Nelson Demille - The Panther

Now and then one of them would climb one of the stone platforms and peer out over the wall, but they didn’t seem to take guard duty too seriously. Probably because they didn’t take the Yemeni Army too seriously. And they didn’t yet understand the new boys on the block-Al Qaeda.

Also, I don’t think the Bedouin really understood about the Predator drones watching us, or that we could see, on our monitors in the fish van, what the Predators saw from five or ten thousand feet.

I asked Chet about this, and he said, “If I showed them the monitors, they’d understand the capabilities without understanding the technology. Just like with their cell phones.” He added, “They know it’s not magic, but the less they know, the better.”

Right. But I’m sure Sheik Musa knew a little more about Predator drones carrying Hellfire missiles; he knew he didn’t want to appear on the video monitor with an X between his eyes.

Anyway, I suppose I could wax poetic about the Bedouin, and maybe romanticize them the way most Westerners did-but basically they were just simple, uncomplicated, and understimulated people who took small pleasures in a cup of tea. And these eight guys in the courtyard were happy to be sitting around here and not busting their butts herding camels or goats, or scratching out an existence in the dead fields.

As Chet said, they had their Korans to read-if they could read-their guns, and their faith. Also a little khat to help pass the time and elevate their mood.

Speaking of which, Chet took about three trips a day to the mafraj and always came down with a smile. I had this mental image of him stumbling into the excrement hole and dropping six stories into a pile of shit. That could happen.

On a completely different subject, getting laid is no big deal, but not getting laid is a very big deal. Capisce? Enough said.

Evening came, and we dined al fresco with the Bedouin to do something different. Oats, groats, goats, tawwa, tea, and tuna. Canned fruit for dessert. The Bedouin liked the syrupy canned fruit and ate up most of our stock.

Kate was allowed to join us if she wore her balto and hijab and sat by herself off to the side. Sounded reasonable to me, but Kate balked. Buck, however, urged her to have dinner with us at a distance. He explained, “This is a big break with custom and we should take advantage of the opportunity to bridge the cultural divide.”

I agreed and suggested, “About forty feet should do it.”

Kate agreed reluctantly, and it was good to have her at dinner.

Anyway, early to bed, three guard shifts, restless sleep, and dawn. I never before appreciated the dawn. I can see why ancient people worshipped the sun. The sun was life. The night was death.

On the third or maybe fourth day, as I was re-reading the mixed vegetables label, Kate asked me, “How are you holding up?”

“Fine. I’ve named all the crows.” I asked, “How are you doing?”

“Okay.” She added, “Physically, fine. But I’m developing Stockholm Syndrome.” She smiled. “I’m beginning to identify with the Bedouin.”

“They’re great guys,” I agreed. “Even though they’ve never seen your face, they knew you’d make an attractive dinner companion.”

She smiled again and said to me, “It’s very reassuring that you’re still an asshole.”

“Thank you.” In fact, I knew that Kate would appreciate me more here in this manly country.

Another thing I noticed is that I didn’t miss the news. Or the sports scores. When you’re cut off from the civilized world, you go through a few days of withdrawal, and then one day you realize it’s all bullshit. What difference does it make what’s going on in Washington, London, Moscow, New York, or Cairo? They don’t care what I’m doing. I would, however, like to know how the Yankees were doing in spring training. But someone could fill me in if I ever got back. And if I didn’t, it was sort of moot.

On the subject of getting back alive, neither Chet nor I mentioned our conversation in the van. There was nothing more to say, and he wasn’t going to tell me what his bosses in Langley said to him.

Look, I could be way off base on this, in which case there was nothing more to say or do. But if I was right, Chet and his people were now trying to figure out if Operation Clean Sweep should include John and Kate.

It would have occurred to them, too, that if John Corey knew or suspected a whack job way back in New York, then I would have left one of those “To Be Opened Only in the Event of My Death” notes with someone.

Maybe I should have, but I didn’t. Maybe because I didn’t intend to get whacked here by the CIA. Or maybe because if Kate and I got killed by Al Qaeda or The Panther, I wouldn’t want the CIA to be suspected of a crime they didn’t commit. No matter how I felt about the Agency, in the end they are our first line of defense, and I am a dedicated and responsible professional.

Early the next afternoon, after salat and after the last can of tuna had been eaten, Chet’s sat-phone rang. He went to the window where it was plugged into the antenna, and answered.

He listened, then said, “Okay, thanks,” and informed us, “Predator reports three white Land Cruisers approaching from the north and heading toward this plateau.”

Kate asked, “Who do you think they are?”

Chet replied, “Could be re-supply… or it could be the men we’ve been waiting for.”

Brenner asked, “Why didn’t Musa give us a heads-up?”

Buck replied, “He would give his men a heads-up-not us.”

And sure enough, we heard a commotion in the courtyard.

We all went to the window, and I saw that our eight Bedouin were on their feet, AK-47s in hand, and one of them was on his cell phone. Then four armed Bedouin ran toward the tower and we could hear them coming up the stone stairs.

Everyone grabbed their M4s and we spread ourselves strategically around the stairwell. Buck stood at the top of the stairs with his M4 slung.

The four Bedouin were on the staircase now, shouting loudly and excitedly as they ran up the stairs.

Buck said to us, “Al Qaeda is coming to see the kidnapped Americans.”

Great. I mean, you know you’re bored when you look forward to a visit from Al Qaeda.

Chet, looking very happy, said to us, “The Panther has bitten.”

Right. But The Panther wasn’t biting Chet, who, being a spook, was not really here. So Chet excused himself, saying, “I’ll stay in contact with the Predators.” And off he went down the stairs and into the van.

So now we had to look like prisoners of the Bedouin, who fortunately treated their kidnapped guests well.

Kate wrapped her hair and face in her black scarf as the four Bedouin came up the stairs and quickly gathered up most of our things, including our sat-phone antenna from the window. It might be hard to explain to the Al Qaeda guys if we got a phone call, so we also shut off our hand-held radios, sat-phones, and cell phones.

The four Bedouin carried our baggage up one level, as well as our boxes of canned food and our reading material, leaving only our bread and water on the floor. Our friend Yasir and another Bedouin rolled up our carpet and also carried it up the stairs.

The Bedouin wanted our M4 carbines and Zamo’s rifle, but Brenner flat-out refused, and we stowed them under our straw bedding. We also kept our Colt.45s concealed in our holsters, which we moved to the small of our backs, though we had to take off our Kevlar vests in case the Al Qaeda guys were sharp enough to notice. Kate took care of that, modestly, in the indoor outhouse.

We also gave the Bedouin our watches and the non-diplomatic passports that we’d used to check in at the Bilqis Hotel, but we kept our diplomatic passports in case we needed to make a dash for the Saudi border.