The Empty Quarter

by David L. Robbins

  Khalil fired up another cigarette. Josh clamped down on his own gall. Khalil had nailed it; he didn’t easily play the pawn. Even less did he like being lied to. He was finding it difficult to reconcile the Yemeni buffoon he’d met last week in the Turkish embassy with this black-clad, armed secret agent issuing orders.

  “Sure.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Like I said. Habit.”

  While Josh had been riding in the front seat out of Ma’rib, the woman in the back had been simpler to ignore. Seated beside her, seeing her motionless inside the folds of the burqa, how strongly she was in the grip of some powerful sedative, Josh couldn’t look away so easily.

  “Can you tell me her name?”

  “Only this. Nadya.”

  “She’s really a princess? Is she going home?”

  “Everything you were told about her is true.”

  “Why am I here?”

  Khalil tossed the finished cigarette out the window.

  “You are my rabia.”

  “Your what?”

  On the road far ahead, the headlights were joined by three more sets of vehicle lights shining in the center of the tarmac ribbon.

  “We are now in the Hadhramaut. That is a tribal checkpoint ahead. They will hesitate to trouble an American diplomat with franking permits and cash. You are my passport.”

  “So why’ve you got me sitting in the back?”

  “Ah. That is the most important part for you to play tonight.”

  “I’m all ears.”

  “When we are stopped, I will explain that you are her husband.”

  Josh jerked forward, to crane across the front seat. Khalil did not turn from the wheel.

  “What?”

  “How else do we explain an unconscious Arab woman in the back of our car? You are a diplomat in Riyadh. Your Saudi wife ran off with another man to Yemen. You went to Ma’rib to bring her home. She’s taken a sleeping pill to calm her nerves. With the tasrih and enough cash, we will be allowed to pass.”

  “Won’t we look like kidnappers?”

  “Not at all. She is your wife. You have every right.”

  Josh sat back. He sensed himself hurtling not over the dark desert but deeper into it, like quicksand.

  Khalil raised a warning finger. “Stay quiet. Don’t let on that you speak Arabic. I’ll do the talking.”

  Nadya’s uncovered hand lay near his. Josh wanted to wake her, get her version of the facts.

  “Khalil.”

  “Yes?”

  “Are we kidnappers?”

  In the rearview mirror, the Mercedes’s white dials robbed Khalil’s eyes of color, leaving them with the frostiness of the moon.

  “It’s getting difficult to hide that, I suppose.”

  This pressed Josh backward into the leather seat. He sat like the princess, still.

  Khalil took his time lighting another cigarette.

  “Yes, Joshua. Of course we are.”

  Chapter 15

  Ma’rib

  Yemen

  Ghalib changed clothes quickly, into dark trousers and a black silk T. Arif followed him down the flights of stairs, out the front door, and into the courtyard, where Ghalib’s family clumped, frightened and crying out at the sight of him.

  Ghalib shouted to his wives and children that this had all been a misunderstanding. To demonstrate, he turned to put a hand on Arif’s shoulder. Ghalib told them to go back inside, everything was well. Arif kept the Makarov hidden against the man’s shirt as they left through the gates together.

  In the street, in the pickup, Arif trained the gun on Ghalib. Every ticking second drubbed on the truck, urging it to leap forward and pursue Nadya, who was almost an hour ahead.

  “Where are they?”

  “On their way.”

  “I won’t wait much longer.”

  “Patience. We can’t do this by ourselves.”

  Upstairs, at gunpoint and begging for his life, Ghalib had explained the need for his brothers. They would bring men, money, trucks, and guns. The pledge of sanctuary made to Arif by Shaykh Qasim had bound them, as well. Even if the tribal elders in the Hadhramaut did as agreed and captured the car on the desert road, they might need more than just a request, or payment, to return the woman, though they did not know she was a Saudi princess.

  A caravan of technicals, all Toyota pickup trucks, careened into the street. In a line they skidded to a halt beneath Ghalib’s high wall. Their collective headlights lit up Arif and Ghalib. Each of the five trucks had a heavy machine gun mounted on a stand bolted to the bed. Every pickup was filled front and rear with local men, all carrying Kalashnikovs. Many had wrapped themselves in bandoliers of ammo.

