“Please, sir,” said the Bedouin in English, “allow me to pose for photographs with your Western friends. One hundred rials for each photograph.”
Annette heard this and translated into French for her compatriots, who had seemed anxious about the exchange between the two Arabs. Hearing now what this was about, they all smiled and agreed that this would be a very good thing-an excellent souvenir photograph to take home.
Wasim acquiesced to his clients’ wishes and motioned to the Bedouin to proceed.
The Belgians began posing alongside the tall, bearded Bedouin, individually at first, then in small groups. The Bedouin smiled for each photograph, and he was very accommodating to the tourists as they asked him to move around the temple to set up various shots with the ruins in the background.
One of the older men asked him to draw his dagger, but the Bedouin explained almost apologetically that if the jambiyah is drawn, then it must be used. On hearing the translation of this from Annette, the older Belgian said to his compatriots, “Then we will not ask him to draw his dagger,” and they all laughed. But Wasim did not laugh.
Wasim glanced at his watch. Though they had left Sana’a at eight in the morning, the bus had not arrived at the nearby town of Marib until after noon. The tourists had lunched, too slowly he thought, at the Bilqis Hotel tourist restaurant, and there Wasim had to wait too long for Sheik Musa, who demanded two hundred American dollars, saying to Wasim, “The other tribes are making problems, and so I must pay them to allow you safe passage on your return to Sana’a.”
Wasim had heard this before, but he explained to the sheik, as he always did, “The tourists have already paid a fixed price to the travel company in Sana’a, and a price for the police escort. I can ask no more of them. And there is no profit for me if I give you more money.” But, as always, Wasim promised, “Next time.”
The sheik and the tour guide from Sana’a had agreed on the one hundred dollars, but Wasim had decided there would be no next time. The road from Sana’a to Marib was becoming unsafe, and it was not only the tribes who were restless, but also this new group, Al Qaeda, who had entered the area in the last year. They were mostly foreigners-Saudis, Kuwaitis, people from neighboring Oman, and also Iraqis who had fled the Americans in their homeland. These people, Wasim thought, would bring death and unhappiness to Yemen.
In fact, Sheik Musa had said to Wasim, “These Al Qaeda people are becoming a problem. They are attracted by the American oil wells and the American pipelines, and they gather like wolves waiting for a chance to strike.” The sheik had also told Wasim, “You cannot buy those people, my friend, and the police cannot protect you from them, but I can. Three hundred dollars.”
Again, Wasim had declined to make the extra payment, and Sheik Musa had shrugged and said, “Perhaps next time.”
“Yes, next time.” But Wasim was now sure there would be no next time.
Wasim al-Rahib, a university graduate with a degree in ancient history, could not find a job teaching, or a job anywhere, except with this tour company. It paid well enough, and the Western tourists were generous with their gratuities, but it was becoming dangerous work. And also dangerous for the tourists, though the tour company would not say that. All the guidebooks-written years ago-said, “You cannot leave Yemen without seeing the ruins of Marib.” Well, Wasim thought, they would have to see them without him.
Wasim watched the tourists, talking now to the Bedouin through the English translation of the young girl. The Bedouin seemed pleasant enough, but there was something unusual about him. He did not seem like a Bedouin. He was too at ease with these foreigners, and he spoke English. Very unusual, unless perhaps he worked for the Americans at the oil installation.
In any case, it was now past three in the afternoon, and they had not yet visited the Temple of the Sun. If they stayed here much longer, they would be traveling the last hour to Sana’a in darkness. And it was not good to be on the road after dark, even with the police escort, who themselves did not want to be on the road after dark.
Wasim spoke in English to the young woman, and to the Bedouin, “We must now leave. Thank you, sir, for your hospitality.”
But the Belgians wanted a photograph of the entire group together with the Bedouin, taken by Wasim. So Wasim, thinking about his gratuity, agreed, and took the photographs with four different cameras.
Wasim then said to the Belgian girl, “I think if you give this gentleman a thousand rials, he will be very happy.” He made sure she understood. “That will be about five euros. A very good day’s pay for this kind man.”
Annette collected the money and handed it to the Bedouin, then said to him, “Thank you, sir.”
The Bedouin took the money and replied, “You are very welcome.” He also said to the girl, “Please tell your compatriots that Bulus ibn al-Darwish wishes them a happy and safe visit to Yemen.”
Wasim was looking to the north where the minibus had parked on the road behind the army truck that carried the security police. The bus was still there, but the truck was not. In fact, Wasim could not see any of the National Security police in their distinctive blue camouflage uniforms.
Wasim made a call on his cell phone to the police commander, but there was no answer. Then he called the bus driver, Isa, who was also his wife’s cousin. But Isa did not answer his cell phone.
Wasim then looked at the Bedouin, who was looking at him, and Wasim understood what was happening. He took a deep breath to steady his voice and said to the Bedouin in Arabic, “Please, sir…” Wasim shook his head and said, “This is a very bad thing.”
The tall Bedouin replied, “You, Wasim al-Rahib, are a bad thing. You are a servant of the infidels, but you should be a servant of Allah.”
“I am truly his servant-”
“Quiet.” The Bedouin raised his right arm in a signal, then lowered it and looked at Wasim and at the Belgians, but said nothing.
The four men and five women were looking at their guide, waiting for him to explain what was happening. Clearly, something was wrong, though a few minutes earlier everyone had been smiling and posing for pictures.
Wasim avoided the worried stares of his group.
Annette said to Wasim in English, “What is wrong? Did we not give him enough?”
Wasim did not reply, so Annette said to the Bedouin in English, “Is there something wrong?”
Al-Numair, The Panther, replied to her, “You are what is wrong.”
The Belgians began asking Annette what had been said, but she didn’t reply.
Then one of the men in the group shouted, “Regardez!” and pointed.
In the temple courtyard below, where they had been standing, a group of about twelve men suddenly appeared from the dark recesses of the ruins, wearing Bedouin robes and carrying Kalashnikov rifles.
At first, all the tourists were silent, but then as the Bedouin began running up the stone steps, a woman screamed.
Then everything happened very quickly. Two of the Bedouin pointed their rifles at the Belgians while the others bound their hands behind their backs with tape.
Annette shouted to Wasim, “What is happening? Why are they doing this?”
Wasim, whose wrists were also bound, was at first afraid to speak, but then he found his voice and said, “It is a kidnapping. Do not be frightened. They kidnap for money. They will not harm us.”
And as Wasim said this, he hoped it was so. A tribal kidnapping of Westerners. It was a common thing-what was called a guest kidnapping-and they would spend a week, perhaps two, with a tribe until money was delivered. And then they would be released. These things usually ended well, he knew, and Westerners were rarely harmed, and never killed unless the army intervened and attempted to free those who were taken by the tribes.
Annette, though she was terrified, said to her compatriots, “It is a kidnapping. For ransom. Wasim says not to be-”
“Shut up,” said the tall Bedouin in English. He then said to Wasim in Arabic, “This is not a kidnapping.”
Wasim closed his eyes and began praying aloud.
Bulus ibn al-Darwish, The Panther, drew his curved dagger and moved behind Wasim. With one hand he pulled Wasim’s head back by his hair, and with his other hand he drew his curved dagger across Wasim’s throat, then shoved the man forward.
Wasim fell face first onto the stone floor of the Temple of the Moon and lay still as his blood flowed quickly
