The Panther

by Nelson DeMille

  Brenner said, “I think it was more than luck. The Cole was an intelligence failure on our part.”

  Chet, a member of the intelligence establishment, didn’t like that and he stayed silent. Well, Chet was not here just to avenge the Cole, but also to redeem the reputation of his Company. Everyone is driven by something.

  Chet picked up his train of thought and said, “Think of an Italian-American from, say, New Jersey, who goes to his ancestral Sicily to join the Mafia. His accent and mannerisms are wrong, but his head and heart are in the right place. People such as this may be accepted and even trusted, but at the end of the day… well, they are different.”

  Right. You can take the boy out of New Jersey, but you can’t take New Jersey out of the boy.

  Chet added, “Al-Darwish’s American background might impress most Yemenis, but it does not impress the Bedouin, who would be distrustful of anyone born and raised outside of Islam.” He said, “Sheik Musa is not impressed, and this is another reason why Musa would betray al-Darwish, al-Amriki.”

  I guess. But the A-team are real Americans. Like, Christians and all that. Chet, I thought, was overanalyzing this. But that’s what the CIA does.

  Chet further informed us, “Regarding the warrior thing, al-Darwish has gone out of his way to be a hands-on warlord. We’re sure he was present when the Belgian tourists were killed, and he’s led his jihadists in attacks against Saudi soldiers on the border. But for some reason he didn’t lead his men in the failed attack on the Hunt Oil installation—maybe God told him to sit it out—and I’m sure that didn’t look good to his close lieutenants or his jihadists. Plus, The Panther has just had another setback with the failed ambush on our convoy. So when Sheik Musa requests The Panther’s presence at this meeting to negotiate the sale of the Americans, Bulus ibn al-Darwish, the weirdo from Perth Amboy, has little choice but to be there—to be The Panther, and to meet with the great tribal sheik on equal terms, man to man, Yemeni to Yemeni, warlord to warlord.” Chet concluded, “That is my analysis.”

  Either Chet had been here too long or I’d been here too long, because some of this made sense to me.

  So we all sat there for a minute as the Otter continued toward Marib, sipping our drinks, thinking about Bulus ibn al-Darwish. Killing this guy would be good for everyone, including maybe Mr. al-Darwish himself, who didn’t seem to enjoy life. But when you kill these guys, they become martyrs, and they go on beyond death.

  And yet maybe when all was said and done, that’s where he belonged. Dead. Remember the Cole.

  Chet asked, “Any questions? Any comments?”

  No one had either and we all returned to our seats.

  Kate said to me, “Chet is overconfident. This thing could easily go the other way.”

  “We all know that.”

  So, did I now have my question answered? Like, how could someone born in America, in a free and open society, raised in material comfort and educated in a liberal atmosphere, become a fucking terrorist? A murderer.

  Maybe. But not completely. The answer wasn’t in the externals of life. The answer was deep in Bulus ibn al-Darwish’s head. The mind excludes external reality, or processes it differently, and justifies nearly anything.

  No matter what kind of society we created, the terrorists, the murderers, the bullies and the wife-beaters and the sexual predators and all the rest would always be with us and among us.

  So, no, I still didn’t know how Bulus ibn al-Darwish got to where he is, and what happened on that long, strange journey from Perth Amboy to Marib. Only he knew that.

  And in the end, it didn’t matter. It only mattered that he died very soon.

  The big, lumbering Otter flew on through the night, toward our rendezvous with Bulus ibn al-Darwish, who I imagined was sleeping now, unaware that his fate had been discussed and sealed. Or someone—maybe the voice in his head—had tipped him off and it was our fate that had been sealed. We would know soon enough.

  The pilot said, “Landing in about an hour.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

  The cabin was pitch dark, and I couldn’t even see Kate sitting next to me, but we were holding hands. I wondered if Chet and Buck were holding hands in the dark.

  I could feel our speed and altitude decreasing, and I reached across Kate and opened the shade. There were no lights on the ground, but the moon illuminated a silvery expanse of jagged hills. I estimated we were at about three thousand feet, traveling at less than 200 MPH. It was 2:45 A.M., so we must be close.

