Deadline Yemen

by Peggy Hanson

  It was expected that we would stop for a moment, too. No one would simply walk past a scene of such turmoil.

  Mohammad lay outside the building now. An old woman was arranging his arms. Men were asking “who?” and “how?” We made little gestures of distress at sudden death, hands to mouths, and fluttered on past.

  The distress was very real on my part, as it was on Halima’s. I felt responsible for the poor man who’d been assigned to watch me. If I hadn’t been sneaking around Shibam, would he still be alive? I was willing to bet on it.

  And Larry… Well, assuming he was in some plot against all of us, I had fewer regrets about him, but still… I suspected that as an addict, he was being used by someone.

  The black and white cat awaited us near the house where we’d left the men. I bent to stroke his fur and got a playful bite in return. If only he were a trained retriever to whom we could give the plastic bags full of disguises! It wasn’t clear how we’d get them into the room.

  It also wasn’t clear whether Richard and Ahmad were still in the room with the barred windows. Two men stood in the street nearby, smoking, so we couldn’t approach. We walked past daintily, trying to look as though we were headed elsewhere.

  Around the next corner a hole-in-the-wall bakery stood beside a tiny hat-selling establishment. Halima stopped first at the bakery and ordered a couple of small, heavy loaves of hubz, which went into her plastic bag. Then she glanced both ways and stopped at the other shop and bought two conical, straw, witch-like hats.

  I hid my surprise. Surely this wasn’t a moment for frivolities. It was, however, a moment to trust a friend, so I watched as she rolled the hats and tucked them into the sleeve of her balto. “Just in case,” she whispered.

  As women, we couldn’t loiter very long without drawing attention, or having other women stop to talk. More and more people were out in the late afternoon streets, which felt like a layer of protection.

  We made our way back past the room where we’d left the men. The cat must belong near here, because there he was again, tail up to greet us.

  Halima knocked on the door softly and pushed it open. We slipped inside and shut the door.

  Richard and Ahmad were no longer there, despite our orders. Neither was Larry, the guy I’d hit over the head. The cat curled around my legs. I felt grateful to him and broke off a piece of hubz to feed him. We set the bags with the baltos and burqas in a corner.

  “Let’s get out of here,” I whispered.

  Halima put her finger to her lips and listened intently.

  The black and white feline stiffened, green eyes staring at a corner of the room in that unnerving way cats have.

  There it was. A slight rustle in the corner, back beyond the old door and other store-room miscellany. A rat, or other vermin?

  Instead of investigating the noise, the cat jumped gracefully to the window and wove himself out between the bars. Not a good omen.

  Still, we had to investigate. Where had the men gone? What about Larry, whom I’d bashed with the pitchfork?

  I pulled some of the debris aside to peer into the corner. Straw lay everywhere.

  In the straw, clad in the ubiquitous plastic flip-flops of Yemen, there was a foot.

  CHAPTER 120

  “As far as I was concerned, I was quite determined not to venture into the western borderland without the support of someone whose name carried authority beyond the borders of Shibam…”

  Freya Stark, The Southern Gates of Arabia

  I reached back to tap Halima on the arm, and pointed. She gasped, then grasped the plank I was holding up and helped me move it to one side.

  The thin man who’d come with us from Sa’da lay there, bound and injured! My old friend, Scarface. He hadn’t been here before. His face was a mass of bruises and the groans were the only sign he was returning to consciousness. When he tried to stand, he could hardly walk. His eyes burned with fury.

  It wasn’t easy to get the knots undone. Whoever had put him here had intended for him to stay. Halima found the pieces of glass we’d used on Queens and Kutup and eventually, with a few cuts, he was free. As I cut, I noticed how neat the knots were—tied by a master.

  He shook his hands and feet to get circulation going, and drank the water we offered with gratitude.

  Halima launched into an inquisition. “Who are you? What happened? What are you doing here? Where are your companions?” Then, in an urgent whisper, “Where is my brother?”

