Deadline Yemen

by Peggy Hanson

  Halima knew where we were going. In the spirit of the chase, we ducked around corners from time to time. Handicapped by the face-hiding burqa, I couldn’t tell who else was in the street.

  As we stood in one of the shady streets, I leaned momentarily against a door behind us. It creaked and slowly opened, causing me to fall backward, almost to the ground. My heart pounded. I expected the worst. But no one appeared. Midday ghosts.

  Then a man came around the corner.

  It was my guardian. He stumbled toward us, gasping. A trail stretched behind him, red that turned rust as it hit the clay. One hand clutched his abdomen.

  I thought of Michael Petrovich, who had died at the Dar al-Hamd, and Christine, struck down in Nello’s cafe. This was no game. It was a nightmare.

  As Halima and I stood in the open doorway, the man fell at our feet.

  “How…” he began. Then, urgently, “Sheikh. Here. Help.” Halima bent close to his ear to hear more, trying to hold the man’s futha against the knife wound as he struggled to talk.

  “He seems to think the whole group is here in Shibam,” she translated to me. Turning again to the man, she said, “Ey-wah, we will help. Where are they?” The man pointed down another alley. Then he crumpled into a heap, blood mixing with the dust, and lost consciousness. Without thinking, we pulled him toward the open door.

  His feet stuck out the doorway. I prayed we were not hurting him more as we tugged.

  A beam of sunlight shone through the partially-closed door into the dark room where we’d taken refuge. It blinded me. I threw off the burqa. For a moment, I couldn’t see properly.

  When I could, it was clear that my bodyguard or shadow, whatever he was, was in a bad way. I leaned down to open his shirt to see if I could stanch the blood. Halima pulled his legs straight and found a gunny sack to put beneath his head.

  I grabbed the bottle of water I’d been carrying around all day and held it to his lips. He couldn’t drink. I wet the hem of my balto and wiped his face. Even without any medical training, I knew it was hopeless. A couple of seconds of horrible choking, a few spasms. That was all. The spark of life in his staring eyes died. Blood ebbed slowly from his body.

  CHAPTER 113

  Verily, O God, we implore you to spare us from calamities.

  Verily, I say good evening, I am of men who love war.

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

  Richard Queens looked over at his companion. He had never met Kutup before Sa’da. He’d heard of him, of course. Anwar, the trusted Sana’a contact, had high praise. Others derided Ahmad as a rich adventurer, self-interested and haughty. Someone to handle with care.

  At this point, Ahmad didn’t look the part of a wealthy lawyer. He looked like a qabili, or tribesman.

  In fact, Richard tended to side with Anwar on the subject of Kutup. The man had performed what had to be considered miracles in Sa’da. Much as he hated to admit it, Kutup had saved his life.

  It looked as though he might be called on to do it again.

  CHAPTER 114

  The rest of the day, the following night, were hardly enough for her thoughts. She was bewildered amidst the confusion of all that had rushed on her within the last few hours.

  Jane Austen, Emma

  Halima and I stared at each other, aghast. She had torn away her burqa, too, to try to help. All in vain.

  Here we were, stuck in a downstairs shed with a dead body. The man had been protecting me, perhaps trying to warn me. He was another valuable human being, no doubt with a wife and children, and he had come to an end here at our feet. Whoever had slashed him could be following—could come around the corner at any moment.

  Halima reached down and with infinite gentleness shut the staring eyes. She touched his face and whispered words from the Koran. “His mother or wife would want us to do this.”

  I stood, numb in shock.

  But then self-preservation took over. “I’ll get his legs,” I said, and lifted them so I could shut the door.

  But the blood trail would lead any follower straight to us.

  “Let’s pull him outside. That way someone will find him.” But how much time did we have? We couldn’t take the chance. We were fortunate that no one had come by yet. I shook my head. “No. Leave him here, half in and half out, and we’ll make a run for it.”

  It was my turn to touch the man’s lifeless face. I uttered thanks to him for the service he had rendered me. Halima recited another brief Islamic prayer. Poor man. Who would kill him? And why?

