Ahmed bought caps, sweatshirts, long drawstring pants, sunglasses, and a disposable phone from the shop. Emma did not wait for his explanation that the Western woman needed to disappear. She smudged her face with road dust, tucked her hair into the cap, slipped on the shades, and pulled the bulky sweatshirt over her head. They bribed a trucker to carry them through Aqaba and farther south. The road to Haql and the Saudi border paralleled the silent gulf. They descended from the truck just as the eastern sky showed the first faint hint of dawn. Their destination was a cluster of fishing dhows. Nets dried on makeshift lean-tos. The rocky beach stunk of fish. Ahmed led them to a wooden vessel perhaps twenty-five feet in length. As they flipped the dhow, two scruffy teens scrambled from one of the lean-tos, holding vintage Enfields at the ready. When they saw who it was, they waved a sleepy greeting and retreated. A smuggler departing with the night’s final shadows was clearly nothing new.
