Deadline Yemen

by Peggy Hanson

  Whoever attacks it.

  Traditional Yemeni poetry translated by Steven C. Caton, Yemen Chronicle

  Richard Queens had had a busy day. Headquarters was not pleased. Communications lacked clarity. Disruption had occurred. Action was required. But what action?

  Honey lay on his mind like the sticky substance it was. Could he believe that seller in the souq? He’d checked around Sana’a for other markets where honey was sold. Maybe honey wasn’t the key.

  Sana’a literally crawled with intelligence agents from various countries. He could pick out some from their actions. There were undoubtedly others incognito.

  Terrorism tends to collect its pawns on either side: the guys planning something who could never turn back, and the people seeing them as evil and trying to thwart them at any cost.

  Normal folk often got caught between. Richard wasn’t much of a philosopher, but he sensed a troubling ethical problem.

  That woman, Elizabeth Darcy, was another puzzle. She clearly had some ulterior motive in coming to Yemen. Popping in and out of places. Looking determined.

  Elizabeth could be dangerous. And then his mouth curled into an involuntary grin.

  CHAPTER 64

  “Peace is better than servants, I said, “and you cannot have both. They would quarrel with the beduin…”

  Freya Stark, The Southern Gates of Arabia

  Later that afternoon I handed my unwieldy key to the desk clerk and sat in one of the worn lobby chairs to wait for Becca for our trip to nearby Wadi Dhar. There was someone else apparently waiting for a ride: Richard Queens. We nodded to each other, and his eyes lingered a moment longer than necessary on mine. No expression, just a small ambiguous spark. I’d have given more than a penny for his thoughts.

  Then a man stepped between us and handed Queens a message…and I had a sense of uncomfortable déjà vu. He was one of the men I’d seen with the Brit on my first day, in the sorghum field behind the Dar al-Hamd. Scarface. Tall and thin. His face stayed as expressionless as Queens’. His stance was military, as though he awaited orders from a superior officer.

  When Queens finished reading the note, he jotted something on the paper and handed it back to the thin man, who stepped away. Perhaps the two exchanged a word or two, I couldn’t tell. Both faces looked grim. The atmosphere was odd and heavy. Ominous.

  Luckily for my peace of mind, Becca jumped from her UNESCO jeep right then and hailed me. My ride was here.

  Becca sat in front with a smiling driver she addressed as Yusuf. I occupied the rugged back seat.

  “We’ll drive through part of the Old City,” Becca called back over the roar of the jeep. “I want you to get details into your story.”

  Our way took us through the warren of small alleys that mark the core of the Old City. We went up a portion of the saila, the usually-dry wadi that floods in the rainy season and separates the older and newer parts of Sana’a. The jeep followed tracks made by trucks and motorcycles. The sun beat down in an unromantic glare. When we turned from the saila, we enjoyed shade from towering mud-brick dwellings on both sides of the alley. Things looked different from when I was on foot, but now I knew exactly where the al Shem house was—there, where the alley made a sharp bend.

  Listening to Becca’s eager chatter about the dangers of floods and heavy vehicles and, especially, disinterest among young Yemenis in repairing and rebuilding damaged old homes, I craned my neck. Brilliant blue sky framed the mud brick dwelling. Spectacular.

  “Elizabeth, did you hear what I was saying?” Becca’s eager, impatient voice broke my reverie. “If we’re going to get this story out, you’ve got to pay better attention. You do want to help save all this, don’t you?”

  “What? Yes. Yes, I do, although you have to convince me there is something I can do. If people don’t want to live in these palaces anymore, who am I to blame them? Six floors of steep stairs, several times a day? Plumbing we can see on the outsides of the buildings—just pipes, really. Whitewashed mud floors you have to sweep all the time, as well as repair.”

  My guide turned. “You sound like one of the doubters,” she scolded. “This place has got to be saved!”

  “Becca,” I said firmly. “Sorry, I was distracted there for a minute. Of course I will do anything in my power to keep Old Sana’a safe. Now, tell me more about how the shallow foundations make these buildings vulnerable to rattling trucks…” I made no reference to the al Shem house, but did ask to stop near it where I could peer through a latticed mud-brick wall into gardens lying among the houses. The photos could be a start, at least, to my weekend edition story—a story that had nothing to do with contemporary murder or cults of suicide bombers and everything to do with ageless elegance coexisting with primitive creature comforts.