  Was he killed because of me? I have never felt more guilty. Or frightened.

  CHAPTER 115

  “Trifles,” he said: “the things that women think of.” The harim [women of the house] and I looked at each other regretfully, but we knew our places well enough to say no more about it.

  Freya Stark, The Southern Gates of Arabia

  Burqas back in place, Halima and I left the storeroom, stepping around the body. “Walk normally,” I whispered.

  In the face of adversity, I once more appreciated anonymity, though the baltos were hot. They were also a little sticky with the man’s blood. We tried to hide the spots by moving very close together.

  Perhaps eyes watched us from the latticed windows above. If so, I hoped they were feminine eyes.

  We headed into the narrow canyon of the street our dying friend had indicated. If the others were here, we had to find them.

  The afternoon lull was broken occasionally by shrill voices of children playing in the street, or the baa of a goat.

  Using subtle gestures and hand squeezes to communicate, Halima and I paused to regroup. Like gossiping females, we leaned against a wall, heads together. My horror was echoed in Halima’s eyes.

  “I hate the thought of leaving him in the dust,” she said.

  “Someone will find him soon.” I patted Halima’s hand.

  We were about to move on, looking for the men we had lost, when from inside the thick mud wall, I heard something. Voices came from behind the door. Not qat-laden. Not businesslike. Not even speaking Arabic. Murmuring. Could this be the place my ill-fated guardian had pointed toward? My heart raced. I pressed my ear closer to the wall, casually, signaling to Halima to do the same. No one appeared to be in the street.

  A well-fed black and white tomcat jumped into an unglassed, barred window behind us, tail switching, green eyes gleaming. The cat came right toward me. “Are you a hunter? Come, kitty kitty.” I whispered. Reaching to pet him gave me an excuse to peer in the window. I received a scratch on my finger as reward. The cat had his own agenda and wasn’t in a cuddly mood. But I stood close to the window sill and could hear more.

  Signaling Halima, I pushed on the door. To my surprise, it creaked open. No doors in Shibam were locked, apparently. With a quick glance over our shoulders, Halima and I exerted more pressure and slipped inside. We were seeing more of this World Heritage site than we’d expected.

  Besides the window occupied by the cat, there was no source of light in the room. We could barely see. Swatches of hay indicated the room was used as a stable, here at the base of the house. But this stable wasn’t occupied by cows and sheep. On the floor, writhing and bound, lay Richard Queens and Ahmad Kutup.

  CHAPTER 116

  “Well, he is coming, you see; good news, I think. Well, what do you say to it? I always told you he would be here again soon, did not I?”

  Jane Austen, Emma

  “Tied up again, are you?” I couldn’t keep sarcasm out of my tone, murmured as it was. I was still furious at being drugged and left for useless back at the al Howtah. But this was becoming even more serious, and their friend’s death at our feet raised compassion for them, as well as the victim. I dreaded telling them. Because the guard had signaled down this alley, they must have been in communication with him somehow.

  Richard glared at me. “Just undo the knots. Cut them. Fast!”

  Halima sounded frightened. “W
here is Ali? Oh, where is he?”

  Silence from the men. Then Ahmad spoke. “We saw him. He wants you to be safe.” Ahmad didn’t meet her eyes.

  “He is a fool. All men are fools.” Halima had pulled off her burqa. She looked at both men with disgust.

  While I worked on Richard’s bound hands with a piece of broken glass lying in the room, Halima occupied herself with Ahmad, who seemed in worse shape than Richard. He’d been hit across the face and had bled copiously. All in all, there was a lot of blood. I’d nicked Richard’s wrists and my own fingers when cutting him loose.

  As I cut through the last rope, we heard footsteps outside the door.

  CHAPTER 117

  “A cat is nobody’s fool.”

  Heywood Broun

  The cat was the first to respond. It jumped from the sill into the room, apparently choosing known evils over whatever approached. Halima slipped down behind an old door leaning against the wall.

