The Panther jc-6

by Nelson DeMille

  Also in the Sheraton, but not officially counted as warm bodies, were CIA officers and Military Intelligence officers. When I was there, I counted three of each, but they kept to themselves. They didn’t even play beach volleyball with us.

  Clare said, “Someone told me the Sheraton was okay. Pool, gym, beach.”

  “And a bar,” I assured her. I asked, “Are you staying?”

  “I am.”

  Ah. “I didn’t know that.”

  She informed me, “If you need to go into the Badlands, I may go with you.”

  “You sure you want to do that?”

  “No. But if you need me, I’ll go.”

  I couldn’t think of why we would need a doctor in Indian Territory. Well… maybe if I thought really hard, I could imagine a situation where people were firing automatic weapons at us.

  Clare also said, “I wouldn’t mind seeing some of the country.”

  Mike suggested, “You’re seeing all you need to see now.”

  Clare didn’t respond.

  I opened the manila envelope that Howard had given me and slid out the photos of Bulus ibn al-Darwish.

  The first photo, in black and white, was of a young man in a cap and gown. The caption read: Bulus ibn al-Darwish, Columbia University graduation, 1987.

  Young Bulus was not bad-looking in an exotic sort of way, with a hooked nose, dark eyes, and high cheekbones. His long hair was swept back, and I was surprised to see that his thin lips were smiling. He was happy to be graduating. He had the whole world in front of him.

  The next two photos were color blow-ups of what were captioned Driver’s License photo, 1982, and Passport photo, 1990. In the passport photo, he was still clean-shaven, but his demeanor had changed. He looked serious, or maybe he was thinking about returning to his ancestral home. By this time, he’d gotten his head full of radical thoughts, probably through the Internet, and maybe from some local spiritual guides who had a different view of Islam than most Muslims had, and who preyed on young men such as Bulus ibn al-Darwish.

  The last three photos were color snapshots, and one of them showed a big Victorian house in the background, and it was captioned Perth Amboy, home, May 1991. Last known photo.

  Bulus, twenty-six years old in this picture, looked older, and without reading too much into the snapshot-but with the knowledge that he’d gone to Yemen a year or so after this photo-I had the impression of a young man who was about to sever his ties to home and family; a man who had seen his future and was anxious to make his mark in the world.

  Who, I wondered, took the photo? Probably Mom. Taken in May, so maybe a birthday photo. And did Mom and Dad know that their boy was about to leave the nest and fly east? Probably.

  I wondered, too, if Bulus had a girlfriend. Was he getting laid? Did he have only Muslim friends? Or did he also pal around with Christians and Jews? Did he watch American sitcoms on TV? Maybe he did all that in college and afterwards. But somewhere along the line, young Bulus started slipping away into an alternate universe. And now he was here, killing people-American sailors, Europeans, Saudi co-religionists, and his own countrymen.

  What happened? Maybe I’d never know. Maybe he himself didn’t know what happened, or how it happened. But at some point he’d come to a fork in the road, and he’d taken the wrong one. And I was on a collision course with this guy. If I had a moment with him, I’d ask him about all this. But more likely, there would be no moment of discovery; there would be a quick death. Mine or his.

  Mike asked, “Is that the subject asshole?”

  “It is.”

  Mike glanced at the birthday photo and said, “Looks normal.”

  Right. Some monsters look normal.

  Clare leaned forward and asked, “Who is that?”

  “That,” I replied, “is Bulus ibn al-Darwish. He is a mass murderer.”

  She didn’t reply for a few seconds, then asked, “Are you here to find him?”

  “I am.”

  “Good luck.”

  I took a last look at the subject, then put the photos in the envelope.

  If he knew I was here, maybe he had a photo of me.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  Brenner was maintaining a good speed, and we were passing slow-moving vehicles, which is always interesting on a two-lane road with large trucks coming at you.

  After a particularly close encounter, Mike remarked, “These armored SUVs don’t respond well to the gas pedal.”

