Got it.
Buck led us across the courtyard and up fourteen-count ’em-wide and steep stone steps. At the top were five square columns, rising about sixty feet high. There was a sixth column that was broken, and Buck related a story about the symbolism of the broken column-something to do with the five undisputed pillars of Islam, and the one disputed pillar of the faith. I think he makes this stuff up. In fact, he makes up a lot of things.
Buck finished the story, then stayed uncharacteristically silent for a few seconds before saying, “This is where the Belgians were presumably killed.”
No one responded to that. But in fact that thought had crossed my mind. And Buck wanted to save this moment for now.
Buck looked down at the paving stones at the base of the columns and said, “The Yemeni Army personnel who were first called to the scene said these stones were covered with blood.”
In fact, they were still stained, but if you didn’t know what happened here, you wouldn’t know it was blood.
Buck continued, “There were two older couples, retirees from Brussels, and a young unmarried couple from Bruges who were touring the Middle East, as well as a married couple, also from Brussels, with their daughter, age sixteen.”
Again, no one responded.
Buck continued, “They were all staying at the Sheraton in Sana’a as part of a larger tour group. Those nine people decided to sign up for this day excursion to Marib.”
Bad idea. Very bad idea.
Buck again stayed silent and I noticed that the ruins were completely deserted now, and the bus and police truck had left. There was no sound from the road or from the ruins around us. We were alone.
Buck said softly, “These people weren’t here to hurt anyone, and the only thing they did wrong in Yemen was to be Westerners. Europeans. Christians. And for that, they paid with their lives.”
Indeed.
Buck continued, “The bodies of the Belgians were never found, but their tour guide and the bus driver, young men from Sana’a, were found in a drainage ditch a kilometer from here with their throats cut… so they were able to receive a proper Muslim funeral.” He added, “Their crime was associating with infidels, and the penalty was death.”
Kate said quietly, “How awful… senseless.”
Brenner said, “This is not war.”
Buck agreed, “It was a merciless, cold-blooded act of butchery.”
I asked, “And we think The Panther was here when it happened?”
Buck nodded and replied, “That is the information we received from the Al Qaeda prisoner in Brussels.”
Well, if anyone had any qualms about killing those bastards with Hellfire missiles, those thoughts were now gone. In fact, high-explosive oblivion was too good for Bulus ibn al-Darwish.
Buck’s sat-phone rang and he answered. He listened, then said, “All right,” and hung up. He said to us, “That was Chet.” He informed us, “It’s time to leave here and return to the Bilqis Hotel.”
Which was another way of saying, “It’s kidnap time.”
CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR
The kidnapping itself was sort of anticlimactic.
I was with Buck in the lead vehicle, sitting in the rear of the small Hilux, and Kate was up front so she didn’t have to sit with the kidnapper. I am a gentleman.
Brenner and Zamo were about twenty meters behind us.
We had pulled over after we left the ruins and everyone had retrieved their M4s, which we now had on our laps, and Zamo had his sniper rifle. Most importantly, Kate was wearing her scarf for her kidnapping. All was right with the world-if your world was Yemen.
As we approached the narrow bridge over the wadi, a white Toyota Land Cruiser pulled onto the road from the shoulder and slowed down on the bridge. A second white SUV pulled onto the road behind us and in front of Brenner. A third SUV fell in behind Brenner. So we were boxed and sandwiched. This might be a staged kidnapping, but these guys had done this before, for real.
The SUV in front of us came to an angled stop at the far end of the bridge and Buck stopped about ten meters from him.
I turned to see the SUV behind us stopping close to our rear. Brenner, too, came to a halt, then the last SUV stopped behind Brenner and bottled up the bridge. Nice job everyone.
Kate, who probably thinks all Bedouin look alike, asked, “How do we know these are our… people?”
I assured her, “Our Bedouin were bearded and wearing white robes, and these guys in the SUVs are bearded and wearing white robes.”
Buck was a bit more reassuring and said, “Those are Musa’s three vehicles, and I’m sure those are the men who escorted us last night and today.”
I added, “We had lunch with them.” And Musa is still working for us. Right?
My Colt automatic was still in the pocket of my bush jacket, and I took it off safety.
I noticed a number of women on the banks of the wadi washing clothes, and some boys were wading in the water, and some men were fishing. A few of these people glanced up at the five SUVs stopped on the bridge: two Hiluxes and three Land Cruisers. They must have figured out it was a guest kidnapping-happens all the time-so they looked away.
Up ahead, a big truck stopped at the approach to the bridge, but he wasn’t blasting his horn the way they would in New York. Just be patient, Abdul. The Bedouin are kidnapping a few tourists. Takes a few minutes.
The rear door of the Land Cruiser in front of us opened and a Bedouin got out, carrying an AK-47. I looked behind me and saw another Bedouin approaching Brenner’s Hilux.
I recognized the Bedouin coming toward us-it was Yasir, the guy who had fondled my jambiyah-and he was waving the business end of his AK-47 at us as he opened the rear door next to me. He slid in quickly, slammed the door, and rested his rifle across his chest with the muzzle a foot from my head.
He didn’t have much to say, but there wasn’t much that needed to be said.
The Land Cruiser in front of us began moving, and Yasir said to Buck, “Yalla nimshi.” Let’s go.
We drove past the stopped truck and I looked at the driver, who was literally covering his face with his hands. I mean, he didn’t see nuthin’!
Anyway, the kidnap convoy continued north, toward Marib, but before we got to the Bilqis Hotel, the lead vehicle turned left on a dirt trail, west toward the hills, and we all followed.
Our passenger seemed to relax a bit and he said something to Buck, who replied.
Buck said to us, “This gentleman, Yasir, says it is good to see us again.”
I asked Yasir, “Have you done this before?”
Anyway, everything seemed cool so far, and I didn’t pick up on anything wrong or suspicious. Bottom line, I had my Colt automatic in my pocket, my M4 on my lap, my Kevlar in place, and my antenna way up.
Regarding that, everyone’s hand-held radio crackled and Zamo’s voice said, “Clean Sweep Five here. Read?”
I replied, “Sweep Three, loud and clear.”
“Everything good?”
“So far.”
“Same.” He added, “This sucks.”
Could be worse. Could be real. Or it could turn real.
There weren’t many vehicles on this dirt trail, and not too many people in the scattered fields, but there were a number of goat herders sitting around on stone fences, and they seemed interested in the five-vehicle convoy kicking up dust.
Buck made small talk with Yasir, who still seemed a little jumpy. Probably, I thought, despite the fact that this was Bedouin territory, Yasir didn’t want to run into an army patrol, or even the National Security police, though the NSB was bought and paid for. I doubted if Yasir and his friends were worried too much about the Mukhabarat, a.k.a. the PSO, a.k.a. the secret police, who operated mostly in the towns. In any case, the fix was in with the government, though Yasir didn’t know that, and neither did he know why the fix was in-because the Americans were going to whack his sheik as a favor to President Saleh.