The Panther

by Nelson DeMille

  Brenner informed us, “I once flew to the Marib airstrip from Sana’a—about a year ago, before things started to go downhill here.” He explained, “Some VIPs from Capitol Hill wanted to see the ruins, and I led an advance team from the embassy to check out the security situation.”

  “And?”

  “And I strongly suggested they not come here.” He added, “It was okay for tourists… until the Belgians disappeared last summer. But I couldn’t guarantee the safety of congressmen and their staffs.”

  I said to him sternly, “Are you telling me that you missed an opportunity to get rid of some congressmen?”

  That got a laugh. I’m way funnier than Paul Brenner.

  Anyway, we intersected a paved road, and Brenner followed Buck, who turned right—east toward Marib.

  Brenner said, “This is probably the Sana’a-Marib road. The one we saw the sign for in Sana’a.”

  Right. And I thought Sana’a wasn’t safe. Sana’a was looking like Geneva about now.

  Bottom line about third-world travel is this—there’s always someplace more dangerous and fucked up than where you are. In this case, however, we had reached the very pinnacle of Places You Don’t Want to Visit.

  We continued east, toward Marib. I was looking forward to a cold beer and a hot shower in the hotel before I got kidnapped.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE

  As we approached Marib, Brenner suggested to Kate that she rewrap, and I assured her that the black scarf made her look more mysterious—and thinner.

  We entered Marib, which was a ramshackle but bustling town—the provincial capital, according to Brenner, and the only market town for many miles.

  The main street was a collection of open-front shops and stalls, government offices, and a few gas stations, but not a single saloon. But to make the town lively, nearly every male was carrying an automatic rifle. I also noticed there was nothing ancient about the place, and Brenner explained, “This is New Marib. Old Marib is a few kilometers from here and it’s mostly abandoned.”

  “Why?”

  “The Egyptian Air Force bombed it in 1967.”

  “Why?”

  “Marib was royalist during the civil wars, and the Egyptians were allied with the republican government in Sana’a.”

  These people went to war the way kids choose up sides for a football game. And we’re getting involved in Yemen, why? They don’t need us to help them kill each other.

  The town smelled of diesel exhaust and dung, but I also caught the aroma of the outdoor grills in front of the food shops and my stomach growled. Maybe I should eat that tuna.

  I asked Brenner, “Where exactly is the Hunt Oil installation?”

  He replied, “About sixty miles north and east of here. At the edge of Ar Rub al Khali—the Empty Quarter.” He told us, “It’s a hundred twenty degrees Fahrenheit in the summer.”

  “How come oil is always located in shitty places?”

  “I don’t know. But I do know that geologists think the oil fields are huge and extend into Saudi Arabia. We thought we could control this oil because Yemen is weak. But then Al Qaeda showed up.” He also told us, “This installation is heavily fortified, but the oil wells can’t be expanded until the threat from Al Qaeda is eliminated.”

  “Right.” I asked, “Who the hell would want to work there?”

  “There are only about a dozen Americans there. The rest are foreign workers and Yemenis. And mercenaries for security.”

  “How much do the mercenaries get?”

  “I hear about two thousand a week.”

  I said to Kate, “Honey, I just found us a better job.”

  “Send me a postcard,” said Mrs. Corey through her scarf.

  Anyway, we continued to move slowly along the dusty, vehicle-choked main drag, and I asked Brenner, “Where is this hotel?”

  “The Bilqis is just outside of town.”

  “Did you stay there?”

  “No. I was just here for the day. But I checked it out for the VIPs. It’s not bad.”

  “Is there a bar?”

  “No. Strictly forbidden in Marib province.”

  The cold beer in my head evaporated like a mirage. I hate this place.

  Buck made a right turn and we followed.

  Brenner informed us, “The other guests at the Bilqis are foreign aid workers, oil company visitors, the occasional American intelligence officer, and other shady characters.” He thought that was funny, and added, “The passports of arriving guests are faxed to the National Security Bureau and the Political Security Organization, and photocopies are also sold to Al Qaeda. Or maybe they get them for free.”

