Nelson Demille - The Panther

“I plan to leave here with our visas in two minutes.”

He didn’t respond, but said something to the receptionist, who put two completed visa forms on the desk. I looked them over. My visa was for forty-five days, and Kate’s was for an indefinite stay. Both listed us as American Embassy staff with diplomatic status. The purpose of our visit was government business. No mention of Panther hunting.

I did notice that, as per security procedures, the State Department had falsified our home address by giving it as 26 Federal Plaza. Also, our U.S. contact information was the State Department Foreign Office in Washington. Fine, except that falsifying the required info on the visa app could get your diplomatic immunity nullified, or at least compromised if you got into some trouble in the host country. Well, I’d worry about that if and when there was a problem in Yemen. Or I’d let our friends at the State Department worry about it. I was on a diplomatic mission. Right?

Everything else looked in order, and Kate and I signed the visas along with two copies. The receptionist stamped the forms, then stamped our passports, and Habib said to me, “There is no charge. A diplomatic courtesy.”

They should pay me to go to Yemen.

We left the consulate, hailed a cab, and went back to 26 Fed, my home away from home.

By five we’d posted updates on our computers for all our cases and sent e-mails to friends and colleagues announcing our imminent departure to Yemen.

Most return messages wished us luck; some suggested we were crazy.

Al returned and reported that he’d had no luck locating Nabeel al-Samad, and that Nabeel’s cell phone was not sending a signal according to CAU-the Communications Analysis Unit. Al said he’d make a report and see what the bosses wanted to do, and I said I’d do the same.

Bottom line here, Nabeel al-Samad was not high on anyone’s list of people to find. Informants, Mideast or otherwise, are notoriously fickle and usually liars. And sometimes these guys are playing a double game, so I had the interesting thought that Mr. al-Samad had another job outside the deli, and he just wanted to get a look at me. Maybe he took a picture.

As Annie predicted, Kate and I were not feeling well, so Typhoid Kate and Anthrax John went home.

Back in the apartment, Kate got into her pjs and went on the Internet. I channel surfed. The History Channel had a special on Adolf Hitler’s dog.

Kate informed me, “According to the website of the Yemen Tourism Promotion Board, Yemen is, quote, ‘Arabia’s undiscovered gem, and so little is known about the real Yemen, that when visitors travel across the country, it is almost always a beautiful voyage of discovery.’ ”

“Watch that ‘almost.’ ”

She continued reading: “ ‘Camel racing is one of the old favorite sports of Arabs and of course Yemen, as Yemen is the origin of Arabs.’ ”

“I thought they came from Brooklyn.”

“ ‘Paragliding,’ ” she went on, “ ‘like in the legend of Suleiman and his bird, who cross the Yemen to see the Queen of Sheba, have fun and discover our country by flying above mountains and seas.’ ”

“Like Predator drones.”

“I don’t see anything about that.”

“Al Qaeda ambushes?”

“That might be under trekking and hiking.”

“Right. What’s for dinner?”

“A malaria pill.”

We took our malaria pills and watched a rerun of I Love Lucy. Could the world have been that simple?

Tom Walsh, as promised, arranged an appointment for Kate and me with the State Department Office of International Affairs for our cultural awareness course. The OIA is right here at 26 Fed, which is convenient, but still sucks.

On Tuesday morning at 8 A.M., we met Mr. Buckminster Harris-where do WASPs get these names? — in a small, windowless conference room. Mr. Harris asked us to call him Buck, and he invited us to sit.

Buckminster Harris was a well-dressed gent of about sixty, and I guessed he’d seen some of the world during his long and I’m sure distinguished career with the State Department. This was probably his last posting before he retired to some genteel WASP enclave in the Northeast where he’d write his memoirs for Yale University Press. Meanwhile, he was stuck with me for the morning, and I with him.

There were apparently only two people going to Yemen this week-Kate and me-so the class was small and intimate. Kate had a notepad, of course, so I didn’t need the one I forgot.

There was a colored map of Yemen on the wall, and on the table were State Department handouts, which I’d be sure not to forget.

Mr. Harris took a seat at the head of the table and began, “So you’re going to Yemen?”

Why else would I be here?

He informed us, “I was there during the civil wars.”

I inquired, “How many were there?”

“A few.”

“Right. Who won?”

“The north,” he said.

“Good. Right?”

“The south was Marxist.”

“Karl or Groucho?”

He chuckled and continued, “The north is tribal, backward, and fundamentalist.”

“Glad the good guys won.”

I thought Buck was going to take me out in the hallway for a scolding, but he smiled and said, “They told me about you.”

Really?

“I understand you’ve been to Yemen.”

“Correct. Short assignment. Back in ’01.”

“Well, nothing there ever changes, except for the worse.”

“Looking forward to seeing that progress.”

He smiled again, then said, “It’s a country you can love and hate at the same time.”

Actually, it’s a country you love to hate. But this was Buck’s class and I wasn’t going to be like those dopey students who spent a month someplace and tried to impress their teachers with their half-assed observations.

Buck continued in his very prep school accent, “The capital of Yemen is Sana’a. South Yemen, also known as Adan, with an A, had its capital in the city of Aden, with an E.”

Also known as the Shithole, with a capital S.

He also let us know, “The country was unified in 1990 after another war that the north won, but there is still a separatist movement in the south, and also a movement to restore the Imam as ruler in Sana’a.”

Kate stopped taking notes and said, “Led by the warlord Hussein al-Houthi.”

Buck was happy to have at least one bright student in the class and smiled. “Yes, very good. I see you’ve done some homework.”

I mean, who gives a rat’s ass? I wasn’t going to Yemen to make friends or discuss politics. I was going there to probably whack some asshole who needed whacking. Sorry-to capture a prime suspect in the Cole bombing and return him to American justice. Maybe, though, I could learn something here that might help me. But probably not.

Buck said a few words about the al-Houthi rebels and the tribal warlords. I sort of listened. Warlords are interesting. I’d like to be a warlord.

Buck said, “There are dozens of Bedouin tribes that hold power in their respective regions. And now, to add to the political and social divisions, we have Al Qaeda, who have gained influence in some of the towns and villages.” He concluded, “Yemen is a failed state.”

Right. Not even worth nuking.

Buck recapped the history of Yemen, which was mostly a history of civil wars, revolutions, and invasions. Also, there was a period of British colonial rule in Adan until the 1960s when the British left after another war. Buck said, “You’ll see some vestiges of British rule in the south. Like a statue of Queen Victoria in Aden, which the Yemenis have left standing for some reason.” He added, “She is often veiled by fundamentalists.”