Читать книгу Deadline Yemen (The Elizabeth Darcy Series) - Peggy Hanson - Страница 6

CHAPTER 2

O bird, o winged one, from the people of Yemen, convey

To [Clinton] this message

Who in America is leader.

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

Michael Petrovich had regrets as he was whisked from the airport in a shiny black SVU with tinted windows. The car smelled newer than anything else in Yemen. Should have dropped her off, that attractive Elizabeth. She was older than he usually pursued. But as he aged, he grew wiser. About women at least, and this one was intelligent and interesting—qualities a man could learn to appreciate. Petrovich sighed a little, thinking of her gray eyes, her laugh—and his life and its mistakes. Wonder where she’s staying. Oh, well. Work came first.

The well-dressed “greeter” who had held his name on a card sat in front with the driver. The other man sat in the back seat—not so snazzy, with worn jeans and red-checked kaffiyeh turban around his blond head. He had a wad of qat in his cheek, which muffled his speech a little.

“So, how are you, Michael?” There was a hint of deference.

“Oh, fine—except for this cold. Had to sniff my wintergreen oil several times on the flight. You ever try it? Great stuff. I get it in the Frankfurt airport.” He waved a little blue bottle in front of his companion. “It clears your head. You can use it for stiffness, too.”

Petrovich sniffed deeply from his bottle, careful to not get the pungent minty fumes in his eyes, pulled a pant leg up to rub some on a calf muscle, recapped the bottle, leaned back and got down to business.

“Had drinks with the Chechens last night. I don’t think they’ll cause problems.”

Other than about his health, Petrovich did not engage in small talk with men.

His companion rubbed his eyes as the strong wintergreen scent suffused the limo. “We might have a little problem here. Not sure yet.” Again, a hint of submission.

The Alpha Dog, Petrovich, put a finger to his lips. “Let’s just go and see them. Are they at the Taj?”

“No, too public. They’re in the Old City.” The man in jeans gently massaged the whiskery cheek that held the qat.

“Am I staying there, or at the Taj?”

The younger man shook his head. “You’ll be in the Dar al-Hamd.”

Good. Low-key and low-profile. He had a lot of work to do. And he had two people to see on highly personal business. The Taj Sheba was far too upscale for contacts like that, and hotels in the Old City lacked something in the comfort line.

The Dar al-Hamd would do just fine.