  “Probably free.”

  The town thinned out after a few hundred yards, and up ahead on the right I could see a long white wall with two open gates, which Brenner said was the Bilqis Hotel.

  Buck pulled over before we got to the gates and so did Brenner.

  We had to get our rifles out of sight, which was why we had Chet’s duffel bag.

  I noticed that the two Bedouin Land Cruisers in front of us had continued on, and the trail SUV now passed us and kept going.

  Buck and Zamo were out of the Hilux and we got out, leaving our M4s in the vehicle.

  Zamo was carrying the duffel bag, which was long enough to hold his rifle and big enough to hold our four compact M4s.

  Zamo threw the duffel in the backseat, then got in the Hilux and gathered up our weapons and magazines, putting them in the bag and wrapping them in what looked like Chet’s underwear.

  Buck asked us, “Did you enjoy the ride?”

  Why does he always say things like that?

  No one replied, which was his answer. Buck briefed us, “We check in, go to our rooms, and meet in the lobby in, say, thirty minutes.” He assured us, “That’s enough time to enjoy a quick shower.”

  Buck had new passports for us—same names, same photos, but different passport numbers, and these passports had standard blue covers, i.e., not diplomatic. Now we were tourists.

  I asked Buck, “Where did our escort go?”

  “I don’t know, but I know we’ll see them again later.”

  “Will they be kidnapping us?”

  “Correct.”

  “Good.” I wouldn’t want to be kidnapped by strangers.

  Zamo had finished wrapping our hardware in Chet’s underwear, and we all got back in our vehicles.

  Buck drove up to the big double gates and we turned in.

  At the end of a long drive was an unexpectedly large hotel of white stucco, consisting of two three-story wings that flanked a single-story entrance structure. The hotel grounds were landscaped and irrigated and it was almost jarring to see green.

  Buck stopped in front of the lobby doors and we pulled up behind him.

  We all got out and a bellboy appeared who put our overnight bags on a cart, then took the duffel, which was, of course, heavy. Buck, pretending he had only a few words of Arabic, said something to the bellboy, then to us he said, “I told him to be careful. We have expensive cameras and photographic equipment in there.”

  Right. I guess telescopic sights could be photographic equipment.

  Anyway, we moved into the large, oval-shaped lobby, which was nearly empty.

  Buck informed us, “This hotel was constructed in the late seventies for tourism and archaeologists, and this entrance lobby is supposed to be built in the oval shape of the Mahram Bilqis Temple.”

  Who gives a shit?

  He further informed us, “There was a lot of hope for Yemen after the civil wars and revolutions of the sixties and seventies.” He let us know, in case we didn’t, “It hasn’t worked out.”

  The desk clerk was all smiley, like we were the first guests he’d seen this year. We produced our new but worn passports, which he handed to another guy to photostat for the PSO, the National Security Bureau, and the hotel, with a fourth copy for Al Qaeda. Another guy looked up our reservations on the computer. On the check-in card, we gave our Ye
men address as the Sana’a Sheraton, where I assumed we were all registered. The CIA has good tradecraft and lots of money to make it work.

  Because no one had been shot or kidnapped in Marib since last August, the rooms were fifty bucks a night. I noticed we were booked for four nights.

  The desk clerk, Mr. Karim, asked in English, “How was your drive from Sana’a?”

  Well, we first drove to Aden and got ambushed by Al Qaeda, then we flew in on a spy plane and landed on a dirt road at night, and some Bedouin gave us a lift to Dracula’s Castle, and here we are. I replied, “We took the scenic route.”

  He nodded, but advised us, “It is good if you stay on the main roads.”

  “Are there main roads here?”

  Buck, in the role of tourist, asked Mr. Karim, “Are any of the ruins closed to visitors?”

  The clerk replied sadly, “Unfortunately the Mahram Bilqis remains closed.” But he brightened and said, “I think, however, I can arrange a private visit for you.”

  Of course you can.

  Buck asked a few more tourist questions while Brenner and Zamo kept an eye on our bags, and Kate stayed modestly quiet, admiring the floor.

