Deadline Yemen

by Peggy Hanson

  The starlight gave a ghostly aura to the scene. Anyone below could see the dark shadow at the back of the sorghum where we crouched. Richard was holding his head in his hands, not looking good at all. I gently nudged him horizontal, pushing myself beside him. For the second time, my cheek met tilled soil. I wanted to stay there forever. I closed my eyes to avoid seeing certain fate come over the terrace wall. I’m a cat-lover, but I also understand ostrich instincts.

  It seemed hours but was probably about three minutes before I heard a sound close to us. Superimposed over the truck bustle, it was clearly was a footstep. Okay. This was it. I prepared to die.

  The steps came closer, heralded by the little sound of cascading rocks. Only one person? Presumably, the others were all distracted by the trucks.

  “Do not move, wherever you are.” The voice was velvet smoke blowing through the sorghum. It was deep and low and barely audible, in Arabic-accented English.

  The footsteps continued on past our terrace to the bottom where the rocky hillside didn’t provide sustenance. They receded back toward the truck gathering.

  I breathed. At least, the ratio of hunters to prey had evened to some degree. It would appear we even had a benefactor—unless the whisperer had some ulterior motive.

  The trucks began to pull out, one by one, and I quickly lost count. Most of the campfire inhabitants seemed to have left with the trucks. There was shouting in Arabic. Surely a search party would resume when the trucks left. We’d have to trust our unknown friend.

  “Hsssssssss.”

  A snake in the sorghum? No, it was a human hiss.

  Starlight had reemerged from the clouds as I jumped over the edges of the terraces and clambered down the rocky earth, but I could see only the shape of the person who had summoned me. It was a tall, slim shape, swaddled with shawls against the night cold.

  Nothing would surprise me after the adventures that started in Sa’da, but when the features of the man waiting for me became clear, I couldn’t suppress a little cry.

  “Ahmad! Ahmad Kutup?”

  CHAPTER 104

  I liked him, but to be honest, I was also a little wary. Was I being paranoid in thinking that he might be paid by Internal Security to check up on us from time to time and report on what we were doing?

  Steven C. Caton, Yemen Chronicle

  “Stay there.” Ahmad’s whisper was nearly drowned out by trucks idling near the campfire.

  “What are you doing here?” I gasped. Ahmad stepped back as I lurched toward him. Maybe he was unnerved by the picture I presented: skin scratched, bloody, hair every which way, eyes presumably wild.

  “I have come to help you,” was the smooth, cool answer.

  “B-b-b-but…” Nothing made sense, including me. I shivered uncontrollably. Ahmad unwound one of his shawls and handed it to me. Blindly, I wrapped it around my body, pulling both arms against my torso. It felt like heaven after being cold for so long. Whatever the outcome, I had to trust someone who administered such comfort.

  “Where is your companion? Is he hurt?” Ahmad’s voice had a pleasant, reassuring cadence. I could almost picture him in a white coat, caring for a patient. The three figures down near the fire must be with Ahmad.

  Without answering, I turned my head over my shoulder. “Richard,” I called, not too loudly. “Are you all right?”

  From the terrace where we’d sheltered, nothing. Not a movement of the sorghum stalks. No rustle, even. Certainly no answer. I was suddenly afraid of what might have happened to my companion.

  “Richard, are you there?” I was climbing back up, intent on finding him. If Ahmad’s shawl felt so good to me, how necessary might it be to my injured British co-hort?

  I was scratched anew as I climbed. Ahmad stood still, a noble figure in the surreal scene. Down below, near the fire, I saw one of the three figures hit another, who fell prone. A flash of fear. Would we be executed? Was Ahmad a traitor to even his family?

  “Here.” The voice was faint and scratchy. I saw a twitch of sorghum stalk.

  “Are you all right?” I brushed carefully through the drying stalks until I was close to where the voice had come from.

  The stalks moved, and a shaking figure emerged. “Yes. I am fine. Time to go…” I caught Richard’s arm as he stumbled.

  Ahmad was on his way up to help. And two figures came behind him, one tall and thin, the other short and stubby. My erstwhile shadows in Sana’a. I pushed fear down. This had to be a moment to trust.

