A gentleman_s game (queen and country) Page 16

  Cigarette in her mouth, Chace reached into the case. She took two of the gloves first, setting them aside, then removed the Walther, the box of ammunition, and the suppressor, laying them out on the map before her. English was common enough in Yemen that the switch in languages didn't throw her too much, but nonetheless, it took an effort not to answer him in Italian.

  "You're certain?" Hewitt asked.

  "Positive," she told him as she began checking the weapon. "No trouble at the airport, no shadows on the way to the hotel, nothing since. There's a Frenchman in the group named Billiery; at first I thought he might be a plant. He's not. He's a student."

  "Keeping his hands to himself, I hope?"

  "He is now," Chace said. "I think it's safe to say that the only people who know I'm here are the two of us and a handful of people in London."

  "And another handful in Tel Aviv."

  Chace looked up from the gun in her hand. "That suspicion or something more?"

  "Straight from D-Ops. I don't know why he wanted it passed along, but there's a lot I don't know. Presumably it means something to you."

  The cheerful grin came back, and Chace wondered if it was affect or sincerity. It didn't much matter to her, and she wasn't inclined to answer, so she shrugged and went back to examining the Walther. Content that it would do its job when called upon, she set it aside and moved onto the task of loading the clip.

  "What's the word on Faud?"

  "Normally we'd lay down a bundle of riyals and buy information," Hewitt said. "But London told us to go softly, so it proved a little more difficult. He arrived yesterday with his bodyguards, six of them. He's staying with Saleh Al-Hebshi, in the Old City. Al-Hebshi is one of the louder resident Wahhabist imams, normally works out of the Al-Jami' al-Kamir-the Great Mosque-but seems to be favoring the Qubbat Talha Mosque a little more of late. Hebshi was linked to one of the Yemenis who rammed the USS Cole in 2000."

  "When yesterday?"

  "Did he arrive? Late afternoon. Arrived on a private jet from Jeddah, landed fifteen-forty, was met by Al-Hebshi at the airport. Taken by four-wheel-drive convoy to Al-Hebshi's home."

  "How large was the convoy?"

  "Three vehicles. Al-Hebshi had two guards of his own." Hewitt's look was full of sympathy. "I'm afraid you're going to find it very hard to get Faud alone."

  Chace finished with the clip, set it aside, and put out her cigarette in the ashtray on the nightstand, then gave Hewitt a reappraisal. Number Twos were the legmen for London, while the Number Ones maintained cover and attended the day-to-day running of the Station. Most every One, and quite a few Twos, viewed a Minder's arrival in their terrain with hostility or loathing or both. Minders were trouble for a Station, sent in to do a job, to get a result, and then to depart once more. For the Station, that quite often meant the residents had a mess to clean up, a politically sensitive, potentially law-breaking mess.

  So Chace was used to dealing with recalcitrant Twos and bitter Ones who wanted nothing more than for her to leave them alone.

  Hewitt didn't seem to be one of those, and while she didn't show it to him, she appreciated the fact.

  She swept the box and suppressor from the map, saying, "Show me where Al-Hebshi lives."

  "I'm ahead of you there." Hewitt removed the poster from the case, slid the elastic off its end and onto his wrist, and then unrolled it in front of her, revealing a detailed map of the Old City. He used the gun and the box of ammunition to weigh the ends down. "Think you'll find this a bit more useful than that one provided by the General Tourism Authority. You'll see I've already marked the key spots."

  She stared at him. "All of them?"

  Hewitt seemed confused for a second, then shook his head. "No, not all of them. The place you're thinking of, I think, would be right about here."

  He set an index finger on the map, indicating a block well outside the walls of the Old City. There was no other indication of the safehouse aside from the pressure of his finger on the paper.

  Chace nodded, and Hewitt retracted his finger. She studied the map, noting the streets and the street names, and particularly how the same street seemed to switch identities several times within the space of only a few blocks. The Great Mosque was marked, as was the Qubbat Talha. She stayed focused on the map for several minutes, long enough for Hewitt to realize that no questions were immediately forthcoming, and so he moved to one of the two chairs in the room, beside the television, and settled himself.

