LITMIR.BIZ

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Petrovich showed up on the sidewalk as I arrived at Nello’s little restaurant near Tahrir Square. He grinned as we almost ran into each other, me in my black outfit. It annoyed me. Did he think I couldn’t resist meeting him?

      “After you,” he said, holding the door.

      Feeling outsmarted in several ways, I entered as graciously as I could. Not getting rid of the burqa before I came was a mistake. Now at least one person from the hotel knew what I might be wearing in the street. More importantly, I would not have time for a heart-to-heart with my old friend, Nello. He might even have some word about Halima, since he’d sent me to her as an informant when I was here before. Why had I mentioned Nello’s restaurant to Michael Petrovich?

      Nello was astounded to see me. Ignoring my companion, he trundled over and hugged and kissed me on both cheeks, reaching up to do so. “Elizabeth, Elizabeth! You are back!”

      “Nello, you know I couldn’t stay away from your spaghetti sauce for long!” Patting his pudgy shoulder and smelling garlic and oil made me feel better than I had all day.

      When he saw my companion, Nello was more subdued, acknowledging the businessman’s presence as he would any client’s. Michael Petrovich put out his hand and Nello reluctantly responded. Petrovich’s teeth gleamed in a wolf-like smile.

      Paranoia again. Fox, maybe? Michael was not a wolf, I was sure.

      We sat at one of the tables covered with its red-and-white-checkered cloth. Nello had stepped out, leaving us to his well-trained waiters.

      “Something important, Elizabeth. I am sorry. So sorry.” He’d given Petrovich a quick nod as he left.

      “I suppose it’s hard being a woman in Yemen.” My companion smiled—condescendingly, I thought.

      The tack was one I warm to, though. “Actually, the freest being of all in Yemen is a foreign woman. We can go anywhere, see anyone, sit with men or women, even sit with them en famille, while they’re together. If you follow a few basic rules, like modest dress and behavior, people will treat you with respect. I love Yemen that way!”

      Michael was amused. “Not quite the reputation the place has!”

      Both of us were served pasta marinara by one of the waiters.

      “No, but it’s a nice little secret, known by only a few women. And all this kidnapping stuff? There is always, always a man as target, possibly accompanied by women. Yemenis would find it beneath their warrior dignity to kidnap or assault women. It doesn’t fit into the honor code.”

      Michael looked thoughtful. “Yeah. Maybe.” He sipped at the Coca Cola bottle that held something stronger than Coke. “Tell me more about what you were doing during the war years. Seems like you might have had a lot of access.”

      It was an odd way to phrase things. Was Michael’s businessman persona a front? Maybe he was in intelligence, as I’d earlier thought? Sana’a was full of spies from all over the world. Was this why he had suggested lunch? I paused. Yes, I had had access. My access to English-speaking Halima had put me ahead of the journalist pack, as most of the Arabic speakers on assignment were men—and thus completely walled off from the lives of half the population.

      But I had to think carefully before speaking. Strangers on a plane have the oddest habit of telling each other things they wouldn’t mention to their nearest and dearest. Since we were in Sana’a, where foreigners are likely to run into each other, I should watch my tongue.

      “Oh, I don’t know. I was new to Yemen and it’s a complicated country, as you must know. We spent a lot of time rounding up the usual suspects to try to get information—government and embassy spokesmen, representatives of international organizations, journalists…”

      Michael watched me closely as I spoke. He might harbor the same suspicions of me that I did of him. On the surface, I would be a logical spy, I suppose, looking quite innocent.

      So would he.

      CHAPTER 16

      “…They must both have suffered a great deal under such a system of secrecy and concealment.”

      “HIS sufferings,” replied Emma drily, “Do not seem to have done him much harm.”

      Jane Austen, Emma

      After lunch, I excused myself and took a taxi back to the Dar al-Hamd. Jet lag mixed with the too-bright sun made that thin mattress and mildly shaded room quite attractive. My cat friend greeted me eagerly and was pleased to find I’d brought her some chicken from Nello’s. I laid it out on a newspaper for her.

      When I lay down, though, I found myself analyzing Halima’s voice from this morning. The call disturbed me in a way the earlier vague messages had not. Halima’s voice, yes—but so unlike her. Lacking the fresh, bright confidence I so enjoyed in my friend. Full of fear. Still, I could do nothing until Halima contacted me. By interfering, I could only make things worse.

      When I awoke, the cat had disappeared and the sun lay lower to the mountain peaks. I yawned, stretched, and ordered tea.

      Sipping the comforting beverage with Emma on my lap, socked feet resting on the low window sill, I scanned the scene below, intending to read.

      Hellloooo. The same khaki-and-open-shirt clad British specimen I’d seen on the plane and at breakfast was striding through the overgrown back garden. I pulled my feet in, edged back from the window, and watched.

      Mr. Khaki Pants walked briskly toward a little gate in the high mud brick wall. He stooped and went through, glancing back briefly. I was reminded of a tom cat patrolling its known territory. Strange. Why not go out the front of the hotel? Had I pulled back far enough to be out of sight?

      Yemen isn’t a soft country. Certainly, nothing looked soft from the hotel window. Broken glass along the top of the mud walls provided a stark message to intruders. Mountain contours lay uncompromising on all sides of the city. The little patch of dry sorghum in the foreground added interest but not alleviation.

      The sun began its quick equatorial descent. Harshness dissipated into delicate pink and gold, infusing the surrounding mountains and reflecting against the mud walls. I gulped crisp high-desert air, savoring its faint dust-manure-wood smoke smell. The cat appeared and sat on the window sill beside me, accepting me into her sphere of influence.

      Snuggling a sweater around my shoulders while petting the cat, I dove back into Emma’s adventures, trying to distract myself from the nagging problem of Halima.

      It didn’t work. I leaned my head back, covered my eyes, and remembered 1994.

      It had been hard to sleep. We journalists were all on edge. Consumption of cigarettes and alcohol skyrocketed. It was strange, because the war had nothing to do with us. Bo took to slipping into my room, where we would cling together, more in fear than passion.

      Well, sometimes more in fear.

      I pulled myself from the reverie and turned again to the book.

      Glancing up, I caught movement. Two loosely-turbaned men in skirt-like futhas skulked in evening shadows across the sorghum field toward the garden wall. The tall one had a distinctive scar across his cheek. I had seen him before, talking to the taxi driver this morning. His friend was short and dumpy.

      The Brit came through the garden gate and spoke intently with the Arab men before striding back toward the hotel. This guy was no stranger to Yemen. Unlike most Western visitors, he obviously spoke Arabic well. What was he up to? And what could be so urgent?

      With dusk came a repeat of the haunting reverberations of the call to prayer from mosques all over the city. The fourth call, the maghrib. Five all together, all day long. And here, all men went to the mosques in response to every single one, in contrast to the more secular states of Turkey, Egypt, Syria, and Iraq, where Friday noon prayer at the mosque is often considered adequate.

      The tall, scar-faced man looked up from the garden. Had he seen me? Why weren’t those two guys at the mosque, like

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