Читать книгу Deadline Yemen (The Elizabeth Darcy Series) - Peggy Hanson - Страница 30

CHAPTER 26

There are plenty of remedies for the evil eye. You can either spit, or say Mashallah, or—if you can get hold of a piece of the dress or hair of him who has the eye—you can smoke it and pass it three times round in a circle, over an incense burner, for instance. It is quite easy to tackle.

Freya Stark, A Winter in Arabia

I climbed into the only taxi sitting outside the Embassy and directed the driver to return to the Dar al-Hamd. Only later did I think it was a little strange that one should be right there, where most taxis are not allowed to park. The shiny black car behind it started up as we did. Probably diplomats venturing out.

In the taxi, I thought about Michael. I guess the Embassy would have the body by now and be sending it back to someone. To a wife or ex-wife? To his mother? Would an anonymous star go up at the wall at CIA headquarters in Langley honoring those agents who had died in service? Was that why Jason Roberts didn’t want to talk about him? What had Michael Petrovich’s mission been, really?

In addition to Michael, Halima haunted my mind. I needed to see her, find out what was going on. But how could I do that? Telephoning hadn’t worked. Friends of Yemen was closed.

Traffic was frustrating today, but we made our way through streets starting to clog with the noon rush. In Sana’a, that’s when everyone heads home to have a big lunch and then chew qat. My taxi driver had been uncharacteristically quiet for one of his profession, probably trying to get home for his own lunch.

Creeping along, we had come only as far as the northern gate to the Old City, Bab Sha’ub. On a whim, I thrust some money at the driver and asked to be put down.

He looked unhappy—more unhappy than he should have—but traffic was stalled and I opened the door and got out. I needed lunch and it was high time for my tête-à-tête with Nello. What would be his take on the Petrovich murder? And possibly, just possibly, he knew something about Halima.

I entered Bab al Sha’ub. I was starving. Nerves had something to do with it. So did forgetting to eat breakfast after finding Michael’s body this morning.

I hadn’t thought this morning I’d ever want to eat again, but the smell of warm crusty hubz being baked in the brick firin tempted me to stop en route. A young man pulled the bread out on a flat wooden paddle. Unable to resist the delectable smell, I bought a heavy little square loaf and exchanged a smile with the young baker.

As I did, I glanced back. One of the men in the sorghum patch last evening stood quietly in the background. The thin man with the scar. He’d chatted with the inscrutable Brit.

I shivered in the hot sun. The bread grew heavier.

I had five mystery people to wonder about now, though I’d barely arrived: The Brit, the Blonde, the Sheikh of the Souq with the BMW, Scarface, and the Face in the Window. Well, six, if you count the Corpse. Forgive me, Michael. I didn’t mean to sound crass. Number seven would be whoever murdered Michael. Or maybe that was someone I’d already met?

And I would never know what Michael Petrovich had wanted to speak with me about.

Wait. My paramount mystery and my whole reason for coming lay with Halima. Murder could not deter me from the mission.