Deadline Yemen

by Peggy Hanson

  “You are quite a woman,” murmured the voice behind me. Richard seemed to have a frog in his throat or something. “I can’t resist you.”

  For a moment, I was torn. I stepped gently but firmly away from him, turning so my hands could grasp his. “Sorry,” I said in low tones. “Not tonight.”

  “I understand,” was the gentlemanly response. Queens stepped away. I felt a little stab of regret.

  Had I wounded his pride? Queens—no, Richard—stood looking at Sa’da, back ramrod straight. Oh, dear. Then he glanced over at me, and his eyes twinkled dangerously. “‘Not tonight,’ is a good answer,” he said quietly, and I blushed.

  As I turned for what would have been a passionate denial—or acceptance—of the surreal moment, I was roughly thrown to the ground, and the stars went black.

  CHAPTER 99

  I had no clue as to the identity of my abductors. I hoped and prayed they weren’t wild and reckless tribesmen out to kill me because they hated Americans.

  Steven C. Caton, Yemen Chronicle

  Someone had pinned my arms behind my back and was tying them together; at least one other person had dropped a woolen cloak over my head. I heard grunts of exertion. I screamed, but my mouth was quickly covered. I was hoisted like a bag of dirty laundry over someone’s shoulder, and bumped unceremoniously down the stairs.

  It was excruciating being carried like that, with my hands behind my back. I tried to pound my captor, but couldn’t move. What had happened to Richard?

  To all those who knew us, it would appear that Richard Queens and I had simply disappeared off the Sa’da wall.

  After descending the stairs, we must have passed through the gate in the city wall. A car door squeaked open and I was dumped unceremoniously. The cloak was still over my head, but looser. A heavy body hit mine. Richard’s? Surely he had had nothing to do with the surprise attack. My mind reeled.

  I wriggled about, expecting the other body to adjust for my movements. Nothing. Was whoever was with me dead? I bit back a scream. As the vehicle started and tires rolled, I moved my head, loosening the cloak. It was unbearable not to be able to see, but the feeling of suffocation was worse.

  The vehicle was careening off in some direction; from the speed, we were probably headed toward Sana’a in the south or Saudi Arabia in the north, since paved roads stretched only in those two directions. But then we slowed and made an abrupt turn to the right. Wrenching gears and painful bumps indicated we were on a desert-cum-mountain track.

  The turn combined with my head movements shook off the cloak over my eyes, though part still wrapped around my nose and mouth. Starlight streamed directly into my eyes. Orion’s belt. If only I had paid more attention to which direction Richard and I were facing when we looked at Orion earlier. Little time had passed, so this must be a similar direction. Wait: we’d been on the southern wall looking north. If Orion was at the same angle, we must be heading west.

  I kept wriggling. I wanted to see behind me, where I felt breathing against my back. That, at least, was a good sign. If I’m going to be kidnapped and carted around the country, I’d prefer to have live company. Once I realized my fellow captive was breathing, I breathed easier myself.

  Assuming it was Richard Queens, he and I were going to get better acquainted. I just hoped if he ever came to, he’d have some idea how to get out of the mess.

  * * * *

  It seemed like hours bouncing along on roads that would have tested the shocks of a Mercedes, to say nothing of the rough-and-ready vehicle we were in. I felt bruises forming on the side of my body lying on the floor. Trying to think of it as some kind of sadistic massage didn’t help much. Thankful that I could see a little, I strained my ears to hear bits of the low conversation in the front seat, over the churning engine sounds.

  Two men. They spoke Arabic, and I caught only bits of phrases: “…angry…woman…didn’t know…after…”

  It was too early to work on strategies. I would have to wait until the next act for that.

  I pushed my bound hands gently against the unconscious form beside me. I wanted to see what I could gather of his condition. This was not as easy, as we were bounced together and apart by the road. To add to our misery, dust kicked up by the tires filled the vehicle. It coated my eyelashes, and filled the pores in the cotton gag. Air was quickly becoming my top priority. It would be even more so for my unconscious companion.

