or that game. I said, “If you’re going, I’m going.”
“I don’t want you to do something you don’t want to do.”
“I want to do whatever you want to do, darling.”
“Well… maybe we should weigh the pros and cons.”
I couldn’t think of a single pro, but in the spirit of weighing all the issues, I said, “Maybe your parents could come for a long visit.”
She seemed a little annoyed and said to me, “If you’re going to be flippant about this, then I say we should just go.”
“Okay with me.”
End of discussion. Right? Well, no. It doesn’t work that way. She said, “I don’t think you mean that.”
Obviously Ms. Mayfield was wavering, and I was elected to give her the push one way or the other. I could have killed this thing right then and there, but I was taking some perverse pleasure in this. I mean, she was gung-ho for Yemen on Friday, but now some reality had set in.
Oddly enough, I was starting to think of some reasons why we should go. Not good reasons, but reasons—the biggest being that like most husbands, I sometimes let my wife do something I’ve advised against, which gives me the pleasure of saying, “I told you so!” I was actually looking forward to that moment. I pictured us in the desert with an overheated vehicle—maybe with bullet holes in the radiator and all the tires shot out—surrounded by Bedouin tribesmen with AK-47s. As I was slamming a magazine into my Glock, I’d look at her and say, “I told you so!”
“What are you smiling at?”
“Oh… I was just thinking about… how beautiful the desert is at night. Lots of stars.”
The waitress came by and I ordered a bacon cheeseburger with fries and another beer. Kate did the same. Hey, life is short. I informed Kate, “Not much beer or pork in Yemen.”
“If we go, I don’t want to hear you complaining for a year.”
“I’m not a complainer.”
“That’s a joke—right?”
“Complaining is a New York thing. It’s an art.”
“It’s annoying.”
“Okay. I won’t complain in Yemen. No one there gives a shit anyway.” I added, “Or they just kill you. End of complaint.”
She suppressed a smile.
I said, “There’s actually an off-Broadway theater in Sana’a, and they’ve got a long-running musical called ‘Guys and Goats.’ ” I broke into a show tune: “I got the goat right here, the name is al-Amir—”
She reminded me, “You’re an idiot.”
Back in our expensive apartment, we had coffee and watched some TV. The History Channel had yet another documentary about the end of the world, this one about the End of Days, as predicted by the Mayan calendar. December 21, 2012, to be exact. But they weren’t saying what time this was going to happen. I mean, you wouldn’t want to be sleeping and miss it.
Anyway, I felt like a cigar, so I went out to the balcony, lit up, and looked out over the city. It was a clear, cold night and I had great views to the south, and from here on the 34th floor I could see where I worked. We used to be able to see the Twin Towers, and after they were gone we could see the smoke rising for weeks, and then a few weeks later twin light beams rose high into the sky to symbolize the Towers. And now there was nothing.
Kate came out wearing a coat and carrying one for me. “Put this on.”
Real men don’t wear coats while they’re smoking a cigar on their balcony—but I put it on.
We didn’t speak for a while, and we watched the moon rising over the magical lights of Manhattan Island.
Finally, Kate said, “I’m actually going to miss New York.”
“You’ll appreciate it even more when you get back.”
She said, “This is obviously not a routine foreign assignment. This is something important. And Tom is showing confidence in us by asking us to take the job.”
“It’s very flattering,” I agreed.
“Which is why it’s hard to say no.”
“I thought we were saying yes. But if you want to say no, that’s easy.” I reminded her, “I signed on for domestic anti-terrorist work. So I have no legal or moral obligation to go to Yemen or anywhere else outside the U.S. You’re in a different position. So if you feel you need to go, I’ll go with you.”
She thought about that, then replied, “Thank you.” She said, “This may be a chance for us to make a difference. To actually apprehend the mastermind of the Cole attack.”