The Panther

by Nelson DeMille

  “Actually we do if they’re enemy combatants. Also, as you know, if we do apprehend him and turn him over to the Yemenis, we may never see him again.” I reminded him, “Some of the Cole plotters were captured, put in Yemeni jails, and miraculously escaped.”

  Tom nodded, then said, “Let’s not get too far ahead of ourselves. First things first. First, we need to apprehend this man.”

  “Right. So to recap, we find this Yemeni with U.S. citizenship, turn him over to the Yemeni government, and hope they give him back to us.”

  “Correct.”

  “Can we at least torture him? Just a little?”

  Tom asked, “Any other questions?”

  Kate asked, “What is this man’s name?”

  “You’ll be given his name when you get there. But he goes by the nom de guerre of al-Numair. Means The Panther.”

  It seems to be my fate to get mixed up with Arabs who name themselves after big cats. The last guy was Asad—The Lion. Now I’ve got a panther to deal with. Hopefully, the next one will call himself Kitty.

  Anyway, it seemed to me that Tom wanted to say as little as possible at this end. Or he didn’t know much.

  In fact, he said to us, “To be honest with you, I don’t have a need-to-know, and what I know is what you now know. You’ll be fully briefed when you get there.”

  Since Kate and I were about to depart on a dangerous mission into a hostile country, I felt I could be a little disrespectful of Tom with no consequences, so I reminded him, “You indicated Friday that what you were going to tell us was classified, and that once we heard it, we were committed to the assignment. Correct?”

  He nodded.

  I continued, “What we’ve heard is nothing. We could get up, go back to work, and forget about Yemen.”

  “I suppose you could. But that wouldn’t make me happy. Or you happy.”

  “Okay, let’s try a different approach. On a scale of one to ten, how dangerous is this mission?”

  He thought about a reply, then said, “Capturing a top-ranking Al Qaeda leader is dangerous.”

  “One to ten.”

  “Ten.”

  “Because?”

  “Should be obvious.” He explained the obvious, “He’ll be guarded, he’ll be in hostile territory, he’s aware that he’s a target, and our resources and assets in Yemen are scarce.”

  “Right. And we’re not going to vaporize him with a Hellfire missile because…?”

  “I suppose because we want him alive. To interrogate him.”

  “So we’re not really turning him over to the Yemeni government. Our job is to kill his bodyguards, take him alive, and sneak him out of the country for interrogation.”

  “You’ll be briefed over there.” He added, “As I said, you’ll be part of a team.”

  Kate asked, “Who is on this team?”

  “I have no idea.”

  Kate had an important question. “If we’re detained by the Yemeni government, who comes to our aid?”

  “The embassy. You’ll both have diplomatic immunity, of course.”

  Love that diplomatic immunity. It works about half the time when you get caught breaking the local laws. The other half of the time, the embassy can’t seem to remember your name.

  I thought I understood one reason why Kate and I were chosen to participate in what amounted to a Black Ops mission. It had to do with my cover and Kate’s cover. Officially, the U.S. was there only to aid the Yemeni security forces in investigating the Cole bombing, and our FBI personnel, people like me, rotated into and out of the country on a regular basis. As long as we kept the numbers small and didn’t stay too long, the Yemeni government was okay with Americans operating on their soil.

  Most of the Americans doing anti-terrorist work were attached to the embassy for cover—as Kate would be—so that the Yemeni government could take the public position that their country hadn’t become an American ally or outpost. In fact, if the USS Cole hadn’t been bombed in Aden Harbor, we wouldn’t have anyone in Yemen except a small embassy staff. But now we had our foot in the door—or in this case, the Yemenis had let the camel get his nose under the tent. But they didn’t want the whole camel sleeping inside.

  And for all those reasons, the CIA was not welcome, but a few CIA officers were tolerated.

  I asked Tom, “Is the CIA involved in this operation?”

  “I’m sure you’ll find out when you get there.”

  “I’m sure we will.” I reminded him, “You said this guy was Al Qaeda.”

