The Aden Effect

by Claude G. Berube

  “He recognized me,” Asha said. “He is indeed a threat.”

  “You also recognized him,” said Faisal. “And so we will kill him when the opportunity arrives.” He opened the door into the hotel room and motioned Asha inside. “Come. We will eat. After that, I will return you here and leave for my father’s home. I will be there for two days. He is having a big meeting and wants both of his loving sons there.” He slipped on a new pair of sandals and walked toward the door.

  “I will go with you,” Ahmed al-Ghaydah said, rising from the bed. “I’m hungry.”

  “You will go nowhere,” Asha admonished him. “You will stay here, out of trouble.”

  “Yes, Ahmed,” Faisal agreed. “Stay here. My bag is there. Take it back to the office with you tomorrow. I will pick it up there when I return. Try not to do anything wrong.”

  Ahmed pouted and stuck another wad of khat into his mouth.

  After they were outside the room, Faisal turned to Asha and whispered, “Our business with Ahmed is almost done. We will draw lots tonight to see who has the honor of killing the fool.”

  Socotra, Yemen, 0645 (GMT)

  Bill Maddox was waiting for C. J. Sumner and her three Marine escorts at the Hadiboh airfield on Socotra.

  She smiled and gave him a quick hug. “Thanks for your hospitality, Bill.”

  “My pleasure, Madam Ambassador. Hop in. These two SUVs are the best rides on the entire island.”

  The Ford Explorers left the airstrip and drove into the middle of the town, although such a small place hardly merited that title. Hadiboh was more a cluster of huts and superficial structures than a real town. A rundown building served as a primitive hospital. C. J. led the way inside and looked around for someone to give permission to speak with victims of the earthquake.

  All twelve of the beds the old facility could accommodate were occupied. Mats had been placed around the beds for other patients. On the nearest slept a young girl who looked no older than ten. With no one she could identify as medical personnel in sight, C. J. knelt next to the girl, who awoke at her presence.

  “Hello,” C. J. said in English. When the girl just looked at her she tried a greeting in Arabic. Still nothing.

  “She does not understand Arabic,” a baritone voice behind her said in heavily accented English. “She does not understand it because what is spoken on the island is not Arabic but Socotri.” The owner of the baritone voice, a tired-looking man of perhaps forty, then said something to the little girl, who struggled to reply.

  “She says that her family was killed. A neighbor found her and brought her to town.”

  “Is she being treated?”

  “The doctor is away treating victims elsewhere. These people were told to wait.”

  C. J. brushed the dirty, sweaty hair away from the girl’s face. “Can you find some clean water and a towel?” When these appeared she soaked the cloth and gently cleaned the little girl’s face. The child smiled, and C. J. felt her heart melt. When she stood and looked around at the other patients, she saw that some were young and some were old, but all had the same look of despair. “I should have come here before,” she whispered, more to herself than to the others.

  The group drove from the hospital to a spot outside the town where Maddox stopped the vehicles again and told everyone to get out. C. J. walked up to stand beside him. “This is the new development you told me about, Bill?”

  “I’m afraid so, C. J.”

  Before her stood a paifang, a smaller version of the Chinese archways she had seen in Washington’s Chinatown and many other parts of the world. The paifang was clearly of recent construction. Its paint—shocking red, vibrant gold—was still pristine.

  “When did the Chinese get here?”

  “A small ship arrived offshore a couple of weeks ago bringing people and supplies. They’re operating out of an old Soviet base down the road.”

  “The Soviets really did have a base on Socotra? I thought that was just a rumor.”

  “Connor could tell you more about it. The Soviets maintained an airfield near Qadub on the western side of the island during the Cold War. They used the base to refuel and resupply.”

  “How many Chinese are here?”

  “We figure about two hundred. They’re mostly construction workers, as far as we can tell. They have easy access to any part of the island. It’s only about seventy-five miles long and twenty miles wide.”

  “This archway with the Chinese calligraphy has other script. Socotri?”

