her head. Without moving he said, “I will need to hide the guns; we cannot travel with them.”
Jill agreed, but it made her uneasy. Her hand tangled under the long gown and she pulled the gun out, and handed it to Zayed. The gun looked small in his over-sized hands.
“Stay close to me and don’t speak,” he said, walking toward the boats. He was taller than her, taller than David. He was muscular in a Rambo sort of way, Jill noticed, admiring him from head to toe in his tight attire. Eye candy. She always appreciated a person, whether male or female, who took care of themselves physically. Reaching into the backseat, she grabbed her carry-on and followed Zayed.
Chapter Nine
22:57 Zulu Time—DOHA QATAR
Narrow wooden boats were lined up end to end along the docks. Butted up against each other, they did not look like a boat you would see in North America. The long wooden structures looked like miniature pirate ships and their decks were decorated with outdated electronic equipment, black engine parts, and clothing hung to dry. Water slapped their sides, making them rock gently.
Jill was looking at a fishing village. All along the concrete street and adjoining wooden docks were hundreds of fishing nets that resembled wired igloos piled on top of one another.
People scurried around the boats, getting ready for nighttime fishing. Not far away, she could hear a loud engine trying to start. It went out with a loud backfire followed by the sounds of the effort being repeated.
All the boats looked the same. Each had a long pointy nose and a double-wide, two-pronged fork at the back end. A cabin, presumably housing the cockpit, was the only structure on the deck. They were stained in a dark brown, except for the three whitewashed tips, and were all about 100 feet long; they looked substantial enough for an eight-hour journey, solid on the water.
This can’t be the boat Zayed had mentioned to me?
Noticing Jill had stopped keeping pace, Zayed glanced back at her. She could tell by his look that these boats were what he intended to travel on. She gawked at the run-down condition of the vessels, and his firm look answered her question.
“How are we going to get anywhere in this type of boat?” she said pointedly.
Zayed waved his hand and then closed his fingers upwards. Begrudgingly, Jill kept quiet.
Walking along the breakwater, they moved towards the second-to-last dock. The small Indians working on the ships did not glance their way for fear of retribution. It wasn’t polite to stare at a woman in an abaya and even less polite if you were a laborer imported to work.
The moonlight lit a feeble passageway and they sidestepped the shadows down the unsteady plank onto the dock. Passing one boat after another, Jill was thankful that the boat she’d just passed wasn’t the one taking them to Abu Dhabi.
Zayed didn’t seem to notice or care as he stopped directly in front of the last boat on the end of the rickety, cracked dock. An unsettling feeling flittered in Jill’s stomach when he motioned her to stop. Pussyfooting down the long scanty plank alongside the wooden ship, he yelled something Arabic up to the cockpit. An Indian man dressed in navy blue slacks and a pressed white shirt appeared from a compact door. The window on the door reflected a moonbeam as Zayed began to speak slowly to him. After several minutes of discussion, the Indian pulled out a phone from his breast pocket, dialed, and began speaking in a different language. Hindi or Urdu, Jill didn't know for sure, as he glanced over at her. Flipping the phone shut, waggled his head from side to side and said, “No problem boss.”
Zayed turned and looked at Jill, then lightly commanded, “Yalla yalla.”
The dock rocked from side to side as she teetered her way over to Zayed. The ship squeaked as it hit the rubber on the dock. Zayed lunged onto the ship first, then turned and held out his strong hand to help her up over the side. The hull
Jill agreed, but it made her uneasy. Her hand tangled under the long gown and she pulled the gun out, and handed it to Zayed. The gun looked small in his over-sized hands.
“Stay close to me and don’t speak,” he said, walking toward the boats. He was taller than her, taller than David. He was muscular in a Rambo sort of way, Jill noticed, admiring him from head to toe in his tight attire. Eye candy. She always appreciated a person, whether male or female, who took care of themselves physically. Reaching into the backseat, she grabbed her carry-on and followed Zayed.
Chapter Nine
22:57 Zulu Time—DOHA QATAR
Narrow wooden boats were lined up end to end along the docks. Butted up against each other, they did not look like a boat you would see in North America. The long wooden structures looked like miniature pirate ships and their decks were decorated with outdated electronic equipment, black engine parts, and clothing hung to dry. Water slapped their sides, making them rock gently.
Jill was looking at a fishing village. All along the concrete street and adjoining wooden docks were hundreds of fishing nets that resembled wired igloos piled on top of one another.
People scurried around the boats, getting ready for nighttime fishing. Not far away, she could hear a loud engine trying to start. It went out with a loud backfire followed by the sounds of the effort being repeated.
All the boats looked the same. Each had a long pointy nose and a double-wide, two-pronged fork at the back end. A cabin, presumably housing the cockpit, was the only structure on the deck. They were stained in a dark brown, except for the three whitewashed tips, and were all about 100 feet long; they looked substantial enough for an eight-hour journey, solid on the water.
This can’t be the boat Zayed had mentioned to me?
Noticing Jill had stopped keeping pace, Zayed glanced back at her. She could tell by his look that these boats were what he intended to travel on. She gawked at the run-down condition of the vessels, and his firm look answered her question.
“How are we going to get anywhere in this type of boat?” she said pointedly.
Zayed waved his hand and then closed his fingers upwards. Begrudgingly, Jill kept quiet.
Walking along the breakwater, they moved towards the second-to-last dock. The small Indians working on the ships did not glance their way for fear of retribution. It wasn’t polite to stare at a woman in an abaya and even less polite if you were a laborer imported to work.
The moonlight lit a feeble passageway and they sidestepped the shadows down the unsteady plank onto the dock. Passing one boat after another, Jill was thankful that the boat she’d just passed wasn’t the one taking them to Abu Dhabi.
Zayed didn’t seem to notice or care as he stopped directly in front of the last boat on the end of the rickety, cracked dock. An unsettling feeling flittered in Jill’s stomach when he motioned her to stop. Pussyfooting down the long scanty plank alongside the wooden ship, he yelled something Arabic up to the cockpit. An Indian man dressed in navy blue slacks and a pressed white shirt appeared from a compact door. The window on the door reflected a moonbeam as Zayed began to speak slowly to him. After several minutes of discussion, the Indian pulled out a phone from his breast pocket, dialed, and began speaking in a different language. Hindi or Urdu, Jill didn't know for sure, as he glanced over at her. Flipping the phone shut, waggled his head from side to side and said, “No problem boss.”
Zayed turned and looked at Jill, then lightly commanded, “Yalla yalla.”
The dock rocked from side to side as she teetered her way over to Zayed. The ship squeaked as it hit the rubber on the dock. Zayed lunged onto the ship first, then turned and held out his strong hand to help her up over the side. The hull
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