Nelson Demille - The Panther

On the way to the elevator, Kate said, “I can’t believe we’re going to Yemen to capture one of the masterminds of the Cole bombing-the head of Al Qaeda in Yemen.”

She sounded excited, but maybe a little apprehensive. Indeed, this was a big deal with a big upside for us professionally, and a big victory for the home team if we got our man. The downside was also big-like, we could get killed or captured. I’ve come to terms a long time ago with getting killed. But getting captured by terrorists in a foreign country was, as they say, a fate worse than death.

“John? Are you still good with this?”

I didn’t recall ever being good with this. But I do like a challenge. And I was still pissed about how I and the other FBI agents in Yemen had been jerked around by the Yemeni police and their political security force when I was there. They were playing both sides in the Cole investigation, not letting us do our job and also tipping off the bad guys. Great allies. Actually, assholes. So this was a chance for me to shove it up their butts.

“John?”

“There is an old Arabic saying-‘It is easier to kick a camel in the balls than it is to capture a black panther who’s eating your ass.’ ”

“Do you have more of those?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“Can you keep them to yourself?”

“Maybe they sound better in Arabic.”

“This is going to be a long year.”

“Be optimistic. We’ll be dead before then.”

I got back to my desk, and Al Rasul informed me that he’d called downstairs, but Nabeel hadn’t shown up yet.

It was still early, so there was no reason to send a cop car to get him. I did call Nabeel’s cell phone, and it went to voice mail-Arabic and English. I left a message in English, then gave the phone to Al, who left the same message in Arabic-except Al’s tone was very sharp. He explained to me, “That’s how the police talk to citizens in Sandland.”

“Right.” Anyway, Nabeel al-Samad was the least of my priorities today, but you have to follow up on everything because sure as hell the thing you didn’t follow up on is what comes back to bite you in the ass. The people who dropped the ball on the pre-9/11 clues can verify that.

I gave Al a pencil and said, “Transliterate the Arabic word for ‘panther’ into real letters.”

“ ‘Panther’?”

“Yeah. Big black cat.”

He took a scrap of paper from my desk and said, “There are a few ways to transliterate…” He wrote, Nimr-Nimar-Numair , and said, “The last is maybe the most standard transliteration.” He pronounced the word for me.

“You need a tissue?”

He asked me, “What’s with panther?”

“If I tell you, I have to kill you.”

“Anything else I can do for you today?”

“Yeah, if Nabeel shows up.” I added, “Thanks.”

Al’s a good guy and he takes a lot of crap well. But he also knows how to dish it out. If you’re an Arab and you work here, you have to have a sense of humor-and very thick skin. I wondered why Al Rasul wasn’t asked to go to Yemen. Right?

I checked my e-mail and found a note from Tom to me and Kate telling us that we were expected at Legal Affairs and the Medical Office before noon. I’ve never seen government workers move this fast. Tom really wanted us out of here, which compelled me into some paranoid thought processes, and the word “expendable” kept popping into my mind.

I had an e-mail from Betty Alvarez informing me that she had no info on a Yemeni male named Nabeel al-Samad. She asked for his passport info and visa, if any. I replied: Still waiting for subject to show.

I used my ATTF password to access the internal files on ACS-the Automated Case System. I didn’t have a case name, but I typed in “USS Cole ,” which got me hundreds of hits, though probably nothing I didn’t already know. I typed in “Panther,” which got me nothing, then “Numair”-thank you, Al-which got me a file that said “Restricted,” followed by rows of Xs. Usually you get something, even on the restricted files, like when the file was opened, what the classification level was, and who to see about getting access to the file. But apparently all this was above my pay grade, and all I saw was “Numair” and Xs. Well, at least Walsh didn’t make that up.

I e-mailed Walsh and asked him about getting access to the Numair file, based on my recent need-to-know.

A few minutes later, he replied: Your need-to-know begins when you’re in Yemen. P.S. Stop snooping. He didn’t actually write that, but that was the message.

Kate came over to my desk and asked, “Where to first? Legal or Medical?”

“Medical. We need our heads examined.”

“That could take all day. Legal first.”

The FBI Legal Affairs Office here normally deals with cases, warrants, wiretaps, documents, and so forth, and not with employees’ problems or work assignments. But this was a special case, and it needed to be done on an expedited basis.

We had a few papers to sign, including a new confidentiality statement, and also a statement having to do with “interrogation under duress.” As I signed it, I said, “As a married man, I am an expert on interrogation under duress.”

No laughs.

Our wills were on file and we checked them over, then we were given powers of attorney to fill out and sign. Jennifer, a young lawyer I’d seen before my first trip to Yemen, explained, “This is in case you’re abducted or go missing.”

I asked, “So we just show this to our kidnappers?”

“No. You-”

Kate interrupted and explained to me, “If we’re dead, the executors of our wills handle our affairs. But if we’re missing or unlawfully imprisoned, then someone has to act on our behalf-someone to write checks, pay our bills, and so forth. It doesn’t have to be an actual attorney.” She inquired, “Didn’t you do this last time?”

“Right. I named you as my attorney-in-fact.”

“Good. We’ll name each other. But… if we share the same fate, we’ll need an alternate.”

This was getting a little heavy.

Kate said, “It should be a family member.” She suggested, “How about my father?”

Am I related to him? I mean, what if we both wound up kidnapped or missing, then got free and found out that her father had spent all our money on his collection of J. Edgar Hoover memorabilia?

“John?”

“Yeah. Fine.” They’ll never take me alive anyway.

We filled out the forms, signed them, and Jennifer notarized them.

Finally, Jennifer produced our black diplomatic passports, which had been kept in a safe since our last make-believe diplomatic assignments to Tanzania and Yemen.

Jennifer also informed us that the State Department had called the Yemeni consulate office and our visas should be ready after 1 P.M. for us to pick up.

There aren’t many Americans who go to Yemen, so by now our Yemeni allies were aware that John Corey and Kate Mayfield would be arriving soon. Maybe they’d have someone at the airport to greet us.

Another thought popped into my head-a thought about the speed of all this paperwork-and I asked Jennifer, “When did State call the Yemeni consulate about our visas?”

She replied, “Thursday.”

Kate and I glanced at each other. Thursday?

Anyway, we finished up with Jennifer, who said, “You get to do exciting things. I wish I was going.”

I wish you were, too, Jennifer.

As we walked down the hallway, Kate said, “ Thursday? ”

“The Friday meeting was just a formality. Yemen is our fate. It is written in the sands of time.”

No reply. Clearly she was not happy with her friend Tom. Good.