Close Call

Chapter 7

The sky was black over the mountains as Miles drove his SUV along the sandy road into the countryside. The Trade Minister, Baakrime, had said that he would have something to tell Miles in a week, and the previous day an invitation had arrived at the US Embassy inviting him to lunch at the Minister’s farm in the hills outside Sana’a.

Miles’s colleagues in Langley were waiting impatiently for the payback on the cash that Baakrime had been given, information they were sure the Minister was holding about the sources of arms that were getting into the hands of jihadis through Yemen.

But Miles was uncomfortable, nervous about this ­journey away from comparative safety in the bustle of the town. Minister Baakrime had fallen for his recruitment pitch suspiciously quickly, taking the envelope of cash and promising information. But had he really agreed, or was this invitation a trap either to kill Miles or expose him as a foreign spy? He had consulted Langley overnight but they were keen to get the information and prepared to take a risk, so he was instructed to go to the meeting – and wear a tracking device that would be monitored by a drone far overhead. It wouldn’t help if he was killed but might if he was kidnapped – small consolation.

Miles glanced uneasily at the darkening sky. The climate in Yemen, normally so hot and dry, could produce sudden short but heavy cloudbursts, and it looked as if that was exactly what was on the way.

Seconds later it arrived. Rain beat thunderously on the top of the car; the wipers sweeping at top speed from side to side of the windscreen had no effect and the glass ran with a stream of water thick with sand raised by the sudden wind and the force of the rain. Miles could see nothing. The fields of arable crops and fruit orchards that bordered the road disappeared from sight and he stopped the car where he was, in the middle of the single-track road, hoping no vehicle was coming the other way. If there was, he wouldn’t see it and it wouldn’t see him until it was upon him.

He sat sweating with heat and tension until suddenly the rain stopped, the wipers cleared away the sand and he could see the road again. It was more of a small river now and his wheels threw up a fountain of water on each side of the car as he drove slowly on. As the sun came out again, he saw in the distance the red walls of what he took to be his objective, the Minister’s farm.

The carved wooden gates of the compound were open as Miles drove up. A young man in a white robe and a ­Western-style sports jacket saluted and waved him in through the gates, then walked across to open the car door as Miles parked against the wall beside a wet and muddy silver Mercedes with a two-digit licence plate – 12.

‘Salaam aleikum. Come this way, sir.’

Miles followed the young man into a lofty hall. Sunlight glanced though small windows set high up in the walls, but below the room was in shade and at first Miles, coming in from the bright sunlight, could see little. As his eyes got used to the dim light he saw the rough stone walls, the red-tiled floor covered with rugs in subdued colours, and around the room ottomans and chairs covered with cushions and throws of bright silks. This was a very luxurious farmhouse.

‘Sit down, sir. The Minister will be here shortly,’ said the young man in unaccented English. He clicked his fingers and a servant appeared with a tray of glasses of fruit juice.

Miles sat on the edge of an ottoman, sipping a glass of pomegranate juice. His sense of unease grew as he waited, wondering what would happen next.

‘My friend.’ A loud voice echoed across the hall as Baakrime in a long white robe strode towards Miles, his hand held out. ‘It is delightful to see you here. I must apologise for our weather. These rain storms blow up at this time of the year, but they are soon over. Unlike your hurricanes, they do little damage.’ He pumped Miles’s hand enthusiastically, setting up a sharp twingeing pain in his shoulder.

‘I thought it best to meet here. It is safe and away from prying eyes. Everyone here is family or old servants of my family. The road you came along is watched by my people and the young man who met you is one of my sons. He is my secretary. He was at school in England and at Cambridge University. Do you know England?’

‘Yes,’ said Miles. ‘I have worked in London.’

‘London. I love that city.’ The Minister rubbed his hands together. ‘We go there every year. My wife enjoys the shopping. Oxford Street, Harrods. I come back a poor man.’ He smiled and Miles smiled back. Baakrime’s poverty was not to be taken seriously.

‘But let us eat while we talk,’ and the clapping of his hands produced two servants with trays of little dishes and jugs of more fruit juice. One tray was placed on a brass-topped table beside Miles and the other beside Baakrime. Glasses were filled and the servants withdrew.

‘I am honoured to see you in my house,’ Baakrime began. ‘Sana’a is not a safe place for me to meet you. This is a dangerous time in my country. There is much discontent; the people are unsettled, the country is fragile. There are elements in Sana’a who want to overthrow the government and would like to be able to show we were pawns of the United States. In our desert regions, the jihadi groups have established strongholds. They are in league with groups in other countries and they want to kill us all.’

Miles nodded. ‘Yes. These are disturbed times in the whole of this region.’

‘You asked about weapons,’ the Minister went on. ‘They are everywhere. Where are they coming from? Iran, Pakistan – all the places you would expect.’ He paused to eat some things from the dishes.

‘What do you know of arms from the United States or Europe?’ Miles was anxious to come to the point and get away. In spite of the Minister’s assurances of security, he felt exposed in this place with no backup.

‘My friend, with the arms trade it is always difficult to know the origin. These people are masters at deceit – false invoices, changing documentation while a cargo is en route, and of course there are corrupt officials in every port and so much money to be made. The people who run this trade are very rich indeed – unlike in my country, where the poor are everywhere.’

He sipped his juice and looked at Miles over the rim of his glass.

There was silence. Miles ate some food. He felt sure there was more information to come, but it seemed to need some assistance. ‘Yes. The poor. I hope our contribution helped a little.’

‘Yes indeed, my friend. We are so grateful. But there is so much need.’

Miles felt in his pocket and produced an envelope. ‘Let’s hope this will satisfy some of it,’ he said, placing the envelope carefully on the tray of dishes beside him.

Baakrime began to talk again as though there had been no interruption. ‘Yes. The people who run this trade are very clever at disguising themselves. But I have heard that there is a main middleman for deals from Europe. They call him Calibre. His real name is never used. I hear that he is meeting the leader of a group of jihadis or rebels – I don’t know what group or exactly who they are, though I understand they are being funded by al-Qaeda. The meeting is in Paris in the next week or so. It is to arrange a shipment. The delivery will come through Yemeni ports, I hear.’

Miles nodded and waited. His face was calm but he was excited. At last he had something for his money, though it was pretty vague and probably not anything that could be acted on.

But Baakrime had not finished. ‘I will try to find out more about this meeting and if I do my secretary will get a message to you.’ He stopped for a sip of juice. ‘There is one more thing. It is generally thought that the arms that come via this route are for use in Arab countries, and that may be so, but I have heard that the man behind those deals, this Calibre, is using someone from England to help with this latest deal. The arms trade is a very tight-knit network, almost like a club, but it seems someone British is applying for membership.’