“Peace be upon you, brother,” Golzari said brandishing his Sig-Sauer handgun as he burst into the room.
The drugged Yemeni was still trying to process this intrusion when Golzari slipped an arm around his throat from behind. “Be quiet.” Golzari checked the bathroom and the closet. “Where is Abdi Mohammed Asha?”
“Abdi? Who are you?”
“It doesn’t matter who I am, Ahmed al-Ghaydah. Where is he?”
The overmatched boy, his hands raised and eyes bloodshot, responded, “He left for dinner.”
“Where?”
“I . . . I don’t know. They didn’t tell me.”
“Who are ‘they’?” Golzari asked, reinforcing the question with the barrel of his pistol against the younger man’s back.
“One other person. Please, no.”
“Give me a name.”
“No.”
Khat or no khat, Ahmed showed some resolve when it came to naming Asha’s companion. His face reflected the terror he felt.
“Whose bag is this? Yours?”
“No, it belongs to a friend.”
“Who? Asha? Or al-Yemeni?”
Al-Ghaydah was too numbed by the khat to pretend he didn’t know that name.
Golzari followed up on his advantage, keeping his gun trained on Ahmed as he upended the bag. The cheap, dirty clothing that fell out reeked of diesel fumes and sweat. “Who owns this bag? I will not ask again.”
Al-Ghaydah darted unexpectedly toward the balcony and closed the glass door behind him, then pulled a plastic chair to the edge and tried to reach the balcony on the floor above him. The chair wobbled as he struggled to maintain his balance. Golzari slid the door open and lunged for him. Al-Ghaydah managed one brief look behind him before losing his balance. Golzari reached out but could do no more than grasp a sleeve as al-Ghaydah slipped away and fell eight stories to the concrete below.
Golzari stared after him for a moment, then gathered the contents of the bag, stuffed them inside, and put it back in its place. He pulled the mashedda up to cover his face and left. When he was safely outside the hotel, he strolled casually back to his car and left Mukalla. On the long drive back to Mar’ib he considered the new connections he had uncovered—and the paperwork that would be involved if State found out he had been responsible for a foreigner’s death.
DAY 11
Mar’ib, 0630 (GMT)
Stark swam laps in Mutahar’s Olympic-sized pool early the next morning. Swimming—when it was not for his life—was a favorite pastime long neglected. It stretched out his muscles and gave him time to think. No one willingly swam in the cold waters around Scotland. In fact, the last time he had swum laps was here in this very pool.
He had succeeded at last night’s dinner with the first step in his plan—getting the foreign minister to agree to meet with C. J. She had a chance now. Next up was to get those Yemeni ships out to sea to deter the pirates.
He pulled himself over the rim of the pool and sat there for a few moments, breathing deeply, until approaching footsteps drew his attention.
“Uncle Connor,” Ali shouted. “Look who is finally home!”
Stark stood and grabbed a towel before shaking the hand of Mutahar’s eldest son. “It’s good to see you, Faisal.”
“And you, Connor, in whose debt I remain.”
“You owe me nothing, Faisal. I had the honor of being of service and gained the friendship of your family. I could ask for nothing more.”
“You continue to be a gracious man, Connor,” Faisal said politely.
“You are late,” Mutahar said from the doorway in his slow, deep voice.
Faisal turned at the sound of the voice. “I am sorry, Father.”
“Uncle Connor,” Ali interrupted excitedly. “Watch me, please, and tell me if it is the right way for the butterfly. I have been practicing the stroke just as you showed me”
“Very good, Ali,” his father replied, approaching the pool. “Go ahead. We will all watch.”
Mutahar briefly embraced Faisal and then turned to watch Ali with unconcealed pride. “There is an ancient fable in my land, Connor,” he said without looking away from his youngest son. “A wealthy man died and left two sons but no instructions on which would inherit his wealth. A wise sheikh tested them. One of the sons passed the test. The other did not because he had shamed his father.”
Stark could feel Faisal stiffen beside him, and he sympathized with the young man’s hurt and embarrassment. Hearing such a deeply personal remark from father to son made him uncomfortable, whether or not he was considered a member of the family.
