Deadline Yemen

by Peggy Hanson

  Halima looked into my eyes. “We cannot travel now. The government is watching us. Perhaps you, as a foreigner, could go to Sa’da in line with your work. You could leave a message for Ali?” Her voice broke. “Elizabeth, this could be dangerous. We will give you contacts in Sa’da that are safe. But the government watches all foreigners, and especially foreigners who go to the North.”

  “So I could be deported?”

  “Deported. Or worse, if what we fear about Ali is true. We are not sure about some of his friends.”

  “Tell me, then. Tell me everything.”

  We all settled into our places, and sipped our tea.

  “Ali is impressionable,” she began. “And passionate. He has come under the spell of an imam in Sa’da who preaches fanaticism. We want him home!” Halima’s voice broke. Zuheyla wiped tears from her cheeks with her headscarf.

  The old sheikh began to speak in Arabic, which Halima translated. “He made a trip with your friend, Tom Reilly, last summer. They went to Sa’da. Tom was reporting on the situation there and Ali acted as his translator.”

  “Did this trip start your problems?”

  “No. Ali was already spending a lot of time at the grand mosque here in Sana’a. He met people in the streets. We had him followed.” The old man’s prayer beads flew through his fingers with a faint clacking sound.

  “I watched for one of his friends when I saw you walk past.” Zuheyla said.

  “I wasn’t even sure this was the right house!”

  Halima sat deep in thought. “When our man followed Ali into the souq, he went to the honey-sellers, the ones from the Hadhramaut out east. We don’t know if they’re connected to the imam who’s causing all the trouble now.”

  “The imam is not the only one,” ventured her father. “The imam is associated with the son of a Hadhrami named bin Laden. He is from Saudi Arabia. No one knows where he is right now. But this imam is his spiritual leader.”

  Just what I had heard at the Embassy. “But the two areas are far apart!” I protested. “And the Hadhramaut is in South Yemen—a completely different country for so long.”

  “The spice route came across between them, remember. And something new is going on in Yemen. Something sinister. Osama Bin Laden has begun to work on his roots in the Hadhramaut. His father was a mere porter in Yemen, but then he got rich in Saudi Arabia. Yemenis go many places—like Indonesia. They took Islam there centuries ago. But they always come back. And those who go away and come back are influential with the youth.”

  At mention of Bin Laden, my heart contracted painfully. The world who paid attention—mainly journalists in the Middle East who talked to intelligence sources—was beginning to fear him. I certainly did.

  Ali was getting into dangerous company, indeed.

  To ease my discomfort over the thought of Ali as terrorist—one rarely uses the word for the relative of an acquaintance—I went into strategy mode. Lawyers get a bad rap, but there are moments when it’s good to have one around. “Why don’t you ask Mr. Kutup to talk with Tom about where Ali could be? I saw him at Reilly’s house.”

  “Ahmad Kutup is watched. We are watched. You, on the other hand, are not watched closely.” Aha. A glimmer of my role was emerging.

  “Yes, it’s true I have known Tom Reilly for a long time,” I admitted, finally. “But I don’t know him well and haven’t been much in touch for a few years. Of course, I’ll talk to him, though.”

  The old man spoke in Arabic again, with Zuheyla translating. “And one more thing. Petrovich, the American killed at the Dar al-Hamd, might be important. He might be in the plot.”

  “Petrovich? Plot? What plot?” Morbid curiosity rose like bile in my throat. My charming seatmate took on darker hues every time I learned more about him.

  “The arms plot. The plot the government thinks Ali knew about.”

  “Details, please?” I pulled out my notebook and pen. This must be the plot Nello had mentioned.

  Halima paused. “We don’t know details, that’s just the problem. Something about arms being sold to terrorists. Or terrorists selling arms…”

  “And Petrovich’s role in all this?”

  “He had fertilizer. You can make bombs from fertilizer. We think he was selling fertilizer to those who would make bombs.”

  “How do you know this?” I patted Halima’s hand to take away some of the brusqueness of my rapid-fire questions.

  “Oh, Elizabeth, we do not know for certain. Ahmad has told us this. I do not know how he knows.”

