Brenner took the photo from her, looked at it and said, “Sick.”
Buck asked, “Do you want to see the rest of them?”
Chet took the photos from Buck’s hand, flipped through them quickly, then handed them to me.
I, too, went through them quickly, noting that some of the long shots showed all nine Belgians dead with their wrists bound behind their backs, and around them were men dressed as Bedouin who were actually Al Qaeda jihadists.
In one photograph I could see a man at the bottom of the steps who had been pushed or had tried to run. One close-up photograph was of a young man who looked Arabic—the guide, I assumed—who had probably taken the group photo of the Belgians with the tall Bedouin who turned out not to be a Bedouin.
The last photograph was a close-up of the young woman. Her eyes were wide open, and her parted lips looked very dark against her white, bloodless skin.
I passed the photos to Kate who passed them to Brenner without looking at them.
Zamo had come over to see what was going on, and Brenner gave him the stack of photographs.
Zamo slung his rifle, shuffled through the photos, and handed them back to Brenner without comment, then he walked to one of the arches and stared out into space.
Buck said, “Obviously, we can identify the man in the posed shots dressed as a Bedouin.” He added, “There was no note with these photographs, but there was this…”
He handed me a business card, and I saw it was my card, the one I’d given to Nabeel in Ben’s Kosher Deli a million years ago. On the back I saw where I’d written, Nabeel al-Samad to see Det. Corey. And someone, obviously Mr. al-Samad, had drawn a smiley face. Good cultural awareness, Nabeel. Asshole.
I gave the card to Kate, who looked at it, then she asked of no one in particular, “Why did they give us these photographs?”
It was Buck who replied, in Latin, no less, “Res ipsa loquitur.” He translated, “The thing speaks for itself.”
Indeed it does. And I got the message.
I said, “I think this answers our question about what The Panther is going to do. He is not showing us what he’s capable of doing, or what he’s done—he’s showing us what he is going to do. To us.” I concluded, “He’s made his decision. He will meet with Sheik Musa.”
Everyone agreed, but I still wondered if The Panther would want to avoid that meeting and try the direct approach by storming this fortress.
Either way, Bulus ibn al-Darwish had a lot of murders to answer for. And he would not answer for them in an American court of law. He would answer for them here, in Yemen, in an appropriate act of violence. He may not have been born here, but he was going to die here.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-TWO
The eight Bedouin again invited us to dine with them, which was a good sign that we were still their honored guests, because Bedouin hospitality demands that you don’t kill your guests. I mean, from their perspective this was all a big pain in the ass. Not only did the Bedouin have to share their daily goat with us, but they’d also had to deal with the five Al Qaeda assholes who, in some existential way, were a threat to their ancient way of life.
We dressed for dinner—Kevlar and guns for the gentlemen; balto, hijab, Kevlar, and guns for the lady.
Buck said he’d be along shortly, after he made a sat-phone call. I, too, excused myself, saying I needed to visit the excrement shaft, so Kate, Brenner, and Chet went down to the courtyard. Zamo ordered goat takeout and went up to the mafraj.
Before Buck made his call and before I hit the shaft, I asked him, out of curiosity, “How many tribesmen live around here?”
Buck replied, “There hasn’t been a census since the Queen of Sheba, but I’d guess there are about thirty thousand Bedouin in and around Marib province, and they make up about ninety percent of the population.” He added, “Musa’s tribe—men, women, and children—number maybe ten thousand.”
I did the math and said, “Five million dollars is about five hundred bucks for every man, woman, and child.” I added, “That’s about a year’s pay.”
Buck informed me, “Musa will actually take the lion’s share, and he will also share some of that with the other tribal sheiks as a traditional courtesy.”
Actually, Musa will be dead, but I asked, “How about bribes to government officials?”
“A few.” Buck asked me, “Why does this interest you, John?”
“Because five million is a lot of money and it’s a good motivator, but big bounties attract other people.”
“Who did you have in mind?”