“It is good to be home,” Faisal finally said agreeably. “But I see so many surprises. I barely recognized Connor without his beard.”
“Do not tease our friend. He is very upset that the American Navy made him shave it!”
“The Navy?” Faisal smiled at Stark though his eyes remained cold.
“Yes. Connor has been returned to active duty. He is the American embassy’s new defense attaché.”
Faisal’s eyes widened fractionally. “You are now the military adviser for your ambassador?” He paused for a moment as if seeking words. “You are to be congratulated on gaining such a post, Connor.”
Stark casually patted at the water on his neck and head. “I am the new defense attaché, yes, but my role is more diplomatic than military.”
“Come, my son,” Mutahar said abruptly. “We do not discuss such matters today. We will talk later. For now, our family is together. Go and swim with Ali. Perhaps he can teach you the new stroke Connor has taught him. Connor, the front gate informed me that your driver has arrived.”
“Thank you, Mutahar. I’ll get dressed and bring him in.” His peripheral vision caught Faisal’s wary stare as he walked away.
“Thank you, I’ll escort him from here,” Stark told the guards before walking around to open the passenger door of Golzari’s vehicle. He automatically looked at the mileage indicator as he entered and noticed that it was several hundred miles higher than it had been yesterday.
“How was the sightseeing, Golzari?”
“Lovely,” Golzari replied with a wide smile. “I can’t remember when I’ve enjoyed a trip more.”
“Where did you go?”
“I’ll tell you later.”
“Don’t play Secret Squirrel with me, Golzari. Where did you go? You can do a lot of sightseeing in three hundred miles. You could have gone all the way to the coast and back.” Stark didn’t fail to notice Golzari’s slight jerk at those words.
“You get a gold star for observation, Stark. I’ll tell you when we’re headed out of here.”
An attendant took the car keys when Golzari stopped at the main entrance to the house. Golzari took his bags from the backseat and followed Stark into the grand atrium. The multicolored light that passed through the stained-glass medallion high above danced off the marble floor tiles, creating a dazzling display. He thought for a moment that he had entered the treasure cave of Ali Baba’s forty thieves. The five-story atrium rose all the way to the top of the tower.
“Business has been good to this man,” observed Golzari.
“He has done very well,” Stark agreed. “He’s smart, and he doesn’t screw people. He and Maddox are alike in that regard. Shipping isn’t Mutahar’s only business. He owns a very successful construction firm at well. Hell, he’s built some of the towers in Dubai and has worked on upgrading ports in Oman and Djibouti.”
“Impressive. But, as you say, he is a member of the ruling family.”
“Connections only get you so far. At some point you have to prove that you’re worthy of the largest projects, especially the ones outside the country. And Mutahar has proven that in the business world.”
“Umm,” Golzari said, taking in the examples of Mutahar’s taste and worth that surrounded him. “Nice columns.”
“Yeah, nice colors.”
“They’re Connemara marble, Stark. Do you know how expensive and rare that
stuff is these days?” Golzari was reminded of the last time he had seen the distinctive Connemara marble pattern—it was lying on a coroner’s table in Antioch, Maine. “And he has two Aldo Luongos? Phenomenal,” Golzari said as he moved closer to examine the paintings.
“Aldo who?”
“Aldo Luongo. Argentinean painter. A soccer player turned artist. Wow, these are really fantastic. They aren’t on the same level as his work on the tango, but I can’t imagine that a Muslim house would display a portrait of a suggestive dance.”
“Can we get your bags to your room, or are you going to gawk at everything?”
Golzari gave the Visigoth an annoyed look and picked up his bags. The room assigned to him overlooked the stables. “Nice view,” he said sarcastically.
“You’re supposed to be my driver. You’re lucky you’re not staying in the stables instead of looking at them. Speaking of driving,” Stark added, “where the hell did you go yesterday?”
“Sorry, old man,” Golzari repeated as he checked the lock on his window. “That has to wait until after we’ve left this compound. How long are we here for, anyway?”
