76

Wyatt had paid extra for a direct flight on Emirates Airlines, but he was still in the air for thirteen straight hours. His flight left Dulles at 10:55 Saturday morning, and he arrived in Dubai on Sunday morning at a few minutes after eight. He was haggard and exhausted and kept wondering what he had been thinking when he agreed to take this trip. They had served no alcohol on the flight, and he was squeezed into a window seat next to a big man who should have been required to buy two seats himself. Wyatt’s neck was stiff and he felt scuzzy as he exited the airplane into the Dubai International terminal.

It was not at all what he expected. The terminal was glistening and spotless and teeming with people from every part of the globe. All of the signs were in both Arabic and English, and he heard lots of travelers speaking his native tongue. The airport featured lush little gardens of palm trees and shrubs set off by glass railings. It was a sharp contrast to the arid and brown landscape he had seen as the plane came in for a landing.

Wyatt was wearing a pair of jeans, boat shoes, and an old gray T-shirt, yet he didn’t feel at all out of place. Walking toward customs, he saw only a few women in traditional Arab garb with their heads or faces covered. He passed a Starbucks and stopped for breakfast at the cleanest Burger King he had ever seen. He used the bathroom because he knew it might be a long time before he had accommodations like this again.

He traded in his dollars for local dirhams and passed through customs without a glitch. Wyatt had steeled himself during the flight for life-threatening dangers once he hit the ground, but he was starting to think this might not be that bad.

On the other side of customs stood a wall of people waiting for travelers, holding signs in a variety of languages. Wyatt stopped and looked around. The plan, according to Gazala Holloman, was for somebody to meet Wyatt right here, carrying a sign with his name on it. That person and a few others would sneak Wyatt across the border and take him deep into Yemen, where he would meet with Saleet Zafar and the people who knew about the drone strike at the adobe house where the sheep offering had taken place.

But Wyatt saw no signs with his name. He looked around for a few minutes and was finally approached by a short man with a full black beard and bright brown eyes.

“Mr. Jackson?” The man had a thick Middle Eastern accent.

“Yes,” Wyatt said, extending his hand.

The man shook it. “Come with me,” he said, nodding toward the doorway. “May I take?” He grabbed for Wyatt’s backpack but Wyatt pulled it back.

“No. I’ve got it.”

Wyatt followed the man, who continually turned and peppered Wyatt with questions. Good flight? You sleep? How is your family? You are hungry?

Wyatt learned that his bubbly and energetic host was named Mahmoud. And according to Mahmoud, Wyatt was looking at a nearly thirty-hour road trip along the northern coast of the United Arab Emirates, through Saudi Arabia, and into Yemen. It wasn’t the most direct route, but it was apparently the fastest.

“Are you going with me?” Wyatt asked.

Mahmoud smiled and gave his head a vigorous little shake. “Oh no. I stay here in Dubai.”

“Will anybody speak English on the trip?”

“Yes. Sure. Saleet Zafar speak English.”

“No, I mean, will anybody in the car with me during the thirty-hour car ride speak English?”

Mahmoud smiled, shaking his head again. “It’s okay,” he said. “They show you what to do.”

For some reason that he couldn’t put his finger on, Wyatt instinctively trusted Mahmoud. The man was cheery and making every effort to be helpful. It was like Wyatt was some kind of celebrity and it was Mahmoud’s job to keep him happy. Wyatt didn’t like the fact that Mahmoud was not going with him into Yemen.

“What are the roads like?” Wyatt asked.

“They okay. Pretty good.”

“Rocky?”

Mahmoud looked puzzled.

“Rough. Lots of stones and rocks,” Wyatt explained, using his hands to show the shape of a rock.

Mahmoud nodded. “Yes. Yes. Very many stones.”

Wyatt let it drop. He decided it was better to just be surprised.

His first unpleasant surprise came at a small house on the outskirts of Dubai when he met the three men who would be escorting him into Yemen. As Mahmoud introduced them, he was the only one smiling and nodding. The others looked harsh and weathered, staring at Wyatt as if they would rather beat him to a pulp than give him a ride anywhere.

Mahmoud had blitzed through the introductions so fast that Wyatt couldn’t remember any of their names. But it became immediately clear that none of them spoke English.

Each wore a long white robe and a red-and-white head scarf tied with a black cord. They were broad-shouldered, and two were nearly as tall as Wyatt. They had long knives tucked into their waistbands, and there was a table in the house full of AK-47s and loaded magazines.

One of the men said something to Mahmoud, who in turn translated for Wyatt. “They want your backpack,” Mahmoud said. As he was talking, one of the men reached for Wyatt’s backpack, but Wyatt stepped back and stared him down.

“No,” Wyatt said sternly to Mahmoud. “Nobody touches it.”

The men immediately frowned and started arguing with Mahmoud in Arabic.

Mahmoud turned to Wyatt. “They say they must have it.”

“Tell them to pound sand,” Wyatt said.

Mahmoud tilted his head and furrowed his brow.

“I am not giving it to them,” Wyatt said.

Mahmoud relayed the message, which precipitated another animated discussion between Mahmoud and his hosts. Finally Mahmoud turned back to Wyatt. “They say if you do not give backpack, they not take you to Yemen. It is not for negotiation.”

Wyatt glanced from one face to the next. He was a master negotiator, but he was dealing with a culture that he didn’t understand. “They can look inside, but they cannot have it.”

Mahmoud sighed and translated again. After another argument with the three men, this time more animated than before, he turned back to Wyatt. His hand gestures indicated that he was at the end of his rope. “They say it must stay here. They cannot trust Americans.”

There it was—out in the open. These three men didn’t trust Wyatt, and Wyatt didn’t trust them. He had spent thirteen hours flying here, and Saleet’s testimony had the potential of winning the Anderson case hands down and exposing Director Marcano. But at what price?

Wyatt decided to do what he always did—try one more bluff. He shook his head no. “Take me back to the airport,” he demanded.

This time Mahmoud didn’t bother to interpret. He just looked at the three men and shrugged and their body language said it all. They weren’t going to give an inch.

“As you say,” Mahmoud said, his formerly energetic voice flat and resigned. “Let us go.”

Wyatt walked out the door with Mahmoud but stopped before they got in the car. “I don’t have any weapons,” Wyatt said. “I don’t understand why I have to leave everything here.”

Mahmoud turned and looked at him. This time the little man was frowning. “Drones fall from skies,” Mahmoud said. “Those men in the house have seen friends—” Mahmoud stopped and signaled an explosion with his hands, mimicking the sound of a Hellfire missile. “They have good reason not to trust Americans.”

Wyatt thought about it for a moment. Even if the Supreme Court ruled against them, Wyatt and his team might be able to prove their case through these witnesses in Yemen. He had come this far. He had waited all his life for a case like this where he could expose the corruption of the government, the same government that had always refused to cut his clients any slack. He was getting old. When would he ever have another chance like this?

“Okay, you win.” He opened his backpack and stuffed a few cigars in his pocket. Then he handed it over to Mahmoud. “Let’s go back inside and get this trip started.”