Nelson Demille - The Panther

“Right. Hey, do we get a certificate for this course?”

“Just a note in our file so we don’t have to take it again when we do another tour in Yemen.”

Not funny. We got on the elevator and rode up to the 26th floor. I said, “I think we just got a mission briefing-a glimpse of how we’re going to find and eliminate The Panther.”

She nodded.

And did I have a problem with that? “That” being a promise to the corrupt and nasty Yemeni government to vaporize some poor tribal leader or political opponent if the government gave us the location of Al Qaeda targets, including, hopefully, The Panther.

And how did Kate and I fit into this? Maybe we were on the team that would coordinate this with the Yemeni government, and/or we would be on the waste collection team, i.e., going out to the hills or desert where a Hellfire missile just turned some guys into hamburger, then collecting fingers for a print match or a DNA analysis to make sure we got The Panther.

Well, no use speculating. We’d know when we got there.

We got off on the 26th floor and Kate said to me, “I’m feeling a little more prepared for the country, but still not sure about the job.”

“Cultural awareness is ninety percent of the job.”

We returned to our desks and got some work done. I love reading memos and electronically checking that I’ve seen them. Plus, some e-mails needed a response. It occurred to me that none of this had anything to do with me anymore. I was going to the front. I was free.

Before I knew it, it was noon, and the sacred lunch hour had begun. Short of a national emergency, you cleared the building at noon. To have lunch at your desk was unpatriotic or suspicious, and you might be questioned by the Office of Professional Responsibility.

I grabbed my topcoat and met Kate at her desk, and we left the building with no plan other than to get some air and clear our heads.

Before we’d left on our last overseas assignments, Kate and I had gone for cocktails to the Windows on the World in the North Tower of the World Trade Center. That was no longer possible, so we walked to the observation deck at the WTC site.

It was a cold day, but there were dozens of people on the deck, mostly tourists, but also some office workers, construction guys, and a group of elementary school kids.

We don’t come here often-we don’t need to-but today seemed like a good day to reconnect with this place, to remember, as Buck said, who we are, why we’re here, and what we believe in.

We walked down to Battery Park, got a coffee and hot dog at a food cart, and sat on a bench, looking out at the harbor.

There was a time when everyone coming to New York from overseas-tourists, immigrants, and Americans returning home-had to sail past the Statue of Liberty. Now, ninety percent of overseas travelers came in through the airports, and they were definitely missing something. Almost everyone arriving here-immigrants, tourists, people on work or student visas, and businesspeople-was here for legitimate reasons. The ones who weren’t, like the bastards who took down the Towers, became my problem.

But now I was going to one of the breeding grounds of this sickness-to find one diseased sonofabitch. A guy who helped kill seventeen American sailors as well as other innocent people. Tom Walsh keeps telling me it’s not about revenge; it’s about justice. I keep telling him to get real.

Kate asked me, “Any other thoughts on what Buck said?”

“No, not about what he said. But about what he didn’t say.”

“Meaning?”

“Why us?”

“I’m sure he has no knowledge of that. And you can keep asking that all week and you’ll never get the answer. The answer is in Yemen.”

“Right.” But I think I already knew the answer.

On Tuesday night, some of our civilian friends gave us a going-away dinner in what used to be the basement speakeasy of the 21 Club. We celebrated the end of Prohibition in America, and drank enough to get us through a year of Prohibition in Yemen.

I invited everyone to come to Yemen and promised an exciting visit, including a civil war reenactment, except, I confessed, they weren’t acting.

We used Wednesday and Thursday to settle our personal affairs, including the usual of having our mail forwarded-in this case to a State Department address in Washington where it would be sent on to the U.S. Embassy in Sana’a in a diplomatic pouch. Can’t wait to get those Victoria’s Secret catalogues.

Our travel orders instructed us to take only a week or two’s worth of clothes and necessities, and to arrange with the State Department Travel and Relocation Office for a hundred pounds each of additional personal items to be shipped at government expense to an address in Yemen, which was not yet known. I wondered if I could sneak my La-Z-Boy recliner into the shipping container.

We arranged with Alfred, our excellent doorman, to let the shippers in and to have someone look after our apartment. I gave Alfred a nice tip and promised him a jambiyah when we got home.

We also saw our lawyer and gave him power of attorney for certain legal matters, including the shipment of our mortal remains-but only if we were dead. He asked for the name of a local funeral director, so I said, “Walsh Funeral Home,” and gave him Tom’s home address.

Kate wanted to shop for modest clothing that would be appropriate for wear both in the embassy and on the streets of Sana’a or Aden. I suggested, “A black balto is good for day or night wear, as well as the beach, and you can accessorize with different-colored veils.”

Kate had managed to get us a direct military flight from Dover Air Force Base to Sana’a, but later we got an e-mail from DOD-Department of Defense-informing us that the flight was full. I suppose a big C-17 could be full, but the question was, what was it full of? Military equipment? Troops? Hellfire missiles? Or maybe people we weren’t supposed to see or talk to. The e-mail further advised us that we were authorized to use a commercial air carrier, which we knew.

On Thursday night, a number of our Task Force colleagues-NYPD and FBI-gathered at Walker’s, a neighborhood pub on North Moore, a few blocks from the office. The supervisors, including our pal Tom Walsh, made an early appearance before the gathering got out of hand and before the owner had to call the police-most of whom were already there.

The FBI and NYPD don’t usually socialize, but this was a going-away party for two extremely popular colleagues, one of whom was FBI, and the other NYPD.

There were a few NYPD guys there who’d been to Yemen with the Evidence Response Team, and one female FBI agent who’d spent half a year there. They all had some useful advice, like sleep with your gun, never travel alone, and don’t chew the khat. The FBI lady, however, said to Kate, “Without alcohol, the only way your marriage is going to survive with this guy is to chew khat.”

Al Rasul was there, of course, and he got behind the bar and did a funny impersonation of a Yemeni bartender telling his customers it was ladies’ night and the women could drink for half price, but no women were allowed, and neither was alcohol. Al also accused the Christians of turning his water into wine.

Later, Al told me, “Still nothing on Nabeel.”

On Friday at 10 a.m., after getting our final shots in the nurse’s office, we were sitting in Mr. Walsh’s office.

Tom asked us how the rest of the evening went and apologized for not staying longer.

I assured him, “The party died when you left.”

We were again sitting in the preferred seating section, and Tom had thoughtfully ordered coffee, which I needed.

Tom Walsh is not really a bad guy-well, he is, but he’s not much different than any NYPD boss I’ve ever dealt with. It comes with the job-or it comes with ambition.