The Aden Effect (31 page)

The admiral didn't even pause to think about that question. “This would not be possible. Such daily runs would cost too much. As well, the pirates have become extremely aggressive. We heard what happened to your security ship. I'm not convinced that our forces are sufficiently well armed—not yet.”

“Admiral, no one knows better than I what the pirates are capable of. I have been surprised at their advanced tactics and aggression as well. I also know what will happen if they are not stopped. The Quran speaks of crimes against order—
hirabah
. What are these men but
hirabi
—creators of disorder?”

“You speak the truth. They are criminals. But there are too many of them.”

“If we work together, we can challenge them. We might be able to provide ships and aircraft in the future to help you dispose of them.”

“This is a more difficult issue,” the admiral admitted. “We know your government would like to establish a permanent base on Socotra. Please understand that that is not possible.”

“Please tell me your concerns. Perhaps there is common ground,” Stark said.

“Connor, are there other requests you were sent here to make?” the foreign minister asked.

“Yes. Maddox, with great and efficient support from Mutahar's ships, has met every one of Yemen's development requirements. His men are close to completing the last two platforms. We hope for a decision soon about awarding that contract and the rights to the oil.”

“We know this,” the elder statesman said slowly in his deep voice. “We will tell you this now, Connor. There is no reason for an American base because the United States will not be considered for the oil production contract.”

Connor kept his face expressionless. “May I ask why?”

“It is not a personal matter. We like Maddox. He and Mutahar have worked well together. We do not, however, wish to expand our business interests with the United States.”

“I'm not sure what to say, Abdul. I am an American and you deal with me. Maddox is an American and you deal with him.”

“You are both individuals. Neither of you makes policy for your country. Our government has not benefited from our relationship with America; it has only been . . . damaged. Yemen has suffered since your country's ship was attacked in Aden, even though we were not responsible. Al-Qaeda attacked it. Al-Qaeda continues to attack us as well. They try to turn our people against us. Several years ago when we allowed America's Predator drones to kill al-Qaeda leaders in Yemen, we were promised that the circumstances would not be revealed. It was only to be said that the Yemeni government had ensured justice against the criminals. The United States broke the agreement and boasted of its achievement through leaks to your media.” The foreign minister raised his chin in Connor's direction. “After that, many of our people and those from other countries began to oppose us and call us a tool of the United States. We have had problems to the north. One of the old families to the east has been gaining more power and challenging us.”

Stark assumed he meant the al-Ghaydah family.

“No, Connor,” he repeated. “There will be no oil for the United States.”

“Should I ask what will happen to it?”

“Other countries need oil, other countries whose intentions we do not distrust and whom al-Qaeda does not attack. Those countries have money to buy our oil as well.” Finished speaking, Abdul reclined again and smoked.

“You would prefer to ally yourselves with the Chinese?” Stark boldly asked the foreign minister.

“We prefer to work with countries that will act in our interests as well as their own,” he responded.

“And India?”

He shrugged. “Our historical ties with India extend for centuries. We have no quarrel with India.”

Connor knew when he had lost an argument. “Gentlemen, you have been gracious in giving the ambassador the opportunity to serve the people of Socotra and to enjoy the protection of your navy. Aside from the situation to the north and east, is there anything we have discussed this afternoon that I cannot share with Ambassador Sumner?”

Abdul blew a long puff of smoke and leaned toward Stark. “Yes. Do not tell her how good Mutahar's cook is.”

“He just fell off the balcony?” Faisal asked the hotel clerk as Asha paced back and forth behind him.

“The police say he had too much khat,” the clerk replied.

“This happened how long after I left?”

“One hour. Maybe two.”

“Were there any calls to the room?”

“No. And he made no outgoing calls.”

“There was no sign of forced entry?”

“None. No one saw anything.”

Faisal swung the swivel chair to face the harbor.

“Does the hotel maintain security tapes?”

“No. But I assure you, no one saw anyone unusual. No Asians, no Africans, no Westerners.”

“Was there someone who might have looked Iranian who came into the hotel after I left and came out after Ahmed jumped?”

“There were several. One wore a scarf around his face. He was thin and maybe six feet tall. But many people like that come through the hotel.”

“Leave us now,” Faisal said, locking the door behind the clerk. Then, turning toward Asha, “I wonder . . .”

“What?” Asha asked.

“At my father's I saw someone I knew. He is the new military adviser at the American embassy.”

“You know him?”

“I didn't know his current position until then. I knew him from before.”

“He is the man you wanted killed?”

“Yes.”

“Do not be troubled. I will see that it is done.”

“There was another man with him—his driver. He looked Iranian. Thin. About six feet tall. He arrived after I got there,” Faisal said.

“This is the American agent who has been following in my footsteps?”

“It must be.”

“Then we have a chance to kill them both. They will certainly leave your father's estate together. One of your guards can tell you when that happens.”

