Faye’s other identity, unknown to most. Nor about the perils we had faced together in a romantic Bosphorus garden. What happens in Istanbul stays in Istanbul. I would never have found out about Faye if circumstances hadn’t intruded.

  Time for other topics. I couldn’t talk about Halima, but I did need to pick Tom’s brain to do my requisite reporting.

  “What about the rumors of Islamist terrorism here? The Embassy seems to think Yemen’s becoming a major player. I know Yemenis aren’t traditionally radical. What do you think’s going on? Is terrorism going to be a problem?”

  Tom maneuvered the car around a couple of wooden carts filled with fruits and vegetables, getting a friendly wave from the vendors. “Sure, there could be problems. Yemen’s been walking this tightrope between East and West, North and South for all the years since Independence. And some of these guys were trained in Aden, before reunification—everybody from the IRA to the PKK in Turkey to the Palestinians.”

  “Yeah. How about now?”

  He looked uncomfortable. “I don’t know. I really don’t know.”

  “This fellow, Bin Laden. I know he’s not here right now. Has he really turned against the United States since Afghanistan? How much of a threat is he?”

  Tom mulled over an answer as we waited at a street light. More urchins tried to sell us little plastic whirlygigs.

  “I think he’s mostly operating in Sudan or Somalia. He has some supporters here. You know he was here during the Civil war, helping the North against the South.”

  “Somebody at the Embassy mentioned that, too. Why wasn’t that known at the time?”

  Tom sounded like a sophisticate explaining the world to a naif. “My dear, nobody talks much about Yemen! And do you really think your country, our country, talks about things like this? The U.S. was helping the North, too. The South was Communist, don’t forget. Bin Laden hated them and so did the U.S. Natural allies, both in Afghanistan and Yemen.”

  The elegant façade of the Taj Sheba came into view and we turned left into the parking area in front.

  One last question: “But these followers you talk about. What are they doing now? Trying to destabilize the government?”

  “They’ll engage in anything that furthers their cause—which they say is purity of religion. There’s an imam in the north who preaches hate against everything that differs from his extreme view of Islam. Bin Laden is said to trust in the guy as a spiritual guide. He might be training some of his cadres.”

  Tom paid the man who would watch the car while we were in the Taj and we went through a metal detector at the door. Some form of terrorism must be expected—or possibly the hotel just didn’t want armed men wandering around in the lobby. Of course, tribesmen with their jambiyas just put them in a container and retrieved them after going through the detector. Some things are sacred.

  We sat down in one of the comfortable lobby seating areas. Luscious cakes and pastries were displayed in a corner guarded by a demure young woman, probably from India. I swear I could smell chocolate. Three white-garbed men sat near us, their kaffiyah turbans as pristine as their spotless clothes. Across the room sat a small group of foreign tourists. I wanted to tell the young women, “Dress appropriately, for heavens’ sake!” Shorts, even long shorts like these, would be offensive to Yemenis, though unlike their northern neighbors in Saudi Arabia, they don’t have rules for how foreigners should behave in their country. Traditionally, they have practiced tolerance.

  I turned again to Tom: “Doesn’t some of this terrorism relate to good old homegrown criminal activities like drugs and arms smuggling?”

  “Well, yeah. That’s been around for a long time, too.”

  Tom’s gaze wandered. He was probably growing more interested in alcohol. His qat high was wearing off. Alcohol is often the postlude to qat, which hypes the system into insomnia and constipation, following hours of illusions of intelligence and poetry.

  Come to think of it, Yemen is far more poetic than most countries. Maybe qat helps that!

  Tom quietly ordered a whisky, neat, which foreigners could buy in tourist hotels for an exorbitant price. I ordered tea with cardamom. Whoever was joining us hadn’t shown up yet.

  Looking around the lobby with its marble floors, crystal chandeliers, and huge paintings, I returned to business. “This guy, Michael Petrovich, who was killed. Did you know him? I heard he was some kind of businessman. I saw him with Christine Helmund…”

  Tom raised an eyebrow as if surprised, though the murder must have been a major topic among the expat community. “He was with a French company that gets government contracts by promising to provide fertilizer to rural areas.” Tom waved his hand as he sipped his whisky from a dark blue glass. The glass was clearly designed to disguise its contents from others in the lobby. “Sometimes they provide fertilizer, sometimes not. The French are like that. Peace Corps and International Volunteers—Christine’s group—provide village contact.”

  Aha. The girl I was curious about. “Christine and Petrovich? Were they an item?”

  Tom shrugged his shoulders. Then he launched a broadside of his own: “Whatever happened to that Swedish television guy…”

  In spite of myself, I blushed. Had it been that obvious? Not that it was any of Tom’s business. I shrugged, ignored the comment, and plowed ahead.

  “So you know Christine Helmund?”