  So did we look like American tourists, or did we look like Americans who were trying to look like tourists? One of the guys behind the desk was definitely checking us out, especially Zamo. I mean, innocent faces aside, we were all wearing Kevlar and sidearms, which though covered by our bush vests could still be spotted by someone who knew what they were looking for. I had the impression that one of these guys behind the desk would be on his cell phone in two minutes talking to someone about us. PSO? Al Qaeda? Probably both. The good news was that the PSO was giving us a free hand—or said they were. The other good news was that Al Qaeda would soon know we were in town. Does it get much better than that?

  Mr. Karim returned our passports and gave us four key cards.

  He then asked if we’d like a dinner reservation, as though there could be a problem getting seated. Buck asked the clerk to book us for 8 P.M. Buck told us quietly, “This is where the Belgians had lunch before they went on to the ruins.”

  Thanks for that.

  We followed the bellboy to the south wing, third floor, where our adjoining rooms awaited us. The bellboy showed Kate and me to our room, which was sparsely furnished, but not bad. Nice green lizard on the wall.

  I went out to the big balcony and Kate followed. Below was a swimming pool in the shape of two attached ovals, so I guess ovals were the theme here. There was absolutely no one out on the terrace or in the pool.

  Kate said, “This place is empty.”

  Maybe it had something to do with tourists getting kidnapped and murdered. I mean, even Europeans on a budget might find that unacceptable.

  Kate said, “This all seems unreal.”

  “It’s real.”

  “Do you hate me for getting you into this?”

  “Ask me later.”

  She stayed quiet as we stared out at the empty pool, then asked me, “Is this going to be okay?”

  “Why shouldn’t it?”

  She didn’t reply.

  So with Buck’s time clock ticking, we went back in the room, undressed, and showered and shaved together to save time and water.

  We got dressed and left our overnight bags and toilet articles in the room. What happens to the luggage of kidnapped tourists? We took the stairs down to the lobby. Never trust the elevator in a third-world country.

  Buck and Brenner were looking at some tourist brochures, and Zamo had the duffel with our photographic equipment.

  The desk clerk, Mr. Karim, came over to us and said, “It is not advisable for you to visit the ruins without an escort.” He assured us, “I can obtain the services of three or four Bedouin within fifteen minutes.”

  Buck replied, “We’re meeting some Bedouin at the ruins.”

  Who are going to kidnap us.

  The clerk shrugged and further advised us, “Be careful.”

  Better yet, we’re armed.

  Our Hiluxes arrived and I said to Mr. Karim, “If we’re late, hold our table.”

  We walked outside, and Buck said, “We’ll go first to Old Marib, then to the Bar’an Temple—the throne of the Queen of Sheba.”

  “Will she be home?”

  Buck smiled. “She was kidnapped.” He said to Brenner, “I know the way. Stay close.”

  Goes without saying, Buck.

  We got into the Hiluxes and off we went.

  I said to Kate and to Brenner, “Just to remind everyone, the difference between a staged kidnapping and a real kidnapping is not always so clear.”

  Brenner replied, “That’s what I’ve been saying.”

  I hear you.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO

  We headed south on a paved but disintegrating road, and within ten minutes we turned off on a worse road, where up ahead, on a hill, I could see the dark tower houses of Old Marib.

  We stopped near a crumbling wall at the edge of the city, and we all got out and looked around. We had clear views down the hill, and there was no one in sight.

  Buck said to us, “Paul will stay here with Zamo. John, Kate, and I will go into the city for about half an hour of sightseeing.”

  I told Buck, “I’ve seen the South Bronx. I’ll stay.”

  Kate said to me, “I want to see this and I want you with me.”

  I asked Buck, “If we’re not getting kidnapped here, why are we here?”

  “We need to be seen.”

  “There’s no one around, Buck.”

  He informed me, “There are people around, and they notice everything and everyone in a place like this. Especially Westerners. And they all have cell phones and phone numbers to call.”

  Sounds like Kate’s hick town in Minnesota.

