The Panther

by Nelson DeMille

  The preacher, or whoever he was, was standing at a lectern wearing a celestial blue suit, and he greeted us and introduced himself as Ed Peters, adding, “It’s always good to see new faces, and I’m happy to see Mr. Brenner.”

  As we searched for empty seats, I saw Buck sitting comfortably in an armchair, still wearing his white jacket. I found a folding chair in the rear on which was a photocopied program of only four pages. Thank God.

  Mr. Peters began, “Welcome to all who slept late and missed the service in the British Embassy.”

  A few chuckles.

  It occurred to me that maybe half of these people never went to church back home, but when you’re in weird-land you get religion, or maybe you just want to accentuate the difference between you and the people on the other side of the embassy walls. How’s that for insightful analysis?

  Mr. Peters asked us to rise to sing “Rock of Ages,” the words to which were in the program. There was a baby grand in the parlor, and a nice lady in a floral dress tickled the ivories.

  I could see Kate standing near the window and she seemed angelic singing in the sunlight with a post-coital glow.

  Buck was singing without looking at his program, and Howard was belting out the hymn like he was auditioning for the church choir. Brenner was two seats away from me and he was moving his lips like he was reading an eye chart. As for me, I hummed along.

  Anyway, we got through that, sat, and Mr. Peters read from the Old Testament, the First Book of Kings: When the Queen of Sheba heard of the fame of Solomon… she came to test him with hard questions. And my favorite: King Solomon loved many strange women. And from the New Testament, Matthew: Ye shall hear of wars and rumors of wars.

  We sang two more hymns and recited two prayers, then Mr. Peters gave a talk or homily about the sacrifices we were all making here in the service of the American people, and about the difficult times we lived in.

  He also urged us to see this time as a growing and learning experience, and he predicted that when we looked back on our service in Yemen, we would all come to appreciate our days in this shithole. But he used another word.

  Mr. Peters went on a bit about reaching out to the Yemeni people, about being guests here, and about tolerance of the host country even though it was fucked up beyond all understanding. Or words to that effect.

  According to my program there was no Holy Communion, so we were basically finished as soon as this guy wrapped it up. Is that a siren I hear?

  But then Mr. Peters asked for a minute of silent prayer for our military and civilian personnel who were serving in Iraq, Afghanistan, and all over the world, including this hellhole. Amen to that.

  After the minute of silence, Mr. Peters invited us all to join him in the lobby for refreshments and fellowship. He concluded, “Go in peace.”

  That’s not why I was here, but I needed a cup of coffee, so Kate and I, along with Brenner and Howard Fensterman, went to the lobby and mingled.

  There was an employee cafeteria off the lobby that provided what looked like good approximations of American cookies and cakes. They even had bagels, which made me homesick.

  The congregants of the First and Only Church of Jesus Christ in Sana’a seemed like nice people. Among them were not only embassy staffers and a few spouses, but also expats and others who were seeking company, God, or a small piece of America. Probably all three.

  I noticed there were no children—a sure sign that this was a dangerous place.

  Life in the Foreign Service was unlike any other overseas experience, except maybe the military or being a missionary. How do people do this? But then I started thinking about Paul Brenner and the Diplomatic Security Service. Maybe that’s the job I should ask for if we got our man. A few years in Paris, London, or Rome. Kate would be a legat. Something to think about.

  I chatted with a few of the Marines and they were all very professional and called me “sir,” and they seemed gung-ho and mission-oriented. They assured me that if the embassy were attacked, the twenty Marines and ten DSS guys could hold the fort until the Yemeni Army arrived. One guy explained, “Then we’d have new targets—the Yemeni Army.” Everyone laughed. Everyone here was nuts.

  I moved over to Buck, who was in his element here, mingling with his Foreign Service brothers and sisters, most of whom I’m sure shared his background and some of whom also had funny first names, like Livingston, Kelvin, and Winthrop—a.k.a. Livie, Kel, and Winnie. You can’t make this up.

  Buck said to me, sotto voce, “There was an Al Qaeda attack near Marib early this morning.”

