A Foreign Affair by Stella Russell Page A

friendship and understanding between our two peoples during this time of trouble and strife between the Moslem and the Christian worlds...’
    I surprised even myself with my lofty sentiments. It’s only with hindsight now that I can see how this top flight of rhetoric must have helped germinate the seed of a notion already sown in his mind.

 
    Chapter Nine
     
    The view through the tinted windscreen of Sheikh Ahmad al-Abrali’s champagne-coloured LandCruiser – another luxurious chill-cabinet on wheels - was failing to recommend further investigation of south Yemen’s dry-roasted terrain. There was nothing to see out there; no trees, no animals, no dwellings, nothing but mile after mile of rusty Mars-scape and the surprisingly decent, if entirely unmarked road we were on. It came as something of a relief therefore to discern a few splashes of colour and even some action, up ahead.
    ‘There is something happening at Silent Valley today,’ said Aziz, leaning forward from his back seat, squinting though the glare ‘- but I cannot see what it is – it may be a big accident...’
    ‘Here, these might help...’ I said, passing him the beloved and extremely valuable pair of binoculars I never leave home without, the only tangible legacy I have of my famous forebear, the very same binoculars that accompanied him to the First Afghan War. Aziz was sceptical of their usefulness but Sheikh Ahmad was so moved by my tale of their provenance that he insisted on stopping the car to take a closer look at their solid brass fittings and anciently worn leather strap and case. ‘This is a real treasure!’ he breathed, his liquorice black eyes shining at me with real excitement. I’d waited all my life to find just one person who worshipped even half as ardently as I did at the altar of Sir Harry and now, just like buses, two had come along in the space of less than twenty-four hours! I’d have to keep an eye out for a third.
    Aziz was pleasantly surprised: ‘....oh – not bad at all,’ he pronounced, twiddling the vintage knobs with his chubby fingers ‘ – I can see a few cars, some police cars, many people, bright, things flashing... one person – male or female, I don’t know, but very stout, in a high hat, like a Mexican from a cartoon ...and a man in a long dress...’ Neither he nor Sheikh Ahmad could imagine what sort of event we might be witnessing, but they were both so intrigued I relented and agreed to delay my ablutions at the Sheraton a few minutes more.
    I turned out to be better qualified than either of my dragomans to interpret the scene awaiting us at Silent Valley. Parked off road in the sand by the low concrete wall that surrounded the cemetery was a line of three mini-buses, around which were clustered perhaps forty elderly foreign men, many of them in pastel cotton casuals and sun hats and many more in old army uniforms, medals, berets and all. Some were walking with the aid of sticks, one or two struggling with Zimmer frames that were proving worse than useless in that sandy terrain, but a few had handier shooting sticks to take the weight off their feet. A surprising number were heavily burdened with brass instruments whose metal, shining brightly in the burning morning sunshine, accounted for the flashing lights Aziz had seen earlier.
    Lined up in front of the small coach that had transported all those old men to that remote spot were two other vehicles: a white LandCruiser bristling with aerials and a battered Peugeot estate. A middle-aged westerner in a Panama hat, creased cream suit and dusty brogues was levering his hefty torso out of the first, flanked by what I imagined must be members of his security detail. Still less appealing a sight though was the disgorged cargo of the second vehicle: the Revs. He was robed for duty in a white surplice, she for comfort in a flaming orange tent and yes, a sombrero.
    ‘What we have here,’ I informed my companions as we slid to a halt on the other side of