  All of a sudden, with a jolt that rivaled the worst of the road bumps, the car stopped. The two front doors opened and then slammed, not in unison. I don’t think they even looked back to see how we were. There was a crunching of footsteps through brush—I could hear the crackle of little twigs—and then a murmur of voices, too far off to distinguish.

  Sitting up was hard, but I managed it enough to see out the window. A campfire burned brightly, huddled forms around it. Trucks were parked at the outskirts of the fire, I couldn’t tell how many. Apparently, there was no rush to dispose of us. The opportunity to escape, however, was at a premium. I tried the inside latch with one foot. It gave, with a squawk that rent the desert air. I lay perfectly still again, struggling to breathe.

  It seemed an age I lay there, catching what breath I could and fearing retribution from the campfire area. To add to my anxieties, Richard stirred. Would he draw attention to us, if I hadn’t done so already? The car rocked with his movements.

  One minute. Two. I got up onto an elbow again to check. The figures were still around the campfire—some raucous laughter. Probably making too much noise for them to hear a little muted activity. Our vehicle was pulled up facing the fire, so its back door wasn’t visible from that side.

  Rocking the car as little as possible, I worked around to where my arms bound behind me could reach the door fittings. There must be something sharp.

  There was. I tested it gingerly. Where the door was attached to the body—one of those unfinished metal catches we’ve all injured ourselves on.

  It wasn’t easy getting the angle right in the dark, with my hands behind me Every movement brought agonized protest from muscles abused by the night’s ride. Richard’s motions became more pronounced; panic rose in my chest. Checking one last time for the position of the protruding metal, I jerked my bound hands down sharply.

  The rope loosened.

  I gathered my strength, glanced again at the campfire group, and jerked hard against the metal catch. The delicious sound of ripping. I cut my wrist, but who cared? I was freer than I’d been for hours. Rather than untying the knot on the gag, I pulled it down like a neck scarf, and did the same for Richard’s. And I untied his hands.

  Blood from my cut wrist made a dark trail on everything I touched.

  I lay back, catching my breath for a few seconds. Could the campfire group possibly be unaware of what sounded to my ears like a symphony of effort? Perhaps the breeze was in my favor; I could detect no change in the circle.

  Wriggling my bottom around, I tried the back hatch. No luck. There was no inside handle. Nothing for it but to sneak out a side door. Then I could reach the rear door from outside—and not a moment to waste. At any second, someone would look up from the campfire.

  A small coffee bush grew near the far side of the vehicle. That would be the door to open. I rolled over the body beside me as gently as possible, checked to find normal breathing and temperature, and dared to press the door handle. Miraculously, the door opened. It bumped against the small, gnarled tree, but the sound wasn’t loud. A few contorted movements, making the SUV shake, and I crawled out, pausing to rest my face on my hands on the lower step. The night was cold; I chafed numb wrists, willing warmth.

  Time to see about my companion. His head turned. Perhaps I could reach him.

  I rubbed my bloody hands vigorously around Richard’s face. Already, a scruffy brush bloomed on his cheeks and chin. Not a man who could leave his shaver and keep his well-groomed looks.

  Assuming we ever escaped and cared again about being reputable.

&nb
sp; Checking the campfire one more time, I pulled Richard from the Land Rover. One arm. A torso beginning to twitch. A second arm, and then gangly legs. His head was perilously close to hitting the ground, so I cradled it against my chest, snaked my arms under his, and began pulling. Gravity took over and we landed in a heap beside the car, sitting on blessedly soft, sandy soil. Had anyone seen us? If they had, we were finished, but I was too frightened to check. I edged the door closed.

  Time for decisions. My first instinct was to get us away from the car and the campfire as fast as possible. Richard’s body made a fairly smooth swoosh through the dirt, until we hit a rock, where it snagged. I flinched in empathy, and readjusted Richard. It wouldn’t take a tracker to see where we’d gone, though. A super-highway of flattened dry grass showed our route.

