Nelson Demille - The Panther

“Still serving,” Mike said. “But the pay is better.”

I thought about Mike Cassidy, John Zamoiski, a.k.a. Zamo, and the other DSS agents, and even Paul Brenner. We’d built this extensive and expensive intelligence and security apparatus, of which I was a part, to fight what amounted to a pissant war. But this war could turn very deadly in a heartbeat, as we saw on 9/11, and on other occasions such as the Cole bombing. And when you put nukes into the equation, or biological and chemical weapons, you were talking nightmare time. Day to day, however, no one in the States gave much of a rat’s ass about any of this since 9/11, but 9/11 would come again, and this time we couldn’t say we were surprised or unprepared. Meanwhile, we followed leads, guarded embassies, chased shadows, and now and then whacked a major asshole, which made the homeland just a little safer. That’s why I was here.

Mike asked me, “How long are you signed on for?”

“I have a forty-five-day visa with the ERT, subject to extensions.”

“You should think about those extensions.”

“Right. But my wife is here with the embassy for at least a year.”

“That can be tough.”

“Right.” Especially if I did get sent home after my visa expired, and Kate stayed on in the embassy with Paul Brenner. Definitely gotta get that Panther.

Mike asked me, “We got any new leads on the Cole bombing?”

“I’ll find out in Aden.”

Clare asked, “Are you investigating the Cole bombing?”

“I am.”

“That was awful.”

“Right.” It was murder.

So the three of us got to know each other a little. Dr. Clare Nolan was from someplace called Iowa and this was her first trip outside of America-except for the week she spent in Washington, D.C., before coming here.

Mike said to me, “The guys in Aden are very good. You’ll enjoy working with them.”

I wasn’t going to be working with them, but I said, “Looking forward to it.”

He did a quick rundown of his fellow DSS agents in Aden, who numbered only six. Like last time, there was also an FBI SWAT Team in the Sheraton, numbering ten, and also, like last time, an FBI doctor. My FBI Evidence Response Team, Mike said, numbered five at the moment, but that varied. There was also a Marine FAST Team of twenty men out of Dubai, for hotel security. So, give or take, there were about forty Americans in the Sheraton-pretty much the same as last time I was here. Enough people to do the job, but maybe not enough to defend Fort Apache if the Indians attacked-which seemed to be a real possibility.

Also in the Sheraton, but not officially counted as warm bodies, were CIA officers and Military Intelligence officers. When I was there, I counted three of each, but they kept to themselves. They didn’t even play beach volleyball with us.

Clare said, “Someone told me the Sheraton was okay. Pool, gym, beach.”

“And a bar,” I assured her. I asked, “Are you staying?”

“I am.”

Ah. “I didn’t know that.”

She informed me, “If you need to go into the Badlands, I may go with you.”

“You sure you want to do that?”

“No. But if you need me, I’ll go.”

I couldn’t think of why we would need a doctor in Indian Territory. Well… maybe if I thought really hard, I could imagine a situation where people were firing automatic weapons at us.

Clare also said, “I wouldn’t mind seeing some of the country.”

Mike suggested, “You’re seeing all you need to see now.”

Clare didn’t respond.

I opened the manila envelope that Howard had given me and slid out the photos of Bulus ibn al-Darwish.

The first photo, in black and white, was of a young man in a cap and gown. The caption read: Bulus ibn al-Darwish, Columbia University graduation, 1987.

Young Bulus was not bad-looking in an exotic sort of way, with a hooked nose, dark eyes, and high cheekbones. His long hair was swept back, and I was surprised to see that his thin lips were smiling. He was happy to be graduating. He had the whole world in front of him.

The next two photos were color blow-ups of what were captioned Driver’s License photo, 1982 , and Passport photo, 1990 . In the passport photo, he was still clean-shaven, but his demeanor had changed. He looked serious, or maybe he was thinking about returning to his ancestral home. By this time, he’d gotten his head full of radical thoughts, probably through the Internet, and maybe from some local spiritual guides who had a different view of Islam than most Muslims had, and who preyed on young men such as Bulus ibn al-Darwish.

The last three photos were color snapshots, and one of them showed a big Victorian house in the background, and it was captioned Perth Amboy, home, May 1991. Last known photo.

Bulus, twenty-six years old in this picture, looked older, and without reading too much into the snapshot-but with the knowledge that he’d gone to Yemen a year or so after this photo-I had the impression of a young man who was about to sever his ties to home and family; a man who had seen his future and was anxious to make his mark in the world.

Who, I wondered, took the photo? Probably Mom. Taken in May, so maybe a birthday photo. And did Mom and Dad know that their boy was about to leave the nest and fly east? Probably.

I wondered, too, if Bulus had a girlfriend. Was he getting laid? Did he have only Muslim friends? Or did he also pal around with Christians and Jews? Did he watch American sitcoms on TV? Maybe he did all that in college and afterwards. But somewhere along the line, young Bulus started slipping away into an alternate universe. And now he was here, killing people-American sailors, Europeans, Saudi co-religionists, and his own countrymen.

What happened? Maybe I’d never know. Maybe he himself didn’t know what happened, or how it happened. But at some point he’d come to a fork in the road, and he’d taken the wrong one. And I was on a collision course with this guy. If I had a moment with him, I’d ask him about all this. But more likely, there would be no moment of discovery; there would be a quick death. Mine or his.

Mike asked, “Is that the subject asshole?”

“It is.”

Mike glanced at the birthday photo and said, “Looks normal.”

Right. Some monsters look normal.

Clare leaned forward and asked, “Who is that?”

“That,” I replied, “is Bulus ibn al-Darwish. He is a mass murderer.”

She didn’t reply for a few seconds, then asked, “Are you here to find him?”

“I am.”

“Good luck.”

I took a last look at the subject, then put the photos in the envelope.

If he knew I was here, maybe he had a photo of me.

Brenner was maintaining a good speed, and we were passing slow-moving vehicles, which is always interesting on a two-lane road with large trucks coming at you.

After a particularly close encounter, Mike remarked, “These armored SUVs don’t respond well to the gas pedal.”

“You’re doing great,” I assured him. I asked Clare, “You carrying anything aside from that medical bag?”

“You mean… like a gun?”

“Yeah. Like that.”

“No. Well… yes.” She informed us, “It’s in my medical bag.”

“What is it?”

“A gun.”

“Right. Can I see it?”

She opened her medical bag and produced an unholstered 9mm Glock.

I unfastened my seat belt, leaned between the seats, and took the gun from her. I checked it out-full magazine, no round in the chamber. I gave her a one-minute lesson on how to chamber a round, how to change magazines, and reminded her that the Glock had no safety.

She said, “Paul Brenner showed me all this.”