The Panther

by Nelson DeMille

  Also, Tom knew I wouldn’t go alone, so he told the bosses in Washington that they had to include Kate, who he knew would want to go. Plus, Kate had worked the Asad Khalil case with me, so for all I or Washington knew, Kate was also on The Panther’s menu.

  A sane man would have pulled the plug on this. But… did it make any real difference? If Tom had told us we were bait, would we have said no? And if I confronted Tom with this, he’d say, as he always did, “I didn’t know that. Nobody told me that. Where did you hear that?”

  In any case, I now understood what had happened behind the scenes. Actually, I always understood.

  We spent our last afternoon in our apartment, taking care of some final details and calling our parents. Hers were in Minnesota, as I said, and mine were retired in Florida. Thank God none of them would visit us in Yemen. The place sucked enough.

  I’d already convinced my parents that Yemen was the Switzerland of the Mideast, so they weren’t too concerned, though my mother warned me about getting too much sun. “You know how you burn, John.”

  Kate’s parents were a little more hip to the situation, and they expressed a mixture of pride and concern for their little girl. And some advice for me. “Take care of our daughter.”

  How about me? Maybe they were in on this with Tom.

  Funny, though, that when all is said and done, the last thing you do is call Mom and Dad. I wondered if The Panther ever called home.

  At 5 P.M., we phoned Alfred, our doorman, and told him we needed a porter with a luggage cart and a taxi to JFK.

  As the porter was loading our luggage into the taxi, Alfred, who knew what we did for a living, and knew we were going to someplace in Sandland, said to us, “Thank you for your service to our country.”

  Kate and I shook hands with Alfred, then got into the taxi. Kate, I saw, was wiping a tear from her eye.

  I took her hand and squeezed it.

  At least, I thought, I was going into the jaws of the beast armed, finally, with the truth, as revealed by Al Rasul. The truth is good, except when it’s bad.

  And there was another truth that had occurred to me—another reason we were being asked to go to Yemen, and it also had to do with the past—but not The Lion—something else that happened years ago, that involved Kate and the CIA.

  I put that thought in the back of my mind, but not too far back. The answers to Why me, why Kate, and why Yemen, were in Yemen.

  PART III

  Marib,

  Yemen

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Bulus ibn al-Darwish, al-Numair, The Panther, wearing the white robes and shiwal of a Bedouin, stood before a gathering of his fighters; forty-two jihadists, armed with AK-47 assault rifles and shoulder-fired rocket launchers.

  It was past the midnight hour, but he could see his men sitting cross-legged in the bright light of a waxing half moon, and he could see, too, the flat, desolate landscape of rock and powdery soil, stretching to the star-filled horizon.

  The Panther said to his men in a loud, clear voice, “This night, you will achieve a great victory for Islam!”

  The men cheered and raised their rifles in the air.

  “You will kill the infidel and cleanse the sacred soil of Islam with their blood!”

  Another cheer.

  The Panther looked out at his soldiers. They were mostly new recruits, hastily trained in the mountain camp. But among them were four hardened jihadists from Afghanistan, and two officers of the defeated Army of Iraq.

  These two former officers had met the Americans in battle and had fled their homeland after the defeat, and they were now here in Yemen to avenge that humiliation. What they lacked in the spirit of holy war, they more than compensated for in hate.

  One of the officers, Behaddin Zuhair, a former captain of the elite Iraqi Guard, would lead the attack on the American-owned Hunt Oil installation. The other Iraqi, Sayid al-Rashid, would be his second in command.

  The Panther had great faith in these combat-proven soldiers, and he knew they would give courage to the young recruits. With these two Iraqi officers, and with the four battle-hardened jihadists from Afghanistan within the ranks, The Panther saw no reason to lead this attack against the American oil facility himself.

  The Panther reminded his men, “The security forces of this foreign compound are all paid mercenaries—men who have no loyalty to the Americans, only to the American dollar. They will surrender and beg for mercy, or they will run—or they will die at your hands!”

