by Isaac Hooke
In front of the sheik was a large bowl filled with chicken and saffron rice; a wide plastic sheet protected the floor underneath.
Al-Khayr raised a hand, beckoning him forward.
Ethan complied, passing several AK-47s and PK-10s placed in an orderly line against the wall. He did his best to portray a confidence he didn't feel. Most of the young men regarded him with suspicion, a few, outright contempt.
"As salaamu alaykum." The sheik spoke the traditional welcome in the dialect of the Hadhrami, an eastern tribe. Despite his slight build, his eyes were crafty, intense.
"Wa alaykuma salaam," Ethan answered. The uvular fricative in the word "alaykuma" came easily to him these days, though when he was first learning to speak the glottal sounds he often pretended to gargle water in the back of his throat.
Al-Khayr gestured toward the rice bowl. "Partake, please. We eat early today."
The young militants made room for Ethan. He joined them, grabbing a plate and shoveling rice and chicken into the dish with a cupped palm. Then he sat down and began to eat.
There was a certain way to consume rice with the fingers in polite company. The right hand was used. Since the rice was cooked to a sticky consistency, one could readily grab clumps of it with the fingers. After doing so, one simply raised the hand and used the thumb to slide the grains into the mouth.
"That is an interesting dagger," the sheik said, nodding at the weapon attached to Ethan's belt. "Where did you get it?"
"My father gave it to me," Ethan said between bites.
"May I see it?"
The man was trying to get a feel for him, Ethan knew. Giving the dagger to Al-Khayr would be a tremendous show of trust, as most men never let anyone save immediate family members handle their jambiyah.
Ethan thoroughly wiped his fingers on the provided paper towel and unsheathed the blade, handing it over.
The sheik held the weapon up to the light and reverently studied the pure white ivory handle, which was hewn into the shape of a kneeling man at prayer. The blade scintillated in the light, obviously of high quality, too.
"I will give you four million rials for it." That was roughly equivalent to twenty thousand US dollars.
Ethan smiled inwardly. So Sam had been correct about his zeal for the daggers. Too bad the plan had changed.
"It is not for sale."
Al-Khayr regarded Ethan uncertainly. "Everything is for sale." Obviously he was a man who was used to getting what he wanted.
"Not everything," Ethan said.
The tension in the room increased a notch.
Abruptly Al-Khayr broke into a smile.
"You are right," the sheik agreed. "Some things cannot be bought. Loyalty, for example."
Al-Khayr handed back the dagger and the tension dissipated. That he had returned the blade showed he trusted Ethan to a degree, especially since he must have realized the weapon was slightly more than ceremonial, with a blade like that.
When they finished eating, the group members lounged Yemeni-style on their sides, elbows propped on cushions. They took care not to point the soles of their feet at anyone else.
The sheik placed some bukhoor—incense made from woodchips soaked in scented oil—inside a vase-shaped burner. As the hot stone heated the woodchips, the fumes filled the air with the sweet, smoky smell of frankincense.
"What do you think of what we do here?" Al-Khayr said into the silence.
Every eye in the room turned toward Ethan.
"Death to the Americans," he said.
"Death to the Americans," the sheik agreed. He paused, then added: "Usama here tells me you have a way to defeat their drones." He nodded toward the young man Ethan had met at the mosque the Friday before.
"I know a way, yes," Ethan said warily. He had expected more pleasantries.
"Please tell us how you came by this knowledge."
Ethan had rehearsed his story several times. If he made a mistake, and the sheik didn't believe him, he was dead. "I studied electronics in Britain. I built quadcopters and fixed-wings as a hobbyist, and also during an internship at a commercial drone company in London. I know precisely how they work."
"Commercial drones are far different than military drones," the sheik said.
"Not so different. The concepts are the same."
Al-Khayr switched to English. "You say you studied in Britain? Which school?" His accent was distinctly British.
"Sheffield." Ethan answered in English, himself laying on the British accent thickly.
