Had I mentioned that? No, I had not. So probably one of those Westerners in the shop was his snitch, or more likely he’d just called the shop and chatted in Arabic with the manager. In any case, in the world of spooks and spies, it’s all illusion, and nothing is as it seems. Old Buck had been at this game a lot longer than anyone in this room, and he wanted everyone to know it.
Point made, Buck said to me and Brenner, “Tell me and Kate what happened at Ghumdan.”
So we did. And as former cops, we got right into sync and gave Buck and Kate a clear, concise, and accurate report of our Ghumdan experience.
Buck listened intently, as did Kate, and neither of them interrupted.
When we were finished, Buck stayed silent awhile, then said, “You seem to have gotten more information than we usually do at these interrogations.” He said to me, “I suppose your past experience in Aden was helpful.”
I replied, “To the extent that I knew what to expect.” I informed him, “The prisoner was more cooperative than our ally, Colonel Hakim.”
Buck said to us, “I’ll ask Howard to put in a formal request with the Ministry of Justice to get the transcript of this prisoner’s interrogation by the PSO.” He let us know, “They won’t honor that request, but then we have something new to complain about.”
I asked Buck, “Is the PSO more cooperative with the CIA?”
He looked at me and said, “Good question. The short answer is yes.” He smiled. “Birds of a feather.” Then he added quickly, “I’m not suggesting the PSO and the CIA have anything in common.”
I thought he just said birds of a feather.
Buck informed us, “They have their own understanding between themselves. Very much quid pro quo.”
That was a little scary.
Kate, who I was certain was the only person here who had once slept with and shot a CIA officer, said, “I’m assuming our fifth team member can fill in some of our information gaps.”
Buck replied, “That is our expectation.”
Right. The CIA is happy to fill you in. Unfortunately, they lie.
Mr. Brenner had no comment on this topic, and he returned to the subject by reminding us, “The Panther could know from his fighters that one of them was taken prisoner-but he might also think Rahim was killed. So we don’t know if The Panther is worried about a prisoner talking about his location.” He added, “I hope this prisoner wasn’t mentioned in the government press release.”
Buck assured us, “The Sana’a government is not that stupid. They are, in fact, crafty, which is why they’re not all hanging from a noose. So they will report the attack, but claim four killed. Or twenty. Or whatever number they like. There will be no mention of a prisoner.”
True. But I reminded everyone, “Someone at Ghumdan could tell Al Qaeda that there’s a talking prisoner who said he saw The Panther at Marib.”
Buck replied, “That’s very possible, but let’s hope it doesn’t send The Panther running.” He reminded us again, “If there is a leak from Ghumdan to Al Qaeda, they will also mention the name of John Corey.”
Right. That’s why I was at Ghumdan.
Buck asked Kate, “Any questions for John or Paul?”
Kate asked me, “Is it possible that this prisoner was rehearsed? That what you heard was not the whole truth?”
I really don’t like being interrogated by my wife, but it was a good question and I replied, “It’s possible. But the prisoner had the appearance of truthfulness.” I looked at Brenner, who seconded that and added, “This guy was scared, hurting, and desperate.”
Kate asked Brenner, “What was Colonel Hakim’s demeanor during the interrogation?”
Brenner replied, “Not a happy guy. He really wanted us out of there, which is why I think this wasn’t rehearsed and wasn’t disinformation.”
Kate and Buck both nodded. So we kicked this around awhile, and after about ten minutes Buck said, “All right. It appears we’ve been handed an opportunity. So in the absence of any new or contradictory information, I think our first excursion into the countryside from Aden will be to Marib.”
Obviously.
He continued, “If The Panther is not there, we can at least see those magnificent pre-Islamic ruins.”
Who gives a shit? You wanna see ruins? Go to Newark. I pointed out, “We really won’t know if The Panther is still there, but if we stay there looking for him, I’m sure he will know that. Also we now know that The Panther has assets around Marib, including a tribal sheik, so even if he moved because of this attack, he’ll return to meet us on his turf.”