  “Put the gun away, Arif. You don’t need it.”

  Arif did not ease the snub barrel from Ghalib’s rib cage.

  “And why won’t one of your brothers just shoot me?”

  “Because they are here to honor our father’s oath to you. Not mine to al-Qaeda. Later, I’ll answer for involving them. Believe me.”

  Without much choice, Arif tucked the Makarov into his waistband. Behind Ghalib, he emerged into the blazing headlamps.

  Ghalib’s six bearded brothers arrayed themselves side by side in order of age, as they’d done at Qasim’s funeral. The Ba-Jalal were a portly family and tall. They stretched across the road with their armed men and trucks idling behind them. Each brother was dressed in loose pantaloons, sandals, flowing tunic, and kefiyeh. All had strapped on belt holsters with handguns.

  Ghalib stood beside Arif facing the brothers. The eldest spoke for them.

  “Arif the Saudi. We are here to help.”

  “Shakkran. We need to hurry.”

  “I understand. I have made arrangements with the tribes of the Rub‘ al-Khali. The road heading north and all roads to the east will be blocked. Your wife will be found. The kidnappers, as well.”

  “I will repay you for this.”

  The eldest shot Ghalib a disdainful glance. On the phone, to summon his brothers with Arif listening, Ghalib was forced to admit his role, his betrayal of their father’s pledge to Arif.

  The senior Ba-Jalal spun on his sandals.

  “Ghalib will repay us for this.”

  The big man wasted no time, climbing behind the wheel of the leading Toyota. All the brothers did the same in their trucks. While car doors slammed and engines revved, Ghalib looked drained in the many headlights. Arif moved for the driver’s door of his own truck. Ghalib roused himself to jump in front of him.

  “I know the roads. I’ll drive.”

  “She’s my wife.”

  There was no time for this argument. Arif laid hands on Ghalib to shove him away from the driver’s side. Ghalib stood red-faced to have this done in front of his brothers.

  Before Ghalib could stride forward or Arif challenge him again, one of the armed Yemenis hustled between them. The man joggled with gun and bullets. His teeth showed qat stains.

  “Sayyid Mahmoud says Arif the Saudi will ride with him.”

  The eldest, Mahmoud, leaned his large head out the window of the lead truck.

  “We will go very fast after your wife, I promise. Please. Come with me.”

  Arif made no more argument. He was at the mercy of the Ba-Jalal. His bitterness against Ghalib would not speed them faster after Nadya. He climbed in the passenger seat of Mahmoud’s pickup. The man who’d stopped him from punching Ghalib took Arif’s place.

  Spinning tires, Ghalib led the pack out of the narrow street, onto the wider paved road. The way north from Ma’rib passed Nadya’s clinic. Three miles later, a pair of cloaked and veiled women walked along the shoulder, holding hands in the dark. These were the two who’d waited beside the truck and pointed into the desert.

  With the road rolling by swift
ly, Mahmoud touched a thick, placating hand to Arif’s knee, then removed it.

  “I apologize for my young brother. I’m certain I know only half of what he has done to you. I did not believe the two of you would do well in the same truck.”

  “Agreed.”

  “We’ll sort Ghalib out after we’ve returned your wife.”

  Mahmoud drove fast, as he swore he would. With the dark road straightening as it entered the desert, Ghalib pulled far ahead, showing the brothers his zeal to make amends. Mahmoud appeared to be in his sixties, and not accustomed to driving himself. The Ba-Jalal were businessmen, not warriors. Arif looked through the rear window into the truck bed, at the four young Yemenis, their clothes all ruffling in the cool night air. They looked to be poor men who would do as they were told.

  On the road behind Mahmoud, the other trucks bunched up. The five younger brothers were eager and able to drive faster but stayed in line behind their elder. Arif clamped his impatience. He worked his hands in his lap.

  Mahmoud noted his fidgeting.

  “They will not leave Yemen with your wife.”

  “Can we go faster?”

  “I will try.”

  “Thank you for your help.”

