Five Years in Yemen

by Luana Ehrlich

  For the rest of the meal, I played the interested reporter and asked Hussein several questions about his background, his family history, and his military career.

  He wasn’t reluctant to talk about any of this, and by the time we were finished eating, I figured Carlton and the Ops Center—who were getting audio and video from Barron’s sunglasses—had access to a full biographical spectrum on Hussein Al-Saffar.

  Delaney insisted on GNS picking up the tab for Hussein and Barron’s meals, and once she’d paid the check, I made an excuse to walk with her and Taylor back over to our Land Cruiser.

  “I need to go grab my laptop before we leave,” I told Hussein. “Where are you parked?”

  He pointed down the dirt road about fifty yards away from our vehicle. “I’m in the black Ford Explorer. I guess that’s appropriate since I’m transporting the three of you. Our Defense Ministry buys millions of dollars’ worth of American vehicles every year to help out your economy.”

  I started to point out that Americans helped out the Saudi economy by purchasing their oil, but I thought it might be best if I kept my relationship with Hussein as friendly as possible—at least until he got us past the guards at the compound.

  After we were out of Hussein’s hearing, I told Taylor to check in with Douglas once he arrived at the refugee camp.

  “Depending on what happens at the compound, we will either show up at the refugee camp with Jacob, or we’ll meet you later at the Al-Mukalla airbase. Either way, Douglas will be in touch with the Ops Center and he’ll know what’s going on with us.”

  Taylor said, “I’d say there was a third option in that scenario.”

  I pulled the messenger bag containing my laptop out of my suitcase. “What’s that?” I asked, as I placed the bag over my shoulder.

  “You might run into trouble at the compound, and then Douglas and I will have to show up there and bail you out.”

  “In that case,” I said, reaching inside the duffel bag, “maybe I should pack a little extra ammo.”

  I grabbed a couple of extra clips for my Glock and slipped them inside my messenger bag.

  “Don’t tell me you hadn’t thought of that.” Delaney said.

  “Oh, I’d thought about it all right.”

  “And?”

  “And, I don’t think that will happen, at least not as long as we’ve got Hussein. The moment he slipped that money in his pocket, he became our ticket out of the compound.”

  “But he thinks you’re paying him for an interview,” Delaney said. “What happens when he finds out you’re leaving the compound with Jacob?”

  “That all depends on Jacob. If he chooses to go with us willingly, Hussein probably won’t have a problem with it.”

  “Do you really think there’s a chance Jacob will just walk away from the MODD project after spending the last five years working on it?” Taylor asked.

  I slammed the lid down on the trunk. “I can’t answer that question until I hear his motivation for being in Somahi in the first place.”

  Delaney said, “Maybe he’ll be eager to go with you when you tell him about Stephen Gault’s murder.”

  “That’s true, but let’s hope he hasn’t heard about it yet. Otherwise, we won’t even make it past the guardhouse at the compound.”

  Chapter 35

  When I walked over to the Ford Explorer, Barron was already in the front seat with Hussein, so I motioned for Mitchell to let me have the spot directly behind Barron, and he walked around to the other side and sat behind the driver’s seat.

  This bit of musical chairs wasn’t a power seat grab.

  Although I had good vibes about how things had gone down with Hussein, I still wanted to keep my eye on him, and my location behind the front passenger seat afforded me the optimal view of his physical movements and his facial expressions.

  Once Hussein had exited the coastal highway and headed north on Highway 574 toward Somahi, I opened up my messenger bag and pulled out my laptop.

  “I hope no one minds if I do some work on my computer,” I said. “I need to write the introduction for our first broadcast from Marlize.”

  “Have at it,” Barron said. “It won’t bother me at all.”

  Hussein gestured toward Barron and said, “Jacob told me he has plenty of work for you to do in the next few weeks. He says you’re a genius when it comes to computers.”

  “I’m no genius, but I’m pretty sure I can help Jacob.”

  I asked, “Who’s Jacob?”

