Nelson Demille - The Panther

I inquired, “Why does anyone even come here?”

Buck replied with impatience, “To learn, Mr. Corey. To see history. To experience another culture.”

Okay. I guess the Belgians experienced another culture.

Buck reminded me, “If you stay home, the terrorists win.”

That’s what everyone in New York said after 9/11, so we all went out and filled the bars and restaurants. Fuck Al Qaeda. Make that a double, bartender. God bless America!

But this was different. This was the belly of the beast. And for all I knew, the tour guide, the NSB officer, and everyone else here was on their cell phone right now telling someone there were American turkeys here to pluck.

Buck glanced at his watch and said to us, “This area will be deserted within half an hour. We’ll wait until then, then we’ll head back to the Bilqis Hotel.”

Kidnapped at the oasis. Waylaid at the wadi.

Buck, with time on his hands, informed us, “The Western archaeologists won’t return here, and the local authorities won’t remove the drifting sand.” He concluded, “In ten, maybe fifteen years, all this will be covered again, except for those columns.”

Kate said, “That’s sad.”

Maybe they can put an oil well here.

Buck turned, looked toward the west, and said, “Those hills on the horizon are the ones we flew over, and where the Crow Fortress is.” He told us, “The Yemenis believe that Noah’s Ark came to rest in those hills after the Flood.” He also told us, “About forty kilometers farther west of the Crow Fortress is where the Al Qaeda training camp is. Also somewhere in those hills is where we believe The Panther’s personal hideout is located.”

Maybe he’s hiding out in Noah’s Ark. I suggested, “The Predators should look for the Ark while they’re looking for The Panther’s hideout.”

Buck reminded me, “The Panther is coming to us.”

“Right.” We had as much chance of finding The Panther as we had of finding the Ark. The Panther, however, would find us.

The sun was starting to sink in the western sky and I shielded my eyes as I stared at the distant hills. So the Crow Fortress was not too far from the Al Qaeda training camp, which would soon be pulverized by American fighter-bombers if all went well. And also up there in those desolate hills was Bulus ibn al-Darwish, a long way from New Jersey. And maybe Noah’s Ark was sitting up there, too. A profound thought was taking shape in my mind, a unifying thread, perhaps, that would link all this together, and I said, “This place sucks.”

Buck turned impatiently and led us down into the sunken courtyard. I noticed we were hidden from the road, and there wasn’t a soul in sight. I drew my.45 and slipped it in the pocket of my bush vest. Brenner did the same.

Buck, addressing Kate and Brenner but not me, said, “This is the temple that some Mormon scholars believe is the place where their prophet Lehi came after he fled from Jerusalem in the sixth century B.C.” He added, “It was here where Lehi is said to have buried the prophet Ishmael.”

I hope Ishmael was dead.

I was really looking forward to my kidnapping.

Buck also told us, “The Mormons also believe that it was here that Lehi built a ship for himself and his family and sailed to America.”

Hold on. Did that ship have wheels?

But Buck clarified, “There is strong evidence that there was a river here at that time which flowed to the sea.”

Got it.

Buck led us across the courtyard and up fourteen-count ’em-wide and steep stone steps. At the top were five square columns, rising about sixty feet high. There was a sixth column that was broken, and Buck related a story about the symbolism of the broken column-something to do with the five undisputed pillars of Islam, and the one disputed pillar of the faith. I think he makes this stuff up. In fact, he makes up a lot of things.

Buck finished the story, then stayed uncharacteristically silent for a few seconds before saying, “This is where the Belgians were presumably killed.”

No one responded to that. But in fact that thought had crossed my mind. And Buck wanted to save this moment for now.

Buck looked down at the paving stones at the base of the columns and said, “The Yemeni Army personnel who were first called to the scene said these stones were covered with blood.”

In fact, they were still stained, but if you didn’t know what happened here, you wouldn’t know it was blood.

Buck continued, “There were two older couples, retirees from Brussels, and a young unmarried couple from Bruges who were touring the Middle East, as well as a married couple, also from Brussels, with their daughter, age sixteen.”

Again, no one responded.

Buck continued, “They were all staying at the Sheraton in Sana’a as part of a larger tour group. Those nine people decided to sign up for this day excursion to Marib.”

Bad idea. Very bad idea.

Buck again stayed silent and I noticed that the ruins were completely deserted now, and the bus and police truck had left. There was no sound from the road or from the ruins around us. We were alone.

Buck said softly, “These people weren’t here to hurt anyone, and the only thing they did wrong in Yemen was to be Westerners. Europeans. Christians. And for that, they paid with their lives.”

Indeed.

Buck continued, “The bodies of the Belgians were never found, but their tour guide and the bus driver, young men from Sana’a, were found in a drainage ditch a kilometer from here with their throats cut… so they were able to receive a proper Muslim funeral.” He added, “Their crime was associating with infidels, and the penalty was death.”

Kate said quietly, “How awful… senseless.”

Brenner said, “This is not war.”

Buck agreed, “It was a merciless, cold-blooded act of butchery.”

I asked, “And we think The Panther was here when it happened?”

Buck nodded and replied, “That is the information we received from the Al Qaeda prisoner in Brussels.”

Well, if anyone had any qualms about killing those bastards with Hellfire missiles, those thoughts were now gone. In fact, high-explosive oblivion was too good for Bulus ibn al-Darwish.

Buck’s sat-phone rang and he answered. He listened, then said, “All right,” and hung up. He said to us, “That was Chet.” He informed us, “It’s time to leave here and return to the Bilqis Hotel.”

Which was another way of saying, “It’s kidnap time.”

The kidnapping itself was sort of anticlimactic.

I was with Buck in the lead vehicle, sitting in the rear of the small Hilux, and Kate was up front so she didn’t have to sit with the kidnapper. I am a gentleman.

Brenner and Zamo were about twenty meters behind us.

We had pulled over after we left the ruins and everyone had retrieved their M4s, which we now had on our laps, and Zamo had his sniper rifle. Most importantly, Kate was wearing her scarf for her kidnapping. All was right with the world-if your world was Yemen.

As we approached the narrow bridge over the wadi, a white Toyota Land Cruiser pulled onto the road from the shoulder and slowed down on the bridge. A second white SUV pulled onto the road behind us and in front of Brenner. A third SUV fell in behind Brenner. So we were boxed and sandwiched. This might be a staged kidnapping, but these guys had done this before, for real.

The SUV in front of us came to an angled stop at the far end of the bridge and Buck stopped about ten meters from him.

I turned to see the SUV behind us stopping close to our rear. Brenner, too, came to a halt, then the last SUV stopped behind Brenner and bottled up the bridge. Nice job everyone.