  “You’re doing great,” I assured him. I asked Clare, “You carrying anything aside from that medical bag?”

  “You mean… like a gun?”

  “Yeah. Like that.”

  “No. Well… yes.” She informed us, “It’s in my medical bag.”

  “What is it?”

  “A gun.”

  “Right. Can I see it?”

  She opened her medical bag and produced an unholstered 9mm Glock.

  I unfastened my seat belt, leaned between the seats, and took the gun from her. I checked it out-full magazine, no round in the chamber. I gave her a one-minute lesson on how to chamber a round, how to change magazines, and reminded her that the Glock had no safety.

  She said, “Paul Brenner showed me all this.”

  “Good. Did he also tell you how to aim and fire?”

  “He said to hold it with both hands, arms outstretched, look down the barrel, and squeeze the trigger.”

  “That’s about it.” I reminded her, “Aim for the center mass of the target. Heart is on the right.”

  “Left.”

  “His left, your right, Doctor.”

  She nodded.

  I turned and refastened my seat belt.

  The traffic had gotten lighter, and we were picking up speed. Winter is the dry season here, and the high rolling plateau was brown. I saw fields of what looked like newly planted grain, and scattered fruit trees. But mostly I saw what I knew was the cash crop-khat shrubs with dark green leaves and pretty white flowers. The goats seemed to like the khat. Happy goats.

  I mentioned the khat cultivation to my driving companions, and Dr. Nolan gave us a medical analysis of Catha edulis, a.k.a. khat. She made no moral judgment, but her medical opinion was that you shouldn’t operate machinery under the influence. Probably you shouldn’t fire a submachine gun, either.

  Our radios crackled to life now and then, mostly negative sit-reps from our leader, and from our trail vehicle. Indeed, this looked like a milk run, but it could turn on a dime.

  I noticed that when there was no oncoming traffic, Brenner moved the convoy into the left lane. He was either practicing for an assignment in the U.K., or he was keeping away from possible roadside bombs whenever he could. Good thinking.

  About fifty miles south of Sana’a, Mike pointed out an oil pipeline that he said came from Marib and went to the Red Sea port city of As-Salif. He informed us, “The hill tribes to the east of here blow up the pipeline about once a month.”

  “For fun?”

  “Fun and profit. They make the government and the American oil company pay them protection money.”

  “Protection money is supposed to stop them from blowing up the pipeline,” I pointed out.

  “Yeah, but this is Yemen.”

  Right. Case closed.

  The radio said, “Ma’bar, two K.”

  Mike and the other drivers acknowledged, and we started to slow down. Mike said to us, “Small town.”

  I was remembering this road a little, and I recalled that there weren’t many towns along the way, and Ma’bar, about sixty miles from Sana’a, was the first.

  What I also remembered about my trip between Sana’a and Aden was that the road wasn’t considered too dangerous two and a half years ago. I mean, it wasn’t totally safe, but it wasn’t ambush alley either. Things, however, had changed, and not for the better, as Buck mentioned in New York, and the embassy website said.

  The convoy slowed down, and Mike said, “Expect a checkpoint.”

  We entered the sma
ll town of Ma’bar, which I sort of remembered, a collection of two-story mud brick buildings, goats, children, and chickens.

  There was indeed an army checkpoint in the center of town, and we stopped. I saw Buck get out of the second vehicle and walk up to the soldiers. He shook hands with the honcho, said something that made the soldiers laugh, then got face-to-face with the boss, Arab style, and had a serious conversation with him. And while he was at it, he slipped the guy some baksheesh, which made everyone happy.

  Buck got back in the Land Cruiser. Piece of cake.

  As we passed the checkpoint, the Yemeni soldiers looked into the dark-tinted windows, and though they couldn’t see inside, Mike flipped them the bird anyway, saying, “They should be paying us.”

  Brenner’s voice on the radio said, “Dhamar, thirty K. Expect another stop.”