  Hussein hesitated for a second. “Ah . . . he’s an American scientist working on a project for the Saudis at the Al-Jarba base.”

  “An American? That’s interesting,” I said. “Maybe I could also interview him while I’m at the compound.”

  “No,” Hussein said, shaking his head, “that won’t be possible. He likes to keep to himself.”

  “Okay, no problem,” I said, trying not to make a big deal out of it. “It’s probably just as well. Introverts are never very good at interviews, plus they hate voicing their opinions.”

  “I don’t know about that,” Hussein said. “Jacob doesn’t particularly mind expressing his opinion.”

  “No, he doesn’t,” Barron said, sounding like he knew him well.

  “Does he have strong opinions about anything in particular?” I asked.

  Hussein nodded. “Yeah, anything having to do with the Houthis and this civil war.”

  “You said he was an American, right? Why does he feel so strongly about this subject?”

  “He’s an American, but he doesn’t look or act like an American. If I didn’t know better, I’d think he was an Iraqi.”

  “I agree,” Barron said.

  “What’s the story behind that?” I asked.

  Hussein glanced over his shoulder at me. “Why are you asking all these questions about Jacob, Mr. Brice?”

  I shrugged. “I’m a reporter. It’s my job.”

  Hussein moved on to a different topic and didn’t answer my question.

  I decided not to press it, though.

  I felt sure I’d have my answer by the end of the day.

  * * * *

  When Barron and Hussein resumed their earlier conversation about soccer, Mitchell pulled out his camera and began shooting pictures of the mountains, while I pretended to work on my computer.

  In reality, I was using the Agency’s encrypted messenger system on my laptop to communicate with Carlton. Using the system wasn’t something I was fond of doing, mainly because I found it impossible to gauge Carlton’s reactions through a keyboard.

  Not that I didn’t try.

  Once Carlton had responded to my alert and indicated he was online, I sent him my first question.

  “Have you seen any changes in activity at the compound?”

  “What kind of changes?” he wrote back.

  “Any stepped-up security? Unusual vehicles?”

  “No, none of that.”

  “I suppose that means no one at the compound has heard about Gault yet.”

  “The Ops Center just reported the Saudi police were called to Gault’s room at the Al Khozama hotel about an hour ago.”

  “I had to leave Gault’s wallet on him. By this time, they may already know his identity.”

  “His identity, yes, but it will take them a little digging to connect him back to Jacob.”

  “Did Gault make his own reservation at the Al Khozama or did someone else make it for him?”

  “I’m not sure. I’ll have to check that out.”

  “If Gault didn’t make the reservation, whoever made it is only a phone call away.”

  “If someone in the Defense Ministry made Gault’s reservation, more than likely it was Hasan Amari. Since he’s dead, you don’t need to worry about him.”

  “What if Jacob made Gault’s reservation?”

  “According to the Grid, you’re only thirty minutes away from the compound right now, so I doubt if Jacob will have heard anything by the time you get t
here, even if his name is on Gault’s reservation form.”

  Even without being able to hear the inflections in his voice or see the expression on his face, I knew Carlton was doing what he always did at this juncture of an operation.

  He was handling me.

  As my operations officer—whether he was in country or not—he was also my handler, and while I sometimes resisted this aspect of his job, I had to admit it was somewhat reassuring to hear his unruffled attitude, especially since I had no idea what was about to happen when we arrived at the compound.

  “I admit I don’t know how things will play out with Jacob.”

  “Of course not. You won’t know that until you meet him.”

  “Taylor thinks the two of you may have to storm the compound and rescue us.”

  “I’m sure that won’t be necessary, but I’m not surprised he’s thinking along those lines. Once a Ranger, always a Ranger.”

  “He and Delaney should be on your doorstep in a few minutes. I just saw the sign for the Marlize Refugee Camp.”

  Hussein pointed off to his right. “Mr. Brice, as you can see, the road to the refugee camp is just ahead.”