  The men cheered more loudly.

  The Panther knew, as did his officers and men, that the Americans had also hired a hundred men of the Yemeni National Security Bureau to provide additional protection for the oil installation—the housing units, the offices, the trucks, the machinery, and the pipelines and pumping equipment. These one hundred para-military policemen were well paid by the Americans but poorly trained by the government in Sana’a, poorly equipped, and poorly motivated. And, as The Panther recalled from his dealings with these men at the Bilqis ruins, they were easily intimidated and more easily bought.

  He reminded his fighters, “The police camp is outside the perimeter of the oil company, on the north side, and you will attack from the south.” He also assured his men, “The police will not engage you. And you will not provoke them.” He smiled and said, “They will be sleeping like lambs and will hear nothing.”

  The men laughed, but Bulus ibn al-Darwish could sense that it was forced, nervous laughter.

  Men on the edge of battle, he knew, were fearful. This was understandable. But faith overcame fear. Leadership overcame inexperience. And that was his job—to foster faith and show leadership.

  He said to his fighters, “You have been shown the plans of the defenses of this American colony on the soil of Islam. You know that this place is weak, and you know the secrets of these defenses. And you know that the mercenaries who guard this place for the Americans are infidels without heart or soul. And the Yemeni laborers who are with them have sold themselves to the Americans and are unworthy of God. They are all sheep to be slaughtered this night!”

  The men stood and cheered wildly.

  Captain Behaddin Zuhair stood to the side and watched his men, then looked at his chief, Bulus ibn al-Darwish, who called himself The Panther, though some called him al-Amriki—the American, which al-Darwish did not like.

  Behaddin Zuhair thought that al-Darwish had great presence and spoke well. The Panther had become a legend since he planned the successful attack on the American warship in Aden Harbor, so the men listened to him, trusted him, and revered him. Al-Darwish, thought Zuhair, was a great inspirer of men, a smart planner, and perhaps a great thinker. But he was not a great military strategist. In fact, he knew nothing about war. If the truth be known, this attack on a fortified compound, executed with poorly trained troops, had all the ingredients of disaster. But no one would tell that to Bulus ibn al-Darwish.

  The men were still cheering, and The Panther motioned them to sit.

  He let the silence fall over the desert, and he looked out at the star-filled night. A soft, hot wind came from the north, from Ar Rub al Khali, the Empty Quarter, the desert of the blazing sun and the massive, shifting dunes of scorching sand where even scorpions died.

  It was here where God put the oil, and here where the Americans came to drain it from the soil of Islam. And The Panther was moved to say, “It is here where the Americans and their paid servants will die. And the dunes will march south and cover their bones and cover every trace of them, and all evidence that they were here and have polluted the sacred soil of Yemen and Islam.”

  The men raised their voices in agreement.

  The Panther shouted, “You will be victorious!”

  The men stood again and shouted, “Victory!”

  “You will show no mercy!”

  “No mercy!”

  “You will kill the infidels and their servants! No one escapes alive!”

  The men cheered and continued cheeri
ng.

  Captain Zuhair, too, cheered, as did his lieutenant, Sayid al-Rashid. But they exchanged glances with each other. These officers, who had seen battle against the Americans, against the Kurds and the Iranians, and against the Iraqi rebels who fought against the great leader Saddam Hussein—these two men knew victory and defeat, and they knew fear, cowardice, bravery, and death. The Panther knew none of this.

  Zuhair looked at his men. Too young—not in their years, but in their hearts and their heads. Too many idealists and religious scholars who came from comfort. Too many Saudis who had seen battle only on television.

  Well, thought Zuhair, what they lacked in hardness, perhaps they made up for in faith and zeal.

  Zuhair looked again at Bulus ibn al-Darwish. The Amriki, too, must have had these thoughts and doubts. Which perhaps was why al-Darwish was not leading the attack tonight.

