I said to Brenner, “They seemed to know you.”
No response.
Tourist City was a collection of five- and six-story concrete slab buildings, not unlike an urban housing project for the poor. But here, in Sana’a, it was the height of luxury, and more importantly, it was guarded. Not safe. Guarded.
I could see why Paul Brenner might choose not to live here; it was sort of depressing, but also an admission that you felt unsafe on the outside. And macho men would never admit that. They’d rather die. And often did.
There were a few low-rise buildings on the grounds, including a few shops, and in one of the buildings was the Russia Club.
Zamo pulled up and we piled out.
There were two more armed guys in front of the place, and they definitely recognized Mr. Buckminster Harris. In fact, they greeted him in Russian, and Buck replied in Russian with what must have been a joke, because the two guys laughed.
Ironic, I thought, that Buck Harris, who’d spent most of his professional life trying to screw the Russians, was now yucking it up with them in Yemen, where he’d spent part of the Cold War spying on the now-defunct Evil Empire. If you live long enough, you see things you could never have imagined.
We entered the Russia Club, and the maitre d’ saw me and shouted, “Ivan! It is you! Excellent. Tatiana is here tonight. She will be delirious with joy!”
Just kidding.
But the maitre d’, Sergei by name, did know Buck, though not Paul Brenner, which disappointed me. I would have liked to discover that Mr. Cool dropped his paycheck here every month, boozing and whoring. Kate, too, would find that interesting.
Anyway, the place looked a bit sleazy, which it was. There was a long bar to the right, a raised stage, and a ceramic-tile dance floor surrounded by tables, half of which were empty. A DJ was playing some god-awful seventies hard rock, and a few couples were on the dance floor, looking like they were having seizures.
The bar was crowded with casually dressed men and barely dressed women. I mean, I haven’t seen so much deep cleavage since I drove through the Grand Canyon. The men looked Western-Europeans and Americans-and most of the ladies appeared to be from Eastern Europe and Russia, though there were a few black ladies who, I’d once been told, were from Djibouti, Ethiopia, Somalia, and Eritrea, which is not far from here if you cross the pirate-infested Red Sea. Also at the tables were a few Western-looking women accompanied by their gentlemen friends or husbands. I recognized two men and women from the embassy, but they didn’t wave.
If there were any Yemeni customers or service staff in the Russia Club, I didn’t see them. In fact, I’m sure one selling point of this place was the promise that you didn’t have to see a single Yemeni, unless you stayed until closing time and watched them mop the floor under the eye of armed Russians.
Kate broke into my thoughts and asked me, “Been here before?”
“They’ve named a cocktail after me.”
Anyway, Sergei escorted us to a table, though I’d have preferred the bar.
Buck ordered a bottle of Stolichnaya on ice, a plate of citrus fruit, and zakuskie-snacks.
My last case, involving The Lion, had taken me to a Russian nightclub in Brighton Beach, Brooklyn, which is home to many Russian-Americans. The club, Svetlana by name, was a lot more opulent than this place, and the clientele were mostly immigrants from the motherland on a nostalgia trip. This place, named simply the Russia Club, was the Village of the Damned in the Country of the Lost.
Anyway, the vodka came quickly and we toasted, “Na Zdorov’e.”
Kate seemed comfortable enough in the proximity of horny guys and hookers, and her only complaint was the volume of the bad music.
Mr. Brenner asked her to dance, of course, and she accepted and walked unsteadily onto the slippery dance floor with Brenner holding her arm.
Buck said to me, “She’s a delightful woman.”
“She is,” I agreed. More so when she’s had a few. However, if it was me who’d suggested coming here, she might not be such delightful company.
Kate slipped on the tile floor, but Brenner caught her, and Kate kicked off her shoes and they danced to some horrid disco tune.
An attractive, scantily clad lady came over to the table carrying a tray suspended from a strap around her neck, and in the tray were two huge hooters and a selection of cigars and cigarettes. Take your pick.
Buck found three Cubans hiding under the lady’s left humidor, and gave her a twenty-dollar bill, which included tax, tip, and a light.
The lady said to Buck, in a heavy Russian accent, “I don’t see you for many weeks.”
Buck replied in Russian, and the lady laughed and tousled his thinning hair. Buck was apparently still fucking the Russians.
The lady checked me out and asked, “You are new in Sana’a?”
“I feel I’ve been here all my life.”
“Yes?” She further inquired, “Is that your wife or girlfriend? Or his?”
“My wife, his girlfriend.”
She thought that was really funny, then said to me, “Maybe I see you again.”
“Tomorrow night.”
So Buck and I sat there, smoking Cuban cigars, drinking Russian vodka, listening to American disco, and watching the human comedy.
I was sure that if you stayed in Yemen long enough-like more than a month-you’d develop a deep fatalism, which led to strange and risky behavior. I’m not being judgmental-just expressing an awareness that the people I needed to work with and trust had gone a little around the bend.
Anyway, the DJ switched to American big band, and an instrumental of “I’m in the Mood for Love” filled the room while a Russian chanteuse on the stage did her best to sing along.
“Ahminda moot fa loov, zimply becus yerneermee…”
Brenner and Kate were getting to know each other.
On the subject of fatalism, I imagined that every dangerous mission from the dawn of time through World War Two and the Cold War to the war on terrorism began with an alcohol binge. Or should begin that way. Hey, eat, drink, and be merry. Nothing puts things into perspective like the thought that you might die tomorrow.
I said to Buck, “This was a good idea.”
“It’s the thing to do on the eve of battle.” He added, “War is a good excuse for any type of behavior.”
Indeed.
The DJ was now playing “Moonlight Serenade” and Kate, observing the one slow dance rule, came over to the table, took Buck’s hand, and led him to the dance floor, leaving Mr. Brenner and me to dance if we chose to.
Before I could ask, Brenner sat and said, “Oh, good. Cigars.” He busied himself with pouring a vodka while getting the attention of the cigarette lady, who came over and clipped his Cuban, then lit it for him.
We didn’t have much to say to each other, but he did say, “Good cigar.”
Mr. Brenner, I thought, was becoming less funny and less interesting as he became more distracted by Ms. Mayfield. I’ll write this off to too much alcohol and too much time in the land of limited dating opportunities. Not that you had to be drunk or horny to find Kate Mayfield attractive.
Anyway, I watched Buck and Kate sharing the dance floor with Western European and American men, and Eastern European and African hookers. It was great that so many diverse cultures could get along so well. It would have been even greater if we could get the Arabs out there in their robes and veils, all liquored up, doing the Bristol Stomp.
A few ladies came by to ask if they could sit or have a dance, and Mr. Brenner and I politely declined.
To make conversation, I said to Brenner, “Someday a rocket is going to come through this roof.”
He informed me, “They have steel planking and sandbags on the roof.”
“It should say that on the menu.”
“Moonlight Serenade” ended, and it was my turn to dance with my wife.