by Peggy Hanson
With the secrecy of the mission, my trip back from the al Shem mansion to the Dar al-Hamd had to be discreet. At the last minute, as we hugged goodbye, Halima pulled me into a side bedroom and handed me my black balto. “You have learned how a woman can disappear,” she whispered, draping the all-encompassing garment over my body. “Now put on the burqa and let me see you. I almost didn’t know you this afternoon!”
I saw a gleam of amusement in her eyes. Yes, it was true, each time I’d worn the burqa I’d undergone an identity change. Was this me, or a stranger who could speak good Arabic—as anyone wearing a burqa should? I kicked out a sneaker-shod foot from under the voluminous skirt, and Halima and I laughed quietly.
“No one will see those in the dark,” she said, but then she ran off to look for something more suitable. “Here. Try these.”
The black flat pumps were about four sizes too small. I could have predicted that. I can never find clothes that fit in Asia, where females are constitutionally delicate-boned and petite.
“Oh, well.” I handed back the shoes. “I’ll keep my feet under the skirt.”
Halima looked a little worried, but shrugged. “All right. But try to walk as Yemeni women do, uncomfortably on the cobblestones. No big American strides. And stay a little behind Abdul, who will escort you to the taxi stand. He is a trusted servant and will take you to a driver we know. You can change in the taxi before going into the hotel. Will the balto fit in your purse?”
My big bag would do the job. Half the stuff I usually carry was back in the hotel room, so I had space.
Yes, yes, I nodded. I caught a glimpse of the new me in a mirror, and was transfixed for a moment, remembering back to the first time I’d worn the burqa. I was just like every other respectable Yemeni woman. Anonymous. Virtually invisible.
It was a new kind of freedom.
CHAPTER 58
“No one, except I, slept properly that night: and whenever I happened to wake and look over our little camp under the moon, I saw one or more shawled figures shivering and wakeful by the fire.”
Freya Stark, Southern Gates of Arabia
Abdul was a bodyguard to the old sheikh, I was sure. He asked no questions but held the gate for me as we melted into the narrow street beside the al Shem house. I walked behind him, so we were just another man and woman making our way to the main taxi stand at the Old City gate nearest the souq, Bab al-Yemen.
It gave satisfaction to have my own AK-47-carrying companion in what amounts to an armed enclave. Small groups of men streamed through the streets for late prayers at the big central mosque, chatting quietly, sometimes breaking into laughter.
I kept my eyes on the ground. A misstep could betray my identity, as I’m known for sharp little “damns” when I twist my ankle. Also, I didn’t want to step in anything—although that Sana’a was pristine compared to when I was here before. Maybe it had something to do with the Japanese garbage trucks plying the Old City streets, making their spoon-clanking noise to tell residents they could bring it out, bring it all out.
When we got to the Bab al-Yemen taxi stand, we bypassed the drivers gathered at the front of the line and headed for a car near the end. Unfortunately, this caused a little commotion, and a couple of men called out that we should use the first driver, who’d been waiting patiently for a fare. I went pigeon-toed trying to hide my tennis shoes and looked as demure as possible. Abdul shouted something back to the men and kept on toward the next-to-last taxi.
As we got to the car, Abdul opened the door and leaned in to say something to the driver, who nodded. I gathered my black skirts around me and stepped in.
I looked to the side, past Abdul. A solitary man stood there, watching us. Why wasn’t he with a group, in this land where men socialize all the time? Tall, medium, muscular, expressionless. I’d seen him somewhere. Oh, yes. He wasn’t in uniform, but he was the policeman, M.-something, who had interviewed me at the hotel. Was I a suspect, then? Did this surveillance have to do with Michael’s murder or Ali’s misdeeds?
My God, my tennis shoes! Had he recognized me? The thought of jail in Sana’a frightened me more than murderers on the loose.
Nothing to do but slide across the seat and wait for Abdul to slam the door. I could not bring the force of the police down on the al Shems!
Abdul’s back had been to the watcher and he seemed unconcerned. He gave me no wave or signal—possibly because I was a mere woman, albeit a guest of his master’s house, but possibly to keep attention away from me. The taxi started up.
