Nelson Demille - The Panther

Tom, however, had been a little deceitful in the past, lying mostly by omission, then telling me after I’d found out the truth that I had no need to know what he hadn’t told me. When I was a cop, the bosses told you all they knew because you had a need to know everything about a criminal case. But this was a different game. Lots of classified information, compartmentalization, firewalls, and outright lies. Some of this was necessary; most of it was not. It’s gotten better since we lost three thousand people on 9/11, but old habits die hard.

With all this in mind, I listened to Tom Walsh’s final briefing. Basically, he had nothing new to add, but he did say, “You will be part of a five-person team. Two are already in place, and one will join you later.”

He put a manila envelope on the coffee table and said, “These are your travel documents, including your airline tickets. Also included is your contact info for when you arrive at Sana’a Airport.” He continued, “The Travel Office did the best they could, but you’ll be arriving in Sana’a at about two-thirty A.M. on Sunday morning. You’ll be met, of course, but in the event you’re not, you have instructions that will tell you what to do.”

I asked, hopefully, “Take the next flight home?”

“No.”

Kate inquired, “Why would we not be met?”

Walsh replied, “Things can go wrong.”

“So,” I inquired, “if four guys in white robes ask us to get into a black van, we should say no?”

“You should definitely say no.” He added encouragingly, “We’ve never lost anyone at the airport.”

I inquired, “Anyone ever delayed at the airport?”

“Now and then.” He reminded us, “But you’re traveling on diplomatic passports, so you’re not required to answer any questions, except for your destination, which is the American Embassy.” He added, “Demand a phone call to the embassy. The night duty officer is alerted to your arrival.”

“If he doesn’t answer, can I call you?”

“No.” Tom continued, “You will be met before you go through passport control. You will not have to go through customs, but if someone demands that you open your bags, then open them. And make sure there is nothing in your luggage that is offensive, compromising, or contraband.”

“Like soap?”

“Like weapons, alcohol, or certain magazines. Or anything made in Israel.”

“So no Uzi submachine guns?”

He informed us, “There’s a list in the envelope.” He continued, “Assuming all goes right at the airport, there will be a three-car convoy to take you to the embassy.”

I asked, “Do our guns travel in the dip pouch?”

“No. You will leave your handguns here. When you get in your vehicle in Sana’a, you’ll be issued handguns which you are authorized to carry at all times.”

Kate asked, “Who’s our contact person at the airport?”

Tom replied, “His name is Paul Brenner. There’s a photo of him in your envelope. I understand he’s former Army CID-Criminal Investigation Division. He’s now working for the Diplomatic Security Service.”

Kate asked, “Does he know why we’re in Yemen?”

“I don’t know.” Tom stood and said, “I want to thank you again for taking on this assignment. And I want to wish you both the best of luck.” He looked at me and said, “I know you have some reservations about this, John, but I also know that you will become more enthused about this assignment when you learn how important it is to the country.”

“I can feel it already, Tom.”

“Good.” He said to Kate, “You’ll have a more difficult time as a woman-and as the member of the team who has to keep John in line.”

They both got a chuckle out of that. Really funny.

Tom and I did a good, firm handshake, and Kate got a hug, which in a Federal building is sexual assault.

We promised to stay in touch by e-mail and send cards on the holidays.

Out in the hallway, Kate said, “I can’t believe we’re getting on a plane tonight to go to Yemen for a year.”

“Did you unplug the toaster?”

“Well… maybe it won’t be a full year.”

“Probably not.”

She asked me, “Are you excited?”

“I keep pinching myself to make sure I’m not dreaming.”

She stayed silent as we walked to the elevators, then said to me, “I feel better that we’re together and we can look out for each other.”

“Right.” I remembered an old Arab saying. “When walking through a minefield, make one of your wives walk fifty paces in front of you and your camel.” I didn’t say that, of course. I said, “If I had three more wives, we’d have a whole five-person team looking out for each other.” Actually, I didn’t say that either. I said, “We always look out for each other.”

She kissed me as we waited for the elevator, and we held hands on the way down.

Al Rasul said he wanted to see me before I left, so I went to his desk and he suggested a cup of coffee in the break room.

We sat at a table with our coffees, and I said to Al, “Tom has agreed to send you to Yemen with us.”

He smiled, then said, “You know, I’ve never actually been to a Muslim country.”

“Except Brooklyn.”

He smiled again and said, “I don’t think I’d like it. I know my wife wouldn’t.”

“She Muslim?”

“Yeah. But born here. She sees the new immigrant women with the scarves and veils and it makes her crazy.”

Which reminded me of the question that had been bugging me, and I asked him, “Maybe you can tell me why some American-born Muslims have gone to Sandland to fight for the bad guys?”

Al Rasul replied, “The short answer is jihad. The long answer is God, history, Sharia law, and lots of hate. And here’s a secret-they hate the West only slightly more than they hate their own corrupt governments, and a little more than they hate themselves.”

I thought about that, and I guess I understood what he was saying. But it didn’t really answer the question of how all this had translated into a growing jihad.

Al had part of an answer and said, “Islam began with military conquest, forced conversions, religious fundamentalism, and an intolerant theocratic state. And then there was a period of enlightenment. But what you’re seeing now is a return to the good old days. The Dark Ages.”

“Right. But don’t forget those seventy-two virgins in Paradise.”

He smiled, then got serious and said, “The fundamentalists take that literally. If you kill innocent non-believers, you don’t go to hell where you belong-you go to Paradise.” He added, “Their goal on earth is Sharia law and world domination. Their spiritual goal is to ascend into Paradise.” He advised me, “Don’t try to make sense of it. And don’t think that what these homegrown radicals need is a good dose of Western civilization and a few beers. They’ve had that-here and in Europe-and they reject it.”

“ You don’t reject it.”

“I’m a bad Muslim. At least by their standards. I’m also a marked man.”

“Right. Don’t sit so close to me.”

I looked at the Department of Justice wanted posters on the wall. Mostly bearded guys with dark, dead eyes. Almost all the captions said Wanted for Murder , some said Suspected Murder , and some said Conspiracy to Commit Murder . Murder used to be my game, but this wasn’t murder. It was something else, and it wasn’t war; it was sick and it was evil.

Happily, a lot of the posters had big red Xs on them, and notations: Killed, Captured, Convicted .

There was no wanted poster for Bulus ibn al-Darwish, a.k.a. The Panther, and I wondered why not. I guess for the same reason that al-Numair came up empty on the automated case system; The Panther had gone from wanted by the Department of Justice to the CIA kill list.