Twenty
The Yemeni left Turkmenbashi with the briefcase, by ship. It didn’t rain, but heavy winds heaved the ship up and down as it plowed westward into the storm. He hated traveling by ship, but in this case, the route across the Caspian Sea was the quickest. He’d secured the case under a bunk below deck. Whenever he moved, it came with him.
All he had to do now, was get to Cairo. He’d get his money when he handed over the package. He grinned when he thought of how he’d squeeze for a little more.
He thought briefly of the stupid Russian. All these Christian kafirs were so willing to endanger their people for the gain of a little money. He thought of them as being lower than dogs.
Once on the western shore of the Caspian Sea, the Yemeni would transfer to a train and continue his journey. The train system, some if left from the European construction in the late nineteenth century, was patchwork and worn out. Riding it required patience for the constant break downs and transfers. Flying would be easier of course, but the security on the train system was lax, and he could move without many questions. By early morning, they approached the rich city of Baku on the western shore.
Before the American crusaders invaded Iraq, the Yemeni would have turned south, in his journey, to Tehran, then crossed into Baghdad for the final leg to Cairo. Now, he had to take the northern, longer route through Baku and across Syria.
He’d travel in Muslim countries to make it easier.
The sun rose behind the Yemeni while he stood on deck and watched the city come closer. Before World War II, the Baku oilfield had been one of the largest in the world. The city boasted many rich, cultural adornments. He could see the minarets of mosques built in the old Walled City by the harbor. The dawning sun lit them up in coral and orange.
He felt the hot wind off the shore.
The ship passed next to the yacht club, then turned to the north for its own berth. Baku huddled under the southern side of a peninsula that jutted into the sea.
He was off the ship quickly and walked down the pier to a clump of palm trees. Several taxis waited in the shade under them. He called for one, and when the driver offered to put the briefcase in the trunk, the Yemeni refused. He set it on the back seat. When he climbed in, he clutched it next to himself. They left for the train station.
The journey to Cairo exhausted him.
Though a young man, the Yemeni struggled through endless waiting, transfers, currency exchanges, different languages, and old train cars that stopped often, but he finally arrived in Cairo. He’d been in such a hurry that he forgot to bring food with him. Luckily, in Damascus, there’d been a long delay, so he was able to get off, find a market, and buy food and water before continuing on his journey.
Before eating, he boarded the train and washed thoroughly. Along with dozens of other passengers, he knelt on the floor as the train rocked along on its way out of Damascus. He prayed, facing south, toward Mecca. After his prayers were finished, he ate slowly and read sections of the Qur’an. The lovely words of the Prophet strengthened him, reminded him of why he made this arduous effort for the greater glory of Allah.
From Damascus, he was forced to turn west again toward the sea. The direct route would go south through Israel, but security in that country was the toughest in the region. The Yemeni would have to travel through Lebanon and, once again, board a ship for Alexandria, Egypt.
From there, he’d make his way to Cairo, to meet the agent planted in America who would take the transfer from him. They had scheduled a time and safe place for the meeting. The Yemeni wasn’t sure of all the details of the plan and really didn’t care, so long as he was paid and the work was for Allah.
And he’d be happy to get rid of the briefcase, turning it over to the other man’s care. It made him uneasy to handle it. They’d emphasized again and again, to carry it carefully, not to drop it or let it be slammed around. And he was never, never to open it. He didn’t know what the contents were but had been assured it wouldn’t blow-up or anything like that if it remained sealed.
It didn’t weigh much, and many times his curiosity almost overwhelmed him. Two locks, with two different keys he’d been told, prevented access. What was in it? He longed to find out, as a child wanted to open a secret gift. But the fear of what would happen should he open the case stopped him. It was obviously valuable. He wondered it he could squeeze the rich American for a little more money
He reached Cairo in the evening, feeling tired and dirty. Long before they stopped at the station, the train trundled through the outskirts of the city, miles of small, drab huts and houses. For as far as the Yemeni could see in the dusky light, the city stretched in all directions. Even inside the train, he could feel the pulsing lives of millions of people around him.
He heard the chanting call to prayer from loud speakers in the mosques, the bawl of donkeys, and horns of hundreds of cars. He smelled the dust and heat. He saw groups of well-dressed school children walking together, going home probably. Women grilled fish for dinner in the narrow alleys. Bearded men huddled in small groups, talking and gesturing wildly. Some were playing chess.
The eruption of life around him made the Yemeni proud. Let the imperialists in Europe and America have their luxuries. We have people and life and energy in our Islamic countries, he thought. And considering his role as a warrior for Allah, he felt even more proud.
Twenty-One
The next morning, Zehra and BJ waited for his friend, Dr. Malcolm Stein at the doctor’s office. Last night, after the call from BJ, she’d explained to Michael what happened. They had hurried to her car. After putting the orchid on the floor of the backseat to make sure it couldn’t fall over, she turned to him to say goodbye.
“Thanks so much for a great time,” Zehra said. She could feel herself blushing. “And thanks for the beautiful plant. No one has ever…”
“Dont worry. I enjoy you, and the orchid is a gift in appreciation of that pleasure I’ve had with you. Would you call me by my real name, Mustafa?”
“Of course, if you’d like.”
He smiled. “May I see you again?”
Every nerve in her brain told her to be careful. This was just too good to be true. She hardly knew him. She’d tried to discourage him. Slow down. As the thoughts ran through her mind, her mouth opened and words came from somewhere inside her, “Sure. I’m gonna be swamped with the trial, especially now, but let’s try to fit some time in.” She smiled into his face. His skin looked flawless.
“Well … thank you again.” He twisted from left to right. “You better get to work on the trial.” He leaned forward and kissed her quickly on the cheek.
She could feel the warmth of his skin, and she felt herself blush like a teenaged girl.
“Yo, Z … you still here?” BJ’s voice boomed around the conference room of Dr. Stein’s office. His big hand rested on her shoulder and calmed her.
“Yeah …”
“Dr. Stein usually works on Saturday mornings, so he agreed to meet us. I want you to hear this directly from him.”
In ten minutes, a large man with a moustache and a halo of curly gray hair came into the conference room where they sat. He wore a pink golf shirt and khaki pants. “Hey, BJ,” he called. “What’s shakin’?”
BJ introduced Zehra to Dr. Stein
“This dude can’t be all bad, ‘cause he’s a fan of jazz.”
“Even more, a fan of yours,” Stein grinned.
“Can you tell us what you found?” she said.
“Sure. You guys want water? Coffee?” He sat awkwardly at the head of the table. A huge gold watch dangled from his wrist and tapped on the table when he gestured with his hand. “My brother in Tel Aviv has a company that developed a test that can distinguish real DNA samples from the fake ones. I’ve started the U.S. outpost of his company. We hope to sell the test to labs all over the country.” He leaned back.