The Empty Quarter

by David L. Robbins

  “Do you insult me?”

  “No. I simply wonder which papers might get us on our way the quickest.”

  The tribesman scrutinized Khalil for long moments. Khalil registered a cool manner, a spy’s restraint.

  The tribesman laughed through his nostrils. “And what other papers do you have which might do this?”

  Without turning, Khalil reached backward to Josh. He spoke in English.

  “Give me a hundred thousand riyals.” Almost $500.

  Josh pulled the backpack into his lap. Keeping his hands inside the pack he counted the cash from one of the banded packets, then handed the money to Khalil.

  Khalil presented the bills to the tribesman. The man stood back from the Mercedes’s window to flip through the money with a fingernail. Perhaps he could not read, as Khalil suggested. The tribesman wadded the tasrih and tossed it aside. Then he held the bundle of riyals at arm’s length. A little at a time, the qabil released the bills into the desert breeze until his hand was empty.

  The money fluttered away from him like poured ashes. Behind the headlights, car doors flung open. Seven Yemenis leaped out to collect the riyals skittering onto the sand. The qabil who’d dropped them enjoyed watching his men chase down the cash, a game.

  With arm extended, palm down, he dropped his mirthful mask slowly, like the money. When none of it was left, the tribesman scowled at Khalil.

  “Ah. There is the insult.” He flipped his hand over, palm up. “The Bani Yam are not so cheaply bought.”

  Khalil copied the qabil’s posture, reaching out his own open hand.

  “That’s fifty times the normal rate.”

  “Normal? Are you Allah, to say what is normal?”

  Khalil cursed under his breath, then hissed to Josh. “Give me the whole packet.” Two thousand more dollars.

  Josh pulled out the rest of the banded pack of riyals. Khalil offered this to the qabil, who stood in the headlights, still with his arm out.

  The tribesman did not stride forward. Khalil shook the packet as if the man, like a fish, might take it better if offered with a jiggle. “Here.”

  The tribesman stayed back. Khalil sighed.

  “How much do you want?”

  “All your money.”

  Josh dared an urgent whisper. “We can’t do that.”

  Khalil did not show that he’d heard.

  “I have given you half a million riyals. That is all we have.”

  “You are prepared to cross the desert. You brought permits and baksheesh. I know you have more of both. You may keep the permits. The money you will leave with us.”

  The tribesman lowered his arm. Like the two who flanked him, he filled his hands with a black Kalashnikov.

  Khalil rested an elbow in the windowsill while lifting his other to the steering wheel. It was an easy move, a casual pose to open access to the shoulder harness hidden in his armpit and the pearly handgun under the parka.

  In the headlights, the qabil’s henchmen continued to chase down loose riyals. Khalil faced three men with submachine guns. He might take down one, two at the most, if he shot first. The next move would be to gun the Mercedes off the road, probably under fire, around the barricading trucks, over the sand. If the big car could power its way back onto the tarmac, it might outrun the Toyotas. But a high-speed chase through the Empty Quarter on a desolate road with dead bodies behind them and armed men after them wasn’t a choice. Khalil’s bravado had gone far enough.

  Josh rolled down his window.

  “Sayyid.”

  Khalil jerked around at Josh. “I told you to be quiet.”

  The tribesman cocked his head. “Yes?”

  Keeping both hands visible, Josh stepped out of the Mercedes.

  Khalil started to open his car door. Josh pressed it shut.

  “Sit tight.”

  “Do you know what you’re doing?”

  “We’ll find out.”

  Josh took the banded cash from Khalil, then moved clear of the Mercedes, well lit and towering over all the tribesmen. He touched his own forehead beneath the kefiyeh, then covered his heart. He addressed the tribesmen in Arabic.

  “I know the Bani Yam. You are not brigands. You are masters of the Rub‘ al-Khali.”

