“Ring me today after dhuhr. I will give you instructions to my home. It is easy to find. We will chew qat and talk, yes?”
Arif took the card. The youngest son swept away, his dark robe feathering around him, shining like a crow.
Arif’s house stood empty. Nadya had driven away at dawn, before he rose to attend the funeral ceremony. The call to prayer had brought the village to Qasim’s swaddled and scented body lying in the open dawn in the square, but Nadya would not attend. She refused to close the clinic. Oddly, Qasim had smelled of her. She liked aromas, of candles, coffee, cooking herbs, incense, skin oils, the flavored mists of the water pipe. Their little house smelled of her always, even with the windows open to the Yemeni heat. But on Arif’s return home, he caught no whiff of his wife at all. She’d left nothing baked for him before she left, no sweet rolls or bread on the counter, no coffee to heat. Last night in bed, after her floral bath, he went to sleep breathing his wife, as every night. Holding his cell phone in the silent kitchen, Arif felt empty of her. He feared that he stood at the boundary of a place she finally would not go with him.
Arif set the phone on the counter and imagined leaving it there as an offering. He thought of walking two miles in the sun to her clinic as a feat for her. He wanted Nadya to tell him to stop, he wanted her beside him to nod her assent before he went up to his office.
Years ago Arif had stood on the edge of battlefields like this, wondering what lay ahead in the fight, what would happen if he turned back? Everything would change with the direction of the next step.
What did Ghalib of the Ba-Jalal want with him? What had Arif ignited with the email that had alerted his phone? And at what cost? He had little left in his life to pay but his wife.
He lost track of how long he stood like this, a steadying hand on the counter, doing a martyr’s math. When he became aware of himself, he snatched up the phone.
He thought of calling Nadya but for what? To ask forgiveness? Permission? She’d given both already.
Arif headed for the stairs. With every rising tread he shed his hesitation. He was not alone nor was he wrong, and he rebuked himself for believing otherwise just because Nadya had not left him a treat or a burning candle.
Before sitting at the computer Arif changed from the funeral clothes to the T-shirt and shorts he’d left in his chair last night. He slid back the door to the balcony to ease the stifling room and put on the fan. Miles away the midmorning desert flushed red.
Arif sat before the screen, opening the covert link from his c&c server to Jaffar’s computer. Jaffar’s keystrokes showed him busily tapping away; Arif ignored the engineer’s diligence, instead boring in on the network email file share he’d singled out last night. After loading the file into the text search engine, he quickly found the one message he sought.
At 0743, Prince Hassan bin Abd al-Aziz had answered his cousin al-Bakr Sudayri’s mention of Fatima. He’d typed a simple Yes.
Sudayri had not yet replied.
Arif entered the email account he’d spoofed using Sudayri’s ID and password. Any email Arif sent to Abd al-Aziz would appear to come from the Saudi ISP.
In the heat of his office, to the sounds of a mule cart creaking past beneath his balcony and a knife sharpener shouting his trade, Arif leaned back in his chair. He had to wait for Jaffar in Riyadh to take a break from his industriousness and send out his personal emails. When he did this, Arif would slip in one more.
The engineer was an honest man. He did not take time for personal business until his lunch break exactly at noon. The instant Jaffar sent an email to his sister in Medina, a lament that he did not have money to fund her son’s visit, Arif hid inside his shadow and sent Sudayri’s answer to Abd al-Aziz.
Subject: Photos
Message: Fatima asked me to forward you these pictures. See attached.
Arif’s wait was short. An answer came back within ten minutes.
Subject: Re: Photos
Message: The attachment was empty. Re-send.
Arif waved to his computer screen, a good-bye to Jaffar, who would not know why or how he’d gotten into so much trouble.
The command and control server indicated that it had Abd al-Aziz’s computer under its control. The malware had launched itself when Abd al-Aziz opened the attachment. Arif arrived seconds later.
A surge flowed from his hands on the keyboard and up his arms. The image on his screen was the same as the one in his father-in-law’s home office. Arif now owned the prince’s computer; he had access to its hard drive, could edit any data he found, capture every keystroke, dive as deep as he chose into Abd al-Aziz’s records and the secrets stored inside them.
Arif could not guess how long the link would last. His father-in-law was the chief of Saudi Intelligence; his personal computer wouldn’t be like Jaffar’s, naïve and poorly protected. Abd al-Aziz could have tiers of cyber-security trip wires, any one of which may already have been activated without Arif’s knowledge. Arif pushed back against the temptation to snoop through the full electronic world of his father-in-law. If he did, he might find perfidy, plots, all the impieties of the House of Saud. But it was too great a thing to contemplate, to catalog in the time before he was shut down—perhaps a day or only hours—until Sudayri explained that he did not write these last few emails, until the lowly engineer Jaffar was arrested. Curiosity was too blunt an instrument. Arif turned instead to his anger, honed over decades.
He drove for the place where every member of the Al Saud was most vulnerable, what every royal most guarded and feared.
Arif went for Hassan bin Abd al-Aziz’s private bank accounts.
