The Panther jc-6

by Nelson DeMille

  Kate replied, “There’s enough blame to go around. Naval Intelligence, Defense Intelligence, and the Navy itself for not instituting better security procedures when entering a hostile port.”

  “Right. But the CIA always catches the flak. So I think they’re motivated and anxious to even the score.” I added, “They never forget a failure, especially if their failure leads to American deaths.” How’s that for planting a thought in her head?

  Kate didn’t reply for a second, then said, “The FBI is no different.” She asked me, “What point are you trying to make?”

  “I’m not sure. Just thinking.”

  We put on our vests, put a few things in the room safe, then spent the next fifteen minutes getting familiar with our satellite phones and hand-held radios.

  The problem with satellite phones was that you needed a clear view of the sky, and the antenna needed to be clear of obstructions, so the sat-phone didn’t work well in the woods or work at all indoors. That, plus the line-of-sight limitations on the hand-held radios could make for some interesting situations if the feces hit the fan.

  As Brenner said, the satellite phones had about a dozen speed dial numbers, all identified by initials in case the phones fell into the wrong hands. I scrolled through the directory: B.H.-Buck Harris; J.C.-Jesus Christ or John Corey; K.C.-Kate Corey; P.B.-Paul Brenner; and M.D., which could be the closest McDonald’s or a doctor. Last time I was here, we usually had a medical doctor with us when we traveled. Not a bad idea.

  The embassy number was also on speed dial, plus about six other initials, including H.F., who was probably Howard Fensterman. It’s always good to have your lawyer on speed dial when you’re out and about trying to whack someone.

  I pretended to call and said, “Hello, Howard? Look, these guys are firing submachine guns at us. Can we return fire? What? You’ll call Washington and get back to us? Okay. I’ll hold.”

  Kate laughed, then said, “Be nice to Howard.”

  Anyway, I didn’t recognize the other initials, but I guessed they were our DSS drivers and shotgun riders. None of them, according to Brenner, were our CIA guy, who wished to remain anonymous until he revealed himself. The Agency loves secrecy and drama.

  I next looked at our list of radio call signs. On Frequency One were most of the same people as on our satellite phone speed dial. Buck was Clean Sweep One, Brenner Clean Sweep Two, I was Three, Kate was Four, and so forth.

  The second radio frequency was to be used by and for Command and Control-the U.S. Embassy in Sana’a, and the Sheraton Hotel in Aden, i.e., the bosses. But as Brenner said, the transmitting and receiving distances were short, so as soon as we were out of Sana’a, we were out of radio contact with the embassy, and same for the Sheraton in Aden. This could be good in regards to upper-echelon meddling. But it could be bad if we needed help.

  Next, Kate showed me how to field-strip the Colt.45, then gave me a few tips on aiming and firing.

  I’m sure this gun brought back bad memories of when she capped Ted. In fact, as we rode down the elevator, she said to me, “We haven’t worked with the CIA since that last time.”

  “Right. How did that work out?”

  She didn’t reply, then said, “I just had a troubling thought.”

  “Keep that thought.”

  She nodded.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  We met Brenner in the lobby and went out to the Land Cruiser where Zamo was still behind the wheel. I said I wanted to ride shotgun, so Kate and Brenner got in the rear, and off we went.

  Brenner said to us, “We won’t be in Sana’a long, but it’s good if you have a general sense of the city in case something comes up and we’re told to stay here awhile.”

  “Also,” I reminded him, “we want to see if anyone tries to kill us.”

  “Right. That too.” He reminded me, “We want to advertise your presence in Sana’a.”

  “How about a billboard?”

  Zamo laughed.

  “Also, that’s why you mentioned in front of Mohammed about us seeing the Old City today.”

  “Correct.”

  So, tell me how sharp I am. But he didn’t, so I moved on and said, “We’re checked into the hotel for four days.”

  Brenner informed me, “That usually means one or two days.” He explained, “We don’t give out information to Yemenis.”

  “Right.” And not much to me either.

  As we drove downhill toward the Old City, Brenner announced, “Sana’a was founded by Shem, the son of Noah, after the Flood subsided.”