  I jumped behind the door we’d come in, sharing space with a wooden pitchfork. Richard and Ahmad lay quiet, hands behind their backs, as though they were still tied. All of us waited.

  The door opened and closed again. Only one person entered, and it was hard to see features clearly in the dimness. An enemy? Waiting could be fatal, and my hiding place had disappeared with the closing of the door.

  I flew toward the figure, pitchfork in hand. He looked in my direction. All I could see were a turban and a beard. I suppose in the dimness I resembled an Amazon wielding Poseidon’s weapon. Without a second thought, I banged the heavy tines down on the intruder’s head. He sank to the floor.

  Had I killed him? I’d never killed anyone. I shuddered and staggered.

  Richard and Ahmad were on their feet before the body hit the floor. Both reached down to check on the man I had struck down. I looked the other way and wrapped my shaking arms around myself. Halima crawled laboriously out of her space, her balto catching on nails. Halima was too much of a lady to swear, but angry grunts and whispered exclamations came from her part of the room.

  “What happened? Who is it?” My voice sounded squeaky.

  “He is an American.”

  “Dressed as a Yemeni?”

  “That’s right.” Ahmad’s tone held utter contempt. He touched my shaking shoulders. Richard’s arm came around the other side. I summoned up courage to turn and look at the figure at our feet. Then I collapsed.

  Sitting on the floor, solicitous men on both sides, I lowered my head between my knees and breathed deeply. “I’m okay, I’m okay.” I brushed the arms away. I hate feeling smothered, and so many arms felt like being hugged by an octopus.

  Then a gentle touch, and Halima’s voice in my ear. “Elizabeth, we must go. Can you stand?” Trust a woman to get to the heart of things!

  “I’m up. I’m getting up.” Again, lots of male help, but now I could use it. And I had to know. “Did I kill him?”

  “Not quite.” Richard’s voice was low and ominous.

  “Let me look at him again. I need to know what I did.”

  They moved. The man lay very still. The straggly beard and turban disguised him, but I recognized him. Larry. The guy I’d discounted as a minor nuisance at Tom’s party and in the streets of Sana’a. The one I’d seen with Christine at Wadi Dhar and later at the Dar al-Hamd. And earlier today at the al Howtah. Apparently I had struck down a ghost who was capable of being everywhere at once.

  “What’s he doing here? Did he tie you up?” I couldn’t keep a trace of scorn from my words. Two strong men captured by a scruffy young American?

  “He was one of a group. Oh, for God’s sake, let’s leave before more of them come back.” Richard looked bloodied and fierce. “You two need to get out of here. Now. Go back to the al Howtah Hotel and wait for us. The driver should be where you left him. And where’s Mohammed? I told him to keep an eye on you.”

  It was time for us to give the bad news. “I’m afraid Mohammed was attacked,” I said. “Knifed in the stomach.” I hated to go on with the tale, but had to. “He is dead.”

  Ahmad’s face went slack for a moment. No doubt Mohammed had been a close associate.

  “He came to Shibam with me,” I continued. “He was following us and someone knifed him. He reached us just before he died. That’s how we found you.”

  Ahmad had recovered some equanimity, and with it, urgency. “Did he say anything? Tell me. Did he talk?”

  “He gasped something like ‘how’ and then told us you were here. He died very quickly. We tried to help him, but the wounds were too bad.”

  Ahmad’s hawk-like face took on a stolid expression, which was not echoed in his burning eyes. “I thank you for whatever you did.”

  “I said a prayer,” offered Halima.

  “We closed his eyes,” I said.

  Ahmad looked quizzically at Richard. “What do you think he meant? Had he heard something?”

  “‘How…’ Not very informative as dying words.” Richard shrugged.

  “Not unless he was trying to say something about the al Howtah Hotel…” My voice quavered. Larry lay almost as quiet as dead Mohammad. Despite his easygoing hippie aspect and his near-certain addict status, he was a villain, no doubt. Had he killed Mohammad? If he had, I would feel no guilt in striking him down.