“Well, Colonel Hakim comes to mind.”
Buck said, “I doubt if the U.S. government would pay Colonel Hakim if he killed The Panther.”
“If they’ll pay Musa for The Panther’s head, they’ll pay anyone for that head.” Except us. We get a paycheck. I asked Buck, “Is the Yemeni government offering a reward for the death or capture of The Panther?”
“Yes, but it’s our money they’re offering.” He reminded me, “Al Qaeda is our problem.”
“How about a Yemeni government reward for the death or capture of Sheik Musa?”
“Definitely not.”
“Why not?”
“Because if the Yemeni government put a price on the head of any tribal sheik, no matter how much they wanted him dead, that would cause a tribal uprising all over the country.”
“So that’s why the Americans are whacking Sheik Musa, as a favor to the Yemeni government. Musa is President Saleh’s problem, but our job.”
“Correct.” He looked at me and asked, “What is it that you don’t understand about this?”
“I don’t understand how we can help a corrupt, brutal, and treacherous dictator and his government kill a tribal sheik who has done nothing to us, and who is helping us in a very important matter.”
“We’ve been through this, John.” He informed me, “I’ve done worse during the Cold War.” He let me know, “The ends justify the means.”
I didn’t reply, but on a related subject of people getting whacked, I inquired, “Did you know that Kate killed a CIA officer?”
He nodded.
I asked him, “Do you think that’s one of the reasons that Kate and I are here?”
“I’m not following you.”
“Of course you are.”
He didn’t reply directly but said, “I believe you and Chet have discussed that.”
“Correct. And he assured me there was no problem.”
“Then there is no problem.”
“I’m relieved.”
“Good.” He asked, “Anything else on your mind?”
“Yes…” I confessed to him, “I want to be a warlord.”
He forced a smile and informed me, “The Panther is a type of warlord, but he can never be a sheik, and neither can you.”
“Warlord is okay.”
“Good. I have a class on that.”
I smiled. Buck was easy to like. But not easy to trust.
The smell of dinner wafted through the window and I said, “Smells like Italian sausage at the Feast of San Gennaro in Little Italy.”
“Goat.”
“Again?”
I didn’t really have to answer a call of nature, but Buck really did have to make a call in private, so I went down to the courtyard where a fresh, whole goat was roasting on a spit. Good. I hate leftover goat.
Buck joined us a bit later, and Kate said she’d dine in the van and monitor the electronics. I think she felt awkward at a stag dinner. Also, the van was running and the generator was powering the small air-conditioning unit, so Kate shut the doors, saying, “It’s hot in this balto. Enjoy the fresh air, gentlemen.”
Right. A dozen gamey guys and a roasting goat. Does life get any better?
Anyway, after a simple and simply awful dinner, we joined Kate in the van and watched a little TV—Channel One was showing a rerun of the infrared night view of the Crow Fortress, and Channel Two was showing our immediate area of concern, meaning
a wider view of the plateaus and the surrounding flatlands. Nothing seemed to be moving out there, except a diminishing herd of goats.
Chet announced that he was going to sleep in the van—which could be locked from the inside—so he could be near the screens, and in case he got a radio or sat-phone call from the Predator pilots, who remained vigilant through the night. Sounded like a good idea. Sleep light, Chet.
The rest of us went up to the diwan and posted our guard—Kate and I took the first shift, Buck and Brenner the second, and Zamo pulled the last shift alone.
During our guard duty, Kate said to me, “I have to be honest with you, John, those Al Qaeda men and those photos shook me up.”
“That’s what they wanted. But you should also be angry.”
“I am… but… I want to get this over with.”
I told her, “You can actually leave. If you think about it, we’re not needed here anymore. Al Qaeda saw the bait, and they won’t see us again. The next thing they and The Panther will see is Sheik Musa, followed by Hellfire missiles.”
She thought about that and nodded, but said, “I’m not going anywhere without you, and I know you’re staying, so I’m staying.” She looked at me. “We need to see this through to the end.”
