by Peggy Hanson
Could Alex be warning me against poking my nose into the story for some good reason—or possibly something more nefarious? Still, that had also been Nello’s advice.
What had been Alex’s relationship to Michael Petrovich? Her reaction to his name been intense. A woman scorned? And what about Alex and Tom Reilly? She was a woman who got around.
Alex and Tom planned to stay awhile at the Taj Sheba, so I took a shared taxi partway and then walked through the neighborhood surrounding the Dar al-Hamd, where I’d seen the honey shop before. There it was, one of a clump of tiny shops, selling the needs of everyday life. Needs like food and qat (not necessarily in that order) and cover-ups for women. And, of course, honey. But no one was around except the shopkeepers and a few black-clad women. I didn’t learn a thing.
* * * *
After a night of fitful sleep, I went down for breakfast. As I entered the lobby, here came the very man I was looking for—the one I’d seen at my neighboring table and down the hall the night Michael Petrovich was murdered. Same rugged look and grumpy expression. The Brit himself.
“Good morning,” I said politely.
“Morning,” came the detached, well-articulated reply. Where do the British get their self-confidence?
There was no invitation in his tone and I certainly didn’t feel like delving in, but I had to make an opportunity. I followed him to the dining room. “May I join you for a few minutes?”
“Um. Well. Yes. Certainly. Please sit down.” Eton and Oxford-trained gentleman? It’s hard for us colonials to tell. Though reticent, he had a slight gleam—amusement?—in his eye.
When I had slid into the chair he held and ordered my morning Nescafe and a cup of kishr, I dug in my bag for my business cards. I fished one out and handed it across the table to my prey. I trusted the gesture would require an equal and opposite one from him, and so it proved.
Richard Queens. Consultant, Agro-Brit.
“Mr. Queens, I am a journalist writing a story on the murder here in the hotel. Can you tell me whether you knew the victim, Michael Petrovich?” There was a definite wary pause across the table and one eyebrow raised. Queens drizzled a spoonful of honey onto his plate.
I was in full hunt mode. “The reason I’m asking is I saw you go into his room the night before the murder. And I haven’t told the police. I’d like to hear from you first.”
The minute the statement was out of my mouth, I mentally kicked myself. Why hadn’t I used a modicum of subtlety? My words could even be taken as blackmail, if he was in fact guilty! My friend, Faye Mollington, says I need to learn to cover my tracks. Faye would say I was being especially foolhardy in this case, laying my only cards on the table.
But I was not a spy, like Faye, and quickly backtracked. “Mr. Queens, the reason I am asking is that you may have some information I can use in my news story. Had you ever met the man?”
Silence from the other side of the table. Queens had no expression on his face whatsoever. “I know the name from the incident, of course. But no, I did not know him.” My table partner was busy making a pattern with honey on a piece of bread. “And I fear you are mistaken about seeing me go into his room.” Another irritated quirk of eyebrows. “Why don’t you ask the Americans at the embassy if they know anything? I understand Petrovich had a United States passport.”
I now joined my companion in spreading honey, getting sticky fingers as I did. “I’m in touch with them, of course. But, Mr. Queens, I’m sure it was you I saw on the second floor. Isn’t that where your room is?”
Richard Queens seemed to accept what could not be changed—my constant stream of questions and allegations. “I regret I am unable to answer all your questions now.” A faint smile of narrow lips failed to reach his blue-gray eyes. He excused himself and walked out of the dining room.
Now, he was a Scorpio for sure. According to a book on sun signs, they keep secrets well. I hesitated for a minute. I was out of my league, both with the Cairene princess and the British statue, so I returned to my room. Mrs. Weston was there, batting something around the room. I picked it up to throw it. It was a piece of paper, slightly crumpled. I was about to toss it into the wastebasket, then stopped.
I recognized that cramped and elegant handwriting. Halima’s! It must have been pushed under my door while I was at breakfast. No, it was already crushed. Had someone sneaked it into my pocket last night? I’d thrown my clothes off carelessly, so it could have been in a pocket.
