Deadline Yemen

by Peggy Hanson

  I drank deeply from the patterned pitcher of water thoughtfully placed in the bathroom, and donned one of the robes hanging on the door. I slipped into the bedroom, turning off the bathroom light behind me.

  Men’s voices came from the other room, all speaking Arabic.

  Beyond exhaustion, I guess I fell into the clean, comfortable bed. Too tired to care, this time I really had been kidnapped, and no one knew where I was.

  CHAPTER 108

  “…Nothing’s more determined than a cat on a tin roof—is there? Is there, baby?”

  Tennessee Williams from The Quotable Cat

  Halima was venturing where Yemeni women do not go. She had had another note from Sa’da, and it was disturbing. The relatives there had sent a sealed message from Ali. Injured as he was, he had a duty to perform before returning to Sana’a. He was, in fact, going to the Hadhramaut. She was not to worry.

  Could Halima put her father through the grief of possibly losing her as well as his son? She put the thought aside. No man could leave the al Shem residence, this was true. Security people watched all the time, and the sheikh was well-known throughout the Old City.

  But someone had to shop every day for vegetables and rice and meat. The maid usually went in her lower-class, Pakistani-made garments over her body, with a strip of black cloth adorned with red circles over the face.

  Halima could borrow these clothes. She was so close to retrieving her brother, she would not quit now.

  CHAPTER 109

  “I felt cheated. A journey without maps was fair enough, but not one with a totally misleading map. And it had been prepared by the British Ordnance Survey, in tasteful colours.”

  Tim Mackintosh-Smith, Yemen, Travels in Dictionary Land

  I awoke groggy. Heavy wooden shutters guarded the garden-side window and daylight filtered in through narrow slits above the door. The effect was of a black and white photographic negative.

  Staggering to my feet, I checked the other bed in my room. The wrinkled bedspread had been slept on, not under.

  No one was there now.

  The door to the adjoining room was closed.

  After washing my face and running fingers through my hair, I was determined to learn more of my situation.

  The door leading outside was locked, with no key visible. So was the door to the other room. I pounded on it. “Ahmad! Richard! Anybody!”

  The door opened slowly, cautiously. A head peeked around, turbaned in red and white checks, tassels flowing. Plump and short body. One of my erstwhile followers since coming to Yemen. “Ey-wah?”

  “Feyn Sheikh Ahmad? Where is he?” I used the respectful term I’d heard the men use to Ahmad. But my voice rose as I cottoned to what was going on. I’d been left with a babysitter. I bet that water last night was drugged. It wasn’t this guy’s fault, but I felt like pounding him with my fists, as the only male representative around.

  The man didn’t speak English, but he maintained his cool. When I gestured hunger, he gestured toward the dining room with a small embarrassed smile. Of course he’d accompany me.

  So I showered and used the complimentary toiletries to freshen up before putting on clothes that were past redemption. Thank heavens for the dry desert air. Not much of a sweat smell. The blood was dry.

  I knocked again on the door to the adjoining room and was politely ushered out to the hibiscus-lined stone path leading to the dining room.

  The waiter showed me to a corner table—bright, sunny, cheerful, and separate from the rest of the room. Large numbers of men were choosing their breakfasts from the buffet. The men were all types: sheikhs wearing turbans and futhas, businessmen in tailored suits, military officers and enlisted men.

  The men in suits and futhas sat together at tables, eating either with their hands or forks and knives. In tribal Yemen, social caste distinctions blur between rural and urban dwellers. Sophisticates from the capital lobby powerful land owners for support. Local sheikhs negotiate for favors from the central government.

  Maybe it was the sunny, cheerful scene. Maybe innate optimism. I felt the first glimmer of happiness in many hours—or days.

  At least I hadn’t been murdered. And Ali had been found. I must try to contact Halima. No, I might be watched. Better let the underground message system do its work.

