Deadline Yemen

by Peggy Hanson

  Becca and I enjoyed a few more minutes of evening on the wall before turning the same direction.

  I hoped the messenger Selim would be back with some word.

  CHAPTER 91

  What a pity, O people, O bridge-crossers

  But the fact is that you are like a mirage.

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

  Tom Reilly wondered where Elizabeth had disappeared to. He was rather sharp with Zahra when she brought tea to the mufraj. He had also not seen Alex Croft for a couple of days. Wasn’t she supposed to be leaving soon?

  Not for the first time, Tom pondered the deaths of Petrovich and Christine. Yemen suddenly seemed a dangerous place to be living as an expatriate.

  In spite of his relaxed lifestyle, Tom disliked having certainty disturbed.

  CHAPTER 92

  “Time will generally lessen the interest of every attachment not within the daily circle—but that is not the change I had in view for you.”

  Jane Austen, Emma

  With typical Midwestern-cum-European hospitality, the Kamps expressed their willingness to have another guest. “No problem,” said Susan. “We can always feed another mouth.”

  “I’m looking forward to talking American politics at dinner,” our host said cheerfully, when we’d all gathered in the living room. “I gather the President’s morals are the issue of the day.” He looked even younger and fresher without his white coat. I was a little surprised that missionaries would want to discuss Bill Clinton’s highly-publicized sexual habits.

  Cocktails consisted of orange juice, of course, nothing stronger. The Kamps didn’t apologize for this, assuming, I guess, that we wouldn’t expect missionaries to serve wine.

  I asked how it felt to be the only foreigners in a place like Sa’da.

  “You get used to it,” said Susan, in her soft voice. “I admit I get a little homesick sometimes, but,” and her voice became even softer, “Jan helps me through those times. We do feel this is a good use of our talents. And we are serving God.”

  Ah, to be young, idealistic, and in love again! I sure wasn’t feeling young and any ideals I’d once held had been rubbed off with more than one of life’s scouring pads.

  At that moment, someone knocked on the door downstairs. We heard a servant answer, and then quick footsteps on the stairs before the maid threw open the sitting room door. “Oh, Doctor, come. Please come!”

  CHAPTER 93

  I wanted the pleasure of rereading [the letters from home] when…I was lonely. I wondered how much I should tell my parents about the recent upheavals. In some respects, I could be more frank with my father than with my mother, who would worry too much…

  Steven C. Caton, Yemen Chronicle

  The person lying in the alleyway outside the Kamps’ clinic was unrecognizable. He wore a futha and the usual checked scarf wound around his head like a turban. His face was pressed against the paving stones. Where his head lay, dark liquid had spattered into a halo. I had an awful sense of déjà vu. Christine. Head. Blood. Nausea engulfed me and I fought it back.

  Dr. Kamp bent over the figure, checked for a pulse, and then glanced at the little group of us there on the threshold.

  “He’s alive,” he shouted. “Somebody get a stretcher from the clinic!”

  Susan ran like a gazelle, and soon returned with not just a stretcher, but two men to carry it. We made a solemn little procession into the Kamps’ door and then right, through the hallway to the clinic. From glimpses I saw of the face on the stretcher, it was not anyone I knew. There was so much blood, though, it was hard to be sure.

  But as the man’s turban was removed. He was young, with familiar features. This boy looked just like Halima and ,her father. Could it be Ali?

  “Ali al Shem,” I murmured. Only Becca seemed to hear, for she shot me a quick glance.

  My heart sank. I had found Ali. Too late.

  CHAPTER 94

  Precious stones and pearls remain changeless for all time,

  Nor do sapphires change, nor coral.

  And thus are people distinguished and set apart,

  Not being like people in other countries.

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

  Ahmad Kutup donned his white robe and turban with a mix of feelings. He rather liked transforming from an international sophisticate into a tribal sheikh. It gave him a sense of his traditional heritage. After all, he would be sheikh when his father died.