“Precisely,” agreed Buck. “And we can see the ruins while we’re waiting for him.”
“There you go.”
Brenner commented, “Now we know where to set and bait the trap.”
Bait? What happened to lure?
Buck said, “Assuming Colonel Hakim is thinking along the same lines, don’t be surprised if we see him there.”
Right. Could get crowded at Marib. And we could scare off The Panther. But I was betting that John Corey on The Panther’s turf would be irresistible to him.
Buck next brought up the subject of the possible Al Qaeda attack on the Sheraton in Aden and assured us, “The FBI SWAT Team, the DSS men, and the Marines at the Sheraton are on full alert, as are all American personnel in the hotel. Also, we are officially notifying the Yemeni government at the highest level about this possible attack, so they have no choice but to increase their security around the hotel.”
I, of course, remarked, “That will make us sleep better.”
Brenner assured us, “You’ll never sleep as well as the Yemeni Army.”
Funny. But not.
“The last time the Sheraton in Aden was attacked,” Buck said, “was before the Americans were there. During one of the civil wars in the eighties. A rebel group lobbed a few mortar rounds into the hotel.” He added, “The Communists ran South Yemen in those days, and they allowed alcohol-which is the best thing I can say about them. In any case, this rebel group was fundamentalist, and the cocktail lounge offended them.”
I reminisced, “When I was at the Sheraton, we made up fun names for the cocktails.” All right, I’ll tell you. “High Explosive Mojito. Martini Mortars. My favorite was the Incoming Cosmo.”
No one thought that was funny. I guess you had to be there.
Anyway, Kate asked Buck, “Is there any other place for us to stay in Aden?”
“No. The Yemeni government has given us two floors of the Sheraton, and that’s our operational base in Aden.” He assured us, “I wouldn’t worry about this too much.” He added, “Unless you start to see Arab guests checking out.”
Funny? Maybe.
Kate also asked, “Do we have an evacuation plan?”
Yes, the breaststroke.
Buck replied, “We’ll ask Doug Reynolds, who is Ed Peters’s DSS counterpart in Aden.”
Buck then said to us, “Final subject. The road trip to Aden. We haven’t notified the Yemeni authorities of our movement, so, theoretically, Al Qaeda will not be tipped off that we are taking a convoy to Aden tomorrow morning. In that respect, we aren’t advertising this trip in advance with the hope of making contact with Al Qaeda-but as soon as we leave the compound, cell phones will be ringing all over Sana’a and along our route, so our movement will then be known.”
Brenner continued Buck’s thought and said, “The longer we’re on the road, the more chance that Al Qaeda will try to set up an ambush or roadside bomb along our route.” He added, “It will be obvious that we’re headed to Aden. But if we maintain good speed, and maybe vary the route, we should be able to stay ahead of anything they try to plan.”
Buck reiterated, “It’s not as though we’re trying to get into a fight with them, but it may happen, and we are prepared-and we may be able to kill or capture a key Al Qaeda leader.”
That sounded a bit optimistic, but since we were driving to Aden anyway, I guess we might as well kill some bad guys on the w
ay. Right?
Buck had some good news and said, “We may be crazy, but we’re not stupid. So we’ve arranged to have two Predator surveillance drones on station along our route.” He informed me and Kate, “They have infrared video cameras that can see through cloud cover if necessary, and the high-resolution cameras can operate from as high as twenty thousand feet and still see a man with a rifle.” He concluded, “We should know about an ambush long before we reach it.”
Well, that was good news. The bad news, of course, was that the surveillance drones might still miss fifty jihadists sitting in a mud hut waiting for us to come by. Or miss a roadside bomb. I asked, “And what do we do if we get this aerial surveillance information?”
Brenner, ex-combat vet, replied, “I will make the decision about how we react to an ambush warning.”
“Give me a call,” I suggested.
Kate asked a good question. “How about Hellfire missiles?”
Buck replied, “We are not authorized to use Hellfire missiles without the explicit permission of the Yemeni government.”