  The poor man managed to tell us a few things. His name was Kamal. He worked for Ahmad. He had come to Shibam with Mr. Queens and Mr. Ahmad, to meet someone. They were invited to this house by three men, and taken upstairs to the mufraj. “Mr. Queens told me to go back, check on the driver, and have some food, so I left.”

  We gave Kamal more water and some of the food the women had given us. Gently but firmly, Halima asked him to go on.

  “When I returned, there was no one here. I knocked and got no answer, then came into this bottom door. Someone hit me. After that, I do not remember.”

  “Do you know who tied you up and gagged you?” I managed a little Arabic, helped by a liberal use of gestures.

  “I did not see.”

  We were running out of time. Someone could come here at any time. “Can you walk?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then take this balto and burqa, quick!” I was beginning to appreciate our black coverings. They really are unparalleled as a disguise.

  The thin man’s ankles and plastic flip-flops showed under the bottom hem. We’d have to risk that.

  “Walk between us,” whispered Halima. “Bend over a little, like an old woman. We will try to shield you.”

  With Kamal in tow, it was too dangerous to go back to the bustling parking plaza, at least for a while, to see if the car still waited. So we headed away, deeper into the narrow alleyways, cool now with evening, filled with playing children and the scent of lavender along the window sills.

  CHAPTER 121

  The Lion was filled with nervous energy, his bright eyes darting back and forth during a conversation, his hands always sawing the air. Though his face was haggard and drawn, his brilliant smile made him look less careworn and younger than his years.

  Steven C. Caton, Yemen Chronicle

  Tom Reilly choked on dust. They weren’t going far, but the road up to the mesa was rough. Too far for Tom.

  The view was good: mesas blushing pink in the sunset, the wadi below a darker purple. Besides the view, the only thing that made this assignment bearable was qat. He and his companions all had cheeks full. Nobody talked.

  Hussein drove like a madman.

  CHAPTER 122

  One is always being warned in church about sins that one would otherwise not think of; perhaps the horse, brought up in a clerical atmosphere, was accustomed to preventive treatment: but he was obviously happy to get away with me by himself at last. From his added height and from the top of one of the little hillocks, I looked over the ruined city of the past.

  Freya Stark, Southern Gates of Arabia

  At the far side of Shibam from the little plaza where I’d left my taxi—a lifetime ago, this morning—we found a wooden gate leading to the palm grove behind the city. Date-gatherers used it, I guessed. Probably other agriculturists. It would be closed tight at night, as it had been for centuries. Three women would stick out exiting through that gate. In the Hadhramaut, only Bedouin women tending goats or crops would be outside the city proper.

  Behind the shelter of the gate, which thankfully stood open, Halima and I loosened the burqas so more of our faces would be exposed, à la Bedouin women. Halima bent down to get some dust and rubbed that into my face. Then she handed me one of the conical hats and I put it over the shawl on my head. She put one on, too. We didn’t have one for Kamal, but he bent dutifully and limped, like a woman too old to be working in the sun. Somehow, we had to get to the road and from there to the hotel, out in its oasis.

  Viewed from windows, we
would not present an incongruous picture walking through the grove. How ingenious of Halima to pick up the hats! My basic tenet of trusting friends was borne out once again.

  Sunset touched the tops of the palm trees, turning them pinkish gold. I glanced back at Shibam. This eastern side was entirely in shade. To the left, faded green pillars framed a window, a focus of color in the white and tan city. Perhaps the pillars belonged to the home where we had been cared for by the women. Was it my imagination that someone stood there on the balcony, looking our direction?

  At first it seemed comforting. Then I felt exposed and vulnerable.

  Calls to evening prayer echoed from the ancient city behind us. I had no idea how we would get back to the Howtah Hotel. It seemed more like a mirage than an oasis at the moment.

  Halima and I separated, as though we sought wayward animals. Each of us carried a long stick. How strange we must look, with our pointed hats over loose black garments. Because we wanted to emulate low-class, animal-tending women, we pulled our skirts up a bit, which allowed us to move faster. Kamal edged along beside Halima, like an elderly aunt, even grabbing her arm from time to time. Poor man. He needed to do that, after the rough treatment he’d received.