  The waiter offered to bring my breakfast so I wouldn’t have to rub shoulders with men at the buffet table, but I preferred to make my own choices. Ful muddames, of course, broad, dark beans with a zesty salsa bite. Tomatoes. Cucumbers. White bread for toasting. Pancakes. Hard-boiled eggs. Sausages made from beef in the religiously-approved fashion. And two kinds of honey, one light-colored, one dark.

  “This is the Hadhrami honey,” whispered the waiter, pointing to the darker. “Very good. Very expensive. It comes from bees living near ilb trees in Wadi Do’an.”

  The honey of my dreams. I took a good dollop.

  What had the volunteers at Tom’s party said about honey projects in the Hadhramaut? Pieces of puzzles lay all around me, unconnected and without a discernible pattern.

  As I ate, I had time to think. How would I escape this paradise? Where were Richard and Ahmad? What were they up to? Why were they holding me prisoner?

  The short plump man sat at a table near me, not missing a movement I made, while respectfully not looking at me. Disconcerting. When I went to the buffet table, he went. When I sat down, he sat.

  I did my best to look innocent and respectable, no mean feat with clothes as disreputable as mine were.

  I needed action. It was so frustrating to be left out of things. And under no circumstances could I be this close to the legendary city of Shibam without at least seeing it. My guard twenty paces behind, I went to the front desk at the al Howtah lobby. This would be a test of my imprisonment. How infuriating the over-protectiveness men adopt when they’re sure women will fall apart or be ravaged without armed guards! I could at least do something about myself, if not about the situation that had brought us all to Hadhramaut.

  “I need a car to go to Shibam. Charge it to the room, please.” I cast a rebellious glare over my shoulder at my keeper.

  “Certainly, madam.” The Indian man at the desk spoke perfect English, and did not seem surprised that I would want to visit the Manhattan of the Desert—like old Sana’a, a protected World Heritage site. If he was appalled by my disheveled look, he didn’t show it. Some of the roads into the Hadhramaut are smooth and paved, others are equivalent to dry rocky stream beds. Visitors arriving at al Howtah oasis often look the worse for wear.

  Like the two foreigners checking in while I stood there. Long hair. Filthy clothes. Familiar. My eyes moved from their clothes to their faces. Larry, one of the volunteers I’d met at Tom’s party—the same fellow I’d met in the dark streets of Sana’a the night I was whisked to the Al Shems.’ The one I had seen in that bizarre episode with Christine at Wadi Dhar.

  “Larry?” I ventured.

  “Oh, hiyyah.” He didn’t introduce me to his friend, an amorphous figure in a dusty turban and futha. Another volunteer? Or a Yemeni. It’s hard to tell when expatriates live a long time with the residents.

  “Is this near the village where you work? Beekeeping, was it?”

  “Um hmm. Down the road a ways.” Larry gestured vaguely toward Shibam. He seemed, as he had at Tom’s, hazy and unfocused. Drugs, I was sure. Certainly, they’d been in use at Tom’s, and someone had said they might be a problem for young expatriates around here.

  “See you later, then,” I said, heading off down the hibiscus-lined path to my room. My unwelcome but rather endearing companion followed at a discreet distance.

  I’d do what was needed. The first thing was to retrieve the black, body-length balto I’d worn on the plane. I had a long black scarf to cover my hair, and on a whim grabbed the face-covering burqa, too.

  A plan gathered shape in my mind. It would depend on my shaky Arabic, but that would have to do. I at least had to see Shibam, if only to report
on it. As a counterpoint to that, I remembered that Shibam was small and Halima had relatives there. Maybe I could find Richard and Ahmad or locate Halima’s relatives.

  CHAPTER 110

  Shibam is a sight you will never forget—entering the town for the first time is guaranteed to make you forget the trouble you may have had getting here.

  Lonely Planet Guide to Yemen

  As I expected, my guard jumped into the front seat of the car I rented, beside the driver. Good. Two men would be easier to elude than one. Men are so good at distracting each other.

  Mesas bleached by the midday sun rose on both sides of the wadi. Palm trees flowed like a river between the mesas. I’d grown up in the American Southwest; sunset and sunrise would bring out colors and shadows not evident now.

