Deadline Yemen

by Peggy Hanson

  DEADLINE YEMEN

  by Peggy Hanson

  COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

  Copyright © 2013 by Peggy Hanson.

  All rights reserved.

  Published by Wildside Press LLC.

  www.wildsidebooks.com

  THE ELIZABETH DARCY SERIES

  Deadline Istanbul

  Deadline Yemen

  FOREWORD

  It will be immediately obvious to the reader that I am a hopeless Yemenophile. The country has attracted me since before I went to live there 1975-1978. Those three years embedded themselves in my mind with dust-filled romantic memories that I felt compelled to put down in some form. I was fortunate enough to do some consulting work in 1980 that put a little flesh on the bones of memory.

  I started writing Deadline Yemen while living in India, using only my memories and every book on Yemen I could get my hands on as background. It was a personally-integrating experience to picture myself on a street or in a mufraj as I had been years before. But I actually had little idea of how Yemen had changed over the years until 2004, when two women friends and I returned to the country. On that trip, besides reveling in Sana’a’s majesty, we traveled the route the British explorer, Freya Stark, had taken in 1936, in the remote Wadi Hadhramaut. It was back to the ancient incense route; unbelievably exciting. Each of us clutched a copy of Stark’s The Southern Gates of Arabia, in which she chronicled her travel on a donkey. We were in a comfortable SUV, but no matter. For those days we were explorers like Freya Stark. Around every corner lay new mysteries. Recent history intruded, such as passing the Bin Laden compound and encountering a section of the world where the activities of 9/11/2001 are routinely regarded as a David and Goliath story. (It has, in fact, become very dangerous for foreigners to travel in the wadis of the Hadhramaut because of al Qaeda actions.)

  I have made several subsequent trips to Yemen since 2004, often with a friend who speaks Arabic and collects Yemeni silver jewelry and therefore leads me up into inaccessible mountain villages and down to desert outposts along the Red Sea. Always, the native hospitality of Yemeni Arabs has overwhelmed us.

  In Deadline Yemen I have taken many liberties. The picture of Yemen spans decades and reflects my own rose-colored memories as well as current fact. The Dar al-Hamd, which used to be the principal hotel in Sana’a, is no longer in use and its gardens are withering from the chronic lack of water in the city. Sa’da has been banned to foreigners for several years because of the Houthi rebellion raging there. I have endowed Sa’da with an airport, which it never used to have and is now for military use. I have placed the story in 1997, before Osama bin Laden became a household name and before everyone carried cell phones. The time frame allows me to remember my years as a VOA journalist as they were before all the instant communications of today. The honey motif in the plot is based on a story I read in the New York Times some years ago about the arms smuggling network of bin Laden. The character of Nello is based on an Italian I knew in the 1970s who taught me to make tomato sauce from the ingredients then available. Sadly, he never had an Italian restaurant in Sana’a.

  In short, Deadline Yemen is largely fantasy, based on certain inalienable truths. If it helps to spark interest in the most exotic country in the world, and perhaps to make its people more understandable, it has done the job its author intended.

  CHAPTER 1

  The perpetual charm of Arabia is that the traveler finds his level there simply as a human being.

  Freya Stark, A Winter in Arabia

  1997

  It’s a myth that a woman needs a male escort in the Middle East. My taxi driver treated me just as he would any man: he tried to cheat me.

  “Fifty riyals?” I asked in mock amazement, leaning into the window. “I won’t pay more than thirty.” My Arabic was rough but, within these parameters, understandable.

  The driver I’d selected from the line of jalopies adjusted his loose turban, shifted his wad of qat to one side of his mouth, spat green juice onto the ground and gestured for me to get in—a magnanimous act of compromise on the price. He didn’t offer to help me, so I pushed my carry-on into the front seat and crawled into the plastic-covered back seat. The dashboard had fake fur all over it and looked like a poor ragged animal that had had a hard winter. Egyptian music whined from the radio. I didn’t even look for a seat belt.