  The qabil laughed, pivoting his stained teeth to both men at his sides. The pair remained stoic while he let his Kalashnikov dangle free at his chest, pleased.

  “For an American, you flatter like an Arab.”

  “Thank you, sayyid.”

  “But.” The tribesman lifted a finger beside his beard. “You are not Arab. And if you want to pass with your sleeping wife, you will pay the masters of the Rub‘ al-Khali.”

  “Can we talk about this?”

  “You want to parlay?”

  “Yes.”

  The tribesman glanced around at his men, who’d gathered all the spilled riyals they could find and now waited for him. He alone carried a janbiya in his belt. Rubbing his lips inside his beard, the qabil accepted the money from Josh, then handed the banded packet of bills to one of his men. He strode closer to Josh and unsheathed his short knife. He raised the curved blade higher than Josh’s covered head.

  “You are not Yemeni. I will not bargain with you. And I will not speak to your dog of a driver.”

  Josh lifted his own finger to buy a moment, then spun for the car. In the backseat he pulled from his pack the ivory hilted janbiya he’d bought that afternoon in Sana’a. Again, when he stepped out of the Mercedes, he kept both hands in plain view, showing the knife.

  Like the qabil, Josh bared the blade and held it aloft, far above the tribesman’s reach. The two stood with knives raised to the stars in the bright court of the headlights.

  “We are both men of honor. I ask for parlay.”

  The tribesman lowered his janbiya.

  “What honor have you?”

  Josh tapped the janbiya’s white hilt to his own chest.

  “I have been a warrior for my country. I have many medals for courage. I’ve left that behind to learn the language of the Arabs. To understand your ways. I know the Bani Yam. You are a just people. I ask only for that. I give you this in return.”

  Josh offered the janbiya and sheath. Amid murmurs from his men, the little qabil accepted them.

  “Is this ivory?”

  “It is.”

  The man slid both knives into their sheaths, then handed them to one of his men. He shifted the strap of the Kalashnikov to put the gun across his back.

  “You may speak.”

  “Are there more roadblocks ahead?”

  “Of course.”

  “You know if you take all our money, we will not be able to get through.”

  “Then keep your riyals and turn around.”

  “I think you know I cannot do that, either.”

  “I do.”

  “Who is paying you to stop us?”

  The tribesman swung his gaze west behind Josh, beyond the throw of the headlights, down the dark desert road. To the horizon, no traffic showed.

  “You have made some powerful enemies taking this woman, sayyid.”

  “Who?”

  “The Abidah.”

  “Are they more powerful than the Bani Yam?”

  The tribesman screwed up his face, glancing about at his cohort.

  “No.”

  “How much have you been offered?”

  He answered proudly. “Two million riyals.”

  “Are they on their way?”

  “Of course. We must be paid.”

  “I will give you two and a half million.”

  The tribesman reared back in surprise, then turned away from Josh to open his arms to his men, as though he’d bestowed a great boon on them.

  “Wallah!”

 
They mirrored this, and all were happy.

  Without dropping his arms or his delighted face, the qabil rotated back to Josh.

  “Shakkran.”

  “Ahlan wa salahan.” You are welcome.

  The little man reeled in his arms.

  “And why should I not just take everything and hold you here a while longer?”

  “Because you would be a thief and a servant. I have not been told this of the Bani Yam. Who will block the road ahead of us?”

  The qabil seemed stymied by Josh’s quick, sharp answer.

  “The Sai’ar.”

  “They are the thieves.”

  The tribesman broke into sudden laughter, without mockery. He clapped once.

  “So. You bargain like an Arab.”

  The man stepped back to swing his weapon again into his hands. Leveling the Kalashnikov by his waist, the tribesman advanced quickly on Khalil in the front of the Mercedes.

  “Make no move.”

  Khalil put both hands beside his head. One of the men was ordered to fetch Josh’s bag from the rear seat. Opening the car door, this one recoiled at the sight of the silent woman. He ducked in to snare the satchel quickly. The bag was tossed to Josh.

