Five Years in Yemen

by Luana Ehrlich

  “Was it?”

  I hesitated a second, but then I decided to be honest with him.

  “No, it wasn’t an accident. I deliberately left the phone in the briefcase so we could talk to each other. Nikki understands about my long absences, but it’s really tough when we can’t communicate with each other. You probably know that better than me.”

  “I do, but that’s all the more reason I appreciate the sacrifice you made in letting me talk to Eleanor tonight. I have to admit, what you did really surprised me. You’re certainly not living up to your reputation over at the DIA.”

  “I have a reputation at DIA?”

  He nodded. “I checked with a few people before I agreed to accept this assignment. If I remember correctly, the consensus was that you’re a loner, have a bad temper, bend the rules occasionally, and you’re totally wrapped up in yourself.”

  “Someone over there has my number all right. I bet you talked to Evan Wyatt. We worked together about eight years ago. Or, come to think of it, maybe it was J.R. Burnett. We never did get along.”

  “Like I said, it was a consensus. Maybe I shouldn’t have said anything, but their description of you just doesn’t seem to fit the Titus Ray I’ve seen so far.”

  “Maybe that’s because about a year ago I had a life-changing experience, and I’m a different person these days.”

  “What kind of life-changing experience?”

  “It’s a little difficult to talk about without sounding religious.”

  “That’s okay. I’d like to hear what happened to you.”

  I nodded. “Last year, when my network was blown in Iran, I was forced to stay with a family of Christians in Tehran. When I heard them reading the Bible, I really understood, maybe for the first time in my life, why Jesus had been born. I guess you could say the story became personal for me.”

  “In what way?”

  “I suddenly realized I was a terrible sinner, and that he’d come to die in my place. I understood how his resurrection proved he was who he said he was.”

  “And that changed your life?”

  “Once I realized what his death meant, I made a commitment to live for him and not for myself. I basically decided to let him be in charge of my life.”

  “You’re right. You sound religious, but I guess if religion makes you a better person, that’s a good thing.”

  “I don’t think that’s necessarily true. I believe what’s made the difference in my life is that now I have a personal relationship with Jesus.”

  “And that means what exactly?”

  “It means I can sense his presence with me, and—”

  “Like right now?”

  “Yeah, right now while we’re talking. I think that’s the reason I decided not to lie to you about leaving the sat phone in my briefcase.”

  “I always assume people are lying to me. I take it for granted.”

  “As you know, in this business, lying is a way of life with us, even when it’s not necessary. But the more I read my Bible, the more I realize being deceptive doesn’t jive with the teachings of Christ.”

  He shook his head. “You’re also into studying the Bible?”

  “I wouldn’t say I was studying the Bible. I just try to read a little bit every day. I started several months ago with the gospel of John, and I’m still not finished with it yet.”

  “I admire you. I’ve heard the Bible is really tough to understand.”

  “Yeah, parts of it are, and I don’t claim I always understand what I’m reading, but when I do, it feels like God is speaking directly to me.”

  He laughed. “I don’t think I’d like that.”

  “It gets uncomfortable at times. That’s usually when I have to stop reading and start praying.”

  “Prayer is something I understand. I’ve said quite a few prayers since my wife died.”

  “So far, most of my prayers consist of asking God for help.”

  “Well, be sure you say a prayer for this mission. I have a feeling we’re going to need all the help we can get.”

  “Amen to that.”

  PART FOUR

  Chapter 33

  Monday, December 7

  The Rebel Merchant team boarded Gulf Air Flight 684 early Monday morning. All of us were wearing GNS logo shirts and carrying backpacks with GNS stickers on them.

  Mitchell’s camera bag even had a large plastic PRESS badge on the side of it. As he was lugging it down the center aisle of the plane, he almost hit a passenger who’d boarded the flight ahead of us.

  The guy had curly red hair and a freshly shaved face. An expensive pair of sunglasses hung from the neck of his shirt.

