We touched down and the aircraft rolled to a halt, then taxied to a hardstand a hundred yards from the terminal. The engines shut down and Kate said, “He’s not taxiing to the gate.”
“We walk.”
“I’m assuming that’s a joke and it’s not funny.”
Clearly Kate was a bit anxious, not to mention tired and cranky after a nearly thirty-hour journey. I said to her, “This whole country is a joke. Learn to laugh or you’ll go crazy.”
No reply.
Everyone was standing, and I stood and moved to the exit door and looked through the porthole at the terminal, which I remembered from last time; a low building not much longer than a strip mall, badly lit by three stanchion lights. I could see the headlights of the mobile staircase, followed by a bus, heading toward the first-class exit door, which reassured me that the peasants in the rear wouldn’t be on my bus.
I returned to my seat, and Kate and I collected our things and moved into the aisle.
The staircase pulled up without smashing the aircraft, the door opened, and I could smell the fresh, cool morning air rushing into the cabin. Yemen.
So down the stairs and across the tarmac to the waiting bus. Our fellow passengers from first class were all seated, but Kate and I stood in the rear. Kate was the only unveiled woman on board, and the men, who had not taken much notice of her on the aircraft, now looked at her, as did the women. It was as if we’d all been on a nude beach, then got dressed and boarded a bus, except that one of the women was still naked.
There are two gates in Sana’a Airport, and we stopped at the one called two. We let everyone get off first, then followed. So far, so good.
Inside the terminal, our cabin mates moved toward the passport control booths. Only two booths were manned at this hour, and the booth marked for VIPs, diplomats, and crew was closed. Also, there was no one around who looked like us, and Kate said, “Maybe we have to go through passport control.”
“We’re supposed to be met here.”
So we waited. The buses that were filled with coach peasants started arriving and the passport lines got longer. Two Yemeni soldiers carrying AK-47s were giving us the eye.
Kate said, “Let’s call the embassy number.”
“The pay phones are on the other side of passport control, and I’m not standing in line with the peasants.”
“We can’t stand here.”
“Okay, let’s cut the line.”
I went to the head of the line at one of the booths and Kate followed. No one objected and I recalled that the Yemenis, for all their faults, were exceedingly polite and tolerant of Westerners, whom they expected to be arrogant assholes.
Kate and I went to the passport guy and presented our diplomatic passports. The guy checked our visas, then our faces against the passport photos, and he stared at Kate. I mean, every woman in line was veiled, so this guy must be good at eyes. Right?
He stamped our visas, then motioned us to pass through. For some reason—instinct—I glanced back and saw he was on the phone.
Before we got to the double doors marked EXIT, a tall guy with a two-day beard, wearing a crumpled suit but no tie, approached and without identifying himself said, “Come this way,” and motioned us to follow him to a side corridor. I said to him, “We’re meeting someone here from the American Embassy.”
He seemed to understand and said impatiently, “Yes, yes. Embassy man is this way. We must discuss your visa.”
Sounded like bullshit to me, and I didn’t want to leave the public area—not that it mattered a whole lot where you were when you got arrested. But if we stayed here, we might see our embassy guy. I said, “We are traveling on American diplomatic passports, as you know, and we have been instructed to wait here, and we’re not moving from here.” I suggested, “Go get the embassy man.”
He seemed very annoyed, and at this point he should have IDed himself and asked for our passports, but instead he said, “Wait,” and walked toward the corridor.
The two soldiers with the AK-47s moved closer to keep us company. Meanwhile, the Yemenis from the flight were giving us furtive looks as they hurried toward customs.
I said to Kate, “See what happens when you cut the line?”
“John, what’s going on?”
“I don’t know.” And I wasn’t waiting around to find out. I eyed the double exit doors that led to baggage and customs, and thinking our contact guy might be there, or in the terminal, I said to Kate, “Let’s go.”
“He said wait—”
I took her arm and we moved toward the exit doors. “Walk like an Egyptian.”