  I twisted my ankle on the rutted road. Pain shot through my leg and I gasped. Halima was there to take my arm. “No, no. Rest a minute.”

  “We don’t have a minute, Halima.”

  That turned out to be true.

  From behind a palm grove came a small group. They would cross our path just ahead. My heart was in my throat. After all this, were we to be stopped now?

  We slowed our pace, searching behind bushes or rocks, as though we sought animals. Halima’s eyes met mine, firmly, but with a touch of fear. Kamal no doubt felt both fear and the humiliation of being dressed as a woman in front of other men.

  Suddenly, as the other group got closer, Kamal uttered a string of guttural Arabic curses. Was this the group that had captured and tied him up?

  I looked for a way out. There was none. We would just have to trust our disguises.

  CHAPTER 123

  Roads have a significance for the Arabs verging on the sacrosanct, and in Arabia one of the most important rights is the right of passage. The Islamic era begins with a journey—that of the Prophet Muhammad from Mecca to al-Madinah; pilgrimage is one of the Pillars of Islam…

  Tim Mackintosh-Smith, Yemen, Travels in Dictionary Land

  I was filled with reckless abandon. My view of death had changed over the course of this trip. It seemed to lurk everywhere, almost commonplace. You couldn’t call my attitude courage, just accepting fate.

  I looked closely as the men approached and felt suddenly like swearing à la Kamal. The ragged pair of “Yemeni” men approaching looked familiar.

  “Ahmad? Richard? What are you doing?” I didn’t shout or wave my arms. I think I just whispered it.

  They bore down upon us. Kamal slipped behind a tree long enough to get out of the balto and burqa. No doubt he would rather die than be seen dressed as a woman. I now understood the curses. To be seen by men in women’s garb! To be seen this way by the men to whom one had sworn fealty… He now crossed to them, daring them with macho stride to refer to his disguise.

  Alhamdidilah, praise be to God, they did not.

  “Good man,” said Ahmad to Kamal.

  “Well, hello.” Richard’s tired voice, aimed at me, still held that flirty tone, as though we had run into each other in a London street and all kinds of possibilities might ensue.

  Get a grip. Was that aimed at Richard, or possibly myself?

  “Where is Ali?” Halima’s voice, high and urgent. She had replaced the burqa. Just as Kamal didn’t want to be seen dressed as a woman, Halima didn’t want to be seen by men out of her usual garb.

  “No time now,” said Ahmad. He had glanced around, and urged us all to continue walking away from Shibam, now a glorious silhouette against the sunset, framed by palm trees.

  “Follow us,” whispered Richard. Our two groups separated to head toward the road. Kamal, freed from his balto, walked with the men. Halima and I stayed well behind, still in our conical hats.

  Ahead was the paved Shibam-Seiyun road. Mirage-like. Traffic was sparse, but by no means non-existent. We had to be cognizant of the watching windows from Shibam, though some distance now stretched between us and the town.

  A well-used SUV stopped along the road. Ahead of us, the men got into it. We had to join them, but how to do so unobtrusively? I stepped wrong, and sharp pains shot through my twisted ankle. Halima grabbed my arm as I hobbled as fast as I could, every step excruciating. We finally struggled to the SUV and tumbled in.

  A bird sang its evening concerto in one of the straggly thorn bushes interspersed with palms.

  CHAPTER 124

  Three women were almost more than the holy city of Tarim could bear, and the sayyids kept away when we all drove out together.

  Freya Stark, A Winter in Arabia

  I sat with Halima in the back seat, so I leaned forward to address the men. “See how much trouble you caused yourselves? You shouldn’t have left me in the hotel to start with.” It wasn’t gracious, but I couldn’t resist venting.

  Halima had but one thought. “Where is Ali? Oh, where is he?” Tears welled in her eyes.

