coming out right?
I asked Brenner, “Any chance of us getting Rahim alone, with an embassy interpreter?”
“Not a chance.”
“Right.” Same as when I was questioning the
“We’ll put in a request. But to be honest, the Agency has first dibs on Rahim.” He added, “You got your FBI Evidence Response Team shot.”
“Right.” I also asked him, “Are we going to Marib?”
“Maybe. But we’re going to Aden first to set up a command post in the Sheraton.”
“When?”
“Could be tomorrow.”
We got to the Land Cruiser, and I wanted to sit with Kate, so Brenner sat up front. Zamo started the SUV and off we went.
Kate unwrapped her scarf and asked, “How did it go?”
I replied, “Not bad, but not great. Hakim was in the room, and we had only half an hour, and the prisoner wasn’t feeling his very best.”
Brenner said, “We’ll bring you up to speed when we see Buck.”
Zamo was heading toward the watchtowers, and we sailed through the open gates into the city.
Brenner said, “I’ll drop you off at the Sheraton, and Zamo will pick you up at seven.” He informed us, “Martini night at the embassy.”
Kate, of course, asked, “What is the dress?”
Brenner replied, “People dress a bit.”
I suggested, “Wear your new balto.”
She suggested, “Why don’t you wear it?”
That got a laugh. We were really having a good time.
Brenner reminded us, “Guns will be worn. Vests optional.”
We pulled up to the Sheraton, and Zamo got Kate’s shopping bags out of the rear. I didn’t see the exploding mangos.
Brenner also reminded us, “We may be leaving for Aden tomorrow, so think about packing.”
He and Zamo pulled away, and we walked past the National Security Bureau guards and into the lobby.
I stopped at the front desk to see if there were any messages for us, and the desk clerk handed me an envelope, which I opened on the way to the elevator.
It was a fax from Tom Walsh, sent not from the ATTF office, of course, but from a Kinko’s near 26 Federal Plaza. I read the fax aloud. “Dear John and Kate, Thanks for your call. Hope you’re enjoying the sights and the good weather. Snow here today. You’re lucky to be in Yemen. Have a wonderful trip. See you soon.”
I commented, “Asshole.”
Kate reminded me, “You started it.”
There was a P.S., and I read, “You knew what this was about before you got on the plane.”
Double asshole. But he was right. And yet here I was. What was I thinking? Not much.
The NSB guy at the elevator didn’t ask to see our key or anything, and we took the elevator up.
We ran a bit long in the shower, and by the time we got dressed it was a little after seven.
I had a tie and jacket on, and Kate was wearing a nice black dress. She had her gun in her purse, and I had mine in my holster. She talked me out of wearing my jambiyah, and neither of us had our Kevlar vests, but Kate had her scarf on to walk through the lobby.
Down in the lobby, I noticed a lot of Mideastern-looking men in sunglasses, dressed in Western clothing, heading for the bar. Guilty pleasures aren’t the same for everyone, everywhere. Here, narcotic leaves were guilt- free, a martini was not.
Kate commented, “They go out without their wives.”
“What’s the fun in that?”
Anyway, Zamo was waiting in the Land Cruiser, and we hopped in, me riding up front.
He said to us, “Looks like we’re heading to Aden tomorrow.”
I asked him, “Have they improved the road?”
“No. But we’ve improved our armor and firepower.” He laughed.
I love being the straight man for a comedian doing sicko humor.
As we headed up the road toward the embassy, I said to him, “The prisoner we spoke to today said Al Qaeda was planning an attack on the Sheraton in Aden.” I added, before he could, “But no problem. We’ll probably never make it to Aden.”
He laughed, then confided to me, “I like you.”
Kate said, “I need a drink.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Cocktails were in the embassy’s atrium lobby, and this was for staff only, not an embassy reception, which would be held in the more formal parlor.
The unstated reason for this free alcohol was that the new ambassador had not yet arrived, and this was everyone’s last chance to get snockered before he showed up.
And if we needed another reason for the taxpayers to buy us a drink, this was a welcome party for the two new legal attaches, FBI Special Agent Howard Fensterman and FBI Special Agent Kate Mayfield, a.k.a. Mrs. Corey. And, I guess, it was a hello party for me, too, though I wasn’t on staff here, and I’d be saying good-bye shortly.
I suspected that there were not many social demands on the American Embassy staff in Sana’a, nor were there more interesting things for them to do in Yemen on a weekend, so I was sure most of them were here tonight.
The size of an embassy staff is classified, but I’ll say we had three bartenders, and six Yemeni men passing hors d’oeuvres. Hopefully, the Marines or the Diplomatic Security Service had checked them all out for suicide belts.
None of the Marines were in attendance, except for the two officers, a captain, and a young lieutenant who told me he’d served in Afghanistan. I asked him, “Would you rather be here or Afghanistan?”
He replied without hesitation, “Afghanistan,” explaining, “There you know you’re in a combat zone, and so does everyone around you. Here, everyone around you-the civilians-pretend there’s no war, and that’s dangerous.”
“Right.” Which was probably not much different than the mind-set in the presidential palace and the government ministries. Except now and then, reality intruded into the deep bunkers of denial.
I looked around at the embassy people, who were nicely dressed, sipping cocktails and chatting. This could have been anywhere in the civilized world, including New York. But outside the guarded walls was another world that had absolutely nothing in common with this world. Except, to be optimistic, a shared humanity, a love of children and family, a hope for peace, prosperity, health, and happiness, and a belief in a higher being who was loving and kind-except when he got pissed off and sent plagues and floods to get rid of everyone.
Kate was making the rounds, getting to know her new colleagues, who actually would never see her again. I chatted with people who came up to me and welcomed me to Yemen. Everyone seemed to know I was going to Aden with the FBI Evidence Response Team, and that my stay in Sana’a would be short. Interestingly, no one wanted to know anything about the
Among those who did that kind of work was the military attache, a.k.a. the Military Intelligence officer, who introduced himself to me as Colonel Drew Kent, U.S. Army, a tall, middle-aged man in mufti. His job here, he informed me, was challenging, but fulfilling. A few minutes later he modified that a bit and said, “The Yemeni Army is a friggin’ joke. The unwilling led by the incompetent. Ill-paid, ill-equipped, ill-trained, and unmotivated.”
