Wally took a seat in the shade next to Quincy, under the chopper’s flipping blades. The whine of the Pave Hawk’s engines continued its slow fall in pitch.
The CRO and three slouching PJs stared at each other. Doc disappeared into the back of an ambulance. Before the truck rumbled off, Wally, with the tireless and cheery vigor that most annoyed LB, held a thumbs-up into their center.
“Good job, guys. All day long.”
Good-natured Jamie held out his own thumb.
Quincy, from the open plains of Nevada, didn’t talk much. He’d grown up mostly in a saddle, with horses for company. The big man had a nose for nonsense and tried not to get caught between Wally and LB. Even so, he put up his ham-sized fist, thumb raised, a sign of how tired he was.
All eyes and Wally’s reflectors turned to LB. He wished Doc were sitting here; he’d have an ally to gripe at Wally. Getting shot at aged a man. Both he and Doc were old enough.
Quincy rattled his head. Nonsense. Jamie flicked the back of his hand against LB’s leg.
“Come on. I’ll remind you from now on.”
Wally smiled, forgiving, the good spouse. The weight of being wronged held LB’s hand down. On top of that he was now the one who wouldn’t let the spat go, the Little Bastard.
LB didn’t raise his own thumb, wouldn’t give in. He waited for Wally’s response.
Wally ignored him except to lower his own thumb, leaving his hand suspended between them. Behind the sunglasses, Wally’s face lost expression.
Quincy dropped his own hand, Jamie followed suit.
LB reeled his ankles in under him to shove off the tarmac. If he was going to make a scene, he’d do it on his feet.
“What the hell.”
Wally silenced him with a raised hand. The fingertips shot to his radio earpiece.
LB sat again.
“What is it?”
Wally shoved the open hand again, then pressed his PTT.
“ROC, Juggler. Go.”
While Wally listened, the jet engines of Pedro 2 reversed their power-down mode to throttle up, rising in tone. The bird’s drooping rotors stiffened and began to blur again. Both Pedro pilots and Wally were on the same freq to the Rescue Operations Cell.
Wally lifted an index finger beside his temple. Panning his sunglasses across Quincy, Jamie, and LB, he spun his finger in small circles. He spoke into the mike curled at his lips.
“Spinning up now.”
Quincy climbed to his feet. He offered a mitt down to Jamie to lift him, then to LB. Across the pad, through waves of heat off the concrete, the rotors of Pedro 1 accelerated also.
Quincy and Jamie hurried away with their packs and carbines. Jamie’s gait showed the strain; Quincy dug a big paw under the boy’s pack to help him along. LB donned his helmet and shouldered his rifle. Wally stayed seated, on the radio recalling Doc from the hospital.
LB stood over him, reaching down with his good arm.
* * *
9 push-to-talk.
Chapter 6
Al-Husn
Ma’rib
Yemen
The village market sprawled the length of a shady lane. Whitewashed walls formed the banks of a river of color: lush tomatoes and lettuce heads, white onions, red clumps of radishes and beets, sacks of amber grains and beans and brown coffee, the heather of bundled herbs, all spread on spun flax blankets. Old men with lined faces kneeled beside their wares to make sales and give change. Sons and younger brothers hawked firewood, carpets, used auto parts, fencing wire, and small appliances. At the entrance to the souk, a young qabil held a Kalashnikov rifle above his head shouting, “Ten thousand riyals.”
Arif wove through the noon market, the smells of man and earth strong and mingled. He moved among the merchants and shoppers who’d spilled out of the mosque following the dhuhr prayer. Arif recognized no one but returned many nods of women who knew him not by name but because of Nadya. Arif waved away proffers of wool, radios, and knife sharpening. He tossed ten riyals into a pot for a man standing on a box reciting poetry.
At the far end of the closed street, in the short shadow of the mosque, a tribesman sat on the tailgate of a battered pickup. Alongside the truck’s bed, other men picked through sheaves of qat branches for the most succulent leaves. Emerald bits flecked the yellow teeth of the old salesman; a wad bulged in his cheek while he made deals.