  “Sure. I know Christine. She’s been here about two years. Knows the place pretty well. She’ll be here tomorrow night, for a little party I’m having—you’ve gotta come.” He wiggled his eyebrows, his look imp-Irish. “She’s got a good bod—like you.”

  I couldn’t help laughing. “Tom, you’re incorrigible!” He was lying, because I wore the loosest clothes I could find every time I was in Yemen. There was no way he could have any clear idea about my “bod.”

  “Sure,” I said. I’d attend the party. What I didn’t say is I’d keep my eyes open. Assuming, of course, that I wasn’t tied up with Halima’s problem by then. “It’ll be nice to meet people,” I murmured.

  Suddenly an apparition swe
pt into the lobby, capturing everyone’s attention. A dramatic streak of silver ran through sleek dark hair, pulled into a bun. She wore a black Egyptian caftan embroidered with silver and enough ethnic jewelry to start a shop in the souq. Her figure was full, her air haughty, and she seemed surprised to see me with Tom.

  Alexandra Metzger. A bête noire from my last trip to Yemen. A self-styled princess if I’d ever met one. We’d been the only women here covering the war.

  I put on a bright smile. “Well, hi, Alex! Fancy meeting you here!”

  As Alex’s eyes widened in recognition, I stretched out my hand, then decided a kiss of sorts would be in order. I stood and we offered cheeks with as little warmth as one can and still respectably make the affectionate gesture. We’d never liked each other much—perhaps because of the inherent competition of covering a war with a bunch of men, all of whom preferred a woman’s company to that of each other.

  And here she was, again, lively and vibrant as ever. And as nervous as a cat. She joined us in another comfortable chair, popped a cigarette from a gold holder and peremptorily ordered wine from the waiter.

  Tom had seen someone he knew and gone to greet the man. He was Yemeni, or maybe Palestinian, wearing western jeans and shirt.

  I turned to my companion. “Do you live in Sana’a, now, Alex?”

  “No, I am visiting.” Her accent sounded a tad fake but the voice was rich and husky. She almost seemed in another world right now. “I still live in Cairo and come here on business.”

  “What kind of business?” I’d finished my first cup of tea and was considering a pastry from the tempting glassed exhibition near where we sat. Even through tobacco smoke, the smell of chocolate was seductive.

  Before answering, Alex snuffed out one cigarette, lit another, and demanded that the waiter bring us pastry selections on a tray. “I’m designing jewelry. I buy old pieces here and copy the patterns.”

  The words, innocent enough, didn’t match her nervous energy. Her hand shook.

  “Sounds very interesting.” I sounded stilted, especially since my statement was true, but it had been a shock running into Alex. Could I trust her? No. I wasn’t sure any woman could trust her—maybe no man, either.

  “I enjoy it. And I’m making a difference in the field.” Alex was never one for modesty—and never afraid to stretch a point when it came to her own importance. In this case, though, she might have had a point. Someone surely needed to preserve Yemeni silver jewelry. I just hoped she was doing it properly and ethically.

  “I’d love to see the jewelry you make,” I said. That, at least, was true. “And I totally agree it’s important to preserve the old patterns.” Halima had once told me the old silverwork was becoming scarce, with the new emphasis on gold as the more valuable commodity. Also, many of the silversmiths had been Jews who emigrated to Israel in 1949.

  “Alex is also still a journalist,” Tom broke in, returning to sit down with us again. “She went along and worked with me on several stories a couple of years ago. She’s got quite a reputation.”

  That I could believe. I nodded with polite but insincere enthusiasm. “So what were the stories you did together?”

  Alex lit another cigarette but didn’t answer. Tom picked up the thread. “A look at international companies working here in Yemen. Come to think of it, Petrovich’s firm was one of the ones we investigated… And Alex knew Petrovich, didn’t you, kid?” He practically chucked Alex under her ample but attractive chin.

  She stared at him, not answering his rhetorical question. Love or hate? Or both? I’d never been able to sort out their relationship before, and it wasn’t any clearer now. “We all knew him,” she said.

  CHAPTER 33

  Women play only a small role in the public domain, as they did in the West until quite recently; at least in Yemen, in contrast to Saudi Arabia, women are able to drive cars, enter Parliament, become top-ranking civil servants. But it is in the private realm of the home that the woman dominates, in practice if not in theory…

  Tim Mackintosh-Smith, Yemen, Travels in Dictionary Land

  I was up early. Mrs. Weston demanded and got sardines for breakfast, then disappeared out the window, tail twitching. Yesterday had been eventful and today promised new discoveries, as well. Despite my underlying worry, the Trib required some attention. They were paying my way, after all. And I might not have time once I had seen Halima.