  He gave Mitchell a dirty look, but otherwise, Stephen Gault—a.k.a. Mason Barron—didn’t acknowledge he’d ever set eyes on Mitchell or on any of the GNS crew before.

  Mitchell and I were sharing the same row of seats on the two-hour flight from Riyadh to Aden, with Delaney and Taylor seated in the row in front of us.

  As soon as Mitchell sat down, he leaned over and whispered, “Personally, except for the red hair, I don’t think he looks that much like pictures I’ve seen of Stephen Gault.”

  “It’s all about expectations. I’m sure the driver will be told to look for an American with red hair. He’s expecting to pick up a redhead. Voilà! He sees an American with red hair; he concludes he’s Gault.”

  “Let’s hope you’re right.”

  Mitchell stared out the window for a few seconds, but then he looked over at me and asked, “Did you suggest Mason be sent to Somahi in Gault’s place?”

  “Maybe. Why?”

  “I don’t know. You just seem vested in this plan, and it’s obvious you think Mason’s capable of pulling it off.”

  “After I saw Gault’s passport photo, I mentioned the possibility to Douglas, but he’s the one who made the final decision. You’re right, though. Mason’s been in the game a long time, so I figured he could handle it.”

  As the plane began taxiing down the runway, I asked, “Is there something bothering you about Mason pretending to be Gault?”

  He didn’t say anything until the plane became airborne; then, he looked over at me and said, “Yeah, something’s bothering me. I’m just surprised you approve of how Mason acts. I remember when we were in Buenos Aires, you harped on me about controlling my emotions, slowing things down, processing the situation before I acted. As far as I can tell, Mason doesn’t do any of those things.”

  “No, he doesn’t, and he doesn’t have any desire to change his behavior. You’re different, Ben. You’re not content with yourself. You’re constantly trying to figure things out, and you’re always working on ways to improve your game. I want to help you achieve that by being on your case as much as possible.”

  I could have been wrong, but I thought he looked slightly amused as he pulled a Gulf Air travel magazine out of the seatback in front of him.

  “Don’t be offended if I don’t thank you for your help,” he said, flipping through the pages.

  I decided he wasn’t amused after all.

  * * * *

  When Gulf Air Flight 684 landed at Aden International Airport, the pilot announced it was eighty-five degrees with a cloudless sky.

  I felt sure those conditions meant the reconnaissance drone Olivia had positioned over Aden wouldn’t have any problem getting clear images of Barron when he left the terminal with whoever had been sent to pick up Stephen Gault from the airport.

  After the GNS crew entered the terminal and cleared passport control, Delaney acted as if she were in charge of us by directing Taylor over to the rental kiosk to pick up our SUV and ordering Mitchell and me to the baggage claim area to pick up our luggage.

  During our briefing, Olivia had determined this was the best course of action for us to take in order for one of us to keep an eye on Barron while he was at the airport waiting for his driver.

  From my vantage point, it didn’t appear Barron had any difficulty convincing the passport control
officer he was Stephen Gault, and, as Mitchell and I headed for the baggage claim area, he headed over there as well.

  Barron was easy to spot. He was wearing a yellow pullover shirt and carrying a bright red knapsack on his back.

  Although the sunglasses dangling from his shirt looked innocuous, they were actually capable of transmitting live video the second he touched the logo on the frame.

  Now, though, he slipped what appeared to be earbuds attached to a cell phone in his ears, and I did the same.

  Seconds later, I heard his voice through the comms unit in my ear. “Do you copy?” he asked.

  “Loud and clear,” I said.

  “We’ve got you here as well,” Olivia said.

  “I haven’t spotted anyone who looks interested in me,” Barron said.

  “Same here,” I said. “Maybe your driver is running late.”

  “Don’t get antsy,” Olivia said. “We’re monitoring the video feed from the drone and it looks like a couple of men are about to enter the terminal in a few minutes. They’re getting out of separate vehicles, but it’s possible they’re together.”

