Nelson Demille - The Panther

I asked Brenner, “So what’s with this tribal sheik who helped Al Qaeda?”

“Don’t know. But it happens. Either for money, or because a sheik wants to poke the government in the eye.” He assured me, “Next week, this sheik could be helping us.”

“Maybe he already did.”

“Right-Rahim thinks someone betrayed them. But that was Rahim’s first introduction to the battlefield, and what looked to him like a setup could just have been Hunt’s hired mercenaries doing what they get paid for.” He also informed me, “Our military attache and the CIA are doing an analysis and report of the attack.”

“Can’t wait to read it.” I reminded him, “The CIA was here before us.”

“Correct. They’re looking at the bigger picture. We’re looking for The Panther.”

“That is the bigger picture.”

“Good point.”

I returned to the subject of this tribal sheik and said, “If we go out to the Badlands, are we supposed to trust the sheiks of Araby?”

Brenner assured me, “They’re good for their word-until someone makes them a better offer.”

“You can’t buy that kind of loyalty.”

Brenner said, “At least the Montagnards-the hill tribes-stayed loyal to the Americans right until the end.”

“That’ll teach them.”

“Well, we projected great power. No one bets on a loser. Right now in Yemen, no one can say who has the power, and who the winner is going to be. But if Al Qaeda starts to look like a winner, they’ll be able to recruit young Yemenis in great numbers. Then we have a problem, and we either have to cut and run, or get involved in a third land war.”

“Nuke ’em. It’s cheaper.”

He ignored my suggestion and said to me, “We can buy some time if we kill or capture Bulus ibn al-Darwish. He’s the driving force behind recruiting, training, and motivating this small but growing movement. Also, he apparently has some access to big money and he’s a hero to the jihadists because of the Cole attack. So if we get him, that will be a strategic and psychological blow to Al Qaeda here and around the world.”

“Right. And don’t forget that The Panther is an American. So maybe he thinks more clearly and logically than most of these whacked-out jihadists.”

“Maybe.”

We were closer to the Land Cruiser now, and I could definitely see Kate in the rear. Sometimes I forget how much I love my wife, and maybe I don’t always say it or show it, but then when a situation becomes dangerous, I realize I could lose her. I try to picture a life without her, living alone in New York in a big apartment on the fashionable Upper East Side, surrounded by trendy bars and restaurants bursting with single women… Is this coming out right?

I asked Brenner, “Any chance of us getting Rahim alone, with an embassy interpreter?”

“Not a chance.”

“Right.” Same as when I was questioning the Cole suspects in Aden. The PSO was the five-hundred-pound gorilla in the room. “Any chance of another chaperoned interview?”

“We’ll put in a request. But to be honest, the Agency has first dibs on Rahim.” He added, “You got your FBI Evidence Response Team shot.”

“Right.” I also asked him, “Are we going to Marib?”

“Maybe. But we’re going to Aden first to set up a command post in the Sheraton.”

“When?”

“Could be tomorrow.”

We got to the Land Cruiser, and I wanted to sit with Kate, so Brenner sat up front. Zamo started the SUV and off we went.

Kate unwrapped her scarf and asked, “How did it go?”

I replied, “Not bad, but not great. Hakim was in the room, and we had only half an hour, and the prisoner wasn’t feeling his very best.”

Brenner said, “We’ll bring you up to speed when we see Buck.”

Zamo was heading toward the watchtowers, and we sailed through the open gates into the city.

Brenner said, “I’ll drop you off at the Sheraton, and Zamo will pick you up at seven.” He informed us, “Martini night at the embassy.”

Kate, of course, asked, “What is the dress?”

Brenner replied, “People dress a bit.”

I suggested, “Wear your new balto.”

She suggested, “Why don’t you wear it?”

That got a laugh. We were really having a good time.

Brenner reminded us, “Guns will be worn. Vests optional.”

We pulled up to the Sheraton, and Zamo got Kate’s shopping bags out of the rear. I didn’t see the exploding mangos.

Brenner also reminded us, “We may be leaving for Aden tomorrow, so think about packing.”

He and Zamo pulled away, and we walked past the National Security Bureau guards and into the lobby.

I stopped at the front desk to see if there were any messages for us, and the desk clerk handed me an envelope, which I opened on the way to the elevator.

It was a fax from Tom Walsh, sent not from the ATTF office, of course, but from a Kinko’s near 26 Federal Plaza. I read the fax aloud. “Dear John and Kate, Thanks for your call. Hope you’re enjoying the sights and the good weather. Snow here today. You’re lucky to be in Yemen. Have a wonderful trip. See you soon.”

I commented, “Asshole.”

Kate reminded me, “You started it.”

There was a P.S., and I read, “You knew what this was about before you got on the plane.”

Double asshole. But he was right. And yet here I was. What was I thinking? Not much.

The NSB guy at the elevator didn’t ask to see our key or anything, and we took the elevator up.

We ran a bit long in the shower, and by the time we got dressed it was a little after seven.

I had a tie and jacket on, and Kate was wearing a nice black dress. She had her gun in her purse, and I had mine in my holster. She talked me out of wearing my jambiyah, and neither of us had our Kevlar vests, but Kate had her scarf on to walk through the lobby.

Down in the lobby, I noticed a lot of Mideastern-looking men in sunglasses, dressed in Western clothing, heading for the bar. Guilty pleasures aren’t the same for everyone, everywhere. Here, narcotic leaves were guilt-free, a martini was not.

Kate commented, “They go out without their wives.”

“What’s the fun in that?”

Anyway, Zamo was waiting in the Land Cruiser, and we hopped in, me riding up front.

He said to us, “Looks like we’re heading to Aden tomorrow.”

I asked him, “Have they improved the road?”

“No. But we’ve improved our armor and firepower.” He laughed.

I love being the straight man for a comedian doing sicko humor.

As we headed up the road toward the embassy, I said to him, “The prisoner we spoke to today said Al Qaeda was planning an attack on the Sheraton in Aden.” I added, before he could, “But no problem. We’ll probably never make it to Aden.”

He laughed, then confided to me, “I like you.”

Kate said, “I need a drink.”

Cocktails were in the embassy’s atrium lobby, and this was for staff only, not an embassy reception, which would be held in the more formal parlor.

The unstated reason for this free alcohol was that the new ambassador had not yet arrived, and this was everyone’s last chance to get snockered before he showed up.

And if we needed another reason for the taxpayers to buy us a drink, this was a welcome party for the two new legal attaches, FBI Special Agent Howard Fensterman and FBI Special Agent Kate Mayfield, a.k.a. Mrs. Corey. And, I guess, it was a hello party for me, too, though I wasn’t on staff here, and I’d be saying good-bye shortly.

I suspected that there were not many social demands on the American Embassy staff in Sana’a, nor were there more interesting things for them to do in Yemen on a weekend, so I was sure most of them were here tonight.