  The e-mail had arrived in the Trib newsroom in Washington three days earlier. Its heading said, “from Halima in Sana’a.” The message itself was spare: “Come. Please.”

  Halima is not the sort to exaggerate. Given the debt I owed her—in truth, my life—my reaction was intense and personal. And here I was.

  I’d had a companionable chat on the plane with a charming international type who said his name was Michael Petrovich, so I hadn’t expected to be taking a taxi alone in the middle of the night. I’d thought I’d be dropped off at the hotel in gentlemanly fashion. But plane relationships often don’t last past the luggage carousel, and this one was no different.

  He’d turned to me as we watched the line of shabby bags squeak past, stuck out his hand, and with an ambiguous look in his eyes, said, “Elizabeth, this has been a pleasure. More than you can know. I hope to see you again in Sana’a. I’m being picked up for a meeting. Will you be all right?” Petrovich’s gray eyes looked regretful through the haze from passengers lighting up after the flight.

  Meeting at midnight?

  “Of course!” I laughed. “I’m fine.”

  I picked up my carry-on and marched out into chill desert mountain air to the row of jalopies at the taxi stand while he still waited for his luggage. I travel light and unencumbered. The man from the front seat of the plane, the quiet one with khaki pants and a laptop who’d watched as Petrovich and I had walked up and down the plane at the Cairo stop, stood at the baggage carousel waiting for his luggage, too. I’d nodded briskly and felt his gaze follow me.

  CHAPTER 2

  O bird, o winged one, from the people of Yemen, convey

  To [Clinton] this message

  Who in America is leader.

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

  Michael Petrovich had regrets as he was whisked from the airport in a shiny black SVU with tinted windows. The car smelled newer than anything else in Yemen. Should have dropped her off, that attractive Elizabeth. She was older than he usually pursued. But as he aged, he grew wiser. About women at least, and this one was intelligent and interesting—qualities a man could learn to appreciate. Petrovich sighed a little, thinking of her gray eyes, her laugh—and his life and its mistakes. Wonder where she’s staying. Oh, well. Work came first.

  The well-dressed “greeter” who had held his name on a card sat in front with the driver. The other man sat in the back seat—not so snazzy, with worn jeans and red-checked kaffiyeh turban around his blond head. He had a wad of qat in his cheek, which muffled his speech a little.

  “So, how are you, Michael?” There was a hint of deference.

  “Oh, fine—except for this cold. Had to sniff my wintergreen oil several times on the flight. You ever try it? Great stuff. I get it in the Frankfurt airport.” He waved a little blue bottle in front of his companion. “It clears your head. You can use it for stiffness, too.”

  Petrovich sniffed deeply from his bottle, careful to not get the pungent minty fumes in his eyes, pulled a pant leg up to rub some on a calf muscle, recapped the bottle, leaned back and got down to business.

  “Had drinks with the Chechens last night. I don’t think they’ll cause problems.”

  Other than about his health, Petrovich did not engage in small talk with men.

  His companion rubbed his eyes as the strong wintergreen scent suffused the
limo. “We might have a little problem here. Not sure yet.” Again, a hint of submission.

  The Alpha Dog, Petrovich, put a finger to his lips. “Let’s just go and see them. Are they at the Taj?”

  “No, too public. They’re in the Old City.” The man in jeans gently massaged the whiskery cheek that held the qat.

  “Am I staying there, or at the Taj?”

  The younger man shook his head. “You’ll be in the Dar al-Hamd.”

  Good. Low-key and low-profile. He had a lot of work to do. And he had two people to see on highly personal business. The Taj Sheba was far too upscale for contacts like that, and hotels in the Old City lacked something in the comfort line.

  The Dar al-Hamd would do just fine.

  CHAPTER 3

  “I look at this country and I see a plane ready to take off.”

  “In what direction?”

  Victoria Clark, Yemen, Dancing on the Heads of Snakes

  En route into Sana’a, the familiar scent of smoke from cooking fires blew into my face from the open front window, waking me up. The radio’s sad, insinuating music echoed my unease. I’d answered the e-mail, saying I was coming. Why hadn’t Halima written back? Very unlike her to not get my flight details so she could meet me, or have me met. Something serious must be wrong.

