hurried to sign the manifest indicating that he had opened the case. The case contained flexible tubing, some solid tubes and rods, and what appeared to be hydraulic actuators. There was a small stack of color brochures inside, printed in both English and Arabic. “What does it say?” he asked.
“It is apparently a machine that crawls along the ocean bottom and autonomously collects shellfish from traps, then returns to shore,” Dhudin said. “Ingenious.”
“A walking fish trap, eh?” Antonov commented. He searched through the contents more carefully but was unable to find any hidden compartments or anything that looked like spy gear. “This looks like spare parts perhaps.”
“He is scheduled to get another large container tomorrow.”
He would definitely like to take a look inside that container as well. “All signed off by inspectors in Sana’a?” the Russian asked.
“Yes.”
“His papers were in order?”
“Yes.”
“What else alerted you?”
“He was carrying his diving gear-not the usual warm-water tourist stuff, more like professional underwater construction gear. He said it was for long-exposure deep diving-definitely not recreational, although he did say he wanted to do some recreational diving.”
“How interesting,” Antonov commented. Dhudin could see that the information was raising the Russian’s suspicions, just as it did his own. Antonov took out his cellular phone and took a few pictures of the equipment with the phone’s camera. “Staying at a house in Hadibo, you say?” he asked the Yemeni.
“Actually, it is between Qadub and Hadibo, the old Ottoman lighthouse owned by the Yemeni Fish Company. All vouchers and other papers checked.”
Antonov knew that the Yemeni Fish Company had been investigated in the recent past for being involved in smuggling-this was getting interesting indeed. “And you say he looked military?”
“Very much so.”
“Did you notify the NSO yet?”
“I was going to do it right after inspections.”
“Do it now. Also give the Yemeni Fish Company a call and find out when this demonstration will be. I want to visit this one while he is out of the house.”
“Should I keep this case for now?”
The Russian thought for a moment, then shook his head. “Go ahead and release it,” he said. “I do not want to alert the American yet, if he is not who he claims to be.”
As Wayne Macomber waited near the taxicab stand-a pitiful-looking place surrounded by trash, cigarette butts, and donkey droppings-a newer-looking Range Rover drove up and honked its horn. That, of course, got every local’s attention around the entire airport terminal, something Whack was hoping to avoid.
The driver jumped out. “Mr. Coulter?” he said in pretty good English. “Salam alaykum. Peace be upon you.”
“Wa alaykum as-salam,” Whack responded for the um-hundredth time on this trip. “And upon you peace.”
“Very good Arabic, sir,” the man said. “I am Salam al-Jufri from the Yemeni Fish Company. Al-Hamdu lillah al as-salama. Thank God for your safe arrival.” Whack knew that was a common salutation, even when someone just came across town to visit. “I am here to take you to your house.” He produced a business card, and Whack gave him his in return. “Yes, the robot maker,” al-Jufri said. “Very good.” He looked at the large fiberglass case. “I am sorry, but this must be strapped up.” Whack lifted the case up, and al-Jufri produced three tattered bungee cords and a length of rope. Whack would have felt more comfortable with the case inside and himself on the roof, but after two or three tries, it looked secure enough.
It was easy to see why the case couldn’t go inside: The back of the Range Rover was filled to the brim with every kind of article-fishing gear, miscellaneous items of clothing, spare fuel cans, a bicycle, and sacks of something. There was barely enough room in the backseat for the big duffel bag and backpack. Whack squeezed himself into the front passenger seat and took a few moments to try to roll the seat back, finally giving up.
They departed the airport down a dusty rock and dirt road, then turned east along a two-lane paved highway. Whack knew that his objective was west along the same highway, but certainly asking the driver to turn in the wrong direction would have attracted more attention. The highway twisted toward the Gulf of Aden, and he saw the spectacular blue-green waters and thought of McLanahan’s friend Gia Cazzotta, and of the three navies vying for position out in those peaceful-looking waters.
The highway was on a sandstonelike shelf about a hundred feet above the ocean, with a thirty-foot cliff to their right, so there was little to see except for the ocean. Whack checked behind them every few moments, not only to look for any sign of surveillance but to make sure the fiberglass case hadn’t fallen off the roof.
“You are well, sir?” al-Jufri asked after a few minutes.
“Aiwa, shukran,” Whack replied.
“Your Arabic is very very good,” al-Jufri said, nodding appreciatively, showing a mouthful of stained and rotting teeth. “You build robots, no?”
“Just drive,” Whack growled.
“Mish mushkila, mish mushkila,” al-Jufri said, swallowing nervously and taking a better grip on the steering wheel. “No problem, sir.”
It was only about six miles down the highway until they came to a wide, short peninsula where the cliffs to the right disappeared, so the highway twisted away from the ocean. They turned left down a short dirt road, past a three-or four-foot stone wall with a crumbling wooden gate, then across a yard of dirt and stone and a few scraggly trees to a whitewashed stone building with a flat roof, and another building beside it with what appeared to be a tapering cylindrical lighthouse with four windows on the top floor, crowned with a Muslim crescent. Beyond the lighthouse Whack could see a covered outdoor patio with a fireplace, and beyond that there appeared to be a stable.
“Here we are, sir,” al-Jufri said. He parked the Range Rover beside the lighthouse, then took Whack’s bags to the house. He unlocked a green metal door that had six circles of multicolored glass in it, probably the most colorful thing Whack had seen in all of Yemen except for the Gulf of Aden. “This is the old Turkish lighthouse and its caretaker’s home. It is now my boss’s weekend house. You will enjoy.”
The house was small but remarkably modern, and Whack thought this would be a nice place to vacation. The view of the ocean was spectacular from every room in the house. There was a small patio off the kitchen, and a long flight of stone stairs had been carved into the cliff down to a pink sand beach, with sailboats and fish boats moored alongside a short pier.
Whack went outside and helped al-Jufri untie the fiberglass case from the roof. “Shall I drive you somewhere, Salam?” he asked after he lifted the case free.
“La, shukran,” al-Jufri said. “No, thank you.” He opened the back of the Range Rover and retrieved the battered bicycle, then stood beside it proudly, smiling at Whack-he did everything but hold out his hand. Whack took twenty U.S. dollars from his pocket-about four thousand Yemeni riyals, about a month’s wages for most working-class Yemenis-and gave it to him.
The man’s eyes almost popped out of their sockets. “Shukran, shukran jazilan! Thank you, sir!” he said over and over. “Please, if you need anything whatsoever, call. My sons will be by later in the evening and in the morning to look after the horses, and my wife and daughter will come to light the outdoor stove and lanterns.” He bowed several times, clasped Whack’s hand in thanks, then rode off.
Whack wished no one would come during the day, but for the mission he had to continue to accept the hospitality of the Socotra manager of the Yemeni Fish Company. Fortunately, the real robotic trap was coming in a separate shipment tomorrow, so his planned meeting and demonstration would take place as scheduled the day after tomorrow. That gave him a couple days to look around.
First things first. Whack took one of the laptop battery packs from his briefcase and the binoculars from his backpack, put on a Bluetooth earset, and went outside. He made it appear as if he were looking the place over, but he was checking to see if any of al-Jufri’s family members were already here. The place appeared deserted except for two Yemeni ponies in a stone stable. His last stop was the lighthouse. Although the outside looked original, it