  Mahmoud gained some speed, but the truck, weighted with six armed men and the mounted machine gun, gained little on Ghalib, who kept his lead into the desert.

  “Ghalib says you are a scholar. Is this so?”

  “I suppose.”

  “The Ba-Jalal are not the strongest of Muslims. It would please me if you would tell me something about the giving of help, from the Qur’an.”

  Arif selected a hadith.

  “If a man sees an evil, let him change it with his hand. If he cannot, then with his tongue. If he cannot, then with his heart, but this is the weakest faith.”

  Mahmoud held one hand off the steering wheel to ball it into a fist and admire it. Mahmoud the wealthy seemed to be rising to the adventure of the night, especially if it was agreeable to Allah.

  “Yes. It is not enough to pray for change. Another.”

  “No. Put both hands on the wheel and drive faster.”

  Mahmoud laughed and complied.

  “I like you, Arif the Saudi. I see why my father did, too. We will talk more after tonight. I am getting old. I should like to be a better Muslim. You are welcome to my help.”

  “Shakkran.”

  Soon the line of trucks passed a Halliburton refinery. Vivid orange flames danced on the tips of dozens of stacks inside a long chain-link fence. Spotlights lit the paved yard and great parking lot. The operation seemed self-contained and modern in so ancient a setting, on the silk and incense route to Ma’rib. Mahmoud expressed the same thought.

  “If only the old caravans had known of oil, eh?”

  Mahmoud raced onward, glancing back at the refinery, perhaps considering more property to buy. Arif cared for nothing behind him, only what lay ahead.

  In a while, Mahmoud asked, “Will you tell me one thing more?”

  “If I can.”

  “When we catch them. What will we do with the kidnappers?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “The Qur’an tells us to command the good and forbid the evil. Yes?”

  Arif opened his hands to show he was pleased to hear from Mahmoud this famous verse, the hisbah. The older man grinned broadly in the crimson light of the Toyota’s dashboard.

  “That is true.”

  “So we will kill them.”

  Mahmoud said this happily, convinced that this, too, would be satisfying in the eye of Allah.

  In the sequined night ahead, one shooting star fell from the sky. The flare did not burn itself out but crashed to earth, far ahead, onto the truck Ghalib drove.

  In a blink, a fireball blossomed, lighting the dunes on every side. Mahmoud slammed on the brakes; Arif had to catch himself against the dash. The men in the bed of the truck shouted, frightened by the screeching tires and the sudden orange glow on the desert.

  Mahmoud’s truck skidded to a stop, sideways, tires smoking. A half mile up the road, Arif’s pickup somersaulted out of the fireball, ablaze, tumbling into the sand.

  The eldest brother struggled with the car door. He stumbled out of the truck to drop to his knees in the road. Mahmoud faced the rising mushroom cloud that flickered from the flames beneath it.

  Arif stood on the road behind him. A chill desert breeze cut through his T-shirt; he’d not thought he would wind up here when he’d run from his house two hours ago.

  Mahmoud kneeled and wailed, face buried in his hands. His rounded back was starkly lit by the other pickups stopped behind him. The rest of the Ba-Jalal brothers closed ranks around their elder, eyes fixed on the fire that was Ghalib. Only Mahmoud had gone to his knees, only he wept. The others may have had differing opinions of their youngest brother.

  High in the stars, above the silence of the dead desert and Mahmoud’s grief, the drone would be slipping away. It must have tracked Arif’s pickup by its heat signature. How long had the thing been circling, how long had pilots four thousand miles away kept their fingers on a trigger? Surely Abd al-Aziz had sent the drone. Somehow he’d talked the Americans into it. He’d warned Arif, I’m going to kill you. Now, with Ghalib crackling to ashes inside Arif’s truck, the prince would believe he’d done it. He was mistaken, as Ghalib had been about him.

