The Aden Effect (13 page)

“As-salaam alaykum, Connor!”

“Alaykum as-salaam, Mutahar!”

The two men kissed on each cheek, then embraced. Mutahar led Stark by the arm back to the table. “Come and sit down, my brother.”

“I am honored that you could meet me on such short notice,” Stark said as he lowered himself onto a plump cushion.

“And I am honored by the gifts you have sent to me every month since you left my country,” Mutahar replied, punctuating each word with his index finger as if accusing Stark. “I have a private collection that no one within a thousand miles can rival.” He smiled. “Someday I really must visit Scotland.”

“If you enjoy the cold, the damp, and the rain but find comfort in a warm fire and the warmth of open-armed friends, then Scotland and I would welcome you. Your business is good?”

The first course appeared through the curtains as Mutahar shrugged. “It could always be better.”

“Of course. May Allah always bless you, your family, and your business.”

Mutahar lightly struck his breast to signify his appreciation of the thought.

A server poured tea redolent of spices.

“I miss your beard, Connor. You look less . . . Arab!”

“The Navy lacks your fine taste!” Stark settled into the banter, knowing that this would not be a quick meal, not if he were to extract the information he needed. The two men chatted casually for more than an hour—friends catching up with their lives. When Mutahar expressed his surprise that Connor was now on active duty with the U.S. Navy, Connor seized on the subject.

“Your ships are still operating out of Mukalla?”

“Yes, most of them.”

“That is good. Our mutual friend Bill Maddox has always relied on your business to support the oil platforms. I hear that you now have more ships.”

Mutahar beamed with pride. “I have been fortunate. I have over sixty dhows carrying cargo throughout the Indian Ocean, the Red Sea, and even the Persian Gulf. I also now have twelve large freighters that go to India, China, England, and the United States.”

“You are blessed by Allah, praised be his name,” said the atheist Stark. “I was saddened to hear of Ismael's death. Hit by a car?”

Mutahar shook his head. “Run down in the street like a dog. Ismael deserved a better ending. He was a good man, a hard and loyal worker, and devoted to his children. He often worked late. He was crossing a street in the dark. The police never found the car that did this. A witness saw a truck but nothing else.”

“That's unfortunate for his family.”

“Yes, but I am taking care of the family now. They will not want for anything. I owe that to him for his service,” Mutahar said.

“He was a good stevedore. When I worked for Maddox there were never problems at the pier. I understand Maddox has some concerns about the new man, Ahmed al-Ghaydah.”

Mutahar sipped his tea slowly. “He is still new. Young.”

“You are a good businessman, my friend. You must have great trust in him.”

Mutahar shrugged. “His family is very powerful in that region. Sometimes business decisions must rest on matters other than efficiency and trust.”

“Indeed. His name tells me he is from the Al-Mahrah Governorate to the east. But you also have a powerful family in this beautiful country.”

“Connor, al-Ghaydah's family has been powerful since the time before Yemen was reunified, when the Russians controlled that part of the country. When they had the tanks and the . . . ‘Scoods'?”

“Ah, Scuds. The missiles. Yes. The family approached you about giving him a job?”

“No, after Ismael died al-Ghaydah approached my son and asked for the job. He mentioned his family, as if we did not know who he was.”

“This specific job?”

Mutahar nodded.

“How long ago?”

“Two months.”

“I see. This is a difficult time not to have a good man like Ismael in that position, especially with the pirates becoming bolder every day,” Stark commented, eating more lamb and tearing more
taboon
to dip into the sauce.

“The pirates have been with us for many centuries,” Mutahar noted.

“Yes, but they are busier now than before.” Stark drank some tea.

“And we have other challenges as well,” Mutahar said.

“I have read about them. We live in interesting times.” Stark referred obliquely to the growing unrest among the population. Water was becoming scarce in Yemen. People can survive without many things, but water is not one of them. But this was not the place to discuss politics, particularly volatile issues such as this one. He needed to shift the conversation before he lost Mutahar.

“Your firstborn. He is well?”

“He is.” Mutahar's face reflected pain and embarrassment. “You saved his life from the pirates, Connor, my brother. You risked your life and the
lives of your crew to save men you did not know. I remember this. My family remembers this. We speak of it sometimes, though not with him. You did that and much more for my family. Always you have acted to earn our trust and friendship.”

“Your son and his crew were on the sea. Their ship was in ruins and sinking; some of the crewmen were hurt. I was obligated to help him—as I would help anyone in distress.”

“Perhaps obligated, yes, but many people are obligated and yet take no action. You took action—at the risk of your life—for strangers. That spoke well of your character. It is a character that I have learned runs strong and true.” Mutahar paused to drink more tea, then continued in a muted tone. “You knew of the hashish that was on his dhow when you saved him?”

“It would have been difficult not to see it or to mistake it for anything else, my friend.”

“Yet you said nothing to the authorities or to me.”

“I was not in uniform. I was helping someone under attack at sea. I was concerned with lives; the drugs sank with his boat, so they hurt no one. I can only hope he learned from that incident not to transport hashish again. Besides, if I had told the authorities, you would have one less son, and we would not be sitting here now as brothers.”

Stark watched Mutahar contemplate that last statement. “Yes, and sometimes our children disappoint us. But what are we to do,
Allah subhanahu wa-ta'ala?
”

Stark decided the time was right. “Mutahar, your eldest brother is the ruler of this nation and your younger brother commands its navy and coast guard. My government would seek your family's help.”

“This goes beyond our friendship?”

“No, nothing goes beyond that. But we must come to an understanding.”

“If I speak to you as a Navy officer, you will report what we say to your superiors.”