  Kate glanced out the window, but didn’t have anything to say. In fact, no one had much to say since Chet’s briefing, and the cabin was quiet except for the drone of the prop engines.

  The PA crackled and the pilot said, “About ten minutes.”

  It’s times like this when you wonder what the hell you were thinking that got you in situations like this. I remembered what my father used to say to me when I got in trouble with my friends: “An idiot will try anything. That’s how you know he’s an idiot.”

  The pilot informed us, “Transponders are set correctly. Our designated road runs east–west, and we’ll come around and land from the east.” He added, “Light winds, good visibility.”

  The Otter began a tight left turn, then leveled out and continued at the same speed and altitude. We were now lined up with the electronic transponders that marked the road.

  The pilot left the PA on so we could hear him transmitting on his radio. “Night Visitor One, this is Night Visitor Two. Read?”

  A few seconds of silence passed, then we could hear the faint response coming through the PA speaker. “Night Visitor Two, this is Night Visitor One. Over.”

  The voice had a distinct Arabic accent—nit veeseetor tow—and I thought of Brenner’s objection to the Arab pathfinder. I could see his point.

  The pilot transmitted, “Any dust?”

  Again, a long silence, then a response that I couldn’t make out over the PA speaker.

  Kate asked, “What did he say?”

  I hoped he said, “Get the hell out of here,” but the pilot said to us, “He reports no dust tonight.”

  Chet got out of his seat and opened the cockpit door so we could have visual contact with the pilots in case things started to go downhill.

  Chet then said, “Shades down. Lights on so we can get our weapons.”

  I pulled down my shade, and we all turned our overhead lights on and made our way to the rear.

  Buck said to Kate, “Please put your balto on over your clothes.” He explained, “Sheik Musa and his men would be offended to see a woman dressed in men’s clothing.”

  I added helpfully, “No cross-dressing here. This is not New York.”

  Kate said something unladylike, but pulled her balto from her bag and slipped it on over her mannish attire.

  We all retrieved our weapons and returned to our seats and buckled up.

  I assured Kate, “Sheik Musa won’t give you a second glance.”

  “Lights off,” said Chet. “Shades up. Give a holler if you see anything that doesn’t look right.”

  Kate put her shade up and we both looked out at the terrain, coming up fast. It was much flatter here than it had been a few minutes ago when we passed over the hills. I thought I saw a light here and there, but mostly it was a dark landscape, though the moon was bright enough to reveal some isolated areas of cultivation.

  The Otter was in its final approach and it was getting a little bumpier as we came in lower.

  The pilot came on the PA and said, “Night Visitor has wished us a safe landing.”

  Well, that was the final okay, and we had truly reached the point of no return.

  I had this mental image of Tariq with a gun to his head, surrounded by smiling jihadists while The Panther and Sheik Musa were having a good laugh as they sharpened their daggers. Or maybe Tariq was in on it, too, and he was high-fiving Musa. Right?

  The aircraft suddenly decelerated, and the pilot said, “Two minutes.”


  Chet said, “As soon as the aircraft comes to a halt, we jump out and take up defensive positions in the drainage ditch on the left side of the road.”

  Is that an FAA-approved procedure?

  But there was some good news, and the copilot called out, “Predators report no negative indications.”

  Great. But how can they tell? Good-guy and bad-guy white robes and AK-47s all look alike. Right?

  The high-mounted wings gave us an unobstructed view below, and we were all focused on the terrain outside the windows.

  I didn’t see anyone or anything in the dim moonlit landscape below. No people, no vehicles, no buildings. Just rocks, dry flatlands, some scrub brush, and a few stunted trees. The roadside drainage ditches, however, had some vegetation, and this would give us good concealment—and also good concealment to anyone waiting for us.

  Chet informed us, “We’re going to put down in the middle of our designated landing strip, then roll out past the end of the transponders.”

  Right. Just in case the bad guys were waiting at the end of our expected rollout. But the bad guys knew this trick, too, and they’d be farther down the road.

  The pilot said, “About thirty seconds.”

  Kate said to me softly, “Well, we’re not drawing fire.”