  The story that had become my cover.

  Peering through the wall, I identified Halima’s family home on the other side of the gardens. It looked less romantic than it had by moonlight, but the place was well maintained, compared to many of its neighbors. The whitewash designs around and above the windows were fresh and cleanly-drawn. Wooden shutters closed off glare and heat from the sun, and prevented illicit glancing into rooms. Curved panels of colored glass and alabaster, which at night formed a colorful fan over the usable windows, looked bell-like in the day. Bells with lace, because every panel of glass was separated from every other by delicate lines of whitewash.

  “We don’t have time for much photography right now,” warned Becca. “We want to get to Wadi Dhar in time for sunset.”

  “I’m so looking forward to this,” I said.

  As we drove out of the Old City, little shops were beginning to open, manned by bulging-cheeked owners, and the motorcycle crowd was waking from its post-lunch, post-qat siesta. Peace and quiet evaporated as motorized roars competed with the rumble of trucks and the honking of exotic horns (my favorite honk being the Marine hymn’s opening, “From the halls of Montezuma…”). The sun was heading west and shadows lengthened.

  Riding out past the Dar al-Hamd and then Sana’a University, I listened to Becca’s pleasant chatter. I missed conversation with women when I was on my own, or only talking business with men.

  Outside of the Old City, many of the buildings were modern, though thankfully built in a traditional style, arched colored windows and all. Except for the water situation, where the water tables under the city were being used up by qat cultivation all around, this capital was doing many things right.

  That did not, in my view, include the role of women. Black forms flitted through the streets, ghost-like. They were not the anonymous blobs they appeared to be. Still, it felt unhealthy, this separation of men and women. And those rayon outfits, I knew from experience, were stifling in the afternoon sun. Not to mention the lack of Vitamin D caused by no contact with sunlight.

  We headed between stark hills now, rocky everywhere but in those creases where soil could lodge and where infrequent rain brought green shoots from the desert. Yemeni farmers, accustomed to making things work, had carefully tilled these pieces of arable land and moved the stones so that stalks of sorghum raised their tasseled heads as we went by.

  On past the Sana’a International School now, and upward through reddish rock to the pull-off overlooking Wadi Dhar. I scrambled out of the jeep while Becca moved more slowly.

  One other car parked at the pull off, an anonymous black vehicle with a driver leaning against it. Uh oh. My police escort.

  Apparently I was a suspect.

  CHAPTER 65

  …I [thought] again about what I knew about the war in Algeria. The GIA [jihadists in Algeria] had done so many of the things forbidden in Islamic law. They had murdered civilians, even shot up whole schools. But over time I learned something about the laws of jihad: there is room. There is room within the boundaries of the law for all sorts of interpretation.

  Omar Nasiri, Inside the Jihad, My Life with Al Qaeda, A Spy’s Story

  Friendship was not encouraged at the camp near Sa’d
a. They were all brothers, signified by the title Abu. Everyone was the same. Except for the leaders, of course, who determined what everyone else’s job would be.

  Still, Ali (or Abu Salif) felt warmer feelings toward some of his “brothers” than others. Young, idealistic Abu Omar, for example, was preparing to go to Afghanistan for advanced training—which meant more detailed methods of using explosives to kill, apparently. And there was more than a chance that Omar would not return from his “mission” when it was assigned.

  That thought was painful to Ali. Omar knew so little of life. He was only sixteen—ridiculously young from the standpoint of one who had reached his nineteenth birthday. Too young to have no future.

  Of course, Ali himself might have no future, either.

  Omar had taken to Ali as a mentor. They sat together on a rocky hillock the day before he was to leave. “You feel this is right, brother?”

  Ali was increasingly looked to as a counselor in this group, largely owing to his aristocratic heritage—though of course all were equal in jihad. And he was a believer. A good Muslim.