  “Did I?” Tom fessed up, “He’s actually the head of the Yemen branch of a newly formed group called Al Qaeda in the Arabian Peninsula—AQAP.”

  “Thanks for sharing.”

  He reminded me, “You have no need to know this now, and you didn’t hear it from me. When you get there, you’ll know more than I know. But I will tell you that this guy is wanted for other crimes aside from the Cole bombing.”

  “Such as?”

  “The usual. Murder, kidnapping, conspiracy, and so forth.” Tom added, “He’s killed a lot of people—Yemenis, Europeans, and Saudis—before and after the Cole.” He let us know, “Most terrorist activities in Yemen can be traced to The Panther.”

  “Bad dude,” I observed.

  “One of the worst,” Tom agreed. He added, “And a traitor to his country.”

  “He’s an asshole.” I asked, “Is there a bounty on this guy’s head?”

  “The Justice Department is offering five million.”

  “Not bad. Dead or alive?”

  “Either.”

  “How much do we get to keep?”

  “None of it.” He reminded us, “You get a paycheck every two weeks.”

  “Will the Justice Department use the reward money to spring us if we wind up kidnapped or in a Yemeni jail?”

  He replied, “I’ll make sure of that for Kate.” He smiled. “You’re on your own.”

  I smiled in return. Tom can be funny. Especially when the joke is on me. I asked him, “Are you going to miss me?”

  “No.”

  He stood, and we stood. He said to us, “Make sure you go to the Medical Office today, and call the Travel Office. I’ve asked Legal Affairs to assist you with whatever you need. Also, I’ll set up a meeting for you with the Office of International Affairs—for a cultural awareness briefing.”

  Oh, God. Not that. Before my last trip to Yemen, I’d managed to avoid this four-hour State Department lecture, but I’d heard about it from other guys who’d had to sit through it. I said, “That’s cruel, Tom.”

  “It’s mandatory for Kate,” he informed me, “but I know you’ll both benefit from it.” He concluded, “You have until Thursday to put your personal affairs in order. I’ll see you here Friday, ten A.M., for a final briefing and contact info in Sana’a. You leave Friday night. Any questions?”

  Neither Kate nor I had any further questions, so we all shook hands and we left.

  On the way to the elevator, Kate said, “I can’t believe we’re going to Yemen to capture one of the masterminds of the Cole bombing—the head of Al Qaeda in Yemen.”

  She sounded excited, but maybe a little apprehensive. Indeed, this was a big deal with a big upside for us professionally, and a big victory for the home team if we got our man. The downside was also big—like, we could get killed or captured. I’ve come to terms a long time ago with getting killed. But getting captured by terrorists in a foreign country was, as they say, a fate worse than death.

  “John? Are you still good with this?”

  I didn’t recall ever being good with this. But I do like a challenge. And I was still pissed about how I and the other FBI agents in Yemen had been jerked around by the Yemeni police and their political security force when I was there. They were playing both sides in the Cole investigation, not letting us do our job and also tipping off the bad guys. Great allies. Actually, assholes. So this was a chance for me to shove it up their butts.

  “John?”

  �
��There is an old Arabic saying—‘It is easier to kick a camel in the balls than it is to capture a black panther who’s eating your ass.’ ”

  “Do you have more of those?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “Can you keep them to yourself?”

  “Maybe they sound better in Arabic.”

  “This is going to be a long year.”

  “Be optimistic. We’ll be dead before then.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  I got back to my desk, and Al Rasul informed me that he’d called downstairs, but Nabeel hadn’t shown up yet.

  It was still early, so there was no reason to send a cop car to get him. I did call Nabeel’s cell phone, and it went to voice mail—Arabic and English. I left a message in English, then gave the phone to Al, who left the same message in Arabic—except Al’s tone was very sharp. He explained to me, “That’s how the police talk to citizens in Sandland.”

  “Right.” Anyway, Nabeel al-Samad was the least of my priorities today, but you have to follow up on everything because sure as hell the thing you didn’t follow up on is what comes back to bite you in the ass. The people who dropped the ball on the pre-9/11 clues can verify that.

