by Greg Rucka
"As of thirteen-ten today, yes."
"Then he'll be in San'a' by morning at the latest, presuming he goes direct. He'll want the meeting with Faud as soon as possible thereafter."
"At the mosque."
"That's what I'm thinking, and I'm certain that is what she is thinking as well."
The kettle began to whistle. Landau flicked off the heat, filled his cup with water, watched the freeze-dried grains blossom into something approximating coffee. He stirred the water with his finger, ignoring the pain.
"Either she's a genius or she's fucking insane, Noah. If you're right, she's one or the other."
"Perhaps we should ask Yosef to find out?" Landau said, and tasted his drink, and wasn't surprised to find that, despite all the sugar, it was still bitter.
20
Yemen-San'a', Taj Sheba Hotel 8 September 2059 Local (GMT+3.00) Chace returned to her room to find that the maid service had been and gone. She checked her tells on the bedpost and on her luggage, saw that both were still in place, and only then stowed her purchases in the closet. She put the Walther beneath one of the pillows on the king-size bed, grinning at the cliche, then took off her long skirt and draped it over the back of the desk chair.
She'd purchased two liters of water in the suq before returning, and a can of Canada Dry Ginger Ale, and spent the rest of the afternoon working her way through them and her second-to-last pack of Silk Cut, watching the television. The Taj Sheba had a satellite link, and the channel selection was good. She caught up on the news with CNN, then switched to Al-Jazeera, trying to follow their broadcast. When she'd had enough, she surfed until hitting one of the few Yemeni stations, which was showing a local boxing exhibition. The audience at the event was enthusiastic, men and women.
At seven she turned off the television and got back into her skirt but decided she would forgo the head scarf. Again hiding the Walther beneath her shirt, she headed down to one of the Taj Sheba's two restaurants for dinner, the cafelike Bilquis, where they were offering, bizarrely, an Italian-food theme night. Chace took a seat away from the entrance and the kitchen, where her back was covered by the wall and that allowed her a view of the room.
She ate a passable mushroom risotto, thinking that, if anyone asked, she could claim to be comparing it to the one they served back home at the Trattoria del Gesumin in Como. Music from the Bilquis's companion restaurant, the Golden Oasis, was just audible through the walls, the band playing a mix of Mediterranean traditional and pop.
Chace was on to the coffee when her shadow from earlier in the day entered and was seated at a table three up from her, along the same wall. She didn't make him as the tail until he'd put his order in with the waitress, who was one of the only non-Europeans she had seen going uncovered. No balta, no veil, just a long black skirt and an off-white top, hair drawn tightly into a bun behind her head. When the man returned his menu to the waitress, the sleeve of his shirt crept past his wrist, showed his watch face out, and Chace remembered and gave him a second look.
Definitely Mediterranean, but now in more European dress, casual but nice. A rather plain face, and his beard and mustache were thinner than Chace had thought at first, and neatly kept. She watched as a glass of Coke, no ice, was delivered to his table, and when the man raised it to drink, he inclined his head toward her in a mock toast.
Chace grinned, put out her cigarette, and finished the rest of her much-too-sweet coffee. She signed the bill Adriana Maribino, separated her copy from the original, folded it down twice, and then pinned it against her palm with her thumb. She rose, thanking the waitress as she began clearing the table and, when she passed her shadow, dragged her hand along the edge of his table, leaving the copy behind.
Then she went to her room and waited. • He took thirty-seven minutes, and when he knocked on the door, Chace repeated the same process for letting him inside as she had with Hewitt, with a minor variation. This time, as soon as he entered, she quickly stepped from the bathroom and jammed the suppressor, now securely affixed to the barrel of the Walther, against the side of the man's neck while kicking the room door closed with one foot.
Gun still in place, she pushed him against the wall, then held him there as she threw the locks again.
"You dropped your receipt," he said. He said it in English, and his accent was American. He raised his right hand slowly, showing Chace the flimsy sheet pinched between his index and middle fingers.
"Grazie," she said. "Who the fuck are you?"