  The Panther called out to his men, “You have gathered here from many nations of Islam to engage in jihad. Tonight will be the first victory, followed by many more, until the Americans are driven from Yemen. And then we will turn to Sana’a and annihilate the corrupt government men who have invited the Americans into holy Yemen.” The Panther raised his voice and said, “We will hang the ministers and the generals from the lampposts of Sana’a and celebrate our victory in the palace of the puppet president, Ali Abdullah Saleh!”

  The men stood again and shouted, “Death to Saleh!”

  The Panther smiled and raised his arms, but his thoughts were elsewhere. He himself would not be leading this attack, though some among his jihadists might question why he was not joining them. In fact, Captain Zuhair had raised this issue.

  Bulus ibn al-Darwish did not fear death, but he did fear capture, especially at the hands of the Americans, his former compatriots. He feared prison, he feared torture, he feared the humiliation of having his family in America—his father, his mother, his sister—seeing him kept like an animal in an American prison.

  Death was far better, and to die during jihad would assure his immediate ascension into Paradise. But there was no guarantee of death in battle.

  If he were taken prisoner, the entire jihadist movement in Yemen would suffer or collapse. So for that reason, and because God willed him to stay alive and free to fight the Crusaders, he could not join the attack.

  But he did intend to be there to join in the victory, and to oversee the execution of the survivors.

  He motioned for his men to be silent, and he said to them, “I will be with you at the moment of victory.” He drew his jambiyah from its sheath—still stained with the blood of the Belgians—and raised it high. “I will join you in cutting the throats of all who fall into our hands. No mercy! No prisoners!”

  The men cheered wildly.

  Captain Zuhair tilted his head toward Lieutenant al-Rashid and whispered, “He does know how to cut throats.”

  Al-Rashid nodded.

  Bulus ibn al-Darwish turned and faced toward the Kaaba in Mecca, raised his arms, and called out, “God is great!”

  “God is great!”

  “Let us now pray.”

  It was not the time of the dawn salat, though the dua—the prayers for supplication in times of crisis or danger—could be said at any time, so Bulus ibn al-Darwish sat cross-legged facing Mecca, as did his men, and he recited from the Koran, “ ‘When the heavens are stripped away, the stars are strewn, the seas boil over, the tombs burst open, then shall each soul know what it has given and what it has held back.’ ”

  The Panther then said, “Let each man now pray silently to God for strength, for courage, and for victory in battle.”

  Again the desert went silent, except for the wind from the Empty Quarter.

  Bulus ibn al-Darwish prayed silently, beseeching God to give his men courage. He prayed, too, for himself and said, “Let me cut many American throats this night.”

  But as often happened when he prayed for American deaths—such as before the Cole attack—other thoughts intruded into his prayers and his mind; thoughts of his childhood and school years in America. Thoughts of his family, and his former home.

  These were troubling thoughts, confused memories, and they weighed heavily on his soul.

  He had not been happy in America, but he was happy now in the land of his ancestors. Yemen was ancient and once pure, and he would make it pure again.

  He looked up at the wondrous desert sky, a sky that had not changed since the days of his forefathers—since the day of Creation. He vowed, “The land of Yemen shall be as clean and pure as the sky above it.”

  And God spoke to him: “You, Bulus ibn al-Darwish, will be the savior of Yemen and Islam.”

  He felt a light touch on his shoulder and looked up to see Captain Zuhair, who said softly, “If you have a moment, sir, before I move the men to battle.”

  The Panther stood and followed Captain Zuhair into a mud hut.

  Inside the small hut, lit by a single candle, was Lieutenant al-Rashid.

  Captain Zuhair began, “I am confident, sir, in total victory tonight.” He paused, then said, “But I must report to you, sir, that I have just received, by cell phone, some information from our friend who is inside the American compound.” Zuhair continued, “This man reports that the Americans and their security forces, who number perhaps thirty, are arming themselves and their laborers, including our friend, and they are preparing themselves for an attack.”