Arif asked for help selecting the best branches. The merchant, with the fiery eyes of the frequent chewer, wrapped three fresh sprigs in newsprint. He let them go for three hundred riyals.
The home of Ghalib Tujjar Ba-Jalal was indeed easy to find. The place was a concrete and stone giant, a three-story citadel adorned with arched windows, wooden shutters, and horizontal belts of white and pink tile. Behind an adobe wall, it towered over a street of humbler homes, boxes of mud and straw brick painted canary, rose, or sky blue and arrayed at random angles.
A taxi jeep clattered along the pebbly street. It let off passengers lugging woven baskets filled at the market. One of the abaya-covered women entered the tall iron gate to Ghalib’s house. Arif followed. She did not glance behind her.
The woman floated across a courtyard that was swept and wetted against the dust. Potted lime, fig, and basil trees shaded the flagstones. She opened a great, iron-studded wooden door weathered beyond the rest of the house and hefted her basket inside. She closed the door, ignoring Arif behind her.
Arif banged the brass ring knocker, receiving no answer, then knocked again. A woman’s voice called from a watching window above. He did not look up.
“Who is it?”
“Arif al-Bahaziq. I’ve come at the invitation of Ghalib Tujjar Ba-Jalal.”
The door opened smoothly. No one stood in the dim foyer. The same disembodied voice replied.
“Go to the third floor.”
Arif slipped inside. Behind him the door shut on its own, operated by a rig of pulleys and lines disappearing into the shadowy recesses of the house.
He took the first steps. Rising on the treads, Arif uttered the warning of a man walking unescorted into a house of women.
“Allah. Allah. Allah.”
In the surrounding darkness, on the second floor landing and to the third floor stairs, giggles and scurries tracked him behind walls of carved plaster. Children’s small eyes watched out of keyholes, and older girls peered past cracked doors. Arif continued to announce his presence in the house, cool and dark in the late afternoon behind its thick walls, until he reached the top floor and the aroma of smoke. From an open doorway, a man’s voice issued with the molasses mist of a water pipe.
“This way, Arif the Saudi.”
Arif stepped into Ghalib’s mabraz, the home’s entertaining space for males. Shaykh Qasim’s youngest son rested against a pile of satin pillows in a room filled with them. A small refrigerator hummed beneath a shelf of jars holding loose tobacco and charcoal, candies and cigarettes. Bright batiks and tapestries decorated two walls. Ghalib reclined under a broad window; tiers of smoke shifted above his bare head, leaching from his lips. He set aside the hose of the shisha and jumped nimbly to slippered feet. Ghalib wore a green silk robe, bare-chested.
“Welcome.”
Arif shook his hand and offered the bouquet of qat branches.
“From the souk.”
“Already you are an excellent guest. You honor me. Sit. Will you smoke?”
“Please.”
“We’ll have a snack, then a chew, yes?”
Ghalib returned to his pillows. Arif sat in the Yemeni fashion, right knee raised, left leg tucked under. With hands opened to the floor, Ghalib pressed both palms down from shoulder height to his waist, as if patting in place the cushions around him and the worries of the world outside his walls.
“Fi l-bayt murtah.” At home and comfortable.
Ghalib spread out the newspaper and qat stems. He pinched off the greenest leaves, rubbing the dust from them with his thumb. When finished, he presented them in a bowl to Arif, then did the same for himself.
Ghalib set between them yoghurt bowls, a red pepper sauce, raw honey, salt, and fresh kobz flatbread. He spread his silken arms, beaming.
“In the name of God, the Merciful, the Compassionate. Esh wa milh.” The bond of bread and salt.
Arif tore the wheel of bread, handing half to Ghalib. Together, they dipped into the bowls. In the Arab fashion, neither spoke while eating. Talk would follow, with the qat.