  I pulled off our gags and inhaled the crisp air. That gave me a second wind and sense of hope. Where to head? The terrain was hilly and stark, with a few areas of dense brush mixed with twisted coffee bushes. Clearly, bushes would be our best bet. Twenty-five feet, I guessed. There was a mere ravine of rocks between where we were and the nearest clump.

  Richard was moving more, so I paused to rub his face again and to speak quietly in his ear. “Can you hear me? Are you awake? Can you make your way behind me?”

  He wasn’t quite ready for that, though he tried to speak. I kept pulling.

  It seemed hours, but must have been only minutes, before we had reached a patch of brush near a rock outcropping. I maneuvered Richard behind the bushes, and ran back to cover our tracks. I grabbed a few prickly branches and threw them down over our trail.

  It wasn’t a very good job. It might give us a few minutes, at best. The group around the campfire seemed to have mellowed. There was less shouting. Maybe they were into the catatonic state of qat.

  Back in the brush, Richard stirred, holding his head. Oh, for some water. We wouldn’t last long without it.

  “Quiet,” I whispered. He opened his eyes. I was relieved to see awareness in them. He looked around, obviously confused.

  “We’ve got to get away,” I said quietly. “Can you make it?”

  A nod, which seemed painful. Dear God, don’t let him have a concussion. At least for the moment, he was with me.

  We began a slow ascent through the brush and rocks, away from the campfire. Pull, push, scrabble. The hardest, and the longest journey I’d ever made.

  Help, dear God, help. My religious views are fairly disorganized, but I always recognize superior power when it’s called for. And I always say thank you when things work out.

  The brushy patch had ended. In the indistinct starlight I saw we’d come up against a stone barricade—one of the famous Yemeni terraces, narrow and steep. Farmer-grown sorghum, probably. Habitation couldn’t be more than a few hours of agonized climbs away. Great. But if we could get over the wall, we’d have another layer between us and the campfire group. I pulled at Richard’s arm and pointed.

  He nodded, so we began to look for handholds. The terrace was well-built but not high. My hand dug into soil at the top of the rocks, and I tugged at the tantalizing strength of corn-like stalks. Not sturdy enough to pull up on, but these could be a better hiding place than the brush, and far more comfortable.

  “I’ll push you,” I whispered.

  Richard had some arm power, after all, and soon he was lying panting on the terrace. “Crawl into the sorghum,” I instructed.

  As I pulled myself up after Richard, the sounds from below had changed. A shout. More voices. A slam of the car door. Our escape had been noticed.

  CHAPTER 100

  O bird, do not land except in Dhamar, the most beautiful

  Of all places that God has watered.

  When you have arrived in the town, you must inquire

  About the son of Mugbil Muhammad, the best of men.

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

  Halima ran up the stairs as fast as she could, to where Sheikh Abdullah sat silently in the mufraj. The small torn bit of paper that had been thrust into her hand at the gate practically burned her fingers.

  “Father, my father! He is alive!” Halima ran into the mufraj.

  “And do we have word, then?” The elderly man’s mask-like face cracked into a smile for the first time in many weeks.

  “My uncle in Sa’da sent word just now. Ali was hurt, I do not know how. But he will be all right. He is with the foreign doctors now.”

  Zuheyla flew into the room like a bird just uncaged. “Is this true? Ali is alive? Ali is coming back?” Her cheeks shone with relieved tears. The women hugged each other and then Sheikh Abdullah.

  “But Elizabeth. I do not know about Elizabeth. She was returning today, I thought.” Relieved as she was about Ali, Halima’s joy faded.

  “Is there no word on your friend, then?” asked her father.

  “None. The messenger said she and Rebecca were still in Sa’da. Maybe they intend to return with Ali.” But how would that happen? Halima suspected that the Sa’da episode was not finished.

  She had sent her best friend into danger for a job. It appeared the job had been done, at least partly.

  But where was Elizabeth?

  CHAPTER 101

  “O intermediaries, no one will fight at your back. As for fear, I am no coward.

  I hold my ground but say, out of much suffering: Right is not achieved by might.”

