Greg Rucka - A gentleman_s game

Yosef smoked from the corner of his mouth, looking her over. His expression seemed to say that he would have done the same thing to her had their positions been reversed, and Chace took that, more than anything else, as proof that he was who he claimed he was.

"I made you in the Suq al-Milh," Chace said.

"I hoped you would. I didn't want to alarm you."

"How'd you pick me up?"

"I was told that you would be either French or Italian, with one of the groups. It didn't take long to find out where you were staying."

Chace considered, then made the Walther in her hand safe and set it on the edge of the bed.

"Make it fast," she said.

"They will be meeting tomorrow," Yosef answered. "El-Sayd should arrive in San'a' by morning. Our assessment is that he will want to limit his exposure as much as possible, so he'll press to meet Faud at some point during the day, then depart for Cairo by evening. I've been told that our assessment and yours are in agreement."

Her eyebrows arched. "You don't know my assessment."

"No, I don't. I am only relaying to you what I was asked to relay."

"I see. And that's all? You're all finished now?"

"I'm to offer you support, if you require it. Backup, nothing else."

"I don't need it. I don't want it. And if I see you anywhere-and I mean anywhere-tomorrow, the whole thing's off. I don't want you compromising me. And you can tell your people that, too."

Yosef exhaled another stream of smoke, watched it fold and curl, then met Chace's gaze and nodded, once. He rose, scooping the billfold and replacing it, then indicating the revolver on the bed.

"May I?"

"Well, I sure as hell don't want it," Chace said.

He picked the cartridges up, dropped them into his pocket, then took the revolver and secured it back at his ankle. Then he motioned to the Walther. "Little."

"It doesn't take much."

"No," Yosef agreed, heading for the door. "No, it doesn't."

Yemen-San'a', Old City 9 September 0959 Local (GMT+3.00) It was the first time Sinan had prayed in the air, since the Saudia flight didn't land them in Yemen until just before nine in the morning. When he'd finished his ziryat, he'd looked out the windows to see that the endless desert had transformed to ragged mountains, and he'd stared in delight at the view of San'a' from above, the houses built tall on the high rocks, the minarets of the city's more than one hundred mosques.

When they landed, they were met by an airport official who walked them, Kalashnikovs on their shoulders and carrying the Prince's bags, past the long lines waiting for customs. An SUV awaited them at the curve, one of the Prince's American-trained security men behind the wheel, and they climbed inside and drove the eleven kilometers into San'a', to the Sheraton Hotel, where the other member of the Prince's security detail had already booked them into their suites.

The first thing the Prince did when they reached the suite was point Sinan to the menu on the coffee table near the largest couch, the one facing the television.

"Order food," the Prince said. "Whatever you want, lots of food. We'll have a meal and then go to the medina to meet my friends."

"Your friends?" Matteen asked.

"Men like us," the Prince answered, disappearing into one of the bedrooms and then reemerging with a frown. "That one is for you two. I'll take the room on the second level."

Sinan nodded, opened the menu. He wasn't hungry, though whether it was a result of the travel or the Prince's company, he wasn't certain. The resentment he'd been fighting had returned on the plane, as the three of them had sat in a cabin that could have seated eighty and instead held only seven, including four flight attendants who had been solicitous to the point of obsequiousness.

The menu was very Western, and Sinan scowled. Bad enough to stay in a Western hotel, but now to eat the food? There was alcohol available on the menu, and Sinan suspected that the Prince would want him to order some, but unless he was asked directly, Sinan wouldn't do it.

The Prince came back down the stairs, apparently satisfied. "Not Mirabella, but it will do," he told the two of them, then took the menu from Sinan and proceeded to make the room service order himself.

The meal came quickly, and Sinan was surprised at the Prince's restraint. The meal was mostly fruit and rice, served with a local flatbread and hot tea.

"Lunch is the big meal here," the Prince explained. "After we meet my friends, we'll have lunch."

Sinan nodded, ate another fig. The Prince was watching him with a grin.

"Your Highness?"

"You're curious, I know. You're wondering who these people are we're meeting, why I've brought you two here with me."

"I am curious, yes."

"You know both of them, I have heard. One not well, but you have met him. The other, you know him well and have not met him."

Sinan couldn't hide his confusion.

"Before you came to my friend Abdul Aziz, you studied in Cairo."

"Yes, I did."

"You met this friend there, in Cairo. He told Abdul Aziz about you, and Abdul Aziz told me, and that is how you were chosen for the Hajj." The Prince refilled his tea, chuckling at the look on Sinan's face. "You should remember him. You made an impression on him."

Matteen was dipping a piece of his khubz in some honey. "What about this other friend?" he asked. "Anyone that I would know?"

"Dr. Faud bin Abdullah al-Shimmari," the Prince said. "Yes, I think you should know him, Matteen."

Sinan gaped, and the Prince saw his reaction and laughed, then reached out and grabbed his right hand, giving it a solid squeeze of friendship. "Yes, I thought you might react like this. The doctor is a very good friend of mine. He taught me when I was in school, and I listened to his sermons all throughout my childhood. I have supported him and his work for years."

"We're going to meet the imam?" Sinan asked. "We'll actually meet with him?"

"My business comes first, but, yes, you will meet with him, dine with him, pray with him, talk to him. You will enjoy his company as I have."

The Prince released Sinan's hand, chuckled, resumed his meal. He talked about past visits to Yemen, told them about the riot less than a year ago that occurred outside the Great Mosque on a Friday, after prayers. The faithful had been incensed at some news or other from Iraq, had poured onto the streets screaming Death to America and Death to Israel. Jambiyas had been drawn and blood had been spilled, and the San'a' police had responded brutally to the unrest, killing four and hospitalizing dozens.

Sinan listened with half an ear, mind running with the possibilities of meeting Faud, trying to imagine what he would say to the great man, what questions he would ask of him, how best to make an impression. He wanted desperately to make a good impression, to receive Faud's blessing.

It surprised him how much he wanted it. • A little before noon they left the Sheraton, taking the SUV into the Old City, kicking up clouds of dust with their passing. It was in the low eighties Fahrenheit, and the air conditioner kept them cool as they drove past the Qubbat al-Mahdi Mosque and dipped into the wadi, still dry enough to be used as a street, then onto Talha Street. Sinan caught glimpses of the remains of the city wall that had given San'a' its name-the Fortified City-but he was disappointed to see that the segments still visible were made of stone and were clearly new patches, not part of the original mud that had made up the ancient fortifications.

The going was slow the farther they went, the SUV practically crawling through crowds at some points, and the guard who was driving was liberal with the horn, and with his gestures and curses. The Prince was uncharacteristically quiet, and when Sinan caught a glimpse of the man's reflection in the side mirror, he thought he saw nervousness. It surprised him and once again made him reassess his opinion of the Prince. Clearly, meeting with Faud meant a great deal to the Prince as well.