As the car made its way along the dark streets, I loosened the balto and prepared to return to my pre-abduction identity. First, the veil. It was hard to breathe under that and it kept tickling my nose. Then the rest of the satin mess, which peeled off easily over my head. Now to stuff the whole thing into my bag.
It fitted, though the bag bulged. The driver had looked straight ahead through the disrobing process, for which I gave him a lot of credit. Abdul must have told him what to expect. He apparently shared the absolute loyalty to the al Shem family that all their retainers seemed to have.
I brushed my hair into a semblance of order, which was fortunately a bit wind-blown, donned a head scarf, and prepared for re-entry into the Dar al-Hamd.
I didn’t forget to pay the driver.
Back in my spartan room, there were three e-mails from Mac. My story about Petrovich’s murder, short as it was, had gone on page 3, but if anything exciting happened, they were ready to move the story forward. They were especially interested in a terrorism angle, if any. I should take care of myself. Yemen didn’t sound safe.
Good old Mac. Always worrying. This time I feared he wasn’t off-base.
Glancing out the window before turning off the light and pulling the thin curtains across, three figures stood in the sorghum patch, heads together. I turned off the light to see better and not be seen. One figure was tall, one short, one medium. Shaking off unease, I pulled the curtain shut, petted and fed Mrs. Weston, who had appeared out of the night, and put my head on the pillow, cat cleaning herself at my side.
CHAPTER 59
As honest as the cat, when the meat is put up.
Adage from The Quotable Cat
Tom Reilly had a lot on his plate. Things had not gone as planned. There was a lot of cleaning up to do.
Christine Helmund, for example. Gorgeous, no doubt about that. How smart was she? Could she be entrusted with the duties he had in mind? And Elizabeth. Was she hiding something?
Tom had a devil-may-care attitude that usually stood him in good stead. That had slipped a few notches in recent days.
In the background, one had to worry about the police and how they would handle the murder. Tom feared that with that one embarrassing slip of security, they might be looking for scapegoats.
Scapegoat wasn’t a role Tom wanted to play. In fact, he prided himself on being one step ahead of most people. He would add an extra layer of caution to his movements and associates.
CHAPTER 60
…in the general amount of the day there was deficiency. There was a languor, a want of spirits, a want of union, which could not be got over.
Jane Austen, Emma
I like to get unpleasant things out of the way. So the next morning I walked over to talk to Tom, as I had promised. I turned off Agricultural Street at the sun-baked corner where his little alley ran crookedly to the left. The squat two-story house (maximum height formerly allowed in the Jewish quarter) had its front door open a crack, so I poked my head in and called.
Tom didn’t answer, but Zahra, his faithful maidservant, came down the stairs quickly, greeted me with a big smile that was missing several front teeth and invited me to sit upstairs in the mufraj.
“Mr. Reilly is not home, then?” I asked, kicking off my shoes and climbing to the second floor.
“No, no, la’, he not come yet,” said Zahra. “You want tea?”
Tea? Well, why not. Tom must be expected, or Zahra wouldn’t ask me to si
t. “Ey-wah, Zahra. I will have tea, thank you. Plenty of cardamom, please…”
The mufraj was only relatively cool at midday, but I was grateful for the thick mud wall’s protection from the equatorial sun. Stretching khaki-panted legs on an orange and dark blue Turkmen tribal carpet from Afghanistan, I leaned my head back against the hard cushions. A large blue-black fly buzzed in and out the decoratively-grilled window. The fly reminded me unpleasantly of finding Michael Petrovich’s body.
The muezzin in a nearby mosque began the plaintive call to noonday prayer, and soon was joined by his cohorts in a symphony I had come to love. I pictured all those holy men—I thought of them as old, though some probably weren’t—looking at watches not quite synchronized, so that each one thought he was in tune with the time in Mecca and none, of course, was in tune with his neighbors. It was dusty, warm and peaceful. I took out my notebook to look over events four long years ago:
“June 15, 1994 Ted, the CNN guy, left today. So did Bo and his cameraman. They’ll come back for the denouement of the war, whenever it takes place. Only a few journalists have stayed on in Sana’a. I’m proud that the Trib is still here, represented by me, though it feels a little lonely. I’ve gotten used to going around with Bo and Arne.”