  I gave Al a pencil and said, “Transliterate the Arabic word for ‘panther’ into real letters.”

  “ ‘Panther’?”

  “Yeah. Big black cat.”

  He took a scrap of paper from my desk and said, “There are a few ways to transliterate…” He wrote, Nimr—Nimar—Numair, and said, “The last is maybe the most standard transliteration.” He pronounced the word for me.

  “You need a tissue?”

  He asked me, “What’s with panther?”

  “If I tell you, I have to kill you.”

  “Anything else I can do for you today?”

  “Yeah, if Nabeel shows up.” I added, “Thanks.”

  Al’s a good guy and he takes a lot of crap well. But he also knows how to dish it out. If you’re an Arab and you work here, you have to have a sense of humor—and very thick skin. I wondered why Al Rasul wasn’t asked to go to Yemen. Right?

  I checked my e-mail and found a note from Tom to me and Kate telling us that we were expected at Legal Affairs and the Medical Office before noon. I’ve never seen government workers move this fast. Tom really wanted us out of here, which compelled me into some paranoid thought processes, and the word “expendable” kept popping into my mind.

  I had an e-mail from Betty Alvarez informing me that she had no info on a Yemeni male named Nabeel al-Samad. She asked for his passport info and visa, if any. I replied: Still waiting for subject to show.

  I used my ATTF password to access the internal files on ACS—the Automated Case System. I didn’t have a case name, but I typed in “USS Cole,” which got me hundreds of hits, though probably nothing I didn’t already know. I typed in “Panther,” which got me nothing, then “Numair”—thank you, Al—which got me a file that said “Restricted,” followed by rows of Xs. Usually you get something, even on the restricted files, like when the file was opened, what the classification level was, and who to see about getting access to the file. But apparently all this was above my pay grade, and all I saw was “Numair” and Xs. Well, at least Walsh didn’t make that up.

  I e-mailed Walsh and asked him about getting access to the Numair file, based on my recent need-to-know.

  A few minutes later, he replied: Your need-to-know begins when you’re in Yemen. P.S. Stop snooping. He didn’t actually write that, but that was the message.

  Kate came over to my desk and asked, “Where to first? Legal or Medical?”

  “Medical. We need our heads examined.”

  “That could take all day. Legal first.”

  The FBI Legal Affairs Office here normally deals with cases, warrants, wiretaps, documents, and so forth, and not with employees’ problems or work assignments. But this was a special case, and it needed to be done on an expedited basis.

  We had a few papers to sign, including a new confidentiality statement, and also a statement having to do with “interrogation under duress.” As I signed it, I said, “As a married man, I am an expert on interrogation under duress.”

  No laughs.

  Our wills were on file and we checked them over, then we were given powers of attorney to fill out and sign. Jennifer, a young lawyer I’d seen before my first trip to Yemen, explained, “This is in case you’re abducted or go missing.”

  I asked, “So we just show this to our kidnappers?”

  “No. You—”

  Kate interrupted and explained to me, “If we’re dead, the executors of our wills handle our affairs. But if we’re missing or unlawfully imprisoned, then someone has to act on our behalf—someone to write checks, pay our bills, and so forth. It doesn’t have to be an actual attorney.” She inquired, “Didn’t you do this last time?”

  “Right. I named you as my attorney-in-fact.”

  “Good. We’ll name each other. But… if we share the same fate, we’ll need an alternate.”

  This was getting a little heavy.

  Kate said, “It should be a family member.” She suggested, “How about my father?”

  Am I related to him? I mean, what if we both wound up kidnapped or missing, then got free and found out that her father had spent all our money on his collection of J. Edgar Hoover memorabilia?

  “John?”

  “Yeah. Fine.” They’ll never take me alive anyway.

  We filled out the forms, signed them, and Jennifer notarized them.

  Finally, Jennifer produced our black diplomatic passports, which had been kept in a safe since our last make-believe diplomatic assignments to Tanzania and Yemen.