  “Well. I didn’t know Petrovich well at all,” I stated firmly. “We sat together on the plane from Frankfurt and we had breakfast once and lunch once. I was on the scene when his body was found. But…Tom Reilly. What are you suggesting? You think he knows where Ali is?”

  “We don’t know.” Halima reached for me. “We think Tom Reilly may know something about Ali’s activities. Maybe Ali said something when they were on the trip together. Please, please talk to him!”

  “I’ll certainly see what I can learn.” I hugged Halima, nodded respectfully to her father, and then embraced Zuheyla, who had broken down once more in tears.

  I had to help. It was the least I could do.

  CHAPTER 52

  “The Sharaf al-Din family, exhausted by their subsequent fight against the Ottoman invaders, retired from politics to their fastness of Kawkaban where, for the past four and a half centuries, they have been writing poetry and running genteelly to seed.”

  Tim Mackintosh-Smith, Yemen, Travels in Dictionary Land

  Larry Smith wasn’t much of a thinker and was comfortable in that. He viewed himself as an action man, although marijuana and qat sometimes got in the way of his taking much action. He always forgave himself the lapses. That was another talent, in addition to thinking of action.

  Right now, following another qat chew at Tom Reilly’s, Larry found himself in a moral dilemma of sorts. Hadn’t he been an idealist in coming to Yemen? Peers at his Ivy League alma mater thought so. Had he lost his innocence, beguiled by this strange country?

  Larry lounged deeper into the mufraj cushions and drew on a cigarette. It had more than tobacco in it. Soon, his moral dilemma eased. Now, that’s better…

  CHAPTER 53

  “Yemen’s population largely adheres to the moderate Zaydi Shi’ite sect of Islam, paying homage to Ali, the son of Hussein, the son-in-law of the Prophet Mohammad. In recent years, there has been an influx of influence from the fundamental Wahabbi sect centered in Saudi Arabia. Wahabbi theory holds to a strict interpretation of Islamic law, the Shariah. Members of Wahabbi religious schools have become noticeably anti-American and anti-Western in recent years. A number of Islamic extremist groups, some of which have turned to violence, profess the Wahabbi beliefs. As a group, they are referred to as ‘Salafis.’”

  Elizabeth Darcy in The Washington Tribune

  “I’ll need some information,” I began, as it became clear I would be drawn into this al Shem project to find Ali.

  Halima’s father followed the conversation, with Zuheyla’s help. He raised his hand toward me and began to speak. “My son he knows this Tom Reilly. One year ago they make trip together to Sa’da.”

  “As you said. How long were they gone? What were they doing there?” I tried not to sound too reporter-like. It was important to hit the right note with the father of a friend—and the father of a young man who might be in serious, serious trouble.

  Halima stepped in with her smooth English. “It was a trip for a story Tom was writing. A story about arms smuggling, I think. A lot of that happens along the Yemen-Saudi border. Ali went as translator in case Reilly didn’t understand. Reilly’s Arabic is good, but as you know, we have relatives in the North. It is important to have relatives in the tribe.”

  The old sheikh didn’t look happy about being interrupted by his daughters, but he showed patience. “I have brought up my family to honor international ways,” he said, again through Zuheyla. “I thought Tom Reill
y would keep him safe.”

  “And he didn’t?” I tried to put the story together in my head. “Maybe he couldn’t. What did Tom say when he got back?”

  “He said Ali wanted to stay in Sa’da,” broke in Halima. “He said Ali met some friends he wanted to spend time with. We’re afraid some of them might be disciples of that radical imam. Ali has been more religious lately—letting his beard grow. That kind of thing. Our family is religious, but not in the political sense. And not in the Wahabbi sense. They are a kind of, what you say, cult?”

  The Wahabbi sect of Islam—like certain sects of Christianity—wouldn’t be anything that I’d like a member of my family to be involved in. Rigid. Puritanical. Hard on the rights of women. Of late, increasing in violence toward non-Moslems and non-Wahabbi Moslems. Breeding terrorist groups who’d bombed the World Trade Center in ’93 and said they were going after American interests everywhere. A dangerous group, becoming more so, despite the fact that the US ally, Saudi Arabia, fostered the Wahabbi beliefs. The sadness on Halima’s face tore at my heart.