  “According to our interpreter, the Chinese calligraphy says the same thing: From your friends of the People’s Republic of China, for ever-lasting bonds with the people of Socotra.”

  As the group toured the island, C. J.’s commitment to play an active role here grew even stronger. She saw a world she had never imagined—umbrella-shaped dragon’s blood trees that bled blood-red sap when their bark was injured, cucumber trees with fat trunks and branches, monkeys, and birds found nowhere else in the world. She was enchanted. The Galápagos of the Indian Ocean was an apt description.

  Their last stop was at the top of a mountain on the south side of the island overlooking the Indian Ocean.

  “Gunny, there’s no one around. I think Mr. Maddox and I will be fine out there.”

  “Aye, ma’am, but we’d like to stay close anyway, if you don’t mind.”

  “Sure. Bill, let’s take a walk.”

  The sea breeze dried C. J.’s sweat and blew away the dust that her clothing had picked up in the lowlands. She reached out and stroked the trunk of a cucumber tree. The photos hadn’t prepared her for the unique beauty of this place. On the distant horizon she saw five metallic objects rising out of the water that reminded her of the Martians from H. G. Wells’ War of the Worlds. “How dangerous will those be to the coastline? I mean if anything goes wrong.”

  “Nothing is likely to go wrong with the equipment. I’ve incorporated every precautionary device that exists into these platforms. The most likely source of environmental damage would be caused by an attack on the oil rigs.”

  “I see.” She bent down and scooped up a handful of Socotran dirt, then let it slip between her fingers. “Between the Yemenis who won’t negotiate with me,” she thought out loud, “the terrorists who are trying to kill me, the pirates who are attacking us, and now the Chinese who are doing—whatever the Chinese are doing—I feel boxed in. We may need to rethink our strategy here.”

  “Any specifics?”

  “Some ideas. I’d like to wait until Connor reports back on his meeting.”

  Mar’ib, Yemen, 1650 (GMT)

  “Mutahar, I know that I eat too much when I visit your home, but I simply can’t resist food this good.” Connor dipped his bread in the hilba and savored the distinctive flavors of lemon, coriander, cumin, mint, and other spices he couldn’t identify.

  “I am glad that you have come here today, Connor.”

  “I am glad, too, Father!” said a much younger voice belonging to a slender boy with dark eyes fringed by long eyelashes.

  The boy’s father smiled indulgently. “Why is that, Ali?”

  “Because Uncle Connor is teaching me to fence!”

  “You learn too quickly, Ali,” Stark laughed. Soon I won’t be able to fend you off. You’re quick and smart.”

  “Uncle Connor, I have something to show you.” Ali motioned, and someone brought a model of a building set on a coastline and set it on a table next to the wall.

  Connor rose from his cushion and walked over to look at it, followed by the boy’s father. “What is this?”

  Ali beamed with pride. “I am building this. It will bring water to our land and help feed our people. After you told me of the great desalination plant in Jebel Ali I studied and learned. Our people need water for their crops. This will help all of us.”

  “You are building this?” Connor asked Ali but looked at his father.

  “Yes, Uncle, with the oil money. I am going to build three plants on our coas
t. They will bring many jobs for our people.”

  Stark slipped an arm about Ali’s shoulders and gave him a quick squeeze. “Ali, you’re very wise for your years.”

  “I only learn from those who are wise, Uncle Connor,” the teenager said before returning to his meal.

  “This is your doing, Connor,” Mutahar said warmly. “I am very proud of my son.” And then more softly, below the hearing of the others in the room, “Ali is our future. He has the vision, the strength, and the purity of heart to solve our problems. Of this the family is convinced. Our people view Ali differently than they see my generation.” Mutahar was sharing intimate knowledge reserved for close family—but Mutahar considered Stark family.

  “But the money this country gets from oil . . .”

  “Much will go to the desalination plants and other projects Ali hopes someday to build.”

  “Ali is surely a wonderful boy, Mutahar, but . . .”

