Sting of the Drone

20

^{THURSDAY, OCTOBER 22}

^{AL AMIRIYA MOSQUE}

^{RADDA, YEMEN}

“Asalam Alekhem,” Bryce said to the Imam. “May I enter your mosque?”

“Your Arabic is good, but you are not one of the faithful,” the elder replied, “but all may pray here, if they show respect.”

Bryce removed his shoes. “I was told that you might talk to a traveler.”

“The Prophet, blessings and peace be upon him, taught us to give hospitality to the traveler.” The Imam added, “But travelers from some places may not be safe outside of the mosque.”

“I am from Canada,” Bryce insisted.

“Welcome. What brings this traveler to this town?”

“I seek to learn, to know what has happened here,” Bryce began. “There are stories one hears. Tales of death from the sky. I seek to learn who is dying and who is killing and why.”

“This is not hard to learn, my friend. At first it was the fighters, mainly up in the hills. Some of them were not from our country, some were. Their camps were hit. Then when they were driving through the desert, their cars were hit. Then when they took over some villages, buildings in the villages were bombed. That’s when the women and the children died.”

Bryce had activated his digital voice recorder and was hoping it could hear the soft-spoken Imam. “And these attacks were from the Yemeni Air Force? That’s what they tell me in Sana’a.”

“Pfft,” the Imam spit. “Those fools could not hit one carmel in a herd. It was your friends, the Americans. You know that. Their little white planes. You can hear them all the time. You can see them some days, here. They are flying here now, killing here now.”

“Here? Could I see where? I would like to talk with the families,” Bryce suggested.

“It would not be safe for you,” the Imam replied. “Some people may not believe that you are Canadian. Some people may think you are American. And they are very mad at the Americans now, very mad.” He pulled worry beads from his pocket and began to finger them.

“Imam, I have come to learn, but also to teach. I wish to teach people in North America, Canada, and the U.S. what is happening here. There are good people there, too. If they know what is happening, things may change. But if the suffering is a story that never leaves the places where it happens….” Bryce spoke softly.

The Imam rose from the floor on which the two men had been sitting. “You will walk with me. You will not leave my side. You will not speak. You will listen. You will use no camera. You will learn. Come.” Then the Imam turned and pointed at Fares, who was acting as Bryce’s cameraman. “You, stay here. Stay in the mosque. Pray.”

The streets were unpaved, packed sand and dust. The few people on the streets and in the doorways showed reverence to the Imam. The Imam turned off into an alley, and then another. The houses were close together, the smells of cooking and spices wafted out of some of the windows as they passed. Then the alley opened onto a little square. On the other side of the sandy square was an abandoned building, the roof gone, the signs of a fire around the empty windows.

They walked to a different building, on the left of the square. Two little girls ran to the Imam. “Ask your father to come out to meet me,” the Imam instructed. After several minutes, a man appeared, sweating and wearing a work belt with carpenter tools. The Imam spoke to him in rapid Arabic, in the local dialect. Bryce captured only a few words.

“Tell him about that house,” the Imam said more clearly.

“It was my brother’s,” the man said. “He lived there with his family, two wives only, seven children. He also rented rooms. Three months ago, it blew up, the house. Most of his family, thanks God, were at the marketplace and at the schools. My brother was working on the new rooms he was making on the roof. I have now taken his wives as my wives three and four. And the five of his children that survived, my children now. Maram and Munira, the beautiful girls, they died with my brother.”

“How did the house explode, why? Tell him,” the Iman spoke.

“It was a drone. I heard it twice, maybe more times, in the days before. Then I saw it again on that day. It was not just me. Others, they heard it and saw it on the day, firing its rockets at my brother’s house. Why? I don’t know. The Americans did not know my brother. He owned the house with me, the house they droned. He ran the supply store downstairs. We also rent rooms out to people. Maybe he rent to someone from the mountains, but only he die. He and the girls. I don’t know why, only Allah knows now,” the man seemed moved almost to tears to have to recount this story. Then he recovered and a wave of anger crossed his face. “But I do know that if I can ever find them, the Americans, Ibrahim will be revenged. And if I can’t find an American, I will find one of the soldiers from Sana’a. At the right time, inshallah. Have you learned enough now? Have you?” The man stormed back into the house.

Fares emerged from the mosque when they returned. He quickly joined Bryce in the Toyota. Bryce thanked the Imam again, profusely. “Go now. You will be safe if you leave now and keep going. Keep going,” the Imam said and then turned and went back into the little mosque.

Just outside the town Bryce told Fares to drive off road, up the hill overlooking the town. There they set up the camera and did a long-range zoom in on the burned-out house. Fares pulled the focus back, revealing Bryce standing on the edge of the cliff above the old town.

