The Panther

by Nelson DeMille

  “Right.” They leave their cave or mud hut to go take a leak, and next thing they know, they’re holding their dick in Paradise.

  I asked Brenner, “What about taking this suspect alive?”

  Brenner shrugged and replied, “I don’t know. I’m not sure what the actual goal is.”

  “That makes three of us.”

  He continued, “The way I see it, Washington would like to take this guy alive, but it’s easier to kill him. So maybe if the opportunity to capture him presents itself, then that’s what we’ll try to do. But if that seems impossible—or too dangerous—then we fix his location and call in the drones and Hellfires.”

  I nodded, and added, “Then we Ziploc some pieces for ID.”

  “Right. We have the suspect’s prints on file—and also DNA from his family.”

  Kate commented, “Maybe I don’t need my arrest warrant.”

  Brenner assured her, “We need you and your arrest warrant in case we have the opportunity to apprehend the suspect.”

  Kate nodded tentatively. Actually, Kate and her arrest warrant were cover for what was most likely the assassination of an American citizen. I had no problem with that, and I was happy to have the cover in case this thing came back to bite us in the ass vis-à-vis Mr. and Mrs. al-Darwish’s lawsuit, or some other silly legality. Fucked-up war.

  Kate also asked, “If we do apprehend the suspect, do we turn him over to the Yemeni authorities, then ask for extradition, or do we attempt to get the suspect out of the country?” She added, “In other words, extradition or rendition?”

  Brenner shrugged again and replied, “This is all beyond my pay grade.”

  “Why,” I asked, “is State Department Intelligence involved?”

  Brenner replied, “First, keep in mind that Buck Harris is officially a diplomat, attached to the economic assistance mission, which is why he travels around the country. Forget SDI. Second, we want a diplomatic component to our operation.” He stressed, “We want to involve the State Department.”

  “Right.” Meaning that if things went wrong—or even if things went right—the State Department could do what they do best: apologize to the host government for violating their sovereignty and offer them a few million bucks to forget it. That’s what diplomats are for.

  Brenner reminded me, “Buck is an invaluable asset. He knows the country, the people, and the language.”

  “Right. We love Buck. But he knows more than he’s sharing.”

  Brenner said, “Let’s take it a step at a time and see how it plays out.” He also suggested, “We’ll get some clarification from our Agency guy.”

  Paul Brenner had apparently not worked with the CIA before.

  Our food came and it was served family style in big bowls, and everyone around us was eating directly out of the bowls with their fingers. We, however, had plates, serving spoons, and utensils. The food actually tasted good, whatever it was. Did I take my Cipro this morning?

  I said to Brenner, “Tell me about this wounded Al Qaeda guy that we’re seeing in the slammer.”

  Brenner told us, “We got this appointment because we told the PSO that we think this attack could have been planned by one of the Cole plotters. Therefore, Mr. John Corey of the FBI Evidence Response Team would like to speak to the prisoner.” He added, “We have an understanding with the Yemeni government, based on cash and other good and valuable considerations, that they will cooperate in anything having to do with the Cole.” He concluded, “I have no idea if this prisoner knows anything about the Cole or The Panther, but we’ll certainly ask.”

  “Can we torture him?”

  “I’m sure that’s been done.” He added, “But the PSO was probably focusing more on the oil installation attack than on The Panther.”

  “Right. But when we ask this guy about The Panther, the PSO guys who are present will know what our focus is.”

  Brenner replied, “That’s okay.” He explained, “Assuming someone in the prison is reporting to Al Qaeda, then this is one way of getting the message to The Panther that John Corey is in town looking for him.” He reminded me, “That’s the point.”

  “Right. Why do I keep forgetting I’m bait?”

  “Not bait,” Brenner corrected. “That’s such a negative word. I like to think of you as a lure.”

  Funny? Maybe not.

  Kate asked, “Will Colonel Hakim be at the prison?”

  Brenner replied, “Probably.” He explained, “He seems to be the PSO guy who is assigned to keep an eye on the American Embassy.”