  I wasn’t sure where Marib was, but I hoped it wasn’t too close to the embassy lobby.

  Buck continued, “The target was an oil installation partly owned by Hunt—an American company.” He let me know, “Security forces killed six of the attackers and took one wounded prisoner who said he was Al Qaeda.” He added, “The Company is questioning the prisoner about our man.”

  The oil company? No, the CIA. I asked, “Where is Marib?”

  “About two hundred kilometers east of here.” Buck speculated, “This could be a sign that Al Qaeda is beginning attacks against American and Western interests in Yemen.” He added, “Al Qaeda attacks are rarely isolated.”

  “Right.”

  He also informed me, “The al-Houthi rebels have ambushed a military convoy north of here.”

  “Any good news this morning?”

  “Yes. I flew in with a fresh shipment of Boodles and dry vermouth. Martinis tonight.”

  Make mine a double, hold the vermouth.

  Anyway, I finally got my coffee and a bagel with cream cheese, and as I was munching, Mr. Peters came up to me and said, “Welcome to Sana’a.”

  “Thanks. Good service, Padre.” Short.

  He informed me, “I’m a lay preacher. Non-denominational.”

  “Me, too.”

  He thought that was funny and continued, “My weekday job is chief of DSS here.”

  “Yeah? How do I get a DSS job?”

  “Apply. We’re short-staffed all over the Mideast. No one wants the job. Everyone wants Paris, London, and Rome.”

  “Wimps.”

  He informed me, “Paul is my second in command. He’s a good man.”

  “Right.”

  “Hate to lose him.”

  “Where’s he going?”

  “With you. Then home.”

  I didn’t know how much Peters knew, so I didn’t respond.

  Mr. Peters said he wanted me to meet someone, and he led me over to a big guy who looked like a weightlifter wearing his First Holy Communion suit.

  Peters said to me, “This is John Zamoiski, DSS. You might remember him from the airport.”

  “Right.” One of the guys in the lead car.

  We shook and the guy gripped my hand like it was the last cold beer in hell.

  John Zamoiski said, “Call me Zamo.”

  “Okay. Call me John.” Later we’ll switch.

  Mr. Peters said to me, “Zamo will be with you when you drive to Aden.”

  “Good.”

  “He’ll also be with you if you go into the Badlands.”

  “The more the merrier.”

  Mr. Peters continued, “Zamo was an Army sniper in Afghanistan.”

  I looked at Zamo. He still had a military haircut—you don’t want hair blocking your crosshairs—and a face that didn’t move much. He wasn’t more than thirty, and I noticed that his dark eyes never blinked. He seemed to be a man of few words, but he had Mr. Peters to speak for him, and Peters said, “Zamo is also a martial arts expert.”

  “You draw soldiers?” I asked.

  His mouth turned up in a smile. He liked me. Good boy, Zamo. Sit!

  Brenner joined us and suggested that we get moving. He said to Zamo, “You’ll accompany us to the Sheraton.”

  Zamo finished eating his coffee cup and nodded.

  I guess Zamo was the team sniper. It’s good to have a trained killer on the team. And a churchgoer
at that.

  Thinking back on our time since we landed, I had the same feeling that I’d had the last time I was here; I’d stepped through the looking glass and everyone on this side was crazy, and they’d been crazy for so long that they made sense to one another, but not to anyone who just arrived from Earth.

  Anyway, Brenner and I found Kate, who was with a group that included Howard, and I said to her, “Time to go.”

  Howard reminded us, “I wanted to show Kate her office.”

  Brenner suggested, “Tomorrow would be good.”

  I wasn’t sure of the pecking order here, but in places like this, security guys had some weight, so Howard said, “Fine. See you at nine.” He added, “I need to give you a copy of the arrest warrant for the suspect.”

  I asked Howard, “Can I have a copy of the CIA kill order?”

  Howard didn’t reply.

  Anyway, Kate and I collected our luggage, and we met Brenner out front where a single Land Cruiser was waiting for us. It was a bright, sunny day, but already getting hot.

  Kate said, “What a beautiful day.” She asked me, “Isn’t this better than New York in February?”

