The next two photos were color blow-ups of what were captioned Driver’s License photo, 1982, and Passport photo, 1990. In the passport photo, he was still clean-shaven, but his demeanor had changed. He looked serious, or maybe he was thinking about returning to his ancestral home. By this time, he’d gotten his head full of radical thoughts, probably through the Internet, and maybe from some local spiritual guides who had a different view of Islam than most Muslims had, and who preyed on young men such as Bulus ibn al-Darwish.
The last three photos were color snapshots, and one of them showed a big Victorian house in the background, and it was captioned Perth Amboy, home, May 1991. Last known photo.
Bulus, twenty-six years old in this picture, looked older, and without reading too much into the snapshot-but with the knowledge that he’d gone to Yemen a year or so after this photo-I had the impression of a young man who was about to sever his ties to home and family; a man who had seen his future and was anxious to make his mark in the world.
Who, I wondered, took the photo? Probably Mom. Taken in May, so maybe a birthday photo. And did Mom and Dad know that their boy was about to leave the nest and fly east? Probably.
I wondered, too, if Bulus had a girlfriend. Was he getting laid? Did he have only Muslim friends? Or did he also pal around with Christians and Jews? Did he watch American sitcoms on TV? Maybe he did all that in college and afterwards. But somewhere along the line, young Bulus started slipping away into an alternate universe. And now he was here, killing people-American sailors, Europeans, Saudi co-religionists, and his own countrymen.
What happened? Maybe I’d never know. Maybe he himself didn’t know what happened, or how it happened. But at some point he’d come to a fork in the road, and he’d taken the wrong one. And I was on a collision course with this guy. If I had a moment with him, I’d ask him about all this. But more likely, there would be no moment of discovery; there would be a quick death. Mine or his.
Mike asked, “Is that the subject asshole?”
“It is.”
Mike glanced at the birthday photo and said, “Looks normal.”
Right. Some monsters look normal.
Clare leaned forward and asked, “Who is that?”
“That,” I replied, “is Bulus ibn al-Darwish. He is a mass murderer.”
She didn’t reply for a few seconds, then asked, “Are you here to find him?”
“I am.”
“Good luck.”
I took a last look at the subject, then put the photos in the envelope.
If he knew I was here, maybe he had a photo of me.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Brenner was maintaining a good speed, and we were passing slow-moving vehicles, which is always interesting on a two-lane road with large trucks coming at you.
After a particularly close encounter, Mike remarked, “These armored SUVs don’t respond well to the gas pedal.”
“You’re doing great,” I assured him. I asked Clare, “You carrying anything aside from that medical bag?”
“You mean… like a gun?”
“Yeah. Like that.”
“No. Well… yes.” She informed us, “It’s in my medical bag.”
“What is it?”
“A gun.”
“Right. Can I see it?”
She opened her medical bag and produced an unholstered 9mm Glock.
I unfastened my seat belt, leaned between the seats, and took the gun from her. I checked it out-full magazine, no round in the chamber. I gave her a one-minute lesson on how to chamber a round, how to change magazines, and reminded her that the Glock had no safety.
She said, “Paul Brenner showed me all this.”
“Good. Did he also tell you how to aim and fire?”
“He said to hold it with both hands, arms outstretched, look down the barrel, and squeeze the trigger.”
“That’s about it.” I reminded her, “Aim for the center mass of the target. Heart is on the right.”
“Left.”
“His left, your right, Doctor.”
She nodded.
I turned and refastened my seat belt.
The traffic had gotten lighter, and we were picking up speed. Winter is the dry season here, and the high rolling plateau was brown. I saw fields of what looked like newly planted grain, and scattered fruit trees. But mostly I saw what I knew was the cash crop-khat shrubs with dark green leaves and pretty white flowers. The goats seemed to like the khat. Happy goats.
I mentioned the khat cultivation to my driving companions, and Dr. Nolan gave us a medical analysis of Catha edulis, a.k.a. khat. She made no moral judgment, but her medical opinion was that you shouldn’t operate machinery under the influence. Probably you shouldn’t fire a submachine gun, either.
Our radios crackled to life now and then, mostly negative sit-reps from our leader, and from our trail vehicle. Indeed, this looked like a milk run, but it could turn on a dime.
I noticed that when there was no oncoming traffic, Brenner moved the convoy into the left lane. He was either practicing for an assignment in the U.K., or he was keeping away from possible roadside bombs whenever he could. Good thinking.
About fifty miles south of Sana’a, Mike pointed out an oil pipeline that he said came from Marib and went to the Red Sea port city of As-Salif. He informed us, “The hill tribes to the east of here blow up the pipeline about once a month.”
“For fun?”
“Fun and profit. They make the government and the American oil company pay them protection money.”
“Protection money is supposed to stop them from blowing up the pipeline,” I pointed out.
“Yeah, but this is Yemen.”
Right. Case closed.
The radio said, “Ma’bar, two K.”
Mike and the other drivers acknowledged, and we started to slow down. Mike said to us, “Small town.”
I was remembering this road a little, and I recalled that there weren’t many towns along the way, and Ma’bar, about sixty miles from Sana’a, was the first.
What I also remembered about my trip between Sana’a and Aden was that the road wasn’t considered too dangerous two and a half years ago. I mean, it wasn’t totally safe, but it wasn’t ambush alley either. Things, however, had changed, and not for the better, as Buck mentioned in New York, and the embassy website said.
The convoy slowed down, and Mike said, “Expect a checkpoint.”
We entered the small town of Ma’bar, which I sort of remembered, a collection of two-story mud brick buildings, goats, children, and chickens.
There was indeed an army checkpoint in the center of town, and we stopped. I saw Buck get out of the second vehicle and walk up to the soldiers. He shook hands with the honcho, said something that made the soldiers laugh, then got face-to-face with the boss, Arab style, and had a serious conversation with him. And while he was at it, he slipped the guy some baksheesh, which made everyone happy.
Buck got back in the Land Cruiser. Piece of cake.
As we passed the checkpoint, the Yemeni soldiers looked into the dark-tinted windows, and though they couldn’t see inside, Mike flipped them the bird anyway, saying, “They should be paying us.”
Brenner’s voice on the radio said, “Dhamar, thirty K. Expect another stop.”
Within twenty minutes we were in the larger town of Dhamar. I recalled that an earthquake had pretty much leveled this place back in the eighties, and it was still half in ruins. This country can’t catch a break.
Clare asked, “What happened here?”
“It wasn’t a battle,” I assured her. “Every two years the residents smash up the town with sledgehammers. It’s called the Festival of Al-Smash.”
Silence from the rear. But Mike laughed.
Clare said, “This is going to be a long day.”
My wife says that. Every day.
Anyway, we were stopped again in the center of town, and Buck again got out, but this time Brenner accompanied him and they had a conversation with the soldiers.