  The spokesman pointed his gun at the bag.

  “Three million riyals. Do not let me see how much more you have. Honor is one thing. Remorse is another.”

  Josh dug out five more banded packets of cash.

  “I’ll need a receipt.”

  The money was taken into rough hands.

  The tribesmen retreated to their picket of trucks. All four trucks started their engines. Only the spokesman lingered with Josh in the middle of the road, weapon ready.

  The tribesman slipped the gun’s strap over his head. He presented the Kalashnikov to Josh.

  “Give the Abidah and the Sai’ar greetings from the Bani Yam.”

  He jumped into one of the vehicles. Single file, the qabili veered away, sweeping their lights with them to leave Josh in the dark. They rumbled east toward the moon, then left the road to dissolve into the dunes.

  Chapter 17

  Sharurah Domestic Airport

  Sharurah

  Saudi Arabia

  Wally and Berko stomped side by side down the HC-130’s lowered gate. Both took the same urgent strides, twins in matching Guardian Angel op kits, padded camo vests stuffed thick with radios and a SADL. Both had lowered the drop-down screens at their chests; both had their heads bent and focused. Their boots made tandem hollow thumps hurrying down the metal ramp.

  LB climbed to his feet off the tarmac. Wally and Berko stopped in front of him without breaking formation.

  “What’s up?”

  Wally deferred to Berko, to give the kid some experience leading LB. “Go ahead.”

  The lieutenant hesitated, reluctant. “You’re team commander.”

  The two stood with mouths open; they’d stumped each other. LB started to sit back down.

  “I’ll be here. You two go figure this out.”

  Berko and Wally spoke at the same time to stop him from folding his legs. Wally held up a finger to Berko to say You do it.

  LB made a show of shuffling his boots on the tarmac to face him.

  “Yes, Lieutenant.”

  Berko angled himself for LB to share his small computer display.

  A satellite map filled the screen. Emerald waves of topographic info overlaid the black-and-white terrain. Elevation numbers ticked at the bottom of the screen. One road ran east-west, labeled N5. A single green dot pinged, coursing in near real time east on the N5. Berko touched it.

  “That’s the package.”

  The dot was the blue force tracker in the hands of the US diplomat whose presence on this mission no one could explain.

  “Where are they?”

  “Running a hundred miles south of the Saudi border.”

  LB shrugged. “Everything looks okay.”

  “They just started moving again. The car stopped for five minutes, right here.” The young CRO slid his finger a short distance behind the car.

  LB couldn’t figure what the big deal was. “Someone took a leak. They stopped to pay one of those tribe tolls. So?”

  Wally stepped in. Like Berko, he shifted his torso for LB to see what they’d been monitoring. Doc came onto the tarmac to come look over LB’s shoulder. Wally pointed out a small green digit riding along with the dot through the Empty Quarter.

  “Look here.”

  Wally laid a fingertip just beneath an ominous, emerald 3.

  “That popped up a minute ago.”

  “He had some trouble. Looks like he’s out of it.”

  Wally disagreed.

  “He didn’t send a one or a two. He’s saying three. He’s still dealing with it. Or there’s more threat ahead. But he’s not calling for help yet.”

  Again, Wally inserted his display into the center. Doc scurried around to get a view. Wally had widened his SADL’s scope, panning the map farther east.

  Forty miles west of the package’s current location, the N5 entered an intersection with another road, the S150. This smaller track turned north through raw desert another sixty miles, making for the Saudi line. The S150 was the package’s route out of Yemen; at midnight, the car would be met by the SEAL team and their ATVs ten miles shy of the border.

  On the map, Wally indicated a village four miles east of the crossroads, labeled al ’Abr. The display marked a few dozen scattered buildings and huts on the slopes of rocky high ground rising out of the desert. Al ’Abr clung to the base of a spine of mountains that formed the southern bowl of the Empty Quarter.

