Deadline Yemen

by Peggy Hanson

  He came to with a start. “Uh, no. No, thank you. But if you are going to the souq first, perhaps we can meet at the Italian restaurant. Shall we say at one o’clock?”

  “Fine. I’ll see you there, then.”

  Pretending I had to run upstairs to pick up some forgotten item, I peeked into the dining room in time to see Christine sit down at the table where Alex Metzger was finishing her breakfast. Larry was nowhere to be seen. The very walls of the Dar al-Hamd seemed to absorb people at will—or maybe there was a back entrance and exit I was unaware of. Of course, there was always the rooftop… Involuntarily, I glanced up to where sunlight glinted through the arches on the roof, but didn’t see anyone.

  I couldn’t stand there peering at Alex and Christine in the dining room, so I chatted with the desk clerk while rearranging things in my purse. That’s an excuse no one can ever question.

  From the little I could see, there was a quiet and intense conversation going on between the two striking women, blonde and brunette, slim and matronly. Was this battle or conspiracy?

  I’d have given a lot to listen in, but that much intrusion was past even my abilities.

  CHAPTER 71

  Sayid Ali is generous; his only trouble is a guileless indifference as to what he is generous with; and the virtues that come out of someone else’s pocket are apt to irritate our Anglo-Saxon ethics based on property.

  Freya Stark, A Winter in Arabia

  Stuffing choice little end-leaves of qat into his cheek, my taxi driver squatted with several other drivers under the sparse shade of the tamarisk trees. When I signaled him, he moved at molasses speed toward the black and yellow cab. As I started once more to get in, a black BMW pulled into a parking space near us. Ahmad Kutup emerged, immaculate and handsome. He didn’t notice me, as I was leaning halfway into my cab, but headed straight for the Dar al-Hamd. Two men stood at attention near the sleek car. One was tall and thin, the other short and stubby. My old buddies from the sorghum patch, who seemed to be slinking about everywhere.

  Richard Queens’ contacts guarding Ahmad Kutup’s car? There was a coincidence I couldn’t ignore.

  I asked the driver to stop even as we had started to pull out of the horseshoe-shaped drive. “Have to run into the hotel one more time,” I explained. He shrugged his shoulders in a way that dismissed all women as illogical and unpredictable, dropped me off, and drove back to where he could gossip with his pals.

  The pleasant desk clerk seemed surprised to see me erupt back into the lobby. “Can I help you, Mizz Elizabeth?”

  Shaking my head, I veered toward the dining room. “Just forgot one more thing,” I said.

  Christine and Alex were still at the table, deep in conversation. No one else was in the room except for the black-clad waiter standing nervously far off to the side. Having seen Alex at her imperious best using fluent Arabic, I understood the poor man’s nerves.

  So where had Ahmad Kutup disappeared? Was Richard Queens still up in his room? What about Larry? Characters were appearing and disappearing like the Cheshire Cat’s grin.

  I couldn’t run up to check the roof without attracting more attention than I wished.

  Or could I? No one was in sight.

  I didn’t meet anyone on the stairway to the second floor. So I kept going up. The roof door was closed, as it usually was, to keep out sand and dust. Cautiously, I climbed the last steep flight of irregular stone stairs, opened the door and stepped out, staying behind the little wall that sheltered the entrance to the stairway.

  Larry and Tom Reilly were there, having tea at a corner table near one of the arched openings looking out over Sana’a. Tom’s presence confirmed my conviction that there were at least two doors to the hotel. I hadn’t seen him come in. I was about to shout hello, when I realized the group hadn’t seen me and I could hear their voices. I drew back behind the door to where I could peek through a crack.

  “So, what do you want us to do?” asked Larry. His blond ponytail drooped greasily. He didn’t look like someone I’d want on my team.

  “Steady,” said Tom. “Just keep your head. I’ll tell you when the time comes. Remember, she can be dangerous…”

  A hotel employee came up the stone stairs carrying tea, so I pretended to have just left the rooftop group and headed back down the stairs toward the lobby.

  Who was “dangerous?” Who was “she?”

