Nelson Demille - The Panther

I also broached the delicate subject of her complicated relationship with Ted Nash and said, “I think we should ask Chet if he knew Ted, and how he’s feeling about your last encounter with the deceased.” How’s that for subtle?

Kate didn’t reply for a few seconds, then said, “I’ll take care of that.”

Actually I would take care of that, but I said, “Okay.”

Well, we were now down at the bar for drinks with our colleagues, including our DSS guys from Sana’a and most of the Aden team, except for the twenty Marines, who were on guard duty.

Unfortunately, because of the high alert, and our possible trip into Indian Territory tonight, alcohol was still off the menu. The bartender was whipping up fruit drinks in the blender, and I had a mango slushie. It sucked.

But the conversation was good, and we talked about home, family, and everything but the war on terrorism, and no one mentioned the forty Al Qaeda guys heading our way. I noticed, though, that everyone was wearing Kevlar vests and sidearms and had automatic rifles with them, which is not SOP in the bar. The bartender, waiters, and the civilian clientele noticed, too, and they were looking a bit concerned. I wondered which one of them had a suicide belt. Maybe the fat Saudi guy in robes sitting by himself drinking scotch. This was a lot more exciting than Ecco’s.

At 8 P.M., Captain Mac, thinking maybe we’d pushed our luck a bit, and that we needed to get serious about security, asked all American personnel to leave the bar and return to their rooms or their posts.

A few of us, however, had a dinner meeting scheduled, and we went out to the back patio where the grill was blazing.

We sat at a round table-me, Kate, Buck, Brenner, Betsy Collins, Doug Reynolds, Lyle Manning, and Captain Mac.

It was still hot, but the sky was clear and the stars were out, and a half moon was rising in the east. Out on the water I could see the lights of big cargo ships and oil tankers. A few Western tourists were cavorting in the pool, and the really dumb ones were strolling on the beach, probably wearing T-shirts that said, “Kidnap Me.” This place was a headline waiting to happen.

The barbecue was good, as I recalled from last time, though I passed on the goat kebobs. We all drank non-alcoholic beer and chatted about how wonderful it was to be living the dream and working for the government-foreign travel, great pay, appreciative bosses in Washington, and a chance to make a difference by killing some assholes who wanted to die anyway.

We got around to security concerns, and Doug Reynolds told us he’d sent a message to Washington requesting a standby ship in the harbor for possible evacuation, and an unmarked charter aircraft-meaning CIA-at Aden Airport. So far, he said, no response. It occurred to me that Washington might be looking for an excuse to land a thousand Marines on the beach.

Captain Mac, who preferred a fight instead of a flight, said, “I can’t kill them if I’m not here.”

Right. You stay here. Good balls, though.

Buck announced, “We may be leaving tonight.”

No one, of course, asked where we were going, but everyone wished us good luck.

I said, “And good luck here.” And don’t pay for the rooms if you have to check out under fire.

Captain Mac assured me, “We don’t need luck. We’ve got twenty Marines.”

No one asked us how we were getting to wherever it was we were going, but Betsy Collins did say, “Travel at night is risky.”

Buck informed her, “We’re flying.”

Really? How did he know that?

It was understood that this was probably a CIA operation, so no one had any further comments or advice. But I sensed that the Aden team might open up if asked a direct question, so I asked directly, “What do you think of Chet Morgan?”

Silence.

Okay, so that answered that question. I said, “For the record, I think he’s been in the sun too long.”

Buck interjected, “John, we don’t need to-”

I continued, “We could be going up to Marib with him tonight-I guess by plane-and I’m concerned that Mr. Morgan may be suffering from in-country stress and fatigue.”

No one argued with that, but they’d have to report my statement in the event some of us didn’t return from Marib alive.

The dinner and the conversation seemed to be finished, and Buck said, “If you’ll excuse us, we have a meeting in the SCIF.”

Buck stood and we all stood and did handshakes, good-byes, and good luck.

Lyle Manning, who didn’t seem to like me, surprised me by saying, “You’ve made a good evaluation of the situation.”

This was one time I wouldn’t have minded being wrong.

So we went into the hotel, and Kate, Brenner, Buck, and I rode the elevator up to the fourth floor. On the way up, Buck said to me, “You have permission to leave anytime, but you do not have permission to discuss this operation with anyone at any time.”

“The subject, Buck, was Chet Morgan.”

Buck assured me, “I’ve known Chet for three years. He’s a good man.”

“Right. I could tell by what everyone said about him.”

Kate interjected, “John, let’s discuss this after our meeting with him.”

Brenner said, “I’m more interested in the plan than in Chet Morgan.”

Well, you’re wrong. The reason the best-laid plans of mice and men often go astray is not the plan; it’s the mice and men. And Chet was about ten rials short of a Happy Meal. But to be a team player, I said, “Fair enough.”

We got off the elevator, greeted the Marine guard, and walked down the corridor to the Sensitive Compartmented Information Facility.

Bottom line here, The Panther was only one of my problems. My teammates were another. But hopefully the plan wasn’t as crazy as Chet.

Buck had a key for the locked door and we entered.

A black tent filled most of the emptied guest room, and we ducked inside through a flap. The dim interior of the SCIF tent was about fifteen feet by twenty, crammed with electronic equipment, desks, and file cabinets, lit only by a few desk lamps and the glow from the computer screens.

Sitting at the shortwave radio was a young man in a T-shirt and shorts, wearing headphones. He noticed us and said, “Chet’s on the balcony.”

Good. I hope he jumped. But probably he was smoking; a slower form of suicide.

We left the tent and went around to the balcony, where, sure enough, Chet stood at the rail with a butt in his mouth, contemplating the moonlit sea. He was still wearing his white ducks and silly Hawaiian shirt, and he was still barefoot. Time for home leave, Chet.

Without turning around, he said to us, “Yemen was known to the Romans as Arabia Felix-Happy Arabia.” He added, “No one has called it that since then.”

Right. Now it’s called Shithole.

Chet continued, “If Afghanistan is the graveyard of empires, then Yemen is the slaughterhouse of imperial ambitions.”

God save me from a nutcase with an Ivy League education. Right?

Chet informed us, “Alexander the Great sent a colony of Greeks to Socotra, an island off the coast here, but it didn’t last long, and the Romans invaded from the north and got as far as Marib before their army was decimated by battle, hardship, and disease.”

Marib? Isn’t that where we’re going? Don’t forget the Cipro.

Chet continued, “Yemen has seen a succession of conquerors and would-be conquerors-Egyptians, Persians, Romans, Ethiopians, Turks, the British, and the recently departed Russians. But no one has ever controlled all of Yemen. Not even the Yemenis.” Chet concluded, “I wouldn’t want to see us in a land war here, which is why these surgical operations need to succeed.”