  It wouldn't do, Chace decided. She had to get into the Old City away from the tour, learn the lay of the land herself. She'd have to see Al-Hebshi's place, to verify what she already suspected: there was no way she'd be able to get to Faud as long as he was inside. And if Faud's travel in San'a' was, as she suspected, going to be conducted via four-wheel drive, she wasn't likely to get a crack at him in transit, either. At least not a crack at him where a twenty-two-caliber semiautomatic with seven shots would make a difference.

  So far, almost every excursion she'd made had been within the confines of the tour group, an act to maintain cover more than anything else. The thought of wandering through San'a' alone didn't bother Chace; this wasn't Saudi, and while women here still lived very different lives apart from the men, the same rules simply did not apply to foreign women, seen as a strange kind of "third sex." As long as she remained culturally sensitive, traveling alone through the Old City wouldn't be a problem, and she had packed the wardrobe to do just that. A long skirt that fell to her ankles, a loose top that fell almost to midthigh and would remain unbelted to hide her shape, and a scarf to conceal her hair were all that modesty demanded.

  Yemeni women, on the other hand, moved through their days hooded in their black baltas, shapeless cotton coat-slash-cloak combinations that effectively hid any body beneath. Almost all of them wore veils as well. It was deception of an entirely different sort, a public modesty in the face of a private vanity. Chace knew for a fact that most of the women she'd seen on the streets wore midriff-baring tops and tight designer jeans beneath their baltas.

  Chace rolled the map once more, offered it back to Hewitt. "Anything else?"

  "Sorry, that's all. When I left it this morning, Hebshi and Faud were still at the house, though I suspect they went to the Great Mosque for their morning ziryat."

  "Why the Great Mosque and not the other one?"

  "I would think its name would tell you everything you need to know. It's truly spectacular, what little I've seen of it, and I've seen very little, and I've been here two years, now. It was built sometime around A.D. 630, when the Prophet was still living, just after Islam had come to Yemen. Man like Faud, I can't imagine him being content to worship anywhere else."

  Chace considered that, then nodded. "You're a perceptive fellow, Mr. Hewitt."

  He lifted the case in his hand, smiled again. "Perceptive enough to know that I'm desperately hoping I won't be seeing you again."

  "It's mutual, I assure you." Chace followed him down the hall, unlocked the door so he could exit.

  "Best of luck," Hewitt said.

  Chace locked the door again after he'd left. • She started the walk through the Suq al-Milh, literally the salt market, though as far as Chace could ascertain, salt was a very small part of what was for sale. In truth, the suq seemed comprised of dozens of other, smaller markets, with vendors selling everything from silks to jewelry to uniquely curved tribesmen's daggers called jambiya. It was warm but not uncomfortable, and Chace assumed the sky was blue, but Ron's projected rain hadn't come, and as a result, clouds of dust hung endlessly in the air, kicked up by foot traffic or, worse, vehicle traffic.

  Chace made her way through the noise, jabbered conversations, and blasts of music played from boom boxes, bootlegs sold by vendors. Men sat in the shade at the sides of the streets, talking, smoking, chewing qat, others walking hand in hand, showing their friendship. A few were armed, sporting antique carbines and rifles, weapons left over from the Ottoman occupation that had ended in 1911,
as well as the modern Middle Eastern mainstay, the Kalashnikov AK-47.

  She drew the eyes of everyone, some briefly, others longer. Chace found it necessary to remind herself that she was a curiosity, even in her modest dress. Near Bab al-Yaman, two very excited young boys ran up to her, shouting in Arabic, "Welcome to Yemen!" and then repeating it in English before darting away again.

  "Shukran," she called after them, then paused on the street, trying to reorient herself. From the hotel, the minarets and structures of the city were clearly visible. Standing in the Old City, however, the houses were crammed together, built five and six stories high, and blocking any view of the horizon. From where she stood, the Great Mosque could only be a few hundred meters to the west of her, but looking around, she saw no sign of it.

