The Panther

by Nelson DeMille

  Colonel Hakim didn’t have much to say about that, but he did advise both of us, “Be very careful here.”

  If Ghumdan had a soundtrack, this is when I’d hear an ominous organ chord.

  Brenner said to Hakim, “We can find our way back to our vehicle.” Then Brenner did a nice thing and saluted, and Colonel Hakim returned the salute. Military guys do that, even when they hate each other. Good bonding.

  As Brenner and I walked back to the Land Cruiser, he said to me, “You shouldn’t piss him off.”

  “Me? How about you?”

  “He’s got some power, and we may need him at some point.”

  “He and his government actually need us more than we need them.”

  “True. But they don’t get that yet.”

  “They will.”

  It was good to be out of that prison. The place was rotting, and everyone in it was rotting. In fact, this whole country was rotting.

  Brenner asked me, “What did you think of all that?”

  “Let me speak to my spiritual advisor and I’ll get back to you. Meanwhile, I did get some insight into Al Qaeda in the Arabian Peninsula.”

  “Right. The Yemenis don’t know what they’re in for, or that they have a small window to snuff out Al Qaeda before these guys get their game on.”

  “Well,” I pointed out, “if the Yemenis don’t know what’s coming, it’s no one’s fault but their own.”

  “Correct. But the Yemeni Army and government are obsessed with their tribal problems, and their ongoing fight with South Yemen.” He added, “They think Al Qaeda is an American obsession.”

  “Well, it is. But with good reason.”

  “Correct.” Brenner said to me, “Good question about Aden.”

  Actually, all my questions were good, but I replied, “I’m surprised the Sheraton in Aden hasn’t been attacked yet.” I pointed out, “Aside from the embassy, that’s where to find the most Americans in one place. And it’s not that secure.”

  He nodded. “I’ve been there.”

  “Me, too, and we’re going there again.”

  We made our way through a cluster of decrepit buildings that looked like barracks. I could smell food cooking somewhere, and at the end of the barracks I saw the minarets of a small mosque. Soldiers lounged around, smoking and chewing whatever, and giving us the eye. Garrison life is no treat, but I’m sure the Yemeni Army liked it better than mounting field operations against a tough and motivated enemy. Same with the National Security police, who apparently sat out the attack on the Hunt Oil installation.

  Brenner asked me, “Do you think The Panther is still in the Marib area?”

  “I think he’s found a tribal sheik who’s giving him a secure base—a sanctuary.”

  “Sounds that way.” He added, “But Marib may get hot for him after that attack.”

  I motioned toward the crack troops sitting around and asked, “Will it?”

  “Well, maybe not.”

  On another subject, Brenner said to me, “The PSO always knew we were looking for The Panther. Now they know that a guy named John Corey has arrived to join the search.” He reminded me, “Assuming this information gets to Al Qaeda, then we have to hope that the name John Corey has some meaning to The Panther.”

  Right. Like, “Hey, isn’t John Corey the guy who killed Asad Khalil? Let’s kill John Corey.” I said, as I’d already said, “God, I hope so.”

  We were now crossing the dusty parade ground and I could see the Land Cruiser where we’d left it. I thought I saw Kate’s head in the rear seat. I really didn’t think there’d be a problem, but anything was possible in Yemen.

  I asked Brenner, “So what’s with this tribal sheik who helped Al Qaeda?”

  “Don’t know. But it happens. Either for money, or because a sheik wants to poke the government in the eye.” He assured me, “Next week, this sheik could be helping us.”

  “Maybe he already did.”

  “Right—Rahim thinks someone betrayed them. But that was Rahim’s first introduction to the battlefield, and what looked to him like a setup could just have been Hunt’s hired mercenaries doing what they get paid for.” He also informed me, “Our military attaché and the CIA are doing an analysis and report of the attack.”

  “Can’t wait to read it.” I reminded him, “The CIA was here before us.”

  “Correct. They’re looking at the bigger picture. We’re looking for The Panther.”

  “That is the bigger picture.”

  “Good point.”