“I am a Navy officer,” Stark agreed. “But I have not always done exactly as my superiors wished me to do.” Mutahar smiled at Stark's defiance. “I am also your brother, Mutahar. As your brother, I give you my word that I will not share what you tell me with anyone unless you wish it, but I must know some things so that I can do the job I have been assigned.”

“Then we will talk, but not here. You will come to my house in a few days. Then we can speak freely. You will be welcome for many days. I have new horses for you to ride. My people still talk of your skill with horses.”

“You and your people are too kind.”

“Before you leave, Connor, there is a package for you.” He pointed to a wrapped box on a small table to the right of the door.

“Mutahar, you are gracious indeed, but no gift is necessary. To see my friend again—that is enough of a gift.”

The Yemeni businessman threw back his head and laughed. “No, my brother. I merely wish to share one of the many gifts you have sent to me since your departure. Sometimes my country's rules are difficult for you, yes? You would not have been able to bring this into Yemen yourself.”

Stark realized what his friend was saying and laughed heartily, the kind of laughter he reserved for his few close friends. He retrieved the box—and the bottle of scotch it contained—and turned to leave the room. For the first time since arriving in Yemen, Stark felt at ease.

Golzari's rental car from Sana'a International Airport didn't have air conditioning, an inconvenience in the middle of summer. He was sure the rental agents had done it on purpose when they saw his American diplomatic passport, but he chose not to argue. In any event, daytime temperatures in Sana'a were relatively moderate even in the summer because of the city's altitude, and dusk and cooler temperatures were approaching.

As he walked into the parking lot he mentally counted the number of Middle Eastern countries he had visited on an investigation or security detail.
Oman twice; Saudi Arabia seven times; Bahrain—do I include every time I passed through that airport? Qatar once; Pakistan six . . . no, seven times—Edita made that point just before she kicked me out; Djibouti four times; Yemen . . . hmm, Yemen—three times, including this one
. He checked the car for signs of tampering or new wiring before even opening the door. When he turned the key in the ignition he held his breath just in case—though he doubted holding his breath would be particularly helpful if a bomb went off beneath him.

Golzari was still deeply troubled by the attack on Robert. While Robert was still unconscious after the surgery, Golzari had stared at the bandages covering the amputated arm, the same arm that had held an épée in their fencing matches at Cheltenham. But he told himself that a man as tough as Robert could get by with half a right arm. And at least he was alive.

Before leaving London Golzari had contacted the Antioch Police Department with a request for additional information about Khalid. All they knew was that he arrived a year ago and disappeared right after Hertz's murder. He had been a helpful liaison between the community and the police for the past few months. That meant Khalid had arrived in Antioch about the same time that Abdi Mohammed Asha disappeared from the Horn of Africa. Hertz had been killed after asking Khalid about the name Abdi Mohammed Asha. If Khalid was Asha, as Golzari's gut told him he was, then he had positioned himself perfectly to gain access to police investigations and protect himself.

And now the Somali had once again disappeared. MI5 had found no trace of him at the major airports, harbors, or even the Chunnel. He had either gone underground in England, as he might easily do, or covertly left the country, as he apparently had done from the United States.

If Asha had been in Yemen before arriving in America, then Yemen was the place to look for him now. Golzari was on his way to the U.S. embassy in Sana'a to ask for help with that. He had been to Yemen before and was not unhappy to be back. It was better than Burkina Faso, and archaeologically and historically Yemen was a treasure trove. He had been to the port of Aden and to Sana'a and had driven the road in between, and everywhere history lay heavily on the land. The region now known as Yemen was once the Sabaean Kingdom, a state founded more than four thousand years ago that had lasted almost two millennia. Yemen had been conquered or controlled by empire after empire—the Romans, the Egyptians, the Ottomans, and the British. Aden had been a vital port for the British Empire, supporting trade with the Middle East and, later, providing access to the Suez Canal. The British had taken Aden as a colony in 1839 and didn't give it up until 1967— well after they had ceded control of larger possessions such as Canada, India, and Australia.

The country had been divided into North Yemen and South Yemen after that, and had reunified only in 1990. The religious practices of its people still reflected that former division. There were Shia Muslims to the north and Sunnis to the south. And like most other Middle Eastern countries, Yemen's economy depended on its oil. Currently, Golzari reflected, that was something of a problem. He had read a recent
Wall Street Journal
article indicating a steep decline in production and the government's hope to see a reversal with new fields discovered to the south of Socotra. The current government's continued well-being probably depended on that.

Golzari slowed to a crawl when he was a couple of blocks away from the embassy. It was dangerous to approach an embassy in Yemen at a higher speed. He noticed a standard State Department–issue SUV pulling out of the compound. It turned away from him, headed toward the city's center. Before Golzari was close enough to show his identification to the gate guards, another vehicle caught his eye. An older Mercedes-Benz with tinted windows had pulled away from the curb and was following the embassy car. It might have been a coincidence, but Golzari's alarm sense tingled. And he didn't believe in coincidences. If he stopped to inform the embassy guards inside the gate, he'd lose them. He locked his eyes on the two cars in front of him and joined the parade.

When the embassy SUV stopped in front of a red-shaded restaurant, Golzari slowed to watch. He was still too far away to see the driver, although the man's clothing suggested an American. The driver handed the keys to a valet and then . . .

What the hell
! Golzari thought.
There's only one person in that SUV. One guy out on the town with no protection, and he just handed his keys to a stranger who's going to take the vehicle somewhere out of sight
! This was either the world's biggest dumbass or someone who hadn't paid attention at his security briefings.