  I motioned for Mitchell to take a position next to the entrance, and I went over and stood at the side of the baggage carousel that faced the entrance, with Barron standing about thirty feet away from me.

  The first guy who came through the doors looked anxious, like he was running late or had missed an appointment.

  “I don’t think so,” Barron said, as he glanced over at the doorway.

  “No, me neither,” I said.

  When I spotted the second man on the other side of the frosted glass, I held my breath.

  He appeared to have the same build as Jacob, and he also had dark hair.

  However, when the glass doors slid open, it wasn’t Jacob Levin.

  Nevertheless, the man looked familiar, and I told Barron. “This could be him.”

  “Video on,” he said, briefly touching his sunglasses.

  Olivia said, “Receiving your feed now.”

  Carlton, who usually kept his comments to a minimum when the Ops Center was directing the logistics of an active operation, suddenly spoke up. “I believe that’s Hussein Al-Saffar, the guy who’s been driving Jacob around Somahi.”

  He was right.

  When Hussein started walking toward Barron, I realized this could end up being either very good or very bad.

  It all depended on how Barron chose to play it.

  * * * *

  When Barron noticed Hussein approaching him, he removed the earbuds from his ears and draped them around his neck, giving the Ops Center audio as well as video of their encounter.

  Although Mitchell and I were able to watch the scene play out in front of us in person, we had to rely on the audio feed to hear exactly what was being said.

  Barron did what I would have done in his shoes and used an aggressive approach with Hussein, stepping toward him and offering him his outstretched hand.

  “Hi, I’m Stephen Gault,” he said in English.

  Hussein, who was wearing a long-flowing white thobe, along with the traditional Arabic headdress and a pair of loose trousers, shook Barron’s hand and replied in English.

  “Hello, Mr. Gault. I’m Hussein Al-Saffar. Your friend Jacob sent me here to escort you to Somahi.”

  “I’m really glad he sent someone who could speak English. My Arabic isn’t all that good.”

  “Yes, Jacob mentioned that. My father sent me to school in London, so I’m quite familiar with English. Of course, it’s British English, and you Americans say some things a little differently.”

  “It’s those Brits that have it wrong, though.”

  “Oh, I agree. I would much prefer to say truck instead of lorry, and, to be frank, the word bathroom is more understandable than loo.”

  Barron laughed as if Hussein had said something really funny, and then he pointed over to Gault’s suitcase, which had just appeared on the baggage carousel. “I’ll just grab my suitcase, and then we can get going.”

  Even though I lost sight of the two men when they exited the terminal and headed toward the parking lot, I continued listening to their conversation until Delaney arrived in the baggage claim area, and I took the earbuds out of my ears to hear what she had to say.

  “Taylor just texted me,” she said. “He’s about to pull up outside.” She glanced around the terminal. “What happened to Mason?”

  I pointed out to the parking lot. “He just left with the driver.”

  “So it wasn’t—?”

  “No, it wasn’t Jacob. It was Hussein Al-Saffar, his driver. The Ops Center has them on the Grid, so we shouldn’t have any trouble following them. Olivia will keep us updated.”

  A few seconds after we walked out to the curb, Taylor pulled up in a late model Toyota Land Cruiser. After we explained what had happened with Barron, he opened the trunk so we could pitch our stuff inside and be on our way.

  I was relieved to see a large duffel bag already inside. Presumably, this was our weapons package. Just to be sure, I asked Taylor about it.

  “Yeah, that’s it,” he said. “When I walked outside the terminal to pick up the Land Cruiser, a guy was standing there on the curb with it. He said the magic words, ‘Mr. Carlton said to give this to you,’ and then he drove off in a Humvee.”

  As we headed down the access road in front of the airport, Mitchell crawled back in the trunk, opened up the duffel bag, and distributed a handgun to each of us.