  Maybe it was waterfront property then.

  Brenner continued, “Sana’a claims to be the oldest inhabited city in the world.”

  Kate, sitting next to our guide, said, “That’s amazing.”

  I inquired, “How about lunch?”

  Brenner replied, “We’ll have lunch in the Old City.”

  He pointed to another walled compound on the left and informed us, “That’s the new British Embassy.” He let us know, “If you’re in a tight situation and can’t make it to the American Embassy, or if our embassy is under attack, the Brits will let you in.”

  “What if they’re also under attack?”

  “Go to Plan B.”

  “Right.” Plan B was bend over and kiss your ass good-bye.

  Brenner continued, “Coming up on the right is the Movenpick Hotel, where you also have a reservation.” He explained, “Confuses the enemy.”

  Not as much as it confuses me.

  Brenner also let us know, “The hills to the east of here, that you can see from your room, are good places to launch rocket and mortar attacks toward the U.S. and U.K. embassies, as well as Tourist City and the hotels.”

  “That was mentioned in the hotel brochure.”

  Zamo laughed again. I liked Zamo.

  Brenner continued, “About six Al Qaeda plots have been foiled in the last year, including one plot to ambush the British ambassador when his convoy left the embassy, and another plot to drive a truck bomb through the U.S. Embassy gates.”

  “I thought you said this was a safe neighborhood.”

  “I think I said heavily guarded.”

  “Got it.” I had a realtor like him once.

  Mr. Brenner informed us, “The farther east you go, toward Marib, the more you’re in tribal territory and Al Qaeda territory.” He pointed to a road sign and informed us, “That road to Marib city has become very dangerous, and Marib province seems to be the center of Al Qaeda activity in Yemen.”

  I asked Brenner, “Did you hear about the Al Qaeda attack in Marib on the Hunt Oil installation?”

  “I did.”

  I said to Kate, “Early this morning. Buck mentioned it.”

  Brenner had nothing to say on that subject, and we continued in silence. I wondered if we’d be going to Marib. In fact, we probably were.

  Brenner continued his country orientation and said, “As you travel south toward Aden, which we’ll do in a few days, you’re in the tribal lands for a while. Then as you get toward the Gulf of Aden, you’re in Al Qaeda territory again, and you’re also in the territory of the South Yemen separatist groups who are still trying to secede from North Yemen.” He completed his briefing by saying, “To the west, as you get to the Red Sea coast, there are also Al Qaeda operatives who are in cahoots with the Somali pirates.”

  So, to recap, al-Houthi rebels to the north, Al Qaeda to the south and east, Al Qaeda and pirates to the west, separatist rebels to the south, and tribal warlords in between. Not much room left for camping, hiking, and boating.

  Kate asked, “What does the government control?”

  Brenner replied, “Mostly main roads and towns. But that changes and you have to check with the military, who lie.”

  “Then why bother to check?” she asked.

  “Protocol.”

  Zamo pulled over at a wide bend in the road, and Brenner suggested we get out and look down into the city.

  So we got out and stood on an ov
erlook, though Zamo stayed close to the SUV.

  We used the opportunity to do a commo check with our sat-phones and hand-held radios. You need to check government-issued equipment.

  The old walled city of Sana’a was about half a mile to the west, and the newer parts of the city spread across the high plateau, as far as the surrounding hills and mountains.

  Brenner said, “Old Sana’a is famous for the tower houses which you can see rising up to ten stories above the walls. There are thousands of them, some going back to the eleventh century, and they are said to be the world’s first skyscrapers.”

  Kate took a few photos from the overlook, then insisted that Brenner and I pose, which we did without putting our arms around each other’s shoulders. Then Kate gave me the camera, and I took a shot of her and Brenner, who did put their arms around each other.

  The photo ops were finished, and Brenner returned to his narrative, saying, “Up until the early 1960s, the old walled city was the entire city of Sana’a, with a population of only about sixty thousand. Now there are about two million.” He added, “The water table is dropping quickly, and food is becoming a problem.” He informed us, “Sana’a has become politically and socially unstable, and the city is full of troops and security forces to keep the population in line.”

