“When do we start killing and eating the camels?”
“There are no camels. But there are goats outside the walls and our hosts seem to be killing one a day.”
“How many are left?”
“Enough for a long siege.”
On that subject, Kate, Brenner, and I bugged Buck and Chet about getting some info about how Sheik Musa was doing in his talks with Al Qaeda.
But Buck and Chet both agreed that it was premature to send a message to the sheik.
Buck said, “It would be impolite to ask him now. Maybe in a few days.”
Chet agreed. “Let it play out.” He added, “We need to appear trusting, unworried, and cool.”
Who makes this shit up?
Anyway, we had lunch on the diwan level where we lived. Tuna again. Buck explained away the poor provisions from Washington by saying, “We don’t want to accentuate the differences between us and our Bedouin allies.”
“That’s idiotic, Buck. We should celebrate our differences. Like with pork chops.”
Buck continued, “Also, we don’t want to look too good for the Al Qaeda men who come to see us. We’re supposed to be subsisting on goats and oats.” He smiled and added, “We can’t be getting fat in captivity.”
I pictured another CIA committee discussing this. They really are into smoke and mirrors, and as I just discovered, they are believers in method acting. The A-team had to starve a little to look the part of kidnap victims. Not to mention we all needed a shower and shave.
Anyway, there wasn’t a lot to talk about anymore, without saying stupid things, so we all sort of retreated into ourselves, and read, and did crossword puzzles. Kate exercised a lot, and Mr. Brenner joined her a few times, twisting and bending. I should call the Bedouin in to see this.
We had a first-aid kit, and Brenner helped Zamo change his dressing, and later Brenner assured us that Zamo was okay. Maybe he was. But maybe we had to get him out of here.
We also wrote out in longhand our required notes of assurance to friends, family, bookies, and whomever. These notes would be e-mailed to the parties we indicated.
Buck had some suggested wording for the last paragraph, and it went something like this: I’ll be out of communication in a remote area for a week or two, but if you need to contact me, this is the U.S. Embassy e-mail address set up for this purpose. I may not be able to respond for a week or more, but be assured I will see your e-mail and I will contact you shortly.
I said to Kate, “Tell your parents I miss them.”
Chet and Buck gathered up the handwritten notes from Kate, me, Brenner, and Zamo, then took them down to the van for encrypted transmission to the embassy, or to Washington-they weren’t clear about that.
I said to Kate, Brenner, and Zamo, “This is like the stupid postcards you had to send to your parents from camp.” Except there was something creepy about this.
The day passed, the Bedouin answered all their calls to prayer, and all their cell phone calls. We walked around the courtyard, and we explored each floor of the six-story tower, which was all the same except for the open-arched mafraj level. Good view. Also, to break up the monotony, I took a leak from the mafraj down the excrement shaft-six stories to the ground floor, which was piled high with shit. Longest piss I ever took. TMI. The other highlight of my day was recharging my commo equipment in the van. It’s fascinating to watch the charge levels rise.
The Bedouin, by the way, never seemed bored. They had an infinite capacity to sit around and bullshit. And when they weren’t talking to one another, they were talking on their cell phones. They made tea all day, prayed, and slept when they felt like it. They had some kind of washing ritual associated with the call to prayer, but it seemed more symbolic than rub-a-dub-dub.
Now and then one of them would climb one of the stone platforms and peer out over the wall, but they didn’t seem to take guard duty too seriously. Probably because they didn’t take the Yemeni Army too seriously. And they didn’t yet understand the new boys on the block-Al Qaeda.
Also, I don’t think the Bedouin really understood about the Predator drones watching us, or that we could see, on our monitors in the fish van, what the Predators saw from five or ten thousand feet.
I asked Chet about this, and he said, “If I showed them the monitors, they’d understand the capabilities without understanding the technology. Just like with their cell phones.” He added, “They know it’s not magic, but the less they know, the better.”
Right. But I’m sure Sheik Musa knew a little more about Predator drones carrying Hellfire missiles; he knew he didn’t want to appear on the video monitor with an X between his eyes.
Anyway, I suppose I could wax poetic about the Bedouin, and maybe romanticize them the way most Westerners did-but basically they were just simple, uncomplicated, and understimulated people who took small pleasures in a cup of tea. And these eight guys in the courtyard were happy to be sitting around here and not busting their butts herding camels or goats, or scratching out an existence in the dead fields.
As Chet said, they had their Korans to read-if they could read-their guns, and their faith. Also a little khat to help pass the time and elevate their mood.
Speaking of which, Chet took about three trips a day to the mafraj and always came down with a smile. I had this mental image of him stumbling into the excrement hole and dropping six stories into a pile of shit. That could happen.
On a completely different subject, getting laid is no big deal, but not getting laid is a very big deal. Capisce? Enough said.
Evening came, and we dined al fresco with the Bedouin to do something different. Oats, groats, goats, tawwa, tea, and tuna. Canned fruit for dessert. The Bedouin liked the syrupy canned fruit and ate up most of our stock.
Kate was allowed to join us if she wore her balto and hijab and sat by herself off to the side. Sounded reasonable to me, but Kate balked. Buck, however, urged her to have dinner with us at a distance. He explained, “This is a big break with custom and we should take advantage of the opportunity to bridge the cultural divide.”
I agreed and suggested, “About forty feet should do it.”
Kate agreed reluctantly, and it was good to have her at dinner.
Anyway, early to bed, three guard shifts, restless sleep, and dawn. I never before appreciated the dawn. I can see why ancient people worshipped the sun. The sun was life. The night was death.
On the third or maybe fourth day, as I was re-reading the mixed vegetables label, Kate asked me, “How are you holding up?”
“Fine. I’ve named all the crows.” I asked, “How are you doing?”
“Okay.” She added, “Physically, fine. But I’m developing Stockholm Syndrome.” She smiled. “I’m beginning to identify with the Bedouin.”
“They’re great guys,” I agreed. “Even though they’ve never seen your face, they knew you’d make an attractive dinner companion.”
She smiled again and said to me, “It’s very reassuring that you’re still an asshole.”
“Thank you.” In fact, I knew that Kate would appreciate me more here in this manly country.
Another thing I noticed is that I didn’t miss the news. Or the sports scores. When you’re cut off from the civilized world, you go through a few days of withdrawal, and then one day you realize it’s all bullshit. What difference does it make what’s going on in Washington, London, Moscow, New York, or Cairo? They don’t care what I’m doing. I would, however, like to know how the Yankees were doing in spring training. But someone could fill me in if I ever got back. And if I didn’t, it was sort of moot.
On the subject of getting back alive, neither Chet nor I mentioned our conversation in the van. There was nothing more to say, and he wasn’t going to tell me what his bosses in Langley said to him.