cat came in through the window and I found comfort in caressing her silky fur. I needed a friend. She indicated by half-purring and meowing that she was happy to see me, though a little disappointed I didn’t have food for her.
“In a bit,” I promised.
I went down to the dining room to get a cup of coffee and something for the cat. I had no appetite. This time, I didn’t complain about the Nescafe. On every side, the staff’s eyes were trained on me. I grabbed some bread and cheese for the cat and the cup of coffee for me and fled up the stairs.
Halfway up, I met the Brit coming down, apparently for breakfast. I stood to the side and stared rudely. What hints could I gather from his demeanor? Did he look guilty? What had been his business in Michael’s room last night?
He looked at me and smiled, just a slight lifting of the lips that didn’t reach his eyes. “Good morning.”
I think I returned the greeting. My coffee cup was shaking badly. Had I just exchanged nods with Michael’s murderer?
In my room, I gave the cat some bread and milk and white cheese I’d snatched from the dining room. Mrs. Weston thanked me with a rub against my leg, ate, and meticulously cleaned her whiskers with her paws, reclining on my bed.
How to prepare for the coming police interrogation? The prospect shook me more than I’d have guessed. Another night came to mind. Other Yemeni policemen. Halima arriving, her aristocratic family name allowing her to wrest me from their clutches. And another time in the souq when I’d seen a ghostly form behind bars, pitifully begging passersby for food. I really did not want to go to jail.
The worst night of my life had been in a Yemeni jail. Even now I could hardly bear to think of it. Men trained in cruelty…men who enjoyed taking advantage of the vulnerable. Cries from other cells. Despair…Halima had been my only chance and my salvation.
I pulled myself together. I had to face the police. What information could I give them? Very little, except seeing that Brit go into Michael’s room (I presumed it was Michael’s room) last night. Did I want to tell them that? My own experience and the prisoner in the souq came to mind. No, I wouldn’t tell. My suspicions that Michael Petrovich had been a spy would also remain a secret, for now.
In actual fact, I knew nothing. Really.
A knock on my door. A hotel employee said the police were waiting for me downstairs. I took a deep breath.
CHAPTER 22
“Honest as the cat when the meat is out of reach.”
English proverb from The Quotable Cat
Richard Queens waited until he heard the commotion die down next door. He put on his most bland expression and went out, locking his door. Under his arm he carried a worn briefcase.
The woman from the plane was coming up the stone stairway as he walked down. She was certainly not the innocent bystander she pretended to be. Equally certainly, she had known Petrovich, the bastard.
His report just now to superiors had not included the woman with the brownish hair and intelligent eyes. Why was that? He pondered the question as he headed out for a normal day’s work—though “normal” was a word that didn’t fit Yemen.
It bloody well didn’t fit this situation.
Richard found that he rather relished the thought of investigating the woman from the plane. He’d have to be on guard, of course.
CHAPTER 23
It is something to dislike one’s own defects, even if one sees them only in other people.
Freya Stark, A Winter in Arabia
The same English-speaking policeman waited for me in the manager’s office. The manager sat at his desk, the sign on the desk said “M. Faisal.” I bet the M. stood for Mohammad. Everybody was named Mohammad. It looked as though he’d be sitting in on the interview.
I didn’t know the policeman’s name, but he’s the one who spoke. “Mizz Darcy?”
“Yes.”
“Please to sit down.”
The manager, nervous as a cat in a cage, tried to smile at me. “Would you like coffee? Arabic coffee?” He addressed both me and the policeman and received nods from each. He left in a rush. To bring coffee? Or just to get out of the room?
“You have come to Yemen for why?” The policeman, after shaking hands with me, clearly didn’t want this to degenerate into a social get-together. He probably had to fight his natural hospitality.
“I am a journalist, as Mr. Faisal knows from my registration at the hotel. I am here to write about Yemen’s beautiful architecture for my newspaper in America.” I looked the policeman in the eye. “The Yemeni Embassy in Washington gave me a visa to work on this story.”
In fact, the Embassy had been thrilled to have an American coming to Yemen to provide information that might stimulate the dwindling tourist trade. They’d complied with my request in two days, and had wished me well on my journey. “Be sure to see Wadi Dhar!” said the young consular officer.
But this case was different. The policeman sat forward, straightened his uniform, and ignored my visa information. He was serious about his job. “This man, Mr. Petrovich. How you know him?”
“I didn’t know him at all, except we met on the plane as we arrived in Sana’a. He told me he was a businessman. He said he worked in irrigation and fertilizers. Beyond that, I know nothing.” I thought a moment. “He said he had a meeting after the plane arrived. I do not know who that meeting was with.”
The hotel staff would have told the police that Michael Petrovich ate with the blonde last night. I’d assumed the meeting was with her, but of course had no evidence of any kind. It wasn’t my job to point fingers.
“He did not speak of any other person he was meeting in Sana’a?”
“No.”
“And you, you will stay how long?” He was out of his depth but plowing ahead.
“My visa is for a month, but I don’t plan to stay that long.” Fearing this might sound ungracious, I quickly added, “Though I’d love to stay longer. Yemen is one of my favorite countries!”
The policeman’s serious face cracked just an iota into the usual gratified smile that praise of one’s native country tends to produce.
By this point, Mr. Faisal had returned with a waiter carrying a tray of Arabic coffee. He fidgeted with the pens on his desk. With a gesture, he begged to be excused again, the kind of gesture that means, ‘I’ll be right back.’ Why had the police asked him to stay in the first place?
But my interrogation was over. As Mr. Faisal stood, so did the policeman. “If you have information, you give us?” The remark had a question mark in its tone but sounded imperative.
“Yes. I will tell you if I learn anything.” I took the card he held out. ‘Lt. M. Surash,’ it said. Another Mohammad! He left, his camouflage uniform as crisp as his manner.
Thankfully, I was