We got within ten feet of the doors before I heard a shout, and the two soldiers suddenly rushed ahead of us and we found ourselves looking into the muzzles of two AK-47s.
Our Yemeni friend reappeared and shouted, “I say to you wait here!”
“Yeah, you also said the embassy man was with you.”
“Yes. Now he is here.”
“Mr. and Mrs. Corey, I presume.”
I turned, and walking toward us was a guy wearing jeans and a windbreaker. He was, in fact, the guy in our photograph. Paul Brenner.
He said to Kate and me, “Sorry I couldn’t meet you. I was speaking to this gentleman about your visas.”
I told him, “The Yemeni consulate in New York assured me there was no charge.”
He smiled, put out his hand to Kate, and said, “Paul Brenner. Nice to meet you, Mrs. Corey. Welcome to Paradise. I hope you had a good flight.”
“Yes… thank you.”
He extended his hand to me and said, “Your reputation precedes you.”
“Apparently it does.” I asked, “Who is this joker?”
Brenner introduced the joker as Colonel Hakim of the Political Security Organization—the Yemeni secret police. Colonel Hakim didn’t shake hands, but said to Brenner, “I will now wish to speak to your colleagues in private.”
Brenner replied, “I told you—not happening, Colonel.”
“Do you say no to me?”
“I say you must either arrest all of us or let us leave.”
Colonel Hakim seemed to be considering his two choices, then said to Brenner, “You may join us.”
“That’s not one of your choices.”
It was my turn to be alpha and I said to Colonel Hakim, “Tell these guys”—I pointed to the soldiers—“to lower their rifles.”
He hesitated, then barked something in Arabic and the soldiers lowered their rifles. Hakim said to me, “There is a problem with your visa, and that of your wife. A discrepancy of address. So I may ask you both to leave Yemen.”
Who said there’s no God?
Brenner said to Hakim, “That’s not a decision for you to make, Colonel.”
Sure it is. Shut up.
Colonel Hakim had no reply.
Brenner said to him, “The embassy will lodge a formal protest with your foreign minister tomorrow. Good evening, Colonel.”
Colonel Hakim again had no reply, but then Brenner unexpectedly stuck his hand out and Hakim hesitated, then took it. Brenner said to Hakim, “We must remain allies in the war against Al Qaeda. So cut this crap out.” He added, “As-salaam alaikum.”
Colonel Hakim, given the chance to save face in front of the soldiers, replied, “Wa alaikum as-salaam.”
I said to Colonel Hakim, “Let me know if you’re ever in New York.”
And off we went into the second ring of hell, the baggage and customs area.
As we walked, I asked Brenner, “What was that all about?”
He replied, “Just the Yemeni government trying to assert its authority.” He added, “They think they run the place.”
Kate inquired, “Don’t they?”
Brenner replied, “No one runs this place. That’s why we’re here.”
Right. Nature abhors a vacuum. Or, to be more positive, we’re here to help.
I said to Brenner, “Actually, our visas list our home address as 26 Federal Plaza.”
/> “These clowns don’t need your home address.”
“Right. We practically live in the office anyway.”
Brenner muscled his way through the maze of carts and people, saying something in Arabic, like maybe, “Excuse me, we’re Americans and we need to get out of this shithole. Thank you.”
Brenner said something to a porter, who nodded.
The carousel showed no signs of life, and Brenner said to us, “This could take a while.” He added, “Sometimes the carousel doesn’t work. Then they carry the bags in, and pandemonium breaks loose. It’s fun to watch.”
I asked Mr. Brenner, “How long have you been here?”
“Too long.”
“Me, too.”
He smiled.
Mr. Paul Brenner looked to be in his early fifties, tall—but an inch shorter than me—not bad-looking, well built, full head of black hair, and very tanned. Under his blue windbreaker he wore a gray T-shirt that I now saw said “Federal Prisoner.” Funny. Not so funny was the collar of a Kevlar vest that I could see above his T-shirt. Also under his windbreaker was a bulge on his right hip.
