Honourable Betrayal

Adrian Chappell

Description

An Honourable Betrayal is a fast-moving political thriller pitched into the turmoil of present-day Yemen.As a decade-long political impasse divides the country, and Yemen's humanitarian crisis deepens, there appears to be no way forward. Rising secretly from this chaos however, is a diabolical plan to unify the country. Permanently. This is led by elements of the minority Houthi high command in Sana'a, aided by an American, former trauma specialist Dr Rachel Cauvin. But as their mission unfolds, it collides with a fearless group of Yemeni women who are set on championing their own peaceful vision for Yemen's unification. Many undercurrents drive the tense narrative as the plot weaves from Yemen to Saharan Niger by way of Djibouti and France before its devastating climax in one of Yemen's most famous landmarks - the Dar al Hajar palace, Sana'a.

Sujets

• Thriller

Informations

• Publié par: Distributed by eBookpartnership
• Date de parution: 21 novembre 2021
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781839524103
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 1 Mo

Extrait

First published 2021
Copyright © Adrian Chappell 2021
The right of Adrian Chappell to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, electrostatic, magnetic tape, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the written permission of the copyright holder.
This book is a work of fiction and, except in the case of historical fact, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Published under licence by Brown Dog Books and The Self-Publishing Partnership Ltd, 10b Greenway Farm, Bath Rd, Wick, nr. Bath BS30 5RL
www.selfpublishingpartnership.co.uk