  “So you have not asked Tom Reilly whether he knows where Ali went?”

  Sheikh Abdullah’s voice broke. Vulnerability wasn’t part of his usual mode, obviously. “No. We cannot talk to an American who is known to the government. Earlier, he said very little. He may be afraid to talk. Possibly, he tell you more. And now we cannot speak to him anything private, because of government suspicion.”

  I braced myself against the hard cushions of the mufraj and faced the old sheikh. “Can you tell me anymore, sir, about this man Petrovich? The murder happened down the hall from me. I saw the jambiya. Did you know the victim?” It was a long shot. Was there a connection?

  A pause. Halima and Zuheyla were genuine in their negative head shakes. Not so sure about the family patriarch.

  “Petrovich, he no good,” said Sheikh Abdullah. “He go to Sa’da. Maybe he have business at Souq al-Talh there.”

  I didn’t want to ask if Petrovich had known Ali, and vice versa. Such questions could lead to uncomfortable possibilities regarding Petrovich’s murder.

  This family had enough trouble already. They didn’t need to wonder if their beloved son, brother, and fiancé was a killer.

  CHAPTER 54

  Here the deplorable mistake occurred. The stranger went up to the door and gave my letter; there was a long pause and the answer came that no one was at home. I suspected, and everyone else knew, this to be untrue.

  Freya Stark, The Southern Gates of Arabia

  At the Embassy fortress on the hill leading up to Jebel Nu’qum, Jason Roberts was working late. He had evening duty and was in charge of monitoring incoming messages and relaying them to their proper recipients.

  An urgent message on the top secret system came in. It was coded; he couldn’t read it. It was for the Ambassador’s eyes only.

  Such messages always raised eyebrows in a small Embassy. Protocol was to contact the intelligence chief whose job it was to decode and pass on information. Such messages often involved undercover identities that no one could know about.

  Jason picked up the private phone on his desk to call his boss. As a junior spook, he apparently did not have a need to know. But somebody here in Sana’a must not be who he, or she, claimed to be. Damn this bureaucracy.

  CHAPTER 55

  After every Takbir, our neighbours turned thoughtfully and said, “There is no difference between us. We all believe in God.”

  Freya Stark, A Winter in Arabia

  The atmosphere in the al Shem mufraj lay heavy around us.

  “If I can learn anything from Tom Reilly—and I warn you I don’t know him as well as you think—what exactly do you need to know?” I sipped the strong sweet tea, smelling of cardamom.

  “Do you think you could also go to Sa’da?” suggested Halima for the second time. “The architecture there is unusual. It would be okay for you to go to look at it. Maybe Mr. Reilly could suggest where to ask about Ali. We have to be careful right now… So careful. You can say you are friends of his family in Sana’a and convey a greeting for him. That would be better than someone from our family going there. Everyone is suspicious of us.” Halima spoke hesitantly.

  “And what would be my message to Ali, if I saw him?”

  “Just ask him to come home. Tell him Zuheyla is ill. Ali and Zuheyla are very close. He won’t want to be away if she’s sick.”

  Zuheyla did, indeed, look ill. Her head was bowed, and she had not translated for her uncle. I remembered my first glimpse of her; who had she been signaling? It hadn’t been me.

  The magnitude of what I was taking on began to sink in. Terrorism. Fanaticism. Once embarked on this venture, I could trust no one. Deportation would be the best I could hope for, assuming the government was in charge in Sa’da. And what if some of Ali’s new best friends, the Wahabbi fundamentalists, took exception to my even approaching him? They wouldn’t bother with exile. It’s easy for anyone—not least a lone woman—to disappear in the Empty Quarter north of Sa’da.

  The silence in the mufraj stretched out. I looked out the windows that stretched floor to ceiling. The fluorescent lighting bounced back at me, but in spite of visual static I could see the lights of other windows here in the Old City. How many people in those other rooms were speaking of life and death matters? How many of them involved the mix of women and men, foreigners and Yemenis, that this particular mufraj contained?