  “Well, fancy meeting you here!” Alex’s high-pitched, nervous voice echoed in the stairwell. I gasped.

  “Forgot some things in the room,” I said hastily, rummaging again in my purse. Alex was on the landing between the lobby and the second floor, with Christine beside her. They looked tense and uneasy together. Apparently it had been a fight I’d seen in the dining room.

  “I’m glad to see you weren’t hurt yesterday,” I said to Christine.

  Alex looked blankly at her younger companion, who stared ahead with no expression whatsoever. If Christine felt uncomfortable, she didn’t show it. But she had to answer.

  “I am fine, thank you. It was just a misunderstanding.” Expressionless. Dead. I wondered where the intensity of a few minutes ago had gone.

  Useless to ask where the courtesies I was brought up with had gone. In my day, I’d have thanked someone who saved me, even if it had been more accidental than planned.

  Where were the two women headed? Up those stairs? Neither was staying at the Dar al-Hamd, so far as I knew.

  “Don’t want to keep you, Elizabeth,” said Alex, with more aplomb than affection. “I thought you were heading out some time ago.”

  Well, yes, I had been. And here came Richard Queens down the stairs, so I was doubly caught in my delaying tactics.

  “Hello,” he said. His apparent earlier shock at seeing Christine seemed gone now. He gave no sign of knowing either her or Alexandra. Giving a slightly stilted wave, he passed and ran on down the stairs, calling back, “I’ll see you at lunch, then.”

  “Fine!” I slowly walked down the stairs, hoping to see where Alex and Christine were going. They went on up, apparently toward the roof. Meeting Tom and Larry? Quite the social group.

  And where was Ahmad Kutup? His position as a man of substance and standing made it impossible for me, as a foreign women, to ask any Yemeni about him.

  Never mind. I was headed for the souq. This time my taxi actually made it out the driveway and on toward Bab al Yemen. We were right behind Richard Queens’ taxi, which presumably was headed toward a business engagement.

  Remembering my initial encounter with Richard Queens in the souq, I found honey shops buzzing in my mind. Maybe I was just hooked on Yemeni honey.

  CHAPTER 72

  What makes San’a so special? Two things immediately stand out. First, the medina, or old walled centre of the city, is one of the largest completely preserved medinas in the Arab world… Second, the architecture of San’a is distinctly different from that found anywhere else in the world; there are comparable gems elsewhere in Yemen but they are smaller and more difficult to reach.

  Lonely Planet Guide to Yemen

  I made my way through the colorful crowds around the entrance to Bab al Yemen, pausing only to watch a camel walk patiently around in a circle in one of the dark little shops to grind some meal. I felt rather sorry for the camel, but then the man brought him out into the sunlight and fed him green stalks while petting him. He even kissed the camel on the nose. I took a photo.

  I made straight for the spice area of the souq, dodging motorcycles as I slipped on uneven cobblestones in the narrow passageways. The little shop was tucked under its canvas awning like all its fellows, and nothing could seem more innocent.

  “Do you have honey in small jars?” I asked, looking around the dimly-lit interior of the closet-size shop, which was filled with barrels. Exercising my poor Arabic, I stumbled on with an explanation that Yemen’s honey is famous, like its Mocha coffee, and I wanted to take some home.

  Maybe it was the same futha-clad man I’d seen talki
ng to Queens, maybe not. The old racist adage, “They all look alike,” had some truth for me there in the souq. Part of my problem was the cultural need for a woman not to meet any man’s eyes until actually doing business with one. Part of it was the sameness of clothing: the casually-wrapped futha with the mandatory jambiya tucked in around the waist, an equally casual turban of Kashmiri cloth, and a white shirt with black sports jacket. It’s an outfit that would draw one’s attention in Washington, but in Sana’a it’s the usual dress.

  “Honey here in bags, see?” The man held up a plastic baggie and a dipper, with which he proposed to fill it. “You want?” His face was blank, cheeks already fat with qat, like my driver’s. But his dark eyes were watchful.

  “No, I’m afraid I can’t carry this.” It was the truth. And it might buy me a little more conversation. “Do you have any other containers?”

