two months and the water pumping facilities were destroyed and people were dying of thirst.”
Kate asked him, “Did you stay in the city?”
“I did, and I sent radio reports to the State Department…” He let us know, however, “I had several months’ supply of Seera beer put away for such a situation.” He informed us, “The Seera brewery was built by the British, and it supplied the whole country with beer. But when the North Yemenis took the city, they blew up the brewery.” He added, “Bastards.”
That got a chuckle. But it was also a hint of what went on here not too long ago. And also a hint of what Buck Harris had experienced here over the years. I had no doubt that this man was a dedicated professional. What troubled me, though, was his profession. I have a thing about intelligence officers, no matter what alphabet agency they work for. I mean, they do a necessary job, and I respect what they do, but if you’re not one of them, you can wind up on their expendable list, as Buck himself had confessed in vino veritas.
On that subject, I was still waiting for our CIA guy to show himself, and my instincts said it would be soon.
We were all baking in the heat, so we unrobed and dove into the pool, which was warm as bathwater.
Everyone, I assumed, had a gun and extra magazines in their bathrobes, and the staff knew that and stayed away from our table. Also, as per my last visit here, there was a Marine sniper on the roof keeping an eye on the pool and beach. Every resort hotel should have a sniper on the roof. Helps you relax.
Anyway, after about a half hour of pool frolics, I suggested a beach volleyball game, admitting, “I got very good at this when I was here.”
We carried our bathrobes down to the beach and hung them on the net pole, then chose up sides: Buck, Clare, and me against Brenner, Kate, and Howard.
We played best out of five, and I seemed to be the only one who knew how to play the game. My team swept the first three, with me as the high scorer, of course. Hey, I played this stupid game for forty days. That’s why I suggested it.
Brenner, I noticed, was a competitive player, and not a very good loser. Neither am I, which is why I play games I can win.
Buck suggested a walk on the beach, so we asked one of the Marines to watch our backs and watch our robes and guns, and we all went down to the water. As I said, naked on the beach in Yemen means you don’t have your gun.
Howard announced, “I want to take a swim. Who’s coming in with me?”
How could I resist saying, “Do you know why sharks don’t eat lawyers? Professional courtesy.”
Okay, old joke, but it got a laugh because of the immediate proximity of the lawyer and the sharks.
Brenner, of course, took the challenge, and I did, too, but Kate said, “John, I don’t want you—any of you—to go in.”
Buck informed us, “It’s very dangerous.”
Well, that settled it. Howard, Brenner, and I ran into the surf and dove in. The gulf was calm, the salt water was buoyant, and the tide was running out, so it was an easy swim, even with the weight of our heavy shorts and T-shirts.
We got about a hundred yards out when I spotted two gray dorsal fins about twenty feet away. Holy shit.
Howard said hopefully, “Could be dolphins.”
I suggested, “Tell them the lawyer joke and when they laugh we can see if they have sharp teeth.”
Anyway, we headed for shore and made it back to the shallow water, where Buck, Kate, and Clare stood waist-deep in the surf watching us set a swim speed record.
Buck asked, “Sharks?”
I replied, “I didn’t ask.”
We all waded ashore, and Kate said to me sharply, “We didn’t come all the way here and survive an ambush so you could get eaten by a shark.”
“Yes, dear.”
Brenner was probably rethinking his infatuation with Kate Mayfield. My rule is, if you’re thinking of having an affair with a married woman, first see how she treats her husband.
Anyway, we all decided that the pool was safer, but before we began our walk up the beach, I saw Buck looking at a guy who was standing about thirty feet away at the water’s edge, smoking a cigarette and staring out at the sea.