Nelson Demille - The Panther

“Why?”

He explained, “This regime is broken. They’re the walking dead. If Al Qaeda wins, they control Sana’a, and the Saudis will find that intolerable, and the Saudis, with American military help, will unite the tribes and get rid of Al Qaeda in Yemen.” He informed me, “The Saudis have united the tribes before when they didn’t like the government in Sana’a, and also when the Communists took over in Aden. But first, Al Qaeda needs to be out in the open-in the presidential palace. In other words, the quickest way to win this war is to lose it. Follow?”

Maybe I needed another martini to follow this. But I think I got Colonel Machiavelli’s line of reasoning. I suggested, “So we get to fight a real land war with Al Qaeda as soon as they win here.”

“That’s it. Same as with the Taliban in Afghanistan.” He let me know, “Al Qaeda should be careful what they wish for.”

So should we.

Colonel Kent asked me, “What’s your clearance?”

“About six foot two inches.”

He smiled politely at the old joke and said, “I’ll tell you an open secret. Our goal here is to force the Yemeni government to sign a treaty giving us a ninety-nine-year lease on a big chunk of waterfront property near Aden. We need to do this before the government collapses. We need to build a land, sea, and air base for operations and refueling. An American Gibraltar. From there, we can control the Red Sea and the Gulf of Aden, and we’ll do it with a friendly government that we help install later, like the British did two hundred years ago when they grabbed Aden. We can mount operations against Al Qaeda in the Arabian Peninsula and the Horn of Africa. And we can also wipe out the Somali pirates who are in league with Al Qaeda. Plus, we’d have a place other than Guantanamo and closer to the battlefields to warehouse and interrogate enemy combatants.” He got a dreamy look in his eyes and said, “Sweet.”

“Beautiful,” I agreed. Grand strategies and geo-politics always give me a little headache, but to be polite I said, “I like multi-purpose land use.” Maybe I could put my khat spa there.

Colonel Kent continued, “And while we’re at it, we can tell the Saudis to go fuck themselves, and we can shut down our bases in Saudi Arabia before they tell us to get out.” He asked me, “Understand?”

“Sounds like a plan.”

“And here’s the kicker. The biggest construction company in this part of the world is bin Laden Construction. Owned by that asshole’s family. So we contract them to do some of the work.” He asked me, “See the irony?”

“I do. But watch the cost overruns.”

“Right.” He looked at me and said, “You didn’t hear any of that from me.”

“Correct.” I needed another drink, so I excused myself and headed for the bar.

On the way, I was intercepted by Brenner’s boss, the sometimes reverend Ed Peters, who asked me how my day went, and I told him I was disappointed about not seeing the donkey market.

He assured me it wasn’t that interesting, then asked me, “What did Colonel Kent have to say?”

Well, Colonel Kent reminded me a little of the general in Dr. Strangelove, but I didn’t want to share this thought with Ed Peters. I mean, I had no idea what the interpersonal relationships were here, or who thought who was a loon, or who was jockeying for position. As I said, everyone here seemed a little nuts to me, and my short-term goal was to get out of this embassy, find The Panther, whack him, and go home. In fact, Tom Walsh was looking very good to me right now.

I said to Ed Peters, “The colonel gave me a briefing about the Yemeni Army.”

“That’s always good for a laugh.”

“Right. We need more serious allies.”

“You won’t find any in this part of the world.” He shifted into diplomatic mode and said, “The irony is that the Yemenis are good people, and they could be good allies if they-or we-got rid of their government.”

“Let’s hope the people choose a better government in the next election.”

“This country is three thousand years old. There hasn’t been an election yet.” He changed the subject and said, “We’re using a five-vehicle convoy tomorrow. That should be all right.”

“I’m sure we can get away with three.”

“Five is better.”

How about twenty? I asked him, “Why don’t we fly?”

“We don’t trust Yemenia air. And we don’t have any of our own air assets here. I wish we did, but these idiots won’t let us bring in helicopters.”

“How about Spook Air?” Meaning the CIA air assets.

He replied, “I don’t know if anyone asked.”

“How about the C-17?”

“We like to have one sitting at Sana’a Airport in case we have to move the whole embassy out of here.”

“Good thinking.”

He explained, “When one C-17 comes in, the other leaves for the States, and the one that came in waits for another to arrive.”

“Got it.” I asked him, “Why don’t we charter an aircraft to take us to Aden?”

“We do that sometimes. But not this time.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know.”

Well, I did. We were driving to Aden because someone wanted to see if Al Qaeda snapped at the bait. Which reminded me, if I needed reminding, that Al Qaeda fighters were on the way to Aden, and I asked Peters, “How would you evacuate the American personnel at the Sheraton in Aden?”

“By ship.”

“Whose ship? And how do we get to it?”

“I’d try the backstroke.”

Why do I think he’s used this joke before? But it was funny, so I gave him a chuckle. But seriously.

He said, seriously, “My DSS counterpart in Aden, Doug Reynolds, will brief you.” He asked me, “What was your evacuation plan when you were in Aden last time?”

“I think it was the breaststroke.”

While I was wondering if I should mention that I’d just discovered that the Sheraton in Aden was in imminent danger of attack, Howard Fensterman came over to me, and Ed Peters excused himself. There seemed to be an unwritten rule here that conversations needed to be compartmentalized, so it was like a Shakespeare play where the actors entered, delivered their lines, then exited, making way for new actors who didn’t know what the last ones said, which usually led to some misunderstanding or troublemaking, which in turn led to someone getting whacked. That’s what happens when people don’t communicate. Right?

Anyway, Howard said to me, “You and Kate went into Sana’a today with Paul.”

“We did.”

“I would have joined you.”

“We thought you were attending the Catholic Mass at the Italian Embassy.”

He smiled, but he wasn’t amused. He said to me, “I have your satellite phone numbers and we’ll stay in touch when you’re on the road.”

“Why don’t you come to Aden with us?”

“I would, but I have a lot to do here to get this office up and running.” He informed me, “There was an attack last night on an American oil installation in a place called Marib.”

“I heard.”

“One suspect was captured. I’m trying to get permission from the Ministry of Justice to interview him.”

So do I tell him-been there, done that? He was the FBI legat, Kate’s supposed boss, but no one had told him that we’d been to Ghumdan. Who the hell was in charge here? And what was going on behind the scenes? For some reason I pictured Buck as the guy with all the strings in his hands, manipulating the whole puppet show.

I said to Howard, “You need to speak to Buck Harris about that.”

“I do? Why him?”

“Why not?”

Howard asked me, “What is his actual job here?”

“I don’t know. Protocol officer?”

Howard changed the subject and said to me, “I told Kate she needed to see me first thing tomorrow. I have the arrest warrant, a copy of the indictment, and instructions on how to effect a lawful arrest on a suspect in a foreign country who claims dual citizenship.” He also let me know, “You need to read him his Miranda rights, but you first need to establish that he understands English.”