  Belief was not good enough for the extremist leaders, of course, but they probably thought they were lucky to have attracted him. He was given more leeway than the others. He had influence among the brothers. Still, he was watched. They all were.

  “I want to do jihad. I want to defend my religion.” Abu Omar wasn’t quite from Ali’s high class, but he came from an educated family.

  Ali wanted to say, don’t do it, Omar. Fight jihad by helping Yemen. But he couldn’t. It would be useless to a boy with fire in his eyes like Omar. It would serve only to make Ali’s own situation more dangerous.

  “Go in peace, brother. Always be a good Muslim.” That much he could say in good conscience.

  For himself, he began to strategize. How to get out? That was the question that ran into his mind at inconvenient moments, like when Abu Shihr was explaining how to place explosives for maximum effect.

  These victims. Were they all really evil? Should they have no say in whether they were used to establish the caliphate of a religion not even theirs?

  Ali was growing more doubtful even as he absorbed the teachings of the Koran and felt more religious. This wasn’t what the Koran meant, surely. This was not what the Prophet Mohammad, God be merciful to his soul, had meant. His life had expressed a very different model.

  The other question in Ali’s mind dealt with an upcoming operation. Would it be better to stay or go before that took place?

  There was only one person who could help. But the option of any assistance was highly uncertain. People did not go into the camps and come back out.

  CHAPTER 66

  “The Dar al Hajar (the Rock House or Rock Palace) is a remarkable building atop a protruding rock formation in Wadi Dhahr. Pictured in every other book about Yemen, it has become a symbol of the country itself.”

  Lonely Planet Guide to Yemen

  Blue shadows of higher mountains spread across the wadi in the dusty, golden late-afternoon air. From where we stood, on sandstone outcroppings that brought to mind my beloved American southwest, the green at the bottom of the precipice looked lush and inviting, an oasis in a dry land. Vineyards and orchards seemed to thrive with a minimum of water at this high altitude so near the equator, and red dirt is good for growing fruit.

  Alas, in places the lush green of orchards had begun to give way to straggly, gray qat bushes that had their most tender shoots trimmed off every day to go to market.

  Near the bottom of the cliff on the wadi’s opposite side, the multi-storied mud-brick palace of Imam Yahya raised its whitewashed wedding-cake façade atop a huge outcropping of stone. From the top, it looked like the palace floated in mid-air against the red rocks.

  Whoever was in the black car left when we did and followed us down the winding hill, to where we parked. Becca and I walked around the village at the foot of Imam Yahya’s palace. We felt the need of a drink, and searched for something wet and bottled that wouldn’t require us to return to the car.

  Around one of the slit-like turns in an alley, I caught a glimpse of a tan-shirted arm that was clearly not Yemeni. It could be anyone, of course: the Lonely Planet Guide to Yemen suggested visiting Wadi Dhar and everyone did. But my curiosity was piqued. I ran a few steps and looked around the corner; a slim pant leg and sandaled foot disappeared into a small shop selling bottles of soda and the ubiquitous tea biscuits. And honey.

  I strode boldly forward, Becca following in complete innocence, and came face-to-face with Christine Helmund inside the shop.

  “Oh, hi!” I said, brightly, as though I’d had no idea she was there.

  Christine seemed nonplussed. “Oh. Hello. What are you doing here?” Her vintage Stockholm-girl nose wrinkled slightly.

  “We’re just sightseeing,” I said. “Do you know Rebecca Ross, of UNESCO?”

  Becca had entered behind me, and the three of us more than filled the mini-shop with our large Western frames.

  “We’ve met, of course,” said my cheerful traveling companion. “How are you doing, Christine?” I thought her enthusiasm waned as she spoke her name. Becca didn’t seem to like some of the ex-pat Sana’a denizens.

  Christine’s reaction was equally restrained. “Rebecca,” she said, a small wave taking the place of a real greeting.

  A pretty little girl wearing a dirty Pakistani cloth draped around her and tiny gold earrings sold us bottles of orange soda, her sole stock in the drinks trade. I hate orange soda, but couldn’t resist the seller. Christine paid for hers first, drank a few sips and set her bottle back on the glass counter before turning. Clearly she wanted us to move so we could let her leave.