  In a nearby field, men worked mud into bricks and laid them out to dry. These were clearly destined for the plethora of old-fashioned buildings going up in the wide valley. Buildings in the Hadhramaut had to be traditional style, according to Presidential decree.

  A short ride brought us to the whitewashed gates of the ancient, cube-like city of Shibam. We crept through the gate’s narrow passageway with our Land Rover and parked in the small plaza inside, along with several trucks and buses. I readjusted my black disguise and stepped out to see what I could learn. “I will walk around now,” I said.

  My guard jumped out as I did. The driver stayed with the vehicle.

  The square was lined by buildings that opened onto it—mosques, shops, and the old sultan’s palace. Electric and telephone wires wove an incongruous pattern against ancient walls within the small space. Narrow streets—paths, really—led off in all directions among the city’s mud-brick skyscrapers.

  “City” is not a very good term for Shibam. It is picturesque and photogenic but consists of a small cube in which maybe 500 people have lived for centuries. Everyone here would know everyone else. That was my only hope, though how I could capitalize on it was still a mystery.

  I headed into one of the paths and dived immediately into a shop selling frankincense, myrrh, lovely old wooden door latches—probably illegally taken from homes here—and small trinkets made in India. My guard did not follow me. Inside, two black-clad women were bargaining in low voices. Two more stood outside the open doorway. It seemed a chance to escape my keeper.

  With the friendliness of women everywhere, the women giggled and helped as I donned the black robe and tied on my face-covering burqa. I put a finger to my lips as a sign I didn’t want to be noticed. Asking no questions, they folded me into the group. When two of them left the shop, I trailed close behind, trying to look as though I belonged. The other two fell into loose formation behind me. Nearby, my guardian stood alertly watching the shop.

  I only hoped I could fool Mohammad, or whatever his name was.

  But the man was no fool. As we women made our way up the cobblestoned slit between buildings, my guardian followed along behind, watching closely. He must have suspected I’d try something like this—or had Richard or Ahmad warned him? How was I going to get away from him?

  Suddenly, the woman in front stopped and rapped on a door. A voice came from within. “Min? Who is it?”

  “Ana. It is I.” The door rasped open.

  We all hurried in. I was entering a safe haven from the world of men. The anonymity of the balto and burqa was comforting outside; the handicap of not being able to see or walk well was not. Unlike my jaunty female companions, who had always worn clothing like this, I was hampered by the clothing.

  At least, I felt that way when I wasn’t eager for the disguise.

  We climbed up the dark stairwell single file, black outfits swishing. At one of the middle levels, a door opened and we glided in. The door shut. We were safe in the world of women. Back in the harem, the place forbidden to men. Might as well call it the womb.

  I pulled the burqa off my face and the black headscarf off my hair. So much cooler. And freer.

  My companions were starting to disrobe, too, throwing baltos into the arms of waiting women. Their features were a little different from the women of the north, of Sana’a and Sa’da. More Indian influence—perhaps even a touch of Indonesian, testament to the far-flung circles Hadhrami traders had sailed for centuries. They smiled shyly at me. I grinned back.

  There was still one woman covered from head to foot. Glancing over, I caught a bright gleam of intelligence and sophistication from familiar eyes.

  “Halima!” With one grand gesture she threw off the burqa and balto and we landed in each other’s arms.

  CHAPTER 111

  With insufferable vanity had she believed herself in the secret of everybody’s feelings; with unpardonable arrogance proposed to arrange everybody’s destiny.

  Jane Austen, Emma

  “What on earth are you doing here?” My voice sounded high, shrill, excited—like those of Yemeni women when they are away from men.

  Halima’s story fell into the “only in Yemen” category—modern day Arabian Nights. The relatives in Sa’da had relayed the story of Ali’s encounter with the knife. I couldn’t imagine how, and didn’t ask.

  While Ali was getting his injuries treated in Sa’da, he told his Uncle Selim he had to go to the Hadhramaut. He did not say why. This information was passed to Halima, who took the first plane to Seiyun.