All I could hear in the drowsy room was the buzzing of the fly and some muffled conversation outside. Disturbing conversation: intense, hostile, threatening. The quiet tenseness of the voices ran an eerie arpeggio up my spine, bent and warm from leaning against the hard pillows. Was the language English or Arabic? I couldn’t tell. Something familiar about both the voices. Man, woman…one of each. I sat up and shook my head.
Zahra entered, carrying an Indian metal tray bearing a peacock design and two cups and saucers. She seemed flustered. “Sorry, sorry, ma’am. Afwan. Tea not ready so soon.” She set the tray on the carpet in front of me.
“Zahra, is someone else here? I heard voices.”
She shuffled her feet. “Oh, ma’am. Nobody is here. Nobody but Mister. Mister coming now to see Ma’am.” Zahra seemed upset. Why? I was sure neither of the voices had been hers.
Sensing vulnerability, I became ruthless. “Zahra, I heard people talking. Is there a problem? Can I help?”
She looked unhappy. “No. No problem.”
“Does Mister have a guest?”
“Um, no, no guest,” said Zahra, lying valiantly for her master—or maybe to keep up appearances in front of me. “Somebody come see Mister. Now going.”
She did a disappearing act of her own, twisting agilely to avoid Tom’s tall frame bending to enter the low door of the mufraj. “Tea, it is ready,” she told him before slipping out and down the stairs.
Zahra’s relief at escaping left me with its inverse reaction. A nameless dread, as P. G. Wodehouse’s Bertie Wooster would say. I shook myself, smoothing pants and shirt. Tom re-entered the room.
I didn’t get up. He could use that as an excuse to politely invite me to leave. I had business with Tom that would not wait.
CHAPTER 61
“As many times as every believer spends the night praying
And obeys his God sincerely and thoroughly;
O messenger, speak to al-Ma’lah
Do not be timid.
Speak truthful words from the best of friends.”
Spontaneous Yemeni poetry translated by Steven C. Caton, “Peaks of Yemen I Summon”
Richard Queens kept trying to call London. The system seemed to be down.
As he sat in his room, frustrated, a cat appeared at the window, looked in, and settled itself warily on the sill. That same cat he’d seen in Elizabeth’s room! He made an impatient move with his hand, more at the phone than the cat, and the feline fled.
CHAPTER 62
…I wondered uneasily which of the many delicate causes that ruin eastern relationships could possibly have wrecked my friendship with those other two, Sa’id and Husain.
Freya Stark, A Winter in Arabia
“Hi, Tom,” I said, trying to sound relaxed. “How’re you doing?”
Tom’s face was flushed. Had he been walking in the sun? Had his been one of the angry voices I’d heard? He looked calm now and leaned over to give me a peck on the cheek where I still lounged on the mufraj cushions.
“Not bad. And you, Elizabeth, are a sight for sore eyes.”
I took the comment in the context of Tom’s style. My hair had straightened in the dry air, my skin was dusty parchment and like all else in Yemen, I was suffering from noon fade-out. The drama of Yemen lies in the shadows and highlights of early morning and sunset.
We chatted for a few minutes, me trying to shake off drowsiness, Tom cooling off, both of us drinking Zahra’s aromatic tea. Tom gradually relaxed into the cushions.
I would take the direct approach. “I understand you know Ali al Shem?” The question came out baldly…badly. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to sound accusing. I just want to know more about him. I met his sister, Halima, see, to talk about Yemeni architecture, and she mentioned he’d done some translating for you. I might need him myself.”
I was blathering again. I admit it.
Tom brushed unkempt red hair back from his forehead, boyishly, and gave me a lopsided grin. Tom’s Irish charm was on full display.
“Yeah. I know Halima’s brother. Ali. A nice kid. Went as translator with me on a couple of stories.”
“To Sa’da?”