  I asked, “Whose side is he on?”

  Brenner replied, “The CIA thinks he’s loyal to the Yemeni government—but what does that mean? It doesn’t mean he’s pro-American, or anti–Al Qaeda. Like most people here, his first loyalty is to himself, then to his faith—or vice versa. His next loyalty is to his ancestral tribe, his clan, and his family, followed by a loose loyalty to the concept of being a Yemeni. His last loyalty, if it exists at all, is to the government.”

  I could see why this country wasn’t working. I said to Brenner, “The question is, Does Colonel Hakim have ties to Al Qaeda?”

  Brenner replied, “He may have contacts. Most high-ranking people do. But in this country, that doesn’t make him a traitor. It makes him smart.” He added, “People with money or power are covering all their bets until they see who looks like the winner here.” He further explained, “The Americans are putting their money on a bad government, but it’s the only play we have.”

  I suggested, “Let’s whack who we have to whack to avenge the Cole, and get the hell out of here before we get in deeper.”

  Brenner thought a minute and said, “It sort of reminds me of Vietnam… a corrupt, double-dealing government, backed by the U.S. out of necessity, fighting a tough, single-minded enemy who terrorized a population that didn’t care who won as long as they could live in peace… Even the hill tribes here remind me of the hill tribes in Vietnam who hated and fought both the government and the Viet Cong. And we were right in the middle of it. The quagmire. And we keep doing the same thing, expecting different results.”

  No argument there.

  Kate said, “It’s the same situation in Iraq and Afghanistan.”

  Brenner seemed to have returned from the jungles of Southeast Asia to the sands of the Middle East, and he said to me, “I understand you’ve had some experience with interrogating Cole suspects in Aden.”

  “Right. But not too successfully.” I explained, “Everyone had fun lying to the Americans—the police, the PSO guys, the prisoners, and even the translators. And after we left the prison, they probably all had a khat chew together and yucked it up.” I added, “Assholes.”

  Brenner assured me, “The Yemeni government is a little more worried now, and they’ve been more cooperative.”

  “You mean like Colonel Hakim at the airport?”

  Brenner didn’t reply, and asked me, “When you were interrogating the Cole suspects in Aden, did the name Bulus ibn al-Darwish or al-Numair—The Panther—ever come up?”

  “No. I don’t think the FBI or CIA knew about him at that time.” I thought a moment, then added, “But I remember now there was some suspicion, or a rumor, that an American-born Muslim may have been involved.”

  Brenner nodded, then said, “It was apparently The Panther’s idea to attack an American warship that was on a regularly scheduled refueling stop in Aden Harbor.” He informed us, “This was different from most Al Qaeda attacks in Europe or the Mideast, which are directed against soft targets. This was a rare attack against the American military.” He added, “Very bold, with a high risk of failure. And yet they succeeded in crippling a high-tech American warship and killing seventeen American sailors.”

  Right. But in a way, The Panther miscalculated. This attack got the Americans into Yemen, and now Al Qaeda in the Arabian Peninsula was under pressure. I said, “As with 9/11, Al Qaeda got more than they bargained for.”

  “Agreed. And that’s wha
t we have to show them. There is a price to pay.”

  Kate said, “They know that. But it hasn’t stopped them from escalating the attacks. In fact, they’re stronger in Yemen than they were at the time of the Cole attack.”

  Brenner replied, “That’s partly due to a dysfunctional government.”

  I asked, “Ours or theirs?”

  Anyway, we called for the check, which was written on a scrap of paper—eight million rials or something, which came to about three bucks, drinks included, and Brenner treated. I could live like a sultan in Yemen.

  I would have asked for a doggie bag, but the waiter might misunderstand and I’d wind up eating Fido later.

  I asked, “Does anyone have to use the excrement shaft?”

  On the way out, I said to the guy at the front desk, “Everything was terrific. We’ll be back tomorrow for lunch. One P.M. John Corey.” Tell The Panther.

  “Good. Tomorrow.”

