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to admire the
magnificent vista of Sana’a, the capital city of Yemen. The flat sun-dried
rooftops of the myriad white and sand-coloured houses stretched into the distance, where
they met the awe-inspiring Sarawat mountain range.
    ‘So where’s your khat?’
demanded Malik.
    Hazim held up his hands in apology.
‘Sorry, I was more worried about the CIA trailing me than shopping in the
souk.’
    ‘Tsk!’ Malik spat, batting away
his excuse. ‘I won’t tolerate lateness or lack of respect to our traditions.
Understand?’
    Hazim nodded, shifting uncomfortably under
the man’s fierce gaze. Then, like quicksilver, Malik’s harsh expression
switched to a genial smile and he clapped Hazim on the back.
    ‘No matter this time, Hazim. You were
right to be cautious. Kedar, give him some of yours,’ he ordered a man to
Hazim’s left. ‘A true Yemeni should never be without.’
    Kedar, a man of Herculean build with a wiry
beard,offered Hazim a handful of green stems. Chewing khat was the
social norm in Yemen. All men gathered together at the end of the day to sit down, chew
khat and put the world to rights, just as Americans met in Starbucks for coffee and the
English enjoyed a pot of tea – except the intoxicating effect of chewing khat was the
equivalent of several strong espressos in a row.
    Nodding gratefully to Kedar, Hazim pulled a
few leaves from a stem and popped them in his mouth. As he bit down, the bitterness of
the khat’s juices hit his taste buds.
    ‘Do you have a Coke?’ he asked,
trying not to grimace.
    Malik threw up his arms in exaggerated
outrage and turned to a man with thinning hair and rounded scholarly glasses.
‘This is what I mean, Bahir! The poison of America seeps into his bones.
There’s fine Yemeni water over there,’ he muttered, indicating a large
ceramic jug on a round wooden table. ‘The only and
proper
way to enjoy
khat.’
    Selecting the choicest leaves from his
bundle, Malik stuffed several into his left cheek at once. He chewed slowly, carefully
studying Hazim as the young man poured a glass for himself. ‘He doesn’t even
have a beard!’ he snorted.
    Sipping on his water, Hazim self-consciously
put a hand to his shaven face and glanced round at his bearded brethren. The other men
all eyed him guardedly.
    ‘He looks like a newborn,’
commented Bahir. ‘Hey, everyone, it’s Baby Hazim!’
    The group burst into raucous laughter. Hazim
flushed in humiliation and cast his eyes to the floor. But the jestingwas ultimately good-natured, for all in the room knew the truth. Hazim had been
invited into the inner circle of the Brotherhood precisely because he’d shown he
was
able to integrate effortlessly into American life.
    Malik patted Hazim reassuringly on the
shoulder. ‘Enough! Now we’re all here, we can begin,’ he
announced.
    The laughter of the other men died quickly,
all conversation coming to a halt.
    ‘My brothers,’ he began, opening
his arms wide. ‘Our organization has hidden in the shadows long enough. The time
is ripe for a nightmare attack against our enemy. The toppling of the Twin Towers struck
at the heart of America. Now I intend we destroy its soul!’
    Malik fingered his prize
jambiya
as
he spoke. The curved dagger was thrust into his leather belt, positioned in full view of
everyone. The semi-precious stones adorning the wooden sheath glistened in the
evening’s fading light and, with its handle of rare rhinoceros horn, no man would
question his status as leader. While for most Yemeni men the
jambiya
was purely
a symbol of masculinity and usually blunt, Malik kept his blade sharpened, having used
it to slit many an enemy’s throat.
    ‘We must hit America where it hurts
the most,’ he continued, his fervour building. ‘A wise man once said,
“Kill a few, hurt many, scare thousands.” But in this attack, we need only
kidnap
one
infidel.’
    He paused, relishing the moment of power as
his men leant in, mesmerized by his words.
    ‘Who’s the