  “That’s good.” In fact, if there were bad guys down there, they wouldn’t shoot the Otter out of the sky; they’d let us land and get out, then shoot up the Otter, then try to take us prisoner. Well, that wasn’t going to happen.

  Chet called out, “Order of exit—me, Paul, Buck, John, Kate, and Zamo last.”

  At about fifty feet above the narrow dirt road the Otter’s engines suddenly got quieter and we dropped quickly. The reinforced fixed landing gear hit hard, and we began a jarring series of bounces over the rough road, throwing up a cloud of dust. The aircraft fishtailed, but the pilot kept it on the road.

  The pilot was pressing hard on the brakes and the Otter was decelerating rapidly.

  Chet said, “Unbuckle, get ready to move.” He stood, slung his rifle, and moved quickly toward the rear door as the Otter was still rolling out. Before the aircraft stopped, Chet opened the door, letting in a cloud of dust.

  Everyone stood, slung their rifles, and lined up in the aisle. I asked Buck, standing in front of me, “How do you say in Arabic, ‘Don’t shoot. I’m an American with diplomatic immunity.’ ”

  Buck replied, “I’ll do the talking, you do the shooting.”

  Buck’s okay for an upper-class, Ivy League, State Department bullshitting twit.

  Chet grabbed a few bags from the luggage bin as the aircraft lurched to a sudden halt. He called out, “Let’s go!” then threw the bags out and jumped after them. Brenner and Buck did the same, and as I got to the door, the copilot came up behind me to shut the exit door and said, “Good luck. See you on the return.”

  Is this a round trip? I threw my overnight bag out, said “Geronimo,” and jumped the three or four feet to the ground.

  Kate was right behind me, then Zamo, and we all scrambled into the drainage ditch with our baggage.

  The Otter’s door closed, and a second later the engines roared and the aircraft began accelerating rapidly down the road.

  If this was an ambush, this was when the Otter would begin taking fire. I divided my attention between my surroundings and the big, lumbering aircraft, which was quickly disappearing in the dark. Within ten seconds, I saw the Otter pitch up and go airborne at a very steep angle. No tracer rounds followed it, and I knew we were okay—for the moment. In fact, we were alone in the middle of Al Qaeda territory.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

  Chet said to keep low and keep still.

  But Brenner, ex-infantryman, said, “You don’t stay where you were seen taking cover. Follow me. Leave the equipment.”

  So we ignored the CIA guy and followed the combat vet through the drainage ditch in a running crouch.

  After about fifty yards, we stopped and Brenner and Zamo crawled out of the ditch and scanned the dark road and countryside through their rifle-mounted nightscopes.

  Brenner, looking east toward the direction we’d flown in from, said, “I see a vehicle on the road, moving this way, no lights.”

  Chet was on his sat-phone and he said, “Tariq. This is Mr. Brown.”

  I thought his name was Morgan.

  Chet listened, then asked, “Is that you in the vehicle near the touchdown spot?” Then, “Okay, keep coming.”

  We could hear the vehicle now and we all poked our heads above the brush and peered through our nightscopes at a small pickup truck that was approaching slowly.

  As it got closer, I could see a man behind the wheel, but no one was in the passenger seat—and hopefully there were no jihadists crouched in the rear. The truck stopped where we’d jumped out of the Otter.

  Chet said into the phone, “Keep coming.”

  The pickup truck continued on.

  Chet said to us, “Stay down, cover me,” then he stood and raised his hand toward the truck, which came to a stop next to him.

  Tariq stayed in the vehicle and he and Chet shook hands through the window and exchanged a few words. Chet said to us, “Pile in the rear.”

  So we all stood and jumped in the rear of the small pickup. Chet hopped in beside Tariq, who did a U-turn and took us back to our baggage, which we quickly collected, and off we went, up the bumpy dirt road we’d landed on.

  Following Brenner’s lead, we were kneeling on one knee, scanning the terrain through our rifle scopes. All I could see through my scope were long stone fences that penned in a few sheep and goats. Zamo was standing, steadying his sniper rifle on the roof of the cab as he peered ahead through his nightscope. It seemed to me that his left arm was definitely hurting.