"Ah. I know of this university. It is famous. Though this begs the question: How could the family of a Taiz tribesman afford the fee?"
"There was an academic scholarship: The Science International. I applied. I won. Barmy, isn't it?" Ethan purposely used the British slang for crazy.
The sheik stroked his beard. "Interesting." He switched back to Arabic. "I would love to dissect your entire academic background someday, but for now, tell me, how do we defeat the drones? The short, layman version, please."
Ethan glanced at those young faces. Some were still suspicious, but most seemed eager. Of course they would be. American drones were the biggest threat to their existence.
"It's all about GPS," Ethan said. "When you jam the communications frequency of the drone by introducing signal noise, you cut it off from its remote operations center, activating its 'return to home' feature, which relies on GPS satellites to automatically fly the drone back to its home point. Military drones use an encrypted GPS receiver, so you have to jam that too, forcing it to use the unencrypted civilian signals. Now here's where things gets interesting. GPS is spoofable. The signals from the satellites are weak, and can easily be outpunched by transmissions from a television tower, or even a laptop, MP3 player or phone with the right equipment. So when the drone switches over to the unencrypted band, you outpunch the satellites, perfectly replicating and aligning their signals, then you send false data: report the drone's true position to start with, and gradually walk it to the location you desire."
"You can make these jammers and GPS spoofers for us?" Al-Khayr said.
Ethan nodded. "With the proper equipment, yes."
The sheik pursed his lips. He glanced at the owner of the house, who shrugged noncommittally.
"Welcome to Al Qaeda in the Arabian Peninsula," Al-Khayr said. Smiling widely, he clambered to his feet and embraced Ethan.
It seemed too easy. Though outwardly the man appeared pleased, Ethan had a feeling the sheik didn't entirely buy his story.
What Al-Khayr said after sitting down only confirmed Ethan's suspicion.
"We are planning a martyrdom operation tomorrow in Tahrir Square, during the Houthi rally. I would like you to be involved."
Ethan didn't know what to say. He had come to the man offering a way to defeat the US drones, and now he wanted Ethan to be a suicide bomber?
Sensing his shock, the sheik grinned derisively. "You will drive the martyr to the square and remotely detonate his vest. You will escape unharmed. Think of it as a rite of passage."
Ethan shifted uneasily.
"You oppose this attack?" Al-Khayr said. The others were passing around a bowl of qat, and it reached the sheik in that moment. He grabbed a small branch, breaking off several leaves and stuffing them into his mouth, and then handed the bowl to Ethan.
"Not at all." Ethan stared at the leaves uncertainly, well aware that everyone was watching him. A true Yemeni would never refuse qat.
Not Qat. Anything but Qat.
Hell with it. He separated a couple of leaves and shoved them between his lips.
"The attack is good," Ethan said. It was difficult not to grimace as the leafy, tannin flavor permeated his tongue. "Many Houthi will die." Al Qaeda in the Arabian Peninsula particularly hated the Houthi, who were Shia.
"If you are not comfortable with martyrdom operations, and the death of civilians, you should not have come."
"I'm comfortable," Ethan said, but he was distracted, and not because of
the qat or any qualms he might have had about the attack.
The red dot of a laser sight had appeared on the sheik's reclining chest.
three
"Sheik!" Ethan hurled himself forward, pummeling the man. He used his momentum to drag Al-Khayr to the floor.
A glass window shattered behind Ethan, and one of the young men who had been seated beside the sheik collapsed. Blood oozed from a quarter-sized hole in the youth's temple. The back of his head had exploded, and loose brain matter splattered the floor in clumps.
Ethan spat out the bolus of qat. "We have to get out of here!" He told the sheik.
Al-Khayr was apparently no stranger to violence—he quickly recovered his wits and rose easily in Ethan's arms.
Usama hurried forward to screen the sheik from the shattered window, while another youth did the same for the homeowner beside them. The remainder of the group mobilized, grabbing the weapons leaning against the wall and racing toward the front of the house, where the intermittent, firecracker-like sound of gunfire echoed from outside.