  I returned to the subject of this tribal sheik and said, “If we go out to the Badlands, are we supposed to trust the sheiks of Araby?”

  Brenner assured me, “They’re good for their word—until someone makes them a better offer.”

  “You can’t buy that kind of loyalty.”

  Brenner said, “At least the Montagnards—the hill tribes—stayed loyal to the Americans right until the end.”

  “That’ll teach them.”

  “Well, we projected great power. No one bets on a loser. Right now in Yemen, no one can say who has the power, and who the winner is going to be. But if Al Qaeda starts to look like a winner, they’ll be able to recruit young Yemenis in great numbers. Then we have a problem, and we either have to cut and run, or get involved in a third land war.”

  “Nuke ’em. It’s cheaper.”

  He ignored my suggestion and said to me, “We can buy some time if we kill or capture Bulus ibn al-Darwish. He’s the driving force behind recruiting, training, and motivating this small but growing movement. Also, he apparently has some access to big money and he’s a hero to the jihadists because of the Cole attack. So if we get him, that will be a strategic and psychological blow to Al Qaeda here and around the world.”

  “Right. And don’t forget that The Panther is an American. So maybe he thinks more clearly and logically than most of these whacked-out jihadists.”

  “Maybe.”

  We were closer to the Land Cruiser now, and I could definitely see Kate in the rear. Sometimes I forget how much I love my wife, and maybe I don’t always say it or show it, but then when a situation becomes dangerous, I realize I could lose her. I try to picture a life without her, living alone in New York in a big apartment on the fashionable Upper East Side, surrounded by trendy bars and restaurants bursting with single women… Is this coming out right?

  I asked Brenner, “Any chance of us getting Rahim alone, with an embassy interpreter?”

  “Not a chance.”

  “Right.” Same as when I was questioning the Cole suspects in Aden. The PSO was the five-hundred-pound gorilla in the room. “Any chance of another chaperoned interview?”

  “We’ll put in a request. But to be honest, the Agency has first dibs on Rahim.” He added, “You got your FBI Evidence Response Team shot.”

  “Right.” I also asked him, “Are we going to Marib?”

  “Maybe. But we’re going to Aden first to set up a command post in the Sheraton.”

  “When?”

  “Could be tomorrow.”

  We got to the Land Cruiser, and I wanted to sit with Kate, so Brenner sat up front. Zamo started the SUV and off we went.

  Kate unwrapped her scarf and asked, “How did it go?”

  I replied, “Not bad, but not great. Hakim was in the room, and we had only half an hour, and the prisoner wasn’t feeling his very best.”

  Brenner said, “We’ll bring you up to speed when we see Buck.”

  Zamo was heading toward the watchtowers, and we sailed through the open gates into the city.

  Brenner said, “I’ll drop you off at the Sheraton, and Zamo will pick you up at seven.” He informed us, “Martini night at the embassy.”

  Kate, of course, asked, “What is the dress?”

  Brenner replied, “People dress a bit.”

  I suggested, “Wear your new balto.”

  She suggested, “Why don’t you wear it?”

  That got a laugh. We were really having a go
od time.

  Brenner reminded us, “Guns will be worn. Vests optional.”

  We pulled up to the Sheraton, and Zamo got Kate’s shopping bags out of the rear. I didn’t see the exploding mangos.

  Brenner also reminded us, “We may be leaving for Aden tomorrow, so think about packing.”

  He and Zamo pulled away, and we walked past the National Security Bureau guards and into the lobby.

  I stopped at the front desk to see if there were any messages for us, and the desk clerk handed me an envelope, which I opened on the way to the elevator.

  It was a fax from Tom Walsh, sent not from the ATTF office, of course, but from a Kinko’s near 26 Federal Plaza. I read the fax aloud. “Dear John and Kate, Thanks for your call. Hope you’re enjoying the sights and the good weather. Snow here today. You’re lucky to be in Yemen. Have a wonderful trip. See you soon.”

  I commented, “Asshole.”

  Kate reminded me, “You started it.”

  There was a P.S., and I read, “You knew what this was about before you got on the plane.”

