The Charm School

wolves waiting for a chance to strike.” The sheik had also told Wasim, “You cannot buy those people, my friend, and the police cannot protect you from them, but I can. Three hundred dollars.”
    Again, Wasim had declined to make the extra payment, and Sheik Musa had shrugged and said, “Perhaps next time.”
    “Yes, next time.” But Wasim was now sure there would be no next time.
    Wasim al-Rahib, a university graduate with a degree in ancient history, could not find a job teaching, or a job anywhere, except with this tour company. It paid well enough, and the Western tourists were generous with their gratuities, but it was becoming dangerous work. And also dangerous for the tourists, though the tour company would not say that. All the guidebooks–written years ago–said, “You cannot leave Yemen without seeing the ruins of Marib.” Well, Wasim thought, they would have to see them without him.
    Wasim watched the tourists, talking now to the Bedouin through the English translation of the young girl. The Bedouin seemed pleasant enough, but there was something unusual about him. He did not seem like a Bedouin. He was too at ease with these foreigners, and he spoke English. Very unusual, unless perhaps he worked for the Americans at the oil installation.
    In any case, it was now past three in the afternoon, and they had not yet visited the Temple of the Sun. If they stayed here much longer, they would be traveling the last hour to Sana’a in darkness. And it was not good to be on the road after dark, even with the police escort, who themselves did not want to be on the road after dark.
    Wasim spoke in English to the Bedouin, and to the young woman, “We must now leave. Thank you, sir, for your hospitality.”
    But the Belgians wanted a photograph of the entire group together with the Bedouin, taken by Wasim. So Wasim, thinking about his gratuity, agreed, and took the photographs with four different cameras.
    Wasim then said to the Belgian girl, “I think if you give this gentleman a thousand rials, he will be very happy.” He made sure she understood. “That will be about five euros. A very good day’s pay for this kind man.”
    Annette collected the money and handed it to the Bedouin, then said to him, “Thank you, sir.”
    The Bedouin took the money and replied, “You are very welcome.” He also said to the girl, “Please tell your compatriots that Bulus ibn al-Darwish wishes them a happy and safe visit to Yemen.”
    Wasim was looking to the south where the minibus had parked on the road behind the Army truck that carried the security police. The bus was still there, but the truck was not. In fact, Wasim could not see any of the National Police in their distinctive blue camouflage uniforms.
    Wasim made a call on his cell phone to the police commander, but there was no answer. Then he called the bus driver, Isa, who was also his wife’s cousin. But Isa did not answer his cell phone.
    Wasim then looked at the Bedouin, who was looking at him, and Wasim understood what was happening. He took a deep breath to steady his voice and said to the Bedouin in Arabic, “Please, sir…” Wasim shook his head and said, “This is a very bad thing.”
    The tall Bedouin replied, “You, Wasim al-Rahib, are a bad thing. You are a servant of the infidels, but you should be a servant of Allah.”
    “I am truly his servant --”
    “Quiet.” The Bedouin raised his right arm in a signal, then lowered it and looked at Wasim and at the Belgians, but said nothing.
    The four men and five women were looking at their guide, waiting for him to explain what was happening. Clearly, something was wrong, though a few minutes before everyone was smiling and posing for pictures.
    Wasim avoided the worried stares of his group.
    Annette said to Wasim in English, “What is wrong? Did we not give him enough?”
    Wasim did not reply so Annette said to the Bedouin in English, “Is there something wrong?”
    Al-Numair, The Panther, replied to her, “You are what is wrong.”
    The Belgians began asking Annette what had been said, but she didn’t reply.
    Then one of the men in the group shouted, “Regardez!” and pointed.
    In the temple courtyard below, where they had been standing, a group of about twelve men suddenly appeared from the dark recesses of the ruins, wearing Bedouin robes and carrying Kalashnikov rifles.
    At first, all the tourists were silent, but then as the Bedouins began running up the stone steps, a woman