  The traffic light changed but the taxi wasn’t going anywhere. The intersection was clogged with a wedding celebration. People gathered around loosely-turbaned men as they danced to the mesmerizing, heart-thudding beat of Yemeni drums. Curved silver jambiyas, the famous knives of Yemen, slashed toward other dancers. As the crowd ululated in approval, one of the dancers pointed his knife at his own head and danced ever-faster. Then he grabbed two jambiyas and went into a routine. The knife caught light from the street lamp as it slashed under his legs and back up again. The jambiyas lifted in cadence with the drums, coming perilously close to what are politely referred to as the “family jewels.”

  As if to accentuate the gap between the sexes, a little flotilla of black-garbed women sailed gracefully down the cobble-stoned street, right past my taxi. Returning home from the wedding, obviously. Anonymity personified, as opposed to macho show-off tactics. The yin and yang of Yemen, differences sharply etched. For me, a magic interlude.

  The last time I’d visited this exotic backwater of the Arabian Peninsula, in 1994, civil war raged between north and south. SCUDs had been frightening, but not as scary as my arrest by the secret police. Had Halima not come to my rescue, wielding impressive family credentials and the respect of the tribes…well, I didn’t want to think about that. It had been my first encounter with the special fear women face when under the control of brutal men who need proof of nothing and have few restraints.

  On happier topics, I’d caught my breath both times arriving as the plane descended through stark mountain peaks, clustered fortress villages flickering faintly.

  Yemen had come through the 1994 war still united, but not without massive bloodshed on both sides. This visit, though not in wartime, promised to be unsettling in a different way. This time I had to help my lifesaver, in any way I could.

  I reached into my carry-on to touch my Jane Austen security blanket—Emma, this time. I never travel without Jane.

  In a way, I was happy to have Jane Austen my sole companion tonight. The tinge of rejection when my travel companion hadn’t offered a ride had been wiped out by the wedding, the familiar wood smoke in the high altitude air, and excitement at being back. Peaks of Yemen, I had arrived.

  CHAPTER 4

  Greetings, O San’a the blessed; your people are noble.

  Its mountains are a fortress formidable, threatening

  Whoever attacks it.

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

  Richard Queens watched his fellow passengers retrieve their luggage and leave the airport. His antennae had risen at the dark-haired woman’s confidence. She appeared to be with the fellow who must be one of his targets. Perhaps she would turn out to be a person of interest, as well. They hadn’t left together, though.

  His instructions from London had been vague. “Go to Sana’a and talk to Anwar,” his boss had said. “Something’s up. We need to know more. We don’t want obstacles at this stage. Something’s missing.”

  With his command of Arabic, Richard had often been called in on sensitive projects. Usually the project was definable. This time the scene was Yemen. No one ever really knew what was going on in Yemen. It would take many cups of tea and leisurely qat sessions perfumed by the ever-present hookah to be sure—and even then the country held surprises.

  Given the secrecy within which he worked, Queens grabbed a nondescript cab from the line outside the equally nondescript airport and headed for his hotel, the Dar al-Hamd—“House of Well-Being,” in Arabic.

  Richard Queens could use a little well-being. He disliked assignments with this many loose threads.

  CHAPTER 5

  The smoke from the fire curled through a hole in the ceiling. The restless wind, pushing against the tower as darkness fell, showed the wisdom of small windows.

  Freya Stark, A Winter in Arabia

  My taxi pulled up at one of the mud brick palaces of Sana’a, the venerable Dar al-Hamd. Two ghostly pepper trees guarded the wide-open front door. Formerly the abode of a ruling Emir, the Dar al-Hamd would be my hotel, as it had been before.

  My companions this time would be different: the set of foreign correspondents replaced by, I’d guess, businessmen. Michael from the plane was an example. Probably the guy in khaki pants, too.