  Double asshole. But he was right. And yet here I was. What was I thinking? Not much.

  The NSB guy at the elevator didn’t ask to see our key or anything, and we took the elevator up.

  We ran a bit long in the shower, and by the time we got dressed it was a little after seven.

  I had a tie and jacket on, and Kate was wearing a nice black dress. She had her gun in her purse, and I had mine in my holster. She talked me out of wearing my jambiyah, and neither of us had our Kevlar vests, but Kate had her scarf on to walk through the lobby.

  Down in the lobby, I noticed a lot of Mideastern-looking men in sunglasses, dressed in Western clothing, heading for the bar. Guilty pleasures aren’t the same for everyone, everywhere. Here, narcotic leaves were guilt-free, a martini was not.

  Kate commented, “They go out without their wives.”

  “What’s the fun in that?”

  Anyway, Zamo was waiting in the Land Cruiser, and we hopped in, me riding up front.

  He said to us, “Looks like we’re heading to Aden tomorrow.”

  I asked him, “Have they improved the road?”

  “No. But we’ve improved our armor and firepower.” He laughed.

  I love being the straight man for a comedian doing sicko humor.

  As we headed up the road toward the embassy, I said to him, “The prisoner we spoke to today said Al Qaeda was planning an attack on the Sheraton in Aden.” I added, before he could, “But no problem. We’ll probably never make it to Aden.”

  He laughed, then confided to me, “I like you.”

  Kate said, “I need a drink.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Cocktails were in the embassy’s atrium lobby, and this was for staff only, not an embassy reception, which would be held in the more formal parlor.

  The unstated reason for this free alcohol was that the new ambassador had not yet arrived, and this was everyone’s last chance to get snockered before he showed up.

  And if we needed another reason for the taxpayers to buy us a drink, this was a welcome party for the two new legal attachés, FBI Special Agent Howard Fensterman and FBI Special Agent Kate Mayfield, a.k.a. Mrs. Corey. And, I guess, it was a hello party for me, too, though I wasn’t on staff here, and I’d be saying good-bye shortly.

  I suspected that there were not many social demands on the American Embassy staff in Sana’a, nor were there more interesting things for them to do in Yemen on a weekend, so I was sure most of them were here tonight.

  The size of an embassy staff is classified, but I’ll say we had three bartenders, and six Yemeni men passing hors d’oeuvres. Hopefully, the Marines or the Diplomatic Security Service had checked them all out for suicide belts.

  None of the Marines were in attendance, except for the two officers, a captain, and a young lieutenant who told me he’d served in Afghanistan. I asked him, “Would you rather be here or Afghanistan?”

  He replied without hesitation, “Afghanistan,” explaining, “There you know you’re in a combat zone, and so does everyone around you. Here, everyone around you—the civilians—pretend there’s no war, and that’s dangerous.”

  “Right.” Which was probably not much different than the mind-set in the presidential palace and the government ministries. Except now and then, reality intruded into the deep bunkers of denial.

  I looked around at the embassy people, who were nicely dressed, sipping cocktails and chatting. This could have been anywhere in the civilized world, including New York. But outside the guarded walls was another world that had absolutely nothing in common with this world. Except, to be optimistic, a shared humanity, a love of children and family, a hope for peace, prosperity, health, and happiness, and a belief in a higher being who was loving and kind—except when he got pissed off and sent plagues and floods to get rid of everyone.

  Kate was making the rounds, getting to know her new colleagues, who actually would never see her again. I chatted with people who came up to me and welcomed me to Yemen. Everyone seemed to know I was going to Aden with the FBI Evidence Response Team, and that my stay in Sana’a would be short. Interestingly, no one wanted to know anything about the Cole investigation. I think the dips put a distance between themselves and those men and women who used the cover of the embassy for other kinds of work.

  Among those who did that kind of work was the military attaché, a.k.a. the Military Intelligence officer, who introduced himself to me as Colonel Drew Kent, U.S. Army, a tall, middle-aged man in mufti. His job here, he informed me, was challenging, but fulfilling. A few minutes later he modified that a bit and said, “The Yemeni Army is a friggin’ joke. The unwilling led by the incompetent. Ill-paid, ill-equipped, ill-trained, and unmotivated.”

