Nelson Demille - The Panther

Sammy seemed surprised at that, though Rahim did not. Sammy said to me, “He has heard this. But did not know if it was true.”

In a normal interrogation, I’d now mention the big reward and ask, “Where is he hiding?” But I was sure that Rahim didn’t know. Not even for five million bucks. And if he did know, and if he told us, it wouldn’t be the Americans who got there first. In fact, it would probably be someone telling The Panther to beat feet. Or if the Yemeni Army gave it a try, they wouldn’t necessarily ask us to help, and left to their own proven incompetence, The Panther would get away.

So instead of “Where is he hiding?” I asked, “Where and when is the next attack?”

Sammy translated and Rahim replied. Sammy said to me, “There was talk in the camp of attacks on the oil pipeline between Marib and As-Salif, attacks on oil engineers, aid workers, and Western tourists.” He added, “And talk of an attack on the American Embassy.”

This was hardly hot news, and I doubted if a low-level jihadist had any specific times or places for these attacks. I thought of young Mr. Longo and his planned excursion to see the temples of Marib. Maybe he should just visit the website of the Yemeni Tourist Board, click onto Marib, and call it a day.

Remembering that The Panther got his big start in Yemen with the Cole attack in Aden Harbor, and knowing that criminals sometimes return to the scene of their crimes, I asked another leading question. “What is al-Numair’s target in Aden?”

Rahim seemed to understand the question before it was translated and replied in Arabic to Sammy.

I heard the word “Sheraton,” which was not the word I wanted to hear.

Sammy said to me, “The Sheraton Hotel. He says he was told there are many American soldiers and police in the hotel… infidels on sacred Islamic soil… He says his companions who did not participate in the attack on the American oil installation are now traveling to Aden. But he has no further knowledge of this.”

I said to Brenner, “That might be interesting information to anyone planning to stay at the Sheraton in Aden.”

Brenner did not respond.

Colonel Hakim said, “Your time is finished.”

I ignored him and said directly to Rahim, “Thank you for your cooperation. If you continue to cooperate with the Americans, we will do everything possible to help you return to your home.”

Sammy didn’t translate, and Hakim stood and said, “It is finished.”

As I suspected, Rahim, like most educated Saudis, actually understood a little English, and he probably enjoyed contraband American DVDs-maybe The Sopranos or Sex and the City, and he said to me, “Please, sir. Help me. I help you.”

I looked at Rahim sitting against the wall, his eyes on me. If he got sprung, I wondered if he’d go home and get his life together, or if he’d rejoin the fight. About twenty-five percent of the jihadists released from Guantanamo had turned up again on the battlefields of Afghanistan. And others had been rearrested for terrorist activities in Saudi Arabia, Iraq, and Europe. I wasn’t sure about Rahim, but from experience I know that all prisoners are sorry for what they’ve done. Once freed, however, they’re only sorry they got caught.

Maybe Rahim was different. But even if he was, he didn’t join Al Qaeda to promote world peace. And he didn’t go to the American oil installation looking for a job; he went there knowing he was going to kill people. And if his jihadists had overrun the facility, they’d have killed everyone in it-American and European civilians, security people, Yemeni workers, and anyone else who lived or worked there. It didn’t turn out that way, but it could have. And now Rahim was sorry.

“Please to help me. I help you.”

I turned and left.

In the better air outside the prison, Brenner said to Colonel Hakim, “Thank you for your time and assistance.”

Hakim didn’t reply to Brenner, but he did say to me, “Your visa, and that of your wife, remains a problem.”

“Sorry. Hey, maybe I need a tourist visa like all the Al Qaeda guys have who come through Sana’a Airport.”

Colonel Hakim didn’t have much to say about that, but he did advise both of us, “Be very careful here.”

If Ghumdan had a soundtrack, this is when I’d hear an ominous organ chord.

Brenner said to Hakim, “We can find our way back to our vehicle.” Then Brenner did a nice thing and saluted, and Colonel Hakim returned the salute. Military guys do that, even when they hate each other. Good bonding.

As Brenner and I walked back to the Land Cruiser, he said to me, “You shouldn’t piss him off.”

“Me? How about you?”

“He’s got some power, and we may need him at some point.”

“He and his government actually need us more than we need them.”

“True. But they don’t get that yet.”

“They will.”

It was good to be out of that prison. The place was rotting, and everyone in it was rotting. In fact, this whole country was rotting.

Brenner asked me, “What did you think of all that?”

“Let me speak to my spiritual advisor and I’ll get back to you. Meanwhile, I did get some insight into Al Qaeda in the Arabian Peninsula.”

“Right. The Yemenis don’t know what they’re in for, or that they have a small window to snuff out Al Qaeda before these guys get their game on.”

“Well,” I pointed out, “if the Yemenis don’t know what’s coming, it’s no one’s fault but their own.”

“Correct. But the Yemeni Army and government are obsessed with their tribal problems, and their ongoing fight with South Yemen.” He added, “They think Al Qaeda is an American obsession.”

“Well, it is. But with good reason.”

“Correct.” Brenner said to me, “Good question about Aden.”

Actually, all my questions were good, but I replied, “I’m surprised the Sheraton in Aden hasn’t been attacked yet.” I pointed out, “Aside from the embassy, that’s where to find the most Americans in one place. And it’s not that secure.”

He nodded. “I’ve been there.”

“Me, too, and we’re going there again.”

We made our way through a cluster of decrepit buildings that looked like barracks. I could smell food cooking somewhere, and at the end of the barracks I saw the minarets of a small mosque. Soldiers lounged around, smoking and chewing whatever, and giving us the eye. Garrison life is no treat, but I’m sure the Yemeni Army liked it better than mounting field operations against a tough and motivated enemy. Same with the National Security police, who apparently sat out the attack on the Hunt Oil installation.

Brenner asked me, “Do you think The Panther is still in the Marib area?”

“I think he’s found a tribal sheik who’s giving him a secure base-a sanctuary.”

“Sounds that way.” He added, “But Marib may get hot for him after that attack.”

I motioned toward the crack troops sitting around and asked, “Will it?”

“Well, maybe not.”

On another subject, Brenner said to me, “The PSO always knew we were looking for The Panther. Now they know that a guy named John Corey has arrived to join the search.” He reminded me, “Assuming this information gets to Al Qaeda, then we have to hope that the name John Corey has some meaning to The Panther.”

Right. Like, “Hey, isn’t John Corey the guy who killed Asad Khalil? Let’s kill John Corey.” I said, as I’d already said, “God, I hope so.”

We were now crossing the dusty parade ground and I could see the Land Cruiser where we’d left it. I thought I saw Kate’s head in the rear seat. I really didn’t think there’d be a problem, but anything was possible in Yemen.