The Panther

by Nelson DeMille

  Brenner and I lowered our windows, leaned out, and turned back toward the gate.

  Two Bedouin came charging through the gate and all three of us opened fire, hitting one of them and making the other dive back behind the stone wall.

  Within a few minutes we were at the edge of the plateau, and Zamo was slowing up, looking for the ravine. He spotted some tire marks and cut the wheel sharply to the right, then hit the brakes as the Land Cruiser’s front wheels slipped over the edge of the plateau and into the ravine.

  Zamo navigated down the steep, twisting terrain, going faster than was safe. But back there wasn’t too safe either.

  The sun was low on the horizon behind us, and the ravine, which was on the east side of the plateau, was in shadow, making it hard to see up ahead.

  After a few minutes of escape-and-evasion driving, Brenner said to Zamo, “We shot up the SUVs, so anyone behind us is on foot.”

  Zamo let up on the gas and said, “Now you tell me.”

  We didn’t exactly relax, but we were all breathing again.

  I looked at Kate, who actually seemed fine, all things considered. She’s cool under fire, and only loses her cool with me. I asked, “You okay?”

  “Knocked the wind out of me… I’m okay…” She looked at me and said, “You can say it now.”

  A bigger man would have said, “I love you,” but I’m not that big so I said, “I fucking told you so.” And I meant it.

  Kate said, “I love you.”

  Brenner, who had more important things on his mind, asked, “Anybody have any ideas?”

  I asked him, “Can we get to the Marib airstrip?”

  He replied, “Maybe. Maybe not. The airstrip has only a few charter aircraft going in and out, and there’s usually no one there.”

  Kate asked, “Would the Bilqis Hotel be safe?”

  Brenner replied, “Only if you want to run into someone like Colonel Hakim, or maybe Hakim himself if he came to Marib.”

  We didn’t want to do that, and Kate asked, “How far is it to Sana’a?”

  Brenner replied, “About four hours, but it might as well be on Mars. There are checkpoints all along the route, and we’ll never make it without getting stopped by somebody who we don’t want to meet.”

  Forget Plan C. Or was that D?

  Zamo continued down the ravine, which was getting wider and less steep.

  It went without saying that we were in the middle of nowhere, and the closest safe place might be the Saudi border, which, based on where Najran airbase was, would be about 175 miles north of here, as the crow flies, and we weren’t flying—Chet and Buck were flying.

  I asked Brenner about the border and he said, “Good thinking, but we’d never get past the Yemeni soldiers who patrol the border.”

  “We have our diplomatic passports,” I reminded him.

  He ignored my attempt to lighten the moment and said, “The best thing we can do right now is find a place to hide out and think about how to get out of here at dawn.”

  Kate had a better idea and said, “Let’s use our cell phones to make contact with the embassy.”

  Eureka.

  I pulled out my cell phone and lowered my window to stick my head out, but Brenner informed me, “Sorry to tell you, but Buck and Chet have by now notified the NSA that our sat-phones are probably in enemy hands, and the NSA will have called the carrier to discontinue service immediately.”

  Holy shit. I turned my sat-phone on and it lit up, but I couldn’t get a tone.

  To be sure, we all tried to get service, but all the phones were dead.

  Plan D—or E—was a bust, so I suggested, “How about the Hunt Oil installation?”

  Brenner didn’t reply for a moment, then said, “That may be our only play. It’s about two hours northeast of Marib town, and it’s the only place in this province where we’ll find other Americans—Americans with guns.” He added, “But travel at night here is unsafe, and the Hunt people will shoot at night if we tried to approach. So we need to wait until dawn.”

  That sounded promising, but it barely lifted the dark mood in the Land Cruiser. I mean, we’d just exited hell with our shirttails on fire, and we were happy to be alive. But we’d only managed to pass from the center of hell to the next circle. This totally sucked. We’d gotten this far by our wits and our balls, without any help from anyone, and we deserved a break. Something good had to happen.

  But this is not the land of good; this is the land of not good. We came down out of the ravine, and ahead of us, on the dirt road that we’d landed on—the road to the goat herder’s hut—was what looked like a convoy of military vehicles.