  Buck further explained, “We need to give any potential kidnappers enough time to discover we are here and call men together to kidnap us.” He added, “Our kidnapping needs to appear to be real.”

  I see a CIA brainstorming session at work; clever people thinking of stupid things. Or Buck just wants to see Old Marib.

  Regarding our kidnapping having the appearance of being real, I asked Buck, “Isn’t it unusual for us not to have hired some Bedouin to be with us? Or National Security police?”

  Buck replied, “There was a time when you could come here on your own. But it’s not advisable now, though adventurous travelers—or unknowing travelers—still come here without armed escorts.”

  “Okay.” I asked, “Are the Predators watching?”

  “Of course.”

  I pictured Chet in his van watching us right now. Should I flip him?

  Buck also said, “Our Bedouin escort is close by and we can call them if a situation arises.”

  Or when we’re ready for them to kidnap us.

  Zamo put the duffel bag with the serious guns on the hood of his Hilux and he and Brenner stayed behind to cover our backs.

  Buck led the way and Kate and I followed him into the city, carrying only our concealed sidearms and a camera.

  The dirt streets of Old Marib appeared deserted, but I noticed fresh goat droppings and recent footprints in the dust.

  The mud brick tower houses rose as high as eight stories, except the ones that had collapsed from age or were blown up by the Egyptian Air Force in Civil War Twenty-nine, or whatever. More than half the city was gone, but you could see the surviving foundations filled with drifting sand and rubble.

  Buck said to us, “Several thousand people once lived here. Now maybe a dozen families remain.”

  “Well, parking’s not a problem.”

  The place was creepy, and the dark mud brick buildings looked like high-rise haunted houses. It was deathly still, except for a weird wind that whistled through the streets and through the shells of the buildings, and small dust devils that appeared and disappeared in the roads and rubble. The words “post-apocalyptic” crossed my mind.

  I mean, the place smelled dead�
�like old ashes and rotting… something.

  I glanced at Kate, who seemed fascinated, but also anxious.

  Buck said to me, “Be honest. Isn’t this interesting?”

  “No.”

  Buck chuckled. He was having a grand time, and he spotted a huge foundation stone in one of the tower houses, which he examined, saying, “This is from a Sabaean temple. See the Sabaean writing carved in the stone?”

  Kate dutifully got closer and examined the whatever. I kept an eye on the street.

  Buck also found a square stone column that had been incorporated into the doorway of the building, and he informed us, “This, too, is Sabaean. It’s probably three thousand years old.”

  I asked, “What does the writing say?”

  “It says ‘Yankee go home.’ ”

  Funny. But not a bad idea.

  Buck also let us know, “This hill is actually the result of layer upon layer of civilization here. Someday, archaeologists will excavate this right down to the first human settlement on this spot.”

  And find the world’s first delicatessen.

  Anyway, it was time for a sit-rep, and I used my sat-phone to call Brenner.

  He answered and I asked, “Anything happening there?”

  “Negative.” He asked, “Am I missing something good?”

  “I see dead people.”

  “Get a picture.”

  “Roger.”

  So we continued to wander around, and Buck was all over the place, looking for bits and pieces of broken stone with this weird writing carved in it, which to me looked Martian. He took lots of pictures, and I was starting to believe we were tourists.

  Buck asked us, “Do you want to go into one of the houses?”

  “No.”

  “We can climb up to the mafraj and get a wonderful view.”

  “Buck,” I said sternly, “these towers are on the verge of collapse. I don’t even want to be in the street next to them.”

  “Well… all right. But if we see real kidnappers—or Al Qaeda—we’ll have to duck into a tower house.”

  “I’d rather shoot it out on the street.”

  We continued on, and Buck, ever the instructor, informed us, “Islam has an ambivalent attitude toward pre-Islamic culture and artifacts. Some Muslims see these ancient pagan cultures as visible evidence that the early Arabs were civilized and very advanced. But the fundamentalists reject anything that is pre-Islamic and pagan, and they often destroy these artifacts—the same as the early Christians destroyed and defaced the statues and temples of pagan Rome.”