Nelson Demille - The Panther

I said to Kate, “You won’t be the first government employee with nothing to do.”

Brenner said to Kate, “Your boss will be a man named Howard Fensterman, who arrived a few days ago. He is the chief legal attache, and you are his assistant.” He added, “Mr. Fensterman, like you, is FBI.”

Right. Everyone here has two hats, but they keep one in the closet.

Brenner went on, “As you may have heard or read, the ambassador, Edmund James Hull, has just left Yemen and will not be returning.”

“Right.” And the official reason for his departure was given as personal, which could mean anything from diarrhea to his wife packing up and leaving this shithole.

When you’re assigned to a small diplomatic mission in a small, backwater country, you actually get to meet the higher-ups, who are happy to speak to anyone from the States. Even me. So when I was here last time, I got to meet the former ambassador, Her Excellency Barbara Bodine, who had been in Yemen when the Cole was bombed. I’d spoken to her here in the embassy on two occasions, and once down in Aden when she’d visited the Cole investigators in the Sheraton Hotel and played volleyball with us on the beach-wearing knee-length shorts and a T-shirt. She was an attractive woman, and not a bad person, but I came to share the opinion of the FBI and others here that she had… let’s say, not handled the Cole crisis well. She, too, must have come to that conclusion, and she left in August 2001, about the same time I did. This place can make you or break you.

Brenner said, “I don’t know when we can expect the new ambassador, and to be honest, things run better-for us-when the ambassador is on home leave, or quits.” He confided, “We have different agendas.”

Right. The dips are here to make nice; we are not.

Also, I was getting the impression that Paul Brenner’s job went beyond meeting people at the airport. He may actually be DSS, but as I said, everyone here has a second job. Brenner’s second job, which I’m sure he volunteered for, was panther hunting. Hey, anything to get out of the embassy. The real issue was, could I work with this guy? Did I have a choice?

Brenner got a text and said to us, “This way.”

We followed him to a set of glass doors that I remembered led out to a small covered terrace overlooking a patch of greenery.

Brenner opened one of the doors and said, “We can sit out here. It’s a nice evening.”

It was actually about five in the morning, and there was nothing nice about it so far, but for a drink I’d sit anywhere.

There was wicker furniture on the terrace, and a man was sitting with his back to us. As we approached, he stood, turned, and said, “Welcome.”

It was dark, but I recognized that preppy voice. It was, in fact, Mr. Buckminster Harris.

Bucky!” Kate and I did a group hug with Buck and we all spoke excitedly.

Actually I said, “What the hell are you doing here?”

He walked over to us, and I could see him smiling as he said, “I thought I’d continue my class here.”

I replied, “I thought we were done.”

“You’re never done learning, Mr. Corey.”

He took Kate’s hand and said, “Welcome. I hope you had a pleasant journey.”

Kate replied, “We did until we met Colonel Hakim.”

“Ah, yes,” said Buck. “Colonel Hakim is like goat droppings-he’s everywhere.”

Kind of funny. Anyway, Buck was wearing one of those white linen jackets that you see in 1930s British colonial movies, and for some reason I had an urge for Kentucky Fried Chicken. I asked him, “Did you take the C-17 direct to Sana’a?”

“I did. Awful flight. Uncomfortable, and the meals come out of a box. And no alcohol.” He asked, rhetorically, “Have we become Muslims?” He assured us, “You did better taking the slow route.”

“Well,” I said, “we’re taking the fast route out of here when the time comes.”

“You will.”

And then I had a mental image of a human remains box in the back of a C-17. Be careful what you wish for.

Buck returned to the subject of Colonel Hakim and said to Kate and me, “Paul texted me about your delay at the airport, and it’s nothing to worry about.” He added, “We will file a formal complaint.”

“Good,” I replied, not giving a damn. I said, “Thank you, a scotch and soda would be fine.” I thought you’d never ask.

Buck invited us to sit, and he played host and moved to a rolling bar, asking, “And what would Mrs. Corey like?”

“Just water, please.”

Brenner, too, wanted water. Wimp.

Buck seemed to be drinking what looked like a gin and tonic with lime, but no little paper umbrella.

So we sat around a cocktail table, lit with a few bug candles, and Buck raised his glass and said, “To a successful mission.” We all clinked.

Buck informed us, “I’ll be joining you on this assignment, as will Paul.”

Mr. Buckminster Harris didn’t look like the killer type, but I’ve been surprised before. And as I suspected, Mr. Brenner was on the team.

Buck reminded us, “I speak fluent Arabic and you’ll need that.” He informed us, “Paul speaks a little, but it’s not conversational. It’s giving orders, such as, ‘Get out of my way, you son of a goat.’ ”

Brenner and Harris both got a chuckle out of that, as though they’d shared this joke before. So obviously they knew each other, and obviously Buck worked here, or maybe he shuttled back and forth to D.C. and/or New York. He had me fooled back at 26 Fed, and I was sure it wasn’t the last time I’d be fooled here, but it was the last time I’d take it so well.

Buck continued, “There is a fifth person on our team, but he’s not here tonight.”

Kate asked, “Where is he, who is he, and when can we expect him?”

Buck looked at her and replied, “I can’t answer that now.”

I said to Buck, “Maybe you can tell us now who the boss is.”

“I am,” said Buck.

“And may I ask who you work for?”

“The United States government, Mr. Corey, the same as you do.”

There’s always a CIA guy when it’s an overseas whack or snatch job, but as I’d concluded in New York, Buck didn’t look or act like any CIA guy I ever had the pleasure of knowing or working with, including the late Mr. Ted Nash. More on Mr. Nash later. Nevertheless, for the record, I asked Buck, “Company man?”

“No.”

I looked at Brenner, who shook his head. Well, I wasn’t CIA, and I didn’t think Kate was, so if everyone was telling the truth then the fifth person was the guy.

I like to know who I’m trusting my life with, so I asked Buck, “SDI?”

He nodded. State Department Intelligence was sort of a gentlemen’s game, so that fit.

I looked at Brenner, who said, “DSS, as I said.” He added, “But this job sounded interesting, so I volunteered.”

Buck leaned forward and said in a soft voice, “I’m enjoying the cool morning, but we’ll need to go inside to speak more freely.”

Right. The embassy walls could have electronic ears, though that was unlikely here in Yemen. I mean, this wasn’t the Cold War, the Arabs weren’t the Russians, and the PSO weren’t the KGB. Still, you had to follow security procedures, and not make the common mistake of underestimating these people.

Buck said to us, but really for anyone listening, “We have a number of very good leads on the location of six of the Cole plotters.” He winked and continued, “We have good sources inside the Political Security Organization.” Then for fun he said, “This Colonel Hakim that you met at the airport is actually on our payroll.”

We all got a smile out of that. And if the PSO was listening, then poor Colonel Hakim would have electrodes clipped to his nuts in about an hour. Payback’s a bitch, Colonel.