Nelson Demille - The Panther

But I got Buck’s point. Westerners coming here was like people going to an African game preserve; the visitors want to see the wild animals, and the wild animals see the visitors as a lunch that walked into their dining room.

In any case, we were in the right place. Or the wrong place.

Buck reminded us, “The Romans besieged this city, and Marib has been besieged dozens of times and survived until the Egyptian Air Force destroyed it in 1967.”

Jet fighters with two-thousand-pound bombs are a bitch.

Buck looked around and said sadly, “War is senseless.”

I think the old Cold Warrior was going soft. I mean, this was nothing compared to thermonuclear Armageddon.

We came into an open area that Buck said was once a souk. There were goats wandering around the square and also a few kids-meaning young children, not baby goats. Anyway, the kids-the children-spotted us and stared at us like they’d seen ghosts. I guess they don’t get many tourists here.

Finally, they got their courage up and about ten of them ran toward us, yelling, “Baksheesh! Baksheesh!”

I said to Buck, “Tell them to walk with us and we’ll pay them.”

Buck nodded and said something in Arabic, and the children left their kids behind and surrounded us as we doubled back to our vehicles.

I mean, I hate to use children as shields, but they were getting paid.

About half an hour after we’d entered Old Marib, we came back to where we’d started.

Buck asked us, “Did you enjoy that?”

Kate said, “It was fascinating. Incredible.”

Sucked.

We walked out of the ruins and I was happy to see Zamo and Brenner, who had not been kidnapped or murdered.

We paid off the urchins, and I advised them, “When you grow up, relocate.” But stay away from Perth Amboy.

Brenner wanted to ride with Zamo awhile, so we switched and Buck got behind the wheel with me still riding shotgun and Kate in the back. Buck took the lead again and we drove down the hill, toward the next dead ruin, the throne of the Queen of Sheba.

I pictured the headline in the New York Post: Five Yanks Yanked Seeing Sheba. Or, Bedouin Bad Boys Snatch Our Boys.

Hey, it’s all make-believe. Part of a clever CIA plan.

So how about this? Panther Pulverized by Predator in Perfectly Planned Ploy.

I like that.

But first, a friendly kidnapping.

We headed south from Old Marib and crossed a narrow bridge over a flowing stream, the first running water I’d seen in Yemen that didn’t come out of a tap.

In fact, Kate said, “Nice to see a river.”

Buck informed her, “There are no rivers in Yemen. That is a seasonal wadi, usually dry at this time of year, but the gates of the new Marib dam must be open upstream.”

Right. Gotta water that spring khat.

Buck also informed us, “The old Marib dam was built about two thousand years ago, which made the Sabaean civilization possible. The dam collapsed in 570 A.D., the year Mohammed was born, which Muslims take as an omen.” He explained, “The end of paganism, and the beginning of a new world.”

That’s how I felt after the collapse of my first marriage.

Buck also told us, “The new dam was built in the 1980s-fourteen hundred years after the old dam collapsed.”

“Union problems?”

Buck also let us know, “A bridge limits your ability to go off-road.”

Right. That’s where I’d set up a kidnapping.

Anyway, within ten minutes we were approaching the archaeological site of Bar’an. I saw a white minibus parked on the dirt road, and a blue military truck, probably belonging to the National Security police.

Buck parked behind the truck, and Brenner and Zamo parked behind us.

We all got out and looked around. There were patches of scrawny trees here and there and date palms and also a few irrigated fields, but mostly it was brown dirt and dust.

Buck, too, was looking at the arid landscape and said, “The desert, when it decides to come, is relentless. The dam and the irrigation pumps are fighting a losing battle.”

So are we. And ironically, so are the jihadists. There will be no winners here. Except the desert.

We weren’t out of the vehicles two minutes before we were attacked by kids yelling for baksheesh, then souvenir vendors, then two young men who said they were guides for hire. And finally, an NSB officer butted in and offered protection for twenty dollars. He must be related to Captain Dammaj.

I hope there’s an ATM machine around here.

But Buck was our ATM machine, and he gave the NSB officer some rials, then paid off the kids to beat it. He also gave the two guides a nice tip for doing nothing, and he spoke pleasantly to all of them in Arabic. Buck is a good American diplomat; he gives money to anyone and everyone.

The police officer was looking at us as though his instincts told him we weren’t the clueless tourists we appeared to be. I wondered if he could tell we were wearing Kevlar, and if so, did he conclude we were carrying? Or did he think we were stupid enough to be here unarmed?

He said something to Buck, who translated for us. “He says the police are leaving, and we should not stay here too long.”

As though these clowns could be of any help. But thanks for the tip. I said to everyone, “I wonder if these are the same NSB guys who took a hike on the Belgians.”

No one replied.

Anyway, the Keystone cop left, but the souvenir guys, six of them, hadn’t been paid off yet, and they were waving their wares at us-cheap jambiyahs, probably made in China; shiwals, one size fits all; sandals, ditto; and postcards.

Buck gave the souvenir vendors a few hundred rials, took a few postcards, and we were now free to approach the entrance to the ruin.

Zamo stayed behind to provide security, as per the plan, and the four of us walked to a stone arch that looked new, where four Bedouin sat, chewing, and they hit us up for an admission fee of about three bucks each. At the end of the day, it is the Bedouin who control all movement and all access here.

The ruin was elevated above the surrounding land, and we climbed up some stone steps and looked out across a few acres of excavations and broken walls surrounding a paved courtyard. Across the courtyard, at the top of a flight of steps, were tall square columns where a group of tourists stood listening to their guide. Nice ruins. Better than Marib, which was creepy. Time to go.

But Buck, our unpaid guide, said to us, “This is the Bar’an Temple, also known as the Temple of the Moon, and also known as Arsh Bilqis, which means the throne of Bilqis, which is the Sabaean name for Sheba.” Buck continued, “Not far from here is the Temple of the Sun.”

Makes sense.

“This temple was dedicated to the Sabaean god called Almaqah.”

Please, someone kidnap me.

Buck went on awhile, as he does, and Kate, of course, asked questions. She’s always trying to improve her mind, and as long as she doesn’t try to improve mine, I’m okay with that.

Meanwhile, the real tourists were assembling in the courtyard with their guide, and I counted fifteen of them. I looked for my Sana’a pal, Matt Longo, but these were mostly middle-aged people, probably Europeans by their pale winter skin and atrocious footwear.

The guide led his clients toward the exit, and as they approached, Buck said something to the guide in Arabic, and they chatted a minute, then the tour guide moved on toward the minibus.

Buck said to us, “Half the tour group are German, the other half are Danes.”

Totaling one bunch of adventurous idiots. Clueless in Bilqis.

Buck told us, “They’re returning to Sana’a.” He added, “No one stays here overnight anymore.”