Читать книгу Deadline Yemen (The Elizabeth Darcy Series) - Peggy Hanson - Страница 16

CHAPTER 12

“The high cliffs called and every notable in Yemen answered;

We’ll never go republican, not if we are wiped off the earth,

Not if yesterday returns today and the sun rises in Aden,

Not if the earth catches fire and the sky rains lead.”

Yemeni poetry translated by Steven C. Caton, “Peaks of Yemen I Summon”

Ali al Shem, now known as Abu Salif, grimaced as the SUV bounced over the rocks. He and everyone in the vehicle had their jambiyas at their waists and guns over their shoulders—mostly AK-47s—so jostling was uncomfortable. At the moment, no one was talking. Everyone was missing qat, a natural part of every day at home. A mark of their devotion to the goal was that none of them chewed qat or smoked cigarettes. They must keep their bodies holy, untarnished. Soon, they were told, they would be tested.

They clutched their precious worn copies of the Koran to their bodies.

They had traded ordinary life for jihad. It was now their life.

Like the others, Ali dressed in the qabili or tribesman fashion: sarong-like futha, black and white checked kaffiyeh wrapped around his head, Western-style jacket pulled over a white shirt. His more rural companions had been dismissive of him at first but now treated him like a peer. His tribal ties, although distant, made him a brother. And they were all brothers in Islam.

The leaders, who went by their “war names,” Abu Shihr and Abu Jowf, were neither rural nor unsophisticated. Ali—or Abu Salif as he must remember he was—knew they watched him closely. Brother he might be; surely they doubted his true commitment.

Surely they did. He doubted it himself.

Abu Shihr had called him aside yesterday to confide that he might be called on soon for an important task. He was on probation. He had one chance to be trusted in this group.

The men around him were tough. Ali liked that. Admired it. He wasn’t yet sure of their purpose, but they were dedicated to it. There could be no question they were religious. Prayers, ritual washing with a few drops of precious water or even small desert rocks, and occasional demands that he, Ali, read from the Koran were part of everyday life. Most of the men couldn’t read.

In the meantime, they studied guns and explosives and strengthened their bodies.

Ali tried not to think of Sana’a and home. Halima, his dear sister. Zuheyla, his love. And his father, Sheikh Abdullah.

From time to time, Ali thought with renewed appreciation of the women who had taken care of him all his life. He had had no idea how they protected him, made his life easier.

No. Thinking of home could lead to weakness. He shook his head, tasted dust from the road, and closed his eyes.