The Panther

by Nelson DeMille

  Zamo chose to pull guard duty and he extinguished all the lanterns except one near the carpet, then he began walking from window to window with his nightscope, while also keeping an eye on the stairwell.

  When Zamo was on the far side of the room, I said to Brenner, “I think his arm is hurting.”

  Brenner replied, “He’s taking Cipro.”

  It’s times like this when you realize you need a good-looking female doctor.

  We chatted a minute about Sheik Musa and the Bedouin tribesmen, and Buck, the old Arabist, told us, “The Yemeni Bedouin are the most romanticized of any people in the Mideast, and they are also the most feared and the least understood.”

  Now you tell us.

  Buck continued, “In semi-desert regions like Marib province, the distinction between the traditional nomadic Bedouin, who herd goats and ride camels, and the Bedouin who are settled farmers is becoming blurred.” He explained, “Decades of drought and centuries of war and climate change have caused the settled Bedouin to return to a nomadic way of life.” He further informed us, “Marib is the cradle of Yemeni civilization, and in ancient times it was more green and more populated. Now that the desert has arrived, the population is regressing to a pre-agricultural nomadic survival mode.”

  Chet, not a big fan of Arabs in general, said, “On all levels of society, these people are clinging more to their Korans, their guns, and to Sharia law.”

  Buck agreed, and said, “South Yemen in the seventies was becoming an open and enlightened society. The British and the Russians had left their mark on the educated Yemenis, but that’s all gone.”

  Along with the brewery.

  “There is oil here,” Buck also informed us, “but the Bedouin see virtually no money from this oil, and they resent that. Tourism could bring in revenue, but some tribes are hostile to foreigners, and the security situation has been made worse by Al Qaeda.” He added, “Marib is economically depressed, politically unstable, socially unraveling, and it’s becoming an ecological disaster as the desert encroaches.”

  I suggested, “This would be a good time for you to buy this fort cheap.”

  Buck smiled, then admitted, “Those of us who dream of a better Yemen—and a better Mideast—are fooling ourselves.”

  Chet said, “The only thing keeping the Mideast alive is oil. When that runs out, it’s back to the Middle Ages here. Forever.”

  Buck advised, “Be careful what you wish for. When the oil runs out here, it runs out at your local gas station. But in any case, you see what the situation is here in Marib, and we are trying to… let’s say manage this instability to further American interests.” He confessed, “It’s about the oil—and Al Qaeda is not good for oil exploration, oil recovery, and oil pipelines. The tribes would be more helpful with eliminating Al Qaeda if the Sana’a government was fair to them, but this idiot Ali Abdullah Saleh is stealing the oil from the tribal lands and keeping the money. Al Qaeda promises to share the wealth, which is why they’re tolerated by the tribes. So we need to do a delicate balancing act between the government, the tribes, and the Saudis, who are in conflict with the Yemeni government over the oil and most other matters.”

  Chet said, “But first we have to wipe out Al Qaeda, who is a new player. And a new problem.”

  Buck agreed, then informed us, “Sheik Musa is a particular enemy of President Saleh and the government.”

  “And why is that?” I asked.

  “Because,” Buck replied, “Musa is strongly allied with the Saudi royal family, Musa has blown up a few pipelines to the coast, Musa demands millions in oil revenue, and Musa has defied the central government on every issue and at all levels. Also, Musa is a rallying figure for the other sheiks who are looking for a strong leader to unite them against the central government.”

  In other words, Sheik Musa was on President Saleh’s hit list. And one of those thoughts in the back of my mind now became clear—Bulus ibn al-Darwish might not be the only chief who was going to die in that Hellfire attack. This was what Buck was talking about in New York.

  Everyone else seemed to be thinking this too, but no one had any comment.

  Chet, who also had to know about this—he had operational control of the Predator drones—said, “Some things that we do may not seem right, but we do what is best for our country.” He added, “There is a bigger picture.”

  There always is in this game.

  Buck expanded on that and said, “We need the cooperation of the Yemeni government in our war against Al Qaeda, and President Saleh needs a favor.”

