American taxpayers, who were there in spirit, had provided vases of cut flowers.
The preacher, or whoever he was, was standing at a lectern wearing a celestial blue suit, and he greeted us and introduced himself as Ed Peters, adding, “It’s always good to see new faces, and I’m happy to see Mr. Brenner.”
As we searched for empty seats, I saw Buck sitting comfortably in an armchair, still wearing his white jacket. I found a folding chair in the rear on which was a photocopied program of only four pages. Thank God.
Mr. Peters began, “Welcome to all who slept late and missed the service in the British Embassy.”
A few chuckles.
It occurred to me that maybe half of these people never went to church back home, but when you’re in weird-land you get religion, or maybe you just want to accentuate the difference between you and the people on the other side of the embassy walls. How’s that for insightful analysis?
Mr. Peters asked us to rise to sing “Rock of Ages,” the words to which were in the program. There was a baby grand in the parlor, and a nice lady in a floral dress tickled the ivories.
I could see Kate standing near the window and she seemed angelic singing in the sunlight with a post-coital glow.
Buck was singing without looking at his program, and Howard was belting out the hymn like he was auditioning for the church choir. Brenner was two seats away from me and he was moving his lips like he was reading an eye chart. As for me, I hummed along.
Anyway, we got through that, sat, and Mr. Peters read from the Old Testament, the First Book of Kings:
We sang two more hymns and recited two prayers, then Mr. Peters gave a talk or homily about the sacrifices we were all making here in the service of the American people, and about the difficult times we lived in.
He also urged us to see this time as a growing and learning experience, and he predicted that when we looked back on our service in Yemen, we would all come to appreciate our days in this shithole. But he used another word.
Mr. Peters went on a bit about reaching out to the Yemeni people, about being guests here, and about tolerance of the host country even though it was fucked up beyond all understanding. Or words to that effect.
According to my program there was no Holy Communion, so we were basically finished as soon as this guy wrapped it up. Is that a siren I hear?
But then Mr. Peters asked for a minute of silent prayer for our military and civilian personnel who were serving in Iraq, Afghanistan, and all over the world, including this hellhole. Amen to that.
After the minute of silence, Mr. Peters invited us all to join him in the lobby for refreshments and fellowship. He concluded, “Go in peace.”
That’s not why I was here, but I needed a cup of coffee, so Kate and I, along with Brenner and Howard Fensterman, went to the lobby and mingled.
There was an employee cafeteria off the lobby that provided what looked like good approximations of American cookies and cakes. They even had bagels, which made me homesick.
The congregants of the First and Only Church of Jesus Christ in Sana’a seemed like nice people. Among them were not only embassy staffers and a few spouses, but also expats and others who were seeking company, God, or a small piece of America. Probably all three.
I noticed there were no children-a sure sign that this was a dangerous place.
Life in the Foreign Service was unlike any other overseas experience, except maybe the military or being a missionary. How do people do this? But then I started thinking about Paul Brenner and the Diplomatic Security Service. Maybe that’s the job I should ask for if we got our man. A few years in Paris, London, or Rome. Kate would be a legat. Something to think about.
I chatted with a few of the Marines and they were all very professional and called me “sir,” and they seemed gung-ho and mission-oriented. They assured me that if the embassy were attacked, the twenty Marines and ten DSS guys could hold the fort until the Yemeni Army arrived. One guy explained, “Then we’d have new targets-the Yemeni Army.” Everyone laughed. Everyone here was nuts.
I moved over to Buck, who was in his element here, mingling with his Foreign Service brothers and sisters, most of whom I’m sure shared his background and some of whom also had funny first names, like Livingston, Kelvin, and Winthrop-a.k.a. Livie, Kel, and Winnie. You can’t make this up.
Buck said to me, sotto voce, “There was an Al Qaeda attack near Marib early this morning.”
I wasn’t sure where Marib was, but I hoped it wasn’t too close to the embassy lobby.
Buck continued, “The target was an oil installation partly owned by Hunt-an American company.” He let me know, “Security forces killed six of the attackers and took one wounded prisoner who said he was Al Qaeda.” He added, “The Company is questioning the prisoner about our man.”
The oil company? No, the CIA. I asked, “Where is Marib?”
“About two hundred kilometers east of here.” Buck speculated, “This could be a sign that Al Qaeda is beginning attacks against American and Western interests in Yemen.” He added, “Al Qaeda attacks are rarely isolated.”
“Right.”
He also informed me, “The al-Houthi rebels have ambushed a military convoy north of here.”
“Any good news this morning?”
“Yes. I flew in with a fresh shipment of Boodles and dry vermouth. Martinis tonight.”
Make mine a double, hold the vermouth.
Anyway, I finally got my coffee and a bagel with cream cheese, and as I was munching, Mr. Peters came up to me and said, “Welcome to Sana’a.”
“Thanks. Good service, Padre.” Short.
He informed me, “I’m a lay preacher. Non-denominational.”
“Me, too.”
He thought that was funny and continued, “My weekday job is chief of DSS here.”
“Yeah? How do I get a DSS job?”
“Apply. We’re short-staffed all over the Mideast. No one wants the job. Everyone wants Paris, London, and Rome.”
“Wimps.”
He informed me, “Paul is my second in command. He’s a good man.”
“Right.”
“Hate to lose him.”
“Where’s he going?”
“With you. Then home.”
I didn’t know how much Peters knew, so I didn’t respond.
Mr. Peters said he wanted me to meet someone, and he led me over to a big guy who looked like a weightlifter wearing his First Holy Communion suit.
Peters said to me, “This is John Zamoiski, DSS. You might remember him from the airport.”
“Right.” One of the guys in the lead car.
We shook and the guy gripped my hand like it was the last cold beer in hell.
John Zamoiski said, “Call me Zamo.”
“Okay. Call me John.” Later we’ll switch.
Mr. Peters said to me, “Zamo will be with you when you drive to Aden.”
“Good.”
“He’ll also be with you if you go into the Badlands.”
“The more the merrier.”
Mr. Peters continued, “Zamo was an Army sniper in Afghanistan.”
I looked at Zamo. He still had a military haircut-you don’t want hair blocking your crosshairs-and a face that didn’t move much. He wasn’t more than thirty, and I noticed that his dark eyes never blinked. He seemed to be a man of few words, but he had Mr. Peters to speak for him, and Peters said, “Zamo is also a martial arts