Ethan scooped up an AK-47, as did Usama and the sheik. The three of them started toward the back hall, but Al-Khayr paused when he realized the homeowner wasn't coming.
"Muhammad, what are you doing?" the sheik said.
The plump man shook his head. "I will not be forced from my home. Nor will I allow an esteemed guest to be taken captive or killed. It is an insult beyond comprehension. Go. May Allah protect you."
Al-Khayr nodded sadly. "May Allah protect you as well my friend."
Usama led the way toward the back hall, followed by the sheik, while Ethan brought up the rear.
The trio reached a kitchen. There was a door on the far side that apparently led outside. Wide windows flanked the walls.
Usama advanced at a crouch. Ethan and the sheik followed, warily making their way across the room.
The far door slammed open. Two men wearing helmets and combat fatigues burst inside. They carried ballistic shields; from the notch in the upper left of each shield protruded the barrel of a Heckler and Koch G36C assault rifle. They looked like Yemeni soldiers with their tanned faces and scraggy beards.
"Drop your weapons!" one of the men shouted, speaking Arabic with a Houthi accent.
Usama and the sheik opened fire with their AKs.
Knowing what was coming next, Ethan wrapped an arm around the sheik's chest and, wary of the spray from the man's AK, yanked him down behind the kitchen counter.
"What are you doing?" Al-Khayr said.
"Saving your life!"
The loud report from a Heckler and Koch filled the air.
Usama dropped, the back of his head cored in much the same manner as the earlier man.
"We have to surrender!" Ethan said.
The sheik ignored him and leaned past the counter, letting off a rifle burst.
Idiot, Ethan thought.
He spun his own rifle around so that he could use the butt as a weapon.
"Sheik, behind you!" Ethan said. Before Al-Khayr could react, Ethan rammed the stock of the AK into the back of his head, knocking the sheik to the floor.
"We surrender!" Ethan shouted. "We surrender!"
"Drop your weapons and kick them where we can see them!" one of the soldiers answered.
Ethan lowered his Kalashnikov to the floor and kicked it past the counter. He did the same with the sheik's. Al-Khayr was already starting to stir.
The two figures rounded the corner. One watched Ethan and the sheik, while the other covered the rear. Another pair of soldiers came forward shortly, wielding G36Cs without the shields.
The nearest man pointed the barrel of his HK at Ethan's face. "On the ground. Now! Hands behind your back!"
Ethan did as he was told.
The man flexicuffed him and rudely hoisted Ethan to his feet. Beside him, the other soldier cuffed the dazed sheik.
Ethan was loaded into one of two black Toyota Fortuners that had pulled up behind the house. Al-Khayr was placed in the second SUV.
Ethan sat against his bound hands, the flexicuffs digging into his wrists. Someone lowered a black hood over his head.
Not again.
He heard sporadic gunfire, and the fierce clatter as bullets raked the chassis. The vehicle rocked to and fro. The engine whirred as the Fortuner abruptly accelerated, and he heard what sounded like a gate breaking open.
Ethan knew there would be no pursuit. Any other vehicles parked at the house would have had their tires shot out. These were professionals.
About a minute later momentum Ethan yanked to the left as the vehicle navigated a tight bend; then he was dragged forward as the Fortuner came to an abrupt halt. From the sounds and movements around him, Ethan had the impression the men were removing their helmets and shoving them under the seats. He felt silk momentarily brush his face, and he thought the men were throwing robes over their clothing.
"I think we're good," someone said from the front seat. English. American accent. "Will?"
The hood slid from Ethan's face. He blinked a few times, letting his eyes accommodate to the light. He recognized the war-torn Al Hasaba district outside, which still bore signs of the clashes between the presidential guard and the opposition tribal forces from the Battle of Sana'a three years ago. Several of the residences lay in ruins, with the former occupants forced to live inside makeshift lean-tos.
Rough fingers pulled his arms to the side and the cuffs binding Ethan's hands fell away. He brought his wrists forward, flexing the fingers to restore circulation.