Reilly looked puzzled. “Yes. That’s right… A couple months ago, I guess. Why?” I could have sworn he relaxed a tad. What had he thought I was going to tax him with?
Someone banged the big door knocker downstairs and Zahra pattered to answer it. A swooshing of fabrics announced the arrival of Alex Metzger, wearing another of her bright Egyptian silk caftans. Black and white, this time. Big silver earrings. Dramatic. She stopped at the doorway. She looked the role of an operatic heroine—the tragic variety.
She had herself in check, though. “Oh. Elizabeth. Well, hi. Didn’t know you were here.” She threw off her shoes as she entered the room—a one-person tornado.
Tom and I still sat. I think he was as surprised as I to see Alex.
“Zahra, I need coffee!” Well, one of her aims was clear, at any rate.
“Ey-wah.” Zahra withdrew toward the kitchen, unperturbed. Being a woman herself, Zahra probably understood better than the waiter at the Dar al-Hamd that bluster and aggression often hide vulnerabilities in a woman. Alex Metzger might not be as sure of herself as she seemed.
The atmosphere, which had promised to ease with Alexandra’s arrival, didn’t. Alex had wanted to see Tom alone, I was sure. She held a cigarette between shaking fingers, the nails painted one tint too dark. I decided perversely to sit there and drink my tea. I went back a few years with both these people. They could expose their secrets with me around or wait till I was ready to leave.
Maybe I could even learn something.
“I was asking Tom here about Ali al Shem.” I watched Alex’s face as I said the name.
“What about him?” Alex’s caftan lay softly on the curves of her ample body, scarcely moving. Didn’t seem likely, given her precipitous flight up the stairs, that she wouldn’t be breathing fast, but she wasn’t. Almost reptilian.
“Well, his family says he’s gone north, to Sa’da,” I explained. “And Tom, I gather, went to Sa’da with him earlier. Does anyone know where he is right now?”
They didn’t meet each other’s eyes, but I sensed communication. Question was, were they in cahoots or did they suspect each other? What did they know about Ali al Shem? I sipped my tea, waiting.
“Ali’s not around?” Alex seemed to know the family, anyhow. And she sounded genuinely surprised that Ali was an issue.
Alex had no idea about my background with Halima, nor would she from my lips. Just once during the war we had accidentally met at Friends of Yemen. Halima and I had pretended we were strangers. The girls in her office had not given our secret away.
Tom still lounged on the cush
ions, smoking. The atmosphere in the room now lay thick with tobacco aromas, mixing and swirling. Alex had gone uncharacteristically quiet. She looked a little confused.
Finally, Tom broke the silence, addressing me. “I don’t know that I’d check into this too carefully, you know. I’d just leave the whole thing alone, if I were you.”
Interesting. I was receiving lots of advice on what not to report and where not to go.
Alex looked straight ahead.
“Where did you see Ali last?” At least, Tom had confirmed his trip with Ali.
Tom looked at me, not Alex. “I left him where he asked to be dropped, in Sa’da at a mosque in the center of the city. He didn’t want to come home. Said he had some business.” Tom’s tone told me not to press harder. That in itself was interesting.
“Tell you what,” said Alex, leaning over to pat my knee. “Why don’t you and I get together another time—dinner tonight, maybe? Right now I’ve got some business with Tom. Okay?” If her hands hadn’t been shaking, I’d have thought she was relaxed.
Alex was always a mix of the tart and the princess. And I’d had enough of both these personalities for one session. Jumping up so fast I created a mini dust devil , I said I had to leave.
“Can’t do dinner tonight,” I told Alex. “Another time? See you both later.”
Tom cocked his head, but he didn’t open his mouth.
Zahra let me out, her downcast eyes signaling she knew more than a servant probably should about tensions in the house. I gave her a quick reassuring pat.
Should have given myself one, too. As I walked around the corner of Tom’s house, I caught the glimpse of a disappearing futha. Now who’d been hanging around, and why run away when I came out?
CHAPTER 63
Greetings, O San’a the blessed; your people are noble.
Its mountains are a fortress formidable, threatening