nice to us or he’d be toast.
Buck, Musa, and the other Bedouin exchanged a few more words and I heard, “al-Numair” and “Al Qaeda” a few times. Also, the word “Sana’a” came up, as did the word “Mukhabarat,” the PSO. It’s good to get briefed by the locals, except when the locals have their own agenda.
I looked at Sheik Musa in the dim, flickering light. The guy looked imposing, almost regal, and he had a terrific beak-one of those ice cutters like on the bow of a ship. His eyes were alert despite the hour and the green chew, and his skin looked like my leather La-Z-Boy, which, by the way, I missed. I don’t like sitting cross-legged.
The sheik said something that caused his five guys to nod and make approving sounds.
Buck said to us, “The sheik says we are brave men.”
Hey, Kate’s got balls, too. And we’re all idiots.
Buck continued, “He says that we have a common enemy. Al Qaeda. And of course, he says, the enemy of my enemy is my friend.”
Right. Until that changes. Not to mention that the sheik was doing business with our common enemy.
The sheik stood and we all stood. He said something, and Buck translated, “He says we all must be tired from our long journey, so he will have us driven to our house and he wishes us a pleasant sleep, and a safe stay in Marib.”
He probably said the same thing to the Belgian tourists. But they didn’t have five million bucks and Predator drones, so maybe this time he meant it.
Buck thanked the sheik and his trusted lieutenants for their hospitality and their assistance. The sheik decided to shake and he offered his hand to Buck, who took it and shook it. Then we all sheiked. Except for Kate, who kept admiring the carpet.
There were a dozen armed guys outside now, all dressed in robes, and they indicated three of the big Toyota Land Cruisers, which already had our bags in the back. So Kate and I got into one of the SUVs with two Bedouin up front, Buck and Chet got in another, and Brenner and Zamo got in the third. And off we went, down the goat path and onto the road, heading west, toward the rugged hills in the distance.
I announced to Kate, who was still wearing her scarf over her face, “I want to be a warlord.”
No reply.
“But I want to ride a white Arabian stallion. Not a Toyota.”
“The only leather that’s ever come in contact with your ass is your La-Z-Boy.”
Wives bring you down to earth. Every day.
Anyway, it seemed to me that Sheik Musa could be trusted. If he was going to turn us over to The Panther, he’d have already done that.
On the other hand, this was the Middle East. The land of the mirage, the shimmering pond in the sand that drew you farther into the deadly desert, and when you arrived at the lifesaving water, it disappeared, and you discovered the bones of those who’d been there before you. You discovered death.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
The three-vehicle convoy continued on the road that had been our landing strip, toward the hills we’d flown over. Buck and Chet were in the lead vehicle, Kate and I in the middle, and Brenner and Zamo were bringing up the rear.
The SUVs had their lights off, but there was still enough moonlight to see the straight road, which was also defined by the drainage ditch. I doubted if the Bedouin had valid driver’s licenses, but they seemed to know how to drive in the dark. I mean, camels don’t have headlights. Right?
Question: If the tribes rule here, why don’t these guys have their headlights on? Answer: There are other tribes. One is called Al Qaeda.
The night was cool and dry, and the starry sky was crystal clear. The half moon was sinking into the western hills and it would soon be dark, except for the starlight. The desert at night has a stark beauty, an otherworldly feeling that somehow changes your mood and your perception of reality. Maybe this was what drew The Panther to Yemen.
All Arabs were once nomadic, and they originated here, in Yemen, so maybe the desert was in The Panther’s genes, and in his blood. So it would be good for him to die here. Better than dying in New Jersey, which is redundant.
Our driver and shotgun guy were jabbering away to each other while also speaking on their cell phones. Maybe they were calling their wives. Hi sweetheart, yeah, gotta work late again. Don’t wait up. I’ll grab some roadkill.
Actually, neither of these guys spoke English, which limited our ability to gain some knowledge of their culture and their lives. That was the good news. On the downside, I had no idea what they were saying. Hopefully it was all good.
Within half an hour we were at the base of the jagged hills, which, as I saw from the air, were more like a series of eroded plateaus or mesas.
The road suddenly got narrow and twisty as we climbed up a ravine on the face of the plateau. The moonlight was almost gone, but the drivers continued on without their headlights. As we continued up the plateau, the road became a stone-strewn goat path. Then a chipmunk path.
Finally, we came to the top of the plateau, which was not flat like a real plateau, but was studded with huge rock formations. I mean, if the flatlands below were the middle of nowhere, then this place was the top of nowhere. Good place for a safe house, though.
There was still some moonlight up here, and as we drove a few hundred meters across the rocky plateau, I could see the outline of a large structure up ahead, silhouetted by the sinking moon.
The vehicles all stopped near the structure, and I saw Buck and Chet getting out of the SUV. This must be the place.
Kate and I got out and so did Brenner and Zamo, and we all stared at our new safe house away from home.
Rising in front of me was a square tower, like the tower houses in Sana’a. This one was about six stories high with randomly spaced windows beginning about twenty feet from the ground. The top floor of the tower was formed by open arches, and attached to the tower was what looked like a walled-in courtyard, probably the camel parking lot. The entire structure was built out of the only building material around here: rocks. And more rocks. Also, I noticed, the tower sat at the edge of what looked like an eroding cliff.
Buck was speaking to two Bedouin who’d come out of the courtyard to greet us, and we all walked over to them.
Buck said to us, “This is called a nawba, a watchtower or fortress, and it’s named Husin al-Ghurab-the Crow Fortress.”
Right. You’d have to be a crow to get here.
Buck, sounding like a realtor trying to dump a white elephant on clueless yuppies, said, “It was the property of Sultan Ismail Izzuddin ibn al-Athir.”
I wouldn’t want to have to sign autographs with that name.
Buck told us, “The sultan was expelled with all the Yemeni sultans after the 1967 revolution and he lives in exile in Saudi Arabia. Sheik Musa, who is his nephew, keeps an eye on the fortress for his uncle until he returns someday.” Buck informed us, “A floor of the tower has been cleaned for us, and bedding provided.”
I wasn’t going to think about that bedding, but I did ask, “Water? Electricity?”
“Neither,” Buck assured us. He continued, “The top of the tower, the mafraj, is good for observation and sat-phone communication.”
Right. The room with a view. Pass the khat, and call home. Hello, Tom? You’re not gonna believe where I am. Asshole.
I inquired, “Is there an excrement shaft in the tower?”
“I’m sure there is.”
Great. Maybe I can get Chet to stand under it.
