Nelson Demille - The Panther

Buck, on a roll now, continued, “We’ve also been able to plant listening devices inside PSO Headquarters.”

Okay, Buck, don’t push your credibility.

Clearly he was enjoying this game, and you’d never expect Buck Harris to be so delightfully devious, or such a con artist. I had the thought, based on Buck’s age and my instincts, that Mr. Ivy League of State Department Intelligence had been an old Cold Warrior, and maybe this new war on terrorism was just a way to occupy his time and his mind at the end of his career. Or, like me, Brenner, and thousands of other men and women since 9/11, he was retired and called back as a contract employee to fill the ranks in the new war.

He asked me, “What are you thinking about, Mr. Corey?”

“You.” I inquired, “Do you also speak Russian?”

He replied in Russian.

I didn’t know what he said, but I told him, “I’m impressed.”

“And well you should be.” He informed me, “When the Russians were the foreign power in South Yemen, I spent many years there keeping an eye on them.”

“Then you must have spent a lot of time drinking vodka in that Russian brothel.”

“Nightclub,” he corrected. He smiled at me and said, “You’re not as simpleminded or unsophisticated as you pretend to be. In fact, you’re very bright and perceptive.”

“That’s very perceptive of you.”

“But stupid people think you’re like them, and they lower their guard and say things they shouldn’t say.”

I replied, “There are probably a hundred people still in jail who made that mistake.” I added for Mr. Brenner’s benefit, “And a few dead people.”

“I’m sure.” Buck let me know, “When the idea of asking you to go to Yemen came up, there was some thought that you might not be right for the job. My job, then, was to make an evaluation of your fitness for this assignment, and thus our time together in New York had a dual purpose.”

I admitted, “I didn’t know I was on a job interview.”

Buck smiled again and continued, “I assured the people in Washington who are running this mission that you were not only qualified for this assignment, but that I was certain you would be an invaluable addition to the team, and that I looked forward to working with you.”

“Thank you, sir. I will be forever grateful for this opportunity.”

I think Buck was tired of smiling at my wit, and he said, “Prove me right.” He added, “Our lives now depend on each other.”

“Indeed they do.” And by the way, when are you going to tell me why I’m really here? That my strongest qualification for this job is that The Panther would like to eat my ass?

He turned to Kate and said to her, “You are career FBI and you would be here if ordered, but it’s my understanding that you wanted this assignment, and there’s no substitute for enthusiasm and spirit.”

That’s true if you’re a cheerleader, but this was a little more complex and dangerous than yelling, “Go, team!”

Buck, understanding that, continued, “Your record speaks for itself, including your excellent work on the embassy bombing in Dar es Salaam, and I also know that you’ve exhibited a high degree of courage and composure under fire and against great odds.”

Kate, to her credit, said nothing, not even mentioning the guy she whacked with the Colt.45. But I was certain Buck already knew about that.

Buck turned his attention back to me and said, “You’re a very lucky man.”

Then why am I here?

He got his smile on again and said to me, “By the way, you had me thinking about some possible medicinal uses for khat.” He added conspiratorially, “Perhaps when we’re done with this business, we can explore that further.”

Brenner laughed, so I guessed that Buck had shared some of my classroom wit with him.

Buck said to me, “You enlivened my class, Mr. Corey.”

I replied, “Your class, Buck, was like waterboarding without the water.”

Everyone got a good laugh out of that.

Buck looked at Kate and said, “You’ve chosen your clothing well, but you need a head scarf.” And he had one for her. He presented Kate with a paper-wrapped package that she opened, revealing a long black scarf.

Kate said, “Oh, this is beautiful. Thank you.”

Buck said, “It’s called a hijab. It’s made from a very fine mohair, and it comes from a shop here in Sana’a called Hope in Their Hands.” He explained, “It’s a non-profit co-op that sells handcrafts made by women throughout the country, and all the proceeds go directly to these women to help them improve their lives and the lives of their children.”

“That’s very nice,” Kate said.

Buck further informed us, “Most of the embassies, expats, and tourists shop there as often as possible.” He added, “Good quality, good prices, and a good deed.”

Indeed. I asked him, “What did you get for me?”

“Nothing. But I’ll give you the name of the best jambiyah shop in Sana’a.”

“Thanks. I left mine home.”

Kate draped the scarf over her head, and Buck leaned toward her and showed her how to wrap it with a long tail, saying, “Use your left hand to hold it over your face.”

“Is that custom?” she asked.

“No, it frees your right hand to draw your gun.”

Joke? No.

He assured us, “Sana’a is actually quite safe compared to most of the country. There is very little crime in the city and very few political or religious attacks directed against Westerners. However, it does happen, and there have been a number of plots against the American and British embassies, so you need to be vigilant while you’re here.”

I asked, “How long will we be in Sana’a?”

“I’m not sure.”

Brenner said, “I know you’re exhausted, but we’d like to finish this conversation inside.”

It was still my turn to carry the gun bag, and we went back into the lobby and up the elevator to where I knew that the SCIF-the Sensitive Compartmented Information Facility-was located.

It was in that room, I was sure, where Buck would mention the small and apparently forgotten fact that Kate and I were here not to find The Panther, but for The Panther to find us.

The SCIF was on the third and top floor, a windowless and soundproof room, lined with lead and kryptonite or something, impervious to directional listening devices and other types of electronic buggery.

Half of the big, dimly lit room was filled with commo and crypto, and the other half, partitioned with thick glass, was taken up with work stations and a round conference table.

A young woman was attending to the electronics, and when we entered she stood and greeted Brenner and Buck, said hello to Kate and me, then closed the glass door between us.

We’d had a similarly purposed room in the Sheraton Hotel in Aden, but that had been an emptied bedroom in which a lead-lined tent was pitched. The world of spying has come a long way since the days when gentlemen did not read each other’s mail, or when it was bad manners to listen at the keyhole or stand outside a building and literally eavesdrop. Today, even pissant countries like Yemen had access to off-the-shelf electronic listening devices and decoding equipment, and the world of secure communication had become a game. The Americans had the best equipment, but you never knew who just developed something better.

Buck Harris broke into my thoughts and assured us, “We can speak freely here.”

Right. Except, of course, every word was being recorded.

Brenner got on the intercom and made contact with the Yemenis in the kitchen, and ordered in Arabic.

Buck got down to business and said to me and Kate, “There is something else about this mission that you may not have been told.”