"Simon Yosef. We have a mutual friend."
"I have lots of friends."
"This one lives in Tel Aviv."
Chace moved directly behind him, pressing her left thigh between his legs, forcing his stance wider. She moved the barrel of the gun from the side of his neck to the base of his skull, then reached around his front and began running her hand through his clothes, over and then inside his shirt, then around his waistband, then into his pants. She found a billfold, a pack of Camels, and a green plastic lighter. All three were tossed to the floor. She moved the search lower, up one leg to the crotch, then down again. On his left leg she found a snub revolver in an ankle holster, and she took that as well.
When she was done, she stepped back, pulling the Walther away from his neck.
"Have a seat," Chace said.
Yosef turned into the room, moving for the chair at the desk. "May I smoke?"
"Go ahead."
He picked up the pack and the lighter but left the billfold on the floor. While he was lighting up, Chace opened the cylinder on the snub and dumped its bullets onto the bed. She ignored the billfold. If it was anything like her own wallet, it was one grand lie anyway.
Yosef smoked from the corner of his mouth, looking her over. His expression seemed to say that he would have done the same thing to her had their positions been reversed, and Chace took that, more than anything else, as proof that he was who he claimed he was.
"I made you in the Suq al-Milh," Chace said.
"I hoped you would. I didn't want to alarm you."
"How'd you pick me up?"
"I was told that you would be either French or Italian, with one of the groups. It didn't take long to find out where you were staying."
Chace considered, then made the Walther in her hand safe and set it on the edge of the bed.
"Make it fast," she said.
"They will be meeting tomorrow," Yosef answered. "El-Sayd should arrive in San'a' by morning. Our assessment is that he will want to limit his exposure as much as possible, so he'll press to meet Faud at some point during the day, then depart for Cairo by evening. I've been told that our assessment and yours are in agreement."
Her eyebrows arched. "You don't know my assessment."
"No, I don't. I am only relaying to you what I was asked to relay."
"I see. And that's all? You're all finished now?"
"I'm to offer you support, if you require it. Backup, nothing else."
"I don't need it. I don't want it. And if I see you anywhere-and I mean anywhere-tomorrow, the whole thing's off. I don't want you compromising me. And you can tell your people that, too."
Yosef exhaled another stream of smoke, watched it fold and curl, then met Chace's gaze and nodded, once. He rose, scooping the billfold and replacing it, then indicating the revolver on the bed.
"May I?"
"Well, I sure as hell don't want it," Chace said.
He picked the cartridges up, dropped them into his pocket, then took the revolver and secured it back at his ankle. Then he motioned to the Walther. "Little."
"It doesn't take much."
"No," Yosef agreed, heading for the door. "No, it doesn't."
21
Yemen-San'a', Old City 9 September 0959 Local (GMT+3.00) It was the first time Sinan had prayed in the air, since the Saudia flight didn't land them in Yemen until just before nine in the morning. When he'd finished his ziryat, he'd looked out the windows to see that the endless desert had transformed to ragged mountains, a
nd he'd stared in delight at the view of San'a' from above, the houses built tall on the high rocks, the minarets of the city's more than one hundred mosques.
When they landed, they were met by an airport official who walked them, Kalashnikovs on their shoulders and carrying the Prince's bags, past the long lines waiting for customs. An SUV awaited them at the curve, one of the Prince's American-trained security men behind the wheel, and they climbed inside and drove the eleven kilometers into San'a', to the Sheraton Hotel, where the other member of the Prince's security detail had already booked them into their suites.
The first thing the Prince did when they reached the suite was point Sinan to the menu on the coffee table near the largest couch, the one facing the television.
"Order food," the Prince said. "Whatever you want, lots of food. We'll have a meal and then go to the medina to meet my friends."
"Your friends?" Matteen asked.
"Men like us," the Prince answered, disappearing into one of the bedrooms and then reemerging with a frown. "That one is for you two. I'll take the room on the second level."
