‘I see that neither of us has had a good night’s sleep,’ he said, eyeing the end of the bed nervously but cautiously drawing up a chair instead.
‘No, but there’s no time be lost, is there?’ I answered him with a brave smile, ‘A free South Yemen won’t be built in a day, will it?’
He was shaking his head: ‘No, Rozzer, it won’t, but I have reached a firm decision that, after all, this political work is not yours to do. South Yemen is not your country and I believe that you have no clear understanding of the dangers that this struggle may involve. What you have to know is that our president is like an old lion now. He feels that he is losing his power and he is aware that he has made criminal mistakes with national unification. However, the joining of the south with the north of Yemen is the only achievement he feels proud of. The people around him care only about the money of course, but that means they also care about a single, united Yemen. Why? Because Yemen’s only export is oil and most of that oil is in the south.’
‘I’m hearing you…’
‘These are the facts, I’m sorry to say, and they mean that this regime will not hesitate to imprison, torture or kill anyone – I mean anyone – who seeks to destroy the unity and cut off the supply of oil money to the north. You must also understand that among the people clapping and cheering for you last night there was surely one government spy who will be reporting to Sanaa by now -’
‘Treacherous dog!’
‘Yes, Rozzer. Now, listen to me, I have calculated all these risks for myself but I know now that I have no right to place you in danger so I have asked my driver to take you to the airport at Seiyun where you will catch an aeroplane to Sanaa at 3pm. Please be ready to leave at 1.30pm.’
A very pretty speech, but why wasn’t he boldly tackling the subject of the fiasco of the night before? Why wasn’t he royally abusing me for abusing his hospitality and using his home as a set for a bedroom farce? Because, I supposed, like men the world over in my experience, he baulked at tackling delicate subjects head on. Well, I realised, it was his loss because he’d left me a come-back line.
‘What on earth are you talking about, you silly sausage!’ I began with a light laugh, ‘You’re mad if you think that I’d abandon you and the cause now, whatever the dangers! I am going to Seiyun today but I’m going there as arranged to address a rally, not to catch any plane. Flashmans don’t flee, Sheikh Ahmad! There’s only ever been one flaky Flashman and even he was knighted for his services to queen and country. Flashmans – especially on the distaff side of the clan - are people of their word, people of action and daring! Flashmans care about their friends and freedom and patriotism! -’
I was playing for time, while trying to cheer him up and jolly him along because it pained me more than I can say to see him so downcast.
‘No, we will not argue about this, Rozzer,’ he insisted, pounding the palm of one hand with the fist of his other. ‘You are a very remarkable woman but you are not the person to help us win independence and, who knows, perhaps after all independence is an impossible dream-as the Rolling Stones always said something like, what was it, You don’t always have what you like…’
‘What?’ I interrupted him, ignoring his misquote and feigning shock at this resort to an oriental defeatism. ‘Where’s your sticking power? Ever heard of perseverance? – ‘if at first you don’t succeed, try, try and try again’?
‘Rozzer, keep your voice down please, and I cannot listen to your rhetoric this morning thank you. You are forcing me to make myself clearer, to admit that it is your behaviour both at Wuqshan’s – I mean your over-consumption of vodka, of course - and what took place in Jammy’s bedroom last night that have convinced me that you cannot stay.’
At last! Was he going to hit me with the old ‘You’ve let yourself down’ line? No, it seemed, I would be spared that but my back was now against the wall. It was high time I turned the tables on him. Respect was what I was after so respect was what I set about demanding.
‘Are you saying that my position as an MI6 field officer counts for nothing, Sheikh Ahmad? Are you saying that my secondment to the British Foreign Office is just an empty formality? Are you also dismissing my frequent visits to Foggy Bottom and the Pentagon in Washington as a hill of beans? Are you also seriously alleging that my close family connection to our Prime Minister – you should know that my sister-in-law’s brother is married to Tony Blair’s sister – is a flash in the pan? Finally, have you forgotten – perhaps I never mentioned it - that I have a year’s experience of civil conflict and secessionism in the former Yugoslavia under my belt?’
