Five Years in Yemen

by Luana Ehrlich

  Carlton said, “You keep saying we. Who are you talking about?”

  I glanced in the backseat at Mitchell who immediately nodded his head. “There would be three of us. Mason, Ben, and I would enter the compound with Hussein as our escort.”

  “What happens after that?”

  “While Ben babysits Hussein, Mason and I will introduce ourselves to Jacob and convince him to come with us one way or the other. Once Hussein drives us out of the compound, we’ll hook up with Taylor and Delaney again, and then we’ll hit the road for Al-Mukalla.”

  When Carlton didn’t offer an immediate response, I thought perhaps communications with him had been cut off. Either that or he hated my idea, and he was hoping his silence would make me see how foolish my proposal really was.

  Finally, a few seconds later, he came back on and said, “At what point between now and the time Hussein enters the compound with Mason would you want to make him this offer he can’t refuse?”

  “I’ll leave it up to you and Olivia to work out the logistics of that encounter, but I’d suggest texting Mason and have him ask Hussein to stop in Balhaf just before the turnoff for Somahi. He could say he needed to get something to eat or he needed to use the restroom. Then, we could stop at the same location and take it from there.”

  “Would you mind if I make a suggestion?” Delaney asked.

  The moment Delaney interrupted my conversation with Carlton, a wave of white-hot anger rolled over me. Who did she think she was?

  I couldn’t think of a single thing a Support Specialist could add to the discussion I was having with Carlton, and I certainly didn’t appreciate her interfering, when I was trying to convince him to make changes to the protocols.

  Seconds before I responded to her, I saw Taylor glance over at me. Something about the way he looked at me made me realize he was curious to see how I was going to answer her, and I wondered if he might be thinking about the conversation we’d had the night before—the one about how much I’d changed.

  Whether that was true or not, his look caused me to recognize my arrogance and rethink my response.

  “Go ahead, Delaney,” I said. “I’d welcome any suggestions.”

  * * * *

  Before Delaney could respond, Taylor pointed out Hussein’s vehicle was three cars ahead of us now.

  Since the road we were on—a two-lane highway running along the coast of Yemen from Aden to Mukalla—was extremely crowded, we both agreed there wasn’t much chance Hussein would notice he was being followed. Still, we decided not to follow him too closely, and Taylor reduced his speed to keep us a few car lengths behind him.

  After Taylor and I had finished discussing the strategy for following Hussein’s vehicle, I told Delaney I was ready to hear her suggestion.

  She said, “When you make your pitch to Hussein about helping you get into the compound, you should emphasize you’re in Somahi to do a documentary on the refugee camp for GNS, and you’re particularly interested in the role the Saudi military has at the camp. He might be more likely to take your money if he thought that was your motivation, plus, if you offer him a chance to be interviewed for the film, it might appeal to his ego. Very few people can resist being interviewed for a documentary.”

  According to Mitchell, Delaney’s suggestion was absolutely brilliant. Although I wouldn’t have phrased it that way, I didn’t think it was such a bad idea.

  Before I had a chance to say anything, Carlton asked, “What do you think, Titus? Would that work?”

  “I’m all for using anything that would get Hussein to cooperate with us, and I believe that might do it. I’m good with it if you are.”

  Carlton said, “I’ll get back with you as soon as I’ve worked out all the details.”

  When Carlton went offline, I asked Olivia, “What’s happening with Mason and Hussein? What are they discussing?”

  “Until a few moments ago, they were still talking sports. Now, Mason sounds like he’s fishing for information about Jacob. I’ll send you the feed so you can listen to the conversation for yourself.”

  It took Olivia a few minutes before she was able to patch us into the audio from Barron’s phone. By the time she did so, Barron had just asked Hussein the all-important question.

  Namely, was Hussein taking him to the compound?

  Chapter 34

  Barron introduced the subject of the compound by telling Hussein he’d learned a little bit about Jacob’s life in Somahi by exchanging emails with him.