  Zamo said, “Shit.”

  The beginning of the road looked like the end of the road.

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-NINE

  When there’s a military convoy coming at you, and the road you’re on is the only road around, you don’t have too many ways to avoid an encounter, except off-road, but that could end in a hail of bullets.

  I could see three American-made Humvees in the front of the convoy, followed by four troop carriers that could hold up to a hundred soldiers.

  Obviously, they’d responded to the Hellfire attack, and now they were headed toward the Crow Fortress. But why? And who, exactly, were they?

  Brenner, Kate, Zamo, and I decided we had to meet them head-on, so to speak, then play it by ear. I reminded everyone, “We’re supposed to have a deal with the Yemeni government, and we’re supposed to have a free hand here in Marib.”

  Brenner pointed out, “That information came from Chet and Buck.”

  “Good point.” Maybe the deal expired when Chet and Buck got on that helicopter.

  Zamo moved to the right, and the convoy continued toward us hogging the middle of the road. When we got within a hundred yards of the lead Humvee, Brenner told Zamo to stop.

  Brenner said, “Hopefully someone will speak English, but if not, I’ll do the best I can.”

  The convoy also came to a halt, and we could see now that the vehicles were not painted with the brown and tan of the Yemeni Army; they were the camouflage blue of the National Security Bureau, a.k.a. the Blue Meanies.

  Brenner said to me, “You and I will get out to meet them. Kate and Zamo will stay in the vehicle and cover us.”

  Kate said to me and Brenner, “Clip your sat-phones to your vests.”

  Good idea. They didn’t work, but only we knew that.

  Without Buck along to be diplomatic, we decided to carry our M4s, which we slung across our chests, ready to rock and roll. Take a few of them with you.

  Brenner and I got out of the Land Cruiser and began the walk toward the lead Humvee, paid for with my tax dollars.

  I noticed now in the far distance black smoke rising into the sky. That would be the scene of the Hellfire attack—men and vehicles still burning, and, of course, this convoy had already been there to see the carnage. I said to Brenner, who was also looking at the smoke, “Think about how to tell these assholes in Arabic that we have a dozen Predators with Hellfires watching us and the pilots have twitchy fingers.”

  He nodded.

  Someone got out of the second Humvee and began walking toward us. Even from this distance I could see that it was Colonel Hakim of the dreaded secret police. He was wearing cammies and carrying an AK-47, all ready for action. I love armed confrontations. They don’t usually last too long.

  We got within a few feet of Colonel Hakim and stopped. Brenner gave Colonel Hakim a half-assed salute, and Colonel Hakim returned the salute in a similar half-assed manner. He also eyeballed the sat-phones clipped to our vests, probably thinking about the American Embassy, or better yet about Predator pilots watching their monitors with itchy trigger fingers.

  Brenner and Hakim exchanged peace greetings in Arabic, without much sincerity, and I said, “Buenos días,” using my only second language.

  Hakim ignored me and asked Brenner, “What are you doing here?”

  Brenner replied, “You know wh
at we’re doing here, Colonel.”

  “Yes? Why would I know?”

  I said to Brenner, “Just cut to the chase.” I mean, these fucking people could beat around the bush until the bush died of annoyance.

  Brenner asked Hakim, “What are you doing here?”

  Colonel Hakim took offense at the question and snapped, “It is my country, Mr. Brenner. Not yours. And I will ask the questions of you.”

  Brenner, following my suggestion, got to the point and replied, “We are on a Yemeni-government-sanctioned mission to find and apprehend the Al Qaeda leader Bulus ibn al-Darwish, known as The Panther.” He asked Hakim, “Don’t you know that?”

  Hakim replied, of course, “It is my business what I know.”

  Total asshole. But he’d come to meet us alone, and he was talking and not shooting, so that meant he thought he might be on shaky ground. Also, it might mean he wanted something from the Americans. Hey, everybody does. And it’s not advice or love that they want; it’s money.

  So I got right to that subject and said, “I assume you were at the scene of the attack”—I nodded toward the black smoke rising behind him and continued—“and if you escort us there, and assist us in identifying the Al Qaeda bodies, we will see to it that you share in the five-million-dollar reward for the death of The Panther.”