  Before heading down for breakfast, I started a piece that I would fill in as I learned facts. I jotted a few lines to Mac Snyder, telling him I still didn’t see much news import to Michael Petrovich’s murder but that some sides of the story might require a little investigation. Then I typed out a brief story suitable for the paper, should it decide to carry it, and tried to send it via e-mail. The message on the screen said the server was busy. “Please try again later.” So much for communicating from the end of the world.

  During breakfast, I read the English language Yemen Daily News, but was distracted by thoughts of Halima. Even on our first meeting at Friends of Yemen, I’d felt I could learn much from Halima al Shem.

  I had asked her questions incessantly: “Yemen is very exotic, very different from other countries. How does that affect the way people live? Do you think much about the rest of the world?”

  Halima was happy to fill me in on details. “Yemenis take their tribal customs very much to heart, but like new ideas at the same time. All these computers were donated by UNESCO, and the girls love working on them.”

  Because I was not sleeping well, I felt dull and heavy this morning. Just when I needed my wits about me, they were MIA. Coffee wasn’t doing the trick. I needed a jolt.

  It came in the unwelcome form of a whirlwind entering the dining room. Alex Metzger was dressed as flamboyantly as the night before, her green and gold silk caftan contrasting with my faded dungarees and stone-washed long-sleeved shirt.

  “May I join you?” she asked breathlessly, in her spoiled-little-girl voice. She was as nervous as I’d remembered during the war. Maybe she lived on that plane of existence, always tense and jittery. The waiter she’d pushed by stood in a daze, having no idea how to deal with the entry of this hurricane of a woman.

  “Sure,” I said, caught by surprise. I was developing a dull headache. I equated that with Alexandra’s presence. The woman was exhausting. Once she sat, the waiter provided cutlery and a plate and the offer to take her order.

  “Coffee, black, and make it hot!” she ordered, in native Egyptian Arabic. I was impressed, and so was the waiter. He was back in a flash, with a pot of steaming liquid and a whole bowl of sugar.

  She turned to me. “So how’re things?” The question shot out like the order to the waiter, though it was aimed at me. Her hands shook as she lifted the coffee cup to her lips.

  “I’m doing well,” I said, cautiously. I gestured for some coffee and reminded myself to be discreet. “This is mostly a vacation for me. How about you?”

  “Oh, just catching up. I come every few months. Gotta keep hitting the souqs for hidden treasures.”

  Sure. Copying, which was fine, but then selling the pieces in Cairo, or maybe Europe, for many times what she paid. All that silver. Jewelry. Jambiyas. Beautifully crafted treasures that were becoming an endangered species. And I was willing to bet she drove a hard bargain with the poverty-laden silversmiths. So unlike another collector I knew, a former diplomat who respected the work and the craftsmen!

  Since I had a headache, anyhow, why not deal with unpleasant topics—and Alex might not be a bad source, whatever I felt about her personally. I pressed fingers to my temples as I spoke. “What do you know, or surmise, about Michael Petrovich? The Embassy was less than forthcoming about him, I thought.”

  Alex paused shakily. “Well…what have you heard about him?” Clearly, Alex wasn’t going to spill any unnecessary beans.

  “I met him on the plane coming in a couple of nights ago. Then yesterday I saw him dead in his room. It’s been a shock! And now I’m
hearing unflattering things about him.”

  “Like what?” Alex’s hands shook noticeably as she lit another cigarette from her old one. I coughed as the onslaught of smoke hit my nose. Not quite a headache relief!

  “A couple of people say he might have been smuggling illicit arms. One source called him an abettor to terrorists. Is any of that on base?” I sipped a little coffee, hoping the caffeine would have some effect on the migraine. Too much can help cause them; the right amount can relieve.

  Alex’s eyes narrowed. “Terrorist is a strong word. Was he into illegal stuff? I don’t know. Why? Is your paper interested?”

  “Well, I have to find out what I can. If he was flirting with terrorism, that would be a story, though probably not mine. I would turn it back to our Cairo correspondent.”

  We paused to fetch our beans and bread and honey from the buffet table.

  During the war, Alex had been jealous of my contacts, though she never found out that my contact was Halima. None of the other journalists knew Halima, in fact. As a result, my reporting had an edge of authority the others’ didn’t. Credit goes to Halima, not me.

  The one time Alex went to Friends of Yemen, using her own sources, I went along. Halima was more than capable of sizing up Alex. Halima gave her the standard line, remained exquisitely polite, and shared none of her intuitive knowledge. Alex continued to wonder where I got my inside information.

  When we returned to the table with our plates full, the conversation continued. “You mean you’re going to let Felix in Cairo do this story?” Alex’s tone held unwarranted disdain and something else. “I know him. Do as you like, of course, but I think I might let this story sit there, you know what I mean? Some stories are better not looked into. That’s my advice.” Her plate was full, but she wasn’t eating.