  “In one of those emails,” Barron said, “Jacob mentioned he was living in a compound near the Al-Jarba military base.”

  “That’s right,” Hussein said. “It’s called Al-Firdaus, which means garden of paradise in Arabic. It’s truly a beautiful oasis in the middle of the desert.”

  “Is that where we’re going?” Barron asked. “Are you taking me to Jacob’s quarters at the compound?”

  Hussein said, “That’s right. You’ll be staying in a guest room at Jacob’s house in Al-Firdaus. He should be there waiting for you.”

  I breathed a sigh of relief.

  “Way to go, Mason,” Mitchell said.

  “Did you hear that, Olivia?” I asked.

  “Of course I heard it,” she said.

  Everyone was quiet for the next twenty minutes or so while Barron quizzed Hussein about the Al-Firdaus compound. Although Olivia had told us a reconnaissance satellite had been taking aerial shots of the place, I figured the intel Barron was getting from Hussein might be useful to us when we entered the compound.

  When Hussein moved on to a different subject and began describing the soccer tournaments held every week on the Al-Jarba military base, Olivia suddenly cut off Barron’s audio feed.

  I was about to protest when she said, “Douglas has reworked the protocols and wants to update you now. When he’s finished, I’ll send Mason a text and let him know what he needs to do.”

  Carlton’s revamped protocols followed the scenario I’d suggested.

  In approximately twenty minutes, when we arrived in the coastal town of Balhaf, Barron would ask Hussein if they could stop and get something to eat.

  Balhaf wasn’t exactly a thriving city. There were no fast-food places or fancy restaurants. In fact, Carlton said the only place to eat was the Central Fish Market. However, he thought it might actually be ideal for our purposes since it probably wouldn’t seem strange if the GNS crew also stopped there and struck up a conversation with a fellow American.

  After introducing ourselves to Hussein and Barron—or Stephen Gault as Carlton called him—we’d tell them about the documentary we were doing at the Marlize Refugee Camp.

  Carlton suggested I ask Hussein if the military had any role at the camp. “I’ve noticed the Saudis are using troops from Al-Jarba to keep order in the camp,” Carlton said, “so when Hussein brings this up, you could ask him if he would mind being interviewed for your documentary. You might want to use his English-speaking ability as one of the reasons your viewers would like to hear from him. Needless to say, you’ll offer him a generous amount of cash for his time.”

  “With his history, I can’t think of any reason such an offer wouldn’t appeal to him,” Taylor said.

  Mitchell asked, “But what excuse will we use for asking him to help us get into the Al-Firdaus compound?”

  “I’m leaving that up to Titus. I’m sure he’s already got something in mind,” Carlton said.

  If that were only true.

  * * * *

  Balhaf was located on the coastal highway about forty miles from Mukalla, but other than having a thriving fishing industry, it was an insignificant little village. On the other hand, just outside of Balhaf was Highway 574, the main northern route into the mountainous desert region of central Yemen, where Somahi was located.

  A few years ago, Highway 574 had been packed with refugees when the Iranian-backed Houthi rebels had entered the villages located along the southern coast of Yemen and removed the inhabitants from their h
omes. Later, they’d massacred them.

  The Saudis had used the Houthis’ despicable slaughter to declare war on the rebels and establish a military presence in Yemen. Of course, to show their humanitarian side, they’d also set up and funded the Marlize Refugee Camp in Somahi, and they’d sent personnel into the camp to run it.

  Now, as we entered the outskirts of Balhaf, we saw the remains of burned-out vehicles and other wreckage strewn along both sides of the roadway, evidence the Saudi Air Force had overwhelmed the rebels with superior air power.

  However, I saw no indication the Saudis had any kind of military presence in Balhaf today. In fact, as we entered the town, the only place that showed any activity was the Central Fish Market.

  There were no designated parking spots near the market. Vehicles were parked haphazardly on each side of the road and at the back of a decrepit-looking tin-roof building.

