Spencerville

toward Spencerville. Annie said, “Charlie is a charming man.”
    “He’s very charming.”
    “He was your boss?”
    “Yes, but he never took it too seriously.”

Chapter 1
    A man wearing the white robes of a Bedouin, Bulus ibn al-Darwish by name, known also by his Al Qaeda nom de guerre as al-Numair–The Panther–stood to the side of the Belgian tour group.
    The Belgians had arrived in a minibus from Sana’a, four men and five women, with their Yemeni driver, and their Yemeni tour guide, a man named Wasim al-Rahib. The driver had stayed in the air-conditioned minibus, out of the hot August sun.
    The tour guide, Wasim, spoke no French, but his English was good, and one of the Belgians, Annette, a girl of about sixteen, also spoke English and was able to translate into French for her compatriots.
    Wasim said to his group, “This is the famous Bar’ an Temple, also known as Arsh Bilqis–the throne of the Queen of Sheba.”
    Annette translated and the tour group nodded and began taking pictures.
    Al-Numair, The Panther, scanned the ruins of the temple complex–over an acre of brown sandstone walls, towering square columns, and open courtyards, baking in the
    desert sun. American and European archaeologists had spent many years and much money uncovering and restoring these pagan ruins–and then they had left because of tribal suspicion, and more recently Al Qaeda activity. Such a waste of time and money, thought The Panther. He looked forward to the day when his jihadists would return this temple and the surrounding pagan ruins to the shifting desert sands.
    The Panther looked beyond the temple complex at the sparse vegetation and the occasional date palm. In ancient times, he knew, it was much greener here, and more populous. Now, the desert had arrived from the East–from the Hadhrawawt, meaning the Place Where Death Comes.
    Wasim glanced at the tall, bearded Bedouin and wondered why he had joined the Belgian tour group. Wasim had made his arrangements with the local tribal sheik, Musa, paying the man one hundred American dollars for the privilege of visiting this national historic site. Also, of course, the money bought peace; the promise that no Bedouin tribesmen would annoy, hinder, or in any way molest the tour group. So Wasim wondered, Why was this Bedouin here?
    The Panther noticed the tour guide looking at him and he returned the stare until the guide turned back to his group.
    There were no other tourists at the temple today; only one or two groups each week ventured out from the capital of Sana’a, two hundred kilometers to the west. The Panther remembered when these famous ruins attracted more Westerners, but unfortunately because of these recent reports of Al Qaeda activity in this province of Marib, many tourists stayed away. He smiled.
    Also because of this situation, the Belgians had arrived with an armed escort of twenty men from the National Security Bureau, a para-military police force, whose job it was to protect tourists on the roads and at historic sites. The tourists paid for this service, which was money well-spent, thought The Panther. But unfortunately for these Westerners, the policemen had also been paid to leave, which they were about to do.
    Wasim continued his talk, “This temple is also known as the Moon Temple, and it was dedicated to the national god of the Sabaen state who was called Almaqah.”
    As the Belgian girl translated, Wasim glanced again at the bearded man in Bedouin robes who was standing too close to his tour group. He wanted to say something to the man, but he was uneasy about him, and instead he said to his group, “This was one thousand and five hundred years before the prophet Mohammed enlightened the world and vanquished the pagans.”
    The Panther, who also spoke English, nodded in approval at the guide’s last statement.
    He studied the Belgian tourists. There were two couples in their later years who seemed to know one another, and who looked uncomfortable in the burning sun. There was also a man and a woman, perhaps in their early twenties, and The Panther saw they wore no wedding rings, though they were obviously together, sometimes holding hands. The remaining man and woman were also together as a couple, and the girl who was translating appeared to be their daughter or a relative. He noted, too, that the women had covered their hair with shawls, a sign of respect for Islamic custom, but none of them had covered their faces as required. The