  Aside from that, so far, so good. We were on the ground, six cowboys in the middle of Indian Territory. But where was the cavalry?

  I reminded everyone, “I thought Sheik Musa’s guys were going to provide an armed escort.”

  Buck replied, “We can’t see them, but Musa’s tribesmen are all around us.”

  If you say so. Did that goat just wave to me?

  Buck also told us, “Musa himself will meet us up the road.”

  What else does he have to do at 3 A.M. in Marib province? I mean, for five million bucks, I’d even go to Brooklyn to meet Musa in his new deli.

  Kate was looking a bit tense, so I patted her cheek and said, “Don’t forget your veil when you meet the sheik.”

  Anyway, after about a half mile, Tariq turned off the road onto a goat path or something, and up ahead I could see six white SUVs parked around a stone hut. Tariq stopped, and Chet got out and said to us, “Okay, let’s go meet the sheik.”

  So we threw our bags out, opened the tailgate, and jumped down.

  Tariq did a U-turn and off he went, back to the road to collect the transponders for the next idiots who wanted to land on a road at night. Hopefully that would be the Otter coming back to pick us up.

  The stone hut was another fifty meters up the goat trail, so Chet said to leave our stuff there, and he and Buck led the way toward the hut. Kate remembered to wrap her hijab over her hair and around her face, and Buck suggested we sling our rifles as a show of trust and respect. Hey, why don’t we just drop our rifles and walk with our heads tilted back to make it easier for them to slit our throats? Is that culturally sensitive enough?

  Anyway, we were long, long past the point of no return on this one, so we strode confidently and cheerfully toward the hut, humming, “We’re off to see the wizard.”

  No one was coming to greet us, so we marched right up to the hut. I would have knocked, but there was no door.

  Buck entered first and called out, “As-salaam alaikum!”

  No one shot him, and I heard several voices returning the greeting, “Wa alaikum as-salaam!” Did someone say, “It’s jambiyah time”?

  Buck invited us to enter, and we all squeezed through the short, narrow doorway into the small
hut.

  The hut was lit with two kerosene lamps that hung from the ceiling beams, and around the stone walls, sitting on nice carpets, were six bearded gentlemen in white robes, wearing jambiyahs. All of them had AK-47s leaning against the walls, and in front of them were little piles of green leaves, the breakfast of champions.

  One guy was resplendent in his snow white robes and jeweled jambiyah, and his head was crowned with a shiwal that looked like it was embroidered in gold. Must be the sheik.

  Buck said to us, “It is customary that we all greet each man, individually, using your first name, beginning with the most senior. Follow my lead.” He informed us, “They will not stand, but that is not a sign of disrespect.” He further advised, “Kate, you just stand by the entrance. Eyes on the floor, please.”

  I need a picture of this.

  Anyway, Buck began by greeting Sheik Musa, the guy with the golden hat, and Sheik Musa made the intro to the guy next to him, whom Buck greeted in Arabic, as Chet greeted Sheik Musa in English, and Musa replied in Arabic, and Mr. Brenner was now calling himself Bulus, and round we went, Bedouin by Bedouin. The Arabs don’t generally shake hands, but we all nodded our heads in respect. Hi, I’m John. What’s your name again? Another Abdul. At some point in the round-robin I got confused and greeted Zamo.

  Anyway, that over, the American men were invited to sit, and Buck advised Kate to keep standing near the door. So we five gentlemen squeezed in between the six Bedouin, whose deodorant had quit a few weeks ago.

  Sheik Musa said something and Buck said to us, “The sheik offers us khat, but we will decline. It’s all right to say no.”

  I protested, “Let’s have some khat, Buck.”

  Buck said something to the sheik and he nodded, then ordered one of his guys to pass around bottled water from a crate. Brenner, who was closest to Kate, passed a bottle to her. Then someone passed a pizza-sized piece of flatbread, and everyone broke off a piece. Pass the Cipro, please. Kate took a piece of bread from Brenner, though I didn’t see how she could eat or drink without dropping her scarf and causing a ruckus. Not my problem. I was a man amongst men. Fuck Manhattan. Fuck 26 Federal Plaza. Hello Bedouin. Where’s my camera?