  “More khat.”

  “Khat,” replied Mr. Brenner, “is not the solution. It’s part of the problem.”

  It’s actually both, but I didn’t want to argue with my tour guide. I asked, “Does Al Qaeda do khat?”

  “Good question. The answer is no. Most Al Qaeda members in Yemen are not Yemenis, and those who are, are prohibited from using khat. So Al Qaeda is sober all day, and everyone else here is spaced out after lunch.” He added, “That’s one reason why I think Al Qaeda is going to win here. Unless we can stop them.”

  Right. Like in Vietnam, Paul. How did that work out for you?

  Mr. Brenner put on his tour guide hat again and said, “If you look to the west, beyond the tower houses, you’ll see what used to be the Jewish and Turkish quarters of the city.” He informed us, “The Turks are long gone, the Jews mostly gone, and the few remaining Christians live up here now where it’s safer.”

  “I think you said heavily guarded.”

  “Right.” Brenner continued, “In 1948, during some civil war, tribes from the north laid siege to the walled city and broke in. They looted, pillaged, and burned for days, and a lot of the Old City still remains damaged.” He added, “That’s when the new state of Israel organized what they called Operation Magic Carpet and airlifted about fifty thousand Yemeni Jews to Israel.”

  Kate said, “That’s fascinating.”

  Lunch?

  Brenner continued, “Sana’a has a long history of being conquered and looted by foreigners, but the main threats have always come from the tribes, who see the city as a piggy bank, a place full of gold, spices, art, and other things they don’t have.” He added, “The population of Sana’a still fears the tribes, who most recently besieged the city in 1968. And now there are the al-Houthi tribesmen, who have come as close as sixty kilometers to the city.”

  Kate commented, “Sounds almost medieval.”

  Actually, it sounded like fun. I want to be a warlord.

  Brenner switched topics and said, “Down there, you can see ath-Thawra Hospital-Revolution Hospital-and on the other side of the city is the Kuwait Hospital. If you can’t get to the embassy, it’s good to know where the hospitals are if you’re sick, injured, or nursing a gunshot wound.”

  I asked, “Do they take Blue Cross?”

  “No, but they’ll take your watch.”

  Good one.

  Brenner further informed us, “There are also a number of traditional healers and folk remedies available.” He smiled and said, “If, for instance, you get malaria, you can sell your disease to the ants.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You lie down on an ant mound and proclaim your intent to sell them your malaria.”

  I wasn’t sure I’d heard him correctly, but I asked, “Why would the ants want to buy your malaria?”

  “I’m not sure,” Brenner confessed, “but there have been a number of cures reported.” He speculated, “Maybe it has something to do with the ant venom.”

  I asked, “Who do I sell my hemorrhoids to?”

  “Another asshole.” He didn’t say that, but I know he was thinking it.

  Anyway, Brenner pointed out a few other sights and landmarks, including the khat souk, near where he lived, and a place called Ghumdan Fortress, which was built into the eastern wall of the city. He informed us, “This is the site of the famed Ghumdan Palace, built almost two thousand years ago. The palace was said to be twenty stories high, and the roof was made of alabaster that was so thin and transparent you could see birds flying overhead.”

  Kate asked, “How did they clean the bird shit off the alabaster?”

  Actually, I asked that. Kate said, “John, please.”

  She always says that. Meanwhile, we’ve been standing here too long, twenty feet from the armored vehicle, and at least a dozen vehicles had passed by and slowed down. Zamo was standing with the Land Cruiser between him and the road with his M4 carbine at his side.

  Brenner, oblivious to my concern, continued, “Ghumdan Palace was destroyed in the seventh century by the Islamic armies that were sweeping across the Arabian Peninsula. The stones were used to build the Great Mosque, which you can see over there.” He added, “The Qalis Cathedral was also destroyed, as were the synagogues.” He paused, then said, “Islam had arrived.”

  Right. And as Al Rasul said, what we were seeing now was a return to a dark and bloody past.

  Brenner continued, “Ghumdan Fortress was built on the palace site by the Turks during the Ottoman Empire, and it now houses Yemeni military barracks and a political prison.” He let us know, “Later, we have an appointment to speak to a prisoner.”