  “Let go, let go.” Richard’s tone was querulous. “I am well. I need water. It is late. We must go.” He wasn’t feeling well at all.

  “Let’s see if there’s water in the car,” I suggested.

  “I have water,” said Ahmad. He gestured to the men I’d seen lurking back in Sana’a, and they took over propelling Richard.

  We finally got to the vehicle, and eased him in gently. Ahmad had some heavy shawls, so after we both had had a drink of water, I tucked them around Richard, now lying across the back seat. The two henchmen situated themselves in the far back. When I turned around, Ahmad was moving to where the still form lay on the ground near the campfire. He bent over the person, but beyond that, I couldn’t see what he did.

  I felt sick to my stomach. Arabia was too rough for me.

  CHAPTER 105

  “The little circle sat, looking at the ground, expressing nothing either way. The impossibility of dealing with female obstinacy by mere reason was apparent to all, and the Governor rose laboriously, with a sigh.”

  Freya Stark, The Southern Gates of Arabia

  Ahmad was back in a few minutes. “Let’s go.” His face was tight, his manner curt. Could we trust him? A moot question. He was driving.

  “Where are we heading?” I like the direct approach. “And what about that man back there?”

  “To answer your questions in order,” he remarked, “We are going to the airport. And don’t worry about the man. I left him water and friends will stop by soon.”

  So a man hadn’t been murdered before my very eyes. I took a deep breath. But there was still the immediate future. “Sa’da’s airport? Why are we going there?”

  Ahmad responded with equanimity. Equanimity under the circumstances I found suspicious. “I will answer questions later. Right now, you must wear a balto.” He tossed one over the seat.

  “Hold on just a minute.” Richard’s voice was weak but aggressive. “You aren’t in charge here.”

  What a ridiculous comment, under the circumstances. “Actually, Richard, he is in charge right now. Neither of us is in a position to quarrel with him.”

  Richard had fallen back, jolted by the bumps in the road, but he still had the energy to glare. Another balto came flying into the back seat.

  “You, sir, will wear that.”

  “What? You must be joking.” Richard’s voice gained strength.

  “Do you mind telling me, uh, us, what’s going on?” I struggled to pull the balto over my head.

  “We have little time. The plane will leave soon for Seiyun. I will explain what I can before we get there, but some you have to take on faith.” Ahmad’s driving was expert—a good thing on roads like this. We could see lights in the broad valley where Sa’da and its attendant villages lay.

  “Seiyun? In the Wadi Hadhramaut? Why are we going to Seiyun?” I asked.

  Richard sighed. “Okay, Kutup. I know more than you think I do. I have been given your name. We’re playing on the same team. Wouldn’t it be better to leave Ms. Darcy in Sa’da? I assume if we’re going to the Hadhramaut, there’s a reason. We both know what that probably is. And it won’t be pretty. I don’t want to have to worry about a woman as well as everything else.”

  “I would very much like to leave Ms. Darcy in Sa’da. Unfortunately, she will not be safe here. And I do not think she will stay quietly. She will be cared for in Seiyun, do not worry.”

  “Let’s get one thing straight,” I said through clenched teeth. “Ms. Darcy is not just al
ong for the ride. I have no idea what’s going on, but I’m here. I am on the team. Got that? I saved your miserable life, Richard Queens. I’m an equal partner in this venture, and I expect to be treated as such. Do not even think of setting up a caretaker for me.”

  The car was silent after my speech, both front seat and back.

  After a long moment, Ahmad asked one question, aimed at Richard: “What happened to the boy Ali?”

  “I saw them knife him,” replied Richard.

  Ahmad gasped.

  “No, no! The doctor said he will be okay!” I quickly added. Ahmad relaxed. For the first time that night, he broke into a smile and whispered something about Allah.

  We approached the airport, which had just one plane on the runway. Must be ours to Seiyun.

  “Put on the baltos and burqas,” ordered Ahmad.

  I pulled mine on. After a defiant pause, so did Richard. The black veils covered our faces, leaving slits just wide enough to see through. To hide his very male hands, Richard pulled on a pair of long black gloves.