  And this time, there would be no romantic interludes with Bo, the handsome Swedish television correspondent. That kind of thing happens when reporting on a crisis and is meant to be quickly put out of mind, to become a dust-gathering layer in one’s life experience.

  I took a breath, paid the taxi driver, and carried my luggage in.

  The desk clerk remembered me. “Nice to see you, Mizz Elizabeth. Would you like tea? In room?” How nice of him, this late at night! His shabby suit matched the state of the furniture in the lobby. Despite my aching worry about Halima, it felt wonderful to be back.

  In my high-ceilinged, whitewashed room on the second floor, dimly lit by a small bare bulb, I stretched gratefully, glad to be out of the plane. I touched my toes a few times, tried out the thin mattress, and opened the window to the chill night air.

  Given my travel-weary, apprehensive state, I wasn’t about to sleep. I was ready to open the door when the tea guy knocked. I took the tray from him and said, “Shukran.”

  As I sipped the lukewarm beverage, the Halima question lay heavy on my mind. What could be the problem? And why would she need my help? I unpacked and threw things into the drawers of the small dresser. Underclothes, long-tailed shirts. New York Times crossword puzzle book. Freya Stark’s classic exploration tale, The Southern Gates of Arabia. Khaki pants and a black pair, for dress-up. Rough silk jacket and a couple of big scarves. Modesty is the best guide to a woman of any age traveling in Yemen.

  Since my editor, Mac Snyder, had been so nice about letting me come two weeks earlier than I’d intended to leave for another assignment in the Middle East, I gave him a call. He picked right up.

  “Mac, I made it.”

  “Um hmm.” Mac’s unenthusiastic response didn’t fool me. He was distracted with work, but we were pals from way back. “I’m glad to hear your voice,” he said. Definite relief on his end.

  “Sorry I left in such a hurry.”

  “Well, it better be good.” No doubt he was thinking of deadlines and who would write stories he needed to assign.

  “It’s a matter of a friend,” I said. “Someone needs me in Sana’a.”

  “I know, I know. So you said.” Not unfriendly, but Mac’s tone was weary. “I’m inking you in on at least one Sunday feature. And keep your eyes open, of course. Never know when something will blow up in Yemen.”

  “Sure, but you don’t
have to put it quite that way.”

  This brought a chuckle from Mac.

  I continued. “I’m planning to do some backgrounders. I expect to head to Egypt on schedule, in two weeks.” Inshallah, I added to myself. God willing.

  “Well, unless something like war happens, please do. Goddammit, I need some copy!” His voice softened. “You know how impressed the Pulitzer people were with your coverage of the civil war the last time. Even with the grief it brought you.”

  His mention of the war brought my heart into my throat for just a moment. “I love Yemen, Mac. All that stuff could have happened anywhere.” Not precisely true, but I wanted to put his mind to rest. I also hoped to put my own mind at rest.

  Like others who hadn’t been there, Mac didn’t understand that, to me, Yemen is a world down the rabbit hole, a medieval Narnia. A kaleidoscope of color, sound, and fantasy. A place that draws me like a spider web—glittery, sticky, unforgiving. Once you’ve been in Yemen, you can never quite escape it.

  “I’ll do backgrounders,” I assured him. “You know, about the fabulous architecture, the mountains, the whole exotic place. Independent mountain folk. Mysterious women. Armed warriors.” I warmed to my pep talk as the words poured forth.

  “And armed terrorists,” he mused. Always looking on the bright side, Mac was sitting at his desk on a Washington afternoon while we were in the midst of night here.

  Still, he had a point. Rumors were just beginning in well-read circles that terrorists who used to be our allies in Afghanistan against the Soviets might be a threat to America now that they had declared jihad against infidels.

  “Yemen doesn’t feel dangerous when you’re here,” I assured Mac.

  “Just one thing, Elizabeth.” His voice sounded remote. “I don’t want the Trib to be making any news with you over there. I don’t want any demands for ransom, any Embassy complaints that we’re mixing in the CIA’s business. I don’t want to see any bruises, broken bones, or gunshot wounds when you get back. Okay?” His worry was touching.