The Panther

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN


Brenner knew his way around the narrow, twisting streets of the Old City, and he said we had time to stop at Hope in Their Hands before we met Zamo.

I’m usually good at spotting a tail, but half the men here looked alike, with the same white robes, headgear, and beards. And we three had the opposite problem; there weren’t many Westerners in Sana’a, and we stuck out like pigs in a mosque.

We reached Hope in Their Hands and entered. The clientele were all Western—male and female backpackers, a European tour group, and some ladies who could have been aid workers or Western embassy people.

Brenner said to Kate, “You can remove your scarf here.”

I suggested, “Wrap it around your eyes while you shop.”

“Maybe I’ll wrap it around your neck.”

I saw that coming.

Kate unwrapped, revealing herself as the best-looking woman in the shop, except maybe for a twenty-something backpacker with an Australian accent and long red hair. But I digress.

As Kate looked around the shop, and Brenner looked at the door, I got into a conversation with a young guy, an American named Matt Longo from New York. Young Mr. Longo was living in Sana’a in a tower guest house, though not the one where we had lunch. He was a Yale grad with a degree in Mideast studies, spoke passable Arabic, and he was here to learn the more pure and ancient Arabic in the Land That Time Forgot. He’d been in Yemen a month, and he had another month to go.

I asked him, “Has anyone tried to kidnap you yet?”

He thought that was funny and replied, “No. These are really nice people.”

“Right. But the State Department keeps issuing travelers’ warnings about the not so nice people here.”

He shrugged and said, “They overreact. I’ve been all over the Middle East. Never had a problem.”

“Good. But watch yourself.”

He confessed to me, “I’m half Jewish, so I get it.”

“Keep that to yourself.”

“Yeah.” He asked me, “Have you seen the Jewish Quarter yet?”

“It’s on my list.”

“It’s worth seeing. Still mostly deserted. Like, houses with Stars of David on them that haven’t been lived in for fifty, sixty years. It’s weird. Like, why don’t the Yemenis tear them down? Or move in? It’s like they’re waiting for the Jews to come back.”

“That might be a long wait.”

“Yeah. But you never know.”

“Maybe after the next flood.”

He told me, “Next week, I’m going to Marib with a few people.” He explained, “The pre-Islamic ruins. Temples to the sun and moon gods. Queen of Sheba’s palace. You should check it out.”

“You should check out the security situation first.”

“Yeah. I know.” He informed me, “There’s like a police force here—the National Security Bureau. They protect tourists. For a price. They’re giving us, like, twenty armed guys for the trip for two hundred bucks. Includes transportation.”

I reminded him, “You get what you pay for.” I gave him some recent intel. “There was an attack in that area last night. American oil installation. Looks like Al Qaeda.”

Mr. Longo, who was twenty-something and immortal, did not seem concerned.

He asked me, “Why are you here?”

“I thought the travel agent said Sweden.”

He laughed, then assured me, “You’ll get more out of this.”

“I plan to.” I asked, “You alone?”

“My girlfriend’s coming in a few days.”

I advised him, “Register your names and local address with the consulate at the embassy.”

“Okay.”

“You know where the American Embassy is?”

“No.”

“Find out.”

“Okay.”

“Do I sound like your parents?”

“Sorta.”

I told him where I was staying, and I said, “If I’m still in town when your girlfriend gets here, come on over to 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?”

“Koran.”

“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.