await a person.” He added, “Lady not go from car.”
Brenner said something in Arabic, including “As-salaam alaikum,” and off we went.
The center of the fortress was a large, open field of dirt and gravel, probably once a parade ground and muster area, now used mostly for military equipment. A few soldiers sat around in white plastic chairs, chewing something. What could it be?
Brenner pointed out some old Soviet tanks and self-propelled howitzers, plus newer American Humvees and trucks. He said, “We’re supplying them with as much equipment as we can spare from Iraq and Afghanistan. But we don’t want to give them too much because this place could become Al Qaeda nation in a year or two.” He further explained, “Also, half this stuff sits here needing parts or repairs, and they don’t have trained mechanics or a parts inventory system, which they don’t really need anyway because most of the parts get stolen. And the equipment that works is used to fight the tribes instead of Al Qaeda.”
Who cares? Not me. I just need to whack one guy and get the hell out of here. Brenner has been here too long.
He also told us, “The Yemeni government doesn’t want American military advisors who could straighten out their logistical and training problems, but they want American money and equipment, neither of which they can handle responsibly.”
Same at 26 Fed.
“It’s like Vietnam,” said Brenner, who understandably saw a lot of the world through that prism. “Incompetent and weak-willed allies fighting an enemy who are motivated by something higher than saving their own worthless asses.” He added, “But we could turn it around with a few Special Forces units, maybe a Ranger battalion, and a Military Advisory Team.”
I pointed out, “I think that’s what the Pentagon said about Vietnam.”
“Right… but…” He said to Zamo, “Park here.”
Zamo pulled into a space near the flagpole between two American-made trucks.
Brenner said, “Okay, Kate and Zamo will stay in the vehicle, and John and I will get out and await a person.” He added, “If we’re not back by Wednesday, call the embassy.”
That got a chuckle, and Zamo added, “It’s easy to get in here, but not so easy to get out.”
Not so funny.
Brenner said to Zamo, “Call in a sit-rep.”
I asked Kate, “You okay with this?”
“I’m fine. I have Zamo and a Colt.45.”
Brenner advised her, “Keep the scarf on.”
In the spirit of cultural outreach, I kept my jambiyah on, and Brenner and I got out and walked away from the parked vehicles where we could be seen by the person, whoever he was. Actually, I was pretty sure I knew who was meeting us.
I looked at the surrounding stone and brick buildings. Some old forts are romantic; some are sinister and depressing. This place would get the Midnight Express award for Creepiest Turkish-Built Prison.
Brenner reminded me, “You are here as the interrogator for the FBI Evidence Response Team investigating the Cole attack. But if you don’t mind, I’d like to take a shot at the prisoner.”
“Sure. You go first. Then I’ll show you how it’s done.”
He took that well, but also reminded me, “I was a criminal investigator.”
“Right. But if this is like the Central Prison in Aden, don’t expect too much.”
A Humvee came across the dusty field and stopped a few feet from us. The rear door opened and out came Colonel Hakim of the Political Security Organization. He was dressed in a uniform this time, but that didn’t make him any more attractive than the last time I saw him.
He glanced at my jambiyah and smiled-or was that a sneer? — and motioned us to the vehicle. I got in the front with the driver, who had spent the day with livestock, and Brenner kept Colonel Hakim company in the rear.
Colonel Hakim said something to the driver and off we went.
Brenner, sticking to protocol, said to Hakim, “Thank you, Colonel, for meeting us.”
Colonel Hakim replied, “I am not for this arrangement, but I follow my orders.”
What a gracious man. Hey, shithead, you’re riding in a Humvee that I helped pay for.
Brenner reminded the colonel, “We have the same enemy, and the U.S. is here to offer assistance.”
No reply.
To confirm what Buck said about the CIA, I asked Mr. Happy, “Have any other Americans come to speak to the prisoner?”
He didn’t reply at first, then asked, “Do you not know?”
“I just got here.”
“Yes? So you ask your friends.”
Asshole.
We stopped at a particularly grim-looking four-story building, and even without the bars on the windows, I would have known this was the prison.
I’ve seen too many prisons in my life. And too many prisoners. And each visit to a prison took something out of me, and left something with me.
Colonel Hakim said, “You have half hour. No more.”
But I’m sure Colonel Hakim was hoping that the next time he brought us here, it would be for more than half an hour. Like maybe twenty years. Meanwhile, we were just visiting.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
We entered the prison through a rusty iron door into a dark stone vestibule where a guard stood and snapped to attention.
We followed Colonel Hakim down a quiet corridor whose walls were covered with rotting stucco. This building may have a mold problem.
My mind went back to the Central Prison in Aden, which had been built by the Brits when they ran South Yemen. That, too, was a grim and creepy place, but this place made the Aden prison look like a health spa.
Colonel Hakim led us into another quiet corridor of closed wooden doors. I guess it was past quitting time, but when we passed a narrow staircase that led to the second level, I heard a man scream, followed by a man shouting, then another scream. Glad to hear someone was still at work.
Colonel Hakim opened a door, and we followed him into a room where two men sat in plastic chairs at a small table. Along one wall were file cabinets, and on the far wall was a barred window without glass that let in sunlight and whatever else wanted to fly in. A floor fan moved the bad air around.
On one wall was a large picture of Yemen’s President for Life, Ali Abdullah Saleh, a mustachioed Saddam Hussein look-alike, who was desperately trying to avoid the same fate as his Iraqi idol.
On another wall were signs and posters in Arabic that I guessed were not the prisoners’ bill of rights, though one of them may have said EMPLOYEES MUST WASH HANDS AFTER BEATING PRISONERS.
Anyway, the two men were standing now and neither of them looked like a prisoner. In fact, Hakim introduced one as the interpreter, and the other as a doctor. Hakim explained, “Prisoner speaks no English and prisoner is sick.” Makes sense.
The interpreter, a young guy in Western clothing, asked us to call him Sammy, and the doctor, an older gent in a ratty suit without a tie, introduced himself as Dr. Fahd. Brenner introduced himself using his former military rank, so I introduced myself as Commander Corey. Why not?
The interpreter invited us to sit, which we did, though Hakim remained standing, and Dr. Fahd sat with a newspaper and lit a cigarette. Sammy had a dossier in front of him and he flipped through it, then said to Brenner and me, “The prisoner’s name is Rahim ibn Hayyam-”
Brenner interrupted and said, “Can we have a copy of that?”
Hakim, standing near the window, asked Brenner, “Do you read Arabic, Mr. Brenner?”