  He would be doubly sheikh if something had happened to Ali al Shem, the heir of his uncle. He, and only he, knew the true danger the boy was in.

  What was the worth of sheikhdom, anyway?

  Ahmad knew action was needed. It would have to be accompanied by discipline.

  CHAPTER 95

  “When one is in great pain, you know, one cannot feel any blessing quite as it may deserve.”

  Jane Austen, Emma

  The doctor and nurses went into action, like the pros they were. Jan gently washed and probed the face wounds, while Susan and a Yemeni nurse got oxygen flowing and took the boy’s blood pressure. Becca and I stood back to give everyone maximum space.

  The emergency team had spoken little during their early explorations, but I gradually sensed an easing of tensions.

  “It’s not too bad here,” said Jan, at one stage. “Scalp wounds bleed a lot. How’re the vital signs?”

  “Fine,” said Susan, voice calm.

  Wow. If I ever get knifed on a lonely street, I hope Jan and Susan will be there to take care of me. Why did I think he’d been knifed? Because of the blood? I hadn’t seen the actual wounds.

  Jan sewed up gashes, anesthesia standing by in case it was needed. The figure on the operating table lay still, apparently unconscious.

  I nudged Becca. “Let’s go back to the other room. We can’t help here.”

  As we reached the end of the hall that marked where clinic ended and living quarters began, a knock sounded and a maid ran to open the door.

  Richard Queens looked more rumpled than usual, and his British good manners had slipped a bit. “Where is the doctor?” he demanded, ice-gray eyes lasering through me.

  “He’s dealing with a case right now,” I answered, with aplomb. “Would you care to come in?”

  Queens insisted on going into the clinic, where he was kept at ten paces by Dr. Kamp’s medical authority. From what I could gather despite his lack of civilized communication, his agitation had to do with the case the clinic was working on now.

  The doctor asked him to wait in the living quarters, and signaled me to go with him. The authority of men in white coats accompanied the gesture.

  I gestured to the door. “Let me offer you a drink,” I said to our guest, raising my eyebrows at Becca, uncharacteristically subdued.

  “I’ll wait here,” was the curt response. The man had a kind of authority about him that almost matched the doctor’s.

  Becca stepped up and took her share of the responsibility. “Look, Mr. Queens. The doctor and his wife are busy right now. Please come with us.”

  Queens still seemed obdurate, but he finally followed us into the simply-furnished little parlor. Becca, as I expected, opened a bottle of scotch that we’d carried in the jeep, and poured a finger-depth each into three glasses.

  “Will he live?” Richard downed his scotch, and Becca poured another finger into his glass. She and I sipped at ours. The atmosphere was almost convivial; niceties were being observed.

  “We think so. Do you know Mr. al Shem?” I asked, throwing diplomacy to the winds.

  “I know of him a little. I had spoken with him. When I saw him attacked, I was concerned. But you say he will survive?”

  “The doctor says the wounds are superficial. There’s always a lot of blood with scalp injuries,” I said. “You saw him attacked?”

  “I did. And I must speak with him.”

  “Well, I don’t think
you’ll be allowed to tonight.” My tone grew sharp.

  For a moment, Queens’ expression wavered. Then he pulled himself together, or at least changed tack. “I’ll speak with the doctor when he comes out,” he said.

  “Where and how did it happen?” I asked. I would have to get word to Halima somehow.

  “He was walking away from my hotel, which is around the corner, on the other side of the wall from here. Two men approached him and I saw one of them draw a knife. He fell.”

  “Could you tell anything about the two men?”

  Queens looked startled at the interrogation. “I started toward him, and then two other men picked him up and carried him through the gate. I guessed they would bring him here.”

  At that moment, Selim, the family member who had been sent to guard me, knocked on the door to the doctor’s residence and asked for me. I stepped outside. His face was ashen, eyes worried.

  “He is here,” I assured him. “He will live.”

  Selim’s face relaxed. Perhaps he had some safe way to tell the al Shems in Sana’a. If not, they at least were spared hearing about Ali’s injury.