  “After this crossroads, there’s nothing but open desert between the PC and the border.”

  LB asked Berko, “What’s the next move?”

  Again, the young lieutenant tried to pass the question to Wally, but Wally had him answer. Berko glanced around at the lounging PJs.

  “If that three turns into a four, that means us.”

  “And?”

  “I’d get everybody on the plane right now.”

  Immediately, LB stepped back to shout at the team.

  “Listen up. Stow your headphones and shit. I want you all on the bird and ready in five.”

  Doc jumped away to rally Mouse, Quincy, Dow, and Jamie. Wally switched to the ground-to-air frequency. He walked off barking into the mike at his lips, ordering Kingsman 1’s pilots to spin up.

  Berko stayed beside LB. He folded his arms across the bulky op vest, ignoring for the moment the tray of his computer screen, the electric green dot that was his recovery mission tonight. He took in the action pulsing through the PJs.

  The big cargo plane’s propellers coughed and started to churn.

  “That was good, Lieutenant.”

  “What was?”

  LB backed away to go join the furor. He shouted over the accelerating props.

  “You said ‘us.’ ”

  Chapter 18

  Hadhramaut

  The Empty Quarter

  Yemen

  A freight truck bound west lit the palms of Mahmoud’s hands, opened beside his head. He mumbled. Arif drove through the night as fast as the road would allow. The four Yemenis in the pickup’s bed ducked out of the wind. Far behind, the flames of Ghalib faded fast.

  The freight truck flashed past. Mahmoud quieted and dropped his hands.

  “I do not know the proper prayers. Do you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Will you say the du’a for me, Arif?”

  “No.”

  “You are a hard man.”

  Mahmoud sniffed away a tear.

  “Ghalib was like Yasser. Young and flamboyant. Show-offs. They were father’s favorites. He was tired and old when both were born. They cheered him.”
<
br />   “They cheered you, as well.”

  “It’s a function of age to love youth as you lose it.”

  Mahmoud pinched his nose to compose himself.

  “He was not evil. Only foolish. Too eager to please, though he never amused the rest of my brothers. Like Yasser, a poor businessman. But clever. A good husband and father.”

  “I’m sorry. But I will not pray for Ghalib.”

  Arif sped at the front of the five remaining trucks. The desert had a heavy darkness that barely parted for their passing. The night fell in curtains on all sides, a sheer black that starlight and the half-moon did not lift. Arif had not been this deep into the Empty Quarter before, even in the years when he lived in the Kingdom. It pained him even more to think of Nadya rushing away from him into this, as though she were lost on an ocean.

  “Where is the first roadblock?”

  From his tunic, Mahmoud pulled a cell phone. He checked for calls.

  “We should reach it in thirty minutes.”

  “After that?”

  “There is a crossroads at al’Abr-Alwudayah, where the road turns north. Five miles before that.”

  “Are you expecting a call?”

  “Yes. Drive on.”

  Mahmoud sat silent in the high-speed rattling of the truck. He’d lost another young brother, this one before his eyes. Arif had lost his wife and was chasing her across a desert because of betrayals, his own against Abd al-Aziz, Ghalib’s against him. These losses entwined him and Mahmoud, and made conversation difficult. Each had scores to settle.

  Arif tried to focus on the road, looking to the far distance for red taillights, some car he could overtake. The black trail ahead remained empty, broken at intervals only by big trucks rushing toward them.

  Mahmoud tried again to pray for Ghalib but was frustrated. Arif’s refusal to assist and the elder brother’s stumbling whispers added to the tension. With every dark, flowing mile and few lights ahead, Arif’s desperation for Nadya and his doubts about the Ba-Jalal mounted.

  The time came and passed when the roadblock Mahmoud had promised should have appeared. Arif sucked his teeth. Mahmoud checked his watch and phone. Only stars rested on the road ahead.