Halima had dashed instructions to a place in the souq—the restored old caravansaray that now serves as an art gallery. I was to meet her there, in balto and burqa, at two o’clock. Today, I hoped. I had no idea how long the note had been in my room.
I offered up a vague prayer of thankfulness and petted the cat, my messenger. Some of the tension of the past couple of days eased. I would see Halima at last.
But how had that note arrived? Who did Halima trust enough to come to the hotel and slip a note under my door? Could she herself have come, in the all-covering burqa disguise? Or was there someone she trusted enough to send?
Certainly not Alex Metzger. Not Halima’s type. Too brassy. Could not be a man, surely, ruling out Jason the diplomat and Tom.
Oh, well. I’d meet Halima and she could tell me. My lack of time was almost as pressing as my dearth of information.
CHAPTER 34
Through the dark, sounds of feasting and laughter come out to us from its walls: figures pass behind the lighted lattice-work: our sleep is broken by the bands of visitors across the sandy stretch below, or by the drummers who walk beating their tattoo to tell the population that the dawn is near.
Freya Stark, A Winter in Arabia
Ahmad Kutup had to thread a careful path to visit his uncle. Out the front door, greeting all the tradesmen with their wares in the Old City. Pop into the mosque. Out the back door after ablutions and praying. It was uncomfortable. He was too well-known to sneak around like this.
“Ya Ahmad,” came a booming voice, just outside the Great Mosque. It was Tom Reilly, the journalist who had come to visit and apparently decided to stay in Yemen forever. His Arabic was decent. They’d chewed qat together with friends of Ahmad’s.
“Hello, Tom. How are things going?” Ahmad tried to pretend that the interruption was welcome.
“Good, good. Are you coming to my party tonight?”
For a moment, Ahmad hesitated. Then he said, “Sure. I’d like that.”
There were people Ahmad needed to see who might be at Tom’s. Also, going into an area where ferengi lived would allow for more privacy. Ahmad needed privacy right now.
Threading through narrow alleys, stopping occasionally to buy items at small shops for camouflage, he headed for his uncle’s.
CHAPTER 35
In these days of tension, human beings can learn a great deal about relaxation from watching a cat, who doesn’t just lie down when it is time to rest, but pours his body on the floor and rests in every nerve and muscle.
Murray Robinson in A Quotable Cat
I hung the washcloth compress over the shower rod. Not needed now. The headache had eased. The washcloth would dry by noon. And I would see Halima today!
I had brought my journal of the war weeks along, to remind myself of names and places, and for the first time, dipped into it—not starting at the beginning, but where five of us international journalists had decided to head southward toward Aden:
June 16, 1994 Heading toward where the SCUDs are coming from.
June 17, 1994 I’m writing this at a tea stop along the road. The highway to Ta’iz winds through mountains dry and bare, waiting for their summer rainy season when, we’re told, the terraces now yellow will gleam green with sorghum and wheat. Sun breaks every now and again through patches of cloud.
The monsoon could come at any time. The minivan has seats for all of us, but the bulky equipment of the television crews makes a mountain behind the back seat.
Every few miles, we are stopped by secu
rity roadblocks. Usually the guards take one look at a van full of foreigners, marked as journalists by the camera equipment, and wave us on. Sometimes they warn us that we shouldn’t be going. “There is war. Not safe.”
But we kept on going, I remembered. We were journalists, after all. Just in case, we had an SUV full of armed men behind us.
June 17, 1994 Only a four-hour trip, but it seems to take forever. As the trip south progresses, I like my companions less. Ted from CNN makes sure we all remember his organization is biggest, and the one foreign leaders look to for information. Alex Metzger needs only a tiara to confirm her princesshood. Even Bo and Arne, polite and attractive as they are, get on my nerves. It isn’t Bo’s fault. He is infatuated with me and I need my space. Everywhere along the road are men in uniforms or futhas, all wielding automatic weapons.
We get to know our bodyguards a little, when we stop for them (and some of us) to buy qat. Fewer than usual accompany us, because all men are needed in the war.
