Brenner informed us, “The government is downplaying it, and it seems to be contained to the north of here, but for all I know we could wake up one morning and find rebel troops outside the embassy.”
“They could be there now,” I suggested.
“I think someone in the embassy would have called me.”
Mindful of Mohammed, we didn’t speak much on the drive into the city, but Brenner spent some time texting on his cell phone. He let us know, “I’m making a report.”
“Spell my name right.”
He looked at a text message and said to us, “We’ll stop at the embassy before going to your apartment.”
I didn’t ask him for any details. In fact, there wasn’t too much we could talk about with Mohammed listening, and anything Brenner said was probably disinformation for Mohammed’s consumption.
I’d noticed about five military checkpoints so far, though no one had stopped us, but I wouldn’t be surprised if they reported our position.
The lead vehicle and the trail vehicle were keeping fifty-foot intervals, and now and then Brenner would speak to the American drivers on his hand-held radio.
Mohammed said he had to make a cell phone call—“a security requirement,” he assured Brenner. I didn’t know how much Arabic Brenner understood, but apparently not enough to let Mohammed call his buds and say something like, “Hey, Abdul, where’s that ambush supposed to be? Did I miss it?”
Brenner said to Mohammed, “La,” which means no.
Mohammed shrugged.
The good road had ended and we were in an unpleasant slum now. There weren’t many vehicles or people on the dark and unmarked streets, some of which were dirt, making them excellent places to bury an explosive device.
Brenner, feeling an urge to be a good host and guide, said, “We’re close to the center of Sana’a, the old walled city, which is a World Heritage Site with buildings over a thousand years old and still standing.” He informed us, “The city, however, has spread out and the population has grown to nearly two million people, most of whom live in squalid shantytowns like this one, without indoor plumbing or sewers.”
In fact, I noticed an aroma strong enough to penetrate the bulletproof SUV, which I guess wasn’t gas-proof. The good news was that we could all fart freely and no one would notice.
Brenner said, “I’ll show you around old Sana’a tomorrow if we have time.”
Kate said, “That would be nice.”
I had missed seeing old Sana’a last time I was here, and I wouldn’t mind missing it again, so I didn’t second that. But I’m sure Mohammed made a mental note of it, which was maybe why Brenner said it. Bait has to advertise.
We made a few turns that I could tell were solely for the purpose of varying the route to the embassy. In fact, Brenner said, “We never go the same way twice.” Brenner also let us know, “If we get hit, my first shot goes through Mohammed’s head. Right, Mohammed?”
Mohammed did not reply.
I glanced at Kate and saw she was handling this well. So maybe this wasn’t the right time to say, “I told you so.” I’d know the right moment when it arrived.
We were now in the hilly eastern suburbs, a better part of the city, and Brenner said, “Five minutes to the embassy unless we run into an ambush. Then you have to add ten minutes.”
Mohammed thought that was funny. It occurred to me that everyone here was crazy. Maybe I was in the right place after all.
We approached the illuminated walls of the American Embassy compound, and I could see Yemeni soldiers sitting on the concrete barricades or lounging in white plastic chairs.
Brenner commented, “These guys are members of an elite unit called Sleepy Company, part of the Slacker Brigade.”
I inquired, “Is this their day off?”
“Every day.”
The lead vehicle stopped, and one of the soldiers stood and ambled over to the driver.
The embassy walls were about fifteen feet high, except around the gates where an ornate section rose about thirty feet. Embedded in the wall over the gates was the Great Seal of the United States. A welcome sight.
Brenner informed us, “If this place got hit, I’m confident these fine Yemeni soldiers would give their lives to protect the American Embassy.”
“They look half dead already.”
He laughed.
The electric gates slid open, and two United States Marines with M-16 rifles, wearing body armor and battle dress uniforms, stepped outside as the lead vehicle entered the embassy compound into what’s called a sally port—a walled-in pen with another steel gate