80

YEMEN

Wyatt regained consciousness and blinked. The fuzzy world came into focus around him, taking its time, one pixel after another. He was lying on a striped couch, low to the floor, in a long, rectangular room with a Persian carpet in the middle. Similar sectional couches with the same striped design lined the other walls. There were three large stained-glass windows and a beautiful chandelier with bright lights that made Wyatt squint. His head throbbed, and he touched his forehead where he had been struck with the butt of a pistol. They had bandaged the wound and wrapped a linen cloth around his head.

It dawned on him that his hands were no longer cuffed. Slowly he sat up and focused on the other man in the room, sitting on the couch on the opposite wall no more than fifteen feet away with a pile of books next to him. He wore a white robe and a white headdress. He had a broad forehead, a thin and wiry beard, serious eyes, and small oval glasses. He smiled, and there was a slight gap between his front teeth. Wyatt recognized him immediately.

“Welcome to Yemen,” said Saleet Zafar.

Wyatt glanced around. The three stooges were nowhere to be seen. He rubbed his eyebrows to check that everything had not just been a nightmare, but he could feel no hair and wondered if the pencil-thin eyebrows of a woman were still visible.

“I trust you slept well,” Zafar said, cracking another smile.

Wyatt’s ribs still ached, though he could breathe better now. “Like a baby.”

It was light outside, and Wyatt could see a city of mud and clay built into the side of a mountain. He tried to cement the image in his mind, little details that might provide a clue to where he had been brought. “Your men were a little rough,” he said, rubbing his eyes.

“They are not my men. But I knew they would get you here.”

Zafar spoke good English, with the kind of pure diction that marked somebody who had developed English as a second language in the classroom rather than living in the country.

“I understand that you were a friend of Cameron Holloman,” Wyatt said. “I’m a friend of his wife and have come to see if you would help us in our case against the director of the CIA.”

“We will talk in time,” Zafar said. “But first, you must be very hungry.”

Wyatt hadn’t come this far for a social visit, and he had no real desire to get to know the radical imam across from him. But he also knew the Anderson case hinged on two things: what was happening in the Supreme Court and what would happen in the next few hours with Saleet Zafar. Wyatt had come too far and suffered too much to lose an opportunity because he was trying to rush things.

Zafar shouted some instructions in Arabic, and before long, two women with everything covered except their eyes and hands were scurrying around and bringing in lunch. They spread a mat on the floor in the middle of the room and then, while Zafar and Wyatt talked, brought in the meal. They started with unleavened flatbread in a black iron skillet, the smell of which made Wyatt remember how hungry he actually was. They brought a glass of something that looked like the weakest coffee Wyatt had ever seen.

“It is shahi haleeb,” Zafar said. When Wyatt gave him a quizzical expression, the imam simply said, “Milk tea.”

Wyatt took a sip—it was flavored with mint—and surprisingly, he liked it. Meanwhile, the food kept coming. The women brought potatoes, eggs, and lentils. The main dish was what Zafar called mandi, lamb meat topping a plate of rice. The whole thing looked like a feast fit for a Persian king.

Zafar and Wyatt sat on the floor and ate together, taking their time, while Wyatt asked questions about the culture in Yemen and the country’s civil war. Taking a deep breath still hurt, and the dull headache wasn’t going away, but he made himself focus on the conversation.

After the men had finished eating, the women cleared the meal and brought in a small bowl of a leafy substance. Wyatt had read about this before his trip. The entire male population of Yemen would apparently eat a big lunch and then start chewing qat, a mild stimulant that created a feeling of euphoria, at about two o’clock. The men would continue chewing until about six or so at night, when they would finally spit it out. It was, Wyatt thought, an unusual phenomenon—the whole country with a mild buzz for most of the working day. Right now he could use something like that.

He took a few leaves and stems, placed them in his mouth, and chewed the leaves slowly, squeezing out the juice. He was careful about how much he took because he would need to be on his game the next few hours. After about ten minutes of talking while chewing the qat, he spit it back onto a plate. Zafar chuckled and shoved a few more leaves into his own mouth.

“Americans never appreciate the finer things in life,” he said.

“Tell your goons to go get my cigars out of the car and we’ll experience one of the finer things.”

“Phillies cigars?” Saleet asked skeptically. “Not exactly Cuba’s finest.”

How did this guy know about American brands?

“Have you ever had one?”

“I don’t smoke.”

But you chew on an amphetamine all day, Wyatt wanted to say.

“I had a letter from Gazala Holloman,” Wyatt said instead. “But your men wouldn’t let me bring it with me.”

Saleet reached over to his pile of books and, to Wyatt’s surprise, pulled out the letter. “I read it. They brought it along. And remember—they are not my men.”

“I need your help,” Wyatt said. “Gazala wants you to help. Together we can expose what really led to the deaths of Cameron Holloman and several American servicemen.”

“I may need your help as well,” Saleet replied.

The comment surprised Wyatt, though he didn’t show it. And he realized immediately that he should have known something like this was coming. Everybody always had an angle. “In what way?”

“You may know that your government is trying to kill me. It seems that any imam who preaches the whole truth of the Quran ends up on an enemies list and can be executed without a trial at the mere word of your president. I want to hire you, Mr. Jackson, as my attorney. I will give you everything you need to prosecute the case against Director Marcano and Mr. Kilpatrick. But in exchange, I want you to advocate my cause in the American media. I need you to help your country see what is happening.”

Zafar reached over his pile of books and pulled out pictures of two young boys. He placed them on the floor, facing Wyatt.

“These are my sons. They have also been targeted by American drone strikes. I have studied your history as an attorney, Mr. Jackson. I know that you are always loyal to your clients.” Saleet paused, searching for the right words as he continued. “I am not an enemy combatant of your country. I command no troops. I plot no strategy. I plant no bombs. I preach that there is no god but Allah and that Mohammed is his Prophet. I preach about the glory of the martyrs. I preach that we are in a spiritual war. These are ideas that are not so different from the ideas spread by your American pastors. When did your country start executing religious leaders for preaching their conscience?”

Wyatt could think of a thousand rejoinders. American pastors didn’t instigate suicide bombings and terrorist attacks. Maybe American pastors spoke of spiritual warfare, but they didn’t advocate the subjugation of all Muslims by force. But now was not the time for debate. Wyatt was a lawyer, and he needed to cut a deal.

“Tell me what you know about the death of Cameron Holloman,” Wyatt said. “In our system of justice, we call it a proffer. You would need to be willing to testify about it from an undisclosed location on video. But if you tell me the substance of what your testimony might be, I’ll tell you whether I can take your case. And believe me, Mr. Zafar, if I take your case, I’ll advocate for you to the best of my ability.”

“You say I must tell you first. But then you will have the information already,” Saleet said. He studied Wyatt for a moment, his jaw working the qat, and then his lips formed into a small, sly smile. “This issue of trust is a difficult thing to establish, no?”

“Indeed it is,” Wyatt said. “But there is a question in my country: Is the enemy of my enemy my friend? We both want to expose the events that caused the death of Cameron Holloman. Our common enemies are the director of the CIA and the president of the United States. Does that not make us friends?”

Saleet smiled broadly at the suggestion, exposing a mouthful of qat. “Here in the Middle East, Mr. Jackson, we have been asking that question for thousands of years.”