The Panther

by Nelson DeMille

  “Yes? And?”

  “One of these Americans is a man named John Corey, and the other is a woman called Katherine Mayfield, who is his wife.”

  “And they are diplomats?”

  “No, sir, they are both agents of the Federal Bureau of Investigation.”

  The Panther nodded and said, “Continue.”

  Nabeel further reported, “Our friend in the New York consulate office informed me when I was in New York that these agents had arrived to pick up their visas, and our friend gave me copies of the visas and their passports. Both of these agents had listed their home address as the government building in which they work. Further inquiries revealed to me that they both are employed in the office of what is called the Anti-Terrorist Task Force.”

  Again, The Panther nodded and motioned Nabeel to continue.

  “This, as you may know, sir, is an internal American security agency, but the agents are sometimes sent to various places in the world—”

  “Yes, I know that. They are here.”

  “Yes, sir.” Nabeel continued, “The man, Corey, was in fact in Aden approximately three years ago. Now he is back.”

  The Panther stayed silent awhile, then asked, “And how is this man and this woman different from the other American agents who come here?”

  Nabeel informed The Panther, “These two agents have been specifically placed by name on the assassination list of the Supreme Council.”

  “Yes? And why?”

  “This man, sir, is the American agent who killed Asad Khalil, The Lion, in New York.”

  The Panther nodded. He certainly remembered that. Was it a year ago? Perhaps less.

  Nabeel reminded The Panther, “Asad Khalil had traveled to New York to kill this man, Corey, and his wife, Mayfield.”

  “Yes, I recall.” But it had not gone well. Khalil was a Libyan, and he had gone to America on an earlier mission to avenge the bombing of his homeland by the Americans. He had exacted a degree of revenge, but not all that he wished. So he returned. And this time, they killed him.

  Khalil was not within Al Qaeda, but he worked with Al Qaeda. And thus the Supreme Council had sought to avenge his death by calling for the assassination of this man Corey, who had killed the great jihadist, Asad Khalil, The Lion.

  The Panther inquired, “Why do you think this man has come to Yemen again?”

  Nabeel replied, “Perhaps, sir, to kill you.”

  That came as no surprise to Bulus ibn al-Darwish. The Americans had a special hatred of Muslims who had been born or achieved citizenship in America and then joined the jihad.

  The Americans, he understood from his more than twenty years in that country, were so arrogant as to believe that anyone who lived among them would come to love them and love their corrupt and licentious country. And when you did not love them, they hated you for your lack of appreciation of them and their wonderful nation. True arrogance and true vanity. Pride goeth before destruction, as it is written in the Hebrew Book of Proverbs.

  And of course, the Americans in Yemen were here to avenge the killing of seventeen seamen on the American warship. And Bulus ibn al-Darwish knew from his parents and other sources that his name had been placed on what was called the CIA kill list. And this list, according to custom, or perhaps law, had to be approved by the President of the United States. That was interesting. Interesting, too, that this man Corey, who was perhaps here to kill him, was himself—along with his wife—on a similar assassination list that was approved by the Supreme Council of Al Qaeda. So the hunter and the hunted were listed for death. The question was, Who is the hunter, and who is the hunted? The answer for now is, Both are both.

  Also, he knew, his mother and father had engaged an American attorney to have his name removed from the CIA list. Corey’s name would be removed from the list of the Supreme Council when he, Bulus ibn al-Darwish, killed him.

  The Panther thought about all this. To him, it was an honor to have his name placed on that American list. But his mother and father—and probably his sister, who was an American—would rather see him rotting his life away in an American prison. They did not understand him because they had been too long in America. They did not understand martyrdom, and perhaps they had even ceased to believe that martyrdom in jihad earned a man his rapid ascension into Paradise. His parents, he thought, would someday go to hell.

  “Sir?”

  The Panther returned to the present problem and said, “So if this man and this woman are in Yemen to kill me, then they have made it convenient for me to kill them.”

