Nelson Demille - The Panther

“What?”

“You should make sure you’re not pregnant before we see Walsh tomorrow.”

“John, I’m on the pill.”

“Right. How about scrambled eggs?”

We had breakfast, read the New York Times , and watched a few morning news shows. BBC is really the best source of world news that Americans don’t give a shit about, and we tuned in just in time to discover that there was yet another civil war going on in Yemen.

Apparently some tribal leader in the north named Hussein al-Houthi was trying to topple the government in Sana’a and restore the Imam to power and create an Islamic fundamentalist state. Hussein, according to the reporter with the British accent, wanted to kick out all the foreigners and infidels in the country and return Yemen to Sharia law. Not a bad idea. Kicking foreigners out, I mean. Me first. Hussein also wanted to cut off the head of Yemen’s longtime dictator president, a guy named Ali Abdullah Saleh. Hussein sounded like a guy who took the fun out of fundamentalist.

Kate hit the mute button and said to me, “I didn’t realize there was a war going on there.”

“There’s always a war going on there.” I inquired, “Did you know that Yemen has the highest ratio of guns to people in the whole world?” I explained, “They have to do something with those guns.”

She didn’t reply, but I could sense she was rethinking her year abroad.

We belong to a health club on East 39th Street, and we spent a few hours there, burning off the beef fat from Michael Jordan’s and sweating out the red wine.

Kate and I stay in pretty good shape, and we also spend time at the pistol range. If we were FBI accountants, we probably wouldn’t bother with any of this.

I needed a drink after the health club, so we walked up to Dresner’s, a neighborhood pub where they know my name too well.

We took a table near the window and ordered two beers to rehydrate.

Kate asked, “Do you want to talk about Yemen now?”

I replied, “I thought that was a done deal.”

“Well… I’m still leaning toward it, but I want you to go with me.”

What she actually wanted was for me to talk her out of it. My role-if I choose to accept it-is that of bad guy. But I didn’t want to play that role or that game. I said, “If you’re going, I’m going.”

“I don’t want you to do something you don’t want to do.”

“I want to do whatever you want to do, darling.”

“Well… maybe we should weigh the pros and cons.”

I couldn’t think of a single pro, but in the spirit of weighing all the issues, I said, “Maybe your parents could come for a long visit.”

She seemed a little annoyed and said to me, “If you’re going to be flippant about this, then I say we should just go.”

“Okay with me.”

End of discussion. Right? Well, no. It doesn’t work that way. She said, “I don’t think you mean that.”

Obviously Ms. Mayfield was wavering, and I was elected to give her the push one way or the other. I could have killed this thing right then and there, but I was taking some perverse pleasure in this. I mean, she was gung-ho for Yemen on Friday, but now some reality had set in.

Oddly enough, I was starting to think of some reasons why we should go. Not good reasons, but reasons-the biggest being that like most husbands, I sometimes let my wife do something I’ve advised against, which gives me the pleasure of saying, “I told you so!” I was actually looking forward to that moment. I pictured us in the desert with an overheated vehicle-maybe with bullet holes in the radiator and all the tires shot out-surrounded by Bedouin tribesmen with AK-47s. As I was slamming a magazine into my Glock, I’d look at her and say, “I told you so!”

“What are you smiling at?”

“Oh… I was just thinking about… how beautiful the desert is at night. Lots of stars.”

The waitress came by and I ordered a bacon cheeseburger with fries and another beer. Kate did the same. Hey, life is short. I informed Kate, “Not much beer or pork in Yemen.”

“If we go, I don’t want to hear you complaining for a year.”

“I’m not a complainer.”

“That’s a joke-right?”

“Complaining is a New York thing. It’s an art.”

“It’s annoying.”

“Okay. I won’t complain in Yemen. No one there gives a shit anyway.” I added, “Or they just kill you. End of complaint.”

She suppressed a smile.

I said, “There’s actually an off-Broadway theater in Sana’a, and they’ve got a long-running musical called ‘Guys and Goats.’ ” I broke into a show tune: “I got the goat right here, the name is al-Amir-”

She reminded me, “You’re an idiot.”

Back in our expensive apartment, we had coffee and watched some TV. The History Channel had yet another documentary about the end of the world, this one about the End of Days, as predicted by the Mayan calendar. December 21, 2012, to be exact. But they weren’t saying what time this was going to happen. I mean, you wouldn’t want to be sleeping and miss it.

Anyway, I felt like a cigar, so I went out to the balcony, lit up, and looked out over the city. It was a clear, cold night and I had great views to the south, and from here on the 34th floor I could see where I worked. We used to be able to see the Twin Towers, and after they were gone we could see the smoke rising for weeks, and then a few weeks later twin light beams rose high into the sky to symbolize the Towers. And now there was nothing.

Kate came out wearing a coat and carrying one for me. “Put this on.”

Real men don’t wear coats while they’re smoking a cigar on their balcony-but I put it on.

We didn’t speak for a while, and we watched the moon rising over the magical lights of Manhattan Island.

Finally, Kate said, “I’m actually going to miss New York.”

“You’ll appreciate it even more when you get back.”

She said, “This is obviously not a routine foreign assignment. This is something important. And Tom is showing confidence in us by asking us to take the job.”

“It’s very flattering,” I agreed.

“Which is why it’s hard to say no.”

“I thought we were saying yes. But if you want to say no, that’s easy.” I reminded her, “I signed on for domestic anti-terrorist work. So I have no legal or moral obligation to go to Yemen or anywhere else outside the U.S. You’re in a different position. So if you feel you need to go, I’ll go with you.”

She thought about that, then replied, “Thank you.” She said, “This may be a chance for us to make a difference. To actually apprehend the mastermind of the Cole attack.”

“Right.”

I looked toward the skyline where the Towers once stood. We’d both lost some good friends that day. And tens of thousands of other people lost friends, family, and neighbors. We were all heartbroken. Now we’re pissed.

Kate stayed quiet awhile, then said, “I really wouldn’t have gone without you.”

“You would have. But you’re not.”

We went inside and I settled into my soft leather La-Z-Boy recliner. I was really going to miss this chair.

Kate was curled up on the couch with her laptop, and she said to me, “You were right-Yemen has the highest ratio of guns to people in the world.”

“It’s a typical baby shower gift.”

She also informed me, “It’s the most impoverished, backward, and isolated country in the Mideast.”

“And that’s from the Ministry of Tourism. Wait until you read what the critics say.”

“Over a hundred Westerners-tourists, scholars, and businesspeople-have been kidnapped in the last ten years and held for ransom. Some were killed.”