Sinan nodded, opened the menu. He wasn't hungry, though whether it was a result of the travel or the Prince's company, he wasn't certain. The resentment he'd been fighting had returned on the plane, as the three of them had sat in a cabin that could have seated eighty and instead held only seven, including four flight attendants who had been solicitous to the point of obsequiousness.
The menu was very Western, and Sinan scowled. Bad enough to stay in a Western hotel, but now to eat the food? There was alcohol available on the menu, and Sinan suspected that the Prince would want him to order some, but unless he was asked directly, Sinan wouldn't do it.
The Prince came back down the stairs, apparently satisfied. "Not Mirabella, but it will do," he told the two of them, then took the menu from Sinan and proceeded to make the room service order himself.
The meal came quickly, and Sinan was surprised at the Prince's restraint. The meal was mostly fruit and rice, served with a local flatbread and hot tea.
"Lunch is the big meal here," the Prince explained. "After we meet my friends, we'll have lunch."
Sinan nodded, ate another fig. The Prince was watching him with a grin.
"Your Highness?"
"You're curious, I know. You're wondering who these people are we're meeting, why I've brought you two here with me."
"I am curious, yes."
"You know both of them, I have heard. One not well, but you have met him. The other, you know him well and have not met him."
Sinan couldn't hide his confusion.
"Before you came to my friend Abdul Aziz, you studied in Cairo."
"Yes, I did."
"You met this friend there, in Cairo. He told Abdul Aziz about you, and Abdul Aziz told me, and that is how you were chosen for the Hajj." The Prince refilled his tea, chuckling at the look on Sinan's face. "You should remember him. You made an impression on him."
Matteen was dipping a piece of his khubz in some honey. "What about this other friend?" he asked. "Anyone that I would know?"
"Dr. Faud bin Abdullah al-Shimmari," the Prince said. "Yes, I think you should know him, Matteen."
Sinan gaped, and the Prince saw his reaction and laughed, then reached out and grabbed his right hand, giving it a solid squeeze of friendship. "Yes, I thought you might react like this. The doctor is a very good friend of mine. He taught me when I was in school, and I listened to his sermons all throughout my childhood. I have supported him and his work for years."
"We're going to meet the imam?" Sinan asked. "We'll actually meet with him?"
"My business comes first, but, yes, you will meet with him, dine with him, pray with him, talk to him. You will enjoy his company as I have."
The Prince released Sinan's hand, chuckled, resumed his meal. He talked about past visits to Yemen, told them about the riot less than a year ago that occurred outside the Great Mosque on a Friday, after prayers. The faithful had been incensed at some news or other from Iraq, had poured onto the streets screaming Death to America and Death to Israel. Jambiyas had been drawn and blood had been spilled, and the San'a' police had responded brutally to the unrest, killing four and hospitalizing dozens.
Sinan listened with half an ear, mind running with the possibilities of meeting Faud, trying to imagine what he would say to the great man, what questions he would ask of him, how best to make an impression. He wanted desperately to make a good impression, to receive Faud's blessing.
It surprised him how much he wanted it. • A little before noon they left the Sheraton, taking the SUV into the Old City, kicking up clouds of dust with their passing. It was in the low eighties Fahrenheit, and the air conditioner kept them cool as they drove past the Qubbat al-Mahdi Mosque and dipped into the wadi, still dry enough to be used as a street, then onto Talha Street. Sinan caught glimpses of the remains of the city wall that had given San'a' its name-the Fortified City-but he was disappointed to see that the segments still visible were made of stone and were clearly new patches, not part of the original mud that had made up the ancient fortifications.
The going was slow the farther they went, the SUV practically crawling through crowds at some points, and the guard who was driving was liberal with the horn, and with his gestures and curses. The Prince was uncharacteristically quiet, and when Sinan caught a glimpse of the man's reflection in the side mirror, he thought he saw nervousness. It surprised him and once again made him reassess his opinion of the Prince. Clearly, meeting with Faud meant a great deal to the Prince as well.