“Another day, at least. The big dinner this afternoon should give us an idea. It’s at two. C’mon, I’ll show you around the place. You can look at more art.”
The more he looked, the more impressed Golzari became. He had seen palaces in Saudi Arabia that couldn’t match this grandeur. Mutahar had to be one of the wealthiest men in Yemen, if not the entire southern Saudi peninsula.
The tour ended at the stables, where Stark and Golzari found Mutahar and Faisal watching Ali mount his favorite horse, an elegant Arabian stallion. The boy began a slow gallop around the practice ring, his equitation faultless.
Mutahar leaned on the railing and turned to Stark as he approached. “He is good, isn’t he, Connor?”
Faisal, meanwhile, eyed Stark’s companion. The man’s bearing and self-confidence marked him as more than an embassy driver.
“He has had good teachers,” Stark replied, “including you. Come here, Ali,” he shouted. Ali expertly galloped over to the railing and brought the Arabian to a perfect halt—not so fast as to risk injury to his horse, but fast enough to show a little panache. Stark reached out and stroked the horse’s head, admiring the delicate bone structure.
“You see, Uncle Connor,” Ali beamed proudly, “you were right. I am good! Shall we have another fencing lesson this afternoon?”
“Yes, Ali, before we eat. And I won’t go easy on you, either.”
Golzari followed this conversation carefully. The commander was truly beginning to fascinate him. He knew about guns no naval officer should know, he gave riding lessons to a young princeling, and now fencing? Fencing had been his own sport at Cheltenham. He intended to watch the fencing lesson to see just how good this Visigoth was.
“Someday,” Ali said before galloping away again, “I will be an Olympic athlete like the great Connor Stark!”
Olympic athlete? Golzari hated to be wrong. But every additional fact he learned showed this man to be less and less the Visigoth. Fencing, riding, and shooting were three of the five events in the modern pentathlon. What other surprises did Connor Stark have to offer? He made another mental note to look a bit deeper into Stark’s background when he returned to the embassy. At that moment, he realized that Mutahar was speaking to him.
“You are Connor’s driver.”
“Yes, sir,” he said humbly.
“Where are you from?”
“The United States, sir.”
Mutahar looked at him in disbelief. “You don’t speak like an American,” he pointed out, “and you don’t dress like one either.”
“America is a land of great diversity, sir,” Golzari replied. “I’m as American as the good commander here.”
Mutahar tapped the railing as he looked back and forth between Stark and Golzari.
“I am a good judge of men,” he said finally. “And I believe there is more to you than meets my eyes. But let it be as you say—for now. You are here with Connor, and you are my guest. Welcome to my home. May I present my oldest son, Faisal,” Mutahar gestured to the young man standing beside him.
Golzari and the young man exchanged cordial nods. Golzari knew that Mutahar had pegged him as being from the Middle East. People here could tell the difference between Saudi, Iraqi, Omani, and others as easily as an American could tell the difference between southern, West Coast, and New England accents. So Mutahar almost certainly knew that he was of Persian descent as well.
At that moment Faisal’s cell phone rang. He excused himself politely and walked away from the others as he answered it.
Although he made no attempt to listen, Golzari could hear Faisal’s part of the conversation quite clearly. “Yes? . . . Was it you? . . . What time did it happen? I see. No, no, I will go there. I will call you when I arrive.” He flipped the phone closed and returned to the group. “I am sorry, Father, but I have to return to Mukalla. There has been an accident.”
“Oh? What is it?”
“Ahmed al-Ghaydah is dead. He fell off a hotel balcony last night.”
“His family, peace be upon them, will be grieved. But I cannot say that I am surprised. He indulged too much in khat and foreign women and paid too little attention to his job. I hired him only as a favor to his father.” He reached out to embrace Faisal. “Go now. See his father and tell him that we are very distressed and offer our support.”
“Farewell, Father.” He nodded at Golzari. “Connor, we will see each other again?”
“I hope so, Faisal.”
Faisal smiled. “As do I.”
