“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.”
“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.”