  “No.”

  Zamo loaded our luggage in the rear, then slid behind the wheel. Brenner got in the front and Kate and I sat in the back.

  I asked, “Where’s Mohammed?”

  Brenner replied, “Getting fitted for a suicide belt.”

  Funny. I was really getting into this place.

  So off we went, and I commented that there was no lead or trail vehicle. Brenner said, “It’s only about six hundred yards to the Sheraton and we don’t want to attract undue attention on the street or at the hotel.”

  Right. So only one armored Land Cruiser, two armed security men, and two armed passengers. No one will notice.

  We got to the outer gates, which slid open, and we were on the street. The Yemeni soldiers were still sitting around, at the top of their game.

  Brenner and Zamo had their guns in their laps, so Kate and I did the same.

  Across the way from the embassy I saw another walled and guarded compound that I remembered from last time, called Tourist City for some reason, though it was actually a complex of apartment houses and shops for resident and transient Westerners, some of whom were staff from the various embassies. Also living in Tourist City were aid workers and a few poor bastards who were transferred here for business, mostly the oil. This was probably where Kate and I would have lived if we were staying in Sana’a.

  Yemenis, I recalled, were not allowed in Tourist City, except as trusted servants, though it was rumored that a few of these servants were Al Qaeda, which you’d expect. In my opinion, it was the least safe place in Sana’a; a terrorist attack waiting to happen.

  The best thing about Tourist City was the Russia Club, owned and operated by two entrepreneurial gentlemen from Moscow whose personal mission it was to bring alcohol, drugs, and hookers to Yemen, thereby spreading the benefits of European civilization to this benighted nation. The Russia Club had a second location in Aden, as Buck mentioned in his class, and I’d been invited to both clubs on my last trip to Yemen, but I’d declined. Honest.

  We turned right onto a narrow, tree-shaded road, and I asked, “If I roll down my window, will someone lob a grenade in?”

  “Probably,” replied Brenner. “Just throw it back.”

  We all got a laugh at that.

  This was going to be a fun assignment.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Brenner passed us a nylon bag, saying, “Two satellite phones with chargers, and two hand-held radios. The sat-phones are programmed with the speed dial numbers you’ll need. The radios have a selection dial for twenty frequencies, but we are using only two—zone one and zone two. There’s also a list of radio call signs in the bag.” He informed us, “The radios have a short distance—basically point to point—because we don’t have antennas or repeaters here.”

  I asked him, “Is our absent team member programmed?”

  “Not yet.” He instructed us, “If death or capture seems imminent, destroy the phones and radios.” He suggested, “A bullet will do it.”

  If I have a bullet left, I’m not shooting my phone.

  Brenner also informed us, “Our radio call sign is Clean Sweep.” He added, “This has some significance regarding the USS Cole.” He explained, “Warships returning to port after an engagement often tied a broom to their mast which signaled ‘Clean Sweep.’ In other words, ‘We got the bastards.’ ” Brenner further informed us, “The name of this operation is also Clean Sweep.”

  Every operation needs a code name, something that doesn’t give the enemy any info. Clean Sweep was good. Avenge the Cole.

  Paul Brenner, man of many bags, passed us another bag, a big blue one, and said, “Two Kevlar vests. Size should be okay.”

  I asked, “Is that it for the bags?”

  “I was going to give you a bag of cookies, but now I’m not.”

  Kate laughed.

  As we continued on, Brenner informed us, “This neighborhood is where the U.S. and U.K. embassy people live who don’t live in the embassy compound, or in Tourist City.”

  Kate inquired, “Is this where you live?”

  “No, I live near the khat souk. Not too far from here.”

  Kate processed that for a second and said, “Khat souk…?”

  “Biggest open-air drug market in the world.” He assured us, “They sell other things—chickens, cows, firewood, and guns.”

  “So,” I speculated, “you can get high, buy a cow, shoot it, and cook it, all right there.”

  “That’s what I do most Saturday nights.”

  We pulled into a circular drive and headed toward the portico of the Sheraton, which had a mock Mideastern façade, sort of like the embassy.