  “But are they good?”

  He thought that was funny and advised me, “If you need to depend on them to provide security for your work—whatever it is—make sure you watch your back and sleep with your boots on and your gun handy. Better yet, stay awake.”

  I asked him, “How about the National Security Bureau?”

  “You mean the blue clowns? Half police force, half tourist protection service, and all corrupt. They don’t have a clear mission or a clear chain of command. They’re used and abused by the politicians to further their own agendas. If you need to rely on them for security, make sure you pay them well—half up front, half if you get back alive.”

  I hoped Matt Longo knew all that. I inquired, “How much is well?”

  “About two dollars per man, per day. Extra if they have to fire their rifles.”

  “Sounds reasonable.”

  He informed me, “The blue clowns did a disappearing act on a bunch of Belgian tourists last August. At the Marib ruins.”

  “Really? What happened to the tourists?”

  “They disappeared, too. Maybe kidnapped, but no one has heard from them.”

  “I hope they’re all right.”

  “Don’t bet on it. Their Yemeni guide and their bus driver were found with their throats slit.”

  Ouch. I didn’t remember hearing about this, but bad news out of Yemen wasn’t big news in the States unless it had to do with Americans. I mean, I’d been surprised to discover there were over a hundred Westerners kidnapped in the last ten years, mostly Europeans. Now and then you’d hear about tourists being killed, sometimes in a crossfire between Yemeni security forces and tribal kidnappers. But what Colonel Kent was describing didn’t sound like a tribal kidnapping.

  I asked him, “Could that have been an Al Qaeda attack?”

  “That seems to be the consensus. But the Yemeni government plays down these incidents.” He let me know, “They like the tourism. In fact, tours still go to the Marib ruins.”

  “How many come back?”

  On the subject of Marib as an exciting place, Colonel Kent said, “There was an Al Qaeda attack last night on the Hunt Oil installation north of Marib.”

  “I heard.�
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  “Did you?” He continued, “Hunt hires its own security force—mostly American and European mercenary types. Unfortunately, the NSB insists on being in on the arrangement—for money, of course. But as I said, you can’t trust them, so when the excrement starts to fly, you don’t know if the NSB has your back, or if they ran away, or if they joined the other team.” He concluded, “Tactically, it’s a damned nightmare.”

  “Right. But the Al Qaeda guys were routed.”

  “Luck. Or maybe the Hunt guys knew they were coming. Information is cheaper than a barrel of oil around here.” He added, “Maybe the Al Qaeda force was inept.”

  I thought of Rahim and partly agreed. But I was also sure that the Al Qaeda guys were going to get better.

  Colonel Kent said to me, “They got an Al Qaeda prisoner from the attack.”

  I didn’t respond, so he asked me, “You know about that?”

  “You know I do and that’s all I can say.”

  He accepted that and advised me, “The Agency always knows more than they’re saying. If you’re FBI, which I guess you are, you’ll get more help from my office—Military Intelligence—than you’ll get from our Comrades In Arms.”

  “Right.”

  “And be aware that State Department Intelligence cozies up to the CIA more than they should.” He opined, “SDI should be working more with MI.”

  Who’s on first? Anyway, Colonel Kent seemed to be a man of opinions, so I asked him, “What’s your opinion of the Political Security Organization?”

  He replied, “Like any internal political security force, they can be nasty. In most countries in the Mideast, they’re called the Mukhabarat, which they were once called here. But that name has a lot of negatives attached to it—like the old KGB or the Gestapo—so they changed the name here. But it’s the same bunch of thugs. And as in every other dictatorship, people are frightened of them and people think they’re everywhere. Truth is, they’re not, but they promote fear and distrust.” He advised me, “Steer clear of them if you can. They answer to no one except the president and his inner circle.”

  I wondered if they were hiring—or did I really want to be a warlord? Anyway, I asked Colonel Kent, “Do you know this PSO guy, Colonel Hakim?”