the hotel and my wife and I will buy you dinner and a real drink.”
“Thanks.” He said, “If you want to go on that Marib trip, we have room.” He added, “About twenty bucks a head.”
That’s about what Al Qaeda pays for a head.
I took his satellite phone number, wished him good luck, and joined Kate in the veil and balto department.
It occurred to me that Sana’a was a deceptively serene city; not dangerous enough to keep you off the streets, but not safe enough for a Westerner to be wandering around alone. I think it all depended on who you were and what the situation was at the moment. For us-American Embassy people-Sana’a was always an adventure. For Matt Longo, it was one stop on a long journey.
Anyway, the Yemeni ladies who ran the shop were nice, spoke English, and seemed to be of the educated class. One of them, Anisa, insisted on taking us upstairs where Yemeni women-mostly widows and divorced ladies, Anisa said-were cutting fabrics and sewing garments by hand or on old treadle sewing machines.
It’s rare for women in this country to work outside of the home, but this shop and factory seemed to be tolerated because of its charitable purpose. Brenner informed us, “The Koran exhorts Muslims to be charitable and help the poor.”
“What Korean?”
“Oh, right.” How many more times could I use that one?
Anyway, Kate helped the poor to the tune of three shopping bags full of clothes, reminding me that her clothes were still in New York awaiting a Yemen mailing address. She also bought a black balto, which, as Buck suggested, is not a bad garment to own if you should need to blend in. They didn’t sell men’s dresses, or whatever they call those things, so I was off the hook on that. Kate’s stuff came to about twenty bucks, so I couldn’t complain, and I was moved to donate another twenty to the charity, partly in gratitude for the third-world factory outlet prices.
We left the shop, and Kate wrapped her pretty face in the scarf. We crossed the street to the jambiyah souk, a small square that looked like it had been there since the Year of the Flood. Literally.
Brenner steered me toward a tiny shop that Buck had recommended, and where the proprietor, Mr. Hassan, seemed to remember Mr. Brenner. I wouldn’t be surprised if Brenner and Buck got a kickback. Or if Mr. Hassan made a call to someone after we left.
Brenner seemed happy to share with me his knowledge of curved daggers, and within fifteen minutes I found myself the about-to-be proud owner of a mean-looking jambiyah with a sheep-horn handle. A hundred bucks, marked down from three hundred because we were Americans. Or marked up from twenty bucks because we were Americans. Arguing price with an Arab in a souk is not one of my many strengths, so I gave Mr. Hassan the hundred bucks, and he threw in a hand-tooled leather belt and a silver-tipped sheath.
I asked Mr. Hassan, a wizened old man with a long white beard, “Anyone ever killed with this?”
He understood enough English to smile, and he was honest enough to reply, “No. For you to make first kill.”
I had this sudden fantasy image of me in Tom Walsh’s office, saying to him, “I have something for you from Yemen. Close your eyes.”
The transaction completed, we left the knife shop with me wearing my belt and sheathed dagger, which, if you’re interested, is worn not at your side, but in front, with the curved tip pointing to the right. Left if you’re gay. I made that up.
Kate said to me, “That knife cost five times more than all the clothes I bought.”
“Boys’ toys are expensive,” I reminded her.
We didn’t have time to visit the nearby donkey market, which was a disappointment, but something to look forward to another day. We headed west until we came to the wide wadi that separates the Old City into east side and west side, sort of like Fifth Avenue does in Manhattan. And there the comparison ends. The wadi was dry, as Brenner had said, and the streambed was partially paved and heavy with traffic. We crossed at what looked like the only bridge and headed south toward the al-Mahdi Mosque.
If Al Qaeda was following, this was their last chance to make a move before we got in the armored vehicle- and I would have welcomed an early opportunity to use my new gun. The only thing I really worried about was someone with a car filled with explosives or someone wearing a suicide belt who wanted to be in Paradise before dinner. Everything else, I and my companions could handle.
Brenner called Zamo on the radio, and we stayed in contact until we spotted one another.
Zamo pulled up as we were walking, and we jumped into the Land Cruiser and continued south along the wadi, with me riding shotgun again.
Brenner asked Zamo, “Anything interesting?”
“Nope. Just some guy giving me a crate of mangos.” He added, “It’s in the back.”
Brenner said, “The mangos are ticking.”
They laughed.
Obviously these two had developed a gift for frontline humor. I guess this kept them sane. Or they were past that point.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
As we headed toward Ghumdan Fortress, I pulled out my jambiyah and showed it to Zamo, who glanced at it and said politely, “Nice.” He advised me, “No one should ever get close enough that you have to use a knife.”
“Agreed.” I remembered my last meeting with The Lion and said, “But it happens.”
“Yeah. But it should only happen if you want it to happen.”
“Right.” I changed the subject and asked him, “So, how many kills you got?”
He replied matter-of-factly, “Eleven confirmed, two possible, one miss.” He added, “The asshole bent over for some reason.” He laughed and said, “Maybe he saw a nickel on the ground.”
“His lucky day.” I again changed the subject and asked, “What do you do here for fun?”
“I’m doing it.”
Within five minutes, we were approaching the walls and watchtowers of Ghumdan Fortress, a forbidding- looking place of dark brick that dominated the landscape.
Brenner said to us, “The Turks built this place in the nineteenth century, on the site of the ancient Ghumdan Palace as I mentioned.” He added, “The Turkish occupation was brutal, and it was said that no Yemeni who entered Ghumdan Fortress ever came out.”
Right. Most old cities have a place like this, an iconic fortress-prison with a bad history whose very name strikes fear into the city’s inhabitants-especially the kids. Like, “Clean your room, Amir, or you’re going to Ghumdan.” Most of these places in the civilized world are now museums and tourist attractions, like the Tower of London. But here, it was still in the same old business, under new management.
As we pulled up to the gates of the fortress, I advised, “Veils for those who need them.”
Brenner lowered his window and said something in Arabic to the soldier, and I heard the names Corey and Brenner. That’s us. The soldier stared at Kate, then said, “Wait,” and went back into the guardhouse.
I asked Brenner, “Been here before?”
“Once.” He explained, “Some idiot from D.C. on an official visit to the embassy was speaking to a Yemeni woman on the street. She was upscale, unveiled, and smiling too much.” He added, “They both got busted.”
I pointed out, “It was all her fault. If she was wearing her veil, none of that would have happened-not the chatting up, and not the smiling.”
Brenner had no comment on that and said, “Anyway, I sprung him and got him on a plane home.”
Kate asked from behind her scarf, “What happened to her?”
Brenner replied, “Don’t know. Probably got slapped around and got a warning.”
Definitely hard to get laid here.
An officer came over to our vehicle, and he was quite pleasant, saying, “Please to park car near flagpole and