He glanced at the man who had cut his binds. Above that thick Abe Lincoln beard and tilted Roman nose, ironic eyes gazed from an olive face. He could have easily passed for a devout Yemeni, especially with the white thawb he wore then.
The man was, in fact, American. A former SEAL named William Hest. A military contractor, he currently worked for JSOC, Task Force 78, one of the top hunter-killer teams in the region.
"Damn it," William said with a thick Texan drawl, examining one of his fingers. "Think I broke a nail back there." The actual words came out "Thank I brack a nya-al."
Ethan forced a smile. "Funny." His own accent was more West Coast. He unsheathed the ceremonial dagger and dropped it in William's lap.
"Hey, I don't want that," William said. He tossed the tracking device into the cup holder.
"What took you guys so long back there anyway?" Ethan asked.
"The drone operator was having technical difficulties," William said.
Doug, another member of Task Force 78 and also the spitting image of your typical Gulf Arab, was the driver. He glanced in the rearview mirror. "I should have brought along my custom QAV 400. Sometimes I wonder about the stuff the DIA gives us."
"Glad to know I was in good hands," Ethan said sarcastically.
"The best." Doug grinned. "Oh, and here's your money." He reached back, offering the one thousand rials bill Ethan had given him on the way to the mosque.
"Keep it."
"What did you think of my performance?" Doug said. "Wasn't I the best beggar you've ever seen?"
"Definitely. Must feel good, knowing you have a job lined up for yourself when you're finished here."
William patted Ethan on the shoulder. "Thank you for flying JSOC airlines. We hope you enjoyed your stay in beautiful, friendly Sana'a. Come fly with us again real soon now."
four
Ethan reclined on a couch inside a house on the outskirts of the Old City. He was in a small guest room, seated before a coffee table. His handler, Sam, sat across from him. She wore a black abaya robe, and the full veil of her hijab was currently lifted so that her face was exposed. On the table in front of her lay the long black gloves that completed her outfit.
She was a senior non-official cover case officer, or NOC, in the Defense Clandestine Service, clandestine arm of the Defense Intelligence Agency, or DIA. She'd originally been part of the Strategic Support Branch before it was absorbed into the DCS. Like the CIA, her agency had case off
icers, linguists, analysts, and so forth, but it was hampered by far fewer congressional reporting requirements. Sam had hinted that she answered directly to the Secretary of Defense and the President.
Ethan's job description wasn't as clean cut. Officially, he didn't exist. Unofficially, he worked directly for Sam as an independent contractor. His work usually involved multiple roles, and blurred the lines between case officer, private investigator, kidnapper and assassin. The latter seemed to be the work he was involved with the most these days, though he was never actually allowed to use the word assassination in official reports—the DIA preferred the term "High Value Targeting."
"Sheik Al-Khayr cracked yesterday," Sam said.
The sheik would be at The Weave, an old textile factory just north of Sana'a. A DIA black site, it was used for discreet detentions and interrogations. To avoid any irksome congressional inquiries, the interrogators would likely be from the Political Security Organization, Yemen's foreign intelligence service.
"Anything you can share?" Ethan said, only mildly curious. She wouldn't reveal anything that might affect operational security.
He heard the subtle vibration of a cellphone; Sam reached into an inner pocket of her abaya and retrieved an Android model phone. She read a message and began texting a response.
"Well, first off," she said while typing on the touchscreen. "We prevented the martyrdom operation in Tahrir Square during the Houthi rally. Secondly, the sheik spilled the PIN for his cellphone, and from it we've recovered the numbers and email addresses of Al Qaeda members throughout the region. Arms dealers, oil smugglers, kidnappers, you name it. Even better, the sheik gave us the 'onion' addresses of two private dark web forums run by the militants, along with his username and password. The man is an intelligence gold mine. It's a good thing we moved when we did. He was literally the catch of the year. He could be the key to unraveling Al Qaeda in the region. You should get a medal for your involvement. But, you know how it is."