The Aden Effect

by Claude G. Berube

  “State concurs,” she responded obediently.

  “Thank you, Helen,” he said. “I wonder if you’d give Ambassador Sumner and me a moment now?”

  The feed from State cut out, leaving only Green and Sumner.

  “Okay, C. J. Let’s talk about your pal Stark. You never told him the full story of that court-martial, did you?”

  She inhaled deeply. “No. There was no reason to.”

  “It would be a shame if he found out the truth after all these years.”

  C. J. clenched her fists helplessly as Green’s face disappeared from her monitor. She wished Eliot Green would disappear altogether.

  Mar’ib, 1620 (GMT)

  Servants removed the remnants of the meal as the men sat back and smoked. Mutahar licked the last of the honey cake from his fingertips before one of the women brought out wet towels for those who remained. After dessert, Mutahar excused everyone from the room but Stark, his cousin the Yemeni Navy admiral, and his older uncle, the foreign minister. The security guards remained outside the closed doors.

  Stark cleaned his hands and face and again praised the food of the house of Mutahar before turning to the business at hand. “Gentlemen, I am always honored to visit Mutahar. He is among my most valued friends, and he knows that I would do nothing to dishonor him, his house, or his family,” he punctuated the latter with a nod especially to the foreign minister.

  “Connor, please do not take this as an insult,” the foreign minister began. “You are an American, and you are also an officer in the U.S. Navy. Mutahar has told us that we can discuss anything with you as you are a brother of this house, but I believe that we should also establish rules before we begin. Are you agreeable to this?”

  “Yes, of course,” Stark answered. “May I suggest we try the simple approach and offer one another complete honesty?” Stark displayed open palms as he said this.

  “Connor, I have been the foreign minister for some years now. One thing I know is that you are required to report to your ambassador and also to your Defense Department.” He inhaled deeply from the water pipe.

  “That is true, I suppose. But I have never been a defense attaché before. I was returned very quickly to active duty here without formal training. So perhaps I never learned what’s expected of bureaucrats?”

  The three other men sitting at the table laughed heartily, the foreign minister loudest of all.

  Connor continued. “Gentlemen, I have assured Mutahar that nothing you say will be reported back to my government unless you wish it. I need the information I seek now so that I can know how to advise Ambassador Sumner. She wants to work with you. And as I said last night, she is very capable of doing that.”

  “Very well, Connor. Only that which is explicitly agreed upon will be shared with Ambassador Sumner.”

  “Thank you. First, Ambassador Sumner has always had an interest in helping victims of disasters. She believes it is her responsibility and her privilege as ambassador to provide assistance when it is needed. The recent earthquake affected many people in Socotra. They are in need of supplies. We would like to provide medical assistance along with food and water for the victims, all in accordance with Islamic law and with your approval, of course. Ships owned by the firm operated by Bill Maddox could carry the supplies.”

  The foreign minister pondered this offer. “So long as it is not too much American presence. Representatives of our government should be there with you under our flag, as they are with our Chinese brothers who are also offering assistance on the west coast of Socotra. Tell Ambassador Sumner we will grant this.”

  “Thank you, sir. I will inform her of your benevolence for your people and work out the details. Perhaps the admiral would be an excellent representative of your government. It would be a good opportunity to exercise your ships, and we could use the protection from the pirates.”

  The elder statesman leaned back and chuckled. “Connor, it is well you are not a businessman—you would give even Mutahar strong competition in negotiations. Ambassador Sumner has been trying since she got here to have our ships patrol. I see what you are doing!”

  “I am not asking for the admiral to patrol, only to escort. That is a great difference,” Stark explained, dancing around the central issue.

  The foreign minister turned to his cousin the admiral. “What do you think?”

  The admiral paused to consider the question. “My ships have not been to Socotra in some time. Perhaps Connor is correct. This would be a good opportunity to practice with the new ships.”

  “Would you then also consider providing escorts for ships resupplying the oil platforms to the south?” Stark knew he was entering more dangerous waters here, but he would have only one shot at this.

  The admiral didn’t even pause to think about that question. “This would not be possible. Such daily runs would cost too much. As well, the pirates have become extremely aggressive. We heard what happened to your security ship. I’m not convinced that our forces are sufficiently well armed—not yet.”

  “Admiral, no one knows better than I what the pirates are capable of. I have been surprised at their advanced tactics and aggression as well. I also know what will happen if they are not stopped. The Quran speaks of crimes against order—hirabah. What are these men but hirabi—creators of disorder?”

  “You speak the truth. They are criminals. But there are too many of them.”

  “If we work together, we can challenge them. We might be able to provide ships and aircraft in the future to help you dispose of them.”

  “This is a more difficult issue,” the admiral admitted. “We know your government would like to establish a permanent base on Socotra. Please understand that that is not possible.”

  “Please tell me your concerns. Perhaps there is common ground,” Stark said.

  “Connor, are there other requests you were sent here to make?” the foreign minister asked.