  Ahmad, sitting in front with the driver, concentrated on managing our retreat from Shibam. “Just move fast,” he said to the driver. And to the rest of us: “Crouch down.” His voice sounded weary and wary at the same time.

  Once the car had accelerated over bumps and headed along the road, Richard turned from the middle seat with a wry grin. “If we hadn’t left you, you couldn’t have saved us back there. Thanks for that, by the way.”

  Halima and I shared our space with a pile of rifles and other military-style gear. “Who the hell are you guys? Who do you work for? And where are we going?” I spoke low and fast, so the driver wouldn’t be able to catch it all.

  Glancing at Halima’s drawn face, I repeated her question, “And where is Ali al Shem?”

  CHAPTER 125

  “If I meet with no insuperable difficulties, therefore, consider that point as settled.”

  Jane Austen, Emma

  Alex Metzger had paid little attention most of the way, dozing and snacking, but the road trip had given her time to think.

  The drive from Sana’a had been long and tedious, the driver chewing qat the entire time. The man sitting beside him carried a rifle, but he, too, chewed qat.

  She was in uncharted waters. Alex was used to setting goals which she instructed others to meet. This time, much was out of her hands. Her goal was clear, but she felt none of the excitement she usually experienced when on a personal mission.

  Her m.o. for getting her own way had served her well in many ways. Selfish, yes. She admitted that. Effective, though.

  But it had not always brought happiness.

  For a moment, she thought of Petrovich. Michael. The fling they had had so long ago. She could not yet think of Christine, except indirectly. Her baby.

  At this point, she wasn’t sure what was selfish. She just knew she had to do it. Her usual bulldozer approach would have to help her achieve her aim.

  Ironic. This might be the least selfish goal she had ever set. It might well also be the last.

  CHAPTER 126

  “Thank you, but I would rather you did not mention the subject to her; till the time draws nearer, I do not wish to be giving anybody trouble.”

  Jane Austen, Emma

  From the front seat of the SUV, Ahmad’s tense but cultured tones drifted back. “Never mind who we are. It doesn’t matter.”

  Richard looked straight ahead.

  “It does matter,” I retorted. “You ask for total trust from us. You give us none. Do you know anything about Ali al Shem?” I didn’t care that I was barging in between relatives. Halima had asked and not received an answer from her cousin.

  Ahmad turned his bruised and battered face
toward Halima. “Ali is all right. Do not worry.”

  “Do you know where he is?” Her voice was worried, stern.

  “I do not. Not exactly. No.”

  “Then how can you say he’s all right?” Despair tinged the frantic questions.

  Ahmad said, “Just trust in Allah.”

  Before Halima could retort—and this was a difficult comment to retort to—Richard finally spoke. “I agree that thanks are in order for what you have done. But for the sake of all that is holy, stay out of things now.”

  “What will we be staying out of?” I didn’t care if I nagged. I was tired of wandering around in a maze, where people dropped dead for no obvious reason and one didn’t know who were the good guys.

  “We have work to do,” said Richard, finality in his voice. “You must stay out of it. Go back to the hotel room and we will come when we finish.” He paused. “Please.”

  Halima and I looked at each other from our uncomfortable perches on the pile of guns. My own exasperation was reflected on her face. But no use arguing.

  “Okay,” I lied. “We’ll go back to the room.” I winked at Halima.

  * * * *

  The sun was well behind peach-hued mesas when we drove up to the Howtah, sitting in her oasis like a prim dowager wearing a crenellated tiara. Lights in front of the hotel had come on, accentuating scalloped mud brick walls.

  “We’ll get out here,” whispered Richard, taking my hand to help me out. Ahmad reached for the other hand, while Halima scrambled out herself. Brave and open she might be for a Yemeni woman. Still, no man but a husband, brother, or father could touch any part of her body to help her, and they all knew it. Even Ahmad, a cousin, was too distant a relative to take such liberties. Ahmad and Halima were distant enough relatives to marry, after all.