Nelson Demille: The Panther

I gave him the old knee in the balls, which refocused his attention, then I put the curved blade of my jambiyah under his full beard and on his throat and said, “Remember the Cole, asshole.”

Our eyes met for a second, then I pressed hard and drew the blade across his throat, which opened his jugular vein and both carotid arteries, causing his warm blood to spurt over my hand. I told him, “You have the right to remain silent.”

I kept at it, sawing through his flesh, windpipe, muscles, and tendons until I got to his spine, which I separated with the blade, then I kept going until the blade hit the dirt floor.

I sat up, drew a long breath, then grabbed his hair and held up his head. I said to The Panther, “Payback, you fucking bastard. Payback for the men on the Cole, payback for the men, women, and children you murdered, you piece of shit. Payback-”

Kate said, “John… John… it’s okay… it’s okay… stop…”

Brenner grabbed the severed head by its hair, pulled it out of my hand, and threw it across the floor of the cave. He said, “Time to go.”

Kate took my arm and I stood.

Time to go home. That’s the plan.

The big, four-faced stanchion clock read 6:50. Most of the commuters had departed for the suburbs, but arriving trains brought fresh blood-theatergoers, partiers, and others from near and far who poured into Manhattan every night through Grand Central Station.

Maybe, I thought, it was a little hokey to meet under the clock that had been used in so many movies as a rendezvous for lovers. But the clock had also served as a meeting place for tens of thousands of soldiers, sailors, and airmen coming home to their families, so this was okay.

Buck could not join us, but he was a gentleman of the old school, and he had sent his regrets, demonstrating not only good manners, but also tremendous chutzpah.

In other news from the front, Kate and I had been notified, officially, that Mr. Chet Morgan of the Central Intelligence Agency had been struck by a Bedouin bullet as he tried to rescue us in the Black Hawk helicopter. That’s not quite how I remembered it, but in any case Mr. Morgan had died of his wound before the helicopter reached Najran airbase.

This was the second CIA officer whose death had been announced to me, the first being the aforementioned Ted Nash, who actually died twice, officially, before Kate whacked him for real. And I had the feeling that Chet Morgan, too, would experience a resurrection, and that I’d hear from him again. If not, he would hear from me.

Zamo, too, couldn’t join us because he was on extended medical leave, recuperating from his injury, in Las Vegas. I hope his luck holds out.

We’d also invited Howard Fensterman and Clare Nolan, who had grown closer in the three weeks since we’d seen them, and they would have loved to be in New York with us, but their new duties in Sana’a prevented them from taking home leave at this time. They did promise, however, to be in New York for the holidays, all of which Howard probably celebrates.

Reunions sound good in theory, like my high school reunions, but in reality you don’t always want to see the people who you bonded with at certain times and places in your life journey. The memories are good and they should be preserved and acknowledged with a holiday card or a quick e-mail and not be spoiled by actually having to see those people again. Clare, however, might be an exception.

Also, I was looking forward to seeing Paul Brenner. Mr. Brenner was home on leave, in Virginia, but as I predicted he was returning to Yemen. Some people can’t get enough fun. I mean, this is the guy who did a second tour in Vietnam. One day, some tour in some shithole would kill him, but for now he was happy to feel alive by daring death. I suppose I could say the same about myself, and maybe even Kate, but… Well, no buts. We’re back at 26 Federal Plaza, me with a new three-year contract, and Kate with a guarantee of three more years in the city she’s grown to love with the man she loves, and tolerates. That’s me.

But if we get bored or restless or tired of Tom Walsh’s act, there are a dozen other hellholes where the Anti-Terrorist Task Force operates, and we may volunteer for one of them. Hopefully we won’t have to take another State Department course in cultural awareness. The last one didn’t work too well.

Kate and I watched Paul Brenner and his lady walking across the marble floor of the Main Concourse. They spotted the tall clock, then spotted us, and Brenner and his lady made their way through the crowd.

Kate said, “She’s very attractive.”

I wouldn’t have expected less from a man who has good taste in women.

We waved, they waved, we all met and shook hands or hugged, and Brenner introduced us to his lady, who said to Kate and me, “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

I couldn’t say the same, but she seemed like a nice woman and we went up to Michael Jordan’s Steak House on the mezzanine, where I got silly and asked the waiter for a Pink Panther, on the rocks.

When the ladies went to freshen up, Brenner said to me, “Buck.”

I didn’t reply.

Brenner asked, “Are we supposed to let that go?”

“We’re supposed to believe that Buck was an unwitting accomplice.”

“He wasn’t unwitting.”

Right. But Buckminster Harris had served his country well and honorably since I was a milk drinker, so I said, “I don’t want to see him disgraced in public.”

Brenner nodded, then inquired, “How about dead in private?”

“Whatever you decide, I’m with you.”

Brenner said, “I’m not buying that Chet is dead.”

“Seems a little suspicious,” I agreed. “When we see Buck, we’ll get the truth.”

Brenner leaned toward me and said softly, “I want both of them dead.”

I nodded.

The ladies returned and we ordered another round. I could see that Kate liked Brenner’s lady, whose name was Cynthia, and we learned that Paul and Cynthia had met on the job, just as Kate and I had. Cynthia Sunhill was Army, Criminal Investigation Division, and she’d requested a posting in Yemen. Good luck.

When the waiter came around, I, of course, inquired about any goat specials. Kate rolled her eyes. Brenner laughed.

It was a good evening and we parted, promising to stay in touch, which was inevitable because of the scheduled CIA post-op meeting in Washington. That should be interesting.

As for the thanks of a grateful nation, that hadn’t yet been scheduled.

Hey, we were lucky we had jobs. Right?