  “Believe me, Connor, my brother. Ali will do great things. We risk everything by placing our hopes in the boy. You know the challenges we face. In a few years, without the water or the oil or the jobs, we will face a rising tide that will undermine stability here and in this entire region, even more than it threatens us now. Who knows what would follow such instability.”

  “I understand. Tell me how I can help.”

  Mutahar motioned toward the table. “Begin by eating and listening tonight.”

  Stark gladly returned to his cushion and ate more ful and salta.

  The dozen or so Yemeni men who sat around the table said little as the meal continued. That they were assessing him Connor had no doubt. Most wore the traditional jambia, a curved knife, hanging from their belts. Stark had no weapon—his go-bag was in the vehicle with Golzari, wherever he was—nor did he feel that he needed one. Mutahar would never allow harm to come to a guest in his house.

  “Yes, Connor,” Mutahar continued the conversation so that everyone present could hear. “This young one is very smart. Perhaps one day I will send him to Oxford or Cambridge.”

  “Either of those esteemed universities would be fortunate to have Ali, Mutahar.”

  One of Mutahar’s cousins asked, “You are not insulted that he will not go to an American school like Harvard or Yale?”

  “Why should I be offended? I have a great admiration for the United Kingdom. Their schools are among the finest in the world. Ali and his family will decide what is best for him. Why would that insult me?” Stark slowly sipped his cup of tea.

  “You do not think American schools are the best? That Ali would learn more there?” the cousin said. Connor sensed this line of conversation was a test and was glad for the opening it gave him. Without the help of these men, he had no hope of completing C. J.’s mission.

  “They are the best for some people, just as the British or French or Yemeni schools are best for some people. They are all different, and Ali could get a good education at any of them. The more important question to ask is what the schools could learn from Ali.”

  The cousin smiled slightly.

  “My friend,” Stark continued, “Ali is smart and will do well at any school lucky enough to get him, but can you imagine how an American school would benefit by having Ali there? What could we as Americans learn from him about his rich heritage and culture? Too few Americans have visited this country. Too few have seen its beauty or experienced the hospitality of its people, as I have witnessed here in the home of Mutahar, may Allah always bless him and his home.”

  Mutahar nodded to acknowledge the sentiment.

  “It is unfortunate that certain . . . conditions . . . have prevented more Americans from visiting as tourists. They would understand and appreciate Yemen better if they did. And perhaps Yemen could likewise learn from us.”

  Several more men nodded. The cousin remained noncommittal.

  “My cousin the admiral tests you, Connor!” Mutahar laughed.

  “How so?”

  “He hasn’t told you that he is a graduate of one of your best schools!”

  “Oh? Which one, Admiral?”

  “The United States Naval Academy, Class of 1978,” the cousin said proudly. “I was one of forty-three international graduates that year.”

  “Several of us at this table attended your American schools, Connor,” said Mutahar. “Some of us have lived in the United States for some time. And yet Americans don’t understand us.”

  “Understanding takes time. You and I have come to understand one another, but that understanding developed over several years. If Ali studies in America, perhaps a new generation can build on what we have started.”

  “You speak well, Connor,” the cousin continued, “but you are also an American naval officer.”

  “I am a naval officer, yes, but I am many other things too. I believe in the ideas on which my nation was founded. I am a friend to this home. I do not see a conflict among any of those, so long as I speak the truth to you—and continue to enjoy Mutahar’s fine food!” All the men laughed at that, including the cousin.

  “Yes, Connor, you are a friend of this house,” Mutahar said amid the laughter, “and our cook is now your friend, too!”

  “Then I am fortunate.”

  “Your country is not so fortunate these days, Connor,” said the foreign minister, who sat across the table from him.

  “I am not a diplomat and do not speak for my country. My ambassador could enlighten you on that subject.”

  “Ambassador Sumner is not here. You are.”

  “Then I will say we have concerns. We wish to talk more. I know my ambassador hopes to speak with you.”

  “She is a woman.”