  An older man, in futa, shirt, and jacket, passed on her left. "Haram," he growled. "Haram."

  Chace glanced down, couldn't see what had caused the offense. Her skirt fell to her boots, the only skin she was showing at her face and her hands.

  "Ismahlee," she said, trying to apologize, not certain why.

  The man stopped, gestured roughly at her face with the back of his hand, then moved back into the crowd. Chace reflexively put a hand to her head, felt the scarf in place, ran her fingers along its edge. Some of her hair had crept loose at her temple, and she quickly tucked it back into place.

  Crisis averted, she thought, and made the turn north out of the square, and instantly became certain that she was being followed.

  The street narrowed, and the air thickened with a collision of spices: cinnamon, cardamom, ginger, pepper, mint. Chace passed a group of three women, clad in black, and she identified them as San'ani from the red and white eyes marked on their black veils. She offered them a smile, saw the lines curve at the corners of their eyes as they answered the expression with smiles of their own, and then continued moving north, threading through the stalls and shacks. Over the sounds of the market, she heard a speaker blaring the muezzin's call, glanced down, and pulled back her sleeve enough to read her watch. Noon call to worship.

  Almost immediately the flow of traffic altered, and Chace moved along with it until she saw the walls surrounding the Great Mosque. Traffic was flowing through the main doors, mostly men, but she noted several women wrapped in baltas, veiled in the traditional black shar-shaf or the painted lithma, moving with them, unmolested and mostly ignored. She took it in as best she could without pausing and, alongside the main entrance, from across the street, stole a glance at the revealed interior, glimpsing the colonnaded inner hall and beyond it the fountain and ablution pool. She looked away before anyone could take offense, moving on.

  Three Toyota SUVs were parked on the street, six men standing with Kalashnikovs by the vehicles, posture bored while trying to remain watchful. From their dress, Chace picked two of them as locals, wearing the futa-jacket combination most Yemeni men favored. The others stood in drab and worn fatigues, their heads covered with white and checkered kuffiyah, either leaning against the cars or watching the street.

  She didn't break stride, looking past them, continuing north. In her periphery, she saw them mark her passage, one of them gesturing, a couple of them speaking. The irrational fear that they knew who she was, what she was doing, why she was there, raced through Chace's mind before she shoved it aside.

  The thought moved, but reluctantly. There was always the possibility that she had been blown, that somehow, some way, Faud or someone else knew she was coming. A weakness in the local network, a wrong word, or something more politically motivated perhaps, a scuffle higher on the food chain in London, Tel Aviv, or Washington, D.C., and that could be all it would take.

  She was still being followed.

  She crossed Talha Street, made her way past the strangely empty front of the Center for Arabian Language and Eastern Studies, stopped at a sidewalk cafe that was nothing more than three rickety tables with cracked wooden chairs outside a storefront. There were three men settling at another table, and the owner emerged and went to them first, taking their order before giving Chace his attention. It was the hierarchy, men first, women last, and tourist women somewhere in between.

  "Is-salamu 'alaykum."

  "Wa 'alaykum is-salam," Chace responded. "Mumkin sha'i talqim."

  The owner smiled, showing crooked and clean teeth, delighted with her attempts at the language. "You speak English?"

  "A little. Ana italiya."

  "No, no italiya, but English tammam. Tea?"

  "Shukran."

  He moved back inside, and Chace smoothed her skirt, making certain that nothing more offensive than her ankles could be seen before looking over the street. The three men were watching her, as interested as the proprietor, if not as friendly, and she avoided eye contact and did not smile. It was the appropriate response, and they turned their attentions back to one another.

  Her shadow was across the street, bartering with a vendor for a bottle of water. Male, mustached and bearded, by his dress Yemeni, but Chace didn't trust that. Certainly not European, and nothing in his appearance linked him to the group she'd seen clustered at the SUVs.

  The proprietor brought her tea, took her riyals in exchange. She sipped from the small glass, the tea hot enough to burn her hand if she held on for too long, and incredibly sweet.