U.S. Embassy, Sana’a, 1500 (GMT)
C. J. was surprised to see Eliot Green’s face next to Secretary of State Helen Forth’s image on the VTC. “Eliot is joining our conference because of the level of interest at the White House on your status, C. J.,” the secretary said. Green nodded without changing expression. Forth looked away from the camera and toward some papers—probably Eliot’s standard talking points, C. J. thought. Eliot always demanded structure in meetings, his structure.
“Madam Secretary, thanks for taking my call.” A formality since C. J. doubted Forth would have allowed the call without Eliot’s permission. “I expect to have good news from the Yemeni government very soon. They’ve indicated that they’re ready to talk about the oil agreement. There’s another initiative I’d like to discuss with you today, though. If it works out, I hope it will bolster Yemen’s willingness to work with us in other areas.”
“Oh?” Helen Forth’s face expressed interest. Green’s remained wooden.
C. J.’s voice was alive with enthusiasm as she began describing her plan. “I just returned from a one-day evaluation trip to Socotra. I’m not sure whether you’re aware of the earthquake that recently damaged the island’s villages. It didn’t make a lot of headlines. The people there are suffering, though, and I think we could do a lot of good if we were to conduct a small humanitarian operation. Any assistance we provide will be helpful and will create goodwill. You should also know that China has already begun such an effort.”
“What kind of aid do you want to provide?” her superior asked.
“Simple things. Medical supplies and personnel, food, water, clothing. If this works and the Yemeni government sees firsthand our sincere desire to help, then we can expand our effort by working with them.”
“C. J.,” Green chimed in, “just hang on here. Some of those things might be possible, but medical personnel have a higher priority in Afghanistan. And I can’t begin to say what we’ll need if the naval blockade of North Korea isn’t successful.”
“How do you suggest carrying this out if we do approve?” Forth asked.
“There are two possibilities: airlift or sealift. The island has a small airport, but we’d have to charter something larger and faster than the embassy plane here in Sana’a. Round trip for our plane is more than five hours, so using that isn’t practical. Ideally, we could
purchase the materials here in Yemen, supporting the local economy, and transport them on an American ship. Bill Maddox has a few support vessels in the region, and I’m sure he’d be willing to help. Even one shipload would be beneficial. And I’m not requesting military medical personnel, Eliot. I can get civilian volunteers from some of the NGOs.”
“Eliot?” Forth asked, seeking direction as usual.
He looked unconvinced. “It’s a bit risky given that the piracy situation hasn’t abated. Maddox’s firm probably can’t get a ship safely to Socotra.”
C. J. crossed her fingers and took a chance. “I’m convinced that the Yemeni Navy will provide escort ships.”
“Well, that’s a change,” Secretary Forth said.
“Yeah.” Eliot leaned forward into the camera, as he often did when trying to make a point—his point. “What’s changed?”
“There are new negotiations which I am convinced will be fruitful.”
“C. J., does this have anything to do with your new defense attaché, Commander Stark?” Green drew out the last name.
“It does, yes. He is currently speaking with people in the government. I’ll have a report for you later today.” She was buying time with that last statement, hoping that Stark would indeed show up with good news.
“No.” Green’s voice indicated a final decision. “It’s not a good idea.”
C. J. refused to give up. “Eliot, I can do this.”
“Your friend Stark is an incompetent troublemaker. He’ll fail.”
“He won’t,” C. J. insisted. “Not this time.”
“Why are you so sure?”
“Because the Yemeni government will talk to him.”
Green flipped his fingers as if swatting away a fly. “That’s not enough.”
“If the Yemeni Navy agrees to escort Maddox’s supply ship, will that be sufficient for you?”
Eliot’s eyes suddenly narrowed as an idea came to him. “No. If we—the president—decides aid to Socotra is a good idea, and if the Yemeni government agrees, I’ll have a U.S. Navy ship assigned to assist you. The Bennington is in the region.” Green smiled and looked down at the papers he was shuffling on his desk. “Once Secretary Forth and I read your report, we’ll reevaluate. Madam Secretary, does State concur?”
The Aden Effect Page 20