  Nabeel nodded, but said nothing.

  It was possible, thought The Panther, that these two Americans were not here specifically to kill him, but in any case the man Corey had killed The Lion, and for that reason the Supreme Council had ordered a death sentence for him. So if he, Bulus ibn al-Darwish, could kill this American agent, he would gain great honor with the Supreme Council.

  He said to Nabeel, “Kill them both.”

  Nabeel nodded, then asked, “When? Where?”

  “Whenever you can, wherever you can.” He added, “In Sana’a. Or in Aden if they should go there.” He thought a moment, then said, “Or in Marib, if they should come here seeking me. Take as many men as you need and kill them at the first opportunity.”

  “I will see to it, sir.”

  The Panther was about to dismiss Nabeel, but then Nabeel said, “I have actually met this man.”

  “Yes? Where? How?”

  “In New York, sir. Just last week.” Nabeel had been waiting for this moment to impress his chief with his knowledge of the enemy, and to show his usefulness in America. Nabeel enjoyed his visits to New York, and he wanted those visits to continue. He explained, “After I received this man’s name and office address from our consulate in New York, I telephoned the number on his visa application and asked to speak to John Corey with the claim that I had important information for him about terrorist activity.”

  The Panther smiled and said, “Well, that is a true claim.”

  Nabeel and the two Iraqis, seeing that The Panther was smiling, laughed.

  Nabeel continued, “Corey came to the telephone and I explained that I had gotten his name from a man who did not wish to be identified. We spoke briefly and arranged to meet.”

  The Panther asked, “At the government office?”

  “No, sir. That is not the procedure for the first meeting.” Nabeel thought this could be amusing, so he had rehearsed his English and replied in that language, “The agent Corey and I arranged to meet at a Jewish delicatessen.”

  The Panther smiled again, but the Iraqis spoke no English and they did not understand.

  Nabeel, emboldened by his chief’s smile, continued in English, “Ben’s Jewish deli—on West three-eight.” He asked, “Do you know it, sir?”

  The Panther said in English, “West Thirty-eighth Street.” He seemed no longer amused and said abruptly, in Arabic, “Tell me of this man.”

  Nabeel did not want to say that the meeting was brief, or that his poor English inhibited the talk, but he did say, “The man was arrogant.”

  “They are all arrogant.”

  “This man more so.” Nabeel thought back to his brief meeting with the American agent and said, “He was abrupt, and his manner was that of a man who had little respect for me or those of our faith who live in America.” Nabeel wasn’t certain if that was completely true or accurate, but this is what his chief wanted to hear.

  The Panther nodded and said, “Arrogant.”

  Nabeel continued, “He seemed anxious to leave—it was Saturday last, and the agents do not want to work on Saturday or Sunday. So I arranged with him for me to come to this government building for a new meeting—on Monday, in the morning.” Nabeel did not mention the need for an Arabic translator.

  The Panther asked, “And did you go to this meeting?”

  “No, sir. That would be dangerous.”

  The Panther smiled and joked, “So perhaps it is you
, Nabeel, who this man is looking for in Yemen, and you who he wishes to kill.”

  “No, sir, it is you. But I will kill him first.”

  “You will. And his wife.” He asked, “Is that all?”

  Nabeel replied, “That is all, sir. But I wish you to have this—” He reached into his fouteh, and the Iraqi officers became alert.

  Nabeel produced a small white card and handed it respectfully to The Panther, saying, “This is the business card of the agent, John Corey. He gave it to me to present at the government building when I called on him.”

  The Panther took the card and held it near the flame of the candle. He read:

  John Corey, Detective

  N.Y.P.D./FBI

  Anti-Terrorist Task Force

  26 Federal Plaza

  New York, N.Y. 10278

  There was the office telephone number for contact, but not the man’s cell phone.

  Also on the card were two seals—one of the Federal Bureau of Investigation and one of the New York Police Department.

