The Yemeni left Turkmenbashi by ship with the briefcase. It didn’t rain, but heavy winds heaved the ship up and down as it plowed westward into the storm. He hated traveling by ship, but in this case, the route across the Caspian Sea was the quickest. He’d secured the case under a bunk below deck. Whenever he moved, it came with him.
All he had to do now was get to Cairo. He’d get his money when he handed over the package. He grinned when he thought of how he’d squeeze the courier for a little more money.
He thought briefly of the stupid Russian. All these Christian kafirs were so willing to endanger their people for the gain of a little money. He thought of them as being lower than dogs.
Once on the western shore of the Caspian Sea, the Yemeni would transfer to a train and continue his journey. The train system, some of it left from the European construction in the late nineteenth century, was patchwork and worn out. Riding it required patience for the constant breakdowns and transfers. Flying would be easier, of course, but the security on the train system was lax. He could move around with fewer questions. By early morning, they approached the rich city of Baku on the western shore.
Before the American crusaders had invaded Iraq, the Yemeni would have turned south in his journey to Tehran, then crossed into Baghdad for the final leg to Cairo. Now he had to take the longer northern route through Baku and across Syria. He’d travel in Muslim countries to make it easier and safer.
The sun rose behind the Yemeni while he stood on deck and watched the city come closer. Before World War II, the Baku oilfields had been among the largest in the world. The city boasted many rich cultural adornments. He could see the minarets of mosques built in the old Walled City by the harbor. The dawning sun lit them up in coral and orange colors. He felt the hot wind off the shore. The ship passed next to the yacht club, then turned to the north for its own berth. Baku huddled under the southern side of a peninsula that jutted into the sea.
He was off the ship quickly and walked down the pier to a clump of palm trees. Several taxis waited in the shade under them. He called for one, and when the driver went to put the briefcase in the trunk, the Yemeni refused. When he climbed in, he clutched it next to himself. They left for the train station.
The journey to Cairo exhausted him. Though a young man, the Yemeni struggled through endless waiting, transfers, currency exchanges, different languages, and old train cars that stopped often for no reason. He had many hours to go before reaching Cairo. He’d been in such a hurry that he’d forgotten to bring food with him. Luckily, in Damascus, there’d been a long delay, so he was able to get off, find a market, and buy food and water before continuing on his journey.
Before eating, he boarded the train and washed thoroughly. Along with dozens of other passengers, he knelt on the floor as the train rocked along on its way out of Damascus. He prayed, facing south toward Mecca. After his prayers were finished, he ate slowly and read sections of the Qur’an. The lovely words of the Prophet strengthened him, reminding him of why he was making this arduous effort for the great glory of Allah.
From Damascus, he was forced to turn west again toward the sea. The direct route would go south through Israel, but security in that country was the toughest in the region. The Yemeni would have to travel through Lebanon and once again board a ship for Alexandria, Egypt. From there he’d make his way to Cairo to meet the agent planted in America who would take the transfer from him. They had scheduled a time to meet in one of the Cities of the Dead—a cemetery—in the city. The Yemeni wasn’t sure of all the details of the plan and really didn’t care, so long as he was paid and the work was for Allah.
And he’d be happy to get rid of the briefcase, turning it over to the other man’s care. It made him uneasy to handle it. They’d emphasized again and again to carry it carefully, not to drop it or let it be slammed around. And he was never to open it. He didn’t know what the contents were but had been assured he’d be okay if he followed the instructions exactly.
It didn’t weigh much, and many times his curiosity almost overwhelmed him. Two locks—with two different keys, he’d been told—prevented access. What the hell was in it? He longed to find out, as a child wanted to open a secret gift. But the fear of what would happen should he open the case stopped him. It was obviously valuable. The Yemeni thought he could squeeze the American for a little more payment.
He reached Cairo in the evening, feeling tired and dirty. Long before they stopped at the station, the train trundled through the outskirts of the city, miles of small, drab huts and houses. For as far as the Yemeni could see in the dusky light, the city stretched in all directions. Even inside the train, he could feel the pulsing lives of millions of people around him.
He heard the chanting call to prayer from loudspeakers in the minarets, the bawl of donkeys, and the horns of hundreds of cars. He smelled the dust and heat. Groups of well-dressed school children walked together a few feet from the swaying train, going home probably. Women grilled fish for dinner in the narrow alleys. Bearded men huddled in small clots, talking and gesturing wildly. A few young men squatted in the dust and pondered over chess moves.
The eruption of life around the Yemeni made him proud. Let the imperialists in Europe and America have their luxuries, he thought. And considering his role as a warrior for Allah, he felt even more proud.