  “Okay, thanks. Yes, I see it now. How much farther is it to Al-Firdaus?”

  Hussein rocked his hand back and forth. “Another ten miles or so.”

  “I should finish up this paragraph then.”

  While I’d been speaking with Hussein, Carlton had written, “Anything else before I sign off?”

  I wrote, “Two more questions. On the surveillance images of the compound, didn’t I see a small park in the middle of the residential section?”

  There was no response from Carlton for almost a minute. Then he wrote, “I just pulled up the latest image. You’re right. There’s a green area that looks like a small park. It doesn’t take up more than half a block, and it’s just east of the entrance.”

  “Last question. Was there any intel about Yemen or the Houthis in the documents Jacob was translating for us back in Karbala?”

  “Yes, the Houthis were mentioned.”

  “Could you find out exactly what was in there and text me ASAP?”

  “I’ll see what I can do.”

  “I’ll sign off now.”

  “See you on the other side.”

  That was Carlton for you. Even though he was my handler, he wasn’t going to ask me how I was going to handle things at the compound—not that I could have told him anything if he’d asked me.

  All I knew was that the neurons in my brain were firing off different scenarios, and I kept praying about which ones I should keep and which ones I should trash.

  * * * *

  As we drove past the turnoff for the refugee camp—a two-lane dirt road that headed out across the desert toward a sea of white tents—Hussein told us he visited the camp once a week.

  Barron shook his head. “That doesn’t sound like fun.”

  “The conditions there are much better than you might expect. The Saudi government provides many amenities, including schools for the children.”

  Barron turned toward me and said, “Say, Austin, maybe that’s something you should include in your story.”

  “We plan to do some interviews with the teachers,” I said. “Kids and teachers always get a response from our audience.”

  Hussein gestured at Barron. “Your friend Jacob teaches a science class there once a week.”

  “Oh, really? He’s never mentioned that.”

  “Probably not. He never talks much about what he does for other people.”

  “No, you’re right. He never does.”

  “Al-Firdaus is just ahead,” Hussein said. “All of you should get your passports out now so I can show them to the guards at the gatehouse.”

  Although I didn’t see any signage along the road to indicate the presence of the Saudi compound, as I removed Austin Brice’s passport from my messenger bag, Hussein made a left turn onto a paved road in the middle of the desert.

  About a half-mile down the road, I noticed a line of slow-moving cars snaking their way toward a guardhouse positioned in front of the arched entrance to Al-Firdaus.

  “Wouldn’t you know it?” Hussein said, hitting the steering wheel. “I was afraid this might happen. At this time of day the officers from the base are returning to the compound, and it creates a traffic jam.”

  He craned his neck around to look in the backseat. “I may have to pull over while security takes a look at your passports. They might even ask me to come inside the guardhouse with them, but don’t worry, this is standard practice.”

  I’d been trying to figure out how to have a moment alone with Barron and Mitchell, so I was glad to hear him say he might have to leave us for a moment.

  But, on the other hand, I wasn’t too happy to hear our passports were about to be taken inside the guardhouse and carefully scrutinized, especially since I didn’t know if the news of Gault’s murder had reached the ears of any Saudi officials yet.

  As the line of cars crept forward, two Saudis, dressed in military gear, approached each car, glanced inside, and then moved on to the next car. This behavior continued until they reached our vehicle.

  Hussein immediately greeted them in Arabic, unaware his passengers could understand what was being said, and then he proceeded to have a brief conversation with the officer who was wearing a captain’s stripe.

  The first thing Hussein told the captain was that he’d been ordered to pick up the computer expert, Stephen Gault, from the airport in Aden and bring him to Kadi Faisal’s house—I tensed up for a moment before I remembered Kadi Faisal was the name Olivia had told us Jacob Levin was using in Yemen.

  As Hussein was talking to the captain, he was gesturing at Barron, and once the captain acknowledged Barron, he glanced in the backseat at Mitchell and me.