We actually didn’t, but we did. I said, “If you change your mind, I’m sure we can get you to the Marib airstrip, then to Sana’a Airport, or back to the embassy.”
“This subject is closed.”
“Okay.” We separated and looked out different windows—north and west for me, south and east for Kate.
Right. We could actually leave now. So could Buck, Brenner, and Zamo for that matter. Only Chet had to stay behind to direct the Predators and the Hellfire missiles, and then, if all went well, he could go alone to collect pieces of the garbage. And even that wasn’t completely necessary for a successful mission.
But I, and the rest of us, couldn’t leave Chet here by himself. I mean, our differences and egos aside, we’d sort of bonded as a team. Right? We’d come a long way and all of us wanted to be here to see this through together. Also, I wanted to see what Chet was up to.
And to be honest, we all wanted to see the blasted corpses of The Panther and his jihadists—to smell the burnt flesh and bone—to see what we had done by remote control that we would have liked to have done up close and personal. And, like warriors since the beginning of time, we wanted to take mortal evidence of our victory back to our camp—in this case, a forensic lab. Warfare has changed, but the heart of the warrior remains the same; it remains primitive.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-THREE
The following day brought no word from Sheik Musa about Al Qaeda, and I was beginning to think we weren’t worth a hundred thousand dollars, which was a big hit on my ego.
The real problem, of course, was the provision in the deal that it had to be negotiated by the principals. No underlings.
I had the thought that many chiefs from the beginning of time had also found themselves in this quandary. I mean, do you show up and take a chance that the other chief has a surprise for you? Or do you strap on your brass balls and take the meeting?
I guess that decision depends on how brave you are. Or how stupid you are. Or how paranoid you are. Or, in the end, how hungry you are for what was being offered.
By the second day, the A-team was beginning to doubt my conclusion—and their hope—that The Panther would say yes to the meeting. But I kept thinking about those photographs—the message was clear: I hate the West, I hate America, and I will do anything I have to do to cut your throats.
At about half past three of the second day, we had our answer.
Chet got a radio message from a Predator pilot reporting that a single Toyota Land Cruiser was climbing the north slope of the plateau, on its way toward the Crow Fortress—code-named Point A, in case anyone was listening.
The A-team went up to the mafraj and watched the Land Cruiser coming from the direction of the rock pile where Musa’s men guarded the northern approach to the plateau and the fortress.
The Bedouin in the courtyard, who’d been called by the Bedouin guarding the approach, opened the gates and the white Land Cruiser entered.
We watched from the mafraj as five armed Bedouin piled out of the SUV and began talking to the eight men in the courtyard.
Chet said to us, “They’re not delivering food or water, so I think they’re delivering a message.”
Good CIA thinking. But I would have welcomed a few chickens.
Chet and Buck volunteered to go down to the courtyard to see what was going on, and Chet also said, “I need to see what’s happening in the van. Cover us.”
Well, I’ll cover Buck. You’re on your own, Chet.
Buck and Chet, armed and armored, moved quickly down the stairs to the courtyard.
Brenner said to Zamo, “Cover, but don’t aim at anyone.” To us he said, “Same. But be ready. Don’t misinterpret. Only I give the order to fire.”
I thought Brenner was overreacting to what seemed like a non-threatening situation. But something was happening—a transitional moment in the routine and rhythm of life in the Crow Fortress.
Buck and Chet appeared in the courtyard, and Buck walked directly toward the Bedouin, who now totaled thirteen. That’s a lot of AK-47s. Chet unlocked the van and disappeared inside. No one stopped him, and that was a good sign.
Buck was now speaking to one of the newcomers who seemed to be the boss. Yasir was in on the conversation and the other Bedouin stood around listening. With the Bedouin, when the bosses speak, the rank and file stand around and listen. Just like at 26 Fed. Not.