  Within twenty minutes we were in the larger town of Dhamar. I recalled that an earthquake had pretty much leveled this place back in the eighties, and it was still half in ruins. This country can’t catch a break.

  Clare asked, “What happened here?”

  “It wasn’t a battle,” I assured her. “Every two years the residents smash up the town with sledgehammers. It’s called the Festival of Al-Smash.”

  Silence from the rear. But Mike laughed.

  Clare said, “This is going to be a long day.”

  My wife says that. Every day.

  Anyway, we were stopped again in the center of town, and Buck again got out, but this time Brenner accompanied him and they had a conversation with the soldiers.

  Mike said to us, “They’re talking about road security.”

  “And why do we trust these clowns to give us good information?”

  “We don’t, but if you talk to all of them, like Brenner is doing, you can get a feel for the situation. Like, if they’re bullshitting.”

  “Right.” The other thing to consider, of course, was what the surveillance drones had seen-or not seen-and what to make of those video images that were being transmitted to some ground control station somewhere. I mean, in a country where everyone carries an AK-47, how does an analyst determine who’s up to no good? Right?

  I looked out the rear, and I could see that Zamo and another DSS agent had lowered the windows of the Bondmobile and were covering our rear with their M4s.

  Buck and Brenner were now heading toward their SUVs. The radio crackled, and Brenner’s voice said, “Continue on the main road to Yarim.”

  And off we went, through the ruined town of Dhamar.

  The road from Dhamar to Yarim was mostly uphill and I saw that the plateau was rising. There was a map in the glove compartment and I looked at it.

  Mike said, “When we get to Yarim, we can pick up the new road that goes to Aden, or we can stay on this road-the old caravan road-to Ta’iz, then to Aden.”

  I wasn’t sure I wanted to share the road with camels, so I asked, “What’s the difference?”

  Mike replied, “The new road is good, and more traveled, but there are more mountains, and better places for ambushes and IEDs.”

  “Okay. And the camel road?”

  He replied, “Less traveled, so it’s easier to avoid suicide trucks. Also, it’s mostly low hills, except for about sixty miles of mountain.”

  Clare asked, “Which is the safest road?”

  The answer, of course, was neither, but Mike said, “Depends.”

  Anyway, we got to the small decrepit town of Yarim, which Mike informed us was a hot springs resort town with old Turkish bathhouses-sort of like Saratoga Springs, except this place sucked. I mean, I wouldn’t wash my socks here.

  Anyway, we stopped again at a military checkpoint, and Buck and Brenner got out to talk to the soldiers.

  Mike said, “Whichever road we take will be radioed in by the military to some headquarters, and that info can get to the wrong people.” He added, “In either case, we’re passing through territory where Al Qaeda has a presence.” He further informed us, “That territory starts here in Yarim.”

  I suggested, “They should have a road sign: Al Qaeda, Next 100 Kilometers.” But seriously, this sucks.

  I watched Brenner and Buck talking to the soldiers, and I imagined the conversation. “So, guys, which road should we take to avoid ambushes and roadside bombs?”

  And the soldiers laughed and replied, “You should take the Long Island Expressway.”

  Anyway, Buck and Brenner got back in their SUVs. The radios came alive and Brenner said, “We will head toward the new highway, but then double back around this checkpoint and take the old road to Ta’iz.”

  Everyone acknowledged and we moved past the checkpoint.

  Buck came on the radio with some good news. “Predator reports no suspicious activity on the Ta’iz road.”

  That’s because the bad guys didn’t know yet what road we were taking.

  In fact, Mike had the same thought and said, “There are a thousand eyes and five hundred cell phones along either route. So it really doesn’t matter what road we take.”

  “Right.”

  He further added, “We just need to be fast and try to keep ahead of anything that Al Qaeda tries to put together for us.”

  Clare said, “This is scary.”

  What was your first clue?

  Anyway, we did the old, “I’m going this way, fellas,” then the switcheroo and the double-back, and within ten minutes we were south of Yarim on the old caravan road to Ta’iz.