“I must call Hu and tell him about these developments,” Faisal said. “Abdi, you must go now. Go and kill them both once they have left the safety of my father's estate. Take enough men to be certain. I need to put to sea again to finish preparing the tanker. Can you do this?”

“Of course I can.”

C. J. paced around her office as Rachmaninoff's Prelude in C-Sharp Minor played quietly in the background. If she could have brought one luxury item to the embassy, she often thought, it would have been her baby grand—the beloved piano on which she had learned to play all of the masters. Learning to play had been easy for her, the child of talented musicians. A composer writes music following precise mathematical rules. Any competent musician can read a score and play the notes. But the interpretation . . . that had taken time and thought and growth. A very good pianist brings a musical composition to life in new and vibrant ways. She excelled at that. She controlled every note, manipulated every chord, and took old pieces in new directions. She had once planned a career as a professional musician, had dreamed of thrilling the world with her passion and skills. Considering her parents, it was the natural decision. But a life of service—of helping people—held an even greater attraction.

In some ways foreign policy was like a musical composition. The policymakers wrote the score; the Foreign Service officers and ambassadors could either make the policies come alive or repeat them by rote, without inspiring their audience. They sometimes even missed a note.

C. J. was glad to get the call from Connor telling her about the inroads he had made with the Yemenis. He had done far more in a few days than she had been able to do during her entire tenure here. He had done exactly what she had asked of him and what he promised to do. It was always like that with him. His arrival had buoyed her spirits and given her new confidence.

It was too late in D.C. for her to share the good news with Helen Forth and Eliot, so she decided to cable them instead. They would be happy to hear that the Yemenis had approved an assistance operation and that the Yemeni Navy had agreed to escort an American ship. The question was how much
more than that to tell them. Standard procedure dictated that she tell her superiors that Yemen would not consider the United States for the oil rights once Maddox's people had finished the platforms, or give permission for a U.S. military base on Socotra. If she didn't pass that information on to State and the White House, she'd be in conflict with her duties. If she told them, though, Eliot would have the president yank her out of Yemen for failing to achieve her primary mission.

Rachmaninoff ended and the exuberant thunder of Chopin's “Polonaise Militaire” filled the air. C. J. decided she would tell them of the primary mission's failure. She also decided to submit her resignation after the successful completion of the humanitarian mission. But that could wait. State and the White House did not control her fate. She did. If she could at least save the life of that little girl in the hospital, the tradeoff would be worth it.

S
tark and Golzari said their good-byes to Mutahar and Ali as servants stowed their bags in the embassy SUV. The walls surrounding the estate glowed like molten gold in the dawn light. Only they, their hosts, and the guards were outside at this hour to see the breathtaking sight.

“Two days with Connor, Ali. Has this made you happy?”

“Oh, yes,” the boy answered. “Time spent with Uncle Connor is always a pleasure. Next time you are here, Uncle, we will have another match, and I will do even better.”

“Yes, Ali. I look forward to it. Keep training. I am honored that you allow me the privilege to train with you.”

“Peace be upon you, Uncle Connor.”

“And you, your father, and your house, Ali,” Stark said, shaking the boy's hand, as fond and proud of him as an uncle would be. He turned to embrace Mutahar.

“Thank you for teaching him again, Connor,” Mutahar whispered in his ear. “Next time, we will not have so many people here so we can break out the scotch.”

“Then I must return soon.”

One of the estate's guards approached Ali and escorted him back to the stables.

As soon as they were in the car, Stark asked the question he had not forgotten. “Where did you go?”

“Mukalla. I broke into the shipping company's office, pocketed a hotel cardkey, went to the hotel, and scared Ahmed al-Ghaydah so much that he lost his balance, fell off the balcony, and died. Is that sufficient? I'd just as soon not file a written report and have to explain all that to my supervisors.”

“What the hell, Golzari?” Stark exploded. “Are you nuts? That guy worked for Mutahar! If the past two days haven't given you a clue, I happen to have a relationship with him and his family. Plus, I'm in the middle of negotiating with them. They are integral to the success of the mission. Idiot.”

“Listen, Stark, I wasn't careless. They don't know I was involved.”

“You can't be sure of that.”

“I'm a professional.”

“Yeah. So professional that you accidentally killed a guy.”

When Golzari ignored him, Stark showed rare restraint and opted against continuing the argument.

Golzari was the first to break the silence. “I fenced at school in England.”

“Jolly good for you,” Stark retorted sarcastically.

“I watched you work with Ali. You knew what you were doing. What was that comment he made about the Olympics?”

“It's one of those ‘long time ago, long story' things.”

“It'll be a quiet ride otherwise.”

“Okay. I competed in modern pentathlon. It's not that popular anymore. People are more interested in extreme skateboarding.”

“You really were in the Olympics?” Golzari was getting accustomed to impressive revelations about Stark, but he refused to be impressed. Even barbarian Visigoths had been trained for the ring as gladiators.