  Jennifer also informed us that the State Department had called the Yemeni consulate office and our visas should be ready after 1 P.M. for us to pick up.

  There aren’t many Americans who go to Yemen, so by now our Yemeni allies were aware that John Corey and Kate Mayfield would be arriving soon. Maybe they’d have someone at the airport to greet us.

  Another thought popped into my head—a thought about the speed of all this paperwork—and I asked Jennifer, “When did State call the Yemeni consulate about our visas?”

  She replied, “Thursday.”

  Kate and I glanced at each other. Thursday?

  Anyway, we finished up with Jennifer, who said, “You get to do exciting things. I wish I was going.”

  I wish you were, too, Jennifer.

  As we walked down the hallway, Kate said, “Thursday?”

  “The Friday meeting was just a formality. Yemen is our fate. It is written in the sands of time.”

  No reply. Clearly she was not happy with her friend Tom. Good.

  I said to Kate, “By the way, I went into ACS and there’s a file called Numair, which is Arabic for ‘panther,’ and it’s restricted.”

  “Who do we see about getting access?”

  “Didn’t say.”

  “Odd.” She suggested, “We’ll ask Tom.”

  “Did that. He said go to Yemen.”

  We took the elevator down to the nurse’s office, where a young lady named Annie was expecting us.

  Because Kate and I were scheduled for departure within five days, we couldn’t get the shots spaced over the recommended seven days, and sweet Annie stuck us like we were voodoo dolls.

  We got eight shots—diphtheria, dysentery, typhoid, anthrax, scarlet fever, and three diseases I’ve never heard of. I especially enjoyed the two shots in the butt. Annie gave us each a starter vial of malaria pills and said, “Start taking these now.” She added, “Come back Friday morning for the rest of the shots.”

  “How many more diseases could there be?”

  “Leprosy, for one.”

  Jeez.

  She advised us, “You have a lot of vaccines in you, so you may not feel well later.”

  “Can I have alcohol?”

  “Sure. Just be close to a toilet.”

  We went to Kate’s desk, and s
he called the FBI Travel Office at Headquarters in D.C.

  Kate put it on speaker phone, and a woman answered, “Travel Office. Mrs. Barrett speaking. How may I help you?”

  Kate said we were calling from the New York office, and she gave our names and our travel authorization numbers.

  Mrs. Barrett replied, “Hold on… yes, here you are. Sana’a.”

  “Santa Ana,” I corrected. “California.”

  “No… Sana’a. Yemen.”

  Kate picked up the phone and disengaged the speaker, saying, “Ready to copy.”

  She listened to Mrs. Barrett, made some notes, then said, “Thank you,” and hung up. She said to me, “American Airlines to London, British Air to Cairo, Egyptair to Sana’a. First class.”

  “Hard to believe there are no direct flights to Sana’a.”

  “There are. From Cairo.”

  “How do the deli guys get back and forth from Brooklyn?”

  “I’m sure I don’t know.” She informed me, “If you really want to go direct, there is a military flight twice a week from Dover Air Force Base in Maryland. One to Sana’a, one to Aden.”

  That was interesting. Sounded like we were getting our noses a little farther under the tent.

  Kate said, “If we want to go that way, Mrs. Barrett will check it out. Departure times and days vary.”

  “Yeah. Let’s check it out. Might be interesting to see who and what is going to Yemen.” Also, this was probably the way we’d sneak The Panther out of Yemen. Direct U.S. Air Force flight from Yemen to Guantanamo. The shithole to hellhole express.

  I went back to my desk, and Al informed me that Nabeel had not shown. It was 12:15.

  Al called Nabeel’s cell phone, but got his voice mail again and left a loud message. I phoned the deli, a place named George’s in Bay Ridge, and spoke to some guy with an accent who wasn’t helpful. Al took the phone and spoke sharply in Arabic, then discovered that the guy was Mexican. Funny. What a great country.

  Al volunteered to drive us to George’s Deli, but I had lots to do and Brooklyn was not on that list. I suggested, “Find one of our guys in the area and ask him to check out the deli and Nabeel’s home address.”