  “Yes. Maddox, with great and efficient support from Mutahar’s ships, has met every one of Yemen’s development requirements. His men are close to completing the last two platforms. We hope for a decision soon about awarding that contract and the rights to the oil.”

  “We know this,” the elder statesman said slowly in his deep voice. “We will tell you this now, Connor. There is no reason for an American base because the United States will not be considered for the oil production contract.”

  Connor kept his face expressionless. “May I ask why?”

  “It is not a personal matter. We like Maddox. He and Mutahar have worked well together. We do not, however, wish to expand our business interests with the United States.”

  “I’m not sure what to say, Abdul. I am an American and you deal with me. Maddox is an American and you deal with him.”

  “You are both individuals. Neither of you makes policy for your country. Our government has not benefited from our relationship with America; it has only been . . . damaged. Yemen has suffered since your country’s ship was attacked in Aden, even though we were not responsible. Al-Qaeda attacked it. Al-Qaeda continues to attack us as well. They try to turn our people against us. Several years ago when we allowed America’s Predator drones to kill al-Qaeda leaders in Yemen, we were promised that the circumstances would not be revealed. It was only to be said that the Yemeni government had ensured justice against the criminals. The United States broke the agreement and boasted of its achievement through leaks to your media.” The foreign minister raised his chin in Connor’s direction. “After that, many of our people and those from other countries began to oppose us and call us a tool of the United States. We have had problems to the north. One of the old families to the east has been gaining more power and challenging us.”

  Stark assumed he meant the al-Ghaydah family.

  “No, Connor,” he repeated. “There will be no oil for the United States.”

  “Should I ask what will happen to it?”

  “Other countries need oil, other countries whose intentions we
do not distrust and whom al-Qaeda does not attack. Those countries have money to buy our oil as well.” Finished speaking, Abdul reclined again and smoked.

  “You would prefer to ally yourselves with the Chinese?” Stark boldly asked the foreign minister.

  “We prefer to work with countries that will act in our interests as well as their own,” he responded.

  “And India?”

  He shrugged. “Our historical ties with India extend for centuries. We have no quarrel with India.”

  Connor knew when he had lost an argument. “Gentlemen, you have been gracious in giving the ambassador the opportunity to serve the people of Socotra and to enjoy the protection of your navy. Aside from the situation to the north and east, is there anything we have discussed this afternoon that I cannot share with Ambassador Sumner?”

  Abdul blew a long puff of smoke and leaned toward Stark. “Yes. Do not tell her how good Mutahar’s cook is.”

  Mukalla, 1840 (GMT)

  “He just fell off the balcony?” Faisal asked the hotel clerk as Asha paced back and forth behind him.

  “The police say he had too much khat,” the clerk replied.

  “This happened how long after I left?”

  “One hour. Maybe two.”

  “Were there any calls to the room?”

  “No. And he made no outgoing calls.”

  “There was no sign of forced entry?”

  “None. No one saw anything.”

  Faisal swung the swivel chair to face the harbor.

  “Does the hotel maintain security tapes?”

  “No. But I assure you, no one saw anyone unusual. No Asians, no Africans, no Westerners.”

  “Was there someone who might have looked Iranian who came into the hotel after I left and came out after Ahmed jumped?”

  “There were several. One wore a scarf around his face. He was thin and maybe six feet tall. But many people like that come through the hotel.”

  “Leave us now,” Faisal said, locking the door behind the clerk. Then, turning toward Asha, “I wonder . . .”

  “What?” Asha asked.

  “At my father’s I saw someone I knew. He is the new military adviser at the American embassy.”

  “You know him?”

  “I didn’t know his current position until then. I knew him from before.”

  “He is the man you wanted killed?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do not be troubled. I will see that it is done.”

  “There was another man with him—his driver. He looked Iranian. Thin. About six feet tall. He arrived after I got there,” Faisal said.

  “This is the American agent who has been following in my footsteps?”

  “It must be.”

  “Then we have a chance to kill them both. They will certainly leave your father’s estate together. One of your guards can tell you when that happens.”

  “I must call Hu and tell him about these developments,” Faisal said. “Abdi, you must go now. Go and kill them both once they have left the safety of my father’s estate. Take enough men to be certain. I need to put to sea again to finish preparing the tanker. Can you do this?”

  “Of course I can.”

  U.S. Embassy, Sana’a, 1843 (GMT)

  C. J. paced around her office as Rachmaninoff’s Prelude in C-Sharp Minor played quietly in the background. If she could have brought one luxury item to the embassy, she often thought, it would have been her baby grand—the beloved piano on which she had learned to play all of the masters. Learning to play had been easy for her, the child of talented musicians. A composer writes music following precise mathematical rules. Any competent musician can read a score and play the notes. But the interpretation . . . that had taken time and thought and growth. A very good pianist brings a musical composition to life in new and vibrant ways. She excelled at that. She controlled every note, manipulated every chord, and took old pieces in new directions. She had once planned a career as a professional musician, had dreamed of thrilling the world with her passion and skills. Considering her parents, it was the natural decision. But a life of service—of helping people—held an even greater attraction.