  “Ey-wah. Yes.” So he spoke a bit of English. Selim smiled and left.

  Back in the living room, Becca turned to Richard Queens. “Did you say Ali was at your hotel?” she demanded. “What was he doing there?”

  Why was Becca so interested and concerned? She was a sharp interrogator at every turn.

  Queens remained impassive. “We had just met and were discussing a business deal,” he said.

  Becca looked as suspicious as I felt. “Oh, yeah, sure, Ali is a teenage businessman. And no doubt you are here in Sa’da on a good will mission.”

  Her tone was sharp, but she had a point.

  The Brit never lost his equilibrium. “Doing business in Yemen requires dealing with a number of people.”

  Just then the Kamps came through the hall from the clinic. They both looked tired, but were ready to be good hosts. “Glad you could make it,” said Jan to Richard Queens, the guest of a guest.

  “Very nice of you to have me,” came the correct response. “I hope your patient is better?”

  “Oh, yes. He’ll do. The young are surprisingly tough.”

  “With your permission, I’ll visit him later,” said Queens. “I have met the man, you see.”

  “It’ll depend on how he is,” said Jan.

  Becca nodded vigorously. Interesting. This open, talkative new friend knew more than she let on. And her hostility sprouted at odd moments, as it already had toward Tom Reilly.

  Nonetheless, I found her liveliness appealing.

  CHAPTER 96

  Its beginning is erupting volcanoes and its end is earthquakes,

  And I fear that catastrophes will take place from Hashid to Bakil [tribal areas].

  The disasters will spread to all the people; spreading to both parts

  Until [the country] punctures its tire.

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

  Ahmad Kutup berated himself over and over. He had failed to save the young hot head from detection, though Allah knows he had tried. Granted, the methods he had to use were dangerous. In this game, there is nothing but danger. Ahmad had to use what was available to him. Clearly, Ali’s leaders had suspected what was afoot and tried to kill the young man.

  They would have succeeded, too, but for the diversion created by that ferengi staying at the Bilqis Hotel. Ahmad himself had been too far behind to help. The other man had run out shouting, confusing Ali’s attackers.

  Halima would never forgive him for any of it. He would never forgive himself. Zuheyla had nearly lost a groom.

  The call to prayer echoed through the walls of Sa’da. Ahmad did what he sometimes was lax about—he carefully performed the ritual wash, spread the small prayer rug provided by the relatives in whose home he hid, and pressing his forehead to the ground again and again, he prayed. Allah is great. There is no god but Allah.

  His faith, which had come and gone during years of study and living abroad, sustained him at this moment.

  Despite his apprehension and grief, the night had just begun. Ali was still not safe. And he wasn’t the only one in danger.

  CHAPTER 97

  He left them immediately afterwards—gone in a moment. He always moved with the alertness of a mind which could neither be undecided nor dilatory, but now he seemed more sudden than usual in his disappearance.

  Jane Austen, Emma

  With our hosts back in attendance and with Ali safely in the care of a no-nonsense Yemeni male nurse, we tucked into an all-American Yemen-style meal of mashed potatoes, tiny but tasty pieces of fried chicken, cherry-flavored jello, green beans, and fresh Yemeni sorghum bread. Chewy, chocolaty American brownies for dessert were cream on the whiskers.

  After dinner, I asked if I could check on Ali and was given permission. Uninvited, Richard Queens came with me.

  Ali was heavily sedated and almost asleep. I studied the face of this young man who had caused so much torment to his family. He was handsome, despite his bandages and the swelling on his cheek and over his eye. Even showing his youth and injuries, he exuded authority. The nurse gently patted the boy’s arm where it lay on the clean but gray clinic sheet.

  Ali, though, was looking past me at Richard Queens. His eyes conveyed an emotion. Possibly fear? Was that caused by Richard or aimed at him as a message?

  The nurse stepped forward and gestured that we should let the boy rest.