Bryce, looking into the camera, began, “In Yemen’s capital they told us about a recent success by the Yemeni Air Force, whose ancient MiG aircraft had destroyed a terrorist bomb factory in the town of Radda. Five terrorists, and only terrorists, were killed, they said.

“So we came to Radda and what we found here is very different. The villagers here tell us that the building was a family’s home, the family business, a supply store, and some rooms to rent. They tell us that a drone fired rockets into the house, killing only its owner and his two young daughters, Maram and Munira.

“So, what we learn by coming out here is that the locals believe no terrorists were killed here and the Yemeni Air Force was not involved. Two young girls died, they say, killed by an American drone. What we can be sure of is that in this region, the people believe America is killing innocent people with drones and that is making Americans a lot more enemies. Bryce Duggan, WWN, Radda, Yemen.”

Fares quickly folded the camera tripod. “All right, Bryce, that was good enough. One take. Let’s get the hell out of here.”

They drove back to the road and, one mile out of the town, as the path turned at the base of a hill, they saw the roadblock. It was two Hilux pickup trucks and an old Toyota SUV, not a government roadblock. It was too late to turn around, so Fares slowed down and turned on his blinkers. They counted eight men initially, all armed with AKs, all pointed at them.

“Get out,” one of the men yelled in Arabic. “Hands on your heads.” Once they stopped out, men stood in front of them with rifles. Others came up behind and pushed them down onto their knees. Quickly, deftly, the men behind them grabbed their hands and bound their wrists with plastic strips that cut into the flesh. Then Bryce and Fares were frisked, their wallets, mobile phones, and passports taken. Swiftly, they were carried to the old Land Cruiser, blindfolded, and thrown in the back of the SUV. Within three minutes of their seeing the roadblock, they had been taken and were being driven off. It had all happened very quickly.

^{FRIDAY, OCTOBER 23}

^{OUTSIDE RADDA}

^YEMEN

They had each spent the night in a darkened room, alone, cold, hungry. Fares in one room, Bryce in another. Their hands had been unbound, but only after their feet were bound together at the ankles with heavy, old chain. The rooms had no windows and only the slightest ambient light near the high ceiling. Bryce thought maybe his room had been a storage closet of some sort. The walls were stucco, the floor dirt. He had heard talking in the distance, but could not discern a word he knew. Twice, since the time when he thought the sun had come up, he had heard a vehicle. His mind drifted, a result, he thought, of hunger, the low blood sugar.

He had told Fred Garrison in New York that they were driving out into the country. Garrison had expected a call in from them last night when they returned to the hotel. By now Garrison had probably called the embassy. Maybe the embassy could get someone in the Yemeni Security Service on the phone. Maybe Garrison would give someone in the U.S. Government their mobile phone numbers to track them. That would get them to where the roadblock had been, but they were at least an hour away from there now.

He tried to remember whether AQAP took ransom money when they kidnapped Westerners. Or did they just kill them? He thought of the pictures of Danny Pearl from The Wall Street Journal being decapitated in Pakistan. Bryce shuddered. He tried to take control of where his mind went. He willed himself to think of breakfast at the Tim Hortons near campus. He dozed again.

Bryce jolted awake as the door flew open and hit the wall. Bright light streamed in, as did the men, four of them with balaclavas hiding their faces. The leg irons came off and he was lifted. They were in a corridor, then a small, bright courtyard. Fares sat at a table with another man. Bryce was forcefully seated at the table. He made eye contact with Fares, who stared back, wide eyed.

“Wash your hands before you eat,” the man at the table said in British-accented English. He pushed a bowl of water toward Bryce and handed him a small towel. Bryce noticed a second bowl, with fruit.

“You are CIA, yes?” the man asked. He looked to be in his forties, his bushy beard already speckled with gray.

Bryce tried to answer, but his throat cracked from the dryness. The man pushed a glass toward him and Bryce eagerly took it and swallowed the carrot juice.

“No, WWN. World Wide News,” Bryce said. “I am a Canadian citizen.”

The man nodded his head, agreeing. “Yes, yes. I saw the passport. And your bio on the WWN Web site says you went to the University of Toronto. Still, you could be CIA. They told us to expect you.”

“I’m sorry, who told you what?” Bryce asked, reaching for a banana.

“We have mutual acquaintances in Pakistan, Mister Duggan, but I wanted to be sure for myself what you were doing here, what your report would say.” The man rose from the table as a boy appeared with flat bread and a teapot. “I watched your videotape this morning. It tells the truth. But now you can say that you met with an AQAP leader, Mr. Duggan, and he told you that the drones are bringing us more brothers than anything we ever tried.”

Two men with AKs appeared in the courtyard. “They will take you to your vehicle,” the older man said as he left the courtyard. “The drones are working, CIA man. They are recruiting for us.”