"They will have no doubt called the authorities with the low pass we made." He turned the latch and swung the door open. "Oh God," he said, shielding his face with a large forearm.

"What is it? The military?" asked Clovis.

"No the heat, it's horrible. I don't know how you can stand it," Chance moaned.

Clovis ignored him and stepped into the sunlit doorway. "We should start walking before the midday sun is upon our backs," he said to me.

I followed him out onto the runway and turned around just as Chance reached for the door.

"Good luck Evan. I'll see you again soon. Good seeing you again old man." He slammed the door closed and latched it tight before either of us could respond.

"He is right. We should leave, the authorities will be on the lookout for activity here," Clovis said.

The jet engine whined and roared into the sky above as we walked along the hard-packed, dirt road that led into Mocha.

Mule-drawn carts rumbled down the streets of the sleepy town. Giggling children played in the middle of the wide unpaved boulevard that disappeared into the desert at both ends while their mothers swept at the endless dirt in front of simple mud construction houses and periodically snuck glances out at them from behind black veils. Everything about this land looked ancient, as if the world somehow turned more slowly under Yemeni skies.

"This way," he said walking toward a larger building at the end of the street. The Arabic script above the barn-sized double doors faded unintelligibly into the earthen wall. From the way the reclusive villagers huddled in their numbers in front of doorways, I assumed few visitors ever frequented the town. Snorting horses answered Clovis' loud raps on the small wooden side door.

A middle-aged dark-skinned man opened the door, his close-cropped black hair contrasted against his long beard. A curved dagger like the one Clovis had given me was secured in the waistband of his leather blacksmiths apron. His long beard parted into a white smile as he embraced Clovis and exchanged greetings. The Arab then pulled Clovis inside by the hand, who motioned for me to follow.

The livery stable inside could have been an exact copy of the one I'd been in a hundred times in Bulgaria as Vasili. Clovis pulled back on the man's hand and positioned him in front of me where he introduced me in Arabic.

"This is Nusel," Clovis said to me. "His younger brother works for me when I'm gone."

He shook my hand and spoke what I assumed to be a greeting, his head checked halfway through a bow as he noticed my fresh tattoo. Clovis placed his hand on Nusel's shoulder and walked over to a stall holding a thin, weary-looking brown horse. The horse stirred at his approach and brushed its muzzle against Clovis' head, who spoke to the animal in a soft voice as he rubbed its neck.