He informed us, “We have a three-car convoy that will take us to the embassy.”
“Guns?” I asked.
“Guns? You want guns, too?”
Paul Brenner seemed to have a sense of humor. I know someone with a similar sarcastic wit. This was not going to make us buds; there’s room for only one top banana in the show. I didn’t think Mr. Brenner was part of our team, but to find out I asked him, “Will we be working together?”
He replied, “I’m with DSS—Diplomatic Security Service. I work for the State Department to provide security to American Embassy personnel and official visitors.”
That didn’t answer the question, but I left it alone, and said, “Sounds interesting.”
He let us know, “I was Army CID. A homicide investigator. Like you were, Mr. Corey. I was a chief warrant officer. You were a detective second grade, NYPD. Now we are both civilians, pursuing second careers.”
“Right. Except I’m not exactly pursuing my second career.”
“I hear you.”
Kate commented, “This is the only career I’ve got.”
Brenner smiled, then looked at her and said, “You’ve got a lot of guts to come here.”
She didn’t reply, but to set the record straight, I told Brenner, “It was her idea.”
He let us know, “It’s a tough assignment, but you’ll get through it, and you’ll be able to write your own ticket when you get back.”
I replied, “We’re hoping for Afghanistan next.”
He laughed, then said to me, “So you were here in August ’01?”
“Yeah. Forty days altogether. Mostly in Aden.”
“Right. Well, things have heated up a bit since then.” He explained, “Al Qaeda is here.”
I informed him, “They were here when I was here. They blew up the Cole.”
“Right. Well, now they’re all over.” He went on, “If possible, this place has become more dangerous.”
Typical war-hardened vet trying to scare the newbies. I said, “In my day, when we walked down the street in Aden, we had to throw grenades just to go get a newspaper.”
He laughed again and said, “Well, in Sana’a we fire so many rounds from the embassy that we wade knee-deep through the shell casings.”
Kate said, “Please.”
It’s a guy thing, sweetheart.
Anyway, we chatted awhile as we waited for our luggage, and Brenner said to Kate, “Take what I’m about to say as a professional observation—you’re very good-looking, and you have a face that, once seen, is not forgotten. That may be a liability.”
Kate smiled nicely and replied, “That’s never been a liability before.”
“Let me make a suggestion,” said Mr. Brenner. “You should always wear a long head scarf that you can wrap or hold over your face. The Western ladies here find this is a good compromise to the veil.”
“Thank you,” replied Kate a bit coolly.
The carousel jerked to a start and the baggage began dropping out of a hole in the wall.
I’ve never actually seen so much stuff on a baggage carousel—boxes, crates, weird shapes wrapped in plastic, and some of the worst luggage I’ve seen since my aunt Agnes visited from Buffalo. I said, “I hope our chickens made it.”
The Yemenis picked the carousel bare like piranha stripping a carcass.
Our first-class bags were among the last, and Brenner asked, “Is that all you’ve got?”
I informed him, “There is a large cargo ship sailing out of New York with the rest of my wife’s luggage.”
Kate smiled. She loves sexist jokes.
The porter had our suitcases and overnight bags on his cart and we moved toward the customs counters, but Brenner led us directly toward the doors. A customs guy in uniform hurried toward Brenner, and Brenner held out his passport from which protruded an official document called a thousand-rial bank note—about five bucks—that the guy snatched as he waved us through.
Brenner commented, “This is one of the worst airports in the world in terms of security and screening. There’s no watch list, so Al Qaeda guys and other bad actors can come and go. Also, you could ship a bomb out of here addressed to someplace in America.”
I said to Kate, “We should have given them Tom Walsh’s home address.”
We went out into the badly lit and nearly deserted concourse, which was as run-down as I remembered it. The few shops were closed, as was the only car rental and the Yemenia airline counter. I saw a big sign that said, in English and Arabic, NO KHAT CHEWING. I’m not making that up. But smoking was okay, because a soldier had a butt in his mouth.