  In some ways foreign policy was like a musical composition. The policymakers wrote the score; the Foreign Service officers and ambassadors could either make the policies come alive or repeat them by rote, without inspiring their audience. They sometimes even missed a note.

  C. J. was glad to get the call from Connor telling her about the inroads he had made with the Yemenis. He had done far more in a few days than she had been able to do during her entire tenure here. He had done exactly what she had asked of him and what he promised to do. It was always like that with him. His arrival had buoyed her spirits and given her new confidence.

  It was too late in D.C. for her to share the good news with Helen Forth and Eliot, so she decided to cable them instead. They would be happy to hear that the Yemenis had approved an assistance operation and that the Yemeni Navy had agreed to escort an American ship. The question was how much more than that to tell them. Standard procedure dictated that she tell her superiors that Yemen would not consider the United States for the oil rights once Maddox’s people had finished the platforms, or give permission for a U.S. military base on Socotra. If she didn’t pass that information on to State and the White House, she’d be in conflict with her duties. If she told them, though, Eliot would have the president yank her out of Yemen for failing to achieve her primary mission.

  Rachmaninoff ended and the exuberant thunder of Chopin’s “Polonaise Militaire” filled the air. C. J. decided she would tell them of the primary mission’s failure. She also decided to submit her resignation after the successful completion of the humanitarian mission. But that could wait. State and the White House did not control her fate. She did. If she could at least save the life of that little girl in the hospital, the tradeoff would be worth it.

  DAY 12

  Mar’ib, 0302 (GMT)

  Stark and Golzari said their good-byes to Mutahar and Ali as servants stowed their bags in the embassy SUV. The walls surrounding the estate glowed like molten gold in the dawn light. Only they, their hosts, and the guards were outside at this hour to see the breathtaking sight.

  “Two days with Connor, Ali. Has this made you happy?”

  “Oh, yes,” the boy answered. “Time spent with Uncle Connor is always a pleasure. Next time you are here, Uncle, we will have another match, and I will do even better.”

  “Yes, Ali. I look forward to it. Keep training. I am honored that you allow me the privilege to train with you.”

  “Peace be upon you, Uncle Connor.”

  “And you, your father, and your house, Ali,” Stark said, shaking the boy’s hand, as fond and proud of him as an uncle would be. He turned to embrace Mutahar.

  “Thank you for teaching him again, Connor,” Mutahar whispered in his ear. “Next time, we will not have so many people here so we can break out the scotch.”

  “Then I must return soon.”

  One of the estate’s guards approached Ali and escorted him back to the stables.

  As soon as they were in the car, Stark asked the question he had not forgotten. “Where did you go?”

  “Mukalla. I broke into the shipping company’s office, pocketed a hotel cardkey, went to the hotel, and scared Ahmed al-Ghaydah so much that he lost his balance, fell off the balcony, and died. Is that sufficient? I’d just as soon not file a written report and have to explain all that to my supervisors.”

  “What the hell, Golzari?” Stark exploded. “Are you nuts? That guy worked for Mutahar! If the past two days haven’t given you a clue, I happen to have a relationship with him and his family. Plus, I’m in the middle of negotiating with them. They are integral to the success of the mission. Idiot.”

  “Listen, Stark, I wasn’t careless. They don’t know I was involved.”

  “You can’t be sure of that.”

  “I’m a professional.”

  “Y
eah. So professional that you accidentally killed a guy.”

  When Golzari ignored him, Stark showed rare restraint and opted against continuing the argument.

  Golzari was the first to break the silence. “I fenced at school in England.”

  “Jolly good for you,” Stark retorted sarcastically.

  “I watched you work with Ali. You knew what you were doing. What was that comment he made about the Olympics?”

  “It’s one of those ‘long time ago, long story’ things.”

  “It’ll be a quiet ride otherwise.”

  “Okay. I competed in modern pentathlon. It’s not that popular anymore. People are more interested in extreme skateboarding.”

  “You really were in the Olympics?” Golzari was getting accustomed to impressive revelations about Stark, but he refused to be impressed. Even barbarian Visigoths had been trained for the ring as gladiators.

  “Only in ’88. I was training for the ’92 Olympics but got sidelined by an injury.”

  “Sorry to hear that. What happened?”

  “My ship made a port call in Naples. I was in a café with friends. The Red Brigade saw U.S. Navy targets of opportunity and opened fire on us. Wrong place, wrong time.”

  They were now approaching the outskirts of Old Mar’ib, one of the region’s most ancient cities. The dirt road wound up and down the sloping hills that surrounded the ruins. Stone blocks strewn about like an earthquake had struck the area were all that remained of ancient structures ravaged by time and the wars that have always plagued the region. No one lived here anymore. Stark became aware that the vehicle had begun slowly accelerating and then decelerating, and he saw that Golzari’s eyes darted back and forth between the odometer and the rearview mirror.

  “Problem?” he asked the DSS agent.