Kate, the lawyer, asked, “Not even as a purely defensive means to save lives?”
Buck informed us, “Unfortunately not.” He also let us know, “It takes a very long time to get this permission from the Yemeni authorities, so we can’t count on Hellfire missiles in a rapidly developing situation.”
I thought about that and said, “I assume that the Predator surveillance drones will be armed with Hellfire missiles, and that we will in fact use them if we’re ducking AK-47 rounds.”
Buck didn’t reply directly, but said, “To ask permission is to invite rejection. We do what we have to do, then apologize.”
“Right. And give the Yemenis another million.”
“Maybe two.” He smiled and said, “In Yemen, we pay to play.”
Right. Even wars have rules, but the rules here in Yemen did not favor the Americans. The good news was that we broke the rules. The better news was that the punishment was a small fine. Two million. Hell, give the Yemenis ten million and carpet bomb the whole country. Better yet, nuke ’em. Check’s in the mail for that.
Bottom line on this trip to Aden was that it was more than a method of getting from Point A to Point B; it was also trolling for sharks-fishing for Al Qaeda.
Buck announced, “That’s all I have. And if no one has anything further, this meeting is adjourned.”
Wonderful.
But Buck said, “Let me buy you all dinner at the Movenpick. They have a new French chef.”
I said, “I’d love to, but-”
Kate interrupted, “That would be very nice.”
“Good,” said Buck. “Afterwards, if you’re game for it, we can go to the Russia Club.”
I reminded everyone, “We need to get up early.”
Buck told us, “We can sleep on the way to Aden.” He smiled and assured us, “The roadside bombs will wake us up for the ambush.”
I felt like a guy who thought he’d joined an ace fighter squadron and found out it was a kamikaze group. I mean, bravery is one thing; war psychosis is something else. I said to Buck, “You’ve been here too long.”
“I know. But we’re all going home.” He added, “One way or the other.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
So we left the embassy and squeezed into the armored Land Cruiser with Zamo driving and Buck up front for the short drive to the Movenpick Hotel.
It was a nice hotel, and I was glad I was checked in there, though I was staying elsewhere.
I’m not a big fan of Continental cuisine, except French fries, preferring instead pigs-in-a-blanket, but the restaurant was good, and if you let your mind wander, you could be anywhere but here. I’m sure the new French chef felt the same way.
We had a nice, wine-fueled, getting-to-know-you dinner, and talked a bit about ourselves.
Buck Harris, it turned out, was married, with a wife in Silver Springs, Maryland, outside of D.C. I got the impression he had some family money, and he didn’t rely on his State Department salary to buy five-thousand-dollar jambiyahs. So for Buck, maybe the Cold War had been a gentleman’s hobby, something to keep him busy. What, then, was the war on terrorism? Probably the same thing, but with the added incentive of revenge, as he said. I could imagine him being buddies with his former Soviet enemies, but I couldn’t imagine a day when he, or any of us, would be having drinks with former jihadists. For one thing, they didn’t drink. More to the point, this was a war without end, and there would be no forgiving or forgetting.
Buck had a grown son and daughter who he said did not share his ideology or his enthusiasm for fucking America’s enemies. Buck told us, “They believe we should try to understand Islam.” He speculated, “If they’d been old enough during the Cold War, they would have told me I should try to understand Communism.” He assured us, “I understand both.”
Right. Hey, it sucks when your own kids think you’re part of the problem.
But Buck said philosophically, “The important thing is that I know I’ve spent my life doing what I thought was right-not just for me, but for my country, and for civilization-and also for my children and their children.”
Kate assured him, “You don’t need to justify your life or your work to anyone.”
Buck agreed, but said, “In this business, however, you are sometimes forced to compromise your own beliefs in the interest of the greater good-national security, global strategy, and so forth.” He confided to us, “During the Cold War, there were a few occasions when I had to betray or abandon an ally as part of a complex plan.”
No one commented on that, but I did wonder if he was hinting that the past was prologue to the future. Hopefully not.
