you’ll see what used to be the Jewish and Turkish quarters of the city.” He informed us, “The Turks are long gone, the Jews mostly gone, and the few remaining Christians live up here now where it’s safer.”
“I think you said heavily guarded.”
“Right.” Brenner continued, “In 1948, during some civil war, tribes from the north laid siege to the walled city and broke in. They looted, pillaged, and burned for days, and a lot of the Old City still remains damaged.” He added, “That’s when the new state of Israel organized what they called Operation Magic Carpet and airlifted about fifty thousand Yemeni Jews to Israel.”
Kate said, “That’s fascinating.”
Lunch?
Brenner continued, “Sana’a has a long history of being conquered and looted by foreigners, but the main threats have always come from the tribes, who see the city as a piggy bank, a place full of gold, spices, art, and other things they don’t have.” He added, “The population of Sana’a still fears the tribes, who most recently besieged the city in 1968. And now there are the al-Houthi tribesmen, who have come as close as sixty kilometers to the city.”
Kate commented, “Sounds almost medieval.”
Actually, it sounded like fun. I want to be a warlord.
Brenner switched topics and said, “Down there, you can see ath-Thawra Hospital-Revolution Hospital-and on the other side of the city is the Kuwait Hospital. If you can’t get to the embassy, it’s good to know where the hospitals are if you’re sick, injured, or nursing a gunshot wound.”
I asked, “Do they take Blue Cross?”
“No, but they’ll take your watch.”
Good one.
Brenner further informed us, “There are also a number of traditional healers and folk remedies available.” He smiled and said, “If, for instance, you get malaria, you can sell your disease to the ants.”
“Excuse me?”
“You lie down on an ant mound and proclaim your intent to sell them your malaria.”
I wasn’t sure I’d heard him correctly, but I asked, “Why would the ants want to buy your malaria?”
“I’m not sure,” Brenner confessed, “but there have been a number of cures reported.” He speculated, “Maybe it has something to do with the ant venom.”
I asked, “Who do I sell my hemorrhoids to?”
“Another asshole.” He didn’t say that, but I know he was
Anyway, Brenner pointed out a few other sights and landmarks, including the khat souk, near where he lived, and a place called Ghumdan Fortress, which was built into the eastern wall of the city. He informed us, “This is the site of the famed Ghumdan Palace, built almost two thousand years ago. The palace was said to be twenty stories high, and the roof was made of alabaster that was so thin and transparent you could see birds flying overhead.”
Kate asked, “How did they clean the bird shit off the alabaster?”
Actually, I asked that. Kate said, “John, please.”
She always says that. Meanwhile, we’ve been standing here too long, twenty feet from the armored vehicle, and at least a dozen vehicles had passed by and slowed down. Zamo was standing with the Land Cruiser between him and the road with his M4 carbine at his side.
Brenner, oblivious to my concern, continued, “Ghumdan Palace was destroyed in the seventh century by the Islamic armies that were sweeping across the Arabian Peninsula. The stones were used to build the Great Mosque, which you can see over there.” He added, “The Qalis Cathedral was also destroyed, as were the synagogues.” He paused, then said, “Islam had arrived.”
Right. And as Al Rasul said, what we were seeing now was a return to a dark and bloody past.
Brenner continued, “Ghumdan Fortress was built on the palace site by the Turks during the Ottoman Empire, and it now houses Yemeni military barracks and a political prison.” He let us know, “Later, we have an appointment to speak to a prisoner.”
I asked, “You mean the Al Qaeda guy captured in the Hunt Oil attack?”
“Correct.”
“Good.” I like interrogating starving prisoners after I’ve had a big lunch.
We got back in the SUV and continued down toward the city along a winding road.
Kate, sitting next to Brenner, said to him, “Thank you for an interesting history lesson.”
Brenner replied, “This is a fascinating place. It grows on you.”
Not on me, Paul.
Today being Sunday, and thinking about Noah, Shem, Sana’a, and all that, I asked, “After God sent the Flood to cleanse the earth of the sinful and the wicked, do you think he was pissed off that the people who repopulated the earth got it so wrong again?”
No one replied to my profound question, and no one bothered to defend the earth’s inhabitants. Amen.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
We came down onto the plateau and into a drab neighborhood of modern concrete buildings that sat between the hills and the east wall of the Old City.
Brenner pointed across the road and said, “That’s where I live,” indicating a three-story concrete slab structure that looked like it had seen better days. He informed us, “Built in the late sixties when the city first started spreading outside the walls. It has hot water and a manageable vermin population.” He added, “Ten bucks a month for Yemenis, forty for me.”
I asked, “Does that include parking?”
“It does. I keep my motorcycle in the foyer.”
So Mr. Cool has a motorcycle. Figures.
He informed us, “That’s the best way to get around this city, and I can go where assassins in cars can’t go.” He added, “I can be in the embassy in five minutes if I push it.”
I had the thought that Mr. Brenner was showing off a little for Mrs. Corey. Guys are assholes.
Anyway, Zamo pulled over beside a concrete wall, and Brenner said, “We’ll walk through the khat souk, then into the Old City.” He told Zamo, “I’ll call you every half hour, or call me.”
So we left Zamo in the nice air-conditioned armored Land Cruiser and walked toward a gate in the concrete wall where a guy sat cradling his AK-47.
Brenner said, “This is a fairly new souk, built I think in the seventies outside the Old City wall, but the mentality was still walls, so this souk is walled, as you can see.”
Right. Walls are good. Moats, too. Keeps the riffraff out. Especially riffraff with guns.
Brenner suggested to Kate, “You might want to wrap that scarf over your face.”
Kate did that and I asked her, “Would you like a cigarette?”
She mumbled something through the scarf that sounded like, “Fook-yo.” Arabic?
Anyway, we passed through a gate into the khat souk, which was sort of like a farmers market, filled with jerry-built stalls in the open plaza and surrounded by permanent buildings along the perimeter walls.
The place was bustling and crowded with white-robed men wearing jambiyahs, who shared the space with donkeys, cows, and camels. Some of the cows had been disassembled and their parts were hanging from crossbeams, covered with flies. And did I mention that the ground was covered with shit?
Brenner said, “It’s relatively safe here, but let’s stick close.”
We were the only Western people I saw, except for some young guys in jeans and T-shirts who were snapping pictures of piles of green leaves that I assumed were not spinach. I mean, this was junkie heaven. I had a sudden urge to make a bust.
I didn’t see any women in the souk, except for Kate, and oddly no one seemed to be paying much attention to us. But now and then, when I looked back over my shoulder, I caught people watching us.
Brenner stopped at a khat stall and said something in Arabic to the proprietor, who looked very happy with