They parked on the north side of the Great Mosque, and there were four other vehicles already there, all of them Toyota Land Cruisers like their own, and Sinan counted eight men standing by the vehicles, smoking and chewing qat, leaning on their Kalashnikovs. He and Matteen got out of the car, waited for the Prince to join them, and the Saudis in the group recognized the Prince, if not for who he was then for what he was, and they immediately offered him greetings, asking Allah, the Most Gracious, the Most Merciful, to watch over him. The Prince returned the courtesies in kind, and then the muezzin's call crackled out over old loudspeakers, and all of them made their way to the entrance of the mosque.
Inside was as beautiful and sacred a ground as any Sinan had seen, second only to his visit to Mekkah. Along with the others he removed his shoes, setting them with his Kalashnikov in the growing pile against the wall. There were already some thirty or forty of the rifles there, and at least five times as many pairs of shoes, and once again Sinan rejoiced in the fact that theft was unheard of in places such as this. He listened to the voices all around him, the sounds of conversations ending as men turned their minds to worship. Once or twice he thought he heard women's voices, but he could not see where they had entered, or where women would be going to worship. A mosque as old as this one would have clearly segregated areas, and his chances of encountering the women were next to none.
With Matteen and the Prince, he made his way to the ablution pool, cleaned himself in the water from the fountain. Again, he felt the comfort in sharing ritual with so many others, all of a like mind. Young boys ran past his legs, trying to catch up with their fathers, laughing.
They found places on the field of wool and silk rugs that covered the floor, facing the mihrab wall, facing Mekkah. Sinan felt a rush when he saw the old man at the minbar, black-robed and bespectacled, for it was Faud himself who was leading the congregation, accompanied by another man, similarly dressed but younger.
So Sinan prayed with Faud and a thousand others in the Great Mosque in San'a'. • There was an immediate bustle when salat ended, people moving with everything from reluctance to enthusiasm as they headed back to work, or to lunch, or to a thousand other tasks that needed attending. Sinan tried to keep an eye on Faud but quickly lost sight of him as he moved away in the opposite direction, disappearing into the mix of nooks and half-rooms that peppered the sides of the mosque.
The Prince saw him strain
ing to look and grabbed his hand again.
"Soon, my friend," the Prince said. "My business first, and then you will meet him."
Sinan felt, for a moment, embarrassed. Not by the hand-holding-it was a Western bias that made the act of two men holding hands shameful; to Arabs, as he had learned, it was a sign of true friendship, and not at all an uncommon sight. Rather, it embarrassed Sinan that he was so nakedly eager, that the Prince could read him like a small child.
They made their way back toward the entrance, and one of the Saudis they had seen outside moved to meet them.
"Your Highness, His Eminence is hopeful that you will meet with him now. If I may take you to him?"
"Of course. I know his friend has very little time to waste."
"Yes, I think that is the concern," the man said. "Please, if you'll come with me?"
The Prince turned to Sinan and Matteen. "If you wish to wait outside at the car, that will be fine. As soon as we're done here, we'll all go to lunch."
"All of us?" Sinan asked, despite himself.
"Sinan! Have faith!" The Prince laughed, then moved off, escorted by the Saudi.
Matteen chuckled. "Careful, Sinan. You don't want to be called mushrikun."
Sinan shot him a glare. "That's not funny."
"It was a joke. You seem to have some hero worship, that's all that I am saying."
They sorted through the piles of shoes, finding their pairs, then recovered their rifles and put them back in place at their shoulders.
"His words speak to me," Sinan said as he was pulling on his boots. "More than the others', I don't know why. From the first time I heard him-it was on a cassette, I bought it at the mosque I attended in London-it was like he talked straight to me."
Sinan glanced at Matteen, to see if he understood. From Matteen's look, Sinan guessed that he didn't.
"Here," Sinan said, and tapped his heart. "He spoke straight to here."
"I've had enough of words," Matteen said dismissively. "I've heard all of them before, Sinan, and if you last long enough, you will, too. The words become nothing in the face of the deeds. Remember that."
