Nelson Demille - The Panther

The men let out a long, loud shout: “Victory!”

Captain Zuhair and Lieutenant al-Rashid paid their final respects to their leader, who blessed them and blessed the jihadists. Then the officers took charge of their men and began the march toward the American oil compound.

The Panther watched them disappear into the dark, then he turned and walked toward five waiting vehicles, filled with his personal bodyguard. He would remove himself from this place and await the outcome of the attack in a nearby Bedouin camp. It was necessary, he knew, to keep moving, to not stay in one place too long, and to take shelter under a roof or in a cave away from the probing eyes of the American Predator drones. And it was for this reason that he wore the robes and long beard of a Bedouin.

He glanced up at the desert sky. It looked the same as it did since the beginning of time-but there was something new up there, something that had already killed too many of his fellow jihadists. And they were looking for him. And now, perhaps, the Americans had sent a man-and maybe a woman-to look for him also. Well, he thought, the Predators would not find him, and the man Corey would not find him. He could not kill the Predators, but he could kill the man. And kill the man’s wife. And kill any American who came to the sacred soil of Yemen to find him.

The Americans may rule the air, but he, Bulus ibn al-Darwish, The Panther, ruled the land.

It was 2:35 in the morning and the Egyptair flight from Cairo was approaching Sana’a International Airport. The airport had a name-El Rahaba-which according to my Arabic dictionary means, “I’d like the fruit salad.” No. That can’t be right.

Anyway, it had been almost three hours since we’d left Cairo, and this leg of the flight was unexpectedly full; mostly young men, probably all Yemeni guest workers bringing home a few bucks so their families could eat. It was a sad country.

Kate and I were sitting in first class and the other gentlemen in first class were dressed Western, but looked Mideastern; maybe Yemeni and Egyptian businessmen or government officials. A few of them had their wives with them, and the women were dressed in traditional clothing. Most of the ladies had been unveiled in flight, but now that the aircraft was landing, they all had scarves and veils in the full upright position.

Kate, FYI, was wearing loose blue pants and a matching high-collared blouse with long sleeves. Buck would have approved, except that Kate had no head covering and her medium-length blonde hair was completely exposed for every man to see, as was her pretty face. Also, FYI, she’d gone light on the makeup.

As for me, I had on my usual tan slacks, navy sports jacket, and a blue shirt, which was a Christian Dior. Christian-get it?

The big Airbus continued its descent, and I leaned over and peered through the window. It was a clear night and I could see hills in the distance, and below was an expanse of arid landscape washed in blue moonlight. In the near distance I saw a few scattered lights that must be Sana’a.

As we crossed over the airport boundary, I could see the military end of the airport: two jet fighters with Yemeni markings, a few helicopters whose markings I couldn’t make out, and a huge United States Air Force C-17 cargo plane. The outpost of Empire.

We touched down and the aircraft rolled to a halt, then taxied to a hardstand a hundred yards from the terminal. The engines shut down and Kate said, “He’s not taxiing to the gate.”

“We walk.”

“I’m assuming that’s a joke and it’s not funny.”

Clearly Kate was a bit anxious, not to mention tired and cranky after a nearly thirty-hour journey. I said to her, “This whole country is a joke. Learn to laugh or you’ll go crazy.”

No reply.

Everyone was standing, and I stood and moved to the exit door and looked through the porthole at the terminal, which I remembered from last time; a low building not much longer than a strip mall, badly lit by three stanchion lights. I could see the headlights of the mobile staircase, followed by a bus, heading toward the first-class exit door, which reassured me that the peasants in the rear wouldn’t be on my bus.

I returned to my seat, and Kate and I collected our things and moved into the aisle.

The staircase pulled up without smashing the aircraft, the door opened, and I could smell the fresh, cool morning air rushing into the cabin. Yemen.

So down the stairs and across the tarmac to the waiting bus. Our fellow passengers from first class were all seated, but Kate and I stood in the rear. Kate was the only unveiled woman on board, and the men, who had not taken much notice of her on the aircraft, now looked at her, as did the women. It was as if we’d all been on a nude beach, then got dressed and boarded a bus, except that one of the women was still naked.

There are two gates in Sana’a Airport, and we stopped at the one called two. We let everyone get off first, then followed. So far, so good.

Inside the terminal, our cabin mates moved toward the passport control booths. Only two booths were manned at this hour, and the booth marked for VIPs, diplomats, and crew was closed. Also, there was no one around who looked like us, and Kate said, “Maybe we have to go through passport control.”

“We’re supposed to be met here.”

So we waited. The buses that were filled with coach peasants started arriving and the passport lines got longer. Two Yemeni soldiers carrying AK-47s were giving us the eye.

Kate said, “Let’s call the embassy number.”

“The pay phones are on the other side of passport control, and I’m not standing in line with the peasants.”

“We can’t stand here.”

“Okay, let’s cut the line.”

I went to the head of the line at one of the booths and Kate followed. No one objected and I recalled that the Yemenis, for all their faults, were exceedingly polite and tolerant of Westerners, whom they expected to be arrogant assholes.

Kate and I went to the passport guy and presented our diplomatic passports. The guy checked our visas, then our faces against the passport photos, and he stared at Kate. I mean, every woman in line was veiled, so this guy must be good at eyes. Right?

He stamped our visas, then motioned us to pass through. For some reason-instinct-I glanced back and saw he was on the phone.

Before we got to the double doors marked EXIT, a tall guy with a two-day beard, wearing a crumpled suit but no tie, approached and without identifying himself said, “Come this way,” and motioned us to follow him to a side corridor. I said to him, “We’re meeting someone here from the American Embassy.”

He seemed to understand and said impatiently, “Yes, yes. Embassy man is this way. We must discuss your visa.”

Sounded like bullshit to me, and I didn’t want to leave the public area-not that it mattered a whole lot where you were when you got arrested. But if we stayed here, we might see our embassy guy. I said, “We are traveling on American diplomatic passports, as you know, and we have been instructed to wait here, and we’re not moving from here.” I suggested, “Go get the embassy man.”

He seemed very annoyed, and at this point he should have IDed himself and asked for our passports, but instead he said, “Wait,” and walked toward the corridor.

The two soldiers with the AK-47s moved closer to keep us company. Meanwhile, the Yemenis from the flight were giving us furtive looks as they hurried toward customs.

I said to Kate, “See what happens when you cut the line?”

“John, what’s going on?”

“I don’t know.” And I wasn’t waiting around to find out. I eyed the double exit doors that led to baggage and customs, and thinking our contact guy might be there, or in the terminal, I said to Kate, “Let’s go.”