  The honey in the open barrel lay there, dark, sinuous, smooth, impenetrable. Mysterious and compelling. It took over my mind. As though hypnotized, I dipped my finger in and tasted it. It was a silly thing to do.

  “No! La!” The reaction was as swift as it was unexpected. This was not a land of niceties or hygiene. I’d done nothing that should lead to such reproof. Yet the man had stepped beside me, threatening.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, licking my finger and backing away. “It looked too good to resist. I believe I will take a bag of it, after all.” Maybe that would appease him.

  “One bag, yes. One bag this much?” The eyes were dark with suspicion, even as their owner scooped the honey into the bag.

  “Yes, please. How much is it?” By now, I couldn’t wait to get out of the shop. It had taken on the sinister, insinuating texture of the honey itself. I handed the man more than he asked for—which was a lot, as the honey from Hadhramaut is expensive—and made an undignified exit.

  Whew! I hadn’t transgressed so badly. The man’s reaction was too strong. My face still burned. Something was out of balance here. I could feel it. I just couldn’t define it.

  CHAPTER 73

  Thanks to neighboring Somalia, the words “failed” and “state” were already being linked, but there was little agreement about how that failure would come about or how catastrophic it would be for most Yemenis, given the hardiness of tribal structures and the fact that especially the majority northern Yemenis had long been accustomed to relying on themselves rather than any state for their needs.

  Victoria Clark, Yemen, Dancing on the Heads of Snakes

  Richard Queens arrived at Nello’s as I sipped a glass of “cranberry juice.” He sat down in the seat just vacated by Nello, who hadn’t been able to resist coming over to gossip while I waited.

  “Nice fellow, that,” observed Queens, with a gesture toward Nello. “How long has he been here?”

  “Nello? Oh, years and years. I think he came originally as a tourist and just stayed on. He’s become part of the scenery.”

  Perhaps sharing an account of my souq honey shop experience would be interesting. Queens might even be able to shed some light on its strangeness, or I’d shake him into an inadvertent statement. So I told him about it.

  He looked mildly thoughtful throughout. He even looked interested, which surprised me. “And you say the man seemed hostile when you put your finger into the honey?” He didn’t seem to think it as outrageous as it had felt at the time. Did he even believe me?

  “It seemed an odd reaction,” I said, feeling a little foolish. “Why would he do that?”

  Richard’s cool gray eyes softened slightly. “Don’t take it personally. I’m sure the man was just in a bad mood. Do you need full absolution for putting your finger in the proverbial honey pot?”

  The tables had turned. Instead of pursuing my prey professionally, I’d let him into my insecurities—and here he was, holding my hand. Figuratively, of course. What kind of pursuer was I?

  And what kind of prey was Richard? We’d eaten a good meal of chicken and artichokes, accompanied by spaghetti, and I couldn’t remember one bite of what I’d had. This was unusual. And his chin didn’t jut out quite as prominently as it had on previous occasions. He seemed almost friendly.

  “’Fraid I have to run,” he said, looking at his watch. “See you later, perhaps. Are you eating dinner in the hotel?”

  “I’m really not sure,” I replied. As Queens rose, he left an obscene wad of money on the table. “I think this will cover it,” he said.

  CHAPTER 74

  “It is not fair,” said Emma in a whisper; “Mine was a random guess. Do not distress her.”

  Jane Austen, Emma

  A minute after Queens had left, the door to the café opened and two people entered. One was Christine Helmund, the other, Jason Roberts from the Embassy. Christine was in her usual form-fitting jeans with a long-tailed shirt; Jason wore khaki pants with pressed shirt—the diplomat uniform. They sat at a table across the little room.

  They were so deep in conversation, they didn’t notice me. When I finished paying—with Richard’s money—I stepped over to their table and said, “Hi.”

  Jason and Christine jumped. Clearly, I was interrupting something. They got themselves under control—at least, Jason did—and managed to supply the niceties of civil discourse.

  “Join us?” invited Jason.

  Curious, I was about to sit down when there was a loud rat-tat-tat from the direction of the street. Gunfire. Instinctively, I dropped to the floor. So did Christine, but her body jerked violently. I crawled across the room toward her and reached out my hand. Everything else in the café was a frozen tableau.