  That seemed to be what he wanted to hear, and his shitty demeanor softened ever so slightly.

  He asked me, not Brenner, “And are you in that position to make such an offer?”

  No, but you’ve got a hundred guns with you so I’ll lie all day.

  Brenner said, “We will do everything in our power to see that you are compensated for your assistance.”

  What kind of lie is that? Come on, Paul. Tell him the check’s in the fucking mail. I mean, this is not the time for truth, justice, and the American way.

  Colonel Hakim seemed to like me more than Brenner now, and he asked me, “How much?”

  How about a mango up your ass? No? Then how about… “Two and a half million.”

  He’d have to work until he was about two thousand years old to make that kind of money, but he was a greedy shit and countered, “Three million.”

  “No,” I replied, “we have to pay the Bedouin. Half for them, half to you.”

  He asked me, “And you?”

  “Not a penny.” I explained to him, “We get a paycheck every two weeks.”

  He didn’t seem to believe that, but it was the sad truth.

  Colonel Hakim thought about my offer, then said, “I will take you where you wish to go.”

  I want to go to New York, and maybe Hakim could help me get there. I informed him, “We are under surveillance by Predator drones. Capisce?”

  He did, and he said, “Let us now go.”

  Colonel Hakim told us to follow his Humvee, and Brenner and I got back in the Land Cruiser.

  Kate asked, “What’s happening?”

  I replied, “Colonel Hakim is taking us to the scene of the attack.”

  I explained to Kate and Zamo about the great deal we made and Kate reminded me, “You’re not authorized to promise money, amnesty, immunity from prosecution—”

  “I just don’t feel like getting arrested and shot today.”

  Brenner said, “Hakim is our ticket out of here, or he’s our worst nightmare. Either way, let’s keep him happy and interested in our well-being.”

  Kate pointed out, “He’s not going to let us out of here now until he gets his money.”

  I asked her, “Do you have a blank check on you? Or do you have a better idea?”

  Zamo thought that was funny. Just like old times.

  Brenner assured Kate, “We’ll work something out with the embassy.”

  I also informed Kate, “Hakim thinks we’re all on Predator TV.”

  “Good,” said Ms. Mayfield. “And maybe we are.”

  Maybe. But hopefully Chet was no longer directing the show.

  Anyway, Hakim’s Humvee turned around, followed by another Humvee, and we all squeezed past the troop carriers and headed east on the straight dirt road, toward the smoke in the distance.

  The third Humvee and the four troop carriers were moving now, and they continued on, west toward the plateau. I asked Brenner, “Why do you think they’re headed toward the Crow Fortress?”

  “They must be acting on information.”

  “What information?”

  Brenner replied, “We’ll ask Colonel Hakim.”

  Who was as honest and forthcoming as Chet and Buck. Everyone here carried a large sack of bullshit.

  Bottom line, this was not the plan that Chet had laid out for us in Aden, but as I said then, and as we discovered, there was more to Chet’s plan than he was sharing with us. And as Chet discovered, I had a few plans of my own. And as we all discovered, man plans, God laughs.

  But part of Chet’s plan had worked out. The Panther was dead, and Chet and Buck were heroes—and better yet, I was going to see what was left of Bulus ibn al-Darwish. I came a long way for this.

  CHAPTER EIGHTY

  On the way to the goat herder’s hut, I said to Brenner, “We can take some evidence at the scene.” We’ll stop at a 7-Eleven for Ziploc bags.

  Brenner replied, “We’ll let the PSO and NSB do that and also take photos for us, and that will make Colonel Hakim think he’s earning his two and a half million.”

  “Right.” Just like Sheik Musa thought he was earning his five million. I mean, even I wasn’t trusting the Americans anymore.

  It took us less than twenty minutes to get to the scene of the attack, but I could see it and smell it before we got there.

  Hakim’s two Humvees pulled onto the path to the goat herder’s hut and stopped.

  We all got out of our vehicles and walked up the path to what remained of the stone hut. As we got closer, the smell of burnt tires and gasoline got stronger, and so did the smell of charred bodies. Kate wrapped her hijab over her face.