  Mike said, “I think this is a smart move.”

  That depended on whether or not we actually wanted to make contact with Al Qaeda.

  Clare asked, “Is this really Al Qaeda territory?”

  Mike replied, “According to what’s called the CIA Areas of Influence map.” He added, “But you can’t always go by the map.” He assured her, “The CIA likes to overstate the danger. Keeps them in business.”

  Overstating the danger is also called covering your ass, as in, “Hey, we said the roads were dangerous. Sorry about what happened to that convoy.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  The old caravan road wasn’t bad, and it was lightly traveled so we were making good time, about 120 K per hour, and within half an hour I could see the mountains on the horizon.

  As we came over a hill, I saw the brake lights of the two lead vehicles, and on the road ahead I saw a convoy of five military trucks. I took the binoculars from the console and focused on them. There were about twenty men in each open truck, wearing the berets and blue camouflage fatigues of the National Security police.

  The radio crackled, and Brenner said, “We’ll pass one at a time.”

  The drivers acknowledged, and Brenner’s lead vehicle pulled out into the oncoming lane and accelerated. But suddenly, the last police truck swerved in front of him, and the Land Cruiser had to brake hard, drop back, and get back into the right lane.

  Mike said, “Assholes.”

  Clare asked, “What’s happening?”

  Mike replied, “Probably a shakedown.” He informed us, “The military has some discipline, but the police are banditos in uniform.”

  The police convoy slowed, then one of the trucks moved into the oncoming lane, and all the trucks came to a stop. Roadblock.

  The five Land Cruisers also came to a halt, but we kept thirty-foot intervals between us. This was a lonely stretch of road, and the only vehicles around were us and them.

  Brenner said on the radio, “Everyone stay in their vehicles, but be prepared to make a show of force.”

  Brenner and Buck were out of their vehicles, and unarmed; they stood where we could see them and waited. Brenner was carrying his hand-held radio, and Buck was talking on his satellite phone, probably in contact with the embassy. Or maybe the Predator drone ground station. Good. Or at least it looked good.

  Mike said, “These clowns want Brenner to walk to them. Not going to happen.”

  Clare asked, “Should I be frightened?”

  Mike replied, “I think pissed off
is better.”

  This seemed to be a standoff, and it could go on for a while. I wasn’t sure of the protocol here, but male egos I understood.

  The tailgates of the trucks started dropping and the police began jumping out, carrying their AK-47s. Their blue cammies were covered with dust, and I saw that most of them had dust bandanas covering their mouths and noses, making them look, indeed, like banditos. They didn’t make any moves toward the Land Cruisers; they just milled around, and some of them used the opportunity to take a leak.

  I saw Brenner raise his radio, and he said, “Everyone just sit tight.”

  I saw that Buck was now conversing with a few of the National Security police guys, probably telling them to go get the boss, but it didn’t seem to be working.

  Patience is not one of my many virtues, and it was about time I made Buck and Brenner understand I wasn’t just along for the ride, so I opened my door and got out with my M4 slung over my shoulder.

  Mike said, “Brenner is going to be pissed.”

  Clare said, “Be careful.”

  I walked past the two Land Cruisers in front of us, and Brenner saw me and said, “Get back in your vehicle.”

  I didn’t respond. I took Buck’s arm and said, “Let’s go find the boss.”

  Buck resisted for a moment, then came along with me, and we walked up the road through the mob of police. Brenner stayed behind so he could be in sight of us and keep point-to-point radio contact with the convoy.

  I said to Buck, “Find out what these idiots want, and let’s get moving.”

  Buck replied, “All they want is to show us who’s the boss here, and a few hundred dollars.”

  “They’re not going to get either.”

  Before we got to the lead vehicle, a tall guy with important-looking insignia on his uniform walked up to us and said something in Arabic.

  Buck replied in Arabic, and the guy didn’t seem surprised that Buck spoke the language-I guess he’d been briefed by radio-and he and Buck started jabbering.