  “Who are these men?” the captain asked.

  Even if I couldn’t speak Arabic, I felt sure I would have been able to hear the irritation in the captain’s voice when he asked the question.

  However, Hussein didn’t appear to be the least bit flustered. “I was also instructed to pick them up at the airport. These men are Americans who work for the Global News Service, and they’ve come to Somahi to do an interview with Prince Fahd bin Rahman. I was told he was expecting them, but since I know you aren’t supposed to disturb the prince at this hour, you could have them wait at the gatehouse until you’re able to get in touch with him.”

  I wasn’t at all pleased to hear this lie coming from Hussein, and, for a few minutes, I couldn’t figure out the purpose of his deception.

  The captain didn’t look very pleased himself. “You and I both know it could take several hours before I’m able to speak with the prince.”

  He pointed off to the side of the road. “Pull over here and come with me to the gatehouse. I’ll run a check on their passports, and if all is in order, I’ll clear you through.”

  Hussein immediately removed the Ford Explorer from the line of traffic and parked it alongside the roadway. After collecting our passports and assuring us he wouldn’t be gone long, he followed the captain into the guardhouse.

  As soon as he left, Barron said, “Prince Rahman is one of the deputies in the Defense Ministry, but he’s also a notorious playboy. I know he isn’t shy about giving interviews either. That had to be the reason Hussein told the guard that story.”

  Mitchell was staring over at the gatehouse. “Let’s hope the guard doesn’t change his mind and try to contact Prince Rahman.”

  Barron said, “I’m not nearly as concerned about that as I am about what will happen once we get inside the compound.”

  He turned around in his seat and looked me in the eye. “Don’t get me wrong, Titus. I love a good mystery, but I’m clueless about what you’re planning to do when Hussein delivers me to Jacob’s doorstep. I mean I’m good, but I seriously doubt if I’ll be able to convince Jacob I’m Stephen Gault.”

  “How do you feel about convincing him you’re a
lost American?”

  * * * *

  After Barron said he was agreeable with anything, I outlined my POA (Plan of Action) for him.

  Although I saw no reason to mention it to Mitchell or Barron, I’d actually just finished working out all the details in my mind. Truth be told, those details were still pretty sketchy.

  “We don’t have much time,” I said, glancing over at the guardhouse, “so I can only give you the bare bones of the POA. I’m sure you’ll both be able to improvise the rest.”

  “No problem here,” Barron said.

  Mitchell nodded. “Sure, I’m good with that.”

  “First things first,” I said, gesturing at Barron. “When Hussein mentions something about dropping you off at Jacob’s house, you should insist on being dropped off a block or so away from there. Whatever excuse you use for making this request is fine with me.”

  He smiled. “I’ll get creative.”

  I looked over at Mitchell. “You’ll need to follow my lead when I suggest we split up to scout out a prime location for doing the interview with Hussein. You can talk about camera angles, light sources, or interesting backgrounds; whatever you need to say to convince Hussein to come with you instead of sticking with me.”

  “I’ll come up with something.”

  “There’s a park about two blocks east of the entrance, and that’s where I want you and Hussein to end up. When you get there, pretend to text me and tell me you’ve found the perfect spot for the interview, and I’ll join you there as soon as I’m finished with Jacob.”

  Barron said, “Yeah, about Jacob, I was wondering if I should—”

  “Here’s what we’re doing about Jacob,” I said, cutting him off. “When you get Hussein to drop you off, take your time getting over to Jacob’s house. If you arrive there before I do, don’t knock on the door, ring the doorbell, or even approach his house. Wait for me.”

  “The satellite images show the houses are pretty far apart. Maybe I could mistakenly go to the wrong house.”

  “That probably won’t be necessary. I won’t be far behind you. When I get there, we’ll both go up to Jacob’s door together. I suspect he’ll answer the door because he’s waiting for Stephen to show up. He’ll also hear us speaking English about how we can’t find our way around Al-Firdaus.”