We went through the exit doors, and at the curb were three black Toyota Land Cruisers with dark-tinted windows. Standing close to each SUV were two guys toting M4 carbines, who were obviously also DSS, and they were eyeing everything around—especially the six Yemeni soldiers with AK-47s. How come everyone else gets a gun?
Brenner said, “We’re in the middle.”
As Kate and I moved to the middle vehicle, two DSS guys opened the rear doors and we slid in. Brenner got in the passenger seat, and the other DSS guys grabbed our luggage and jumped in the front and rear vehicles. Brenner said to the driver, who was Yemeni, “Yalla nimshee,” which I remembered means, “Let’s go,” and off we went.
Brenner informed us, “These are FAVs—fully armored vehicles—and the glass is bullet-resistant.” He added, “Resistant as in duck. There are two flak jackets in the rear. I suggest you put them on.”
I turned and retrieved the two heavy military-issue flak jackets, which could stop anything from a bullet to antiaircraft fire. I helped Kate into one and put on the other.
This all seemed a little like overkill, but I recalled being met this way the last time, and it was considered standard operating procedure; also known as the embassy covering its ass if something went wrong.
We cleared Sana’a International Airport in less time than it takes to say “Sana’a International Airport,” and we were on the surprisingly decent four-lane road toward Sana’a. This was the way I’d come to Yemen last time, and it was a bit of déjà vu—except for being met by Colonel Hakim. More to the point, this was a good introduction to Yemen for Kate, who by now must be thinking, “I should listen to my husband.”
Brenner broke into my thoughts and said, “Half the fun is getting there.”
No, half the fun is me making wisecracks—not you.
Anyway, a rival wiseass was the least of my problems. I asked Brenner, “How long you got left here?”
He replied, “As long as you’ve got left. We’re all leaving together.”
Well, maybe that answered part of the question of who else was on the Panther team.
I suggested, “Let’s wrap it up in thirty days.”
He replied, “Now that you’re both here, that’s very possible.”
I hadn’t y
et given Kate the good news that we were here to be Panther bait, and she was missing some of the nuances, so she said, “That’s very flattering, Mr. Brenner.”
He said, “Please call me Paul.”
And call me red meat.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
There wasn’t much traffic at this hour—it was now 3:55 A.M.—and we clipped along at 120 KPH. The Yemeni driver yawned loudly. The khat must have worn off.
Brenner said to Kate and me, “This is Mohammed. We pay him a dollar an hour to drive for us. Two dollars to stay awake.”
Mohammed laughed, so he understood English, or he’d heard the joke so many times he knew he was supposed to laugh.
I asked, “Why the Yemeni driver?”
Brenner explained, “The Yemeni government now insists that we have at least one Yemeni driver in a convoy at night for our enhanced security.” He further explained, “Partly it’s so we have an Arabic speaker who can talk to the idiots at the checkpoints, or call for police or army backup if we get into a situation.”
I said, “That sounds almost plausible.”
“Right. But it’s bull.” Brenner let us know, “We actually don’t know who Mohammed works for, do we, Mohammed?”
He replied, “I am just a simple driver, sir.”
“Right. And I’m the cultural affairs attaché.”
“You are, sir.”
That out of the way, Brenner turned and said to us, “The only incident we’ve ever had happened at this hour.”
Kate said, “Thanks for sharing.”
I asked, “Guns?”
“Oh, right. You want guns.” He passed us a black canvas bag and said, “You’ll carry the M1911 Colt .45 automatic, A1 model.”
I opened the bag and saw the two military-issue automatics, a dozen magazines, two boxes of ammo, two hip holsters, and a cleaning kit.
Brenner asked, “You familiar with these?”
Kate replied, “I’m qualified on this.”
Right. Very qualified. In fact, she killed someone once with a Colt .45 automatic. I assured Mr. Brenner, “I’ve been shot at with this gun.”
“Good. Kate can give you a quick lesson on how to shoot back.”
The Panther Page 12
