equipment.”
So we ignored the CIA guy and followed the combat vet through the drainage ditch in a running crouch.
After about fifty yards, we stopped and Brenner and Zamo crawled out of the ditch and scanned the dark road and countryside through their rifle-mounted nightscopes.
Brenner, looking east toward the direction we’d flown in from, said, “I see a vehicle on the road, moving this way, no lights.”
Chet was on his sat-phone and he said, “Tariq. This is Mr. Brown.”
I thought his name was Morgan.
Chet listened, then asked, “Is that you in the vehicle near the touchdown spot?” Then, “Okay, keep coming.”
We could hear the vehicle now and we all poked our heads above the brush and peered through our nightscopes at a small pickup truck that was approaching slowly.
As it got closer, I could see a man behind the wheel, but no one was in the passenger seat-and hopefully there were no jihadists crouched in the rear. The truck stopped where we’d jumped out of the Otter.
Chet said into the phone, “Keep coming.”
The pickup truck continued on.
Chet said to us, “Stay down, cover me,” then he stood and raised his hand toward the truck, which came to a stop next to him.
Tariq stayed in the vehicle and he and Chet shook hands through the window and exchanged a few words. Chet said to us, “Pile in the rear.”
So we all stood and jumped in the rear of the small pickup. Chet hopped in beside Tariq, who did a U-turn and took us back to our baggage, which we quickly collected, and off we went, up the bumpy dirt road we’d landed on.
Following Brenner’s lead, we were kneeling on one knee, scanning the terrain through our rifle scopes. All I could see through my scope were long stone fences that penned in a few sheep and goats. Zamo was standing, steadying his sniper rifle on the roof of the cab as he peered ahead through his nightscope. It seemed to me that his left arm was definitely hurting.
Aside from that, so far, so good. We were on the ground, six cowboys in the middle of Indian Territory. But where was the cavalry?
I reminded everyone, “I thought Sheik Musa’s guys were going to provide an armed escort.”
Buck replied, “We can’t see them, but Musa’s tribesmen are all around us.”
If you say so. Did that goat just wave to me?
Buck also told us, “Musa himself will meet us up the road.”
What else does he have to do at 3 A.M. in Marib province? I mean, for five million bucks, I’d even go to Brooklyn to meet Musa in his new deli.
Kate was looking a bit tense, so I patted her cheek and said, “Don’t forget your veil when you meet the sheik.”
Anyway, after about a half mile, Tariq turned off the road onto a goat path or something, and up ahead I could see six white SUVs parked around a stone hut. Tariq stopped, and Chet got out and said to us, “Okay, let’s go meet the sheik.”
So we threw our bags out, opened the tailgate, and jumped down.
Tariq did a U-turn and off he went, back to the road to collect the transponders for the next idiots who wanted to land on a road at night. Hopefully that would be the Otter coming back to pick us up.
The stone hut was another fifty meters up the goat trail, so Chet said to leave our stuff there, and he and Buck led the way toward the hut. Kate remembered to wrap her hijab over her hair and around her face, and Buck suggested we sling our rifles as a show of trust and respect. Hey, why don’t we just drop our rifles and walk with our heads tilted back to make it easier for them to slit our throats? Is that culturally sensitive enough?
Anyway, we were long, long past the point of no return on this one, so we strode confidently and cheerfully toward the hut, humming, “We’re off to see the wizard.”
No one was coming to greet us, so we marched right up to the hut. I would have knocked, but there was no door.
Buck entered first and called out, “As-salaam alaikum!”
No one shot him, and I heard several voices returning the greeting, “Wa alaikum as-salaam!” Did someone say, “It’s jambiyah time”?
Buck invited us to enter, and we all squeezed through the short, narrow doorway into the small hut.
The hut was lit with two kerosene lamps that hung from the ceiling beams, and around the stone walls, sitting on nice carpets, were six bearded gentlemen in white robes, wearing jambiyahs. All of them had AK-47s leaning against the walls, and in front of them were little piles of green leaves, the breakfast of champions.
One guy was resplendent in his snow white robes and jeweled jambiyah, and his head was crowned with a shiwal that looked like it was embroidered in gold. Must be the sheik.
Buck said to us, “It is customary that we all greet each man, individually, using your first name, beginning with the most senior. Follow my lead.” He informed us, “They will not stand, but that is not a sign of disrespect.” He further advised, “Kate, you just stand by the entrance. Eyes on the floor, please.”
I need a picture of this.
Anyway, Buck began by greeting Sheik Musa, the guy with the golden hat, and Sheik Musa made the intro to the guy next to him, whom Buck greeted in Arabic, as Chet greeted Sheik Musa in English, and Musa replied in Arabic, and Mr. Brenner was now calling himself Bulus, and round we went, Bedouin by Bedouin. The Arabs don’t generally shake hands, but we all nodded our heads in respect. Hi, I’m John. What’s your name again? Another Abdul. At some point in the round-robin I got confused and greeted Zamo.
Anyway, that over, the American men were invited to sit, and Buck advised Kate to keep standing near the door. So we five gentlemen squeezed in between the six Bedouin, whose deodorant had quit a few weeks ago.
Sheik Musa said something and Buck said to us, “The sheik offers us khat, but we will decline. It’s all right to say no.”
I protested, “Let’s have some khat, Buck.”
Buck said something to the sheik and he nodded, then ordered one of his guys to pass around bottled water from a crate. Brenner, who was closest to Kate, passed a bottle to her. Then someone passed a pizza-sized piece of flatbread, and everyone broke off a piece. Pass the Cipro, please. Kate took a piece of bread from Brenner, though I didn’t see how she could eat or drink without dropping her scarf and causing a ruckus. Not my problem. I was a man amongst men. Fuck Manhattan. Fuck 26 Federal Plaza. Hello Bedouin. Where’s my camera?
So with cocktails and hors d’oeuvres served, Buck addressed Sheik Musa in Arabic, and the sheik was listening intently, or he was wasted on khat, and he nodded a few times. Some of the other Bedouin were speaking to Buck and to one another.
Chet knew a few words of Arabic, too, and he used them, but Bulus Brenner kept his Arabic to himself.
Recalling Captain Dammaj who hid his English from us, I asked Buck, “What are these nice people saying?”
Buck replied, “They are confirming our understanding.”
“Right. Five million bucks.”
“And they confirm that they’ve received the letter from Prince Imad of the Saudi royal family.”
“Wonderful.” I smiled at Sheik Musa and said, “Prince Imad is tops.” I gave the prince a thumbs-up.
Buck suggested, “Please be quiet.”
Right. I do the shooting.
On that subject, I looked at Zamo on the other side of the room. He’d been sitting very still the whole time, but his eyes were moving around from Bedouin to Bedouin, who undoubtedly reminded him of Afghan tribesmen. I had the impression he was committing these faces to memory in case he saw them again through his telescopic sight. Good boy, Zamo.
Anyway, Buck and the Bedouin jabbered away for a minute or so and Buck announced, “The sheik confirms that the van with the Predator ground monitoring equipment is here and is now at the safe house, guarded by his men.”
Great. And speaking of Predators, the sheik had to know they were circling overhead and that he had to be