  I’d spent two nights in this Sheraton on my last visit to Sana’a, which I had thought was my last visit to Sana’a.

  Zamo stayed with the vehicle, and Brenner, Kate, and I got out and moved toward the front doors where two men in blue camouflage fatigues and blue berets stood with AK-47s. Brenner said, “They’re NSB guys—National Security Bureau.” He added, “Tonight they could be Al Qaeda.”

  “Should we tip them?”

  We entered the air-conditioned lobby, and Kate and I went to the front desk, while Brenner stood near the doors. The check-in clerk said, “Welcome, sir and lady.”

  “Thank you, man.”

  We gave him our passports, and he looked us up on the computer, then assured us, “You have beautiful mountain view room. See sunrise.”

  “Great.” And at night we can see the mortar flashes before the incoming rounds hit the building.

  He also said, “You stay with us four nights.”

  News to me.

  The hotel charges were pre-paid, though the clerk didn’t know by whom. And neither did I. There’s an old saying in this business—“It’s not important to know who fired the bullet; it’s important to know who paid for it.”

  If I had to guess, I’d say it was the Agency, a.k.a. the Company, not the embassy or the FBI who was paying for all this. Which brought me to the Golden Rule—whoever has the gold makes the rules.

  As the clerk photocopied our passports and visas, he told us about the hotel’s amenities—fitness center, safe deposit boxes for our guns, medical services if we got wounded, pool, tennis courts, cocktail lounge, and so forth.

  “Can I chew khat by the pool?”

  “Yes. But please not to spit.”

  Sounded reasonable.

  Brenner came over to us and said, “You can stay here, or as I mentioned last night, we can take a walk in the Old City.”

  “Thanks, but—”

  Kate piped in, “I’d love to see the Old City.”

  “Good. I’ll meet you here in the lobby. How about half an hour?”

  How about never? Does that work for you?

  Kate said, “See you then.”

  Brenner suggested,
“Guns and Kevlar.” He also said to Kate, “And your scarf, and a camera if you have one.”

  We followed the bellhop to the elevators, where an NSB guy with an AK-47 sat in a white plastic chair contemplating his navel. We rode up to the fifth floor of the six-story building, which put a floor between us and incoming.

  Our room was nice, and it did indeed have a mountain view and a minibar, and even a bathroom. Three stars. Four if the window was bulletproof.

  I tipped the bellhop two bucks, and as Kate and I unpacked, I said to her, “We could get into a contact situation with Al Qaeda, but not with The Panther.” I added, “This is not like The Lion, who personally wanted to kill us.”

  She said, “I’m assuming, as Buck and Paul mentioned, that the CIA knows something we don’t know.”

  “They always do,” I agreed.

  Well, now that I was here, I was looking forward to the job. But something was bothering me, something I’d thought about back in New York, and it had to do with the CIA. They were devious, not team players, and they had their own agenda. And those were their good points.

  More importantly, they had long memories, and they were into payback. Their official company motto was, “And ye shall know the truth and the truth shall set you free.” And their unofficial mission statement, also biblical, was, “An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth.” I’m all for that, except if it’s my eye or tooth that they want.

  And why, you ask, would the CIA want to get even with me or with Kate? Well, once upon a time, Kate and I had inadvertently screwed up a major CIA plan—Operation Wild Fire—that, if it had been successful, would have turned Sana’a and other Islamic cities into nuclear ash. The plan was clever, diabolical, illegal, and very dangerous to human life on earth. Other than that, it was a good plan. Actually, it wasn’t.

  But it didn’t matter what I thought—as I said, Kate and I got caught in the middle of it, and without going into details, Kate and I found ourselves looking down the barrel of a Glock held by the previously mentioned Mr. Ted Nash, CIA officer, and I think Kate’s one-time lover, which may or may not be relevant to what happened next. Bottom line, Kate was a half second quicker than Ted, and Ted was dead. Self-defense. Except for the next seven shots. But the police and FBI cleared her of excessive target practice. The CIA, however, did not, and they were not happy.