Nelson Demille - The Panther

Sammy continued, “When this training was complete, the prisoner and forty others traveled by vehicle to the region north of Marib town. There they lived in the huts of sheep herders who were not present. And there they planned and prepared for the attack on the American oil facility, which is nearby.”

Sammy looked up from the transcript and said to us, “That is as far as the interrogators got before the prisoner became ill and had to be taken to the prison hospital.”

Right. It’s always a delicate balance between vigorous interrogation and putting the prisoner in the hospital. Or the morgue.

Sammy assured us, however, “The prisoner is somewhat better now and you may speak to him.” He also editorialized, “This is a misguided young man who is frightened, and he cries for his parents and his good life in Saudi Arabia.”

No shit. This kid was looking at ten or twenty years in a Yemeni slammer, which was a death sentence. Unless, of course, Al Qaeda sprung him. Or if Al Qaeda took over here. Then he’d be a hero. Meanwhile, he needed to survive, and the best way to do that was to talk, which he sounded happy to do if these idiots didn’t kill him first.

Brenner asked Sammy, “Did the prisoner say who his leaders were?”

Sammy replied, “As I have said, he has stated that he knows his companions only by their given names.”

Okay, but how about a description of the leaders? Their nationality? Like did one of them have a New Jersey accent and a Jersey Shore T-shirt? I mean, if I had this prisoner alone for two hours, I’d wring him dry. But these interrogators, as I saw in Aden, were inept sadists. All they wanted, ultimately, were more names and a full confession. I wanted to know what the prisoner had for breakfast and what his favorite TV show was, and we took it from there.

Brenner asked Sammy, “What did the prisoner say about the relationship between his camp and the local tribes?”

Sammy replied, “He says nothing about that.”

Brenner then asked, “Why wasn’t he asked? How could this camp exist without the permission of the tribal chieftains?”

Sammy shrugged, then speculated, “Perhaps they had an arrangement. Or this camp was too strong for the local tribe. Or-”

Hakim interrupted, “Do not interrogate the translator, Mr. Brenner. He is here only to say what the prisoner has said.”

True. But as long as Sammy seemed chatty and helpful to the Americans, I asked him, “Was the prisoner cooperative with the other Americans who were here this morning?”

Sammy replied, “Yes, but the prisoner was sick, in the hospital, so it was a short talk.”

I asked Colonel Hakim, “Were you here this morning when the CIA was here?”

“You should ask them, not me.” Colonel Hakim had become impatient with us and said, “Let us see now the prisoner.”

Dr. Fahd grabbed his medical bag, and we all stood and followed Hakim out of the room and down the corridor.

I wasn’t sure if all this was bringing us any closer to The Panther, but it was at least interesting. A small insight into Al Qaeda’s modus operandi, though not their heads. Probably I’d never get into their heads-we weren’t even on the same planet. But I thought I understood a little about Rahim ibn Hayyam, though I hadn’t yet met him. He was a scared kid, and he was happy to talk. He might not think he knew much about the bigger picture, but he probably knew more than he thought he did.

With any luck, Rahim had met The Panther, and with any more luck, The Panther was still in the Marib hills. And if he stayed there, he’d have John Corey up his ass.

We came to an iron door where a guard was taking a khat-nap in a white plastic chair. Hakim kicked the man’s leg, and the guard stood quickly and opened the door.

Hakim entered first, followed by Sammy, Dr. Fahd, Brenner, and me.

The cell, probably an interrogation room, was about ten feet square, lit only by a high, barred window and a single hanging lightbulb. The walls were whitewashed brick with some interesting reddish stains around the perimeter, including a few red handprints.

A filthy mattress lay on the stone floor, and on the mattress was a young man with a wispy beard, wearing dirty white prison pajamas that were bloody around his left leg where his wound had bled through the bandages. I noticed, too, that his right eye was swollen shut. Also, his lower lip was split, and his hooked nose was crooked. I also saw that his arms and legs were shackled, and the leg chain was bolted to the floor.

Hakim explained to his American guests, “He is chained to prevent him harming himself.”

Right. He has lots of people to do that for him.

Hakim snapped at the prisoner, who sat up slowly and moved his back against the wall.

Hakim also explained, “As you can see, this man has been injured when he resisted capture by the security forces at the American oil company.”

I recalled the same bullshit in the Aden prison. Interesting that the Yemenis thought they had to lie to the Americans about beating prisoners. My jokes to the contrary, I’m not a big fan of torture. It’s messy, risky, not productive, and not right. What you want from a prisoner is in his head, so you have to beat up his brain, not his body. Takes longer, but you get better results.

Dr. Fahd moved a chair beside the prisoner to check out his vitals.

There were four other white plastic chairs in the room, and Colonel Hakim invited me, Brenner, and Sammy to sit facing the prisoner. Hakim moved a chair against a wall between us and the prisoner and sat.

As my eyes adjusted to the dim light, I saw an empty plastic water bottle near the prisoner, and a full basin of what looked and smelled like urine. There were old cigarette butts on the floor, and what appeared to be well-masticated khat leaves. The whole room reeked of a hundred years of misery.

Dr. Fahd looked in the prisoner’s eyes with a light, took his temperature, listened to his heart and lungs, then took his blood pressure.

The good doctor stood and said, “The prisoner is well.”

Actually, the prisoner looked like he’d just gone ten rounds with Mike Tyson. But maybe his vitals were good.

Dr. Fahd sat in a corner and lit a cigarette. I guess it’s all right for doctors to smoke here.

Colonel Hakim spoke to the prisoner, obviously introducing his visitors, and I heard the word “Amrika.”

The prisoner closed his good eye and nodded.

Hakim said to us, “You may begin.”

I nodded to Brenner, who looked at Rahim ibn Hayyam and asked, “How are you feeling?”

Sammy translated, Rahim replied, and Sammy, who apparently forgot or wasn’t told that Brenner understood some Arabic, said to us, “He is feeling well.”

Brenner corrected, “ Not well. And he says he needs food and water.”

Sammy glanced at Colonel Hakim, and Hakim said to Brenner, “If your Arabic is so good, I will send the translator away.”

Brenner replied, “My Arabic is good enough to know when I hear a false translation.”

Hakim ignored him and looked at me. “And you, Mr. Corey? How is your Arabic?”

“Better than your English.”

Hakim didn’t like that, but he said something to the guard, who left. Hakim said to Brenner, “Continue.”

So having established that we couldn’t be totally conned, Brenner, with the clock ticking, got right to the point and asked, “What is the name of your commander?”

Sammy asked, Rahim replied, and Sammy said to us, “As he has stated, he knows only given names.”

“Okay. What was the given name of his commander?”

Sammy asked and Rahim replied, “Sayid.” Rahim said something else, and Sammy told us, “This was one of the men who died in the attack.”