June 17, 1994 When we reach Ibb along the Ta’iz road, the truckload of armed guards make us stop. This is tricky country here in the mountains. Beautiful, but potentially dangerous.
Ta’iz lies in a bowl surrounded by mountains, like Sana’a. Jebel Sabir rises higher than the others. On its slopes live some of the most independent women in Yemen. They own their own businesses. Sell their own goods. Proud, handsome women with uncovered faces. Respected by society, and by their men.
Tom Reilly had told us all this and received our gratitude and admiration.
“I’d like to interview them,” I’d said, wistfully.
“We have a war to cover,” came the universal response from the minivan.
And sure enough, the streets of Ta’iz had been as tense as those in Sana’a. We soon forgot the Jebel Sabir women.
June 19 Aden retains only traces of its colonial grandeur. Mold stains once-white buildings. Soviet-style cement block buildings have grown up around the old city, testament to years of satellite status to the capital, Sana’a and the general dominance of the North.
The sun set over the Gulf of Aden in pink-orange glory, a fiery orb sinking quickly into the sea. We journalists stayed in a nondescript hotel on the shore just outside town. It was a harrowing drive into the city, which was slowly being strangled by an arc of northern soldiers.
June 20, 1994 Today we foreigners were rounded up at the hotel in Aden and taken to a military bus for our forced ride back to Ta’iz. Rockets continue to soar overhead and explode.
There are worse things than retrospection, but it doesn’t help the situation. I put the journal away and returned to scheming. If I’d ever met anyone with things to hide, Richard Queens was that person. I couldn’t let him stop my investigation by using the weapon of humiliation. I went down to the lobby to see if he might be there. He was, arranging something at the desk.
“Are you busy for lunch today?” My voice sounded brusque and efficient, as I intended. I had my appointment with Halima, which took precedence over everything. But that was afternoon. There’d be time to do both.
There was a slight pause. Queens seemed to think it over. Then he said, “Very well. Shall we meet here at noon?”
“I shall be out all day,” I said. “There’s a cafe near Tahrir Square—the Caffe Italia…”
If I was going to lunch with a murderer, I wanted Nello nearby.
CHAPTER 36
Like most Yemeni offices, it was mysteriously, worryingly bare of papers and empty of staff, but I had no choice but to hope and trust.
Victoria Clark, Yemen, Dancing on the Heads of Snakes
Richard Queens had acquired far more questions than answers from his first few days in Yemen. He hadn’t expected to see so many old friends, if one could call Petrovich a friend. He hadn’t predicted the situation would turn to murder quite so fast. It was a surprise that Petrovich was the victim.
Elizabeth Darcy intrigued and troubled him. What was her relationship to Petrovich? What was her real purpose here? Could this woman, conscious and willing or not, lead him to his goal?
Queens thought through his options regarding Elizabeth Darcy. Clearly, she must be watched. He checked that off with a grim smile. Already underway. Would her presence hamper his work in Yemen? Well, lunch with her might help illuminate the path. Fortunately, he was trained to deal with such issues. He hoped he wouldn’t have to use measures he deplored.
CHAPTER 37
In a house in the centre of San’a, I climbed the stairs to another room on a roof, grander than my own. On the way up, I called “Allah, Allah,” to warn women of my presence.
Tim Mackintosh-Smith, Yemen, Travels in Dictionary Land
My friend Faye would have been proud of all that foresight, making sure Nello would be around at lunch. What would Faye think of my rendezvous today with Halima? At least, I hoped Halima had sent the note. How had it gotten under my door? Faye tended to be suspicious, which was her job. I prefer to trust people.
Meanwhile, better get my reporting done so I could concentrate on Halima when the time came. While barely mentioning the murder, the Trib was playing up my expected background story on Yemen, afterthought though it had been:
“In our weekend edition: Tribune Correspondent Elizabeth Darcy takes our readers to the storied mountainous country of Yemen, where modern life is trying to make inroads on a culture closely linked to the ancient spice route and the Middle Ages.”