  “Let’s go over there,” I suggested to Queens, nodding toward the far side of the room. Having no civilized choice, he came. I gabbled about the number of gunshot wounds Dr. Kamp was seeing, and how violent Sa’da’s streets seemed to be. He was too much of a gentleman to walk away or tell me to shut up.

  All the time I talked, I thought about Halima and how she would react if she were here. She would be soothing and loving, I was sure. Relatives might bring dishonor on the family, but the women never turn them out.

  Becca had come back in with Dr. Jan, who checked Ali and nodded to the nurse. “Okay. Your turn,” the doctor said to Richard. “Don’t keep him talking long, please.” He strode back to the residence area of the clinic. The Yemeni nurse stood unobtrusively near Ali’s bed.

  Queens approached the bed and looked for a long moment at Ali. The air lay thick between them. “Young fool,” he said. “Who were they?”

  Ali may not have wanted to talk to Queens, but in any case, he didn’t know me and obviously wasn’t about to say anything under the current circumstances. He turned his face toward the pillow. I was sorry not to learn more, but not regretful I’d prevented a tête-à-tête. Ali was involved in something distressing and dangerous. Was Queens in on it, too?

  Queens stared at Ali, who now had his eyes shut. “I will come back and talk to you later,” he said to the young man.

  Was that a threat or a promise?

  CHAPTER 98

  Said II presently put down his gun and played to us on his pipe; the maize pancakes cooked in the embers; the little twigs leaped glowing as they burned, lifted themselves in one last spasm and twisted into red rods before they fell to ashes, or the wind carried them off In sparks; the in the dusky light only the men’s curved daggers with their cornelian bosses shone…

  Freya Stark, The Southern Gates of Arabia

  We all checked on Ali, who was sleeping peacefully. Queens said goodnight before heading off to his dubious two-sheeter, and Becca had gone upstairs to the room we would share. I would probably never spend another night in Sa’da. As we’d helped move the injured man into the clinic, the stars shone brightly in the Bethlehem-like streets of this ancient city.

  “Would you mind escorting me on a walk?” I asked Queens. He might be less than eager to return to his hovel of a hotel. “I’d like to see Sa’da by night. Maybe Becca can come, too.”

  There was a perceptible pause before Queens’ polite acceptance of my proposa
l. “Yes. Of course. Do you plan to get a jacket?”

  I nodded and proceeded upstairs to my room.

  My co-hort was in a Mother Hubbard flannel nightgown reading when I entered. “A walk, huh?” she snorted. “Not for me, thanks! But I’m happy that you don’t like the guy.” At least her irrepressible humor was still in effect after the turbulent evening.

  “I didn’t say I find him unattractive,” I answered sharply. “I simply said that doesn’t mean romance.”

  Making a face at Becca’s wry look, I closed the door softly, to not disturb our overworked hosts.

  A servant let us out of the house, reminding me that the night guard would open the door when I came back. I avoided stepping in the dark marks where Ali al Shem’s head had lain.

  “Let’s walk on the wall,” I said. The night was so still, with everyone indoors, I found myself whispering.

  The narrow steps to the top of the wall were black against the star-studded firmament. High altitude thinned the air. Sa’da had no neon signs or even bright street lights to create light pollution. As far as one could see in any direction stretched a panoply of stars, a sky full, brilliant, twinkling, appearing close in a way that is virtually lost in most urban environments. This alone was worth coming for.

  From the ramparts, the scene was breathtaking: white lace gypsum patterns on minarets; solid but asymmetrical houses, all with upturned corners; breast-like domes of prayer houses and baths. A hazy nimbus surrounded the larger planets. The sky was deep, velvet, infinity blue. I stood there in my wrinkled clothes, just looking. Breathing. Shivering. Wrapping my arms around myself.

  And then two arms came from behind and locked themselves around my waist…

  I nearly jumped off the wall. It was friendly, though. And a bit more. I didn’t scream or pull away. I didn’t do anything, in fact. Just continued standing there in Queens’ arms, unbidden tears filling my eyes at the beauty of the moment. Maybe I cuddled back just a little.