airport.” He waved a little blue bottle in front of his companion. “It clears your head. You can use it for stiffness, too.”
Petrovich sniffed deeply from his bottle, careful to not get the pungent minty fumes in his eyes, pulled a pant leg up to rub some on a calf muscle, recapped the bottle, leaned back and got down to business.
“Had drinks with the Chechens last night. I don’t think they’ll cause problems.”
Other than about his health, Petrovich did not engage in small talk with men.
His companion rubbed his eyes as the strong wintergreen scent suffused the limo. “We might have a little problem here. Not sure yet.” Again, a hint of submission.
The Alpha Dog, Petrovich, put a finger to his lips. “Let’s just go and see them. Are they at the Taj?”
“No, too public. They’re in the Old City.” The man in jeans gently massaged the whiskery cheek that held the qat.
“Am I staying there, or at the Taj?”
The younger man shook his head. “You’ll be in the Dar al-Hamd.”
Good. Low-key and low-profile. He had a lot of work to do. And he had two people to see on highly personal business. The Taj Sheba was far too upscale for contacts like that, and hotels in the Old City lacked something in the comfort line.
The Dar al-Hamd would do just fine.
CHAPTER 3
“I look at this country and I see a plane ready to take off.”
“In what direction?”
Victoria Clark, Yemen, Dancing on the Heads of Snakes
En route into Sana’a, the familiar scent of smoke from cooking fires blew into my face from the open front window, waking me up. The radio’s sad, insinuating music echoed my unease. I’d answered the e-mail, saying I was coming. Why hadn’t Halima written back? Very unlike her to not get my flight details so she could meet me, or have me met. Something serious must be wrong.
The traffic light changed but the taxi wasn’t going anywhere. The intersection was clogged with a wedding celebration. People gathered around loosely-turbaned men as they danced to the mesmerizing, heart-thudding beat of Yemeni drums. Curved silver jambiyas, the famous knives of Yemen, slashed toward other dancers. As the crowd ululated in approval, one of the dancers pointed his knife at his own head and danced ever-faster. Then he grabbed two jambiyas and went into a routine. The knife caught light from the street lamp as it slashed under his legs and back up again. The jambiyas lifted in cadence with the drums, coming perilously close to what are politely referred to as the “family jewels.”
As if to accentuate the gap between the sexes, a little flotilla of black-garbed women sailed gracefully down the cobble-stoned street, right past my taxi. Returning home from the wedding, obviously. Anonymity personified, as opposed to macho show-off tactics. The yin and yang of Yemen, differences sharply etched. For me, a magic interlude.
The last time I’d visited this exotic backwater of the Arabian Peninsula, in 1994, civil war raged between north and south. SCUDs had been frightening, but not as scary as my arrest by the secret police. Had Halima not come to my rescue, wielding impressive family credentials and the respect of the tribes…well, I didn’t want to think about that. It had been my first encounter with the special fear women face when under the control of brutal men who need proof of nothing and have few restraints.
On happier topics, I’d caught my breath both times arriving as the plane descended through stark mountain peaks, clustered fortress villages flickering faintly.
Yemen had come through the 1994 war still united, but not without massive bloodshed on both sides. This visit, though not in wartime, promised to be unsettling in a different way. This time I had to help my lifesaver, in any way I could.
I reached into my carry-on to touch my Jane Austen security blanket—Emma, this time. I never travel without Jane.
In a way, I was happy to have Jane Austen my sole companion tonight. The tinge of rejection when my travel companion hadn’t offered a ride had been wiped out by the wedding, the familiar wood smoke in the high altitude air, and excitement at being back. Peaks of Yemen, I had arrived.
CHAPTER 4
Greetings, O San’a the blessed; your people are noble.
Its mountains are a fortress formidable, threatening
Whoever attacks it.
Traditional Yemeni poetry translated by Steven C. Caton, “Peaks of Yemen I Summon”
Richard Queens watched his fellow passengers retrieve their luggage and leave the airport. His antennae had risen at the dark-haired woman’s confidence. She appeared to be with the fellow who must be one of his targets. Perhaps she would turn out to be a person of interest, as well. They hadn’t left together, though.
His instructions from London had been vague. “Go to Sana’a and talk to Anwar,” his boss had said. “Something’s up. We need to know more. We don’t want obstacles at this stage. Something’s missing.”
With his command of Arabic, Richard had often been called in on sensitive projects. Usually the project was definable. This time the scene was Yemen. No one ever really knew what was going on in Yemen. It would take many cups of tea and leisurely qat sessions perfumed by the ever-present hookah to be sure—and even then the country held surprises.
Given the secrecy within which he worked, Queens grabbed a nondescript cab from the line outside the equally nondescript airport and headed for his hotel, the Dar al-Hamd—“House of Well-Being,” in Arabic.
Richard Queens could use a little well-being. He disliked assignments with this many loose threads.
CHAPTER 5
The smoke from the fire curled through a hole in the ceiling. The restless wind, pushing against the tower as darkness fell, showed the wisdom of small windows.
Freya Stark, A Winter in Arabia
My taxi pulled up at one of the mud brick palaces of Sana’a, the venerable Dar al-Hamd. Two ghostly pepper trees guarded the wide-open front door. Formerly the abode of a ruling Emir, the Dar al-Hamd would be my hotel, as it had been before.
My companions this time would be different: the set of foreign correspondents replaced by, I’d guess, businessmen. Michael from the plane was an example. Probably the guy in khaki pants, too.
And this time, there would be no romantic interludes with Bo, the handsome Swedish television correspondent. That kind of thing happens when reporting on a crisis and is meant to be quickly put out of mind, to become a dust-gathering layer in one’s life experience.
I took a breath, paid the taxi driver, and carried my luggage in.
The desk clerk remembered me. “Nice to see you, Mizz Elizabeth. Would you like tea? In room?” How nice of him, this late at night! His shabby suit matched the state of the furniture in the lobby. Despite my aching worry about Halima, it felt wonderful to be back.
In my high-ceilinged, whitewashed room on the second floor, dimly lit by a small bare bulb, I