This promise to the Trib readers hung over my head like a swarm of gnats as I contemplated the day. My destination this morning was Old Sana’a, where later I’d meet Halima. And before that I’d have lunch in the same general area with Richard Queens. I’d have to write something tonight.
But how to concentrate on that when more important questions were unanswered. What trouble clouded Halima’s life? What role could I possibly play?
First I fed Mrs. Weston, who wound herself around my ankles. Non-cat people hate this gesture. Cat people love it. I’d opened a can of sardines for her. The fish did nothing for the ambience in the room, but Mrs. Weston appreciated it.
I put two of my trusty migraine pills into my purse, just in case. Halima needed me clear-headed. And I shoved the black robes I’d bought into my capacious purse. No one should know about them until the time came.
As I walked down Agriculture Street to the place near the Jewish sector where I could catch a shared taxi to Bab al Yemen, the most prominent gate to the Old City, a familiar hurrying form appeared ahead. Richard Queens. Where was he going? What could I learn about him? I sped up.
By dint of my acceleration, my quarry and I arrived simultaneously at the place where black-striped minibuses pick up passengers every few minutes. It’s a short ride down Gamal Abdul Nassar Street to al Tahrir Plaza and on to Bab al-Yemen, the entrance to the souq and the Old City.
“Hello, again,” I gasped, out of breath.
“Morning,” came the cultured reply.
Oh, this was going to be fun. Gentleman that he was, Queens waited while I climbed into the rickety minibus before entering himself. We found our thighs pressed close, my left, his right, as passengers crowded in at every stop. It was indeed a short trip, but I was aware of every bump. Mr. Queens didn’t exactly avoid contact, either. Definitely unsettling.
I glanced out the window. Meydan al Tahrir was where public beheadings took place now and again. I tried to turn my mind away from that imagined scene—the excited crowd, the catcalls, perhaps, the hooded executioner preparing his blade, the hooded men standing there knowing that the next few minutes will be their last. Perhaps the families of the men, compelled to watch. Or are they? There is much I do not know, in this case because I do not wish to know. Better not to let painful images further clutter my mind and dreams. I avoid details of executions in the States, as well. Does that make me a bad journalist? You can’t choose which stories to cover.
When the minibus stopped and my stony-faced companion climbed out, I followed with relief.
> I shaded my eyes from the bright sun, looked up at him, and said, “Bit crowded, huh?”
The British accent was more pronounced than ever. “Indeed,” he muttered. I was beginning to suspect the man had a five-word vocabulary, but then he continued, “That is the way of Yemeni transport. See you at the restaurant at noon.” And turning away, he walked quickly toward the area of new office buildings that now serve global business interests.
Weird that Queens didn’t take a private taxi. Strange that I didn’t, either. Were we by any chance both trying to slip away? Were we following each other? Wiping dust from my face and adjusting my scarf loosely over my uncooperative hair, I headed for the Old City.
My first act was to walk past Halima’s house—at least, what I thought was her house. It was strangely quiet—no children running in and out as they did at the neighboring mansions, no people to be seen. No one at a window today. I couldn’t take a chance on knocking on the huge garden gate since I had no idea about the scope or nature of her problem.
I peered at enchanting buildings and tried to see through cracks in the wall into hidden gardens. Notebook, camera and the Lonely Planet Guide were always at the ready. With the Trib pushing it, my background story needed to be written ASAP and then I could devote all my time to Halima. I started taking notes to give a structure to my story:
“There is a legend that Sana’a is one of the earliest sites of human settlement, founded by Shem, a son of Noah. Along Ali Abdul Mogni Street a hotel is called “Sam City,” a variation on the ancient name.”
In the dry wadi beside the section of the city that holds, cocoon fashion, the maze-like souq, the heat of midday burned off the pleasant early morning coolness. Damn. Next time I’d remember to wear the straw hat I’d brought. It would look strange over the scarf, but who cares? Whatever I wore, other than the traditional female-enveloping black, would be strange to the Yemenis around me. My disguise lay safely in my bag for later, when I’d don it to meet Halima.