I asked Brenner, “Where exactly is the Hunt Oil installation?”
He replied, “About sixty miles north and east of here. At the edge of Ar Rub al Khali-the Empty Quarter.” He told us, “It’s a hundred twenty degrees Fahrenheit in the summer.”
“How come oil is always located in shitty places?”
“I don’t know. But I do know that geologists think the oil fields are huge and extend into Saudi Arabia. We thought we could control this oil because Yemen is weak. But then Al Qaeda showed up.” He also told us, “This installation is heavily fortified, but the oil wells can’t be expanded until the threat from Al Qaeda is eliminated.”
“Right.” I asked, “Who the hell would want to work there?”
“There are only about a dozen Americans there. The rest are foreign workers and Yemenis. And mercenaries for security.”
“How much do the mercenaries get?”
“I hear about two thousand a week.”
I said to Kate, “Honey, I just found us a better job.”
“Send me a postcard,” said Mrs. Corey through her scarf.
Anyway, we continued to move slowly along the dusty, vehicle-choked main drag, and I asked Brenner, “Where is this hotel?”
“The Bilqis is just outside of town.”
“Did you stay there?”
“No. I was just here for the day. But I checked it out for the VIPs. It’s not bad.”
“Is there a bar?”
“No. Strictly forbidden in Marib province.”
The cold beer in my head evaporated like a mirage. I hate this place.
Buck made a right turn and we followed.
Brenner informed us, “The other guests at the Bilqis are foreign aid workers, oil company visitors, the occasional American intelligence officer, and other shady characters.” He thought that was funny, and added, “The passports of arriving guests are faxed to the National Security Bureau and the Political Security Organization, and photocopies are also sold to Al Qaeda. Or maybe they get them for free.”
“Probably free.”
The town thinned out after a few hundred yards, and up ahead on the right I could see a long white wall with two open gates, which Brenner said was the Bilqis Hotel.
Buck pulled over before we got to the gates and so did Brenner.
We had to get our rifles out of sight, which was why we had Chet’s duffel bag.
I noticed that the two Bedouin Land Cruisers in front of us had continued on, and the trail SUV now passed us and kept going.
Buck and Zamo were out of the Hilux and we got out, leaving our M4s in the vehicle.
Zamo was carrying the duffel bag, which was long enough to hold his rifle and big enough to hold our four compact M4s.
Zamo threw the duffel in the backseat, then got in the Hilux and gathered up our weapons and magazines, putting them in the bag and wrapping them in what looked like Chet’s underwear.
Buck asked us, “Did you enjoy the ride?”
Why does he always say things like that?
No one replied, which was his answer. Buck briefed us, “We check in, go to our rooms, and meet in the lobby in, say, thirty minutes.” He assured us, “That’s enough time to enjoy a quick shower.”
Buck had new passports for us-same names, same photos, but different passport numbers, and these passports had standard blue covers, i.e., not diplomatic. Now we were tourists.
I asked Buck, “Where did our escort go?”
“I don’t know, but I know we’ll see them again later.”
“Will they be kidnapping us?”
“Correct.”
“Good.” I wouldn’t want to be kidnapped by strangers.
Zamo had finished wrapping our hardware in Chet’s underwear, and we all got back in our vehicles.
Buck drove up to the big double gates and we turned in.
At the end of a long drive was an unexpectedly large hotel of white stucco, consisting of two three-story wings that flanked a single-story entrance structure. The hotel grounds were landscaped and irrigated and it was almost jarring to see green.
Buck stopped in front of the lobby doors and we pulled up behind him.
We all got out and a bellboy appeared who put our overnight bags on a cart, then took the duffel, which was, of course, heavy. Buck, pretending he had only a few words of Arabic, said something to the bellboy, then to us he said, “I told him to be careful. We have expensive cameras and photographic equipment in there.”
Right. I guess telescopic sights could be photographic equipment.
Anyway, we moved into the large, oval-shaped lobby, which was nearly empty.
Buck informed us, “This hotel was constructed in the late seventies for tourism and archaeologists, and this entrance lobby is supposed to be built in the oval shape of the Mahram Bilqis Temple.”
Who gives a shit?
He further informed us, “There was a lot of hope for Yemen after the civil wars and revolutions of the sixties and seventies.” He let us know, in case we didn’t, “It hasn’t worked out.”
The desk clerk was all smiley, like we were the first guests he’d seen this year. We produced our new but worn passports, which he handed to another guy to photostat for the PSO, the National Security Bureau, and the hotel, with a fourth copy for Al Qaeda. Another guy looked up our reservations on the computer. On the check-in card, we gave our Yemen address as the Sana’a Sheraton, where I assumed we were all registered. The CIA has good tradecraft and lots of money to make it work.
Because no one had been shot or kidnapped in Marib since last August, the rooms were fifty bucks a night. I noticed we were booked for four nights.
The desk clerk, Mr. Karim, asked in English, “How was your drive from Sana’a?”
Well, we first drove to Aden and got ambushed by Al Qaeda, then we flew in on a spy plane and landed on a dirt road at night, and some Bedouin gave us a lift to Dracula’s Castle, and here we are. I replied, “We took the scenic route.”
He nodded, but advised us, “It is good if you stay on the main roads.”
“Are there main roads here?”
Buck, in the role of tourist, asked Mr. Karim, “Are any of the ruins closed to visitors?”
The clerk replied sadly, “Unfortunately the Mahram Bilqis remains closed.” But he brightened and said, “I think, however, I can arrange a private visit for you.”
Of course you can.
Buck asked a few more tourist questions while Brenner and Zamo kept an eye on our bags, and Kate stayed modestly quiet, admiring the floor.
So did we look like American tourists, or did we look like Americans who were trying to look like tourists? One of the guys behind the desk was definitely checking us out, especially Zamo. I mean, innocent faces aside, we were all wearing Kevlar and sidearms, which though covered by our bush vests could still be spotted by someone who knew what they were looking for. I had the impression that one of these guys behind the desk would be on his cell phone in two minutes talking to someone about us. PSO? Al Qaeda? Probably both. The good news was that the PSO was giving us a free hand-or said they were. The other good news was that Al Qaeda would soon know we were in town. Does it get much better than that?
Mr. Karim returned our passports and gave us four key cards.
He then asked if we’d like a dinner reservation, as though there could be a problem getting seated. Buck asked the clerk to book us for 8 P.M. Buck told us quietly, “This is where the Belgians had lunch before they went on to the ruins.”
Thanks for that.
We followed the bellboy to the south wing, third floor, where our adjoining rooms awaited us. The bellboy
