Читать книгу Deadline Yemen (The Elizabeth Darcy Series) - Peggy Hanson - Страница 18

CHAPTER 14

O messenger, saddle yourself a horse,

Bridle it and put on fine spurs.

Fleet as the wind in some plains,

He is not bothered by distance or desert.

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

Ahmad Kutup sat in his family’s main mufraj, smoking a cigarette and drinking strong sweet chai from a glass. He’d made his obligatory foray into the souq, to establish in the neighborhood that he was back as well as to look around.

In many ways it was good to return to Sana’a. He’d grown up here on and off when his father wasn’t posted somewhere for the Foreign Service. He had fond memories of playing in these alleyways as a child—as safe as playing in a yard, except for motorcycles. All the kids were watched by all the mothers and grandmothers, peeking out from their latticed windows or venturing forth in the burqa. When they got too loud, the shopkeepers, who also knew them, would tell them to pipe down.

It was an uncomplicated life.

Now was different. The game he played each time he returned was incrementally more dangerous. Sure, he received all the respect in the world from those in the Old City. His family was distinguished. He had made good as a lawyer in Kuwait. But there was much about Ahmad and his life that no one in Sana’a knew.

Was it worth it?

The woman in the souq taking pictures hadn’t quite looked like a tourist. A journalist, he’d guess. Did she have permission from the authorities?

He glanced at the invitation he’d received from Tom Reilly. The party was two days hence. He was used to being the “token Yemeni” at expatriate parties when he was in town. It was work, in a way; he would keep his eyes and ears open. But Ahmad also liked to mix with foreigners, as he was wont to do in Kuwait. And it wouldn’t be bad to have a little alcohol, too. Just a taste.