  She knew her brother. If he said he was going to the Hadhramaut, he was going to the Hadhramaut. His bandaged head wrapped in a red-checked kaffiyeh, Ali had been escorted by a female relative (we women were quite useful when the need for secrecy arose). They had been on the same plane we took last night!

  “I was at the airport, but I didn’t recognize any of you!” Even Halima was surprised at the effectiveness of the balto and burqa disguise and Ahmad’s rural dress. Her laugh tinkled when she heard about Richard wearing women’s garb. “No, no, I couldn’t tell! I was too worried about Ali.”

  “Where is Ali now?” I asked. “Is he safe?”

  “He insisted on staying with other relatives here. I do not know why. I hope he will not go out alone.” Halima looked worried. “Where is my cousin, Ahmad? Do you know?”

  By now we sat on cushions in the small women’s mufraj, where latticed windows let puffs of dry air pass through without providing a glimpse to those outside. Unveiled women living in their cocoon.

  I told Halima what I knew, which wasn’t much. The women listened to our conversation in English with open awe and no understanding.

  Gentle hands poured tea and gave us biscuits. A little later, they came with lunch—ful mudammes, the broad beans in spicy sauce; eggplant braised over an open fire; lamb stew in fenugreek, salta. Rice pilav. And for dessert, bint al sahan, “girl of the plate,” covered with the delicate Hadhramauti honey made by bees who sipped at the flowers of ilb trees.

  My guardian waited downstairs like a cat at a mouse-hole. With Halima and a houseful of female accomplices, his wait would surely be in vain.

  It was futile to ask how Halima was related to the Shibam family, whose house we were in. No doubt old Sana’a families were related to old Shibam families, despite years of a Yemen separated into North and South. These are some of the unknown quantities of the orient. Mysteries of the East.

  “Back to Ali. Why did he come? Where is he now?” I pictured the strong young face at the clinic in Sa’da, injured and in pain but not complaining.

  “I do not know.” Halima’s murmur held the tinge of despair. “Ali did not tell anyone. Only that he must come here, said his message. My father wanted to come, too, but is watched by security. He wasn’t happy that I insisted on making the journey.” Halima’s expression was tense, frightened. “I fear something bad.”

  I did, too. Someone had tried to kill Ali. Who? Was he really in with the radical Islamists? Did Halima trust Ali? I couldn’t ask. I just couldn’t. Her whole being told her to save her brother. She had saved him once. And she had saved me. I had to help her.

  But it was time for me to exert a
little authority. “Well, we have to find Ahmad Kutup and the man with him, Richard Queens. They know something. Maybe they’re tied in with your brother.”

  “We’ll go now to learn more,” whispered Halima. I nodded.

  The ladies of the house apparently had no idea we were on a mission. They clucked and cried out over our decision to leave, but accepted it. After re-robing, with lots of help, we were escorted down to the street-level door, where we stooped to exit to the cobblestones. From the latticed window above, someone called softly, “ma’a salaama, goodbye, goodbye.”

  CHAPTER 112

  “I would not go away without seeing you, but I have no time to spare and therefore must now be gone directly.”

  Jane Austen, Emma

  My guardian was still there. I began to think of him almost fondly as a trusty bird-dog, never leaving his post. Through my burqa slit I watched him watch us. Grinning to myself, I tried to act like any Yemeni woman, stepping delicately, shyly through the narrow streets.

  “I have a driver in the main plaza,” I whispered to Halima, not turning to see if we were followed.

  But Halima pulled at my sleeve, guiding us toward the center of Shibam, not the plaza near the edge where cars could park. Mid-afternoon shadows cast by five-story buildings made our surroundings dark and blessedly cool. Tiny shops deep within the warren of streets were closed for the afternoon siesta and qat hour. Where was Halima leading me?

  For once, I stayed silent and obeyed.

  Abruptly, Halima turned off the main lane, pulling me with her. Heart thudding, I pressed up against a heavy wooden door in the mud brick wall. I saw no one in the little street, but where was my guardian? He was a harmless, though unwelcome, guard, with orders to keep me out of trouble. Eluding him had become a game.