  Got it. This was a two-fer. We get rid of Musa for the Yemeni government, and the Yemeni government lets the Americans mount an operation in Marib using Hellfire missiles to get rid of The Panther. The Panther deserved whatever he got from us, but Sheik Musa, even if he was a double-dealer, did not necessarily deserve to die in an American Hellfire attack.

  I suggested, “This might not be a nice way to repay Sheik Musa for his assistance and his hospitality.”

  Buck shrugged, then said, “Accidents happen—which we will explain to the Saudis.” He assured us, “If we kill The Panther, the sheik’s family and tribesmen will get the five million dollars.”

  “The late sheik would have been happy to know that.”

  Kate, who was processing all this, said to Buck and Chet, “You owed us this information before we got here.”

  Buck replied, “You had the information in New York. You should have come to the conclusion.”

  Brenner, the former soldier who’d probably killed more bad guys than all of us put together—except for Zamo—said, “I’ve killed soldiers in ambushes who were just walking along and were not an immediate threat to me, but I’ve never killed anyone who was helping me.”

  Chet replied, a bit sharply, “You are not killing anyone.” He added, however, “This was not part of my plan, but it is now part of my orders.” Chet further reminded us, “I don’t need your cooperation or your approval. I just need your silence.”

  Buck said nicely, “We’ve given you this information as a courtesy. You, John, Kate, and Paul, are professionals and you’re intelligent enough to see that we are playing the long game. The goal here is to wipe out Al Qaeda in Yemen, and to avenge the Cole, and also to avenge 9/11 and all the other Al Qaeda attacks on Americans and American interests—and other Western interests—and to keep Yemen from becoming a staging area for Al Qaeda attacks against our country.”

  Don’t forget the oil.

  Buck continued, “We may not like President Saleh, but he’s all we’ve got between us and Al Qaeda in Yemen.”

  Right. So what’s one dead Bedouin sheik? I don’t even know the guy. Still, it sucked.

  Also, this new information explained why Chet was not concerned about a possible run-in with Colonel Hakim and his PSO. The fix was in, and the government in Sana’a was giving us a free hand to deal with The Panther if we would also deal with Sheik Musa while we were at it.

  So every time I got a new piece of information, something that didn’t make sense made sense. It was like peeling layers off an onion; you keep seeing more onion, and the onion gets smaller. And at the center is something you probably don’t want to see. But I don’t think I’ve gotten there yet.

  I said to Chet, and to Buck, “I’m assuming the sheik is not going to get vaporized at the same time as The Panther. Correct?”

  Chet replied, “Correct. But soon after we’re safely out of here.”

  Right. We can’t be here in the van watching Sheik Musa getting blown up by a Hellfire while the sheik’s Bedouin tribesmen are here watching us, and maybe speaking on their cell phones to their Bedouin buddies, who are with Musa at the scene of the attack. Like, “Hello, Abdul, an American Hellfire just landed on our sheik.”

  Also, the Bedouin at the scene of the attack needed to finish off the Al Qaeda guys. And we needed to drive from here to the scene of the carnage and collect bits and pieces of The Panther and his lieutenants before we jumped on
the Otter.

  I asked, “How do you explain this terrible accident to the Saudis?”

  Chet gave me a straightforward CIA answer. “You have no need to know that.”

  Buck assured us, “I’m personally unhappy about having to… sacrifice Sheik Musa, but Chet and I wanted you to understand why there will be no interference from the Yemeni security forces.”

  Chet said, “We’re also telling you about this because you may be asked about this someday. John, you, Kate, and Paul don’t know anything about what happened after you left Marib.”

  I didn’t reply. But it occurred to me that Chet, by telling us not to say anything after we got out of here, was also saying that if we didn’t promise to keep our mouths shut, we might not get out of here. Or was I getting paranoid again?

  Something didn’t smell right here, and I needed to talk this over with Kate and Brenner as we’d agreed back in Aden. Meanwhile, I said to Chet, “Okay. I understand.” I looked at Kate and she understood, too, and said, “I’m all right with this.”

