Deadline Yemen

by Peggy Hanson

  No one knew of my connection with Halima, so I curbed my excitement and kept my expression noncommittal. “I’ve heard of her,” I admitted cautiously, encouraged that at least Becca knew her.

  “I’ve got her phone number at the office,” Becca replied and gave me her card.

  Not too helpful. I had that number, too. But now there might be more than one path to my seeing Halima.

  When Tom came back to the mufraj, Becca’s smile faded. Glancing her direction, Tom frowned. Despite being from the same country and sharing long-time residence in Yemen, these two didn’t like each other much. Maybe under her cheerful exterior, she disapproved of his lifestyle. Or did the two of them know things about each other that I should be aware of?

  As other newcomers arrived, Tom and Jason found places on other cushions, and Tom’s lithe Adeni manservant offered everyone something to drink. Ahmad gestured toward the wine. Unusual. The typical male alcoholic drink of the well-to-do in the Middle East, if anise-flavored arak isn’t on the table, is whiskey, preferably Black Label and as neat as possible.

  “And what is it you do?” I asked Rebecca, sipping a beer that had cost $10 on the black market. It tasted flat. You certainly had to say Tom laid it on for a party. How could he afford all this stuff, given the scanty remuneration most free-lance journalists receive? And given the six-hour drive to Mocha to pick up black market liquor?

  Waving her own beer, Becca answered my question. “I’m with the UN’s cultural branch. UNESCO has broad goals for peace and understanding among cultures. We push for education, science, and the eradication of poverty. Oh, yes. And gender equality.” She grinned. “Just the kind of goals that can be eaten up in bureaucratic detail if we’re not careful!”

  She’d answered my doubt by expressing it herself. “I’m sure you do important work,” was all I could manage.

  “We are best-known for helping to identify and protect heritage places in the world that might be ruined. Here in Sana’a, the whole Old City is a Heritage Site. In Hadhramaut, the city of Shibam is protected. We oversee all that.”

  “Sounds like an amazing job,” I noted. “I’m jealous!”

  “Wouldn’t trade with anyone. I really wouldn’t. Been in Yemen four years now, and I hope I never have to leave!”

  Now, that was surprising. Most expats had at least a few complaints about life in the dusty capital. Could Rebecca Ross have other things going on in her life that held her here? Tom Reilly’s motivation I could understand. Much as I loved Yemen, Becca’s lay out of my reach. I did some quick addition. “You must have been here during the war.”

  “Yes. For a while. Then all U.N. personnel were pulled out. I came back as soon as they allowed me to.”

  “We may have overlapped, then. I came after the war started, to cover it.”

  “Too bad we didn’t meet then!” I had, perhaps, found another friend.

  Ahmad Kutup rose. Christine stood near him, leaning toward his shoulder. They shared a few words.

  CHAPTER 41

  “No, upon my honour, there is no unsteadiness of character. I have thought only of you. I protest against having paid the smallest attention to anyone else.”

  Jane Austen, Emma

  There was a crush in the mufraj, people moving about and switching seats. Ahmad sat nearby and entered our conversation.

  “And you are doing what in Yemen?” he asked me, politely. Mr. Kutup had been educated very well, yet his accent was American.

  “I’m a journalist with the Washington Tribune. Right now, I’m doing some pieces on Yemeni culture and this wonderful architecture. I’d like to go to Sa’da soon to look at the poured mud buildings.” Why had I said that? There likely wouldn’t be time for me to go to Sa’da once I knew Halima’s needs.

  “Sa’da. Really?” Becca perked up. “I’ll go with you. Have been meaning to go as soon as the situation calmed down. Want to go together?”

  “Sounds wonderful.” I hoped it could work out. “Can I confirm in a day or so? I won’t be here very long. And I do have some work to do.”

  “Come see me at my office—or call—when you’re ready and we’ll set something up. I’ve always loved Sa’da.”

  Tom had caught the last part of the conversation. “I’m not sure it’s safe. Sa’da can be tricky.”

  “But you’ve gone several times.” Becca showed the terrier quality all good journalists have.

