Paul Brenner seemed to have a sense of humor. I know someone with a similar sarcastic wit. This was not going to make us buds; there’s room for only one top banana in the show. I didn’t think Mr. Brenner was part of our team, but to find out I asked him, “Will we be working together?”
He replied, “I’m with DSS—Diplomatic Security Service. I work for the State Department to provide security to American Embassy personnel and official visitors.”
That didn’t answer the question, but I left it alone, and said, “Sounds interesting.”
He let us know, “I was Army CID. A homicide investigator. Like you were, Mr. Corey. I was a chief warrant officer. You were a detective second grade, NYPD. Now we are both civilians, pursuing second careers.”
“Right. Except I’m not exactly pursuing my second career.”
“I hear you.”
Kate commented, “This is the only career I’ve got.”
Brenner smiled, then looked at her and said, “You’ve got a lot of guts to come here.”
She didn’t reply, but to set the record straight, I told Brenner, “It was her idea.”
He let us know, “It’s a tough assignment, but you’ll get through it, and you’ll be able to write your own ticket when you get back.”
I replied, “We’re hoping for Afghanistan next.”
He laughed, then said to me, “So you were here in August ’01?”
“Yeah. Forty days altogether. Mostly in Aden.”
“Right. Well, things have heated up a bit since then.” He explained, “Al Qaeda is here.”
I informed him, “They were here when I was here. They blew up the Cole.”
“Right. Well, now they’re all over.” He went on, “If possible, this place has become more dangerous.”
Typical war-hardened vet trying to scare the newbies. I said, “In my day, when we walked down the street in Aden, we had to throw grenades just to go get a newspaper.”
He laughed again and said, “Well, in Sana’a we fire so many rounds from the embassy that we wade knee-deep through the shell casings.”
Kate said, “Please.”
It’s a guy thing, sweetheart.
Anyway, we chatted awhile as we waited for our luggage, and Brenner said to Kate, “Take what I’m about to say as a professional observation—you’re very good-looking, and you have a face that, once seen, is not forgotten. That may be a liability.”
Kate smiled nicely and replied, “That’s never been a liability before.”
“Let me make a suggestion,” said Mr. Brenner. “You should always wear a long head scarf that you can wrap or hold over your face. The Western ladies here find this is a good compromise to the veil.”
“Thank you,” replied Kate a bit coolly.
The carousel jerked to a start and the baggage began dropping out of a hole in the wall.
I’ve never actually seen so much stuff on a baggage carousel—boxes, crates, weird shapes wrapped in plastic, and some of the worst luggage I’ve seen since my aunt Agnes visited from Buffalo. I said, “I hope our chickens made it.”
The Yemenis picked the carousel bare like piranha stripping a carcass.
Our first-class bags were among the last, and Brenner asked, “Is that all you’ve got?”
I informed him, “There is a large cargo ship sailing out of New York with the rest of my wife’s luggage.”
Kate smiled. She loves sexist jokes.
The porter had our suitcases and overnight bags on his cart and we moved toward the customs counters, but Brenner led us directly toward the doors. A customs guy in uniform hurried toward Brenner, and Brenner held out his passport from which protruded an official document called a thousand-rial bank note—about five bucks—that the guy snatched as he waved us through.
Brenner commented, “This is one of the worst airports in the world in terms of security and screening. There’s no watch list, so Al Qaeda guys and other bad actors can come and go. Also, you could ship a bomb out of here addressed to someplace in America.”
I said to Kate, “We should have given them Tom Walsh’s home address.”
We went out into the badly lit and nearly deserted concourse, which was as run-down as I remembered it. The few shops were closed, as was the only car rental and the Yemenia airline counter. I saw a big sign that said, in English and Arabic, NO KHAT CHEWING. I’m not making that up. But smoking was okay, because a soldier had a butt in his mouth.
We went through the exit doors, and at the curb were three black Toyota Land Cruisers with dark-tinted windows. Standing close to each SUV were two guys toting M4 carbines, who were obviously