“We’re supposed to be met here.”
So we waited. The buses that were filled with coach peasants started arriving and the passport lines got longer. Two Yemeni soldiers carrying AK-47s were giving us the eye.
Kate said, “Let’s call the embassy number.”
“The pay phones are on the other side of passport control, and I’m not standing in line with the peasants.”
“We can’t stand here.”
“Okay, let’s cut the line.”
I went to the head of the line at one of the booths and Kate followed. No one objected and I recalled that the Yemenis, for all their faults, were exceedingly polite and tolerant of Westerners, whom they expected to be arrogant assholes.
Kate and I went to the passport guy and presented our diplomatic passports. The guy checked our visas, then our faces against the passport photos, and he stared at Kate. I mean, every woman in line was veiled, so this guy must be good at eyes. Right?
He stamped our visas, then motioned us to pass through. For some reason-instinct-I glanced back and saw he was on the phone.
Before we got to the double doors marked EXIT, a tall guy with a two-day beard, wearing a crumpled suit but no tie, approached and without identifying himself said, “Come this way,” and motioned us to follow him to a side corridor. I said to him, “We’re meeting someone here from the American Embassy.”
He seemed to understand and said impatiently, “Yes, yes. Embassy man is this way. We must discuss your visa.”
Sounded like bullshit to me, and I didn’t want to leave the public area-not that it mattered a whole lot where you were when you got arrested. But if we stayed here, we might see our embassy guy. I said, “We are traveling on American diplomatic passports, as you know, and we have been instructed to wait here, and we’re not moving from here.” I suggested, “Go get the embassy man.”
He seemed very annoyed, and at this point he should have IDed himself and asked for our passports, but instead he said, “Wait,” and walked toward the corridor.
The two soldiers with the AK-47s moved closer to keep us company. Meanwhile, the Yemenis from the flight were giving us furtive looks as they hurried toward customs.
I said to Kate, “See what happens when you cut the line?”
“John, what’s going on?”
“I don’t know.” And I wasn’t waiting around to find out. I eyed the double exit doors that led to baggage and customs, and thinking our contact guy might be there, or in the terminal, I said to Kate, “Let’s go.”
“He said wait-”
I took her arm and we moved toward the exit doors. “Walk like an Egyptian.”
We got within ten feet of the doors before I heard a shout, and the two soldiers suddenly rushed ahead of us and we found ourselves looking into the muzzles of two AK-47s.
Our Yemeni friend reappeared and shouted, “I say to you wait here!”
“Yeah, you also said the embassy man was with you.”
“Yes. Now he is here.”
“Mr. and Mrs. Corey, I presume.”
I turned, and walking toward us was a guy wearing jeans and a windbreaker. He was, in fact, the guy in our photograph. Paul Brenner.
He said to Kate and me, “Sorry I couldn’t meet you. I was speaking to this gentleman about your visas.”
I told him, “The Yemeni consulate in New York assured me there was no charge.”
He smiled, put out his hand to Kate, and said, “Paul Brenner. Nice to meet you, Mrs. Corey. Welcome to Paradise. I hope you had a good flight.”
“Yes… thank you.”
He extended his hand to me and said, “Your reputation precedes you.”
“Apparently it does.” I asked, “Who is this joker?”
Brenner introduced the joker as Colonel Hakim of the Political Security Organization-the Yemeni secret police. Colonel Hakim didn’t shake hands, but said to Brenner, “I will now wish to speak to your colleagues in private.”
Brenner replied, “I told you-not happening, Colonel.”
“Do you say no to me?”
“I say you must either arrest all of us or let us leave.”
Colonel Hakim seemed to be considering his two choices, then said to Brenner, “You may join us.”
“That’s not one of your choices.”
It was my turn to be alpha and I said to Colonel Hakim, “Tell these guys”-I pointed to the soldiers-“to lower their rifles.”
He hesitated, then barked something in Arabic and the soldiers lowered their rifles. Hakim said to me, “There is a problem with your visa, and that of your wife. A discrepancy of address. So I may ask you both to leave Yemen.”
Who said there’s no God?
Brenner said to Hakim, “That’s not a decision for you to make, Colonel.”
Sure it is. Shut up.
Colonel Hakim had no reply.
Brenner said to him, “The embassy will lodge a formal protest with your foreign minister tomorrow. Good evening, Colonel.”
Colonel Hakim again had no reply, but then Brenner unexpectedly stuck his hand out and Hakim hesitated, then took it. Brenner said to Hakim, “We must remain allies in the war against Al Qaeda. So cut this crap out.” He added, “As-salaam alaikum.”
Colonel Hakim, given the chance to save face in front of the soldiers, replied, “Wa alaikum as-salaam.”
I said to Colonel Hakim, “Let me know if you’re ever in New York.”
And off we went into the second ring of hell, the baggage and customs area.
As we walked, I asked Brenner, “What was that all about?”
He replied, “Just the Yemeni government trying to assert its authority.” He added, “They think they run the place.”
Kate inquired, “Don’t they?”
Brenner replied, “No one runs this place. That’s why we’re here.”
Right. Nature abhors a vacuum. Or, to be more positive, we’re here to help.
I said to Brenner, “Actually, our visas list our home address as 26 Federal Plaza.”
“These clowns don’t need your home address.”
“Right. We practically live in the office anyway.”
Brenner muscled his way through the maze of carts and people, saying something in Arabic, like maybe, “Excuse me, we’re Americans and we need to get out of this shithole. Thank you.”
Brenner said something to a porter, who nodded.
The carousel showed no signs of life, and Brenner said to us, “This could take a while.” He added, “Sometimes the carousel doesn’t work. Then they carry the bags in, and pandemonium breaks loose. It’s fun to watch.”
I asked Mr. Brenner, “How long have you been here?”
“Too long.”
“Me, too.”
He smiled.
Mr. Paul Brenner looked to be in his early fifties, tall-but an inch shorter than me-not bad-looking, well built, full head of black hair, and very tanned. Under his blue windbreaker he wore a gray T-shirt that I now saw said “Federal Prisoner.” Funny. Not so funny was the collar of a Kevlar vest that I could see above his T-shirt. Also under his windbreaker was a bulge on his right hip.
He informed us, “We have a three-car convoy that will take us to the embassy.”
“Guns?” I asked.
“Guns? You want guns, too?”
Paul Brenner seemed to have a sense of humor. I know someone with a similar sarcastic wit. This was not going to make us buds; there’s room for only one top banana in the show. I didn’t think Mr. Brenner was part of our team, but to find out I asked him, “Will we be working together?”
He replied, “I’m with DSS-Diplomatic Security Service. I work for the State Department to provide security to American Embassy personnel and official visitors.”
That didn’t answer the question, but I left it alone, and said, “Sounds interesting.”
He let us know, “I was Army CID. A homicide investigator. Like you were, Mr. Corey. I was a chief warrant officer. You were a detective second grade, NYPD. Now we are both civilians, pursuing second careers.”