  I asked, “You mean the Al Qaeda guy captured in the Hunt Oil attack?”

  “Correct.”

  “Good.” I like interrogating starving prisoners after I’ve had a big lunch.

  We got back in the SUV and continued down toward the city along a winding road.

  Kate, sitting next to Brenner, said to him, “Thank you for an interesting history lesson.”

  Brenner replied, “This is a fascinating place. It grows on you.”

  Not on me, Paul.

  Today being Sunday, and thinking about Noah, Shem, Sana’a, and all that, I asked, “After God sent the Flood to cleanse the earth of the sinful and the wicked, do you think he was pissed off that the people who repopulated the earth got it so wrong again?”

  No one replied to my profound question, and no one bothered to defend the earth’s inhabitants. Amen.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  We came down onto the plateau and into a drab neighborhood of modern concrete buildings that sat between the hills and the east wall of the Old City.

  Brenner pointed across the road and said, “That’s where I live,” indicating a three-story concrete slab structure that looked like it had seen better days. He informed us, “Built in the late sixties when the city first started spreading outside the walls. It has hot water and a manageable vermin population.” He added, “Ten bucks a month for Yemenis, forty for me.”

  I asked, “Does that include parking?”

  “It does. I keep my motorcycle in the foyer.”

  So Mr. Cool has a motorcycle. Figures.

  He informed us, “That’s the best way to get around this city, and I can go where assassins in cars can’t go.” He added, “I can be in the embassy in five minutes if I push it.”

  I had the thought that Mr. Brenner was showing off a little for Mrs. Corey. Guys are assholes.

  Anyway, Zamo pulled over beside a concrete wall, and Brenner said, “We’ll walk through the khat souk, then into the Old City.” He told Zamo, “I’ll call you every half hour, or call me.”

  So
we left Zamo in the nice air-conditioned armored Land Cruiser and walked toward a gate in the concrete wall where a guy sat cradling his AK-47.

  Brenner said, “This is a fairly new souk, built I think in the seventies outside the Old City wall, but the mentality was still walls, so this souk is walled, as you can see.”

  Right. Walls are good. Moats, too. Keeps the riffraff out. Especially riffraff with guns.

  Brenner suggested to Kate, “You might want to wrap that scarf over your face.”

  Kate did that and I asked her, “Would you like a cigarette?”

  She mumbled something through the scarf that sounded like, “Fook-yo.” Arabic?

  Anyway, we passed through a gate into the khat souk, which was sort of like a farmers market, filled with jerry-built stalls in the open plaza and surrounded by permanent buildings along the perimeter walls.

  The place was bustling and crowded with white-robed men wearing jambiyahs, who shared the space with donkeys, cows, and camels. Some of the cows had been disassembled and their parts were hanging from crossbeams, covered with flies. And did I mention that the ground was covered with shit?

  Brenner said, “It’s relatively safe here, but let’s stick close.”

  We were the only Western people I saw, except for some young guys in jeans and T-shirts who were snapping pictures of piles of green leaves that I assumed were not spinach. I mean, this was junkie heaven. I had a sudden urge to make a bust.

  I didn’t see any women in the souk, except for Kate, and oddly no one seemed to be paying much attention to us. But now and then, when I looked back over my shoulder, I caught people watching us.

  Brenner stopped at a khat stall and said something in Arabic to the proprietor, who looked very happy with his career choice. Brenner said to us, “There are dozens of varieties of khat. This gentleman claims he has the best khat in all of Yemen, grown in Wadi Dhahri, and picked fresh daily.” He also informed us, “This man claims he is the purveyor to the president.”

  “George Bush chews khat?”

  That got a laugh.

  Anyway, we did a walk around the souk, avoiding the cow pies and donkey bombs. Brenner took Kate’s camera to shoot pictures for her, and he paid a kid about ten cents to take a great shot of the three of us standing in front of a shoulder-high pile of wacky weed. I couldn’t wait to send the picture to Kate’s parents with a nickel bag of khat and a note: Chewing khat with Kate. Love, John.