  Despite my enthusiasm for seeing this, it was a bit jarring. Most of the bodies were intact, though they’d been ripped up by shrapnel—Bedouin bodies in their blood-drenched robes, and Al Qaeda bodies in their foutehs. The ground was strewn with AK-47s, sandals, shiwals, and even cell phones.

  Where the direct hits from the Hellfires had landed, the ground was blasted away, and the human remains were scattered in all directions, making me remember what an old Vietnam vet had told me about getting an accurate body count after an air or artillery strike. “Count the arms and legs and divide by four.”

  Brenner, who’d seen things like this, didn’t seem fazed, and neither did Zamo. Kate, however, was a bit shaken, and the NSB guys were eyeing her, so Zamo walked her back to the Land Cruiser.

  Colonel Hakim spoke first and said, “You see what has happened here. I have secured the area and I will cooperate with the American authorities in any way they wish.”

  Brenner said to Hakim, “We would like photographs of everything, and we will need your men to collect tissue samples of all the dead Al Qaeda who are identifiable by their clothing.”

  Hakim didn’t seem to understand and he asked, “Why do you need that?”

  Brenner explained, “We have DNA of Bulus ibn al-Darwish.” He informed Colonel Hakim, “His family lives in America.”

  Colonel Hakim did not reply, and Brenner further explained, “We can identify al-Darwish by this means, and also by his fingerprints if you would be kind enough to include as many fingers as possible.”

  Again, Colonel Hakim had no reply, so I took a shot at it and said, “We need a positive, scientific identification. Proof that al-Darwish died in this attack.”

  Colonel Hakim nodded this time and said, “Everyone has died. None escaped.”

  Well, not true. At least one Bedouin had survived and called his Bedouin buddies at the Crow Fortress. So it was possible that other Bedouin and maybe Al Qaeda guys survived. But probably not The Panther, who was in the crosshairs of the first Hellfire missile.
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br />   Hakim said, “The Panther is dead.”

  Brenner and I exchanged glances. Something was not right here.

  I asked Hakim, “Were you able to identify al-Darwish?”

  Colonel Hakim waved his arm around at the bits and pieces of men, as though saying, “Are you kidding?” He did say, however, “I have found the shiwal of Sheik Musa. That is all the proof I need of his death.”

  Musa’s nose would clinch it for me, but, okay, the sheik was dead—score a hit for President Saleh. But we’re talking about The Panther, Colonel. The bad guy.

  I moved slowly through the blast area, and there were lots of heads intact, on and off their bodies, but about half of them were bearded, and most of the faces were disfigured by shrapnel or burns. The Panther’s own mother wouldn’t recognize him. Also, I was looking for Nabeel, who had a scruffy beard the last time I saw him, but people look different when they’re dead.

  One head was lying facedown on a shred of carpet, and I gave it a kick to turn it over. Most of the face was missing.

  Brenner came over to me, away from Hakim, and said softly, “Either he doesn’t get what I’m saying, or we have a problem with positive ID.”

  I nodded, then I remembered the video replay—Sheik Musa had hesitated for a second before taking The Panther’s hand and kissing it. Was Musa unsure of his guest’s identity? I mean, to me, most fully bearded men looked alike, and forget bearded Arabs. They may as well be wearing veils. Musa, too, apparently had a moment of doubt.

  Colonel Hakim came over to us and said, “You can congratulate yourselves on a successful attack.”

  Okay. Congratulations to us.

  Brenner said to him, “I suggest you collect what we need and get it to the airport in Sana’a as quickly as possible. You will be met there.”

  I also suggested, “Get some ice from Marib. Maybe the Bilqis Hotel.” They don’t need the ice for cocktails.

  Colonel Hakim informed us, “It is a sacrilege to do what you are asking.” He told us, “All these remains must be buried as quickly as possible, according to our religion.”

  I figured that was coming, and I didn’t want to argue religion with this guy, so I said, “Tell you what, Colonel, let’s make this clean and easy for everyone. You get a hunk of hair from each head or beard here, number it, and deliver it to the embassy. We’ll do a DNA match, and you get your money. How’s that sound?”