Anyway, it appeared that Buck and the Bedouin were having a normal, though slightly excited, conversation.
Finally, Buck did his Go in Peace thing and entered the van to report to Chet. The Bedouin continued their conversation.
Brenner told Zamo to stay in the mafraj, and we went down to the diwan where we could be closer to the situation, whatever it was.
Finally, Buck appeared from the van and moved quickly toward the tower.
He came up the stairs, slightly out of breath, and announced, “The Bedouin say that The Panther has sent a verbal message directly to Sheik Musa.” He smiled and told us, “They will meet in about two hours”—he looked at his watch—“at six P.M. to discuss various matters of mutual interest, and also to discuss the sheik’s offer of the five Americans.” Buck added, “The Panther just tacked that on as though it was of peripheral importance.” He further informed us, “Typical Arab bargaining technique.”
And not a bad technique. Like, “Hey Abdul, let’s talk about camel grazing rights. And by the way, how much do you want for your wife?”
Anyway, this was good news indeed, and we all did high-fives—even Buck, who didn’t know what a high-five was.
Buck also told us, “The meeting will take place at the same goat herder’s hut where we met Sheik Musa.”
That must be the sheik’s Camp David. More importantly, it was near the road where the Otter had put us down, and would now pick us up after we filled the goo bags.
I glanced out the window and saw that the five Bedouin who’d arrived were still there, and I asked, “Are they staying?”
Buck replied, “Yes. For extra security and also to escort us to the scene of the attack.”
I reminded Buck, “I thought we didn’t want more Bedouin in the courtyard.”
“It’s their property,” he reminded us. “They are on our side.”
“Right,” I agreed, “but maybe they could be on our side someplace else.”
Buck assured us, “The Bedouin won’t be here long, and neither will we. In fact, we are two hours away from a successful mission, and maybe another hour away from jumping on that Otter.”
Right, and we should take Sheik Musa with us. He has some big bucks coming to him, and I know a deli in Brooklyn he can buy, and the Yemeni government would be just as happy to see him gone as see him dead. But happy endings are not a
lways so neat and tidy in real life.
It also occurred to me that what was driving The Panther—hate, revenge, and too many frustrating defeats—was the same thing that was driving Chet. And that’s when your judgment gets clouded.
But to be more positive—like Buck and Chet—and maybe to be less cynical than usual, it could be that what we were seeing was what we were getting: one dead Panther who put his instincts aside and went for the meat.
Buck, who doesn’t like it when he sees me thinking, asked, “What’s on your mind, John?”
“Not much.” I asked him, “What’s Chet doing in the van?”
Buck replied, “Coordinating all aspects of a stealthy assassination attack.” He let us know, “Two more Predators are coming on station over the goat herder’s hut. They’ll be ready for the meeting.” He also told us, “Two Predators remain on station here, over and around the Crow Fortress. They will cover us when we drive with Musa’s men to the scene of the attack, and they will cover the landing and takeoff of the Otter.”
“Right.” I asked, “Who has the goo bags and latex gloves?”
“Chet.”
“If The Panther’s head is in one piece, can I take that home?”
Buck didn’t reply at first, but then said, “We’re primarily interested in the fingers for the prints and DNA.”
“Right.” I like being a little nuts now and then, and I said, “I hope that little shit Nabeel is there. I want his balls in a Ziploc.”
Kate finally said, “John, that’s enough.”
“Sorry. I’m excited.”
Brenner, who’d seen war firsthand, and who may have taken a head or an ear himself, said nothing. War is hell, ladies and gentlemen, and all the euphemisms are not going to change the nature of the act. Kill them before they kill you, then celebrate.
Brenner said to Buck, “I’ll leave Zamo in the mafraj for cover and we’ll join Chet in the van.”
But Buck informed us, “Chet needs an hour or so by himself.” He explained, “What’s happening now is top secret. He’s actually speaking to people in Washington by radio, getting the necessary clearances and go-aheads.”
The Panther Page 50