‘Can all this be true, Rozzer?’ His liquorice eyes had widened as I spoke and I thought a first nervous flicker of respect had returned to them.
‘Are you calling me a liar?’ I said, faking furious umbrage, ‘Of course it’s true! I swear it on my icon of St Serafim of Sarov – look!’ I said, showing him my locket. ‘What reason otherwise could I possibly have for being in Yemen at this dangerous time? Just think about it!’
‘But why didn’t you inform me about all this to me before?’ he said, still distrustful.
‘Is that how top-ranking spies behave in your country, shouting about what they’re up to and why? I doubt it very much.’
‘So top-ranking British spies spend their time drinking too much and lying around naked and winking?’ he countered, though with one of his delicious chuckles.
‘Ever heard of “deep cover”, Sheikh Ahmad?’ I was about to retort, but fortunately didn’t because, off hand, I just couldn’t think of a feasible explanation why my job required me to comport myself like a Geordie ladette on a Friday night. Instead, I plotted a far safer course; taking extreme care not to eat humble pie or apologise, not to go anywhere near the ‘sorry’ word, I returned to the fray with a quieter and more formal tone of voice: ‘I understand that you’re offended…’
He didn’t answer. I think he was waiting for me to proceed to a promise to turn over a new leaf and some kind of proof that I had what Catholics call ‘a firm purpose of amendment.’ But he was out of luck, because I needed to say a few words in my defence first.
‘Sheikh Ahmad, I know you’ll agree that conditions in your country – cultural, political, economic and environmental - are such as to drive any sane westerner to the bottle. I would also ask you to bear in mind that I’ve suffered a series of traumas since arriving here in Yemen less than a week ago, every single one of which has amply merited my reaching for a pick-me-up…’
The sheikh inclined - rather than nodded - his head, but I felt my words were not wasted on him.
‘In spite of these objective truths which, I’m sure you’ll agree, go a very long way towards mitigating what you perceive as an offence, I’m prepared to concede that alcohol can cloud my judgment. That being the case, I hereby pledge – once again on St Serafim of Sarov - not to touch another drop of the hard stuff for as long as I am here. Now, let’s move on to consider the facts of the matter of you finding me in Jammy’s bed, shall we?’ I could feel my bowels threatening to liquefy again for this the most delicate area of discussion, but St Serafim kindly came to my rescue and I was able to continue, ‘What you need to understand is that Jammy’s idea of planting me in her bed was “a cry for help”’
‘It was Jammy’s idea? – I don’t understand…’ His eyes had narrowed again.
‘Yes, it was her idea, but it would never have occurred to her if you hadn’t been blinding yourself to her pain,’ I patiently explained, ‘Jammy feels so neglected by you, so passed over in favour of Bushara, so jealous of Bushara’s influence over you that she was prepared to let a stranger enjoy her husband, in the vain and foolish hope that it might break Bushara’s hold over you.’
‘So I am myself to blame!’ he said, striking his forehead, ‘Bismallah! Many western men envy us our cockerel choice of hens but they can have no idea of the headaches it brings! I recall Osama Bin Laden once confiding to me that he loved fighting the war in Afghani
stan because it saved him fighting the war in the bedroom. You see now what a sense of humour he has? But really, in this matter I don’t think he was joking!’
‘Perhaps one day you’ll thank me for showing you the path to making peace in your home,’ I remarked, but Sheikh Ahmad’s quicksilver mind was already elsewhere.
‘But if Jammy was crying for help because I have neglected her, what could make you – an MI6 operative – involve yourself in such a foolish honey trap operation? What was your purpose, your goal?’
‘Oh, nothing really, because I was off-duty; I blame the quality of the vodka,’ I answered him breezily, ‘The Russian meaning of the word vodka is “little water” but actually it’s big, bad stuff! Still, what does any of that matter now that I’ve promised not another drop will pass my lips while I’m here,’ I said, extending a hand to shake his in the only physical contact I was likely to be able to enjoy for a while. I wanted terribly to draw him to me, to kiss those mobile lips of his and smooth his clumpy hair, to smell his personal scent – even if, on that particular morning, that same scent was turning my stomach. But all that was out of the question, of course. Although acting the efficient, controlling boss when I longed to play the ditzy kitten was painful, I courageously persevered: ‘I’m so glad we’ve had this little chat. It’s always good to clear the air, isn’t it? But time is rather of the essence. We’ve got a people to set free and I’ve got a speech to plan so, if you wouldn’t mind…’
‘I will give you just one more chance, Rozzer,’ said Sheikh Ahmad, taking my hint and rising from his chair.