  There was an unpleasant sticky puddle near where Christine’s head had hit the floor. Also, the smell of gunpowder and blood.

  CHAPTER 75

  O bird, o winged one, from the people of Yemen, convey

  To Clinton this message

  Who in America is leader.

  Traditional poetry translated by Steven C. Caton, “Peaks of Yemen I Summon”

  Dear God. I’d taken a CPR course a long time ago but the dummies we used weren’t slippery with blood and their faces didn’t look terrifyingly still. I checked Christine’s pulse. Jason ran around the table. Nello and two waiters hurried from the kitchen.

  “What happened?” shouted Nello. “Oh, my God, my God…”

  “She’s shot. I can’t find a pulse. Here, hold this tablecloth against her back!”

  There were too many bodies around Christine, never a good idea with a casualty, so I pushed the waiters back and felt again for a pulse. Faint, but there.

  Jason knelt by Christine’s head, holding it, blood soaking into his neat khakis. “Call an ambulance!” he shouted at one of the waiters. “And call the Embassy.” He rattled off the number. “Hurry!”

  Christine eyes opened and she tried to speak. “Ma…” she gasped. Mama? What else could it be? How on earth could we find her mother? As I leaned in to hear better, she subsided into unconsciousness. Her color was paste.

  The ensuing scene blurred like a nightmare one wants to forget. An ambulance team eventually arrived, making their way through the crush of cars, trucks, and motorcycles. Christine, unconscious, was rolled from the floor onto a gurney, using two tablecloths.

  A crowd had gathered—would-be witnesses and voyeurs. I looked around. Lots of futhas and loosely-wrapped turbans—many hiding places for weapons. Motorcycles bunched together in front of the restaurant. Had the mysterious gunman arrived and left on a motorcycle? Probably. Sana’a streets are full of the roaring beasts, normal noises lost in their exhaust.

  As the only Western woman around, I was allowed to ride in the ambulance as it wove through cacophonic streets to the military hospital a few blocks away. Jason went, too. The young EMT team, all male, worked efficiently on Christine—but gingerly, because she was a woman. Hard to remember how beautiful that face had been now that it was covered with breathing equipment. And blood.

  Mostly, I thought of blood. One moment carrying life through veins. The
next, spilling life force into awful stains. Two such incidents in a week are too much. Far too much.

  Jason took over when we arrived at the hospital. “This patient has an official passport,” he said. “She is with the Swedish Embassy.” Well, not quite, but anything to get special treatment. By now, three policemen stood around, waiting to see if they had a homicide on their hands.

  A young Yemeni doctor checked Christine’s vital signs. “Go,” he said, and gestured the gurney-pushers toward the O.R. “We will contact you,” he told us.

  Jason was in full diplomatic mode. Calling the U.S. Embassy. Having them call the Swedes.

  I sat in the waiting room for a long time—smelling disinfectant, urine, hospital odors—and finally was allowed into the room where Christine had been brought. Hospital rooms are bleak at the best of times. This one seemed particularly dreary. Bile-green walls, dingy sheets draping the figure on the metal bed with splotched paint. A nurse fussing over equipment. Christine’s beauty was on hold. Mortality has that effect. I went over and placed my hand on hers; it felt cold and unresponsive.

  A shadow appeared in the doorway. Tom Reilly, appropriately subdued. “My God,” he breathed. “Are you all right?”

  I patted his shoulder. Christine was closer to him than to me.

  Then it hit me. I’d had a narrow escape.

  And not just me. The gunman could have aimed for any of us, including Richard Queens. Unless Richard knew the gunman. (He surely couldn’t have been the gunman?) The bullets could have also been aimed at Jason Roberts, who I’m sure was C.I.A. A plethora of possible victims, though Christine was the one who took the hit.

  I stood for a few minutes, sending positive vibes into the chaos. It’s a habit of mine. Fear tried to interrupt the process. I needed more information. And I wanted to support Nello through this. I slipped away from the hospital through crowds of worried Yemenis waiting for word on their relatives, and took a cab back to Nello’s.