Chapter 4
Turkish embassy
Sana’a
Yemen
Many in the ballroom spilled their pomegranate juice when the boom shook the chandeliers and windows. Women gasped to look down at themselves, then patted their gowns with napkins, while their escorts complained about the jet. There should be rules, groused a few diplomats with stained shirts and cummerbunds. A mustachioed Yemeni army officer, elegant in all white, said there were.
Josh handed a Tunisian woman his own handkerchief. She brushed the darkened bosom of her dress. Her portly husband bustled up to take the kerchief from her and return it to Josh. He led his wife away.
Josh moved across the parquet dance floor, slipping through the diplomats and spouses packing the ballroom. He ate from several traveling trays of lamb kebab.
He parked alone at the foot of a curving stone stairwell beneath a two-story-tall banner of Kemal Ataturk. The founder of Turkey’s blocky jaw and farseeing eyes watched over the embassy’s celebration of Independence Day. The Turks put on an opulent party this afternoon for the Sana’a diplomatic community. Velvet and bunting softened every table beneath a hundred tulip vases; pipers and drummers played native music; and the servers wore caftans, pantaloons, slippers, and turbans. A large ice sculpture of the Blue Mosque anchored the event.
Josh motioned to a costumed waiter for more skewers. The little Yemeni hustled over, his tray of beef kebabs held high.
“I prefer lamb.”
The waiter cocked his turbaned head, surprised to be addressed by a tuxedoed Western guest speaking Arabic.
“Sir. Yes, sir.”
“Could you find some lamb?”
“Sir, yes, sir.”
The waiter left as he’d arrived, hustling.
Josh exhaled a worn sigh, a flute of juice in one hand. The formal backs of chatting diplomats bunched around him. He sampled their conversations, covering those in English and Arabic. The gathering sparkled in the eclectic dress of sunbaked Arabia and those who’d come to influence it. Italian-cut suits and business couture flattered the Europeans; pastel bubus draped the West Africans, embroidered dashikis for the North Africans, fez caps and sufis on the East Africans, and dastars on the Sikhs; and the Saudis glided alo
ng in floor-length white thobes and headdresses wrapped in the double rope agal of camel herders.
Josh surfed on snippets of talk, little of interest: the social calendar in Sana’a, a new UN fund for sub-Saharan agriculture. Checking his watch, he saw he had another hour of handshaking and banalities. He’d already stood aloof too long under Ataturk. It would go noted if he left early.
Josh inhaled as if preparing to dive from a height. Before he could stride back into the crowd, an older man, prominent in a formal cutaway tux, watch fob across his gray vest, headed his way. The man was short, shaved bald with skin baked golden brown. Coming to rest beside Josh at the staircase, he seemed twitchy, patting his coat pockets.
“Damn. Can’t smoke inside. Can’t leave.”
Josh stood still, not sure what to say.
“You could step out for a moment.”
“No. The Turks take everything to heart. You’d think, of all people, they’d let a man light a cigarette indoors. Who smokes more than a Turk?”
Josh offered a guess.
“An Egyptian.”
The diplomat extended a hand. Josh took it. The shake was light, noncommittal.
“Ahmed Elghul. Egyptian embassy.”
“Joshua Cofield. American embassy.”
Elghul lifted a stubby, manicured finger between them. He leaned in, eager, almost conspiratorial, as though he’d had an insight about Americans and had waited a long time to share it with one.
“You have a Biblical first name and an Anglo-Saxon last name. I make a study of these things.”
“Interesting.”
“What is your middle name?”
“Darius.”
“Persian. That is perfect. Very American.”
“I suppose.”
“Where are your people from?”
“Father from Louisiana. Mother from Baltimore.”
“You understand, this is your strength. If I may.”
“Please.”
“It is a law of nature. The mixture of breeds is always strongest. The mongrel.”
Josh paused, laying back to see how Elghul intended this, offense or jest. The older man let the observation hang between them, undeciphered. Josh laughed first. Elghul’s cheeks pinched.
“I did not mean to amuse you.”
Josh tumbled to his normal speaking voice.
“It’s an odd way to put it, that’s all.”
Elghul nodded, lips pursed. It appeared that Elghul wanted to speak his mind more. In the tedium of another embassy party, Josh could do with some candor to help pass the time. He reached out a palm like an usher. Elghul blinked slowly, owlish.
“This is no secret, my friend. This issue of American strength, it occupies the entire world. How will you use it under this president, then that president? Who will you defend, who will you target? It is Monte Carlo with your country, always.”
“Like you say. Mongrels are tough to predict.”
“And that makes you difficult to trust. I say this with affection and friendship. The rest of us, we wait for you to grow up to match your strength. You will be a young people for another thousand years.”
“At least.”
The Egyptian’s manner would have been no different if he were discussing the weather or the results of a cricket match. He smiled without condescension, waggled a finger without chastising.
“Look at your names. What was yours again?”
“Josh Cofield.”
“Where is your father in that name? Your town and tribe? I am Ahmed al-Barudi Elghul. From the village of Barudi, of the el-Ghul. You, in America, you start over with that name, Joshua Cofield. Always an infant. This is what I am saying.”
