Nelson Demille - The Panther

But then Mr. Peters asked for a minute of silent prayer for our military and civilian personnel who were serving in Iraq, Afghanistan, and all over the world, including this hellhole. Amen to that.

After the minute of silence, Mr. Peters invited us all to join him in the lobby for refreshments and fellowship. He concluded, “Go in peace.”

That’s not why I was here, but I needed a cup of coffee, so Kate and I, along with Brenner and Howard Fensterman, went to the lobby and mingled.

There was an employee cafeteria off the lobby that provided what looked like good approximations of American cookies and cakes. They even had bagels, which made me homesick.

The congregants of the First and Only Church of Jesus Christ in Sana’a seemed like nice people. Among them were not only embassy staffers and a few spouses, but also expats and others who were seeking company, God, or a small piece of America. Probably all three.

I noticed there were no children-a sure sign that this was a dangerous place.

Life in the Foreign Service was unlike any other overseas experience, except maybe the military or being a missionary. How do people do this? But then I started thinking about Paul Brenner and the Diplomatic Security Service. Maybe that’s the job I should ask for if we got our man. A few years in Paris, London, or Rome. Kate would be a legat. Something to think about.

I chatted with a few of the Marines and they were all very professional and called me “sir,” and they seemed gung-ho and mission-oriented. They assured me that if the embassy were attacked, the twenty Marines and ten DSS guys could hold the fort until the Yemeni Army arrived. One guy explained, “Then we’d have new targets-the Yemeni Army.” Everyone laughed. Everyone here was nuts.

I moved over to Buck, who was in his element here, mingling with his Foreign Service brothers and sisters, most of whom I’m sure shared his background and some of whom also had funny first names, like Livingston, Kelvin, and Winthrop-a.k.a. Livie, Kel, and Winnie. You can’t make this up.

Buck said to me, sotto voce, “There was an Al Qaeda attack near Marib early this morning.”

I wasn’t sure where Marib was, but I hoped it wasn’t too close to the embassy lobby.

Buck continued, “The target was an oil installation partly owned by Hunt-an American company.” He let me know, “Security forces killed six of the attackers and took one wounded prisoner who said he was Al Qaeda.” He added, “The Company is questioning the prisoner about our man.”

The oil company? No, the CIA. I asked, “Where is Marib?”

“About two hundred kilometers east of here.” Buck speculated, “This could be a sign that Al Qaeda is beginning attacks against American and Western interests in Yemen.” He added, “Al Qaeda attacks are rarely isolated.”

“Right.”

He also informed me, “The al-Houthi rebels have ambushed a military convoy north of here.”

“Any good news this morning?”

“Yes. I flew in with a fresh shipment of Boodles and dry vermouth. Martinis tonight.”

Make mine a double, hold the vermouth.

Anyway, I finally got my coffee and a bagel with cream cheese, and as I was munching, Mr. Peters came up to me and said, “Welcome to Sana’a.”

“Thanks. Good service, Padre.” Short.

He informed me, “I’m a lay preacher. Non-denominational.”

“Me, too.”

He thought that was funny and continued, “My weekday job is chief of DSS here.”

“Yeah? How do I get a DSS job?”

“Apply. We’re short-staffed all over the Mideast. No one wants the job. Everyone wants Paris, London, and Rome.”

“Wimps.”

He informed me, “Paul is my second in command. He’s a good man.”

“Right.”

“Hate to lose him.”

“Where’s he going?”

“With you. Then home.”

I didn’t know how much Peters knew, so I didn’t respond.

Mr. Peters said he wanted me to meet someone, and he led me over to a big guy who looked like a weightlifter wearing his First Holy Communion suit.

Peters said to me, “This is John Zamoiski, DSS. You might remember him from the airport.”

“Right.” One of the guys in the lead car.

We shook and the guy gripped my hand like it was the last cold beer in hell.

John Zamoiski said, “Call me Zamo.”

“Okay. Call me John.” Later we’ll switch.

Mr. Peters said to me, “Zamo will be with you when you drive to Aden.”

“Good.”

“He’ll also be with you if you go into the Badlands.”

“The more the merrier.”

Mr. Peters continued, “Zamo was an Army sniper in Afghanistan.”

I looked at Zamo. He still had a military haircut-you don’t want hair blocking your crosshairs-and a face that didn’t move much. He wasn’t more than thirty, and I noticed that his dark eyes never blinked. He seemed to be a man of few words, but he had Mr. Peters to speak for him, and Peters said, “Zamo is also a martial arts expert.”

“You draw soldiers?” I asked.

His mouth turned up in a smile. He liked me. Good boy, Zamo. Sit!

Brenner joined us and suggested that we get moving. He said to Zamo, “You’ll accompany us to the Sheraton.”

Zamo finished eating his coffee cup and nodded.

I guess Zamo was the team sniper. It’s good to have a trained killer on the team. And a churchgoer at that.

Thinking back on our time since we landed, I had the same feeling that I’d had the last time I was here; I’d stepped through the looking glass and everyone on this side was crazy, and they’d been crazy for so long that they made sense to one another, but not to anyone who just arrived from Earth.

Anyway, Brenner and I found Kate, who was with a group that included Howard, and I said to her, “Time to go.”

Howard reminded us, “I wanted to show Kate her office.”

Brenner suggested, “Tomorrow would be good.”

I wasn’t sure of the pecking order here, but in places like this, security guys had some weight, so Howard said, “Fine. See you at nine.” He added, “I need to give you a copy of the arrest warrant for the suspect.”

I asked Howard, “Can I have a copy of the CIA kill order?”

Howard didn’t reply.

Anyway, Kate and I collected our luggage, and we met Brenner out front where a single Land Cruiser was waiting for us. It was a bright, sunny day, but already getting hot.

Kate said, “What a beautiful day.” She asked me, “Isn’t this better than New York in February?”

“No.”

Zamo loaded our luggage in the rear, then slid behind the wheel. Brenner got in the front and Kate and I sat in the back.

I asked, “Where’s Mohammed?”

Brenner replied, “Getting fitted for a suicide belt.”

Funny. I was really getting into this place.

So off we went, and I commented that there was no lead or trail vehicle. Brenner said, “It’s only about six hundred yards to the Sheraton and we don’t want to attract undue attention on the street or at the hotel.”

Right. So only one armored Land Cruiser, two armed security men, and two armed passengers. No one will notice.

We got to the outer gates, which slid open, and we were on the street. The Yemeni soldiers were still sitting around, at the top of their game.

Brenner and Zamo had their guns in their laps, so Kate and I did the same.

Across the way from the embassy I saw another walled and guarded compound that I remembered from last time, called Tourist City for some reason, though it was actually a complex of apartment houses and shops for resident and transient Westerners, some of whom were staff from the various embassies. Also living in Tourist City were aid workers and a few poor bastards who were transferred here for business, mostly the oil. This was probably where Kate and I would have lived if we were staying in Sana’a.