Nelson Demille - The Panther

Kate nodded, then looked to the right at Elephant Rock, which indeed looked almost exactly like the head of an elephant, complete with a long trunk which formed a stone arch that ended on the rocks below.

At the risk of stating the obvious, I said, “That’s Elephant Rock.”

“I wonder why they call it that.”

Kate noticed the pickup truck farther down the elephant’s back with the.50 caliber machine gun pointed our way. “What’s that?”

“That’s our Yemeni Army security.”

“Why is the gun pointed at the hotel?”

“They’re sending us a subtle message.”

She had no comment on that, and she looked down at the stone terrace below, where we used to have barbecues at night and pretend we were in Hawaii waiting for the hula dancers.

Beyond the terrace was the pool where about a dozen tourists were sitting or swimming, and beyond the pool was a white-sand beach where the volleyball net was still strung, but there was no game at the moment.

There was also no one sunning on the beach or swimming in the bay, but I did see four Marines in full gear at either end of the beach.

The hotel had planted small palm trees all over, but the climate here was so hot that even the palms had trouble staying alive.

Kate said, “Now I can picture where you were.”

“Right.” I hadn’t taken many photos, and the ones I’d taken were designed to show the port city of Aden as the shithole it was-mostly dilapidated buildings, barefoot urchins, women in black baltos, and men with guns. I mean, I didn’t want anyone thinking I was having a good time here.

Kate said to me, “My forty days in Dar es Salaam were no treat, but it wasn’t Yemen.”

“There is only one Yemen,” I assured her.

I pointed toward Elephant Rock and said, “On the other side of that peninsula is Aden Harbor, where the Cole was anchored on October 12, 2000.”

Kate nodded.

Seventeen American dead and thirty-nine wounded, some disabled for life. And that suicide boat should never have gotten anywhere near an American warship.

So, what have we learned from the Cole and from 9/11 and from all the terrorist attacks before and since? Two things that we’d forgotten over the years: Kill them before they kill you, and if they kill you, hunt them down and deliver lethal justice. That’s why I was here.

Kate wanted to go down to the pool, so, good husband that I am, I said I’d keep her company. Also, Clare was in the pool, but that had nothing to do with my decision.

Our rooms here are considered secure, so we were able to leave our rifles in the room, but we locked our papers in the safe, as per regulations. We did need to take our sat-phones, radios, and handguns, which we stuffed in the pockets of our bathrobes, and we took the elevator to the lobby and went out to the pool.

Buck and Brenner were also there, as was Howard, and they got out of the pool, along with Clare.

I should mention here that pool attire for gentlemen was long bathing trunks or shorts, and a T-shirt. For women it was long shorts and a long, loose T-shirt. And that’s about as risque as it got at any of the hotels or beaches in Yemen. So if I was looking forward to seeing Clare in a bikini-and why would I be? — I would be disappointed.

Clare, however, still looked good in a wet T-shirt. In fact…

“John.”

“Yes, dear?”

“We’re sitting over there.”

“Right.”

We all sat around a table under an umbrella and ordered a pitcher of iced tea. There was no sea breeze from the gulf, and it was hot .

A few Western tourists swam in the pool or lay on chaises, but there weren’t any Mideastern guests at the pool, and there never would be. Not that I was dying to see Abdul or Afiya in shorts and T-shirts, but it might do them some good to get a little sun on their skin-vitamin D-and learn how to swim. Or am I being culturally insensitive again?

Anyway, we all chatted awhile and drank iced tea, which is as bad a drink as anyone ever invented.

Buck, holding court, said, “Local legend says that the graves of Cain and Abel are located here in the Ma’alla quarter of the city.”

I had an old homicide sergeant who claimed he worked that case.

Buck further informed us, “The Yemenis also believe that this is where Noah’s Ark sailed from.”

Lucky for life on earth that suicide bombers didn’t blow a hole in its side.

Buck concluded, “The Yemenis like to appropriate history from the Old and New Testaments and move it here.” He added, “The American Mormons have also speculated that some of their history began here.”

Yeah? Why here ? Maybe because the great truth about Yemen was that it was the land of lies and half-truths. As I was discovering.

“I never thought I’d say this,” Buck confided to us, “but this place was better under the Yemeni Communists.” He explained, “They were secular, and they kept the fundamentalist Muslims in line-with Russian help.” He added, “Now that South Yemen is dominated by the north, it is slipping back into fundamentalism.”

On a more important topic, Clare had put on her bathrobe. Which has nothing to do with anything. Why did I even mention that?

Buck informed us, “I was here in January 1986, when the thirty-day civil war devastated Aden. Thousands were killed, and I was almost one of them.”

He got a faraway look in his eyes, then continued, “The war of 1994 was particularly devastating. This city was under siege for two months and the water pumping facilities were destroyed and people were dying of thirst.”

Kate asked him, “Did you stay in the city?”

“I did, and I sent radio reports to the State Department…” He let us know, however, “I had several months’ supply of Seera beer put away for such a situation.” He informed us, “The Seera brewery was built by the British, and it supplied the whole country with beer. But when the North Yemenis took the city, they blew up the brewery.” He added, “Bastards.”

That got a chuckle. But it was also a hint of what went on here not too long ago. And also a hint of what Buck Harris had experienced here over the years. I had no doubt that this man was a dedicated professional. What troubled me, though, was his profession. I have a thing about intelligence officers, no matter what alphabet agency they work for. I mean, they do a necessary job, and I respect what they do, but if you’re not one of them, you can wind up on their expendable list, as Buck himself had confessed in vino veritas.

On that subject, I was still waiting for our CIA guy to show himself, and my instincts said it would be soon.

We were all baking in the heat, so we unrobed and dove into the pool, which was warm as bathwater.

Everyone, I assumed, had a gun and extra magazines in their bathrobes, and the staff knew that and stayed away from our table. Also, as per my last visit here, there was a Marine sniper on the roof keeping an eye on the pool and beach. Every resort hotel should have a sniper on the roof. Helps you relax.

Anyway, after about a half hour of pool frolics, I suggested a beach volleyball game, admitting, “I got very good at this when I was here.”

We carried our bathrobes down to the beach and hung them on the net pole, then chose up sides: Buck, Clare, and me against Brenner, Kate, and Howard.

We played best out of five, and I seemed to be the only one who knew how to play the game. My team swept the first three, with me as the high scorer, of course. Hey, I played this stupid game for forty days. That’s why I suggested it.

Brenner, I noticed, was a competitive player, and not a very good loser. Neither am I, which is why I play games I can win.