The costumed waiter had found Josh a tray of the lamb kebab. He neared, but Josh gestured him away.
“May I reply?”
“Of course.”
Josh dug both hands in his pockets, an attempt to remain casual.
“First, not every old way’s a good way. I would’ve thought the Arab Spring taught you that. Second, sometimes it takes a child like America to show the way. Sometimes a brother, like the Turks here, or the Iraqis. And sometimes, you just find the right way after going all the wrong ways first. That’s what I’m saying. With affection.”
“You compare Egypt to Turkey? To Iraq?”
“They both have constitutions. They both respect democracy.”
Elghul fluttered his hand primly.
“The Turkish generals guarantee their constitution. America’s generals guarantee Iraq’s.”
“Who guarantees Egypt’s?”
“The people, of course.”
“Good to know. We’ll be watching for that.”
Elghul tugged out his pocket watch, a neat gesture to break their time together.
“With apologies, I must return to the party. You will excuse me.”
“Certainly.”
“Before I go, if I may observe.”
“About?”
“You, sir.”
“I’m all ears.”
Elghul tucked away the watch. He left his thumb pushed inside the little vest pocket, to pat his belly with the dangling fingers.
“You have a grating manner.” Elghul said this with the same delicate touch as his handshake.
“I’m sorry. I meant only to be frank.”
“It might be better to save your frankness for more political venues. This is a social event. I should suggest diplomacy, young man. Good day.”
The Egyptian lowered his brow for a parting nod. He walked off stylish, without haste or cantankerousness. In seconds, he was part of a new conversation.
Another tray of juice glasses floated nearby. A couple fingers of scotch would have done better to pass the next hour. Josh beckoned the waiter.
Before the server could reach the stairwell, he was intercepted by the tall, mustachioed Yemeni soldier decked in white dress uniform. His shoulder boards told his rank, the twin stars and brass eagle of a full colonel. With grace, the officer snipped two flutes off the tray, then ferried them to Josh.
“With my compliments.”
The officer spoke in Yemeni. Josh accepted the offered glass.
“Shakkran.”
“You’re not very good at this, are you?”
“At what?”
The colonel swept a hand across the panoply of diplomats, spouses, global attire, food, décor, posturing, ice.
“This.”
“Good enough, I suppose.”
The colonel switched to a British-flavored English.
“I think not. You quite butchered that with the Egyptian. He’s a bored old buzzard. He goaded you as an entertainment. You took him seriously.”
“No I didn’t.”
“My friend, never compare one country to another, especially as an American. It’s shaming for you to tell us how much better we could be doing things. Especially among Arabs. You speak adequate Arabic. I should think you would know this.”
“He started it.”
“Are you a child?”
Unlike Elghul, the colonel did not let his words hover between them but flashed broad white teeth to cue that he was kidding. Josh grinned in response, to wrap his reply in the same clothing: a joke, and not.
“I’m way too damn big to be a child.”
“That you are. What are you, six foot two?”
“Six three.”
“Excellent. Then are you a siyasi?”
“A spy? No. Why would you ask me that?”
“Nothing. Ignore it.”
“First that guy tells me I’m rude, then you tell me I’m a spy.”
“Perhaps you are having an off day.”
“Maybe. But you’re the one eavesdropping.”
“Yes, I suppose
that is what spies do. But no. I simply happened to be standing nearby and your conversation interested me. Though I think spies enjoy these events more than we. There’s no such thing as idle talk.”
Josh put out a hand for a shake. The soldier’s grip was firm, rare among Gulf Staters, not hesitant to project himself through it. Josh returned the squeeze.
“Joshua Cofield. American embassy.”
“Colonel Khalil Yahya al-Din. Military attaché to the vice president.”
“Colonel.”
“Joshua. What is your role at the embassy?”
“Public affairs officer.”
“Ah.”
Khalil chuckled behind his rising flute. After a sip, he dried his mustache on the back of his hand.
“So it’s your job to attend these ordeals. How sad.”
“And ribbon cuttings. Visiting universities, writing the ambassador’s speeches, talking with the press.”
“Why on earth would your embassy put a man like you in that position?”
The server had hovered nearby with the tray of lamb kebabs. Josh gestured him over to put a gap in the conversation. He and Khalil selected skewers. Josh’s better judgment told him to eat silently, bid farewell, then walk off. But he did want to learn diplomacy beyond stamping visas; he was posted to Sana’a to do just that. This blatant, toothy colonel clearly had some sort of agenda. He seemed to know the game. Josh sipped, to give himself a few more seconds. “What sort of man is that?”
Khalil spread his hands, to say Come now, we both know.
“Go ahead. I’d like to hear this.”
“If you insist.”
“Apparently I’m the kind who does.”
“As you wish. I note the American South in your speech. Most of your foreign service fellows iron out the regional accents from their speech, but not you. You’re intelligent, so this may indicate you are hardheaded. You’re blunt. I suspect you’re former military. You barely flinched at that sonic boom. You carry yourself apart, with the upright feel of a soldier. And you’re removed. Something about you wishes you were elsewhere, doing something different. You may not be cut out for shaking hands.”
The Empty Quarter Page 6