  “We must leave,” said Richard. He and Ahmad seemed to compete in all areas, from taking care of the women to strategizing the next move. He pointed at Halima and me. “You two had better go first.”

  Ahmad looked shocked. “You are letting them go into the streets alone?”

  I had no time for the niceties of male protection.

  “Shut up, both of you. What do we do when we get to the al Howtah?” I wasn’t about to be banished from the action.

  “Here’s a phone number. Call it. Say ‘N reports tonight.’ Then hang up quickly.”

  “N? Is that you?”

  “Never mind,” Richard said, “Just be sure someone at that number gets the message.” He leaned over and kissed me full on the lips.

  I gasped. Ahmad and Halima looked shocked, as well they might.

  “Sorry. Just had to do that. We got interrupted before.” Richard turned away.

  I caught my breath, glared, and got back to business. “Where will you go?” I asked, “How will you get out unseen?” How had they even reached this place in this tight-knit high-rise community? Everyone knew everyone, and men didn’t have the automatic disguise that women did.

  Good grief. Was I becoming attached to the lovely disguise of the balto?

  “We will work out something,” said Richard. “Someone is coming.” Men always think they can solve everything.

  “No, we will figure out a plan.” Halima’s voice brooked no argument. “Come, Elizabeth. And you two wait here!”

  We left the men open-mouthed with surprise.

  CHAPTER 118

  Greetings to the poet al ’Uwal, our affection

  [Greetings as great as] their floodwater irrigates in every wadi the parched earth.

  O God who art one, with regard to the point you mentioned, our sentence is:

  No one wants his group to work for nothing.

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

  Ali lay behind the mud-brick wall, shaded by a tamarisk tree. Every bone in his body hurt. He thought with longing of the clean sheets at the clinic in Sa’da, of the gentle hands caring for him there.

  But a warrior never gives up. Ali would not do so. He took a sip from the water bottle his cousin had pressed into his hand. Perhaps the rough training from the camp had helped him survive the attack in Sa’da. He was tougher now.

  Soon he would have to be the toughest he had ever been, to meet the coming crisis. Loyalty and honor had to be fulfilled.

  Flies buzzed around his bloody, bandaged head. He slept.

  CHAPTER 119

  “The custom of friends, if anything happens, is for the one friend to give the other his
life.”

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

  Halima and I slipped out the door and headed into the cool evening streets of Shibam, past a mosque with the obligatory fountain for washing before prayer. The cat followed us, tail in the air, expressing friendship.

  People were stirring after the mid-day nap. Shadows grew purple in the canyon of streets. Soon would come the late afternoon call to prayer—and then every man would be walking in the direction of a mosque. Haste was necessary.

  We hadn’t said a word to each other, but both of us knew where we were headed. Back to the harem—the womb, as I thought of it. Back to a sisterhood that would give us any support we needed.

  “Min?” came the gentle voice when we used the big brass knocker. “Who is it?”

  “Ana. It is I.”

  The door swooshed open and we were ushered in by eager hands, patting us and giving welcome. I caught part of the conversation on the stairs. “Quick, we need baltos and burqas! Two. Large! No, I can’t answer questions. Oh, thank you, thank you. Shukran, shukran.”

  The disguises went into black plastic bags and we prepared to leave. One of the women ran back and brought us another plastic bag. “It is food. I think you need food.” Bless the dear woman! Exactly what was needed.

  “Do you have any water?” Halima had her hand on the door.

  “Here. Here. Take these bottles. Do you need more?”

  Of course the men would need water.

  It was all we could carry. We hugged and kissed, despite the time constraints. It is the time-honored way for women to express gratitude.

  It was beginning to seem normal to slink around the streets of Shibam. Halima and I went as quickly as we could, given cobblestones and the handicap of not seeing well through the burqas. People were in the streets now. Men returning from prayers. Women going home from tea parties or to buy last-minute things for dinner.

  As we passed the ill-fated building where my guardian had taken his last breath, a crowd had gathered, men yelling and women whispering excitedly. The body had been found. Halima’s hand clutched mine.