‘Let’s proceed on the basis that we’re both on probation,’ I answered him briskly, ‘My government, but still more my department, values evidence of hard, steady work and application. Lounging around like this, musing on past mistakes and domestic tribulations, is not the way to win the day! What time do we leave for Seiyun?’
‘At 3 o’clock’
‘Excellent!’ I said, thinking that my Immodium would have plenty of time to work its magic.
‘Aziz wants to take photographs of you – he thinks that with Bushara’s help he can print up a few hundred head cloths in time for the rally.’
‘Leave now!’ I commanded. No Yemeni was going to have an image of something a camel belched up – lank-haired and dry-mouthed – on his head cloth.
As soon as the door had closed behind the sheikh, I flicked the wishbone and jumped into the shower.
Chapter Twenty-one
Aziz was on odious form, both noisy and nervy, and a sight for sore eyes in a bilious shade of yellow. ‘Madame Roza, habibti – my darling! I have one ambition left in my life!’ he declared to me, as soon as he arrived in my room, armed with a tripod and a hefty shoulder bag bursting with camera equipment.
‘What would that be, Aziz?’ I asked distractedly, running a comb through my hair. ‘And would you mind keeping the volume down? I’m not feeling too well.’
‘Nothing serious, I hope?’ he answered, but in such a ludicrous stage whisper I had to laugh, ‘Madam Roza, my ambition is to make our movement the second most efficient business in all of Yemen.’
‘Only the second? Why not aim higher?’ Now that I had seen off Sheikh Ahmad’s attempt to expel me and the Imodium had taken miraculous effect, I’d begun envisaging my main role in the project to free South Yemen as that of chief motivator, cheer-leader and general whip-cracker.
‘Why not the first, you ask? Because I want to be realistic. Everyone knows that nothing in Yemen is ever going to run as efficiently as the qat business, although I must say that we are facing a very similar time constraint here. Just as qat must reach the market on the day it’s picked, thousands of our head cloths must reach the rally in Seiyun on the day they’re printed!’
‘But the rally’s today and you’re only just getting around to taking some photos of me,’ I queried impatiently, applying my mascara.
‘Magic!’ he exclaimed with a wide grin, pulling out of his camera bag - like a rabbit out of hat - a ready printed head cloth. ‘Have a look. The quality is excellent, I’m sure you’ll agree!’
For a split second I actually believed that Aziz had worked a miracle – something along the lines of the Turin shroud - but that hopeful hint of the numinous soon evaporated. ‘Aziz, you peanut brain! This is out and out fraud!’ I protested, grabbing the offending article out of his hands and hurling it all the way across my swimming pool, as far as the sofa. ‘Just because I look a lot like Princess Diana, you can’t just pretend that I am her!’
‘But what else could we do, given our deadline? It was Bushara’s brilliant idea actually to simply choose an image from the thousands on the Internet! We’ve had 1,000 printed already in Mukalla and flown up here, and we should have at least another 1,000 ready to take to Seiyun with us!’
‘But did that witless witch imagine that people won’t notice the difference between Princess Diana and me?’
‘Madame Roza, please calm yourself. You must trust me,’
In retrospect, this was the precise point at which I might have averted a dozen violent deaths, plus the creation of twice as many widows and at least four times as many orphans, simply by saying, ‘No. Actually Aziz, I don’t have to trust you,’ reminding him how distinctly untrustworthy he’d already proved himself in the matter of his father’s car radiator. How I wish now I’d refused point blank, then and there, to have anything to do with his gimcrack PR. But instead I listened and relented under the gentle pressure of a shower of perfectly sound reasons why I’d be silly not to go along with his plan.