  A couple of vats of honey blocked the way. But Christine didn’t seem to have bought any honey.

  Her blue eyes were expressionless today. She seemed much older than the girl I had comforted when Michael Petrovich died. Could that have been only a few days ago? I felt I had been here forever and hardly knew any of these people—and yet, I knew more about them already than about most of my long-term colleagues in Washington.

  Maybe I’d get to know Becca well enough to ask whether there was bad blood between her and Christine. The three of us politely drank a bit of soda—well, Becca drank all of hers—and then we returned our bottles, too, and headed to the parking lot outside the gate.

  Christine’s mode of arrival in Wadi Dhar was not evident, as she didn’t get into any of the vehicles lined up near our jeep. The black car was there. Police? Security forces sometimes follow foreigners, either for their safety or to track their movements. In this case, police presence could have a more sinister reference. Was I really a suspect in Michael’s murder? I guess so. Looking from their viewpoint, I’d probably be suspicious of me, too.

  Yet while we had explained our presence, Christine had told us nothing. For all I knew, Christine had been following us and had tried to escape notice by darting into the shop.

  CHAPTER 67

  “Wadi Dahr is one of the world’s surprises. I first saw it at 9:47 a.m. on a Thursday late in 1982. We slewed off the road by a petrol station and labored up a slope of disintegrating red rock… Then my host hit the brakes and we slid to a stop in a cloud of red dust. The dust, settling, revealed a view: picture several square miles of intensive cultivation, shockingly green, transposed to a setting of tawny rock, then dropped far below the surface of the earth.”

  Tim Mackintosh-Smith, Yemen, Travels in Dictionary Land

  We sauntered around fruit orchards in the shade of the great palace and cliffs looming above. Sunset would soon be here; time to get back to the cliff tops to enjoy it. We got back in the jeep and Yusuf took us to the overlook. I took deep breaths of the quickly-cooling air and soaked in the view—red rocks turning pink as the sun dipped near the horizon.

  My eyes strayed to the area around us, overlooking Wadi Dhar. Yes, there were cars, and one of them was black. I hated the feeling of being followed.

  But th
ere was a major distraction. On a rock shelf not twenty yards from where we stood, a tableau was in progress.

  Honey-blond hair peeking out from under a scarf, khaki-clad legs, sandals…Christine Helmund. A young ponytailed man was with her, blond but wearing a futha and sporting a jambiya. A gold chain glittered around his neck. Wasn’t his name Larry or something? He’d been at Tom’s party. And I’d run into him en route to the Palestine Restaurant.

  It was a love scene, I thought at first, as the young man leaned toward the girl. Then I glimpsed Christine’s expression, and saw naked fear.

  As I quickened my steps toward the pair, concern rising, the man’s arms came around Christine and he pulled her toward him—and toward the edge of the sandstone cliff. I called out, suddenly alarmed.

  Breaking into a run across the uneven rocky surface, I was not alone. Becca was hot on my heels, panting. Yusuf the driver ran with us, along with a man in typical Yemeni dress. A plainclothesman from the black car? If police lurk, let them be useful.

  Beside the black car in the rudimentary parking lot sat the khaki-colored Land Rover we had seen before.

  The racket we made appeared to check whatever had been about to happen. The young man pulled from Christine, who ran from the precipice. I went to see if she was all right, and suddenly another figure appeared. Tom Reilly! I guess the khaki vehicle belonged to him.

  Tom and the young man stood staring at each other, an odd couple against the sunset. I held my breath. Both their eyes were hard to read.

  Christine looked shaken but pulled away from me. She ran to Tom, throwing both arms around him. He looked like John Wayne rescuing the heroine.

  The young man turned from the cliff and walked toward the Land Rover. Had all three come together? That didn’t make sense.

  Tom looked at me, still holding Christine in his arms. “This girl is crazy sometimes, you know that? I thought for a minute she was going to jump.”

  It hadn’t looked like that, but Tom knew her better than I did. At least, he’d been there to protect Christine. And the policeman—I was sure he was a policeman—had retreated to the black car, since the crisis among foreigners had been averted. Would a report be filed?