  Sheikh Abdullah broke the silence. “We have people will watch you. You will not know, but they guard. The government does not talk loud, have control, in Sa’da, so do not worry about them. Just give Ali message about Zuheyla and do own business.”

  “I take it you don’t think I need to worry about any friends of Petrovich’s?”

  The old man looked uncomfortable. “I think your safe path is not look for Petrovich friends.”

  Halima’s voice was calm, but with an undercurrent of tension. “You are a natural actress, Elizabeth. Be the good reporter who doesn’t know too much and doesn’t care. Most foreigners don’t know much about Yemen.” A grin crept into Halima’s face. “You love baskets, Elizabeth. Get yourself handmade baskets at the souq while you’re in Sa’da. They’re famous, and they sell them beside the AK-47s.” Even at this moment of crisis, Halima’s wit shone through. “And I think it is time now to eat.”

  Her voice had that authority that strong women everywhere command.

  As if by magic, a great tray appeared in the middle of the floor, covered with plates of food. Halima and Zuheyla held back, as women in Yemen do, but they gestured me to dig in with the crispy flat bread and my hands, following the example of the sheikh.

  I gestured back that I would eat only when the women did—traditionally after the men had finished with the choice bits.

  It was Sheikh Abdullah’s turn to be authoritative. “Oh, eat, all of you,” he said brusquely. “We not follow old rules here.”

  CHAPTER 56

  I refused to be alarmist and persuaded myself that the incident would be resolved peacefully and quickly. I returned to my house to relax. But toward nightfall, just after the call to prayer, shots rang out and a cry went up from one of the mosques.

  Steven C. Caton, Yemen Chronicle

  Tom Reilly thought hard as he walked through Sana’a’s deserted qat market. A few desiccated leaves and twigs remained of the day’s harvest, lying in the pungent dust of the alleyway. Qat was so valuable the sellers wasted none of it. The rich had sent their servants to pick the juiciest branches, the salesmen in the souq had chosen theirs from trusted merchants, and the poor had paid precious money for the leftovers. Nothing was left until pre-dawn tomorrow, when the growers would appear again with donkeys or camels laden with fresh twigs in large bags, sprinkled with water and protected in plastic.

  Tom’s issue lay in a different part of the souq. He had spoken with the honey seller, who reported a foreigner with good Arabic was asking questions. The man seemed unnerved.

  T
om’s entire life had become stuck, as it were, to honey, as well as to qat. He would have to learn more, to find out what the foreigner wanted.

  CHAPTER 57

  Upon such occasions, poor Mr. Woodhouse’s feelings were in sad warfare. He loved to have the cloth laid, because it had been the fashion of his youth, but his conviction of suppers being very unwholesome made him rather sorry to see anything put on it…

  Jane Austen, Emma

  Food never tasted better than it had that night from the big tray on the floor of Halima’s mufraj. Partly because it was a forbidden pleasure to eat with the men—in this case, the man. Women usually content themselves with leftovers in this part of the world, even in royal households. Halima showed every sign of Western independence, and Zuheyla, I suspected, was a bit of a rebel and a handful for her family.

  Dipping crisp, delicious bread pieces into a pot with simmering lamb flavored with onions and frothing fenugreek, a dish romantically called the salta of the souq…mixing the mouthfuls with a ball of rice…eating sautéed eggplant with garlic…finishing off with a honey-soaked pastry, bint al sahan, “girl of the plate”… My mood lifted by the mouthful. We would find Ali. Everything would be all right.

  Even Zuheyla emerged for a moment from her gloom, and Halima gave my arm a quick squeeze. I was clearly on the side of right. But…spying on Tom, an old friend? What could he know, really? And bearding the fundamentalist lions in their lair? Hair on my neck rose, just a little.

  Would it be fair to take Becca Ross up on her offer to go with me to Sa’da? I couldn’t take her into my confidence, of course. But would she be in danger by accompanying me?

  I took a large syrupy wedge of bint al sahan, choking down apprehension with honey.

  The pieces of the puzzle were fitting together better than I could have dreamed. That is, if the pieces did fit together at all.