The meal done, Ghalib clapped loudly. An akhdam entered to clear the plates. The old servant was African, darker than an Arab. He returned to set a new tray on the floor, bearing tea glasses, a steaming samovar, and a smoking incense pot. The black man served and departed.
Ghalib raised his bowl of leaves, Arif did the same. He’d not chewed qat since arriving in Ma’rib. But years back, in Afghanistan beside a hundred Yemeni fighters, he’d indulged whenever they could get the stuff in the hills. The qat stimulated them, kept the fighters awake and their moods high. Arif tucked the first leaves into his mouth; they tasted grassy and familiar.
The chew moistened Arif’s tongue, making for a bitter swallow. Ghalib poured tea for them both. Arif raised his cup in tribute.
“Your home is wonderful.”
Ghalib accepted the compliment with his own teacup lifted.
“High praise from a Saudi. There are many palaces in your country.”
“Your father was generous to me. He was a great man.”
Ghalib licked his finger to snare the last of the leaves from his bowl. He chewed on the wad swelling his cheek.
“The Ba-Jalal have been merchants in Ma’rib since the Sabeans.”
“Shaykh Qasim must have been a keen businessman.”
Ghalib stroked his goatee.
“My father inherited his business and land. The same as my brothers and me. He was clever with it. He was a hard man. A good Muslim.”
A cloud crossed Ghalib’s face. Arif chewed the last of his own qat bowl.
“As I said. Your father was kind to me.”
Arif sipped his tea. The incense pot gave off heat and a sweet haze, warming the mabraz. The chew would take hold better with a sweat.
Like a rain in the desert, the qat pattered in Arif’s blood. He raised his chin, as if to a real cloud, and smiled for no reason but for a spreading sense of delight.
“Tell me about your family, Arif the Saudi.”
As he’d told Ghalib at the funeral, he was not in search of new friends, not in need of testimony or approval. The qat reminded Arif, too, that if he had bold thoughts, he could speak them.
“May we dispense with this?”
Ghalib stayed silent but nodded at Arif, who set the tea glass aside.
“My father is dead. My mother is dead. You don’t care and I don’t want to perform for you. Please tell me the reason for my invitation.”
The youngest son licked green flecks off his teeth. He extended his empty tea glass.
“Please.”
Arif did not move for the hot samovar. Ghalib held out the glass. After an uncomfortable pause, Arif poured, a reversal of hospitality. He had become the server.
“Tell me about your wife.”
“She is my wife. Beyond that?”
“I know she’s a Saudi doctor, French trained. She runs a clinic for women in the village. She came with you from Riyadh.”
“Is that all?”
“She’s a princess of the Al Saud.”
Arif caught his breath. He did not let the qat speak his mind now that Nadya was invoked. He emptied his face.
“Your father was the only one who knew that. He told you?”
“Yes.”
Ghalib reached for the shisha before he asked:
“Do you mind if I smoke?”
Arif minded much more than that. The betrayal of this secret by dead Qasim. His hands curled toward fists, but he knew better. He’d learned in the hills of Afghanistan, when faced with an unknown force, to hide. He made his hands ease.
“Go ahead.”
Ghalib set about preparing the pipe, scraping away the spent ashes from the brass bowl on top. He rose from the pillows to fetch fresh tobacco.
“How did you come to marry a princess, Arif the Saudi? Why are the two of you in my village? Saudis do not come to Yemen just to care for our poor, ignorant women. My father promised you both sanctuary. From what?”
With Ghalib occupied, Arif spit the mashed qat into his glass. He spoke to Ghalib’s back.
“First, tell me why I should not stand up and go? I already know the answer, but I’d like to hear the threat from you.”
“Truly?”
“I live a quiet life. I have no friends or enemies here. If I’m to acquire one or the other, I should like it made clear.”
Ghalib sat with the pipe. He did not speak until it was lit and bubbling.
“A man should not be by himself so much. Shaitan whispers to those who are alone.”
Arif spread his hands. The gesture said Just give it to me.