  “Is one of these guns mine?”

  “No, you don’t bring gun.”

  “Okay. I think I left it on my donkey—”

  “John.”

  “Ciao.”

  Kate wrapped her scarf over her face, and Brenner checked in with Zamo, then we went down to the street into the bright sunlight where it had gotten hotter.

  Without any discussion, we checked out the crowded street, then crossed to the other side and watched the door to the restaurant.

  You always need to go through the drill, even when things look and feel safe. In fact, that’s when you most need to keep your head out of your ass. And you needed to keep reminding yourself that the hunter is also the hunted.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Brenner knew his way around the narrow, twisting streets of the Old City, and he said we had time to stop at Hope in Their Hands before we met Zamo.

  I’m usually good at spotting a tail, but half the men here looked alike, with the same white robes, headgear, and beards. And we three had the opposite problem; there weren’t many Westerners in Sana’a, and we stuck out like pigs in a mosque.

  We reached Hope in Their Hands and entered. The clientele were all Western—male and female backpackers, a European tour group, and some ladies who could have been aid workers or Western embassy people.

  Brenner said to Kate, “You can remove your scarf here.”

  I suggested, “Wrap it around your eyes while you shop.”

  “Maybe I’ll wrap it around your neck.”

  I saw that coming.

  Kate unwrapped, revealing herself as the best-looking woman in the shop, except maybe for a twenty-something backpacker with an Australian accent and long red hair. But I digress.

  As Kate looked around the shop, and Brenner looked at the door, I got into a conversation with a young guy, an American named Matt Longo from New York. Young Mr. Longo was living in Sana’a in a tower guest house, though not the one where we had lunch. He was a Yale grad with a degree in Mideast studies, spoke passable Arabic, and he was here to learn the more pure and ancient Arabic in the Land That Time Forgot. He’d been in Yemen a month, and he had another month to go.

  I asked him, “Has anyone tried to kidnap you yet?”

  He thought that was funny and replied, “No. These are really nice people.”

  “Right. But the State Department keeps issuing travelers’ warnings about the not so nice people here.”

  He shrugged and said, “They overreact. I’ve been all over the Middle East. Never had a problem.”

  “Good. But watch yourself.”

  He confessed to me, “I’m half Jewish, so I get it.”

  “Keep that to yourself.”

  “Yeah.” He asked me, “Have you seen the Jewish Quarter yet?”

  “It’s on my list.”

  “It’s worth seeing. Still mostly deserted. Like, houses with Stars of David on them that haven’t been lived in for fifty, sixty years. It’s weird. Like, why don’t the Yemenis tear them down? Or move in? It’s like they’re waiting for the Jews to come back.”

  “That might be a long wait.”

  “Yeah. But you never know.”

  “Maybe after the next flood.”

  He told me, “Next week, I’m going to Marib with a few people.” He explained, “The pre-Islamic ruins. Temples to the sun and moon gods. Queen of Sheba’s palace. You should check it out.”

  “You should check out the security situation first.”

  “Yeah. I know.” He informed me, “There’s like a police force here—the National Security Bureau. They protect tourists. For a price. They’re giving us, like, twenty armed guys for the trip for two hundred bucks. Includes transportation.”

  I reminded him, “You get what you pay for.” I gave him some recent intel. “There was an attack in that area last night. American oil installation. Looks like Al Qaeda.”

  Mr. Longo, who was twenty-something and immortal, did not seem concerned.

  He asked me, “Why are you here?”

  “I thought the travel agent said Sweden.”

  He laughed, then assured me, “You’ll get more out of this.”

  “I plan to.” I asked, “You alone?”

  “My girlfriend’s coming in a few days.”

  I advised him, “Register your names and local address with the consulate at the embassy.”

  “Okay.”

  “You know where the American Embassy is?”

  “No.”

  “Find out.”

  “Okay.”

  “Do I sound like your parents?”

  “Sorta.”

  I told him where I was staying, and I said, “If I’m still in town when your girlfriend gets here, come on over to the hotel and my wife and I will buy you dinner and a real drink.”