ISBN printed book: 978-1-83952-409-7 ISBN e-book: 978-1-83952-410-3
Cover design by Adrian Chappell and Andrew Prescott Internal design by Andrew Easton
Printed and bound in the UK
This book is printed on FSC certified paper
An Honourable Betrayal
ADRIAN CHAPPELL
Rising over the horizon, silhouetting the outlines of ancient buildings and palm trees, the sun casts an orange glow over Sana’a in northern Yemen. Another day?
Set in the present, Yemen is a country at war with itself. Faced with a decade-long political impasse, leaders from the Houthi minority embark on a diabolical plan to unify the country. But their plans collide with a determined group of women who have their own vision for Yemen’s future.
Acknowledgements
The author is grateful for the support provided by the following people, who offered many comments on earlier drafts:
Sue Bennion, Dr Ruth Curson, Mark Leggat, Robin Lomas and Andrew Maleki. A very special thanks goes to Annabella Palma who gave me constant encouragement, especially when, as often, I found myself wrestling with the plot. Thank you all.
FOR ROBIN
CONTENTS
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
About the Author
ONE
NEW YORK: JULY
The news came without warning, like a thunderbolt. He steadied himself and took a deep breath. Slowly he replaced the phone, then glanced over to Lucas and Laila. They were on their feet staring, struggling to grasp what had happened.
‘Marc?’
‘It’s Rachel. That was the UNHCR. She’s missing. They think she’s been killed.’
‘Killed? When? I mean, like, how? What?’ said Laila, a look of shock on her face.
‘There was an explosion at her clinic. They said it was a bomb. Saudis, they thought. Targeting her clinic. Can you believe that? Christ. Killed? I mean, they haven’t found her.’
‘Marc. Here, my friend, sit down.’
‘Guys, give me a minute please.’
He walked across his studio and peered through the window onto the sidewalk below. The anonymity, the crowds, the traffic and the lights. New York was having one of its sultry summer nights. Suffocating. His attention turned back to his friends, anguish burning his face.
‘I don’t get it. I can’t figure this. What time is it over there? They’re eight hours ahead aren’t they? So it must be seven am in Yemen? Jesus. Which means this happened about an hour ago? It must have been around six? That’s when she was starting her shift right?’
Marc paced around his studio again, his hand riffling his hair. Laila ran across and wrapped her arms round him, hugging him tightly. ‘I don’t know what to say Marc. I mean, no one is certain… are they? They can’t be? It’s only just happened.’
They stood quietly huddled together, each surrendering to this awful news. Marc looked up and shifted his gaze, letting his eye settle on one of his paintings on the studio wall. ‘That’s one of Rachel’s favourites,’ he said out loud. To think she’ll never see it again. What? No, stop thinking like this…it’s crazy. Laila’s right. How can they know already?
‘They’ll call me back, they said. Soon as they have more information. Jesus. So, what can we do?’
‘We have to stay calm and pray, Marc,’ Laila replied.
He slumped back in his battered leather chair and reflected on the evening they’d shared together until that call. His thoughts skewed into so many fragments of life and death, the past playing shockingly into the present. Yes, they laughed a lot and drank a lot tonight. Laila and Lucas said his show would be a great success. Who knows? And they’d toasted Rachel in her absence of course. ‘Good luck, Rachel, here’s to your safe return,’ they said, raising their glasses.
Marc knew he wouldn’t be seeing his wife again for the next three months. That was expected. Her latest tour had begun a few days earlier. She was posted to Yemen for three months every year but she said the situation over there was getting worse each time. Her clinic was overflowing with patients. There was always malnutrition but now many more war-related injuries were presenting. Missing limbs, horrible disfigurements and trauma etched deep into their beaten faces. And they were just the poor civilians. The women and children. The usual casualties of war. But why, for Christ’s sake? The situation had nothing to do with them. A scandal. No, an atrocity bordering genocide. But Rachel was committed to her work. She craved it. Marc, New York, her parents and friends, sure? But Sana’a gave her life a genuine purpose. Until tonight’s call.
TWO
SANA’A, YEMEN: JULY
Dr Rachel Cauvin pulled on her flak jacket and tightened the side straps. Then she slung her rucksack over her shoulder, grabbed her UNHCR helmet and closed the door behind her. It was 5.30 am. Outside a pickup truck had arrived in her compound and stood, engine idling, in the early morning haze. She walked across the dusty courtyard, opened the rear door and threw her bag inside.
‘As-Salaam-Alaikum , Dr Rachel.’
‘ Alaikum- As-Salaam , Amir,’
‘Another day?’
‘Another day,’ said Rachel.
On the horizon, silhouetting the outlines of buildings and palms, the rising sun painted an orange glow over the compound. Amir closed the rear door. Rachel climbed aboard and sat in the passenger seat. She knew he always looked forward to collecting her each morning though, like her, he was never sure what lay ahead. For Rachel, Amir was one of the sunniest people she’d met out here. He was always happy to serve her and do his job in the way he thought best. And he did, day after day, regardless. She always exchanged kind words with him each morning. She was certain this was the highlight of his day. In truth, it was these moments that kept her sane. What did it take to have a kind conversation?
Sana’a is a city where anything can happen, anytime. Rachel knew it was the unpredictability she had to get used to but the evidence now was that it was getting worse by the day. What she’d witnessed on previous tours had almost defied description. She had been in Sana’a for a little over one week this time so she was still settling into this, her third tour. It always took a while to adjust, but somehow this time seemed even more difficult. Impossible even? The searing heat was just one of the minor problems.
Doctor Rachel Cauvin worked for the United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees. Her flak jacket said so, like her helmet. Her life out here could not be further removed from the one she’d left behind in New York. Marc, her husband, an artist, was busy at that very moment preparing for a new show later in July. His best friend Lucas and new partner, Laila, a film-maker, were meeting for dinner at Marc’s studio that evening. Rachel glanced down at her watch. Well, in fact at this very moment, she thought to herself. She reflected on Marc’s vivid descriptions of his friend’s new partner. From what he’d said, Laila was an amazing woman, just perfect for Lucas. She was sharp, thoughtful and down to earth. A film-maker of some repute. Rachel was dying to meet her, but that would have to wait until she got back to New York.
There was an eight-hour time difference between here and New York. What was that? A buffer, a diffuser that contrasted her realities here in Sana’a with those in New York? Actually, she had learnt that time zones could be a good thing. They gave her some breathing space, some space to stretch out; a cushion in the midst of chaos. The ability to focus on the immediate tasks to hand. And always to stay ahead of things happening back home. A strange feeling… being in front of time. It’s odd what time does to one’s imagination, an artificial sense of security when one’s life is being lived ahead of one’s other life.
Rachel was a medical doctor, raised in Queens, New York and working now as a trauma specialist at the New York Trauma Centre. But what she had longed to do was work with trauma victims in conflict zones. Being in Yemen gave her that opportunity, so when the UNHCR posting came along she had jumped at the chance. It would be a part-time role, three or four months on tour they said, then back to her day job in New York. Marc knew this was something she relished, or more directly, something she needed to do. He had adjusted remarkably to the changing pattern of their lives. For them both it was a manageable situation.
Amir swung his truck out through the gates onto the dusty highway. Beside him Rachel sat peering through the smeared windshield. The sun was beginning to climb but the swirling dust haze made it impossible to see more than a few dozen metres ahead. Not that that mattered, because although the ride to the clinic was short, the journey was always slow. Stop starts. Throngs of people constantly on the move, sometimes with animals in tow, always overcrowded trucks meandering around the potholes and bomb craters that frequently brought traffic to a halt. Overloaded motorcycles buzze