  The market section, where fish were actually being sold, was on the left side of the building. It consisted of wooden tables underneath an open-air structure where women dressed in dark chadors were fanning the air trying to keep the flies away.

  Despite the flies, the market appeared to be doing a thriving business. This was also true of the restaurant, although it bore little resemblance to any dining establishment in the States.

  On the right side of the building, facing the ocean, were a dozen picnic tables, most of them occupied. The hand-lettered sign indicated this was the mateam or restaurant portion of the Central Fish Market.

  As soon as Taylor parked our SUV, I spotted Barron and Hussein seated at a table all by themselves. Before we exited our vehicle, though, Delaney asked us to wait while she covered her head with a dark scarf. Once she’d looped the fabric around her neck, Mitchell grabbed his camera bag, and we headed over to the mateam.

  Our senses were immediately assaulted by the sight of a large pile of fish heads and the sound of the ocean lapping against the shore, not to mention the blast of hot air that met us as we emerged from our air-conditioned vehicle.

  To reduce the chances Hussein might think we were following Gault, I’d already instructed everyone not to give any indication we’d been on the same flight with Barron.

  My plan was to find a table close enough to Barron to hear him speaking English to Hussein and then introduce ourselves.

  Barron, of course, didn’t know the plan—Olivia had only told him the GNS crew would make contact with him at the restaurant—so, as soon as he saw us looking around for a table, he stood up and motioned us over to where he and Hussein were seated.

  “Hey, there,” he said. “Didn’t I see you guys on the plane? Why don’t you come over and join us?”

  * * * *

  I wasn’t sure what Barron’s intentions were, other than he thought he was supposed to play the master of ceremonies at our little soiree at the Central Fish Market.

  In that vein, he immediately began making introductions.

  He told us he was Stephen Gault of Advanced Computer Solutions, and he was on his way to fix some computers in Somahi for the Saudis. Then, he introduced us to the man seated next to him, Hussein Al-Saffar, a master sergeant in the Saudi Air Force, who was driving him to the Al-Firdaus compound in Somahi.

  As we sat down at the table, we gave Barron and Hussein our first names, and then Barron pointed to the blue logo on Delaney’s shirt and asked, “What does the GNS stand for?”

  “We’re with the Global News Service,” she said. “We’re on our way to Somahi to do a story on the Marlize Refugee Camp.”

  “It’s a big camp,” Hussein said. “You’ll find lots of stories there.”

  I was tempted to ask Hussein to tell us what he knew about the camp right then, especially since he’d already offered a comment on it, but at that moment our waiter arrived, so I didn’t bring it up.

  The waiter hadn’t shown up at our table to take our orders—he’d come to bring us our food.

  Hussein told us there was no ordering from a menu at the Central Fish Market. Everyone who sat down at a picnic table received the same plate of food—mashwi, a baked fish cooked in a clay oven, rashoosh, a feathery-thin bread cooked on top of the clay oven, and sahawiq, a thin, spicy hot sauce.

  We were, however, given our choice of beverages. Hussein translated the different drinks for us after the waiter had recited them—bottled water, lemon water, or lime juice. Hussein explained the lime drink was a super sweet concoction consisting of a whole lime, a small amount of water, and a ton of sugar.

  I chose the lemon water and everyone else had the lime drink.

  Once the waiter had brought us our drinks, and we’d all commented on how delicious the food was, Hussein turned his attention to Taylor. He began by asking him what his job was on the GNS crew, and then, after hearing he was our translator, he started quizzing him about his background and ethnicity.

  I couldn’t tell if Hussein was one of those people who could sniff out another military guy, or if Taylor just wasn’t that good at selling his cover story, but I decided it might be a good time to bring up the documentary before Hussein could ask him another question.

  I said, “I told our production staff at GNS to get us an excellent translator because a major portion of our documentary will be interviewing everyone connected with the refugees.”

  Delaney added, “American audiences love to see a face when they’re hearing a news story, even if they don’t understand what’s being said. That’s where a good translator comes in.”