  Ahmad himself had dressed as a villager for the rescue operation at the campfire. Apparently he would travel like that, assuming the garb of his aristocratic tribal heritage. As we stepped out of the car, he stuffed a wad of qat leaves into his cheek.

  The vehicle stopped before the departure curb and we all got out. One of the guards took over the wheel.

  The rest of us made our way into the airport. Ahmad strode ahead. Richard and I stepped daintily behind. I made a point of giving Richard a hand, as though I were a younger woman and he my mother. This was good in case anyone was watching. And it was delightfully annoying to Richard, who surreptitiously pushed my hand back.

  Why were we going to Seiyun? The thought of the storied Hadhramaut brought my blood to a pitch of excitement. Shibam, the Manhattan of the Desert. Seiyun and Tarim, some of the original Muslim cities from the time of the Prophet, God be merciful to his soul. And area ruled by successive sultans with ties to Indonesia. Wadi Do’an, home to some of the oldest and wealthiest Yemeni families, including the Bin Ladens.

  Known as the most conservative part of Yemen, it had until recently been isolated. I’d always wanted to go. Freya Stark had made a trip by donkey into the Hadhramaut in 1936, following the spice route. Her Southern Gates of Arabia sat in its place of honor back at the Dar al-Hamd with Emma and my other things.

  Would I ever see any of my belongings again?

  What about Becca?

  And would I ever see Halima again?

  CHAPTER 106

  “Don’t let us be severe; don’t let us be in a hurry to condemn him…”

  Jane Austen, Emma

  There was the tricky matter of getting through the security check at Sa’da airport. If they insisted on a body check, I’d be discovered, and Richard would most assuredly be sunk.

  The airport was heavily-guarded—not surprising, since even government troops were out of their element here in the north. Fragile truces between the government and local tribal leaders meant the sheikhs and religious leaders allowed just enough personnel to keep the airport alive, and they all lived in barracks nearby. The Sa’da airport was essentially a military installation.

  This night flight between Sa’da and Seiyun—both areas where Islamist fundamentalism was known to thrive—had come about through delicate negotiations in Sana’a, and I could imagine the government wasn’t too happy about it. Who knew about the passengers boarding with us? Some could well be on security watch lists in capitals around the world.

  Our immediate concern would be getting through security. Richard followed close behind me, trying to look like a tall, shy, older woman. We clutched passports that Ahmad’s men had given us. I couldn’t even read what my name was supposed to be. Ayesha? Fatima? Richard would have another such name.

  I was surprised that Richard went along tamely with the charade cooked up by Ahmad and his henchmen. They both knew something. I was the only one not in on the secret.

  As we approached the security area, Ahmad was pulled aside for a body check. Richard and I stood back, looking as reluctant as we felt. If they suspected any of us, all would be apprehended.

  We put our purses (also supplied by Ahmad’s men) onto the conveyer belt. Even here in Sa’da, x-rays would tell if we carried metal. Having no idea what was in my purse, I hoped for the best. Richard came through the metal detector behind me. The officer gave him a piercing look.

  Ahmad, released from his body check, glared at the officer. “Do not look at my women,” flashed from his eyes.

  And it worked. Suspicions there might be, but the risk of serious offence to a village elder, which Ahmad appeared to be, daunted even these tough military men. One does not fool with another man’s women, especially if one belongs to a government hanging onto its regional authority by sheer, fragile goodwill. They waved us past. Did Ahmad slip something into one man’s hand?

  On the plane, we sat three across, Richard against the window, Ahmad on the aisle, me in the middle. I leaned over to whisper, “Are you all right?” Richard nodded yes. Ahmad looked straight ahead, the stern head of the family.

  Few other passengers were on this night flight. Just a couple of families, women dressed like Richard and me, and several men in futhas and turbans. Two cynical-eyed Americans were apparently headed to the oil fields in the Empty Quarter outside Seiyun. What had they been up to in Sa’da? The flight itself was mainly to facilitate travel from Sa’da in the northwest to Seiyun in the southeast, ready to bring passengers back to Sana’a and Aden in the morning.