  “Many of us have gone in the past.” Tom’s voice sounded strained. “That doesn’t mean it’s safe.”

  Ahmad sipped his wine like a gentleman in a club. “Sa’da might be safer for women than for men to visit. Women, I am sorry to say, aren’t taken very seriously. Men could be suspected of ulterior motives.”

  Tom gave Ahmad a long, serious look. “You could be right,” he said.

  No one at the party had pursued the topic of Michael Petrovich’s murder, which seemed odd. These people had retreated from the normal Western world. Their concerns had narrowed to the scene around them, to the acquisition of tender green qat leaves to chew, almost to the confines of this mufraj.

  Snacks in Tom’s dining room consisted of Zahra’s spicy little samosas filled with potato and eggplant, lamb meat balls with ketchup, hummous and pita bread, and carrot sticks laced with tiny strips of green pepper. There were crackers and some shopworn chunks of Danish cheese from the main import store on al Zubeiri Street. The ubiquitous Yemeni honey, of course, was on the table, with pita bread to dip in it.

  The meal beat the food at the Dar al-Hamd by a long shot. I ate carefully, choosing a balanced diet and leaving plenty for the always-starving volunteer crowd.

  It was growing late, so I thanked Tom and headed toward the stairs. On my way out, I ran into Alex Metzger, dressed this time in a shiny gold caftan. We were exchanging a few words when Christine entered the dining room. Alex gasped and stiffened. I closed my mouth and watched them. Christine was pale. Catching sight of Alex, she swayed as though she might faint. An electric current ran through the air.

  Another relationship to wonder about. Like Scarlett, I would think about that tomorrow.

  CHAPTER 42

  He came back, had had his hair cut, and laughed at himself with a very good grace, but without seeming really at all ashamed of what he had done.

  Jane Austen, Emma

  In room 209 at the Dar al-Hamd, Richard Queens was busy. He’d received a report that Elizabeth Darcy had gone out, dressed up. Earlier, he’d made a swing to check out the environment around the hotel. He’d spotted a target who hadn’t recognized him. He had done, ahem, a little housekeeping next door. And he had written a report and sent it. Now it was time for some sly action.

  Opening his door, he poked his head out. The hall was empty. Quietly closing it behind him, he slipped down the hall to the room at the end that overlooked moonlit sorghum fields. These big locks were easy to pick, and picking locks was part of his training. He entered with relative ease.

  As he searched the room, nothing raised an alarm. This woman was neat. He put everything back in its place. A piece of paper in the wastebasket. He picked it up, read it, and placed it carefully back where he’d found it.

  A calico cat started in through the window, saw him, crouched in fear, and slunk away.

  As quietly as he had come, Queens slipped out, relocking the door behind him.

  CHAPTER 43

  The Yemeni diet is simple. Sorghum and other cereals constitute the bulk of the daily diet, while fenugreek (the celebrated hilba soup), vegetables, rice and beans are also common.

  The Lonely Planet Guide to Yemen

  The party was going strong as I left. The most interesting guests—Ahmad Kutup and Rebecca Ross—had stayed just a short time, and I had little in common with the young volunteers who lounged around the mufraj chatting idly, drinking and smoking. The scent in the room wasn’t all tobacco and its sweetness wasn’t perfume.

  Back at the hotel, I washed and creamed my face and got into my nightgown, t
hinking about Tom Reilly. By now, he was possibly a little high as well as drunk. Not a pretty sight for someone of my generation, but I had enough sixties in me to sense the attraction of the lifestyle. He lounged around in one of the world’s most exotic and isolated capitals wearing comfortable khakis and rumpled shirts every day of the year, contenting himself with writing the odd story to bring in a little money. What more could an unattached man want? Plenty of social life with endless rounds of young volunteers. Qat chews every day. Romantic architecture. Bootlegged whiskey. Few distractions from life’s basic pleasures. No responsibility for anything.

  Reilly wasn’t my cup of tea, but I didn’t share Rebecca Ross’s obvious distaste. He was all right, really. Some time ago, I gave up rejecting friends for lack of maturity—or even lack of common sense. Malice or yelling at your subordinates will wipe you from my slate; nothing much else will.