  Bulus ibn al-Darwish stared at the card for longer than it took to read it, then he turned it over and read, Nabeel al-Samad to see Det. Corey.

  Nabeel was aware that some men who worked for and with Al Qaeda in America at times exaggerated their deeds and accomplishments, so this card was good proof to have of his work—and his truthfulness.

  The Panther handed the card back to Nabeel, who said, “It is yours, sir. I have no use for it.”

  “Neither do I. And neither will Corey after you kill him, so keep it, Nabeel, to remind yourself of your task.”

  Nabeel took the card and said, “Yes, sir.”

  Nabeel made to leave, but The Panther said, “Wait.” He thought a moment, then said, “There will be a good reward for you, Nabeel, if you are able to capture this man instead of killing him. Capture him and bring him to me. And also his wife.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “But do not allow this reward to blind you to the task of killing them if that is the only way.”

  Nabeel vowed, “This man and his wife will be captured and brought to you, or they will be killed.” He further vowed, “They will not return to America.”

  “And neither will you if they escape.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Nabeel again made to leave, but The Panther again said, “Wait.” He said to Captain Zuhair and Lieutenant al-Rashid, “Begin the preparations for the march.”

  Both officers saluted and left the hut quickly.

  Bulus ibn al-Darwish, alone now with Nabeel al-Samad, recently arrived from America, inquired of his aide, “So they looked well to you?”

  Nabeel knew who “they” were and replied, “As I said, sir, they looked well, and they send you their greetings and their blessings.” He added, because his chief wanted more, “Your father is prospering in his business and your mother has become closer to her faith.”

  The Panther nodded and asked, “And Hana?”

  “She, too, has become more devout, and as I have said, she is very content in her work at the office of your father.”

  None of this was true, of course—at least about the sister and the mother. The father was prospering, but he had aged badly in the three years since Nabeel had begun visiting them after the Cole attack. The mother, too, looked drawn and sad. Hana, however, was more angry than sad, and she had told Nabeel, “I have no brother,” but Nabeel would never tell that to his chief.

  The parents of al-Darwish had given Nabeel photographs and letters for their son, but he could never allow these things to remain on his person, and he had burned everything at the first opportunity after he left these meetings, which were always arranged for a public place in Manhattan or Brooklyn—a park or a museum, or sometimes a department store. The authorities, he was certain, did not know of him, though of course they knew of the al-Darwish family. The authorities sometimes watched their house, and their mosque, and the father’s place of business. But the family was not under constant surveillance, and they traveled often to the city for shopping and entertainment. Also, Nabeel knew, they had a sense, after all these years, of knowing if they were being watched.

  Still, it was a danger to meet them, and Nabeel was glad that he had to do this only once or twice in a year. But it was also a good thing for him to do this, because it raised his status with his chief.

  Bulus ibn al-Darwish said, “You did not say if my sister was still betrothed.”

  “She is, sir.”

  “And is there a date set for the wedding?”

  “Not yet, sir.” He added, “But soon.” Or perhaps not. In truth, Nabeel had not asked the family about any of this, and Hana had said nothing to him on this subject.

  Nabeel always found himself in a difficult situation on these occasions—in New York, and in Yemen. He needed to be careful. A lie was not good, but sometimes necessary. And the truth was not always good.

  The Panther stayed silent with his thoughts. He did not want to ask a question that Nabeel had answered three days before, and he did not want to seem overly concerned about any of this. So he said nothing.

  He knew that one day he would again see his mother, his father, and his sister, and it would be here in Yemen. And that day would be soon after his total victory. He would see them in Sana’a—in the palace of the president. On the day he became Supreme Leader of Yemen. On that day, his family would be with him to share in his triumph. And they would never again return to America.

  The Panther looked at Nabeel and said, “That will be all.”

  Nabeel bowed and left the hut.

  The Panther remained standing in the light of the flickering candle, then blew it out and went into the night.