  “Thanks.” He said, “If you want to go on that Marib trip, we have room.” He added, “About twenty bucks a head.”

  That’s about what Al Qaeda pays for a head.

  I took his satellite phone number, wished him good luck, and joined Kate in the veil and balto department.

  It occurred to me that Sana’a was a deceptively serene city; not dangerous enough to keep you off the streets, but not safe enough for a Westerner to be wandering around alone. I think it all depended on who you were and what the situation was at the moment. For us—American Embassy people—Sana’a was always an adventure. For Matt Longo, it was one stop on a long journey.

  Anyway, the Yemeni ladies who ran the shop were nice, spoke English, and seemed to be of the educated class. One of them, Anisa, insisted on taking us upstairs where Yemeni women—mostly widows and divorced ladies, Anisa said—were cutting fabrics and sewing garments by hand or on old treadle sewing machines.

  It’s rare for women in this country to work outside of the home, but this shop and factory seemed to be tolerated because of its charitable purpose. Brenner informed us, “The Koran exhorts Muslims to be charitable and help the poor.”

  “What Korean?”

  “Koran.”

  “Oh, right.” How many more times could I use that one?

  Anyway, Kate helped the poor to the tune of three shopping bags full of clothes, reminding me that her clothes were still in New York awaiting a Yemen mailing address. She also bought a black balto, which, as Buck suggested, is not a bad garment to own if you should need to blend in. They didn’t sell men’s dresses, or whatever they call those things, so I was off the hook on that. Kate’s stuff came to about twenty bucks, so I couldn’t complain, and I was moved to donate another twenty to the charity, partly in gratitude for the third-world factory outlet prices.

  We left the shop, and Kate wrapped her pretty face in the scarf. We crossed the street to the jambiyah souk, a small square that looked like it had been there since the Year of the Flood. Literally.

  Brenner steered me toward a tiny shop that Buck had recommended, and where the proprietor, Mr. Hassan, seemed to remember Mr. Brenner. I wouldn’t be surprised if Brenner and Buck got a kickback. Or if Mr. Hassan made a call
to someone after we left.

  Brenner seemed happy to share with me his knowledge of curved daggers, and within fifteen minutes I found myself the about-to-be proud owner of a mean-looking jambiyah with a sheep-horn handle. A hundred bucks, marked down from three hundred because we were Americans. Or marked up from twenty bucks because we were Americans. Arguing price with an Arab in a souk is not one of my many strengths, so I gave Mr. Hassan the hundred bucks, and he threw in a hand-tooled leather belt and a silver-tipped sheath.

  I asked Mr. Hassan, a wizened old man with a long white beard, “Anyone ever killed with this?”

  He understood enough English to smile, and he was honest enough to reply, “No. For you to make first kill.”

  I had this sudden fantasy image of me in Tom Walsh’s office, saying to him, “I have something for you from Yemen. Close your eyes.”

  The transaction completed, we left the knife shop with me wearing my belt and sheathed dagger, which, if you’re interested, is worn not at your side, but in front, with the curved tip pointing to the right. Left if you’re gay. I made that up.

  Kate said to me, “That knife cost five times more than all the clothes I bought.”

  “Boys’ toys are expensive,” I reminded her.

  We didn’t have time to visit the nearby donkey market, which was a disappointment, but something to look forward to another day. We headed west until we came to the wide wadi that separates the Old City into east side and west side, sort of like Fifth Avenue does in Manhattan. And there the comparison ends. The wadi was dry, as Brenner had said, and the streambed was partially paved and heavy with traffic. We crossed at what looked like the only bridge and headed south toward the al-Mahdi Mosque.

  If Al Qaeda was following, this was their last chance to make a move before we got in the armored vehicle—and I would have welcomed an early opportunity to use my new gun. The only thing I really worried about was someone with a car filled with explosives or someone wearing a suicide belt who wanted to be in Paradise before dinner. Everything else, I and my companions could handle.