  Where was Mrs. Weston? “Here, kitty,” I called. Eventually green eyes glowed at me from outside the window and I heard a tentative meow. How strange. Something had spooked my cat. At last she came tentatively toward my wiggling fingers and made her way back into my room. She gobbled the two meatballs I’d brought her as elegantly as though they’d been served on a silver platter instead of a glass ashtray.

  The phone rang—a sound I hadn’t heard in days and didn’t expect this late at night. “Hello?”

  The voice was soft and foreign. A woman? I couldn’t be sure. “Mizz Elizabeth Darcy?”

  “Speaking.”

  “Be please at Palestine Restaurant tomorrow. Night. Seven sa’at, o’clock. Important.” The voice rang off.

  Halima. Could this have anything to do with her? Her eyes behind the veil in the souq haunted me. But why meet in the Palestine? Why didn’t she tell me before?

  Hold on. Don’t do anything rash. This could be anyone. I pushed the warning voice aside. What’s life for, if not for a touch of rashness?

  CHAPTER 44

  “Don’t ignore the gardens of San’a… They are improbable oases in this vast urban environment; outsiders can best enjoy them from the manzars (rooftop rooms) of palace hotels or by looking over walls.”

  The Lonely Planet Guide to Yemen

  The sorghum field behind the hotel lay golden white in morning sun. I stepped across rows of dry stalks and slipped out the little gate that was becoming my favorite way to exit the Dar al-Hamd.

  At an early breakfast, I’d decided to work on my original story, ASAP. Mac and the crew in Washington expected it. And in order to help the al Shem family, it was important I look credible here in Yemen.

  Architecture. Preservation. Development. These were some of the topics I needed reliable information on for the story I had to write. I had the names of some people at the U.N., besides Rebecca Ross. As this was super-casual Yemen, I’d go along and see if I could get an interview. And I’d stop in to see Becca at the U.N. building to talk about going to Sa’da. Her willingness to take me there was a lucky omen—assuming it worked out with Halima’s dilemma.

  At least I had seen and talked with Halima, however truncated the visit. I was afraid for her. Although I didn’t know the scope of the problem with her brother, Ali, I was afraid for him, too.

  U.N. headquarters was in walking distance from the hotel. As usual, the stroll took on the qualities of walking through a painting, where time and place are uncertain but the artist has a message to convey about life in general.

  A small girl in shabby, shapeless red velvet smiled nervously up at me from a filthy but lovely face. “Doktor?” Did she think my briefcase had lifesaving equipment inside?

  “No,” I answered gently. “Lazim doktor? Do you need one?”

  “Ey-wah, yes, I do.” The smile faded. “My mother is sick,” she said, in Arabic.

  “Do you live here?” I asked, gesturing to the nearest mud brick house.

  A nod again. “Ey-wah.”

  Perhaps I could help, or at least find out if a doctor was necessary. The girl led me to the house, where we entered a stoop-over door and climbed a flight of uneven stone steps. A woman lay in the shabby mufraj. She held her stomach, clearly in pain. Two neighbors sat with her, covering their faces shyly at my approach but looking hopeful at the same time. It’s an awful responsibility to be educated and affluent in the developing world. People think you know more than you do.

  “I am not a doctor,” I clarified. “Do you know a doctor?”

  “La, no.”

  “I must meet with someone first, but on my way back, I will try to bring a doctor.” Did the women understand my halting Arabic? The little girl’s smile was back, at least. After she led me back out of the house, she resumed play with other bedraggled tots in the road.

  Even if her mother died, she would play in the road. Life goes on.

  CHAPTER 45

  “Here,” Sa’id Aluwi said, “We have no sickness. We are well, or we die.”

  Freya Stark, The Southern Gates of Arabia

  Should I stop in to ask Tom Reilly about a doctor? No, probably too early for him.

  I mentioned the little girl’s request for a doctor in the UNESCO office of one Mohan Ferouz at the International Cultural Heritage program in Yemen. He was the person to see if you wanted an appointment with Rebecca Ross, the director.

