LITMIR.BIZ

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      My hastily-made appointment was with Jason Roberts, a political officer. “Political Officer” is often, not always, code for CIA, known as “the Company” in intelligence circles. When he came down the hall to escort me up, I assumed the good-looking African American kid was a new Company recruit. He wore khaki pants with a tucked-in shirt and exuded youth, vigor, and self-confidence. I hoped to shake him into telling me more than he intended.

      He, on the other hand, seemed to hope I’d help solve the problem of too few females in his life. Frankly, while it was flattering to see the interested look in his eye as we exchanged cards, he made me feel like Mrs. Robinson. That’s not a role in my repertoire, and never has been.

      “Hello,” I said, professionally.

      “Hello, yourself.” By acting cocky, he was trying to call the shots. An amateurish mistake.

      I seated myself in the chair in front of his desk and turned on the schoolmarm manner. “I’m writing a story about the murder of an American last night. What can you tell me about Michael Petrovich?” I carefully removed any personal knowledge of Michael or the murder from my voice.

      Roberts’s face lost its youthful leer and acquired that noncommittal expression taught in Diplomacy 101. “Well, he’s a businessman. Was. Russian-born, with an American passport. He comes to Yemen on and off. The Embassy is facilitating getting the body back to the States and is supportive of the Yemeni police investigation of circumstances of his death.”

      My God. People really talk like that. Maybe Roberts wasn’t as green as I thought.

      “So you have no idea whether there was some special reason why Petrovich died as he did?” I ventured. “I am staying at the Dar al-Hamd and saw the body. I was wondering about the jambiya. Do you assume the jambiya points to Yemeni involvement? Did Petrovich have many Yemeni friends here?”

      Roberts shifted uneasily in his chair. “I don’t have any more information right now. The Embassy is cooperating, of course, but is not in the business of checking out Americans’ friends.” He tugged at his collar.

      By now, I didn’t believe a word he said. I decided to take advantage of his youth and discomfort. “He seemed to know a young woman here. What can you tell me of Christine Helmund?”

      A pregnant pause ensued. He looked taken aback by the quick change of subject. “Christine has been here in Sana’a awhile. We at the Embassy know her socially.”

      I’ll bet. Christine was the type to get around socially. How many embassy males had been involved with her, one way or the other? But that wasn’t my concern right now. “What was her relationship to Petrovich?”

      “I have no idea.” The flirtatiousness was fading. Good. He seemed uptight about Petrovich. About Michael. I’d warm him up with some typical journalist questions.

      “Okay, on to politics,” I said. “How stable is Yemen these days? One hears rumors.”

      Roberts took on a warmer, conspiratorial look. A relieved look. “Want to know the truth? The worldwide net of anti-American terrorists might be centered right here.” He seemed to relish gossiping with an American woman, even if she was that perilous property known as a reporter. “Aden was the big Soviet training ground for guerrillas of all stripes before reunification, and the latest big gun, Bin Laden, was originally from Yemen—at least, his father and grandfather came from here.”

      So far I knew it all, but still I nodded and took notes.

      “What do we do? We work with the Yemenis. They’re not bad on security, and they see it mostly in their own interest to cooperate. Of course, who knows about the sheikhs of the North and the South? They do what they want, always have. And Bin Laden isn’t our friend anymore. He has a lot of allies up around Sa’da as well as in the Hadhramaut, where his family came from. I absolutely do not recommend any American going north—kidnapping, you know. That’s where the action is.” Roberts rustled around in a drawer.

      Warnings about kidnappings in Yemen were both true and blown out of proportion. Until recent years, when serious fundamentalists got involved a couple of times, foreigners traveling on remote roads were often detained as involuntary guests of various tribes. They were treated as guests while their hosts negotiated with the government for a new well, a road, whatever. Maybe it was a good way for foreigners to get an inside view of life in Yemeni villages—though I doubt they appreciated it.

      “Official warning duly noted.” That’s what one needs to say.

      “There is one thing you probably know already,” ventured Jason Roberts. “A U.S. Congressional Delegation is coming to Yemen.”

      “I didn’t know that! Who are they?” Gray-suited men and women from Washington trying to make what they could of this exotic country. For that matter, Yemenis trying to make what they could of the Congresspeople.

      “Members of the Armed Services Committee. Three of them.” He looked at his calendar. “They arrive day after tomorrow. The President has invited them to visit the Wadi Hadhramaut, so it’ll be quite the production.”

      “I didn’t get to visit the Hadhramaut when I was here before. Beautiful, I hear.”

      “Oh, yes. Shibam is a UNESCO-protected city, you know. They call it the ‘Manhattan of the Desert,’ all mudbrick towers standing in a cube in the middle of the wadi. I guess it has about five hundred residents.”

      My heart leaped. All of South Yemen, including the Hadhramaut, had been off-limits during the civil war, so I’d never been there. Since reading Freya Stark’s books, I’d always wanted to visit that remote area out near the edge of the unending sand of the Empty Quarter. If I played my cards right, maybe I’d be lucky enough to interview the Congressional Delegation there!

      Of course, it all depended on Halima’s crisis. I had to try to help her deal with that first. My debt and duty to Halima was deeper than any travel lust.

      “I’m not sure of my schedule just yet, but I would love to interview the delegation. May I request that through you?”

      “No, you have to go through the Ambassador’s secretary, Julia Franken. Here’s the number.” As he handed me the card, Jason had returned from highhanded diplomat to human form and once more looked interested in getting better acquainted.

      I really didn’t have time for frivolity, though he seemed pleasant enough and could be a source of valuable information. “Thanks so very much,” I said, rising and putting out my hand.

      “No problem. Call me if I can help.” His hand lingered on mine two seconds too long.

      A moment of vulnerability? I decided to try a feminine wile—one I rarely use because it’s an unattractive alternative. I put a plaintive, pleading note in my voice. “Are you sure you don’t have any more information on the Petrovich murder? I have to write a story, you know.”

      Jason paused for a nano-second before he shook his head. “Nope. I’m sorry.” He did look sorry, but again, I may have misjudged him.

      Roberts escorted me back to the watchful Marine, who let me out the door as cautiously as he’d let me in. Many groups in the Middle East harbor hostility toward America and its obvious representatives. The Embassy was clearly spooked.

      In retrospect, I should have been, too.

      CHAPTER 26

      There are plenty of remedies for the evil eye. You can either spit, or say Mashallah, or—if you can get hold of a piece of the dress or hair of him who has the eye—you can smoke it and pass it three times round in a circle, over an incense burner, for instance. It is quite easy to tackle.

      Freya Stark, A Winter in Arabia

      I climbed into the only taxi sitting outside the Embassy and directed the driver to return to the Dar al-Hamd. Only later did I think it was a little strange that one should be right there, where most taxis are not allowed to park. The shiny black car behind it started up as we did. Probably

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