  “How will you choose which refugees to interview?” Hussein asked.

  “We’ll consult with the administrative staff,” Delaney said. “We’ll also interview some of them about how the camp is run.”

  I asked, “Does the military have any responsibility at the camp?”

  Hussein nodded. “We keep order, investigate disputes, provide security for the camp, that sort of thing. You Americans would probably call it police work.”

  I looked over at Delaney. “Hussein speaks excellent English. Wouldn’t he be a great person to interview? I mean, just think about it. Our viewers would be able to hear a firsthand account of how the Saudi military is involved at Marlize.”

  “You’re right,” she said. “I was hoping we could find some people who spoke English at the camp.”

  “Oh, no,” Hussein said, “I don’t have any responsibilities at the camp. I work on the base and at the Al-Firdaus compound.”

  “But that’s even better,” I said. “We need to film at several different locations, so perhaps we could interview you at the compound. You don’t have to work at the camp. I could just ask you about what role the military plays there. I assure you the questions I ask won’t be hard for you to answer.”

  As Hussein took a bite of his food, he appeared to think about my offer. Meanwhile, I used the opportunity to try and seal the deal.

  “Of course, we wouldn’t ask you to do the interview without compensating you for your time.”

  I turned and looked at Delaney. “Could we go ahead and give Hussein a small advance on his compensation right now?”

  Hussein stopped eating when the subject of money came up. Then, when Delaney agreed with my suggestion and gestured at Mitchell, he watched in amazement as Mitchell unzipped a pocket on his camera bag and pulled out a wad of American dollars.

  Barron spoke up. “Hey, that’s perfect timing, Hussein. Didn’t you tell me the compound was our destination? Maybe you guys could come with us and do the interview when we get there.”

  Mitchell slid a stack of one-hundred-dollar bills across the table to Hussein, who quickly covered them with the long sleeve of his thobe. I felt sure he knew he’d just been handed several thousand dollars.

  “I’m not authorized to bring another vehicle into the compound,” Hussein said, “but if you’d like for me to get you the paperwork so you can get clearance, I’d be happy to do that for you.”

  “That’s really not necessary,” I said. “I don’t need anyone at th
e interview except for you and my cameraman here.”

  I pointed over at Mitchell. “Why don’t Ralph and I just hitch a ride with you and Stephen to the compound? When we get there, we’ll find a place to do the interview. Once it’s done, we’ll pay you the rest of your compensation, and then you can drive Ralph and me over to the refugee camp, where we’ll meet up with the rest of our crew.”

  Barron did his best to help me out by chiming in. “That sounds like a great idea. I wouldn’t mind having some company for the rest of the trip. How about you, Hussein? I bet these guys are a couple of sports nuts just like us.”

  I was a little apprehensive Barron might be laying it on too thick, and then Mitchell decided to get in on the act by making a comment about the World Cup that mimicked what we’d heard Hussein say to Barron earlier.

  After that, I was almost certain we’d overplayed our hand.

  But, the opposite turned out to be true.

  * * * *

  The stack of dollar bills quickly disappeared into a pocket of Hussein’s thobe, and he immediately gave Mitchell and me permission to ride with him the rest of the way to Somahi.

  “When we enter Al-Firdaus,” he said, “I’ll have to show our security people at the gate your passports, but since you’ll be with me, there shouldn’t be any problem getting you inside.”

  I said, “That’s great, Hussein. Once we arrive at the compound, Ralph and I will have to spend a few minutes scouting out the best place to shoot your interview. I hope that won’t be a problem.”

  “No. No problem at all,” he said. “You’ll be free to move around inside the compound. You won’t find Al-Firdaus all that large, though.”

  “Tell me about Al-Firdaus. I’ve never heard of it.”

  “It was built to house the Saudi princes and their staff when they visit the Al-Jarba military base. At least one of them stays there all the time. Besides several residences, there’s a swimming pool, recreational facilities, and a couple of movie theaters. It’s more or less a beautiful oasis in the middle of the desert.”