  The Panther stood quietly in the dark and did not reply. Could this be true? Or could it be that Captain Zuhair was losing his courage?

  Captain Zuhair suggested, “Perhaps, sir, we should delay this attack until another night. Perhaps a week. The men can train further. Also, sir, we should consider adding more fighters to the force.”

  Again The Panther stayed silent, but then he said, “We attack tonight. And we cannot add any men to this force.” He reminded Captain Zuhair, “Forty men are as of this moment making their way to Aden to attack the Sheraton Hotel, and to kill the American soldiers and spies who live there. Another forty will soon be on their way to Sana’a to attack the American Embassy. And that, Captain, is all the fighters we have in the camp.”

  “This is true, sir. But perhaps we should not divide our forces. Perhaps we should concentrate our forces on the American oil installation to ensure a complete and rapid victory.”

  The Panther had already discussed this with Captain Zuhair, and now the man was speaking of it again—on the eve of battle.

  The Panther said with some annoyance and authority, “I have made the decision to attack on three fronts. This will cause the government to react with fear and confusion. They will not know when or where to expect another attack, and they will become paralyzed with indecision, and they will begin arguing with the Americans, who always want action and decision.”

  Captain Zuhair had no reply.

  The Panther reminded Captain Zuhair, “I have told you this before.” Then he reminded the captain, “The Americans are arrogant and the government is cowardly. You will see both when these attacks are successful.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “If you had been here after the attack on the Cole, you would understand what I am saying and doing.”

  Like all bad generals, Zuhair thought, this one is reliving his victories and forgetting his defeats. But Zuhair said, “Yes, sir.”

  The Panther turned to Lieutenant al-Rashid and commanded, “Speak. What do you say?”

  Sayid al-Rashid said nothing, but then drew a deep breath and said, “I can certainly see the concerns of Captain Zuhair, but…” He glanced at Zuhair, then said to The Panther, “But I can also see that what you say, sir, is true.”

  The Panther nodded.

  Al-Rashid continued cautiously, “We… Captain Zuhair and I are simple soldiers, sir, and we think of tactics. But you, sir, know of strategy. And it is an excellent strategy. To throw fear into the government and cause strife within the government—”

  “And between the government and the A
mericans.”

  “Yes, sir. And of course, our victory tonight will be all the greater because of your leadership and planning.”

  The Panther nodded curtly, then said, “If there is nothing further, I suggest you speak to each man now to be certain they understand the plan of attack.” He also said, “You will say nothing of what you have just said to me.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He reminded them, “It is six kilometers to the oil installation, and if you start now, you will be there in less than two hours.” He ordered, “The attack must be completed at least two hours before dawn so that we may withdraw into the hill camp under the cover of night.”

  Both men replied, “Yes, sir,” then Captain Zuhair said, “Nabeel would like a word with you.”

  “Now?”

  “He says it is important.”

  “All right. Tell him to come in.” He also ordered, “You stay.”

  Lieutenant al-Rashid ducked out of the hut and returned seconds later with Nabeel al-Samad, a junior aide to The Panther.

  The Panther looked at his aide in the dim light of the candle. Nabeel, like himself, had lived in America, though Nabeel was an occasional visitor who went there only for business—Al Qaeda business. And also to deliver a verbal message now and then to the family of Bulus ibn al-Darwish, and to bring a message in return from his father, mother, and sister. Nabeel had already done this three days before, so what now did he want?

  The Panther asked his aide, “What is it, Nabeel?”

  Nabeel al-Samad made proper greetings, then said, “Sir, I have just heard from our friend at El Rahaba.”

  “Yes? And what do you hear from our friend at the airport?”

  Nabeel reported, “There is an Egyptair flight arriving in Sana’a at two forty-five this morning. The manifest for this flight lists two Americans from New York City who are traveling on diplomatic passports.” Nabeel also said, “We knew of these people perhaps two weeks ago when the American State Department applied for visas in their names.”