Greg Rucka - A gentleman_s game

They parked on the north side of the Great Mosque, and there were four other vehicles already there, all of them Toyota Land Cruisers like their own, and Sinan counted eight men standing by the vehicles, smoking and chewing qat, leaning on their Kalashnikovs. He and Matteen got out of the car, waited for the Prince to join them, and the Saudis in the group recognized the Prince, if not for who he was then for what he was, and they immediately offered him greetings, asking Allah, the Most Gracious, the Most Merciful, to watch over him. The Prince returned the courtesies in kind, and then the muezzin's call crackled out over old loudspeakers, and all of them made their way to the entrance of the mosque.

Inside was as beautiful and sacred a ground as any Sinan had seen, second only to his visit to Mekkah. Along with the others he removed his shoes, setting them with his Kalashnikov in the growing pile against the wall. There were already some thirty or forty of the rifles there, and at least five times as many pairs of shoes, and once again Sinan rejoiced in the fact that theft was unheard of in places such as this. He listened to the voices all around him, the sounds of conversations ending as men turned their minds to worship. Once or twice he thought he heard women's voices, but he could not see where they had entered, or where women would be going to worship. A mosque as old as this one would have clearly segregated areas, and his chances of encountering the women were next to none.

With Matteen and the Prince, he made his way to the ablution pool, cleaned himself in the water from the fountain. Again, he felt the comfort in sharing ritual with so many others, all of a like mind. Young boys ran past his legs, trying to catch up with their fathers, laughing.

They found places on the field of wool and silk rugs that covered the floor, facing the mihrab wall, facing Mekkah. Sinan felt a rush when he saw the old man at the minbar, black-robed and bespectacled, for it was Faud himself who was leading the congregation, accompanied by another man, similarly dressed but younger.

So Sinan prayed with Faud and a thousand others in the Great Mosque in San'a'. • There was an immediate bustle when salat ended, people moving with everything from reluctance to enthusiasm as they headed back to work, or to lunch, or to a thousand other tasks that needed attending. Sinan tried to keep an eye on Faud but quickly lost sight of him as he moved away in the opposite direction, disappearing into the mix of nooks and half-rooms that peppered the sides of the mosque.

The Prince saw him straining to look and grabbed his hand again.

"Soon, my friend," the Prince said. "My business first, and then you will meet him."

Sinan felt, for a moment, embarrassed. Not by the hand-holding-it was a Western bias that made the act of two men holding hands shameful; to Arabs, as he had learned, it was a sign of true friendship, and not at all an uncommon sight. Rather, it embarrassed Sinan that he was so nakedly eager, that the Prince could read him like a small child.

They made their way back toward the entrance, and one of the Saudis they had seen outside moved to meet them.

"Your Highness, His Eminence is hopeful that you will meet with him now. If I may take you to him?"

"Of course. I know his friend has very little time to waste."

"Yes, I think that is the concern," the man said. "Please, if you'll come with me?"

The Prince turned to Sinan and Matteen. "If you wish to wait outside at the car, that will be fine. As soon as we're done here, we'll all go to lunch."

"All of us?" Sinan asked, despite himself.

"Sinan! Have faith!" The Prince laughed, then moved off, escorted by the Saudi.

Matteen chuckled. "Careful, Sinan. You don't want to be called mushrikun."

Sinan shot him a glare. "That's not funny."

"It was a joke. You seem to have some hero worship, that's all that I am saying."

They sorted through the piles of shoes, finding their pairs, then recovered their rifles and put them back in place at their shoulders.

"His words speak to me," Sinan said as he was pulling on his boots. "More than the others', I don't know why. From the first time I heard him-it was on a cassette, I bought it at the mosque I attended in London-it was like he talked straight to me."

Sinan glanced at Matteen, to see if he understood. From Matteen's look, Sinan guessed that he didn't.

"Here," Sinan said, and tapped his heart. "He spoke straight to here."

"I've had enough of words," Matteen said dismissively. "I've heard all of them before, Sinan, and if you last long enough, you will, too. The words become nothing in the face of the deeds. Remember that."

"The words give rise to the deeds."

Matteen gestured with his elbow, roughly indicating the way the Prince had gone. "And with him? With him, the words come in place of the deeds. Not even, they excuse his lack of deeds."

"He acts. Without his money, where would we be?"

"He could give more money. He should give more money, and since when have you found it necessary to defend him, Sinan? I've seen you these past three weeks. There have been times when I've wanted to unload your rifle just to make sure you didn't lose your temper and do anything stupid."

Sinan hesitated, caught, and honestly a little surprised himself that he had been so willing to come to the Prince's defense. They got to their feet again, stepped out of the mosque into the bustle and noise of the street. One of the guards from the SUVs offered them each a can of Coca-Cola.

"Allah, All Knowing, All Merciful," Sinan said. "And being All Knowing, he knows what is best for each of us, how we can serve Him. We do not decide how best to serve, that is for Allah alone."

"Perhaps some are not meant to serve at all, Sinan," Matteen replied.

Sinan wasn't sure, but for a moment, he wondered if Matteen was talking about him.

He turned away abruptly, opening his can of soda and taking a long drink. It was warm, and too many bubbles filled his mouth, and he was considering spitting it out when he heard shouting and laughter, and he looked back to the entrance of the mosque in time to see a woman in her veil and balta hurrying out and onto the street, arms folded over her middle, head down.

An old Yemeni man was leaning out of the doorway, the yellow kuffiyah on his head wobbling as he hollered at her.

"Your husband should beat you!" he shouted.

Matteen and a couple of the others laughed, then laughed harder as the old man stepped out onto the street, brandishing his jambiya at the woman. She continued on without glancing back, and Sinan was about to turn away when he realized that she wasn't wearing shoes but black stockings. He stared, thinking he had to be wrong, that it was a trick of the light, but as she hurried along, he saw it again. Rushing without shoes over the dirt street, a hole had opened in the heel of her stockings, and the foot that was visible was white, as pale as his own had once been.

The sight shocked him forward a step, and then she had turned away again, weaving through the crowd and then around an ironmonger's stand, vanishing.

"Addled," Matteen commented. "She shouldn't even be out alone."

"Did you see that?" Sinan asked.

"Of course I saw that. Whoever her husband or brother is should beat her, the old man's right. Letting her wander around alone like that-"

Sinan didn't hear the rest, he was already running back into the mosque, and the panic he felt was such that he didn't think to remove his shoes or drop the Kalashnikov. The Saudi who had spoken to them before was sitting on a rug near the fountain, reading his Qu'ran.

"Where are they?" Sinan shouted. "Where are they meeting?"

His shouting drew attention, shocked the man, and he started up, pointing back toward the mihrab, in one of the shadowed corners. Sinan ran, hearing people shouting at him to take off his shoes, to show respect, and Matteen calling after him to slow down, asking what was wrong. Sinan didn't stop, running through the pools of light that fell through the magnificent windows above, to the shadows of the alcoves near the back. He rushed from one to the next, seeing lone men prostrated in prayer or deep in study.