  Since reunification, trade ties had grown up between the religious center in the north, Sa’da, and the wealthy and fertile Hadhramaut. Fruits, vegetables, and the famous Hadhrami honey came north along the old spice route, running straight across the desert from Oman and Mukalla on the coast through the cities of Seiyun and Shibam to Sa’da—and on up through Saudi Arabia to Petra in Jordan. For years I’d yearned to traverse that route. So remote. So fascinating. I smelled incense just thinking about it.

  And tasted honey. Trucks of honey came from the Hadhramaut for dispersal all over the Arabian Peninsula, and even across the Red Sea to Sudan and Ethiopia.

  And in return…all those missiles and tanks at the Souq al-Talh outside Sa’da. Available. Deadly. How many of those headed south toward the Hadhramaut? Or were they coming from there?

  Tonight I was glad the expanse of desert which takes many bone-breaking hours by road sped past in little more than an hour. As we landed in Seiyun, Ahmad made a slight motion to indicate silence. Most unnecessary. I could barely breathe, to say nothing of talk, with the burqa over my face. Richard must have been in at least as much discomfort. We hadn’t said a word the whole trip.

  We disembarked with the same show of subservience to Ahmad we’d had when boarding, and followed meekly past guards carrying AK-47s. I feared I would fall and break my neck every step down to the runway—so hard to see where you stepped through the narrow burqa slits. It didn’t improve my mood to be out of the loop on the situation or what our plan was.

  The smattering of passengers trailed along with us across the tarmac. Three other women, two shepherding children behind their husbands, one walking with a man with a large mustache and a bandaged head.

  Of course Ahmad had a car waiting at the Seiyun airport. “Can I take this thing off?” I muttered when we got in, not sure where the driver stood in the hierarchy and how much he could be trusted.

  “No. Wait. It is only half an hour to our hotel.” Ahmad spoke low enough so the driver couldn’t hear. I assumed he didn’t speak English, anyway.

  Pushing the burqa aside, I caught a glimpse of the magnificent Sultan’s Palace in Seiyun, lit up in pristine whiteness. Starlight accented the towers and parapets.

  Despite my many aches, I couldn’t wait for the car to stop. Beside me, Richard sagged and I put out a supporting hand. The mauling on the Sa’da walls was taking its toll on both of us. It seemed a very long
time since I had slept.

  CHAPTER 107

  Cats remind us of our better selves, the cool, collected, confident and coordinated people who exist mostly in our imaginations.

  Jean-Claude Suares in The Quotable Cat

  The mix of Yemeni and Indian night staff at the al Howtah Palace Hotel, located in a palm garden oasis between Seiyun and Shibam, sleepily checked us in. Richard and I stood to one side during the process, trying to look demure and inoffensive.

  We were assigned two large rooms with an adjoining door. As far as the night porter knew, the bags that accompanied us denoted respectability. One bag came into the room I was, apparently, to share with Richard. The two women in the party, after all!

  Even with Richard pretty seriously incapacitated, I resented the assumption that it would be okay for us to bunk together. I felt like a one-person harem, seriously outnumbered.

  Once the bellboys were gone, Richard threw off his balto and fell down onto one of the beds. Ahmad came through the connecting door, again our chief. He addressed us both, but Richard was already asleep. “You can sleep in this room with two beds?”

  I swallowed my resentment. After all, I wanted to be an equal member of the team. “Of course. It’s not a problem. Others can sleep here on the floor, if necessary.” I would play my role. I would be part of the team.

  Ahmad partially closed the door between the rooms, to give me a faint glimmer of feminine privacy in the midst of many men.

  Richard’s breathing came even but raspy against the white pillowcase. His beard had grown straggly in the twenty-four hours—or more, who knew?—since that aborted walk on the walls of Sa’da.

  I turned off the reading light beside his bed and headed for the luxurious bathroom. What heaven to have a wash, complete with complimentary toothbrush! Warm water poured over my gritty body, I dried off with a thick towel and used the face and body creams provided. Who’d have guessed I’d find all this in the remote Wadi Hadhramaut? That newly-paved road from Mukalla on the coast must have changed a lot of things quickly.