  Brenner got the drift and said, “Sorry, I wasn’t paying attention.”

  Chet nodded, then stood and went to his duffel bag and retrieved a bottle of Hennessy cognac. Good move, Chet.

  He passed the bottle around and we all took a swig, then passed it again.

  The sky outside the east-facing windows was starting to get light, and I could hear birds singing. A black crow perched on a windowsill, then flew in and walked cautiously toward us.

  Chet broke off a piece of bread and threw it toward the bird, who went right for it. Don’t shoot the bird, Chet.

  More crows arrived and more bread was tossed, and the cognac kept making the rounds.

  The dawn came, which was one of the few things you could rely on in Yemen, along with death.

  Kate and I volunteered for the first guard shift and we relieved Zamo, who literally hit the hay and was quickly asleep with his boots on and his rifle across his chest.

  Buck, Chet, and Brenner also lay down with their guns and boots on, and Buck said to everyone, “We leave here for the Bilqis Hotel about one P.M. Then we go to the ruins.” He assured us, “You’ll enjoy the ruins.”

  I’m sure the Belgians enjoyed them, too, except for that problem.

  I went to an east-facing window and watched the flat, distant horizon growing lighter.

  Somewhere out there was Bulus ibn al-Darwish. It was hard to believe that this weirdo loser from Perth Amboy had come all the way here to metamorphose into The Panther.

  And harder to believe I’d come all the way here to find and kill him.

  In a day or two we’d see whose life journey had come to an end.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE

  The straw bed was predictably uncomfortable, and the wool blankets smelled like camels or something.

  And now a few words about the excrement shaft; it was basically a six-story indoor outhouse, with a hole in each floor. A squatter. So you had to look up, and if you saw someone’s ass above you… well, too much information. More importantly, the shit shaft could be a means of escape. Always look for an escape.

  Buck was kind enough to share a roll of TP he’d thought to steal from the Sheraton. A man who thinks of TP is a man who thinks of everything.

  We heard noises in the courtyard and I looked out the window. The eight Bedouin were kneeling and prostrating themselves on their rug, facing Mecca, which around here is northwest.

  Buck informed us, “They are performing the noonday salat—the call to prayer.”

  I looked at my watch. Right on time.

  Buck also informed us that we were invited for lunch with our Bedouin hosts, but unfortunately the invite did not extend to Ms. Mayfield, who though she dressed like a man was still a woman. Kate took that well—she didn’t give a shit and she didn’t want to wear her balto anyway—and she took some bread and water up to the mafraj to keep an eye on our surroundings. Good thinking.

  So the men of the A-team went down to the courtyard, and the Bedouin, who pride themselves on their hospitality to travelers, had hot tea for us and bowls of hot oats or groats, or some weird glutinous cereal product.

  They also gave us plastic spoons, and Buck commented, “They eat almost everything with their fingers, but they’ve discovered spoons for certain foods.”

  There’s progress. Next, napkins.

  So we sat cross-legged on the rug with our eight new Bedouin buddies and we ate this glop, which was at least hot. The tea was herbal and did nothing for my cognac headache.

  It was a little cooler here in the highlands than it was in Aden at this time of year, and on that subject my calendar watch showed that we’d rolled into March. You lose track of time when you travel back a few centuries.

  The stone wall around the courtyard was about ten feet high, and the wooden gate was closed, so no one could see us, but neither could we see anyone approaching. There were, however, a few stone platforms around the walls for observation and shooting. I glanced up at the mafraj and saw Kate standing in one of the open arches with her M4 slung across her chest, enjoying the view through a pair of binoculars.

  The Bedouin seemed very interested in our M4s, and Buck, against all regulations and common sense, allowed them to examine his weapon, which they passed around, fully loaded. They seemed amused by the compact size, small caliber, and light weight of the automatic carbine, and they passed around one of their AK-47s to show us what a real rifle felt and looked like. Yours may be bigger than mine, Abdul, but I can paint you red in a heartbeat with my little rapid-fire plastic toy.