  The question interrupted his dissertation on how hard it was to stop development that threatened the stately but fragile mud brick palaces of Sana’a.

  “Are we talking about development as in industry, or development as in the provision of trained doctors? I don’t see how the latter would threaten the palaces. Aren’t the little girl and her mother perfect examples of where help is needed?”

  With a charming sideways South Asian shake of his head, Mr. Ferouz gently chided me. “I am thinking that is the question of an American only. Without industry, we are not having money, isn’t it? Without industry, we are not training doctors. The people are poor. We hope only to stop development that does not help them.”

  Did UNESCO have a handle on what kind of development could help? I certainly didn’t. However, Mr. Ferouz was ready to cooperate fully with my project of writing about the complexities of combining development with preservation. And he took me to Rebecca, who jumped up when I poked my head in.

  “Hi,” I said, leaning over the desk to shake her hand.

  “Hello, yourself.” Rebecca Ross had the same cheerful grin that had attracted me at Tom’s party. She came around the desk as she spoke. “What are you up to? I didn’t know you had an appointment with us…”

  “Yes, I’m doing background stories on Yemeni architecture and culture. Mr. Ferouz here has been very helpful.”

  He beamed. She gave him a friendly wave of dismissal.

  “Sit, sit. And remember, it’s Becca. What are you planning on seeing?”

  “Well, I’ve been thinking of that Sa’da trip you mentioned. I’d like to do it, though I know the north has security issues. Are you really thinking of going there?”

  “Absolutely! I love Sa’da. Sure, it’s somewhat dangerous. You have to be a fatalist, but I think we’d be all right. How about day after tomorrow?”

  Becca and I were on the same wave length. “That sounds great to me,” I said. “Can you get away that soon? Uh, I’ll have to confirm that a bit later, but I’d love to do it.”

  “It’s part of my job,” declared Becca. “I wouldn’t be taking off to go there. We’ll take my jeep and driver. It’s only four hours. Maybe we can come back the same day. But bring your toothbrush, just in case!”

  “I’ll call and let you know if I can come. And I’ll bring my toothbrush.”

  Becca and I had hit it off so well, should I mention the mysterious phone call last night and my impending trip to the Palestine Restaurant? No. Whatever secret lay in that call, I should not drag anyone else into it.

  “Are you interested in a little trip to Wadi Dhar?” Becca asked. “We might go tomorrow before sunset. It’s close and beautiful. And one can even get
a taste of village life there.”

  “Oh. That sounds terrific. I’d love it. Thanks so much, Becca.” Of course it, too, would depend on what happened tonight.

  “Four o’clock tomorrow, then. We’ll pick you up at your hotel.”

  Before I left, Becca gave me the name of a doctor I could contact for the little girl’s mother.

  Dr. Jehan was Egyptian, living in the Jewish Quarter. She agreed to accompany me to the corner house. I watched as the gaunt woman inside the house was gently probed and questioned and prescribed for. Although progress had been slow on my basic mission, at least today I may have helped to relieve a little suffering.

  The little girl in red velvet gave me too much credit. Her eyes glowed and she muttered shukran shyly, as I handed her the money to take to the drugstore.

  Dr. Jehan had been nice, brushing aside my profuse expressions of gratitude. “Well, this is what I’m here for.” I didn’t ask what the woman had, nor did the doc tell me. Professional ethics, which I respect. I hoped the sad-looking woman would be all right.

  I hoped that all of us would be all right.

  CHAPTER 46

  “Thank you, thank you—but on no account—I would rather walk. And for me to be afraid of walking alone!—I, who may soon have to guard others!”

  Jane Austen, Emma

  I fed Mrs. Weston before heading out to the Palestine Restaurant. And I left the window open for her to come and go. Didn’t know when I’d be back.

  Because I also didn’t know what waited, I pushed the balto and burqa into my big bag and set out, dressed in loose black pants and long-sleeved shirt, with a scarf around my hair. Sunset was just ending, and the fourth call to prayer had begun. To draw less attention to myself, I avoided the taxis out in front and once again used the side door to the garden gate.