Kate, too, spoke a bit about her background, including her wonderful FBI father, now retired, and her loony mother who was a gun nut, though Kate mentioned that only in the context of growing up around guns and learning at a young age how to hunt and shoot.
This was a great opening for her to tell everyone about how she whacked Ted Nash, but she didn’t go there. Maybe she was saving this interesting story for when we met our CIA teammate, thinking that the retelling of it would be even more interesting to a CIA officer. But I’m sure everyone in the CIA already knew this story.
I used our bonding occasion to tell some funny cop stories, which made everyone laugh. But to show it wasn’t all fun and games on the NYPD, I mentioned getting shot on the job, and my medical retirement, and my rocky transition from NYPD to the Federal Anti-Terrorist Task Force, and of course, my first case, where I met Kate Mayfield, the love of my life.
Paul Brenner seemed to have had an interesting and adventurous life in the military, but like most combat veterans, he downplayed his war experiences, and again he didn’t mention his clandestine mission to post-war Vietnam. But he did say he’d had a brief wartime marriage, though he didn’t say anything about his current lady in the States, and I didn’t expect he would; he seemed to be a private person. Also-how do I put this? — he was smitten with Kate Mayfield. Hey, no big deal. I think Tom Walsh has the same problem. And it wasn’t my problem.
Anyway, four-fifths of the A-team got to know one another a little better, which might or might not make us work better together. And with luck, we’d all get home and have a few stories to tell. Or, in this business, not tell.
I suggested a reunion. “We’ll meet at seven under the clock at Grand Central Station, just like in the movies, and we’ll go to Michael Jordan’s Steak House.”
Everyone liked that happy ending and we agreed to be there, date to be determined by fate. I wondered who, if anyone, would make it.
Buck paid for dinner as promised-sixty bucks, including tip, wine, and drinks. That’s a month’s pay for a Yemeni, and about four drinks in a New York bar. Maybe I should buy a retirement house here.
Anyway, showing the poor judgment of the intoxicated, we thought it was a great idea to go to the Russia Club.
Zamo drove us the few hundred meters
up the road to Tourist City. The half dozen guards at the gate appeared to be Eastern European, and they looked tough and menacing with their flak jackets and AK-47s. But they recognized the American Embassy Land Cruiser, and probably recognized Zamo, and waved us through.
I said to Brenner, “They seemed to know you.”
No response.
Tourist City was a collection of five- and six-story concrete slab buildings, not unlike an urban housing project for the poor. But here, in Sana’a, it was the height of luxury, and more importantly, it was guarded. Not safe. Guarded.
I could see why Paul Brenner might choose not to live here; it was sort of depressing, but also an admission that you felt unsafe on the outside. And macho men would never admit that. They’d rather die. And often did.
There were a few low-rise buildings on the grounds, including a few shops, and in one of the buildings was the Russia Club.
Zamo pulled up and we piled out.
There were two more armed guys in front of the place, and they definitely recognized Mr. Buckminster Harris. In fact, they greeted him in Russian, and Buck replied in Russian with what must have been a joke, because the two guys laughed.
Ironic, I thought, that Buck Harris, who’d spent most of his professional life trying to screw the Russians, was now yucking it up with them in Yemen, where he’d spent part of the Cold War spying on the now-defunct Evil Empire. If you live long enough, you see things you could never have imagined.
We entered the Russia Club, and the maitre d’ saw me and shouted, “Ivan! It is you! Excellent. Tatiana is here tonight. She will be delirious with joy!”
Just kidding.
But the maitre d’, Sergei by name, did know Buck, though not Paul Brenner, which disappointed me. I would have liked to discover that Mr. Cool dropped his paycheck here every month, boozing and whoring. Kate, too, would find that interesting.
Anyway, the place looked a bit sleazy, which it was. There was a long bar to the right, a raised stage, and a ceramic-tile dance floor surrounded by tables, half of which were empty. A DJ was playing some god-awful seventies hard rock, and a few couples were on the dance floor, looking like they were having seizures.
The Panther jc-6 Page 24