  Zuhair and al-Rashid were preparing the soldiers for their movement, and The Panther motioned them to him.

  He said to his two commanders, “Well, you have heard Nabeel. The Americans are sending more agents here, and soon they will be sending soldiers unless we kill the small numbers who are already here.” He added, “More reason to attack the embassy and the Sheraton Hotel in Aden.”

  Captain Zuhair thought that the opposite might be true; every attack on the Americans in Yemen increased the number of Americans in Yemen. The jihadists, he thought, should be attacking the Yemeni Army and security forces, but Bulus ibn al-Darwish, the Amriki, had a hard hate in his heart for his former countrymen. Nevertheless, Captain Zuhair said, “Yes, sir.”

  The Panther said to his two officers, “Let us go now and begin the march.”

  The three men moved closer to the soldiers, and Captain Zuhair called out to them, “It is time!”

  The men cheered.

  The Panther, too, called out a last time to his jihadists, “We will meet again, amid the inferno of the oil camp, and among the corpses of the Americans—or we will meet in Paradise!”

  The men let out a long, loud shout: “Victory!”

  Captain Zuhair and Lieutenant al-Rashid paid their final respects to their leader, who blessed them and blessed the jihadists. Then the officers took charge of their men and began the march toward the American oil compound.

  The Panther watched them disappear into the dark, then he turned and walked toward five waiting vehicles, filled with his personal bodyguard. He would remove himself from this place and await the outcome of the attack in a nearby Bedouin camp. It was necessary, he knew, to keep moving, to not stay in one place too long, and to take shelter under a roof or in a cave away from the probing eyes of the American Predator drones. And it was for this reason that he wore the robes and long beard of a Bedouin.

  He glanced up at the desert sky. It looked the same as it did since the beginning of time—but there was something new up there, something that had already killed too many of his fellow jihadists. And they were looking for him. And now, perhaps, the Americans had sent a man—and maybe a woman—to look for him also. Well, he thought, the Predators would not find him, and the man Corey would not find him. He could not kill the Predators, but
he could kill the man. And kill the man’s wife. And kill any American who came to the sacred soil of Yemen to find him.

  The Americans may rule the air, but he, Bulus ibn al-Darwish, The Panther, ruled the land.

  PART IV

  Sana’a,

  Yemen

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  It was 2:35 in the morning and the Egyptair flight from Cairo was approaching Sana’a International Airport. The airport had a name—El Rahaba—which according to my Arabic dictionary means, “I’d like the fruit salad.” No. That can’t be right.

  Anyway, it had been almost three hours since we’d left Cairo, and this leg of the flight was unexpectedly full; mostly young men, probably all Yemeni guest workers bringing home a few bucks so their families could eat. It was a sad country.

  Kate and I were sitting in first class and the other gentlemen in first class were dressed Western, but looked Mideastern; maybe Yemeni and Egyptian businessmen or government officials. A few of them had their wives with them, and the women were dressed in traditional clothing. Most of the ladies had been unveiled in flight, but now that the aircraft was landing, they all had scarves and veils in the full upright position.

  Kate, FYI, was wearing loose blue pants and a matching high-collared blouse with long sleeves. Buck would have approved, except that Kate had no head covering and her medium-length blonde hair was completely exposed for every man to see, as was her pretty face. Also, FYI, she’d gone light on the makeup.

  As for me, I had on my usual tan slacks, navy sports jacket, and a blue shirt, which was a Christian Dior. Christian—get it?

  The big Airbus continued its descent, and I leaned over and peered through the window. It was a clear night and I could see hills in the distance, and below was an expanse of arid landscape washed in blue moonlight. In the near distance I saw a few scattered lights that must be Sana’a.

  As we crossed over the airport boundary, I could see the military end of the airport: two jet fighters with Yemeni markings, a few helicopters whose markings I couldn’t make out, and a huge United States Air Force C-17 cargo plane. The outpost of Empire.