effect, hand control of Yemen over to AQAP, al Qaeda in the Arabian Peninsula.
“Truly, what difference, my brothers?” The colonel smiled. “Who would dare oppose us?”
“You will bring the Amerikayeena”-the Americans-“and their drones down upon us,” said one of the sheikh’s advisors, an older man with a white beard and a vertical scar from an old wound that seemed to split his face into two unmatched halves.
“We do not fear the Amerikayeena,” Colonel al-Zuhrahi said.
“We fear nothing. Not the Amerikayeena nor the AQAP either. But the Amerikayeena pay well,” making the sign for money. “What do you-or should one say AQAP-offer?” Sheikh al-Ahmari asked.
“We would give the Hashid an exclusive access to all the qat trade of Wadi Dar and the highlands. Together with AQAP, we would control all the qat trade in Yemen and Somalia.”
“ Inshallah, this is something to be considered,” al-Ahmari said, stroking his beard. “But let us drink, my brother,” and he picked up one of the cups and offered it to the colonel. As he did so, the gray-eyed naadil came over and whispered something into the colonel’s ear. The naadil did not serve the colonel as might be expected, but instead walked on out of the room.
Colonel al-Zuhrahi pulled a cell phone out of his pocket and looked at it. “ Wa’ alif’a afoo, a thousand pardons, brother, I have a call I must take,” he said, getting up. It’s the president’s office, he mouthed to Sheikh al-Ahmari, pointing at the phone. He walked quickly out of the room, followed by two of his soldiers, both wearing the turban shaals of the Bakil.
“What is this ibn himaar,” son of a donkey, “up to?” Sheikh al-Ahmari said as the colonel left the room, looking at his fellow tribesmen.
Two of the Hashid tribesmen who were near the window unslung their AK-47s and followed the colonel’s men out of the room. There was the sound of men running and shouting, and tribesmen standing by the window saw Colonel al-Zuhrahi and his men run out of the building to a waiting Humvee. The naadil was with them.
The Humvee started with a roar and soon was twisting through the narrow winding streets of the town, dirt streets without sidewalks designed for donkeys, not cars. They barreled down the road in a cloud of dust toward the Bab al-Kabeer gate in the city wall.
“Y ou’re sure of this?” Colonel al-Zuhrahi said to Scorpion, who was still wearing the shaal turban of a lowly naadil of the Hashid tribe.
“Cyanide. I saw the cook put it in. Was there not a scent of bitter almonds in the coffee?”
“I did smell something,” the colonel replied, and nodded.
“Another moment, sayyid,” Scorpion said, “and that cup of coffee would have been your last.”
“The Hashid are all lying khaneeth queers,” the soldier in the front passenger seat said. “Sooner or later they would have betrayed us.”
“Of course,” Colonel al-Zuhrahi snapped. “We expected no less. But we will put it out that they have agreed to join the Bakil, just to see who or what crawls out from under the rocks.” He turned to Scorpion. “You are not Hashidi. Your Arabic is of the Peninsula,” he said, meaning Arabia.
Scorpion nodded. “Of the Mutayr.”
“You are of AQAP? Who sent you?”
“You know who sent me, sayyid, ” Scorpion said, his eyes boring into al-Zuhrahi, suggesting it was Qasim bin Jameel, the leader of AQAP. “It was to protect you. If I hadn’t risked my life, you would be with the virgins even now.”
“So you say,” Colonel al-Zuhrahi said.
Scorpion nodded again, his eyes scanning the road ahead. They were approaching the checkpoint. Hashid tribesmen with rifles were in and around a pickup truck parked across the middle of the road as a roadblock. They must have been alerted, Scorpion thought.
“Don’t stop,” Colonel al-Zuhrahi ordered.
The Humvee raced directly at the pickup. As soon as the Hashid realized it wasn’t going to stop, they started shooting at it as it came toward them. At the last second the Humvee swerved around the pickup, bullets pinging off the metal and nicking the bulletproof glass. The Humvee was armored. That hadn’t been part of the intel, Scorpion thought, as they raced out of the town and down the road toward Sana’a. The soldier in the passenger seat leaned out the window and fired his M-4 rifle back at the checkpoint to slow them down. Looking back, Scorpion saw the tribesmen jumping into the pickup.
Abruptly, the Humvee slewed to a stop. The soldier with the M-4 jumped out and placed a small IED in the middle of the road. He got back into the Humvee and they drove on. Scorpion looked back as the pickup approached that place in the road. The soldier pressed his cell phone and the IED exploded, sending the pickup flying and in flames. They drove on.
For several minutes no one spoke, then Colonel al-Zuhrahi turned toward Scorpion. “If you indeed saved me, you will be rewarded. But first we’ll check you out with Qasim when we get back to Sana’a. If you are not who you say, better for you not to have been born.”
Scorpion nodded. He spotted an outcrop of rock ahead and looked around quickly. There was no one following them. The desert stretched empty in every direction to the distant barren hills.
“If you doubt me, sayyid, stop the Humvee here,” he said, indicating the rocks, his hand slipping unobtrusively down to his calf, where his Glock was holstered. “Those Hashidi dogs know now I am not one of them. Let me out and leave me. I’ll be dead within the hour.”
“Pull over there,” Colonel al-Zuhrahi ordered, gesturing toward the rocks. “We won’t wait till Sana’a. Let’s find out now.”
As the Humvee rolled to a stop, Scorpion whipped out the Glock and fired twice, killing the driver with a shot in the head and the soldier through the back of the front seat. He pointed the gun at Colonel al-Zuhrahi.
“El’ churmuzh! ” he said. Get out! He motioned to the colonel with the gun. Al-Zuhrahi got slowly out of the Humvee. Scorpion followed, shoving him toward the outcropping of rocks to a spot where they were no longer visible from the road.
He looked around once again. There was only desert. He didn’t have much time. The Hashidi would be coming any moment now. He fired a bullet into the colonel’s knee. Al-Zuhrahi screamed and fell on his side. Scorpion bent over, put the muzzle of the gun against the other knee and fired again. Al-Zuhrahi moaned. Scorpion pulled the colonel’s jambiya knife from his belt and took it out of its sheath.
“What is this? Who are you?” al-Zuhrahi asked.
“Do you remember the American, McElroy? The one whose skin they undressed?”
“I had nothing to do with it. That was bin Jameel! You know how they are!” al-Zuhrahi said.
“And what you are, sayyid.”
Al-Zuhrahi looked angrily at Scorpion from where he lay curled on the ground.
“There was no cyanide, was there?” he asked.
“Only paranoia.”
“What did I smell?”
“I ground some almonds and put it in the coffee. From so little a thing is a conspiracy made.”
“I’m hurt, you son of a donkey,” al-Zuhrahi gasped. “What is this about?”
“You’re the director of the CSO, aren’t you?”
“Why ask if you know?”
“I was in the room just now. I heard you myself, Colonel. So whose side are you on? The government? The Bakil? Al Qaeda? All three? Or maybe just yourself?”
“As is everyone,” al-Zuhrahi said. “Why are you doing this?” he groaned.
“There was another American. Peterman. You tracked someone to a meeting with him, didn’t you?”
“Umka sharmota,” al-Zuhrahi growled, cursing Scorpion’s mother for a whore.
“Who’d you track?”
“Someone from Jebel Nuqum. I don’t know who.”
“Who was it?”
“If you are going to kill me, do it. I know nothing,” al-Zuhrahi said.
Scorpion kicked his knee. Al-Zuhrahi screamed.
“Who was it?”
“I don’t know!”