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

  “Stay still,” I hissed at Richard, and dropped to the foot of the terrace wall. I pulled a piece of thorny brush over me for good measure and lay still, listening to my drumming heart.

  Search sounds were getting louder. Were there a hundred men down there? Only a couple seemed to have flashlights, and these made crazy patterns in a variety of directions. One of the directions was heading toward us.

  Pretending to be a pile of rocks while hordes of armed men search for you is not a game of hide-and-seek I’d recommend.

  My face ached from pressing against the rocks; I could only imagine the pattern imprinted on my cheek. Don’t breathe, Elizabeth. Don’t move, Richard—though he’d been very quiet. Had he passed out again? Just as well. Time, as it often does in crises, stood still, though the searchers below didn’t. I heard swearing in Arabic as knees were bumped or faces scratched.

  My body was still, but my mind raced. Who had kidnapped us, and why? My sense of panic subsided, and my brain trudged past heartbeats to renewed life.

  Sometimes, one wants very much to trust, even when evidence suggests there’s little basis.

  Fortunately, distraction was at hand, saving me from an unwise display of temper or appeal for help. A deep rumble sounded, and the rocks beneath me trembled. Several sets of headlights appeared—was that the road we traveled on? From the sounds of grinding engines and strings of bright lights along their foreheads, they were heavy trucks. Dust trails floated faintly in the moonlight behind them. The moon was starting to set.

  This, clearly, was a window of opportunity not to be squandered. The noise would mask the sounds of our flight.

  I scrambled up and over the rock wall, hoping no one below was looking my way, and plunged into the drying sorghum patch. Richard must be here. He had to be here.

  The terrace was neither wide nor long, so I crawled, listening all the while to the whine of truck engines laboring up the incline toward the campfire. The road couldn’t be good, given their lack of speed, but I already knew that from the aches all over my body.

  “Hssst. Over here.”

  Thank goodness! Richard lived, was even conscious. The whisper came from the farthest edge of the terrace, where the wall ended. Fortunately, there was another terrace above, and I heard Richard’s stealthy movement a few feet over, while I lifted myself onto the next tier.

  We crawled into the sorghum again, the soft dirt of tillage providing a welcome relief from rocks. Then Ric
hard was still, and I quietly joined him, all the while listening for pursuit.

  CHAPTER 102

  Headlights flashed from a vehicle turning off the oil road and heading our way. In a startlingly swift move, desert Husein reached for his Kalashnikov…

  Nicholas Clapp, Sheba

  The trucks stopped near the campfire. This meant nothing innately ominous. All fellow travelers in Arabia are friends, unless they are declared foes. Rafik is the term. Companion-of-the-road. Guardian. Few vehicles travel alone in these parts, and the responsibility one has for a rafik is both religious and cultural. Besides, there’s the social side. Like truck drivers winding their night-time way across the U.S. on Interstate 70, stopping at certain diners, their Yemeni counterparts stop for tea at the first sign of a light, provided in this case by the campfire. The trucks were a godsend.

  As they stopped, one by one, the trucks were met by members of the campfire group. In the barely-illumined scene, I couldn’t tell how many were milling around. It seemed fewer than when they were all chasing us.

  Vehicle doors opened and shut. Some were left open. The Land Rover still sat where it had been parked, its doors also open.

  I wriggled over to Richard and tapped his shoulder. “Up again?” I breathed. He nodded.

  This time, the terrace wall seemed lower, and it was easier to get one leg over, then the other, and collapse in the sorghum stalks. This was going well.

  That’s when a rock rolled below.

  CHAPTER 103

  “Cats and monkeys, monkeys and cats—all human life is there.”

  Henry James in The Quotable Cat

  Richard and I froze. Cats sink down to be invisible. I tried to let my body go cat-like, all the while gearing my mind to that of our stalker. Catcher in the Rye. A pale, dry leaf brushed my face. No, Stalker in the Sorghum… Pull yourself together, Elizabeth. Cats don’t lose their concentration.