Nelson Demille - The Panther

“He said wait-”

I took her arm and we moved toward the exit doors. “Walk like an Egyptian.”

We got within ten feet of the doors before I heard a shout, and the two soldiers suddenly rushed ahead of us and we found ourselves looking into the muzzles of two AK-47s.

Our Yemeni friend reappeared and shouted, “I say to you wait here!”

“Yeah, you also said the embassy man was with you.”

“Yes. Now he is here.”

“Mr. and Mrs. Corey, I presume.”

I turned, and walking toward us was a guy wearing jeans and a windbreaker. He was, in fact, the guy in our photograph. Paul Brenner.

He said to Kate and me, “Sorry I couldn’t meet you. I was speaking to this gentleman about your visas.”

I told him, “The Yemeni consulate in New York assured me there was no charge.”

He smiled, put out his hand to Kate, and said, “Paul Brenner. Nice to meet you, Mrs. Corey. Welcome to Paradise. I hope you had a good flight.”

“Yes… thank you.”

He extended his hand to me and said, “Your reputation precedes you.”

“Apparently it does.” I asked, “Who is this joker?”

Brenner introduced the joker as Colonel Hakim of the Political Security Organization-the Yemeni secret police. Colonel Hakim didn’t shake hands, but said to Brenner, “I will now wish to speak to your colleagues in private.”

Brenner replied, “I told you-not happening, Colonel.”

“Do you say no to me?”

“I say you must either arrest all of us or let us leave.”

Colonel Hakim seemed to be considering his two choices, then said to Brenner, “You may join us.”

“That’s not one of your choices.”

It was my turn to be alpha and I said to Colonel Hakim, “Tell these guys”-I pointed to the soldiers-“to lower their rifles.”

He hesitated, then barked something in Arabic and the soldiers lowered their rifles. Hakim said to me, “There is a problem with your visa, and that of your wife. A discrepancy of address. So I may ask you both to leave Yemen.”

Who said there’s no God?

Brenner said to Hakim, “That’s not a decision for you to make, Colonel.”

Sure it is. Shut up.

Colonel Hakim had no reply.

Brenner said to him, “The embassy will lodge a formal protest with your foreign minister tomorrow. Good evening, Colonel.”

Colonel Hakim again had no reply, but then Brenner unexpectedly stuck his hand out and Hakim hesitated, then took it. Brenner said to Hakim, “We must remain allies in the war against Al Qaeda. So cut this crap out.” He added, “As-salaam alaikum.”

Colonel Hakim, given the chance to save face in front of the soldiers, replied, “Wa alaikum as-salaam.”

I said to Colonel Hakim, “Let me know if you’re ever in New York.”

And off we went into the second ring of hell, the baggage and customs area.

As we walked, I asked Brenner, “What was that all about?”

He replied, “Just the Yemeni government trying to assert its authority.” He added, “They think they run the place.”

Kate inquired, “Don’t they?”

Brenner replied, “No one runs this place. That’s why we’re here.”

Right. Nature abhors a vacuum. Or, to be more positive, we’re here to help.

I said to Brenner, “Actually, our visas list our home address as 26 Federal Plaza.”

“These clowns don’t need your home address.”

“Right. We practically live in the office anyway.”

Brenner muscled his way through the maze of carts and people, saying something in Arabic, like maybe, “Excuse me, we’re Americans and we need to get out of this shithole. Thank you.”

Brenner said something to a porter, who nodded.

The carousel showed no signs of life, and Brenner said to us, “This could take a while.” He added, “Sometimes the carousel doesn’t work. Then they carry the bags in, and pandemonium breaks loose. It’s fun to watch.”

I asked Mr. Brenner, “How long have you been here?”

“Too long.”

“Me, too.”

He smiled.

Mr. Paul Brenner looked to be in his early fifties, tall-but an inch shorter than me-not bad-looking, well built, full head of black hair, and very tanned. Under his blue windbreaker he wore a gray T-shirt that I now saw said “Federal Prisoner.” Funny. Not so funny was the collar of a Kevlar vest that I could see above his T-shirt. Also under his windbreaker was a bulge on his right hip.

He informed us, “We have a three-car convoy that will take us to the embassy.”

“Guns?” I asked.

“Guns? You want guns, too?”

Paul Brenner seemed to have a sense of humor. I know someone with a similar sarcastic wit. This was not going to make us buds; there’s room for only one top banana in the show. I didn’t think Mr. Brenner was part of our team, but to find out I asked him, “Will we be working together?”

He replied, “I’m with DSS-Diplomatic Security Service. I work for the State Department to provide security to American Embassy personnel and official visitors.”

That didn’t answer the question, but I left it alone, and said, “Sounds interesting.”

He let us know, “I was Army CID. A homicide investigator. Like you were, Mr. Corey. I was a chief warrant officer. You were a detective second grade, NYPD. Now we are both civilians, pursuing second careers.”

“Right. Except I’m not exactly pursuing my second career.”

“I hear you.”

Kate commented, “This is the only career I’ve got.”

Brenner smiled, then looked at her and said, “You’ve got a lot of guts to come here.”

She didn’t reply, but to set the record straight, I told Brenner, “It was her idea.”

He let us know, “It’s a tough assignment, but you’ll get through it, and you’ll be able to write your own ticket when you get back.”

I replied, “We’re hoping for Afghanistan next.”

He laughed, then said to me, “So you were here in August ’01?”

“Yeah. Forty days altogether. Mostly in Aden.”

“Right. Well, things have heated up a bit since then.” He explained, “Al Qaeda is here.”

I informed him, “They were here when I was here. They blew up the Cole.”

“Right. Well, now they’re all over.” He went on, “If possible, this place has become more dangerous.”

Typical war-hardened vet trying to scare the newbies. I said, “In my day, when we walked down the street in Aden, we had to throw grenades just to go get a newspaper.”

He laughed again and said, “Well, in Sana’a we fire so many rounds from the embassy that we wade knee-deep through the shell casings.”

Kate said, “Please.”

It’s a guy thing, sweetheart.

Anyway, we chatted awhile as we waited for our luggage, and Brenner said to Kate, “Take what I’m about to say as a professional observation-you’re very good-looking, and you have a face that, once seen, is not forgotten. That may be a liability.”

Kate smiled nicely and replied, “That’s never been a liability before.”

“Let me make a suggestion,” said Mr. Brenner. “You should always wear a long head scarf that you can wrap or hold over your face. The Western ladies here find this is a good compromise to the veil.”

“Thank you,” replied Kate a bit coolly.

The carousel jerked to a start and the baggage began dropping out of a hole in the wall.

I’ve never actually seen so much stuff on a baggage carousel-boxes, crates, weird shapes wrapped in plastic, and some of the worst luggage I’ve seen since my aunt Agnes visited from Buffalo. I said, “I hope our chickens made it.”

The Yemenis picked the carousel bare like piranha stripping a carcass.

Our first-class bags were among the last, and Brenner asked, “Is that all you’ve got?”