  “It would be a mistake to underestimate her,” Stark cautioned. “She is a woman, yes, but she is formidable—more so than many men I have known. In truth, she has many of the same traits as your own Queen Arwa bint Ahmed, who ruled this land a thousand years ago.”

  Mutahar laughed. “So you did read the history books that I sent you!”

  The foreign minister pondered the analogy for a moment. “If you think so highly of this woman, then perhaps we will meet with her.”

  “I do, sir, and I am honored that you consider my opinion worthy. In the meantime she has agreed to let me speak on her behalf about certain issues of concern to both of our nations and how we might work together.”

  “It is late,” Mutahar interrupted. “We will talk again of this tomorrow. It is time for Ali to sleep and for us to smoke the mada’a together.”

  Mukalla, 1829 (GMT)

  While Connor was enjoying Mutahar’s hospitality, Golzari had driven not to the local ancient ruins he had allowed Stark to believe he planned to visit, but southeast to the port city of Mukalla. Along the way he stopped and changed into a plain gray short-sleeved shirt and a futah—the patterned sarong Yemeni men wrap around the lower body—along with sandals and a mashedda, the scarf used to protect one’s face from the elements. He strolled through the town, familiarizing himself with the streets and buildings, until it got dark enough for him to stake out the shipping company’s office on the quiet waterfront.

  When the office had remained dark for half an hour, he donned latex gloves to avoid leaving fingerprints and set to work picking the lock. His father’s bodyguards, members of the feared Savak—the shah of Iran’s secret police— had taught him many tricks of the trade as part of his survival training.

  The lock presented no problem, even in the dim light, and Golzari soon entered the outer door to the building and then the inner door to the Mar’ib Shipping Company. The office in which he found himself had six desks; beyond them was another office, likely belonging to the supervisor, Ahmed al-Ghaydah. The dim light reflecting off the harbor lights was sufficient to guide him around the furniture. He entered the supervisor’s work area and closed the venetian blinds before taking a small red-filtered flashlight from his bag.

  He leafed through notebooks that looked like the ship schedules and logistics needs that a dock
master would normally have. Several of the ship names on a recent list had checkmarks next to them. Three particularly caught his attention: Kirkwall, Endurance, and Mukalla Ismael. He found several entries for the Mukalla Hassan but no checkmark next to it. He noted the names of the checked ships and continued searching the desk.

  Another pad of paper had names and phone numbers that he recognized as belonging to satellite phones. One name was “al-Yemeni,” another was “al-Antoci.” The latter name intrigued him. Arabic names often include the person’s home region, and al-Yemeni was far too general to be of any use, but al-Antoci? His gut told him this was an important number—the number for Abdi Mohammed Asha, who had lived in Antioch, Maine. He memorized the names and numbers as well.

  The rest of the desk contained little of interest except for the lower right-hand drawer, which held only two items. The first brought his eyebrows up to his hairline. He had seen only one like it before. It was a 5.45-millimeter PRI automatic pistol used by the Spetsialnoye Nazranie, the old Soviet Union’s Spetsnaz special forces. How the hell had al-Ghaydah come by such a treasure? Golzari decided to save him from arrest for possessing contraband and slipped it into his bag.

  The other item in the drawer was a standard hotel keycard inside a paper envelope with a room number on it. Apparently, big-city-hotel security measures hadn’t caught on in Mukalla. Ahmed al-Ghaydah, Golzari reasoned, would live in a house or apartment. Either he needed a hotel where he could whore around, not unusual for an Arab man, or the key belonged to a room where visitors—people like Abdi Mohammed Asha, for instance—could stay. The hotel was only a few blocks from his current location. He’d noticed it during his earlier stroll. Golzari opened the blinds and left the office.

  “Yes?”

  Golzari saw the peephole darken as an eye peered through it.

  “Mutahar sent me. It’s very, very important.” The khat-filled al-Ghaydah was in no condition to question how Mutahar would know his current location. He opened the door.