“All right. I inherited my father’s property, not his promises. Your protection is mine to grant now. I will throw you out. I will cut off the funds for her clinic. Whatever it is you are doing in your quiet life with your Saudi princess wife, you will have to do elsewhere. Does that suffice?”
“I know how to pack a box.”
Ghalib raised his own hands to silently ask Why do you make me say it? Arif waited him out. Ghalib sighed, shaking his head at the ruin of protocol.
“Kidnappings in my country are not unusual.”
“You wouldn’t.”
“No, I would not. But your wife is a princess of the Al Saud. If word were spread, less noble men than I would line up to snatch her. Rest assured.”
“I would kill you.”
“I know.”
Ghalib drew on the water pipe’s hose, puffing in a way that seemed to blow a kiss at Arif.
“But I wish us to be friends. Allies, at the least.”
“You threaten my wife to make me an ally? Is this a joke?”
Ghalib tongued the chawed qat ball out of his mouth, into his bowl. He sat up from his pillowed slouch.
“Not in the least.”
“Allies in what?”
“Another secret you gave my father, which he left to me. You are a mujahideen.”
“Did Qasim leave my secrets to his other sons, as well? Will I be bartering with your whole clan?”
“Only me. You are a jihadi.”
“I was. And you?”
“My family’s business is in good hands. My six brothers are all wolves, we’ll remain wealthy. As the youngest, I have a luxury. I wish to conduct jihad, as well.”
Ghalib aimed the shisha’s mouthpiece at Arif. The opening leaked smoke, in the way of a fired gun.
“It was my father’s wish for me. You understand.”
“And what will you bring to jihad, Ghalib the Merchant? A full heart for Allah? Or a full purse.”
“One is not better than the other. I can be a great help to you if you’ll let me.”
“Help me in what?”
“Yes, Arif. Exactly.”
Ghalib folded his long legs beneath him. He leaned elbows to his knees and sat like a boy on a magic carpet, ready to go.
“What are you doing in Yemen?”
Arif had no ready answer.
His thoughts still raced on the qat. He parsed many things, first among them whether to answer at all, perhaps to lie, or to dare soft Ghalib to a blood feud over the threat.
Ghalib prodded. “Do you know the hadith on loyalty?”
“Do you?�
�
“ ‘My servant draws me near until I love him. When I love him, I am his hearing, his seeing, his hands with which he strikes, and his foot with which he walks. Were he to ask something from me, I would surely give it; if he were to ask for refuge, I would grant it.’ ”
“Am I to be your servant?”
“My friend.”
“Do you know the hadith of the friend?”
“No.”
“ ‘A friend may be like a perfume seller or a blacksmith. The perfume seller might give you perfume as a gift. You might buy some, or at least smell its fragrance. The blacksmith might singe your clothes. At the very least you will breathe in the fumes of the furnace.’ ”
Ghalib clapped gently, fingertips into palm.
“Are you a scholar?”
“Of sorts.”
“Arif, I have no reason to fight with you. You cause no one trouble. Your wife does much good for the village. I’m a tribesman, and you live in a tribal place. The Ba-Jalal are of the Abidah. You belong here or you do not, there’s nothing in the middle. My father gave you shelter. That put you in his debt.”
“The shaykh did not collect.”
“He left that to me.”
“Why?”
“I’ll answer that only to a friend.”
Ghalib sucked again on the water pipe, settling deeper into the pillows. He nestled inside the smoke, waiting in there like Shaitan.
“Choose.”
This merchant’s son already knew enough to put Nadya’s life at risk, perhaps Arif’s, certainly his own. Telling him the rest seemed a small enough leap from there.
“Are you an educated man?”
“I can read and write.”
“What do you know of the Kingdom?”
“A little. And what you will tell me.”
Arif reached for the rubber hose of the shisha. Ghalib extended it to him. Nadya would smell the flavored tobacco on Arif’s futa later and ask him where he’d been. It pleased Arif to have this in his life, a woman caring enough to question.
The Empty Quarter Page 8