‘Come on! Yemenis are simple and poor people without access to the Internet or Hello! magazine. Maybe they have heard of Princess Diana but probably they have never seen a photograph of her. Also, shortsightedness is common in Yemen and opticians very few, unlike in Syria where even the president is one, I believe. And another thing; you know how difficult it is for a white person to see the difference between one black man and another, or one Chinese man and another?’
‘Ummm’
‘Well, believe me please when I say that it is sometimes very difficult for an Arab person to see the difference between one white person and another, often impossible, in fact - and when the two white people are as similar as you and Princess Diana!…’
I was beginning to crumble. ‘But are you absolutely sure that people won’t think I’m Princess Diana returned from the dead as a ghost. A ghost could terrify people away from our cause, couldn’t it?’
‘Oh, one hundred per cent sure! We are not children, Madam Roza!’
I’m ashamed to admit that I was now fast coming round to the idea of a mass-produced image of myself minus what I have always judged to be my slightly untidy nose. After all, one could say I’d only been ably airbrushed. And I asked myself, where was the real harm in distributing two thousand Princess Diana head cloths in Nowheresville, Yemen? By the time we were rallying in important public places like Aden and even Sanaa, we’d have millions of authentic Roza Flashman ones to hand out.
‘All right, Aziz, let’s approach Saigon or wherever it is that we’re going today as a dry run, shall we?’
‘Yes, Madam Roza!’ he gasped in relief. ‘Seiyun will be our litmus test!’ Only then did I notice that the underarms of his bile-yellow shirt were soaking. Poor Aziz, I thought, he’s only doing his best for the cause. I told him I hoped he could come to regard me as an ally and partner, rather than as a volatile and demanding taskmistress.
‘… Aziz, we’re all in this together now – one for all and all for one – so support under pressure and understanding when things go wrong must be the order of the day, and a little compassion when it comes to each other’s weaknesses - which reminds me, if you could just see your way to laying your hands on a few cans of beer for me for after the rally, I’d be immensely grateful.’
He looked doubtful and worried again: ‘But I don’t think Sheikh Ahmad…’
‘Our little secret?’ I interrupted him, ‘or would
you like me to kick up a fuss about the head cloths with him?’
‘Just as you say, our little secret, Madame Roza,’ he murmured, with a sigh.
‘Wonderful! Now, I need some time to gather my thoughts and plan my speech. But just before you go, I could really do with some wardrobe advice.’
‘Al-hamdalillah! Thanks be to God that you’ve asked me about this because, not only am I very gifted in this field, but your outfits are a very crucial aspect of our campaign! The colours of the independent south Yemen flag are not the same as those of the Yemeni flag; you must wear some black, white, red but also some light blue…’
‘Really? What a combination! But I suppose it can’t be helped, and green would have been even worse than light blue; I’d have had to get myself up like a Christmas tree, wouldn’t I?’ Giggling at the thought, I flung open my silver suitcase to see what I could find.
‘The dress you were wearing at al-Wuqshan’s last night was most elegant, Madame Roza,’ said Aziz tentatively.
‘What? No, no! I think we can do a bit better than that!’ Here now, what about this?’ I said, unearthing a silk chiffon zebra print top of Fiona’s, ‘This’ll take care of the black and white, won’t it?’ My baby-blue harem pants, and some red ballet shoes with lipstick to match, of course, would cover the rest and complete a feasibly attractive look, I imagined. ‘What do you think, Aziz?’ I asked him, before nipping into my en suite to change.
‘Well, the colours could not be more perfect…’
‘So what’s the problem?’
‘No problem.’
‘Good! That’s that sorted out. Now, time to think about my speech…’
Aziz was almost out of the door when we both realised at the same instant that he’d neglected to take a single photograph of me.
‘You air-head!’ I teased him, planting a kiss on his chubby cheek, ‘You’ve got ten minutes and only ten minutes, and while you’re at it you can brief me a bit, so that I have some material for my speech. I imagine I’ll be addressing a few thousand, will I?’
A Foreign Affair Page 15