  I was seated in the front passenger seat with my Agency phone on speaker so everyone would be able to hear Olivia’s ongoing commentary about what was happening with Barron and Hussein.

  “You’re about ten minutes behind them now. Close that gap as quickly as you can. Don’t exceed the speed limit, though. The Yemeni police aren’t known to treat Americans with much respect, unless you give them a boatload of cash.”

  Mitchell said, “I don’t have that much cash on me, but the amount I’ve got in this camera bag might be enough to get their attention.”

  Mitchell wasn’t the only one with a substantial amount of cash on him. Everyone on the team had their own stash of dollars.

  This was because Carlton had always insisted on his operatives having what he called insurance money to use at their own discretion as occasions warranted.

  For my part, traffic stops, asset recruitments, hotel accommodations, bribery of officials, imprisonments, and a dozen other things had been occasions that warranted lots of insurance cash.

  As soon as Mitchell mentioned the cash he was carrying, I suddenly envisioned exactly how I wanted to use those dollars now that I knew Hussein was Barron’s driver. However, I waited until we were headed east on the coastal highway out of Aden before bringing it up.

  Timing was everything with Carlton.

  * * * *

  Although Aden had suffered some of the effects of the civil war, I counted fewer than a dozen bombed-out buildings, and most of those were located on the eastern edge of the city.

  I figured this was because the Saudi-led coalition had established a security post near that location, and the Houthi rebels had fired missiles at the troops stationed there. The Houthi missiles were notorious for missing their targets, which was probably the reason the civilian apartment buildings had been reduced to rubble.

  We’d just driven past the Saudi military outpost when Olivia let us know Hussein Al-Saffar’s vehicle—a Ford Explorer—was only two miles ahead of us. She said we should be able to see it in less than five minutes, but she said nothing about what was happening between Barron and Hussein.

  “Has Mason asked Hussein where he’s taking him yet?” I asked her.

  “No, they’re still chatting about soccer and the World Cup. Don’t worry. I’ll patch you into their conversation when he brings it up.”

  The time had come. It was now or never to suggest a change in Carlton’s protocols.

  I said, “Now that we know Hussein is the driver, we might want to ch
ange the protocols a little, especially if Hussein is taking him directly to the compound to meet Jacob.”

  Carlton immediately asked, “What would you want to change about the protocols?”

  The protocols Carlton had developed for how Barron should deal with the driver weren’t all that complicated.

  If the driver said he was taking Barron to the compound, Carlton had decided the best course of action would be for Barron to feign a sudden illness—a heart attack or a stabbing pain—and have it happen right outside the refugee camp where there was a mobile hospital.

  The moment the driver stopped his vehicle and attempted to get Barron inside the hospital, the GNS crew would show up. At that point, Taylor would offer to help the driver with his sick passenger.

  Then, as soon as the driver was inside the hospital with Barron and Taylor, Mitchell and I would take possession of his vehicle and head toward the compound. If the security guard at the compound didn’t wave us through when he saw the familiar vehicle, we’d have to use our weapons to convince him to let us inside.

  Although the protocols weren’t that complicated, I found the variables in the scenarios troublesome, any one of which could necessitate aborting the mission entirely.

  For example, would Hussein stop at the refugee hospital when Barron suddenly started having pain? How long could Taylor and Barron keep Hussein inside the hospital and not draw attention to themselves? Would we be able to get into the compound without being involved in a firefight?

  I said, “Instead of Mason pretending to be sick, what if we were able to convince Hussein to take us into the compound voluntarily?”

  I thought I heard Carlton sigh. “How would you do that?”

  “Didn’t Katherine tell us she’d discovered Hussein Al-Saffar had several black marks on his record because of his history of taking bribes, not to mention his black-market dealings?”

  “I think I see where you’re going with this.”

  “He’s not being all that subtle,” Olivia said.

  “What if we offered Hussein some of our insurance money to get us past the security guards at the gate and into the compound?”