  The licking flames revealed to Arif the plot, why his wife had been kidnapped. As soon as his father-in-law had made the decision to kill him, then convinced the Americans to do it on his behalf, he stole Nadya to protect her, keep her from becoming collateral damage. Abd al-Aziz knew she would not have left him—even if she were aware she might die beside him—just as he would never have left her. With Arif dead, her father hoped to put Nadya in Care Rehabilitation, perhaps jail, break her and reform her, swallow her again into the Al Saud. But the prince did not know Arif was alive and chasing her down. This gave Arif a slim advantage.

  None of the armed men had stepped out of the pickups to look at the glowing carcass of Arif’s truck. The two dozen Yemenis leaned from windows or stood in the truck beds whispering to each other. Arif caught the eye of one of the brothers, the tallest, who quietly retreated from Mahmoud and approached to whisper.

  “You are a fortunate man, Arif the Saudi.”

  “I’m sorry for Ghalib. But you need to know I would have killed him if I do not get my wife back.”

  “I know.”

  “Please give me a truck to go on.”

  “We will go on together. Ghalib did not speak for our father in life. He does not now.”

  With a decisive manner, this brother turned from Arif. He walked around the hood to Mahmoud, to crouch before his older brother. He pulled Mahmoud’s hands down from his face.

  “We have an oath, brother. We must take Arif’s revenge today. Ours will wait for another time. Come.”

  He tugged the heavyset Mahmoud to his feet. The elder wiped his eyes on his blouse while his brother turned into the headlights to tell the others to get back in their trucks. Mahmoud, supporting himself against the hood, walked around to Arif. The stars and climbing moon were limned in his eyes. With both hands, he squeezed Arif’s shoulder. Arif thought Mahmoud might strike him.

  “You drive.”

  The remains of Arif’s truck lay scattered across the desert in flaming bits. Fire raged in the tires and wreckage and lapped at spilled fuel blackening the sand. Arif slowed to avoid the crater in the tarmac where the missile had struck, a hole many feet deep. The convoy was forced to drive onto the sand. There could be little left of Ghalib and the man who’d taken Arif’s place. Even so, one of the trucks pulled out of line to put its headlamps on the pyre; the deaths had taken place at night and it was not proper to leave the remains in darkness. One of the brothers would sit vigil for the second Ba-Jalal blo
wn to bits by the Americans.

  Chapter 16

  Hadhramaut

  The Empty Quarter

  Yemen

  Rolling toward the roadblock, Josh keyed in threat level **2. With the signal sent to whoever was watching, he tucked the blue force tracker in his pack.

  Khalil slowed to a stop, nailed in the white beams of four pickup trucks parked across the road.

  “Remember, say nothing.”

  The joined headlights lit up the Mercedes cabin. They shined into the veil that masked the princess’s eyes. Josh leaned forward to see through the mesh; Nadya’s lids were shut.

  Khalil rolled down his window at the approach of three armed figures. These were smallish men, shabby and sweat stained in loose-fitting dress and woven vests. Their beards were untrimmed. Two had Kalashnikovs in their hands and qat bulges in their cheeks. The one in the middle seemed clear-eyed, his gun across his back. In his belt was tucked the curved sheath of a janbiya knife, hilted in green jade. No one else was visible in the four vehicles barring the road. Josh assumed they were packed with tribesmen and weapons like these.

  The middle qabil spoke first.

  “As-salam alaikum.”

  Khalil returned the greeting. The tribesman rested his elbows on the Mercedes’s windowsill. The muzzle of the Kalashnikov on his back nicked the car’s roof.

  “Papers, please.”

  From his sun visor, Khalil produced a small booklet, his personal identification, and one of the travel permits. The tribesman did not open the booklet and ignored the tasrih. He leaned in more to peer inside the car. The man’s oddly spicy smell entered with him.

  “Who is this?”

  Josh met the tribesman’s dark eyes with a lowered brow. Khalil answered.

  “An American diplomat. That is his wife. They have been traveling in Yemen. They are going home to Riyadh.”

  “Is she asleep?”

  “Yes.”

  “Wake her up.”

  “She has taken a drug to ease the trip. She will not wake for hours.”

  “Do they have papers?”

  “Can you read them?”

  Above the bush of his beard, the tribesman turned the long tip of his nose back to Khalil. With his face close, he spoke without malice, a man in control.