The Saudi ambassador sat deep in thought as the Land Cruiser moved in a small convoy across a flat, arid plain in western Yemen, bordered by high sand dunes. The xenon headlights lit up the clear night air seemingly for miles. This was the Tihamah, the hot lands on Yemen’s Red Sea coastline. He’d stopped at a small village en route, constructed entirely of stamped clay and sun-dried mud bricks. Sitting on palm-leaf matting, he ate a light meal of goat meat and lentils, and drank the strong sweet tea. He thought the village smelt like a dung heap and was glad to return to the hermetically sealed car, and feel the AC on his face. But at least he hadn’t been at risk from the northern Shia. If they’d gotten hold of him, he would’ve likely lost his manhood.
With his keffiyeh-wrapped head tilted backwards against a rear headrest, he ruminated upon the recent events that had led to him being in this unlikely and primitive place. Despite all of the meticulous planning and loss of life, the secretary had almost been rescued. He found it difficult to believe, especially given that the head of her protective detail was supposed to have been killed by Swiss’s men in the US. As a result, he had blood on his hands, including that of Brigadier Hasni and the jihadist, Mullah Kakar. Part of him felt disloyal. But he couldn’t risk anything coming back on him, let alone the Brothers of Faith. That would not only lead to his probable death, but also, and more importantly, the complete negation of all he wished for his son.
After landing back in Riyadh, he’d had a meeting with the Brothers. They had ordered him to oversee the secretary’s killing personally. A poorly veiled repost, he’d thought at the time. Besides that, he hated Yemen. He called it the sick dog of the Gulf. Dirt poor, unstable, dangerous and corrupt. All the things his country would have been without oil and gas. He’d thought he’d be going back to Riyadh to watch the beheading on the Internet like half of the computer-savvy world. Instead, he’d been flown to Sana’a, the Yemeni capital, ostensibly on a personal visit to the Saudi embassy there.
It had taken fourteen hours for the secretary to be flown from France to Yemen and then driven overland to the remote hamlet. His journey would add another six hours to that. The difference between the time that she should’ve been beheaded online, and the actual time it would take to get it done and transport the video to an area with Internet connection, would be close to a day and a half. The only possible advantage would be that the US would consider the threat to be a bluff, one that would be all the more dramatic when it was in fact carried out. Still, he took off his Ray Ban sunglasses, which he wore to help him relax, despite the darkness, and barked at the driver, ordering him to put his foot down. He wanted the grisly errand over as soon as possible.
Linda could barely breathe, the dry air being heavy with dust. It was dark with no artificial light. She’d heard insects scuttling around her since she’d been dragged here. It had been stifling at first, and she’d felt as if she were being slow cooked. But now she was freezing, her teeth chattering as she lay on the hard concrete floor. Wearing the burqa, although her head was bare, she was chained to a brick-built pillar in a square room. She hadn’t had any food or water since the group of masked men had brought her here. Despite not seeing the sky since leaving France, she knew she was in the desert, close to the coast. She could smell the sea and sand had leaked into the room.
The Muslim men who’d carried her from the jet at another unknown location had been different from those who had held her previously. Although they too had refrained from speaking in her presence, they’d manhandled her roughly for most of the time and had even kicked her on a couple of occasions. She’d been blindfolded and gagged before being thrown onto the bed of what she’d guessed was a pickup truck and covered with a mouldy tarp. She’d wept then, partly due to the pain in her shoulder and knee as she’d landed heavily, and partly due to a rising sense of fear. But weakness wasn’t going to save her life now, so she closed her eyes and tried to clear her mind.
She felt around with her feet, an act designed simply to distract her. But after a minute or so, she felt something sharp and cold like metal. She examined it as best she could, guessing it was a nail. She eased it up with her toes, so that as she extended the chain to its limit she was able to manoeuvre it into her hand.
It was a nail. She hid it beneath the folds in the burqa. Fleetingly, she thought she might get a chance to pick the lock with it. Then she thought that was a ridiculous notion. She didn’t have a clue how to do that. Still, she would keep it.
Less than a minute later, she realized that keeping up her spirits was an impossible task. It was little more than a pretence. Her mind was on the cusp of closing down and making up a new reality to save it from further trauma. After Tom Dupree had appeared in the room where the Englishman had abused her, she’d actually thought her nightmare would end. But she guessed he was dead now, and all hope had disappeared as a result.
She heard the wooden door being unlocked and opened. She trembled involuntarily. Someone shone a strong beam of light from a flashlight onto her face but said nothing.
“Water,” she said, although it sounded as if someone outside her body had spoken.
The figure stepped forward and blindfolded her with a length of rag that smelt faintly of male sweat before gagging her with another piece. The door was closed and locked. She guessed her death was near. She couldn’t help herself.
She began to weep. In truth, she didn’t know if she was weeping for herself, or for the pain her daughters would feel at knowing they would grow up motherless; for John, her husband, perhaps, or the thousands that would die once her death became known.
Where is God in all this? she thought. Where is He?