  The Bedouin also seemed interested in Zamo’s sniper rifle, but Zamo wouldn’t let them touch it and they seemed to respect him for that. But they did want to know about it, and Brenner said it was okay to let them know what this rifle could do.

  So Zamo, through Buck, explained that he was carrying an M24 Sniper Weapon System, and it fired a 7.62mm NATO cartridge, which he said could blow their heads off at a thousand meters, though I don’t think Buck translated all of that.

  Zamo also said that the U.S. supplied this rifle to the IDF—the Israel Defense Forces—and again I was sure Buck did not translate that provocative fact to these Muslim gentlemen.

  They were fascinated by the telescopic sight, and Zamo explained that the magnification was adjustable from three-power to nine-power, meaning that at its highest power, an object that is nine hundred meters away looks like it’s only a hundred meters away.

  The Bedouin seemed impressed, and since I can’t keep my mouth shut, I said to Buck, “Tell them that Zamo has killed fifty men with this rifle.”

  Buck hesitated, then translated, and the Bedouin all looked at Zamo like he was a rock star. That’s worth another bowl of glop.

  Anyway, I wasn’t sure this was a good strategy. I mean, on the one hand, it was good for Musa’s men to know that Zamo could put a bullet through someone’s head from a kilometer away. On the other hand, why advertise what you can do? People should find out the hard way.

  Bottom line, though, there was a warrior thing going on here, and the Bedouin wanted to make sure they weren’t being overly nice to a bunch of girly men. You know, like guys who dragged a woman along to do a man’s job.

  I mean, we weren’t even on the same planet with these people, but in some strange way I was getting to like them. I thought about bringing two or three of them back to 26 Federal Plaza to show some of the suits what real men looked like.

  Maybe I was getting a little carried away with the moment.

  Brenner, though, said to the team, “They remind me of the Montagnard tribesmen in ’Nam—basic, no bullshit, brass balls, and ready to kill without hesitation.”

  Zamo, who also fit that description, and who’d fought men like this in the mountains of Afghanistan, said, “Guys like these are hard to the core. They live, eat, and breathe war.”

  Right. This must be what the world looked like a thousand years ago. But the tribesmen did have modern weapons and veh
icles and also cell phones. Things to make killing easier and more efficient. Nice to see, though, that they still carried their jambiyahs and dressed weird. Good for tourism.

  Regarding the warrior thing, I’d worn my jambiyah for the occasion and the Bedouin thought that was funny. Unfortunately, by custom, none of us could draw our daggers to pass around—only to cut someone’s throat—but the Bedouin next to me, a guy named Yasir, examined my sheathed jambiyah, and Buck told me, “He says it seems of excellent quality,” making me feel better about the hundred bucks it cost me.

  Our hosts insisted we have more tea and they pushed some khat on us that Buck took “for later.” Chet, of course, had his own stash, but he said, “Shuqran.” Thanks.

  So I liked the Bedouin. Too bad we were going to whack their sheik. Hey, Abdul, it’s nothing personal. Just business.

  Or for all I knew, Chet intended to whack these guys, too, on our way out of here. It would be nice if Chet told us what the hell was going on. But he probably figured that unpleasant information should be rationed out, like shit in a spoon.

  Anyway, the picnic lunch was finished and it was time to examine the van.

  Buck thanked our hosts for the meal and conversation, and Brenner told Zamo to keep Kate company. I asked Zamo how his arm was and he said it was fine, but it wasn’t. I also asked him to bring Kate some tea and gruel in case she was tired of tawwa bread. I am a great husband.

  Chet, Buck, Brenner, and I moved across the courtyard to the twenty-first century.

  The thirty-foot windowless box van sat on the chassis of a Mitsubishi truck, and the van didn’t open into the driver’s compartment.

  I asked Buck, “What does this say?”

  Buck read the Arabic on the van. “ ‘Musa’—which means Moses—‘purveyor of fine fish.’ ” He also translated, “ ‘Fresh to market from the Red Sea.’ ” Buck smiled and said, “Someone in Washington had fun with this.”