  Her shadow had moved down the street, back toward the Center, drinking his water. He wasn't clumsy and he wasn't obvious, but now she was sure he was tailing her, simply because he wasn't doing more than waiting. When he raised his bottle, sunlight reflected off the watch at his wrist and she noted that he wore it face-out rather than face-in.

  She considered, the thought that she'd been blown again rearing its head, and this time she had to give it more attention. There was no London backup, and there was to be no further contact with the Station. Either the tail was local, perhaps part of the Faud-Hebshi connection, or he was another player, maybe Mossad.

  Or he could be neither and is just looking to kidnap me, Chace thought, and for the first time became aware of the Walther tucked beneath her shirt. She'd left the suppressor in the room, wedged into the hollow of one of the bedposts, but the gun was so small and so light she'd felt safer bringing it with her than leaving it behind. Its shape made it harder to conceal, and there had been the chance, however remote, that the opportunity to kill Faud would drop in front of her.

  The opportunity clearly hadn't, but all the same she was glad she had brought the gun.

  The proprietor returned, cutting in front of her to clear the now-empty cup. "Kayf halik? You are fine?"

  "Fine, yes."

  "More? Another tea?"

  "No, thank you."

  The proprietor seemed disappointed, but the smile remained as he again left her alone.

  The tail had disappeared.

  Of bloody course, Chace thought, and she rose from the table, moving back onto the street, resuming her way north to the Handcraft Center, and in particular, to the Women's Branch within to do some needed shopping.

  19

  Israel-Tel Aviv, Mossad Headquarters, Commissary 8 September 1919 Local (GMT+3.00) "She went shopping?" Borovsky demanded. "The British agent went shopping? Doesn't she know Yemeni silver has been shit since Operation: Magic Carpet?"

  "Yosef doesn't think she was after silver." Landau switched the gas on beneath the burner, waited to hear the flame ignite. It took three clicks of the ignition before the gas caught. He moved away from the kettle, began searching the kitchen for Nescafe. "He thinks she was making a walk-through of the suq."

  "The suq is fucking huge, Noah, you don't just walk through the suq in a day. Hell, you can't cover the suq in ten days, and even if you could, the stalls change."

  Landau found the instant coffee in the cupboard above the sink, along with powdered nondairy creamer and sugar. There was also dishwasher soap, a stack of paper plates, and a can of condensed milk.

  "Doesn't anyone ever clean this room?" he asked.

  "Write
a fucking memo."

  Landau sighed, found a clean spoon in the sink, began loading coffee, sugar, and creamer into his mug. "I don't see why you're getting so worked up."

  "I'm getting worked up because she doesn't have the time to waste." Borovsky began pacing the cramped break room. "El-Sayd will only allow a small window, it'll be a fucking cunt hair wide, that's what it'll be, it'll be nothing. And if this British bitch is out trying to get a deal on silks, she'll miss it."

  "But that's not what she was doing." Landau frowned at the kettle, readjusted its position on the burner. His wife had hated it when he'd done that, always telling him it would take twice as long the more he fiddled, but he couldn't help himself. There was an optimum place to sit on the flame, and until the kettle was there, he wouldn't be happy.

  "You keep saying that. So you tell me, what was she doing?"

  "She's going to hit them in the Great Mosque," Landau said, and readjusted the kettle's position.

  Borovsky stared at him, then tapped his temple. "No fucking way, we wouldn't even do that, and we're fucking desperate."

  "She's going to hit them in the Great Mosque," Landau repeated. "Or at least she'll try to. It's the only place where she knows Faud will be without armed protection."

  "They still have bare hands, Noah. They'll tear her to pieces."

  Landau shrugged and said nothing. The kettle was finally beginning to creak, the heat accelerating through the metal.

  "Crocker, you think he would have her do that?"

  Landau shrugged again.

  "Stop being a fucking cipher! I work with you, you can share a little insight."

  "You're Intelligence." Landau grinned. "Be intelligent."

  "Fuck off."

  "Has el-Sayd left Cairo?"